Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The MRI room was cold. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones. He lay still, the machine humming loudly around him. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he wasn’t there. Tried to think of Nick cracking some stupid joke or Matt arguing about which song to play on a road trip. Anything to calm his nerves.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not for anything serious, anyway. Usually, his trips to places like this were because of a sore throat he swore wouldn’t go away or a sprained ankle from tripping over his own feet. Stupid things, really.

But this time.. He doesn't know?

It had started with the headaches—a dull, pressing weight behind his eyes that made him squint in bright light. He’d brushed it off at first. Advil always took care of it, so he thought it wasn’t a big deal. But lately, even four pills at a time didn’t touch the pain. It was constant now, a steady drumbeat in his skull that wouldn’t let up, no matter how much sleep he got or how much water he drank.

Then there were the moments—moments he didn’t like talking about. Moments where he’d lose time. One second, he’d be sitting on the couch scrolling through TikTok, and the next, Nick or Matt would be snapping their fingers in front of his face, their voices sharp with concern.

“Chris? Chris, are you even listening?”

He hated how confused he felt afterward, how much effort it took to pretend nothing was wrong. He’d laugh it off, tell them he was zoning out, but the truth was… he couldn’t remember what had just happened. Those few seconds were always blank, like someone had hit the pause button on his brain.

He told himself it was fine. It had to be fine. He's 20. Headaches and dissociation happened sometimes, right? But last night, when he woke up on his bedroom floor with no memory of how he got there, something knotted in his chest. It wasn’t just the pounding ache in his skull or the anxiety that made his chest tighten; it was the realization that if Nick or Matt had found him like that, they would’ve freaked out.

So he booked an Uber. It was stupid, probably. Matt would’ve driven him anywhere, anytime. But if Matt asked where he was going, what could he say? “Oh, just to the doctor. No big deal. By the way, I have this crazy headache for months now and fainted last night, but I’m fine.” No. That wasn’t going to happen.

Everything will be fine anyway.

-

His eyes were fixed on the image in front of him. His brain. Or what was supposed to be his brain. There, right in the middle, was a bright, opaque mass. It didn’t look real. It didn’t even look like it belonged there. It was just a white blob on the screen, but it was the reason his head felt like it was splitting apart.

The doctor’s words echoed in his head, but they didn’t make sense.

They couldn’t make sense.

“A what?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Stage IV Glioblastoma,” the doctor said gently. “It’s a tumor. A form of brain cancer."

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.

Tumor. Cancer. Glioblastoma.

This is not real.

He shook his head, couldn't help but to let out a little laugh, the sound sharp and hollow. “No. No, that can’t be right. I just—I just have a headache. A migraine, maybe. My brother Nick gets them all the time. It’s probably just stress or something, right? I'm completely healthy!"

The doctor’s eyes softened, and that look—the pity—made Chris’s stomach churn. “I wish it were something less serious,” he said gently. “But the scans-"

"No. Stop please."

"I know this is a lot to take in,” Chris scoffed at that, "You think?" He didn't have any intention to be mean, but right now he doesn't even know what the fuck else to do.

"This can’t be right. I’m twenty. I can’t—this doesn’t happen to people like me.”

“I understand this is difficult to process,” the doctor said. “As I mentioned, though a surgery is not possible at this stage, there are treatment options we can discuss—”

Chris stopped listening. He closed his eyes, his thoughts spiraling.

“How… how bad is it?” he whispered.

The doctor hesitated, and Chris hated that he did. “The prognosis…” he began, choosing his words carefully, “is eight months.”

Eight months? Eight fucking months?

Just Eight?

“No,” he said, his voice shaking. “No, that’s not—I can’t—I just—” His hands were trembling, his breath coming in short gasps. He felt like he was suffocating, the walls of the office closing in around him.

“Mr Sturniolo, I know this is overwhelming,” the doctor said, his voice steady. “But as I mentioned, we’re here to help you. There are treatments—radiation, chemotherapy—that can help.”

“Help what? Help me buy more time?” his voice breaking. “Like I’m some… some ticking time bomb?”

The doctor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Chris’s mind raced. Eight months. Eight months to live. Eight months to tell Matt and Nick that he was dying. How the hell was he supposed to do that? How was he supposed to look them in the eye and tell them that?

He felt the tears coming, hot and unstoppable. He buried his face in his hands, his body shaking with silent sobs. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real.

“Mr Sturniolo,” the doctor said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I know this is a lot to process. But you’re not alone in this. You have family, friends, people who love you. Lean on them.”

Chris laughed bitterly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Because telling them I’m dying is gonna be real fucking easy.”

The doctor didn’t respond.

Chris looked back at the screen, at the bright white spot a size of avocado seed that had just turned his whole world upside down. It wasn’t fair. He was only twenty. He had his whole life ahead of him. All the plans, dreams, stupid little things he hadn’t even thought about yet. And now?

Now he had eight fucking months.

-

His head is full and equally empty as he left the office, legs moving on autopilot. The crinkling sound of the paper bag as he shifted in his seat felt too loud as he settled into his uber ride. He didn’t even know what half of the pills were called—names he couldn’t pronounce, instructions he barely listened to.

“This medication won’t slow the tumor’s progression, Mr. Sturniolo. It’ll only help with the symptoms, and even that might not work as the cancer advances.”

He hated it. He hated how the doctor had looked at him, like he was some fragile little thing, and tried to initiate the treatment plan conversation.

But he didn’t care. He wasn’t ready to hear about treatment plans or radiation or chemo or whatever the hell else. The words had barely registered after “Eight months.” He needed time. Time to think. Time to process. Time to figure out how the hell he was supposed to handle this.

He didn’t even remember arriving home.

The house was still dark when he pushed the front door open. The familiar quiet of early morning surrounded him, the kind that usually put him at ease.

Matt and Nick were still asleep. Good. He didn’t want to see them right now.

Chris made his way to his room, steps slow and heavy. Once inside, he shut the door, dropped the bag of medication onto his nightstand, and collapsed onto his bed. For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

The tears came fast and hard, choking him as he buried his face in the pillow.

He cried for everything—the diagnosis, the pain, the fear, the overwhelming sense of helplessness. He cried because he didn’t know how to tell Matt and Nick, how to make them understand what was happening to him. They were his brothers, his best friends. They’d been through everything together. But this wasn’t a bad grade or a breakup or some dumb argument over pancake, waffle or french toast.

This was life or death.

His death.

He cried because he didn’t know how to fix this, because for once in his twenty years of life, there was no clear solution, no quick fix, no straight way out.

Chris didn't know how long has he been crying whenhe rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling again. By the time he stopped, the headache started pounding harderagainst his skull, he groaned softly, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples. He reached for the bag of medication, he didn’t even bother reading the labels, didn’t care what they were called or what they might do.

He popped the pills into his mouth, swallowing them dry, the bitterness burning his throat. He then throw the plastic bag away into a drawer, hidden from his sight.

His head hit the pillow again, the pounding slowly dulling as the medication worked its way through his system. The edges of his consciousness slowly blurred away and pulled him under, dragging him into a drugged, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Chris is the loud one.

The extrovert. The guy who walks into any room and fills it with energy, screaming and cracking jokes, making everyone laugh until their sides hurt. He loves that about himself. It’s not just who he is—it’s what makes him feel alive. Sure, not everyone vibes with his constant yapping, his tendency to say ridiculous stuff, or his knack for making dumb jokes at the worst times. But he doesn’t care. He’s surrounded by people who get him, people who love him for exactly who he is. Matt and Nick are always there, entertaining his jokes, laughing with him, rolling their eyes at his antics, but never, ever asking him to change himself.

It’s comforting, knowing he’s so loved. But now? That love feels like a weight pressing down on his chest. Because love comes with expectations, and expectations mean having to be truthful and crystal. And cancer? Cancer isn’t something he can just blurt out over breakfast like, "Hey, can you pass the syrup. Oh, by the way, I’m dying.”

He is so fucked.

It’s been two weeks since he learns that glioblastoma isn’t just a word, in fact it's a ticking time bomb in his head, counting down the eight months he supposedly has left.

Eight fucking months.

You see, at first, he thinks he’ll tell them right away. Once he woke up from his slumber that evening, he was ready to come up and sit Nick and Matt down and just rip the Band-Aid off. But then when he walked into the living room, all the brave plan shed off his cancerous brain. They were sitting on the couch, shoulders touching each other, laughing at some dumb video Nick is showing Matt. They look so happy, so carefree. The words he’s rehearsed on the way up the stairs evaporated. His body shuddered softly as he cringed, he can’t ruin the vibe for fuck's sake.

So, he says nothing.

Two weeks later, he’s still saying nothing.

It’s not like he didn't want to tell them. He did try.

Kind of..?

But every time he opened his mouth to speak, something stops him. Cancer isn’t a casual topic. It’s not like talking about what they want for dinner or who’s supposed to do the dishes. Cancer is heavy. Awkward. Uncomfortable. And Chris? Chris isn’t the deep, serious conversation type. He thrives on musics, on laughters, on keeping things light and fun. Dropping the cancer bomb in the middle of all that feels… not Chris-y that he swears he kept feeling cringe about.

It didn't help too that the timing is never right. The three of them spend most of their time together giggling like idiots over TikToks or screaming and aruging about random stuff. That’s not just their bond,it’s their default setting. They’re chaotic and happy, and Chris can’t figure out how to interrupt that with, “Oh, by the way, I have a brain tumor.” He's not fucking crazy?

He thought a couple of times to try to bring it up, maybe casually slipping in hints during conversations, but each attempt made him feel stupid. The words stuck in his throat, refusing to come out, and he quickly erased the thoughts, laughing it off like it’s no big deal. And honestly? Maybe it isn’t a big deal. Not yet, anyway.

The medication is working, for the most part. The headaches aren’t totally gone, but they’re perfectly manageable. The sharp, pressing pain that used to keep him up at night has dulled into something he can ignore most of the time. The absence seizures—which now he knows the name from the doctor's visit—are still happening, though. If anything, they seem more frequent, but Chris doesn’t want to think too hard about that.

Physically, he feels… okay. Tired, sure, and a little drowsy from the meds, but good. A solid 8/10 if he's being honest. At least good enough to convince himself that he can take his time snd keep this to himself just a tad longer.

Honestly, he isn’t ready for the tears, the questions, the “what can we do to help?” looks that will undoubtedly follow. He just needs more time.

So, instead of further attempting he just keeps living his life like nothing has changed. He continues to do his things, filming, stresming, hanging out. He laughs and jokes and screams at Nick for no solid reasons. He teases Matt about his playlists and sing wnd dances around the kitchen even when no one’s around. Like the old times, he feels good.

Part of him blaring in realisation of how he's gripping onto normalcy like it’s a lifeline now, desperately clinging to the version of himself that existed before the stupid diagnosis.

But as time passed by he doesn't know what is the trajectory of his action, and the truth he’s hiding, the secret he’s carrying, feels heavier and heavier, like a boulder strapped to his chest. He wants to tell them. He does. But every time he thinks about the looks on their faces when he tells them he’s dying, his stomach turns.

He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to say the words. And so, he tells himself he doesn’t have to. Not yet. Not while the pain is manageable, not while he still feels okay.

“Eventually,” he whispers to himself one night, his voice barely audible. “I’ll tell them eventually.”

-

The kitchen is filled with noise and laughter, tonight, they’re filming another video for their channel, a cooking challenge again. Chris had insisted on it. "We haven’t done one of these in forever," he’d said. And as always, Nick and Matt had gone along with it. That’s what they do.

The camera is rolling, and the energy is high. Nick is giving Chris a hard time about his terrible baking skills, and Matt is making snarky comments about both of them from across the counter. He rolls his eyes but smiles despite himself, his attempts at keeping the challenge “serious” failing miserably.

Chris mixes a bowl of batter, the spoon clinking rhythmically against the glass. “Nick, I swear, if you sabotage my pancakes—”

“Me? Sabotage?” Nick cuts in, grinning as he pretends to knock over Chris’s mixing bowl. “I’m just trying to help, man!”

“You’re the last person I’d trust in a kitchen,” Chris shoots back. He thrives on this energy, his laughter echoing through the room as he clumsily measures out flour and dumps it into the mixing bowl.

Everything feels normal.

Almost.

Chris halts for a second, the whisk in his hand hovering mid-air. His vision blurs suddenly, like someone smeared Vaseline over his eyes. The edges of the room double and shift, making him feel like the world is tilting sideways. He squints, trying to focus, then rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, hoping it’s just fatigue or something that’ll go away.

“Chris, what are you doing? That batter’s not gonna mix itself,” Nick says from beside him, his voice teasing but sharp enough to pull Chris out of his daze.

Chris blinks a few times, forcing a smile onto his face. “Yeah, yeah, I’m on it,” he says, but his voice wavers slightly. He grips the whisk tighter, focusing on the task at hand. It’s fine. It’s fine. Just keep going.

Before he can think too hard about it, a sudden crash echoes through the room. A bowl hits the floor, ceramic shattering against the tiles. The noise startles both Nick and Chris, their heads snapping toward the source.

Matt is standing by the counter, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands trembling as they grip the edge. His face is pale, his eyes wide with panic.

“Matt?” Nick says, stepping toward him, concern instantly replacing the playful energy from moments before.

Matt shakes his head, his breaths coming out in short, shallow gasps. His whole body is tense, like he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart.

Chris freezes. For a moment, he’s completely thrown, unsure of what’s happening. Then it hits him: Matt is having a panic attack.

“Hey, hey,” Nick says softly, now standing in front of Matt, his hands hovering near his brother’s shoulders but not quite touching him. “Matt, look at me. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Chris puts the whisk down, stepping closer as well. “Matt, man, you're having a panic attack. Just breathe, okay? In and out. You’re good. You’re good.”

But Matt doesn’t seem to hear either of them. His breaths are too fast, too shallow, and his eyes dart around the room like he’s searching for an escape.

“Matt,” Nick says again, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “Focus on me, okay? Just focus on my voice. You’re safe. You’re here with us.”

It takes a moment, but slowly, Matt’s breathing begins to slow. His hands loosen their grip on the counter, and he finally looks at Nick, his eyes glassy and exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” Matt whispers, his voice barely audible. “I—I didn’t mean to…”

“Don’t apologize,” Nick cuts him off firmly. “You don’t need to apologize for this.”

Matt looks down at his hands, his shoulders sagging. “It’s just… I don’t know,” he mutters. “It’s been bad again. I thought I was fine, but I’m not. I haven’t been for a while.”

Nick places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Why didn’t you say anything? You know you can talk to us, right?”

Matt shrugs, his expression a mix of shame and exhaustion. “I didn’t want to bother you guys. I thought I could handle it.”

Chris feels so fucking stupid right now. He’s been so wrapped up in his own pain, his own fear, that he didn’t see his brother struggling right in front of him. And Matt, his sweet, kind, Matt, who’s always been so good at hiding his feelings—has been struggling alone.

“I’m sorry, too,” Chris says suddenly, his voice quiet but earnest. Matt looks at him, confused, and Chris clears his throat. “I should’ve noticed. But I didn’t. But we’re here now, okay? You don’t have to deal with this on your own.”

Matt nods slowly, though his eyes still shimmer with unshed tears. “Thanks,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

The three of them sit there in silence for a moment, the earlier chaos of the cooking challenge forgotten. Nick keeps his hand on Matt’s shoulder, grounding him, while Chris stays close.

His head is full, he knows he should tell them. The air now seems to be fitting the serious topic. He should let them in, let them know what’s going on with him, too. But as he looks at Matt again, at the raw vulnerability in his brother’s eyes, he feels like gping crazy because he can’t do it. Not yet. Matt plate seems to be overflowing right now and Chris can’t bring himself to pile more onto it.

So he just continues to blink his blurry eyes, he’ll deal with it later. Right now, Matt needs him, and that’s all that matters.

-

To Matt, anxiety has been a constant companion for as long as he can remember. It’s a shadow that’s followed him since he gained consciousness, always lurking in the back of his mind. It used to be bad. Crippling bad.

But over the years, he’d learned how to manage it. Or at least, he thought he had.

Lately, though, he doesn’t know anymore.

There’s this constant sense of unease, this feeling in his gut that never quite goes away. He wakes up with it, goes to sleep with it, working with it. It’s exhausting, being on edge all the time, and no matter what he does, he can’t seem to shake it. He tries to hide it, of course. He doesn’t want to be a burden, doesn’t want to drag anyone else down with him. But ever since the panic attack in the kitchen, hiding it doesn't seem to be an option.

The talk with Chris and Nick that night was one of the hardest conversations Matt’s ever had. He hates admitting when he’s struggling, hates feeling weak, but they didn’t let him brush it off this time. They sat him down, made him talk, He feels raw as he speaks, like peeling back layers he’s kept hidden for too long. But they didn’t make him feel small and listened.

By the end of the conversation, they all come to the same conclusion: they need to step back. They decided together to take a break from everything; filming, editing, posting, so Matt could focus on getting better. The decision isn’t easy. They love what they do, and they know their fans expecting their content weekly. But Matt needs this, and his brothers make it clear that nothing matters more than him.

"You're more important than anything else, Matt." Chris had said.

"You don't worry about anything." Nick added.

So, they pack up and head back to Boston.

Their parents are waiting for them with open arms, and their older brother is there too, cracking jokes and pulling him into a bear hug like nothing’s changed. Being home feels good, even if it’s bittersweet. He feels safe here, surrounded by the people who know him better than anyone else.

Being home feels different, quieter, slower, like the world has shifted to accommodate his healing.

He goes back to therapy, even though the idea of starting again makes him nervous. His anxiety tells him he’s wasting everyone’s time, that he should be able to handle this on his own, but Nick and Chris don’t let him listen to that voice.

When Matt eventually insists he’s okay to be by himself, one of them is always there to meet him afterward. Sometimes it’s Nick, standing by the car with two sodas in hand. Other times it’s Chris, grinning and cracking jokes to make him laugh, even on the days when he doesn’t feel like laughing.

And when the nights are hard, when Matt lies in bed staring at the ceiling, his chest tight and his mind racing, Chris will comes to his room, slipping under the covers like they’re kids again. At first, Matt tells him it’s unnecessary, but Chris just shrugs and says, “I just like hanging out.”

And honestly, Matt doesn’t mind.

Their parents checks in with him constantly, bringing him snacks and make small talk. Nick sits with him on the couch, talking his ears out about their favorite shows. Chris drags him outside for fresh air, even if it’s just a short walk around the block.

It feels good.

But healing is not easy.

Matt knows this, but knowing doesn’t make it any less frustrating. It’s not like flipping a switch. Some days feel almost normal, like he’s finally figuring things out, but then there are days like today. Days where he feels like he’s falling backward, stuck in a place he thought he’d moved past.

Today, Matt doesn’t feel like anything. It’s not sadness exactly, not anger or even dread, just a heavy nothingness that keeps him pinned to his bed. He hears Justin and Nick trying to coax him out of his room. Justin knocks on the door, his voice soft but insistent. “Come on, Matt. Let’s go for a drive. Get some fresh air. You always feel better after.”

Matt doesn’t answer.

A little later, his mom brings in his favorite dish, setting the plate on his nightstand with a hopeful smile. “Just eat a little, okay? I love you.”

He doesn’t touch it.

The weight of the day presses down on him until even the simplest movement, sitting up, brushing his hair out of his face, feels impossible. So when Chris sneaks into his room later that night, dragging his pillow and blanket like he always does, Matt doesn’t react. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move.

Chris doesn’t say anything either. He just sets up his spot beside Matt and settles in, the familiar rustle of fabric the only sound in the room. Usually, Chris being there is comforting, but tonight, the weight in Matt’s chest feels heavier, suffocating.

The night stretches on, the minutes crawling by in the dark. Matt lies there, staring at the ceiling. The edges of the room feel like they’re closing in, and the nothingness in his chest starts to morph into something sharper.

His breathing quickens, shallow and uneven, and his heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of his chest. His thoughts are racing, jumping from one fear to another so fast he can’t keep up. He can’t stop it.

He grips the blanket beneath him, his knuckles white, trying to ground himself, but it’s no use. His body is trembling, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. He’s panicking, and he doesn’t know how to stop.

“Matt?”

Chris’s voice cuts through some parts of his thoughts but he feels physically unable to respond.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m here,” Chris says, his voice soft but steady. He sits up, leaning closer, and places a hand softly on Matt's arm. “You’re having a panic attack. It’s okay. Just breathe with me, alright?”

Matt squeezes his eyes shut, his hands still clutching the blanket like a lifeline. He can’t breathe.

He can’t fucking breathe.

Chris doesn’t let up. “Listen to me, Matt. You’re safe. Just focus on my voice, okay? In through your nose. Come on, just try.” He inhales deeply, exaggerating the sound so Matt can hear it. “And out through your mouth.”

It feels impossible, but Matt tries. His breaths come in short, ragged gasps.

“That’s it,” Chris says softly. “You’re doing good. Just keep going. In… and out.”

Minutes pass, though it feels like hours, and slowly, the panic begins to loosen its grip. Matt’s breathing steadies, the trembling in his hands subsides, and his thoughts quiet just enough for him to think clearly again.

Chris doesn’t move, his hand still resting on Matt’s arm. “You okay?” he asks, his tone cautious.

Matt nods faintly, he doesn’t trust himself to speak just yet.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Chris says, rubbing his arm. “You’re not alone, alright? I'm here.”

He turns his head toward Chris, meeting his brother’s concerned gaze. “Thanks,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

Chris smiles faintly, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Always.”

He blinks at Matt, his face softening now that Matt seems calmer. “Try to sleep, okay? I'm going to the toilet, I'll be back.” he murmurs. He ruffles Matt's hair softly before standing up, the blanket he dragged in earlier left crumpled on the floor.

Matt nods faintly, already closing his eyes, face pallid from exhaustion and Chris watches him for a minute longer, making sure he’s really okay. When Matt’s breathing evens out, Chris slips quietly out of the room, leaving Matt alone in the dim glow of the lamppost outside the window.

As soon as he’s in the hallway, his knees almost give out beneath him, and he brings a hand to his head. The pain is sharp, searing.

His head hurts.

It hurts so much that for a moment, he thinks he might collapse right there in the hallway.

“Shit,” he hisses under his breath, clutching the wall for support. He looks around, his vision darkening slightly at the edges, and he moves quickly, his steps wobbly. The house is dark and silent, everyone else asleep, and thank God for that.

He stumbles toward the bathroom, other hand remains gripping the wall for balance. By the time he reaches the door, his breath is coming in short, uneven gasps. The pain has him doubles over, gagging. His stomach lurches, but nothing comes up, just dry, empty heaves that make his stomach ache. He squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the sink tighter as he struggles to stay upright.

He hurriedly fumbles in his pocket for the small zip-lock pouch. It takes a moment; his fingers don’t seem to work right, but he finally pulls it out, the painkillers rattling inside.

He transferred the pills from the bottle to the pouch before flying back to Boston. It was easier to keep this way, less obvious. He doesn’t want Matt or Nick, or worse, their parents, asking questions he can’t answer.

He tears the bag open, spilling a few pills onto the counter. He grabs two and forces them into his mouth, barely pausing before turning on the tap and cupping his hand under the stream. The water is cold and metallic, but he doesn’t care.

He then sinks down onto the bathroom tiles, his back against the cool wall, and pulls his knees to his chest. His entire body is trembling, the pain making it hard to focus, hard to breathe. He presses his hands against his temples.

His head hurts so much.

Not the dull, manageable ache he sometimes wakes up with, but a throbbing, pressing that feels like his skull is being split open. He never had this kind of headache before, he doesn't know what's happening. He presses his palms against his temples harder, as if the pressure might somehow hold his head together.

He can’t stop the small, choked sounds escaping his lips. He writhes and sobs softly, shifting restlessly on the cold floor as the pain refuses to let up.

He thinks about calling for help, about waking someone, Dad, Nick, Justin, anyone, but the thought vanishes almost as quickly as it comes. What would he even say? What could they do?

“This is fine,” he whispers to himself, his voice hoarse. “I’m fine. I'm fine. I'm fine.."

When the painkillers begin to take hold, Chris exhales shakily, body renched in sweat, shirt clinging to his skin, and his limbs feel heavy.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, his head resting against the cool tiles, his eyes closed as he tries to catch his breath. For a long time, he just lay there, staring at nothing, his mind blank except for the lingering ache in his head.

He then forces himself to sit up. His movements are slow, every part of him aching, he rinses his face with the tap cold water, watching his pale, exhausted reflection in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin clammy, and for a moment, he barely recognizes himself.

Chris clenches his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as a tear slips down his cheek. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep doing this, he's fucking scared.

He refused to looms longer, afraid Matt might notice he's taking forever here. He wipes the tears and sweat from his face with the back of his hand, takes a shaky breath, and unlocks the bathroom door.

Chris moves quietly down the hall, the dim glow of the nightlight outside guiding him to the kitchen. His mouth feels dry, like sandpaper, and all he can think about is getting some water to wash away the metallic aftertaste on his tongue.

He reaches the kitchen and heads to the cabinet, blinking to clear his vision as he searches for a cup. His eyes have been blurry for weeks now, especially his right eyes ever since before they came back to Boston. It hasn’t gotten better, if anything, he thinks it might've gotten worse? But Chris is pretty good at emotional management, he's not going to scare himself like his diagnosis doesn't scare him enough. He thinks that this is just what his mom and Nick has to deal with because of their nearsightedness? Or maybe farsightedness? He can’t remember which one it is, but maybe this is what they see all the time—blurry shapes that don’t make sense unless you’re standing right in front of them.

His hand reaches out, fingers grasping for the familiar shape, but instead, he grabs at thin air.

Chris blinks, confused. He swears he’s reaching right at the handle, but when he tries again, his fingers come up empty.

“What the hell…” he mutters under his breath, squinting at the cup he knows is there. So he slows down even more, his hand moving cautiously toward the cup. He silently cheers when his fingers finally close around it. He grips the handle tightly, like it might disappear if he lets go.

