Trigger Warning: Self-harm, depression, suicide

That night, Andy tried to call Remington to ask where he was, why he wasn't home, but his calls were declined and his texts were read but not replied. One thing was pretty damn obvious - Remington was not his usual self, no where near his usual self. It was figuring out why that was the difficult part. It could have been anything. 

Remington wasn't exactly known for his forgiving nature. He held grudges for months, even years, sometimes. When they were dating, before they had committed to anything serious, Andy had made a comment about a scene in a music video Palaye were filming at the time, and for months after, Remington brought it up, using it as an excuse every time he didn't agree with what Andy was saying. It was never anything serious, never bothered Andy - it was just something that Remington did - but over the years since their marriage, it had become clear that if he didn't agree with someone, he wouldn't let it go until he felt that appropriate apology or explanation had been given. 

In this case, Andy didn't know whether it was something he had done, or whether it was someone else entirely and was being taken out on anything with a heartbeat. 

Andy didn't have a lot of spare time to investigate the issue, since his band was preparing for a tour while simultaneously writing the next album, but despite his busy-ness, it was still important for him to get to the bottom of it. If there was one thing Remington was good at, it was refusing to let anyone see what was wrong, usually until it was too late and whatever the issue was had consumed him, be it something as small as a reservation for dinner not fitting with his plans but him not being able to say anything because of his innate fear of letting people down. The last time something like that happened, it had taken Andy a whole evening to coax the issue out of him. 

* * * 

Remington turned up at the photoshoot in a foul mood, though they were expecting it. From the moment he stepped through the doors, he began snapping at the photographers, the make up artists, and everyone else there. About things that weren't remotely important and didn't matter, even to him, but it was easier to keep up the act that to let them see what was actually wrong; he was going to kill himself. 

"Will you fucking stop for one second," Sebastian muttered as they were waiting for the photographer to set up the camera. 

"Don't fucking talk to me," Remington mumbled harshly. 

"You're being a real cunt, you know that? No one's done anything to deserve this from you." 

"Who the fuck are you calling a cunt? Shut your fucking mouth right now, because I swear to fucking god-" 

"Shut the fuck up," Emerson said. "Both of you, seriously. Can't we just do this without causing a scene for once?" 

"For once?" Remington asked. "What the hell do you mean, for once? You saying I cause scenes all the fucking time? You blaming me for your incompetence? Because Emerson, why don't you look at yourself for once? Because you know something? You're a huge, fucking lazy ass, pretentious, self-obsessed twat! No one cares about anything you have to say so why don't you just stop! No one cares for fucking 747 bullshit, you're fucking delusional as fuck, and I'm fucking tired of hearing your goddamn grating voice! No! On! Cares! Sebastian, get the fuck away from me, I can smell your breath from here! Are you fucking possessed or shit? Seriously, brush your teeth. Get off." Remington violently shoved both his brothers back and stomped out of the studio.

Outside, Remington walked until he couldn't breathe because he was crying so hard, making it back to the hotel and running up the stairs two at a time. In his room, he lay on the bed and tried to calm himself, tried to be better than what was festering inside him, a nest of something horrible. He covered his face with a pillow and hoped that seeing nothing would make him feel nothing, but it didn't work and he started again to cry. 

The razor was on the side by the sink, where he'd left it, and he sat on the edge of the bathtub, shirt on the floor, and sliced so deeply into his left ribs that everything went fuzzy, and he liked the feeling, so he did it again, and then again after that. 

He couldn't do it anymore, couldn't keep insulting everybody. Something had to be done.