Trigger warning: Mentions of eating disorders, substance abuse

When Remington first sees Emerson after returning home, he can't form words, let alone sentences. He feels invalidated, somehow, by his brother's lack of body fat. His brain tells him he's being mocked, that everyone is so against his disorder that they feel the need to show him how ugly it is. He feels sick.

Sebastian looks him up and down, no stranger to the way he's carrying himself, all uncertain and unsteady, like he hasn't eaten for weeks. "We didn't know how to tell you," he says timidly.

Remington plays with his fingers.

"Please say something, bub."

He looks at Emerson, says, "I know I'm fucked up, not need to laugh at me for it," and turns to leave the room.

Sebastian follows him, puts a hand on his shoulder so he stop walking. "No one's laughing at you," he assures, "he's struggling, Rem, and we didn't wanna upset you by bringing it up while you were away."

"He's struggling? Why don't we talk about how Andy's struggling for a sec, huh? Why don't we talk about how you kept fucking hassling him over the phone even though he's fucking addicted-addicted-to fucking heroin because of how much he's struggling. But no, I guess you're right. Let's all worry about Emerson."

"Heroin? What the fuck are you-"

"He's addicted to heroin, Sebastian! He won't stop taking it! God, he fucking overdosed and he's still taking it! But sure! I bet Emerson's struggling!"

"Why didn't you say anything, bub? Why didn't you tell me?"

Remington looks away. "Say what? 'Oh hey Sebastian, just letting you know I'm relapsing and I haven't eaten since last week and my husband's high most of then time. How are you?'"

Sebastian adopts a serious expression. "You are eating, aren't you?" He asks, not sure why because it's pretty clear he's not. "Remington?"

"What do you think?"

"You can't keep doing this to yourself, it's-woah, steady," he remarks, when Remington stumbles into him, going dizzy for a few seconds. "Alright, come sit down."

The boy shakes his head, composes himself. "I'm fine."

"No you're not. Come and sit and I'm making you eat something whether you like it or not."

"Why? Are you not more worried about Emerson, who's struggling? Go and shove food down his throat instead."

"Remington, hey, it's not a competition."

"Then make him stop!"

"Make him stop?"

Remington nods angrily. "Everyone keeps fucking faking it all the time!" He shouts, "first Marcus, now Emerson! Who's next? You? Are you gonna start starving yourself just for laughs, too?"

"Remington, no, look at me. He's not faking it, okay? He's not faking."

The boy looks down, bites the inside of his mouth.

Sebastian rubs his shoulders. He can feel the bones. "Have lunch with us."

"Not hungry."

"Yes you are. Come on, come sit. I made risotto."

Remington says nothing.

"I'm not letting you not eat. Now come."

"No."

"Remington."

"Well you've obviously let Emerson not eat so..."

Sebastian restrains from rolling his eyes. "It's not like that and you know it."

"No, I don't know it, because no one fucking told me! Sorry, but how would you feel if you, someone who'd been publicly struggling with anorexia for years, came home and found his little brother also apparently 'struggling' even though you heard nothing about it? How would you feel? Would you be all 'yeah, I'll have lunch with you like nothing's fucking happened'? Would you? Or would you feel attacked and offended and want to be sick? Which one, Sebastian? Which one?" He steps back from the man. "I've had enough of people fucking me over just because I'm sensitive, Sebastian! I'm not gonna have lunch with him because it'll trigger me the fuck out and you fucking know it will! I don't want lunch! I want him to quit making fun of me! Make him stop!"

"He's not making fun of you, Remington."

"Well then I'm fucking forty five and you're a rhinoceros!" He pushes past his brother and heads for the door, catching himself on the wall when he nearly collapses again. "I'm fine!" He shouts, before Sebastian can say anything, and violently opens the door.

Sebastian pushes it shut. "Sit," he says, pointing towards the kitchen. "You're not going anywhere until you've eaten, Remington. Sit."

"You can't make me! Let me go home!"

"You need to eat!"

Remington tries to open the door again. "I don't want to and you can't make me! Make Emerson eat instead, since he's struggling so much! I'm fine!"

"Stop bringing him into this!"

"I will when he stops faking it!"

"He's not faking it!"

The boy screams angrily.

"Calm down."

"You calm down! You're the one who's gone full psycho!"

Sebastian pulls him away from the door. "Remington, seriously. It's okay. It's okay. No one's trying to make fun of you. No one."

"Yes they are! They are! Let go! Let go of me!"

"I'm trying to help you!"

"I don't need help! I don't! Let go!"

The guitarist pushes him towards the kitchen. "Sit," he says again, firmly.

Remington shoves him back with as much force as he can manage. "No!" He yells, "I won't! I won't sit! I won't eat with him until he stops faking! So let me go! Let me go!"

"Are you hearing yourself right now?"

The boy kicks his brother's shin. "Why are you having a go at me? Why is it always my fault?"

"No one said it was your fault."

"You just fucking said that!"

"No I didn't, Remington. Please sit down."

"Fuck off!" He kicks him again. "I don't need your help!"

Sebastian pushes him into the kitchen. "Well you need someone's fucking help."

"Leave me alone!"

"Calm down."

"No! I won't! You can piss off, alright! Piss off!"

"Remington, you need to listen-"

The boy shoves Sebastian away. "No I don't!" He yells, and runs out of the house, though has to stop running because he's about to collapse again. Remington walks slowly home, bursting into overwhelmed tears when he can't find his key. He gives up and sits on the front step with his head in his hands until he faints against the door.