He fills the cup with water and takes a long sip, letting the cool liquid soothe his parched throat. It doesn’t fix anything, but it’s enough to make him feel a little more alive.

When he’s done, Chris rinses the cup and sets it on the counter, taking one last moment to steady himself before heading back to Matt’s room.

The house is still dark and quiet as he slips into the room, his movements careful to avoid waking Matt. He eases himself down next to Matt, pulling his blanket over him.

Chris stares at Matt sleeping face, he can't help but feel scared and worried. Matt hasn't been this bad in a long while, and Chris just doesn't know what to do. He sighs at the remaining headache that still lingers, maybe it's a sign to think about this tomorrow. For now Matt is resting, and that’s enough.

Chapter Text

Chris keeps himself close to Matt whenever he can. That night in the bedroom, when Matt had a panic attack has made Chris a little tad more hyperaware. Every small sigh Matt lets out, every nervous fidget or downward glance, Chris notices. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask, but he’s there. Whether it’s sitting beside Matt as he zones out to a show on TV or crashing in his room night after night, he tries to stay close.

This morning is no different. The smell of their mom’s waffles fills the house, and Chris can already feel his mouth watering as he walks into the kitchen. Nick and Matt are already at the table, both looking far more awake than usual. Their mom has gone all out, as usual, and the table is piled with fresh fruits, whipped cream, and syrup. Chris beams at the sight, the aroma alone lifting his spirits.

“God, I love being home,” Chris says, grinning as he grabs a plate and piles on a mountain of whipped cream.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Nick teases, though his own plate is nearly as full. “Mom’s waffles are a privilege, not a right.”

“Speak for yourself,” Matt chimes in with a faint smile. He’s quieter than usual, but the effort to join in brings a bigger grin to Chris' face.

The table is full of chatter, lighthearted teasing between Justin and Dad, their mom chiming in with reminders about manners that no one listens to. It feels like the kind of morning they used to have all the time, back when they're much younger.

Chris is beaming as he cuts into his second waffle, the buttery smell and sweetness of the syrup making his grin even wider. But as he lifts his fork to his mouth, something feels slightly off.

His right arm tingles, the sensation starting in his fingers and spreading up to his elbow. At first, he thinks it’s just a stray cramp from sleeping funny, like he always did, but when he tries to grip the fork, his fingers feel clumsy, almost numb. Panic flickers in his chest, but he quickly squashes it down.

Not wanting to draw attention, Chris sets the fork down, flexing his fingers under the table. He makes a fist and releases it, over and over, his left hand continuing to shovel bites of waffle into his mouth as though nothing is really happening despite his brain going thousand miles per hour thinking what the fuck is happening.

“Slow down, Chris,” Matt says, smirking. “You’re gonna inhale that plate.”

Chris laughs, “Can’t help it. You’re not appreciating Mom’s culinary masterpiece enough, and it’s a crime.”

Matt rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, and Chris is relieved and focused back to his numbing arm.

He keeps flexing and releasing his fist under the table throughout breakfast, trying to will the feeling back into his arm. By the time they’ve finished eating and moved on to their usual morning routines, the numbness is still there, stubbornly clinging to his fingers like a phantom weight.

It lasts through lunch and well into the afternoon, eating at Chris’s nerves despite his attempts to ignore it. He keeps his right hand in his pocket or folds his arms, keeping it hidden.

As the afternoon sun filters through the windows, he starts to feel the sensation creeping back into his arm. It’s gradual, like pins and needles waking up after a long nap, but when he flexes his fingers again, they respond.

Chris exhales, relief washing over him like a wave.

But even as his hand returns to normal, the worry lingers in the back of his mind. He sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the dwindling supply of pills in his little plastic bag. The zip-lock pouch feels lighter than it did weeks ago, and the sight of it makes him antsy. He’s been trying to ration the pills, but it’s hard when the pain keeps coming back like a bitch.

His vision isn’t getting any better, either. The blurry haze over his right eye hasn’t cleared up, and now his right hand feels like it has a mind of its own???

Maybe it’s time to see the doctor again. Just to know what's happening. And a refill on the painkillers. Maybe even something stronger.

Chris gets up, tucking the plastic bag into his pocket as he heads to find Nick in his room. The room was closed shut and when he cracks it open, the room is dark. The curtains are drawn, and the only sound is the faint hum of the air conditioner. He spots Nick lying on the bed, an ice pack balanced on his head.

Chris steps inside quietly, closing the door behind him. “Hey,” he calls softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nick grunts in response, his eyes closed tightly.

“You okay?” Chris asks, stepping closer.

Another grunt. Nick doesn’t bother to open his eyes, and Chris takes that as a sign to sit on the floor next to his bed.

“Can I talk to you?” Chris ventures, hesitant.

Nick lets out an exasperated groan. “If this isn’t important, I will cut your fucking dick off because I’m suffering right now,” he snaps, his voice rough with pain.

Chris’s lips press into a thin line. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “It must’ve been the screen light.”

Nick scoffs, his head shifting slightly on the pillow. “What do you even know?”

Chris falls quiet at that. Nick’s always a little snappish when he gets migraines, the pain making him short-tempered, and Chris doesn’t take it personally. He knows how bad it gets for Nick, the sensitivity to light, the throbbing, the nausea. He’s seen it all before.

After a moment, Nick sighs, his tone softer. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be mean. It’s just the migraine. You don’t understand.”

Chris hums in acknowledgment, he knows a little more about headaches than Nick probably realizes, but this isn’t the time to compete about who knows pain better. This isn’t the time to make it about himself and he feels bad for bothering him too. “Sorry I can’t help you with our work,” he says instead, his voice low. “I know you’ve been busy handling stuff.”

Chris knows Nick has been overwhelmed and stressed out, carrying the weight of their social media and everything else that’s piled up while they’ve been on this break. Chris knows how much effort Nick is putting in to keep things afloat, the constant virtual meeting with their manager and producer and well he… isn’t that much of a help.

And honestly, he looks up to Nick for that exact reason. His older brother is everything that he's not, so knowledgeable and capable. He personally thinks that he will be long dead if it's not for Nick's presence in his life.

Nick huffs, the sound sharp but not angry. “It’s fine,” he mutters.

After a pause, his tone softens even more. “Thank you for being with Matt. When I don’t have time to.”

“It’s fine,” Chris says softly. “Thank you for being with Matt, you know, when I don’t have the time to do so.”

Nick’s lips twitch into the faintest smile. “Thanks for taking care of him,” he mutters, his voice low. “I know he’s been… struggling.”

Chris hums again, unsure how to respond. There’s a silence between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Finally, Chris clears his throat. “Nick, you think we can go back to LA?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment, and then Nick’s eyes crack open, just a sliver. He squints at Chris through the dim light, his brow furrowing. “You wanna go back to LA?”

Chris nods, his movements slow.

Nick blinks, his gaze softening as he watches his brother. “I don’t mind that, kid,” he says after a moment. “Let’s ask Matt later, okay?”

Chris nods again. “Okay,” he says, grinning softly.

Nick closes his eyes, settling back into the bed. “For now, let me die in peace,” he mutters.

Chris chuckles, “Alright, alright, love you Nick” he says, which again responded by a mere grunt by Nick.

-

“I don’t think I’m ready.”

Matt's voice hang in the air, and Nick’s head snaps toward Chris instinctively. Chris blinks, his expression unreadable for a moment, before he shakes his head softly. “Yeah, no. No, that’s fine. It’s okay,” Chris says quickly, his tone light and reassuring. “I was just wondering if you might feel better trying to roll back into some of our routine, you know? But it’s okay if you’re not ready yet. Really.”

Matt finally looks up, his face painted with guilt. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “Just… just give me a little bit of time.”

Nick immediately shakes his head, moving to sit closer to Matt and rubbing his back in slow, comforting circles. “Don’t be sorry about anything, okay? There’s nothing to apologize for.” His voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument.

Chris nods, his right hand flexing subtly at his side as the familiar numbness creeps in again. He shifts slightly, his palm brushing against his leg, trying to get some sensation back.

Reaching out, he takes Matt’s hand in his own, his numbing palm wrapping around his brother’s clammy fingers. “Take your time, Matt,” he says softly, his voice steady and warm. He smiles, “We have forever.”

Matt looks up at that, his eyes softening at Chris’s smile, and for the first time in what feels like days, a small smile tugs at the corners of Matt’s lips.

“Thanks,” Matt murmurs,

Chris gives his hand a gentle squeeze, even though his fingers are starting to feel unresponsive.

Nick glances between them, his expression softening as he sees the tension ease from Matt’s shoulders.

Moments passed by when Matt hums thoughtfully, his eyes flickering upward. “Actually,” he starts, his voice a little steadier than before, “Nate texted me earlier. He asked if we’d be up for swimming tomorrow. You know, at the river after the bridge? The one we used to go to all the time.”

Nick and Chris exchange a quick glance, both of them catching the way Matt’s eyes light up ever so slightly at the mention. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a glimmer they haven’t seen in days.

“That sounds fun,” Nick says first, leaning back into the couch with a casual shrug. “It’s been ages since we went there.”

Chris nods, his lips curving into a grin. “Yeah, for real. We could use some fresh air anyway. And I don’t think Matt can handle another day of sitting here and listening to me make dumb jokes.”

Matt lets out a quiet chuckle at that, shaking his head. “I don’t think anyone can handle another day of your jokes, Chris.”

“Hey, they’re classic,” Chris retorts, pretending to be offended, earning another small laugh from his brother.

“So, should I text Nate back and say we’re in?” Matt asks, glancing between them.

“Absolutely,” Nick says. “It’ll be good to skinny dip after a while.” and that caught both Matt and Chris off guard with laughter.

"Let Nate know that we are bringing snacks. I'm gonna experience that full pepsi potential after the swim." Chris says comically.

Matt smiles, really smiles this time and reaches for his phone. As he types out his reply, Nick and Chris exchange another quick look, this one filled with quiet relief. It’s a small step, but it’s progress.

-

Chris fucking hate cancer.

He woke up feeling like absolute hell. It’s not just the dull ache that’s been lingering in his head for weeks, it’s worse. Last night had been the worst headache he’s ever experienced, and even in sleep, the pain felt like it was cutting through his skull. Waking up feels impossible, his body is screaming from exhaustion and his head is about to split in two.

At some point in the early hours of the morning, he’d stirred just enough to realize he couldn’t handle the pain anymore. The dull ache had turned into sharp, pressing pain and with shaking hands, he’d fumbled for his stash of painkillers under the pillow, popping one before collapsing back into bed. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep again.

When he’s shaken awake later, the sun is already shining, and Matt and Nick are looming over him.

“Wake up, Chrissy,” Matt sings, his voice full of energy. “We’re gonna have some fun today!”

Nick stands beside him, grinning, holding a towel in one hand. “Come on, lazy ass. Let’s go.”

Chris blinks up at them, his head still foggy, his body feeling like it just got hit by a bus. But then he sees Matt’s face, bright and happy and that put a small smile at his lips.

“Alright, alright,” he mumbles, sitting up slowly and rubbing at his eyes. “I’m up. Jeez, give me a minute.”

He forces himself out of bed, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. But Matt’s excitement is contagious, and Chris can't help but got excited too.

By the time they get to the river, the day is warm and bright, the kind of weather that makes you feel like you're in a movie. Nate’s already there, waving them over with his wide grin. The river sparkles under the sun, just like Chris remembers from when they were kids.

Chris keeps his time in the water brief, after a short water fight with the three of them he dive in for a good while, then he wades in slowly, letting the cool water lap against his skin. He chills by the edge, throwing rocks into the water and watching the ripples spread out.

He can’t deny how tired he feels.

For the first time he feels like a sick person.

“You’re not coming in again?” Matt calls, water dripping from his hair as he grins at Chris.

“Nah, I'm tryna break my own record here Matty B,” Chris feign focus, tossing another rock into the water.

Matt rolls his eyes, diving back into the water.

Chris stays by the riverbank, letting the cool breeze and the sound of the water wash over him. Moment like this make it feels normal, like he can forget about everything. He basked in it for a good while.

By the time they head back home, Chris is running on fumes. He trudges inside, his wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He throws them into the washer without much thought, rinses off quickly, and changes into something dry.

The moment he’s done, he collapses onto the living room sofa, his body sinking into the cushions instantly, he doesn’t even bother grabbing a blanket. His body is screaming at him to rest, and for once, he listens.

Chapter Text

Chris feels himself being shaken awake, Justin’s voice pulling him from the fog of sleep. “Chris, dinner. Come on.”

He blinks, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light in the room. The sky outside has darkened, and the house is bathed in the soft glow of evening. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep, but judging by the sky, it’s been hours. At least six, he guesses.

Despite the sleep, the fatigue hasn’t left him. His limbs still feel heavy, and his head aching faintly in the background. He sighs, rubbing at his temples as he forces himself to sit up. I’ll eat my meds after dinner, he tells himself, swinging his legs off the sofa and head to the dining room. The dining room light shines too bright for his eyes. His family is already seated, plates in front of them.

The smell of the dinner hits him, enough to make his stomach growl. Chris blinks sleepily, still caught in the haze of waking up.

It takes him a moment to realize something is off. The room is quiet, unnervingly so. No one is talking, not even Nick.

He rubs his eyes and looks around, confused “What? Why is everyone so silent?” he asks, his voice thick with sleep.

Then he sees his mom’s eyes on him, sharp, her expression not something he has seen before. It’s a mix of emotions he can’t interpret, sadness? anger? hurt?

Before he could ask what's going on, he heard his dad first, who has been staring at his plate, tone low and even.

“Is there anything you need to tell us, Chris?" his heart skips a beat. His dad is staring at him now, his eyes heavy with again something Chris doesn't know?

“No?” he replies, voice rising slightly in confusion. He looks around the table, his sleepiness fading as he becomes more aware of the tension in the room. Matt’s eyes are somewhat wet, and Nick faces away from him.

“What’s up?” Chris demands, panic creeping into his voice. “Why is everyone acting weird?”

His mom then reaches for something on the table, her hand trembling as she places it in front of him.

A zip-lock bag.

His medicine zip-lock bag.

The zip-lock bag with his strong opioid painkillers.

He stares at it, his body goes cold.

"Are you on drugs, Chris?” His mom’s voice cracks, trembling with emotion.

Chris’s head snaps up to meet her gaze, panic clawing at his chest. “W-What? Mom—”

She shakes her head, her tears falling freely now. “I found this in your pocket earlier. Tell me, Christopher. Are you doing drugs?” Her voice rises, a mixture of heartbreak and anger.

"Mom… no…” he whispers, his voice shaking.

“Then explain,” she snaps, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. “Why was this in your pocket, Chris? Give me an explanation.”

Chris shakes his head, his mind is blank, completely blank. The words won’t come, and the weight of everyone’s eyes on him is suffocating. So he looks at Matt and Nick, desperate for help, for anything, but the expressions on their faces only make it worse. Their eyes are pleading, trembling as though they're begging Chris to say something, anything.

"Mom…” he starts, his voice cracking. “I…”

“Please don’t tell me this is real, Chris,” his mom says, her voice breaking.

Justin stands abruptly and moves toward him, grabs Chris by the arms and forces him to stand, his grip firm but trembling. His face is pale, his eyes wet.

“Tell us this isn’t what it looks like,” Justin pleads. “Please, Chris. Tell us.”

Chris looks at his family, at their tear-streaked faces and desperate eyes, and he feels the words rising in his throat, but nothing comes out. “I don’t… this is not—” he stammers, his voice cracking, but before he can finish, a blinding pain explodes in his head, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Ah—” he groans, clutching his temples. The is worse than anything he’s ever felt before. His head hurts so much. "Chris?” Justin’s voice is frantic now, his grip tightening.

He can barely hear him. The room tilts violently, his vision blurring and darkening until he can’t make out anything clearly. His legs give out, and he feels himself collapse, barely aware of Justin catching him.

“Chris!” Matt—maybe Nick? He can't be sure—cries out, his voice high-pitched and panicked.

The pain is overwhelming, he can’t move, can’t speak. He’s dimly aware of voices shouting around him; his dad, Matt, Nick, but they blur together into a distant hum.

The next thing he knows, his muscles seize violently, his body jerking out of his control. His limbs thrash against the woonden floor, and his back arches as the seizure takes hold. At some point he stops feeling the floor beneath him. He doesn’t feel anything but the pain.

Just as suddenly as it began, the pain ebbs away, replaced by darkness that pulls him under completely.

-

Matt sits in the ER waiting room, his legs bouncing restlessly, his hands gripping the edges of the plastic chair until his knuckles turn white. The fluorescent lights overhead hum softly, the sound doing nothing to ease him. He stares at the doors Chris had been wheeled through, willing them to swing open, for someone, anyone, to come out and explain what’s happening.

He can’t wrap his head around any of it.

One moment, they were back home after swimming the day away, everything feeling almost normal for once. He’d spent the afternoon reading a book by the window, talking with Dad about random things, the kind of calm, mundane day he hadn’t had in a while.

The next, his mom had called for him, her voice tight and trembling, her hand gripping his wrist almost painfully as she shoved a small zip-lock bag in his face.

“Why does Chris have this, Matt?” she’d asked, her voice breaking as tears brimming in her eyes. “Why does your brother have drugs? Tell me!”

Matt had stared at the bag, dumbfounded. He didn’t understand. Drugs? Chris? It didn’t make any sense.

“Mom, I don’t know,” he’d said, his voice low as she clutched the bag tighter.

His first thought was no way. Not Chris. Chris wouldn’t.

But when they all sat down at the dinner table, mom had confronted Chris, demanding answers, Matt had seen it, the way his gaze darted to the zip-lock bag and then away, his shoulders tense, his hands flexing nervously.

He felt stupid watching it unfold, he couldn't make sense of it. Who would he even get drugs from? When would he have the time? His stomach churned, was this because of him? Had Chris been trying to cope with him, with everything that had been going on lately?

Matt had somehow mourned for the conversation they were about to have, the change and everything.

But then, before any of it could unfold, Chris had collapsed.

The sound of Chris’s groan, the way his knees buckled, the way his body hit the floor, all burned into Matt’s brain. And then the seizure started. Oh, the fucking seizure.

Chris’s body had convulsed violently, his limbs jerking uncontrollably, his back arching. His mouth bubbled with foam, and his eyes rolled back into his head. Matt had frozen, completely paralyzed by the sight of his brother writhing on the floor, in so much pain.

His mom’s screams, Nick’s shouts, Justin’s frantic commands, it had all blended together into a cacophony of noise that Matt could barely process.

And now they’re here. The paramedics had rushed Chris to the hospital, shouting words Matt didn’t understand, calling him “unresponsive” and poking and prodding at him. Then they rolled him away, disappearing behind those heavy double doors, leaving Matt there in the hallway, feeling like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

He still doesn’t understand.

Matt grips the edges of the chair harder.

What is this happening?

He can’t stop replaying the moment Chris collapsed, the look on his face, the way his body seized. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him. Was it because of the drugs?

His chest tightens, and he's just fucking tired.

Matt pulls his knees up to his chest, burying his face in them, trying to block out the fluorescent lights and the sterile smell of the hospital. He feels Nick sit down next to him, but he doesn’t look up. Nick doesn’t say anything, just puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently.

For the first time in his life, Matt doesn’t have the words to express what he’s feeling. Tired. Fear. Helplessness. It's eating him away.

Before Matt could further loom in his thoughts, a voice cuts through the tense, suffocating silence of the waiting room.

“Family of Chris Sturniolo?”

Matt stands up so quickly his chair screeches against the floor. Nick, Justin, and their parents follow suit, standing incredibly still as the doctor approaches.

“I’m Dr. Lee,” the man says, his expression professional. “Mr. Chris has stabilized now.”
Relief washes over Matt like a wave, making his knees feel weak. He hadn’t realized how tightly he was holding his breath until those words hit him.

Chris is okay. Chris is okay. Chris is okay.

But then his dad speaks, his voice steady but urgent. “What’s wrong with him?”

Dr. Lee frowns slightly, blinking as if trying to decide what to say. He takes a moment to school his expression, and Matt’s stomach twists instinctively at the hesitation.

“It’s the brain tumor, sir,” Dr. Lee says finally, his voice quiet but clear. “Which I believe you know of?”
The world halts.

Matt doesn’t understand. He looks at his dad, his mom, his brothers. He doesn’t know what the doctor is talking about. Brain tumor?

“What…” his mom whispers, her voice so fragile it feels like it might break in half.

Dr. Lee’s lips thin, his gaze softening as he looks at her. “Your son is suffering from stage four brain cancer, ma’am.”

Matt feels like the ground beneath him has disappeared. His ears ring so loud he barely registers his mom collapsing to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as his dad crouches beside her, wrapping her in his arms.

"What the fuck do you mean by that?” Nick chokes out, his voice breaking as he steps forward.

Yeah, what the fuck?

“That can’t be,” Matt says, his voice shaking as tears blur his vision. He shakes his head violently, stepping forward. “You must be wrong.”

Dr. Lee looks at him, his expression calm but deeply sad, as if he’s had to deliver this kind of news too many times. “I wish I were wrong,” he says softly. “But the scans and tests confirm it.”

"No,” Matt says, his voice rising. His hands shake at his sides. “No, that doesn’t make sense! He… He was doing fine, he's healthy!"

Dr. Lee hesitates again, his gaze flicking toward the rest of the family before returning to Matt. “I believe your brother may already be aware of his diagnosis,” he says gently. “His bloodwork shows he’s been taking heavy painkillers. It’s likely he’s been managing his symptoms on his own.”

Matt feels like he genuinely wants to die. He can't fucking breathe.

Chris knew. Chris fucking knew.

Fuck,” he whispers, the word tumbling out of his mouth as he presses his hands to his face. He feels tears streaming down his cheeks. His heart pounds in his chest, an erratic, painful rhythm.

Chris has brain cancer. Stage four. He can’t process it. He doesn’t know how.

“Fuck,” he says again, louder this time, his voice cracking.

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he feels Justin’s hand on his shoulder, steadying him. But Justin doesn’t say anything, he just stands there, silent and stunned, his own face pale and streaked with tears.

Matt looks up at Dr. Lee again, his voice trembling as he forces the words out. “What do we… What do we do now?”

Dr. Lee nods, "Right now, we’ll monitor him closely. He’s stabilized, and we’ll keep him comfortable. Once he’s awake, we’ll discuss further steps, including pain management and palliative care.”

“Palliative care?” Nick snaps, his voice full of anger and disbelief. “You’re already talking about that? He’s still here!”

Dr. Lee nods solemnly, his old eyes looks older at the outburst. “I understand how hard this is, but—”

“No, you don’t understand!” Nick shouts, his voice breaking again as he wipes at his face furiously. “You don’t know him! You don’t know us!”

“Nick,” their dad says softly, his voice breaking too as he pulls their mom closer.

Matt doesn’t say anything else.

He can’t.

Chapter Text

Chris stirs awake slowly, his body feeling impossibly heavy, like he’s trying to move through jello. His head throbs faintly, and every limb feels weighed. He blinks, despite his blurry vision, he can make out the faint outlines of figures in the room.

Great.

So much for keeping this under wraps.

He exhales quietly, head throb along from the effort.

This is it, he thinks. Cancer finally catching up on my ass.

He tries to move, but even that feels like a big time challenge. His arms are weak, moreover hie right one, his legs feel stiff, and his head feels like it has been packed with cotton and concrete all at once that he doubts even a year of sleep can fix.

Then he focus at the sight of his family. His mom is clutching a tissue, her face streaked with tears. His dad stands beside her, his hands on her shoulders, quiet. Justin leans against the wall, his arms crossed. Classic Justin, he thinks.

Matt is sitting in a chair, his face pale, his hands shaking as he stares at it. While Nick is standing by the window, running his hands through his hair, his jaw clenched so tightly that Chris can see the muscles twitching. He got to stop doing that honestly, because Nick has a click jaw, he mutters internally.

He silently sighs, I can't believe it's gonna be like this. He cringes at the thought of the water work or screaming matches; the last things that he needs from his family right now.

So he opens his eyes bigger, and pull a smile on his face “Hey,” he croaks, his voice scratchy and just slightly above whisper, “look at this turnout. You’d think I died or something.” He chuckles faintly.

But of course the room doesn’t react the way he expects. All he could see is his family’s alerted faces approaching his bed.

"Chris…” His mom’s voice breaks as she says his name, and before he can respond, she’s taking his hand in hers. Her grip is firm, almost desperate, and her tears fall freely as she looks at him.

“Hey, Mom,” Chris says softly, trying to sound normal, casual, even though his voice shakes.

“You’re gonna squeeze my hand off.”

“Don’t—don’t do this right now,” she says, her voice trembling, and Chris could only manage a smile at that. He feels bad too okay, he never seen his mom cry this hard before?

"Hey I'm fine, trust." He tries to sit up, but his body protests, and he falls back against the pillows with a soft groan. “Okay, maybe not fine, but, you know. I’m here.”

"Chris," Matt whipers, his voice trembling.

He cuts him off before he can say anything else, waving his free hand as casually as he can manage. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re all worried, blah blah blah. But, come on, it’s not like I’m dying right now.” He chuckles, though he feels a bit winded after.

Nick lets out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob, covering his face with one hand as he turns away for a moment.

“Guys…” Chris tries again, his voice softer now. “Come on, can we not act like this.”

“Like what?” Nick snaps, his voice breaking as he runs a hand through his hair. “Like we just found out you've been hiding a fucking cancer from us? Like we’re not allowed to feel stupid because of you?”

“Nick,” Justin says quietly, his tone both a warning and a plea.

“No!” Nick cuts him off, his voice rising. “Do you even know what it feels like to find out this way? To watch you collapse, to not know what the hell was wrong with you, and then to have a doctor tell us you’ve been hiding a goddamn stage 4 brain cancer?”

