Work Text:
“Nick, Matt, hurry up. Complaining about me being late all the time...”
Chris huffed as he swung open the front door, the keys shivering against the bitter January breeze. The street was gently illuminated by saffron light, but otherwise pitch-black under the night sky. Chris wasn't sure where the moon had gone, but Nick would probably find it before he did, and he'd beg Matt to pull over at just the right spot to take a perfect picture.
Chris shuddered at that thought. He wasn't sure why.
Remembering himself, the youngest triplet groaned before turning back to the agape door, expecting to see at least one of his brothers stumbling down the stairs or struggling to pull a shoe on. But there was only silence. Chris rolled his eyes, knowing they were only taking their sweet time to piss him off. Give him a taste of his own medicine, maybe.
“I'll just wait for you slow-pokes in the van!" He called up the stairs before going back outside. He checked the time on his phone while turning the corner to the driveway. 1:43AM. He smiled at a distant memory of Nick passing through the kitchen to tell him and Matt that they all needed to get their sleep schedules in check. He had locked eyes with Matt and, in some unspoken language, they knew to burst into laughter at the exact same time.
"Yours is the worst," Matt had mumbled before slurping some cereal out of the bowl he was cradling to his chest. Nick had grumbled or stuck his tongue out, or something else spiteful, before pouring some cereal for himself and asking what movie they wanted to watch. That was his way of giving in, and they watched the Camp Rock movies until 4AM.
When Chris lifted his head, the van wasn't in the driveway. Some dark feeling grew inside him. He blinked it away, though, and cleared his throat. Matt and Nick must be out.
He slammed the door on his way back inside.
'Why is this guy just talking to himself in a car??'
'This is so sad to see. He misses them so much.'
'Does he think they're still there?'
"Nick, please let me draw you a tattoo," Matt pleaded, leaning into his brother and grinning.
Nick pulled a sour face. "You have the drawing skills of a fucking two-year-old. Do you know anyone else who would let a two-year-old draw on them permanently? Scratch that, your drawing skills are probably worse than a literal toddler's are."
"That is so unfair!"
"Unfair? Matt, it's going on my body forever!"
"Well, I'd let you do mine!" Matt whined. Nick rolled his eyes and made his way to the kitchen.
"Yeah, because I can actually draw... Chris, can you answer the door?"
Chris jolted and his face slipped from his palm. He must have been so absorbed in his brothers' bickering that he missed the doorbell entirely. Swallowing his daze, Chris nodded and hauled himself off the couch, shuffling to the front door. He eased it open carefully, squinting into the sunlight.
"Christopher Sturniolo?" The mailman mumbled. He wasn't even looking at Chris, and he thought the man was perhaps looking at the delivery tag to make sure he pronounced his name right.
"Yeah," Chris shot back (why did he sound so harsh?), hand still cautiously perched around the door like a hermit's. In the man's arms rested a bouquet of pretty flowers. Sunflowers and forget-me-nots. His face fell. The flowers must have been for Nick, because he was the only one Chris could imagine anyone gifting flowers to. But they were under his name, weren't they?
"Thank you."
The man had a funny, pitying look on his face as he handed them over, but he didn't say anything.
Closing the door behind him, Chris pursed his lips as he turned the bouquet mindlessly in his hands. It was a dainty, beautiful thing: laced with white ribbon and vibrant leaves, full of dozens of baby blue blooms and yellow licks of sunflower petals. They could have been a painting.
"Nick, I think these are for you," Chris spoke beneath his breath, as if only to himself, and he continued to search the pretty collection of flowers for any sign of who had sent them. Finally, found resting in the shade of a drooping leaf, was the tag. He held the card delicately between his forefinger and thumb, afraid to ruin its perfection.
To Christopher,
We are deeply saddened to hear of your loss. Our thoughts and prayers are with you and the rest of your family. Sending you strength and love.
The air got caught in his throat and all of sudden Chris wanted to throw up anything and everything he'd ever consumed in his life. Was this meant to be funny? Was Nick about to walk back in with his camera and was Matt about to start giggling from the top of the stairs? Where were his brothers?
