Happy birthday to me :) 

Trigger warnings: Mentions of depression, self harm, abuse/injury/blood, death, panic attack, anxiety, eating disorder/weight

Andy and Callum were hopeful as a tall man came to the door. "Yes?" He asked, and then, his expression shifting, "Andy? What're you doing at my house?" 

"Remington's in trouble," the elder blurted before he could think of a better way to say it. 

"What?" 

Callum put a hand on Andy's shoulder but was shrugged off as Andy spoke again. "Remington's in trouble and you need to tell me where he lives." A pause, then in a sharp, angry voice, "With her."

Larisa, who was stood behind Sebastian, said, "You mean Holly?" 

"Just tell me where he lives." 

"Andy, you need to-" 

"Shut the fuck up, Callum. What I need is for these people to hurry the fuck up and tell me where he lives!"

"What do you mean, he's in trouble?" Asked Sebastian. "And how the hell do you know he is?" 

"Is that seriously the important part of this? Just tell me where he lives!" 

"Andy-" 

The man kicked the door frame. "Tell me!" 

"Look, I'm sure we can talk about whatever's going on, but-" 

"I told you what's going on, Sebastian! Remington's in trouble! Tell me where he lives!" 

"In trouble, how?" 

Andy's jaw was tight, his fists clenched. "Tell me where he lives," he repeated. 

"How is he in trouble, Andy? What do you know about my brother?" 

"What do I know about your brother? We were together for two years, genius! And have you forgotten he was recording a verse in one of my band's songs today? I literally just spoke to him, and I'm telling you, he's in trouble." 

Sebastian and Larisa shared glances. 

"Tell me!" Yelled Andy. He was scarily close to tears. 

"Just tell me how he's in trouble." 

After a painfully long pause, as though he was contemplating how much to say about the situation, Andy opened his mouth, shook his head, and quietly said, "She's hurting him." His voice was soft enough that neither Sebastian or Larisa could make out the words, and when they gave him questioning looks, he shook his head again and angrily shouted, "She's hurting him, Jesus Christ! She's really hurting him, and I need to know where he is so I can fucking help him! So tell me! Tell me!" 

Sebastian's mouth fell open. "What?" 

"Tell me where he is!" 

"Andy, tell me you're kidding. She's not-there's no way. She's so nice." 

Shaking his head for the third time and violently swiping away a tear, And said, "I'm telling you, I just spoke to him, and she's hurting him." 

"How, though? How is she hurting him?" 

"Just tell me where he is." 

"HOW?" 

"She makes him cut and starve himself, alright? She's destroying him, and you're fucking questioning me on it, when what you should be doing is giving me his address!" 

Sebastian was silent and Larisa spoke for him, finally gave Andy what he was after, and the singer turned on his heel and took off running, not waiting for Callum. The address she gave wasn't far from where they were. It was just three streets away, and Andy ran the whole way, flying around corners and narrowly missing a car that he didn't check was coming. He tripped up the steps to the entrance, caught himself, and begun hammering on the door violently. Hopefully it was the right house, or he'd have one hell of an excuse to make up when a poor unsuspecting stranger opened the door. 

It was a woman who answered, told him sharply to quit the banging. Then she said, "Can I help you?" 

Andy stared at her, panting and teary. "I know he's in here," he said lowly. "So step to the side and no one gets hurt." Then, spitefully, "Though we both know it's too late for that, don't we?" 

She refused to make eye contact. "I don't know what you mean." 

"Bullshit. I'm coming in." He shoved past her, knew she'd have a harder time fighting him because he wasn't skin and bone the same way Remington was. He worked out, and he was angry enough that even if he didn't work out, his adrenaline would make up for it. 

"What the hell are you doing?" 

Andy ignored her and begun up the stairs. She wasn't attempting to stop him and he figured it was most likely so she could get away without any evidence. "Remington?" He called, and again. "Remington, are you up here? Remington?" Then he realised calling out his name as though he were being hunted down probably wasn't the best way to go about it. 

Sebastian, Larisa, and Callum had caught up and were also in the house. Holly didn't fight them, either, didn't even look at them. 

Opening every door upstairs, Andy eventually found the boy. He was sitting in the bathtub with his arms around him, his left one bloody. When he saw Andy, his hands flew up to shield his face, and Andy stopped moving. He didn't know what to do but was amazed that Remington was still conscious with the amount of blood he must have lost by now. 

Slowly, Andy crouched down by the door. "I'm so sorry," he said. 

Remington was hyperventilating and sobbing all at the same time. 

"We need to get you out of here. Is it okay if I come closer?" He didn't know if Remington was even listening. "I won't touch you, but we need to go. You're not safe here." OH, well done, Sherlock. As if he didn't know that, you fucking idiot. He moved marginally forwards and Remington tried to back further into the corner of the tub. Andy stopped again. 

Downstairs, Holly was having a 'who can stare the most intensely at the ground' competition with Sebastian, Larisa, and Callum. 

Upstairs, Andy sat on the floor and made no attempt to get any nearer, but he was continuously wiping away tears that he felt he had no right in having. He wanted to know how long this had been going on, and knew from the state his arm was in that it must have been at least a year. He couldn't understand how his brothers were clueless, when he had noticed something being wrong almost immediately. 

Remington was scared and confused and he wanted to be left alone to die, because that's what it felt like was happening to him. His stomach screaming for food, his arm yelling for amputation, his head pounding like it was about to combust. He thought dying would be less painful than whatever this was, but maybe this was dying. Maybe he was dying. In a bathtub, smeared with his own blood and stumbling over his own breaths, maybe this was it.

But worst of all was that there was someone in the room, and that meant someone was going to hurt him, and he couldn't take it anymore.

He'd rather die like this.