Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Matt has his hands on the wheel and he’s speeding seven over. It’s past ten and his muscles buzz with leftover adrenaline of practice.

The playgrounds tallest plastic tower slides into view as Matt rounds the street corner. He ignores the stop sign and rolls into the parking lot. 

He squeezes the leather around his steering wheel. From the moment he stepped into the rink this afternoon, his chest weighed him down, heavy with familiar pressure. The elephant.

It didn’t leave him—that feeling that something’s wrong. That he needs to be somewhere and he’s not. 

Breathe, Matt, he tells himself, parking his car in front of the playground. The headlights cut off and his little world turns silent.

Icy panic slides in between his organs like a snake. It settles there and waits. He doesn’t  understand it, but he’s lucky to be alone when this… this thing happens. 

When he gets like this, he can’t fake a smile to look socially acceptable. He wants to curl up in a ball and lay low until it ends.

Leaning over, he clicks the glovebox, pulls out his journal and examines the cover. 

The brown leather smells like Target. Buttons run down the spine and fuzzy string wraps around the book, turning into a bow tie at the center.

It’ll be a fancy addition to his collection of finished journals. 

Matt has three, one from his middle school years and two from high school. He finished the second one sitting in the principal's office after his English teacher sent him there. He couldn’t do a test. Apparently “not paying attention” deserves a referral.

How could he explain to an adult that he couldn’t breathe while breathing fine?

Matt slips out of the car. 

Blue-gray clouds crawl the sky. A crow squawks in the distance, echoing across the yard.

When Matt was little, this place used to be filled with snotty kids digging in the sandbox. During summer time, they collected static electricity in the tube slide and shocked each other, pretending they had super powers. 

Now, the pillars are worn around the edges. The mulch hasn’t been replaced in years, and the top layer only gets browner by the day. 

The smell of tobacco lingers in the air. Matt thinks it’s always been there, he just didn’t notice it when he was five, running after Nick and Chris, begging them to let him play tag with them.

He climbs the green stairs of the playground, plops himself on the tallest balcony and lets his legs dangle over the edge. 

Up here, the wind bites harder, but it makes for a great distraction. He almost forgets the elephant on his chest. 

Digging in his pocket, he finds his pen, opens to the first page and writes. 

His hands shake with, but he manages two whole pages of frustrated chicken scratching. New record. 

The gray sky had turned electric blue and orange street lights flicker on, interrupting the evening cool. 

He wipes his nose, glancing around.

The park is still empty. Maybe he can imagine that the world has stopped, and he’s the only person existing. Just him. Unbothered with his ‘unprompted’ frown or the way he flinches or how he can’t be like Chris and Nick.

The breeze penetrates through his hoodie, biting his skin, but the pressure in his chest has eased. 

He shifts, jostling his body to keep his legs from falling asleep. The bruises lining his back flower with pain and his overused muscles moan. 

His knuckles sting where the skin had peeled off, revealing dark brown blood under the surface. He makes a fist and digs it into the metal plate underneath him. 

Pain shoots up his arm like lightning, and his brain shuts up. He presses on and bites his lower lip. It hurts.

No one’s here to stop it. 

Matt thinks he’s a psychopath.

It’s getting colder. He should go home. Mom’ll get worried. 

He releases his first and lets it dangle in the air, soaking the cold, as if wind is an intangible ice pack. His fingers pulse with static heat.

He twists the tie around the book bind but it slips out, and the journal flaps open. Matt sees the words ‘hate’ and ‘fucking idiot’ before he shuts it and tries again. 

It takes him four times to tie it and do a double knot for good measure. 

Nick and Chris know nothing about him. They don’t know he does journaling so they don’t have anything to look for.

But…just in case. 

He doesn’t need to give them anymore reasons to hate him. His attitude does the job fine.

***

Later that evening, he pulls into the driveway and waits in his car.

It’s his routine. Preparing himself for either Nick and Chris’s antics, or a completely empty house. 

The empty house sounds more like heaven, but he glances at the windows where kitchen lights spill through the curtains.

Matt shuts the car off and quietly swears under his breath.

He comes in through the garage. The crispy cold gets replaced with stuffy warmth and his senses are blessed with the smell of cooked onions and ground beef. 

Food is annoying to eat until Mary Lu makes it. He won’t tell her that because she’d be twisting a masterpiece every night just so he eats something, and he can’t do that to her. She’s tired enough.

Navigating the piles of laundry, Matt pushes the door open, climbs the stairs and slips into the kitchen. 

Mom looks up from her pan and smiles. Her lips don’t quite reach her eyes.

“Hi honey,” she abandons her spatula and extends her arms. 

Letting his backpack drop to the floor, he leans into her embrace as she squeezes him tight. Tighter than usual. Matt's sharp inhale gets lost in the sizzling of the butter. 

“How was practice today?” She leans back and cups his cheek. “Why are you out so late?”

Matt wants to melt into her touch. 

He wants to cry.

Everything aches and it’s awful and it’s great and he’s tried.

“It was fine,” he lies. ”I went out with my friends.” 

