Chapter Text
chris feels stupid for even thinking this, but do matt and nick even notice when he stops talking as of lately?
it crosses his mind frequently nowadays, and it’s just because he’s been noticing things.
the shared looks of disdain when he says something.
the laughing at his expense.
they’re snappy with him.
they look at him like they hate him, and they act like it too.
okay, no. he’s being dramatic. chris is being dramatic, and he knows that.
matt and nick could never hate him— it’s coded in their dna to love each other equally and unconditionally.
so he tries to convince himself, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing.
and he hates that he even notices.
he hates that some part of him waits for an invite.
because it’s pathetic, right?
they’re all living in the same house, they’re all close, it’s not like anyone is leaving him out on purpose.
if he walked in, they’d make space.
they always do.
but that’s almost worse, because chris doesn’t want space that they have to carve out for him. he wants space that’s just there. automatic. assumed.
and lately it feels like the automatic thing is matt-nick, nick-matt. chris feels like a guest in his own fucking house some days.
he pulls back without meaning to. stays in his room longer. wears headphones more. tells himself it’s just because he’s tired or stressed or needs quiet to focus on merch or shit like that.
but there’s this stupid weight in his chest that doesn’t go anywhere, and it gets heavier whenever he hears the two of them laughing from across the house.
sometimes he catches himself wanting to walk out and say something sarcastic, like ‘wow, i guess i missed another joke,’ or ‘why don’t you guys laugh with me anymore?’
but the idea of actually saying it makes his skin crawl. it sounds whiny in his head.
dramatic. like he’d be begging for attention he shouldn’t need.
and god, the thought of them looking at him with that confused face that so clearly reads, ‘what are you talking about? you can come whenever you want.’
but the obvious answer of him just being able to go hang out with them makes him feel even smaller.
because he knows they wouldn’t understand how heavy it feels, how stupidly lonely it is to be the one third who suddenly feels like he’s orbiting instead of belonging.
he tells himself he’s imagining it.
he tells himself everything is fine.
but he still stays quiet. still keeps his eyes down when he walks past their room. still feels that pinch in his stomach whenever he sees how easily they fall into step with each other now, while he’s trailing a few feet behind.
and every night, when he’s alone in his room, downstairs, and the house has gone dim and quiet, he lets himself admit it for half a second just long enough for the truth to sting and then retreat again.
he misses them.
and he hates that missing people who live ten feet away feels like something he should be ashamed of, that they’re just a staircase away.
but chris never talks about his feelings, and even if he did, he definitely wouldn’t talk about them now. not when it’s so awkward with them.
not when he’s genuinely confused if they’ll listen or not— something he would’ve never thought twice about even just a few months back.
he keeps telling himself it’ll pass.
that whatever this weird tension is, whatever this distance is, it’s just a phase. something temporary, something he’s blowing out of proportion. he repeats it enough times that he almost believes it.
almost.
but nothing changes.
and the longer nothing changes, the harder it is for him to ignore the feeling that he’s slowly drifting somewhere they can’t see him.
the food thing doesn’t shift all at once. it’s not some dramatic decision; it’s small and stupid and unplanned and almost unnoticed by chris, himself.
it starts with breakfast.
he used to wander upstairs and grab whatever matt had thrown on the counter: toast, fruit, sometimes that gross yogurt matt insists is good.
but lately, he hesitates at the bottom of the stairs because he doesn’t even want to face either of them.
he’s too embarrassed, too upset, too angry at them for making him feel this way.
or maybe, he’s punishing himself by not talking to his brothers, because he’s angry at himself for feeling this way in the first place.
so the first few days, he tells himself he’s not hungry yet. he’ll eat later.
and he does, at first. a granola bar, a couple crackers, something forgettable.
but then lunch becomes the same thing— he’s busy scrolling, or running errands, or he just… doesn’t feel like eating yet.
nothing intentional.
nothing alarming.
and dinner’s the last line to cross.
the first night he skips it, nick actually texts him from upstairs:
where r u dinner’s ready
come up
and chris swears he almost goes. he stands at the stairs, hand on the railing, listening to the low murmur of their voices.
but the idea of sitting between them feels too heavy, too raw. like he’d somehow expose the whole ache inside him just by being there.
so he lies:
already ate.
nick sends back a thumbs-up. chris stares at the screen longer than he wants to.
after that, it gets easier to skip.
not every night. not even most nights, at first. just here and there, when he’s too tired or too sad or too embarrassed to walk into a room where he feels like the extra.
two weeks in, it’s noticeable.
not dramatic, not enough to make the whole house stop — but noticeable.
nick will walk past him and frown a little, that tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows. matt will pause mid-sentence when chris brushes by, like he’s trying to figure out what changed.
they’ll ask things like:
“you ate, right?”
“you good? you look tired.”
“you’re not sick, are you?”
and chris always answers fast, too fast: yeah. i’m fine. i’m good.
and because he says it so quickly, because he says it like he doesn’t want them to worry, they let it go.
but they notice. even if they don’t understand what they’re noticing yet.
like the day matt sees him grab a water bottle and leave the kitchen without touching the food on the counter. matt calls out, “you’re not eating?”
but chris lifts the bottle like it’s an answer and says, “i’m not hungry, it’s whatever,” and disappears downstairs before matt can question it.
or the afternoon nick stops in the hallway when he sees chris come out of his room a little too slowly, like standing upright is an effort. nick doesn’t say anything then, but his eyes follow chris for a second longer than usual.
these little moments ripple through the house.
but, they don’t confront him yet.
not because they don’t care, but because they’ve never had to worry about chris like this. he’s always been the loud one, the steady one, the positive one.
and even if he is struggling, they’re used to him bouncing back.
but chris isn’t bouncing back, and that scares them.
so, matt starts offering him food all the time, saying he’d drive. “let’s go to in n out,” he suggests sometimes, tossing up his car keys.
chris went sometimes, but was careful not to overdo it.
because if he went out with matt too much and started getting comfortable again, he’d repel him away and chris would ruin all of this progress of finally becoming likeable enough for matt to invite him out in the first place.
nick, on the other hand, is much more direct.
much more obvious.
he watches chris like a fucking owl, doing almost no beating-around-the-bush.
he asks him if he ate, if he slept, if he’s feeling okay.
and it’s because chris looks sick. which means they have to worry about him.
so they do begin to worry, and he feels every second of it.
every look.
every half-question.
every time they stop and take him in like he’s a puzzle piece that suddenly doesn’t fit the way it used to.
and stupidly— horribly— he feels relief.
because if they’re noticing he’s tired,
if they’re noticing he’s quiet,
if they’re noticing he’s skipping meals,
then maybe they’re noticing him again.
and that thought alone is enough to keep him going.
even as he feels himself getting smaller.
even as the stairs leave him a little winded now.
even as food starts to feel like a chore.
even as the loneliness presses deeper into the walls of his room.
he doesn’t know what scares him more:
how much he misses them,
or how good it feels that they’re finally, slowly, quietly starting to worry.