Trigger warnings: Mentions of eating disorders, substance abuse

Sebastian begins noticing Emerson's sudden change to his eating habits. He's grown accustomed to the signs Remington shows and it isn't difficult to notice them in his other brother. Today, after nearly a week of picking up on the hints, he finally confronts Emerson about it, saying, "you know I do know you're not eating."

Emerson looks up at him.

"Years of watching Remington starve himself make me quite knowledgeable on this. So what's going on? Why're you not eating?"

"I am eating."

Sebastian shakes his head. He can't imagine both his brothers would have an eating disorder. "Really? So then how've you gone down a clothes size and I saw you damn near collapse earlier."

"You're just being paranoid," Emerson insists, "I'm allowed to lose a bit of weight without there being a terrible reason for it. Not everyone is Remington."

"A little bot of weight? Em, you sound like an idiot. I've watched you these past few weeks actively avoid food. You've poked new holes into your belts because they don't go small enough. Just tell me what's going on."

The drummer rolls his eyes, tries not to say anything. "Nothing's going on, for fuck's sake. Will you stop being so paranoid?"

"Paranoid? Oh, I'm terribly sorry for not wanting to see my little brother starve himself!"

"I'm not starving myself! You're mixing me with Remington!"

"Shut up about Remington! This isn't about him! You're starving yourself and I wanna know why."

"I'm not!"

Sebastian laughs. "Alright then." He gets up, leaves the room, and comes back with a packet of crisps. "Eat these right now."

Emerson looks at him, not taking the packet.

"You're not starving yourself? Then you'll have no trouble eating these! So go on!"

"I don't want them," the younger tries weakly.

Sebastian shakes his head. "Just tell me what's going on. Please."

"No."

"Emerson," he warns, "you can't do this shit. It's not right."

"Remington does it and I don't see you telling him it's not right!"

"Remington talks about it! Remington doesn't deny anything being wrong! Tell me!"

"No!"

Sebastian sighs heavily. "Fine, then I'll call Andy and you can tell him."

"What?"

"He deals with Rem's eating all the time, maybe he can get it out of you." The man dials Andy's number, puts it on speaker. "Andy, hi," he greets, aware the man is currently on the second week of tour with Remington. "D'you have a bit of time? We've got a teeny weeny problem over here."

"What is it?" Andy asks, sitting in the little bathroom with the needle between his fingers, about to shoot himself up.

Sebastian glances at his brother, sitting shamefully on the couch. "Emerson's not eating."

Stopping himself from audibly groaning at the annoyance of the timing of this, Andy responds. "How do you know?"

"He's got so thin."

"And how do you know it's because he's not eating?"

"See, you're just paranoid," Emerson cuts in.

"Hey, Emerson, don't be a dick to him," Andy scolds, "so why aren't you eating?"

"I am eating!"

Andy lets his eyes linger on the needle. He contemplates shooting himself up now, instead of waiting for the call to be over. He decides against it. "Is it because you think you're fat?" He asks, "because I can assure you, you're not. You don't need to lose any weight."

"Get off my case," the drummer begs.

Sebastian sighs. "Sorry, Andy, he's being a rude cock today."

"It's fine. Can we do this another time. It's just-I'm busy."

"Sure. Say hi to Rem for us."

"Will do," Andy says, hangs up, and brings the needle to the inside of his elbow, where track marks from the previous times he's done this are covered with makeup. He holds his breath as he quickly pushes the needle in and injects, breathing out as the rush catches him up. Then, he rubs foundation over the mark, makes sure it's as invisible as it can be, hides the needle, and opens the bathroom door.

"Where've you been?" Remington asks him, oblivious.

"Bathroom," he says simply, "are we still having trouble with lunch?"

Remington nods, pouting.

"Let's have a bite together, alright?" He sits beside his husband and picks up the fork, stabbing a few pieces of pasta and holding it towards Remington.

Remington accepts it, eating obediently. "Kiss?"

Andy smiles, the paranoia of his husband being overly close to Marcus leaving him, like it does every time he takes the drug. He kisses the boy, whispers, "good boy." He wipes an eyelash from his cheekbone. "I found Harley, by the way."

"You did?"

"Mhm."

"Thanks!"

The man hums. "You know you were real adorable last night," he mumbles, "all soft and warm."

Remington whines.

"I wanted to wake you just to tell you how cute you are."

"I wouldn't 've been cute if you did that."

Andy chuckles. "Yeah, I figured."

"You seem happy recently."

"I am happy."

Remington smiles. "Good." He wraps his arms loosely around his lover's shoulders. "That's good."

Pulling the boy into him, Andy kisses his head. "It is good," he murmurs, "and are you okay?"

The hug is gentle. Remington bathes in moments like this. "Mostly," he says back, smiling into Andy's neck.

"You're being all soft again."

"Mm."

"This is a good tour."

Remington yawns. Hugs like this always make him sleepy, whether he wants them to or not. "'s a good tour," he agrees.