Chapter Text
It starts how most badly organised birthday parties do: with a Facebook group and a slightly more exclusive WhatsApp group.
The group details proclaim that it's an end-of-exams slash JJ Maybank's birthday party. And everyone has been placed into the pressure vat of A Levels and shaken - the lid is being released, the students and non-students alike spilling out.
He has an exam on his actual birthday. A design and technology written exam, with questions even he can answer. He has an eclectic mix of subjects - French (with all credit to Pope), Geography (a definite group effort) and Design Technology (one which is, for once, all him).
He's not going to set the world alight and he's had to resit his maths GCSE twice before Kiara took pity on him, but he's survived and he might even pass.
He has to move out next, but he thinks he can forget about that impending doom for one night. Manchester is bathed in a golden glow, a July sun. His classmates are buoyed by the ideas of university, the prospect of summer stretching out before them with no more revision, no more scholarly expectations. They buzz around him, his upper arms sore from over enthusiastic birthday digs, a Tesco chocolate celebration traybake shyly procured and produced by a quiet girl called Izzy who he's worked alongside in D&T. It's half melted and he has to lend her the lighter for his own candles, but everyone crowds him and sings and the sun burns as brightly as the flaming candles and the chocolate is sweet.
A teacher muscles into the crowd, fearing a fight. He lingers for a slice of cake, cut by someone's provisional driving licence in lieu of a knife, and then sends them all on their way.
“What are you all still doing here?” Mr Woodward berates them cheerfully, chocolate icing smudged on his fingertips. “Get to the pub!”
And so they acquiesce, Izzy's arm brushing his.
*
Rafe Cameron received a solid gold Rolex in a velvet lined box for his eighteenth birthday.
Sarah gets flown to Paris by the Norwegian crown prince.
They use one of the royal private jets and recline in plush seats with a glass of champagne. The royal jet isn't as fancy as some of the one's she's been on - apparently the royal expenditure does get scrutinised occasionally - but they don't go anywhere near customs and are hustled out some fire escape to a waiting car, Topper's bodyguard two steps behind them at all times.
Then she goes shopping, helped by assistants who trip over themselves for a fraction of the commission her tab will attract. It’s the sort of activity Topper thinks Sarah does for fun and he's not entirely wrong, really, which pisses her off.
There's not even a need to go to the cashier, nor carry the bags. They'll just appear in their hotel or apartment suite, folded in tissue paper and in embossed bags.
They have some dinner reservation tonight, so Sarah picks some ludicrously expensive Chanel dress and wonders if anyone will stop her. No one does. Instead, she gets promised that they'll have it tailored and to her in a matter of hours.
The sun beats down on the streets of Paris, the heat concocting a strange inner city scent that's impossible to describe. Warm concrete, decades of ingrained dirt and life rising to meet her. She looks up at the buildings around them, the stone and the brickwork and the splendour only sunshine can reveal.
“Miss.” There's a light touch to her elbow, one of the royal staff looking at her inquiringly. She's gestured towards the car half parked on the pavement, diplomatic plates on full display.
The air conditioning is cool, a bottle of water waiting. Sarah hears the ghost of Kiara past, before they stopped talking, berating her for the single use plastic as she twists the cap up. There's a silent vow to keep the bottle for the entirety of her visit.
Paris shimmers with splendour from behind the tinted bulletproof glass of an armoured vehicle.
*
As a rule, Pope finds the concept of picnics and any alfresco dining perverse and contrary to any good sense.
He stares in dismay at the container of melted butter that Yvonne is coaxing over a slice of torn baguette. She adds tomatoes, salt, basil and some suspiciously gummy looking cheese before sandwiching it together and handing it to Pope.
“If only there was some sort of appliance to keep butter cold,” Pope mutters as it drips onto his hands.
“We used to eat all our meals on the floor,” Heyward begins. “Back-”
“When you lived in the squat, yes, yes.” It's often the best course of action to cut his father off before he builds up any momentum, Pope has found.
