"Emerson there's-something I didn't tell you."

The younger frowns, not liking how this sounds. "What is it?"

Remington gets to his feet. He sits heavily on the edge of the bed and sighs. "Sit," he says quietly, tired but needing to get this out. He can't keep it a secret, not anymore.

Emerson does as he's told, sitting next to his brother in the dark room. "What is it, Rem, what's wrong?" He doesn't know whether to be worried or terrified. It seems that things keep getting worse.

"In the hotel," he begins, and Emerson already knows it's going to be bad, "she didn't-she didn't just stab me," he mutters, awkward. There is a big part of him who despises the idea of anyone else knowing. It hurts too much.

Emerson almost doesn't want to know now. What the hell did she do? "What else did she do, Remington?"

Remington rubs his eyes to stall what he knows he needs to say. Why is he telling him? "I didn't know it was her at the door," he explains, "I let her in." The boy heaves a breath, panicked. What if she appears again? "She-she grabbed me. Pushed me down."

This sounds like it's going to be bad, thinks Emerson. "Then what?"

"She-oh god!" He can't say it. Saying it means finally accepting that it happened. Suddenly he's going to be sick. Remington stumbles off the bed and grabs the bin, puking again.

Emerson is beyond worried now. He rubs his brother's back and tries not to panic. Remington needs him to be strong. "What is it, Remington, what did she do to you?" The older shakes his head, terrified of saying it out loud. Maybe he could just pretend he's lost his voice, or gone back to sleep. "Come on, you need to tell me. You can't keep it inside, look what it's doing to you!" He motions to the boy being sick into the bin, exaggerating his actions.

With a long, heavy sigh, Remington falls back against the wall. "She-fuck!" He physically can't say it. He can almost feel her hands on his body. He shivers.

"One word at a time," he encourages, "you can't do it."

Remington quivers. He holds his arms over his stomach and brings his knees up. "I can't," he mumbles, "I fucking can't."

The drummer rubs his shoulder. "Yes you can, I know you can." He's tired, but that doesn't matter.

"Okay," he whispers, and tries again, "she pushed me down and then she-oh fuck-she raped me, Emerson, she raped me!" He barely says the words before he's throwing up again.

Emerson is shocked. He knew she was evil, but he never wanted to believe she had that much evil in her. "Fuck, oh my god, I am so sorry, fuck." His words come out rushed. "Come here," he offers, opening his arms. Remington gladly accepts the hug. "Did you tell the police?"

The singer shakes his head. "Didn't tell anyone."

Emerson wills himself to stay calm. He's got to get Remington back to bed. "We're going to sort this out, okay, we're going to fix it."

"You can't fix it, Em! What're you gonna do, take it back? YOU CAN'T!" He breaks down in tears and all Emerson can do is hold him and wait for him to fall asleep.

In the morning, Remington wakes with a pounding headache and an empty stomach. He remembers last night. Throwing up. Telling Emerson. Crying.

And then he remembers what is happening today, he wants to crawl back into bed and never come out.

Therapy.

He drags himself downstairs, swallows his pills, and finds Emerson and Sebastian. They're both in tears. Did Emerson tell Sebastian? Did he?

Remington can't belive it. How could he do that? How could he?

"Morning," Sebastian greets, "Emerson told me."

The words are spoken and Remington just stands there. He feels betrayed. But also protected. He feels protected. "Told you what?"

The oldest brother sighs. "That she didn't just stab you." He knows better than to say the actual word for it. "We're in this together." He sounds so caring, so gentle, and Remington almost smiles.

The boy just wraps his arms around the guitarist. "Thank you."

After breakfast they all clamber into Sebastian's car and set off for the therapy session. Remington sits in the front seat with Emerson behind him, and the three talk about anything other than what Remington is going to have to discuss with a stranger.

The singer is tired. He hardly slept. He had fallen asleep in Emerson's arms and the man had tucked him in bed, but just half an hour later Remington had woken with another nightmare. He wanted to go and get Emerson, to ask him to sleep next to him, but didn't want to disturb his brother again. Emerson already sacrificed his night for Remington.

They decide to go out for lunch after in town, unless Remington can't cope with it, just to make it feel more like a day out than a day in hell.

They all know therapy is not something Remington wants to do. It might be a disaster. But they've got to try.

They get lost trying to find the house and Emerson has to search for it on Google maps. Eventually Sebastian is stopping the car outside an unfamiliar, very well looked after, house. The garden is bright and colourful, the opposite of how Remington is feeling. He wants to hide in the foot-well.

"We're in this together," Sebastian says, repeating his own words, and gets out the car.

Remington sits still, looking at the building before them. It looks nice. Clean. Safe. He turns to look at Emerson who is just opening the door. "I feel sick," he states, and unplug himself. "He better have a fucking bucket," the boy jokes dryly, but they both know he's not really kidding. The therapist better have a bucket.

Sebastian opens Remington's door and the singer gets out, stumbling slightly, and slamming the door behind him. "Ready?"

Remington shakes his head. "Absolutely not," he says, "but that won't change."

The middle brother takes the men's hands in his and they step up to the door. Emerson rings the doorbell.

Remington gulps as the door is opened.