Make Me (Remdy)

We All Worry

Trigger warnings: Mentions of depression, suicide, self harm, death

Remington struggles to get through the night, even with Andy in the same bed as him. He sleeps briefly, from around two am to just after four, but once he's woken, going back to sleep is even more impossible than finding reasons why killing himself wouldn't make everything better. 

After lying awake for at least an hour, almost in tears at the frustration and the sadness and the anger, Remington gets out of the bed, careful not to disturb the man beside him, and goes down stairs. There, he sits in the kitchen with the light off and his head on the table, wondering why the hell God chose now to make it all so difficult, why God chose to attack him at all. 

He lifts his head from the table when the light comes on, squints, covers his eyes with his hand. Andy is in the doorway with a frown. "You're supposed to be sleeping," he says in a strangely fatherly tone. 

Remington groans and returns his head to the table. 

"What're you doing down here? It's cold," Andy asks, approaching the younger. 

"Waiting to freeze to death or something," Remington mumbles. He lifts his head again. "Maybe I was hoping I'd fall down the stairs and hit my head." 

Andy puts a hand on his shoulder. "At least come and be suicidal where I can see you." 

"Why? So you can monitor me and keep me from all harm?" 

"Pretty much, yeah." 

"I'm good down here." 

Andy hums. "Unfortunately, I know you're lying. Now come back up to bed and I'll read to you or something, I don't know." 

"Why do you even care?" 

"What sort of question is that? I love you, I need you, of course I'm gonna care about you and about you not dying. You should be flattered to have my love, you know. Not everyone is that lucky." 

"Unlucky, more like," Remington says under his breath. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry. We said no arguing. I'm doing it again, aren't I?" 

"Yes, but it's okay, thank you for noticing. Will you come with me, please?" 

"I don't want to, though." 

"I know, but I want you to." 

"Well, tough," Remington huffs. "I don't care what you want." 

Andy raises an eyebrow. 

"Sorry. I'm sorry." 

"Just come to bed." 

The younger sighs.

"Or we can make hot chocolate," Andy suggest in a bribing voice. 

Remington gives him a dirty look. "I'm not a child," he retorts. "You can't just distract me with sweet things, are you stupid?" 

The elder shakes his head, raises his eyebrow for the second time. "All right, I know you're dealing with a lot, but if you keep firing these rude remarks at me, I might accidentally fire one back, and let's be real for a second, If that were to happen, you'd probably kill me and then yourself without a second's thought, so shut the hell up and either accept the hot chocolate or come back to bed, but whatever you do, do not say anything rude." 

"What crawled up your arse and died? Seriously, I'm not, like, incapable, you know?" 

"You're not incapable? Oh, so I suppose it was someone else who couldn't get out of bed for four days then, huh? And someone else who keeps crying and talking about suicide, too, yeah? For fuck's sake, Remington, why do you do this?" 

"Why do I do what?"

"Get scared of accepting help and close up. I'm trying to help you, Remington! You need help! You can't keep saying you'll get help and then backing out." 

"I'm not backing out! What about this suggests that I'm backing out? God, you're such a fucking stupid cunt all the time!" He pushes the chair back and stands up. "Why are you always doing this to me? Why do you always act like you actually give a shit when clearly all you care about is being a big famous singer in a big famous band with all your stupid fans worshiping all your stupid decisions? God, I hate you so fucking much!" 

"This is exactly what I'm talking about. You feel vulnerable so you lash out and start saying all these horrible things to me, and I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly the most stable of people. The things your say hurt me, and I know you're suffering, but I can't just be expected to not take any of it to heart when I have spent years hearing this crap from the woman I was married to. So just shut the fuck up and quit this bullshit before something regrettable is said." 

"Oh boo hoo, poor you!" 

"Shut up!" 

"Don't shout at me! All you do is shout at me! I can't deal with you shouting at me!" 

"That's what I've been trying to say, Jesus Christ. Don't you see how much I've been trying to say that? I care about you, I want to help you, but all you do is get so close to accepting it before you get scared and run in the opposite direction, hurting whoever you can in the process, because it's easier that way. You need to face what's going on, Remington. You can't keep attacking me instead of facing what's actually wrong. It's not healthy and I'm honestly really worried about you. You can't keep doing this to yourself." 

"I'm not doing anything to myself," Remington mumbles unconvincingly. He sits back down. "I'm sorry. I know you're right. I don't know why I keep getting so mad at you. Everything's such a mess." 

Andy rubs his shoulder. "Just come to bed, okay?" 

Defeated, Remington nods. 

"I'm sorry for shouting at you." 

"Me too." 

"How about a hug? You look like you need a hug. And a cry. And possibly a hot bath." 

Remington rubs his eyes and yawns. "What're you, a Cahms therapist? You gonna suggest a cup of tea and a walk next?" 

"You really don't realise you're doing it, do you?" 

"Actually, a cup of tea sounds nice." 

Andy chuckles. "I will make you a cup of tea." 

"And get me a biscuit?" 

"And I will get you multiple biscuits." 

"And a blanket." 

"Alright, don't push it. Blanket's upstairs. get it yourself." 

"Fuck off, you're a cunt." 

"Thanks so much, that's very sweet of you to say."