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Matt wakes up with a weird ache in his neck, probably from the absolute shit sleep he struggled to get last night. Not that he actually slept, he spent most of the night tossing, turning, and feeling anxious for no fucking reason. No explanation, no trigger, just a constant, suffocating feeling sitting in his chest like a damn weight. And now, the morning is starting great because Nick is screaming nonsense from the floor above him.
Fucking hell.
He groans, pressing his face into the pillow and willing himself to just sink into the mattress and rot. He doesn't even want to acknowledge the world right now. Maybe if he just lies here long enough, the universe will give up on him.
But of course, the universe hates him. With blinding passion.
Because the next thing that happens is Chris slamming his door open like a goddamn SWAT team raid. “Matt, wake up! We’re gonna be late!”
Matt clenches his jaw so hard it hurts.
Oh, he’s gonna fuck Chris up, he swears on everything.
Despite that, Matt doesn’t move. He stays completely still under his blanket, pretending he’s still asleep, hoping Chris will take the hint and fuck off.
But, of course, Chris doesn’t.
Instead, the little shit yanks his blanket away, exposing Matt to the slight coldness of his room and ticking him the fuck off.
“Wake up! We’re gonna be super fucking late, Matt.”
Matt lets out a deep, frustrated groan, throwing his arm over his eyes like that’ll somehow make Chris disappear. “Give me fifteen and fuck off, Chris.”
“We don’t have fifteen! The meeting is in twenty minutes, and we’re not even on the road yet!”
Matt swears he’s this close to punching Chris in the face. Can he not shut the fuck up for one goddamn second?
“Fuck off, Chris,” he repeats, voice sharp this time, finally pushing himself up to sit. His room is barely lit, just dim streaks of light seeping through the blinds. He levels Chris with a glare, a warning.
Chris, of course, doesn’t back down, raises his eyebrows in response. “If we didn’t have anything today, I wouldn’t be doing this to you. But we do, and we are really, really late.”
Matt drags a hand down his face, his exhaustion morphing into straight-up irritation. “Stop fucking nagging,” he mutters, standing up. He doesn’t need a mirror to know he looks like shit when Chris speaks again “If you're not up to drive, I will,” voice quieter now. “Just be fast.” he says last before clicking Matt's door shut.
Matt huffs out a breath. His head is pounding, the crick in his neck is still fucking there, and the constant frustration in his chest is only making him angrier.
Still, he drags himself to the bathroom. Showers, lets the hot water scald his skin, hoping it’ll somehow rinse off the irritation clinging to him. He decides to shave, just to do something, but of course—of fucking course—he nicks himself. A tiny cut, barely anything, but it stings like hell, and it’s just another fucking thing going wrong.
"MAAATT!! HURRY UPPPP!!"
Matt clenches his jaw so hard he thinks he might crack a molar. Fuck. Fuck.
Nick is the worst.
"COMING!" he screams back, voice rough, irritated.
He storms back into his room, change and trying to pack up everything into his backpack, only to realize his phone is at 3% because he forgot to charge it.
He stares at the screen, blinking, his frustration peaking at a level where he could actually punch a hole in the fucking wall. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath before shoves the phone back into his pocket thinking he can just use the wireless charger in the car for whatever miserable percentage he can get before the meeting.
By the time he stomps downstairs, Nick is standing by the door, arms crossed, waiting. The moment he sees Matt, he smirks. "Finally, the princess is ready. Shall we head to our meeting that we are now ten minutes late for your highness?"
Matt’s jaw tenses. His fingers twitch.
"Shut the fuck up, Nick."
"Woah, is Latey Matty angy?" Nick coos mockingly from the back, dragging out the words like he’s trying to piss Matt off on purpose.
Matt doesn’t respond. He just storms straight to the driver’s side, yanks the door open, only to find Chris already sitting there.
"Get off," Matt snaps, frowning as the sun hits his face, too fucking bright, for fuck's sake.
