Chapter Text
It had been three months.
Three months since their world shifted forever. Since their trio lacked one third, since laughter rarely existed in their house, only in memories. Three months since they heard Chris' voice, since they held Chris’ hand in that surreal, nightmarish night. Since from one moment to another, their little brother was just not there anymore, and they were supposed to keep on living like that. Since Chris as they knew him was no more, and their hearts had shattered beyond comprehension.
Their apartment was too quiet. Not completely silent though, because as much as they couldn’t understand it, life still moved around them. Phones buzzed, clocks ticked, cars passed, alarms went off. The world dared to go on, and it felt wrong.
There was a stillness in their house that had claws. It sliced them without mercy every time they passed Chris’ room, every time they went to call his name, every time they arranged things in three out of habit.
Chris’ room was still untouched. It was the only reason they hadn’t left LA yet, because they couldn’t deal with touching their brother’s belongings. His things were exactly where Chris had left them that day: there was a hoodie in a chair, a half-finished can of Pepsi, clutter in his desk, socks on the floor, the bed half-done. Matt had tried to clean it once. He made it halfway to fold one of Chris’ shirts that were on a chair before just collapsing on his knees with the shirt pressed on his face. He had sobbed so violently he ended up throwing up afterwards.
They didn’t try again.
Nick couldn’t either. Going to Chris’ room was both comforting and torture. They didn’t want to touch it, they didn’t want to lose Chris’ smell, the room was like a time valve that they couldn’t even consider letting go yet.
Grief acted differently on the two of them. Nick was unrecognizably angry. The oldest triplet carried an anger that simmered under his skin, just below the surface, and it lashed out at everything all the time. At the hospital that tried but failed to save Chris’ life, at the staff, the doctors, the service companies. At the world, at himself. He punched the sofa, the bed, but sometimes his body craved to punch a solid surface to hurt himself.
He wanted his physical being to showcase the pain he was holding on the inside. He felt bruised, broken, sliced all over, but his body didn’t show that. The only indication of his immensurable pain was his chronic red-rimmed eyes, his deep eyebags. Nick spent so much time seething, not being able to be reached by anyone.
Matt on the other hand, had gone quiet. Unbearable, crushingly quiet. He still set things in three, three plates, three cups. He kept glancing over his shoulder like Chris might come barreling into the room. He cracked open Pepsi’s for no one to touch. He still bought Chris’ favorites. Matt hadn’t cried in weeks. He felt dangerously numb. But his eyes reflected a hollow, a vacancy that was hard to witness.
They didn’t talk about it. Not out loud. Not really. They simply couldn’t.
Words were too heavy, like the weight of them would shatter them if spoken out loud. But there were nights in which the walls felt smaller, breathing felt harder, and one of them would knock softly on the other’s room. And without a word, Nick and Matt would sit shoulder to shoulder, staring in front of them. Their eyes burning, grieving together in silence while feeling a crushing pressure in their chest.
Matt wore one of Chris’ hoodies. The last one he had wore, that was so worn out that it had holes in the sleeves. He slept in it now when he was not joined by Nick, burying his face in the fabric, trying to trap Chris’ scent. Now three months later, it was barely there anymore, and Matt found himself googling if preserving a scent was something possible. Chris’ smell was faint, but it was enough to still make him cry at night when he snapped out of the numb state.
They had Chris’ voice notes, and of course they had countless hours of footage to hear their little brother’s voice. But they couldn’t listen to any of them. Most days Matt couldn’t even log into any social media because of how scared he was to come across a video of his brother. But there were days in which his thumb hovered over the play button on Youtube, or on a voice recording in their group chat. His fingers trembled with the want to hear Chris’ voice again, but he ultimately didn’t think he would survive the pain that would come with it.
Grief wasn’t linear for them. People say it would get easier. But that hadn’t happened to them. Not yet.
They still reached for Chris, they still caught themselves turning to make a comment. They still heard him, they still saw him in strangers in the street. They dreamt so vividly about Chris, almost every night, and it was so real that they would wake up expecting to find him sleeping next to them.
It was impossible to bear. Losing Chris made them feel not real. One third of their being had been ripped off, and they were left with a gaping, gigantic wound in their body.
Some days were better than hours, there were moments where Nick and Matt would laugh at something. But it always ended quickly, with the same ache. How were they supposed to continue? Were they allowed to smile when Chris wouldn’t? How were we supposed to carry the pain?
They didn’t know yet.
But Matt and Nick kept trying to exist. They kept trying to wake up, exist, and live another day, even when everything felt too dark to continue. THey kept trying for Chris; only for him. Because they knew Chris would hate seeing them give up on life.
Chris would probably throw a pillow at them if he was able to, saying “you’re not rid of me, idiots.” Because in some way, he would be right. He lived in every room, in every memory, in every part of their identity, and of who they were.
But fuck, they missed him.