"Is this some kind of sick joke, huh?" He challenged an empty room, throwing his arms out. The bouquet struck the ground like lightning. A few petals broke away and scattered over the floorboards. Chris' feet were heavy as he ran circles around the room. Where were his brothers?
"You think this is fucking hilarious, don't you? C'mon out, Nick, you got me. I'm mad, I'm upset, I'm whatever you want me to be if you just come out here please!"
A beat. Chris was expecting Nick to make fun of him now, and Matt to swing the kitchen door open and stare at him tight-lipped until he broke into breathless laughter. There was nothing. There was no one. Only Chris. Where were his brothers?
"I gotta find Matt... Nick? Matt?" His words were tying together in sloppy knots. The room was getting blurry with how fast he was spinning around searching for them. He felt sick with a feeling of something he couldn't particularly name. Something like guilt.
"Nick? Where's Nick? Matty?"
He closed his eyes and he pressed his back to the door and he slid down, down, down until his knees were tucked into his chest, and he pressed his hands over his ears so tight that he might never be part of this world again.
He forced one stern word.
"No."
And when he opened his eyes, Matt was squatting in front of him, smiling, and asking Chris what on Earth he was up to.
'How many of these is he gonna do by himself?'
'Chris you need help.'
'We all miss them so much ):'
They were doing the staring thing again.
Chris groaned, spitting his toothpaste into the sink and turning on the faucet. He ran his finger under the water to check he was still alive and feeling things. He took a moment to really look at himself: sunken-eyed, dull, probably in need of a haircut. When he shifted his gaze, he found Nick still staring at him in the bathroom mirror.
"What the fuck do you want?" Chris spat, face tight. Nick didn't say anything, didn't move, didn't blink.
They were doing this a lot lately. Chris had never been able to predict his brothers' behaviours before, he could admit that, but this was becoming an old and off-putting routine. Something in him knew that this wasn't Nick, not really him, but he didn't want to think about that yet.
He swivelled around to face them both. Matt was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, head tilted up towards him. Chris clutched the sink like a lifebuoy.
Then he laughed, face kind and youthful again.
"Ohh. The pills, I know. You're right." He chuckled, shaking his head. These were his real brothers; they were taking care of him. Chris ignored how his hands shook as he unscrewed the cap of the orange container, easing two pearly capsules into his palm before putting them in his mouth.
"Thanks for reminding me."
Nothing spoke. Nothing moved.
Chris' laughter slowly died off as he minded himself, easing against the sink again and smiling as he swallowed the pills. His brothers were here and everything was alright. They had been prescribed by the doctor a few weeks ago – a drug he wouldn't even try to pronounce because Nick would laugh in his face – and at this point in time he couldn't remember what they were for.
"Hey, Matt, I got you those chocolate chip pancakes you like at the store yesterday. I don't know how you eat that crap, but whatever makes you happy..."
He drifted off, hands tightening. Matt stared at him still. His face was pale and hollow, missing its typical childish glow. It made him uncomfortable and squeamish. He was probably just trying to scare him, just like how they loved to scare Nick in the car.
"Are you hungry, Matt? I can make your pancakes now."
He veered around to Nick, now, who looked through him just the same.
"C'mon, man. What's with the cold shoulder?" Chris spluttered uneasily, trying his best to upkeep his smile. He didn't get a reply.
"Nick?"
For a second, one terrifying moment, Chris thought he saw something horrible. The room was red, and the bathtub was full of blood, and the floor had disappeared. He thought he heard sirens, or screaming, or maybe it was white noise. He felt nauseous with that guilty feeling again and tried catching his breath.
Nick's face was dark and battered, blossoming with deep warping colours. His nose ring was missing and there was blood dripping from his nostrils. Matt's hair clung to his skin and his head looked strange, shaped in a cruel, grotesque way as if he'd deflated. His eyes were bloodshot and his mouth hung open. And he was making this sound, this God-awful croaking as though he was begging to be put out of his misery.