His voice falters at ‘friends.’ 

Teammates. 

Who else anyway? He isn’t exactly popular amongst the youth.

Mary Lu narrows her eyes and brushes hair out of his eyes.

“Not with that Jason kid too, right?”

Matt forces a wry smile. “Him too, mom. He’s captain.”

He’s been lying to her about hockey since he was twelve. It never got easier, but she'd go into cardiac arrest if she saw his bare back after a random Tuesday. 

“He’s a piece of work is who he is,” she says, slipping her hand away. Matt ignores the chill that crawls in the wake of her touch. 

“Jason’s not that bad.” He is. He's worse than what Mary Lu saw of him. 

“If by ‘not that bad’ you mean when he cussed you out for being late,” she thwacks her spatula against the pan, “then I disagree.” 

“Let’s agree to disagree then.” Matt picks up his backpack. 

Mary Lu sighs and glances over his slouched shoulders, frowning.

Matt internally bristles.

Moms have superpowers. He wouldn’t be too surprised if she’s actively peeling back his layers. His carefully placed, guarded layers. 

“Just…” she glances on the floor and creases her eyebrows. “Don’t let anyone hurt you, okay?

Matt dwindles inside a little. ”’kay mom. I won’t.” 

***

It’s midnight. Matt scrolls through Tiktok. The window is propped open, cooling every nook and cranny of his room. The smell of firewood wafts from outside, blanketing him in nostalgia of winter nights in middle school, when he’d sneak out to play snowball with the neighbors kids. They moved away since then, when Matt was thirteen. 

He lays curled up on his side, screen extended in front of him. The videos fade in and out of focus as his eyelids slide shut. 

The bruises weakly whine from under his sleep hoodie. The Fresh Love merch.

He wiggles himself deeper into the blanket and clicks his phone off.

Just as he begins to drift, his door squeaks open.

Only Mom and Dad dare step into his ‘evil lair,’ as Nick likes to call it. But It's not normal for either of them to creep around at three forty-five in the morning.

He keeps his eyes shut like he’s ten again, hiding a DS under the blanket.

“Yo.”

Chris. 

Matt’s eyes fly open. He clutches the blanket around his hoodie, keeping it concealed, and slowly sits. 

Chris never comes into Matt's room. Whatever possessed the guy to break that streak better be good. 

“What,” he croaks, pouring irritation into every letter.

“Me and Nick just came back from a vlog,” he says matter of factly. His tone reveals nothing. We came back from having fun without you, by the way. 

Matt waits. 

Chris stares.

Matt sinks back into his bed. “Great. Awesome for you. Get out.”

Chris shoves his hands into his hoodie and scowls. “Asshole. What if I came asking for help, like, I was injured or something, would you still be such a jerk?”

“I’d tell you to call an ambulance because I’m not a paramedic.” Matt buries his face in the blanket. “Fuck you.”

Chris sighs. “You know what? Whatever.”

A ripple of unease runs up his spine.

Something about having Chris stand in Matt’s room makes him want to throw himself out of the window, but it’s like an empty space has been filled. He didn’t even know there was an empty space.

No. Matt wants to toss a pillow at the guy but he can’t. Not with his Fresh Love hoodie on. He wouldn’t live it down if Chris thought of him as some clingy fangirl, sneaking merch from under the mattress.

He’s stuck. Amazing.

“Why was mom upset today?” Asks Chris, examining Matt’s bookshelf for the first time ever.

“Ask her, dumbass. Do I look like a psychic?"

Chris picks up a mini wooden turtle. “She told me and Nick to ‘get along with you.’ Did you complain to her or something?” 

“What—,” Matt shoots up from his spot, keeping the blanket around himself. “No! Chris, get out, and don’t touch that. I don’t want to ‘get along with you’. Keep your YouTube shit to yourself.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Chris grimaces, “but have you like, noticed that most of Mary Lu’s worry lines come from you?”

Matt flinches and picks up his stuffed pug, locking eyes with his brother. “If you tell me she’s sad because I’m negative, I’m shoving mister Wrinkles down your throat.”

Silence. 

“Get the hell out of my room, Chris. And put the turtle down”

The younger triplet rolls his eyes. “I worry about mom, grouchy.” His tone loses some of the hostility. He puts the figure back in place. ”I think—I think it’ll help If we… I don’t know, make a video together? Cause It’s been a while. Unless you’re too broad headed of a freak to—”

“—Get over yourself, Superman,” Matt says. He worries about mom too, but Chris doesn't believe he has feelings. “Fine. Yeah. Whatever. Let’s do a video.”

“You’re an ass.”

Matt puts the blanket over his head and falls back on the mattress. “Speak for yourself.”

A beat of silence and the door squeaks shut. The yawning emptiness Chris filled moments ago opens up again. 

Matt’s officially been in three YouTube videos since Nick and Chris started the channel. That’s not counting his appearances in the kitchen, when they do their baking challenge and Matt happens to have an appetite that day. 

Their fans make compilations of him. ‘Matt appearing on the Sturniolo videos for three minutes and forty five seconds,’ or ‘five times we remember the Sturniolo’s are triplets and not twins.’