Chris blinks up at him. "I thought you wanted me to driv—"
"No. Fuck off."
Chris hesitates for half a second before nodding once and climbing out without another word.
If Matt wasn’t so pissed, he might actually be weirded out by how quickly the younger listens without arguing. No backtalk, no screaming. That’s not the usual case.
But he doesn't have the fucking mood so he doesn’t dwell on it. He slides into the driver’s seat, slams the door shut, waut for Nick to get in the backseat and pulls out of the driveway. The tension in his jaw hasn’t left, and neither has the pounding in his head. But he focuses on the road, grips the wheel maybe a little tad too tightly, until something on the dashboard catches his eye.
The gas indicator is blinking.
Matt blinks in return.
"You didn’t fill up the gas after you used the car yesterday?" His tone is flat, not even accusatory, because it doesn’t have to be. The only other person who drives between the three of them is Chris.
Chris shifts in his seat. "Er—yeah. I forgot. Sorry."
Matt doesn’t even have time to process that before Nick snickers from the back. "Yeah, that’s what you said the last three times, I think."
Chris frowns immediately. "Nick, shut up! You wanted to rush home yesterday, so I didn’t!"
Matt swears his patience is gone. Burned up. Completely fucking gone.
"Fucking quit it." Matt hiss, cutting through the argument. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles going white. "Are you fucking stupid? Do you need me to fucking tell you everything, every single damn time?"
"I said I forgot. I’m sorry." Chris shrugs instantly, not defensive, just firm.
But Matt isn’t in the mood to hear it.
"You always fucking forget. That’s the problem, Chris. You don’t think. You just do shit and expect everyone else to fucking handle it!"
Chris exhales sharply, huffs out what sounded like a laugh in attempt to lighten the situation but nothing is funny. "It’s gas, Matt. It’s not like I fucking crashed the car—"
"That’s not the fucking point!" Matt snaps, his voice rising.
From the backseat, Nick scoffs. "God, both of you please stop screaming."
Matt clicks his tongue, his pulse hammering against his skull. His head is pounding, his neck still fucking hurts, and this is just too much.
"I wouldn’t have to say shit if Chris could just think for once—"
"I do think!" Chris cuts in, turning to glare at Matt. "I just made a mistake, okay? You don’t have to fucking talk to me like I’m a damn idiot every time I do something wrong."
Matt lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Maybe if you actually learned from your mistakes, I wouldn’t have to fucking call you that."
Chris goes silent at that.
For the first time since the argument started, his expression falters.
Nick exhales loudly from the back, dragging a hand down his face. "For fuck’s sake, Matt you gotta relax. Just get the gas and let’s fucking go," he mutters.
Matt shoves the car into park so hard it jerks forward slightly before settling. He doesn’t say another word before throwing the door open and stepping out, slamming it shut behind him with too much force.
Chris doesn’t say anything either. He just stares straight ahead, jaw tight, his hands gripping his hoodie sleeves when he suddenly feels a rub on his shoulder. He turns slightly to see Nick looking at him, with a small smile.
“You okay? He’s in a mood.”
Chris replies with a small laugh. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
Before Nick can say anything else, his phone starts ringing. He glances at the screen and immediately answers. “Laura?”
There’s a brief pause as Laura speaks on the other end. Chris watches as Nick’s expression shifts from mild annoyance to guiltyp.
“Oh, we’re so sorry,” Nick says quickly, rubbing his temple. “So they wanted to vacate the meeting?”
Another silence.
“Okay, yeah, we can do that. I’m so sorry, by the way. Thanks a lot, talk to you later.”
Nick exhales heavily, as the call ended. He doesn’t even have to say it, Chris already knows just from that one-sided conversation.
“They cancelled?” Chris asks.
Nick nods. “Yeah. Right now, we’re forty minutes late, and the representative has another important meeting at eleven, so they decided to vacate it to our next availability.”
Chris sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. Matt is gonna be pissed as fuck.
