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chrissturnsfav · 7 days ago

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there’s so much going through my head rn…

─────── ꒰ THE FRAT WEDDING SERIES ꒱ SPECIAL.

the fake frat wedding event between shy!reader and fratboy!chris, written in fratboy!chris' perspective─a peek inside his mind.

tw. mentions of cocaine.

shy!reader's perspective. ╰› ꒰ part one ꒱ ꒰ part two ꒱ ꒰ part three ꒱ ꒰ part four ꒱

chris doesn't want to wake up, but the loud voices echoing through the frat house left him no choice, pulling him out of sleep and into a sour mood. he can hear some of his frat brothers leaving their rooms, slamming doors behind them and running down the stairs, their footsteps pounding against the floorboards.

it's enough to give chris a headache and make his jaw clench.

for a moment, he considers burying his head under his pillow, hoping to smother the noise. but now that he's awake—and extremely pissed off—there's no going back.

sleep isn't an option for him anymore.

grumbling under his breath, he forces himself out of bed, his muscles aching with stiffness from a restless night, and his body feels heavy as he shuffles toward his bathroom. he runs a hand through his tangled, messy hair, and he stares at his reflection in the mirror.

dark circles hang under his empty eyes, and his grouchy expression somehow looks even worse this morning. nightmares, he thinks. fucking nightmares.

he goes through his morning routine quickly, brushing his teeth and splashing cold water on his face in a half-hearted attempt to get rid of the grogginess. he opens the cabinet above the sink and grabs an orange pill bottle from the shelf, and with ease, he pops open the lid and shakes it until a single pill falls into his palm.

the sight of the nearly empty bottle makes him scowl, and he makes a mental note to ask matt to take him to the drugstore to stock up. but for now, he tosses the pill into his mouth and leans over the sink, drinking straight from the tap to wash it down.

chris leaves the bathroom and trudges out of his room, letting out a tired yawn as he heads downstairs. he threads his fingers lazily through his hair, rubbing at his face with a groggy sigh as the sound of frat brothers snickering in the living room irks his nerves.

he ignores them, making a beeline for the kitchen, but as he steps in, he stops abruptly. his gaze lands on you, and his tired eyes narrow slightly.

"didn't know you were comin' over," he grumbles tiredly, his attention shifting to the tupperware container in front of you, filled with veggies and cubes of chicken. "what? don't have food at your place? gotta be all greedy 'n eat ours?"

you glance up at him and respond softly, "nate made it for me," there's a pause in the conversation before you ask, "what event are you hosting this weekend?"

chris furrows his brows, your sudden question catching him off guard. "nothin'—we don't have one," he replies flatly, unbothered.

without hesitation, he reaches over you to steal a piece of chicken from the tupperware, popping it into his mouth and chewing lazily. he doesn't bother to say anything else as he turns away and heads for the fridge.

opening the door, he rummages through the shelves until he spots the juice bottle he shoved in the back the night before. he unscrews the cap and takes a few gulps, the cold drink refreshing him just enough to keep him functioning for now.

as he drinks, he hears you mutter something under your breath.

"but they're planning something in there..."

chris slowly turns to look at you over the juice bottle he's currently holding near his mouth, his brows knitting together like you've just said something utterly ridiculous. which, to him, you have.

planning something? the frat isn't hosting any big event this weekend, it's just a regular party—he's positive.

"the fuck you talkin' about?" he asks, his tone flat, his eyes hard as he stares at you. before you can answer, nate bursts into the kitchen, interrupting you both as he slings an arm around chris' bare shoulder.

chris stiffens at the unwanted contact, his irritation spiking as his glare sharpens, hardly biting back a harsh remark when nate grins and starts talking, wanting him to follow.

chris doesn't move at first, his jaw tightening as he shoots nate a withering look before he reluctantly trails behind, keeping a few steps behind you. but he stops in his tracks when the three of you step into the living room, his eyes sweeping over the room.