Chris blinks, stunned into silence for a moment. He glances at his mom, who’s openly crying now, and at Matt, who looks like he's not even in the room anymore.

“Guys,” Chris says softly, “I’m fine, okay? I’m still here. You don’t have to—”

“Stop saying you’re fine!” Matt’s voice cracks as he cuts him off. The just now vacant eyes now streaming tears down his face, and he looks so hurt, so vulnerable, that it makes Chris’s heart ache. “You’re not fine, Chris. You’re not."

Chris exhales slowly, he can feel his energy draining away. The room feels like it’s spinning, and he grips the edge of the blanket tightly to keep himself steady.

"Okay,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I get it. You’re all mad at me. I deserve it. But can we… Can we not do this right now?”

His family stares at him, their emotions a tangled mix of anger, grief, and desperation. Chris lets out a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood, though he feels like he need to fucking sleep right now or else he might faint again.

“Just… let me take a nap, okay?” he says softly, blinking to keep his vision from going completely dark. "Like an hour, I promise!" he said, lifting up his tone to keep it light.

He doesn't (can't) wait for anybody's response before he closes his eyes and sinks back into the bed. His body feels like it’s floating and the exhaustion pulling him under, but the sound of his family’s quiet sniffles lingers in the background.

Cancer is such a bitch, was his last thought.

-

Chris leans back in his hospital bed, peeling his orange, his right hand is clumsy, fumbling with the fruit more than it should, but he doesn’t want to focus on that. He pop a slice into his mouth as Dr. Lee continues talking.

“He is experiencing 60% vision loss in his right eye and 30% in his left eye. His right hand is 50% weaker compared to the left one,” the doctor says, his tone neutral, professional.

Chris chews thoughtfully, letting the tangy citrus linger on his tongue as he half-listens. He’d woken up hours after his “quick nap,”; that was five hours long instead of one, only to be immediately subjected to every test imaginable. Now here he is, back in his hospital room, his family gathered around him as Dr. Lee goes over the results.

He feels their eyes on him, heavy and expectant, but he refuses to meet any of their gazes. He has never felt this level of firsthand cringe in his life. The whole situation is so cringe he wanna scratch his face. He feels like a main character in slice of life movie that he will never fucking watch.

Chris pops another orange slice into his mouth, chewing as his thoughts swirl. Maybe it’s time to take all this more seriously—maybe—but come on. He’s already got cancer. Does he really need more He doesn’t need more crying, screaming, throwing up, or whatever emotional rollercoaster and general melodrama his family seems to be on? No, thank you.

“Mr. Chris?”

The voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He blinks, looking up to see Dr. Lee’s aged face peering at him. “What?”

“Have you had the chance to see your brain scan before?”

Chris nods, brushing a stray piece of orange peel off his lap. “Yeah, I did. During my diagnosis, about two, three months ago.” He keeps his voice steady, eyes locked on Dr. Lee's face, casually avoiding his family’s gazes as best as he can.

“And how long have you been having problems with your vision and hand?”

Chris sighs internally, his irritation simmering. He doesn’t want to talk about this in front of his family, for fuck’s sake? “Vision started about two months ago,” he admits, tossing another orange slice into his mouth. “Before we came back to Boston. And the hand? Uh, just yesterday? Or maybe two days ago? Had it during breakfast.”

A soft gasp escapes from Matt, and Chris bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from looking in his brother’s direction.

Dr. Lee nods, jotting something down in his clipboard. “Did you knew your prognosis?”

Chris gulps reflexively, the question striking a nerve. My god, can this be more uncomfortable?He hesitates for a second before answering. “Yeah,” he says finally, his tone casual. “I was told eight months during my diagnosis.”

He can hear his mom crying again, her soft sobs filling the space and Chris clenches his jaw, still refusing to meet her gaze.

Dr. Lee nods again, unfazed. “Were you explained the treatment options available?”

Chris nods, letting out a short, humorless laugh. “I was,” he says, his voice light, “But I was told it’s inoperable. Radiation and chemo don’t have a great percentage of success either, so…” He shrugs, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “You know?”

His attempt at making it sound light falls flat that he wants to bang his face on the floor. If anything, it grows heavier, his family’s silence louder than anything else, that the orange he's eating doesn't taste that good anymore.

Dr. Lee clears his throat gently, his pen hovering over the clipboard as he asks, “Have you decided on palliative care, Mr. Chris?”

Chris falls silent at that, what the fuck was he supposed to say? .

He blinks and shrugs after a moment, “Well, at first I had a plan to talk with my doctor in Torrance about that,” he says, his voice almost flippant. “But, well, now that my family knows, I think that’s a conversation that might need some time to decide.”

His words hang in the air for a good while, he doesn’t dare to even take a peek at his mom or Matt or whoever, so he keeps his gaze firmly on Dr. Lee, silently praying as hard as he can for this to just be over.

Dr. Lee nods, his expression calm and understanding. “That’s perfectly reasonable. These decisions take time, and it’s important that you and your family feel ready to make them.”

“As your condition has significantly stabilized, and since you’re not pursuing any curative treatment, I believe it shall be possible for you to be discharged this evening.”

Chris perks up slightly at that, his grin returning. “Really? No offense, but I’m not a fan of hospital beds. Not exactly a five-star stay."

Dr. Lee allows a faint smile at that, “We’ll prescribe you a set of medications to help manage your symptoms, including the seizures. The nurse will explain the schedule and dosages before you leave.”

“Sounds good,” Chris says with a nod, leaning back into the pillows. “Thanks, Doc.”

Dr. Lee nods one last time, glancing at the family behind Chris. “Let the nurse know if you need anything,” he says, his tone gentle as he takes his leave.

He closes his eyes briefly at that, his lips quirking into a tired smile. “Well,” he says, his voice light and teasing. “Looks like I’m not stuck here forever. You guys can stop crying now.”

“Chris,” his mom whispers, her voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Chris sighs, opening his eyes. Dropping the orange peel onto the table beside him. “I didn’t want you guys to freak out, okay?” he says, his tone defensive but wavering slightly. “I didn’t want this.” He gestures at the room, at their tear-streaked faces, at the pity radiating from everyone. “This whole… scene.”

“Chris, this isn’t just about you,” His dad says, voice low and tight. “We’re your family. We could’ve been there for you.”

“You are here for me,” Chris snaps back, though there’s no real bite to his words. “You’re here now. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s not enough,” Matt says, his voice breaking. “We—Chris, we could’ve helped you. We could’ve…” He trails off, tears slipping down his cheeks.

Chris looks at his brother, at the raw pain etched across his face, and for a moment, he feels like the biggest piece of shit.

“Look, guys,” he starts, “I appreciate the concern, really. But I’m here now, and I'll still be around.”

When no one says nothing, he huffs. “Fine, I'll go to sleep." so he does,

-

Chris stirs awake slowly, his body swaying slightly with the motion of the car. He feels warm, his head resting on something soft. As he blinks himself awake, he realizes his head is on Nick’s shoulder, and he’s wedged between Nick and Matt in the backseat.

“Wha—” he yawns mid-question, his voice raspy and tired.

“We’re almost home,” Justin replies from the driver’s seat, his eyes briefly glancing at Chris in the rearview mirror.

Chris blinks, taking in his surroundings. He’s sandwiched in the backseat between Matt and Nick. He looks to his right, where Nick is staring out the window, his face passive, jaw tight.

Chris turns to his left, and there’s Matt, his wide, worried eyes fixed on him.

“You feel okay, Chris?” Matt asks softly, voice almost too careful, too gentle.

Chris wants to laugh at the softness, but instead, he just nods. “Yeah, I’m good,” he replies, his voice firm despite the lingering fatigue.

When they finally pull into the driveway, Nick doesn’t wait for anyone. The second the car stops, he bursts out of the vehicle and strides into the house, slamming the door to his room behind him.

Chris furrows his brows, watching Nick disappear, then glances at Matt, who’s walking close to him as they head inside. “Is he okay?” Chris asks, his voice low.

Matt doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks toward Nick’s closed door, expression tight and unreadable. Slowly he shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

Chris wants to push for more, but he doesn’t. Something about the way Matt’s shoulders are slumped makes him feel bad for wanting to ask for more.

The rest of the evening is eerily quiet. His family tiptoes around him like he’s made of glass, like one wrong move will suddenly have him drop dead. It’s annoying, frustrating and simply depressing. Chris wants to tell them to stop, to act normal, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to push them, sort of givinh them time to grieve, even though he's still alive (?).

Dinner is equally silent, almost painfully so. The clinking of utensils against plates is the only sound in the room, and it makes his skin crawl. It reminds him too much of the night before, his mom’s tears, his dad’s stony silence, the zip-lock bag.

He’s using his left hand now. His right hand isn’t so good anymore, its a little shaky. It can't to grip smaller things like toothbrush or cutlery without stupidly shaking.

If you ask him how does he feel about it, he would say that It’s frustrating. It’s sad. But it’s okay.

It’s okay,he repeats to himself as he awkwardly cuts into his food. It’s okay.

But if you ask him on a deeper level, Chris is not okay about it. Not at all. He wants to cry and mourn, first its his vision now its his hand, his dominant hand. He doesn't understand how a stupid lump in his brain can take so much away from him.

He has scrolled through the internet long before, researching what will happen as the tumor progress. He had grieve for himself, crying in silence for night after night.

But knowing doesn't make experiencing any easier. He's scared, deathly scared.

He’s scared—deathly scared. Because he’s dying.

But right now his family doesn't need to see a sad, depressed or angry Chris. What they need to see is Chris is still Chris, and fact is Chris is still himself. Nothing has changed. A little defect in the head, but well, what's new?

So, if you ask him on the deepest level, he'd say, he has come to terms with what's coming.

He has accepted it.

Because how else can you handle something that’s unfixable?

He's okay to die this way. Really, he is. At least now his family has known, he's not gonna be alone. And that thought alone, put an odd kind of ease in his chest.

His true fear isn't really dying, but being alone.

So, having a privileged to go while being surrounded by your loved ones doesn't sound bad at all.

So you see, to Chris, it's okay.

Chapter Text

That night, Chris slips under Matt’s blanket like he usually does, sliding in as if it's his own. Matt flinches at the sudden shift in the mattress.

“What are you doing here?” Matt asks, his voice low and tired.

Chris shoots him a deadpan look, raising an eyebrow. “Fucking painting, Matt. Sleep, of course. What else?” he says, already lying down, phone in hand, ready to scroll through TikTok.

Matt groans, turning slightly to glance over his shoulder. “Chris, you should get a proper rest in your room.”

Chris huffs, and pulls an exasperated face. “Matt, I don’t know what you’re talking about right now. What’s there in your room that’s different from mine that will prevent me from getting a good sleep?”

Matt falls silent, clearly his sleepy brain does not have an answer to that, and Chris smirks a little. “Exactly. Now sleep, Matt,” Chris says, already turning his attention back to his phone.

“Dick,” Matt mutters under his breath, but there’s no real bite to it.

Chris snickers softly, scrolling for a little while longer before sighing and turning off his phone. There’s nothing better than sleeping these days, nothing that feels more necessary. His body craves sleep and rest more than anything else, so he shut his eyes, ready to let himself drift off.

Just as he feels himself starting to slip away, Matt’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“Your hand.”

Chris opens his eyes, frowning as he stares at the back of Matt’s head. “Hm? What?” he asks, his tone groggy.

“Did you ask to go back to LA to talk to your doctor about your hand?” Matt’s voice is soft but insistent.

Chris feels his lips thin out into a line. He thought Matt wouldn’t bring this up, wouldn’t put him in this kind of confrontation. But clearly, he was wrong.

Stupid Matt, he thought.

“Well, yeah,” Chris finally says, tone casual. “Just to check on things.” He hopes the answer will be enough to make Matt drop the subject.

But Matt doesn’t.

“When I said no, did you have any plan to go back on your own?” Matt asks, his voice quieter now.

Chris shuts his eyes, he can’t really lie to Matt; not convincing enough, at least. “Not really,” he admits. “You’re not well, and I can't left you here like that.”

Then the room falls quiet again. Chris exhales softly, finally Matt’s satisfied. He lets his eyes close again, ready to chase sleep once more.

But then Matt speaks again, voice cutting through the stillness.

“Don’t do that again.”

Chris stares at the back of Matt's head in silence. He lets the quiet settle over the room, leaving Matt’s words hanging in the air, unanswered but not ignored. He knows what Matt means, and he knows he’s not just talking about LA.

He closes his eyes.

He’ll try.

For Matt, he’ll try.

-

Matt wakes up to the soft golden light of morning streaming through his bedroom window. The world feels still, quiet, and for a brief moment, peaceful. He blinks sleepily, stretching slightly, before his eyes land on the back of Chris’s head, his brother still curled up beside him.

He hears their mom’s voice calling from downstairs. “Boys, breakfast!”

Matt sighs, reaching out to shake Chris’s shoulder gently. “Hey, wake up. Mom’s calling us.”

No response.

He frowns, shaking him a little harder this time. “Chris, come on. It’s breakfast. Get up.”

Still nothing.

And that’s when the first sliver of dread creeps into his chest. He hesitates, his heart picking up speed, before grabbing Chris by the shoulder and pulling him onto his back.

Oh.

Chris is pale, too pale. His lips are almost white, his skin so cold it makes Matt flinch. His chest isn’t rising. He’s not moving.

“Chris?” Matt’s voice is shaky now, high and frantic. “No, no, no, no. Chris!”

He shakes him again, harder this time, his hands gripping his brother’s arms tightly. “Wake up! Chris, wake up!”

But Chris doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch or groan or tell Matt to stop being annoying.

“No, no, no,” Matt whispers, tears streaming down his face now. “Chris, no! Please, no! CHRIS!”

He’s shouting now, his voice cracking with every word, but Chris doesn’t hear him. He doesn’t respond.

“NO, NO, CHRIS, PLEASE, WAKE UP!”

Matt’s chest heaves, he feels like the world around him starts collapsing.

And then he wakes up.

He jolts upright in his bed, breath coming in short, his heart hammering so hard it feels like it might come out of his chest. His hands are shaking, shirt damp with sweat as he looks around the room, disoriented.

It was a nightmare.

Just a nightmare.

Matt turns his head quickly to the right side of his bed, expecting to see Chris’s familiar messy head of hair beside him. But only him is there.

Panic shoots up in an instant.

He sits up, swallowing hard. Calm down. Calm down, he tells himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up.

He walks out of his room, his steps hurried as he heads toward Chris’s room. He pushes the door open, already expecting to see Chris somewhere in the space.

But the room is empty.

Chris’s bed is untouched, the blanket neatly folded at the foot.

Matt’s brain goes into overdrive.

Fuck. Where is he? Where the hell is he?

He doesn’t think, he just starts moving, opening every door to every room in the house, one after another, vacant and occupied, eyes rapidly moving to scan every corner of the house.

“Chris?” he calls out, his voice rising with every door he opens. “Chris, where are you?”

His frantic search startles Justin, who sits up groggily on his bed, blinking at Matt with confusion as Matt barges into his room calling for Chris. “What’s going on?” Justin asks, his voice thick with sleep.

“I can’t find Chris!” Matt exclaims, his voice shaky as he moves past Justin's room and heads toward the kitchen, throwing open the fridge and pantry door even though he knows it doesn’t make sense.

Just as the panic threatens to consume him completely, the sound of the front door creaking open stops him in his tracks.

Matt turns sharply, his breath halts as he sees Chris stepping inside. He’s holding a small frozen yogurt cup in his trembling right hand, with plastic spoon sticking out from his mouth.

Chris blinks when he notices Matt, he didn't do anything wrong but Matt is looking at him like he just killed someone's dog. Chris shifts on his feet, he pull out the spoon from his mouth and put it back in the cup.

“I went out on a walk and saw this new yogurt shop,” Chris begins, voice casual. “They open as early as six a.m., which is absolutely ridic—”

Before he can finish, Matt’s legs move on their own from across the room. He throws his arms around Chris in a crushing embrace.

The frozen yogurt falls to the floor with a soft splat,

“Matt, what—”

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Matt murmurs, his voice shaking as he buries his face into Chris’s shoulder. His entire body trembles as he clings to his younger brother, his arms wrapped tightly as if letting go would make Chris evaporate.

Chris stiffens at first, startled by the sudden hug at 7 a.m.? But then he relaxes slightly, his free hand coming up to pat Matt’s back gently.

“Hey, I’m here,” Chris says softly, his voice a little uncertain but steady. “What’s going on?”

Matt doesn’t answer. He just holds on tighter, breaths coming out in uneven gasps.

"Hey,” Chris says gently. “you’re going to give yourself a panic attack if you don’t calm down. Take a deep breath, okay?”

Matt doesn’t respond, eyes now wet with tears.

Chris shifts slightly, guiding Matt toward the sofa and sitting him down. He keeps his arms around his brother, holding him tightly as Matt clings to him.
“What’s wrong, Matt?” Chris asks softly, voice heavy with concern. “Come on, talk to me. What’s going on?”

But Matt doesn’t answer. He just holds onto Chris in silence, tears streaming down his face.

Chris feels his chest tighten. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he doesn't think he can recall when was the least time he has seen Matt this shaken.

“Okay,” Chris murmurs after a moment, his voice soft. “Okay, it’s fine. I’ll be here until you’re all better, alright? Take your time.”

He tightens his embrace slightly, resting his head on top of Matt’s

He blinks again.

One thing about his stupid cancer is the morning headache. The dull, pounding in his skull that makes it hard to focus on things. He keeps blinking his eyes open and closed, trying to push the ache away, holding onto Matt to distract him.

He grits his teeth when the nausea starts creeping in, making his stomach churn. Shifting slightly, he looks down at Matt, quiet in his arms.

“You just sit here, okay?” he says softly, patting Matt’s back. “I need to clean up the yogurt on the floor, or Mom will kill me.”

Matt doesn’t respond, his grip loosening slightly but his red eyes remain fixed on Chris.

Chris doubts his mom would actually care about a yogurt mess right now, she can barely look at him without tearing up yesterday.

He grabs his medication from the kitchen counter, popping the pills into his mouth and swallowing them down with a swig of water. He presses his palm against his eyes, hoping the pain behind his eyes would go away faster.

Grabbing a paper towel, Chris kneels to clean up the splattered yogurt on the floor. He wipes it up quickly, knowing it’ll probably leave the floor sticky, but that’s a problem for future Chris.

As he tosses the sticky paper towels into the trash, he straightens up and nearly bumps into Nick in the kitchen.

Nick looks rough; his hair sticking up in all directions, dark circles under his eyes. He’s leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand, staring blankly at the coffee machine like it has done something wrong to him.

“Morning, sunshine,” Chris teases, giving Nick his signature crooked grin.

Nick doesn’t respond. He barely even glances at Chris before grabbing his mug and walking out of the kitchen without a word.

Chris frowns, watching Nick’s retreating figure. “Oookay,” he mutters to himself. “The fuck?”

He doesn’t think too much of it, brushing it off like he usually does when Nick is in one of his quiet, brooding states.

He sighs, his head still throbs, and he can feel the edge of the nausea still lingering. He needs to sit down, maybe lie down for a bit. God, sleep sounds amazing right now, despite he just woke up two hours ago?

So he heads back to the living room where Matt is still sitting on the sofa.

“Alright, mess cleaned,” Chris announces, grinning at Matt. “No yogurt for Mom to yell at.”

Matt doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile, but Chris doesn’t want to push it either. Instead, he flops down next to his brother and closes his eyes again.

-

Chris stirs awake to the faint sound of clanking in the kitchen. Blinking, he turns his head and sees his mom at the stove, the soft morning light spilling in through the window. It must be at least ten in the morning now. He shifts slightly, noticing Matt slumped beside him on the sofa, also napping.

Chris adjusts Matt carefully, lifting him enough to lie him down properly, tucking a throw pillow under his head before heading to the kitchen. His body feels heavy, maybe more sleep?

Walking up behind his mom, he wraps his arms around her, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. “G’morning, Mom,” he murmurs, his voice soft.

She flinches slightly at the sudden contact, startled, but doesn’t pull away. “Good morning, Chris,” she replies, her voice low and sullen.

The tone doesn’t go unnoticed by Chris, he hugs her a little tighter. “What are you cooking?” he asks, keeping his voice light.

Instead of answering, her body starts to shake gently in his arm, and she gestures vaguely at the stove without saying a word. Chris pulls back slightly, peering over her shoulder, and sees the wetness on her cheeks.

“Mom,” he sighs softly, releasing her to turn off the stove. The sizzling of the bacon stops, leaving the kitchen in silence. He gently guiding her away from the stove and over to the kitchen table. Pulls out a chair for her, helping her sit down before kneeling in front of her.

His hands trembling slightly as they rest on hers.

She wipes at her cheeks with trembling hands, but the tears keep coming.

But you see, Marylou isn’t a crier, she’s always been the rock of their family. A mother of four sons, strong, capable, and resolute, she has always figured things out before tears could take over.

But now, looking at her youngest child kneeling before her, she feels her heart breaking into pieces.

This is her baby.

Her baby, who is hurting in ways she cannot fix, who is enduring pain she cannot take away no matter how much she wishes she could. She can feel her tears spill faster down her cheeks as she gazes at him.

He squeezes her hands gently, steadying them even as his own hands shake.

“Mom,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “Please stop crying.”

She lifts a hand to his face, her fingers brushing against his cheek. Her touch is soft, but Chris can feel nothing but pain and helplessness.

“I’m so sorry,” Marylou chokes out, her voice breaking. She looks at his face, his watery eyes, and his trembling hands, and all she can feel is guilt. “I’m so sorry, Chris.”

Chris shakes his head quickly, his own tears threatening to fall. “Mom, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” he pleads, his voice trembling. “Please… don’t do this to yourself.”

But she can’t stop. She looks at her baby, her sweet baby boy who she brought into the world, who she raised and loved with everything she had.

And now, he’s in pain she can’t fix.

She feels useless, powerless, and so deeply sorry for not knowing how to make it better.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry I can’t fix this, that I can’t take it away.”

Chris’s eyes glisten as he shakes his head again, this time more forcefully. “Mom, stop,” he says, his voice firmer. “Please. I don’t need you to fix anything. Just… just don’t cry. Please.”

He reaches up, placing his hand over hers as it cups his face, his thumb brushing over her fingers in a soothing gesture. “I’m okay,” he whispers, even though they both know it’s not true. “I’ll be okay.”

Marylou looks at him, and pulls him into a hug, her arms wrapping tightly around him as if holding him could keep him here, keep him safe.

And she sobs, deep sobs that seem to come from the very core of her being. Her whole body trembles as she clings to her youngest son, the thought of losing him ripping her apart.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, her mind screams. She can’t bear it. The thought of burying her baby, of watching him slip away before her, she feels like she can't breathe.

Please, please, let my baby live. Take me instead. Do anything, just don’t take him away from me. Please don’t take my baby. She pleads silently, her heart crying out to the universe, to God, to anyone who might be listening.

Her hands clutch at him, feeling the softness of his brunette hair under her fingers, the warmth of his tall, lean body against hers, the gentle way he holds her back. She knows she will lose this. She will lose him. And the thought is unbearable.

Her tears soak into his shirt as she clings to him, sobbing into his shoulder. She doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want to loosen her grip, doesn’t want to ever forget the feeling of the soft brunette hair, the gentle touch, the voice, the giggle, the warmth.

Because soon—too soon, he will be gone, and she will never get to hold him like this again.

Chris doesn’t say anything. He just holds her tightly, his arms wrapped securely around her as she cries into him. He doesn’t try to pull away or offer her words of comfort anymore, because what could he possibly say to ease this kind of pain? So he simply lets her feel his presence, lets her hold onto him.

His throat constricting with emotion, but he doesn’t let it show. He keeps his grip steady, his touch firm but gentle.

Letting her feel his presence while she still can. While he still can.

He pulls her just a little closer, resting his chin on her shoulder as the silence of the kitchen is filled with her cries, the raw, aching sound of a mother mourning her child.

Chapter Text

That's enough.

For three days, Chris has been trying to talk to Nick. And for three days, Nick has avoided him at every turn like a fucking plague.

Every time Chris approaches him, Nick either storms off in a huff, suddenly pretends to take a phone call, or locks himself in his room.

And honestly, it's driving Chris mad. He's all about giving people their space, but come on, he'll be dead soon enough and his brother won’t even look at him or speak to him? He won't let that go on.

So today, after waking up late—don’t blame him, he’s exhausted okay?—and pondering for a good half an hour on Matt’s bed, Chris decides he’s done waiting. He’s going to iron things out with Nick, once and for all.

But when he drags himself downstairs for lunch, Nick is nowhere to be found.

“He’s not hungry,” their mom says when Chris asks about him, and Chris frowns at that, Nick doesn’t skip meals, not unless something’s wrong.

So Chris heads to Nick’s room and to his relief, the door isn’t locked for once. He pushes it open and steps inside, the darkness of the room immediately enveloping him, curtains drawn shut.

“Nick?” Chris calls softly, no response.

He catch the faint sound of water running from the ensuite bathroom, then a weak gagging sound follows.

He frowns instantly, he crosses the room in quick strides and pushes the bathroom door open without knocking.

“Hey! What’s wrong? You okay?” Chris asks, his voice heavy with concern as he reaches out to grab Nick’s shoulder.

Nick is hunched over the sink, his shoulders shaking slightly as he gags again, but nothing comes out. His face is pale, his hair damp with sweat.

“Nick,” Chris says again, tightening his grip on his brother’s shoulder.

Nick shrugs him off with a weak motion, turning his head away. He leans forward and splashes cold water on his face, his movements sluggish, then turns and walks out of the bathroom with heavy steps, brushing past Chris without meeting his eyes.

Chris follows him, "Hey, slow down, you might fall," he says, reaching out to steady Nick as he rummages through his drawer, probably looking for something to relieve the migraine.