After two years, their audiences grew, and so did the questions.

“Why isn’t Matt in your videos?” 

“Why isn’t it ‘Sturniolo triplets’ instead of just Sturniolos? it sounds so much better!”

Matt had the same questions, but Nick and Chris, the godsdamned duo, rushed in with their half baked explanations of Matt being uninterested in YouTube, and how he’s pursuing hockey instead. 

Half of that is true. Matt pointedly ignores their career, and just them in general. He doesn't—he doesn’t want to be with them, okay? All they do is tell him that he’s wrong. All the time. Speaking, opinions, thoughts. Everything! 

And fuck. He can’t prove them wrong.

Whatever. It’s for mom. He can handle being in a video for her peace of mind, even if it’s only once in a very, very long while.

***

Matt thinks the living room’s a battlefield unless Mom’s there.

Mary Lu’s routine mostly consists of helping people, and sometimes—oftentimes—that includes Matt.

In her presence, Chris bites his tongue, and then Matt doesn't have to defend himself, so Nick doesn’t have to defend Chris.  

Mom keeps the peace.

But she notices their glares. The tension from years of rubbing each other the wrong way, explosive fights and silent treatments. She shakes her head and zones in on her cooking or school paperwork. The three shut up and dismiss themselves.

Mom’s shoulders carry the weight of the world and they can tell. 

In those moments Matt thinks he can let his brothers spew nonsense at him, just so she knows they’re together. He wants her to have some hope of unity. The same hope Matt lost a long time ago. 

Which is why he’s in a parking lot at two in the morning, leaning over the hood of their family van to see if the camera sits straight.

When they film a car video, Nick and Chris just sit in the garage.

Actually, their whole career started because they hung out there during quarantine to get space from Matt. They kinda owe him their money for that, though he wouldn't dare consider that out loud.

Matt throws Nick a thumbs up and slides off the hood, walking back into the driver’s seat.

“It’s a QnA, by the way,” says Nick, frowning at his phone. “Try to be enthusiastic. Last time you were on video you got cake flour all over yourself, so they expect you to be, like, a guy who would get cake flour all over himself.”

Here it goes. “Nick, that was a year ago.”

“I’m aware! I’m just saying that you should answer the questions too. Talk louder.” His screen turns white, illuminating his face. “I got the submissions. Chris, do the intro.”

The recording isn’t a surprise. Nothing new. Chris yells at Matt to speak up. When they get a question specifically about him, the words get stuck in his throat. 

“What’s your favorite food? It’s not that hard to answer,” says Nick, throwing his hands in a mockingly confused manner. 

Matt glares. “I told you! I don’t have a favorite food! I don’t even like food.” His voice shakes and his chest feels heavy. Fuck, fuck, fuck, not now.

Chris groans. “Kid, no one cares, just say pizza or something. Peanut butter.” 

“What? No, peanut tastes likes fucking acid.” Matt feels his heartbeat race, hammering against his chest.

Chris gapes at him. “I saw you eat half of the jar the other day. Are you calling me delusional?”

“I eat it for sports reasons,” Matt scowls, swallowing the nausea crawling up his throat. “I hate it.”

“Yeah. Sports is like the only thing we can talk to our viewers about when it comes to you. Most interesting thing you do is swing a stick.”

“You’ve never even seen me play, Chris,” Matt deadpans, voice low and steady, like he’s balancing on a tight rope.

Nick groans loudly. “This is why we don’t film with you! I’ll have to cut half of the footage.”

“I didn’t-“ Matt's arms itch to throw a punch. It’s what he does, always.

But this is a new situation so he can’t hit like he does on the rink. Instead, Matt digs his nails into his palm until warm liquid sprouts from under his fingers. “I didn’t even want to be here.” Partially a lie. Something about Chris standing in his room the other night made him think — it made him feel… He shakes his head and sighs, releasing his fist.

He should’ve seen this from a mile away.

Always happens.

“Sure, my favorite food is pizza,” he grumbles, crossing his arms to keep them from shaking. Matt wants out of this van. This is exactly why he spends all his stupid time alone. 

“Great! Now say that again, but with a little more umph in it.” Nick leans over Matt’s shoulder, lacing his words with forced sarcasm. “You talk like you’re not even speaking. You mumble.”

“Get away from me.”

Chris snorts. “Okay, tough guy.”

Matt fixes his eyes on the steering wheel. The patterns are old, pressed in and worn out by Moms and Dads fingers.

Chris pulls his seatbelt to the buckle, sending Nick a knowing look that reads ‘I knew this would happen.’ “Let’s just go home since Matt wants to make everything about himself.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

Invisible tendrils curl around his throat. A mix of moldy fear and anger boils over him, slipping over, seeping into every crevice of his body. He inhales a deep breath, exhales and slumps forward. “Fine.”

The backseat light clicks off. They can’t see the tremor in his fingers or how he blinks away a spurt of hot tears. 

Never again.

He has a game tomorrow anyway. Sleep is important or something.