Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
FUCKED UP KINDA DREAM
Matt Sturniolo fanfic
Pairing: y/n x enemy!matt
Backstory: Y/n and Matt are childhood enemies forced to be around each other by their parents who are good friends. On top of that they’re neighbors and y/n is best friends with Matt’s triplet brothers Chris and Nick. The undeniable pull Matt and y/n feel for each other doesn’t help in the slightest. Will they continue pretending they’re enemies or will they snap and give in?
Warnings: swearing, being under the influence, concussion, tension, anxiety, fight
Word count: 3.6k+
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I spot Nick near the vehicle, frantic, visibly unraveling, and completely out of his depth in a way I’ve rarely seen before. He’s holding his phone pressed tight against his right ear, calling their parents while pacing back and forth across the damp gravel driveway in sharp, uneven, jerky steps. He is muttering something under his breath about Matt getting into a bloody fight, his body practically humming with anxious, unchanneled energy as he shifts his weight restlessly from foot to foot, his sneakers crunching loudly against the small stones. I stand back for a split second near the concrete edge of the driveway, taking in the absolute, surreal chaos unfolding around us in the cool night air. The ambient party noise from Mike’s backyard—the thumping subwoofers vibrating the ground, the drunk laughter echoing from the back patio, the occasional clinking of cheap red plastic cups—feels miles away, totally drowned out by the harsh, pulsing red lights of an ambulance parked near the curb, casting long, eerie shadows across the front lawn.
I walk up to him the exact second he hangs up his phone, stepping directly into his line of sight to anchor him before he loses his mind entirely. “Nick? What the fuck happened?” I ask, my voice laced with immediate panic as my eyes dart right past his shoulder toward the open rear doors of the emergency vehicle.
I see Chris hovering anxiously over Matt, who is lying flat on a stretcher with a pair of exhausted, stern-looking paramedics standing over him, trying their absolute best to keep him still and stabilized.
“Matt, fuck. He got into a fight. Fuck, with Andrew,” Nick says, violently running a hand through his unstyled hair and tugging hard at the roots until his knuckles turn white. His voice cracks with pure, unadulterated disbelief, his breathing fast and shallow.
What the actual fuck.
“Fuck you mean with Andrew? I- they were talking normally just minutes ago.” My brain completely refuses to make the connection or process the sheer absurdity of the statement. I had literally just seen them standing near the large metal cooler in the open garage no more than fifteen minutes ago, exchanging cold, terse, but relatively civil nods. They weren't friends by any stretch of the imagination, but they weren't actively swinging at each other either. It didn't make any sense at all.
Nick is quiet for a long, heavy moment, staring down at his worn sneakers as if the rubber soles held all the answers before slowly raising his bloodshot eyes to meet my gaze. “Apparently Matt punched him because Andrew said something about Matt’s victory earlier. Something that it was all staged anyway.”
“But it wasn’t. What the fuck?”
“I know it wasn’t! So… Matt punched him and they got into a full-blown fight. I don’t think I need to tell you who won.”
A few feet away, the tension around the metal stretcher is completely boiling over into pure, unadulterated chaos. “Matt, lay down and be still, calm down,” I hear Chris say, his voice strained, raw, and tight with mounting irritation as he physically holds a squirming, agitated Matt down by his leather jacket sleeves, his knuckles locked onto the leather.
Matt is bleeding heavily from his torn lower lip, a dark smudge of red smearing across his chin and down toward his neck, and his left cheekbone is already swelling into a deep, nasty shade of purple that promises to look even worse by morning. Despite looking utterly wrecked and disoriented, his eyes are wild, blown out, and furious. “Where is that motherfucker- fuck, let me GO!” Matt slurs angrily, thrashing his upper body against Chris’s heavy grip and shoving away the female paramedic who is patiently trying to secure a thick blue canvas safety strap across his chest to keep him from falling off the gurney.
Mary Lou, the triplets’ mom, finally picks up on Nick’s second frantic attempt. “Mom? Hey, we need you by Mike’s party right now. Matt got into a fight and the ambulance is here, please hurry up!” Nick practically yells into the phone speaker, his composure completely shattering as he paces in tight, panicked circles on the grass. I hear the muffled, high-pitched sound of her frantic voice filtering through the small receiver, begging for details and telling Nick to stay on the line and stay right where they are until she arrives.
Moments after, I see her heavy SUV pull frantically into the crowded driveway, the tires skidding with a harsh crunch against the loose gravel at the edge of the lawn. She bursts out of the driver's seat before the engine even has time to cut off completely, leaving the driver's side door wide open as she rushes toward the gurney with her purse slipping off her shoulder. The lead paramedic steps forward to gently intercept her, placing a firm, stabilizing hand on her shoulder to keep her calm while explaining what happened in a quiet, measured tone. He outlines the physical trauma, pointing out the obvious facial bruising, the clear disorientation, and stating firmly that Matt clearly has a severe concussion that needs to be evaluated immediately.
