Author's Note

This story is cross-posted on Wattpad, FictionPress, and Tapas!

Although this story is part of the romance genre, there are dark elements and themes within. This story includes separate but intertwined storylines of two stepbrothers, each dealing with their own demons. This is NOT a stepbrother x stepbrother book! Their relationship remains platonic. Triggers are included below for your comfort.

Triggers: Talk of suicide, self-harm, and compulsive behaviors / Mention of death / Explicit language / LGBTQ themes / Mentions of emotional abuse / Childhood trauma

Playlist

A full music playlist is available on Spotify! It will be updated as more parts are added! Just search up "My Midnight Melancholy" by dorkish_unicorn!

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Morgan

I don't remember when I decided to die. There were a couple of things that happened leading up to this moment that probably contributed to my demise, but who really has time to review every shitty thing that has ever happened to themself. At least, I don't. Mom tried to get me to talk, and she did a damn thorough job at trying to find me the "World's Best Therapist". So thorough, in fact, she slept with the guy the third time they met, and only the second time I was forced to go to therapy. A shudder runs through my body and I silently gag into the dark, cold night air while thinking about the whole thing.

"So, you're really going to do it this time?" A voice comes from behind. I jump, not thinking about the ledge I am standing on, and nearly lose my footing before a strong hand wraps around my upper arm and pulls me backward. I stumble down from the ledge and land against a solid mass, letting out an oomph sound as the body behind me shuffles back a couple of inches.

"Remi! What the fuck are you doing here?" I gasp as I look up into the cold, expressionless face of my stepbrother. He makes a sucking sound through his teeth and pushes me up so I am standing on my own. I glare at the ground and nonchalantly wipe at my long, black sleeves despite there being no dirt to clean off.

"Your mother is worried." Remi casually answers as he reaches into his bomber jacket pocket and fishes out a lighter and pack of cigarettes.

"Did she tell you that before or after she got done fucking your dad?" I huff as he pulls a cigarette out of the box with his teeth and lights the end, taking a long drag of nicotine-laced air before exhaling the smoke into the black sky.

"Aren't you supposed to be depressed, or whatever? Didn't know you were capable of making jokes in this state." He emphasizes the word by making quotation marks with his pointer and middle fingers. I chew the inside of my cheek.

"It's not really a joke if it's true," I whisper, swatting the air with my hand as smoke from Remi's cigarette invades my space. He rolls his eyes and sighs.

"I would've done it this time if you hadn't interrupted!" I motion with my arm towards the ledge of the fifth floor of the parking deck I was standing on before Remi showed up.

"That's what you said the last time I found you, attempting to tie a rope around your bedroom fan. And, the time before that, when you tried to steal my father's sleeping pills from his bathroom." Remi flicks his cigarette on the concrete and shuffles his foot over it, snuffing out the light. My lips part, but, before I can respond, Remi grabs the collar of my sweatshirt and pulls me towards the elevator and away from the ledge. I begin to glare but sigh when he presses the down button on the elevator. I continue to bite the inside of my cheek while we watch the floor number rise as the elevator comes up.

"Look, I don't really give a fuck if you want to kill yourself this bad, but your mom would be a fucking mess, and she's the only thing keeping my father from the bottle," Remi says, without looking at me, as we walk towards his black Dodge Charger. I frown when he opens the passenger side door and pushes me in, pulling my seatbelt over my lap and buckling me in.

"I'm not a child-"

"Then quit acting like one." He cuts me off as the seatbelt clicks into place, and he shuts my door. I press my forehead to the cold window and close my eyes as Remi starts the car, glass vibrating against my head.

"It's not like you even care…" I whisper to myself as my thoughts begin to race. I don't think Remi hears me because he takes his phone out and calls his dad, letting him know we are on the way home. I can hear my mother yelling her appreciation for Remi in the background and furrow my brows.

You failed yet again, Morgan.

I open my eyes, watching the lights blur as we race down the highway.

You really thought you'd be successful at something for once?

I glare at my reflection in the mirror and shake my head, clenching my fists in my lap. A hand lands on one of my wrists, and I look over at Remi as he continues to drive.

Remi is only 23, but he's strong and acts much older. He's tall, about 6 feet 3 inches, and has piercing blue eyes and dark brown hair that a lot of girls typically comment on whenever they're making a move on him. He usually just sighs and stares anywhere but at them as he turns them down.

"Not interested." He'll say.

"I don't have time for this." Another one of his favorites.

"Your presence disgusts me." He saves for the special few who really get in his space and attempt to pique his interest.

I never really understood why he was so adamant about being unavailable until one of his best friends, Carson, made a joke that they should pose as a couple to get some discounted drinks at a couple's night event at a bar.

"I mean… I-I wouldn't mind." Remi stuttered, barely making eye contact with Carson. Carson burst out laughing, smacking the back of Remi's shoulder and wiping a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye.

"You're such a jokester, Rems! Let's not ruin our reputations by posing as some homos!" Carson managed to say as he continued laughing. Remi forced a smile and chuckled.

"Y-yeah. Totally, dude." He replied, shrugging Carson's hand off his shoulder and glaring at the ground.

