Trigger Waring: Brief sexual assault, alcohol

One of Remington's friends - someone he barely knew but who called him their friend - was throwing an early Christmas party and had invited Remington and Andy, and while he was suspicious of the motives behind the invites, he accepted anyway, decided he had nothing to lose. 

As they were getting ready to leave, Andy had said to him, "I really have no idea why I'm going to this, you know." 

Remington was standing close to the mirror in their bedroom, carefully smothering his eyelashes in thick mascara. "Well, I'm not going alone," he said. "I don't even know this person." 

"Well, you know them enough to have given them your number." 

"Oh, fuck off," he muttered, though was smiling. 

Now, Andy was standing in the large kitchen in a house he'd never been in before, unsure of where Remington had gotten to and mildly annoyed at having been abandoned a party he didn't want to be at. 

"You're Andy Biersack, right?" Asked somebody nearby, drink in hand. 

"Yes," the man replied. 

"Didn't know you were a friend of Clarice's." 

"I'm not. My husband is." 

"Who's your husband?" 

"Remington." 

"Who?" 

Andy bit back a sigh. "Remington. Sings in Palaye Royale." 

"Oh," the stranger said. "Remington." The tone he used confused Andy, who couldn't work out whether it was malice or just surprise. 

He nodded. "Yep." 

"You're his husband?" 

"Yes." 

"Huh." 

Hoping to see Remington in the busy room, Andy sighed when he couldn't find him with his eyes. "You're his friend, then?" He asked in a weak attempt at not coming across as rude. 

"Remington? Nah, hardly. He's not the sort'a guy you wanna be friends with." 

Andy raised an eyebrow. "I see." 

Slightly drunk, the man kept talking. "I mean, he's not terrible. He's fine, or whatever, when there's no one else. You know what I'm saying? He's fine. But I'm sure I don't need to tell you - his husband - that he sucks the life out of everything he comes in contact with. Like a tall, skinny vacuum, or something. You know what I'm saying?" 

"No," replied Andy, looking directly at the stranger. "Please, explain." 

"What I'm saying is, he's a fucking vacuum. He's a vacuum, man! My God, he's so exhausting. Just 'blah blah blah' all the time. Like, give me a break!"

"Sorry, what's your name?" 

"Gordon." 

"This has been enlightening, Gordon," Andy said monotonously, eyes distracted by the search for Remington.

"Really?" 

"Yes. I married Remington because I also think he's like a vacuum. Obviously. Go on. Piss off." 

For another half hour, Andy aimlessly wandered the downstairs of the house in search of Remington, having dismissive conversations with people who either claimed to have no idea who he was or who despised him and everything he had ever done. 

Growing bored and restless to go home, he climbed the stairs. There were voices coming from a room down the hall, and without knocking on the closed door, he pushed it open, narrowing his eyes at the scene. 

Remington was on the bed against the wall, half-sitting, and three people Andy didn't recognise were also on the bed, limbs over one another like dolls thrown into a pile. They didn't seem to have noticed his entry, so he stood and watched for a few moments. 

Clearly drunk, Remington's face was cloudy, and a woman was lying across his splayed legs and giggling as she reached up to play with strands of his hair. He kept pushing her hand away, and a girl leaning against his side began combing her fingers through his hair despite his protesting. 

Staying quiet in the open doorway, Andy watched the third person - a man older than him - draw his hands over Remington's knees and calves repeatedly as though the singer was an animal in a petting zoo. Pulling himself up to sit against the headboard, he again swatted the girls' hands from his hair, though to no avail. 

The three of them were saying various things, mostly about how pretty he was, between giggles and with constant, unwanted fondling, until Andy was unwilling to let it continue.

Marching into the bedroom, he said, "Remington, sweetheart, let's go home."

Looking up at him, Remington's eyes were suddenly wide and wet. He stared at Andy without moving. 

"Leave him alone, will you?" Andy demanded in a tired voice, grabbing the nearest girl by her shoulder and pulling her back from the bed. "Come on, darling." 

Clumsily crawling towards him, Remington was beginning, as Andy had expected, to cry.

"It's alright," the man soothed as he took his husband by his shoulder and guided him towards the stairs, moving his hands to his waist when he stumbled. 

"Where'd you go?" Remington asked between alcohol fuelled sniffles and hiccups. 

Andy held him steady as they descended the stairs slowly. "Where'd I go? You left me in the kitchen." 

Straining his neck to look back at Andy, Remington lost his footing and slid down the last four steps, pulling Andy down with him in an attempt to keep himself from falling. On the ground, he covered his face with his hands. 

