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Trigger Warning: Mentions of abuse, PTSD, depression, self-harm, eating disorder/weight

The booming in his ears was loud enough that Remington had managed to completely forget both the lyrics and the melody to the song he was supposed to be singing. Everyone was watching him through the glass, expecting him to begin the verse, but he didn't, instead trying hard to block out the harsh crash of drums that rattled his skull and made him feel like he was being attacked from the inside, like Holly was throwing punches at his brain this time, and not just his face. 

He knew he missed the start of the verse and when the music stopped, the pounding in his head seemed only to get worse. He had to close his eyes, but it still didn't go away. 

"Remington," Said their producer. "We'll restart." 

Neither nodding nor shaking his head, Remington was unable to concentrate, and when the man's voice came again through his headphones, he yanked them off and dropped them haphazardly on the ground. 

Behind the glass, they were giving him confused expressions, questioning him silently. He paid little attention, was too focused on trying to shut off the speaker that was blaring inside his brain. He thought his head might explode. 

His face was stiff, his eyes aching as though they were fixed to the surface of the sun, the skin on his arm crawling with desperation, begging something to cause harm to it. He had to get out. 

The glass door was opened with such force that Remington was surprised it didn't smash upon impact, and once he was free of the claustrophobic booth, he made a mad dash for the exit, ignoring everybody. It was a miracle, he thought, that no one tried to grab him or ask what was wrong. 

Outside, he found his car, sat in it with his head tight in his hands, clawing at his scalp like he might have been able to break through his skull and pull out the pieces of his brain that were causing all this pain.

There was a knock on the window and, lifting his head, he found a face looking at him. It was Emerson, and he was frowning. Remington leaned forwards to open the door. 

"Hey," Emerson said. "You should have said if you didn't feel well." 

Of course. It's my fault.  Remington didn't want to give a spoken response, was sure it would make his head burst, but he bit back the discomfort and said, "Sorry." 

"It's fine, you just need to communicate these things." 

That's right. Kick a boy while he's down. "I know." 

"And you know what Sebastian is like, taking this too far. You just have to ignore him." 

"I know."

"Are you okay? You look like you're in pain." 

Get this man a job solving crimes, his observational skills are flawless. "Fine," Remington mumbled. 

"Look, if you're not up for singing we can work on something else, but we don't really have time to spare." 

Oh, lovely. I'm wasting your time, now, too. That's great. "No, I'm fine." 

"We can try finish a little early, but..." 

"I'm fine, really," Remington said. "I'll come back in a minute." 

The day was slow and painful, like dying only without the good part. Remington sang despite the pounding in his head and they managed to complete the vocals for one of the two songs left, though by the end, tears were fighting their way to the front, and as soon as he was given the green light to leave, he practically fled.

Remington didn't feel safe driving with the pain he was in, but he decided it was easier to suck it up than to bring someone else into his suffering by asking for a lift. Besides, his car was there anyway, he couldn't just leave it. 

By the time he made it back to Andy's, the door was locked so he had to use the key he had been given, almost tripping over the threshold. His arm was itching for a blade but he couldn't face the stairs to the bathroom, so he dragged himself into the living room and lay on his side on the couch with the lights off, felt himself falling asleep just as the front door opened. A minute later, the light came on and he whimpered, blocked his eyes with his hands. 

"You okay?" Andy asked. "Too bright?" He didn't get a response, but turned the light off again and came to sit on the edge of the sofa where Remington was lying. "What's wrong, honey? You got a headache or something?" 

Remington opened his eyes to look at Andy. He nodded. 

"Alright, let me get you some painkillers and a drink." 

"No, please..." 

"What is it?" 

"Stay." He made a weak attempt at grabbing the man's arm. 

Andy took his hand. "I'll be right back," he said comfortingly. 

Nodding, Remington quickly regretted the action, his face contorting into pain, tears pushing through his crumbling defenses. 

"Oh, my love. I'll get you those painkillers. Looks like you need them. Be right back." He softly patted the back of Remington's hand before standing, and when he returned, Remington was sitting up with his eyes half-open. "How was the studio?" Andy asked as the younger swallowed the pills. "Not good?" 

"Not good," Remington agreed. 

"When'd you get back tonight?" 

"Dunno. Past seven." 

"Okay. Well, I need to make dinner. You think you could manage a little food in a bit?" 

Remington shrugged. Andy was knelt before him. 

"We'll try, okay?" 

"Okay." 

"But right now, lie back down, I'll grab you a cushion for your head." He reached for one, positioned it at the end of the couch. "Take it easy, this should pass. If it doesn't by midnight, I'll take you to the hospital." 

"Okay." He lay down slowly. "Thanks, Andy." 

"Course, honey. I got you." 

Remington managed a smile. "You got me," he mumbled. "I know." 

Andy smiled back. "Always got you, my love. Always got you. Try get some sleep, alright? You hardly slept last night." 

"I know. Sorry." 

"It's okay, but we do need to talk about it at some point. You worried me." 

"I know." 

"But not now. Get some rest. I'll make some dinner. Because you know what? You're allowed!" 

Remington mock-gasped and then cringed at the pain it shot through his head. "Crazy," he mumbled. "And good, 'cause I'm starving."