Chris sits in what was Andy's room, looking down at an old photo. Jess, Chris, Beth and finally Andy at the local arcade, all wearing fake moustaches. The Fantastic Four of they dubbed themselves once they all began hanging out (though Jess wished for a cooler name). Damn near inseprable, even when the elder siblings moved onto the next step of their education and career. But when they got the news of Andy's passing, it was nothing short of devastating. Those soft brown eyes stare at the whisky in his hands, "Happy Birthday, Andy. We miss you everyday, hope you and my folks are getting along up there."
One thing Riley knows, without having to explain how or why, is that Chris has to be held tightly in the palm of God's hand. He knows his sister is particular and in a lot of ways peculiar. Photographic memory tells him nothing has been moved since the last time he'd been here...and that was almost a decade ago. And yet the boy ~scratch that~ the man sitting there still has his flesh on his bones. No open wounds seeping blood onto the bed. The echo of her screaming for Chris to get out of Riley's room haunts the air nor shatters glass. Suddenly, he feels...old. He unhitches his bag from his shoulder then rolls his neck from side to side. It cracks quietly before he leans in the door frame, folding his arms across his chest. His chest aches for the loss. For the missing years. For seeing Chris without his emotional armor on, and can only imagine what Jess might say. He can almost feel the sting of her palm and the air being cut off from a hug. But he is here. Maybe not in one piece but...it's better than where he's been. The things he's been doing. "I dunno, kid. Your moms honestly scares the crap out of me. Whenever I looked at her, I felt a chancla in my future."