Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

***

“Come on, James! Any slower and people are goin’ to deliberately run you over!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Jogging to a stop beside his cousin Michelle, James now stood in front of a dilapidated old bar—his breath coming out as white puffs in the chilly spring air.

“You don’t really expect me to go inside, do you?” Michelle scoffed, “Come off it now, James! I got you a job here, don’t be a dick.”

“It’s literally about to collapse, are you kidding me?”

“Who’s the fella, Michelle?”

Startled by the sound of a voice so close behind him, James nearly jumped out of his skin and spun around. “Jesus Christ!” A blonde woman stood in front of him, face severely scrunched in; curious and apprehensive, with just a tinge of disgust. Her hair was in a very messy braid around her head, and the only thing that kept James from asking about that rat’s nest was a strange fear that if he opened his mouth, she’d hex him into the next year. “My cousin, James. I got him workin’ the kitchen for us. James, Erin. Erin, James.” Michelle dismissively waved her hand in between them and James hesitantly raised his hand in greeting. Erin looked back and forth between James’s hand and his face, the sound of Michelle chewing on her gum a sort of ridiculous soundtrack to whatever the hell his life had become.

The moment was broken by even more ridiculousness—which James feared he would come to expect in place of his current definition of normalcy.

“I CAN’T STOP!” A sort of human-shaped blur was speeding towards them, slamming into Erin and practically catapulting her into James. The fact that his hand was still frozen in greeting was the only objectively positive thing to happen, as it allowed Erin open access to his chest—a surface which would not crack open her skull. Michelle was still stood somewhere close behind James, stabilizing both him and Erin as the impact of her body caused him to stumble into his cousin.

“ORLA!” Erin screeched at the same time that Michelle growled, “Watch it, you prick!”

“HEY, HEY, GUYS! Sorry I’m—who’s this?” Another blonde girl approached them as she turned the corner, her hair high in a ponytail, bouncing in a way that seemed half panic, half seize-the-day. The sun shone on a broken heart necklace. It looked like the pendant that had almost torn out his jugular when Erin fell on him.

“James, Clare.” Michelle has taken out a nail file at this point and was leaning on the door of the bar, inspecting her fingers. Erin grabbed both of James’ arms in an effort to peel herself off of him, making hissing noises as she slowly stood and then whipped around so fast James was sure he felt a breeze. “What the hell was that?” she was glaring at someone James could only assume was Orla, who stood there with a chocolate-covered pretzel in her mouth, eyes wide and staring past Erin and right at him. “I’m Orla.” She smiled wide and waved enthusiastically and for a moment James thought to himself that maybe this street corner was not an alternate-dimension’s hellscape.

“Well, you gonna say something to them or what, James? Do the English not have even the most basic of manners?”

No sooner had the word “English” come out of Michelle’s mouth did Erin, Clare, and Orla start clamoring around her.

“He’s English?” Clare was looking at him with pity.

“How’d that happen?”

“Guys, I’m standing right here.”

The door to the bar opened with a dull thud and Michelle turned around to glare at the girl standing there. “So you are all standing here. Get inside the lot of ya’s, before I write you all up for bein’ late, now!”

“Oh, come off it, Jenny. You can’t do that!”

The girl named Jenny gave a short laugh. “I most certainly can, Erin! Ms. Michael approved my application for manager now that James has come to work for us!”

Erin’s face froze for a moment. James thought she looked like the human version of a video “buffering.” Her head was nearly flush against her neck; like a cartoon character that’d been hit with a frying pan. She blinked. “What?”

Jenny smiled in a way-too-chipper way, “That’s right, girls! Meet your new leader!”

Michelle shoved past Jenny and went inside the bar. “It’s too fuckin’ early for this.”

“Language, ladies!” Jenny’s smile was relentless and unnerving. As Jenny turned her head to look at James, he could have sworn the hairs on his neck stood straight up. “You must be James!” He blinked and suddenly she was right in his face and shaking his hand. “I’m Jenny, your manager! If you’ll follow me, I’m sure we can get you workin’ like a pro before the day’s out!”

James looked at Clare, Orla, and Erin. For what, he didn’t know. Support? Protection? Anything seemed a better option than Jenny. For the briefest of moments, he entertained the idea of yelling for Michelle to come save him. Met with nothing but the slightly terrified gazes of the three girls whose help he was telepathically imploring, James gulped and followed Jenny in, her hand still tight on his forearm. Was she trying to cut off his circulation? He definitely felt pins and needles. Her hand was right on his vein.

The steps creaked where he let his foot down. This is how he would die.