And right on cue, Matt yanks the car door open and slides back into the driver’s seat, starting the engine like he’s ready to floor it.
Before he can, Nick speaks up. “The meeting is cancelled, because we’re super late.”
Matt frowns, turning to look at him. “They cancelled?” His tone is sharp, slightly raised.
Nick doesn’t flinch. “Yes, Matthew, cancelled.”
Matt is pissed.
“Fucking stupid.” He spits the words out like they taste bad, shoving his hand into his pocket to grab his phone, to see the time, only to find it dead.
“Fuck.” Again.
Because of fucking course it’s dead now.
He slams it onto the wireless charging pad in front of the gear stick, expecting it to light up, except nothing happens. No response. No charging icon.
“What the f—”
“The pad is broken, you need to place it like—”
Chris is trying to help. Trying to show him. His hand reaches out, fingertips brushing against Matt’s as he adjusts the phone in his grip,
and suddenly, Matt sees red.
It’s not even a conscious decision. One second, Chris’s hand is touching his, and the next,
Matt swings.
“Don’t fucking touch me!”
His voice explodes in the confined space of the car just as his titanium iPhone smashes into Chris’s face. Square against his nose and cheek.
The sound is loud.
Loud enough that it snaps Matt out of his own anger, so fast it leaves him dizzy.
The car goes silent.
Even Nick, who always has something to say, doesn’t make a sound.
Chris freezes. Head tilted to the side, right hand lifts slowly to cover the spot he was just hit, fingers pressing against his face as if trying to understand what just happened.
Then, after a second, he pulls his hand away.
Red again.
But this time it's smeared across the youngest fingers, fresh and bright. Some remain flowing down his lips.
Chris doesn’t say anything. He just stares at his hand.
And Matt feels something cold in his chest. His breath is still heavy, his pulse still hammering, but his anger isn’t hot anymore.
It’s sinking, drowning.
He just fucking hit Chris.
Oh, what has he done?
Matt can’t even bring himself to look at Chris. His eyes stay fixed on the dashboard, on his own hands gripping his phone too tightly, his knuckles white.
"Fuck, Matt…" Nick murmurs from the back, but his voice is distant, like it’s coming from underwater. Nothing registers.
He is so fucked.
Chris doesn’t say a word. He just reaches for the glove box, pulling out a handful of tissues. He stuffs them against his nose, pressing on the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding, wiping the rest of it away with the sleeve of his grey hoodie.
A grey hoodie that Matt got for him.
It stains, a deep red against the fabric, and Matt feels sick.
Chris then opens the door. Leaves the car.
And Matt is frozen.
He hit Chris. With intent. He wanted to hurt Chris. And he did.
And Chris is leaving.
Matt doesn’t know what to do. His ears are ringing, his hands are shaking slightly, and everything inside him feels like it’s imploding. His heart is hammering, but at the same time, he feels completely numb.
What has he done?
Then, suddenly, the door on his side opens.
Chris stands there. The youngest reaches out, hands gentle as they wrap around Matt’s arm, coaxing him out of the car with a soft pull. "Come, Matt. I’ll drive us home. It’s okay."
His voice is quiet. Soft.
Kind.
Matt doesn’t know how to process it.
He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t argue. His body moves without thinking, without feeling. One moment, he’s in the driver’s seat; the next, he’s already in the passenger seat, watching the road blur past them as Chris drives.
Nick doesn’t say anything from the back. The whole car is quiet, save for the low hum of the engine.
Matt stares straight ahead.
He doesn’t feel anything.
Just numb.
As soon as they pull into the driveway, Chris turns to Nick. “I need to go pick something up. You can go in.”
Nick blinks, clearly processing. “Okay,” he says, then opens the door and steps out without another word.
Matt sits there, whole body stiff. He doesn’t know what Chris means by that. Is he supposed to stay? Is Chris saying something to him? He needs to apologize.
Now.
But before he can even open his mouth, Chris turns his head, finally looking at him.
There’s still no anger in his face.