"What are you thinking about?" Remi's voice brings me out of my thoughts as I slap his hand away from my wrist.

"Nothing… I'm just tired." I say, operating on autopilot.

"Uh huh," He rolls his eyes, "Then why were you staring at me?"

I pick at the skin on the sides of my fingernails.

"I was just thinking about Cars-" My words get stuck in my throat as Remi slams on the break as we screech into the driveway and looks at me with a deep glare.

"Get. Out." He growls. I frown and reach for his hand, but he leaves the car and slams his door. I sigh and watch as he makes his way to the front door as my mom and his dad come out of the house. Mom races towards the car as Remi's dad, Chris, tries to talk to him. Remi shoves past him and disappears into the house.

"My sweet boy!" Mom yells as she wrenches the passenger door open and pulls on my arms. I get out of the car and allow her to hug me as she pulls my head to her shoulder.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Baby, are you hurt? Did anyone mess with you? Let me see your face!" She yells as she grabs my cheeks and makes me look into her eyes, examining my face and body for injuries. I huff and look past her shoulder to where Chris stands, mouth in a tight line and arms crossed.

"You really worried us, son. It's almost three in the morning, and-"

"I'm not your son." I cut him off.

"Morgan!" My mom gasps.

"It's okay, Layla." Chris puts a hand on her shoulder and looks me in the eyes, sighing.

"Morgan, I understand you must be feeling uncomfortable with our new living arrangement, but we are here to listen to you if you are willing to talk to us." He says in his therapist voice. I scoff.

"Sure, Chris. You know, I might actually believe you if you weren't just keeping up appearances to stay in my mom's bed." I push past my mom and Chris as he blinks. My mother sobs and puts her face in his chest, apologizing on my behalf. I frown but continue walking into the house and up to my room, slamming the bedroom door behind me.

"Fuck…" I sigh and walk to my bed where a ball of black fur lays curled up on one of my dark gray pillows. As I sit on the end of the bed to take off my shoes, a tail untucks from under the ball of fur and a soft chirp escapes my cat's mouth as she stands and stretches.

"Sorry, Luna, I didn't mean to disturb you." I watch as she tilts her head and meows at me as if understanding my apology. A small smile creeps over my lips, and I lay back, patting my chest so Luna knows she can lay on top of me. She does, and I fish my phone out of my jean pocket, unlocking it.

Mom: 24 Missed Calls

Chris: 10 Missed Calls

Remi: 1 Missed Call

Of course, Remi wouldn't bother with theatrics and only attempted to call me once. I swipe the notifications off my screen and stop when I notice a new text message alert from two minutes ago.

"Who is texting me at three in the morning?" I ask myself out loud, pressing on the messages app.

Unknown Number: did u forget how to jump?

My breath gets stuck in my throat, and I gulp as I reply.

Morgan: Who is this? How do you have my number?

I wait five minutes, then ten, then fifteen, and there are no replies. My thumb hovers over the 'block number' button, but I exit out of the app instead and turn my phone off. The clock reads 3:37 AM, and I groan as Luna hops off my chest and saunters over to her cat tree in the corner of my room. I can hear my mother and Chris walking down the hallway and closing their bedroom door, followed by the clicking of their nightstand lamps. The world is quiet and dark as I chew on the inside of my cheek and pick at the skin around my fingernails. I turn around, facing my bedroom wall, and squeeze one of my pillows to my chest, my eyes fluttering as sleep begins to engulf me.

Did you forget how to jump?

My eyes close, and the last thought on my mind replays as I fall asleep.

Remi

It's close to 4 AM by the time I step out of the shower. Water drips down my body, and I glance at my reflection in the mirror.

Carson.

Morgan's voice echoes in my head as that name enters my thoughts, and goosebumps erupt over my arms and legs. I glare at myself, grabbing a towel and throwing it over my head as I dry my hair. My phone lights up on the counter, and I pick it up. There's a message from Delilah, my childhood friend, on the screen.

Delilah: Is Morgan ok?

I debate on answering while I throw on some shorts and walk over to my bed, allowing myself to drop onto the mattress. As much as I'd love to avoid talking to someone right now, I know she means well.

Remi: Home

The reply is simple and blunt, but I know Delilah will understand. My phone screen lights up with a picture of Delilah flipping me the bird and sticking her tongue out as she calls me. I groan and swipe the green answer button, bringing the phone to my ear.

"You do know we've been sharing each other's location for, like, 4 years now. I know you're home, dipshit." Delilah's voice comes tauntingly through the phone. I crack a smile.

"I don't make it a habit to stalk your every move," I argue back, placing her on speakerphone and opening the location tracking app on my phone.

"I don't stalk you. You just worry me when I get a text at 2 AM that says you're going out to look for Morgan." Her voice wavers a bit, and I can tell there's more she wants to say. I press on her icon on the map and notice she's at her boyfriend's house.

"I'm okay, Lilah… and so is Morgan." I sigh, watching as her icon pulses on the map as if mimicking the pacing I can hear her doing through the phone.

"Where was he this time?" The pacing stops.

