WHO WE ARE ✸ Sturniolos

VI. Something in the Static

TW:  Mentioned injury, implied homophobia, brothers being brothers by arguing.  Stay safe! x

✶

Chris first notices it in pictures, a gradual lightening. The way in which someone can fall away without moving an inch.

"Huddle in, boys! Get closer!" Mom tells them, grin glinting behind the phone she holds hilariously close to her face, as she ushers with her spare hand for them to cluster together.

Matt's face still flushes every time Chris captures his neck in the nook of his elbow, but he nonetheless finds his brother's fist gripping the back of his shirt. On the far left, he can catch a glimpse of Justin's calloused hand carving through Matt's hair, messing it up in spite of the countless times he preened himself using his phone's camera on the car ride here. He hears the whining, and is swayed to the side after Matt inevitably shoves Justin away.

But, on his right side, he feels nothing, not nearly enough pressure as he wants to. The wind tickles his side, and suddenly the mountain range behind them isn't his point of focus anymore. There are four of them, he has to remind himself. Nick is there, and Chris only knows it because he feels the gentlest touch on his shoulder, which in itself feels like an apology for even being there. Nick falters around him, carefully calculating the right amount of affection to give in order to make it look right on camera without overindulging in a feeling he doesn't belong to — the feeling of brotherhood.

✶

Matt learns the hard way that maybe they don't share everything anymore.

One terrifying, spectacular thing about triplets is that they have a connection that goes far beyond any regular sibling bond. Within a fraction of a breath, or a brief look to one another, they have always been able to know exactly what's happening inside of their brothers' heads. It's like how Nick found him having his first panic attack in the school bathroom without even being told Matt was there, or how he can sense Chris' need for affection by the way he stares at his own hands for too long. They're intertwined — designed for each other.

Matt thinks that's what scares him most about what's happening to Nick lately: when he looks him in the eyes (for the scarce opportunities he's granted), he can't tell what he's thinking anymore. There's a cloudy barrier set up, guarding his deepest secrets. Nick never kept secrets before.

"Hey, Nick?" He calls down the corridor, pulling a face at the eerie silence that follows. The only faint implication of life comes from Justin's room, where from beyond the door he can hear the familiar soundtrack to Black Ops III. The triplets' own bedroom door rests slightly ajar, and Matt can tell that Nick has the curtains closed.

With a heavy sigh, he trudges to their room, easing the door open with his shoulder before resting his weight on the handle.

"What, Matt?" He hears, slightly muffled against the pillow.

"Nick, c'mon. Dad says we're gonna be late if you don't get up."

He barely catches his brother's expression, as he lies on their bunks facing the wall, doing whatever he always does on his phone. It's the only true source of light in the bedroom, and Matt watches the colours dance around Nick's tired form, creating a halo of sorts.

"Did he force you to come up here and talk to me?" He replies sourly, words practically fizzing on his tongue.

"Aren't you coming to hockey practice?" Matt asks innocently, face creasing with confusion and, above all, worry. It's the second week in a row in which Nick has shoved their hobbies away, instead choosing to stay at home with the better company of himself.