the frat brothers are all huddled together, grinning like idiots. he notices kitty and bee are here too, but he stays quiet, his tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek as he leans against the doorframe, watching everything unfold.

nate grabs a hate from the coffee table and shakes it in front of you, ordering you to pull out a folded piece of paper. chris' brows furrow, his annoyance growing even more when nate grabs a second hat and strides toward him, shaking it in front of his face to prompt him to pick next.

chris stares blankly before refusing, "no."

nate clicks his tongue against his teeth, clearly unimpressed with him, but chris doesn't care. he doesn't move, doesn't even say another word as nate turns to bee to ask her to pick from the hat instead.

his patience is wearing thin.

what the fuck is going on?

chris stays quiet as nate starts counting down, and his eyes flick to you as you begin to unfold your slip of paper, the confused look that spreads across your face making his brows furrow in suspicion.

he tilts his head slightly, trying to read your expression, and then he sees it—your name, scrawled across the paper messily as you hold it up for everyone to see.

his confusion deepens when bee unfolds her slip next, revealing his own name written across it. chris' gaze hardens, slowly shifting between the two slips of paper.

something feels off.

"congrats, bun 'n chris..." he hears nate say, his voice dripping with amusement. "you're gettin' married."

chris tenses up as the room erupts into laughter and hollers. his jaw locks, his eyes widen, and a strange, unbearable ringing fills his ears, drowning out the noise. his chest tightens as his head snaps toward matt, who's already looking at him. matt's expression is calm, almost reassuring, subtly telling him that it's okay and to calm down.

but chris isn't okay.

he's far from calm.

his eyes dart back to nate, and his glare sharpens into something deadly, his nostrils flaring. his clammy palms ball into tight fists at his side, his body rigid. he notices your lips are moving too, but he can't hear a fucking word you say.

it's like the world around him has muted itself, leaving only the thoughts racing in his mind at a hundred miles per second.

finally, something snaps into place, and he finds his voice.

“m’not gettin’ married.” he growls, his tone low but firm as his body coils in tight, ready to snap. “you’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”

“you’re actin’ as if this is real, bro,” a frat brother pipes up, his tone light and amused, which only makes chris’ anger simmer hotter. “s’all fun ‘n games. it's a chance to get fucked up. and it’s part of the rules... if you get picked to do somethin’…. you gotta do it.”

“especially when your name got picked out of a hat,” nate chimes in next, his grin widening across his face.

chris' heart thumps wildly in his chest, his pulse pounding as his head slowly swivels to look back at nate. his nostrils flare again, and he takes a step forward, his hand outstretched and tone demanding.

"let me see the hat."

nate’s grin doesn’t falter as he quickly pulls the hat away, holding it just out of chris’ reach, and chris' scowl deepens, his frustration bubbling dangerously close to the surface as he tries to grab it again.

the sound of the frat brothers’ laughter keeps ringing in his ears, making his face grow hot with anger. chris lunges for the hat again, but nate is too fast, keeping it just out of reach, and chris can feel the overwhelming heat of embarrassment and rage crawling up his neck.

something is up, chris thinks. something is wrong.

"let me see the hat," he snaps again, his voice harsh and commanding. but nate only laughs, shaking his head, his grin never faltering.

but before chris can snap completely, another frat brother calls out his name, reminding him that he needs to prep the stash for the party. that makes chris stop, and he pulls his focus away from everything around him as he exhales through his nose.

money is important, he reminds himself, his thoughts shifting abruptly. just focus on your money. forget this bullshit.

without another word, he turns on his heel, leaving the others behind as he heads toward his room. his hands still tremble faintly, his chest still tight, but he forces himself to push it all down.

one thing at a time.

the party’s coming, and he has work to do.

whether nate is playing some stupid game or not, chris doesn’t care—at least, that’s what he tells himself.

as he climbs the stairs, the ringing in his ears fades, replaced by the single thought that keeps him moving:

forget it.

just get through the weekend.

the weekend comes faster than chris expects, and now he's just a few hours away from fake marrying you for the sake of some stupid frat tradition. he doesn't understand why you and him were picked for this, and it pisses him off even more that no one considered matt and kitty—or nate and bee—actual couples who could've done this instead.