The inside of the bar was not much better than the outside. It was equally dark and dilapidated, the windows high on the wall and to the west. There would be no light in this place until sundown. He watched Clare get to work taking the chairs off the tables and the stools off the bar. He couldn’t see Orla. Erin was in the corner fiddling with a switch, and James was suddenly bathed in the soft glow of holiday lights. Erin was standing under a particularly large bundle of them by the stage. Her hair didn’t look so severe in this light.

“You’ll be working in the kitchen, preparing the food and what not. Don’t worry, we don’t serve much and it’s mostly frozen, so just follow the instructions on the boxes and everything’ll be ace.”

“What does everyone else do?”

Michelle popped out from the kitchen with some rags in hand. “I serve.”

“That doesn’t seem like a good idea. Why don’t I serve? Why am I in the kitchen?”

Jenny opened her mouth, but Michelle was fast in cutting her off. “You? With that accent? The bar would be only brawls if you were out here mornin’, noon, and night with that prissy voice. I got the tits, I get the tips.” James grimaced and Michelle leaned closer to whisper, “Besides, I like spitting in people’s food when they’re dicks.”

“Michelle!”

Jenny wedged her way in between the cousins, who were locked in a stare down. With a self-satisfied grin, Michelle tossed the rag she carried onto a nearby table and sauntered away to begin wiping it down.

“Michelle serves?”

“Michelle serves. You’re on kitchen duty.”

“And the rest?”

“The rest? Is that all we are James? And here I was thinkin’ of making you a bracelet!” Orla shouted from behind the bar. Everyone was staring at him now. He wanted to die. “That’s not what I meant!”

Jenny gave him a pitying pat on the back. “Orla here is our bartender. Surprisingly good at mixing things, she is. Clare has a wee bit of anxiety so she counts the money at the kitchen, the stage, and the bar.”

“The stage?”

“Yes,” Jenny pointed to the back of the room where Erin was sitting on an elevated platform, in between several instrument cases, a mess of cords, and amplifiers. “We have an in-house band. Erin plays the fiddle for them sometimes. She’s not the best, but luckily we don’t pay her too much.”

“Well how much am I getting paid?”

“You’re getting enough.” Jenny gave a bright smile and ushered him into the kitchen. “You can put your stuff there,” she said, pointing to a wall of shelves behind the ovens and giant fridge. James pulled off his jacket and an apron was thrown in his face. He took a deep breath to keep from crying in complete confusion and stress, then pulled the apron over his head and tied it around his midsection. “You’ll be needin’ this too.” James held out his hand for a hairnet and placed it around his head. “Oh, James, you’re lookin’ dapper!” He stared at Jenny with a dead expression. Michelle was right, it was too early for this.

After making James practice heating up frozen fish sticks a few times (Every single item of food was frozen from the nearby market—what even was this place?), she let him go for the next hour or so until the bar officially opened.

He practically fell onto the barstool. In a misery-fueled daze, James barely noticed that he had plopped himself right next to Erin. He blinked long and slow, listening to Michelle chatting with Clare somewhere in the background. “Hey,” he swiveled his head to see Erin. She pushed a small bowl of nuts towards him, porcelain scraping against wood. “You want a nut?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Erin.”

Chewing on an almond, James watched Orla put some water in several wine glasses. “What’s she doing?”

“She likes makin’ ‘em sing.”

Orla started running her fingers over the rims. “She’s not bad.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Erin bristled beside him.

James dropped his head on the bar with a dull thud. “That’s not what I meant.” His voice sounded whiny to his ears. God help him.

He felt Erin’s breath on his arm, and looked up to find her curiously examining his skin. “What the hell does that say?” James moved to see what she was talking about. There were scribbles across his skin in bright blue ink. “Michelle met some guy on the way here and took his number down on me.”

“Why didn’t she write it on her hand or somethin’?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, why did you let her write on you?”

“I don’t know!” James was about to combust.

“I guess if I had too, I’d let Orla write on me, too.”

Combusting could wait. “What?”

“Things you’d do for a cousin.”

“She’s your cousin?”

Erin nodded. “But all of us girls, we’re family.” She paused, glowering a little. “Except Jenny. Jenny can choke for all I care.”

There was venom in the way Erin spoke and James concluded that his instincts about Erin might stand a chance of being right. Maybe Erin could curse him. He grabbed a few more nuts.