Nick shrugs off his hand, his voice a low hiss. "Stop touching me."

Chris freezes, his hand dropping back to his side. "What the fuck, Nick?" he can feel his frustration bubbling to the surface. "What's wrong with you?"

In the dim light of the room, Chris can feel Nick's glare pierce through him. "This isn't about me, Chris. It's about you. What the fuck is wrong with you?"Nick snaps, his tone sharp.

Chris blinks, stunned. "What…?"

Nick turn away from him, storming back to his bed. Chris clicks his tongue, "Is this about the cancer thing?" his voice rising. "Come on, Nick, grow up!"

That stops Nick in his tracks. He turns around so quickly that Chris almost steps back. Even in the darkness of the room, Chris can feel the intensity of his brother's livid stare.

"Grow up?" Nick spits, his voice trembling with rage. "You want me to fucking grow up? You grow up! You don't get to say shit like you're not the problem here."

Chris scoffs, the frustration clawing up his throat. "And you acting like this, is not a problem, then? You're acting like you're the one with cancer right now!"

Nick’s eyes wide and heavy with anger. "If I had cancer, I’d fucking tell someone because I’m not a selfish, stupid piece of shit who only cares about themselves!" he yells, his voice cracking.

Chris clenches his fists at his sides, his jaw tightening. "Oh, I’m selfish now? When I was just trying to care about your fucking feelings!"

Nick’s eyes begin to water, his voice breaking. "Don’t give me that shit!" he shouts, his words trembling. "A real fucking friend, someone who loves you wouldn’t do some shit like that! Be in my fucking shoes, and tell me what you’d do if Matt or I pulled the same shit on you! What would you do if I hid something like that from you?"

Chris’s words catches in his throat.

"You’re not the one with a dying brother," Nick chokes out, tears streaming down his face. "I am! And I almost would’ve been kept in the dark until my baby brother died!"

Chris blinks at that, speechless as his brother’s voice breaks into full sobs.

"I can’t believe you did this… I can’t…" Nick’s voice trembles as his body crumples to the floor, his sobs wrecking him.

He takes a step toward him, but Nick holds up a shaky hand, voice raw and weak. "Please go away… please…"

Chris stands there for a moment, watches his brother cry. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to fix this.

Finally, he steps back, and as he turns toward the door, he pauses .

Matt is standing there, his face a complicated mix of emotions that Chris can’t understand.

He lowers his head, shame washing over him like a wave. The weight of Nick’s words is still heavy on his mind, and now, seeing Matt there, it only amplifies his guilt. He’s caused Nick so much pain, pain he didn’t mean to, but pain nonetheless.

Matt doesn’t say anything. He just look at him quietly, gaze softening as if to tell Chris it’s not his fault, as if to silently reassure him not to push Nick further.

But it doesn’t help.

Chris feels like the lowest person on earth.

Chris swallows hard, his throat tight. “I didn’t mean to—” Chris starts, his voice barely above a whisper, but Matt cuts him off with a subtle shake of his head.

“Not now,” Matt says quietly, his voice firm.

Chris looks back at Nick, still curled on the floor, his body wracked with silent sobs. He swallows hard, turning his gaze back to Matt, who steps aside to let him pass.

Chris hesitates for a moment, glancing back at Nick, before stepping out into the hallway.

Matt follows him, shutting Nick’s door behind them with a soft click.

For a long moment, they just stand there in silence. Chris lowers himself to the floor, resting against the wall, his head in his hands. Matt watches him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“It’s not your fault,” Matt says finally, his voice calm but weighted.

Chris shakes his head. “Doesn’t feel that way,” he mutters.

Matt lets out a quiet sigh. “He’s just angry, Chris. He’s hurt. That’s how Nick deals with this. You got to accept that.”

Chris looks up at him, his eyes glassy. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I just… I thought I was protecting everyone.”

Matt’s lips thins out into a line. “You don’t have to explain it to me. I get it. But Nick.. He's scared, man. He doesn’t know how to handle this, and he’s taking it out on you because… because he loves you, Chris.”

Chris scoffs softly, his voice bitter. “Yeah, well, doesn’t feel like it right now.”

Matt steps closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “He’ll come around,” he says quietly. “Just… give him time. Let him feel what he’s feeling.”

Chris nods slowly, his mind full.

"Time,” Chris murmurs to himself, his voice barely audible.

Time. Something he doesn't have much of.

-

Chris has been giving Nick all the time and space he could possibly give for days now. He makes himself scarce when Nick enters the room, if Nick comes into the kitchen to grab something, Chris quietly leaves. It’s hard, but it seems to be working.

Nick's mood starting to improve, little by little. Last night, for the first time in days, Nick sat down at the dinner table with everyone.

The atmosphere was still a bit awkward. Sometimes Chris still feels like he wants to spam his face on the table from the sheer awkwardness when the conversation occasionally dipping into uncomfortable quietness, but it was much better. Almost normal.

His dad and Justin carried most of the conversation, with Chris chimed in here and there. Even Matt, who’s been a little withdrawn himself, contributed a few comments. His mom, though quieter than usual, joined in at times, her voice lighter than it had been in days.

It gave Chris a tad of hope.

So this morning, he wakes up with a renewed sense of determination. Despite the constant, nagging fatigue that clings to him, he pulls himself out of bed early. He heads downstairs to find his mom in the kitchen, preparing a list for groceries.

“Need some help?” he asks, leaning against the counter.

His mom looks up, a little surprised, but smiles softly. “Sure, if you’re up for it.”

“I’m up for it,” Chris says, though his body is begging for him to crawl back into bed and sleep.

They head to the grocery store together, Chris makes an effort to help, even if his right hand isn’t as cooperative as he’d like. He grabs items off shelves, pushes the cart, and helps carry bags into the house when they get back. He cracks a few jokes about her choices of groceries, something about how kale doesn’t belong anywhere near a Sturniolo kitchen, but it feels good to be out, doing something productive.

She seems happy to have him tag along, and though her smiles don’t quite reach her eyes, they feel genuine enough.

When they get back home, Chris helps his mom put away the groceries, his hands a little shaky as he sorts through the bags. He shakes his head to the light headache he's been having as he sighs, the morning light streams through the window of his house, casting a warm glow over the room. It feels good.

When Nick finally comes downstairs, he's wearing sweats and a hoodie, his hair still messy from sleep, but he looks much better. There’s color in his face, and his expression is neutral, not the stony, guarded look he’s been wearing for days that Chris sometimes feels like wants to punch.

Nick glances at Mom then naturally at Chris “Morning,” Chris says, directly talking to Nick after 5 days of mutual silence. His voice casual, as he places a loaf of bread on the counter.

Nick hesitates, his gaze flickering to their mom for a moment before he nods. “Morning.”

It’s a single word, but it’s enough to make Chris feel like his chest might burst. Okay shit Matt is right, Matt is right.

He grabs a box of cereal from the grocery bag and places it on the counter. “Mom got your favorite cereal,” Chris says, nodding toward the box. It was him who picked it up earlier.

Nick looks at it, his expression softening slightly. “Thanks,” he mutters, grabbing it and heading toward the table.

Chris takes a deep breath, trying to calm the excitement bubbling inside him.

By the time breakfast is served, everyone is seated at the table except for Justin, who left the night before for work. Chris chew on his food almost too slowly as he tries to find a way to get Nick to interact with him, but nothing seems to stick.

Nick oblivious to Chris' train of thought, just focuses on his meal, eating silently until he suddenly glances at Matt on his left. “Can you grab me more milk?” he asks, his tone casual.

Before Matt can even move, Chris stands up abruptly, almost knocking over his chair in the process. “I will!” he says eagerly, practically sprinting to the fridge.

He pulls open the door and scans the shelves, spotting a carton. He grabs it quickly, but as he straightens, the headache he’s been quietly nursing all morning intensifies momentarily, leaving him swaying.

He holds onto the freezer, blinking hard to will the dizziness away. He grips the carton tightly, taking a deep breath and steadying himself against the cool air of the fridge. Not now, come on.

When he feels like the ground unddr his feet finally stabilised, he shuts the fridge and heads back to the table, milk carton in hand.

“Here you go,” he says with a grin, setting the carton down in front of Nick.

But Nick doesn’t reach for it. He just frowns, his gaze flicking from the carton to Chris. “Chris, that’s not milk.”

Chris pauses, his grin faltering as he looks down at the carton. There’s a picture of a fruit on it. He knows it’s a fruit, but for the life of him, he can’t remember what it’s called.

It's a fruit, bright colour, he likes the fruit.

He knows the fruit,

he knows the fruit,

he knows the fruit.

But he does not know..

For a second, panic flickers in his brain, but he quickly laughs it off, “Oh shoot, my bad,” he says, forcing a chuckle as he picks up the carton and heads back to the fridge.

He grabs the actual milk this time, double-checking the label before bringing it back to the table. “Here you go,” he says again, placing it in front of Nick with an apologetic smile.

Nick doesn’t say anything, just gives a small nod before pouring himself a glass.

Chris smiles as he sinks back into his chair, picks up his fork and starts eating again.

The brain fog lingers, clouding his thoughts as he tries to recall what is the fruit's name, headache pulses faintly in the back of his head.

Despite that, Chris feels a small spark of joy. He interacted with Nick. For the first time in days, they spoke, even if it was brief and meaningless.

It’s enough to make him smile as he takes another bite.

-

He doesn't even remember closing his eyes when he stirs awake, blinking groggily at the dim light of the living room. One moment he was watching a show on Netflix, thinking about going up to Nick to finally apologize, to make up, and the next, he’s waking up from a nap he didn’t realize he’d taken.

The house is quiet. Mom and dad must have gone to school for work. He rubs his eyes, trying to shake off the grogginess. He feels like he’s been napping for hours, but somehow, it’s not enough.

Dragging himself up from the sofa, he heads toward his room, determined to lie down and continue sleeping. He’s halfway to his bed when the sharp headache suddenly hits him again, this time persisting.

He gasps and almost doubles down, grabbing his head, and quietly stumbling toward his ensuite as the pain intensifies. He barely reaches the sink, before nausea twists in his stomach, and he gags violently. Breakfast comes up in a rush, leaving him retching and trembling.

His limbs feel like jelly, his control slipping as he fumbles for the painkiller bottle sitting on the sink. His shaking hands barely manage to get it open, and he pops one pill into his mouth, swallowing it dry before sinking to the floor.

Curled up against the cold tile, he bites his lip to keep from crying out. The pain is overwhelming, blinding, and all he can do is to wait the painkiller out, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His eyes blur with tears, he clenches his fists.

Please.. Please..

Then he hears it, a knock on the bathroom door.

“Chris?”

It’s Nick.

Fuck. It’s Nick.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Chris’s heart races, he hurriedly tryinh to sit up, his limbs trembling, his head pounding. He can’t let Nick see him like this, at least not now.

“Yeah,” Chris answers, his voice breathless and shaky, though he does his best to steady it.

There’s a pause before Nick speaks again, his voice quieter this time. “Can I talk to you once you’re done?”

Chris swears that if he weren’t curled up on the bathroom floor in agony, he’d be jumping for joy. Nick actually wants to talk to him. Yes. Yes. Yes.

But right now, all Chris can do is grit his teeth through the pain and force himself to respond.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Just… give me a sec.”

He pushes himself up, his entire body protesting as he clings to the sink for support. Standing feels impossible, but he forces himself to do it anyway, his legs shaking beneath him.

Chris catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror—his face pale and drawn, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy from tears. He clenches his jaw against the pain as he splashes cold water on his face, trying to look somewhat presentable.

He opens the door and steps into his room, his heart thudding as he spots Nick sitting on the bed, looking up from his phone.

Nick glances at him briefly before his gaze drops again. Chris doesn’t meet his eyes either, walking stiffly to the other side of the bed and sitting down.

“I just want to say I’m sorry,” Nick starts, his voice quiet but steady. “I shouldn’t—”

Before Nick can finish, Chris leans over and wraps his arms around him, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Wha—” Nick stutters, caught off guard by the sudden hug.

Chris doesn’t say anything. He just holds Nick tightly, his body trembling from the lingering pain and exhaustion. He doesn’t have the energy to find the right words, doesn’t even know what to say. All he knows is that he doesn’t want this moment to slip away because he can't fucking speak without tearing up from pain.

Nick notices the trembling almost immediately, his arms hesitating before wrapping around Chris in return. “Hey,” Nick says softly, his voice laced with concern. “You okay?”

Chris nods softly against Nick’s shoulder. He just tightens his grip, his eyes closing as he lets himself lean into the comfort of his brother’s embrace.

“Just hold me,” Chris murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, fragile and quiet in the silence of the room.

Nick’s worry deepens, his brow furrowing as he feels the faint, uneven shudders running through Chris’s body. “You’re trembling,” he says, voice growing more urgent. “Should we get your medicine?”

Chris doesn’t respond immediately, his silence only feeding Nick’s anxiety. But then, he pats Nick’s back gently with what little strength he has. “It’s okay,” he whispers.

Nick doesn’t buy it for a second, especially when Chris winces sharply, a muffled groan escaping him as another wave of pain hits. Nick holds him closer instinctively, one hand moving toward the nape of Chris’s neck, his touch firm.

“Hey,” Nick says again, his voice breaking slightly. “You’re in a lot of pain. Have you taken your medicine?”

Chris nods weakly, his movements barely there.

Nick swallows hard, he can feel his chest tightening . “Are you sure? Did it help at all?”

Chris nods his head slightly, his forehead pressed against Nick’s shoulder.

Nick’s grip tightens, his free hand moving to rub slow circles on Chris’s back, desperate to do something, anything to ease his brother’s pain. “We need to call Mom or Dad,” Nick says, his voice trembling.

“No,” Chris murmurs, his voice soft and strained. “Don’t call them… don’t want to worry them.”

Nick clenches his jaw, his frustration and worry bubbling to the surface. “Chris, you’re worrying me," he snaps, though his tone is more desperate than angry.

Chris doesn’t respond, his breath hitching slightly as another wave of sharp pain radiates through his skull.

Nick pulls back just enough to look at him, his hands steadying Chris’s shoulders as he takes in his brother’s pale face, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his eyelids flutter as he struggles to stay present.

“Chris,” Nick says firmly, his voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Talk to me. You have to let someone help you. Let me help you."

Chris blinks up at him slowly, his gaze hazy but filled with a quiet kind of gratitude. “You’re helping,” he whispers, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles despite the pain.

Nick stares at him for a moment, his throat tight, before pulling Chris back into his arms.

For now, he holds him tighter, his tears finally slipping free as he whispers, “Okay, I’ve got you, I've got you. I’m here.”

Chris doesn’t respond this time, but his body relaxes slightly in Nick’s arms, and he basks in Nick's warmth.

Oh man, he misses Nick so much.

He’s drifting in and out of focus when he hears Matt’s voice from the doorway.

“Aww, you guys made up,” Matt says teasingly, his voice light and familiar.

Chris doesn’t have the energy to grin or even crack open his eyes, but he can imagine the smirk that must be on Matt’s face. If he's not in such a bitchy cancer state right now, he would be jumping around with Matt and Nick.

It's silent suddenly, but he can imagine Matt is looking at the way Nick’s holding him and how his own body remains slumped in his arm.

The teasing tone in Matt’s voice shifts almost immediately, as Chris can hear his hurried steps "What happened? You okay?"

Chris feels the warm touch of a hand on his arm, familiar and gentle. Slowly, he moves his heavy head, tilting it just enough to see Matt crouched beside him and Nick, his eyes wide and filled with worry.

“Yeah,” Chris whispers, his voice barely audible.

Before he can say anything else, Nick jumps in, explaining quickly. “He’s taken his medicine. He’s just… having headache. But it's really bad.” Nick’s voice is steady, but Chris can hear the undercurrent of panic he’s trying to suppress.

Matt looks between them. “How bad is it? Should we—” Chris clenches his jaw as he senses the rising panic in Matt’s voice, he then moves his trembling right hand from where it rests on Nick’s back, reaching out to grab Matt’s hand instead. His fingers are unsteady, his grip weak, but it’s enough to make Matt look at him.

“I’m fine, Matt,” Chris says softly.

Matt’s lips press into a thin line, his eyes flicking between Chris’s pale face and the faint shaking of his hand. “You don’t look fine,” he mutters, a little too quietly.

Chris lets out a weak huff, something that might’ve been a laugh if he had the strength for it. “I’ll be fine,” he murmurs.

Matt doesn’t look convinced, his hand tightening around Chris’s.

Nick, still holding Chris close, glances at Matt. “He’s been pushing through it,” Nick says softly. "I think the medication needs some times to work."

Matt nods, his fingers brushing against Chris’s. “You’re gonna give us all a heart attack, you know that?”

Chris closes his eyes again, leaning deeper into Nick’s arm as he feels the pain finally dulling and the same fatigue earlier pulling on him again. “Didn't mean to,” he mumbles, his voice faint.

The three of them stay there for a while, the room quiet except for the sound of their breathing and the faint hum of the world outside.

If Chris have the energy he might be brimming with joy from the affection he is receiving now, but he drifts off before he even realises it.

Chapter Text

Chris has always thought of his family as a constant; warm, loud, and full of love. Their house has always been alive with noise: Justin's snickers, Nick’s sharp laughter, Matt’s sarcastic quips, his mom’s fussing, his dad’s dry humor. It’s a symphony of everything familiar, everything safe.

Of course ever since that night, something changed. But just like him, his family is trying to make things normal again—they really are.

But he can see it, hear it, feel it.

The way the house settles into a silence that’s too heavy, too careful, like everyone is tiptoeing around him. He hasn't seen Justin in two weeks and Nick and Matt, who usually bicker over the smallest things, can barely be heard now. Everytime he saw them in a room together its just quiet words, softer, slower, holding hands, or hugging briefly, or just sit in silence, staring into the screen of their phones with nothing in their mind.

And his dad, the ever steady and gentle presence in his life, just keeps rubbing his back or his hair randomly, the gesture that reminds him of the older days, quiet but full of love. And he pretends not to notice the way his dad’s hand lingers, the way his touch feels like he’s trying to hold onto him, like if he lets go, Chris might slip away.

They don’t even get mad anymore when he makes a mess or when he’s being obnoxiously loud, yelling at the TV or blasting music on his phone. They just let him be.

And the little things.

How dinner is always something simple now, something that doesn’t require Chris to use his right hand too much. How they always let him choose what to watch on TV, no matter how much Nick groans when Chris picks something cheesy or boring.

It’s these tiny, thoughtful changes; so subtle, so painfully considerate, that somehow hurt more than the cancer itself.

Because as much as Chris is trying to keep it together, he can see his family trying just as hard, and it breaks him.

He never wanted this. He never wanted to be the reason the house feels so quiet, the reason his family is bending over backward to make things easier for him.

And oh god, he feels so bad for them. For all of them.

Every day, he has to remind himself why they’re back in Boston in the first place. They came back for Matt, he tells himself. This is about Matt.

But as much as they all try to focus on Matt’s condition and recovery, the attention keeps shifting back to Chris. The worried glances, the unspoken questions, the way their conversations trail off when he enters the room, it all circles back to him.

So Chris clings to Matt, finding every excuse to stick by his side.

Nowadays, he steals a glance at Matt every minute he could.

Matt has been quieter than ever, the anxiety that used to fuel his restless energy has transformed into a kind of watchful silence. Chris can feel Matt’s reciprocate the scrutiny he has given. His eyes on him constantly, as if looking away will cause Chris to drop dead, which unfortunately, isn’t entirely off the mark.

The thought of dying isn’t as scary as it used to be for him, it’s just a fact now, something he’s, somehow learned to live with these couple of weeks. But seeing that fear mirrored in Matt’s eyes every time they’re together makes Chris’s chest ache in ways he can’t describe.

Which is why he tries, as hard as possible, to be okay when he’s around his family.

He keep silent the headaches, now that they’re a constant, medication doesn't push it all away most of the time. And he stayed up when he can just to get a little giggle with Nick from a stupid tiktok video or a small argument with Matt over a show, even though his body feels like it’s made of lead most days, and all he wants to do is to get some sleep.

Recently, he finds speaking is a bit tiring. And the thought makes him laugh a little, as what they called "chronic yapper" this mist be his karma for saying bunch of bullshit everyday.

Building sentences somehow feels tricky, his words feel tangled and slippery in his head, and it takes a good minute or two and every ounce of focus just to find the word and make his sentences coherent.

When he's caught in the "buffering" moment to find the right word in his head, he just laughs it off, waving a hand like it’s no big deal.

Because despite all of the mutual efforts, his family needs him to be him while he can, and Chris doesn’t want his brothers to keep looking at him like he’s long dead.

When things get a little too overwhelming, he slips off Matt's bed and he lets himself cry in the bathroom. Not loudly, not the way he wants to, but just enough to let some of the ache out.

Because no matter how hard he tries, he can’t do anything.

He can’t protect Matt, or Nick, or his mom, or his dad.

He can only hope that when the time comes, they’ll remember him not as the sick version of himself, but as him, the loud, chaotic, Chris, one with full of life.

That’s the Chris he wants them to hold onto.

-

“—ris? Chris? Chris!"

Chris’s eyes snap open, his vision blurring slightly as Nick’s face comes into focus. He straightens himself quickly, realizing he had been slumped over against Nick’s arm.

“Sorry, what?” he says instantly, blinking rapidly to shake off the fog in his head.

Nick looks at him warily, his brow furrowed. “You okay? Did you hear what I was saying?”

Chris blinks again, glancing over at Matt, who’s watching him just as closely. “Um… about a dinner spot?” he guesses, though he’s not entirely sure where the conversation had left off.

Nick narrows his eyes slightly but repeats himself slower this time. “I was saying Nate and Madi are coming over later. Remember I told you yesterday? You picked the hangout spot last night.”

Chris nods quickly, trying to cover up his mistake. “Yes, got it. Okay,” he says, voice a little too enthusiastic. He shifts on the sofa, settling back into a comfortable spot right beside Nick’s arm.

He thinks he just closed his eyes for a moment, but the next thing he knows, he’s being jostled awake again.

“Yo, dude,” a familiar voice calls.

Chris blinks sluggishly, his vision swimming for a second before he makes out Nate standing over him. Even though his eyesight isn’t great anymore, Nate’s small stature and easy stance will always be recognised.

“Yo,” Chris replies, lifting a hand to dap Nate’s back before looking over the edge of the sofa. His gaze lands on Madi, who’s standing nearby, laughing at something Matt just said.

“Where are we going?” Chris asks groggily, still shaking off the sleep that seems to cling to him no matter how much rest he gets.

Nate snorts at that, giving Chris a look while settling on the sofa. “You chose the spot, bro. Why are you asking me?"

Chris freezes for a moment, his mind catching up to the realization. He doesn’t remember choosing anything. In fact, he barely remembers the conversation from earlier, let alone the decision Nick had mentioned.

His mouth opens, but no words come out. Instead, he nods vaguely, his stomach sinking as he glances at his friends.

That’s when he realized.

All these months back in Boston, and none of their friends know what’s going on. Not Nate, not Madi, not Mickey, not anyone, no one outside of his immediate family has any idea. They think this is just another casual visit home, like the ones they’ve done so many times before when they had breaks from LA.

They don’t know this time is different.

They don't know.

And if he's being completely honest, he did think about it before. About telling everyone that he's dying, but it has never been easy.

How do you casually drop something like this on the people who’ve been part of your life for so long? How do you tell your best friends that this isn’t just another visit, that this might be the last time they’ll ever see you?

He's not a brave person, he admits that.

“Chris?” Nate asks, his voice pulling Chris from his thoughts.

Chris grin, let out a quick laugh. “Right, yeah. Let’s go,” he says, standing up and clapping Nate on the back.

As they head out, Chris can’t shake the weight pressing down on him. He genuinely feels like a very big piece of shit, his friends deserve to know the truth.

He doesn’t know if he has it in him to tell anyone anything.

“Drive to that new yogurt shop down the road,” Chris tells Matt as they all pile into the car. He leans back against the seat, rubbing his temple absently. “I can’t remember the name, but it’s the nearest one. We’ll eat in the car and then head to the mall.”

Matt nods without a word, glancing at Chris briefly before starting the car. The chatter picks up as the car starts moving, Madi animatedly talking about something funny that happened before she came. Chris listens for a while, a faint smile tugging at his lips, but the hum of the conversation and the gentle movement of the car make his eyelids grow heavy.

Without realizing it, he drifts off.

Realizing the quietness from the front seat, Madi lean forward to poke Chris's arm. “Hey, you tired, dude?”

Chris doesn’t stir.

“Oh,” Madi says, blinking in surprise as she leans back. “He really sleeps sleeps, huh? And we’re literally about to get to the shop, too.”

She glances at Nick and Nate, who are seated next to her. Nick’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything, his gaze caught Matt's through the rear view mirror. Nate looks over at Chris briefly before shrugging, brushing it off as just Chris being tired.

Matt speaks up from the driver’s seat, voice quiet and even. “He’s a bit tired. We’ll go grab the yogurt, I know what flavor he likes.”

He parks the car in the small lot near the shop, the engine idling as everyone starts to get out.

Madi hesitates, looking at Chris’s slumped figure in the front passenger seat. “You sure, we don't want to wake him up? He might beat you up if you got the wrong—”

“No,” Matt interrupts. He glances over his shoulder at her, his expression calm but unreadable. “Let him sleep. I’ll get it for him.”

Nick stays silent, sliding out of the car without a word, Madi looks between Matt and Nick, her brow furrowed slightly in confusion. “Okay?” she hesitates but follows, her gaze flicking back to Chris.

Matt’s hand tightens on the steering wheel for a moment before he releases it, exhaling softly. "Don't worry, he's just been sleeping like shit." he says quietly. “That’s all.”

When Madi hums at that, Matt thinks he'll fucking cry.

Because, if it were up to him, he’d tell Madi and Nate everything right here and now.