No irritation.
No sadness.
Nothing.
“Go in,” Chris says, nodding once toward the house.
And Matt, without thinking, without arguing, gets out of the car.
He steps inside the house, the door shutting behind him with a soft click. And that’s when he sees Nick, standing just a few feet in front of him, arms crossed, looking at him like he’s never seen him before.
“That is fucked up,” Nick says, voice low. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but nothing excuses you hitting our little brother like that. Until bloody, Matt? That’s crazy even for you.”
Matt stands there, still, like his body isn’t his own. Like his brain has stopped working entirely.
He knows.
He knows it’s fucked up. Knows he lost control, knows there is no excuse.
But even with all of that, with the weight of what he’s done sitting on his chest, pressing, crushing,
he can’t find anything to say.
“And I know you feel bad,” Nick continues, “I know. And I’m not trying to make it worse, but he wasn’t doing anything to purposefully piss you off, Matt. He was helping you. He even woke you up this morning because I was being a little pissy too. He offered to drive. And he didn’t even try to actively argue with you, even though I know he was dying to sack you in the face.”
Matt doesn’t move. He just stands there, jaw clenched, hands curled into fists at his sides, staring at a spot on the floor like if he looks anywhere else, it’ll make this even worse.
“But you did what you did. And he didn’t.”
Nick pauses for a second, making sure Matt is listening.
“So if there’s anybody that doesn’t think—” Nick exhales sharply, shaking his head. “It’s you. Not Chris.”
With that, he turns and starts climbing the stairs, leaving Matt standing there, alone, drowning in the guilt pressing against his ribs.
And Matt still has nothing to say.
Because there’s nothing to argue.
He stands there for a good minute before he too trudges up the stairs, his steps feel heavy. His head is pounding again, not from anger this time, but from everything else.
The guilt, the shame, the fucking regret.
He pushes his bedroom door open and collapses onto his bed, curling into himself and stares at the plain wall. His mind won’t stop. Won’t slow down.
He keeps seeing it over and over and over again.
The words he had said.
The sound of the hit.
The way Chris looked at him.
The blood.
"It’s okay," Chris had said afterwards.
And Matt breaks.
It's not okay.
His whole body shakes as he curls further into himself, trying to hold it in, trying to stop, but he can’t.
It’s ugly, and it’s raw, and it’s deserved.
It's not okay.
His chest caves, and he grips his sheets tight, squeezing his eyes shut, because fuck, this is so—so fucking wrong.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Chris was just helping him for fuck's sake. He woke him up. He offered to drive. He didn’t argue, even though Matt had been awful to him all morning. And Matt had hurt him. Yet he said it's okay.
It's not okay.
Of course Chris can be annoying. A pain in the ass. Some days, Matt wants nothing more than to dig a hole, crawl inside, and stay there just so Chris can’t get to him, can’t bother him.
But he never thought that he would intentionally hurt his little brother.
Because that's Chris.
His brother.
His best friend.
His world.
Someone so dear to him, so fucking precious. A part of him, stitched into his life in ways no one else ever could be.
Someone who makes him feel safe, secure, loved.
And he hit him.
He knows that in that moment, he meant to hit Chris.
He wanted to. He wanted to hurt him.
How could he? How the fuck could he?
It's not okay.
So Matt cries harder.
And that’s what makes it so fucked up.
Nick is right.
It’s him.
He’s the one who doesn’t think. Not Chris.
-
The next time Matt opens his eyes, his room is bathed in deep orange light, the sun already low in the sky.
He fell asleep crying his stupid fucking ass off.
Now that his headache has dulled, his neck pain is gone, and the frustration that had ruled his morning is dead, there’s only one thing left; guilt.
Thick, suffocating guilt that sits in his chest.
He blinks slowly, searching for his phone. He wonders what time it is, wonders if he can just roll over and sink back into sleep, bury himself in his misery for a few more hours.
He knows he should talk. He knows he needs to talk. The apology he owes Chris is so overdue.
