Trigger warning: Mentions of self harm, blood, depression, general sadness.

For an hour or so, Andy tries not to worry. Sebastian said Remington was fine. But the thought of him being alone in the car doesn't sit well with him. He knows there's a first aid kit in there, and therefore a pair of sharp scissors. God knows what Remington is capable of doing to himself with a sharp pair of scissors.

He decides that if Remington hasn't returned or at least texted him by midnight, he'll go and check that he's not dead in the car. He knows he has to give the boy space but sometimes space isn't a good thing.

When midnight hits, he leaves the room, walking quietly down the stairs and out into the carpark. The lights are on in the vehicle and Andy isn't sure if that's a good thing or not. It means Remington's either fine or something happened so he wasn't able to turn them off. Andy approaches the car, looking through the back window before opening the passenger door. He doesn't have time to process what's happening because Remington's light body is falling into him and he, at first, thinks he's asleep.

The blood on his hands says differently.

"Fuck," Andy whispers, "no, no, no, Remington. Fuck!" He isn't sure what to do, so he lifts the boy out of the car and lies him on the ground, holding his cut up arm and fumbling for his phone. While holding the phone to his ear by pressing his cheek to his shoulder, Andy reaches for the blanket they keep in the car, wrapping it tightly around Remington's arm as the operator answers in French. Andy explains, as clearly as he can, what's happened, being told there'll be an ambulance in a few minutes before hanging up.

Confusion. Remington wakes in an unfamiliar place. Someone's holding his hand but he can't be sure if it's one of his brothers or if it's Andy. Or someone else entirely. He groans, brings a hand up to rub his eyes and only then realising the bandage that's wrapped around the entirety of his arm, from where wrist meets hand all the way to where arm meets shoulder.

"You're alright," he hears, turning his heavy head to the first familiar sight since he woke.

The boy groans again in absence of words. It's all blurry in his head.

"D'you want a hug?"

Remington pulls his hand free of Andy's and shakes his head. "Don't want you to touch me," he mumbles, the memory of the words the man said still running circles in his brain. "Please just go."

Andy looks down. "I'm sorry."

"Andy, just go."

The man does as Remington wants because he knows it's the right thing to do, retreating to the waiting room and texting Sebastian.

You lied.

Sorry?

You said he was fine. He practically cut his arm off. Passed out.

Shit, I'm so sorry! He promised to call.

So now basically everything has been turned upside down.

Stay calm, Andy, it's gonna be fine.

U try 'stay calm' while ur band has replaced u, ur husband won't let u touch him after nearly bleeding to death, u can't stop wanting to bleed to death yourself, and ur looking in the mirror everyday at someone who u fucking despise.

Andy doesn't know how long he sits and waits, not knowing what he's even waiting for, until he gives up and leaves. He's tired and confused and not sure why this has turned into such a huge deal.

No matter how far he wants to go, he can't seem to get further than the car park. The man sits against a wall and presses the heels of his hands into his closed eyes. It was going so well. His music, his marriage; it was going so well. And now it's not and he doesn't know why.

He doesn't let himself cry because it feels wrong to cry alone, so just sits there in the thick night and shivers.

Remington is told to try and sleep, that he'll be fine to leave tomorrow. He can't sleep. He wants Andy but is also scared because of what was said. What if Andy really did mean it?

He wonders where the man went. The waiting room? Back to the hotel? Wonders what he must be feeling now, having already been down. Remington knows he's only making Andy's state worse but he refuses to forgive him for what he said. He won't do that until they've talked about it properly.

Andy goes back into the waiting room when he gets too cold, sitting alone and in silence, minus the nurses and doctors who pass through. He distracts himself with social media until a doctor finally approaches, saying Remington's asking for him.

The boy is sitting up in the hospital bed, his skin nearly as white as the clean bandage which masks tattoos and years of self-loathing. He doesn't look at Andy when he's let in, doesn't lift his gaze from his fingers. "I don't want you to touch me," is the first thing to be said, and then, "but I want you to tell me what's wrong 'cause we need to fix this."

Andy knows he's right and is slightly surprised at how calm and mature he's being. "Okay," he says, and nothing else.

Remington wants to cry but keeps himself from doing so. "I'm not gonna say anything 'til you've explained," he goes on, in a quiet voice. "I don't care what it is, I just need to know 'cause you scared me and you made me relapse and there must be a reason why."

"Okay."

"So please tell me, Andy, now. Before this gets even more out of hand. I'm worried about you."

The man sighs, looks from his hands to his husband, all pale and delicate, like a white rose, threatened by rain storms and gusts of wind. "They're writing a new album," he says, "without me. Said it's in my honour but how can it be? It's my band, for god's sake, and now I have nothing to do with it."

Remington can't look up. He'd break if he did.

"They're calling the album 'Biersack, This One's For You' as if that makes it all okay. I'd rather they didn't. I'd rather they just fucking cut my heart out and used it as a football than write an album with my name on it. I don't want to be associated with them if I'm not in the band. It hurts too much." He wishes Remington would look at him. "They're gonna donate half the profits to the charity we're setting up. They think all this is s'posed to make it stop hurting because they know I've not been right since leaving. They're trying to care but if they really did, they'd come the fuck back. Maybe they just like it better without me there. I never was a good singer anyway."

Remington forces his eyes to stay dry.

"And I know it's stupid, and I'm an adult and should be able to deal with it, but I can't. I say I can and I write all these new songs for Andy Black but, if I'm being honest, which I know I have to be, I don't want Andy Black. I want Black Veil Brides. I want to see them every day and argue with Jinxx over violin parts and laugh at Lonny when he makes a shit joke." He bites the inside of his mouth. "It's not an excuse and I know that, but I was just...I was trying to just deal with it all without being a fuckin' burden on you and your brothers and obviously I couldn't and now I'm being a burden on you and your brothers and I've fucked everything up. And I know I hurt you. I shouldn't have even started fighting with you."

The boy keeps his eyes firmly in his blanketed lap, listening to Andy like he's never heard anything more important in his life.

"I wasn't trying to argue with you. You know that, right? I didn't ever want that to happen. I never want to scare you. I just...I didn't know how to tell you what was going on 'cause it just felt so stupid, y'know? I kept telling myself that it was fine because I shouldn't be getting so worked up over a fucking band, but it just-it didn't go away." He sighs. "And when you kept asking me what was wrong, I was so sick of thinking about it that I kinda just-well I took it out on you, which was so fucking wrong of me and I'm so fucking sorry."

Remington finally lifts his gaze, and, as predicted, dissolves into tears,