Nervous Breakdown

by crystalemerson

Summary:

conclusion to my angsty painful mental estate bullshit, because im horrendous at summaries lmfao

Chapter 1

Notes:

this is just copied over from ybf

the next chapters will be new but this one still fit

Sebastian couldn't sleep. The murky grey light of his room taunted him as he lay awake, too light to sleep and too dark to read a book. It was getting close to morning and he was beginning to think that he'd never sleep. He was tired- of course he was- but the refuge of sleep danced just out of his reach.

Too many thoughts. Despite believing all that he had been told, there was still- perhaps inevitably- some doubt in his mind. The entire matter concerned his little brother, so he felt it was only normal. But it was worrying all the same; what if Warhol had lied? That was unlikely though.

Eventually, at about 5:30 in the morning, he dragged himself out of bed. He clearly wasn't going to sleep. He pulled on a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers, and trudged downstairs. He made himself a cup of tea and entered the living room where Patient X was.

Sebastian was taken aback for a second. X was curled up on the floor, sleeping. In sleep, he looked so small and innocent, just like Remington. It hurt Sebastian to see, because he knew this was likely to be the only time he would ever see the old Remington.

But the painful image did not last for long. As Sebastian made his way to the sofa, over the old creaky floorboards, X shot up in a frenzied manner, knocking his head on the wall behind him. Sebastian automatically stepped towards him, wanting to see if he was alright before he remembered who he was dealing with.

"No no no don't-" yelled X, before cutting himself off with a sigh of relief. A multitude of emotions crossed his face- relief, realization and then sadness- before he seemed to settle on one which was neutral.
"I keep forgetting where I am. It's just you... Hi Seb," said X tentatively.

"No, DON'T you 'Hi Seb' me! You're a psychopath ! You killed my friend and you're insane and vicious and-" Sebastian burst out, but then he stopped. Patient X had buried his head in his knees, covering his ears.
"Stop it, stop shouting, I didn't, I didn't kill anyone, I'm not a psychopath, I'm not dangerous, please stop shouting, please don't hurt me, I'm sorry, please stop it..." X was mumbling, muffled.

Sebastian huffed in frustration.
"Alright. It's alright," he said, quieter. "I'm not gonna hurt you; just calm down." He sat down and pushed a hand through his hair, rubbing his face tiredly with the other one. What was he dealing with here? This was not what he had expected from the killer. He'd expected a violent, uncontrollable person; instead he had got a terrified one whose first thought upon waking up was that he was going to get hurt.

Both sat in silence for a while, Sebastian drinking his tea and X avidly studying the floorboards.
"I really didn't kill anyone, you know," X finally said, breaking the silence. "I know what you heard. I read it in the papers along with everyone else."
"Why should I believe you? I've already been warned that you lie like a professional."
"Maybe because I'm your brother?"

"No!" shouted Sebastian, slamming his mug down with so much force that he was surprised when it didn't shatter. Patient X flinched and ducked his head behind his knees, trembling.
"Sorry, sorry, it's fine," sighed Sebastian. "Just- You're not my brother anymore. Warhol has explained this to me already, so it's no use trying to lie out of it."

At Warhol's name, X's head popped up.
"Warhol? Since when did you listen to him?"
"Watch your words, X. Don't become a blasphemer AND a killer."

"Firstly, I am not a killer. Secondly, it wouldn't be blasphemy if I spoke against Warhol because blasphemy is against god, and Warhol is FAR from a god. Thirdly, don't you remember what he did you to at the estate? Isn't that incentive not to trust him?"
X's voice was rising to a shout and suddenly Sebastian could really see the 'disturbed serial killer' part of him.

"Warhol and Lieseil are good men. They want to contain you to keep the public safe, and I agree with that."

Before Patient X could argue further, Sebastian left the room. He could not allow doubt to take hold. He had to remain immovable in the decision to return X. Because he was right. He had to be.

*

Lieseil and Warhol. Those sons of bitches. Remington seethed, and glared at Sebastian as he left the room. Of course, of COURSE, he brothers' distrust towards him was planted by the Lords. Who else would create such a fucking ridiculous situation?

Remington's blood boiled. Oh, how he wanted to kill the old sods. As if sticking him and his brothers in that hellhole of an institution wasn't bad enough, now they were trying to break up the goddamn family?

When Remington had gone to his brothers, he'd expected them to welcome him. He expected them to be glad he was home. But instead, he got hostility and hatred like nothing he'd ever seen before in his lovely, caring brothers. And now, he was tied to a pipe- a fucking PIPE! And they thought he was insane; they thought he wasn't HIM anymore!

It seemed that Lieseil and Warhol had planned for everything; telling Sebastian and Emerson that he was lying liberally so they wouldn't believe a thing he said; dousing him in blood and handing him a knife just before he walked in; even KILLING people to make it look like he did it.

Goddamn, how much Remington wanted to hurt those men. He wanted to put those conniving old men through EVERYTHING he himself had been forced to endure in the past however many months. He wanted those nefarious bastards to feel EVERYTHING he-

Oh.

But this was it. This must have been part of their plan all along. Remington's brow creased as he connected the dots. Oh damn. The Lords were evil, but they were clever. Too clever.

How better to complete the story of the insane murderer than making said murderer express his desire to kill the Lords? It only built onto the narrative. If Remington said a word of the conspiracy, he would only look even more unhinged. And worse: if he said anything about his burning hatred for Warhol and Lieseil, it would only strengthen this stupid story. Fuck. They were good.

Remington was pulled out of his racing thoughts by the door to the living room opening slowly. He pulled his knees up to his chest as best he could; he couldn't trust either of his brothers not to hurt him. He didn't know who they were anymore.

Emerson's head poked around the door, followed by the rest of him as he entered the room and sat on the couch across from Remington. Remington decided against opening his mouth and trying to converse; it had only made Seb shout before, and he didn't want a repeat of that. Instead he observed his little brother, and was a little disheartened by what he saw.

Emerson was dressed up warm. Far too warm to be staying in all day (which, Remington had learnt in the arguments last night, was all they EVER did). He was clearly going somewhere and Remington could guess where.

Emerson sighed. He looked so dejected and lost. All Remington wanted to do was ask him what was wrong, and then protect him from all the evils of the world like he rightfully should as big brother. But he was powerless to do any of that when Emerson was BECOMING one of the evils of the world.

"So..." began Emerson, and then trailed off. Remington waited patiently for whatever was coming.
"Um... Merry Christmas, I guess..."
So THAT was the date. Remington was quiet for a few seconds, calculating. Eleven months. Eleven months he had been at the estate. Fuck, that was a long time.

"Oh- Right. Um yeah... you too?" he replied, unsure of how to respond. It was a bizarre thing to say to someone who you were planning on returning to hell on earth later that day.

Emerson looked like he was going to say more, but instead he stood up abruptly.
"Sorry," he said shortly, to which Remington said nothing. He couldn't say it was alright, because it clearly wasn't. Emerson half-nodded sadly, as if he had expected the lack of answer, and turned to leave. Then, as an afterthought, he asked, "Wait... do you need something to eat..?"

Remington smirked humourlessly.
"Well, yeah Emerson, I AM human," he said, and then jerked his head bitterly at the straitjacket and added, "which you seem to have forgotten."
Emerson looked pained. "It's for the best..." he said sadly, and walked out.

"You really believe that?" yelled Remington after him.
"Oh, shut the fuck up!" yelled back Emerson. Looked like he did.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Never make deals with the devil.

The three brothers were in Sebastian's car, driving against a stiff breeze across the desert. Sebastian drove stoically, refusing to engage with anything Patient X said. He blocked out the voice, not even bothering to listen to what he was saying, instead focusing solely on the road in front of him.

Emerson was having more trouble blocking out X, who was getting more and more faux desperate, clearly trying to guilt trip and coerce Emerson or Sebastian into stopping the car, when returning him to somewhere he could be contained was clearly the better option.

Remington was indeed getting desperate but there was nothing fake about it. All he wanted to do was convince his brothers that he really wasn't this insane murderer that everyone thought he was. He had tried everything, but they just didn't seem to hear him at all.

After perhaps an hour to trying to get their attention and convince them, Remington all but gave up on his brothers. He was having no luck with either of them; he might as well have been talking to a brick wall. Drained, exhausted and dejected, he slumped back in the car seat, trying and failing to stifle sobs.

Emerson swung suddenly round from the passenger seat.
"Oh, shut the fuck up, will you?" he growled nastily. "You'll be fine."
Remington felt like he had been slapped in the face. He cried quieter; he didn't even WANT his brothers' attention if they were going to be like that. He would rather just avoid conflict all together. What kind of heartless bastard said that?

Buried in the task of trying to change his brothers' minds, Remington had almost forgotten what was at the end of this journey. But now he had given up, it had hit him again. Eleven months in that place, and he was going back? Terror started to build in him, forcing its way through his brain and out of his eyes as the tears flowed. He considered hurling himself out of the car in a last ditch attempt to escape, but he wouldn't make it far in a straitjacket, weak as he was.

So, in a final attempt to get his brothers to stop, he tried to tell them his theory on how the Lords had orchestrated it all.
"Hasn't it occurred to you that Warhol and Lieseil are just fucking with your heads? That maybe, just maybe, they made up a bunch of bullshit just to mess with us?"
Remington got no verbal response, once again, but he felt the car speed up slightly and sighed wretchedly.

The car rounded a bend, and suddenly, a huge, grand building sailed into view. It was like a mansion, sandy in colour, but it was far too big to be a mansion. 'Estate' really was the only way to describe it.

Neither Remington or Emerson had seen the outside of the building before, although Sebastian had when he had been invited to dinner with Warhol. The grandiosity of the place shocked Emerson and Remington. They both knew it was not so glamorous inside.

There were ornate iron gates at the foot of the long driveway, forming an entry in a wall which was clearly too high to climb. The gates swung open by some unseen force as the Rolls approached, and suddenly the brothers were in. Sebastian continued to drive as the gates clanged shut.

Remington felt the air of finality in the discordant strike of iron on iron. His stomach rolled, full up not with butterflies, but with ugly hornets which battered and bashed and made his whole body speed up his stress response. His breathing picked up and his eyes darted around to any possible means of escape. But, of course, there were none.

They were halfway up the drive now. Emerson was finding it hard to believe that the monotone grey surroundings he had experienced before were inside this building. It seemed so... luxurious from outside.

As the car drew closer, it became clear that there were people waiting for them. Alister Warhol stood out front of the estate, backed up by about twelve masked soldiers. Sebastian realised he was, for some reason, laughing.

Sebastian pulled up the car, and brought it to a stop. When the engine died, he became acutely aware of a repetitive noise. He craned his neck round to see Patient X, curled up tighter and smaller than one would have thought possible, shaking and crying and drawing in huge quivering breaths. As Sebastian watched, X's breathing grew faster and faster until he was hyperventilating, and Sebastian gave in a little.

So, as he had always done, he began calmly instructing X of when to breathe in and out, and how to calm himself down. Finally, when X's breathing was slow enough, Sebastian got out of the car, and Emerson followed suit. Sebastian grabbed X by the straitjacket and dragged him out too, pulling him up so he could walk but not otherwise giving it much care.

Remington stumbled along, tripping on the gravel every few steps, still trembling, with hot tears pouring down his face. He was barely even present; flashbacks were taking over his brain. He thought maybe he might need to throw up.

Emerson was feeling a little bad about this. He understood why it was necessary, but seeing such a clearly terrified person was making him have doubts. Still, as he trudged towards the people outside, he knew it was too late anyway. They'd just have to drop X off and then head home and try to... move on.

Sebastian roughly shoved X to the ground in front of Lord Warhol, where he immediately just curled into the foetal position instead of attempting to stand.
"There," said Sebastian. "You have your precious X back. Happy?"
"Oh, very," replied Warhol, smirking. He surveyed the broken being on the ground in front of him, before kicking him harshly in the stomach, making him groan and curl tighter.

Warhol gestured to X for the guards.
"Take him back to the secure wing," he said disinterestedly.

Emerson was tired. Upon hearing that the exchange was seemingly over, he turned and began to walk heavily back to the car.

But then, he heard Warhol's laughing voice behind him again.

"And take the others, too."

Chapter 3

Summary:

Written about Remington/X.

Terror
Building, broiling, swirling inside like an ocean of knives
Hitting your vulnerable spots and caving them in
Leaving nothing

Terror
White, like a blanket of snow in summer
Blinding you
Leaving nothing

Terror
Like walls which get closer
As the ceiling descends, trapping and gripping you
Leaving nothing

Terror
Making your legs stop working
And your mouth go drier than the desert you rode in
Leaving nothing

Terror
Gutting you out like a fish
Scooping out anything worth knowing
Leaving nothing

Terror
Taking over your mind
Bending you until you snap under its weight.
Leaving nothing

You're nothing.

Notes:

a little different but i needed to put some poetry in here

Chapter 4

Summary:

Trigger warning: Su*cide attempt, which fails.

Remington was hauled off the floor (if 'hauled' was even the word for it; he weighed next to nothing) and someone put a cloth bag or something over his head so he couldn't see where they were taking him, plunging him into pitch darkness. The people escorting him had no care if he walked or not, stoically carrying on walking when his legs gave out after two steps. His knees crashed repeatedly against the jagged ground.

But Remington barely noticed this. Although it was black and lightless, realms of graphic colour danced before his eyes, red and grey being most frequent. He was lost in flashbacks. Each one hit him like a train as he struggled to breathe again.

He tried to visualise Sebastian in his head. What was it he always said when he or Emerson had panic attacks? "Pay attention to the world instead of paying attention to your past" or something. So, Remington tried to ground himself. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear the cloth brushing against his ears, a door opening, and the footsteps of the guards around him. He could feel the ground below him which was no longer gravel but warm concrete. If it was warm, he must still be outside under the weak sun.

A sudden chill swept over him and he concluded that he was inside now, fuck. He heard a door slam, and then the bag was pulled off his head. He blinked a couple of times, and when his eyes adjusted, he found that he was in one of those godforsaken monotonous hallways with identical doors.

There was quite some walking- he'd managed to scramble to his feet in the time it took for them to close that door- before they stopped him in front of a door and pushed him into that room. A couple of the guards followed him in and unbuckled the straitjacket, before leaving, locking the door with a decided clunk.

The room was one of the more interesting ones in the estate, with a shower in the corner and a fresh pile of clothes on the bench, the generic white T-shirt and trousers that he was so used to.

Remington assumed he was supposed to shower and change, so he did so. When he was done, he sat in the farthest corner from the door and waited, although not for long; guards came to collect him within minutes. They did not make him wear the straitjacket again, just using regular cuffs behind his back.

They marched him through the labyrinth of corridors and dumped him in a generic cell, with just a small bed and a dustbin. He was glad for the bin, and finally threw up what his stress hormones had been building up and then suppressing all day.

For a few hours, he was left alone. He wrecked the cell in a fit of anger, pounding the door furiously and making his fists bloody and bruised. He then meticulously tidied the cell, before laying facedown on the bed. Then he sat up. Shifted a bit. Laid on his back. Laid under the bed. He was restless, and nowhere was comfortable.

He ended up backed tightly in a corner, wildly pulling at his hair and trying to shut up his thoughts. It wasn't working especially well though. He decided he needed something softer to hit than the metal door, so he moved the mattress from the bed and pushed it up against the wall.

For a good half an hour, he bullied the mattress, skilled punches and kicks flying at speed, before he tired himself out. As he moved to lug the mattress back to the bedframe, he noticed something sticking out of the coarse white surface. A spring. Intrigued, he shook the mattress slightly so it fell to the floor, although he didn't pick it up. He knew how fast the watching guards would take it off him if they saw it. Instead, he let it lie, and moved the mattress back.

For ages, he tried to get to sleep, but failed. His head was full up with dark thoughts. It wasn't like he even had something to keep his faith up. His brothers thought he was a murderer. They were probably back at home, feeling glad he was gone. What would he even do if he DID survive this? Where would he even go? No one even wanted him anymore. Perhaps they never had.

So, why bother? His eyes suddenly fell on the spring. It was sharp... He could do some damage with that. A tiny part of his mind told him that he was being stupid, but he silenced it. It was that part of his brain that had kept him alive before, when life was worth living, but it wasn't anymore. So he calculated. He knew they would be watching, so he would have to be fast.

He darted forwards and grabbed the spring in his right hand. The door slammed open as he dragged it across his throat, left to right. Blood poured down his front in a waterfall, soaking and staining the T-shirt as he watched in fascination and mild satisfaction.

Pain seared his neck, but he was still breathing. A half-dozen soldiers descended on him, and the spring was knocked away. Someone pressed a gloved hand to the wound while someone else jammed a needle in his arm. He cried out as he realized: he hadn't cut deep enough. He hadn't hit ANYTHING important in his throat. He'd had one chance, and he'd fucked it up.

The needle contained some kind of sedative, as Remington felt the world slip away into fuzzy darkness. He was still alive. He had screwed up the only chance they would be stupid enough to give him. He'd failed.

