Trigger Warning: Blood, injury, emotional/physical abuse

Sitting on the couches in the studio, they were discussing a new music video, deciding on what they wanted it to include. Since it was a darker song, it had been agreed that there needed to be some sort of imagery in it to echo that, but when the idea of spitting blood came up, Andy found it impossible to open his mouth and say that he didn't want to do that. 

He listened to the four of his bandmates throwing suggestions back and forth, blood spitting being the reoccurring theme. CC had started to sketch out a rough story board onto a piece of paper with a ball point, drawings depicting each of them throughout the song vomiting puddles of thick blood onto the ground and their shoes, splattering the area around them. By the end of the video, they would be clawing at the cold ground, and the next video to be released would reveal their revival, their return to good health. 

"Andy, what're your thoughts?" CC asked eventually, looking up from the paper. "You're very quiet today." 

Andy blinked. The cut that Holden had given him in the roof of his mouth seemed to be hurting again despite it being fully healed.  He swallowed, ran his tongue along the old wound, swallowed again. "Yeah, it's-it's great," he said, tried to smile to prove his enthusiasm, and nobody questioned his tone, so he supposed they believed him, and was both relieved and horrified. 

Later, as they were packing up to leave, his phone buzzed and it was Remington telling him that his brothers were around for dinner. And though the following message said, 'See you when you get back. How's the songs going?' he decided it wasn't his place to impose when Remington's family was around, and so resolved to return to his own house. Or at least, the house that was under his name, but was of course not his in any other way. Holden would always own it and everything inside. 

It didn't matter how many times he had gone back since leaving Holden, he couldn't sit still, couldn't do anything other than walk up and down the stairs waiting for something that wasn't going to happen. 

When the doorbell rang at sometime past midnight, he stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped everything; waited for the key in the lock, the clunk as it turned, the greeting, the demands. But all that he heard was the doorbell again, and slowly, he approached. 

The glass was frosted so he could only make out a blurred shape of somebody on the other side, and his hand was shaking as he put his fingers to the lock and turned it, and he gripped the handle as though he would fall to the ground if he let go, and when he pulled the door open, it wasn't Holden with his foul smile, but Remington, bearing a packet of chocolate chip cookies. 

"Hey," Remington said. His breath was visible in the porch light. "Sorry. I don't mean to disturb you so late. I just - you didn't come to dinner tonight. I wanted to make sure you're okay. You can tell me to go away if you want. I just thought..." He shook his head. "Well, that's it, really. Just thought I should - I don't know - see how you are? Sorry, I realise now that this is weird, and probably creepy." 

For a while, Andy couldn't make his voice work. He stared at Remington until he had to blink. He struggled to speak without tripping over the words. "Oh. Thank you," he said. "Uh, you didn't - you didn't have to. Uh, do you wanna come in?" 

Smiling, Remington took up the offer, closing the door quietly behind himself and standing against it. He adopted a concerned face. "How was the studio?" He asked eventually. 

Andy felt his eyes dampen but he didn't let them spill. "It's good," he replied. "Sorry. Uh, do you want a drink?" 

"Oh. Sure. Thanks." Following him into the kitchen, Remington then said, "I didn't wake you, did I?" 

"No, I was up anyway." 

"You must be tired." 

"So must you," Andy responded, but immediately worried it sounded like he was mocking, so he hurried out, "Sorry. I'm sorry." 

Remington furrowed his brows, putting the cookies on the side and leaning against the counter. "What for?" He asked. "You've done nothing wrong." 

Fixing the filled kettle into its cradle, Andy couldn't look at Remington. 

"Andy," Remington said softly. "Are you okay? Do you wanna talk about anything? You seem upset." 

"No, I...I'm fine." 

"Okay."

A few moments when the only sound was the buzzing of the kettle.

Andy was having a hard time not crying. He didn't know what he was supposed to do, didn't know whether Remington was asking because he was genuinely worried or because he was looking for a weakness to later exploit and abuse. And he hated himself for considering the fact that Remington would ever hurt him at all. 

The kettle clicked and the water was boiled. To pour it into the mugs, Andy turned away from Remington, and as soon as he did, his eyes began to spill, and he blinked repeatedly but they wouldn't dry, and his hand was still shaking as he picked up the kettle, and he wasn't sure he could fill the mugs without spilling the hot water over his fingers. 

"Andy," Remington said from behind him. He was closer than Andy had expected, and he flinched, sloshing water onto the counter, and he couldn't see properly through the tears that built into plump droplets. "Andy, baby," Remington was saying. "Can I make the drinks?" 

Andy couldn't bear to turn around and face Remington, so he stayed where he was, gripping the handle of the kettle, and with each attempt to calm down, to stop the tears, he grew increasingly flustered, and when he wasn't able to swallow back a sob, he could do little other than brace himself. 

Leaning over his shoulder, Remington carefully took the kettle from him, put it back on the cradle, whispered, "It's okay. You're allowed to cry. Why don't you come and sit down? You're shaking." 

Andy wondered if it was a trap. He nodded, wiped his hand across his eyes, sat in a dining chair and expected Remington to hit him. "I'm-I'm sorry," he stuttered. 

Remington shook his head. He knelt before him. "You're allowed to cry," he repeated. His voice was barely louder than a murmur. 

"Sorry," Andy said again. 

"You're okay. You wanna talk about it? Did something happen?" 

Andy shook his head but he did want to talk about it because something had happened. He said for the third time, "Sorry." 

Remington took his hands and kissed his knuckles. "Can I stay here tonight?" He asked, adding, "I don't really feel like being alone." 

Nodding, Andy pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. Then he mumbled, "Please."