"The old parking deck downtown. Fifth floor, actually." I answer nonchalantly. I can hear the frown in her voice as she responds.

"I'm so sorry, Remi. You must feel so defeated and anxious after witnessing that!" She sniffles, and I glare at my bedroom wall.

"Honestly, I'm just really tired. We can talk more tomorrow, Lilah."

"Remi, I'm here for-" Her voice is cut off as I hang up the phone. The screen lights up again, and I glance at it.

Delilah: I am here for you. xo

This time I choose not to answer and put my phone on silent, tossing it on my nightstand. I pull my blanket over my head and close my eyes, sighing into my pillow.

—

"Rems! You're never going to guess what came in the mail!" Carson screams as he bursts into my bedroom, a large envelope in his hand. I blink and set my math homework down, facing him in my desk chair.

"Carson, it's literally 8:30 PM on a Tuesday, and we have a math exam tomorrow. Couldn't you have just texted-" I'm cut off as my friend shoves the envelope he was holding into my chest.

"First of all, who actually fucking studies anymore? Second of all, if I just texted you, then I wouldn't have been able to see your reaction! Go on, open it!" He throws his hands into the air, and I roll my eyes. I open the envelope and pull out a piece of paper with Harvard letterhead on it.

"Dear Mr. Vines," I read out loud, "Congratulations! I am delighted to inform you that the Committee on Admissions has admitted you to-"

"Dude, I got in!" He cuts me off, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. I begin to chuckle, and he pulls me up into a hug.

"That's right! Those Harvard ladies better watch out because this dynamic duo is irresistible." He punctuates the last word with a sauve tone and pulls away from me, his face a mere 6 inches from mine. I blink and stare into his eyes before clearing my throat and patting his shoulder, pulling away from the hug.

"Yeah… That's great, man. I'm proud of you." I rub the back of my neck, staring at the ground. He punches my shoulder.

"Stop looking so depressed, Rems! We totally gotta save some money up to get a new Playstation for our dorm room." He laughs, as he continues to talk about partying and girls.

My eyes flutter open when I hear a knock on my bedroom door. I pull the blanket from over my head and blink at the sunlight flooding into my room through the window next to my bed. The clock on my nightstand reads 10 AM.

"Time to wake up, son. Your new apartment isn't going to furnish itself." My dad speaks from the other side of my door. I look around my room at the cardboard boxes gathered in different areas. Some are taped up and labeled, and others are still open with items haphazardly thrown into them.

"I'll be up in a second, dad," I call from my bed, stretching and running my hand through my hair.

"Moving truck will be here in thirty minutes. Layla and Morgan are off at family therapy right now, so it'll just be me and you today." He responds, walking away.

"So much for family therapy, considering half of your so-called family is here…" I mutter to myself.

My father didn't plan to remarry after my mother passed away. I was only 7 when he carried me out into the cold night, surrounded by blue and red lights. Several EMTs ran into my house as others rushed over to my father and me, swamping him with questions.

"Sir, is the child okay?"

"Is that your blood?"

"Can you hear us?"

The questions kept coming, and my father remained silent as we walked to the end of the driveway. There was blood covering his blue pajamas and splattered along his jawline. His eyes were wide and he looked ahead at nothing in particular.

"Papa…" I managed to whimper. He blinked and looked down at me, tears filling his eyes.

"I'm so sorry."

A hand lands on my shoulder, and I jump.

"Son, did you hear me?" My father furrows his brows and watches my face.

"Sorry, dad, I was just… thinking," I respond as I put another box into the moving truck. He shakes his head.

"You've been zoning out an awful lot lately. Do you need to increase the dose for your anxiety medication?"

"No," I quickly answer, "I'm okay. Just tired."

He frowns and sighs, walking back into the house to retrieve the last box from my room. I want to tell him I haven't taken my medication in 8 months, but I know I'll be chastised. I quickly send a text to Delilah, letting her know I'll be at the apartment in 20 minutes. At first, my dad was opposed to me having a female roommate. The apartment has 2 bedrooms, sure, but dad had a hard time believing I didn't have different motives for sharing a space with my childhood friend. Luckily, Delilah started dating her current boyfriend, and dad backed off.

"Just please don't make me a grandfather yet. You need to get your priorities sorted out first, son." He told me a week ago as we began packing my room. I watch as he walks through the front door and loads the last box into the moving truck.

My dad is a successful man. He owns and practices at a clinic he started at the beginning of his career, with no guarantee of success. He drives a fancy car, lives in a modern-day mansion, and he's basically a local celebrity. However, most people haven't seen the side of him he reserved for late at night, locked away in his study. The side that yelled and threw bottles at the wall, shattering his collected persona into millions of little pieces. Most people wouldn't guess that the most sought-after therapist this side of the train tracks stumbled to his room each night, drenched in the scent of alcohol, after his wife died. Most people wouldn't guess that this man, who stands in front of me wearing a sweater vest and neatly pressed khakis, tripped into his 8-year-old son's room and screamed at him for looking too much like her. My jaw clenches, and I gulp down the nausea gathering in my throat and chest.

"Let's go," I say as he locks the back of the truck, "Delilah is waiting on us."