"Could you not stare at me?"

Frank felt heat creeping up into his face and looked down at his bowl of soup, mumbling an apology. The brothers were eating dinner alone that night: Gertrude had gone home, Fenton had gone to meet a client, and their mother had gone to a political meeting, leaving Frank in charge of getting Joe dinner and watching him eat, which he was, eyes locked fast on his brother, slowly churning and churning the soup in his bowl, cutting the vegetables in his salad, slicing the bread into miniscule pieces and rolling them into balls of dough and dunking them into the broth.

"Sorry," the elder Hardy sighed.

The two went back to eating, an uncustomary silence and tension hanging between them.

"Any plans for the night?" Joe asked, trying to keep things casual.

Frank nodded. "Callie's coming over. We're gonna watch a movie."

"Why here?"

"Mom and Dad aren't home—"

"Is it because of me?"

The elder Hardy sighed and took a drink of water. "No."

"Mom and Dad don't want me to be alone."

Frank bit back his I don't want you to be alone and said "Her parents her home. We can be here, uninterrupted."

Joe forced a knowing smile; Frank rolled his eyes.

"No comment."

"I'll stay out of your way."

"Sounds good."

Joe went back to eating, draining the bowl and shoving the bread in.

It's too easy, Frank thought uneasily. He gives in too easily. He hasn't gained weight, still fights about food, but all the same, something's wrong. He's up to something.

"Have you noticed the toilet's have been clogging lately?"

Joe raised his eyebrows. "Not really. Why?"

"Just wondering."

"Is this the kind of thing to talk about over dinner?"

Frank grinned. "It's the only time I have you to myself."

"Great, so now you're trying to seduce me with toilet talk."

The two laughed a bit, then Frank returned to watching his brother eat while trying not to be obvious about it.

"I'll see you later," Joe said a few minutes later, clearing his things and quickly disappearing upstairs.

"Wait—" Frank started, but just then the doorbell rang; he hesitated, then moved to the back door.

"Hey babe," Callie greeted him, leaning up to give him a kiss. "How're you? What's wrong?"

Frank shook his head. "No, I'm fine, just thinking."

"Joe?"

"Let's not talk about it."

"All righty," she said, coming in and shutting the back door. Frank took a deep breath and shut the door behind her, surprised that he was feeling relieved. Maybe, for an evening, Callie could take away the anxiety, the sadness, the worry, just for a night. The moment he felt it he felt a wave of anger at himself: why should he have a night of relief, if there was no such comfort for his brother?

Hitting the Fan

Joe was about to lock the doors when he heard the doorbell rang and, relieved that his brother would be permanently distracted, left the locks alone. Not eating was one thing: although lying came with it, it was something that was still in the open, up for scrutiny. He didn't like feeling this way, like he had something to hide, like he had to block out his family to keep them from hearing.

His brother had made him nervous, not just in the way he'd watched him eat, but in questioning the toilets. Joe had thought it best not to use the same one, and been alternating between the downstairs and the upstairs, but this isn't what bothered him: it was the way Frank had said it, the scrutiny of it, as if he was watching for a reaction, as if he were interrogating him, interrogating him, Joe, his own brother! What, Frank needed a mystery, couldn't bear it without one, needed one so much he was willing to build one around his brother?

Don't think such things, not about Frank, not about him. About yourself, you're the evil one, you're the one who's wrong, you're wrong just for thinking something like that about your own brother.

Joe shivered, knelt on the floor, lifted the toilet lid, steadied himself. He pulled the bottle from his pocket, the small brown vial he'd carried with him to school in order to vomit after lunch. He'd only used it once, two nights ago after dinner, and the intensity of the vomiting had frightened him, so he had refrained from using it. But he might as well now: he was alone, his brother was distracted, his parents were gone. If it would help him vomit, help him purge more, than it had to be done.

Joe opened the bottle and took a gulp, waited: nothing. He tried some more, swallowing it quickly, holding his nose to avoid the taste. Still nothing.

Something needs to happen and fast the food is digesting you better get it out of you before the calories get in hurry up stick your fingers down if it's not going to work for you hurry up what are you thinking why can't you do anything right see you loser you hopeless loser—

The bottle fell from Joe's hand. He barely made it to the toilet before the vomit exploded from his throat, ripping up from his stomach and pouring in to the toilet. The soup came up, whole pieces of chicken and carrots. Then the diet soda. Then the lettuce.

Then the blood.

Joe could not even catch his breath. Vomit after vomit ripped his frame, and the blood kept coming up darker and darker. Tears streamed from the corner of his eyes. He could not even scream for help.

I didn't want this I never wanted to do this I didn't know this would happen God help me someone anyone please help me…

And then Joe's world went black.