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Trigger warnings: Mentions of self harm, substance abuse, eating disorders

It's not a scheduled therapy session when Abigail calls Remington, who slips out of the venue back door to answer.

"Remington," she begins, "are you busy? There's something you really need to know."

The boy leans against the wall. "No, not right now. What is it? Why'd you sounds so serious?" He asks, not used to hearing her with this voice.

"Are you okay, first of all? I don't wanna tell you this if you're not doing great."

"No, I'm good."

"Okay. There's really no nice way of saying this, but someone installed a camera into my office and has been recording all of our sessions for about three months. They haven't recorded anyone else's, just ours."

Remington is quiet.

"I wanted to tell you before it got to you some other way. I'm so sorry, it's so dangerous for this to happen."

"How-how'd you know?"

Abigail sighs. "I was doing some dusting and what not, found it at the back of the bookcase. It's one of those remote controlled ones that can be watched live. Anyway, I've told the police and will probably lose my job. I'm so sorry."

Remington sits on the ground. "Fuck," he whispers, "shit."

"We'll get to the bottom of it, alright? I'm gonna do everything I can to keep what we talked about private like it should always have been."

"Why-why would they-why would they do that?" The boy asks, horrified that anyone could have listened to everything he's told her.

"I wish I could give you an answer. I'm heartbroken. You put so much trust into me and this must be so distressing for you."

"I think I need to go," he mumbles, "and think about-think about it for a bit."

"Of course."

"But-but can I call you if I-if I need to?"

"If you're still comfortable with that, of course you can. I'm always here for you."

Remington hangs up, puts his head in his hands, tries to come to terms with the fact that someone could be listening to it right now. He can't understand why anyone would be so sick as to do that. He stays there for longer than he realises because Andy comes out, tells him he's about to perform. "Too much noise," the boy says.

Andy crouches in front of him. "What's wrong, kitty?"

"Need'a cut."

"Come back to the bus. Let's have a cuddle."

Remington lifts his head and rubs his eyes. "But the show..."

"Cuddling my sad princess is more important than that, silly. Come on, up we get."

The boy rubs his eyes again, holds his arms up for Andy to pick him up.

"Now, baby boy, think you can tell me what's hurting you?"

Remington leans into Andy as he's carried to the bus, grabbing onto him when he's laid on their bunk. "Tell ya' later," he whispers.

Andy sits with him in his lap for ten minutes, until he's close to sleep, before kissing his head, whispering that he'll be back later, and going back into the venue to start the show. He pulls his tour manager to the side by the stage. "Listen," he says, "Remington's on the bus. He might try hurting himself. Can you get someone to stay in the bus until I'm back?"

"Sure," the man, Martin, agrees.

"Thanks," Andy says, and then, "I'm also on heroin but don't tell him that."

"What?"

"No big deal, alright? Just to help with stress. The stash is in the back of the cupboard in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel." He glances out at the stage. "Just in case I go into withdrawal and you have to shoot me up. Okay? Just don't fuckin' tell Remington, I'm begging you."

Martin nods. He knows how it is. On tours, the shows come first, the getting sober comes after. "You got it," he assures Andy, and then the man is on stage and singing and acting like he isn't on drugs and that his husband isn't heading for a bad relapse and that Emerson isn't starving himself.

Remington's fast asleep when Andy returns, though before doing so, the man quickly shoots himself up again, to avoid the withdrawal that'll come in the morning otherwise. He quietly gets in bed beside the boy, holding him to his chest and drawing lines up his chest. "Shh," he whispers when his lover stirs.

The boy turns around in his arms. "Night," he mumbles, half asleep.

"Sleep well, kitten."

Sebastian calls Andy the next day. "I really don't know what to do," he says to the man, "he just won't talk to me."

Andy makes sure Remington won't hear before responding. "Well what're you doing?" He asks.

"Asking why he isn't eating."

"Is he still losing weight?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, listen. It's not the best plan but it worked for me in the past. Try spend as much time as you can with him, wait for him to collapse, and then take him to hospital. If he's thin enough, they'll feed him through the tube and he won't be able to stop them. Then he at least won't die. You can talk it out of him while you're in hospital."

"I don't think that'll work."

"It's either that or you let him starve himself to death," Andy says dryly.

"I just really have no clue why he's doing it. It'd be easier to help if I knew."

"I know. You could call Abigail, I'm sure she could help."

"Andy!" Remington shouts from down the hall in the venue.

The man looks at him.

"Love you!"

"Love you more!" Andy returns. "Just keep trying," he then tells Sebastian, "but take him to hospital if he collapses."

"Okay."

Andy hangs up, grins at Remington. The younger grins back.