Hi this isn't going to be very long, probably less than 10 chapters. It was a oneshot idea I had but would end up being a really long oneshot, so I decided to split it up instead. (Though u know me, it might go one forever hahaha)

Trigger Warning: Mentions of depression, self-harm, suicide

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Remington was going through his teenage rebel phase. At least, that's what his brothers said.

Really, he was twenty-seven and just plain angry. At them, at their manager, at the interviewer who was attempting to diffuse the argument that was bubbling as his voice got harsher with each rude answer, at his husband, who he'd yelled at so much earlier that day that Emerson made a passing comment about how marrying young never worked out. 

The interview wasn't going to air; there was nothing to post other than the singer muttering under his breath and insulting everyone in the room. Right now, it was the person behind the camera who was the target. "It's not a fucking rave," Remington was saying, ignoring his brothers pleas for him to shut up. "Seriously, you're moving that so much everyone's gonna think we're on a fucking boat in the middle of the fucking ocean." 

"Just leave it," Sebastian tried, putting a hand on his shoulder, but was pushed away. 

"No one can do fucking anything around here," Remington went on. "I mean, you're asking questions that could have been written by a three year old. Like, who fucking cares about what fucking colour I'm gonna dye my hair next? Who fucking cares?  If they'd have told me this would be such a fucking waste of my time, I'd never have come. Like, who do you think you are, fucking geniuses? Newsflash, you're not. You could be replaced by zoo animals, then at least I'd have something interesting to look, at instead of your dull fucking faces. Like, I made an effort to look nice, and what, you think you can rock up and ask me god awful questions while looking like that? At least get one of the two right, for god's sake. You think I'm gonna just pretend like you're not taking the piss? I mean, come on, have some fucking respect, people. And you - you need to stop looking at me. What do you think I am, a fucking Madame Tussaud's wax model? You're all a fucking joke!" 

"Remington." 

"You know, Sebastian, if you're that fucking bothered by it, why don't you answer the rest of the questions? Because I for one am just dying to know what colour you'd dye your hair. You know what, you should try yellow, then at least you'd look like the piss stain that you fucking are. Now get the fuck off me!" Standing, he kicked the chair over and walked out, shouting, "Bunch of bloody idiots," as he yanked the door open. As soon as it slammed and he was gone, Sebastian turned to Emerson and blinked. 

Emerson shook his head. "Jesus," he muttered. "Wow. That was so unprofessional, we're so...wow. Yeah. I can't believe that just happened. We're so sorry. I've genuinely no idea where any of that came from." He stood, waited for Sebastian to do the same. "So sorry, really. I don't know what's gotten into him lately. Come on, Seb, we should find him." 

Remington was stood against the locked car with his arms folded when his brothers turned up, and he demanded Sebastian unlocked it, pulling open the back door and getting in without saying anything else. The journey home was awkward. Both Emerson and Sebastian wanted to say something, to ask why he was so angry, but they knew the moment they did, he'd only turn it into another string of insults. 

As they were pulling up outside his and Andy's place, he said, "What are you fucking doing? Don't stop here, I'm not stepping foot inside that house." 

"It's where you live," Sebastian said stupidly, as though it would solve anything. 

"Yes," Remington snapped. "And it's where Andy fucking lives, and I don't know if you've noticed, since clearly you're not very clever, but he's a fucking joke right now, and I'm not spending one more fucking second with him. So fucking keep driving. Go on." 

Looking at him through the mirror, Emerson said, "Don't you think you should-"

"Literally shut the hell up, no one asked you. Get your eyes off me." Remington sent him a hard glare until he looked away, demanding again that they keep driving, and when Sebastian obliged and turned onto the road, Remington folded his arms violently and muttered, "No one can do anything right." 

In the front, the two exchanged quick glances, but no more was spoken, until Remington insisted he wouldn't stay with them and made them take a detour to a nearby hotel. In the carpark, he threw the door open and slammed it with such vigour that the entire vehicle shook, walking towards the entrance without looking back at the car or his brothers, who were quietly relieved to be rid of him for a while. 

Though it had been going on for a few weeks, this unsolicited anger had really ramped up, and they hadn't been able to have one useful conversation in days. 

Remington asked for a room in the hotel, thankfully being given a key without having to shout to get it, snatching it from the receptionist's hand and turning for the stairs. As he was walking up, a family with two young children passed him, one of the kids brushing his arm, and he snapped, "Watch it, cunt." The child ran down the rest of the stairs, beginning to cry, their parents looking up at Remington and shaking their heads. 

In the bedroom, he pushed the door behind him, dropped the key card on the side with the kettle, and made a swift turn turn for the bathroom, not bothering with the lights. He was so desperate to get his jacket off that it was strangely difficult, and when he finally was free of it, he threw it at the ground and kicked it, then pulled his shirt over his head, dropped it on the jacket, and took his phone from his back pocket. 

The case wasn't easy to take off - it was one of those plastic ones that fits so snug to the phone that you feel like you'll snap it each time you put it on or off - and when he managed eventually, the piece of metal fell into his palm, and he looked at it for a few moments, heavy breathing, before sitting on the edge of the bathtub and positioning the blade on his left ribs, taking a breath to steady his hand before dragging it horizontally over his skin, a sob bursting from him as blood began to dribble from the wound. 

It was better like this. Having everyone believe he hated them would make it easier for them, and for him. They couldn't miss him after everything he had said, they'd be pleased to see him go.