Frank walked into the men's room, bent over the sink, filled his hands with water, and splashed his face, then rested his palms flat on the porcelain and tried to catch his breath. He was furious with himself, first of all for letting it get this far, and second for not being able to control himself enough to hear out everything the doctor might say.

It's words, that's all Hardy, just names for the behavior your brother's been exhibiting what you can't handle that? You can't handle the fact that you've been in just as much denial as Joe, that you've been weak in trying to help him, that you should have had the sense to check on him after meals? That if Callie hadn't been there you wouldn't even have thought to check on him? That the person you love the most is killing himself and it's all your—

"Easy son," his father's voice came from behind him, and Frank came back to awareness realizing he was on his knees before the sink fighting for breath, terror suddenly seizing his lungs and threatening to send bile into his throat. "Relax. Frank, relax. It's all right." Fenton's hands were on his shoulders, rubbing slowly, and Frank sucked in a deep breath and stood up, composing himself.

"I'm all right," he murmured, "I'm all right now. Sorry. I'm a little…I don't know…shaky. Freaked out."

Fenton nodded and patted his son's back. "Delayed reaction."

"Do you have to put a label on everything?" Frank shot, shaking off his father's hand. "Why do we have to classify it all, huh? To make it neater, prettier, able to fit the psychology charts? Is that why we have to give Joe these names? So they have something to circle on the admittance chart? Does anyone even care that he's a person, who needs to be with people who care about him, not some hospital where they'll force feed him fat and pills and say it's all fine?"

Fenton set his jaw and ran a hand through his hair. "Frank," he said calmly, "I know you're upset. And if I know you at all you're angry at yourself for not doing more—" he glanced over, saw his son flinch, "and if you want to yell and scream at me that's fine, if it'll help you. But don't act like your mother and I don't care about him just as much as you do, or that we don't want the best for him. We want both, you know that."

Frank's shoulders slumped; he sighed and crossed his arms.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm…you're right. Blaming myself. Which I should! Dad, I've known there was a problem longer than anyone, and somehow I just let it go!"

"So you've done nothing?" Fenton almost snapped. "You've said nothing, you've never confronted him, you've never asked him about nutrition, you've never gotten angry or tried to show him how he was wrong, you've never gone to talk to the Coach, you've never told us anything about his pills or walking or wrestling? Is that right?"

Frank sighed, recognizing the all-to-familiar logic he'd seemed to have inherited from his father. "No. But—"

"But what? What could you have done that your mother and I didn't? Forced him to eat? We did that. Stopped him from wrestling and exercising? We did that too. Gone and picked up psychology books? That's what your mother and I were doing when we went out tonight. Yes, we should have checked on him after meals. Maybe we should have forced him into therapy already. But Frank, you and I both know that Joe was born stubborn, and this disease makes him all the more so. He's seventeen, son. We can't baby him. He's made his own choices, and he'll have to face their consequences."

The elder Hardy boy looked away, wondering how it was possible that only a few hours ago he was going to watch a movie with his girlfriend and try to put all this out of his head. How could he, when his brother never did, when his brother never could, when he was so sick and obviously caught up in such self-hatred that he'd force his body to go hungry, to push itself to the end of its endurance, to give up the food it needed to stay healthy?

I should call Callie, he thought, sighing. She'd wanted to come with him, but he'd asked her not simply because he wanted to be alone, needed that time to himself before his parents arrived at the Emergency Room. In truth he'd also believed that he needed to be punished with solitude for trying to use her to forget about his brother for awhile, while Joe was upstairs vomiting blood and blacking out on the bathroom tile.

"Dad…" Frank trailed off, not knowing how to tell his father, or anyone for that matter, the swirl of emotions going on inside him. Only Joe would know, would understand, would know what to say, would be able to help him sort through them.

But Joe…

Fenton put an arm around his son's shoulders and squeezed, hard. "I know son," he murmured. "Come on, let's get back and see what your mother has to say."

Frank nodded, new determination seeping in to him with the warmth from his father's arm.

I've never let anything separate us before, brother, he thought to himself, and I won't let this either. I won't lose you.

And if you do? Frank asked himself, if this is the one fight you're sure to lose?

The elder Hardy boy walked straighter as he approached his mother, feeling the grip on his emotions tightening.

Then I'll do whatever it takes to follow him, he answered himself.

Treatment

"I'm going to recommend that your son stay here a minimum of three weeks."

Frank felt his nerves jar: his parents similarly jumped.

"Weeks?" Laura gasped.

"That's right," Dr. Ziv said. "Our intensive impatient program is three weeks. We have to appeal to the insurance company, of course, but your son meets our qualifications, both weight-wise and psychologically. From what you've told us, and from what Joe has admitted to, combined with his denial, matches our qualifications for anorexia nervosa. With bulimic tendencies."

Fenton took a deep breath, then sighed. "All right," he said softly. "Tell us the plan."

"We'll have your son moved to the eating disorder ward on the sixth floor. He'll be given three balanced meals plus snacks, with a caloric consumption determined by his nutritionist. His day will consist of group and individual therapy as well as nutrition and psychiatric sessions twice a week. He'll be medicated for depression, as determined by his psychiatrist. We'll work with him on exercise issues, food myths, body image, and his other symptoms, as well as insure that he gets back to a healthy weight and stops purging. Provided he's compliant, that is. If he's not…we'll put him on contract, and on supplements, and if he still resists treatment…well, let's think positively for now."

"He'll…we'll be able to visit right?" Laura asked.

"Of course. Every Sunday we have visiting hours. Plus, there will be family therapy sessions twice a week."

The doctor went on to explain the treatment process, issues focused on in therapy, the duration of his stay, health insurance—things that Frank simply couldn't focus on because he was suddenly feeling sick again. Joe wasn't coming home: this was the bottom line. He'd have to stay here, on a psychiatric floor, and be essentially force-fed.

What was happening? Was this the same brother who was so confident he could be almost cocky, the same brother who had eyed girls with appreciation, flirted and grinned and charmed his way through life? The brother who had a passion and zest and emotional range that left the elder Hardy boy stunned in admiration in the wake of his brightness. Joe had taken on the world as Frank never could, pausing only long enough to grip his brother's hand and pull him along. And Frank had gone, blinded by admiration, envious of his brother's emotion, his ability to sweep through and leave the world stunned. His younger brother could not…could not be…

But he is, Frank thought, with his customary logic and discipline, he is anorexic. He is bulimic. He is depressed. And he will be staying here and getting help for that. He won't want it, but I'll convince him, we'll convince him, we'll get him through it. We'll do it together, like we always have. I can pull him along too.

"Dad," Frank said, interrupting the psychiatrist's spiel. "I'm going to see him."

Fenton, his features drawn and weary, shook his head. "Us first," he said firmly.

"But—"

"Maybe you can convince him when we can't."

"Fenton," Laura sighed, "no 'good cop bad cop.' Not with our son."

But Fenton and Frank held each other's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them.

He's grown up too fast, Fenton thought sadly, seeing a wisdom in his often unreadable elder child that never ceased to amaze him. He shouldn't have to be Joe's father. Not now, of all times when he needs parents…

When they both need parents.