How it's not only killing Chris but also killing him.

But it’s not his choice to make.

This is about Chris.

No matter how much Matt wants to spill it all, to unburden himself of the secret and let their friends know what’s really going on, he knows it’s not his place. He and Nick had talked about this before, late one night when Chris had fallen asleep on the couch between them. They’d come to a consensus: it was Chris’s decision.

No matter how much it hurts to keep the truth from people who care about Chris, about them, they have to respect him.

So Matt swallows the urge to say more and steps out of the car, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Let's go,” he says as they head toward the shop.

After a while, when they come back to the car with the frozen yogurt in hand, Nick stops dead in his tracks.

Chris is not in the car.

Nick’s panic flare instantly. “Chris?” he calls, his voice sharp, his eyes scanning the empty passenger seat. His hand twitches at his side, half ready to throw open the door and start looking when—

“I’m here,” Chris’s voice calls out, startling them all as he appears between two parked cars, jogging lightly toward them.

“What are you doing over there?” Nate asks, laughing as he takes in Chris’s slightly disheveled appearance.

Chris chuckles, waving a hand dismissively. “A lady needed some help,” he says casually.

Nick and Matt exchange a glance. Chris looks off. Winded and his face is paler than usual.

Matt doesn’t call him out on it, instead holding up a frozen yogurt cup. “Got your favorite,” he says simply, his tone light.

Madi elbows Chris gently as he climbs into the car. “Matt swears it’s your favorite,” she teases.

Chris shrugs, grinning faintly as he takes the cup with his left hand. “Well, Matty B knows me best,” he quips, settling into his seat.

The mood light as they dig into their desserts. The chatter resumes quickly, filling the space with laughter and easy conversation. Chris rolls into it naturally, cracking jokes and tossing in quick quips like nothing is wrong.

But the taste of the frozen yogurt in his mouth can't help the headache that he was forcefully woken up from. The sharp nausea had followed immediately after, sending him stumbling out of the car to retch behind another vehicle.

The mere sight of the dessert in his hand makes his stomach churn, the thought of eating more than a spoonful is almost unbearable.

So he holds onto the cup, occasionally poking at it with his spoon as if he’s savoring every bite.

Nick watches him out of the corner of his eye, his worry mounting the longer he watches.

Matt notices, too. His gaze flickers between Chris and their friends.

But neither of them says anything.

-

After a full day of hanging out at the mall, Matt and Nick both agreed this got to be the stupidest thing they've done. They’ve been watching Chris closely all day, and by the time they drop Madi and then Nate off at his doorsteps, Chris looks like he's ready to pass out.

His face had gone ashen, the watery glaze in his unfocused eyes as he waved to Nate. “See ya, man,” Chris murmurs, his voice so faint it barely registers.

Nate seemed to hesitate for a second, glancing at Chris with a flicker of concern before he blinked and reciprocated the wave back.

“See ya.” Nate replies, Chris gives a nod before leaning back against the seat.

The drive home is unnervingly quiet. Matt glancing over at Chris more often than the road itself. Chris has his eyes shut, his left hand pressed to his forehead.

Not a groan, not a whimper, not even a sigh of discomfort escapes him, Chris just sit with his pain in silence.

Nick shifts in the backseat, he can see the faint tremor in his brother’s shoulders, the way his breathing is slightly uneven. The headache has clearly been persistent all day, yet Chris hasn’t complained once and that kind of make Nick feels a little frustrated.

When they finally pull into the car porch, Matt puts the car in park, before either of them can say anything, Chris’s small voice breaks the silence.

“I don’t think I can walk,” he whispers, his eyes still shut, his hand shielding them from the dim street light outside.

Both Nick and Matt snap, “Okay, okay, we’ve got you,” Matt says quickly, unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out of the car.

Nick is already at Chris’s side, opening the door and crouching down beside him. “Hey, let’s take it slow, alright?” Nick says, his voice softer than usual as he places a steady hand on Chris’s shoulder.

Chris doesn’t move at first, blinking his eyes hard several times. “Just… give me a second,” he whispers, voice so faint it almost gets lost in the night air.

Seconds later Chris nods faintly, and Nick carefully sliding an arm under his brother’s shoulders. “We’re gonna lift you up, okay.”

With Nick on one side and Matt on the other, they ease Chris out of the car as gently as they can. His weight heavy against them as they guide him toward the house.

Chris stumbles as they enter the house, his legs threatening to give out entirely. But Nick and Matt hold him steady, their grips firm.

“We’re almost there Chrissy,” Nick mutters, more to himself than to Chris, as they reach the nesrest bedroom, Nick's.

They carefully lower him carefully onto the bed. He sinks into them with a soft exhale, his hand shielding his eyes.

“I’ll get you some water,” Matt says, already heading toward the kitchen.

Nick kneels in front of Chris, his hand resting on his brother’s arm. “Do you need your meds? Can you talk to me, Chris?”

Chris doesn’t answer right away, his breathing shallow. Finally, he nods slightly, his voice barely audible. “Yeah. Medicine.”

Nick squeezes his arm gently before standing and heading toward Chris's bathroom to grab the painkillers.

When Matt returns with the glass of water, Chris is halfway propped up on his elbow, his entire body trembling at the effort.

“Hey, hey, hey, lay back down,” Matt says quickly, setting the water aside and sit beside his brother.

But Chris shakes his head weakly, his eyes barely open, red and glassy, pupils blown wide. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up,” he rasps, his voice hoarse and strained.

"Okay okay" Matt then without another word, slips an arm around Chris’s back and another under his knees, lifting him up as gently as he can. "I've got you." he says, Chris barely reacts, his head lolling slightly against Matt’s shoulder.

Matt carries him to Nick’s en suite, maneuvering carefully as he lowers both himself and Chris onto the bathroom floor. As soon as Chris is close to the toilet, he turns his body forward, clutching the rim as he dry heaves, his body convulsing with every gag.

The sound is awful, and all Matt can do is rub circles into Chris’s back, his own face tight with worry.

Nick then appears in panic, his eyes wide. “What’s wrong? What happened?” he asks breathlessly, his eyes darting between Chris and Matt.

Matt shakes his head, keeping his voice low. “He’s nauseous,” he murmurs.

Nick exhales, kneeling beside them as Chris heaves again, this time expelling the little water and liquid he’s managed to keep down all day.

When the vomiting finally stops, Chris slumps back weakly, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he tries to catch his breath. He turns his body away from the toilet, attempting to rest against the cool bathroom wall or maybe lie flat on the floor.

But before he can sink fully down, Nick moves forward, slipping his arms around Chris and holding him upright.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Nick whispers, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve got your medicine here.” He pulls the bottle out of his pocket, already preparing to help Chris take it.

Chris doesn’t respond, his trembling hand weakly cradling his head as he tries to breathe through the blinding pain.

Nick glances at Matt, his jaw clenched. Matt doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes says enough, they’re both terrified.

Nick adjusts his grip on Chris, keeping him steady as he tilts the bottle of medicine into his palm. “Chris, you’ve got to take this, okay?” he says quietly, his voice breaking slightly.

Chris blinks sluggishly, his eyes unfocused as he lets Nick press the pills into his hand.

Nick helps him bring the pills to his lips, and Matt quickly grabs the glass of water he’d brought earlier, holding it up so Chris can take a small sip and swallow.

As soon as the medicine is down, Chris can't help but leans back into Nick’s arms, Nick softly brushes back the damp hair sticking to his brother’s pale face. “Let’s get you back to bed,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip and carefully lifts Chris off the bathroom floor.

Again Chris doesn’t—can't—resist, resting his head weakly against Nick’s chest as he carries him back to the bed.

As soon as he hit the bed, Chris instinctively curls into himself, his jaw clenches tight. His hands twitch slightly, as if he’s trying to grasp at something to ground himself, but found nothing to hold onto.

Nick and Matt shared a glance, they're unsure if the medicine is doing enough to help him at all.

Then, out of nowhere, Chris’s quiet, strained voice breaks the silence.

“You guys can go,” he murmurs, his words barely audible. Matt straightens, head snaps to look at Nick.

“Chris,” Nick starts, his tone low.

“You don’t have to stay,” Chris says again, his voice uneven and soft. “I’ll be fine. Just… go do something else.”

Matt stares at him before shaking his head, “Chris, we’re not going anywhere,”

“Why would you even say that?” Nick adds, his voice cracking slightly as he leans closer.
Chris swallows hard, his lips pressing into a thin line as he shifts uncomfortably, curling tighter into himself. “I don't feel good" he said, "I don't want to... I don't know.." he faltered.

He lets out a shaky breath, his fingers clutching weakly at the edge of the blanket. “I don’t know how to make this easier,” he admits, his voice cracking.

Matt leans in slightly, his voice soft but steady. “You don’t have to,” he says. “Just let us be here with you, okay? That’s all you need to do.”

Instantly Chris's face scrunches up at that, his eyes squeezing shut as if the words hurt more than the pain in his head. “But I’m hurting you,” he says, his voice trembling. “I’m hurting everyone.”

Matt freezes for a second, oh god please don't do this to him.

Nick’s jaw tightening as if he’s about to say something, but Matt speaks first.

“Chris,” Matt says, holding his hands, “you’re not hurting me, you're not hurting us. This isn’t your fault.”

Chris shakes his head, his voice breaking. “It doesn’t matter. I see it, I see how much it’s hurting Mom, Dad, you, Nick, Justin. Everyone.” His voice cracks, and his hands clutch weakly at his sleeve. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of this to happen to you guys. And I'm so sorry"

“Hey,” Nick says, his voice strained but steady as he sweep the tears away from Chris's face. “Stop that, okay? There's nothing to be sorry about. You're not doing this to us. We’re hurting because we love you, Chris. That’s what happens when you love someone. It’s not your fault.”

Chris blinks, “But you shouldn’t have to deal with this,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t even know, you shouldn't even have to watch me—” He cuts himself off, breath hitches.

"I wish I know how to fix this, I'm really so sorry."

Nick shakes his head, his hand threading gently through Chris’s messy hair. Somewhere between the conversation, he’s started crying too, tears slipping silently down his face.

"You don’t have to. This isn’t something you need to fix, Chris. I told you, you're not the one hurting us, we’re hurting for you, because we love you."

Nick pauses, his voice breaking as he continues, “Because I love you. So much.”

Nick holds Chris's tear-streaked face gently in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the endless stream of tears, "And I’d rather be here, with you, through all of it, than to not have you at all.”

Chris’s body shakes, his breath hitching as the weight of Nick’s words sinks in.

Matt stares at the two in silence, tears filling up his vision, The quiet in the room feels deafening until Chris breaks it with a choked sob, "I'm in a lot of pain, but I don’t know how to say it."

"I don't know how to say it without hurting anyone."

In silence, Matt wrap his arms gently around Chris “Then let it hurt,” He says quietly. “Let it hurt, I’d take it a thousand times over because it means I still have you."

Chris breaks at that, the sobs wracking his body harder now as he leans into the warmth of his brothers. “I’m so scared,” he whispers, "I can't even tell Madi and Nate the truth, because I'm so afraid. I don’t want to hurt them. I don’t want to see their faces when I say it. I don’t want them to cry. I don’t… I don’t want them to look at me like—fuck.."

His tears soaking into the pillow. “I just want to be the normal me, Chris that they see everytime, just their Chris,” he says, his voice trembling.

Nick swallows hard as his own tears slip down his face. “You are their Chris,” he says, his voice firm, "You’ll always be their Chris. That’s why it’ll hurt."

Chris lifts his head slightly, his red-rimmed eyes meeting Nick’s. “I don’t know if I can,” he whispers, his voice brittle.

Nick nods, his voice soft but resolute. “Do it only when you’re ready.”

Chris shuts his eyes as his lips trembling. “What if I can’t do it?” Matt hums, “Then you don’t,” he says simply. “You don’t have to say anything until you’re ready. And if you’re never ready… then that’s okay, too. They'll always love you.”

Chris exhales shakily, clinging into the touch, the assurance and the warmth of his brothers in silence.

"I love both of you so much."

Chapter Text

After that night, the week goes relatively well, Matt thinks. At least as well as it can be. Chris has become more open about his headaches. He doesn't know if "open" is even the right word for quietly leaning into Nick’s side until Nick gets the unspoken clue to grab his medicine or call for Matt to help. It’s a small shift, so subtle but somehow cuts Matt in a way he can’t quite put into words.

Chris stays the same. He still jokes, still smiles, still inserts himself into every conversation with his usual loud, easy self. But Matt feels like it's so different now. He's much quieter. Less insistent. He doesn’t bounce around the house anymore, doesn’t try fill every silent moment with his random music and yelling. Now he just softly sings and nod his head to the rhythm.

And maybe, Matt thinks, that’s what makes it worse.

He finds himself consoling his own heart recently, Chris has every right to be tired. But the more Matt watches him, the more he feels like it's harder for him to breathe.

It’s like watching someone trying to hold the ocean in their hands, the water slipping through their fingers faster than they can catch it.

From Matt’s point of view, it feels like Chris’s mood and condition have taken a sharp, sudden downturn since that night. But then again, maybe it hasn’t been sudden at all. Maybe it’s just that Matt is finally letting himself loose and allowing himself to see it. And maybe that's the case for Chris too.

Because Chris wears his heart on his sleeve, he always has. Whatever he feels, it shows. If he’s happy, you know. If he’s angry, you know. If he loves you, you feel it in the way he speaks, the way he teases, the way he goes out of his way to make you laugh. Chris has always been unflinchingly transparent, almost painfully so. Matt shivers at the thoughts.

And all this time when Matt couldn't see it, he doesn't think Chris has been lying at all. It’s more like he’s been… curating. Choosing which parts of himself to show, which parts to hide, which parts to smooth over with jokes and grins.

And now Matt wonders if all of the jokes, the energy, the constant noise wasn’t for their benefit but for Chris’s himself.

Maybe Chris was scared.

Scared of showing just how sick he is. Scared of letting them see how much he’s hurting. Scared of how bad he’s losing to the thing in his head.

The idea feels foreign. Growing up together, Matt has always been the scared one and Chris the other way around. Ever so brave, so confident, a litmus paper for Matt to step into a space he hadn't been before.

"Come on Matt, it will help fun!" Chris always said.

So Chris and fear doesn't really make sense.

Matt feels a lump rise in his throat as he considers it.

Chris doesn’t hide things from the people he loves.

Not unless he’s absolutely terrified.

And now, as Matt watches him, this quieter, softer version of Chris, he ache at the thought of how long Chris has probably been carrying the fear alone.

He knows Chris like he knows himself. They’ve always been two halves of the same whole, each reflecting the other in ways no one else could. So Matt knows, with an ache that runs bone-deep in his chest, that Chris’s silence has never meant to be deceitful. It was protective. Of both himself and everyone around him.

But now, seeing Chris as he really is, tired, scared, vulnerable, it’s almost worse than the pretending. Because Matt doesn’t know how to make it better.

And it’s that helplessness, that quiet realisation, that makes him want to scream into the void and pull his brother closer all at once.

Because if Chris has been this tired, this scared, for longer than Matt thought, then Matt has been blind.

And he doesn’t know how to forgive himself for that.

"You know what I think about?"

Matt snaps out of his thoughts at the sound of Chris’s voice. Chris is lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with Trevor curled up beside him, the dog’s nose resting against Chris’s side.

Matt blinks, his attention shifting from the quiet hum of his thoughts to Chris. “What?”

Chris's hand lazily patting Trevor’s fur in rhythmic strokes. “YouTube videos, Matt. We should record some.”

Matt stares at him, his brows furrowing as if he misheard. “What?” he repeats, his voice quieter this time, unsure.

“YouTube videos,” Chris repeats, turning his head slightly to meet Matt’s eyes, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Just recording some stuff. We don’t even have to post it or anything.”

For a moment, Matt can’t find the words to respond. His mind trips over itself, suddenly full, thoughts tumbling one after another in a chaotic mess. He pull his eyes away from Chris.

The life they used to live as YouTubers, as social media personalities, feels like it belongs to another world entirely. Another version of themselves, another reality.

The day they came back to Boston, Matt had slammed the brakes on that chapter of their lives so hard he’s surprised it didn’t shatter entirely.

He knew that Nick and Chris are still very much actively observing their social media. He knows that it is quite crazy to just quit social media when that is all he has been doing since high school, but honestly, he doesn't have the energy to do the same, it has been so tiresome to keep up with everything at that time.

But the day he learned that his brother is actively dying and there is nothing he could do to stop, that’s when Matt believes he had thrown the entire book away. He hadn’t just stopped flipping the pages; he’d dumped the story somewhere out of reach, somewhere he wouldn’t have to think about it.

His focus shifted completely. No more cameras, no more likes or comments or subscribers. No more online presence. No more the 'Matt Sturniolo'.

All he could focus on was Chris.

The idea of stepping in front of a camera now feels foreign, like trying to put on a jacket that hasn’t fit in years. It’s not just unfamiliar, it’s wrong. The thought of talking, of making a joke out of their conversation, or even sitting in the frame, feels wrong, like an itch almost like a burn on his skin.

Matt had deleted all his social media apps the week they returned to Boston. No posts, no updates, no stories. Just silence.

Because what was the point?

What was the point of showing their lives to the world when the most important part of it, his little brother, his best friend, his Chris, was slipping away?

Now, standing here, looking at his brother lounging on the couch with that faint, teasing smile, Matt feels like he can’t breathe.

“Chris…” Matt starts at that. He glances at Trevor instead of Chris, the dog’s peaceful presence somehow anchoring him just enough to keep speaking. “Why… why would you even want to do that?”

Chris tilts his head slightly, his hand still stroking Trevor’s fur. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice lighter than the heaviness Matt feels in his chest. “I just… miss it, I guess. Not the posting, not the pressure, just… us, goofing around, being idiots on camera.”

Matt clenches his jaw.

Being idiots on camera.

That used to be their whole life. It was fun, once. Freeing, even. But now? Now it feels like a memory that’s too far away to touch, too exhausting to revisit.

“We don’t have to,” Chris says after a moment, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “I just thought… I don’t know. It could be nice.”

Matt still can’t look at him. His mind is spinning, caught between the past and the present, between the brother he used to laugh with and the brother lying on the couch, wrapped in blankets, sick.

“I’ll think about it,” Matt finally says, his voice strained, barely audible.

Chris doesn’t push, doesn’t tease. He just hums softly in acknowledgment, his attention turning back to Trevor as he scratches the dog’s ear with a gentle smile.

"We can ask Nick about it." he says; and Chris just nods in agreement, "Yup."

-

Nick stiffens, his brows furrow deeply, lips press together tightly.

Nick stares at Chris for a long moment, his mouth opening slightly before closing again. He looks like he’s trying to process what he just heard, like his mind is racing but can’t land on a single thought.

“Why…” Nick finally starts, his voice quiet but laced with disbelief. He shakes his head slowly, his words faltering as his eyes search Chris’s face. “Why do we even want to do that?”

Chris blinks at him, momentarily caught off guard by the way Nick’s reacting. Nick shakes his head again, harder this time, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t… I don’t get it,” Nick says, his voice quiet. His eyes dart to Matt, who’s standing quietly off to the side, then back to Chris. “Why the fuck would we do that?”

For the first time, Chris notices just how tired Nick looks. The dark circles under his eyes are heavier than yesterday, his shoulders slumped in a way that’s so unlike him. Nick always carries himself with a certain sharpness, a confidence that makes him seem unshakable. But right now, he looks so worn down.

Chris opens his mouth to respond, but Nick cuts him off, his voice rising slightly.

“I just…” Nick starts again, and Chris watches as his brother’s expression crumbles, his jaw clenching as he struggles to find the words.

It’s so out of character for Nick.

Nick, who always has the right thing to say, who’s always quick with a comeback or a witty response. Chris has always thought of Nick as one of the most intelligent people he’s ever known, someone who can navigate even the most complicated situations with ease.

But now, sitting in front of him, Nick looks lost.

“I don’t get it,” Nick says again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “What’s the point? Why would we even do that?”

Chris feels his stomach drop at the guilt. He didn’t mean to make Nick frustrated with him.

“I just thought…” Chris starts, his voice soft, hesitant. He glances at Matt for support, but Matt looks just as unsure, his lips pressed into a thin line. Chris swallows hard and tries again. “I just thought it might be nice, you know? Something normal. Something fun. Like it used to be.”

Nick’s eyes narrow slightly, his jaw tightening again. “Like it used to be?” he echoes, his voice sharper now, tinged with something bitter. “Chris, nothing’s like it used to be. Nothing can be like it used to be.”

Chris flinches at that, and Nick immediately looks away, his expression softening into something closer to regret.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Nick mutters, running a hand down his face. His shoulders sag further. “I just… I don’t know, Chris. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

The room falls into a tense silence, and for a moment, none of them speak.

Chris looks at Nick, his chest ache as he takes in the exhaustion etched into his brother’s face. He feels super stupid now and wishes he could take it all back, that he hadn’t brought it up, that he hadn’t fucking pissed Nick off.

“I’m sorry,” Chris says quietly, his voice barely audible.

Nick shakes his head again, letting out a shaky breath. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he says, his voice strained but softer now. “I just… I don’t know if I can do it, Chris. I spent all of my time to handle things when we left. And when I know you're sick, I was thinking day and night on how to just end things that we had built. I saw all of the messages the confusions the comments, the guilt is eating me alive."

Chris doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, the weight of Nick’s words settling heavily.

Matt finally speaks up, his voice calm. “We don’t have to decide right now,” he says, glancing between Chris and Nick. “Let’s just… take some time, okay?”

Nick nods faintly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he mutters, his voice thin. “Yeah, okay.”

-

Chris sighs heavily as he sinks into the couch, burying his face in his hands. He feels so, so fucked for pissing Nick off, and he swears the guilt make him feels like he might throw up. The sting of Nick’s words lingers, and the look on his brother’s face keeps flashing before him, making Chris shiver.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to shove the feeling down. He feels like he wants to cry.

Because, yeah, it’s kinda entirely his fault. He shouldn’t have brought it up. He shouldn’t have let himself get caught up in the idea, shouldn’t have let that spark of nostalgia trick him into thinking they could step back.

But, God, it was so comforting.

Just the mere idea of it makes his chest warm.

He blame it all to this morning, when he woke up from a restless sleep because his head is pounding like a drumbeat, he didn’t even think about it at first, he just grabbed his phone and scrolled mindlessly, trying to distract himself until the painkiller kicked in.

And then, without really meaning to, he’d opened YouTube.

Upon scrolling, he stumbled upon a familiar thumbnail.

Telling each other our icks about each other.

He could remember exactly how it went before he even clicked it: Nick intense yelling, Matt trying to pissed him off, and Chris screaming out of his lung.

He used to avoid watching their videos after they were uploaded, mostly because he couldn’t stand to hear his own voice or see himself on camera. It always felt too cringy, like looking into a mirror and noticing every little flaw you wish no one else could see.

But he clicked it before he could stop himself.

At first, it felt almost jarring, to see the three of them on screen like that, so full of life, so happy. They were yelling over each other about something completely ridiculous, Nick’s face twisted into an exaggerated grimace while Matt snickering. Chris watched as his past self leaned into frame, throwing out some out of hand comment that made them all lose it, their laughter echoing through the car.

And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel cringy.

It felt… comforting.

He eventually found himself couldn't stop watching. One video turned into another, and then another, and before he knew it, he’d fallen down a rabbit hole of their old content. Video after video of the three of them just being themselves; yelling, joking, laughing, ranting about random shit that no one else would care about but their audience found hilarious.

Oh god.

He missed it so much.

The ease of it. The normalcy. The way it felt like they had all the time in the world to just be brothers, to share their chaos with the world and make people laugh.

Chris didn’t even realize he’d drifted back to sleep while watching, the sound of the recorded cacophony, pulling him into a calm rest. Recently a good sleep is a rarity and that was the best sleep he’d had in weeks.

But now, sitting here, he feels stupid.

Of course, Nick wouldn’t want to do it. Of course, it’s different now. How could Chris think for even a second that they could go back to that? That they could recapture something so simple in the middle of everything they’re dealing with?

Chris sniffles quietly, wiping at his face with the back of his hand as Trevor hops up onto the couch beside him, nudging his head against Chris’s side. He scratches behind the dog’s ears absently.

He misses it. He misses them. He misses being not sick and dying and his happy brothers.

But the longer he sits with the thoughts, the more he comes to terms with it.

Normalcy is not the luxury he can afford.

And the ache of knowing that, no matter how much he misses it, perhaps some things are just gone for good.

-

So Chris doesn’t bring it up again.

The idea of recording videos quickly slips away quietly into the background. Weeks pass, and neither Nick nor Matt mentions it either. Chris figures they’ve all silently agreed to let it go.

And again that’s okay.

Nowadays, life feels both easier and worse in strange, overlapping ways. Matt and Nick are always around, steady and grounding, and his medication is never more than an arm’s reach away that Chris doesn’t even have to ask anymore.

But his condition starts to get 'bitch-ier'—what he likes to call it—to him.

His right hand, for instance, is just about useless now. He can’t grip much of anything anymore, which means he’s learned to adapt with his left hand. But recently, the left hand has started shaking too, small tremors that make holding a fork or a spoon a comedy routine at best.

Eating has turned into a circus, plates and utensils are like his sworn enemies, food slipping through his shaky cutlery more often than not.

“Damn, there goes another one,” Chris says with a grin, watching a piece of food fly off his fork and land a few inches away.

Nick shakes his head, fighting back a smirk as he leans over to throw it away. “You’re just doing this for attention now,” he says, but Chris can't find no bite to it.

Matt snorts, cutting up Chris’s food into smaller pieces and nudging his plate closer. “You’d think after all these years you’d know how to use a fork.”

Chris grins at them, unbothered. “What can I say? I like to keep you guys entertained.”

But Chris knows they’re worried. He knows they hate seeing it. But he also knows that if he can laugh, or better if he can make them laugh, then maybe it’ll hurt a little less for all of them.

