Trigger warning: Mentions of eating disorders, suicide

Remington isn't happy when Emerson and Sebastian come to visit. He wants to see them, of course, but being faced with his little brother who is, somehow, thinner than he is, doesn't exactly help convince him that gaining weight is what he wants.

He sits, arms folded, looking at the wall opposite. "You're late," he says flatly, "and I was in the middle of something."

"We got stuck in traffic," Sebastian says.

Remington scoffs. "Poor you," he mumbles, "must be so hard."

"Alright, what's the matter?"

"You're not very clever for a smart person."

Sebastian sighs but it's Emerson who talks. "Get over yourself," is what he says.

The boy clenches his jaw. "Sorry? Get over myself? Like I'm not already fifty thousand million gazillion feet under the fucking ground! You get over yourself, fucking hell." He sinks into the couch, mumbling a feeble 'sorry'.

"It's all gotta' be about you, doesn't it?" Emerson goes on, "Remington this, Remington that. Don't mention Holly or you'll scream, don't mention food or you'll scream, don't do anything in case you decide to fucking relapse again. For God's sake, Remington, if you wanna die so badly, stop the fucking fuss and just get it over with."

"Emerson!" Sebastian scolds, "you can't fucking say that, are you insane?"

"I'm not the one in a mental hospital!"

"At least I'm not a self centred, pretentious twat," Remington spits, "now excuse me while I go back to my room where I won't be encouraged to kill myself!" He slams the door on his way out, walking angrily down the corridor, muttering to himself as he kicks the bedroom door open. "Stupid fucking brothers. Fucking selfish fucking cunts. I'll fucking strangle myself if they fucking want it so fucking badly," he whisper-yells, too caught up in himself to notice Andy, who's getting up off the bed. "At least I can fucking admit when something's fucking wrong," he continues mumbling, scratching at his wrists and sitting rigidly on the bed.

"Sweetheart," Andy says, "Remington, sweetheart."

"What?"

"Look at me."

Remington does, eyes blown big.

Andy pulls his hands apart. "Are they being dicks again, huh?"

"The biggest," the boy murmurs, "episode seven thousand of why I should just bite the bullet and die already." He looks at his hands in Andy's. "No pun intended."

The man sits beside him and plays with his fingers. "All those seven thousand episodes got terrible reviews because they're all wrong," he whispers, "I'm talking reviews so shit that the writers moved to Antarctica and changed their names."

Remington leans into him.

"What were they saying this time?"

"Oh, y'know. Normal twat things."

Andy hums. "I do know," he purrs, "now let's not spend anymore precious brain power on them. I haven't seen the music rooms here yet."

The boy crawls onto Andy's lap, somewhat awkwardly, moving about until he's comfortable. "We can do that thing?"

"We can do that thing," the man confirms, "but first, cuddle."

"This is a cuddle."

"No, this is a cuddle," Andy whispers, pushing Remington's head into the crook of his neck and wrapping his arms tightly around him. "See?"

"You smell like safe things," Remington mumbles.

"That is genuinely the best thing someone's ever said to me." He lies back on the bed and playfully pokes his husband's side. "I wonder what would happen if you accidentally forgot to turn up next time they visited."

The boy exhales. "You're a genius."

"And you are a sweet little darling who must be shown the beauty of his existence."

"Shut up."

"Never," whispers Andy, "not gonna happen."

"Will it happen if I kiss you?"

"Try it."

They both giggle when Andy slurs words against his lips, dissolving into laughter.

Remington shows Andy to the music room, sitting on the table while the older plays the piano. "I like our piano better," he says.

"Me too," Andy agrees, "this one needs tuning. Listen to this note." He presses a key and they both make over-exaggerative 'ew' noises.

"Maybe we should tune it."

"Oh God, imagine. I think they'd kick us out."

"Play that one song."

Andy looks at the boy humorously. "Might need a bit more information than that, kitty cat."

"Y'know, the one that's like-" he proceeds to badly sing the melody, purposefully way out of tune, laughing when Andy starts. "That one."

Andy snorts. "Oh yeah, that one."

"Bitch," he laughs, "handsome bitch."

"Right back at ya'."

"Love you."

Andy swivels on the stool so he's facing Remington. "Love you too, princess."

"Are you okay today?"

"Hmm?"

Remington swings his legs. "We talk about me all the time, so are you okay today?"

Andy smiles. "I am okay today."

"What's your number?"

"Something like thirty, you?"

"Thirty five, perhaps." He looks at his hands. "They probably think I hate them."

Andy frowns. "Your brothers?"

Remington nods.

"I'm sure they don't princess, and even if they do, they're the dicks, not you."

"You're right."

Andy turns around and begins playing the piano again. "I know I am. When I am not right?"

"Well," Remington begins, "do you want me to answer that?"

"No, not really."

The boy giggles.

"Don't laugh at me."

"I am laughing at you." He grins. "Why don't you come here and do something about it?"

"Mm, don't tempt me or we'll get in trouble."