Archive of Our Own

Chris is sitting at his desk, headset snug over his head, fingers flying over the keyboard as his game lights up the screen. He’s deep in concentration when the door slams open, startling him just enough to mess up his move.

“What do you want?” Chris groans, spinning around to face Nick, who is already halfway across the room.

“Can you give me a ride tomorrow morning? For my brand meeting,” Nick blurts out, completely ignoring Chris's annoyed tone.

Chris frowns, leaning back in his chair. “Can’t Matt drive you? I’ve been the chauffeur for, like, a whole week,” he complains, letting the exasperation drip from his voice.

Nick steps closer, his expression unbothered, like he’s already decided Chris is going to do it. “He said his ankle still hurts.”

He rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts. “His ankle still hurts? He hasn’t mentioned it in a week! He’s been walking around just fine. I swear he’s milking this just to get out of driving.”

Nick laughs, leaning back on Chris's bed and folding his arms behind his head. “Probably.”

Chris huffs, turning back to his screen. "He’s just using me now. It’s crazy."

“Yeah, well, your driving is something else,” Nick admits, sitting up. “But hey, I still need that ride. I’m not showing up late because Matt’s ankle needs some love.”

Chris shoots him a look over his shoulder. “Can't you uber? I don’t know if you’re aware, but I have better things to do than chauffeur you around.”

“Oh, do you?” Nick smirks. “Like what? Play more games and do nothing while im busting my ass off? Yeah, and Uber-ing is fucking crazy when I literally have two brothers that could drive, and one of them is just simply being lazy."

“Shut up,” Chris says, rolling his eyes and swiveling back toward his monitor. “Whatever. I swear, if he’s faking it, I will knock out his bitch ass.”

Nick just laughs, shaking his head and walking to the door. “Be ready by nine. I need to be there before ten.”

Chris hums in response, already turning back to his game. He doesn’t commit, but they both know he’ll do it. Not because he wants to, because someone has to, and it sure as hell won’t be Matt.

-

Chris regrets every choice he made last night, starting with staying up until nearly 5 a.m. playing games. Now, sitting upright in bed at 8 in the morning, his head pounds like a drum, and his body feels like it’s been dunked in ice water. Shivers rack through him, making him pull his blanket tighter around his shoulders for a second before tossing it off entirely. There’s no way he’s sick when he does this almost every other day. That is insane.

His bed feels foreign beneath him, maybe because he actually slept in it for once instead of crashing on Matt’s or Nick’s. Two hours of sleep, maybe two and a half, and now he’s paying for it. His body feels heavy as he swings his legs off the bed, he changes into a hoodie and sweats, still shivering, and drags himself up to the kitchen.

Advil. I need Advil.

He’s already debating asking Matt to drive Nick to his meeting instead. It’s not like Matt’s ankle is actually that bad.

As Chris steps into the kitchen, he saw Matt shuffling groggily to the counter with sleep-heavy eyes and bedhead. Chris halts, watching him pour himself a glass of water, and that’s when he sees the deep blue ankle support wrapped snugly around Matt’s right ankle.

Chris stares, guilt filling his chest.

So, maybe his ankle really is hurting.

Matt doesn’t notice him at first, too busy chugging the water, but when he glances up and spots Chris standing there, he raises an eyebrow. “What are you looking at?” he asks, voice hoarse from sleep.

“Nothing,” Chris mutters, moving towards the cabinet as Matt shuffles back to his room, high chance to resume his sleep.

Chris pulls open the cabinet door, blinking against the harsh kitchen light as he scans the shelves. Empty. Nothing. Not a single pill bottle or box of medicine. Just some loose band-aids and an ancient-looking thermometer shoved into the corner.

He fucking wonders how do they even survive in this house.

His head throbs, so he slams the cabinet door shut, too tired and annoyed to care if it makes a noise. He knows one thing for sure: Nick has to have Advil. With his occasional migraines and his weird need to always be overly prepared, there’s no way Nick doesn’t have some stashed away in his room or his bag. Chris makes a mental note to hunt him down for it later.

Resigned, he trudges over to the couch and flops down, sinking into the cushions. He tilts his head back, shutting his eyes and waits for Nick to emerge from his room.

"Chris. Chris, let’s go! I’m gonna be late!" Nick’s voice booms from the staircase, sharp and impatient. Chris groans, cracking his eyes open. He swears he feels like he just blinked? He looks at his phone screen stating "9:30", an hour and a half has passed.

He rubs his eyes, that little nap made everything worse. His head is pounding badly, and his whole body feels like it’s dragging through quicksand.

He squints, watching Nick shuffle around near the kitchen counter, checking all of his stuff. Chris exhales heavily, dragging himself off the couch, but instead of heading toward the stairs, he detours toward Matt’s room.

Matt is still dead asleep when Chris slips into his room. He sits down at the edge of Matt’s bed, shaking him gently by the shoulder. “Hey, Matt, you think you can send Nick instead?”

Matt lets out a low grunt, barely moving. “No, Chris,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. He shifts slightly, as if that’s enough of an answer.

Chris tries again, his patience already running thin. “My head hurts like crazy,” he mutters, hoping Matt will take pity on him.

This time, Matt cracks an eye open, his expression groggy and unimpressed. “And my ankle’s been hurting for weeks. Go, Chris.” His tone is clipped, final, as he rolls over and buries his face back into the pillow.

Chris’s lips press into a thin line. His patience is officially gone. He stands as he glares at Matt’s motionless figure. “I regret learn how to drive.” he mutters under his breath, though Matt doesn’t even flinch.

“Chris! Let’s go!” Nick yells again, voice echoing through the house.

Chris exhales a frustrated huff that does nothing to make him feel better. He stomps back toward the stairs.

He slides into the driver’s seat, squinting against the unforgiving morning sun that feels like a personal attack. It pierces through the windshield, stabbing at his already aching head, and he winces.

Great.

Nick, settled in the passenger seat, taps away on his phone as he turns on the navigation. Neither of them says a word. It’s too early, and they’re both tired.

The drive is mercifully short, just twenty minutes and all he can think about is getting back home and crawling into bed. The silence in the car is punctuated only by the dull hum of the engine and the occasional direction from the GPS.

When they stop at a red light, Chris blinks hard. “Hey, do you have Advil or Tylenol with you?”

Nick looks up, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I do. What for?”

“My head is killing me right now,” Chris admits, one hand rubbing at his temple.

Nick hums knowingly, “Maybe because you don’t sleep enough playing that stupid game.”

Chris scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You don’t even play it,"

Nick shakes his head, "I dont need to." He pulls the plastic bottle of Advil from his bag and hands it to Chris as they drive by the entrance of the building. “Here,” Nick says, unplugging his seatbelt. “Thanks for driving me. I’ll be back around noon, and Laura’s giving me a ride home. You can rest.”

Chris nods. “Okay,” he mumbles, watching Nick open the door.

As Nick steps out and starts walking toward the entrance, Chris smirks to himself. Impulsively, he turns down the window and yells, “Nick!”