“And that six months in the catacombs!” Heyward tilts his face towards the sun, the deck chair threatening to follow suit. “Now, those were the days.”
“You upgraded to a fixed address for a reason,” Pope bitches. “Your wine would be warm if you did not have a fridge.”
Heyward pauses to consider the predicament. “Well, I would just drink red. That can be room temperature.”
“And you refuse to say where the entrance to the catacombs is!”
“There's a museum, cherie,” Yvonne cuts in smoothly. “We have taken you many times. Do you remember that year-”
“Every weekend, a museum,” Heyward agrees cheerfully. “I did not know we had so many.”
Grass tickles Pope's bare calves and he tries not to overact at the slice of tomato that slides from his sandwich, landing triumphantly on his thigh. “Well sorry for wanting to learn,” Pope grouches. “For having a young mind, thirsty for knowledge-”
Heyward cheers as Yvonne pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and decants it into the champagne glasses carefully wrapped and carried for this very moment.
“Your birth year,” Heyward takes the bottle from his wife and examines the label. “We took you back from the hospital and it was there, in the fridge. From your grandpere.”
Somewhat mollified, Pope accepts the clear glass and raises it to the sky. “To grandpere.”
“Non, cherie.” Yvonne pats his shoulder. “To you. My first and only born, the love of my life. To the man you are, the boy you were and the person you will become. To you and your futures.”
“Seconded,” Heyward adds. “A child so great we needed no other.”
Pope struggles to swallow around the unexpected lump in his throat. Their glasses touch and they sip, the champagne still cool by virtue of the ice sleeve Yvonne had clearly prioritised over solid butter.
“Well,” he says eventually. “We best drink quickly, before it gets warm.”
The irony that he sips on the manifestation of his family's love out of crystal cut glasses whilst the others have had to lick theirs from knives is not lost on him.
*
Kiara is woken up by a pancake breakfast, a gift on the counter, and her lunch packed for her. She cycles to school and a smattering of people who have been on Facebook that morning wish her happy birthday. She goes to an additional class at school, cycles home and collects the twenty dollars left on the counter by her aunt.
There’s some party down at the Boneyard. The sun beams through her windows as she sits on her bed, turning the twenty dollars over in her hands. In a flash, she tries to Visit John B, figures he’s asleep. Pope is in the kitchen of his family’s apartment, apron tied around his hips as he gets bossed around. He gives her a brief pat on the head, a ruffle of curls, and his mom checks who it is before enthusing, “bon anniversaire, Kiara, cherie!” with a beam that is only slightly off target. Kiara hangs around for a few minutes to absorb the atmosphere of a busy kitchen.
Cleo is getting ready to go out in a pair of sequinned hotpants and a black mesh bodysuit. She’s applying her nipples pasties, tugging them into place, totally unperturbed as Kiara appears on her bed.
“Girlie!” Cleo trills, enthused. “Happy birthday, babe.”
“You too, hot stuff.”
Cleo beams at her in the mirror as she adjusts one flower shaped pastie downwards and presses it firmly against her skin. Satisfied, she moves onto picking up a gold cuff necklace or a pendant, holding them both up to her neck in turn.
“Cuff,” Kiara advises, and Cleo nods in approval.
“You out tonight?”
“Maybe. Still deciding.”
Cleo looks at her in the mirror as she pushes a pair of gold hoops through each piercing. Kiara covets them, and suspects they were a present from Sarah. “You should. You need to get out of your head, you need to get laid. It’s your birthday - it’s the law.”
Kiara groans, drops backwards. “Shut up.”
“I mean, you can always wank, I guess but - if the opportunity is there. Seize it, girl. Or man. Whatever is your preference today.”
Kiara closes her eyes and tries to get the image of a boy with blonde hair and blue eyes out of her mind. She’d dropped in this morning whilst he was on the way to his last exam, strolling down a sun bathed street whilst he smoked. She had Visited again, once the exam was finished, but there was a crowd and a cake and a girl - a girl pretty enough to stamp out the temptation to Visit again.