And after all, he feels good.

Sure, he’s tired all the time, and the headaches still come and go, but he’s learned to live with that. He feels… okay. As okay as someone in his position can feel.

Justin came back yesterday for the thanksgiving this weekend, and having him around has been very nice. Justin doesn’t hover the way Nick and Matt do, but he checks in constantly, always finding an excuse to stop by Chris’s room or sit with him in the living room.

“You good?” Justin had asked casually this morning, sitting on the edge of the couch while Chris sprawled out under a blanket.

“I’m great,” Chris had replied, grinning up at him.

Justin didn’t seem convinced, but he just nodded, his lips twitching into a small smile before he tossed a bag of gummy worms onto Chris’s lap. “Thought you’d want these,” he said.

Chris had laughed, shaking the bag at him. “You know me so well.”

He feels warm.

-

It’s Thanksgiving night, and the house is alive with warmth and noise. The smell of roasted turkey and sweet potatoes fills the air, and laughter echoes from the kitchen to the dining room. Nick feels a rare flicker of genuine excitement coursing through him. Despite everything, this Thanksgiving feels almost normal.

And normal feels good.

Nick watches as Justin teases their dad about something at the table, their voices overlapping. Their mom is bustling around the kitchen, a flurry of movement as she puts the final touches on the meal. And then there’s Chris; grinning ear to ear, holding a plate in his left hand, his movements a little slower, a little shakier, but brimming with an energy Nick hasn’t seen in weeks.

Chris is helping their mom, and he looks as excited as Nick feels, his grin wide as he cracks a joke that makes their mom laugh so hard she has to stop stirring the gravy.

Nick can’t help but smile at the sight. For a moment, it feels like the old days, like nothing has changed.

But then his eyes drift to Matt, who’s sitting quietly at the table, his gaze fixed back on forth between the book in his hands and Chris.

Matt looks tired.

Nick knows that look. He’s seen it a hundred times before in the past few months. The way Matt watches Chris like he’s afraid to blink, like he might miss something important, like he’s waiting for a sign that Chris isn’t as okay as he seems.

And for a second, Nick’s excitement slightly falters.

Because, yeah, Chris looks good tonight. He looks happy. But Nick knows, and Matt knows, and all of them know, that the Chris who’s laughing and helping in the kitchen is temporary.

He flinches at the idea.

Still, Nick forces himself to focus at the sound of Chris’s laughter, on the way their mom’s eyes light up as she chats with him.

“Hey, Chris,” Nick calls from the table, pulling a smile. “You sure you remember how to carve a turkey? You’re looking a little rusty over there.”

Chris turns, his grin widening as he waves the knife in his left hand dramatically. “Oh, please,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’re just mad I’m better at it than you.”

“Better at what? Dropping it on the floor?” Nick shoots back.

The room erupts into laughter, their mom shaking her head fondly as Chris pretends to fumble the knife for effect.

Even Matt cracks a small smile.

The kitchen buzzes with activity, and the clatter of dishes as everyone pitches in to get the dinner ready. Their mom hands Matt a knife and a vegetable, insisting he help with the plate decorations.

“Oh, here we go,” Nick says, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Ladies and gentlemen, the master chef himself. Watch and learn, everyone, this is fine art."

His mom laughs as Matt rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath while trying to slice the vegetable with precision. The attention shifts to Matt as their dad makes a comment about how Matt’s cutting skills haven’t improved since he was fifteen.

Nick joins in, throwing a playful jab from across the room. But as he sets a stack of plates on the dining table, he glances around the kitchen, and that’s when he notices it.

Chris is not here.

The grin fades from Nick’s face, replaced by a subtle crease of worry. He scans the dining room quickly, his eyes flickering to the oven, the counter, the spot where Chris had been standing just a few minutes ago.

He’s not there.

Nick sets the plate down, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’ll be back,” he mutters, already moving toward the living room.

“Chris?” he calls out, he steps into the dimly lit living room, his eyes sweeping across the couch, the chairs, the shadows cast by the flickering glow of the TV.

And then he sees it.

Chris.

He’s on the floor, his body jerking violently, his limbs stiff and convulsing as his head tilts back unnaturally. His mouth is open, and Nick can hear the guttural, choking sounds coming from him as his body thrashes against the floor.

“Chris!” Nick yells, his voice cracking as he rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside his brother.

Chris’s face is pale, his lips tinged blue around the edges. His eyes are wide open but unfocused, rolled slightly back into his head.

“Oh, God,” Nick breathes, his hands trembling. His heart is beating so hard he can barely think. “Chris, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.”

He quickly looks around the room, his voice rising as he shouts, “Matt! Justin! Someone!”

Chris’s body arches sharply, his muscles seizing in a way that makes Nick wants to cry. He gently turns Chris onto his side, his hands hovering near Chris’s head to make sure he doesn’t hit it against the floor. “It’s okay, buddy,” Nick whispers, his voice shaking. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

The sound of hurried footsteps can be heard as Matt and Justin burst into the room, followed closely by their mom and dad.

“What’s going on?” Matt asks breathlessly, his eyes darting from Nick to Chris on the floor.

Nick looks up at them, face pale and panicked. “He’s—he’s having a seizure. I don’t—Matt, call 911!”

Matt doesn’t hesitate, fumbling for his phone as Justin kneels beside Nick, his face tight with worry. Their mom gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as their dad pulls her back gently but firmly.

Chris’s convulsions begin to slow after what feels like forever, his body twitching weakly before finally going still.

“Is he breathing?” Justin asks, his voice sharp and urgent.

Nick leans closer, his ear hovering near Chris’s mouth, relief flooding through him when he feels the faintest brush of air against his skin. “Yeah,” he says, his voice trembling. “He’s breathing. It’s shallow, but he’s breathing.”

Chris’s eyelids flutter slightly, his body limp as a rag doll. Nick brushes the damp hair from Chris’s forehead, his hands shaking. “Hey, buddy,” he whispers. “Can you hear me?”

Chris doesn’t respond, his eyes barely open, his chest rising and falling in weak, uneven breaths.

Matt is on the phone with the dispatcher, his voice tense as he relays their address and Chris’s condition.

Nick doesn’t move, his focus entirely on Chris, his heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.

“Just hold on,” Nick whispers, his voice cracking. “You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on.”

Chapter Text

Looking at Dr. Lee’s sympathetic face is not how he envisioned tonight supposed to go. The stark fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway feel like they’re pressing down on his back, making it hard to breathe. Harder to even focus on the words coming out of the older man's mouth.

“The cancer has developed way faster than we initially predicted,” Dr. Lee says, his voice calm but heavy. “His motor function has significantly decreased, and from what we can see, the tumor’s progression is impacting his coordination and strength more now.”

The floor might be tilting beneath him now.

It feels unreal sometimes.

The words are there, clear and clinical, but somehow his brain refuses to process them.

Dr. Lee continues, his tone measured. “He has stabilized for now, but we wouldn’t recommend discharging him soon. His condition right now is not the best, and pain management will be complex. Managing it effectively at home would be difficult.”

Pain management.

Nick latches onto those words like a knife to the chest. Chris is in pain. So much pain that he needs to be in a fucking hospital for it.

He clenches his fists tightly at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as his chest constricts.

Fuck. Fuck.

All he wants to do is drop to the ground and scream until his throat gives out.

How the hell is he supposed to accept that his little brother is really dying? How does anyone accept something like that?

Just an hour ago, Chris was in the kitchen, bouncing around with their mom, his face lit up when their mom asked for his help.

And now? Now Dr. Lee is standing here, telling him that his brother is so weak, so fatigued, that he can barely manage on his own.

He wants to laugh because it’s so absurd, so fucking cruel. Is the universe playing some kind of sick joke on him?

“We'll check on him again in 6 hours, I’ll be on my way,” Dr. Lee says quietly, nodding to the family before walking away down the sterile hallway.

His father nods back, his face heavy with resignation. It’s the most defeated Nick has ever seen his dad look, and that, more than anything, makes Nick feel like he’s being crushed from the inside out.

When they finally enter Chris’s hospital room, the sight makes him to flinch.

Chris is lying on his side, his small, frail frame almost swallowed by the hospital bed. An oxygen mask covers his face, the faint hiss of air the only sound in the quiet room. His left hand clings weakly to the bed railing, his fingers trembling slightly.

When Matt approaches the bed, Chris’s face lights up, and he perks up slightly, his eyes squinting in a small smile. “Hey, you guys are here,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and fragile, barely audible above the hum of the machines around him.

Matt moves closer, lowering himself to the chair by the side of the bed, his own face pale and drawn. He takes Chris’s trembling hand gently in his own, squeezing it lightly as if trying to ground him. “Of course we are,” Matt whispers back, voice wet even to Nick’s ears.

His eyes locked on Chris. He looks so small, so fragile.

So unlike their Chris.

He forces himself to move, stepping closer to the bed. “How’re you feeling?” he asks softly, his voice quieter than usual.

Chris’s smile widens just a fraction, but it’s enough to pierce Nick’s aching heart. “Better now,” Chris whispers, his eyes flickering between Matt and Nick.

Nick swallows hard, blinking rapidly as he presses his lips into a thin line.

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to make this better. All he knows is that the weight in his chest is suffocating, and every second spent in this room feels like the universe is slowly, cruelly pulling his brother further away from him.

And God, please, he cannot take it.

And as Matt gently adjusts Chris’s blanket, tucking it closer around his shoulders, Nick reaches out, his hand resting lightly on Chris’s forearm.

“That's good,” Nick says quietly, his voice steady even as his chest feels like it’s breaking apart.

Chris doesn’t respond, but the small, tired smile on his face says enough.

“You feel pain anywhere?” Jimmy asks softly, caressing Chris's hair.

He can't seem to unsee the heaviness in their father’s eyes, the kind of tiredness that is bone deep and not just come from lack of sleep.

“No, Dad, I’m good,” Chris whispers, his voice so faint it feels like it might disappear into the hum of the machines around him.

He feels the urge to scoff, to shake his head, because of course Chris can’t feel anything right now. They’ve got him on so many drugs that he might as well be floating.

Somehow Chris still manages to offer their dad that soft, lopsided smile, the kind that’s always been so uniquely Chris, even now when he looks so unlike himselft.

Jimmy doesn’t say anything else. He leans down, squeezing Chris’s frail hand gently. “Okay,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “I’m gonna give your mom a call, okay?”

Chris nods softly, before turning his attention back to Matt, who still holding on to his hand. Jimmy hesitates for a moment, his eyes lingering on his son, before he quietly leaves the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Chris stares at Matt’s thumb as it strokes softly over the back of his hand, his lips quirking up into a faint smile. “That’s nice,” Chris whispers. “You’ve got soft hands, Matt. Lotion or something?”

Matt huffs out a small laugh, one that’s more breath than sound, his lips twitching in a weak attempt at a smile. “You wish,” he mutters, his voice thick with emotion.

Chris’s smile lingers for a second longer before it falters, his gaze drifting to Nick, who’s been standing silently. Suddenly, he felt somewhat exposed when his eyes lock with his brother's dull blue eyes.

“You okay, Nicky?”

He blinks at Chris.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, his voice sharper than he means it to be. He swallows hard, his hands clenching at his sides before he forces himself to relax. “I’m good.”

Chris looks at him for a long moment, his tired eyes filled with something Nick can’t quite name, something too knowing, too understanding.

He feels like he needs to run.

“Come here,” Chris whispers.

Nick hesitates, his heart beating out of his chest. He moves closer before sitting down on the chair beside the bed. Chris’s hand shakes as it reaches for him, and he grabs it gently, holding it between his own.

“I’m not going anywhere, you know,” Chris murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t have to look at me like that.”

God, please.

Don't do this.

“Chris,” he starts, his voice barely there, and he doesn’t know how to finish. He squeezes Chris’s hand instead.

Chris just smiles at him, soft and reassuring, even as his eyes flutter shut for a moment. “I’m still here Nick,” he says, his voice fading slightly. “I’m still here.”

Fuck.

And Nick nods, his throat too tight to speak. He leans his head down against the edge of the bed, holding his little brother's hand like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

The tremor seems like a stark contrast to the little brother he remembers, who used to clap him on the back so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of him, who jumped over the front seat to fight with him, who used to chase him around the house, yelling and laughing and refusing to let him live down even the smallest mistake.

He really can't fucking do this.

Matt watches them silently, his hand still stroking Chris’s other arm, his own eyes glassy. None of them say anything.

“You both are so weirdly quiet,” Chris murmurs, a weak attempt at a tease, but the usual bite of humor isn’t there.

He lifts his head, “Then you say something,” he can't seem to control his voice, it comes out all wobbly and unsteady.

Chris chuckles weakly, the sound so faint it’s almost a sigh. “You always a better yapper,”

Matt lets out a shaky breath that might be a laugh, but it catches in his throat, his other hand gripping the edge of the bed tightly as his shoulders hunch forward.

Chris’s gaze shifts to Matt, and he tilts his head slightly, his movements sluggish. “Hey, what about you Matty B,” he whispers, his voice soft. “You okay?”

Matt blinks rapidly, “'Course, I’m fine,” he says quietly, Nick could hear his voice cracking.

Chris hums softly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he forces them back open. “You’re a shit liar,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a smile. “But I love you anyway.”

Matt’s breath hitches, and he leans forward, pressing his forehead to Chris’s arm, his hand gripping his brother’s tightly.

“I love you too,” Matt whispers, his voice barely audible.

“Matt’s gonna rub a hole in my skin at this rate,” Chris jokes, voice thin and hoarse before turning his head back to Nick with a grin, “You too are squishing my hand,”

“Sorry,” he mutters, loosening his grip but not letting go.

“You look like crap,” Chris says again, his attempt at a joke make Nick snorts as his voice breaks on the last word.

He shakes his head. “Yeah, well, you’re one to talk,” he replies, trying to match Chris’s teasing tone.

"I have all reason to look like shit." Chris humors, Nick works up a smile in return. His eyes then flicker up to his brother’s face, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the hollowness in his cheeks, the way his lips are tinged faintly blue behind the oxygen mask.

Chris looks so sick.

Too sick.

And it’s fucking killing him to see it.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, Chris doesn’t answer right away. His head tilts slightly, and for a moment, it seems like he might not have the energy to respond before he nods, “Yeah,” he whispers, Nick wants to call bullshit on it. “I’m good. Just tired.”

He closes his eyes as he can feel the tears burning at the edges, threatening to spill, but he fights them back.

“You should rest,” he says softly, his voice gentle.

Matt nods, “Yeah, we'll be right here.”
Chris’s eyes flicker between them, his lips twitching into a weak smile. “You guys are sappy,"

“You bring it out,” Matt mutters, his voice thick. He lifts Chris’s hand slightly, brushing his thumb over the back of it.

Chris hums softly, his eyes fluttering shut again. His breathing slows as his body seems to sink further into the bed.

-

The day Chris comes back from the hospital, he has been busy, here, there, everywhere. It’s like he’s trying to will the house back to life, to fill every corner with his presence again.

It’s obvious in the way he clings to their mom like a shadow, following her around the house whenever he’s awake. His steps are small, careful, and slow, but there’s a quiet determination in the way he keeps up with her, trailing behind as she moves from room to room.

Chris whines lowly when his mom disagree to pass the laundry duty to Matt, "Mom, it's cold in here." His mom just disregards it with a small chuckle.

“Matt won't be willing and don't think you’re getting out of laundry duty just because,” Mary Lou teases gently as she folds a towel.

Chris, sitting on a kitchen stool, flashes her a mischievous grin. “Well, I appreciate you're doing it for me Mom. I’m on morale support duty now. Big duty, big difference, Mom.”

Marylou chuckles, her hands pausing mid-fold as she leans down to kiss the top of his head. “Well, you’re doing an excellent job.”

Chris giggles softly at that, the sound quiet but genuine.

On another hour, Chris plops himself down next to his dad in the living room, flipping through channels until he settles on a fishing show. It’s something Chris has never really cared about, when he was younger, he’d usually roll his eyes and disappear to his room the moment he's seen a body of water on the screen.

He pulls a blanket over his legs as he watches the screen with feigned interest.

“What’s the point of the bait if the fish never took it?” Chris asks after a while, tilting his head.

Jimmy glances at him, his lips twitching in amusement. “The fish did took it, Chris.”

“No it didn't, these men are just sitting there? Like, for God knows how long? And we’re supposed to be entertained by that?” Chris’s voice is laced with teasing skepticism, but the small smile on his face softens the edges of his words.

Jimmy lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “It’s relaxing. You should try appreciating the art of patience, kid.”

Chris hums thoughtfully, his grin widening. “Maybe if they made the fish wear tiny hats, I’d get the appeal.”

Jimmy chuckles at that, the sound low and warm and Chris can't help but to laugh along the older man.

Somehow, Chris has back to pick up his old habit of sleeping between Matt and Nick, bundled up in thick jacket while asking them to "Scoot over.".

“You’re such a pain,” Matt grumbles one night as Chris shuffles into his room in the middle of his sleep.

“Yeah, but you love me,” Chris says, flopping onto the edge of Matt’s bed with a dramatic sigh.
“You’re like a cat,” Matt mutters, throwing a pillow over his hesd. “You show up uninvited and make yourself comfortable.”

Chris just grins, curling up under the blanket. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring Trevor this time.”

"Yeah, I'll kill you." Matt mutters sleepily.

“There’s plenty of room for both of us,” Chris says, grinning. “And besides, you’re the one who told me to let it hurt, remember? I’m just following your advice.”he teases Matt with an exaggerated high pitch voice.

Matt groans, but his laughter gives him away.

Sometimes Chris just slips into his first brother's room, just to crack some bad jokes

“You’ve got some gray hairs, bro,” Chris says one afternoon.

Justin raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I wonder why, Chris. Could it have anything to do with a certain someone stressing me out constantly recently?”

Chris grins, unrepentant. “I’m just saying, salt-and-pepper suits you. Very distinguished. Very ‘dad at the PTA meeting.’”

“Shut up kid,” Justin mutters, but there’s a faint smile on his face as he ruffles Chris’s hair.

And it feels good.

But despite his endless effort to keep the air light, the people in this house are not blind. They’re not oblivious.

Chris is really sick.

Because healthy people don’t wear thick sweaters or jackets when they’re inside a warm house. Healthy people aren’t cold all the time, bodies trembling even under layers of fabric.

Healthy people don’t struggle to keep themselves awake during the day. They don’t nod off mid-conversation or lie down “just for a minute,” only to sleep for hours. Healthy people don’t take naps that stretch longer than naps should.

And healthy people don’t have their appetites dwindle to almost nothing.

They don’t flush with embarrassment when someone wakes them up with food, murmuring, “Chris, wake up, you have to eat,” and they certainly don’t joke, “Wow, this is so humiliating. What am I, a baby?” only to accept the help anyway because they’re too tired to argue.

Healthy people’s diets aren’t reduced to soups and porridge, to soft, bland foods that are easier to swallow.

Healthy people don’t struggle to eat without choking, their throats weak and uncooperative. They don’t light up over something as simple as a Pepsi or gummy bears because it’s one of the few things they haven't lost the love to indulge in.

Chris is sick.

It’s in the way his steps have slowed, in the way he leans against walls for support or grabs onto Nick's arm without even realizing it.

It’s in the way his face is thinner now, his cheekbones sharper, his complexion pale except for the faint flush that lingers on his cheeks, a flush that’s not from health, but from the fever he seems to carry more days than not.

They know,

Chris is sick.

So they layer him in blankets and sweaters when he took yet another nap of the day, turning up the heat in the house even when it’s already warm.

They bring him food he can manage, soups, broths, a porridge just the way he likes it. And when he refuses to eat more than a few bites, they don’t push too hard.

They laugh at his jokes, even when they’re too fucking numb to find them funny, because they know he’s trying. They let him follow them around the house, to any semblance of routine that keeps him feel better.

And when he jokes about being embarrassed or pathetic, they just laugh along quietly. They don’t tell him how much it breaks their hearts to see him like this.

Like a sick person.

Because Chris is sick.

And he's not getting better.

-

Chris sits on the worn leather couch in the living room, his head resting against the cushions as he stares blankly at the TV. His body feels heavier than it did yesterday, the hum of the television fills the room, but he isn’t watching. He isn’t even sure what’s on. His mind is a mess of fragmented thoughts, scattered memories, and the constant reminder that time is slipping away.

Nick walks in from the kitchen, a glass of water in his hand. He pauses at the doorway, watching Chris for a moment before quietly setting the glass down on the coffee table. “Here. You need to drink something,” he says softly, bringing the glass closer to Chris lips.

“Thanks,” he mutters, his voice rough as he sips on the water.

Nick sits down next to him, close enough that their shoulders touch. He doesn’t say anything, just sits there, his presence a quiet reassurance. It’s like he’s afraid to leave the room, afraid Chris might disappear if he does.

“Have you talked to Nate recently?” Chris asks after a while, his voice small.

Nick tenses for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks toward the window. “Yeah but barely. He’s still in Australia with his family. I think he’s coming back on Friday.”

Chris nods slowly, he’s trying to process the words, he's not even dure what day it is to know how far is Friday. Time feels blurry these days, slipping away faster than he can keep up. “Do you think I should tell him?”

Chris swallows hard at Nick's facial expression, a lump forming in his throat. “I don't know. I mean, do you want him to? It would be hard on him.”

Chris leans his head back again, pressing his lips into a thin line. He closes his eyes for a moment. “I know. I don’t want people to find out after I’m gone and think… I didn’t care enough to tell them.”

Nick feels his chest tighten from the heavy guilt in Chris’s voice. “Chris, no one’s gonna think that. You’ve always been real with everyone. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for this.”

Chris lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head weakly. “I don’t know, Nick. I keep thinking about our fans, you know how that part of our life feels like too. I know I don't owe anyone anything but they have this way of making you feel like you owe them everything? And I get it, I can just ignore them, I do. But it’s not just them. I think about Nate, Madi, our friends, the people who actually know us. I don’t want to just… disappear and being remembered as someone selfish.”

Nick looks at him, his jaw tightening as he keep his composure. “You’re not any of that, Chris. Don't do that to yourself.”

Chris nods slightly, though his gaze drifts away. He doesn't want to continue pushing Nick's button on this either.

“Okay,” he says after a moment.

Chris leans against Nick, his head resting on his older brother’s shoulder. For a moment, neither of them moves, the only sound in the room the quiet drone of the television.

“Do you think we can go see Nate?” Chris asks suddenly.

Nick’s exhale softly, “Sure, when he comes back.”

Chris closes his eyes, his breathing shallow but steady. “I hope Nate comes back soon. I wanna see him.”

“You will,” Nick promises, somehow Chris can hear Nick's voice trembling. “I will tell Matt that.”

Chris doesn’t respond, his body relaxing slightly as his exhaustion takes over. Nick stays where he is, his arm wrapped protectively around his younger brother.

-

“Hey, sleepyhead, your 15 minutes are up.”

He stirs at the sound of the voice, pulling him out of the restless half-sleep he’s been in for who knows how long. The voice is familiar, warm, but it takes him longer than it should to pinpoint who it belongs to. His brain feels like it’s moving through molasses, everything sluggish and foggy.

He blinks, his eyes dry as he forces them open, the room swimming in and out of focus. His blurry eyes could barely sees a figure sitting on the edge of his bed, and slowly, as he force himself to focus, the image sharpens into a familiar face.

Matt. Freshly shaven.

Why did Matt shave again?

“Hi,” Chris croaks, his voice raspy.

Matt huffs a laugh. “Hi,” he says, tapping Chris’s arm gently. “Enough sleep yet? I’m afraid Nick’s gonna call this whole thing off if you’re not ready in time.”

Chris groans as he rubs at his eyes with a trembling left hand. “Get ready for what?”

Matt tilts his head, “You don't remember?” he asks, then softens when Chris just stares at him blankly. “Nick said you want to go see Nate?”

Chris frowns, he huffs at the thought of his brain becoming like goldfish's. He can't really remember talking to Nick about it.

“Shit, let’s go, Matt,” Chris says, his voice high as a grin spreads across his face.

Matt smiles thinly. “Well, you’re the only one left to get ready,” he says, standing and stretching his arms over his head. “Come on, lazy ass.”

Chris sits up slowly, his movements deliberate and careful, trembling slightly as he pushes himself upright. Both his arms now really feels like jelly, that he sometimes feels a bit funny.

As he finally manages to swing his legs over the side of the bed, he blinks hard, trying to push past the ever-present headache that presses behind his eyes.

For a second, he feels like closing his eyes again, like letting sleep pull him under for just a little longer.

Before he can cave in to the darkness, he can feel Matt’s hand on his shoulder. His eyes opening wide in response.

“We can do it another day if you’re tired,” Matt says quietly.

Chris shakes his head quickly, “Nope, nope. I’m up. Let’s go.”

Matt watches him for a moment, before stepping closer and slips an arm around Chris’s waist, steadying him.

“Alright, come on,” Matt mutters.

Chris leans into the support without protest, his pride long since swallowed. His feet starts to feel numb about a week after leaving the hospital and it cannot get worse than that. With how uncooperative, how it tremble with every step and threatening to buckle under his weight.

He hates it.

But he's so fucking tired and there's nothing much he can do about it anyway.

Matt holds him steady as they shuffle towards the en suite door. Chris’s steps are slow and Matt matches his pace without a word, his grip firm.

When they entered the en suite, Chris caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and before Matt could say anything, Chris let out a loud, dry laugh.

“I look like shit Matt,” Chris said, shaking his head with a grin. He raised a trembling hand to point at his reflection, voice dripping with self-deprecating humor. “Can’t go showing face to him like this, no?”

He smiles thinly, leaning against the doorframe, watching as Chris runs his finger through his hair.

