Chapter Text
Picking up the pieces. It felt like he would never stop picking up the pieces. His entire life had been a series of picking up the fucking pieces.
He was tired of it. He was tired of his brothers, Matt and Chris, tiptoeing around him like he was a bomb about to go off at any moment, some fragile and unpredictable explosive. They spoke more softly to him now, gentler. Chris had reigned in his harsh insults, the very foundation of their banter. They'd also gotten into the habit of sharing concerned looks between each other like Nick had suddenly gone completely blind. It made him feel invisible; like a child.
He wanted the aggression and witty comebacks and slaps and punches and burping in each other's faces. He wanted the normalcy back. But for the past two weeks, everything had just felt diluted to Nick. Like someone had dimmed the brightness, saturated his vision, popped earplugs into his ears and made everything soft and fuzzy at the edges.
It felt like such an effort to even move the short distance between his bed and bathroom. He spent the first few days entirely bed-bound, a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the world existed past his four bedroom walls; his safe haven. He was thankful for the lock on his door, it was easier to ignore his brothers' desperate pleas from the other side of it without having to see them and their concern. Matt's "Please just come and eat something. I've made pesto pasta, just try to eat a little bit" and Chris' unsure "Nick, come on your scaring me. Why don't we watch a movie? Let's finally watch The Nightmare Before Christmas, yeah?" He could just pop his AirPods in and roll over and for a little while forget they existed too.
In hindsight, he shouldn't have blocked his brothers out like that. He should've known they only wanted to help. That when one of them was hurting, they were all hurting. He should've known this and yet he was still surprised when a different voice started to drift from under his bedroom door.
"Nick?"
Nick stirred from under his comforter, his recently red-dyed hair wildly sticking out in different directions. His under eye circles were an angry dark smudge of kohl against his paler than usual skin. He looked papery, like he could crumple at any moment, his comforter the only thing holding him together.
"Nick, honey. Can you unlock the door please?" The voice called again. It was unmistakably his mom's.
Shiiiiit. Fucking A.
It dawned on him slowly that Marylou was here in LA, right outside his bedroom door. That Chris and Matt must have called her in their desperation, booked her plane ticket and picked her up from the airport all whilst he wallowed in his self-pity, completely unaware.
Why couldn't he pretend to not exist for a little longer? He tried to tamp down his anger at his brothers, tried to imagine him in their shoes and the lengths he'd go to if one of his brothers wasn't eating or showering or communicating or leaving his room. Hell, he'd do nothing short of break their door down to ensure that they were okay.
But in that moment, he just felt betrayed and something much more hideous, an emotion lurking beneath. Shame. Ashamed that he had been reduced to this and caused his mom to fly across the country to beg her 21 year old son to just please open the door. Ashamed that he'd been worrying his brothers sick with his silence. Ashamed that he'd done nothing but rot in his bed for the past 3 days, his hair growing greasier, his stomach empty, his eyes becoming more bloodshot the further sleep evaded him.
He was 21. He shouldn't need his mom. He should be able to get up in the morning and brush his teeth and shower.
But as Marylou called out again, Nick's stoic determination to not acknowledge the situation; his resolve to not shed a single tear; to bury his head in the sand until he could breeze out of his room with his charming smile and gaslight everyone into forgetting he even had a boyfriend for the past year, crumbled.
Because really, Nick did need his mom. He needed her so bad. He needed to dissolve in her arms and weep until he couldn't anymore. So he stumbled out of bed, his vision blurry, hair a mess, clothes crumpled and room stale and for the first time in three days Matt and Chris sighed in relief as they heard the click of Nick's bedroom door unlocking, resounding throughout the unsettlingly quiet house.