A weird, messed-up part of me felt satisfied seeing him like this—vulnerable, beaten up, and forced to face the immediate, messy consequences of his own stupid, hot-headed temper. But a much bigger part of me felt deeply worried, my chest tightening with an uncomfortable pang of concern that I tried desperately hard to shove down beneath a layer of anger.
I’m standing there, totally frozen in the crisp night air, hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, my jaw clenched tightly. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know whether I should be angry at Matt for creating a massive, dramatic scene or worried for him because he's bruised, bleeding, and dazed on a gurney surrounded by flashing lights. Should I check on Matt? No, he doesn’t deserve that kind of sympathy from me. He brought this entirely on himself, just like he always does with his arrogant, short-fused attitude and his inability to walk away from a conflict.
“By the way, y/n you left your keys here,” Nick says suddenly, cutting straight through my spiraling thoughts as he reaches deep into his coat pocket and hands me my house keys. I thank him quickly and grab them, the cold brass metal biting sharply into my palm as I squeeze them tightly.
I glance over at Matt, and he catches me looking. Even strapped to a gurney with blood drying on his chin and a paramedic shining a bright penlight into his dilated pupils, he can't turn off his insufferable ego or drop his guard for even a single second.
“I could’ve taken him easily, he just took me by surprise,” Matt grumbles under his breath, trying to asshole his way out of it, trying to joke about it like he always does when he completely ruins a situation and wants to deflect. But beneath the forced bravado and the heavily slurred syllables, I can hear the slight pain in his voice, every word dripping with deep physical exhaustion and slurred confusion.
“Was it worth it?” I ask, not even bothering to look directly at him, keeping my tone completely flat, ice-cold, and devoid of any warmth or understanding.
He doesn’t answer. The silence from him is heavy, suffocating, and unnatural for someone who usually has a snappy comeback for everything. I roll my eyes dramatically, turning on my heel to make my way back to my parked car, eager to leave this entire disaster behind me and pretend it never happened.
Then I feel someone grab my wrist, their fingers warm and desperate. Nick.
“Uhh, y/n, could you please just stay here with us?” Nick asks, his eyes wide, watery, and round, practically begging me not to leave him alone to navigate this nightmare with his mom and Chris.
It’s Nick. I can’t say no to him. He’s been there every single time I was feeling down, every time I needed a distraction, or a shoulder to lean on during my absolute worst days. I might as well be there for him now—that’s what real friends do, even when it means enduring deeply uncomfortable, agonizing situations.
“Yeah, okay, I’ll stay.”
So I’m stuck there waiting, standing on the curb for thirty grueling, endless minutes while the paramedics run baseline vitals, clear the area with the homeowner, and secure Matt into the back of the emergency unit. And then they finally take Matt to the hospital. The triplets’ mom and Chris ride in the ambulance—Mary Lou in the front passenger seat gripping her coffee cup, and Chris squeezed into the back next to the gurney—and I drive Nick to St. Mary’s, the hospital where Matt is being taken.
The drive is mostly quiet, the soft, low hum of my car's engine and the faint click of the turn signal filling the oppressive silence between us. Nick spends the entire twenty-minute trip staring blankly out of the passenger window, his pale reflection looking hauntingly ghostly against the dark glass as streetlights sweep by in rhythmic flashes of orange and white.
“He’s gonna be okay, as much as I hate him, he’s a tough guy,” I reassure him, trying to cut through the heavy anxiety hanging in the small vehicle like thick fog. He seems completely lost in his own terrifying thought process, barely processing my words.
Nick doesn’t answer, just makes a quiet, detached ‘mhm’ noise, his fingers restlessly tapping against his knee in a fast, erratic rhythm.
We finally get to the hospital, parking in the visitors' lot under the bright floodlights and rushing through the automatic sliding doors into the warm, clinical interior. The sterile, metallic smell of rubbing alcohol, harsh soap, and disinfectant hits us instantly. After a short wait in the brightly lit hallway near the triage desk, Matt’s doctor steps out of an exam room to update us on his condition. He explains in a calm, practiced tone that Matt has got a concussion without loss of consciousness. But he has got a severe headache and has started to vomit—a standard secondary reaction to acute head trauma, nothing life-threatening or immediately serious, but he strictly can’t play lacrosse for two whole weeks.
Mary-Lou lets out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, rubs her temples tiredly, and excuses herself to go get some lukewarm coffee from the vending machine on the first floor, leaving the three of us standing around the small examination bed while Chris immediately confronts Matt.
