Trigger warnings: Mentions of suicide, depression, brief mention of sex.

Emerson sits on the bench by the river for more than an hour with Andy, stroking his hair and listening to him because he knows how important it is to have somebody who'll listen.

Andy is grateful. Grateful and tired. He thinks about lying under the rushing, cold water until it takes everything away. The hurt, the exhaustion, the heartbreak, the air from his lungs. Everything. He thinks about how nice that would be, how freeing that would feel. The weight lifted, the thoughts stolen, the life given to somebody more worthy, more beautiful, more deserving. He thinks about the noise, the certain ending to the chapter, the peace once the last page has turned and the book is closed and the reader stands and walks away, and he's forgotten by the morning. He thinks about it all.

"I want to see him," Andy says finally.

Looking away from the bird that's caught his attention, Emerson frowns. "You do?"

"I think so." He yawns. "It's getting cold, we should go home."

They walk back to Andy's place quietly. Andy goes to bed almost as soon as he's opened the front door, leaving Emerson downstairs, and pulling the covers back over himself.

Without the intention of doing so, he imagines Remington in the bed with him, smiling, telling him a bad joke and rolling his eyes when he gets a laugh. He imagines Remington sitting up, stretching his arms above his head, and settling down again. He imagines turning over and pressing his body to the younger's, resting an arm over his waist. Remington would put a hand over his and whisper something about the following day. Then he'd roll over and look at Andy and he'd smile. A secret, husband smile. A 'thank you for everything you do' smile. A perfect smile.

Andy imagines Remington kissing him. Then he'd giggle because he missed Andy's lips. Then he kisses the man again. Andy can almost feel it. He tries to feel it. Maybe if he could feel it, then it would be real.

As they settle in for sleep, he'd playfully poke Remington's ribs and Remington would whine and poke him back. Andy would soon be over him and they'd kiss and then they'd follow it through with beautiful and sincere love, and they'd fall asleep after, happy, calm.

Andy opens his eyes. He looks over at where his husband is supposed to be and all that's there is a lonely pillow. His eyes dampen and his throat closes and he presses a hand to his mouth. For a long blink, he closes his eyes, opening only to find that nothing has changed.

The bed is still half-empty. The room is still too quiet. The box of condoms on the side is still too full. The hole in him that he can't plaster up is still there. It hurts when it rips open inside, widening into a gaping, invisible pit of distraught. Something is sucked over its threshold and Andy yells through a sob, an arm raising and falling with a thump onto the mattress beside him. He grabs at the pillow that's supposed to have Remington's head upon it and the hole tears further into him.

To drown out the feeling of the pit inside him, Andy yells again, screaming into the pillow over and over with wild distress. He brings his legs beneath him and continues the loud cries because he can't seem to stop.

Emerson can't do much to calm Andy down, though he tries. The man doesn't want a hug, it would seem, as he pushes the drummer away with flailing arms and pulls himself further into a ball, wanting the hole inside him to open wide enough that it swallows his being completely.

Andy remembers how they met; he and Remington. It was at a beach. He was there for a day off and Remington was with his brothers. They had been play-fighting in the waves for a while. Andy was watching them. It made him smile. He talked to Sebastian before he talked to Remington. "Brothers?" He asked. It was clear they were.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Three of us. Poor mum."

"She sounds like a lucky woman," Andy said. "Excuse my weirdness, I just think it's nice that you're so close. Most siblings aren't so lucky."

"We're working on it. Most of the fighting isn't playful." He looked over at his two younger brothers, pushing eachother under the water. "Remington wants us to 'piss right off back to douche-land.' His words."

"He must be fun to have around."

Sebastian hummed. "So, you have any brothers?"

"Nope. Lonely only child."

"At least no one pisses in your bed."

"What?"

The guitarist shook his head. "It only happened once. Like I said, Remington wants us to piss off."

"Jesus."

"We learn to love him." He smiled. "I say love, but..."

"I'm sure he'll grow out of it," Andy said. "Which one is he?"

"You see the one with the blonde hair?" He pointed towards where the two were still fighting. "It's him. Why? Wanna knock some resect into his head?"

"I can sure try."

"Just insult his tattoos if he pisses you off, he hates that."

"I would, but he might realise I'm lying."

Sebastian looked at Andy, noticed the sleeve. "Tattoo lover yourself, huh? You might be his new best friend."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I'm Andy, by the way." He held out his hand for the younger to shake.

"Sebastian. It's nice to meet you, Andy, you seem just like us."

"Wow, insulting me after only just learning my name. Risky."

"Who said it's an insult?"

Andy smiled. "I'm just going off what you've told me. I'm gonna go say hi to your dickhead brother over there. He's quite pretty."

Sebastian laughed. "Between me and you, I think he's gay. Don't tell him I said that."

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me." He glanced at Remington. "I hope he's gay."