“Want to try some new drinks I’ve been experimenting with?” Orla appeared right in front of them now, wine glasses gone. She lay a tray of small shot glasses in front of them. “Not enough to get pished,” she assured them. “What are they?” Erin looked down into the glasses skeptically. “I gave ‘em names. This pretty purple one’s Jamie, and the blue one’s Arthur. Jack’s the one with the wee bit of cream. Johnny is the brown sludge.” Orla grinned proudly. Erin crinkled her nose. “Real appetizin’ descriptions, Orla.” She reached for the one named Jamie and took a sip.

Her tongue all but flew out of her head. “Orla, is this lemon juice?”

“Colored lemon juice.”

“Why?”

“If you had waited for me to introduce him, you’d know he’s a crackin’ palate cleanser.”

James winced in sympathy for Erin. “Is lemon juice really a palate cleanser?” Orla looked at him like he had grown a second head and turned to Erin. “Lad’s a real piece, Erin.”

“Are the rest like this?”

“They’re individuals, Erin. They got personality out the hole. Of course they’re not the same.”

Erin nudged James to take a couple with her. She downed the one called Jack and made some smacking noises. “Not half bad. Could do without the cream.” Erin hesitantly sipped the Arthur and then drank the rest after a taste. “Raspberry?” Orla nodded, “Blue Raspberry; like an American sweet!” Erin smacked her lips “Too sweet.”

Orla took Erin’s dirty glasses and James leaned towards Erin. He was still stuck on the statistical probability of all the girls being employed in the same dingy place. Did no one else in this town need a job? “How’d you all get to work together?”

“Clare burst out crying. Tears and everything. Owner hired us all together ‘cause we were more annoying apart. And we’re cheap.” Erin spoke matter-of-factly.

"The owner?"

"Ms. Micheal."

“Don’t forget this little fella!” Orla beamed while pointing at the last glass. James cringed, “I really don’t want to drink the brown sludge.” Orla squeaked in offense, “The sludge has a name, James! It’s Johnny!” Erin glared at him and handed over the glass—a challenge. Luckily for James, he didn’t really pride himself on rising to challenges. He watched Erin swallow the sludge. She didn’t immediately retch, and so he dipped his tongue in—mostly because he felt guilty about skipping the other three.

James and Erin gaped at Orla. “That’s just melted chocolate, Orla.” Erin furrowed her brows. “You can’t serve that!”

“Ah, wee Erin. Tis not just chocolate.” Orla leaned close to her cousin and whispered in her ear. Erin’s jaw dropped and her cheeks colored in surprise. Leaning back she laughed, “You could kill someone with that!”

“Make it a double for me, Orla!” Michelle and Clare walked up to the bar. Clare made a face,

“No, you will not, Orla. And anything that Michelle would want a double of is something that shouldn’t even be on the menu at all!”

“What if I just wanted coffee, Clare?”

“But you don’t now, do ya?.”

“Whatever.”

Erin slid off her stool and excused herself. “I should go tune the instruments.” Erin pat her hand on James’. It felt like pity. Pity was the absolute last thing in the world that could have helped the panic that had been bubbling in his gut since getting to this place. He’d rather be hexed. Maybe a good hex could get him out of here.

James watched her go. “The house band?”

Michelle nodded. “Only reason Erin’s playin’ violin is because David Donnelly is in the stupid band.”

Erin yelled from the stage, “THAT’S NOT THE ONLY REASON, MICHELLE!”

“Sorry, Erin, you’re right. John Paul is in it, too.” Michelle smirked.

“I play because it is an outlet for my creative expression!”

“Yeah, right. You’re a shite player. You took the job so you’d have the free time to write, and you stayed because you want to ride those wankers.”

Clare balked, “Michelle!”

Erin opened her mouth, fully ready to throw down, when Jenny walked in with that too-bright grin and flipped the sign in the bar from “Closed” to “Open.” “Let’s go, folks! It’s workin’ time!”

***

Chapter Text

***

Spring waxed to summer, and summer waned a little into autumn; the air warm in the day, and cool at night. After-sunset breezes carried the sounds of late summer crickets, who grew louder in the early autumn. James was still working at the bar; he had somehow found a home in the unlikely little family at the decrepit old place. Michelle’s gum chewing turned into the rhythm section of a giant symphony of noises in the new soundtrack of his life. Now there was Erin’s scratchy fiddling and the clink of coins when Clare did the counting. Orla’s wineglass music floated above it all in a call-and-response with the creaks and groans of the building.