“Jesus Chris, Matt. You seriously had to swing at him? What about lacrosse? We have another game in 10 days. You’re the fucking captain.” Chris is angry, totally reasonable—Matt is the captain, the absolute best player on the lacrosse team, the main force behind their entire offensive strategy. Who’s gonna lead them now if he's stuck sitting on the bench in street clothes for two crucial weeks?
Matt just sits hunched over on the edge of the examination bed, clutching a small blue plastic washbasin in his lap, staring blankly down at the pristine white linoleum floor as if he can't bear to meet Chris's eyes.
Nick chimes in, stepping forward and placing a heavy hand on Chris's shoulder to pull him back a step before things escalate further. “Chris, calm down. He’s concussed and drunk, everything you say goes in one ear and out the other. It’s useless.”
Then Chris turns around to face me, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his brow deeply furrowed with irritation. “Why are you here, y/n? You hate Matt.”
“I’m here because Nick asked me to be, and because I kinda like seeing Matt suffer.” Chris snorts at that, a brief, involuntary crack in his stern demeanor as he shakes his head at the cold truth of it.
“I need a snack,” Nick suddenly announces, rubbing his stomach as the initial adrenaline crash leaves him feeling completely hollowed out and exhausted. Chris nods in agreement immediately. “Yeah, me too. Mom said there’s snacks in the vending machine on the first floor, let’s go.”
Nick turns to me, throwing his hands together in a subtle, exaggerated begging gesture. “Y/n, could you just watch him for a bit? Just stay with him for a minute, please?”
I look at Matt, who looks entirely pathetic, slumping forward in a pale blue hospital gown with dark circles under his bruised eyes and his mouth slightly open as he breathes heavy. I guess I could stay with him alone for a minute. After all, he’s drunk and concussed, so I won’t have to deal with that stupid fucking smirk of his. And I really do not feel like talking to him after hearing his weird, tense conversation with Andrew earlier.
“Fine,” I sigh, leaning back against the cold wall near the doorway. Nick and Chris slide out the heavy wooden door, their rubber-soled sneakers squeaking down the long, linoleum-tiled hallway until the sound completely fades away into the hospital's ambient hum.
The walls of the hospital room are stark, cold white with some random, faded red decorations and cheap, framed landscape paintings on the wall to, I guess, lighten up the mood? Yeah, no. Nothing about this situation is screaming good vibes to me. I’d rather be stuck in a literal building fire than trapped in a small room with Matthew Bernard Sturniolo. I’m just glad he isn’t talking. Not right now, at least.
Speaking of the devil…
“Came all the way here just to watch me suffer in a hospital bed, huh?”
I tense up instantly, my shoulders pulling up toward my ears. I hear Matt’s voice—it’s slow, a bit slurred, but that insufferable smirk—I really thought I was free of it for the rest of the night—is completely audible in his raspy tone. I roll my eyes dramatically, keeping my head firmly turned away from him as I stare intently at an exit route sign on the opposite wall.
“Nick asked me for a ride, you’re just an inconvenient stop in the way.”
Matt goes quiet after that, dropping his head into his hands and closing his eyes tightly, probably nauseous again as the concussion makes the small room spin around him in dizzying circles.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket with a short text from Chris. The doctor just signed off on his chart; Matt can go home tonight. His doctor got the discharge papers ready, and Matt can go home right now if he can manage to walk out under his own power without collapsing.
It’s good, right? Not having to be anywhere near Matt anymore. I don’t even need to drive Nick back to their house since all three of the triplets can easily fit into Mary-Lou’s car for the drive back home.
Nick and Chris walk back into the room a few minutes later, actively munching on their Reese’s peanut butter cups, the yellow wrappers crinkling loudly. “Alrighty, Matt, we’ll go home when mom comes back,” Nick says cheerfully, a visible smear of melted chocolate stuck right in the corner of his mouth.
The triplets’ mom comes back into the room after a few minutes carrying a paper cup of lukewarm coffee, immediately moving over to help Matt get up from the edge of the mattress despite his low, defensive complaints. “S’fine. I can do it myself…” Matt grumbles, shoving his bare feet into his unlaced sneakers and leaning heavily against the rolling bedside table before stabilizing himself with a wobbly step.
“Alright, I guess I’ll go then. Bye,” I say, tossing my keys into the air and catching them as I wave to Nick and Chris.
“Bye y/n. Thanks for the ride!” Nick calls out warmly, giving me a quick nod of appreciation.