Nick pauses, turning back with a frown, clearly not in the mood for whatever this is. “What?” he asks, looking both annoyed and confused.

“I love you!” Chris calls out.

Nick throws his hands up in exasperation. “Okay?? I love you too??” he shouts back, despite his tone equal parts confused and reluctant.

Chris laughs quietly to himself as he turns the window back up. Beneath Nick’s sarcasm, he knows he appreciated it.

As he drives back home, the headache has been increasingly aggravated by the sun, and he debates whether he should just take the Advil now.

He reaches for the bottle sitting on the passenger seat. But as his fingers brush against the plastic, it slips from his fingers, tumbling down between the seat and the door.

“Damn it,” Chris mutters under his breath, his gaze flicking down to try and spot where it landed. His frustration bubbles up as he leans slightly to get a better look.

That’s when he hears it, a loud, blaring honk. He snaps his eyes back to the road, but it’s too late.

The impact is violent and sudden, his ears fill with the deafening screech of metal against metal, followed by an eerie silence that only lasts a moment before the car begins to roll. Gravity shifts violently, throwing him around as the world stars to fade in and out.

Pain sears through his body, sharp and disorienting, before a crushing darkness finally consumes him.

-

Matt stirs awake, his phone vibrating angrily on his nightstand. The piercing sound pulls him from the depths of sleep, and he groans, cracking one eye open to glare at the screen. He remembers putting his phone on Do Not Disturb last night, which means whoever it is has already called four times now to break through.

He picks up, his voice rough with sleep. “Hello?”

"Is this Matthew Sturniolo?" A voice on the other end sounds calm but he can hear the urgency and it cuts through his haze instantly.

“Yeah, this is him,” Matt answers, sitting up from his sleep, the tone alone makes him anxious.

“I'm calling from Emergency Department of Martin Luther King Jr. Hospital. We need to inform you that Christopher Sturniolo was involved in a car accident. He’s currently being treated and stabilised, and we require your presence at the hospital as soon as possible.”

He blinks, heart drops into his stomach. He’s frozen for a moment, gripping the phone so hard his knuckles turn white. "What—what happened? Is he okay? What happened??"

“He was brought in after a rollover collision at 110. Please come as soon as possible.”

Matt doesn’t even respond before hanging up, his mind a swirling mess of panic and adrenaline. He scrambles out of bed, pulling on the first clothes he finds; a hoodie and sweats that don’t even match. Hands fumbling as he grabs his wallet and rushes to the counter where they always keep the car key.

But the key isn’t there.

His breath quickens as he remembers, Chris had taken the car. The only car they have. His chest tightens, the realization makes everything suddenly feel thousand times realer.

He crashed the car.

Chris is in a car crash.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends in frustration, before pulling out his phone.
His fingers swipe across the screen in a frenzy as he tries to find the Uber app, which he doesn’t even know if he has it downloaded.

He’s scrolling aimlessly, his vision blurring with frustration and rising panic, when his phone buzzes again. He answers without even checking who it is.
“Matt,” Nick’s voice cracks through the speaker, raw and shaking. “Matt, why the hell didn’t you answer your phone? They called me after you didn’t pick up—” Nick’s words tumble out, a mix of panic and barely suppressed sobs. “Chris—he’s—he’s at Martin Luther Hospital. They told me—oh my god, Matt, it sounds so bad.”

“I know,” Matt chokes out, gripping the phone to his ear as his other hand presses against his chest, trying to slow his erratic breathing. “They just called me. I—I’m trying to figure out how to get there. I can’t—Chris had the car, Nick. He had the car.”

Nick hiccups through his tears. “Then take an Uber! Just get there please Matt.”

The line goes dead before Matt can even respond. He stands still for a moment, staring at the blank screen, Nick’s crying voice remains ringing in his ears. Then, with trembling hands, he goes back to his phone.

-

Matt stumbles out of the Uber before it even comes to a full stop, shoving a crumpled fifty at the driver without waiting for change. The automatic doors parts as he rushed into the emergency department, his eyes dart around frantically.

The woman at the reception desk barely has time to look up before Matt’s there, his hands gripping the counter tightly. “Chris—Christopher Sturniolo,” he stammers, his voice cracking. “He was in a car accident. They called me.”

The receptionist’s face softens slightly as she types something into the computer. “One moment, sir,” she says, but Matt can’t wait. His foot taps erratically against the floor, his breathing shallow as he fights the urge to just run to his brother.

Finally, she looks up. “He’s in Trauma Room 3. A doctor will meet you there to explain his condition. Follow the blue line on the floor—”

Matt doesn’t wait for the rest. He’s already moving, his legs carrying him down the hallway so fast he nearly trips over his own feet. The blue line twists and turns, leading him past curtained bays and bustling nurses, until he stops dead in front of a closed door marked "Trauma Room 3". He hesitates, his hand hovering over the handle as his heart pounds in his ears.

Pushing the door open, he’s hit with the sight of Chris lying on the bed, and it’s worse than he imagined. Chris is barely recognizable beneath all of the bruises, face swollen, head wrapped in a thick bandage, a gash above his eyebrow stitched together messily. His left arm is in a splint, elevated on a stack of pillows, same goes to his right leg, while machines beep steadily around him. There’s dried blood on his lips, and his skin looks pale, almost gray.

A doctor stands by the bed, flipping through a chart. She looks up when Matt enters. “Nicolas Sturniolo?” she asks gently.

Matt blinks, "M—Matthew," he answers, he can't take his eyes off his little brother. His knees feel weak, and the room spins slightly, but he grips the edge of the bed to steady himself. “Is he okay?” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

The doctor sighs, her expression professional but laced with sympathy. “Your brother obtained a severe concussion, multiple broken ribs, a fractured right arm and shin and several lacerations all over the body from the windows. We’re monitoring for internal bleeding. The good news is that his vitals are stable for now, but he’s still unconscious, and the next 24 to 48 hours will be important.”

Matt’s stomach churns, his mind struggling to process her words. “Important?” he echoes, his voice cracking. “Why? Is he—he’s going to wake up, right?”

The doctor hesitates, “We’re doing everything we can,” she says carefully. “But he came in in a bad condition and the trauma was significant. It’s too soon to make any guarantees.”

Matt’s legs buckle slightly, and he sinks into the chair beside the bed, his hand reaching for Chris’s. His fingers tremble as they curl around Chris’s icy hand, the sight of the dried up blood staining his nails makes Matt feels like he cannot breathe. “Chris,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I—I'm here. I—I don't know what to—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as tears burn his eyes.

The door swings open, and Nick bursts in, his face streaked with tears, his breathing ragged. He freezes when he sees Chris, his eyes widening in horror. “Oh my god,” he chokes out, stumbling toward the bed, ignoring the retreating doctor. “Oh my god. Fuck. Fuck. Matt.”

Matt shakes his head, unable to answer as he rushes to hug Nick tightly, both trying to find comfort in each other. The room heavy, suffocating, as the two brothers cry in silence in each other's arms, watching their little brother lying there oblivious to their tears, still, lifeless, hooked up to machines.