Notes:

that's the end of my chapter spam for today lol, i wrote SO much last night.

Chapter 5

Notes:

a huge vent in this one, i always shut down,, all my emotions and thoughts switch of, it's a stress coping mechanism but unhealthy i knowww. anyway i projected this onto seb because that's what i always do; project my shit onto my characters

"And take the others, too."

Warhol had got to be joking. Sebastian's gaze snapped to the old man, who had an infuriating smirk on his face.
"No-" stuttered Sebastian. That hadn't been the deal at all. Warhol hadn't mentioned this!
"Sir- You didn't- You didn't say- No!"
Warhol didn't answer. He was staring off into the distance, pointedly ignoring all questions and protest. The infuriating smile still lingered on his lips.

Sebastian backed hastily away as the guards behind the Lords began to approach him, but he knew there was nowhere to run to. The soldiers aimed their guns in his direction as they approached and he was forced to stop moving and put his hands in the air so they didn't shoot him.

Half of the soldiers passed him by, and he realised that- of course- they were going for Emerson too.
"Warhol, please!" begged Sebastian. "Let Emerson go home! I'll do whatever you want, I swear it!"
The guards had reached him now and were cuffing his hands behind him, but he was preoccupied with thoughts of Emerson, and didn't really notice. Yes, he had been an emotional brick wall towards Emerson since they escaped, but that didn't mean he wasn't terrified to lose another brother.

"Oh, but you'll do whatever I want anyway, won't you? You know how it works, dear bastard," smiled Warhol, and in that moment, Sebastian wanted to kill him. Blinded by rage, he struggled and fought against the guards, kicking and biting for all he was worth. He wanted to get to that goddamn son of a bitch and rip that smile off his stupid face, but the guards restrained him.

Warhol tutted.
"Oh dear. You seem to have forgotten how this works, haven't you? Let me remind you then," he said in a silky smooth voice. He walked up to where Emerson was being held (or rather, held up; he didn't look like he'd be able to stand up on his own), pulled a gun from his pocket and pushed it to Emerson's temple. Sebastian's heart jumped.
"Stop. Fighting," instructed Lord Warhol, and Sebastian did. He was still really fucking pissed off, though.

Nevertheless, he stood as still as possible, waiting for Warhol to put the gun away. Instead of this, Warhol moved it slightly and fired it, so it just missed Emerson. Sebastian flinched, fear striking his heart, before he realised it was an intentional miss. Warhol put away the revolver, and he didn't need to say anything to Sebastian, who already knew he would do everything he was told.

Sebastian scowled but did not resist when he was shoved to start moving. A soldier pulled a hood over his head so he couldn't see where he was being taken. He could only hear and feel, which wouldn't do him all that much good if he tried to escape.

He started to shut down. With every step he took, he could feel walls and shutters going down in his mind. Emotions and feelings shut off one by one. His head slowly emptied of anything relevant. The mental shutdown- although orchestrated to protect himself- was so severe that it felt when they removed the hood like he was watching his life on a screen.

He walked numbly along, not taking in his surroundings at all. Perhaps it was unhealthy to shut down in such a manner, but he felt better like this. It was better to not feel at all than to feel the fear and anger that he should be feeling, right?

At some point, he dimly registered that he was alone in a cell not unlike the one he had spent most of his time in before. He didn't bother to look around; he was staring unseeingly at the door. He could not tell (neither did he care) how long it was until it opened again. He was taken to a room and made to shower and change clothes. Then he was shut in another room, cuffed to a chair at a table. Everything seemed to happen in a vague haze, and time seemed to have no meaning.

Shortly, Warhol and Lieseil came to see him. They sat down across from him, eyeing him in what appeared to be mild confusion.
"Well?" asked Warhol, and Sebastian didn't understand.
"...Well what?" he asked flatly.
"Well, don't you have anything to say? You were very mouthy earlier. What's happened?" elaborated Warhol.

Sebastian dug around in his brain for a while, trying to work out what to say, but he drew a blank.
"Um... Don't... Don't hurt Emerson?" he finally managed.

Warhol looked quite confused at the change in Sebastian, but before any more could be said, a guard burst in, looking more than a little flustered.
"Code black on Patient X! Code black!" they cried, frantic, and the second the first words were out of their mouth, Lieseil stood up, knocking his chair over and not stopping to pick it up, before running from the room, Warhol following behind.

Sebastian wondered what a 'code black' was. He asked the guards who took him back to his cell, but they didn't answer. And then, he was once again alone, so he slept lightly until morning.

Chapter 6

Notes:

sorry this is definitely more a transition chapter, like the last. longer ones coming soon.

"And take the others, too."

Emerson froze. Had he heard that right? He spun round to see soldiers approaching him purposefully, and his stomach dropped. No. Surely not. Not again- He couldn't do it again!

He shied away from the guards, hitting his back against Sebastian's car. They had their guns raised now, and Emerson sunk to the ground, shielding his head with his hands and arms, although that wouldn't stop them. And it didn't. Their rough grips pulled him from the ground, twisting his arms behind his back in a painful position and locking them there.

He heard Sebastian begging and pleading with Warhol not to take Emerson, but it wasn't working, clearly. Warhol's words were unclear to him, but the next thing Emerson knew, Warhol was striding towards him and pressing the cold barrel of a gun to his temple. Emerson jumped violently, fear jolting his heart as he stood as still as possible, waiting.

"Stop. Fighting," Warhol said authoritatively to Sebastian, and Emerson prayed to every god he could think of that Seb would do as he was told.

An earsplitting bang sounded by his head, and echoed off the building behind Emerson, and he tried to duck, but the soldiers held him tightly. What the..? He looked up to see the revolver smoking in Warhol's hand. Either he had missed, or Emerson was dead, but owing to the ringing in his ears, he would be willing to bet it was the former. He let out a loud, quivering breath, and realised he had been trembling uncontrollably.

Warhol had already walked away, so the soldiers holding Emerson led him off, someone pulling something over his eyes so he couldn't see where they were going. It was pulled off again when he was pushed into a room he recognised; the one with the table and chairs. The soldiers cuffed him to a chair and then left him alone.

It was no more than five minutes before the Lords arrived, as Emerson had expected they would. Warhol looked smug, clearly proud that they'd fallen into the trap he had set. Lieseil just looked put out, as usual.

"So," began Warhol, irritatingly cheerful, "We're trying something new now! From now on, we are going to keep you well informed of everything that happens to your brothers."
Lieseil smirked, and Emerson was confused. What did they stand to gain by that?
"And for the record," cut in Lieseil, scratchy voice grating on Emerson's ears, "Your journey here was pointless. Your brother Remington is as sane as he normally is. Fucking idiots."

Emerson felt like screaming in frustration. Hadn't he thought of that deep down? If he had just acted on his instincts instead of letting himself be convinced by Seb, he wouldn't even be here! And Rem... Poor Rem. God, he'd been a complete shitbag to him. Oh boy, what a fucking mess. He should have seen that the Lords had been lying!

"So," continued Lieseil. "I'm sure you'd like to know how we'll be treating them... and you. For Patient X... We are planning intensive electroconvulsive shock therapy-"
Emerson's heart sank at this. That shit was absolutely horrific.
"-and for the Gentleman-" Lieseil smirked, and Emerson dreaded what was coming next, "-we are planning to test his reactions to certain... situations." (That sounded ominous). "Then we're giving him a transorbital lobotomy."

Emerson was dismayed and unsettled, almost to the point of panic.
"Why a lobotomy? He doesn't need that!" he exclaimed, thrown back to the film of a lobotomy they had forced him to watch. "And why are you telling me this? Are you just trying to make me even MORE anxious?"

"DON'T question our decisions," Warhol snapped, the volume of his voice making Emerson jump.
"Okay," sighed Emerson, and began to cry. He was tired and scared and his brothers were going to get hurt badly and he just wanted to be alone, not stuck here in a room with these men.

"Would you like to know what we are going to do with you?" leered Lieseil, clearly not giving a damn that Emerson was upset.
"No," mumbled Emerson. He really didn't. It would only make the perpetual dread in his stomach worse. But Lieseil went ahead and told him anyway, smiling heartlessly.

"We are going to make you watch."

Chapter 7

Summary:

TW: uncensored mention of su*cide attempt

Remington could feel pain before he even opened his eyes, searing and throbbing in white hot waves through his throat. It took him a few moments to even remember why he had the pain, and when he did, he decided to keep his eyes shut for longer. He didn't want to be here (although he wasn't entirely sure where in the estate 'here' was, currently), so it wouldn't hurt to keep his eyes shut for a bit longer. 'Wouldn't hurt' being only a manner of speech, because even with his eyes shut, it really fucking hurt.

As he woke up more fully, he became aware of other sensations and sounds. He could feel a tiny breeze coming from somewhere; the kind you get when you don't shut a window properly. Where could he possibly be which had not only a window, but one which opened?

He could smell a fire, but not a dangerous one; it was more the smell you get when you have a lit fireplace. That was weird. He could hear a methodical, regular clacking sound which sounded like a typewriter. He confirmed this when he heard the ~ding~ as a new line was had. Slipping further into the land of the living, he distinguished that it was not one, but two typewriters. Where the fuck was he?

He could hear snippets of speech, drifting in and out of his earshot.
"Hallucinated things... didn't happen... doesn't trust... thinks we're the enemy... nightmares... brothers in his head... too severe..."
He wasn't sure what any of that meant, but he was too groggy to be bothered to work it out.

Focusing more on his own body, he realised with dismay that he could taste blood again. Tasting blood had been a constant occurrence for him before, but he had managed to scour the taste out with water in the brief time he was out (that was, when his brothers finally bothered to give him something to drink). But now, the taste was back, and he guessed it wouldn't go away any time soon. He should be used to it by now, but it was still nasty.

He could discern that he was lying on his back, on a relatively soft surface; likely a mattress rather than a padded floor, judging by the other sensations around him. There was a sheet over him, which his arms were over in an almost corpse-like position, over his chest. He could feel something stuck to his neck; probably gauze over the wound.

Finally, he willed himself to open his eyes. The first thing he saw was metal bars above him, and then beyond that, an intricately painted ceiling. Well, that just gave him more questions about where he was, instead of answering the ones he had before. Dammit.

He slowly turned on his side, taking care to be as quiet as possible, towards the typewriter noises, when he suddenly realised where he was.

Two ornate mahogany desks faced each other, a few feet apart. Lavish and decorative furnishings adorned the room. And the two people sat at the desks made it clear to him where this was. This was the Lords' office.

Remington was on a bed, in a cage, in the office of Lord Warhol and Lord Lieseil. If it weren't for the hatred he bore for the two of them, he would have been moderately impressed. The cage looked just large enough for him to sit up on the bed in, but not stand up, or even get off the bed at all. It was fairly claustrophobic; he wasn't sure he liked it very much.

Lieseil happened to glance over when Remington opened his eyes, and Remington didn't manage to pretend he was asleep again before the Lord realised he had woken. Lieseil stood up and made his way over to the cage. Remington groaned. He'd just woken up; he wasn't ready for a Lieseil-lecture/one-sided shouting match. He was a little glad for the cage all of a sudden, because he couldn't really be hit in here. He curled up very tightly and waited for the jarring voice to start which he hated so much.

But when the Lord spoke, he was shocked.
"Glad to see you're awake now," said Lieseil in the softest voice Remington had ever heard him use (although, let's face it, the bar was very low). "You had us worried. How are you feeling?" He sounded concerned, and almost kind.

Remington didn't trust it.

"What do you care?" he muttered.
"Don't be like that, now. I'm only concerned for your wellbeing. You attempted suicide." Still going with the gentle voice.
"Yeah, thanks for reminding me, like YOU give a shit," hissed Remington, voice dripping with sarcasm. Cut throat or not, his vocal chords seemed to be in order.

"Of course I give a shit," argued Lieseil, looking offended that Remington would even suggest such a thing. "Haven't I always tried to help you?"
Warhol said something sideways to Lieseil from across the room, trying to stop Remington hearing, but he caught it anyway: "I don't think he remembers that. He hallucinated too much... remember?"

Remington was confused and unsettled by this bizarre change in character, and didn't understand what Warhol said. It was so unlike Lieseil to be nice, but he decided to take advantage of it.
"Fine," snapped Remington. "If you care so much about me, leave me alone for a bit to wake up more before you ask me the questions I know you're going to ask."
By this, he meant the usual 'why did you do it?' bullshit that he wouldn't be answering.

"Alright then. Take your time. Let us know when you're ready," agreed Lieseil, and Remington was even more stunned. He hadn't thought that would work. The Lord returned to his desk, and carried on working as he had before.

Remington uncurled a little. He wasn't sure how long this strange treatment would last, but he was happy to make the most of it while he could. Better this than torture.

*

Warhol got impatient eventually, and pulled up a chair by Remington.
"Are you ready to answer some questions now?" he asked, with a similar weirdly nice tone to Lieseil. Remington supposed it was better to keep on their good side, and he would have to be asked these things at some point, whether he was planning on answering or not.
"Alright," he sighed, and sat up slowly, leaning against the wall.

"So... How are you?" asked Warhol, looking all concerned in a way which Remington didn't fully trust. He deliberately avoided the deep topics when he answered, to annoy Warhol slightly.
"Well," began Remington, "my neck hurts. There's a pain in my head too, from the sedative. And there's like, no space on this damn bed. That what you meant?"

Warhol sighed a little.
"How about mentally?"
"Oh, I'm all good," bullshat Remington, grinning smoothly.
"We both know that's not true," prompted Warhol.
"Well, that's all you're getting," smiled Remington.
"Fine. I won't force you to talk. Just tell us when you're ready. We want to know what triggered you to try such a thing, so we can avoid it for next time. Is that fair?"

Remington didn't answer, instead laying down and facing the wall, away from Warhol, pointedly signalling that the conversation was over. He didn't know how to react. The Lords were usually anything BUT fair... weren't they?

Notes:

lmk what you think is gonna happen etc etc like what do you think?? i know i should maybe wrap this up as its long, but like,, nah not yet

comments and kudos appreciated x

Chapter 8

Every day for five days it was the same. One or other of the Lords would ask Remington if he was ready to talk, and he would just shake his head. He stayed in the cage apart from when guards took him to shower and stuff. The guards still cuffed him, but they held his arms very gently. The first time this happened, one guard even APOLOGISED for the cuffs, saying it was just in case he hallucinated and started trying to fight threats that weren't there.

It was all befuddling. He kept hearing things about hallucinations, but he had never hallucinated in his life. He wasn't crazy. Then, there was the bizarre manner of everyone. Why was everyone all nice all of a sudden?

The change of circumstance didn't really make Remington any less suicidal. Oftentimes, he stared unseeingly at the wall, lost and trapped in his own melancholy thoughts.

Today was one of those times. He was shivering slightly under the thin sheet, staring into nothing while his head played him depressing thoughts. Tears rolled down his cheeks and onto the pillow, but he had learned to cry quietly, so he made no sound. He couldn't be bothered with the uncharacteristic concern from the Lords.

He was thinking about his brothers. Would they miss him? Were they back home, regretting taking him back? He knew they were regretting nothing. In fact, they were probably celebrating his absence. Regardless of his good treatment now, he still couldn't see a reason to want to continue existing. They thought he was a murderer.

On the sixth day, he decided he wanted to confront the Lords about the whole bag of bullshit they had made his brothers believe about him. When Lieseil came over to see him, as was routine, he sat up properly, and Lieseil seemed happy with that progress. He smiled warmly at Remington as he sat down.
"You look a bit perkier today! I am glad," exclaimed the Lord.

Remington opened his mouth to speak, but something got stuck. Instead of 'Why did you frame me as a serial killer to my brothers to make them hate my guts?', nothing came out. He frowned and tried again, but the same thing happened. It was like the words just... weren't there. He had the question in his head, but it refused to come to his lips. He wondered if it was because he quite literally hadn't uttered a word for days.

He tried a few more times, but it wasn't working. He began to get more and more distressed, working himself into a panic. Why wouldn't the words come out? Why couldn't he speak? His breathing was hitching and he could feel a panic attack fast approaching.

He could hear Lieseil speaking in the background, but the words were unfocused and muffled. He was hyperventilating now, blood pumping in his ears as he panicked.

Suddenly, he felt strong hands on his shoulders, and looked up to see Lieseil reaching through the bars.
"Okay boy, I want you to listen to my voice, and I want you to breathe with me," instructed Lieseil, and he sounded so much like Sebastian. Remington tried his best to follow along and breathe with the man, and eventually managed to regulate his breaths.

"What happened there?" asked Lieseil, once Remington had recovered. Remington opened his mouth to speak again, and was once again hit with the block. Lieseil quickly amended his mistake.
"Don't try to talk! Let me get you a pen and some paper, okay? Don't stress; we can communicate in more ways that one."

The first thing Remington wrote on the paper he was given was not an explanation of his sudden muteness, because he genuinely didn't understand it. Instead, he wrote, 'Why do you suddenly care so much?' and showed it to Lieseil, whose brow creased when he read it.

