𝗖𝗥𝗬 𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬, chris sturniolo.

𝟬𝟬𝟮. ( the sleepwalker )

CHRIS STUMBLES INTO THE APARTMENT, using matt as support before moving away from his brother and collapsing onto the couch. he lays there for a second, every bleeding and bruised spot on his body aching and throbbing.

"chris if you get blood on the couch i swear to fucking god—" he hears nick say, but doesn't react. he just continues laying there, focusing on his breathing. it feels like his heart is beating a million miles an hour, his chest still moving rapidly up and down.

despite the pain it causes him, he lifts up his arm and stares at his hands, which are wrapped in gauze. he grimaces at the state of the bandage, covered in his own blood. he can feel the way it's also dried against his face from where his nose had begun bleeding in the car.

chris gazes around his home. the main part of the apartment is one large room, which encapsulates the living room, dining room, and kitchen all in one. it's a pretty old building, so the walls are all brick and the floors are made of worn-out wood, but he loves the feel the place has. it would be his ideal home, if only their heating wasn't currently broken and nick didn't always use up all the hot water in the shower. it angers him to think about how all the spoiled brats just down the block could shower for hours and it would never get cold. unfortunately, he and his brothers just can't afford such luxuries.

on the other side of the room, matt sits at the dining table, scrolling on his phone. unlike chris, he's escaped any sort of serious injuries today. the only evidence that he's even stepped in the ring is the small cut on his eyebrow.

meanwhile, nick is in the kitchen, rummaging through one of their cabinets to find all of their medicine and bandaids. he takes out a large box filled with ointments, bandages, and basically everything that belong in a nurse's office, before carrying it over to where chris is on the couch.

chris flinches as nick takes one of his hands, the pain coursing all the way up his arm. he didn't even have a proper fight today, just sparring, but he'd been distracted. usually whenever he fights, his mind is blank, but today had been different. he just doesn't know why.

nick unravels the bandages around chris' knuckles, revealing a spray of cuts and bruises scattered across his skin.

"jesus, who the fuck did you fight today?" nick exclaims, eyes widening at the sight. he quickly dabs on some ointment with a cotton pad, and chris winces, ripping his hand away. nick huffs, taking it back and holding it tightly so that he can continue.

"tristan," chris replies through gritted teeth, feeling his anger grow at just the thought of the boy.

"oh," nick says, now quietening down as he knows tristan ford is a tough subject for his brothers. chris and tristan have absolutely had it out for one another since the triplets joined the boxing club when they were fifteen. chris hates everything about tristan: he's a fucking asshole who speaks badly of everyone, especially girls, but gets away with it because of his looks. normally, chris enjoys fighting against tristan because it means he gets to add a few blemishes to his perfect face. today just wasn't that day, much to his annoyance.

it's because of tristan that the boxing club, cherub, is the last place chris ever wants to be. at 20, he's one of the oldest and by far most successful fighters, and should feel on top of the world every time he enters the ring. the younger boys fear him, the older ones are jealous of him, and chris usually would've reveled in it, but because of that one stupid guy all he feels is...

trapped. tired. sick of it.

tristan has always been second to chris in everything when it comes to being a cherub: fighting skill, earning respect from his trainers and peers, and attention. despite the guy's pretty face, chris is more popular with the girls. chris loves it, knowing how much it drives tristan crazy, but the constant rivalry is beginning to exhaust him. so much so that he let himself get his ass beat today.