Okay, maybe she’d had a glimpse of him in a garden, smiling at the same girl over the top of his pint glass. It still made her feel sick.
“Yeah, maybe,” she concedes. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, no, definitely,” Cleo corrects. “I wanna meet up tomorrow, I want you to be hungover, and I want to be able to compare stories. It’s your eighteenth. Grab a bottle of wine and go get that dick and slash or pussy.”
Kiara wrinkles her nose, but sighs heavily. “Yes, ma’am.”
*
The windows of the pub are thrown open, the back door hooked open so bodies can spill onto the flagstones claiming to be a patio and onto the beer garden. The grass is thin and worn, more brown than green, and users of the wooden benches have to distribute themselves evenly each side so they sink at the same rate and their pints don’t spill.
The sun shines well into the evening, but the heat lingers even after the last rays have slipped behind the pitched slate roof. They stay in the garden chatting the shit that only gets brought up after consuming a steady rate of pints during a drinking marathon, words semi-coherent but thoughts definitely not. Izzy keeps smiling at him from across the top of her pint, trying to hide her wince with each sip of lager when she thinks he’s not looking. He kind of wants to tell her not to drink something she doesn’t like, doesn’t want to be a dick and insteads decides to keep up the pretence. Saying something seems like shooting himself in the foot.
It’s JJ’s round, apparently, and though he thinks he probably got the last one he doesn’t protest too much, given the amount of free drinks he’s had. Maybe he has to settle his elbows on the bar for a little support, maybe he has to lean against it heavily. Maybe his shoulder rolls, just a little, nudges the person next to him with the slightest bit of pressure.
“Sorry mate,” he mutters quickly, righting himself. But the person turns anyway, even as he shifts away to put more distance between them.
“Yo,” they say, disgruntled, mind and thoughts boiled by rare British sun and the lack of air-con. But then it fades to disbelief. “JJ?”
JJ, who’s been trying in vain to capture the barman’s attention, glances sideways. It takes a moment for the full picture to fit in - mousy hair, a mouth that can curl into a grin as quick as the hand can curl into a fist, the Maybank nose and set of eyes. “Ricky?”
Maybe JJ’s surprised to see his cousin, but Ricky glances over him quickly, almost dismissively, but then his eyes linger a little too long and he’s never been the best at hiding his emotions, not Ricky, so JJ sees something he can’t quite decipher on account of the many pints he’s consumed, on account of the fact they’ve not spoken for years now, since JJ left him on the side of the road on rain and piss soaked pavement.
“JJ,” he says, and his voice has broken, of course it has. And he shifts and there are muscles under the material of his t-shirt. “Hey. I’ll get you a drink. What you on?”
JJ clutches his empty pint glass. “Um. Pint.”
“Yeah, I got that. What of? You a Dark Fruits man?” There’s a curl of his lips, maybe, a light in his eyes.
“Lager.”
Ricky leans across the bar to add it to his order and JJ can’t stop staring, not really. That he’s eighteen and it’s his birthday and his cousin, his childhood best friend, is in the same pub and there’s a girl outside who’s glancing at them fervently. He catches her eye and she waves, whole posture lifting. Ricky turns to look at her as JJ raises a hand back then, embarrassed, musses the front of his hair.
Ricky turns back. “She’s fit. Your girlfriend?”
JJ doesn’t know why the assumption makes his stomach rock. He shrugs a shoulder, takes a fortifying sip of freshly poured lager. “Not really.”
“You’re still a big talker, I see.”
It may be his eighteenth birthday but he’s also eight and lying side by side with Ricky, wondering why they always had to be covered in bruises. He’s fifteen and squashed in the back of a Corsa, making a choice between respite from the four walled and roofed building called home and his cousin, who felt like home but could not save him from it. He’s seventeen and the seat belt cuts into his neck and he listens as someone dies and from his hospital bed watches as his cousin moves away for university.
