Trigger warning: mentions of eating disorders, self harm, substance abuse

"I don't see why," Remington complains to Abigail, "I don't need a new therapist."

"The agency can't leave you without one until they're sure you don't need one, Remington. It's their job to make sure you're talking to someone."

"But I am talking to someone."

Abigail hums. "I know, but I'm not qualified anymore so you can't claim I'm your therapist."

"Well then I'll just not say shit to them."

"Give her a chance. You might like her."

The boy huffs. "No thank you."

"Unfortunately you don't have a choice," Abigail says with sympathy. She understands talking to new people about it isn't his favourite thing.

"I never have a choice," he mumbles, "all these people telling me what to fuckin' do all the time like they're fucking Holly." He turns onto his front.

"You don't have to tell them anything you don't want to."

"I know." He sighs.

"Don't be late for the call. You can ring me after if you like, okay?"

"Fine."

"You're gonna do good," she says encouragingly.

Remington hangs up, makes himself look a little less like he's about to murder someone, and waits for the video call on his laptop. When it begins ringing, he takes in deep breaths and clicks on the answer button. The person on the screen is a young woman with winged eyeliner and shoulder length brown hair. She looks much more put together than Remington has ever felt in his life.

"Remington Leith-Biersack?" She checks, and the boy notices she has an Australian accent.

He nods, stays quiet.

"It's nice to meet you. I'm Jane. I specialise in disordered eating and self harm. I understand you've got anorexia."

Remington nods again.

"I don't wanna start any serious conversations until we can talk in person, so for now, I'm gonna just confirm a few things with you. Is that alright?"

He plays with his fingers, answers with yet another nod of the head.

Jane asks about his brothers, checks she has their names right, that she's familiar with his husband and their relationship, that she's got all the facts right regarding his past abuse and so forth. Remington hardly says two words. When the call is over, he closes his laptop and goes to sleep even though it's early afternoon, because he's starving and drained and homesick. He wakes when Martin loudly pulls back his curtain to announce they're staying in a hotel for the night since there's no show. The boy shoves a change of clothes and Harley into a bag, dragging himself out of the bus and following the others into the hotel.

In the room, which he's sharing with Andy, since they booked it before the tour began, he sits on the edge of the double bed, tries to muster up courage to say something to the man. Andy beats him to it.

"Not to be dramatic but I think I'm overdosing," he says, slurred, sitting with his arms around himself.

Remington whips around to look at him, startled at the comment.

"Unless it's normal for my heart to be this slow," Andy mumbles, "I know you-like-would rather be anywhere else right now, but-like-fuck..."

"Just-I'm calling an ambulance," the younger says quickly, flinching when there's a loud knock on the door.

"It's me," Martin says.

Remington lets him in.

"The hell is up with him?" The manager asks, looking at Andy, who's began rocking.

"Overdose," Remington says, strangely calm. "I'm calling the-"

"Go away," Martin suddenly demands.

The boy steps back.

"You make everything such a big deal. Go wait in the restaurant or something. You could have a fucking burger."

"Leave 'im alone," Andy slurs, "he's done nothin' wrong. Rem, you've done nothin' wrong."

"God, you two are fucking irritating. Are you sure you're overdosing?"

"Fucking call an ambulance!" Remington shouts, surprising them all. "My husband's fucking overdosing on drugs you gave him and you're here having a go at me for caring! And for the last fucking time! You can't cure me by telling me to eat a burger!"

"Calm-"

"If you say calm down I will lose my shit!"

"Hello," Andy mumbles, "man dying over here."

Remington begins dialling the emergency service, flinching when Martin pulls the phone from his hand and throws it at the door. He backs away while trying not to let it show how scared he is.

"He'll be fine, fucking hell," the man says, sounding fed up.

"Fucking help me!" Andy shouts, reclining after and practically crumpling onto the floor.

Remington backs himself into a corner. His starved brain makes it all so confusing.

"Be a fucking man," Martin is saying to Andy, "it's not a big deal."

Andy holds his knees to his chest and shakes.

In the corner, Remington turns and crawls to the door, collecting his phone on the way. He quickly stands up, opens the door, and darts out of the room, calling 999 and hurriedly explaining that his husband's overdosing on heroin. He gives the name of the hotel as he reaches the lift (elevator).

"I'm fuckin' firing you," Andy slurs, "if I don't die."

"You're not gonna die, Jesus Christ."

Remington sits in the lift, not getting up when it reaches the ground floor. He can't seem to move. "I wanna go home," he cries to Abigail down the phone, in tears and trembling.

"What's going on?" She asks, "has something happened?"

"Everything! Everything's happened!"

"Tell me where you are."

Remington gives her the name of the hotel.

"I'll come and get you, okay? Can you sit tight for an hour?"

"Okay."

"I'll see you soon, gimme a call if you need, alright?"

"Okay."

"It's gonna be okay," she says, picking up her car keys.

Remington mumbles something incoherent before hanging up.