Got my 4th BVB related tattoo today :) If u wanna see it lemme know and I'll put a pic in the next update 

Trigger Warning: Death, suicide

* * * 

The rules of the game were simple and deadly. 

* * * 

That night, Palaye were booed off the stage by Andy's fans. 

Their set was only twenty minutes long, and every minute counted, so when Remington sang for barely two minutes in total, when he made minimal efforts to engage the audience and to move about on the stage like he had proved he could do, his brothers were understandably upset with him. 

Leaving the stage, Sebastian followed him back to the small dressing room, grabbed his shoulder, said, "What the hell, Remington? Are you trying to ruin this for us? What the fuck was that?" 

Like he had been since the previous night, Remington stared at his brother, or through him, gave no response. He showed no sign of acknowledging being spoken to, no change in his face to express any sort of apology or regret, 

Emerson came up behind Sebastian and joined in with the angry questions, silencing himself mid-sentence when Remington rather gracefully spun around and walked away. Then the drummer exclaimed, "Don't ignore us! What the hell is your problem?" 

Remington sat down and fixed his eyes on his hands and he didn't move, not even to look at Andy, who stood in the doorway and eyed the scene with suspicion and worry. "What was that?" He asked. "What just happened? You've been incredible for every other show so far, what the hell happened tonight? They're really not happy, you know. Care to explain?" 

"We don't know," Emerson said. He glanced at Sebastian, then continued. "Really. We didn't do anything different. It was all Remington. He's never-nothing like that has happened before. He usually puts on a great show. You've seen him do it. I...Andy, we're sorry." 

"Look," the elder began. "Don't apologise to me. It doesn't matter to me whether you bomb it or not. I just want you to get the most you can out of this tour. It's a big opportunity for you, I hope you realise that. I'd hate to see you mess it up for yourselves when you have so much potential." His gaze landed on Remington. "So talk to me," he said. "Remington. Talk to me. What's going on?" 

The singer didn't move. 

Andy waited a moment, sighed, ran his hand through his hair. "Alright," he mumbled. "Ignoring the problem won't make it go away, but I can't force you to talk. Uh, if you want my advice, never pull anything like that again. Not on this tour, or you'll gain the reputation as the band who puts on a bad show and doesn't care. You do not want that, believe me." 

"It's all him," Sebastian said accusingly, gesturing to Remington. "We were trying, but if he doesn't do his part, what good are we? He's the front man."

"I completely understand, Sebastian. However, you're a band. That means you're a team. And you're literally brothers, so I'm sure whatever it is, you can deal with it as a group. If you can't do that, you really have no chance of growing in this industry." 

Abruptly, Remington stood and marched right past Andy. 

The man grabbed his wrist and stopped him from leaving. "Did you hear that?" He asked, somewhat patronisingly. 

Remington's eyes were wide, like he was watching someone die. 

"Hello? Remington? Give me a sign, for Christ's sake. Were you listening to what I just said? Do you care at all?" 

"He does care," Emerson cut in. 

Pulling his arm from Andy, Remington, seeming to be in some sort of hurry, walked away. 

Andy stared after him for a few seconds with disbelief, then shook his head and sighed again. "You sort this out," he demanded sharply. "I am not having you ruin your chances. It would break my heart. I have to go. If your show tomorrow is like tonight's, I don't know what I'll do. Just..." He looked down the hall. "Sort it out." 

* * * 

The tour bus was where Remington found a place to disappear away from the nagging voices. Not his bus, but Andy's, since the door had been left unlocked for his crew to take things in and out. 

He sat in the small bathroom at the back of the vehicle and continued to stare, this time at the closed door opposite him. Only, he wasn't looking at the door at all, but at the heavy, metal lump of the train, hurtling into his classmate, shattering his small bones. He saw the terror in his classmate's face, saw the pure but fleeting anguish as the vibrations on the tracks became mini earthquakes. Then he saw nothing but a fast blur of screeching wheels and grey and black and blue.

Then he saw clear railway tracks where, moments ago, his classmate had been standing, alive.

He blinked but nothing changed. He was watching the crossing, the barriers lifting, the lights no longer flashing red. There was an intense pain in his chest, where he heart was. He feared he was having a heart attack but he couldn't make his arm move to grasp at the pain. He couldn't make anything move, so he just stared and stared, didn't know how he was ever going to do anything other than stare.

It was his prize for winning the game.

The game in which the rules were very simple, and very deadly; the first one to speak kills themselves, and the last to speak helps them to do it.