“He… he asked me for Advil earlier,” Nick mutters, his voice shaky. He sniffles, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. “He said he had a headache. I—I didn’t think it was that bad. I just… I thought it's nothing, maybe he was being dramatic, you know?”

Matt pulls away from Nick, his vision blurred with unshed tears. “He told me too,” Matt says, his voice barely audible. “He told me, and I—” His words catch in his throat, and his chest tightens, his breathing suddenly erratic. He presses a hand against his chest, it hurts.

“I could’ve driven,” Matt says, his voice breaking. He shifts back his sore right ankle to look at Nick in the eyes. “My ankle’s fine—I could’ve driven." he runs his fingers through his hair before pulling them. "If only I did then he wouldn’t be—he wouldn’t be here… if I had just gotten up this morning." he can't contain his cry anymore.

"He asked me, and I said no.” Nick’s face crumples, but he tries to keep it together. “Matt, it’s not—”

“It is my fault!” Matt snaps, his voice sharp and trembling. He pushes abruptly, stepping back from nothing Nick and the bed as the walls of the room seem to close in around him. His breathing grows shallow, his chest heaving. “He asked me, and I told him no. And now he’s… now he’s—”

“Matt,” Nick calls, approaching him quietly. “Just—just breathe. Breathe please. Please Matt, Chris needs us.”

But Matt genuinely feels like he can’t. He grips the end of his sleeve tightly, his chest aching as his breaths come faster. He feels like he’s drowning, like he’s suffocating. The room spins, the sound of the machines blending with Nick’s voice, distant and warped.

“I—I should’ve driven,” Matt chokes out again, his knees threatening to give way. “I should’ve done something.”

Nick reaches out, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “Matt,” he says, his voice softer now, though still shaking. "Please you are panicking, breathe please." Matt swallows hard, his body trembling, "Nick.. If he dies, it will be on me.."

Nick’s face twists, his own tears slipping freely down his cheeks now. “Matt, stop,” he says, his voice more forceful, more desperate. “You can’t think like that,” Nick says, his own voice trembles. “He’s not—he’s not going to die. He’s not, okay? He’ll… he’ll be okay.”

“But what if he does?” Matt’s voice is desperate, cracking under the weight of his emotions. “What if he doesn’t wake up? I could’ve driven, Nick. I could’ve—”

“And I could’ve told him to stay home!” Nick shouts, his own panic spilling out now. His hand drops from Matt’s shoulder as he takes a step back, running a shaking hand through his hair. “I could’ve just cancel the meeting. I could've just order an Uber. I could’ve—I could’ve noticed he wasn’t okay. But I didn’t, okay? I didn’t. None of us did.”

The cries fill up the room, both brothers staring at each other. Nick swallows hard, forcing himself to take a deep breath, even as tears streaming down his face. “Matt… this isn’t on you. It’s not on me, and it's not on Chris either. It’s not on anyone. It’s just—it’s just a shitty thing that happened.”

Matt lowers himself to the ground, his shoulders shaking as the tears continue to fall. “I should’ve done something,” he whispers, voice so small it’s almost inaudible. “I should’ve just drive.”

Nick follows to lower himself, pulling Matt into a tight hug, both of them shaking as they cling to each other. “It's not your fault,” Nick sniffs. “It's no one's fault. We’re here, Matt. He’s still here. Everything will be okay.”

Matt can only clutch onto Nick back in return, as they both sob.

After a while, Matt pulls away, wiping his face roughly with his sleeve. He fumbles for his phone, his hands trembling so hard he nearly drops it. “I’ll call Mom,” he whispers hoarsely.

Nick sniffs, his face streaked with tears, and offers weakly, “I can call her.”

But Matt shakes his head. “No. I’ll do it.” He glances one more time at Chris’s motionless figure before slipping out of the room.

He sinks to a crouch just outside the door, his back pressed against the cold wall. With shaking fingers, he dials his mom’s number and presses the phone to his ear.

“Hi, Matt honey,” his mom’s warm voice greets him.

Just hearing her makes his chest tighten instantly, and before he can even form a proper sentence, his tears come back harder. “Mom…” he chokes out, his voice breaking.

Her tone shifts immediately. “Honey, what’s wrong?” she asks, alarmed.

Matt squeezes his eyes shut, his free hand gripping his knee so tightly his knuckles turn white. “It’s Chris,” he whispers. “He… he got into an accident, Mom. It’s bad—Mom, it’s so bad.” His words crumble into a sob, his shoulders shaking as he leans his head against the wall.

His mom’s voice rises in panic. “What? Matt, what do you mean? What happened? Are you serious? Don’t—don’t joke about this!” Her words come in a rush and fear.

“I’m not joking, Mom,” Matt cries, words barely intelligible through his sobs. “It’s my fault, Mom, I'm sorry. I should’ve driven. He—he asked me to drive, and I didn’t, and now—” He breaks off, he can't even find in him to even form a coherent sentence.

“Matt, stop,” his mom says, her voice trembling. “Honey, listen to me. It’s not your fault, okay? It’s not your fault. Where are you? Is Nick there? Is Chris—” Her voice falters, “Is Chris… okay?”

Matt nods frantically, as if she can see him. “Yeah—yeah, he’s okay, he's alive” he stammers, “but he’s not awake. They said it’s bad. They’re watching for internal bleeding, and his ribs are broken, and his arm, and—” His words tumble out in a frantic rush.

“Okay, okay, Matt,” his mom interrupts, her voice high despite the soothing attempt. “I’m going to come, okay? I’ll be there as soon as I can. The earliest flight I can get from to L.A. is probably tonight or tomorrow. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You just—you and Nick hold on until then, okay? Be there for Chris.”

Matt nods again, wiping his face on his sleeve, trying to steady his breathing. “Okay, Mom,” he whispers. “Please hurry.”

“I will, honey,” she says, her voice cracking at the end. “I love you, Matt. Tell Nick I love him too. And tell Chris…” She pauses, “Tell him I love him. Just keep talking to him. He can hear you, okay?”

“I will,” Matt replies, voice barely there.

As he hangs up, he stays crouched by the door for a moment, his face buried in his hands. He takes a few shaky breaths.

After that, neither Nick nor Matt move from the emergency room, their worlds reduced to the beeping monitors and the shallow rise and fall of Chris’s chest. When Chris is finally transferred to a room for further observation and treatment, they follow closely behind, shadows to the bed as it wheels down the sterile hallways.

Nick sits by Chris’s bedside, holding his unbroken hand in both of his, his thumb brushing lightly over Chris’s cold knuckles. His head rests against his own arm, his body curled protectively over the bed. Tears slide silently down his face, and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away.

On the other side of the bed, Matt sits slumped in a chair, his elbow propped on the armrest, his chin resting heavily in his palm. . His eyes are glued to Chris’s broken arm, where the faint traces of dried blood remain beneath his nails. He can’t stop staring at it, like it’s burned into his mind. It makes his stomach churn, makes him want to scream or cry or die, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

He hasn’t cried in hours now. He doesn’t think he has it in him anymore. His throat is raw, his chest hollow, his body exhausted, but his mind won’t let him rest. All he can do is stare and think and beg for his brother to just wake the fuck up.