But he’s not ready.
His eyes land on his nightstand. His phone is there, charging.
He halts.
He didn’t do that.
He didn’t plug it in earlier.
His frown deepens as his gaze shifts to the floor, where something else catches his eye, a big paper bag.
That wasn’t there before.
Matt slowly pushes himself up, reaching down to pick it up. Inside, there’s polystyrene container, a takeout fried chicken. Cold. But it’s his favorite.
His stomach clenches.
Then, in a smaller plastic bag tucked inside, he finds a bottle of Advil, a body patch, an energy drink, and a pack of sour jelly.
And next to it, inside a separate big Target bag, is a blanket. Soft. Steel blue.
His fingers ghost over the fabric, conflicted, until his eyes land on something else inside.
An empty, brand new journal.
Matt’s whole body stills. His breath catches in his throat.
The cover is a black faux leather, the same as what he bought for himself before. He ran out of pages yesterday.
And the only person who knows that is Chris.
Because he told Chris yesterday.
Tears pool in Matt’s eyes again.
His chest tightens, throat burning, and suddenly he needs Chris.
Needs his Chris.
So he stands up, though his legs feel weak beneath him, he walks out of his room.
As soon as he steps out, he hears voices from the kitchen.
"Stop saying that, Nick," Chris’s voice, it sounds serious.
Nick clicks his tongue. "No, you listen. You shouldn’t blame yourself and enable what he just did to you. And I love Matt, I love him just as much, maybe even more than you do, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be okay with what he did!"
Matt stops in his tracks, his breath stops. He’s right behind the wall now, hidden from sight.
Chris sighs. "I told you, I wasn’t enabling anything! I was being annoying and he really didn’t mean it! Did you see how shocked he was after that? He feels so bad!"
Matt’s grip on his own arms tightens.
No.
No, Chris is wrong.
Because when he swung, when he hit Chris, he meant it. He wanted to hurt him.
He had been so fucking angry at Chris helping him that he didn’t care.
"Again, Chris," Nick argues, "You did nothing wrong, and he hit you. And we’re not talking about a back smack or a push, this was a full-on punch to the face. Take a look at the mirror, you yourself know it's bad."
Chris laughs, but it just sounds bitter. "Nick, we got bruises from each other all the time. How is this different?"
Nick exhales, frustrated. "I don’t know about you but from a third-person perspective? I know it’s not the same as whatever bitch smack you gave me before."
He could feel his nails break the skin on his arm, tears spill over, hot against his cheeks.
"You’re overthinking this,"Chris deflects.
"Chris, i was genuinely scared, okay?"
Nick is scared.
And Nick is right to be scared, Matt is scared of himself too.
Chris clicks his tongue. "You know I was at wrong too and don't talk about Matt like that."
A loud slap echoes through the kitchen, Nick smacking the counter. "Hey, I’m not trying to make this worse! I told you, you were annoying but you were just helping and that doesn't warrant a fucking punch to the face! If you ever get stuck in an abusive relationship, are you going to act this way too?"
Chris’s voice tired. "What are you—"
"No!" Nick cuts him off.
"Because if this is how you react to domestic violence, I swear to God, Christopher, we might need to live together forever just so I can keep an eye on you."
"Nick, this is literally nothing like that. You're overreacting."
"Chris," Nick exhales, voice steady but firm, "I’m not trying to demonize Matt, and I’m not trying to baby you. Maybe I am very much overreacting now but I’m just saying that I’m worried."
Matt hears Chris shift, but he doesn’t respond, so Nick keeps going.
"And yeah, of course this has happened before. We fight all the time, blood here and there. But this time I'm not okay with it."
"You didn’t do anything," Nick continues. "And that’s a rare thing for me to say about you. You were just helping him. And he hit you because he was angry at everything, but it wasn’t you."
Nick pauses, his voice thick with something unspoken.
"Do you understand?"
Matt swallows.
Because he understands.
Chris didn’t deserve it. Chris never deserved it.