Injury free save for a bruise he knew would form on his shoulder from hitting the banister, Andy knelt before Remington and took his hands from his face, asked, "Are you hurt?" 

Remington stared at him. "Are you mad?" He mumbled. 

"No, of course not. Let's go home now, okay?" 

"I'm drunk." 

"Yes, I can see that. It's why I'm taking you home now. Come on, up you get. Before you kill us both." 

"I never would ever never ever never kill you," Remington said, wiping the back of his wrist across his teary eyes. "Are you-are you mad they all touched me?" 

"No, it wasn't your fault. Get up, okay?" 

"Can't." 

Bending down, Andy slid his hands under Remington's armpits and lifted him off the ground. 

Leaning most of his weight on Andy, the younger said, "I didn't-I didn't like it." 

Andy hummed, lead him towards the front door. "I know. That's why we're going home." 

"You said we're goin' home 'cause I'm drunk." 

"Yes, that too." 

"Are you drunk?" 

Wrestling his way through a cluster of people near the door while keeping Remington in his arms to avoid someone luring him away, he said, "No. I'm not. Did you bring anything?" 

Remington shook his head aggressively but then asked, "Am I having shoes on right now?" 

Looking down, Andy sighed. "Great," he muttered, pushing Remington gently out of the house and walking him down the driveway and towards his car. "Will you sit in the car while I find your shoes?" 

"No, car's boring."

"Please? For me?" 

"I said no." 

Andy unlocked the vehicle and struggled to open the passenger door with Remington between him and the handle. "Okay, then we'll have to get your shoes another time." 

"But then my feet are sad." 

"Oh dear." 

"You wait in the car and I find them." 

Andy laughed. "As if that's gonna happen. Come on, sit down. Good boy." 

"My feet are sad." 

"Yes, I know." 

Remington stood against the open door. "I find my shoes, okay?" 

"No, darling. We'll find them another time. Sit down." 

Remington shook his head. 

"I promise we'll get your shoes back tomorrow." 

"No, you're a big fat liar." 

"Thank you." 

Before Andy could grab him, he managed to slither away and run back towards the house, though tripped on the threshold and landed on his hands and knees on the hard ground. Almost immediately, he burst into a series of sobs, though Andy knew they had very little to do with the fall, and as he crouched down to assess the damage, Remington stuttered, "I'm sorry," repeatedly. 

"It's okay. You're alright. Let's just get in the car, okay?" 

"I said no." 

"I know, darling, but I need to take you home."

"No. Before. In there. In there. I said...I promise. I promise. I said no. I promise." 

"In the bedroom? I know you did. Them touching you wasn't your fault, okay? I promise." 

"I feel all funny." He looked at Andy, tears puddling in his eyes. "I feel all funny," he said again. 

"Let me take you home." 

Silently, Remington nodded.

Andy helped him off the floor and back towards the car, leaning over him to plug in the seatbelt before closing the door and walking around to the driver's side. When he sat down, Remington was still crying, and he started the engine, pulled onto the road. 

"I'm sorry," Remington told him again. 

"It's okay. I'm just worried about you, sweetheart, that's all. But we'll talk about it tomorrow, okay? After we've been to bed." 

There was a long pause before Remington mumbled, "Okay." 

"Are you okay? You didn't hurt yourself when you tripped?" 

"I made you fall." 

"It's okay. I'm not hurt." 

"Promise?" 

"I promise." 

Remington wiped his eyes, yawned. "I feel all funny," he whispered. 

"You're gonna be just fine." 

"Then why did you just say you're worried?" 

"Let's talk about it tomorrow. Here we are, see? Home." 

"I hate that party," Remington announced, failing to open the door and rattling it until Andy pulled it open for him. "They all didn't be nice to me. Why are they all never being nice to me?" 

"I don't know. I think they're just not very nice people, to be honest."

"Are they never being nice to you?" 

"No. I hated that party, too." 

"You always are being nice to me all the time. I just have parties with you now. Then no more horrible touching." 

"Good idea. We'll have our own parties, just us."

Once they were inside, Remington pressed himself to Andy and closed his eyes tight, the man wrapping his arms around him and beginning to sway. Remington took slow breaths, said nothing, his hands loosely gripping the back of Andy's jacket. 

"You know I love you so much," Andy said after a minute. 

Remington hummed, lifted his head from Andy's shoulder. "I know," he whispered. "You love me the best." 

"I do love you the best." 

"I love you the best, too." He sniffled. "I hate that party." 

"Me too, darling. Me too."