He shifts slightly in his chair, leaning closer to the bed. His voice is barely above a whisper, rough and broken. “Chris… please,” he says, his words trembling. “Please just wake up. I can't do this.”

Nick doesn’t lift his head, but Matt sees him securing his hold on Chris’s hand.

-

His quiet waiting is bothered by the faint morning light creeps through the hospital blinds, soft and pale, signaling the start of a new day. Matt has no idea how long they've been sitting there. Time feels quite meaningless now.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, startling him and Nick on the other side, his hand fumbling to fish it out. The number on the screen is unsaved, unfamiliar. He hesitates, glancing at Nick, who’s still slumped over Chris’s bed. The buzzing continues, insistent, so Matt finally answers.

“Hello?” His voice comes out rough, hoarse from crying and disuse.

“Am I speaking with Matthew Sturniolo?” the voice on the other end asks, clipped and professional.

“Yeah,” Matt says, sitting up straighter, somehow it reminds me of the eerie call he received earlier today or.. yesterday?

“This is Officer Grant from the Highway Patrol,” the voice says. “I’m calling regarding the Kia Telluride, license plate 8KKC160. Are you the owner?”

Matt’s throat tightens, “Yeah,” he replies, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m calling to inform you that the vehicle has been towed following the accident last night which I trust you know of. From what we’ve assessed, the car is likely totaled. You’ll need to contact your insurance to proceed with a claim.”

Matt closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. He knew the car wouldn’t have survived the crash, not after seeing what it did to Chris. But hearing the car itself not surviving the crash, sounds so surreal and terrifying.

The officer continues, “Several personal belongings were recovered from the vehicle despite the damage. We’ve secured them at the tow yard. We recommend retrieving them as soon as possible.”

Matt swallows hard, “Okay… I’ll figure it out. Thanks.”

The call ends, and Matt lowers the phone, staring blankly at it for a moment before glancing at his older brother. Nick looks up, his face pale and swollen, the dark circles under his eyes making him look even more older than 2 minutes.

“Who was it?” Nick asks, voice low and raw.

Matt clears his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. “It was about the car. It’s totaled. They… they towed it, and they said there are some of our things in it that they ask us to pick up.”

At the mention of him leaving, Nick sits up straighter, his body tensing. “No,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “No, we’re not going anywhere. I don’t care about the car or whatever the fuck in it, Matt. I’m not leaving Chris. You’re not leaving either.”

"Nick—"

“No." Nick hisses, his voice quiet but tight. “I can’t have you leave right now. I can’t. What if something happens while you’re gone? What if—” His voice breaks, and his hands find back Chris’s hand in hurry, “You can’t leave. I’ll lose it, Matt. I swear to God, I’ll lose it.”

Matt steps closer, his hands up in a calming gesture. “Nick, I’m not going anywhere, okay? I wasn’t planning to leave. Not now. Not until Chris wakes up.” His voice softens. “I promise. I’m staying right here.”

Nick’s shoulders sag slightly, he shakes his head. He looks down at Chris again, his tears falling silently. “I can’t even think about it, I can't lose either of you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Matt leans into Nick, pulling him into a quiet hug. Nick clings to him, his head resting against Matt’s shoulder, his tears dampening the fabric of Matt’s hoodie.

Nick closes his eyes, breathing shakily, finding solace in his younger brother’s presence. Matt rests his chin on Nick’s head, his own eyes shutting briefly, just to feel something other than the crushing weight of the past twenty-four hours.

When Matt finally opens his eyes again, it takes him a moment to process what he’s seeing.

Chris is blinking at them. Slowly, weakly, his lashes fluttering as his bruised eyes struggle to open fully.

“Chris,” Matt breathes, the word barely audible. He pulls back from Nick, who immediately follows his gaze.

“Oh my god,” Nick whispers, his voice trembling as they both rush to Chris’s bedside.

Chris’s gaze is unfocused, his face pale and battered, but he’s awake. His lips part slightly, as if trying to speak, but no words come out. He’s alive.

He's alive.

“Chris,” Matt says again, his voice breaking as tears spill freely down his face. He reaches out, his hands trembling as he gently holds Chris’s left hand. “Oh my god, you’re awake.”

Nick is sobbing now, his tears falling onto the bed as he leans closer, carefully cradling the uninjured side of Chris’s face with one hand. “You’re okay,” he chokes out, his voice breaking. “You’re okay. Oh my god, Chris.”

Chris’s gaze flickers between them, his movements slow and weak. He doesn’t say anything, but the faintest twitch of his lips, the barest hint of acknowledgment, sends a wave of relief over both of them.

Matt leans down, his forehead pressing gently against Chris’s hand as he cries silently. “I thought we lost you,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “We thought we—” He can’t finish, his words dissolving into sobs.

Nick brushes a hand lightly over Chris’s hair, his touch careful and tender. His own tears streak his face as he murmurs softly, “Don’t scare us like that again, okay? Don’t—Don't do that again.”

Their relief is overwhelming, leaving them speechless, but their tears and the way they clutch at him say everything. They are thankful, so unbelievably, painfully fucking thankful, that their youngest still here, still with them.

And though Chris doesn’t have the strength to say it, the faint squeeze of his fingers against Matt’s hand says it all: he’s thankful too.

-

The first few days are hell.

Chris is in constant pain, his body feels like nothing but cuts, bruises, and fractures. His broken ribs make every breath feel like a knife to his chest, and his fractured arm is immobilized in a sling that only adds to his discomfort. The deep gashes on his face and arms from the shattered window sting despite the layers of ointments and bandages. He’s barely awake most of the time, floating in and out of consciousness as the heavy painkillers dull the agony but leave him disoriented and weak.

Matt and Nick barely leave his side. They’ve fallen into a routine, though it’s less intentional and more like autopilot. They take turns handling everything, feeding Chris small bites of food when he’s lucid enough to eat, wiping his face and body with damp cloths to keep him clean, even helping him shuffle to the toilet.

“Careful,” Nick murmurs one afternoon as he crouches beside Chris, gently cleaning his face with a wet cloth. Chris winces as the cloth graze the cut on his face, his body stiff, but he doesn’t say a word.

Matt hovers nearby, watching everything like a hawk. He’s exhausted, both of them are, but rest doesn't feel like an option when Chris needs them the most right now. Every time Chris makes even the faintest sound of discomfort, Matt flinches.

“You’re good,” Nick says softly, more to himself than to Chris as he carefully finishes wiping the younger upper body. He leans back on his heels, wiping his own forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re doing so good,.”

Chris doesn’t respond, his head lolling slightly to the side. His eyes are half-closed, and it’s hard to tell if he’s awake or not.

“He needs to sleep,” Matt mutters, stepping forward to adjust the blanket around Chris’s shoulders. His hands are steady, but his eyes are rimmed with dark circles, the weight of sleepless nights etched into his face.

Nick sighs. “So do you,” he says pointedly, though there’s no real bite to his tone. He looks just as wrecked, his own exhaustion catching up to him.

