Fix Me (Alternative ending)

Chapter 71

Trigger warning: Mentions of the usual

Oh dear, here we go again

Three weeks. That's how long it's been since Remington talked to Abigail. Three weeks, one day, fifteen hours.

Andy's migraines have stopped, finally, since he's been staying at home and avoiding anything stressful.

Remington has (and is) lying to him. 'Therapy was good' he says, as though he went, even though he just drives into town and sits in the car for an hour. Today, he does the same. He sits in the car and watches the clock as it ticks weirdly slowly, looking at his phone when it rings. Surprise surprise, it's Abigail.

He lets it ring through, watching it the entire time, and after, slipping it onto the dashboard and leaning back against the car seat, jumping when someone knocks on his window. It's Emerson and Remington looks at him.

The younger opens the door. "What're you doing?" he asks.

"Waiting," mumbles Remington.

"For?"

"Uh..."

"Wait, aren't you supposed to be in therapy?"

"No," the boy says quickly, "I'm just waiting for Andy."

Emerson hums, unconvinced. "Waiting for him to do what?"

"He's in there." Remington points at the picture framing shop across the street.

"I can assure you that he is not."

"He is."

Emerson shakes his head. "I've just been in there. Your husband is definitely not."

"Oh."

"So how come you're missing therapy?"

"Close the door, it's cold."

"Are you lying to Andy about it?"

"Close the door."

The drummer sighs. He gives in and does as his brother wants, though decides to call Andy and let him know of his husband's lies before it gets out of hand like things so easily do.

When Remington opens the front door, he's faced with a stern looking Andy, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. "Uh...hi?" The boy says, confused.

Andy's expression doesn't falter. "So," he begins, "I'd ask how therapy was but there'd be no need."

Remington pulls his jacket around himself. "Can you at least move?" He asks, "it's freezing out here."

"Why're you lying?"

"Andy, please..."

The man shakes his head. "I love you and all but you gotta stop doing this shit."

Remington looks down. "I'm not doing anything," he insists, "why'd you think I'm not going?"

"Emerson called. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm on about."

"Good for Emerson. Can you just let me in?"

Andy sighs but steps aside. "So why aren't you going to therapy then, huh?" He asks, closing the door and following his husband through the house.

Remington sits on the couch and presses his face into a cushion. "Don't wanna talk about it," he complains.

"So what? You're gonna keep lying to me and to Abigail and hope that somehow that makes you feel better?"

"I'm not lying."

Andy leans forwards, elbows on his knees. "Honey, come on. It's me. You can tell me."

"Well I don't want to."

The man frowns. "Why not?"

"Because I don't."

"Okay, well I'm gonna get you some lunch then."

"Okay but I won't eat it."

"Rem-"

"No."

Andy stands up, leaves the room to make some lunch and pinches the bridge of his nose when he returns to the living room and Remington has gone. He takes the bowl of pasta and sauce up the stairs, putting it down on the side in the bedroom where Remington is lying on the bed with his head in the pillow.

"Sweetheart," he says softly, "just tell me what's going on."

"No."

"I made you pasta."

"I don't want it."

Andy sits on the bed. "Was Emerson right? Were you sitting in the car for an hour?"

Remington doesn't answer.

"Look, you can't just avoid it and expect it all to go away."

"Stop hassling me."

"I'm not hassling you, kitty. I'm worried."

The boy huffs. "I'm worried," he mocks, "oh kitty, I'm so worried. Why won't you talk to me? Why won't you tell me all your darkest deepest thoughts? Oh kitty, I love you sooooo much and I'm sooooo worried."

Andy hums. "That's how it's gonna be, huh? You're gonna lie here pretending to be mad at me while I talk my ass off like a loser until one of goes insane?"

"Oh look at me, being all mature and responsible. I'm such a responsible adult."

"Great."

Remington turns onto his back. "Seriously? What's the big deal anyway? So what if I'm missing therapy? I'm not a child. Who says I have to talk to her all the time like she's my mum or some shit?" He exhales. "Everyone's like 'oh Remington, go to therapy or you'll have another breakdown.' 'Oh Remington, talk to Abigail.' 'Oh Remington, you pathetic fucking fuck up, talk to Abigail right now or I'll fucking kick you so fucking hard that you won't remember your own fucking name!'"

Andy looks at him. "No one has ever said that. Not one person."

"Stop hassling me!"

"Look, Rem, I know you're freaked out about Phoebe but-"

"But nothing, go away."

"But avoiding Abigail because of it is only gonna make it worse."

"And how have you worked that one out? You been reading my mind again because apparently everyone knows how I should be feeling and my own feelings aren't right half the time anymore!"

Andy watches him sit up.

"So why not just fucking go to her yourself and tell her all the things I should be feeling because at this point, it's the same thing! Everyone fucking assumes that they know me, and you're no fucking better! 'cause you think everything's s'posed to be fine as long as I talk to you but you know what? Does it really help either of us? No, because we can't function when we're not within two centimetres of each other and d'you think that's healthy? Because I, for one, don't. What is it? Co-dependency? Well whatever it is, it's sure not how a healthy marriage should be, is it?"

"You're not thinking straight," Andy says, alarmed by the words his lover is speaking.

Remington shakes his head. "I am. I'm thinking the straightest I've ever thought. Doesn't it bother you as well; that we're unable to function without each other?" He sighs. "What I'm trying to say, Andy, is that I love you a lot but...but doesn't a healthy marriage need more than just love? So..." He gets off the bed. "Let's just call it quits."