The title might be foreshadowing...

Trigger warnings: Mentions of suicide, self-harm, sex, depression, censored f word. Oops?

Remington doesn't like Amber, at least not in the way he's sure he's supposed to. She's nice, sure, and yes, she's pretty, but not Remington's sort of pretty. He can't place what's wrong, however. He wonders if it's just that it'll take time for him to get used to it after waking from the coma.

It should be obvious, really. The problem isn't anything more than the fact that she doesn't have a cock. And what Remington doesn't realise he needs is just that. A person – a man – with a cock. It's what his body needs, and it's why sex with her isn't anything special. For her, sure. She's all over him. But for Remington, it could never feel anything more than okay to do that with a woman.

Such a shame he isn't able to figure it out.

He's with her again today, in Sebastian's living room, doing what a boyfriend is supposed to be doing with his girlfriend. Touching, kissing, faking most of the moans he makes, talking to her the way he's sure, somehow, he's spoken to someone else. Someone who made him feel more than what he feels now. Someone who could get him to cum just by palming him, who could give him hickies that stayed for weeks, who wasn't shy about it, who talked about their relationship, their love, their everything as though that someone was proud and completely and confidently in love.

So why is it different now? Why does Remington not want to talk about his relationship with Amber? Why is he bored at the idea of anymore goddamn sex? What's so wrong, this time, if, once, it was perfect?

Amber kisses him like there's nothing there, like she'd kiss a stranger. The attraction runs less than skin-deep, Remington thinks, and then wonders why his attraction to her isn't even running. It's like the river is dry, like the nerves in his body that are shouting for something, someone, aren't happy with what he's giving them, like the connection in his brain that should be finding her attractive is broken, like the accident snapped the wire inside. Like he's broken, that's what Remington thinks. He's broken.

Despite feeling this way, he doesn't stop their kissing, doesn't tell her something's wrong, that he isn't into it, because that'd be wrong. Young, hot men are supposed to get with young, hot women. That's the rule, the equation, the way it is. Why should it be any different for him?

He tries to channel the energy of that last person, whoever it was, into the way he touches Amber, tries to remind his body of what it used to feel, but it's no use. He's broken.

It's such a shame that Andy is to decide right now is the right time to see Remington.

In the doorway of the living room, he stands, after letting himself in, and stares. He should have known. Remington doesn't want him. Remington doesn't want him. He wants her. Andy should have realised as much because it should have been clear. That walk they took together, that was the last moment, the last time they would ever spend together as anything more than just two people who know the same people.

It's over and he should have known.

His eyes fix with Remington's when the younger looks up, sensing there's somebody there. He shakes his head and turns away. Remington furrows his brows, deep in confusion.

"Got it," Andy says, back to the room.

Amber looks at him. "Who's that?" She asks Remington.

"One of the f**s," Remington tells her, even though he knows he shouldn't and the word tastes wrong.

"Don't say that," Amber says, and Andy walks out of the house. He drives home with a straight face and dry eyes. It's not worth the tears any longer. It's over.

It's over. Done, finished. It's run its course, found its ending, tumbled over the cliff. It's over.

He's over.

When Andy arrives home, he doesn't bother closing the front door before going up the stairs and into the bathroom.

Then he swallows a handful of sleeping pills with gulps of water and waits.

Because it's over and everything is too hard.

And because this is easy.

"Who was here?" Sebastian asks his brother, emerging from upstairs. He had heard the car outside.

Shrugging, Remington says, "mopey."

"Shit," Sebastian spits, "and you said what to him?"

"I said nothing, fuck's sake. He was just staring at us."

"Well, what were you doing?"

Remington rolls his eyes. "Kissing, what's it to you?"

"Oh, fuck. This is not good. You definitely said nothing to him?"

Now, Amber chimes in with, "he said he's 'one of the f-words'."

Sebastian's eyes widen and he marches over to his brother, pulling him off the couch and punching him hard on the cheekbone.

Remington stumbles back and yells in pain. "What the hell!"

"You can't say that, Remington! You can't say that fucking word! I told you!"

"Calm down."

The elder laughs bitterly. "You need to leave."

"What?"

"Leave. I don't want you in my house anymore. You need to leave."

"What, Seb-"

Violently, Sebastian grabs Remington and forces him out of the building, slamming the door in his face and making a dash for the phone.

Andy doesn't pick up.