Make Me (Remdy)

We All Love To Hate

Trigger warnings: Mentions of death, depression, sex 

The following morning, after breakfast, Remington decides to go to the graveyard, saying when Andy asks if he wants company, "Not from you." 

Andy furrows his brows at this. "Oh? Care to elaborate?" 

Picking up his shoes, Remington looks at him, stood in the doorway of the kitchen. "No, I don't," he replies. "Thanks for yesterday, I'm fine now. You can go." 

"Oh, for God's sake. What have I done this time?" 

Remington sits on the stairs to put his shoes on. "Nothing," he says. "You've not done anything. I just don't want your charity or your company any longer, thank you." 

"My charity? The other day you were mad I didn't come and now you're mad that I'm offering? What the hell, Remington, why do you make things so difficult?" 

"Because you're only offering because you feel guilty about the other day. I don't want you to come if you're only coming out of guilt. Anyway, I'm fine, like I said. Yesterday was a blip, thanks for helping, but I'm not gonna go stick my head in the oven until I pass out, so you're free to go." 

"Free to go? What is this, detention? Remington, I'm here because I care. Shut up about being fine, you're not fine and you ain't fooling anyone." 

"Look, we both know you're only here out of guilt, so stop pretending you're not." 

Andy sits beside him on the step and shakes his head. "Quit it, for the love of God. If you're going to the graveyard, I'm coming, and that's that." 

"I don't want you to come." 

"Yeah, yeah."

"Seriously, I'm fine on my own, I don't need your charity." 

"As you said, but as I said, I don't believe you."

"That's a you problem," Remington retorts, tying his laces. "If I wasn't fine, I wouldn't tell you I was fine." 

"It's a good thing you aren't an actor because you're fucking shit at it." 

"Fuck you too." He pulls the knot tight and looks at the elder, frowns. 

Andy looks back, smiles. "I know you're not fine," he says quietly. "And I'm not gonna leave you, what do you take me for?" 

"A cunt, duh." 

"Is that the only insult you have for me?" 

"No. I've got bastard, bitch, idiot, selfish fucker, twat, wanker-" 

"Alright, alright. That's really lovely, but will you shut up." 

Remington shrugs and stands up. "Well, if you're coming, make a move on." 

They walk side by side to the graveyard, hands in pockets to combat the freezing weather. They sit on the grass without speaking. The flowers are wilted. Remington is yet to buy new ones from the garden center. He reads the engravings as he does every time despite knowing it all off by heart. He links their arms and leans against Andy, sighs, says, "Emerson was an artist. He drew all the time. He'd stay up all night drawing. Architecture, mostly. Gothic spires, Parisian buildings, winding staircases. He was a genius when it came to art. He was gonna go places. I know he was. He was already in a few small galleries. People were buying prints for hundreds of pounds. He was incredible." 

Andy smiles. "He sounds like a beautiful person." 

"He was. He was perfect. Well...most of the time. Sometimes he was a rude bastard."