Matt doesn’t reply, too focused on tucking the blanket in just right, making sure Chris is as comfortable as he can be.

The days blur together in a haze of caregiving and quiet desperation from both of them. Neither of them complains, not once. They don’t have the energy to.

It’s not until late one night, when the doctor has given them a pass to bring Chris back home. Chris mumbles a barely audible, “Thanks,” through the haze of his medication, that Matt and Nick exchange a glance. For the first time in days, the clock starts to tick again.

-

The discharge process is slow and awkward, filled with signatures and instructions that Matt and Nick, mainly Nick, barely register as they shuffle through the motions. Chris sits in the wheelchair, his body tense despite the layers of painkillers running through him. His fractured arm rests awkwardly in its sling, and every breath reminds him of his broken ribs. But none of that compares to the dread pooling in his chest.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to do this. He’s vividly aware that he needs to get into a car to go back home. And the thought alone is enough to send his heart racing. The mere idea of sitting in a vehicle again after the crash makes his palms sweat and his stomach churn. The fear is so overwhelming he feels like he might bolt out of the wheelchair, injuries be damned.

But he doesn’t. He can’t.

His eyes flick to Nick, who’s standing by the Uber Black they’ve ordered to take them home. He looks smaller than usual, his hoodie hanging loosely off his frame, the dark circles under his eyes standing out starkly against his pale skin. Matt is beside him, rubbing a hand over his face, his shoulders hunched in a way that screams exhaustion. Both of them look utterly wrecked, like they haven’t eaten, slept, or even breathed properly in the two weeks they’ve been at the hospital taking care of him.

Chris feels guilt weigh heavier on his chest than any of his injuries. He wants to say something, tell them how terrified he is, how he doesn’t know if he can even step into the car without breaking down, but the words die in his throat.

So, when Matt and Nick carefully maneuver him from the wheelchair into the backseat of the MPV, Chris stays quiet. His breaths come shallow and fast as he settles into the seat, his heart hammering so hard it feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest. He grips the seatbelt tightly, his knuckles turning white, but he doesn’t make a sound.

Nick leans in, adjusting the seatbelt across Chris’s chest to make sure it doesn’t press against his broken ribs. “You okay?” he asks softly, voice tired but concerned.

Chris forces himself to nod, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he croaks.

Matt slides into the seat next to him, casting him a glance. His eyes linger on Chris for a moment, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he adjusts the blanket over Chris’s lap and leans back in his seat, staring blankly out the window.

The car starts moving, and Chris feels his chest tighten further, the hum of the engine and the faint vibration of the road beneath them sending a wave of nausea crashing over him. He grips the seatbelt harder, his body rigid, his breaths shallow.

Every movement of the car feels like an echo of the crash, every turn a reminder of how quickly things can go wrong. But he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t want to add to Matt and Nick fucking non-ending-care-Chris-list.

He keeps his eyes fixed on his lap, pretending not to notice how his hands start to shake. He focuses on staying silent, swallowing his fear, and waiting for this ride to be over.

But the car jostles over a particularly large bump in the road, and before Chris can stop himself, his entire body reacts. He flinches hard, his shoulders hunching as if bracing for impact. His fractured arm aches from the sudden movement, but the pain doesn’t register, not over the sharp spike of fear shooting through his chest.

He folds in on himself instinctively, curling as small as his injured body allow, his eyes squeezing shut so tightly that his temples throb. His breaths come fast and shallow, each one feeling harder to catch than the last. The sounds of the car, tires on the road, the low hum of the engine, blur together, his mind replaying the crash on a relentless loop. The honk. The impact. The way everything had flipped and spun.

Fuck.

“Chris?” Nick’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and worried. "Please slow down." he heard Nick saya, and Chris feels a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Chris, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just a bump.”

Matt shifts beside him, leaning closer. “Hey you need to breathe slowly,” he says softly, though his voice is tight. “You’re safe. It’s over. It’s just the road, man.”

But Chris can’t stop. His whole body trembles, and the effort of holding himself together for so long unravels completely. He feels tears pricking at his eyes, hot and wet, but he keeps them closed, refusing to let Nick or Matt see. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his breaths coming in sharp, that only make the pain in his ribs worse.

Nick doesn’t hesitate. He unbuckles his seatbelt and twists around in his seat, one hand still on Chris’s shoulder while the other moves to gently pull his good hand away from where it’s gripping his knee. “Hey, Chris, look at me,” Nick says firmly. “Come on. Open your eyes. You’re safe, okay? We’re here.”

Matt reaches out too, his hand hovering awkwardly before settling lightly on Chris’s leg, trying to ground him. “It’s not happening again,” he murmurs. “It’s over. You’re here with us. Just focus on breathing, okay? In and out. Nice and slow.”

Chris shakes his head faintly, his whole body still trembling as he clenches his jaw tighter. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to see the car or the road or anything that might pull him back into that moment again. He just wants it to stop.

“Chris, please,” Nick says, his voice breaking slightly. “Just—just breathe. We’ve got you.”

Something in Nick’s voice pulls Chris out of the spiral, just a little. His eyelids flutter open, and he’s met with the worried faces of his brothers. Nick’s hand is still on his shoulder, squeezing gently, while Matt is leaning forward, face pale and tense.

Chris swallows hard, his throat tight, and forces himself to take a shaky breath. It’s uneven and doesn’t feel like nearly enough, but it’s a start. He nods faintly, his body still trembling as he tries to sit back up.

“There you go,” Matt says softly, his voice laced with relief. “Just keep breathing, okay? You’re safe. I promise, Chris. You’re safe.”

Nick doesn’t let go of his shoulder, staying close even as the car starts moving at a normal speed again. Chris leans back carefully, his breaths still shallow but starting to even out. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t trust his voice, but he nods again, just enough to reassure them.

For the rest of the ride, Matt and Nick stay close, keeping quiet but watchful. Chris doesn’t flinch again, but his body remains tense, his hand clutching the edge of the seat.

By the time they manage to get Chris up the stairs and into the living room, all three of them are completely wiped out. The effort of moving Chris carefully, avoiding his fractured arm and broken ribs, has left Matt and Nick drenched in sweat and utterly exhausted. Chris slumps into the couch, his body stiff, still a little unsteady from the car ride.

Matt and Nick drop onto either side of him, their legs sprawled out and their heads tipping back against the cushions. None of them speaks for a moment.

Chris is the first to move, his uninjured hand gripping the edge of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His face is pale, and his jaw is tight, as the panic in his chest hasn’t fully faded. He stares at his lap, refusing to look at either of his brothers.

“You good? You need anything?” Matt asks.

Chris shakes his head quickly, the movement almost too fast. “I’m fine,” he says, though his voice wavers. His fingers tighten on the couch cushion, his knuckles turning white.

Matt glances at him, frowning. “You don’t look fine,” he says gently. “You’re still shaking.”

Chris shrugs, his shoulders stiff and awkward. “I’ll be okay,” he mumbles, not meeting Matt’s eyes. He shifts slightly, wincing as his ribs protest the movement. “I just… need a minute.”

