Trigger Warning: Depression, suicide, self-harm, blood/injury

Andy tried Remington's phone so many times that he began hearing the beep of 'leave your message after the tone' before it had sounded, the noise running around in his head. He couldn't relax, couldn't eat his dinner, couldn't have the shower he was planning to have. Something was wrong.

Remington had never done anything like this before, never stayed somewhere that wasn't their house unless it was an obligation, like a tour or a holiday. He did everything he could to stay as close to Andy as possible, no matter what they were doing. Something really wasn't right. 

After reaching voicemail for at least the tenth time, Andy put his phone in his pocket, grabbed his keys, and left the house. 

There was a queue at the hotel reception since it was early evening and many guests were checking in or making dinner reservations, and Andy moved on the spot, passing his weight from foot to foot, checking the time over and over, texting Remington, texting again, looking for a reply every few seconds. His messages remained unread. 

When he reached the front of the line, he said to the woman, "I need the room number for my husband, please. Remington Biersack." 

"I'll need you to confirm his birthday, please," she said. 

"May fifth," Andy answered immediately. 

She hummed, satisfied with his quick response, and said, "Two one one. Stairs are through that door." 

"Thank you," he breathed, turning for the stairs. By the time he was reaching the second floor, he was almost running, and outside the correct door, he took a moment to calm himself, to figure out what he'd say, and knocked. Then again, when no one answered. Then he waited for as long as he could before knocking for the third time. 

The door opened a slight amount, so Remington could see who it was since there weren't any peepholes, and Andy took the opportunity to push it enough to slide through the gap side-on. The door slammed and narrowly missed his arm, and he looked at Remington, who had hastily pulled his shirt over his head but was bleeding badly enough that he couldn't concentrate on anything else. 

"Right," Andy said firmly. "Sit. No more fucking 'you're such a dumb whore' bollocks. Tell me what the hell's going on." He took Remington by the shoulders and pushed him towards the bed, and Remington stumbled, his ribs feeling like they could fall out of his body through the deep slits he had created. 

He shoved Andy away. "Get out," he demanded. 

"No. Stop it. Stop trying to be angry. You're not angry. This isn't how you are when you're angry. Come on, Remington, I know you better than to fall for this. You're not angry, you're not. Just talk to me. What's going on? Why're you hiding away in here like we're waiting for divorce papers to go through? What is it?" 

Remington didn't know whether he wanted to hug him or scream at him. "You don't know anything," he said with no conviction to back the words up. "You don't know me at all." 

"For the love of god, stop it. You're not fooling me. Your brothers are upset by what you've been saying, and I don't blame them. You fucking love them, Remington, why are you calling them such horrible things? Why would you do that to them? Why would you do that to you?" 

"You don't know anything." 

"Fine. Okay. I don't know anything. I don't know anything. Sure. Okay." 

The warm trickle of blood was running down his torso and soaking into the top of his jeans. He shifted uncomfortable, wanted to sit down and take the strain off his battered side, but he wouldn't allow Andy to think he was giving in. He was so close. He just had to keep pushing, a little longer. "No," he said. "You don't. Get it through your thick skull." 

"Oh, I have got it through my thick skull, believe me. I don't know anything." 

This wasn't how it was meant to be. Andy was supposed to argue, to be hurt, to leave and never come back. Remington found the edge of the table with his hand, backed against it. "Go away," he said, and his voice came out weak. He tried to fix it, to say it again with more power, but it was the same. 

"No," Andy said. His eyes were fixed on Remington. "I'm not going until you tell me what's going on. So the sooner you do, the sooner I'll leave you alone. Because that's what you want, right? To be here, alone? No one else, just you? Is that what you want?" 

"Go," he tried, biting back tears until he tasted blood. 

Andy leant back against the headboard like it was a usual conversation. "Tell me why. Tell me why, Remington, you want me to go. Three reasons. Go on." 

"You don't know anything," Remington hissed, his ribs making is hard to breathe. 

"That's not a reason. Three more." 

"You don't know anything." 

"Three reasons." 

"Get the fuck out!" 

"Three reasons," Andy repeated. "I'm waiting." 

"Get out." 

"I don't want to." 

Standing was hard, and he was tired, and he wanted to cry so desperately that words kept getting trapped. He opened his mouth but made no sound, hated himself for it, and looked away from Andy in shame. Then he swallowed hard and said, "I don't fucking care." 

Andy hummed, folded his arms. "Okay." 

"Get out. Just get out." 

"No." 

"Get out! Get the fuck out!" 

"No, Remington. I won't." 

Gripping the edge of the table, Remington did all he could to maintain the angry exterior he had worked so hard on perfecting in the past few months, but Andy was so good at breaking him down, always had been. "I fucking wish you were dead," he growled, and it was so painful to say that to his husband that his voice wavered and threatened to crack, and he pressed his fingertips into the table, tried to ground himself, to ignore the way his side was throbbing. He couldn't bear to look down and check for blood that surely had began to soak through his shirt by now. 

"No, you don't," Andy said, and then got off the bed and stood close to Remington, tilted his head, furrowed his brows. "Baby," he whispered. "What's wrong?" 

Remington looked away and shook his head, determined to stay dry-eyed. A pang shot up his side and he ground his teeth, did all he could to stay quiet, to conceal the pain he'd given to himself, the pain he wanted to give himself over to. "Nothing. Nothing, you dumb fuck." 

"Okay. So look at me. Look at me." 

"I don't want to." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I don't! Because I hate you and I wish you were dead and you're fucking useless and you can't do anything right!" 

"Okay. Fine. I'm all of those things. I'm all of those things, Remington, that's fine." 

"Get out," the younger demanded, and this time, his voice was thin and shaky. 

"No." 

"Get out." 

"Tell me what's wrong." 

"I said! Nothing! Nothing's wrong! Why can't you fucking understand anything? Why can't you fucking understand? You're so fucking stupid all the time, and I fucking hate you. I hate you." 

"That's fine. You hate me. But I don't hate you, and I'm not leaving." 

"You should hate me! You should hate me, that's the whole fucking point of this! You're supposed to hate me!" 

Andy put a hand on his cheek and he pushed it aggressively off, feared that if he didn't, he'd never do what he needed to. He had to make Andy leave.