"What do you mean?" asked Lieseil, sounding perplexed.
'You tortured me... You beat me until my back nearly broke. You turned my own brothers against me. Want to know why I tried to snuff it? Maybe I just didn't want to be back here. Why the sudden change in you two?' It took him a while to write, by which point Warhol had pulled up a chair too.

When he showed them the note, both Lords did this kind of... stricken face, which got worse as they read. Lieseil sucked in a breath.
"Well, shit," was all he said.
"I knew the hallucinations were bad, but I didn't think it was like that," said Warhol quietly.

Remington was fucking frustrated.
'Hallucinations?' he wrote. He needed answers here.

Lieseil glanced at Warhol before replying.
"X... We didn't do any of that. None of that happened. You hallucinated it- Rather vividly too, it seems. I'm sorry you had to go through that, even if it was in your own head. What's all this about brothers?"

Remington's mind reeled. No... it had been too real. He couldn't have hallucinated that. They were just trying to confuse him. He couldn't trust them.
'Brothers. My brothers. Sebastian and Emerson. You told them I killed people! They hate me now!'

Lieseil looked pained.
"I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, but..." he trailed off.

Warhol finished his sentence for him.
"You don't have any brothers."

Notes:

sorry lmfao

comments, kudos are appreciated, love the void x

Chapter 9

Notes:

c'est encore moi

Emerson nearly had a panic attack after the Lords left, the reality of the treatments his brothers were going to receive sunk in. Both treatments were barbaric, not to mention unnecessary.

A transorbital lobotomy was performed by hammering an ice pick through the thin bone above the eyeball and into the brain, severing connections between the prefrontal cortex and the thalamus. Although it was widely used, Emerson knew that it had an abominably high rate of failure, resulting in brain damage, and sometimes even death. It often caused the patient to become extremely detached and childlike, as the emotional part of the brain was disconnected. It also limited cognitive functions.

Basically, it was horrible.

It was usually used to treat hysteria and other illnesses which caused someone to behave overly emotionally or erratically. Emerson knew Sebastian wasn't ill. Sebastian didn't behave erratically or hysterically- in fact, it was pretty much the opposite. All Emerson knew was that he was probably going to lose Sebastian in one way or another, and he was powerless to stop it.

As for electroconvulsive therapy, Emerson knew less about that. He knew it was to do with passing electric shocks through the body and brain. He wasn't sure what the purpose of this was, but he knew enough about it to be terrified for Remington. Enough electricity could do some serious damage.

The worst part of it all was that he could do nothing to stop it. When the time came, he would be forced to just watch as potentially irreversible damage was done to the only two people he had in the world. It wasn't even like he could fight; the Lords were the kind of people who would only make it worse if he fought.

When guards came to take him back to a cell, he was trembling all over. His stomach was filled with dread, and he once again found it difficult to stand, being half-dragged along. He was also very tired; he hadn't slept in at least 36 hours and it was showing.

They made him shower and change clothes, and he nearly collapsed. By the time they shoved him into a cell, he was already in the grey area between states of consciousness, and he just managed to clamber up into the lumpy bed before he passed out, still shaking slightly.

*

Sebastian was unsurprised and not particularly bothered when he was taken from his cell to a new room, soon after he woke up. The room was peculiar; the walls appeared to be made from metal, apart from one of them which was clearly a two-way mirror. He supposed there would be people watching him behind it. Other than that, the room was completely empty.

He stood around for a bit, sort of waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. He couldn't care less what happened really. He sat down on the floor and just... sat.

After some time, although Sebastian wasn't sure how much time, he began to notice it was getting rather cold. Not 'take a coat when you go out' cold, but rather 'Jesus fucking Christ, if you don't get out of here soon, you are going to die' cold. The temperature had dropped slowly and consistently, but Sebastian had only deigned to notice when he was shivering uncontrollably.

His body was crying out for warmth and reprieve from the bitter, freezing room, shaking violently and almost convulsively. However, Sebastian was unperturbed. He felt no alarm. He could barely feel his body usually anyway when he was like this, so the shivering didn't concern him.

He wasn't sure how close he came to dying of hypothermia before they got him out of the room, but once again, he didn't have the capacity to care. The guards took him out of the room, swiftly wrapping a foil blanket around his shoulders to warm him up. He numbly walked back to his cell, his fingers fidgeting worriedly at the edge of the blanket they left with him. Even though his broken mind felt no anxiety, his body did.

*

The next day, they tried Sebastian with heat. Emerson was watching. He had been told that he could see in, but that Seb could not see out. Lieseil described with a smirk what was going to happen, before sitting silently, taking notes and ignoring Emerson.

The day before, Emerson had also been watching. They had taken him from his cell (waking him up from a deep sleep way before he was ready) and put him in this viewing gallery, strapped to a chair. He had started shaking again when he had been woken up, and it hadn't truly stopped until he fell asleep at night.

Lieseil had been in a foul mood the day before, promising to blow Emerson's brains against the wall if he said so much as a word. Emerson had promptly shut his mouth, and kept it that way, despite the worry he had been feeling for his brother, who had been getting colder and colder in front of his eyes.

Today, Lieseil appeared to be in a better mood, although Emerson dared not test the theory by opening his mouth. He had told Emerson that they would be 'testing the Gentleman's reactions to dangerous levels of heat' with an infuriating smirk on his lips. Emerson hated the sound of it already.

Progressively, through the session, Sebastian seemed to physically wilt. However, he showed no outright signs of emotional distress. His face remained impassive: void of all emotion. This terrified Emerson. Where had his brother gone, leaving this shell? He recognised the empty look from when they had escaped the estate, and wondered sadly why it had been so quick to return.

Emerson turned his head. He didn't want to watch his; it was unnatural. But, as soon as he did so, Lieseil spoke up.
"Oh, no. You must watch. I can always strap your head in place and PIN your eyes open, if you'd like."
Emerson half-scowled tiredly, and moved his gaze back to his broken brother.

*

Sebastian passed out with heat exhaustion on that day. Then, throughout the coming weeks, they tried slowly rising water (he stood with no signs of panic until it stopped at his chin), starvation (he managed a week before he almost died and they had to stop), constant blaring noises and light (he literally had no reaction, and they gave up), along with a multitude of other forms of torture.

Not once did he react with any form of emotion. He was locked in his own head, dangerously desensitized to the real world. He knew he should be worried or scared, but it was nicer to just not feel at all.

Notes:

comments and kudos are always appreciated, it makes me so happy to see when someone's commented hehe

Chapter 10

Notes:

disclaimer: i don't know very much about schizophrenia. i did some research and i hope i did it okay, but like,,, if i have anything really wrong it's because i'm new to that subject. sorry it just needs to be in this work

 

this chapter is dedicated to @aintgotenoughcoffee because GRAMPA (no one else will get that, haha)

For the past few days, Remington's mind had been reeling. The Lords had gently explained to him all about a condition called paranoid schizophrenia. Apparently, it caused vivid hallucinations and delusions, and also made the sufferer feel like people were out to get them. The disorder, they said, could be what caused Remington to continually distrust the Lords, and believe they were plotting against him.

It was fucking difficult. Remington's first instinct was to mistrust this heavy diagnosis. He wasn't crazy! But, if he just thought this was another thing the Lords were saying to eventually hurt him, then didn't that just back up the diagnosis?

It also didn't help that every conversation was slow as fuck. He had to write everything, still having not regained his speech. Warhol said it could be posttraumatic stress; apparently even though he had basically imagined everything, it could still have been traumatic, and that could cause him to lose his speech.

He was still staying in the Lords' office. Lieseil was out often, but Warhol was around a lot. There was never a time where both of them were gone, though. It seemed almost as if they were making time for him. They talked to him daily, asking him the basic shit ("How are you feeling? Have you had any hallucinations today that you can think of?" etc. etc.), and he just didn't know how to answer.

The single most gut-wrenching, soul-sucking, painful thing to come to terms with was not the disorder itself. Although he found it difficult to accept at first, the more he thought about it, the more obvious the symptoms became. No, the hardest part was trying to internalise and accept that his 'brothers' had never been real.

For as long as he could remember, Emerson and Sebastian had been by his side. To learn that they had never existed was like suddenly realising you had no legs, and that they'd never been there in the first place.

Remington pushed himself through the seven stages of grief. His life was quite literally a lie. After a few weeks, he had managed to establish blocks and boundaries for thinking about them. When he did, he would find himself sobbing and sobbing. They weren't real... His beautiful, kind brothers weren't real... They never had been. He was all alone.

Remington also hadn't hallucinated anything for a couple of weeks. Warhol said that could be because he was learning that things weren't real, but that it would not last forever. The hallucinations would probably start up again soon. Which was fucking brilliant.

*

A few weeks after the suicide attempt, something caught Remington's attention. His mind was usually bored, as although it was admittedly not too bad to be staying where he was, it was very boring. But he could see something in the far end of the room, moving. It was small, black and furry, and when it turned around, Remington saw it was a cat.

His face lit up. He loved cats! He willed it to come over, still unable to speak, and also wondering what the Lords would do if they saw a cat had got into their office. It had probably come in through a window, and Remington didn't want them to kick it out. He wanted to pet it first.

The cat wandered over, meandering out of the view of the Lords, and eventually ended up right beside Remington. He bent down and stuck his arm through the bars of the cage, offering his hand for the cat to sniff. The little animal snuffled in his palm for a second before pressing its head into his hand. Remington immediately started stroking the creature, delighted beyond measure at his new friend.

The cat jumped and came to sit on the bed. It was small enough to fit through the bars, and it snuggled up to Remington immediately. He supposed it must be because he was warm, and it was quite cold in the office. He decided to call the cat Harper, just because why not? He may as well name it.

He stroked the cat for hours, turning to face the wall to hide it from the Lords' view. He knew he probably wasn't supposed to have it. It fell asleep on him, and he felt incredibly flattered. This had never happened to him before; cats always seemed to go for Sebastian.

Sebastian. Fuck. But Sebastian wasn't real. Remington was hit with a wave of emotion again. His breathing hitched and he started to cry as quietly as he could. He wanted his big brother back, but he hadn't been there in the first place.

Harper woke up at Remington's tears, and started trying to comfort him by purring softly and snuggling into him. Remington had never seen a worried cat before, but he could swear that this one looked concerned. He stroked it absentmindedly, still unable to drag himself out of his own head.

The next thing he knew, Harper was batting his face. He surfaced from the pit of thought he had been stuck in, and gently pushed the cat down from where it had been leant up against his face, batting his nose.
"Hey, stop," he whispered, laughing a little. The cat was definitely in a playful mood, and was still trying to whack him with its little paws.
"Stop!" he exclaimed a little louder, but still light-heartedly. He didn't really mind it. It was a distraction.

He heard something drop behind him, coming from the direction of the Lords' desks.
"You spoke!" exclaimed Warhol, and Remington realised that he had, in fact, spoken. He cursed inwardly. It was good that he'd spoken, but now he could guarantee that Warhol would come over to him, and then he'd see the cat.

Sure enough, Warhol dragged up a chair and sat down by Remington, who was still facing the wall, and cleared his throat. Remington turned around slowly with a sigh, revealing Harper who was catting around on his lap. He expected Warhol to acknowledge it in some way, but the old man just launched straight into what he was going to say. Was he blind?

"What made you speak? How did you do that? I'm very proud of you for managing to do that again," said the old man kindly. Remington was very confused. Didn't he see the cat? He opened his mouth, and tried to answer the questions, speaking with broken difficulty.
"There... There is a cat. Do you not see the cat?" he said very quietly.

Warhol frowned.
"Where?" he asked, looking around.
"On my lap?" replied Remington, hoping to god that Warhol was just messing with him or something. Warhol's gaze fell on Remington's lap.
"There's nothing there," he said, sounding confused and a little sad.

Panic sparked in Remington's heart. Surely this cat was real! He could feel its warmth, and its breathing when it slept, and it batting his face, and he could see it, and he could feel its slight weight on his lap as he sat, looking horror-struck at Warhol.
"No..." he said, so quietly it could barely be heard. He fondled Harper's ears. That felt real- he couldn't be hallucinating this!

Warhol nodded sadly.
"There's no cat," he said decisively.

*

The next day, both Lieseil AND Warhol came to talk to Remington, who was pointedly ignoring the cat, which was mewling around outside the cage. He had gently put it out, still not wanting to hurt an animal, even if it was not real, but it kept trying to jump back up. It was so infuriating.

"So..." began Lieseil. "We are going to start your treatment today."
Remington's head shot up, gaze snapping up from where he had been glaring at the cat (so much for ignoring), to rest on Lieseil's face. Before Remington could begin to ask questions- it was still taking him a while to get words out, and he preferred to write it down, or just stay quiet- Warhol carried on.

"You don't need to ask anything, I'll explain it. This saves time. We are trying a very successful treatment called electroconvulsive therapy. It involves sending small shockwaves through your brain, and we have found that on other patients, it is a brilliant remedy for hallucinations. We are going to start this today, if you say it's okay."

Remington had never heard of this treatment before, but he was willing to try anything if it would stop him hallucinating for good. He nodded slowly. It didn't sound too bad. 'Small shockwaves' sounded manageable.

*

Small shockwaves, his ass. Remington was tightly strapped to a chair, with wires and shit coming from the chair, attached to instruments which were attached to his head. Electricity coursed through his body, beating out a livid pulse through him. It felt like pins and needles, but a million times worse. He was violently convulsing, his back arched, as he let out a hoarse scream.

It felt like it had been going on for an age, before the hum and buzz in the room and his brain shut off, his body falling limply back into the chair. Warhol, who was at the control panel, dictated to a guard who was taking notes for him
"Setting one- lowest setting. Fifteen seconds."

THAT had been the LOWEST SETTING?! Remington groaned deeply. He heard a loud switch flick, and suddenly his body was pumped full of electricity- more than before- and he was screaming and losing consciousness for a second. Every hair on his body stood on end, and he felt like his body was rigidly fixed in the same arched position.

Finally, the current was switched off again. Remington slumped heavily in the chair, black spots dancing in his vision. Surely there would be no more. He would pass out. Maybe he'd die.

He heard Warhol speaking.
"Setting two. Twelve seconds. Cut off early as the subject looked on the verge of unconsciousness."
Warhol left the control panel and walked over to Remington, starting to undo the straps keeping him in the chair. It must be over. Thank god.
"You did so well," said Warhol. "I'm so proud of you. This will do you a world of good."

When the straps were mostly off, and the instruments were detached from his forehead, Remington fell forwards, unable to stay upright. Warhol caught him, and, taking him by surprise, pulled him in for somewhat of a hug.
"It's all over now, it's alright," he was saying, and Remington found himself trying to absorb as much comfort from the hug as possible, exhausted and crying a little.

Slowly but surely, Remington was beginning to trust Alister Warhol.

Notes:

tell me in the comments

1) do you think emerson and sebastian are real?
2) should remington trust the lords?
3) how do you think this is going to end?

love the void x

Chapter 11

Notes:

hello again

Remington was far too weak to stand, let alone walk. After hugging him for a few seconds Warhol asked the guard to send for a wheelchair, which arrived a few minutes later. Remington couldn't get out of the electric chair, so the guard took one arm and Warhol took the other, and together, they half-lifted him into the wheelchair. Then it was out into the incessant hallways.

Warhol was talking to Remington, walking next to him as the guard pushed the chair.
"We're going to put you somewhere more normal from now on. It's good to have a stable routine, and you can't really stay in our office forever. We'll still come to see you often, and you'll have treatment daily, though. I think it's just better to get some normality back for you."

Remington thought that was reasonable. A part of him feared they would put him in a padded cell with a straitjacket again, but he had to remind himself that that probably hadn't happened. As long as he was able to actually walk around a bit, as he had been unable to do in the Lords' office, then he was happy. Besides, he'd be able to cry in peace this way.

Warhol and the guard left him in a fairly decent little room, with a bed and a little table and a chair too, which was cool. He was sprawled out on the bed, still weak from the ETC, when he heard the door lock. Fuck. So it was a cell, then. He carefully steered away from that thought, not wanting to have flashbacks of things that simply hadn't happened. They must have just locked it for his own safety.

He slept fairly well that night. There were no imaginary cats or brothers or torture. He couldn't hear anything outside the room, and it was nice to have peace and quiet for once. He had nightmares, as always, but they weren't even too bad. Altogether, he was pretty content.

*

He was already awake when the door unlocked and opened, having jolted out of nightmares about an hour before. Two guards showed up with a wheelchair, but he waved it away. His mobility was fine; he'd been pacing around this morning, getting used to moving more again.

"If you're fit to walk, we need to cuff you. It's because-" began a guard, but Remington had already offered his arms to them. He knew the drill. The cuffs weren't tight, and the grip of the guards was loose, clearly more to help him walk if needed rather than to stop him running as they left the room.