Nick leans back, running a hand through his hair. His jaw tightens as he watches Chris, the tension in his own body mirroring his brother’s. “Chris,” he says softly, “it's okay to be scared.”

“I know,” Chris snaps, though his voice is barely above a whisper. He sighs, his eyes closing briefly as he tries to steady himself. “I just… I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Matt exchanges a quick glance with Nick, deciding silently to let it go for now. Pushing Chris won’t help, not when he’s already so raw. Instead, Matt leans back and folds his arms, his eyes fixed on Chris with quiet concern.

“Okay,” Nick says softly. “But if you need anything, you let us know, alright?”

Chris nods faintly, still staring at his lap. The silence stretches out again, heavy, but none of them moves.

-

He is exhausted. His body aches in places he didn’t even know could hurt, but then his parents arrived late that night, and their presence filling the house like a warm towel on his sore skin.

His mom had nearly crushed him in a hug despite Nick’s panicked warning of "Mom, his ribs—his ribs—his ribs!”But Chris hadn’t minded. He’d melted into her hold, breathing in the familiar scent of home and comfort. His dad had squeezed his shoulder, his expression painted with obvious worry, and Matt had hovered nearby, as if to make sure no one touched him the wrong way. He doesn't need to look at him to feel his anxiety through the roof even though Chris was literally sitting between Mom and Dad.

Eventually, Nick helps him bathe, which is kind of humiliating now that he's not as drug-addled as he was back in the hospital. But Chris physically can’t stand up or lift his own arm, let alone scrub himself in a shower. So, Nick carefully washes his hair, making sure the shampoo doesn’t sting any of the cuts on his scalp, "At this point I might be eligible to work in old folks home." he said while rinsing Chris's hair, which he totally agrees, Nurse Nick is amazing.

He then helps him into fresh clothes, moving slow and careful, like Chris rib might snap again if he moves any faster. Chris just follow the flow that Nick is comfortable at, he doesn’t want to say it out loud, but the amount of gentleness makes him emotional in a way that he doesn’t have the energy to unpack but to mutter a small "Thanks Nicky" to the older.

Then his mom feeds him, and even though he could probably manage on his own with his left hand, she had refuses. “Just let me do this for you,” she says softly, her voice full of a tone that makes Chris chuckle and accept spoon warm soup into his mouth, letting her wipe the corner of his lips with a napkin when he misses.

It’s embarrassing, he admits, sure, but it’s also fucking nice. It reminds him of when he was a kid, when being taken care of was just something that happened instead of something he had to ask for. And God, he's loving it.

Chris also realized that Matt and Dad has quite an amazing coordination as they handle maneuvering him around the house, their hands somehow always there to steady him when he wobbles with his crutches, making sure he’s comfortable on the couch, in bed, anywhere he needs to be.

He knows his love language is physical touch so of course he soaks it all in. Every touch, every small act of care, every little way his family all show up for him. It’s overwhelming, but in the best way possible.

So he thrives under all the love and care. The three weeks that Mom and Dad stay in LA do wonders for him, his fractured arm is healing well, the bruises have faded, and while his ribs and shin still ache like hell, at least he’s making progress and he swears he feels himself getting stronger.

But there’s one thing that doesn’t get better. One thing that nags at his mind constantly, even when he’s propped up on the couch with a blanket, even when he’s being hand-fed his mom’s homemade meals, even when Nick is buzzing around.

Matt.

Of course he knows Matt isn’t the loudest person in the room. He doesn’t talk just to talk, he doesn’t insert himself into every conversation all that much, but lately, it’s different. Lately, Matt has been quiet.

Really quiet.

It’s subtle at first.

He just seems to be around less, slipping out of rooms before Chris even realizes he was there, hovering near the edges of conversations but never really engaging. With Mom and Dad taking over most of his care, he knows Matt doesn’t have to be as hands-on anymore, but it’s more than that, he feels like Matt chooses to disappear.

Everytime.

At first, Chris thinks maybe he’s imagining it. That Matt is just tired, maybe a little overwhelmed, but aren’t they all?

Everytime he looks at Matt, waiting for Matt to sit and talk to him Matt wouldn't even look at him.

He will mutters something under his breath and drifts toward the kitchen where their mom is cooking. Or he walks up the stairs, disappearing into Nick’s room under the pretense of 'doing something'.

And Chris sees it. He sees the way Matt’s hands linger just a little too long when he steadies Chris, the way his jaw tenses whenever he watches Chris wince, the way his shoulders stiffen when anyone brings up the accident.

He doesn't want to believe it, but he knows,

Matt is blaming himself.

So when their parents finally decided to go back to Boston that night, their mom was leaving multiple reminders for a good 10 minutes at the front door and showering the three of them with hugs and kisses before leaving.

Matt is helping him move up the stairs when Nick excuses himself to the toilet. He may be struggling still but it's routine by now, familiar, the way Matt moves slowly and carefully, making sure nothing jostles Chris’s injury too much.

He grips onto Matt’s arm as he settles onto the couch, wincing at the dull ache spreading through his body. He looks up, to look af Matt.

Matt's face empty, not even a tinge of emotion.

His stomach twists uncomfortably, his brother is walking away from him now and before he can stop himself, he says, “Matt.”

It’s quiet, barely more than a whisper, but Matt hears it.

He stops, just for a second, his back still turned. His shoulders stiffen, just barely, but Chris notices.

Chris swallows hard. His ribs ache as he shifts slightly, “You don’t have to—”

What? Leave? Avoid me? Hide from me?

He exhales sharply, “You don’t have to go.”

Matt hesitates.

He hesitates.

And Chris sees it.

In that hesitation, something fractures in Matt’s posture, small, almost invisible, but it’s there.

Chris holds his breath, waiting, hoping,

please, Matt, just stay

But then, just as fast, Matt takes a breath and keeps walking.

“I’ll be back,” is all he says, neutral, empty.

Chris couldn't find in him to say anything else. He just watches, watches as Matt disappears into his room like he always does for weeks.

His fingers curl weakly into the blanket on his lap.

Because Matt won’t be back.

Not really.

Because Matt is already gone.

-

“Hey.”

Nick jumps so hard he nearly knocks over his laptop, spinning around to find his little brother standing at his door.

Chris, on crutches, slightly shaking, breath ragged, looking like he has no business being out of bed, let alone climbing up the damn stairs to his room.

“Woah—” Nick lunges forward, grabbing onto Chris’s arm before he can do something stupid like fall and re-injure himself. “Chris, what the fuck?”

Chris lets out a small laugh. He lets Nick guide him toward the bed, plopping down slowly, exhaling hard as he wipes the sweat off his forehead.

“How did you even get up here?” Nick asks, still bewildered, half-impressed, but mostly pissed as hell.

Chris grins weakly. “With determination.”

Nick stares at him, eyes flat, arms crossed. “That’s fucking crazy. What if you fell?”

"You didn't hear me? I was loud as fuck and crutches are shit." Nick just side-eye him. "Obviously I wasn't up to keep an ear out for your stupid shenanigans."

Chris just shrugs, because, yeah. Maybe it was stupid, but he had to get up here.