There is so much to say. Too much to say. He can’t say any of it, whilst his cousin looks at him, waiting patiently. His hand fists around his pint.
Ricky stops waiting. “You look good.”
“Yeah.” JJ blinks, tries to kickstart his brain. “I mean - you too. I’m - you look really good.” I’ve missed you.
Ricky looks over at JJ’s friends again, his eyes skimming over them like he’s taking stock. He turns back around and takes a sip of his own drink which JJ is pretty sure is Dark Fruits. “I heard about the car crash.”
It’s not like JJ has access to therapy or a comforting figure, so his best and only coping mechanism is complete avoidance and denial. His gaze drops to the puddle of condensation from his pint on the sticky bar and he drags a finger through it. “Yeah.”
“I’m glad you didn’t - die.”
“Yeah, me and you both.”
Someone trips over the threshold of the door and it’s Izzy, emboldened by maybe one too many drinks. She stumbles next to JJ and ever the gentleman, he slips an arm around her waist to haul her upright.
She giggles, her cheeks flushed. “Oops, sorry. Hey - Jay. They’re trying to roll a ciggie and no one can do it as well as you. Can you help?” She’s looking through her eyelashes.
JJ’s boots are lead.
He looks at his cousin, at the person next to his cousin who he’s just realised has been reclined with his back to the bar, elbows propped, watching their conversation. JJ sees the man’s hand ghost over Ricky’s shoulder, sees Ricky glance his way and nod briefly. The man catches JJ watching, meets his gaze and raises an eyebrow in challenge.
“You should go,” Ricky insists as the silence stretches. “I’ll catch you soon. Have you changed your number?”
JJ shakes his head, picks up his pint. Izzy straightens, supporting herself, and his arm drops to his side.
“It was good to see you, Jay,” Ricky adds softly. “Happy birthday.”
There’s too much to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all.
*
The Eiffel Tower sparkles for five minutes of every hour past dark. It’s dusk now, but Sarah is unreasonably excited for the sparkle. The Chanel dress had turned up freshly pressed and tailored, the zip smooth. Christopher had even arranged for a make-up artist, pointing out that she needs to look fresh for her eighteenth birthday Instagram post. And she does look fresh, posing in front of the Eiffel Tower, Christopher’s bodyguard taking a picture of them both with his arm clamped around her waist.
Then they get back in the car and get driven to the actual foot of the Tower, rather than the viewpoint cordoned off for the photo opportunity.
“We should walk up,” Sarah enthuses. “You get all the different views-”
Christopher laughs at her, as he often does. He’s held open the door for her to get out, offers his hand. There’s a flash from their left and Sarah catches herself at the last minute, pushes a smile onto her face.
“In those shoes?”
They both look at her heels, fine toed and fine heeled.
“The thing about shoes,” Sarah straightens from the car. “Is that you can take them off. And put them back on, but that’s probably not what you do-”
“Oh, hush.” His hand rests on the small of her back, guiding her towards the elevator. “I wear all of my shoes at least twice.”
“What, once there, once back?” Sarah watches as Christopher tugs at the wrist of his suit jacket, as he looks into the mirror in the elevator. Their reflections look back, all shiny and sparkly and young. She pulls a face, Christopher doesn’t.
“Where are we even going?” she asks again. “You are as open as a book, Topper, I can see you-”
The elevator dings and there’s some eye contact and head nodding between Christopher and his security staff. One goes ahead, one goes behind, but they’re several steps either way.
“You know I love you more than anything, right?” Christopher says ardently. Sarah’s distracted by the cityline, by the lights blinking, by the humans scurrying and living below them.
Pope’s probably somewhere in eyeline, eating soup.
“Yes, I know,” she mutters distractedly. “I’m the best thing in your life, the prettiest girl, etcetera, etcetera.”