Soon, with no difficulties in walking, they arrived at the ECT room. The door was opened, and Remington saw Lieseil already inside. His heart sank a little. He didn't like or trust Lieseil as much as Warhol. But, he supposed, they were both trying to help him, so it shouldn't really matter.

Remington had stopped walking for a second upon seeing Lieseil, and the guards pushed him a little, so he stepped into the room as they removed the cuffs. He certainly wasn't looking forward to more violent electricity filling every fibre of his being, but he equally knew it would help his hallucinations, so he wasn't altogether that concerned. Besides, this time he knew what was coming.

Something caught Remington's eye in the back corner of the room as he entered. His head snapped up to fall on a familiar face. Emerson. His non-existent younger brother was huddled in the corner, with heavy shackles on his wrists and ankles, and a heavy collar around his neck. He had a black eye which looked very fresh, and a nosebleed too. His mouth was a mess of blood and bruises- the kind you get after being punched repeatedly there.

Emerson looked up slowly, gaze coming to rest on Remington. His face seemed to light up grotesquely when he saw him, and he smiled a little, blood bubbling at his lips. Remington could feel everyone's eyes on him as he stared in a mixture of confusion, fear and resentment at Emerson.

"Hi," said Emerson, blood falling from his lips, and that was it for Remington. The person he was seeing was not real, and yet he knew them well, and it was terrifying to see them so beaten and bruised. Emerson looked demonic, all bloodied up like that.

Remington backed up fast, walking into the guards behind him. The shock of unexpectedly bumping into them, coupled with the terror he felt from the vivid hallucination, made him turn around at lightning speed, and try to bolt from the room. He made to elbow past the two guards blocking the doorway.

They were too quick. They grabbed his arms, not caring to be gentle anymore, and twisted them expertly behind his back. Still he fought. He didn't want to be in this room, with the brother only he could see. More guards poured in through the door, and he was wrestled to the floor, face squashed into the ground.

Once they had good control over him, although he was still fighting, he was dragged up and forced, screaming, into the chair. They tightened the straps and attached the instruments to his head which delivered the shocks. He was still trying to struggle away, but he couldn't move an inch in the chair. He was stuck in position, in a direct view of Emerson.

Remington shut his eyes, shaking with terror and rage. If he couldn't see this hallucination, maybe it would go away.
"Rem?" he heard Emerson say, and he stiffened. "Rem, are you-"
Remington cut Emerson off with a scream. He would not, not, NOT be crazy. He REFUSED to hear voices that weren't there. Emerson was NOT REAL!

"X? X, can you talk to me? What do you see? What's happening?" This was Lieseil. Remington cautiously opened his eyes, coming face to face with the concerned old man. Remington was shaking and crying, and could barely get his words out.
"Emerson- I can see him again- He's in the corner- He looks really scary, Lieseil! Make him go away!" he sobbed. Lieseil patted his arm in a comforting gesture.
"I'm trying, X. Shall we start treatment? That might make him go away."

Remington tried and failed to nod, his head being strapped to the chair, but Lieseil got the message and returned to the control panel. Remington braced himself, and heard the flick of a switch as his body was hit with a wall of electric pain.

His body convulsed and he yelled. God, it hurt, no matter how helpful it was going to be. Wave after wave slammed into him, and he knew this was far longer than fifteen seconds.

When the current finally subsided and his eyes came back into focus, he saw that Emerson was still there, looking just as scared as Remington was. Remington swore, half from the pain of the treatment, and half from the fact it hadn't worked. Lieseil raised an eyebrow.
"Is he gone?" asked the old man.
"No!" cried Remington, distressed.

And so, they tried the next level up. Emerson still did not disappear. Remington was getting more and more worked up. It was one thing to grieve and get over his brothers, but it was another thing entirely for him to THEN have to see one of them, right there.

Remington practically begged Lieseil to try more. It was really fucking painful, but it would help. He knew it would help. They got through four levels before Remington momentarily blacked out, and Lieseil decided he had to stop. And still, Emerson was there.

Remington was physically and emotionally exhausted, and gladly let the guards take him away in a wheelchair. Emerson didn't follow, which made sense as he looked like he was supposed to be chained to the wall, although he wasn't, of course. He wasn't real.

Remington collapsed onto his bed, sobs wracking his tired body. He didn't want these hallucinations. He wanted them to STOP. He cried and cried, feeling slightly off-centre, which was probably from the electroconvulsive therapy.

Suddenly, something cut through the relative silence around him.
"Rem!"
It was a shout which sounded like it came from behind the wall next to him, and the voice was familiar. It was... Sebastian's.

Fuck. Fucking fucking fucking fuck. Would it never end? Remington screamed to drown out anything else, and stuck his under the pillow. He wasn't sure that would be effective against hallucinations, but it was certainly worth a try. He couldn't hear anything else, so he decided to sleep like this tonight. He made sure he had space to breathe, and then cried himself to sleep.

Notes:

comments + kudos are appreciated x

Chapter 12

Emerson wasn't rudely awoken today. He drifted out of sleep naturally, instantly pleased when he realised his cell was empty of rough guards. He wasn't sure why there was this change, but he liked it. Perhaps he had woken up earlier, although he very much doubted that. Either way, it was nice.

Dread started to creep into his mind soon, however. Despite how he despised having to watch Sebastian get hurt, at least that was a routine, where he knew to an extent what was coming. But now... anything could happen. And not knowing what was going to happen made his stomach turn with anxiety.

Roughly half an hour later, the door opened. Emerson was sitting on the bed, knee bouncing anxiously as guards entered and grabbed his arms carelessly, dragging him out of the cell with them. After a journey through the ceaseless corridors, he was forced into a small room.

In the centre of the room was a chair. It was made from wood, but it had attachments and wires spewing out of it in complicated arrangements. There was then a control panel on the far wall, with switches and dials. The room had an ominous feel to it which terrified Emerson. He didn't like the look of that chair, and wondered how easy it would be to just dig his heels in and refuse.

However, instead of taking him to the chair, as Emerson had understandably expected, the guards pushed him to a set of shackles he hadn't noticed in the corner, and shoved him to the ground. His head faced the ground for a couple of seconds, and when he looked up, there was a soldier's rifle aimed at his head.

As he unprotestingly let them clamp the irons around his limbs and neck ('unprotestingly', because there was a heavily loaded weapon at his head), he suddenly remembered why he might be here. The Lords had said they were giving Rem electroconvulsive therapy... and that they were going to make him watch. Oh fuck.

Lieseil turned up soon after the guards left, which Emerson thought was surprising. Both Lords usually liked to arrive after patients, it seemed. Emerson supposed that was to give anxiety time to breed. But this time, Lieseil had arrived BEFORE Remington (presuming Remington was coming). Emerson wondered why.

Lieseil had a dangerous smirk on his lips. He towered above Emerson, grinning down.
"Stand up," he snapped. Emerson did so, with difficulty because the chains barely stretched. There was no point in disobeying, as Emerson knew one of his brothers would be punished for it.

Lieseil's smirk turned into more of a dissatisfied sneer.
"Good god. You're as tall as me. I don't like that," he said grumpily. He lashed out his bejewelled fist and struck Emerson hard in the eye. Emerson recoiled, clutching his eye as stars exploded across his vision. What the fuck was that for?

"I said 'stand up'. Not 'cower like a coward'," hissed Lieseil, forcing Emerson's hand away from his bruising eye. He punched him again, in the nose this time, and Emerson knew it would bleed as his eyes watered.
"S-Sir! What- What was that for?" cried Emerson, stumbling over the words and wincing in pain. As an answer, he got another hit, and another and another until he could barely feel them as individual blows, and instead felt a throbbing pain of them all as one. He surely must have lost some teeth.

Lieseil finished with a whack around the ear which caused Emerson to fall to the ground, yelping. Thankfully Lieseil didn't tell him to stand up again, and instead wandered off to check the control board. Emerson pulled his knees to his chest and tried to block out the pain. He hoped his nose wasn't broken.

Soon enough, the door opened to reveal Remington, as Emerson had guessed, who was pushed into the room. He looked unexpectedly okay. There were only mild bags under his eyes, and no obvious signs of fresh cuts and bruises. Emerson did not fail to notice a thin, healing scar across his throat, however, and wondered if he had done that himself.

Emerson was elated to see him, and looking pretty well too! He smiled- although it was more of a wince- and was terribly confused by what he saw. Remington's face twisted into a picture of mistrust and fear upon seeing Emerson. What the hell? Remington looked like he had seen a ghost.

"Hi," said Emerson, a little confused by the way his brother was acting. He knew perhaps Rem was hurt by how he and Seb had returned him to to the estate, but was this necessary? He belatedly realised that he wasn't sure by Lieseil's rules if he was allowed to talk.

Emerson watched as Rem spun at lightning speed and tried to run out of the door. The guards caught him, of course, and forced him to the ground as he writhed and yelled.
"Rem?" cried Emerson, concerned and distressed. Remington screamed loudly. The guards had dragged him up and were trying and succeeding to wrestle him into the chair. Tears streamed down the elder brother's face, and Emerson was crying a bit too.

The guards quickly got Remington secured in the chair, and left, although he was still screaming. Emerson watched in horror as Lieseil approached Rem, terrified that he would beat him up as he had done to Emerson.

Instead of that, Lieseil crouched down so that he was level with Remington, who had his eyes tightly shut.
"X? X, can you talk to me? What do you see? What's happening?" asked the older man, shocking the watching Emerson by showing concern in his voice. This was a far cry from how he had been no more than ten minutes ago.

Rem opened his eyes warily, and shot a death glare at Emerson, who was confused and hurt. He knew he'd had a part in returning him to the estate, but this reaction couldn't be just due to that!
"Emerson- I can see him again- He's in the corner- He looks really scary, Lieseil! Make him go away!"

The words hit Emerson like a slap in the face. Make him go away? Why? What was going on?

*

Emerson's head was spinning. The traumatising images of his brother getting the electroconvulsive therapy possessed his mind, and he couldn't understand why Remington seemed so fond of Lieseil while detesting him. He could not fathom what the everloving shit had happened. It must be something rigged by the Lords... surely? He hadn't genuinely pissed Rem off, right? He wasn't truly hated, right? Did he really look that scary? Was this his fault?

Tears rolled down his face as he realised that he didn't even know anymore.

Chapter 13

Sebastian's emotions were beginning to kick in. The first to return was a primal brotherly need to comfort a younger brother. Weak sobs had wormed their way into his brain, from behind a wall, somewhere else in this damn place, but close. He soon identified whose they were: Remington. Remington, who he had heartlessly disbelieved and driven back to this place. Remington, who he had thought was dead for months. Remington, who he thought had gone insane.

He knew now, physically exhausted by the day's tests and torture, listening to Remington's crying, that he had been wrong. He had been well and truly played by the Lords. So, as the sobs reached his ears, Sebastian began to wake up.

The primal protectiveness was like a rumble in his chest. Remington was upset. Sebastian needed to do everything within his power to change that.
"Rem!" he called before his brain even caught up. It was like a reflex. An ear-splitting scream was his only reply, and therefore the second feeling to return was confusion. Why had he screamed like that?

The third feeling to return was fear. He had noticed a crawling, thick gas was creeping its way towards Sebastian in the cell. He knew the gas; it was the one which knocked you out, and they only knocked you out for a particular reasons, which were in his experience never good. He tried to cover his mouth with his shirt, but his attempts were futile and he soon passed out.

*

Sebastian awoke to to a thud and a loud clatter. He opened his eyes blearily, head throbbing and pounding, and every tiny movement he made was painful. It took a good couple of minutes for his eyes to focus properly. When they did, he finally worked out what had made the noise.

Sebastian was shackled to one wall of a pretty nice-looking cell. There was a bed across from him, and a table to one side. A chair was tipped over, slightly away from the table, on its side. That was what had made the clatter; the chair must have been knocked over by something... or someone.

Sebastian's eyes panned across the little room to land on a small figure under the table in the corner. Remington. He was curled up incredibly tightly, shaking like a dog, eyes wide with fear, staring straight at Sebastian. He must have knocked over the chair in a race to get under the table... but why?

Realization dawned on Sebastian. He'd been a dick! Maybe the reason Remington was acting like this was because Sebastian had been so cold and uncaring to him before.
"Oh god- Rem-" began Sebastian, memories and thoughts flooding back to him. He intended to apologise and try to put things right. But Remington pushed his hands over his ears and was mumbling something. Sebastian stopped talking and strained to hear for a second.

"Not real, not real, not real," muttered the younger brother over and over again. Sebastian was confused. What wasn't real?
"Rem, what-" Sebastian tried to ask.
"You're NOT REAL!" yelled Rem, surprising Sebastian with the sheer volume.
"How d'you work that one out?" asked Sebastian, befuddled. How was he not real? He was right here!

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" shouted Remington. Sebastian shut the fuck up for a few seconds, and tried to work out how to approach this. Of course he was real! Rem had to have been brainwashed or something. Sebastian decided to wait for a few minutes to decide how to handle the situation, and convince Rem that he was a living, breathing, real human being.

He leant his head against the wall, and sighed deeply. His proper reactions, thoughts and feelings had not yet fully returned, so the weight of his little brother believing he wasn't real had not yet truly set in. Remington was still trembling and staring wide-eyed at Sebastian, who tried to appear as unthreatening and real as possible.

After what was probably about half an hour of no interaction, and just Rem mumbling 'not real' under his breath, Sebastian sensed movement, despite having closed his eyes to ease his headache. He opened his eyes just a crack and saw Remington crawling presumably as quickly and quietly as he could past Sebastian, towards the door. Sebastian shut his eyes again, pretending that he hadn't seen so as not to spook the younger brother.

When Rem reached the door, Sebastian heard frantic pounding, and opened his eyes properly.
"Help me!" Rem was yowling, tears pouring down his face. "Somebody help me! I'm hallucinating again! Warhol, Lieseil, anyone, PLEASE!"

So THAT was what Rem thought about Seb; that he was a hallucination. Sebastian was close enough to Rem to touch him now, so he put a hand on the younger brother's shin. Surely this would help him realise this wasn't a hallucination.

Remington jumped back as if he'd been shot, and screamed. He kicked out a well-aimed foot and struck Sebastian in the jaw. Sebastian winced. Looked like his capacity to feel pain was back. And why hadn't that worked? Surely he was clearly real?

Remington appeared to give up, and dashed back to his spot under the table. Sebastian sighed. Goddamn Lords. This was very on brand for them. Sebastian settled down for another long period of relative silence. Although he wanted to convince Remington that he was real, he thought it was more important to not scare Rem to death. So, he sat and waited.

*

At some point, guards came and took Rem out of the cell. Sebastian didn't know where, but he was brought back in a wheelchair, looking exhausted and incredibly weak. He looked newly scared and a little annoyed to see Sebastian, still there. Sebastian gave him a half-smile, which went unreturned.

It was days before Sebastian deigned to try to talk to Rem again. The same routine was carried out daily of Rem being taken out, and brought back looking terrible. During that time, Sebastian realised that perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

Remington was in his usual position under the table, although he wasn't shaking anymore.
"Hey, don't be scared," began Sebastian, and immediately saw Remington stiffen and snap his gaze towards Sebastian. "I can prove to you that I'm real."
Remington looked incredibly suspicious and guarded, but he didn't say for Sebastian to shut up, so he continued.
"All you have to do is get guards into this room. Don't run to the door. Make them come in and get you."

Sebastian's plan was simple: all he had to do was trip up a guard. If he interacted with someone else, that was solid proof, right?

Remington nodded slowly. Maybe, just maybe, this would work.

*

Rem was sitting stubbornly on the bed. Sebastian prayed that this would work, because he knew how hard it was for Rem not to just run when the door opened, and he knew he probably wouldn't get this chance again. Two guards entered the cell, paying no attention to Sebastian. Perfect.

He stuck his foot out suddenly, and jumped for joy inwardly when one of the guards tripped over it, almost losing their balance and falling. They quickly regained their footing, and tried to make out that nothing had happened, but Sebastian could see that it had worked.

Remington's face was a picture of shock and elation, which was quickly masked. Sebastian guessed he didn't want people to know he had seen through the facade.

"What did you trip over?" asked Rem innocently.
"My own feet," lied the guard, and Remington made a huge show of believing it, but he shot a quick wink to Sebastian. Sebastian immediately began to plot. As of now, they were one step ahead of the Lords, and this could be very, very useful.

Notes:

i estimate... two more chapters. three at most. not including an epilogue.

lmk what you think, comments and kudos are appreciated

Note on June 6th 2021: i've not abandoned this work! i just want to end it properly so i have not rushed in writing it. sorry for the delay, there should be a chapter soon so just please bear with me <3

Chapter 14

Notes:

christ it has been a long time. so sorry, i wanted to write this properly instead of just rushing it like i did last time. but watch out this is... an interesting one

Remington was not stupid. He knew damn well that his delusions would try to trick him, so it was not much of a surprise when 'Seb' tried to. Remington played along, hoping it would make the hallucinations give up trying for a bit, and even winked in its direction, but as soon as he returned to the ETC room, where Warhol was waiting, he told the old man about how his brain was trying to convince him things which weren't real. He sure as fuck wasn't going to fall for it. He knew how this bullshit disorder worked.

