Trigger warning.

Phone held against his ear, Andy listens to Emerson talking, sighs, tries to focus on what the man is saying and not on everything else going on in his head. "You can't keep doing this," he says once Emerson has stopped talking. "I don't care what your excuse is anymore. You're driving Remington over the edge." He hopes saying that might register in the drummer's mind as a call for help from him, but it doesn't. "He's so close to breaking, Emerson. He's gonna do something if you don't just apologise and give him the love he needs." Give me the love I need.

"I don't know what I've done wrong," Emerson insists.

"Don't be fucking stupid!" He runs a hand over his face. "Why did you do it?"

"I don't know."

Andy closes his eyes for a moment. "You need to own up to your fucking actions," he says firmly, "because it's getting ridiculous now. You're his brother, for God's sake! He needs you."

There's a pause before Emerson talks again. "I don't know how to talk to him anymore. Whatever I say, he get's upset."

"No, he doesn't. That's just how you see him. You look at him like some broken little boy, and he's not. He's fragile, but that's different. Just talk to him without insulting him, and maybe you'll see how understanding he is."

Emerson sighs audably.

"Look, I've got to go, but just give him a chance, Em. He's more than you give him credit for." The man hangs up and drops the phone into his lap, sitting with his eyes closed, head in his hands, for a minute before getting up off the sofa.

When he picks Remington up from therapy, he smiles at the boy, asks how it went, doesn't say how he cut himself just an hour ago. It sounds pathetic in his head. I cut myself. What would Remington think of him if he were to say it? What would he say?

At home, Remington sits and watches television, scrolling through Instagram at the same time, frowning when Emerson rings him in the evening, answering and pausing the television. "What?" He snaps, "called to insult me again?"

"Will you just give me a chance?"

Remington huffs. "Why would I do that?" He asks, bored. "You've had plenty of fucking chances to apolgise and explain yourself. Why do you need one more when we both know how it's gonna go?" Beside him, Andy sits down.

"Remington, please."

"Fine. Last chance." He looks at Andy, who raises an eyebrow. "Talk."

"I joined that band because I thought you wouldn't mind."

Remington laughs. "You thought I wouldn't mind? Are you dumb? Do you not know me, Emerson? Of course I fucking mind! Palaye is my fucking life! You tore apart my life!" Andy puts a hand to his knee, telling him to calm down.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

Again, he laughs. "No, apparently not."

"I hate fighting with you, Remington, I hate it."

"Well then maybe you should just...stop fighting with me?" Andy chuckles at him and the boy pokes his arm.

"That should go for you, too."

"I'm not the one who keeps telling my brother to kill himself." His hand is taken and kissed. "Why should I listen to you? Why should I believe that you're sorry when you keep hurting me?"

Andy finds it hard to listen to what Remington is saying. His hip hurts and he's trying so hard to hold himself together that it's only making it harder. He tunes out of the conversation his husband is having with Emerson, tunes out of where he is, who he's even sat next to.

He's never felt like this before. It's odd. He feels like he's far away, like he's so empty that he can't even think anymore. All that's in his mind is how much he needs to tell Remington. But whenever he thinks about doing so, he freezes up inside and he can't do it. It makes him angry, makes him hate himself.

Andy stands up. If he stays sitting here next to Remington he'll start tearing up, and that can't happen. He can't break. He just can't. Remington will look at him differently, think he's weak. Is he weak?

"Where are you going?" Remington asks, looking up at him.

"Bathroom," the man aswers simply, feeling for his phone in his pocket.

Remington thinks something sounds off in Andy's voice, but when he goes to ask if he's okay, Andy is already walking out of the room. He sighs, looks back at his phone, and decides he'll ask later, when they're in bed.

When he gets to the bathroom, Andy closes the door, locks it, and gets the blade from the back of his phone. He won't cry. He'll hurt but he won't cry. And hurting is what he does.

He digs the blade into an already painful cut, biting on his fist to stop himself from making a noise. It's fine. He can handle it.

Chasing after the metal, blood dribbles out, trailing red stains down his skin and soaking into the tissue he's holding. Andy looks at the deep wound he just created, touching his finger to it and sucking in a breath. "Fuck," he whispers, "fuck, this is a new low."