They’re walking slowly down a glass sided walkway, and then Christopher drops her arm and she continues to examine the city. Pope’s apartment block isn’t that big, considering, but maybe if she Google maps it-
She glances into the tower, spots that they’re next to a balloon arch and a carpet of blood red rose petals. “Oh, my God,” she mutters. “Can you imagine getting engaged right here? In front of everyone?” They’re the level below what she assumes is the restaurant, which is completely open, all walkways and viewing platforms made of glass. She can see people gathered around tables or admiring the view. “That’s so-”
A rose petal sticks to Christopher’s crotch as he takes a knee, a red, square velvet box in his hand.
*
It probably could have been a lot worse, but for Ricky.
JJ doesn’t know what it says about him that he wants to escape his own party. It’s just his friends, non drug-dealing and actually friendly. Others join later on, digging his arm, slinging arms around his shoulders and mussing his hair. Izzy follows him none too discreetly, not enough to be creepy, but enough for her intent to be clear.
They’ve gravitated inside, the temperature finally having dropped. JJ escapes out the front of the pub for respite, considers making an exit without saying goodbye and texting his apologies in the morning. There’s a couple sucking face, practically shagging against the building, so he heads around the corner to the alley which leads to the hatch to the cellar for the brewery to roll the barrels down.
He doesn’t know if he even can go home, whether his dad is there, whether JJ should go back at all. The summer stretches out before him but beyond that is unfathomable, unquantified.
The cigarette packet is battered, pulled from a pocket on his leg. The lighter clicks uselessly once, twice - a little fluid swills in one of the chambers as he shakes it and tries again, making a mental note to fill it up. It's a note that is promptly forgotten, until next time he tries to use it
The nearly empty lighter produces the faintest flame, but he’s adept at taking more than he’s given, and the joint lights. He takes a long drag and leans back against the wall, one foot propped against the brickwork, once again debating if he can leg it.
“JJ?” It's almost breathless and very male, but it's a Manc accent. Mentally ruling out Pope or John B, JJ cracks open an eye.
There's a boy stood in the alleyway dressed all in black and navy. He has his hand in the pocket of a black jacket too heavy for the weather, a dark hood pulled over his face.
“JJ? JJ Maybank?”
The tip of the joint flares orange as he inhales. “He's around, I think.”
“No. You're JJ.”
The whole thing is weird, his nerves and paranoia slow to join the party but gradually coming alive. “Why ask, then?”
“I've got a message.” The boy steps closer, and there's a slant of light from the streetlight outside the alleyway which shines directly on his face. But it throws it half into shadow, elongates the rest. JJ squints to try and place it. “From Jackson.”
JJ frowns expansively. “Who the fuck is Jackson?”
The boy pauses his approach, momentarily thrown. “Jackson. You know Jackson.”
“I don't know a single Jackson.”
“You do. You- you stole from him!”
“Yeah, you're gonna have to be more specific.”
The boy steps closer, and his features shrink down so JJ can see them, the hood probably not obscuring as much as intended. It looks a lot like some guy he went to school with-
“You and your little chums stole his whole fucking stock. We're having to shift shit for free to pay it back. We had one supplier cut us off - they took one guy's finger!”
The pieces all click together, like someone has tapped the first domino so they can all cascade into position.
JJ inhales again and exhales slowly, peering through the smoke cloud. “Did you, by any chance, petrol bomb my fucking house?”
“Maybe. Not that you fucking listened to the note-”
“You put a note ? On a petrol bomb?” JJ shakes his head. “Should have fucking laminated it, bro.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Guns aren’t really a thing JJ fears on a regular basis. It’s reasonably hard to come across one, each and every shooting barely even accompanied by raised eyebrows when the media reports the inevitable gang affiliation. And JJ’s gang affiliations are gone, considering the death and the long lasting coma of key members. He’s even got rid of his own handgun, too worried about his dad finding it to keep it stashed for too long. Had snuck into Joel’s cordoned off apartment after hours and stashed it under the floorboards, the grip wiped clean, Pope watching approvingly.