Nick huffs, shaking his head, running both hands through his hair, like he’s already exhausted.

“Hey, Nick,” Chris says, more serious now, tilting his head as he looks up. “Can you help me with something?”

The oldest narrows his eyes, already suspicious. “What?”

Chris presses his lips together, pausing,

“Matt.”

Nick grimaces instantly, like he expected this, but hates it anyway.

Chris sighs, adjusting his crutches beside him. “Come on, Nick. I’m worried. He hasn’t been talking to me at all.”

“I know,” Nick mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been checking on him just as much as I did for you, and—I don’t know, Chris. I think he just needs time.”

Chris frowns. “It’s been weeks, Nick. I’m fine. It’s not like I lost a limb, or got paralyzed, or d—”

“Do not—”

Nick cuts him off so fast it’s almost violent, his voice sharp.

Chris just pressed on a wound he didn’t know was there.

Nick rubs his face hard, exhaling through his nose, his whole body tense. “Do not say that, okay?” His voice tight, “As hard as this has been for you, it was really, really scary for us too. You don’t—” He pauses, jaw clenching. “You don’t understand what it was like. To got that call. To saw you like that.”

Chris opens his mouth, but no words come out.

Because he does know.

Or at least, he thinks he does.

He knows the fear of waking up in a hospital bed, pain-ridden, lost, not knowing what happened. He knows the helplessness of having to be taken care of, of feeling like a burden, of hating every second of it.

But maybe in his own misery, maybe he never really thought about what it was like for them.

For Matt.

For Nick.

He thinks he might go crazy if it's the other way around.

Suddenly, he can see the exhaustion, the weight, the way Nick’s hands tremble just slightly before he shoves them in his hoodie pockets.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. His voice is softer when he speaks again.

“I'm sorry. I just… I just want him back, Nick.”

Nick exhales sharply through his nose. “I know.” His voice quiet, “But you gotta give him time. He’s not—” He stops, sighs. “He’s not like me. He doesn’t know how to say it when he’s messed up over something. He just—”

“Runs.” Chris finishes, because yeah. That’s exactly what Matt has been doing.

Nick nods, looking away. “Yeah.”

Chris stares down at his lap, his fingers gripping the fabric of his sweats. The room feels too quiet now.

Then Nick sighs again and stands up from the gaming chair. “Look, I’ll try talking to him. But I'm not gonna see you scattering around doing something fucking stupid like attempting to break your other leg climbing the stairs again.”

Chris smirks a little at that. “Bet.”

Nick rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch, like he wants to smile, just barely.

-

Chris doesn’t realize when he fell asleep, but he must have at some point, because when he wakes up, he still in Nick’s room.

His body stiff and aching, with Nick snoring obnoxiously beside him. His throat is dry as hell, his ribs feel like they’re on fire, and the pain radiating through his body is ten times worse than when he had first dozed off.

He exhales slowly, trying not to groan out loud because the last thing he wants is to wake Nick up. He already feels like enough of a problem without adding that to the list.

It's either he go take some painkillers, or just lay here and suffer, which, honestly, doesn't sound like a bad idea.

Still, he moves.

Carefully, he pushes himself up, reaching for the crutches that Nick have left near him. The motion sucks, pain flaring through his ribs so sharp that for a second, he thinks maybe this was a bad fucking idea.

Too late now.

The house is dark, and the stairs are even worse. He swallows hard as he eyes them. Going up earlier was already hell, but now he’s actively in pain, stiff and exhausted, and no one is awake to catch him if he eats shit.

It’ll be fine.

Probably.

He takes the first step carefully. Then another. Slow.

The fourth step is where it all goes to hell.

His crutch slips. Fast.

For a split second, his brain short-circuits,

This is it. I’m gonna die. Nick gonna fucking kill me.

And then he’s falling.

Except not really.

Because before he can faceplant straight into the ground, arms wrap around him, catching him mid-fall.

“Fuck—fuck—shit!”

Chris knows that voice.

Matt.

But honestly, he doesn’t give a fuck about that right now because the impact hurts like a bitch. His ribs feel like they’ve been set on fire, his shin is screaming, and his body is so tense from the shock that it just makes everything thousand times worse.

He groans, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to breathe through it.

“Hey, hey, you okay?” Matt asks, voice urgent. His arms are still holding onto Chris, steadying him, not letting go even as Chris sags slightly against him.

Chris shakes his head, sharp, because no. He’s not okay.

“I need pain meds,” he whispers, his voice barely there.

Chris barely registers it when Matt sets him down against the wall, and suddenly, Matt is gone, his warmth disappearing as he rushes into the kitchen.

Seconds later, he’s back, pressing two pills into Chris’s hand, a glass of water in the other.

Chris takes them without a word, swallowing quickly, the cold water soothing against his dry throat.

Matt watches him closely, too closely, and if Chris is not fucking suffering right now he might ask Matt to back up.

Matt’s hand still hovers just in case, he could feel the older eyes flick over him like he’s assessing the damage, like Chris just managed to get another shin broken.

Chris exhales shakily, finally looking up at him.

And for the first time in weeks, Matt doesn’t look away.

“I’m okay,” Chris huffs, trying to steady himself.

Matt exhales hard, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.

Then, “What the fuck.”

Chris blinks up at him.

Matt runs a shaky hand down his face, eyes wild, “What the fuck are you doing at two in the fucking morning, going down the stairs by yourself? Do you want to die? Why are you even up there?”

Chris frowns. “Well, what are you doing up at this timing?”

Matt’s jaw tenses immediately.

“Oh, don’t make me the problem here,” Matt snaps, “I’m not the one who almost broke another fucking bone in the middle of the night.”

Chris lets out a sarcastic laugh, even though it makes his ribs throb worse. “Well, you are the problem! I was up there because I was asking the only brother who will actually talk to me about my other brother who doesn’t want to fucking talk to me.”

That pulls Matt back.

His whole body goes still, his face freezing over.

Chris watches the shift happen in real time, sees how Matt’s angry expression crumbles into the empty void that he has seen for the past few weeks.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything.

“Matt.” His voice soft, but no less firm.

Matt still doesn’t look at him. His hands flex at his sides clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Matt, talk to me.”

"Please."

“I—” Matt starts, but stops. Shakes his head. Runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t—”

He still won’t meet Chris’s eyes.

Chris feels his own frustration bubbling over, mixing with exhaustion, pain, and the weight of all these weeks of distance.

“Matt.” His voice breaks just a little this time.

Matt finally looks at him.

It’s not anger. It’s not frustration.

It’s fear.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, quiet as Matt flinches, like the words physically hurt him.

He knows the older is about to shut down, about to stand up, about to leave again, and he refuses to let that happen. Not this time.

Chris is not going to let Matt go now.

“It’s me,” Chris presses on, desperate to reach him, desperate to fix this before Matt slips away completely. “I was the one looking at something else while driving. It was my fault.”

Matt shakes his head, hard, “It wasn’t.” His voice thick, “You didn’t—” His eyes clench tightly. “It wasn’t your fucking fault.”

