Trigger warning: Mentions of abuse, sexual assault (brief)

The fourth wedding was worse than all the ones before. No one had heard from Andy - or no one would tell him if they had - and as he accepted the ring and forced back tears, all that he could think of was the man foaming at the mouth until his lips went blue. 

His husband this time was called Sean. He was thirty, and shorter than Remington. When, in the registry office, they were told to kiss, Sean avoided his mouth, did as Andy had done and kissed his cheek so lightly Remington hardly felt it at all, leaving the younger confused as to what his intentions were and hopeful that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't a complete arsehole. Still, he kept his guard up, said what he knew he was supposed to say - finished each of his answers with 'sir', thanking Sean for everything - and did what they told him, what the men with guns had reminded him each time this had happened. At least, he supposed, the three previous weddings had prepared him for the fourth, had taught him what to expect and how to please his new husband as best as he could. 

That morning, when they came to take him, only Shy had been in the house, since Sebastian and Larisa were viewing their possible future home a few streets away. She had protested and tried to stop them, until Remington, who was in the hands of one of the men, said to her, "Just let them do it, Shy. It's okay. I'll be okay." He wasn't to know this, of course, and didn't believe it himself, but it was better to assure her than to end up with a bullet in the brain. 

Reluctant and teary, Shy had stepped back, and Remington walked in the man's grip towards the car, sat in the back, and prayed for someone with at least a bit of human decency. 

The house that he now had to live in was not dissimilar to Andy's, and he was surprised and relieved when he was given a tour that ended in being shown to a room that Sean described as, "Your room. Bathroom's through there. Locks from the inside." Looking at the bedroom, which was clearly used for guests, Remington made note of the framed artwork on the wall. There were two, side by side. Both easily recognisable as Andy's sketches of some of the earliest of his dress designs, signed and dated. This had to be a good sign, Remington was sure of it. 

He was wary, of course, as he had been to begin with when he moved in with Andy. He allowed himself to feel relief, but reminded himself that it could have been a rouse, a way to earn his trust. He politely thanked Sean. 

"Of course, hon. Don't mention it," Sean said. He had a strong Yorkshire accent. "And don't bother with the formal 'sir' bollocks. You won't be here long, just while Biersack gets better." 

Remington looked at him, unsure how to respond or what exactly he meant. 

"Your husband, right? He's in hospital. Stroke. Don't worry, he'll be fine, but he's got to stay there for a week, or something. Anyway, his doctor knew he was worried what would happen to you, so they called me. I'm the manager of his company, so I run things while he's unable to. It means I'm one of the emergency contacts on his medical file, and that he trusts me. So we are technically married, but it don't mean shit to me other than that it stops you from getting hurt. As soon as Biersack is home, I'll sign the divorce papers and you'll be his again. Sound good?" 

Eyes landing on the framed artwork, Remington felt for the ring Andy had proposed with that day in the hospital, after carrying him out of Gregory's house. "So you're not gonna hit me?" 

"No. God, no. Wouldn't dream of it, hon. Its just the way this fucking thing works. If your husband is in hospital for more than one night, they decide he's not fit for marriage and cart you off to someone else who, apparently, is. But it's pretty easy to cheat the system by requesting to marry a particular person, so long as that person - you - isn't originally from nearby. Which you're not, obviously. So no need to worry, Biersack's alive and safe, and I'll give you taxi money so you can go see him. Its a little far to walk. And like I said, the door locks from the inside, so feel free to keep me out all day and all night. I won't be offended. Help yourself to food and stuff, but I'll leave you breakfast outside the door before I go to work each morning. Oh, and I'll find my phone so you can call Biersack, tell him yourself that you're safe and well and that you'll see him soon. He'll be shitting himself worrying about you. I tell you, that man fucking adores the arse off you. Never seen anything quite like it before." 

"He doesn't know?" 

"I've already told him, but he'll be grateful to hear it from your mouth." 

Remington nodded. He felt slightly lightheaded at the utter relief of the situation. Andy was fine, he was fine. They were both fine. "Thanks," he said. "So much. I thought they'd make me be a sex doll again." 

"It's fucked, what they make you guys go through for the sake of rich cunts like me and Biersack. I'm sorry to have frightened you, I imagine you've had quite enough of it. I'll find my phone, be right back. You'll find some clothes in the wardrobe for while you're here, a couple dresses and shirts and whatever. If there's anything you like, keep it." Then Sean turned and left him in the room. 

On the bed, Remington sat and looked at the framed sketches. He recognised one more than the other, since it was a dress Andy had gotten him in the first few weeks of their marriage. When Sean returned with his phone, Remington thanked him, took it, and found Andy's contact, further reassured and relieved to see that it was the same number he'd memorised. Sean wasn't lying. 

"You better be fucking treating him well," Andy answered on the first ring, voice in that familiarly anxious tone Remington knew well. 

"He is." 

Silence, then, "Remington? Jesus fuck, I'm about to have another stroke, or a fucking heart attack, what the fuck. Are you okay? You're not hurt? You're safe? Tell me you're not hurt." 

"I'm not hurt, Andy. I'm fine. I'm safe. I promise." 

"I swear to fuck, I'm getting outa here-" 

"No, Andy. You need to stay in hospital. You're obviously not very well. But Sean's giving me taxi money, so I'll come see you, okay? Show you how not hurt I am. Please, just stay there, let them look after you. I can't believe you had a stroke. A stroke, Andy." 

"I'm fine." 

"Like hell, you are. You're gonna fucking stay there, you hear me? No fucking about, Andy, you're not well. Stay there. Promise me you'll stay there." 

"Remington, it was just a stroke, I-" 

"Andrew Biersack. Shut up." 

"Don't call me Andrew." 

"Then don't be a fucking idiot. You're staying there, in hospital, so that you don't have another stroke. I'll come see you in, like, an hour, after I've eaten something. But you stay the fuck where you are, or I'll only call you Andrew." 

Through the phone, there was a huff. "You're not meant to be the bossy one in this relationship," Andy complained. "That's my job."

"Yeah, well, who else is gonna stop you from being an idiot? Seriously, you can't put yourself at risk, or I'll have to stay married to Sean forever. Do you want that?" 

"Fuck," Andy muttered. "You make a good point." 

"I know. So quit trying to be mister tough and accept that you're not well and you need medical help. And I'll be there soon, and then you can stop worrying about me, too." 

"If I didn't love you, I'd hang up on you right now." 

"I love you, too, baby. See you later. Don't do anything stupid." 

Andy hummed. "Can't make no promises, baby. I'll be going slowly insane until you show up, just so you know." 

"Just don't have another stroke." 

"You know how weird a stroke feels?" 

"Did your face do the half-droop thing? Because I'm imagining it, and it's not pretty." 

"You're such a bitch." 

"At least I'm not tied to a hospital bed by my own addiction to work." 

"I lied, I am hanging up on you," Andy said, and the line went dead, though a text came through a few seconds later that read; 'Bring chocolate?'