Now he finds himself on the other end, the tip of the gun shaking as it’s held by some kid JJ thinks is called Timothy. He can’t be killed by a boy called Timothy.
“Well,” JJ says after a pause. “Is it too late to say is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased-”
“Shut up!” The gun wavers.
“Timothy, c’mon. What - you’re gonna kill me? It’s not worth going to prison for, I can fucking tell you. I haven’t got any money or any gear, no shit at all.”
“I just came to warn you-”
“JJ?” It’s a distinctly female voice, from around the corner, at the front of the pub.
Timothy looks stricken. “Tell her to go away.”
“If I speak, she knows where I am,” JJ hisses. “I’m not about to bring her ‘round here.”
“If she comes ‘round, I’ll fucking shoot her-”
“Timothy,” JJ stares at him. “Shoot me if you want, I don’t fucking care. But leave anyone else out of this.”
There’s a flash of movement at the mouth of the alleyway, the light shifting.
Timothy’s just a kid. He’s just a kid, likely affiliated with someone the same way JJ did - through needing an escape or money, or both. Has been sent out with a gun for some stupid rivalry, to obtain something which cannot be found. He flinches, there’s a bang, and JJ is instantly relieved at the fact that he’s still standing.
And then-
It feels like he’s taken a cricket bat to the side, a sharp, spread out pain, swung with the entire of the bat wielder's might. And then it burns, like a kettle of boiling water has been poured over his hip, like there’s something under his skin fighting to get out, like there’s something fighting to get in. And he’s kinda slow about it, slow to put his hand to his side, slow to pull it away and frown at the sticky blood. He can feel it, it feels so hot, like his blood is on fire.
And Timothy, he’s thrown down the gun and he’s run towards him - and JJ, half propped up by the wall and half out of adrenaline, stares at him.
“Shit, fuck, shit, shit, I didn’t mean to - I didn’t - they said it wasn’t loaded-” Timothy’s hands are covered in blood, his blood, JJ’s blood, blood that might go on the floor but currently pools in the waistband of his shorts. Time is slow and languid, he can think very fast. Adrenaline makes his heart beat faster, makes the blood loss worse.
“Go,” he orders through gritted teeth. “Go. Take it - go.”
“I can’t just fucking leave - I can’t - I’ve gotta call an ambulance-”
JJ doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to stop the pain or the blood. “Fuck off, Timothy. Don’t - just fucking go.”
People are kind of slow to react to the whole gunshot noise thing, but one half of the sucking face couple peers down the alley. “Hey,” he says, voice wavering. “You good?”
JJ looks at Timothy. “Fucking go.”
Timothy looks at his bloodstained hands, looks at the man, looks back at the gun. Then he jerks into action, yanking up his hood, scooping the gun up and legging it.
Emboldened by the fact that the person wearing all black has run away and JJ is nearly sitting on the floor, the man approaches. “Yo. We heard - oh, fuck. Oh, shit.”
“Yeah,” JJ rests his head against the wall. Now Timothy and the gun have gone, it leaves more room for feeling the pain. He’s not a big fan. “I think I need an ambulance.” There’s a red hot knife in his side, and it slowly twists. He wonders idly if there are any important veins there.
*
The balloon arch is followed by a whole photo wall of their relationship, from kids through school to Christmases, birthdays, royal events. Her friends and family are there, shrieking, laughing, grabbing her out of Topper’s grasp as soon as they walk through the doors of the restaurant. They grab at her hand, lift the ring to their eyeline so they can coo over the size of the diamonds and the emeralds and the thin gold band.
They’re gems pulled from the royal collection, apparently, designed by the royal jeweller, a design so valuable that she’s already been told she has a replica for day to day wear. A replica which likely costs more than the average house, but is still less valuable than losing a crown jewel.