Warhol didn't look happy as Remington told him what had happened. He went completely silent and his eyes seemed to harden word by word. Remington sat down absent-mindedly, brow creased. Was Warhol... angry? Why?
"Sir?" he asked tentatively. He wasn't scared of Warhol- he had no reason to be- but he was wary. Despite the fact he had hallucinated all that had been done to him before, this was making him nervous, and gave him bad memories. Had he done something wrong?

He didn't dare to open his mouth again, unsettled by the Lord's strange reaction to something which was out of Remington's control. After a few seconds, Warhol seemed to shake himself out of this thoughts, but still said nothing to Remington as he tightened the straps on the chair, and Remington didn't push. He had the distinct feeling he was in trouble, but he didn't know why. What had he done wrong? He'd only been honest about his hallucinations. Didn't they want him to be honest?

Remington was long past noticing his hallucinated 'younger brother' in the corner of the room, as it was always there and he'd learned to block it out. It usually stayed quiet, so he was a little scared when he heard a voice.
"What if he's real? He wouldn't have been able to trip a guard if he wasn't... right?"

But Remington was too caught up. He'd been through too much. He didn't want to be tricked by his stupid dysfunctional brain into believing this. Surely he had just hallucinated the tripping guard too? That shit happened, right? A naive part of him just wanted to ignore anything like this. He'd already grieved for his brothers too much; he didn't simply couldn't deal with getting his hopes up only for them to be dashed. He was not insane. He could manage his schizophrenia if he wanted to, and he would not listen to or give in to his delusions.

'Emerson' was still talking, rushed and hopeful, but Remington didn't want to hear it.
"Shut the fuck up!" he yelled, just as Warhol muttered a similar thing and switched on the strongest current Remington had ever experienced. Jolts shot through his body, and he screamed in agony, back arched in pain. This... this was too much. Far too much. It felt like ten times the highest he'd had before. Was he going to die? The electricity did not subside when it usually would, and he saw through blurry vision Warhol with a grim look on his face, hand on the switch to keep it on manually, where it automatically would have gone off before. Fuck not being scared; Remington was terrified.
"STOP!" he yowled, desperate, tears pouring down his cheeks. Enough was enough.

After a few more seconds, there was a merciful click and the current switched off. Remington collapsed like a ragdoll back into the chair, and burst into fresh tears. Ghosts of shocks tingled through him, and he tried to work out what had happened. Why was Warhol being horrible? Why was he in trouble? What was the fucking point of that shock? That had to be outside of regulations.

Warhol's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Ready?" He was standing by the control board, and something was off. He didn't look anything like the powerful and dangerous man he'd been minutes before. He just looked like Alister. Remington didn't understand. Why the change all of a sudden? And why was he asking that now and not before that traumatising shock? Was... was he gonna do it again?

Warhol seemed to notice his lack of response, and turned around properly. Remington met his eyes with a pleading glance, trying to get the man to stop the treatment session. Warhol registered the tears on his face and the exhausted posture of his body, and walked over to him, crouching down before him.
"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked the broken boy gently.

Remington shook his head tiredly. He wanted out of this room before he let Warhol ask him stuff. He was terrified that he would say something wrong and Warhol would be angry, and he didn't want to make someone angry when he was sitting in an electric chair. He was starting to wonder if he'd imagined the cold look in Warhol's eyes earlier, though. The man just seemed kind now.

"Can we at least start treatment?" Warhol persisted, but not forcefully.
"You... you already started?" said Remington quietly, perplexed and drained.
"No I haven't... X, what happened?"

Remington was getting distressed. Hadn't started? How..? He'd nearly died! He shook his head adamantly again, and pulled weakly at the restraints which held him to the chair. He wanted nothing more than to get out of this fucking contraption.

Warhol frowned, looking concerned.
"You don't want to do it today?"
Remington nodded.
"That's fine. But can you tell me why?"
Remington didn't answer, growing more and more frantic as he struggled fruitlessly. Even if he had all his strength, he still wouldn't have been able to get out, but still he pulled and pulled, and his wrists were starting to bleed.

"Hey, hey stop, stop, I'll undo them for you. You're hurting yourself!" Warhol exclaimed, putting his hands on Remington's forearms to stop him from struggling. "Please, just tell me what is wrong."

Remington's patience snapped.
"Get me OUT of this fucking chair and OUT of this fucking room and then I'll talk to you," he snarled. Warhol was beginning to work on the straps, but he stood up when he heard Remington's tone of voice.
"Two seconds," he said, and went to knock on the door of the room. Four guards came in, and Warhol walked out of the room while the guards freed Remington, but immediately cuffed his hands tightly. Remington screamed in frustration. This was not what he was used to, and he couldn't be bothered to play nice. Everyone was being weird with him, and he'd had enough.

He was taken to a room that was split in half by bars, and had a door on either side of it. He was still fairly weak from the treatment, but still tried to throw off the guards as they marched him roughly. Why was everyone treating him like this? Hadn't he hallucinated it before? Was this even real?

They left him in one half of the room with his hands still cuffed. His wrists were bleeding, dripping blood onto the floor as he paced around the small space, before curling up in a corner, crying softly. Not long after, both Lieseil and Warhol turned up in the other half of the room. The old men looked confused and concerned.
"X, what's wrong? What happened?" asked Lieseil, and Remington sobbed louder.
"Why didn't you want treatment? Did something happen?"

"I- You- You were- I felt it! You did- You did too much electricity, Warhol, I couldn't breathe, I was gonna die-" Remington broke off.
"I hadn't even started, X. Don't you understand? It wasn't real," said Warhol, looking very upset. Remington chewed his lip and pulled at the cuffs on his wrists, saying nothing. He couldn't even begin to process that. He'd felt the agony, that could not have been in his mind!

"I'm sorry about the guards and the cuffs. I thought you were going to hurt me. I thought you were going to hurt yourself! I wanted to keep everyone safe," explained Warhol.
"I have hurt myself," said Remington glumly, looking at his wrists.
"We can bandage those, don't worry. Now, what was it you were saying to Warhol earlier?" asked Lieseil.

Remington wracked his brains. What had happened earlier? Something had happened. He knew that much. What was it? Was it important? Why couldn't he remember? What had he been talking to Warhol about?

Out of the corner of his eye, Remington saw Warhol give Lieseil a cross look, and Lieseil then said, "Oh, never mind. That was another patient."

Remington was further bewildered. He could have sworn that was him, but apparently not. And he couldn't remember what it had been, anyway.

*

They took him back to his cell after his wrists were cleaned and bandaged, and the most peculiar thing happened. 'Sebastian' was still there, but instead of feeling fear and mistrust and anger, Remington- though he wasn't sure why- had the distinct feeling that he should trust this man with his life, despite him supposedly being a hallucination. He did not remember the guard being tripped up, but he didn't need to. A part of him simply knew.

Something bothered Remington throughout the night. He did not speak to Seb about it, because he did not want to voice something which the cameras would pick up, but something was off about the day. Well, a lot of things were off, but this one was particularly bothering him.

When he had screamed at Emerson to shut up... he had noticed it at the time, but... Warhol had also told Emerson to be quiet.

If Warhol did that... It meant he could see and hear Emerson. And that meant...

His brothers were not hallucinations.

And the Lords had fucked up.

Notes:

idk if this is true but too much electricity here can fuck up short term memory, or wipe a few days off the memory. i didnt know hwo to make it clear but yeah

please tell me what you think! x

Chapter 15

Summary:

tw//talk of suicide briefly

Sebastian and Remington awoke to blaring sirens, muffled somewhat by the thick metal door. Sebastian immediately snapped into full alert mode. Was Rem in danger? Thoughts of his own safety came second. It didn't matter if Remington did or didn't think he wasn't real. He would still protect the younger brother with his life.

Rem had shot up on the bed, his eyes darting around like a spooked horse. Shouts could be heard outside the door, and Sebastian strained to hear what was going on. He could hear snippets of words from guards and running footsteps, but it was not enough to figure out what was going on.

Suddenly, a barked order cut through the fray.
"CODE BLACK, CODE BLACK, CODE BLACK! All personnel to room 14!"
"Fuck," muttered Sebastian. He'd heard that before. What did it mean? Hadn't... Hadn't Rem had one of those? Sebastian tried to work out if he'd found out what it meant, but he didn't know.

After a couple of minutes, silence fell. The alarms had been shut off, and the running guards had gone.
"What's a code black?" asked Rem quietly, like he was still wary of Sebastian. Sebastian couldn't understand why he was still scared- hadn't he proved he was real?- but was nevertheless pleased that the younger had deigned to talk to him.

"I don't know WHAT it is, but you had one a few weeks ago... The first day we were back here. Warhol and Lieseil freaked the fuck out," Sebastian told his brother, hoping that Rem could enlighten him. He was curious.

"The first day back..." Rem looked like he was thinking hard. Suddenly, his breathing hitched and he started to cry. "I... I tried to kill myself," he whispered.

"Oh... Rem," breathed Sebastian, deeply saddened for him. His thoughts also turned to whoever had just tried now, and he subconsciously realised that they may have some time together without being watched, if everyone else was occupied with this code black.

Remington was still crying a little, and he looked out of focus, like he was reliving something. Sebastian stood up, forgetting about the chains as he took a step towards Rem. He winced and sucked in a sharp breath as they bit into his sore skin, and realised that he was bleeding.

"Come here," he said to Remington gently, and the younger brother stood up shakily. He walked sadly over to Sebastian, and simply collapsed into his arms. Sebastian carefully sat down, taking Remington with him. Rem buried his head in Sebastian's chest and bawled.

The pain and hurt and trauma radiated off Rem, and Sebastian just patiently rocked him while he cried. He got the feeling the younger boy needed to say something, so he just waited, sensing that these tears would help him.

After some time, Remington pulled away a little, shifting so that he was leaning against Sebastian's side and had room to speak.
"I'm sorry," was the first thing he said, and Sebastian's heart broke.
"Hey, hey, what for?" he said, brow creased.
"For screaming at you. For not talking to you for ages. For being such a burden. For... for everything," Rem sighed dejectedly.

"No, Remi, no. That's not your fault. None of this is your fault. And you're not a burden. I swear it."
Remington sighed deeply, and looked like he was going to try to argue, but Sebastian cut in.
"Remington Leith, you are my little brother. I will always love you, no matter what happens. You have nothing to apologise for, I promise you. This is not your fault. None of this," he gestured to the room, meaning the estate in general, "is your fault."

Remington didn't look entirely convinced, but he was crying a bit less.
"Something happened the other day," mumbled Rem, and Sebastian waited for him to elaborate, but he was getting more and more aware of how long it had been since the code black, and he knew the guards would probably be back to ruin this soon.

"I don't remember what it was... but Lieseil and Warhol... they don't seem to want me to remember it," continued Rem. "Something about you, maybe? But you're not real?"
Sebastian realised what he meant.
"Oh... you don't remember? I proved to you that I was real..."
Fuck. If Rem didn't remember, he'd blown his only chance.
"Oh you... you tripped someone up, right? A guard? I think I remember."
Sebastian sighed in relief, and nodded.

"Sorry," Remington said again. "Sorry for not believing you before."
Sebastian just shook his head and hugged Rem.
"You're bleeding," observed Rem with a frown.
"Don't worry about me," said Sebastian, but Rem was already tearing a strip off the bottom of his shirt and carefully wrapping it around one of Sebastian's raw wrists, tucking it under the cuff, before doing the same with the other. It was a kind gesture, and Sebastian's heart warmed as he smiled a thanks.

They were both quiet for a bit. So much had happened to both of them. The silence was a slightly sombre one, but not awkward or tense, and not too sad. The two brothers just sat together and mutually enjoyed each other's company. It was the first time in a while that either of them had just felt at peace.

The peace was shattered abruptly as a click of the lock rang out and the door crashed open to reveal an irate Lieseil, almost just a silhouette in the doorway, wearing a white doctor's coat. His hands and front were covered in blood, which Sebastian was willing to bet was not his own. There were many, many guards behind him, all armed. Sebastian's stomach turned in fear.

Lieseil waved his hand towards the pair, face twisted into a sneer, and guards poured into the cell. Sebastian pulled Remington close to him. He didn't want to give him up. He looked at the guards with wide angry eyes as Remington clung to him like a child.
"Don't you fucking dare hurt him anymore," he spat, voice filled with hatred.

"Shut your goddamn mouth," snapped Lieseil.
"No!" snapped back Sebastian. "You've kept me away from my brothers for so long, and now you just expect me to just give one up? Fucking try me."
"Well, last time you saw your brothers, you brought them back here. Don't you remember that?"

Sebastian was caught off guard. He did remember that.
"Oh, fuck you. You know that was your fault," he hissed bitterly.
"Watch your mouth," ordered Lieseil, his tone low and his eyes dark and dangerous. Sebastian had a feeling that he'd fucked up badly. He shrunk back, trying to shield Rem, who was trembling.

At another gesture from Lieseil, the guards raised their firearms and aimed them at the pair. Sebastian choked out a sob. He was going to have to give his little brother up... again. It was stupid to keep him here. They'd both die.
"Ten seconds. Ten seconds and you can take him," Sebastian pleaded.
"Five."

Sebastian wasted no time. He pushed Rem back so he could look right into his wide, scared eyes. Remington's face was tear stained, and fresh ones were falling.
"Don't, Seb. Don't let them take me, please," he was crying.
"Remi, listen. They'll kill you if I don't. Just-" He bit back more sobs. There was no time. "Just remember, you will make it through. No matter what, I will always love you."
He pulled the younger boy in for a last tight hug, kissed his forehead, and then looked up at Lieseil with a glare.

"Fine. Take him. But if you hurt him any more, I swear to any god in the sky that I will gut you and you will feel every last second of the pain," Sebastian growled. Lieseil looked completely uninterested and unfazed by the threat, but Sebastian had never meant anything more.

Two guards tried to pull Remington away from Sebastian, but the younger brother clung on like a limpet, shaking and crying.
"Go with them, Rem," said Sebastian, tone far gentler than the one he had just used for Lieseil. "I'll see you again. We'll be together; you, me and Emerson. I promise. But you need to go."

With a shuddering sob, Remington let go of Sebastian, and was dragged roughly away. Sebastian saw a flash of a needle at the same time Rem did, and one of the guards rammed the long hypo into Remington's neck, pushing down the plunger hard as greeny-black liquid flowed out of the vial and into his body before either brother could react.

Rem's face contorted in agony.
"SEB!" he screamed, writhing and thrashing in pain as he was dragged backwards from the room.
Sebastian screamed his name after him, tears pouring down his cheeks, filled with loathing for the Lords and terror for his brother as he pulled against the chains and tried to get to Rem, to make him feel better.

Lieseil was chuckling. He was CHUCKLING. He was finding this FUNNY?

Something awakened in Sebastian as he met eyes with the old man. A low, thrumming rage beat a wild rhythm in his chest. His eyes darkened and he swore he saw Lieseil falter a little, so he took the opportunity and whispered so that only Lieseil could hear.

"I will murder you."

Notes:

i needed something soft, but it became the most painful thing i have ever written. not to say that i did not enjoy writing this.

i tend to downplay my writing sometimes, but in this chapter, everything was done intentionally. every word and phrase and action was chosen intentionally because this scene was so incredibly vivid in my head and i wanted to get it just right

please please tell me what you think, i am very proud of this x

Chapter 16

Summary:

tw//gory details, blood

Notes:

not sure how much i like this, but whatever

Emerson couldn't stop shaking. Vivid, detailed images flashed before his eyes, and he trembled and trembled, crying quietly as Rem was dragged roughly out of the ECT room. Then, he was alone. The traumatic events he had just witnessed his big brother be put through played out in a reel in his mind. The sudden quiet of the room did nothing to help him, only making the terrible thoughts grow and grow.

It only made it worse how quickly Remington had been to believe Warhol when he said it was a hallucination. He was so clearly brainwashed; gaslit into believing he had some bullshit disorder. And, no matter how hard Emerson tried, he could not convince him otherwise. Every time he opened his mouth, he was told to shut up.

He'd noticed today that even WARHOL had told him to be quiet. He wondered and hoped that Remington had heard, but judging by the immense pain he had been subjected to, Emerson doubted he would remember anyway. It was hopeless.

He was left in the room which smelled sickeningly like burning flesh for what felt like an age. No matter how hard he tried, he could not settle his quivering hands as he hugged his knees, crying weakly. Trembles rattled through him and his legs felt like jelly. He thought he probably wouldn't walk well when they came for him.

It felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes or so before guards came for him, being rough as ever. He stumbled along, trying to stay on his feet because he didn't feel like getting hurt if they dragged him on the ground.

He was relieved to be left alone, curled up on the rock-hard bed, the thin pillow getting slowly more damp with his hopeless tears. The isolation he needed didn't last long though.

