Trigger warning: Mentions of self harm, depression, death

Kidding hahahdkhdld

When it's time to go to therapy, Remington isn't sure he wants to. He doesn't know if he trusts Abigail after finding out her relation to Phoebe. He knows she's not the same as her daughter but wonders what went so wrong for Phoebe to be such a rude person if Abigail is her mother.

He sits on the stairs with his shoes, procrastinating putting them on by tying the laces in knots, undoing them, and repeating this four or five times, getting increasingly worked up each time. Today Andy's gone into the studio. It's the first time he's left the house without Remington since the younger came home. Perhaps it's the mixture of worry and confusion, or maybe the unshakable feeling of betrayal, but whatever it is, Remington just can't find it in himself to get off the stairs and into the car.

He considers calling Andy but decides that the man doesn't need more to worry about, and so just sits there working himself slowly but surely into a panic attack.

Abigail thinks is odd when Remington doesn't show up again. She knows he'd never want to miss a session because things build up in his mind so quickly if he doesn't talk to her every few days. She rings him but gets no answer.

Remington watches the screen with his therapist's name on it, waits for it to stop ringing. He wants to answer, he really does, but just can't seem to. The one person who's supposed to never upset him somehow has done that, and Remington can't even figure out how, doesn't understand why he's taking it so much to heart.

He sits right through the hour he's meant to be talking to Abigail on the stairs, having the sort of panic attack that doesn't even feel like a panic attack at all. Or maybe he's just grown so used to them that his brain doesn't register them properly anymore.

He feels sick with confusion.

When Andy returns home later, unaware of the bad day Remington has had, he empties a shopping bag onto the table, putting a bottle of milk in the fridge and rinsing strawberries in a bowl before making coffee and taking it into the living room and leaving them on the table. "Rem?" He calls, picking up the boy's phone and discovering the missed call from Abigail. "Remington, sweetheart, you okay?"

Upstairs, Remington groans into the pillow he's pressing his face into, waiting for Andy to find him, unbothered, for now, by the irritation of his wrists.

"Oh no, what's wrong?" Andy asks, sitting on the bed and pulling the pillow from his hands.

Remington whines and tries to get it back.

"How was therapy?"

"Fine."

Andy hums.

"Well it would've been, if I went."

"You didn't go? Why not?"

The boy sighs, grabbing the pillow back. "'cause I'm a fuckin' idiot."

"The idea of Phoebe being her daughter messing with you, too?"

Remington nods.

"Yeah, I know how you feel. It's been fucking with me as well." He lies on his back and looks up at the ceiling. "So what've you been doing all day?"

"Having a panic attack."

Andy frowns. "That's shitty, I'm sorry. I wish I was here to help."

"It's fine. You don't need to feel bad for my stupid ass."

"No, sweetheart, it's not fine. Neither of us are fine at the moment. But that's okay. We'll muddle through. I brought you some strawberries."

"You did?"

"They're downstairs. Made you coffee, too."

The boy flops down onto Andy's chest. "Are you still forty five?"

Andy plays with his hair. "Maybe forty two, forty one at a reach. You?"

"Dunno. Thirty something." He lifts his arms in the air and drops them down with a humph. "D'you remember when twenty five was high?"

"Yep."

"Now I wish we could be twenty five."

"Me too."

Sitting up, Remington yawns and touches his wrists. "I wanna cut so bad," he mumbles, looking at his husband when he takes his hands and kisses them.

Andy rubs the younger's wrists. "We don't need to cut, sweetheart, we can be strong together." He sits up, too, and keeps a-hold of his hands. "Come down at have some strawberries with me."

"But I like cutting."

"Mm, and do you like the feeling after, once you've stopped and you realise what you've done?"

"No, but-"

"There isn't a but. Come on, it's alright. We've got this."

Remington huffs.

"I wanna cut, too, kitty, but we don't need to." He pulls the boy off the bed with him and kisses his head. "Kassandra's still trying to get me to help them out."

"Ugh, what a bitch."

Andy hums, agreeing wholeheartedly with Remington's statement.

"Like...get the hint, sunshine." He pulls his hands free of Andy's to put his palms to the man's cheeks and kisses him, after, dropping his head onto the man's shoulder and whispering, "I won't cut if you don't cut."

The older hums again. "And I won't cut if you don't cut," he returns, "good plan."

"I'm full of those."

"You sure are. C'mon, the coffee's getting cold." He whines. "Jesus, you're not a damn dog. Calm down with the licking." Putting a hand to Remington's hair, he tips his head to the side. "Or don't."

Remington talks with his mouth on the man's skin, mumbling, "how was the studio?"

"Not great."

"Oh no."

Andy sighs. "Maybe I'm just not in the right mindset for it, I don't know. I keep just wanting to cry." His husband lifts his head and he smiles. "And," he goes on, "I can't help thinking that I'll come home and you'll have gone."

"Oh Andy," Remington whispers, "that's just not gonna happen. And you know it's okay to cry."

"It just doesn't feel okay."

"I know. And one day, it will." He pokes Andy's nose again.

It's almost midnight when they retire to bed, curling up into one another like kittens. Remington wakes a few hours later, like he does most nights, thanks to his over-active brain, and sleepily draws fingers across Andy's cheekbone, smiling when the man makes a soft noise. He settles back down to sleep again.