Fuck.
Nick is so right. So right that it hurts so bad.
"I was interfering with his stuff and he was having a bad day," Chris mutters, voice quiet, almost hesitant. "He looked like he didn’t get a good sleep. He seemed overwhelmed earlier."
Of course, Chris would notice.
He always notices.
"I know, kid, I saw," Nick replies, his tone softer now. "I feel bad for him too. But please stop saying helping as interfering, I'm so fucking serious when i said you didn't do shit to him."
Chris sighs, "I dont know Nick, I bought him some stuff. I hope he feels better once he wakes up."
"I understand what he did wasn’t great," Chris continues. "Trust me, I can feel it on my face right now. But when he is in a lot of mental pain like this, I also understand where it came from too. So he can take as much time, as much space as he needs—"
There’s a pause. A long one.
Then, softer, almost under his breath,
"As long as he can feel better again."
Matt crumbles further.
Chris should be angry.
He should hate him. He shouldn’t be comforting him, shouldn’t be worrying about him when he’s the one at the end of the stick.
But that’s just Chris, isn’t it?
Kind.
Even when Matt doesn’t deserve it.
"You're gonna make me cry, kid," Nick mutters, exhaling sharply.
Chris chuckles at that, "Can you please not be angry at him?" he asks, voice softer now. "I know he feels really bad about it. He must’ve been super anxious too. And I’m not angry at him at all and I feel bad for making it worse for him. So let’s not stress him out."
Matt squeezes his eyes shut,
for fuck's sake Chris, just be angry.
Nick sighs. "I usually do whatever the fuck I want, but I’ll give you a pass." He pauses. "But the next time he hits you like that, I will fucking kill him."
Chris just giggles, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. "If that day comes, i let you kill me too," he says. "Because I can confirm, it won’t happen again."
Matt can't stop the ache in his chest.
He staggers back to his room, quietly closing his door as he slides down, his legs giving out beneath him.
Fuck.
Why does Chris have to trust him so much?
Even he doesn’t trust himself.
It took one bad morning, just one fucking morning, for him to blow up.
Today, it was a punch.
What about next time?
What if it gets worse?
What if, one day, Chris is dead at his hands?
The thought makes Matt feel sick.
His stomach churns, his ears rings and his vision blurs, the fear clawing at his throat.
Because he knows Chris.
Knows that, if it ever came down to it, Chris would rather die than blame Matt for anything.
He wouldn’t fight back.
Wouldn’t hate him.
Wouldn't leave him.
He would make excuses, just like he’s doing now.
He would try to understand, just like he always does.
Matt can’t stop the tears. They spill over, hot everywhere, his chest tightening so much it hurts.
He feels like he’s dying.
His hands shake as he grips at his own arms, his nails digging into his skin, but it doesn’t ground him. It doesn’t help.
He’s so fucking sick of himself.
The thoughts won’t stop.
Chris trusts him. And he shouldn’t.
He hurt Chris. And he could do it again.
He’s a fucking monster.
His stomach twists violently, he thinks he’s going to throw up. His head spins, he thinks he’s going to pass out.
His breath stutters, sharp and broken.
He’s going to die right here, on this fucking floor, and maybe that would be better. Maybe that’s what he deserves.
Then it goes dark and quiet.
So quiet.
Somewhere along the line, he must've passed out.
Just nothingness, until,
"Matt. Matt, why are you on the floor? Hey, are you okay? Matt!"
Chris.
Even in sleep, or in death, if that’s what this is, Matt will always know Chris's voice like the back of his hand.
The same hand that had hit Chris.
His puffy eyes crack open, vision blurred, his body feeling heavy. Useless.
"Hey, did you fainted? You're soaked in sweat, and you’re a bit warm too. I think you’re sick, I figured you’re sick this morning. Come on, I’ll bring you to bed."
Chris’s voice is rushed, flustered, worried.
So fucking worried.