but no. it had to be him.

it always had to be him.

standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom, chris exhales sharply, his stress and annoyance already gnawing at him as his fingers fumble with his tie and the stiff collar of his suit, the fabric feeling foreign and suffocating against his neck.

the suit is an old one—something he bought for prom back in high school but never actually wore. he thought he'd trashed it years ago as he vividly remembers the moment he shoved it into the garbage back home.

apparently his mom had other plans.

she must've fished it out, washed it thoroughly, and stashed it away in case he 'needed it someday'. he didn't think he would fucking need it for some fake, stupid wedding.

yet, here he is.

chris exhales again, this time more forcefully, as he tries—and fails—to tie the damn fucking tie. every time he loops it, pulls it, or adjusts it, it comes undone—mocking him like everything else today.

he glares at his reflection, considering to just ditch the suit altogether. a sweatshirt and jeans would do just fine, even some of the other frat brothers aren't even bothering to dress up properly... so why should he?

a few of them are in hoodies, ripped jeans, denim shorts and even crop tops, while others are wearing suits with goofy props purely for some dramatic effect.

the only reason he hasn't ripped the tie off and thrown it across the room is because of the screen on his phone, propped up against a few cologne bottles on the sink, showcasing a series of texts from justin who gives him step-by-step instructions on how to tie the tie properly

chris' eyes flick down to the latest message, and he grits his teeth, following the instructions as best as he can. his fingers are trembling too much, his patience wearing thin, and his irritation only grows stronger with every failed attempt.

justin had to do this too, chris remembers that. he remembers him talking about it years ago—the same frat, the same stupid tradition. justin had to fake marry some sorority chick he was best friends with.

chris remembers seeing the photos. he remembers laughing back then at how silly it all looked. he remembers smiling back then at how justin managed to make it fun.

but chris isn't laughing now.

he isn't even smiling now.

chris glances back at his reflection, and the tie still isn't right—the knot slightly crooked—but fuck, he doesn't even care anymore. he's done. he grabs his phone, typing a quick reply to justin as he walks into his room, tossing the phone onto his bed as he runs his fingers through his hair.

he looks ridiculous. he feels ridiculous. and the worst part is, it's not even about the suit, or the tie. it's about him. it's about the whirlwind of emotions crashing through him right now: uncomfortable, stupid, humiliated, mocked.

it's emotions he hasn't felt in a long time—emotions he doesn't know how to handle anymore, not without cutting up a line or two, letting the burn numb his throat, and sinking into that blissful silence where his mind finally shuts the fuck up.

but now? there's no escape. the tie feels like it's suffocating him, the stiff fabric digging into his neck and he tugs at it, his fingers curling around the knot as if loosening it will somehow loosen the tightness in his chest.

why is this happening? why the fuck is this happening?

chris' mind spins as he glares at his reflection in the mirror that's in his room, his jaw tightening. did someone put his name in the hat more than once? nah. surely not. they wouldn't do that to him. they couldn't do that to him.

he bites down on the inside of his cheek, his thoughts racing. maybe it's just his shitty luck. he always has shitty luck—it's nothing new. that's not a surprise. but still, this feels different.

chris exhales sharply though his nose, a low growl of frustration rumbling in his throat as his reflection stares back at him, mocking him again.

he feels like a joke.

chris yanks at his tie again, loosening it even more so it hangs around his neck. he doesn't care anymore. he doesn't even know why he's still wearing the fucking thing.

he stares at himself for another moment, his teeth gritted, his hands twitching at his sides. maybe it is the tie, he tries telling himself. maybe it is the suit... maybe it's the fact that no matter how much he tries to act like he doesn't give a fuck, he does.

too much.

and that sets him off.

his movements are sharp—almost frantic—as he pulls open his drawers and grabs a worn metal tin box covered in peeling stickers, his fingers fumbling as he thumbs it open, revealing his stash inside.