It’s a flurry of congratulations, of half drunk glasses of champagne, of canapes off silver platters, of people asking when the wedding might be, of Topper looking at her across the room and smiling widely. It’s a congratulations from the King and Queen, Sarah remembering at the last minute to bob into a curtsy. There’s a string quartet, fucking speeches from her dad, from Topper. Sarah smiles and smiles until her cheeks ache, until she thinks she’d rather choke on a salmon pouffe than take it anymore.
She excuses herself to the toilet but dips out of a side door at the last minute. The air is cool enough to raise goosebumps on her arms, she draws them around herself as she leans against the guardrail and looks out over the city.
Maybe it was too much to ask that her eighteenth birthday would be hers.
Her panic might send out some sort of cosmic flare, or maybe she’s watched more than she realises. It’s mere seconds before Cleo joins her, leaning out to look over the city too. She’s triumphant in sequinned hot pants and a bodysuit, the earrings Sarah sent for her birthday through her lobes.
“Let’s see.” Cleo holds out her hand and Sarah, now trained to perfection, places her left hand in it. Cleo whistles lowly at the size of the ridiculous ring on Sarah’s finger, the jewels all glinting. The Tower lights up above and below them. “Jesus,” Cleo mutters admiringly, appraising the ring from every angle before letting it go. The gold band clinks against the metal railing as Sarah grips it. Cleo’s shoulder bumps hers, the contact warming. “How does it feel to be a child bride?”
“We’re not married yet.”
“Not yet, but it’s not like you’ve got to save up or anything.” Sarah resists the urge to press her hand to her belly as it swoops and instead focuses on her breathing. Cleo frowns at her. “What?” she prompts. “You not wanna?”
Sarah stares at the ring, stares at the cityscape. “I don’t - I don’t know.”
“You could always have said no.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“I think it is.”
“All my friends, my family. Even Rafe’s here.” Cleo looks unconvinced, her eyebrows raised. “The fucking royal family are here! It’s a - it’s got crown jewels in it!” Further disbelief. “We’ve been dating for years. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you don’t want to?”
It sounds so simple, so easy. It makes Sarah hate herself for a sharp, sharp second, hate herself for getting to this point, hate herself for not saying no. And then it makes her hate Cleo, for being so obtuse.
“You don’t get it,” Sarah can hear her voice, icy and final. “Just because you don’t have any family left to feel obligations towards doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t.”
Sarah can feel Cleo staring at her, properly staring, eyes boring into the side of her head. She keeps her gaze resolutely fixed on the horizon, sees Cleo shaking her head in her peripheral vision. “Whatever, Sarah. I just came to say happy birthday. And congratulations, or whatever.”
Cleo disappears without fanfare, leaving Sarah with her hands fisted around the guardrail, diamonds and emeralds cutting into the skin of her pinkie and index finger.
*
It’s amazing how quickly a crowd can form, how JJ can see Izzy with her hands over her mouth, how he can hear someone yelling for an ambulance, how he can hear and see it all but he’s not really there, at all, how his mind reverts to retreat from the pain, from the spectacle, how his body curls in on itself, how he wants to put his hands over his head to protect his skull.
“JJ,” he recognises that voice, at least. His cousin’s face is sideways as JJ peers through cracked eyelids. “Hey, you’re gonna be okay.”
He can feel his heart beating, feel the burning every time he moves. He thinks his cousin’s hands are on his side now, pressing down on JJ’s hands, like he can keep all the blood inside.
“Hurts,” JJ groans faintly, trying to sit up to relieve the ache in his side, the spasming pain spanning down his spine.
“No shit,” Ricky mutters, pulling his hands off to strip off his shirt and add that to the pressure on JJ’s side. “Sit still.”
“I’m good-”
“You’ve been fucking shot, you can sit the fuck still.” There’s someone else, saying something to Ricky, but they’re so above JJ’s earline that he doesn’t catch it. That and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. “Ambulance is like, two minutes away.”
JJ’s breath puffs out. “Glad you’re here.”
