When Remington went to unlock the door to his apartment, he found it already open, and muttering to Andy, who was stood behind him with his hands in his sleeves, "Fucking idiot brothers, I swear to God," he turned the handle and stepped in. "It's okay," he then said to the elder. "Come in." 

As expected, both Emerson and Sebastian were in the kitchen, having helped themselves to cups of tea and a packet of biscuits which Remington had been saving for Andy on his release from hospital. The tattoo artist glanced back at Andy and sighed. "This isn't a fucking hotel, you know," he said. "You can't just come in and help yourselves to my shit. What do you want?" 

"Why always so moody?" Sebastian asked, and though he was speaking to Remington, his eyes were on Andy. 

The singer was looking firmly at the ground, could feel the unwanted attention, had the urge to find Remington's arm with his hand but didn't move. 

"Did you need something, or are you just here to waste my time and make a fool of yourselves?" 

"Hi, Andy," Emerson said. "I didn't know you were still friends with him, Rem." 

"Why wouldn't I be? Please, both of you, just go, alright?" 

Sebastian finished his tea and put the cup down with a slam. 

Beside him, Remington could tell Andy flinched, and stepping directly in front of him, he said, "Please. Just go. If you wanna talk or whatever, I'll call you tomorrow. But not now, please. Go back to your own houses for once." 

Finally, once they both had reluctantly left the flat, Remington started making tea while saying to Andy, "I'm sorry about them. They always do shit like this. Treat me like I'm their kid or some bullshit. Anyway, make yourself at home. The things I got from your house are in the living room. Tea?" 

Andy, sitting on the edge of a dining chair, slowly nodded. 

"I bought a new sofa-bed so it's real nice and comfy. New sheets, too. Here, help yourself." He put the open packet of biscuits on the table. 

"Thanks," Andy mumbled. "I really appreciate all this. Everything you're doing for me, I mean."

Remington opened the fridge. "I'm happy I can help," he said, taking out the milk. "You're welcome here as long as you like, by the way."

"Oh. Are you sure? I don't want to cause you any trouble. I already have made you do so much."

"Of course, babe. I like having you around. And you haven't made me do anything. You deserve help when you need it, I'm just sorry no one else would give it to you. Here. I always get these biscuits for tea, they dip so beautifully." Sitting opposite Andy with two mugs of hot tea, Remington sent him a smile, asked, "How're you feeling?" 

After a moment, Andy took one of the biscuits. "A little weird," he admitted. "Mostly just surprised I'm not dead yet." He dunked the biscuit into the tea and then bit it. "What about your work?"

"Oh. I took some time off. I was due a break, anyway. I'll go back in once you're settled. I don't wanna leave you alone when you're only just out of hospital. But if you want any of your tattoos touching up, or any new ones, I'm very happy to go in with you one evening." 

"Okay," Andy said quietly. "Thanks." 

* * * 

That evening, Remington was sitting in bed scrolling a makeup website for new brushes when there was a soft knock on his door. "Yeah?" He called. "You can come in." Hesitantly, the door opened, and Remington looked towards it. "What's up?" 

Andy stood just inside the threshold. "Sorry," he started. "Uh, I was just, uh..." 

"Hug?" Remington guessed, and the elder nodded slowly. "Absolutely." He patted the bed. "Do you know anything about makeup brushes? Because apparently I'm supposed to use them, not my hands, but I don't know what the fuck all these are for? Like, the fuck is a fan brush?" 

Sitting on the bed, Andy replied, "Yeah, I use them for music videos and stage makeup and stuff." 

"Oh, perfect. Here, budge up." 

Andy did, letting Remington to put an arm around him. "Do you want them for, like, your whole face?" 

"I think? Yes? I don't know." He laughed, balancing the laptop between them. 

"Okay, so..." Andy glanced at Remington, silently asking if he could touch the mousepad. 

Remington smiled. 

Scrolling to the top of the page, Andy clicked in the website's search bar, started typing, slowing when Remington said; 

"Your hand tattoos are so sick." 

"Oh," Andy mumbled. "Thank you." 

Remington nodded, hummed. 

Eyes on the laptop screen, Andy said, "Do you really not use brushes?" 

"Nope." 

Andy looked at Remington. 

"Why?" 

"I don't know, you're just always so, uh, pretty." He kept looking at Remington, fingers hovering above the keyboard. 

Remington held his gaze. "No one is as pretty as you, my dear," he purred. "But thank you." Then, "I mean, look at your eyes. They're so gorgeous." 

Immediately, Andy dropped his head to hide his face.

"How's the brush search going?" 

"Oh. Uh, I'll add some to the basket. Is that...okay?" He was flustered now, avoiding making any further eye contact with Remington. 

"Sure. Go for it." 

Andy was quiet, focussed on the task of selecting brushes, the left side of his body against Remington's right. After a minute, he dared to lift his gaze to the younger, found he couldn't look away.