he rifles through it quickly, pocketing a few baggies for later, but his focus is locked on one thing—the white powder-filled baggie sitting at the bottom.

he pours some of the powder onto the surface of his dresser before he grabs his wallet and pulls out a credit card, the edge of the card scraping against the wood as he works quickly, cutting the powder into one precise, clean line.

without thinking, without even hesitating, he plugs one nostril and leans down, inhaling sharply.

the burn hits immediately, sharp and familiar as it shoots up his nose. chris tilts his head back with a quiet groan as the grainy sensation settles in the back of his throat. it's not pleasant—not really—but that doesn't matter. what matters it the lump that forms, sliding down his throat.

that's it. that's the deal sealed.

he stays like that for a second, his head tilted back, his chest rising and falling as the feeling starts working its way through him slowly. his pulse picks up, his mind clouds over, and the tension in his shoulders begins to release.

he's fine now.

he runs a hand down his face, exhaling a long, shaky breath. his reflection stares back at him, but this time, it feels more distant—less suffocating. the suit still looks ridiculous, the tie still hangs crooked around his neck, but it doesn’t matter because he's fine.

he keeps telling himself that as he grabs the tin box, shoving it back into the drawer and slamming it shut.

it’s fine.

everything is fine.

he’s fine.

chris doesn't know how long it's been since the event started. he's spent most of his time surrounded by familiar faces, collecting money as he sells his stash into hands of other frat brothers and partygoers.

he's joined in a few conversations here and there, humouring people with idle smirks and half-hearted chuckles. most of the time though, he's rolling his eyes at the outfits people are wearing at the party: fancy suits and dresses are mixed in with mishap clothing, and some are even wearing costumes.

at one point, he spots a frat brother waddling around the decorated garden in a hot dog costume.

and then he saw nick.

for a moment, chris thinks the coke has finally fried his brain when he sees his brother standing near in a snazzy suit and a camera draped around his neck.

nick—who practically refuses to set foot in the frat house, who's turned down every invite to events—is here. chris almost does a double take, blinking hard like nick might vanish if he looks away.

but no, it was really him.

he's spoken with both nick and matt now. they had found him earlier, hanging around the edge of the crowd and stayed long enough to exchange a few words. nick had seemed ecstatic, tossing out a couple of jokes while matt stood nearby, arms crossed, taking it all in with that quiet, observant look on his face as he watches chris.

they both pretty much told him the same thing: just enjoy the night. relax for once.

relax.

chris scoffed at the advice, and matt even tried fixing his crooked tie, but chris flicked his hand away with a sharp; "fuck off, man. m'fine." nick didn't even bother trying—just gave him one of those knowing looks before walking off to do whatever.

now they're both gone.

matt's probably off somewhere with kitty, and nick? nick's likely tracking you down. he's always had a soft spot for you, chris knows that much. but nick and matt being gone means chris is back to being surrounded by other people—people who don't really matter to him, people whose faces blur together as the night drags on.

chris hasn't spoken to you yet, though he's seen you around. he catches glimpses of you standing on the sidelines, keeping to yourself in that white babydoll dress. you look small, fragile, watching everything around you like a deer caught in headlights.

his gaze lingers on you longer than he means to, but tears it away once nate and nick have accompanied you. part of chris wonders what you're thinking, if you hate this as much as he does, if you want to leave as much as he does.

he will never ask though, he doesn't even know if he wants to.

but for now, he'll keep his distance—until the time comes.

and fuck, that time comes fast as the night drags on.

he doesn't bother excusing himself from the people he's been in conversation with for the past hour. he just pushes through the crowd, shoving his way toward you—who, of course, is now surrounded by all your shared friends and brothers.

"can we get this shit over with?" he snaps immediately asks as he stands next to you, his fingers tugging at his tie again, feeling like it's constricting his throat despite it already hanging loose.

no one responds, which doesn't surprise him. then he hears you hum something—soft and unsure—and it makes something in him snap again.

