ayy we got the inspiration back.
Trigger warning - talk of suicide, depression, eating disorders.

It's a Thursday, two weeks and three days after getting home from hospital, when Andy, much to his dismay, comes across a bottle of familiar diet pills, almost half empty. He runs down the stairs and finds Remington in the living room. "Tell me these are old," he says, catching the boy's attention.

Remington looks up at him with wide eyes.

"Remington. These are old, right? These are old diet pills. You've not taken any for months. Right?"

The boy can't respond.

"Fucking hell," Andy whispers, "are you trying to get yourself killed? Remington, what the hell? You heard the doctor. You have to take better care of yourself or you're gonna die!"

"I know," Remington mumbles.

The man doesn't know what to do. He's ashamed at himself for not noticing the signs. "Why won't you stop? Why won't you just try?"

"I am trying! This is trying! It's hard, Andy! It's too fucking hard!" He can't help that he's shouting. He tries to contain it but he can't.

Andy's gonna cry. He knows he is. "Please, Remington, you have to stop! You have to look after yourself! You have to!"

"I don't know how!" Remington screams, voice breaking and then he sobs.

"You're supposed to be telling us when you're about to relapse! You're supposed to talk to me, Remington! You have to! I don't fucking care when, in the middle of the fucking night if you like, just fucking tell me! I'm trying to help you! I'm trying to keep you safe! You have to communicate this stuff! It's not an option, not anymore. This is literally life or death, Remington, life or death!" He's distressed. They both are. It's fear like they've never known.

"Well then let me die!"

"No!" Andy wipes at his eyes. "You can't keep fucking hurting yourself like this. You can't. Please. Do you know how fucking heartbreaking it is to see you doing this to yourself over and over?"

"Maybe if you'd gone to America then you'd not be dealing with my fucked up, insane, someone kill me now, bullshit!"

The older shakes his head. "Stop it!" He almost-yells. "Stop talking about yourself like you're worthless! You're not worthless! You're the most fucking expensive thing in my world, Remington! Stop putting yourself through all of this!"

"I CAN'T!"

"You can. You can. You just have to try."

Remington throws his phone on the floor and stands up, facing his husband. "I am trying! Don't you see? Every fucking day I'm trying, Andy! And every fucking day I wanna give up because it's too fucking hard and I'd rather just fucking die, okay? I'd rather just die than go through what recovery makes me go through every day! At least those pills help with that!"

Andy is crying along with Remington. "Don't say that!" He begs, without the strength in him to try and calm the conversation down.

"Why not? What would be the point if we both know it anyway? I can't get better, Andy! I can't, okay! It's way too hard and I can't do it! It hurts everyday and I wanna cut myself so bad all the fucking time and I can't, and no matter how bad I try to make it all go away, it won't! And I wake up every day and I wish I'd died in my sleep! I can't fucking do it! I can't! This is it, Andy! This is as far as I can fucking go! So please just...please kill me." Suddenly he's talking so quietly that Andy isn't sure if he hears correctly.

"It's going to get better," Andy says, "it's going to get better, I promise."

"It's not! It's not! It gets worse every day and I can't take it! I can't take it anymore!"

"You need to keep going. You need to keep pushing because one day you'll wake up and you'll feel a bit better than you did the day before. How're you ever gonna get that feeling if you die now?"

Remington wants to scream so loud that his lungs burst. "I don't want that feeling! I want to wake up and for all of it to have gone! I need it to all go!" He sobs heavily, grabbing Andy's arms and collapsing into him. "I can't do it anymore!" The boy cries, "it's too much! It's too much! I can't!"

Andy decides the best thing to do is to pick his husband up, and so gets his hands under the younger's thighs, hoisting his light body into his arms and swaying as though he's a child. "We're gonna get you help," he says assuringly, "we're gonna get you proper help, okay. It's all gonna be alright. You're gonna be alright."

"I wont," Remington cries, and then, "I'm sorry. I keep-I keep ruining every-everything." It's hard for him to get the words out between his sobs and hiccups and stuttered breaths.

"Nothing for you to be sorry for. Just take some nice deep breaths, I got you."

All Remington can do is cry, until his body is empty of tears (ariana grande starts playing) and he is weak and tired and overwhelmed in Andy's arms, who sits down to take the strain off his arms.

"It's okay," Andy whispers, once the boy is quiet and calming down. "And it's okay not to be okay, too. You never need to apologise for that. You're gonna get proper help, I promise, and you're not alone in this. You're never alone. I really need you to know that."

"Like in your song," Remington murmers, and Andy knows which one he means straight away.

"Exactly. Just like in my song. You're not alone."

Remington sniffles and yawns, the side of his head against Andy's chest. "Sing it to me? Please?"

Andy is still teary. Seeing his husband so fragile, like thin glass, makes him realise just how damaged the poor boy really is. "'course," he says gently, and softly sings the song, only stopping when Remington is asleep in his lap, still red-eyed and shaky and scared of each coming morning.