The heavy door swung open to reveal Lord Warhol. Emerson jumped up at the noise, and shot upright, scrambling to dart to the corner. He almost held his breath, waiting to see what the old man would do.

Warhol looked stressed and angry. Emerson didn't dare to open his mouth. Warhol looked like a tight spring, ready to attack.

"Bastard," spat Warhol, and Emerson shrunk back even further, trembling. The older man was holding a cane, which Emerson eyed in fear. Warhol stalked over to Emerson as the door swung shut behind him, coming to tower over him in a very intimidating manner. Emerson tried to shield his head.

"S- Sir," he stuttered, finally remembering that Warhol probably expected manners.

Suddenly, Warhol struck out with the cane at Emerson, cracking him painfully across his arms, which covered his face. Emerson yelped. If his arms hadn't been there, his nose would definitely be broken.

Warhol was not finished. He struck out again and again, while Emerson cried out in pain. Every strike was excruciating; the cane had a metal tip which was almost sharp. Warhol was muttering something incomprehensible, but his blows- unlike his words- were direct and precise.
"Stop it! Please!" he yelled, and Warhol suddenly cracked him over the head. Stars spun in his vision and the world went dark for a few seconds.

Emerson genuinely thought in that moment that Warhol was going to kill him. When he came to from being briefly passed out, his ears were ringing and his body was throbbing. It took him a moment to realise that Warhol had stopped hitting him. Emerson curled in on himself, whimpering.

He heard an exasperated sigh from Warhol, and peeked up at him in terror, bracing himself for more. He was barely even questioning WHY Warhol was doing this, and he didn't fight back. He just laid there, praying that there would be no more, but accepting this treatment as normal.

Instead of being beaten more, Emerson heard the bed (wooden board, more like) creak, which meant that Warhol was a sufficient distance away from him. He very cautiously lifted his head, and saw Warhol sitting on the bed. The old man looked tired and stressed and a little sad, and if it were not for the bruising circumstances, Emerson might have felt sorry for him.

Warhol shook himself a little, and looked at Emerson with a raised eyebrow.
"What the hell are you looking at, bastard?" asked Warhol, and Emerson immediately hid his face again. What was the Lord STILL doing here? Hadn't he got his rage out? What was the fucking reason? It was a bit like old times, when he would come and watch Emerson draw. God, Emerson missed the times when things were less painful.

There was frosty silence for a few minutes. Neither made a move to say anything, but they both knew that the other might have something to say. Finally, Emerson worked up the courage to speak, albeit incredibly quietly. He was sick of this. If this happened to him, it probably happened to his brothers too, and that was NOT okay.
"Why did you do that?"

Warhol's piercing gaze snapped over to him.
"Why not?" he snapped, and Emerson decided he was going to argue here. What did he have to lose anyway? Everything was hopeless. So what if Warhol killed him for speaking out of turn? Emerson could no longer imagine getting out of here.

"There... There must be a reason for it..." he continued. Fuck this man. "You're supposed to be like... a psychiatrist, or something?" His voice was gaining power. "Don't you think that taking your anger out on other people like that is unhealthy? Haven't you thought about why you do it?"

Emerson smirked a little as Warhol struggled for an answer. He'd uno-reversed Lord Warhol. He braced himself for a scathing reply, or more pain. Or death. Who fucking knew? Someone needed to make Warhol think, though.

"...Be quiet," said Warhol, getting up, but Emerson wasn't finished.
"Oh, just fucking hear me out, would you?" he sighed. He tried to find an angle which would not piss Warhol off TOO much more. He was hardly sure why he was having this conversation, but maybe if he made Warhol think for a second, his brothers wouldn't get so hurt in the future.

Warhol spun round and raised the cane. Emerson's first instinct was to shrink away, to avoid the blow, but he held out his hands in a staying motion. He'd been too quiet for too long.
"This is exactly what I mean!"
Warhol frowned. Emerson had got him there.

"You never used to do this. It was always just Lieseil. Maybe you have too much on. Maybe you just need a break?" God, Emerson knew how stupid he sounded. He didn't give a fuck if Warhol was stressed. He just wanted the old man to give up his bullshit.

Emerson didn't like the Lord's calculating look. Of course, of COURSE he wouldn't have heard him out if he didn't have some kind of fucking plot. Emerson was starting to regret even starting this conversation, but he equally didn't want his brothers to have to put up with this bullshit.

"I think you're right," said Warhol in a strange tone. Emerson did not like the sound of that. "I think I have too many patients here... Perhaps I should get rid of a few."
Suddenly, Warhol was striding towards Emerson, pulling the top off his cane. Before Emerson could react, a sword came out of the cane. The fuck..?

Warhol swept his arm out in a deft movement, and Emerson felt an agonizing pain in his throat. He looked down in slow motion, and saw torrents of blood cascading down his front. He breathed in and spluttered on blood, finding that he was unable to get any air. He clutched his throat, eyes bulging as he stared in shock and horror at the pools of blood around him, before looking up at Warhol. Warhol, who had cut his fucking throat open.

"That's what you get when you question my fucking actions," said the man with a smile.

Emerson felt himself getting weaker and weaker. He couldn't breathe, and he felt his life literally slipping away with the blood pulsing angrily from his neck. He slipped down, falling onto his side into his own blood. He twitched a little, struggling to keep his hands on the wound, although he wondered if it was even worth it.

The last thing he saw was Warhol walking out of the door, and a pair of smart shoes running over to him, and he felt someone pick him up. Then, he lost consciousness in their arms.

Notes:

this was meant to be filler but i accidentally did this? lmfao

2 questions

1. do you think he dies?
2. who do you think the person is who carried him off?

Chapter 17

Summary:

tw//nasty-ass fathers?

Notes:

LIESEIL CENTRED CHAPTER
LIESEIL CENTRED CHAPTER
LIESEIL CENTRED CHAPTER

1837

A young boy is shivering, freezing and terrified, all alone in a dark room. The door is locked. He knows exactly who has locked it, and he genuinely doesn’t believe it will ever open again. He’ll die here, and he’ll never see his brother again. Water drips down the walls of the tiny cell, and the only light is cast from a grate in the door. Heavy, rusty irons encircle his thin wrists and ankles, keeping him chained to the wall opposite the door. His stomach cries out for something to eat; he has gone three days with nothing, and he knows he won’t last much longer. He is already weak.

Last week, he would never have thought he would be here. Everything was beautiful. Despite all the problems in his life that were arising, he had never been happier. His brother had come over every day, and they would run through the streets and play with paper boats by the filthy canal. It may not have seemed like much to whoever was watching, but the young boy cherished those moments.

He liked to forget everything that was happening in his life. He liked to forget that his baby sister was dying in his mother’s arms. He liked to forget that it had been a year since his father had left for the last time and never returned. He liked to forget that his older brothers bullied him and beat him when their exhausted mother wasn’t watching- and sometimes when she was.

With his younger brother, he could forget everything. The kid always had something new to tell him about that was going on in his life, and they would swap stories and play pooh-stick until the sun went down. It didn’t matter that the pair were not blood related. The younger was always a far better brother to the boy than any of his real ones had been.

They had to be careful, of course. The younger’s father was a controlling and dangerous man, and did not enjoy it when his son went around with any old scum of the streets. So far, the pair had managed to keep their brothership a secret. The elder was pretty sure the younger’s father would not appreciate who HIS father was, either. He had always been told to keep that a secret. Nobody wanted to know the illegitimate son of Alan Blackwell. The only person who knew who he was was his younger brother.

They had wandered into the town square of Obsidian together one day, beelining for the sweet shop. Neither boy had any money, but they were only nine and ten and looked innocent enough, and they hoped to be able to nab a couple of sweets to eat on their travels around the city. They wandered in, hearing the little bell jingle in a familiar tone. They had done this dozens of times in sweet shops throughout the city, and they knew what they were doing.

The younger distracted the shopkeeper by asking him many irritating questions, as nine-year-olds tend to do, while the elder began to surreptitiously fill his pockets with enough sweets for both of them. It took no more than a minute, before they stepped back out into the street, victorious, and started off to the canal.

“Stop, thief!” they suddenly heard yelled from behind them. It was the blasted old shopkeeper. The two children took to their heels, adrenalin gripping their hearts, knowing they could easily out-run the old man. They dashed, shoes slapping on the cobblestones as they rounded a corner… and straight into a policeman.

The younger ducked and dived his way under the policeman’s arm, continuing to run, but the elder was caught. The policeman’s arms were strong and unforgiving as he struggled and squirmed in his grip. The younger looked back in fear.
“Keep going, Alastor!” yelled the elder. He didn’t want his little brother to get in trouble. Hell no. He would deal with this.

The elder was shoved into the back of the police-carriage, and the door slammed shut. The policeman did not even bother to search him for the stolen goods. In his mind, this was just another street-rat who could be cleared away. The younger turned back to look, tears streaming down his face as the elder met his eyes through the high barred window of the cart, before dashing off before the policeman could catch him too.

For two days, the elder had sat in a cramped and smelly cell in the county jail. Nobody had bothered to try to contact his family, and no one in his family had bothered to come looking for him. He was not allowed to see a lawyer, as he had no money for one. He began to feel as if he would be stuck here forever, among criminals and pedophiles who stared at him as he tried to sleep. He didn’t even have the stolen sweets to keep him entertained- the constable had taken them off him, to eat later, no doubt.

On the third day, he was woken by a loud banging on the bars of the open-ended cell, and much grumbling from the men around him.
“Filthy boy, you have a visitor,” said the warden boredly, and the boy was relieved. Maybe someone had come for him, after all? He stumbled out of the cell, wondering who it was.

They took him into what seemed to be an interview room. A man who looked startlingly recogniseable was sat at the table, and the warden shoved the boy into a chair opposite the man. The boy was suddenly terrified, because he knew who this was.

Alexander Visigoth.

Alastor’s father.

“How long have you been influencing my son, Blackwell bastard?” snapped the man. Oh god. He knew the boy’s father.
“What?” asked the boy. He did not know what ‘influencing’ meant, and he did not want to admit that he had been playing with Alastor. He knew he was not allowed.
“Insolent child,” spat Alexander, and hit him hard in the face with rings on his fingers. The boy winced, and recoiled, clutching his eye. “You heard me. How long have you known my son?”

So THAT was what he meant. The boy considered for a second. He didn’t want to get in trouble, and he certainly didn’t want his little brother to either.
“...About a week?” he tried, but he knew he didn’t sound convincing.
“Liar!” yelled Visigoth, hitting him again. The boy tried not to cry.
“T…” He sniffed. “Two years…”

Alexander Visigoth looked irate.
“You have been… conspiring with my son, for two years?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.
“What’s ‘conspiring’?” asked the boy, stupidly. He shouldn’t have even opened his mouth. He received one more sharp hit, and fell out of the chair onto the floor. He dimly registered that his forehead was bleeding.

“One hundred Midas for the boy?” Alexander was bargaining with the warden. The young boy’s head spun. Was he being… bought?

Before he knew what was happening, he was kicked in the head, not even too hard, and passed out of consciousness, already being on the edge.

And so, he is here. He has been here for three days, in this dark and unwelcoming place. He is hungry, cold, and bleeding on and off from a cut in his head which he knows is going to get infected. He is sorely missing his brother. He hasn’t gone more than a day without seeing him, and he is terrified that the younger is hurt.

His best guess as to why he is here is that Alexander does not want his son to mix with his type. His BLACKWELL type. He starts to cry. It’s not HIS fault his father fell in love with his mother. It’s not HIS fault he is who he is. He doesn’t even bear the Blackwell family name, or get the same privileges that the fading dynasty still receives. Instead, he gets a life in the slums, and the only good thing is Alastor.

He knows the Visigoths hate the Blackwells. He knows the family is being killed off one by one. His uncle Aldous was the first to go, and they keep dying. With a pang of terror, the boy realises that Alexander probably wants him dead too.

Are they going to execute him?

The door opens with a creak, light spilling onto the boy. Who is it? He shrinks back in fear. What if it is someone who is going to hurt him? But the silhouette is small.

“Alastor?” he says timidly.
“Barty!” The younger boy’s voice is filled with joy. “Come with me! I stole the keys and my dad’s out! You can get out now if you want to!”
Bartholomew is overcome with relief. He stands up and starts to run to his younger brother, wanting to hug him and check he’s okay and then get out of this place, but the chains around his wrists and ankles stop him, and he falls.

“Bart?” asks Alastor. His voice sounds scared and concerned.
“Alastor… I can’t move any further than this. They… They chained me up. Do you have the keys for these?” He holds up one of the shackles around his wrists.

He sees the younger boy’s face fall.
“I don’t think so… These ones are all big. My dad wears a small key around his neck… I think it’s that one.” Alastor starts to cry, and Bartholomew wants to join in, but he doesn’t want to scare the younger boy either.

“Hey, it’s okay. Thank you for trying,” he says, trying to sound as genuine as possible, not allowing any voice cracks to pass through. He refuses to cry. If he’s going to die here, he sure as fuck isn’t going to let Alastor feel any more pain that he absolutely has to. He is shocked inwardly as he realises that his mind has said a swear word. He’s never said one of those before, not even in his head.

“But- But- But my father says he’ll kill you. He told me- He told me he’s gonna do it like he does it to everyone else. He says- He says- He says he’s going to do it tomorrow-”
“Shhhh,” hushes the older boy. His insides are jumping in fear, but he doesn’t let it show. He has to be strong for his younger brother… But he knows what he means. Alexander… Alexander likes to behead people.

He steers his mind away from the subject.
“Hey, you should get out of here. You’re going to get in trouble if they find you here, aren’t you?”
“I brought you something to eat, though,” says the younger brother, and Bartholomew can’t resist. He is starving, after all.

Alastor steps closer to Bartholomew, and the elder looks up from the ground at him. He expects to see the young boy the same as ever, but something is different. He has a black eye.
As Alastor hands him an apple, Bartholomew starts to boil with rage.
“Did your dad hit you?” he asks, barely containing his rage. Alastor nods.

“How dare he… I’m going to kill him,” snarls Bartholomew. No one hits his little brother and gets away with it.
“It’s fine, really,” says Alastor, but he doesn’t sound convinced. Bartholomew swears to himself that if it is the last thing he does, he will put that filthy father of his in the ground, so help him God.

“You really should go,” says Bartholomew. He doesn’t want any more harm to come to this boy.
“No. I’m gonna stay with you, Bart. I miss you. I just want to be here.”
“No, you’ll-” protests Bartholomew, but before he can say any more, Alastor has thrown the bunch of keys out of the door and slammed it shut.
“Fuck it,” says the younger. Bartholomew gasps at the foul word. Alastor shrugs.
“You idiot,” mutters Bartholomew, but he doesn’t really mind. He’s already figuring a way to take the blame onto himself. If Alexander is already going to behead him for who his father is, he may as well take the trouble off Alastor. He holds out his arms, and Alastor falls into them for a hug. He’s crying, not as brave as he sounded two minutes ago with that curse.

“I don’t want you to die…” he mumbles into Bartholomew’s shoulder.
“It’ll be okay, I promise,” reassures the elder. He isn’t sure how, but he means it. If he has to die so that Alastor’s father will lay off him, then he’ll do it. He pats Alastor’s shoulder as he cries softly.

Grief is the strangest thing. It is already one thing to grieve once someone has died, but Alastor and Bartholomew are both grieving for someone who is not even dead yet- and Bartholomew is grieving for himself.

They stay together for hours and hours. It’s not like Alastor can leave if he wants to; he’s locked the keys outside. They are sad, of course, but they are also quietly absorbing each other’s company. It may be the last time they ever see each other.

Apart from when Bartholomew is on the execution stage.

The relative peace is shattered by a yell of fury outside, and the door crashes open. Bartholomew grabs Alastor and shoves him behind him, immediately protective. It’s Alexander. He looks like a monster, feet planted strongly on the ground, blocking the door, head angled down like a bull ready to charge. He is backed up by guards with shotguns.

Bartholomew is terrified, but he gives Alexander the angriest look he can muster.
“Don’t you dare hurt my little brother again,” he whispers, but it’s audible; purposefully quiet. Uncanny. Dangerous.
“Brother?” Alexander leers. “My son is not your brother, Blackwell scum.”
“Well, he’s more my brother than he is your son, asshole. Real fathers don’t give bruises like that.” Alastor is trembling behind Bartholomew, and Bartholomew squeezes his hand behind him. In all ten years of Bartholomew’s life, he has never had a more important argument.

Alexander growls, and the guards behind him stream in and aim their shotguns at the pair.
“Wait!” yells Bartholomew. “You’re gonna kill me anyway, right? Let me have ten more seconds with my broth- with Alastor. Please.”
It’s a reasonable request. He can’t see that he is ever going to get out of this situation, but he wants to say goodbye to Alastor properly. Goodbye, and thank you, for making his life better.

“No.”