Ricky looks up from his side then, looks him in the face, as though searching for a lie. “If you wanted me here, you could have just texted me, like a normal person. No need to go getting yourself shot.”
“Here before I got shot,” JJ points out.
“Yeah,” Ricky agrees, “maybe. Did you see who shot you? Some guy saw someone running away.”
JJ shakes his head. His head swims. “I wish they were here.”
“Who?” Ricky’s face blurs. “JJ, who.”
“All of them. Even Sarah.”
“Who’s Sarah?”
It’s the first time he’s been in the back of an ambulance, and it passes in a haze of blue lights and being strapped to a board. He has some pain killers, throws up twice, holds onto Ricky’s hand and passes out for some of it.
They have to dislocate his hip to retrieve the bullet, have to cauterise veins, have to stitch up an artery, have to pump him full of donated blood and then morphine when he wakes up and can’t ungrit his teeth. He gets a shot of anti nausea when he throws up again, wakes up with a dry throat and dry eyes and his whole side dulled to a faint but omnipresent ache.
He takes the moment to orientate himself to his situation. When he cranes his head, he can look around the room - well, curtained off cubicle - can see a figure slumped in the chair at the foot of his bed. A figure which causes him to double then triple take, just to be sure.
The morphine must be working overtime, because the figure looks a lot like his dad, sleeping in a chair next to his hospital bed.
He closes his eyes again.
*
The options for getting laid are actually reasonably bountiful. Kiara keeps herself the right side of tipsy, the right side of crossfaded - enough so the inhibitions fall away, so she can twirl a curl around her finger and smile and flirt. So she can sass and snark, follow it with swiping hair out of her eyes, soften it with a grin.
There’s a girl, then a boy, and then she kisses a different boy and it all just feels - empty. The second boy is warm and tanned and has an accent that’s all sharp, but it’s all wrong and she feels sick. She excuses herself to pee amongst the trees and reconsiders all her life choices as she pours herself a second drink. There’s a group she could join, dancing in the sand. The second boy hovers a little uncertainly, glancing over at her every now and then. There’s a group sat on logs around a fire pit she could join. She could start a skinny dip.
Instead, she begins the slow cycle home alone, her tracks meandering over the road. The house is empty when she arrives back, but there’s a glass of water and a Tylenol on her bed stand. She drinks the water, brushes her teeth, cleanses her face and clambers into bed in a cami and sleep shorts.
Maybe she tries to Visit JJ, briefly. They’ve fallen asleep together on more than one birthday, at New Years. But he must be asleep already, the Visit silent. Pope is laughing with his family and some select friends around their dinner table. It’s John B next - he’s sat on the beach, sipping coffee from a mug, huddled against the cool dusk as the sun rises.
Kiara drops down into the sand next to him, rocks to bump her arm against his.
“Hey,” she greets, and then steals his coffee mug for a sip.
He’s looking particularly morose, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. “You hear about Sarah?”
Cleo had texted her an incoherent amount of emojis, followed by a few words from which Kiara had surmised what had happened. “Yeah.”
John B’s chin dips to his forearm. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry, bud.”
His head shakes, the sun bleached strands from summer mostly grown out. “It’s fine. It’s not like we’re - we were never gonna-” more lip chewing. “I mean, she’s Sarah fucking Cameron, y’know? It makes sense that she’ll be an actual, literal princess, or whatever.”
“Topper’s next in line and everything.” As soon as she says it, Kiara winces. “Sorry. I know - shit, sorry.”
John B’s breath gusts out. “No, it’s cool. We know each other because of this,” he indicates between them with a loose wrist. “But it doesn’t… it doesn’t mean anything, does it? Not really.”
Kiara vehemently disagrees with that statement, because it must mean something. It has to mean something. She thinks about it far too much for it to mean nothing.
But she puts an arm around his shoulders and he shudders and leans into her, and she’s a half glad that she’s not the only heartbroken one out of them all.