"m'serious. lets get this shit over with before i fuckin' lose it."

that seems to work, because you're nodding your head to agree with him, and the group finally starts moving. nate, of course, can't resist making a joking remark, but chris shoots him a glare so sharp it shuts him up.

the group walks toward the makeshift ceremony setup, and the others scatter to find their seats—and odd collections of mismatched chairs, bar stools, bean bags, whatever.

chris makes his way to the altar and scoffs, his lip pulling into a grimace as he sees the empty beer cans, red solo cups, and... is that toilet paper? draped across in a half-assed attempt.

he stands stiffly at the altar, refusing to look at you when two frat brothers walk you down the makeshift aisle. he doesn't look up when he catches glimpses of phones aimed at you both either, recording everything.

the sound of drunken giggling, laughter, and hushed whispers fills his ears, and it makes his skin crawl.

chris barely pays attention to the frat brother playing the role of the officiant, slurring his way through a speech filled with jokes that make the crowd howl with laughter. but chris isn't laughing. neither are you.

this is uncomfortable.

when it's time for the 'vows', chris feels his stomach twist, and his grits his teeth, already dreading what's coming as the frat brother coaxes you into speaking first.

you take it seriously. too seriously for him to handle.

you talk about being there for him, about being his friend when he needs one. you even try to sprinkle in little jokes of your own—soft, harmless ones that are meant to make the crowd laugh. and they do. they laugh again and again and again.

chris feels mocked.

his jaw tightens, his shoulders stiffening up as he stares at nick and matt in the crowd. they're giving him small smiles, subtly nods, reassuring glances, but the laughter from everyone else feels sharp, cutting through him like needles.

he hates it. he feels stupid. he feels humiliated. he feels awful.

why are you doing this? why are you talking about him like that? are you trying to make them laugh at him?

his blood boils, coke pulsing through his veins, making his thoughts race in angry erratic loops: this is on purpose, this is on purpose, this is on—

"bun," he speaks when it's his turn, his tone dripping with sarcasm as his jaw clenches tight. he has to fix this. he has to take everyone's attention away from the humiliation clawing at him. he can feel the heat rising in his chest, the anger bubbling under his skin.

relax. make it funny. disract them.

"i vow to keep uh... keep fuckin' you. keep makin' you scream my name."

the reaction is immediate.

the crowd erupts into cheers, hollering and howling with laughter so loud it drowns out every other thought in his head. the weight on his chest feels lighter now, the suffocating embarrassment replaced by a familiar rush of control.

chris doesn't stop there.

he rolls his shoulders back, loosening up as he keeps going, each word filthier and more explicit than the last. he talks about everything—every little thing that's obvious about your situationship, every detail that will make the crowd laugh harder and louder.

and it works.

it works because now they're laughing with him instead of at him.

chris finally finishes his speech, and he exhales slowly, finally able to relax—or at least pretend to—as the noise washes over him.

the frat brother officiant stumbles through some more slurred words, something chris doesn't even bother trying to comprehend. he feels the cold glass of a vodka bottle shoved into his clammy hands, nearly fumbling it, and the movement of a plastic tiara being placed on your head catches his eye.

he glances at you briefly. just for a second—and then you're moving.

you're pushing through the crowd as they stagger up to the altar. you're moving fast—too fast—you don't stop, and you don't look back. you're gone so quick that you're nothing but a blur in chris' vision.

chris doesn't focus on it too much. he doesn't let himself focus on it as he's too overwhelmed by the crowd swarming him now, their laughter and slurred congratulations for this fake bullshit.

hands reach out to pat his back, to clap him on the shoulder, to ruffle his hair... chris hates it.

the noise, the touches, the smiles—all of it. it's suffocating. he decides to shove his way through the crowd, muttering for everyone to 'get the fuck off him' as they try to stumble into his way.

he doesn't want them right now.

what he wants are his brothers.

chris' eyes scan around, searching for matt and nick. they've always been his anchor, the only ones who can ground him when he feels like this—overwhelmed, irritated, and on the verge of losing his shit.