 

Lieseil shot awake, whipping around to check for his younger brother, before remembering. This was 1881, not 1837, and he was safe, away from Alexander who was long dead. He calmed his erratic breathing, deeply unsettled. That nightmare was… completely true. He had pushed those times out of his mind with stoic adamance for forty-four years. He could not remember what came afterwards, and he had no idea how himself and Alastor- Alister, that was- had got out and away from Alexander. He had vague memories of a guillotine, but he decided he wanted nothing more than to forget everything his traitorous brain had just uncovered. No more pondering on the past. He was no longer Bartholomew White, but Lord Bartholomew Lieseil, and he was the second most powerful man in the whole of Obsidian, after his younger brother.

He got up, grumpy as ever, starting to run through in his head what he had to do today. X needed ECT; that was probably going to be his job, as Warhol had done it last night. Other than that, his schedule was basically empty.

He sat in his well-worn favourite armchair, smoking as the sun rose. He was not thinking about anything in particular, just enjoying the peace before the working day began.

Suddenly, a siren rang out, shrieking and wailing, piercing the silence of the estate. The Lord shot out of his armchair, already rushing to the door and out of it, into the corridor which was filling up with guards.

Sirens meant one of two things. Either a patient had escaped, or one was very badly hurt. Either way, today was looking to be a far busier day that he had originally envisioned. He huffed, irritated, as he ran where he was directed.

This was beginning to look more like an injury than an escape, but he had no details yet. Alister was nowhere to be seen. A guard ran up alongside him, filling him in.
“Code black, sir,” they panted, “on Barrett. Suicide attempt. His throat is cut- he’s bleeding out. He’ll need surgery. What orders-”
“All personnel. I need a gurney and the operation theatre prepped,” barked Lieseil. The guard sped off.

He had arrived at the scene. The door to the cell where the Pirate was kept was open, and the boy was lying on the floor, eyes bugged out, clutching his throat. There was a startlingly large pool of blood around him already. Something tickled at the back of Lieseil’s memory. He’d seen something like this before, and he didn’t mean when X had tried the same thing. This was a scene from his past, but he pushed the thought away. No time.

He ran into the room, removing his cravat as he did so. He gathered the boy into his arms, gurney be damned. This patient only had minutes to live, and Lieseil would be damned if he didn’t save his life, because he knew where he recognised the scene from now. The memories came hard and fast as he pelted down the halls to the operating theatre, yelling at a guard to tie his cravat around the wound on the Pirate’s neck as he did so.

Lieseil is nineteen. Alister is eighteen. Lieseil has stormed off after a long and arduous argument over some small detail on an airship, and Alister is left alone. It has occured to Bartholomew that perhaps he should have stayed with Alister- he has not really been okay lately- but he is in too much of a bad mood. By his reasoning, if he leaves the younger brother for a bit, both of them will have time to cool down.

He’s gone to the canal, where they always go together. He knows that if Alister wants to talk to him, he'll find him here.

Alister does not want to talk to him.

Bartholomew barely knows the half of what is happening in Alister’s life. The younger has tried very hard to cut ties with his father, but the man still plagues him. Bartholomew does not know the extent of the bullying and abuse Alister is suffering, because the younger does not tell him. He does not want the feisty older brother to make things worse by confronting the dangerous ruler of Obsidian.

But Alister is buckling under the weight.

When Bartholomew returns, sooner than planned, already feeling terrible for yelling at Alister like that, he finds a note on the table.

‘sorry

i can’t go on
love you always, best brother

-alister’

Bartholomew runs fast up to Alister’s room, to find him on the ground, not yet gone, blood pooling around him as he bleeds out from his throat, a knife clutched weakly in his hand...

Enough! Enough. He did not have time for these memories now. Lieseil reached the operating theatre, and wasted no time in stabilising the boy. He could not shake the image of Alister from his head, so once he had changed into scrubs, he performed surgery with more accuracy and precision than he ever had before. He helped drive this boy to attempt suicide, although he didn’t really care about that, but he felt like he must save his life, for Alister’s sake.

When the operation was successfully complete, he crashed out of the operation theatre, yelling at someone to tell him when the now-safe patient awoke, wishing for a drink to make himself forget what he had remembered and seen in the time between this morning and last night. A guard was waiting for him outside, however.

“Sir… The other two, they’re together…” he trailed off, but Lieseil knew what he meant. He swore, and stormed down the corridor. As if this morning wasn’t bad enough, now the other two bastards had managed to dispel Warhol’s story about schizophrenia. That was a really important experiment. For fuck’s sake.

When he arrived at X’s cell, guards behind him which he had collected along the way, he wasted no time in banging the door open, intending to terrify the patients inside. It worked. The Gentleman jumped and pulled X closer to him, and suddenly Lieseil was hit with something.

This looked exactly how himself and Alister must have looked, aged ten and nine, in front of Alexander Visigoth.

Fuck.

Lieseil was conflicted. He hadn’t given a fuck about these brothers before. In fact, he’d hated them, taking his rage out on them, and testing them, pushing them to their limits to see what happened for science, and sometimes for just morbid curiosity of how far you could push a person before they broke.

But this scene… It was too familiar.

“Don't you fucking dare hurt him anymore,” he heard the Gentleman spit, and that made it worse. It was so close to what he had said all those years ago.

No. No. He would not, not, NOT start the whole ‘compassion’ bullshit now. He refused to become soft. If he was soft, he was weak. He would not be weak.

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” he spat, sneering at the pair, deciding to be completely unaware of how alike to Alexander Visigoth he had become.

Notes:

many small references and things hidden in here. i know this is different to my usual BUT there has to be sOME kind of backstory to why the lords are like that, so i've gone all Freud on you. there's a bunch of little details which i didn't higlight well, but i hope you picked them up

lmk what you think, because i'm truly not sure how i feel about this

Chapter 18

When Emerson awoke, he didn't know where he was. He couldn't even remember what had happened before he fell asleep, or whatever that weird unconsciousness was, but the memories soon flooded back. Warhol... Warhol had tried to kill him. Had he succeeded? Was Emerson dead?

His first idea was that he was in some kind of afterlife, but he soon realised that this was no heaven. He was alive, in some kind of hospital room. He wasn't even sure if he was relieved. If the Lords had kept him alive, they'd done it for a reason, and he wasn't looking forward to that.

Suddenly, he remembered- Warhol had cut his throat open! He couldn't feel a thing around that area. No pain, nothing at all. It was numb. He tried to reach up, to reassure himself that it was safe now, but found with frustration that his hands were entrapped tightly in straps which bound him to the bed. Of course. He should have expected no less.

At the thwarted attempt at movement, Emerson heard someone move, and then heard three knocks on what he presumed was the door. A few minutes later, it opened, and he heard footsteps approaching him. He braced himself for whatever was coming.

He heard an infuriated huff.
"Why does he have a tube down his throat? Get it out. I want to speak to him," snapped a voice, and Emerson recognised it as Lieseil's. He had to admit he was relieved it wasn't Warhol, though he knew they would both be just as bad as each other.

A guard loomed over Emerson, and began to tug and pull at a tube which he now noticed was down his throat. He couldn't feel any pain in his throat at all, but he winced as the tube was removed; it was a strange and unpleasant sensation. When it was gone, he spluttered a little.

"Right," spat Lieseil. "You've wasted enough of my time already. What did you use to cut your throat?"
Emerson blinked once, twice. What did HE use? He hadn't done this! He tried to speak, to protest the allegation that he'd done this to himself, but all that came out was a weak rasp. He tried again, but the same thing happened.

"Stop, stop," said Lieseil in a bored voice. Emerson did, starting to feel his throat prickling in pain again, but he was very worried. Were they going to try to convince him that he'd done this himself?
"I think you might have fucked your vocal chords up," muttered Lieseil. "No matter, I don't NEED to talk to you. I can just have your cell searched." He turned around.

Emerson tried silently to protest. He wanted to tell Lieseil what had actually happened, in case he genuinely didn't know. But Lieseil took no notice of him, striding out of the door as it slammed shut.

Emerson exhaled slowly, starting to cry. Would his voice ever work again? Had Warhol robbed him of his speech forever? No sound even came out when he cried, which just made things worse.

After a couple of hours, he was jolted out of a miserable doze by the door opening loudly. He jumped, alert though immobile. Guards untied his arms and forced him to sit up, holding his shoulders and forearms so he couldn't move, not even just to stretch his cramped arms.

He could see more of the room he was in now. It was like a little hospital room, monochromatic and uninviting. The only colour that stuck out sharply against the grey backdrop was an IV bag of blood, which he saw was attached to a needle in his arm. Must be because of all the blood he lost, he thought and shivered, again remembering that he had nearly died.

He was not paying attention to the door, so his head snapped up as Warhol entered, pain ripping through his neck. He grimaced at the sensation, and scowled at Lord Warhol.
"Pirate!" smiled Warhol, far too cheerful. Emerson wanted nothing more than to shrink back; to hide under the bed or huddle in a corner.

"How rude," mused Warhol when Emerson didn't reply, and stormed over to him. The soldiers held Emerson in place as Warhol punched him in the neck. Agony tore through him and he tried to scream but no sound came out and it only worsened his pain.

Warhol laughed and hit him again, as he tried to struggle away, to no avail. Tears ran down his face as he met the older man's eyes angrily. The Lord's eyes were full of heartless mirth as he hit the boy one more time.

Emerson was nearly passed out from the pain, choking and spluttering from being winded too. He was still catching his breath as the soldiers dragged him up so he was standing.
"You don't need that," muttered Warhol, and wrenched the IV out of Emerson's arm. A small drop of blood formed on the tip of the needle, and dripped onto Emerson's clothes, leaving a small, scarlet stain.

Warhol brought something out from behind him, and Emerson's stomach dropped. He knew exactly what that was.
"You're going to look just like your brother, Pirate," Warhol smiled sweetly. Emerson was starting to panic. Warhol was holding a stiff white straitjacket. Emerson took a step back, but the guards forced him forwards again.
"Haven't you learnt your lesson?" asked Warhol threateningly. "Speak when spoken to." He raised his fist, and Emerson hissed out 'stop' in a cracked and almost inaudible whisper.

"What was that?" asked Warhol, and lowered his fist a little. Emerson shook his head, unable to bring himself to speak again. It was simply too painful.
"Well, damn!" exclaimed Warhol, amused. "You really did lose your voice! I didn't think that would work! You'll never question my authority again," he smiled, taking one of Emerson's arms and shoving it into a sleeve of the straitjacket.

Emerson's eyes filled with hatred. The nasty old bastard had done this on purpose? And now he would never speak again? If he could have, he would have given the old man the finger.

But all he could do was burn holes into Warhol with his glare. Warhol was fastening Emerson's arms around his body now, and he was starting to feel uncomfortable and downright claustrophobic. Fuck this.

When Emerson sufficiently could not move, Warhol punched him once more in the neck, before leaving him kneeling in the pain. He assumed he'd just had surgery, so this was a bit fucking mean. Guards who had let go of him so Warhol could put on the straitjacket quickly pulled him up again, and walked him out of the door.

They took him to a plain white room, walls padded, empty of anything except misery and isolation. Emerson looked in fear at one of the guards, trying to appeal to them. He didn't want to be left here all alone, in the white silence.

The soldiers threw him roughly to the back of the cell, walking out and slamming the door, leaving him broken on the floor.

Notes:

close to the end, i can feel it. this was quite shit sorry
comments and kudos are appreciated x

Chapter 19

Summary:

tw//much guns

Remington was screaming and howling for Sebastian as he was dragged backwards by his arms from the cell, kicking his feet out and writhing in pain as the diabolic drug spread through his veins. Lieseil was laughing.

He ended up crashing along the ground, too weak from the pain to fight. His heart and mind yowled like a wounded animal for Sebastian, the separation feeling almost physical. The warm moments he'd just shared with the older brother only left him colder and more empty in the absence.

He wasn't writhing anymore, hanging limply from the soldiers' hands. They'd reached a door, but it was much different to any other in the estate. It was half the height of the average, no more than five feet tall, and it was square. A guard stooped to pull it open, and Remington was met with... himself.

He was tossed in, and the door banged shut. The room he was left in was a cube, far too small to stand up in, and the walls, floor and ceiling were just mirrors.

He laid on the floor, breathing laboriously, staring in shock at his reflection. A scrawny, dishevelled boy stared back at him, muscles tensed in pain, face wet with tears, bags under his eyes. His hair was long past stylish, and raw spots from restraints stood out on his pale skin. Although there were not many external wounds, the trauma he had been through was visible on his face and in his perpetually cowering posture

Remington felt sorry for the boy in the mirror for a second, before realising it was himself. He forced out a slow breath, attempting to come to terms with how he looked- how he'd been MADE to look.

He watched a tear run down the mirror boy's face, and closed his eyes. He did not want to see what he had become. That was not him. He drifted into a tormented sleep, dreaming nightmares which were no longer more scary than real life.

*

When he awoke, stiff and sore from the drug and from lying on a hard surface, he stretched out and smacked his head on the wall. Fuck. He uncurled a little more carefully, cracking open his eyes blearily. Immediately he met eyes with his reflection, and hissed. He looked terrible.

He was starting to feel the cold grip of claustrophobia as he sat up, barely able to straightened his back. This was not a room so much as a box. He tried to avoid looking at himself. His self-esteem had never been high, and he really hated being surrounded by mirrors. The arrangement meant that there were hundreds of him stretching out in all directions. He shivered. This was not his thing.

He half-smiled, thinking suddenly of how Sebastian would love this. That man was OBSESSED with his looks. And suddenly, Remington was sobbing, desperately missing his family. His heart ached. When would he see them again? Would he ever?

Gradually, rage began to fill him up like a toxic mist. He was sick of crying; sick of being made to feel so like shit all the goddamn time. Why did those controlling, manipulative bastards get to decide how he felt all the time?

He caught his own eye in the mirror again and was enraged. His bedraggled appearance was taunting him, reminding him of all that he had been forced to endure over the past year and a bit.

He snarled viciously at the mirror and lashed out a fist, striking the surface hard but not expecting anything to happen. He yelped in surprise as his reflection shattered and fell away, revealing a plain concrete wall. Shards fell to the ground, sharp enough to cut him- and some did, slicing his legs and feet, but not badly.

He was shocked at the bad quality of the room, before snapping into action. He could use these shards. He supposed it wouldn't be long before someone came for him after the shattering noise, so he gathered a few pieces of varying sizes and tucked them into the waistband of his trousers. The rest he brushed off himself, leaving them littering the floor. On a second thought, he took two in his hands. Fuck playing nice.

A wall swung back to reveal four guards. Armed guards. Remington calculated for a millisecond. One had a large array of keys on their belt; he wanted those. But the large and clearly loaded weapons threw him.

Suddenly, he remembered a conversation he'd had with Em on the first day here.
'I stole a gun.'

Thinking no more of it, he flashed out a hand and sliced the keys off the closest guard's belt. Then he dropped the mirror shards in his hands and snatched a rifle. You'd think they would have seen that coming, but it all happened too fast.

The other three guards immediately raised their weapons while the remaining one made to run off. Remington had to think on his feet.

They were going to kill him.

He took a deep breath, trying to come to terms with what he was about to do, but there was not enough time. He steeled himself, bracing his shoulder against the butt of the rifle.

He fired four bullets.

Blood sprayed around him, covering him as he scrambled out of the cell. He stepped over the bodies- four of them, he was a good shot- but on a second thought ripped a gas mask off one, trying not to look at their lolling face and staring eyes.

He'd had no choice.

They would have killed him.

Right?

No time. There were a couple of unarmed soldiers rounding the corner to see what the noise was. Remington initially was going to let them live- they weren't armed- but one lunged for a gun from a body, and Remington met them with a bullet. Fuck. The other fell with a final shot.

He'd killed six people in two minutes.

No time. He'd gone too far to stop now.

He ran, trying to derealise himself. He was a murderer now.

No time. He headed in the vague direction of where he and Seb had been previously, clutching the keys and gun like his life depending on it, which it actually did.

Fuck it.
"Em! Seb!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. He'd be heard, but there was no time. He had to find his brothers. A reply came from a few feet away- Seb!- but there was no sound of Emerson. They'd have to look for him after.

Remington ran to the door from behind which Seb had shouted. As he turned to check that the hall was clear, two guards came into view. With no second thoughts, Remington shot them dead without waiting to see what they'd do, the gunshots ringing out. He heard Sebastian shriek.

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" he called, turning now to look at the insurmountable number of keys in his hands. His heart sank. He estimated he only had four attempts before more guards turned up and shot him.

Four chances. Four chances to try four random keys out of like thirty, or he would die right outside Seb's door.

Notes:

ONE MORE CHAPTER GUYS ONE MORE and maybe an epilogue. then this one is done forever :')

pls tell me what you think, remi's a murderer for real now :( but whatever i had fun writing this and i already got a bunch of the next one done

comments + kudos appreciated x

Chapter 20

Sebastian had been left, boiling and seething, chained up in Rem's old cell on the floor. He'd had no time to miss Rem, too caught up in anger and hatred for the man who'd taken him. He meant what he'd said. He would murder Lieseil. Warhol too, probably. If they didn't deserve it, he didn't know who did.