As his body being hoisted up to a sit in Chris's hold, Matt blinks, and his vision clears just enough to catch the youngest face.
And all his eyes can see is the bruise.
The bruise he caused.
It's impossible to not see it.
Because it's deep, sickening purple, spreads across the left side of his little brother’s face. Starting from the middle of his cheek and trailing up to his undereye and cheekbone.
The swelling makes his left eye look slightly puffed.
"Can you walk? Or should I carry you?"
Chris’s voice is so soft, so gentle, and his bruised face is painted with nothing but worry.
What has he ever done to deserve this?
To deserve Chris?
Matt pushes Chris’s hands away, barely thinking. He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, trying to ground himself, trying to think.
Chris quiets immediately.
“Are you still angry at me?”
His hands drop from his face as he looks at Chris.
His little brother is sitting there, eyes wide, voice so soft, so careful.
“I’m really sorry,” Chris says again, voice softer, uncertain.
“I didn’t mean to make you angry. I should’ve known that you weren’t up for my shit.”
Chris is nervous.
Chris.
Chris, who is never nervous around him, never second-guesses himself, never hesitates before throwing an arm around Matt or making a dumb joke, is in front of him, shoulders hunched, fingers picking at the hem of his hoodie, voice so small, like he’s hoping Matt won’t snap at him again.
Like he’s hoping on his knees that Matt won’t get angry at him for just being Chris.
Matt feels like he’s drowning.
He did this.
Chris got hit, got fucking punched in the face, and he’s the one apologizing?
Matt lifts his hand, just to push his hair out of his face, because fuck, everything is too much, too overwhelming, too loud in his head,
And Chris flinches.
Barely a movement, just a quick instinctual jerk backward, but it’s enough.
Enough to make Matt feels like he has died.
Chris’s eyes widen slightly, flickering across Matt’s face, searching for something. Looking for anger, waiting for a reaction, like he’s trying to gauge if Matt is about to snap again.
“Are you okay?” Chris asks quietly.
Matt is dead.
Because Chris flinched.
At him.
Like he was scared.
Like he thought Matt was about to hit him again.
He shakes his head, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as if he can physically pushes away the pain of what he just saw.
"Matt, talk to me," Chris pleads, "Please, what’s wrong?"
Matt looks at Chris. Really looks at him.
Maybe his own face is the epitome of pain and suffering, maybe the guilt and the self-hatred are written so clearly across his features that he looks just as fucked up as he feels.
But he thinks Chris’s face is worse.
There’s something hollow in his expression, tired, cautious, something Matt has never seen directed at him before.
Desperation.
Just pure desperation to help him out, to understand him.
The tears pool in his eyes before he can stop them, blurring his vision, making it impossible to see anything but the outline of his little brother, the brother he hurt, the brother who still sat here, waiting for him.
Matt’s breath stutters. His hands curl into his hoodie, gripping the fabric.
“Chris—” he chokes out, voice barely even there. But he can’t say anything else, can’t form words past the lump in his throat, past the ache in his chest, past the overwhelming guilt that’s consuming him whole.
Matt moves slowly, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make Chris flinch again. He can't take it again.
But he leans in anyway, his body shifting toward Chris, asking,
begging, for a hug.
A hug that Chris alwaysgives him.
Sometimes to the point where it annoys Matt, where he shoves Chris off and tells him to quit it, because God, Chris is so clingy.
But right now, it’s the only thing Matt wants.
The only thing he needs.
His shoulders shake, his head ducking slightly, and he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, because if there’s one thing Chris has always understood without words, it’s him.
And Chris pulls him in, arms wrapping tightly around him, warm and steady, like Matt didn’t hurt him, like Matt isn’t the worst person in the world.
Like he’s still Chris's Matt.
Matt chokes on a sob, his hands gripping the back of Chris’s hoodie, holding onto him.
Chris just squeezes him tighter.
“I’m so sorry, so fucking sorry." Matt sobs, his whole body shaking against Chris.
Chris just holds him.