Somewhere along the way, Matt thinks, Chris has started to look like he’s 17 again, like the younger version of himself that used to bounce around Matt, doing silly things. His hair has grown longer, curling slightly at the ends as it brushes against the nape of his neck. His once broader, strong frame has reduced into something smaller, a result of the weight he’s lost over the past few months.

And his eyes.

Matt bites his lip as he takes in the puffy skin beneath them, the dullness in his irises.

He never mentioned it, he could never, but he always admires Chris's eyes. You could say they have the same eyes, but Matt thinks he could never muster the same amount of sincerity in a single look alone, unlike Chris.

And the blue used to be so bright, so expressive, so sincere. Now, they just look tired.

So, so tired.

He doesn’t know how to say it, how to voice what’s eating him inside. That looking at Chris like this, feels like looking at someone trying to cling to the last fragments of themselves while the rest quietly slips away.

His chest ache.

“You look okay, dude,” Matt says finally, his voice quiet.

He knows what he’s really looking at,

his brother is withering.

Chris squints at him, tilting his head with a playful smirk. “You don’t get to say that,” he shoots back, “when you look gorgeous, Matt.”

Matt doesn't see that coming, a real laugh escapes him, easing the heaviness in his chest. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head.

Chris grins, he stands up straighter, using the edge of the sink for balance. “Seriously though,” he says, gesturing to his reflection, “you think this face can still pull it off? Or should I throw on some sunglasses and a hat? Go full celebrity-in-hiding Chris Sturniolo mode.”

Matt snorts, stepping further into the room and leaning against the counter beside Chris. “You’re fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. “We’re just seeing Nate. No one’s expecting you to look red-carpet ready.”

Chris hums, pretending to study his reflection seriously for a moment. Then he turns to Matt, his grin softening into something more genuine. “Thanks, Matty.”

Matt glances at him, the ache in his chest flaring again as he takes in the gratitude in Chris’s eyes. It’s the kind of look that says more than the words ever could, the kind of look that makes Matt want to scoop Chris up and shield him from the world.

“Always, dude,” Matt replies, his voice quieter now.

“You know,” Matt said after a moment, his voice soft but teasing, “you still look better than Nick does in the morning.”

Chris barked out a laugh at that, bright and light.

“Damn right I do,” Chris said, grinning as he washes his face.

-

Matt pauses, his hand still hovering over the steering wheel as he glances at Chris in the passenger seat. Chris is leaning against the headrest, his eyes half-lidded and his jaw tight. Nick, who has just slid into the back seat, leans forward between the front seats, concern etched into his face.

"Hey," Matt says softly, eyes dart between Chris’s pale face and the faint lines of pain etched into his features. “You okay?”

Chris squints at him, his eyelids heavy as he turns his head slightly to meet Matt’s gaze. For a second, it looks like Chris is about to nod, but then he blinks again, “This headache is really bad,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but tight, as if speaking any louder might make the pain worse.

Matt shifts in his seat instantly, turning slightly to face his brother. “Do you want me to grab your meds? We can wait a few more minutes before we head out.”

Chris exhales slowly, shaking his head just barely. “Nah. It’s fine. I took some earlier… it’s just…” He trails off, blinking toward the sun visor as if trying to focus his thoughts.

Nick leans closer from the back seat, his hand brushing against Chris’s shoulder. “Hey we don't need to go if you're not feeling well.”

Chris winces slightly, closing his eyes against the sunlight. “No it's okay. It’s just like this pressure,” he says, his voice strained. He raises a hand to his temple, his fingers trembling as he presses them against his skin. “Like something’s pushing behind my eyes. It’s making everything… fuzzy.”

Matt lets out a slow breath through his nose. “We can just ask Nate to come by,” he says carefully, eyes locked on Chris. “Nate will be ok too.”

Chris shakes his head more firmly this time, his movements sluggish. “No,” he says, opening his eyes just enough to glare weakly at Matt. “We’re going. I want to see him.”

Nick and Matt exchange a glance, an unspoken conversation passing between them. Nick gives a small nod, his jaw tight. “Okay,” Matt says finally, his voice soft but firm. “But if it gets worse, there's no pushing through, got it?”

Chris gives a faint smirk, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You’re bossier than usual, Matty.”

Matt huffs a laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re giving me a lot of practice, aren’t you?”

Nick snorts softly from the back seat, and Chris’s smirk grows a little wider.

Matt shifts the car into reverse and pulls out of the driveway. As they head down the street, the rhythmic hum of the tires on the pavement fills the silence. Chris leans his head back against the seat, his eyes fluttering shut again, his breathing shallow but steady.

Nick leans forward, his hand resting on the back of Chris’s seat. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly.

Chris opens his eyes just enough to glance at Nick, his expression softening. “I’m good,” he says, though his voice wavers. “Just dizzy.”

Nick doesn’t look convinced at all, but he leans back in his seat, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Alright,” he says softly. “Don't say I didn't warn you if you tumbled off somewhere." Chris lets out a faint chuckle at that.

When they finally pull into Nate’s driveway, Matt turns off the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, he looks over at Chris, his brow furrowed.

“Chris,” Matt says softly, his voice cutting through the quiet. “We’re here. You need a minute, or do you want help?”

Chris opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the light. He looks at Matt, his expression tired but determined. “Can you help me out?" he mutters.

Matt nods and quickly gets out of the car, moving around to Chris’s side. Nick is already out and opening the passenger door, his hand resting on the top of the car as he watches Chris carefully. Matt leans down, unbuckling Chris’s seatbelt and slipping an arm around his brother’s waist.

“Alright, take it slow,” Matt says, his voice steady as he helps Chris out of the car.

Chris suddenly lets out a laugh, his voice light but strained as he leans heavily on Matt. “Wow, okay,” he says between shallow breaths, shaking his head. “I don’t think I can see him. I can’t walk.” He chuckles again, though the sound is thin and lack of humor. His legs wobble beneath him, and he tightens his grip on Matt for support.

Matt steadies Chris against his side, his arm firm around his brother’s waist. “You serious?” Matt asks, his voice sharp with worry as he glances at Nick, whose face mirrors his concern.

"Yeah, I don't think I can walk." Chris laughs again, though it’s breathy and tired.

Nick steps closer, keeping his phone into his pocket as he watches his youngest brother carefully. “You need a minute?” Nick asks softly. “Or… do you want me to carry you? Like, on my back?”

Chris turns his head slowly, his pale face breaking into a weak, amused smile. He looks at Nick with something unreadable in his expression, almost like he’s trying to memorize the moment. “You okay to do that?” he asks, voice cracking slightly.

Nick shrugs, his lips twitch into a small smile. “Yeah, of course. If you need it.”

Chris stares at his older brother for a second longer, Nick’s gentleness, something he’s grown used to lately, sits in his chest like a soft ache. It’s so tender, so raw, and so uncharacteristically unguarded that it feels frustratingly sad.

It makes him feel both loved and heartbreakingly fragile, like he’s already halfway gone.

“You’re too soft, Nick,” Chris says finally, his laugh light and shaky. “You’re gonna make me cry with all that sweetness.”

Nick huffs, rolling his eyes but still watching Chris closely. “You crying is nothing new. You cry when we watch Shrek, so don’t act like it’s a big deal.”

Chris barks out a laugh at that, leaning more of his weight into Matt as his body trembles. “It’s emotional, okay? You cried too!” he shoots back, his voice slightly stronger. Nick grins back, “Well as I should because Fiona chooses love over beauty. She's queen.”

Matt shakes his head, though the corner of his mouth twitches with a hint of a smile. “Alright, enough. Come on.”

Chris smirks, glancing at Matt. “You’re no fun.”

“Yeah, well,” Matt mutters, adjusting his grip on Chris as they take a step forward. “You’re heavier than you look, and I’m not about to drop you in the driveway.”

Nick crouch down in front of him. “I think we‘ve done worse,” he says as Matt helps Chris maneuver onto Nick’s back.

Chris clings to Nick’s shoulders weakly, his arms trembling slightly as he adjusts himself. Nick rises slowly, his movements careful. “You good?” Nick asks, glancing back at Chris.

“Yeah,” Chris breathes, resting his chin on Nick’s shoulder. “This is so weird.”

"You have done weirder things before." Matt replies, but his voice is warm, and Chris can hear the faintest hint of a smile in his tone.

Matt knocks on the door firmly, and within seconds it swings open, revealing Nate standing there, grinning broadly. "Hey! About time you guys got here!" he says, stepping forward to greet Matt and then Nick.

The sight of Chris on Nick’s back doesn’t faze him at all, and he raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Woah okay."

Chris chuckles from where he’s perched, his arms loosely draped over Nick’s shoulders. "Good to see you man."

Nate laughs and steps aside, ushering them all in. "Me too, Australia is crazy."

They make their way into the living room, Matt helping Nick ease Chris down onto the couch. Chris leans back against the cushions, breathing a little harder than he’d like but managing to keep a faint grin on his face. Matt and Nick take seats on either side of him, and Nate runs to the kitchen to get some sodas before dropping into the armchair across from them, still grinning.

"It has been so hard to talk to any of you when I was in Australia, and the my line was shit too, it's crazy." the boys giggle at Nate's story, before Nate pauses as his eyes his eyes drift to Chris. Noticing how pale he is, how much thinner he looks than the last time they were together. The sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead catches the light, and the way Chris’s hands shake slightly when he adjusts his position.

He leans forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. “Okay, not to be a buzzkill or anything,” he says, his voice softer now, “but Chris, man, you don’t… look great. You got fever or something?"

Chris doesn’t seem fazed by the comment. In fact, he smiles wider, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, I know," he says simply. "That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

Nate grins, his brow furrowing. “About what?”

Chris looks at him quietly with a small smile. “I have cancer,” he says, his tone casual, almost like he’s commenting on the weather.

Nate can't help it but lets out a sharp laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, right,” he says, shaking his head. “Good one, Chris.”

But when his eyes dart to Nick and Matt, he freezes. Both of them are staring at Chris, their faces pale and their mouths slightly open. It’s like they’re just as stunned as Nate is by what Chris has said.

The smile on his face vanishes, and his stomach twists as he looks back at Chris. “Wait… what?” he says again.

Chris shrugs, the smile still lingering on his lips, though there’s a weight behind his eyes that Nate hasn’t seen before. “Yeah. It’s brain cancer,” he says simply. “Final stage. Had it for a while now.”

Nate’s breath catches in his throat, his mind racing to keep up with the words. “No,” he says, shaking his head, his voice trembling. “No, you’re joking. You—” He stops, his eyes darting to Matt and Nick again. “He’s joking, right?”

Nick looks down, his jaw tightening, while Matt’s expression remains unreadable, his lips pressed into a thin line. Neither of them says anything.

And that’s when Nate confirms.

This isn’t a joke.

“What?” Nate says again, though the word barely comes out. He feels like the air’s been knocked out of him, like the room is spinning. “What are you talking about, Chris?”

Chris leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands shake as he clasps them together. “I found out a while ago,” he says, his tone soft. “It’s why I’ve been… off, you know? Didn't text you as much.”

Nate stares at him, his mouth opening and closing like he’s searching for words but can’t find any. His chest feels tight, his heart pounding painfully in his ears. “Chris…” he whispers, his voice cracking.

Chris leans back against the couch again, his faint smile never quite leaving his face. “I wanted to tell you and Madi before, but I didn’t know how,” he says quietly. “And then you went to Australia, and… I guess now felt like the right time.”

Nate shakes his head, his hands gripping his other arms so tightly his knuckles turn white. “This isn’t real,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “It can’t be real.”

“It’s real,” Chris says softly. “I promise you, I wouldn’t joke about something like this.”

Nate’s eyes fill with tears, and he quickly looks away, his jaw clenching as he tries to keep himself together. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do.

"How about surgery? Or treatment? You know, Aunt Mary had cancer, and the treatment helped her—she’s fine now—"

Chris interrupts him with a soft shake of his head, "Chance are too low Nate," he says quietly.

Nate stares at him, his chest heaving as he processes the words. His face twists, desperation breaking through the shock. "So what are you doing now?" he asks, his voice rising. "What are you doing, Chris? You’re just sitting here, waiting? No, no, that’s not—"

Chris shakes his head again, cutting him off without a word, and the calmness in the gesture sends Nate spiraling. His throat tightens, and he takes a step back, his hands clutching his hair as he chokes on his next words. "No, no, no—"

He turns away abruptly, pacing the length of the room, his movements jerky and frantic. His breaths come faster, uneven and shallow, like he’s fighting for air. "This can’t be it, Chris. It can’t. You—you don’t just get to give up!"

Chris doesn’t respond, his head lowering slightly as he lets Nate’s words hang in the air. Nick, sitting beside him, shifts uncomfortably, his gaze fixed on the floor. His lips are pressed into a hard line, but he doesn’t say anything.

Matt, who’s been sitting stiffly on Chris’s other side, stands from his seat. He doesn’t look at anyone as he walks out of the room in silence.

Nate pauses in his pacing, watching Matt leave, and his anger flares hotter. "Oh, great. Just walk away, Matt!" he shouts after him, his voice cracking. "That’ll fix everything!"

Matt doesn’t respond.

Nate turns back to Nick, his hands trembling as he looks at him. "And you," he says, his voice hoarse. "You’re just gonna sit there? Say something! Do something Nick!"

Nick flinches slightly but doesn’t lift his head. His jaw tightens, and his hands clench into fists on his lap. He stays silent, refusing to meet Nate’s gaze.

Nate’s breath catches, and he laughs bitterly, his voice raw. "Fuck," he mutters, his hands dropping to his sides as he stares at Chris.

Chris looks up at him, his expression soft but resolute. "There’s nothing to fix. This is what it is, Nate."

Nate shakes his head violently, tears spilling down his cheeks now, unchecked. "No," he says, his voice trembling. "That’s not fair. You don’t just…"

Chris’s face softens further, his own eyes glistening as he looks at Nate. "It's okay," he says, his voice gentle. "I’m still here. Right now."

Nate’s legs feel weak, and he collapses into the ground, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shake as quiet sobs escape him.

And through it all, Chris sits there, grieving along his upcoming death.

-

The week after that passes in a blur. And he can't lie or pretend, his sickness has managed to get the best of him. He barely has the energy to sit up most days, let alone process the stream of people coming in and out of the house.

Close friends, family, and relatives fill the rooms with quiet conversations, soft laughter, and muffled sobs. Every moment feels heavy yet precious, like sand slipping through his trembling fingers.

He doesn’t remember everyone who comes to see him, he can't help it. His head hurts so much nowadays.

Faces blend together, voices overlap, and memories escape him like smoke through his fingers. Being tired doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s exhausted, drained in every sense of the word.

At one point after the worst headache episode he had of the week, he vaguely recalls Madi sitting in front of him. Her eyes are swollen and red, tears streaming down her face as she holds his hand tightly, her voice breaking as she speaks. He doesn’t catch everything she says, the words fuzzy and distant in his mind, but her presence is grounding, her pain mirroring something he can’t quite articulate. He wants to tell her it’s okay, to reassure her somehow, but all he can manage is a sentence or two with a faint squeeze of her hand before sleep pulls him under again.

And there's his grandma, her hands warm and soft as they cup his cheeks. Her touch so familiar, comforting, and it reminds him of being a little kid, of the way she used to brush his hair back or wipe away his tears. Her voice is soft, trembling as she murmurs something he can’t fully make out, but the love in her tone is unforgettable even if his brain is falling apart. He believes he tried to smile back at her, but he’s not sure if it comes across.

As fleeting as they are, it’s so good, so good, to know how many people care about him. He can feel it, even if his mind can’t always hold onto the details. The warmth of their hands, the way their voices crack when they say his name, the quiet sobs they try to stifle when they think he’s asleep, it all wraps around him like a cocoon of love.

Nowadays can’t see much anymore, when he woke up from his nap, his vision is blurred, and the room around him often feels like it’s spinning. Staying awake feels like running a marathon, and even then, his thoughts are scattered, slipping in and out of focus. But he can see enough. He can see the love. He can feel it in the way Nick adjusts his blanket every few hours, in the way Matt stays within arm’s reach. He hears it in the voices of everyone who visits, even if he can’t keep up with their words.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, Chris doesn’t feel afraid. He feels tired, yes. Exhausted, but he also feels full. Full of the love and care he’s given to the world, reflected back at him in ways he never expected. It’s overwhelming, and yet it’s exactly what he needs.

As he drifts off to sleep for what feels like the hundredth time that day, he clings to that feeling, to the quiet reassurance that he’s mattered to so many people. Even if his time is running out, even if the days ahead are fewer than he’d like, he knows this much is true: the love he’s given, and the love he’s received, is enough. It’s more than enough.

-

Chris blinks slowly at the blur of colorful lights in front of him, the haze in his vision making it difficult to distinguish the shapes. Strings of reds, greens, and golds shimmer softly in the dimly lit room, and for a moment, he wonders if it’s Christmas. Or maybe it’s New Year’s. He’s not sure.

Earlier, Justin had carried him from Matt’s room to the living room couch, carefully settling him down. Now he’s propped up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of lavender detergent and home. He can’t even keep himself awake for longer than an hour these days, but this moment feels nice. The warmth of the room, the faint hum of conversation somewhere behind him, and the glow of the lights, it’s all strangely soothing.

A weight shifts beside him, and then he feels a familiar presence snuggle in close, pressing against his side. He doesn’t need to see to know who it is; the scent alone gives it away. Chris breathes in the faint trace of cologne and detergent, comforted by its familiarity.

“It’s going to be New Year soon,” Matt says, voice low and soft, barely cutting through the fog in his mind.

Chris blinks again, his vision still filled with nothing but blurs and lights. “Oh,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. So it's not Christmas then.

Matt shifts slightly, pulling the blanket over both of them. He doesn’t say anything for a while, and Chris feels the steady rise and fall of his brother’s breathing against his side. It’s grounding, comforting in a way that words could never be.

“You remember when we were kids,” Matt says suddenly, his voice quiet but tinged with a faint smile, “and we’d stay up for New Year’s? Mom and Dad always made us go to bed early, but we’d sneak into the living room anyway to watch the ball drop.”

Chris blinks again, his heavy eyelids fighting to stay open. The memory is fuzzy, but it’s there, buried somewhere in the haze. He tries to smile, though he’s not sure if it comes across. “Yeah,” he whispers, his voice faint and cracked.

Matt huffs a soft laugh, the sound vibrating against Chris. “I was the look out because both you and Nick figured I wouldn’t get us caught.”

Chris’s lips twitch into the faintest of grins. “Didn’t… work.”

“No,” Matt agrees, his tone light. “Nick couldn’t keep his mouth shut. We got caught every time.”

Chris lets out a weak chuckle, the sound barely audible. The memory is warm, distant but comforting. He feels Matt’s arm wrap around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he leans into the touch, his body too tired to resist.

The soft chatter of voices fills the background, punctuated by occasional laughter. He can’t make out what anyone is saying, but the sound wraps around him like a cocoon. He thinks he hears Nick’s voice somewhere, sharp and teasing, followed by Justin’s deeper, steadier tone. It feels like home.

“You’re warm,” Chris murmurs, his words slurred.

“Good,” Matt replies softly, resting his chin lightly on the top of Chris’s head. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Chris’s breathing slows, his eyes fluttering shut despite his efforts to stay awake. The lights blur together into a soft kaleidoscope of colors behind his eyelids, and he lets himself sink into the warmth of Matt’s embrace.

“Matt,” he says quietly, his voice almost lost in the stillness.

“Yeah?” Matt replies softly.

“I love you, and Nick, and mom, and dad, and Justin,” Chris says, the words soft almost lost to the chatter in the background.

Matt swallows hard, his chest tightening as he fights to keep his voice steady. “We love you too,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I love you too."

Chris lets his eyes drift shut again, he doesn’t say anything else, but Matt stays there, his arm still around him, holding him close as the minutes tick by.

The faint sound of someone counting down the final seconds to midnight echoes from around them. “Five… four… three… two…”

Chris doesn’t move, doesn’t stir, but Matt stays beside him.

“Happy New Year, Chris,” Matt whispers, his voice breaking slightly as he presses his forehead gently against his younger brother’s temple.

“Happy New Year.”

And Chris leaves.

Chapter Text

He stares at his palm, unmoving, as if the lines in his skin hold some kind of answer to the ache in his chest. The space around him is both muted and deafening, his breathing is shallow, and his mind feels like it’s moving underwater. He can’t feel a thing.

"Matt."

The voice pulls at him, distant but familiar. He knows it’s Nick, but his brain takes an agonizing moment to register it fully. The sound feels muted, distorted, like it’s coming from somewhere far away. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look up.

His body moves on autopilot, rising from the chair and following Nick to the car without a thought. His legs feel unsteady, like they might give out any second, but he keeps walking. He slides into the back seat of the Uber Nick has ordered, the door clicking shut besides him. The car ride is silent, neither of them says a word.

It’s been a month since, and neither Matt nor Nick has spoken about it, not even to each other.

They just landed in Los Angeles, on their way back to their house.

The plan is to pack up, tidy things, and leave for Boston for good. They’d agreed on it—if you could call a three sentence conversation as agreeing—shortly after the funeral. Their parents asked them to stay back home, and there wasn’t any fight left in the two to argue otherwise, the funeral was tiring.

The funeral is a blur.

He can’t remember anything about it. Not who was there, not what was said. The only thing he remembers is the unbearable ache in his chest as he his knees gave out when they lowered his brother casket into the ground. He remembers crying so hard he couldn’t breathe, his vision blurred and his body shaking violently.

He remembers the sight of the youngest face in the framed photo perched atop the casket, his bright, familiar smile frozen forever in time.

Forever the youngest.

His chest tightens painfully at the thought, and for a moment, he feels like he might suffocate. Before it can pull him under completely, the sound of Nick coughing cuts through the silence, sharp and raspy.

Matt glances at his older brother out of the corner of his eye. Nick looks awful. His face is pale and gaunt, his cheekbones sharper than they used to be. He’s lost so much weight in the last few weeks that his clothes hang loosely on him, and the dark circles under his eyes make him look like he hasn’t slept in days, or weeks.

Matt knows he doesn’t look much better.

He's very tired.

Eating feels like a chore, and the thought of looking in a mirror is unbearable.

The reflection staring back at them is nothing but a cruel reminder.

Nick shifts in his seat, leaning his head against the window and closing his eyes. His breathing is shallow, and for a moment, Matt wonders if Nick is about to break down again. He wants to say something, anything, but the words don’t come. He clenches his jaw, staring out the window at the passing scenery, trying to focus on something, anything else.

He rubs his face, the rough scruff of his unkempt beard scratching against his palms. He hasn’t shaved in weeks, maybe longer. He doesn’t care.

His hand falls back to his lap, and he stares out the window blankly, not even registering the car slowing down until it comes to a stop.

They’re home.

The Uber driver says something, but Matt barely hears it. Nick mumbles something polite before stepping out. He follows, the sound of the door shutting behind him sharp in the stillness of the late evening.

The house stands unchanged from the day they left. The driveway is cracked in the same places, the porch light is still flickering faintly, and the bushes along the walkway have grown just slightly more unruly. It feels the same. But it also feels different.

Nick walks up to the door first, pulling out his keys. He unlocks it quietly, before his lingering hand on the doorknob halts to a stop. Matt notices the way his shoulders tense, the way his breathing grows uneven, and he reaches out, gently gripping Nick’s wrist.

Nick looks at him, startled, his pale blue eyes meeting Matt’s tired and soft gaze for a brief moment. They don’t say anything, but the look is enough. Matt’s hand falls away, and he steps forward, brushing past Nick to open the door himself.

The door creaks slightly as it swings open, revealing the dark, silent space. The air inside is cool, and the familiar scent of home washes over them, unaltered despite the months they’ve been away. It smells the same, like faint traces of laundry detergent, old wood, and something uniquely theirs, something that feels like memories.

Matt steps inside first, his shoes thudding softly against the hardwood floor. He pauses in the entryway, his eyes scanning the space. He stares at the door down the hall, it his youngest brother's.

Or what used to be.

But he just heads up the stairs, followed by Nick on his back.

Everything is just as they left it, down to the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch and the stack of unopened mail on the kitchen counter. It’s as if time stopped the moment they walked out the door.

For a moment, Matt feels like if he focus and quiet down, he can hear still hear the echoes of their past selves in the walls, the sound of laughs, sarcastic quips, non-ending arguments. The memories are so vivid they almost feel tangible, like if he turned around fast enough, he’d see the youngest standing there with that mischievous grin of his, ready to stir up trouble.

Nick steps besides him. He doesn’t move far, just stands at the top of the stairs, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. His eyes scan the room, and Matt sees the same haunted look on his face that’s been there for weeks.

“It's still the same,” Nick says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Matt nods, “Yeah,”.

The silence between them stretches out, heavy and suffocating. Matt's eyes drawn to the couch. The big white couch that they chose together when they first moved into the house. The same big white couch where they’d spent countless nights piled together, watching movies or brainstorming ideas for videos.

He stands there for a moment, staring, before finally sitting down on the edge of the couch. The cushions feel the same under him, but the emptiness of the house makes it feel wrong.

Nick doesn’t follow him in right away. He stays quiet on the top of the stairs, his gaze distant.

He rubs his face again, harder this time. It doesn’t feel real. Losing him doesn’t feel real.

Matt has replayed it in his head a hundred times, a thousand, but it still doesn’t make sense. It’s never something he thought he’d have to face, not now, not ever. It wasn’t even a question. The idea of losing him never even felt like a possibility.

But now, here he is.

Matt’s chest tightens again, the familiar ache clawing at him, trying to pull him under again. He can feel it building. He takes a deep breath, though it feels like it barely makes it past his throat. His hands tremble at his sides as he forces himself to move.

“I need water,” he whispers, though he’s not sure if he’s speaking to Nick or just saying it to himself. His voice is hoarse, cracks as the words leave him.

As he stands to approach the kitchen, his foot hits something. It’s a soft thud, barely audible, but it stops him.