but they're not here.

he spots them moving away, slipping through the garden in a hurry and heading toward the frat house. they don't even glance in his direction, and that makes chris falter, his steps slowing as his eyebrows knit together.

why aren't they coming to him?

it's close to the end of the event when matt and nick finally bother to show up, but chris doesn't even look at them: not when matt pulls out one of the garden chairs to sit beside him, not when nick plants himself directly in front of him, tapping his foot against the ground.

chris sits slouched in his own chair, a joint dangling between his fingers, the other hand flipping through a wad of cash from the stash he sold tonight.

they money keeps him focus, gives him something to do—or at least something to stop that feeling that's been sitting in his chest all night.

"are you serious, chris?" nick's voice cuts through the silence, unable to control himself. "like, are you fucking dumb?"

"what?" chris murmurs disinterestedly, still counting the rest of the money before rolling it up neatly and pocketing it. only then does he glance up at nick through the haze of smoke, taking a slow drag from his joint, exhaling a cloud in his brother's direction.

"think you took it too far, man," matt speaks up, his tone quieter, a sigh slipping through his words as he rolls his tongue across his teeth. "bun's really—"

"think?" nick cuts him off, his voice rising slightly. "you think he took it too far? he did take it too far. why would you even say something like that during the vows, chris? all that shit about bun—"

"dude, keep your voice down," matt hisses, nudging nick's calf with his shoe. his eyes flick toward the last partygoers that stumble across the lawn, planning to call ubers or to walk in groups back to wherever they're staying. "nick's got a point, though. that shit you said about bun—"

"what about me?"

chris' voice cuts through the air, sharp and loud enough to silence the both of them as he looks between his brothers, his shoulders stiff and squared as those familiar but disgusting wave of emotions slowly start returning.

"what.. what about me?" he repeats, his tone faltering just a little which makes him grimace, and he takes another hit of his joint, hoping to calm himself down.

matt and nick exchange glances, but neither of them say anything, and that makes chris shift uncomfortably in his seat. he hunches forward, pressing his elbows into his knees to keep him grounded.

"you don't..." he starts, but the words catch in his throat. he scowls and looks away from both of them, exhaling another cloud of smoke. "didn't even fuckin' bother earlier. just left me—didn't even fuckin' look at me."

his voice cracks slightly at the end, and it pisses him off more than anything. he clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth as he stares at the ground, refusing to meet their eyes.

matt lets out a deep sigh as he leans back in his chair, rubbing at his jaw. "it wasn't like that, kid. we weren't—"

"don't wanna wear it," chris mutters bitterly, cutting matt off mid-sentence. his leg bounces restlessly now, unable to hold it down with his elbow, but it only makes the movement more erratic, jostling up and down as if it has a mind of its own. "do... do you even know how..."

his voice falters, trailing off as he struggles to get his words out once again. his jaw tightens, and he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. his free hand twitches, fingers curling and uncurling like he's fighting to keep control.

"i... i'm uncomfortable."

that seems to grab nick and matt's attention instantly, and they both exchange a glance, their eyes wide with surprise. neither of them expected those to be the next words coming out of his mouth—especially not out here in the open.

"okay..." matt hums softly, his tone measured and careful now, like he's trying not to spook a wild animal. "what made you feel uncomfortable?"

chris can't help but scoff, his walls slowly starting to rise again, brick by brick. he prods his tongue against the inside of his cheek, "this stupid fuckin' event. i don't... don't—fuck."

abruptly, chris shoves himself out of the chair, standing tall. he drags his fingers through his tousled hair before rubbing his face with both hands, his shoulders tense and hunched.

he doesn't even notice—or care—that his joint has slipped from his fingers, now lying forgotten in the grass beneath his shoes.

matt stays seated, his worried gaze fixed on chris like he's trying to figure out how to help like he always does. nick, on the other hand, hesitates for a moment before reaching out a hand, intending to place it on chris' shoulder.

chris steps away before nick can touch him, his movements quick, creating space between them both.

he doesn't want to be touched.

not now.