His hands are trembling. It's infuriating. There's blood on his fingertips and he pushes the blade into another recent wound, closing his eyes tight and holding his breath to get through the pain.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, as though Remington is in the room with him. "God, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to do. I can't even tell you. I'm so sorry." A tear slips down his cheek and he wipes his eyes, determined not to cry. But it's so hard. Everything is so hard. "You deserve someone better than me. I don't know why you're still with me. I don't know anything anymore." He wipes his eyes again. Crying makes this all feel so much more real. These are real emotions, real feelings. This is real life. Sometimes he wishes it wasn't.

He finds a bandage, sticks it over the cuts with medical tape, stands up. It'll be fine. Everything will be fine. The man washes his hands, gets rid of all trace of what he's been doing, and goes across to the bedroom.

Remington is sitting in bed with his phone and looks up at the older man. "Look at this drawing someone did of us," he says, holding the phone out. "Are you okay?"

Andy takes the phone. "Yeah, just tired," he lies, shifting from one leg to the other to try and ease the stinging. "Woah, this is so good."

"I know!" The singer takes his phone back, noticing how Andy seems shifty, on edge. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm just tired, honey, that's all." The lie is easy now. Too easy. So easy that Remington hears right through it.

Worried, the boy sits up straight, reaching for Andy and grabbing his hand. "Andy, talk to me," he urges, pulling the man towards the bed.

Andy shakes his head. Remington can't know. He'll be so disappointed. "Sweetheart, I'm fine, I promise."

The boy frowns, rubbing Andy's knuckles. "I know you're lying."

"Well then you're wrong."

Remington can hear the hurt in his voice and when Andy pulls his hand away, he leans back against the pillow behind him and watches Andy turn around. "Don't hurt on your own," he says, sadly, because he knows something's wrong with his lover.

Facing away from Remington, Andy blinks back tears. He feels almost sick. "I'm not hurting."

"Yes, Andy, you are."

"Fuck off," Andy snaps, pulling his shirt over his head and looking down at the bandage. It's red in places and he realises some of the cuts are still bleeding. "Please, just...don't." He hates that he's being rude to Remington. None of this is the younger's fault.

The boy looks down. "Darling, please. I want to help you."

The word darling, and the way it's said, makes Andy tear up suddenly. God, what he would do just for a hug right now. "I don't need help," he says, monotone, giving up on trying to hide how he's feeling.

"Sit down, Andy, or at least look at me. Let me help."

Andy repeats his previous sentence, harldy moving.

"Look, I know it's hard to open up about things, Andy, I get it. But it is so much better to tell someone. Everytime. You'll feel better if you tell me, darling, I promise."

That word again. It makes it so difficult to hold back the tears.

"Whatever it is, I will be here and I will help you, Andy, I promise on my life. Please. You're not okay, and that's alright, but you need to tell me what's going on. Please, Andy, talk to me." His voice is so soft and so soothing and he prays to the God he doesn't believe in that it'll coax the words out of his husband. "I don't care if you've fucking killed someone, Andy, I couldn't give a damn. You're hurting and I'm not gonna let you hurt alone. I don't care how long it takes, I'm not going to sleep until you talk to me about it. Please, I love you. You don't have to deal with this on your own. You never have to deal with anything on your own."

Andy blinks over and over, keeping his eyes closed for a few seconds and pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to fight back what he knows is coming. "There's nothing to deal with," he states, touching the bandage and wincing, clenching his jaw. "I'm fine."

Remington wipes his eyes. He's never seen Andy like this before. "You're not fine."

The man shakes his head. "I'm fine," he repeats, unconvincing and weak. The more he looks at the bandage the more it hurts.

"It's okay, just talk to me."

Andy clenches his fists. "There's nothing to talk about!" He shouts, immediately regretting it and only feeling worse. "Just go to sleep."

"No."

"Fucking drop it, okay! I'm fine!"

The fact that Andy is shouting at him only confirms just how badly he's hurting. "Ple-"

"Shut up! Go to bed!"

Remington flinches.

There are tears escaping now. Too many to stop. Andy can't do it anymore. "Sorry," he utters, "I didn't mean to shout at you. I'm sorry." It hurts to breathe. Like the air is poisoned or thinned. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" The distressed man cries, finally crumbling over the edge. He sinks to the floor, one hand gripping the handle of the wardrobe infront of him, the other hand over the bandage on his hip. "I'm sorry!" He keeps crying, not stopping when Remington kneels beside him and pulls him into his arms.

The boy sees the bandage under Andy's hand and his heart shatters.