This reminded him of something. Of black suits and rain. Of praying and bargaining. Of sorrys and thank yous, but in what fucking world could he be grateful? Of sunflowers and forget-me-nots.
Chris screamed for help and for mercy. But then the world was back to normal.
"What?" Nick pressed gently, leaning in to catch his brother's eye. He smiled unsurely, silently asking are you alright?
Chris choked on a cry and clamped a hand over his mouth.
"No."
"Chris, what's wrong?" Matt was asking, rising from the bathtub and standing right there in front of him. It was him. It wasn't. Was it?
"Leave me alone!" He sobbed, launching himself into the bathroom door and taking off down the hallway. This wasn't real. But, then, what was?
’YouTube Stars Nick and Matt Sturniolo: Gone Too Soon’
Two out of the three internet famous Sturniolo Triplets, Nicolas and Matthew Sturniolo, were killed in a Boston car crash, according to local authorities.
Nick and Matt, 19, were two out of three members of the popular Sturniolo Triplets YouTube channel, run by themselves and their triplet brother, Christopher Sturniolo. They were killed in a fatal car accident on Christmas Eve as the road conditions were too icy for driving.
Third triplet, Chris, has not made any public announcements, but still frequently uploads to the Sturniolo Triplets channel. In these videos Chris speaks to himself, thinking his brothers are still with him. Followers of the channel post comments praying for his peace of mind.
He was in the corner, clutching his head, crossing his legs, pulling his limbs as close to himself as humanly possible. Chris wasn't sure if he was crying or drowning in a cold sweat, but he refused to move an inch to check for himself. His eyes were screwed tightly shut.
"Chris." Nick spoke to him like a child, like a dog that had brought a dead bird to the door. It wasn't his fault.
"Go away," he croaked, palms moving to cover his ears. This wasn't them, wasn't him, wasn't real.
His ears began ringing and when he distanced himself enough it blended into this mesmerising tune, a mellifluous carol. He drifted into the memory of spelling fruit loaf and watching Nick try to wrap tinsel around the stair railing. He remembered laughing, his silly paper hat falling down his forehead and pushing his hair into his eyes.
"I'd like to see you do any better!" Nick had grunted, red-faced and ticking like a bomb. Christmas had been a lot more stressful now that they lived alone, but Nick had taken it upon himself to be the decorator because he thought that neither of his brothers could do it any better.
Chris had folded his arms and laughed harder, feeling his stomach tighten. Matt had curiously stepped in from the kitchen and struggled to hold in his own shrill laughter, although he was far more empathetic than Chris had been.
"Let me give you a hand." He had tried reaching up to Nick through the gap in the railing, but Nick had swatted his hand away as if it were the plague. "No thank you, Matthew. I am well and fine doing it myself."
Matt had only shrugged, smiling smugly before wandering to the door to get his keys from the bowl.
"Where you going?" Chris had asked, already leaning forward because wherever Matt went, Chris was sure to follow. Matt had such a gentle expression when he turned around, cheeks rosy, smile soft. He began taking his apron off.
"I forgot to get butter yesterday, so now I gotta go get some!"
Nick was eager to abandon his horrific decorating and find something else to do. "Can I come with you? I need tape and we don't have any hot chocolate mix."
"Sure. Chris, you need anything?"
'I need you.'
But Chris had already shaken his head and slumped back into the sofa. "Nah. I'll stay here and keep watch on your loaf," he answered nonchalantly.
Matt grinned and tossed the apron over. "You are now my Sous Chef."
"Okay, let's go, please. The store's gonna close early tonight," Nick coaxed, already slipping on his coat and reaching for the door handle. Matt had looked to Chris apologetically, as if he had so much more to say to him. He followed Nick out the door.
"Love you, Chris! We'll be back in, like, ten minutes."
"Okay!" Chris had chimed back, and only now did he realise that he never said 'I love you' back.
But in his head, Christopher Sturniolo was back in December, sitting on the sofa on Christmas Eve, waiting for his brothers to come home from the store. He wasn't alone, he wasn't afraid, and he wasn't reeling in memories to keep him alive.
He wished he knew back then that they would never come home.