He must have fallen asleep, because he was awoken by feet slapping on the ground outside the door.
"Em! Seb!" someone shouted.

Rem?

"Rem!" yelled Sebastian, pulling on his chains, trying to get to the door. There was a frantic banging on the door. "Seb? Are you in there?"
"Yes-"

Gunshots. Two of them. Sebastian ducked instinctively, screaming out for Rem. Had someone shot him?

"I'm fine!" called Rem, and Sebastian heard keys jangling.
"Seb, Seb, I..." Rem's voice was cracking. "I have like thirty keys here, and I've only got time to try like four."
Sebastian's heart sank. Those were terrible odds. The words 'before they kill me' hung in the air, unsaid but heard by both.

Sebastian winced at what he was about to say.
"No, Rem. Give yourself up. I'd rather you gave yourself up and stayed alive than died trying to get me out."
He heard a key in the lock.
"Seb, I've killed six men in the last five minutes. I'll be shot on sight," said Rem matter-of-factly.

Oh.

That was Rem with the gun?

There was a clunk as the lock jammed. Wrong key.

Sebastian's heart was racing with the adrenaline. Rem was gonna die, it was almost certain. If only, if only, if only he could take his place.

There was a click.

Right key.

The door opened and Rem, his marvellous, wonderful Rem, ran in carrying a gun. He glanced at Sebastian's shackles, before grabbing something from his waistband. He threw it at Sebastian, so it landed right by him. It was a long, thin shard of glass, reflective.
"Pick the locks on those, quickly."

Sebastian wasted no time, grabbing the shard and picking at the locks as Rem ran back outside. Sebastian heard gunshots; four from far away, and four in quick succession from nearby, accompanied by a hiss of pain.

Finally, Sebastian got free, and dashed out, taking the shard with him to see if Rem was okay. He was met with the sight of six dead soldiers, and Rem, wincing in pain at a surface graze on his arm, but otherwise fine. Sebastian took a pistol off one of the bodies, and a gas mask too, just in case.

Running footsteps could be heard; far away, but approaching.
"Let's find Em," said Sebastian, and Rem nodded.

*

This was painful. Oh god. Emerson threw himself at the door, trying to make some kind of a sound. His brothers were right outside, but he couldn't call out to them, because his throat was fucked.

The padding on the wall was muffling his attempts. He could hear them talking about going to find him, but he was right here! They'd probably die trying to find him, and he couldn't even tell him where he was. Fuck.

He stopped throwing himself against the wall. He was going to rip his throat apart, but he had to try to talk. He forced out a grating whisper, and tried again. He could do this. He had to.

"I'm here!" he finally choked out, cutting out at the end, but it would have been enough if blaring sirens hadn't rung out just at that moment, drowning him out. He burst into frustrated tears. He could taste blood- he'd fucking made himself bleed to say that and they hadn't even heard. They'd never find him now.

*

Remington spun on his heel, going to head away from the footsteps. May as well start somewhere. Suddenly, an ear-splitting shriek of sirens hit him like a wall. God, they were so much louder out here. He stopped, petrified like a deer in headlights as a door opened just ahead of him.

Warhol.

The man looked terrifying; powerful. His eyes blazed with fury, as he pointed a gun at Remington's head. Remington was frozen in fear as he saw Alister's bejewelled finger fiddle with the safety, removing it. Remington forgot that he was also holding a gun, in his fear of the Lord. Warhol's finger began to inch towards the trigger, as if in slow motion.

*

Warhol had had enough of this. They'd done their experiments. He'd had his fun. But he could not allow such insubordination. It was time for these patients to be... terminated.

Just as he was about to pull the trigger on X, there was a flurry of movement and he felt something cold and sharp against his throat.
"Stop," said a silky voice in his ear, low and quiet but clear. Warhol tried to turn around, suddenly scared, but the item was pushed further into his throat, so he stilled, barely breathing.

"Stop moving," said the voice, paradoxically gentle, "and put the gun down."
Warhol's heart beat triple speed as he listened to the voice in his ear.
"You wouldn't kill me," he said, attempting to sound confident. He was trying to buy himself some time. He could see his guards approaching behind X, who was still frozen with the gun Warhol hadn't dropped pointed at his forehead.

"Oh, wouldn't I?" questioned the voice, reaching a hand around and taking the gun off him, pressing the blade in deeper so a tiny bit of blood was drawn. Warhol was suddenly reminded of when he was 18. He hadn't remembered that incident until now. This felt the same, though this time he wasn't the one with the blade. He shivered, letting the person who he now recognised as the Gentleman take his gun without fighting. He'd have to be careful here.

"Well done. Now... Kindly call off your sycophants. Anyone touches Remington and you die. Clear?" purred the Gentleman. Warhol's eyes darted around, looking for a way out of this. His 'sycophants' were looking at him for orders.

Warhol exhaled, trying to move as little as possible against whatever was at his throat.
"Stand down," he instructed the guards quietly. How the hell was he getting out of this one? He could only hope that Lieseil-

Lieseil. There he was. About time. He was pushing his way through the guards, with the Pirate in a headlock under his left arm, and a pistol pushed to the boy's temple. The patient struggled, weakening under the stronger man's grip, but was still wearing a straitjacket so it didn't count for much.

"One more movement and your brother dies."

*

Remington slowly resurfaced from wherever he had been and shook himself a little. He backed up against the wall of the corridor, observing the scene tensely.

"Kill my brother and Warhol dies," retorted Seb.

Lieseil appeared to be considering. Seb had a look of grim determination. Both Emerson and Warhol were white as sheets. Remington dimly realised that he was still holding a gun, and kept his attention focused on the standoff before him. He might need the gun soon.

Lieseil moved suddenly, dropping Emerson to the ground and pointing his gun at Sebastian instead. Remington immediately aimed his at Lieseil. The host of guards then aimed at him. The fast position change would have been funny if it didn't involve so many loaded weapons.

Nobody moved. If Seb killed Warhol, Lieseil would shoot Seb, Remington would shoot Lieseil and the soldiers would shoot him. They were all stuck like this, apart from Emerson, who laid on the floor, not looking conscious.

There was silence for a second, as everyone pondered what to do. It was a palpable stalemate.

Remington summoned some courage.
"Can I... Can I suggest something?" he basically squeaked. There had to be at least thirty guns on him now.
"Shut your mouth," snapped Lieseil, but Remington went ahead anyway. HE was the one with a gun to LIESEIL'S head, after all.

"I don't want Seb to die. You don't want Warhol to die. How about you just let us go, and we'll never come back and you two live, and us three live?"
It was a desperate attempt, but reasonable considering the circumstances.

Neither Lord agreed, or even answered. Remington supposed that they didn't want to lose, even though that seemed like a draw to Remington. Lieseil finally sighed.
"You'll never come back. You'll leave the Obsidian Empire altogether. You'll never speak ill of us." Remington nodded. They were not questions, but statements. Orders.

Lieseil nodded curtly.
"Fine. Everyone lower weapons."
"On the floor. Step away from them," added Remington, and Lieseil looked annoyed but obliged, gesturing to the other people to do the same. Sebastian dropped his mirror shard with a clatter, shoving Warhol away from him, and met eyes with Remington as he dropped his gun. Both knew they were still armed- Remington had a waistband full of mirror pieces, and Sebastian had a pistol concealed under his shirt- and they needed to communicate only with eyes to know what they would do later.

Remington ran to Emerson on the floor, shaking him gently and calling his name. Why was he unconscious?
"He's just drugged," said Lieseil behind him. "It'll wear off in an hour or two."

The sudden mechanical click of handcuffs stopped Remington in his tracks. He spun around just as Lieseil caught his wrists tightly in his freezing hands. He spun wildly to see that Warhol had forced Seb to his knees and was cuffing him too. It no longer mattered that Remington and Sebastian were armed; they couldn't reach their concealed weapons.

The surrounding guards had re-armed themselves, and Remington panicked as he was cuffed, lashing out a kick at Lieseil which did nothing to stop the man. This was not what they'd agreed!
"For this stunt, you'll die," hissed Lieseil in his ear. "I'll kill you for this. And I'll enjoy it."

Remington struggled, trying uselessly to get away from this man, because he had never believed anything more. He was going to die.

**

Remington felt perpetually sick with fear. He'd been completely alone for the past four days, with barely any food. He'd destroyed and tidied the tiny cell dozens of times, and now he was pacing like a caged animal, which he essentially was.

He was still covered in the blood of the people he'd killed, which smelt stale and metallic. He regularly broke down in tears of remorse, thinking of what he'd done. It didn't matter that they'd hurt him, and would have killed him. In his mind, he would never wash the blood off his hands. He was a murderer.

His own blood was added to the mess now, as he'd started scratching his arms; an anxious tic which was causing them to become raw, and yet, still he did it.

The lack of punishment was starting to scare him. He knew he'd not be let off for this, but so far, he'd not had so much as an angry visit. He was completely left to his nervous tics and screaming thoughts.

On the fifth day, he was pacing again, making nervous grooves in his arms with his sharp nails when the door opened. He froze, brain flicking nauseatingly between fight and flight as Warhol walked in, eyeing Remington with contempt. Remington's brain finally caught up, and he backed away, noting that Warhol was holding a straitjacket.

Remington hit a corner and winced as the wall chafed his raw arms. Warhol stalked ever closer, brandishing the jacket. Remington slid down the wall so he was curled up tightly, not that it would do any good.
"Don't," he whimpered. He didn't want to wear a straitjacket again.

"You shouldn't have scratched your arms up like that then, should you?" said the Lord condescendingly. He took a fistful of Remington's hair and yanked him off the ground as he yelped, eyes watering as he scrambled to stand so his hair wasn't pulled out.

As Warhol forced the frightened Remington into the jacket and started to buckle it up, Remington spoke again.
"What... What are you going to do to us?" he whispered.
"You killed twelve men, X. Just you wait."

The cold fear in his stomach grew as Warhol spun on his heel and left, door banging shut behind him. Remington sunk back down, bound by the straitjacket, too frightened even to cry. All he could do was stare unseeingly into the distance and imagine all the horrific things that would be done to him.

*

Sebastian was in a completely empty cell, chained to the floor in the middle by a collar around his neck. He'd been here for four days with no interaction and he was deeply unsettled. He knew he was in trouble, but they seemed to be leaving his anxiety to stew.

The door opened. Sebastian's head snapped up from looking at the ground and he snarled. Lieseil.
"What the fuck have you done to my brothers?" spat Sebastian, burning hatred a flame in his heart.

"Nothing," said the Lord, "yet."
Sebastian did not like the sound of that 'yet'.
"Why are you doing this to us? Why have you hurt us so much?" he asked.

"X killed twelve men-"
"He wouldn't have if you hadn't kept us here in the first place!"
"-and you threatened Warhol's life."
"You threatened Emerson's!"
"It's not the same thing."

"HOW? How is it different?" Sebastian shouted.
Lieseil was quiet; cold.
"What are you going to do to them?" Sebastian asked, quieter now. "Are you going to hurt them for what we did?"

"Can I talk to you truthfully?" asked Lieseil out of the blue, ignoring Sebastian's questions. Sebastian said nothing, so Lieseil went ahead.
"I'm angry. I'm angry because you threatened my little brother. I don't give a damn about the guards X killed, but don't you dare come near Warhol."
There was a beat.
"Brother?" asked Sebastian, trying to catch up.
"Yes," said Lieseil, with no further explanation.
"Right."

Sebastian was sure they weren't blood related, but he wasn't going to argue.
"That was me, though. Why hurt the others? Emerson didn't do anything, and Rem only killed some people you said you don't care about. Why them too?"

Lieseil looked like he was getting irritated.
"Would you rather we just did what we plan three times worse to just you?" he snapped sarcastically, clearly expecting Sebastian to disagree, but he jumped on it.
"Yes! Oh god, please. I'll take theirs for them too, whatever it is. I won't even complain. Just don't hurt my brothers."

Lieseil raised an eyebrow, looking sceptical and surprised at the response.
"It would kill you for sure."

Sebastian was silent, chewing his lip and working himself up to committing to this. There was no doubt in his mind that he would die for his little brothers, but he waited to see if there was an alternative. This wasn't a decision to be taken lightly.

"It's up to you. I don't give a damn. If you really want to..."
Sebastian took a breath. He had no idea what the Lords were planning for the brothers, but it wouldn't be pretty. Better it happened to just him. It would spare his brothers more pain.

"Please. Do it. Don't hurt my brothers. I will die if I have to."

"Fine. You've made your choice," said Lieseil, making to leave.
"Wait-" halted Sebastian. He had a couple more things to say. Lieseil turned around, waiting, thankfully.
"I have... I have two favours to ask of you..." he trailed off, trying to gauge how Lieseil was reacting. His eyes had hardened, starting to look like Sebastian had overstepped, but he went ahead anyway. He had nothing to lose.

"The first is the most important... Whatever you do to me, please, I beg you, don't make my brothers watch... The second... Please can I see them again? To..." He swallowed. "To say goodbye?"

Lieseil's eyes seemed to soften a fraction.
"That is manageable," was all he said, before sweeping out of the cell and slamming the door.

*

It was another week before anyone came to see Sebastian. When they did, it was just faceless guards, unchaining him and dragging him out of the cell, guns trained on him. He got a crawling, terrified feeling in the pit of his stomach that whatever was going to happen to him was going to happen now. He was going to die.

It was a strange thing to ponder. He wouldn't exist in a few hours. He sincerely hoped Lieseil had arranged for him to see his brothers. At least then he could tell them that they were safe from punishment from the failed escape. And say goodbye. He wanted to say goodbye.

He wondered if it was possible to miss someone once you were dead. He knew he would miss Emerson and Remington, if it was possible. He had no idea what the hell came after this life, but if there was an afterlife, he had already resolved to watch over them. And if there wasn't... he would find some way to anyway.

He was taken into a room and chained to the wall. He hoped that meant that his brothers would come to see him. Surely they wouldn't just kill him here, in this room? He knew it would be more than just a quick death; there was something undoubtedly up the Lords' sleeves.

To his dismay, it was not his brothers who came to see him. It was Lieseil again. The old man nodded vaguely in his direction. It was almost polite; the Lord had treated him like an equal, rather than someone lower than himself.

Sebastian felt he could no longer bring it upon himself to hate Lieseil anymore. He was going to let Em and Rem off something, and that was enough for Sebastian. It was a kind thing to do, in Sebastian's mind.
"Sir," he said, nodding back.

"Gentleman, I wanted to tell you something. Alister doesn't want you knowing. He wants you scared. But I have felt the same fear for him, so I feel I must tell you."
Sebastian waited. What the hell was this going to be?
"We're... we're not going to kill your brothers. You may think that we are, but we're not. It's going to look like it but I promise... They will live."

Sebastian was confused.
"I thought... I thought you weren't going to anyway?"
"Yes, we're not. But Warhol wants to scare you. I just... can't let him do that."
Sebastian barely understood.
"...Thanks?"

Lieseil nodded again.

"One thing, sir," began Sebastian. "When... when I'm dead... you can't go hurting them. The point is I'm dying so they don't have to-"
"Did I not make it clear?" snapped Lieseil, cutting him off.
"Make what clear?"
"We're not killing you either."

Sebastian was further confused.
"Not that I want you to, but... why not?"
Lieseil didn't answer, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. Sebastian waited. He was sure the old man was going to speak at some point.

"When I was ten," said Lieseil haltingly, "Alister's father found out we were friends and he... he tried to execute me. I don't remember how I got out of that one. I just remember the feeling of absolute need to protect Alister from seeing it happen, and also the feeling that if I died, he would be safe. When I was sixteen, I took a bullet in the shoulder for him. I would have taken it in the head if I'd needed to. When I was nineteen, I performed surgery on him after he cut his own throat, and saved his life, and his voice. Throughout my adult years, I have put my life in front of his. He is more important that I am. He is my little brother in everything but blood, and I see myself in you. You have decided to die for your brothers with barely a thought, and I just... I cannot let you do that. You are too like me."

Sebastian was shocked at the sudden openness of the old man.

"You will feel pain. So much pain, you will wish you were dead in the moment. But you will not die. And neither will your brothers."
"Wait... Why... What are you going to do to me, then?" asked Sebastian, a little stunned that he was not in fact to die, but still anxious. 'So much pain' didn't sound very fun.

"We are going to wipe your memories. Completely."

Notes:

And then... The Bastards graphic novel begins.

---

pls. pls tell me if you liked this work. it is finished. done. gone for good. i am sad. but yeah.

come say hi to me on my insta @chocolateblueskies! i wanna k.i.t with some of my longstanding readers honestly, pls talk to me my dms are open come yell at me to finish my unfinished works lmfao

hope yall liked it, expect more writing soon!! just not this fic. love yall, love the void x

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Lost In The Mental Estate