I Hate You More

A Gig Worth Nothing

Remington (his outfit^)

"Have you seen my red leather pants?" I asked Sebastian as I made my way into his room.

I guess Emerson would be more likely to take my clothes, and usually it was just my shirts but, what can I say? I need my shit.

"Have you started looking after your own fucking shit?" He scoffed as he looked up from his guitar.

We were getting ready to rehearse for our gig tomorrow night, but I was trying to put an outfit together first. What? Performing is just as much about your look and stage presence as it is your sound, and I took my job pretty fucking seriously.

I rolled my eyes at my older brother, who had already moved his focus, back to the chords he was strumming, "Ok. Fuck you too."

"Did you check your room," Emerson asked from beside me, causing me to jolt at his presence. He rolled his eyes, "I'm pretty sure I saw them on your floor yesterday."

I brushed past him with an eye roll. Why would I not have seen them on my fucking floor? I walked on that floor every day. I think I would've seen- oh. There they were

"I found them." I shouted down the hall to where Emerson was still standing in Sebastian's doorway.

"Shut up." I muttered after taking in the dumb smirk on his face.

"I didn't say anything." Emerson held his hands up in defense, but his face still had a goofy smile.

Buy a house with your brothers they said. It will be fun they said.

"Whatever," Sebastian grumbled as he walked past both of us, and started down the stairs to our living room, which we converted into an in-house studio, "can we just fucking rehearse?"

"Why should we," Emerson complained, "it's not like it matters if we're shit. We're not making a single penny off of this performance."

Our lovely manager -please note the sarcasm- had the wonderful idea -again, sarcasm- for us to play small, local gigs, without compensation. The thought was that since we had a tour coming up, we could play smaller shows to put our name out there, and possibly gain a larger following. Which was all sunshine and rainbows but, we did this for a living, and living usually meant making money.

"Yes but if we suck, people won't want to come and pay to see us," Sebastian smiled sarcastically, "so if you would please quit your bitching, and get your asses downstairs, it would be greatly appreciated."

He turned around, and finished descending the stairs, giving Emerson the opportunity to mock him, causing a laugh to make it's way up my throat. Based on the narrow-eyed glare he sent us, Sebastian definitely heard him. I swear we didn't actively hate each other all of the time. We just didn't always work well together. Actually most of the time we didn't, but that's ok. We rehearsed for about three hours, and by that time my throat was raw, so I was ready to call it quits.

"Would you just shut the hell up and keep singing?" Sebastian sneered.

"How the fuck am I supposed to sing and shut up at the same time," I retorted pulling an eye roll from Sebastian and a chuckle from Emerson, "and no. My throat is on fire. I need a break."

"Well," Sebastian clicked his tongue, "I don't know what to tell you."

"How about 'Ah no problem we'll rehearse later I hope you feel better soon cause I'm your brother and I love you'." I smiled sarcastically, trying my best to mock his tone.

"Or," He said. I feel love and appreciated, "you could suck it the fuck up."

I rolled my eyes before taking a sip of my water, "I'm sick and tired of this. You put everything on me. If I keep going I'll lose my voice, and then we won't be able to do the fucking show at all."

"Boo-fucking-who, you have to do your fucking job. Poor baby." Sebastian feigned sympathy.

"Fuck you." I snapped.

"No Remington, fuck you." He spit back.

"Guys-"

"Shut up." Sebastian and I both shouted, cutting Emerson off.

"No," Emerson scoffed, "we're not about to lose our shit for a gig that's quite literally worth nothing."

Sebastian sighed, and ran his hand down his face furiously, "I told you before. It's not nothing. How the fuck are we supposed to sell fucking tickets to our fucking shows if nobody knows who the fuck we are? Oh yeah we don't. Now, How the hell are we supposed to make a living off of this shit when we can't even sell any god damn tickets you fucking moron?"

"Well, how the hell are we supposed to make a living when nobody's fucking paying us you piece of shit." I yelled in defense of my younger brother's insanely valid point.

Why the fuck were we doing this all for nothing? There was nothing more frustrating than people not taking us seriously, and how the fuck were they supposed to take us seriously when we're not even getting paid for what we're doing? I was entirely convinced that this plan wouldn't work, but Sebastian thinks we should go along with it anyway. So, I'm trying... and he doesn't even fucking appreciate it.

"How do I get it through your thick fucking skull you fucking dickhead," He snapped, setting his guitar to the side, "we can't get to the point of selling out venues, if we don't have enough people buying the fucking tickets you dumb fuck. Now, quit being a baby."

"Me being a baby," I was so angry, that spit was coming out when I spoke, "you're the fucking baby. You never do anything and, when you do, you do it wrong and then make it out to be someone else's problem."

Sebastian took a step towards me, and I noticed Emerson move his focus to the floor out of the corner of my eye.

"If you lay a hand on me, I'm fucking done." I muttered, knowing too well that my older brother was always quick to use his fists instead of his words. I can't knock him too much though. All three of us do that shit.

Sebastian ignored my words and landed a punch straight on my jaw, sending me flying backwards. I retorted by hitting him square in the nose, causing a fight to break out between us. After a couple of seconds, Emerson stood up, and pushed us away from each other, "You dumbasses are really gonna break the recording equipment, when we're not making enough money to replace it? Really?"

It's 2:00 pm. We made it to 2:00 pm before trying to rip each other's throats out. Fucking hell.

"Don't worry about it," I scoffed before spitting out some of the blood that was dripping out of the inside of my cheek, "cause I'm fucking done. We don't need to record shit."

I gave Sebastian one last shove before grabbing my black leather jacket, and storming out the front door. I didn't really get worried over the fact that my brothers showed absolutely no reaction to my declaration. After all, that was the third time I 'quit the band' this month. We all knew I was coming back. I just needed to blow off some steam first.

And I knew exactly how to do it.