Trigger warnings: Mentions of self harm, suicide, homophobia + slurs, vv brief mention of anorexia

When Andy gets home in the early evening, Remington has already gone to bed. "You okay?" He asks, after eating dinner and showering. Remington hums. "Sure? It's pretty early."

"Just sleepy," Remington mumbles.

"Have you had some dinner?"

"Mhm."

"Promise?"

"I had the soup from yesterday."

"Good."

Remington turns over. "How come you look like that?"

"Like what?" Andy asks, playing with his hair.

"Like you're about to cry."

The man sighs. "Well..." He takes Remington's hand and kisses it. "The guys in America, they're planning to come for a week. Y'know, so we can catch up and shit. They called earlier. They've booked rooms in the hotel just down the street."

Remington frowns. "Do you wanna see them? Because it doesn't sound or look like you do."

"I don't know."

"Did they ask you if you were okay with it?"

Andy sighs again. "Why would they?"

"Uh, because they should care. Obviously. I'd ask. If I was them, I'd ask."

"It's not a big deal."

Remington looks at him like he's stupid. "Yeah, like I'm gonna believe that. There is a literal tear in your eye." He pokes Andy's cheek. "You don't have to see them if you don't want, Andy. It's not your duty to do anything for them. And they are the ones who fucked you over."

"They didn't fuck me over."

"No? So you were totally cool with them moving to America even though I'd just had a heart attack, you were fucking about to kill yourself, and they knew this?"

"Remington-"

"I'm just saying. Why would you wanna see them if they made you fucking suicidal?"

"They didn't make me suicidal, that's ridiculous."

"So then why did you fucking cut your arm up while you were there?"

Andy closes his eyes. "Remington, please. It's not that simple and you know it."

"Stop standing up for them!"

"I-"

"Seriously, they moved to America with checking you were okay with it, they made you wanna fucking die and didn't check you were okay, they let you leave the band - your band - and didn't check you were okay with it, and now you're gonna let them come here and make you feel shit again just because you're too much of a nice person to admit that you don't want them to? You need to fucking tell them how it is, Andy, or I fucking will."

"It's just a week, sweetheart. It's not-"

"Why are you letting them do this?"

"I'm going to sleep." Andy turns over.

Remington frowns. "I know you're crying," he says after a moment, hearing how the man tries not to make a sound. When Andy says nothing, Remington gets out the bed, walks over to the other side, and gets in beside his husband. "If you tell me it's not a big deal one more time I will actually lose my mind." He presses himself to Andy and wraps his arms around his neck.

"Seriously-"

"Just fucking let me be overprotective, will you?"

Andy gives in and accepts it.

While they're having breakfast the following morning, Andy asks Remington why he was in bed so early last night. "I was pissed off," Remington answers, "and upset."

"Why?"

"My stupid producer," Remington explains, "is a raging homophobe. He wouldn't let me record one fucking song because it mentions you. He had this whole rant at me about how unnatural it is and that we should be, and I quote-" he puts his fingers in the air to imitate speech marks, "-'seriously thinking about correction therapy or death.'"

Andy's eyes widen. "He said that to you?"

"Yep."

"Oh hell no. That's out of line."

Remington nods. "So anyway, I was pissed off and upset so I went to bed instead of doing something else. And now I have to go in and act like it's all fine even though he literally just told me I should die because I'm gay."

"Fuck that," Andy says, "I'm not gonna let him get away with talking to you like that."

"What're you gonna do?"

"Have a go at him, of course. Finish your toast."

"Yes daddy." He picks up the toast.

Andy rolls his eyes. "Are you going in today?" He asks. "I'll come with you."

"Mhm. Oh, you know what you should do?"

"What's that?"

"Gimme a few hickies, y'know, right where he can see. Really piss him off."

The older smiles. "Everyday, you give me more reasons why I love you," he says, "finish your toast and come sit on my lap."

Dave, Remington's producer, is surprised when it's not just Remington that comes in today. And even more so when he sees what the two men have done. Remington has three hickies below his jaw and his lipstick is messy and it's clear the two have been quite roughly kissing, since it's all over Andy's mouth, too.

"Sorry I'm late," Remington says, "he was fucking me in the backseats of the car. I hope it's not too obvious." Andy snickers. "Andy wanted to come in and say something."

Dave looks at him impatiently.

"I did," the man begins, gripping Remington's waist. "There's cum on the car seat."

Remington snorts and covers his mouth. "Not that," he says, even though they already planned this out so that they'd purposefully say all the wrong things.

"Oh, fuck," Andy remarks, "my bad. No, what I was meant to say was that it's a good thing his shirt is white."

Remington stifles another laugh. "Actually," he plays along, "you can see it right here." He points to a stain.

"That wasn't it, either," Andy says. "I came here to say one thing, and that thing is that-princess, you know there's some on your pants."

"Is there?" Remington asks, though he knows there is because they made sure of it.

"Anyway. As I was saying. I just thought I should let you know that we actually fucked on this couch last year while there was no one here. That mark right there-" he points to a small stain, "-is exactly what you think it is. Not mine, of course. I don't bottom. So if you've ever sat there, you've sat on Remington's cum, so how's that for you, you homophobic, ugly piece of shit. I bet you've never had your ass pounded in a car with blacked out windows or given a blow job in a layby or gone skinny dipping, have you? And not least because no one in their right mind would wanna see your crusty, miniscule, Trump-supporting cock. Y'know, it's not Remington's fault that he's pretty and sexy. If anything, it's your fault that you're to much of a small minded cunt to appreciate it. So how about you sit down and press your buttons and let my husband record his fucking song, alright? Or I swear, I will lose you your job."

"You listen here, mate," Dave begins, clearly angry. "I don't need two immature sissies telling me how to live my life, alright? It's my studio and if I don't feel comfortable with the words in his song, I'm entitled to say no."

Andy scoffs. "You feeling uncomfortable in the presence of gay men is not Remington's fault, you fucking idiot! We can be as gay as we fucking like, yeah? And you know why? Because that's who we are! We ain't gonna put on suits and stick our finger up a fanny just to make you feel comfortable! If that's your logic, then why don't you put on some lipstick and stick your fingers up a man's ass, huh?"

"You're disgusting."

Remington flops down onto the couch, pulling Andy with him. "You outta be careful getting on his bad side," he says, "Andy's very powerful when it comes to the music industry. One bad word from him and you ain't gonna get much more business, love. Everyone respects Andy."

"All the fags, you mean."

"I bet you feel real like the real big man, don't you?" Andy says. "Throwing these slurs around like they're supposed to hurt us? We've been married for years, sweetie, you think a few weak insults are gonna make us feel bad about it? Y'know, there's no need to take your sexual frustration out on us just because we have flourishing sex lives. I bet the last time you had someone touch you was when your mummy wiped your bottom for you."

Remington laughs loudly. "She probably still makes him packed lunches every day."

"Says the boy who hasn't eaten since last year!"

Andy looks at Dave like he could punch him. He shakes his head. "Give us our money back right now, you fucking disgusting man. It's one thing to have a go at him for being gay, it's a whole other thing to bash his eating disorder. Give him his fucking money and you can bet your gross ass that there's gonna be an angry article about you soon, so keep your eyes out for that."

"I'm not giving you shit!"

Remington leans into Andy's ear, mumbles, "should we do it?"

Andy hums. "I think we should."

Dave watches, horrified, while the two engage in a kiss.

"We're not stopping until we you pay him back," Andy says, breaking the kiss to talk. "So get going or my shirt's coming off."

Five minutes later and they're sitting in the car in fits of giggles and a couple hundred added to their bank account.