Trigger Warning: Death, suicide

Once, Remington had watched his classmate step in front of train. 

* * * 

For the night, Emerson and Sebastian struggled to get more than a few words out of Remington, the singer sulking as though the breaking down of the bus was a plight against him. When they woke that morning, Remington was already up, sitting by the window staring out at the carpark with boredom but also with an intense concentration in his expression. 

They walked down to the restaurant together, dressed in the clothes they had worn the previous day, and when the waitress asked them what they'd like from the cooked menu, Remington remained quiet. Nudged by his elder brother, he looked up, startled, said nothing. 

"Remington," Sebastian prompted. "What do you want for breakfast?" 

Eyes distant and shallow, Remington shook his head. The waitress eyed him for a moment before giving up and leaving the table. 

"Jesus, Rem," exclaimed Emerson. "You don't have to be so rude, you know." 

It was like nobody had said anything, or that he was listening to someone who wasn't there, a ghost in his direct eyeline. He hardly moved. 

Conversation was unnatural around their table. While Emerson and Sebastian tried to engage in usual, trivial topics, they both were, multiple times, thrown off by the strangeness of their brother's presence that morning, the deserted glint in his eyes, as though he had slithered out of his body and left it there to quietly die. 

The food on his plate was barely touched, the tea in his mug going cold, and when he was spoken to, he would either flinch or pay no notice at all. As his plate was taken away, he didn't utter a word of thanks, didn't ask for anything, didn't even attempt a polite smile. 

"What the hell is going on?" Sebastian asked later, once they were back in the bedroom and preparing to re-join Andy, hopefully in a bus that worked. He looked towards his younger brother and sighed. The singer was sitting on the end of his bed with his head down. "Oi. Remington. Look at me, will you? Stop being so rude." 

Still, Remington kept his head down, kept his eyes away from Sebastian. 

"Remington," the elder snapped, grabbing his chin and forcing them to make eye-contact. The sight took the air from within him, and he had to make himself breathe again; it was like looking into a pair of marble, taxidermic eyes. There was nothing there that suggested human activity, nothing to see other than the watery brown. "Say something, c'mon. What's going on? Are you alright?" 

The response he got was a stiff blink, and then there was a knock on the door. 

Emerson opened it, greeted Andy, who said, "You guys ready to go? Your bus is all good so we should be at tonight's venue in good time. Sorry for all the confusion." 

"Yeah, we're ready," Emerson replied. 

"Yeah," Sebastian agreed. 

Remington stayed quiet but yanked his face from his brother's hand and returned his gaze, if there was a gaze, to his fingers. 

Looking past Emerson, Andy observed Remington for a few seconds, then noticed Sebastian's baffled expression. He said, "Alright. We're waiting in the carpark for you." 

Sebastian caught his glance and gave a subtle shake of the head, an I don't know what's up with him shake. 

Once Andy was gone, he tried again to talk to Remington, demanded he say something or at least assure them he was ready to leave, and in response, Remington stood and marched toward the door, flung it open, and walked out. 

 * * * 

Once, Remington had watched his classmate step in front of a train, blue and grey as it thundered towards them, the metal rails screeching as it closed the gap between its heavy bodywork and the fourteen year old boy who was barely tall enough to reach the top shelf of his wardrobe.

Remington couldn't scream, so he stared and stared and stared and his eyes burned and begged for relief, and he stared and stared and stared, and he never shed a tear. 

Once, Remington won the game that they used to play in boarding school.