He looks down. One of sneakers lies on its side, just slightly out of place.

It’s his dead brother’s.

It’s Chris’s.

The dirty white Nike that Chris loved, the one he used to wear everywhere despite Nick and Matt constantly teasing him about how beat-up it was. It’s just sitting there, like Chris might have kicked it off in a rush before flopping onto the couch to tell them some ridiculous story.

Matt stares at it.

His knees nearly give out as he crouches down, his hand trembling as he picks up the shoe. It’s lighter than he remembers, the fabric soft and familiar in his grip.

The frayed laces dangle loosely, and the faint scuffs on the sole catch the light. He runs his fingers over the worn material, his throat tightening as memories flood his mind.

Chris laughing as he shoved his feet into them, Chris running ahead of them to get into the car, Chris sitting on the edge of the couch, one shoe half-off as he told them about his crazy stories with words tripping over each other.

The memories are so vivid, so alive, that for a moment, Matt swears he can hear Chris’s voice echoing in the room. The sound feels so real that he almost turns around, expecting to see his brother standing there, grinning at him like none of this ever happened.

But again, there’s no Chris there.

Matt clenches the shoe tightly, his hand shaking as he holds it against his chest. His breathing grows uneven, and a sob escapes him before he can stop it. It’s quiet, muffled, but it rips through him all the same.

“Matt?” Nick’s voice comes from behind him.

Matt doesn’t respond. He can’t. He just stays there, kneeling on the floor with Chris’s sneaker clutched to his chest, his body trembling as the grief he hasn't been able to feel, floods him.

He could feel Nick kneels beside him, his hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, though his voice cracks. “It’s okay, Matt...”

Matt doesn’t think he is anywhere near “Okay”, whatever it even means.

He cries quietly, clutching the shoe like it’s the last piece of Chris he’ll ever have, his tears falling freely as the reality of it all crashes down around him. Nick stays beside him, his own tears streaming silently down his face as he grips Matt’s shoulder tightly, anchoring them both to the only thing they have left: each other.

Just a two.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, just holding onto Matt as Matt silently breaks down, holding onto Chris’s shoe like it’s all he has left.

And in a way, it is.

-

Tidying up feels endless, it seems to drag on forever. It’s their third day back, but it feels like weeks should have passed by now.

At some point, he finds himself staring at the same pile of clothes he swears he’s folded and unfolded for four times already.

Fuck, he's so fucking tired.

Everywhere he looks, he sees him. Not physically, of course, but in the echoes of his presence, in the things he left behind. He's actively trying to avoid looking at the pair of Nike socks thrown carelessly besides the door. A half-empty bottle of Dior cologne on the bathroom counter. Or the pillow with a black case still nestled on his bed.

Matt sighs, combing over his overgrown hair as he stares at the black hoodie in his hand, he has been holding it for at least 15 minutes now. It’s simple, nondescript. He bought it for himself ages ago, back when they were shopping in some random store on a rare free day. But it had never truly felt like his.

It always ended up on Chris.

He can’t help the faint tug of a smile as he remembers the endless arguments over the damn hoodie.

“It’s mine, dude!" Matt had said as he going down the stairs, exasperated, pulling it from the youngest room for the third time in a week.

“Okay, it looks better on me anyway?" Chris had fired back, lounging on the couch while smirking at Nick that sits right beside him.

Matt had grumbled, pulling it over his head just to prove a point. "Fuck off." Chris had narrowed his eyes at him like a challenge, and the next morning, the hoodie had 'magically' disappeared again.

The memory shifts, and he can't help but laughs softly. He remembers just several months ago he had bitch about it so much that the youngest had finally snapped, yanking the hoodie off and throwing it straight into Matt’s face.

“Take it, then!" Chris had shouted, his voice high with irritation. “And if I catch you in my closet, I swear to god, I’ll rock your shit!"

Matt had been so stunned by the outburst that he’d started laughing. Chris, glaring at him, had eventually cracked a smile too.

Matt stares at it now, holding the soft fabric in his hands. It smells faintly like Chris still, that mix of his favourite cologne and something just distinctly him.

“I should’ve just let you have it,” Matt murmurs to the empty room.

“It does looked better on you anyway.”

He presses the hoodie to his chest, closing his eyes as he sinks into the memory of Chris’s laugh, of his voice, of how alive he was at that moment.

The hoodie is just a thing, just a piece of fabric, but it’s also Chris, just like the shoes. And letting it go feels impossible.

Matt doesn’t move for a long time, sitting on the floor, as he feels the tears start pooling in his eyes amd eventually flowing down his face. Slowly he stands up, putting down the black hoodie as he moves toward the door.

He doesn’t even know where he’s going, only that he can’t sit there any longer. His body carries him upstairs, instinctively searching for his older brother.

He pushes open the door to Nick’s room, and one glance is enough to tell him that Nick hasn’t been able to bring himself to do much of anything either.

Random objects are strewn about, signs of half-hearted attempts at tidying up that never reached completion. It’s a mess, just like his.

Just like them.

His eyes lock onto Nick, lying curled up on the floor, his back to him, his body slack with exhaustion. He’s on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting near his phone, which is propped up against a pile of clothes. The screen plays familiar images, their YouTube videos.

Matt recognizes the video playing immediately, it was last year's Thanksgiving car video. one of the ones where him and Chris being extra annoying to each other and Nick was entertaining them back then, which in effect making Chris extra loud, screaming and laughing all over the video.

"I have two lunatics who've gotten rogue and they're beating up their little brother!" the sound of the video filling up every crevices of the dark, quiet room.

He can't help but momentarily closes his eyes.

Matt doesn’t know how to make it better for Nick.

Just like he didn’t know how to make it better for Chris back then.

The thought churns his stomach. He swallows against the nausea rising in his throat, against the helplessness that clings to him like a second skin, and forces himself to move.

Slowly, cautiously, he lowers himself to the floor beside Nick. He reaches out, gently taking the phone from Nick’s grasp, pausing the video without a word. Chris’s voice cuts off abruptly, leaving behind a suffocating silence. Matt hesitates for only a second before lying down directly in front of Nick, their faces inches apart, the floor cool beneath him.

Up close he could see his older brother's bloodshot eyes, drained, empty. His gaze is distant, vacant, like he’s barely tethered to reality anymore.

And it hurts.

It hurts like hell to see Nick like this.

Because Matt knows that some days, he has the same exact look in his own eyes too.

“Nick…” he says softly, his voice careful, like he’s afraid Nick might flee if he speaks too loudly.

For a long moment, Nick doesn’t respond. But then, slowly, his eyes shift, finally meeting Matt’s.

Nick blinks once, his face unreadable. Then, in a voice so small and broken it barely makes it past his lips, he whispers, “I… I can’t.”

Matt’s chest tightens as he watches a single tear slip down Nick’s face, tracing a slow path over his cheek and onto the floor.

Matt reaches for him, his fingers wrapping around Nick’s hand, gripping it tightly.

“I know,” Matt whispers back, his own voice cracking.

Nick swallows hard, his body curling slightly, like he’s trying to make himself smaller, like he’s trying to disappear into the grief. His grip on Matt's hand tightens.

“I need him…” Nick chokes out, the words trembling in the air between them.

Matt’s throat burns, his vision blurring at the edges, but he doesn’t let go. He squeezes Nick’s hand even tighter, his own tears spilling over now.

“I know,” he whispers again, his voice barely holding together.

And he does.

Because he needs Chris too.

"I can't do this."

Matt closes his eyes tightly, biting the inside of his cheek as if the pain might ground him, might keep him from breaking down.

But it doesn’t.

Nothing does nowadays.

He exhales shakily before forcing himself to look at Nick again.

“I can’t stop remembering the last moment I held him in my arms either,” he whispers. “That New Year’s night. I keep replaying it over and over.”

Nick doesn’t speak, but his breath hitches slightly, jaw clenching as he listens.

Matt swallows hard, blinking against the burning in his eyes. “I’m so scared I’ll forget what he felt like next to me,”

“His warmth, his smell, his voice… I keep thinking about it.” His throat tightens painfully, he thinks he might not be able to properly breathe right now. “I’m can't do this too, Nick.”

Nick’s face contorts as he sucks in a sharp breath, his tears falling freely now.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to offer any empty reassurances, because there aren’t any.

He squeezes Matt’s hand back.

-

“Sir! Sir! Sir, can you hear me?”

The voice is sharp, slicing through the thick haze in Matt’s mind like a knife.

His eyes crack open slowly, blearily, the light above him glaring, foreign. Everything is loud, too loud. The sirens, the rush of wind, the voice pressing into his ears.

“Sir, I need you to stay awake for me.” the woman is shouting, her voice close.

Matt doesn’t know where he is.

Doesn’t know why everything feels so heavy, so unreal, so wrong.

But then he hears something more familiar.

He turns his head slowly, to the left, and through the brightness and loudness, he sees Nick crumpled at his side, crying harder than Matt has ever seen him cry.

“Nick…” Matt croaks, fuck his throat's dry.

Nick lifts his head immediately, eyes red and panicked. “Fuck– Matt, fuck” he chokes, his voice collapsing with the weight of relief and terror.

His hand clutches Matt’s, squeezing tight.

Only then does Matt become aware of the cold metal beneath him. The sting in his arm from the IV. The oxygen mask around his face. The way his whole body feels disconnected, foggy, like he’s floating.

The woman thaat he realises now is an EMT speaks again. She’s older, with multiple lines in her face, just like the lines in Matt's heart. “Your brother found you unconscious,” she says.

“You took benzodiazepines and alcohol. Together. You’re stable for now, but we’re still bringing you in.”

Matt doesn’t respond. He just stares up at the ceiling of the ambulance, the world distant and muffled.

His mind feels blank.

“Do you know why you did that?” the EMT asks after a moment.

Her voice tired. Again, just like him.

The question hangs in the air, unanswered, filling the silence between the sirens and the numbness.

Matt stares at nothing. His lips part, but no sound comes out at first.

He turns his head just enough to catch a glimpse of Nick again, hunched over, still clutching his hand, still crying like it’s his own life that was almost lost.

And something cracks open inside Matt’s chest.

His face contorts, and then it all pours out.

“It’s our 22nd birthday,” he sobs, voice breaking like a child’s. “It’s our 22nd birthday and… my little brother he passed away.”

The words hit the air with the weight of a hundred storms.

The EMT’s face softens. Nick’s hand tightens around his. And Matt can’t stop crying.

“He should be 22 now,” his voice raw, barely holding shape around the words. “He should. He should.” His breath catches hard in his throat, and the grief comes out in heaving, uncontrollable waves. “But he couldn’t. And it’s so unfair, it’s so unfair.”

His body curls in on itself, as if to protect himself from the pain that is himself. He doesn’t realize when Nick moves, doesn’t hear the clatter or the shift in the bench beside him. All he knows is that suddenly, somehow, he’s being held.

Nick’s arms are around him, trembling, just like his entire being, pulling him in like he’s trying to further shield him from the pain.

He doesn’t even have the strength to hug back, he just collapses into the embrace, sobbing into Nick’s shoulder like a child, like he has nothing else left in him but grief.

His chest is so tight it feels like it might rip open. The pain, the longing, it burns through every inch of him.

The memories in his mind feel like glass, clear and beautiful but impossible to hold without bleeding.

He can’t stop crying, his body wracked with pain that no medication could dull, no words could soothe.

“He died on me,” he gasps, over and over, “He died on me, that night, he died on me.”

Nick squeezes him tighter, his own face buried against the side of Matt’s head, his tears wetting Matt’s hair. “I know,” he whispers. “I know, Matty…”

“God, please,” Matt sobs, the desperation in his voice slicing through the cold air. “Please, I just want to hold him again. I just want my baby brother again.”

“He was supposed to be here,” he cries, “He was supposed to be here, Nick.”

Nick holds on tighter, his own tears wet against Matt’s temple. “I know,” he whispers again, there's nothing else he could say.

They rock slightly with the motion of the ambulance, wrapped around each other, and somewhere along the crashing waves of sobs and the way his chest cracked open, everything blurs for Matt.

His body gives in before his mind does, too exhausted, too broken, too in pain to stay awake any longer.

The ache dulls into something shapeless, and the world folds in on itself, pulling him under like the tide.

The next time he opens his eyes, it’s to fluorescent lighting and the rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside him. The sterile scent of antiseptic fills his nose, grounding him, reminding him that he is not in his bed, or on the floor, or in a memory, but in a hospital.

His eyes sting from the crying. His throat burns like it’s been scraped raw.

Everything aches.

He blinks slowly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The IV in his arm. The oxygen tube under his nose. The cool sheets. The dimmed light beyond the privacy curtain.

And then he sees Nick.

Sitting in the corner of the room, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, hands laced tightly together, knuckles white from pressure.

There’s a water bottle on the floor beside him, unopened. His hoodie is twisted and wrinkled, sleeves pushed up, his hair disheveled, face gaunt with exhaustion. His eyes are open, but unfocused, staring into nothing.

Nick doesn’t even notice Matt is awake. His jaw is tight and the redness under his eyes is stark on his pale skin.

He looks dissociated, like he’s there and not there, suspended somewhere between devastation and disbelief.

Matt watches him in silence, his heart twisting painfully at the sight despite the numbness he is drowning in.

“Nick…” Matt’s voice is nothing more than a whisper.

Nick’s head snaps up instantly. His eyes, red and wide, land on Matt.

And something in his expression breaks.

He doesn’t speak.

Just stares.

And then, quietly, Nick stands up and walks to the edge of the bed.

Matt knows there's so much anger in his silence it feels like heat, like a ball of fire is coming his way.

Matt opens his mouth, perhaps to say "sorry" but nothing comes out.

Nick's voice low, “Why the fuck would you do that to me?”

Nick wasn't yelling, but oh doesn't Matt feel like world's worst brother right now.

He looks away, eyes already welling up again.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks.

Nick doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. “Don’t say sorry,” he snaps, his voice cracks halfway through. “Don’t you dare say sorry and then do that.”

Matt lets the tears fall again, shame blooming in his chest, because this is what he did. To himself. To Nick.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Matt whispers.

Nick blinks hard, shaking his head like he’s trying to wake himself up from a nightmare. “You tell me, Matt. You fucking tell me. I’m your brother, your only brother now.”

That last part spills out before he can catch it.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Matt nods, his shoulders curling in, wrecked. “I know.”

He grabs Matt by the shoulders, pulling him up from the bed with more force than he intends.

Matt lets out a startled gasp, his weakened body offering little resistance as Nick grips his arms tightly, his fingers digging in.

“I lost Chris,” Nick chokes out, his voice cracking so violently Matt might not recognise him if he is to be blind. “I lost him, Matt, and I can’t—I won’t—lose you too.”

Matt’s wide eyes stare back at him, stunned silent by the sheer desperation in his brother’s face.

“I’d rather fucking die than lose you,” Nick spits, but there’s no venom in it, just so much pain that Matt could almost taste in his tongue.

“Do you hear me? I can’t do this again. I can’t wake up and find you gone, I can’t sit through another funeral, I can't tidy up another fucking room. I can’t fucking do it!”

His voice breaks at the end, and he crumbles.

Nick falls forward, his forehead pressing against Matt’s shoulder, and he just sobs.

“Please,” he begs, his words muffled, broken. “Please, Matt. Please. Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me. I don’t know how to do this without you. I can’t—I can’t.”

Matt’s eyes fill again, and his arms instinctively wrap around Nick’s back.

“I’m sorry,” Matt breathes, voice shaking. “I’m so sorry, Nick.”

But Nick just keeps crying, begging in broken gasps, “Please. Please don’t leave me. Please just stay.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over again.

Nick doesn’t answer, just cries harder, his hands still gripping Matt’s arms as if he’s afraid letting go might mean losing him too.

Matt squeezes his eyes shut, “I'm sorry, I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. It just hurt so bad and I didn’t know what to do and I just, I didn’t want to die, I just didn’t want to feel anymore.”

Nick’s hands shake, his whole body trembling against Matt’s, but he doesn’t pull away.

Matt gasps through a sob, “I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. You’re all I have left, and I didn’t even think what this would do to you.”

Nick nods, “I thought I was losing you too,” he whispers. “And I—Matt, I'm so scared. I'm so scared I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

Matt tightens his hold around him, “I’m here,” he says through tears. “I swear I’m here. I’m staying. I won’t leave you. I won’t. I promise I promise.”

For a minute the cold, sterile air of the hospital room doesn’t matter. The wires and machines and the quiet footsteps beyond the door all fade into the background. The only thing that exists in the moment is only them.

-

"This guy literally decided to not tell anybody about his cancer for months,”

“And with no hesitation, actually agreed to drop everything and move back to our parents because I was mentally unwell and was in a dark place. So the only reason we even found out he had cancer was because it got so bad, he fainted from the pain. And even then, he still tried his best to be with me because I was sick.” Matt huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

“And that… that sums up the kind of person he was.”

Nick smiles across at him, his own expression soft.

“That was so loving of him,” the host visibly emotional, dabs at their eyes with a tissue. “There was so much love.”

Nick nods, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. “Yeah, I mean… when it happened, we were at our darkest time, and ai genuinely thought we were gonna die because neither of us thought we could survive another year without him. Me and Matt had a whole plan to quit everything, sell our LA house and just go back to Boston, and close that chapter of our lives completely because there's no Sturniolo Triplets if there's no triplets, you got me?" he laughs softly.

Matt picks up, “Yeah but so, one day, as we were tidying up our LA house quite some times after Chris passed away, because the ehole tidying up was so emotionally draining that it took us forever, we found a video that he took way back when he first knew about his diagnosis.”

The host’s brows furrow, eyes wide with quiet curiosity.

“And it was that video,” Matt continues, his gaze distant, as if he can still picture it perfectly in his mind. “That video got us from negative one thousand to at least a zero. A starting point.” He laughs under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “And the video was so sad and so painful and funny and stupid all at the same time. It was crazy.”

Nick chuckles as well, but his eyes glisten ever so slightly. “So even when both me and Matt grieved horribly for so, so, so long that it took us a whole two years and a half to come back to YouTube and content creation again, we’re finally at a place where we can accept that... this is what Chris would’ve wanted for us.” He pauses, taking a breath before adding, “If he were still here today.”

“Oh wow, I’m so sorry, I actually cannot stop crying,” the host says, Nick and Matt both chuckle softly at her reaction, their own eyes still damp, but their smiles are genuine. “It’s okay,” Nick assures her, his voice gentle.

“I just feel like people don’t talk about the pain of losing their siblings all that much on social media,” the host continues. “Because nowadays, there aren’t many siblings that are truly close to each other. I’m not saying there aren’t any, there definitely are, but it’s just not something I personally see a lot. So, to have you both actually open up about this, it’s really important. There are people out there who might be coping with the loss of their sibling, and this might help them feel less alone.”

Matt and Nick both nod, before Matt soeaks again, his voice quieter, “If I could make one wish in my life, it would be for nobody to experience the hell that Nick and I have gone through.” He pauses, “Because I genuinely couldn’t digest anything for weeks. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t have it in me to do anything at all for months. Those five stages of grief, they are so real.”

“I was in such a bad denial for months, almost years, that I kept expecting him to just… be alive again. To just be there. To walk into the room like nothing happened. To talk to me, to hug me, to mess around with me and Nick. And I kept waiting for it, like someone was going to tell me it wasn’t real. But it was real.” His voice wavers slightly, “And it’s such a torture that I wouldn’t wish it on anyone."

Nick nods, “Not even on my worst enemy,” he mutters.

Matt lets out a breath before breaking into a small, tired laugh at that. “Yeah,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Not even them.”

The host smiles weakly, still wiping her tears. “God, you two are so strong.”

Nick leans back slightly, before he speaks into the mic. “Don’t get us wrong,” he laughs, “Some days, I still can’t even look at my own face because sometimes, it reminds me too much of him. And it’s crazy, because back then, all I could see was how different I was from Matt and Chris.”

Matt nods with a smile on his face, looking down at his hands, he knows exactly what Nick is talking about.

Nick exhales, running a hand through his hair. “But grief is such a crazy and powerful thing that when it hits, I can only see the features on my face that are similar to his. And sometimes, it just—” He shakes his head. “—it gets me bawling in front of the mirror for hours. Even if it’s been five years now.”

The host’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears, and for a moment, the studio is quiet.

Matt glances at Nick, his lips pressing together before he finally speaks. “It never really goes away,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, so that's why I believe the best way to actually go through such a horrible grief is to have a strong support system,” Nick says, “Both me and Matt are really grateful to have our parents and family, even though they were just as heartbroken as we were, if not more. Because this is definitely not something you get through alone.”

Matt nods, fiddling with his rings before speaking. “We were also really lucky and thankful that when we came back as Sturniolo Triplets again, even if it was just the two of us, our fans were still willing to support us. They gave us so much love, and because of that, we were able to hit 10 million subscribers last January.”

The host gasps softly. “Wow.”

“And when that happened,” Matt continues, his lips curling into a small smile, “it was actually the New Year’s Eve. And so it was exactly five years since Chris passed.” He glances at Nick for a second before looking back at the host. “And I think that was the first New Year’s Eve in years that neither of us cried ourselves to sleep.”

Nick lets out a small breath of laughter. “Yeah, we were live streaming, waiting the subscriber count to ten million. And it just, it gave us something else to focus on, you know? Something good.”

Matt nods in agreement. “It was the first time I felt like Chris was right there with us, laughing instead of watching us cry like idiots.”

The host lets out a quiet laugh. “That’s beautiful,” they say, their voice thick with emotion.

“At this point, I’m looking forward to so many things in my life,” Matt says, exhaling deeply. “And if you told me this several years ago, I wouldn’t have believed you at all. Because back then, my life, my whole world, stopped. Me and Nick had to relearn how to live, how to function, how to just… exist as two instead of three.”

Nick smirks at that, shaking his head. “Which means countless hours of therapy, I'm talking sibling therapy, individual therapy, even therapy together with our parents.”

Matt chuckles. “Yeah, and it’s awkward sometimes. But that’s the thing about losing a sibling… You don’t just see your own grief, you see your parents lose their child. And even today, it’s so hard to see our parents cry over the simplest things. Like eating Chris’s favorite snack or watching his favorite movie. Because they just simply missing their kid.” Matt’s voice wavers slightly. “And it’s painful to acknowledge that they’re in just as much pain as we are. Because if losing a sibling feels that awful, I can’t even think what it’s like to lose a child."

The host nods quietly, their face filled with understanding.

After a moment, they ask, “How about your friends?”

Nick blinks at that, his smile still in place, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression. “Well, you see… what Chris did about his illness, I mean, hiding it from everyone, caused a lot of misunderstandings.” He exhales sharply, rubbing his fingers over his knuckles. “Our closest friends… they thought that we hid it from them too. That me and Matt chose not to tell them. And I get why they felt that way, but back then?” He shakes his head. “Our focus, or at least, my focus, wasn’t on anybody else. It was on my brother."

Matt nods solemnly, his fingers tapping against his knee. “I remember Chris crying with us one night, saying he was afraid to tell anyone. And the way he said it, the way he looked at us, I knew it wasn’t our place to say anything. It wasn’t ours to tell.”

Nick swallows, his voice quieter. “So, of course, I kept my mouth shut. We both did.” He glances at Matt, who nods in agreement.

“And this,” Nick continues, “this is the same thing the media talked about when the news of Chris’s passing got out. People questioning why no one knew, why no one said anything.” He scoffs slightly, shaking his head again. “But the truth is, even though it was Chris’s choice to keep his struggle to himself, partially it was also because me and Matt genuinely feared what would happen if we spoke it out loud.”

Matt looks down at his hands before murmuring, “Because if we said it out loud… it meant it was real.”

Nick nods, his expression sullen for a moment. “Yeah,” he says. “And at that time we weren’t ready for that, we didn't even want to believe it.”

“That… that makes so much sense,” they whisper. “And I think so many people needed to hear that.”

Nick nods faintly, lips pressed together, eyes distant for a moment. The memory clearly still sits raw beneath his skin.

The host takes a small breath, grounding themself, voice soft. “I think a lot of people, especially those who haven’t gone through a loss like this, don’t realize how complicated grief is. And how much more complicated it gets when the person suffering was hiding their pain. It’s not just mourning… it’s guilt, it’s confusion, it’s that fear of what people will say. It’s everything all at once.”

Matt nods, looking over at Nick briefly. “Exactly. And… grief doesn’t move in a straight line. People like to think there’s a beginning and an end to it, but there isn’t.” He swallows. “You keep finding new layers to it, even years later. You grieve what happened. Then you grieve what could’ve happened. Then you grieve all the things you’ll never get to experience together.” He chuckles dryly, eyes flicking upward. “I mean, Chris never got to buy his own car. He never got to move into his own place. He never even got to hit his mid-twenties.”

Nick nods, voice rough. “He’ll always be twenty to us. That’s the part that kills me sometimes. We’ll keep growing, aging, going through these milestones—” His voice shakes, and he pauses “—but he won’t.”

Matt exhales, sitting forward slightly, “We’ve carried so much of him with us, though. In every video we make. Every place we go. Every decision we take. And it’s still not enough.” He shrugs helplessly. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

The host’s eyes are shimmering again, “You’ve both done such a beautiful job of honoring him, and I think it’s so important that you’ve come to a place where you can finally say all of this. Not just for your fans, but for yourselves too.”

Nick lets out a quiet breath, then smiles, small and bittersweet. “We’ve spent a lot of time running from the facts. From what it meant to move forward without him. But now we come to terms that moving on doesn’t mean we’re leaving him or the memories of him behind.”

Matt rests a hand on Nick’s hand. “It just means we’re carrying him differently now.”

There’s a long pause. No one rushes to fill the silence this time.

The host nods once, wiping at their cheek. “Thank you both for being here.”

Nick smiles, that soft, rare kind that barely touches his lips but says more than words ever could. “No, thank you for letting us talk about him.”

Matt let out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, we need it.”