I turn towards the exit of the room and leave, my heart pounding violently against my ribs for reasons I refuse to dwell on or acknowledge right now. Really, Matt? Really? Acting like everything is totally normal after everything that happened tonight? Acting like a smug, unbothered idiot after I heard him say what he said to Andrew? I get that he doesn’t even know I heard him, but not even a little bit of guilt?
Actually, no. What was I even expecting from someone like him? We are enemies. We hate each other. It’s always been like that, and it's always going to be like that, no matter what happens.
I reach the first floor lobby, pushing open the big, tall glass doors that lead out into the crisp parking complex. The freezing night air hits me full force in the chest, and I let out a deep breath I didn’t even know I was holding in for the last two hours.
With my recent relationship ending in a total disaster, endless studying for upcoming tests, and the massive, suffocating pressure of trying to get accepted into SMC, I haven’t ever really got the time to relax or breathe. So I decided right then and there: tonight I’ll binge watch House M.D., eat my favorite snacks, and then sleep like a fucking baby. I won’t worry about Matt, college, tests, or Andrew tonight. I won’t care about anyone else. Tonight is a me night.
So I get home, finally, turning into my quiet driveway, killing the headlights, and cutting the engine. I unlock the front door, kick off my shoes near the mat, and head toward the living room to plop down onto the couch, only to be met by my mom sitting at the edge of the cushions with her phone in her hand and an expectant look on her face.
“Hey, sweetie, I heard Matt got into a fight. Is he okay?”
Of course. Of fucking course she knows already. Mary-Lou and my mom are absolute best friends—that’s literally how I met Nick and Chris. And Matt. My mom acts as if Matt is an absolute angel who walks on water. As if he’s a total saint who could never do a single thing wrong in his entire life. That piece of shit is nowhere near any of those things. She gets mad at me every single time I talk about how annoying he is, completely writing it off like I'm just being dramatically bitter for no reason. Whatever.
“He has a concussion, he’ll survive,” I say dismissively, moving past the living room and heading straight for the staircase before she can grill me for further details or force me into a long conversation about the Sturniolo family drama.
I settle into my bed, plopping down onto it face-first and letting out a loud, muffled groan into my pillow. After resting my eyes for a minute in the dark, I sit up and pull open my secret snack drawer—a crucial hiding spot under my desk because my brother eats everything in his way if it’s left downstairs in the pantry. I grab my absolute favorite snacks: Kinder Happy Hippos, a bag of buttered popcorn, and some Nacho Cheese Doritos. I grab the remote from my nightstand, turn on the TV, open up Netflix, and put on House M.D., settling back against my plush pillows to let the ambient noise distract me.
About twenty minutes into the show, right when the medical team on screen is debating a complex diagnosis, my phone starts buzzing violently on the bedsheet with a voice call from Nick. I raise an eyebrow, staring down at his name flashing across the illuminated screen. Why is he calling me now? Should I pick up? Is it something about Matt? About Andrew? Or just normal bestie stuff?
I press the green button and bring the phone to my ear. “Hey, Nick, what’s up? Everything good?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light and unbothered.
“Chris just told me the real reason why Matt punched Andrew first.”
The real reason?
“Oh, what is it?” I ask, suspicion and a sudden spike of hesitation clear in my tone as I mute the TV with the remote.
“Andrew said that Matt is probably only popular and captain just because everyone feels sorry for him, just like you do.”
My stomach drops instantly into a cold pit. “What? Why did Andrew mention me specifically? How do you even know if it’s true?”
“The video is in the class group chat and on almost everyone’s snap story.”
I hang up without another word, my heart hammering against my chest as I open Snapchat with trembling fingers. I tap directly on a random girl’s story from our grade and there it is—the argument, the fight, captured from multiple angles in high definition.
The video shows Andrew standing near the edge of the lawn under a porch light, a cocky, insufferable smile plastered across his face while Matt steps directly into his personal space, fists clenched tightly at his sides. The audio cuts through the background music of the party perfectly. Andrew looks Matt straight in the eye and says it himself: “You’re only popular because everyone feels sorry for you, just like y/n does.”
The second the sentence leaves Andrew's lips, Matt loses his mind completely. He tackles Andrew straight to the ground, pinning him down on the grass and throwing wild, heavy punches until Andrew manages to break free enough to throw a hard, blind hit right to Matt’s face, catching him square on the jaw and sending him backward onto the turf.
I stare at the repeating video, my mind racing in dizzying loops as the clip plays for the fifth time in a row.
But why did Andrew mention me specifically?
It’s probably because long before the punches were thrown, before the ambulance was called, and before Matt was lying in a hospital bed with a swollen jaw, they were talking about me.
Right?
a/n: finally, after 6 days it’s done. Btw i took the parts inspo from @snowysosturn and I love her series