Chris opens his mouth, ready to argue, because as far as he concerned he was the one in the accident and it was indeed his fault. He was the one who took his eyes off the road.

But then Matt speaks again.

“It was a DUI, Chris.”

Chris blinks. “What?”

“The lorry driver that hit you, he was drunk,” Matt says, voice shaking, his whole body trembling. “The police report came back three week ago. He blew over the limit. He was speeding, he ran a red light. You didn’t have a chance. It was—” His voice chokes off, and suddenly, Matt is crying. Tears streaming down his face, no longer holding anything back.

Chris feels like the air just got knocked out of his lungs.

A DUI. A drunk driver.

Not him.

Not his mistake.

Not something he could have prevented.

He could have fucking die, for real.

Chris stares, as Matt unravels right in front of him.

“The car was totaled, Chris.” Matt’s voice is rushing out now, frantic, Everything is spilling over now. His breathing erratic, hands curled into white-knuckled fists.

“Crushed to nothing.”

Chris swallows hard, his stomach twisting violently because he doesn’t need Matt to tell him that. He remembers the feeling of metal folding in on itself, the way the world flipped violently, how the impact had ripped the air from his lungs before everything faded to black.

“You could’ve literally died that day,” Matt breathes hard.

"Matt."

Matt runs both hands down his face again.

“All because I didn’t want to fucking drive Nick that morning,” Matt bites out, self-loathing dripping from every syllable. “And you didn’t know another way home that didn’t use that road. I do, you don't. So you did. And you almost fucking died.”

Matt is panicking now, his breathing is getting faster, his hands shake, and despite their house having a high ceiling he looks like he’s trapped.

In his own head, spiraling.

“I can’t—” Matt chokes.

Chris reaches out instantly, gripping Matt’s wrist tightly, forcing him to stay in place, to stay here.

Stay with him.

“Matt.” Chris calls again, voice urgent, firm, an attempt to cut through the panic.

Matt doesn’t respond, his breathing too fast, too sharp, his eyes darting around like he’s trying to find a way out.

“Matt.” Chris squeezes harder.

Matt’s chest heaves, his lips parting like he’s trying to find air.

Chris remembers.

He remembers seversl years ago sitting next to Matt on the floor, talking him through one of this, reminding him how to breathe.

What a similar situation.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Chris murmurs, his grip tight, steady, exactly the same as what he had done in the past. “In.” He inhales slowly, exaggerated, so Matt can follow.

Matt shakes his head, body still locked up, but Chris doesn’t let go.

“Come on, Matt, in.” Chris breathes in again, slow.

Matt’s chest stutters, but this time, he follows, sucking in a shaky breath.

“Good, okay, now out,” Chris says, exhaling with him.

Matt exhales, though it’s choppy.

“Again,” Chris urges. “In.”

They repeat it, Chris matching his breathing to Matt’s, keeping his grip firm, until slowly, so fucking slowly, Matt’s body starts to relax.

His shoulders drop slightly, his breathing evens out, his fists unclench.

Chris doesn’t let go yet, despite the breathing exercises hurt his ribs like a bitch.

Matt’s eyes are shiny, red-rimmed, and he looks like he wants to say something, but can’t find the words.

Chris beats him to it.

“You’re not the reason I got in that crash, Matt,” Chris says, “You didn’t make that guy drive drunk. You didn’t put me in that situation. You didn’t—” He swallows, “You didn’t do this.”

Matt flinches again, like he wants to argue, but Chris won’t let him.

“I know you blame yourself,” Chris says, his grip still firm, still grounding Matt in place. “But you shouldn’t. You can’t. Because I’m here, Matt. I’m still here. I'm alive."

Matt’s breath shudders, slowly, hesitantly, he rests his head on Chris’s shoulder, his face pressing against the younger’s neck. Chris can feel the tension still radiating off of him, the way his body is stiff, afraid to take up too much space.

“I keep seeing the crash in my sleep,” Matt murmurs, voice so small, almost like he doesn't want it to be heard. “You were—”

Chris doesn’t let him finish.

He lifts a hand and gently runs his fingers through Matt’s hair, the way their mom used to when they were kids, the way he knows always soothed Matt when he was anxious.

I'm here.

“Shh,” Chris whispers back, “It’s just a dream.” His fingers continue threading through Matt’s hair. “I’m okay. If you count out three ribs and a shin, I’m in dazzling condition.”

Matt lets out a small, breathy chuckle, barely there, but it’s there.

And when Chris feels it, his own smile tugs at his lips, relieved.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Chris whispers, his voice barely more than a breath. His fingers still card gently through Matt’s hair, soft and careful. He then presses a small kiss to the crown of Matt’s head, he isn’t sure if Matt even feel it.

But Matt does.

Because he melts just slightly, his shoulders dropping, his breathing finally evening out, and Chris feels the way Matt leans into him a little more, the tension in his body slowly unravel.

They sit in the dark, holding onto each other, just like that for a while.

No words. Just being.

Then, after a while, Chris shifts, wincing slightly as he carefully pulls Matt back so they can actually look at each other.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Chris asks, voice still hushed, “I don’t think I can go back up to Nick’s.”

Matt meets his gaze for a moment, taking it in, before he nods, softly.

“Okay.”

Chris exhales, relieved, because he didn’t realize just how badly he needed this, too.

To just be close. To just be here.

And as Matt moves to help Chris up to walk and get comfortable in his bed, as they settle in, Chris finally feels something loosen in his chest.

Maybe it’s the painkillers.

Maybe it’s exhaustion.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s finally knowing that Matt isn’t running anymore.

As they finally settles on the bed, Matt shifts closer, and Chris doesn’t hesitate to open his left arm, letting Matt fit against him easily.

Matt exhales, pressing his forehead lightly against Chris’s chest, his body curling up carefully against Chris’s uninjured side, like he belongs there.

And maybe he does.

Chris lets his own eyes flutter shut for a moment, inhaling deeply, taking in the familiar scent of Matt’s hair, that mix of laundry detergent and faint cologne, and God, he missed this.

He missed Matt so much.

He presses another soft kiss to the top of Matt’s head, before his fingers lightly brushing up and down Matt’s back.

Matt sighs against him, softer now, feeling that his exhaustion comes fast.

-

He blinks against the soft morning light filtering through Matt’s room. His body is still sore, still heavy with exhaustion, but for the first time in weeks, he feels calm.

As he gains consciousness, he realises Matt is looking at him.

Chris barely has time to process it before he feels the lightest touch, fingers grazing over his skin, ghosting over the now-healed stitches near his brow. It’s gentle, careful, like Matt is memorizing the lines of his face, like he’s making sure that Chris is really there.

Chris’s breath catches slightly, but he doesn’t move.

He lets it happen, lets Matt trace the barely-there scar, lets him look, lets him have this moment.

“Hi,” Chris finally murmurs.

Matt’s lips curl into a small, real smile, one that Chris hasn’t seen in so long.

“Hi.”

Chris just stares at him for a second, taking it in.

They're okay.

And if he had known he would have flung himself off that fucking staircase last week.