"i... i understand frat traditions, 'kay? i get it. m'not stupid," chris starts again, his voice rough, his words tumbling out as his mouth feels dry and his tongue heavy. "if you get picked, you gotta do whatever bullshit is goin' on. i know how it works. but—but this...? s'fucked up. i should've been allowed to say no—you should've said somethin'..."

his eyes dart between nick and matt, but the silence they give him only makes the air feeling heavier. chris takes a shaky breath, trying not to focus too hard on the way they're staring at him—like they're waiting for him to crack.

"but nah," he continues, his voice bitter. "i had to get picked. my—my luck had to fuck me over, right? only pull my name out of a stupid fuckin' hat."

chris doesn't notice the guilty looks that nick and matt wear, their eyes flicking toward each other like they're silently deciding who should speak first. his mind is too loud, too chaotic to really paying attention to anything as he fumbles for his pockets, his hands desperate for something to ground him again.

but when his fingers come up empty, the realisation hits him like a punch to the gut.

he's out.

he sold the last bag.

fuck.

"hey," nick finally speaks up, his voice soft but strained, like he's bracing himself for some sort of impact. he scratches the back of his neck, his discomfort clear as he shifts awkwardly on his feet. "we... we need to tell you something about the hat—"

"i don't wanna hear it," chris interrupts, cutting him off with the same words he'd thrown at them earlier. he doesn't want to talk anymore. he's done. he's already too angry, too annoyed, his emotions are haywire.

he needs to go.

without another word, chris turns on his heel and stalks off, not bothering to tell nick goodbye or to tell matt he'll see him back at the frat. he doesn't owe them that—not right now.

his hands twitch at his sides as he pushes through the cluster of frat bothers still lingering around the entrance, his eyes staying locked on the ground with his jaw clenched so tight that it physically hurts him.

some of the guys call out his name—trying to talk or whatever else—but chris doesn't care. he doesn't even look back. he just keeps walking, keeps shoving past everyone until he's inside and climbing the stairs step by step.

all he wants is to lock himself in his room, strip off his suffocating clothing and crash. he doesn't want to deal with anyone's bullshit—not tonight.

but when he opens the door to his room, he stops.

you're standing at his dresser, your back to him, pulling out a shirt like it's the most normal thing in the world. (it is, but he's too far gone from the cocaine and his emotions). you're quiet, focused, not even sparing him a glance—just like matt and nick.

and chris can't help it.

he snaps.

"what is it?" chris barks, his eyebrows furrowing as he yanks the tie around his neck as you glance at him over your shoulder. but you still don't say anything, still so quiet. "huh? what is it?"

"what are you—"

"you've been weird with me all night, kid," he cuts you off sharply, managing to get that fucking tie off his neck before he hurls it onto the unmade bed. "think i didn't notice you pullin' some runaway bride bullshit?"

"you're not funny," you mutter under your breath, voice barely audible, but he hears it, and he scoffs.

"m'not tryin' to be," he shoots back, fingers moving to unbutton his shirt, feeling his heart thud heavily in his chest beneath his fingertips. chris is still on edge, his emotions running wild from everything that's happened. "you gonna tell me what the fuck is goin' on? or you just gonna keep sulkin' all night?"

chris watches as you turn slowly to face him, and for a moment, he actually tries to read your expression, to figure out why you've been acting so off—why you ran away earlier. but all he sees is that kicked puppy look on your face when you're upset.

it makes him want to scowl.

"you really don't know?"

chris pushes back immediately. "know what?"

"forget it."

he watches in disbelief as you turn your back to him, and his heartbeat grows louder, drumming in his ears as his frustration threatens to boil over completely.

maybe it's the coke he did earlier still swimming around in his system—or maybe it's something else entirely—but chris doesn't have it in him to just let it go. not right now.

he wants to fucking know.

"nah, don't pull that shit," he says as he shakes his head, his tone a lot sharper than it was before. "if you've got a problem, just fuckin' say it."