His right hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back, the way he knows helps calm him down. And the other hand moves up, threading through Matt’s hair, combing through the strands gently, the way he’s always done when Matt gets overwhelmed, when things get too much.
“It’s okay. You’re okay.”
He whispers it so softly, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. Like there isn’t a bruise on his face.
And God, he wishes Chris would flinch away again from his touch, just scream at him. Blame him. Hate him. Fucking hit him back, shove him, something.
Anything.
Tears streaming hot and heavy down his cheeks, dripping onto his shirt, onto Chris’s hoodie.
It’s not just guilt.
It's regret, shame, self-hatred, and fear all mixed into one.
Because Matt knows Chris loves him. Chris has always loved him, unconditionally, without question, without limits.
And Matt?
Matt took it for granted.
"I’m so sorry, Chris."
"I didn’t—" Matt starts, but he stops himself.
Because that’s a lie.
He did mean it. He did mean to hit Chris.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He is so fucked up.
"I swear I won’t do it again. Please," he sobs, he hope Chris will just believe him.
"I’m sorry. I’m really, really so fucking sorry."
He shouldn’t be here.
He shouldn’t be in Chris’s arms.
Shouldn’t be allowed to touch him, to be comforted by him, not when his fucked-up head, his fucked-up anger, could make him hurt Chris again.
He should get away before he ruins everything.
Before he ruins Chris.
As if sensing Matt spiraling, Chris gently pulls away from the hug, just enough to look at him properly. His hands stay firm on Matt’s shoulders.
“Hey, don’t think about a thing,” Chris says softly, voice quiet, steady. “I’m here. You’re doing okay. There’s nothing wrong.”
Matt shakes his head, but Chris doesn’t let him retreat, doesn’t let him run from this.
“I’m not angry at you. Nick’s not angry at you,” he continues, his thumbs brushing over the fabric of Matt’s hoodie. “And I know you weren’t in the right mind when you hit me. I understand that. Nick understands that. Okay?”
Fuck, Matt doesn’t deserve it.
Doesn’t deserve Chris looking at him like he’s still the same brother he was yesterday, like he hasn’t changed, like he’s not a monster who lost control and hurt the person he loves most in the world.
His throat burns, his hands clenching into fists in his lap. “Chris…” His voice raw, barely there. “I—”
Chris shakes his head. “You don’t have to say anything right now. Just, breathe, okay? Just stay here with me.”
And Matt doesn’t have the strength to fight it.
So he nods, pressing his forehead against Chris’s neck again.
-
The next time Matt opens his eyes, his room is dim. The air is cool, the weight of his blankets grounding, and for the first time in what feels like forever, his chest isn’t aching as badly as before.
His eyes shift automatically to the movement beside his bed.
“Hey, you feel better?”
It’s Nick.
Matt blinks sluggishly, his body heavy, but he nods. He does feel better, more rested, even though the numbness still lingers under his skin.
It’s only then that he realizes he isn’t alone in his bed.
There’s warmth pressed against his back, an arm loosely wrapped around his waist, steady breathing against his shoulder.
Chris.
Matt barely has time to process it before Nick snorts. “He texted me earlier saying you knocked out on him. Said you have a low-grade fever.”
Matt swallows, his throat dry, his mind still catching up.
“I was away for a meeting,” Nick continues, nodding toward the nightstand. “I put some cold water here in case you need to hydrate.”
Even in the dim light, Matt can see the way Nick is looking at him softly.
“It’s okay, Matty. I’m not angry. Chris isn’t either.”
Nick pauses, holding his gaze.
“Just don’t hurt him again, okay?”
Matt stills.
He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve any of this. But Nick is giving him an out anyway. Chris is giving him an out anyway.
He nods quietly.
Nick sighs, reaching out to ruffle Matt’s already-messy hair before standing up. “Get some more rest. We’re not going anywhere.”
Matt closes his eyes, pressing back slightly into Chris’s warmth.
They're not going anywhere.