"okay," you snap at him, and chris deadpans at you, not expecting you to sound like that. "you... you humiliated me, chris. in front of everyone, you made me look like—like some joke... i—i get it, okay? this whole thing was supposed to be stupid and fun, and i know you hated doing it, but you didn't have to say all that stuff... you didn't have to make it so public and so embarrassing for me. it wasn't funny. it just... it made me feel awful."

chris blinks, catching one word quick.

humiliated.

he hears it loud and clear at first, but the other words start to sink in too, one by one, drawing his attention instead. the things he said about the two of you hooking up... that's why you're being weird? because of something so blatantly obvious to everyone around them both?

chris wants to laugh. he genuinely wants to laugh at how ridiculous this all sounds to him, but he doesn't. he exhales through his nose instead, keeping himself steady.

"you're takin' this way too personally, kid. everyone knows the fuckin' shit we do, yeah? everyone knows we're hooking up so i dunno why you're makin' it such a big deal," he ends up saying instead, unapologetic. because it's true. "it's not that deep."

"you don't get it. i.. i know that people know. i'm not stupid. but it doesn't mean—you can't just—we—" he hears you take a big breathe in between your rambling speech. "you can't just talk about me like that in front of everyone... even if they already know, even if they assume stuff.. it's still humiliating to hear you say it in front of them."

there's that word again.

humiliating.

chris doesn't know why, but this time the word definitely sticks. it claws its way into his chest, pressing down on his ribs until it gets harder to breathe.

humiliated.

you were humiliated.

just like him.

the realisation hits him harder than he expects, and he doesn't know what the fuck to say. it's not like chris to feel guilty or hurt anymore—but the weight of that ten-letter word doesn't loosen its grip. it stays with him, pushing and pulling at his chest, making him feel so raw and exposed in a way he doesn't know how to handle.

he doesn't say anything. he just looks at you, his hands still at the half-unbuttoned shirt on his chest, the silence stretching between you both.

and for once, chris doesn't know what to do.

he takes a long moment to collect himself, his thoughts racing too fast for him to catch. he tilts his head back slightly, as if the angle might somehow help oxygen flow back into his lungs a little easier.

he doesn't want to do this.

but he has to.

he has to.

he knows how it feels.

he has to.

"i.." he starts, but the words stick in his throat, foreign and heavy. he feels nauseous, his stomach twisting into tight knots, but he forces himself to continue. "i'm... i'm sorry, 'kay?"

the apology feels clumsy and awkward on his tongue—like it doesn't belong there. he notices the silence that follows, and it makes his skin crawl as he slowly glances at you, his eyes meeting yours for just a second before flicking away again.

he feels awkward. he feels exposed.

he feels humiliated.

that fucking word—that feeling—he hates it.

"i didn't mean..." he trails off, shoulders tensing up as the words catch again. he swallows hard, the lump in his throat almost choking him. "didn't mean t'make you embarrassed, s'all."

he can't bring himself to say that other word. he can't even think it without his chest feeling tight.

and he can't even look at you either, his gaze staying locked on the wall. he feels so fucking uncomfortable, like he's crawling out of his own skin. this isn't him—this hasn't been him in a long time.

"thank you for apologising..."

your voice is soft, but he doesn't response. he can't. the idea of answering—of dragging on this moment any further, makes his chest ache and stomach twist even more. instead, a strangled noise escapes his throat, low and guttural, and he turns away from you.

his back is to you now, his trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. he finally gets it off, tossing the fabric carelessly onto the chair in his room. he moves to his belt next, desperate to free himself from the stuffy clothing that clings to him like second skin.

when he's stripped down to just his boxers, he slumps into his bed without another word. his body feels heavy and drained, but his mind is still plainfully active: thoughts swirling and crashing into each other.

he bures his face into the pillow, trying to block it all out and to stop that fucking nauseating feeling—he wants to forget.

humiliation.

that word claws at him, refusing to let go.

he wish it never existed.

divider credits. @issysh3ll

#⋆˙⟡ molly's recs #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo

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