James found that his job didn’t bother him so much anymore. Virtually no one came into the bar for the food; patrons would order the drinks and maybe get some little snacks from Orla, and Jenny didn’t hang around much, so James found he could spend most of his time sitting by the bar talking with the girls. At present, he was sitting with Clare in the back of the building, watching the band play. The band had turned out to have some fairly decent players, although their personalities proved to be absolutely rubbish. That David Donnelly lad was about as thick as one of those big Russian novels, and John Paul spoke to no one; he seemed to fancy himself above them all. There had at one point been a girl named Mae on a synthesizer, but she didn’t last very long. One day, the girls had come in to work to find that all the drums had been bashed in and strategically covered in tomato paste. The manager’s office had been done even worse, Mae's expletive-laden letter of resignation written in red on the walls. The only person in the entirety of the bar that could stand the band members was Erin—not even Jenny liked the band, which was a sort of redeemable quality in Michelle’s eyes.

Nearly every day, Erin would try—and fail spectacularly—flirting with some of them. The first time James had seen Erin talk to David Donnelly, she had been plugging in all of the instruments to the amplifiers and nearly set the stage on fire. "Boys are not worth arson, Erin!" Jenny scolded. A few weeks later Erin tried again and was almost successful, but was too distracted and had gone absolutely mad; all but cannon-balling off the stage to jump a girl in the audience. That was the end of any hope Erin had with David Donnelly—she had caused such a spectacle that the owner of the bar was called in over the incident, and James had practically shit his pants.

Ms. Michael had a way of letting you know without words that your mere existence was exhausting and if she could, she would castrate you and have a small cup of coffee afterwards. Ms. Michael brought Erin, James, and the girl—whose name he learned was Katya, to Jenny's office. Erin was absolutely wild, with manic laughter and hands flying to motion between him and Katya. “She was goin’ to drug him, Ms. Michael! I swear it! I swear it on my dead dog’s grave!” James gaped and the next thing he remembers is a savage battle of extremely culturally offensive insults traded between the two, and Jenny at Ms. Michael's feet begging her to end it. The last thing he remembers is the heat in his cheeks and the redness of Erin’s as their gazes met and held fast.

Right now, Erin was trying her luck with John Paul, awkwardly swinging her hips and jumping around him, the sound of her violin especially stilted. Her instrument sounded completely done with her antics.

“Is she okay?”

Beside him Clare shrugged and lifted her bottle of water to take a sip. “I’ll tell you this much, if she keeps doin’ that, she’ll fall headfirst off that stage. And I don’t think Michelle replaced the first aid cabinet from the last time!”

Michelle walked past them with her tray and muttered under her breath, “For feck’s sake, I knew I forgot somethin’!”

Clare let out an indignant squeak. “If we all die in here, the blood is on her hands!”

James frowned. “I can run and buy one.”

Clare exhaled so forcefully he thought the chair in front of her might tip over. “That’d be grand, James, thank you!”

“I’ll bring it 'round first thing tomorrow.”

Clare took another drink. “Y’know, Ms. Michael should really be the one takin’ care of this.”

“I think she’d be happier if we died.”

Clare laughed, “I think I agree with you, James.” They had an easy camaraderie.

“D’you reckon Jenny’ll try to save us?”

Clare had started tearing up a bit, “I don’t think it’d be her top priority, no.” Sharing an amused look, they turned back to watch Erin prance around. Her playing had gotten so shaky, Michelle had gone over to the amplifiers and raised the volume of the other instruments to drown her out.

“It’s like a really bad mating dance.”

James snickered, at a loss for witty commentary.

“Hey, James. Hello, Clare.” Smiling down at them was a lanky redhead with deep brown eyes. The cringe on Clare’s face at the sight of Erin’s physical display of flirtation broke into a smile at the sight of the girl. “Nora! What brings you here?”

“I was walking down the street, thought I’d pop in.” Nora blushed, “These songs are cracker, Clare—care for a dance?” Clare choked on her water. “W-wha-y-yeah-yes! Sure, I’ll have a dance with you.” Getting up, Clare walked backwards a few steps to look at James and give him a thumbs up and an excited grin. He watched, bobbing his head along to the music as a new song started—sans fiddle.

Erin practically tripped off the stage and made her way to James’ table to set her violin down. She sat on the table and put her feet up on Clare’s chair, taking a swig from the water bottle her friend had left behind. She tapped her foot along to the music for a few minutes, sitting in silence with James by her side, then turned her head to look at him and rested her chin on her shoulder, examining him for a moment. His face was flushed and his eyes were closed; he was sort of head-banging along to the music. There was a pool table behind him, and a small dartboard on the wall next to her. She stretched her legs straight in front of her, flexing her feet. “James?” He opened his eyes and looked at her, “Hm?”

“Fancy a couple games?”

James grinned, “So long as you help me keep watch for Jenny.”

“Aye. And I’ll still beat you.”

“I like my odds.”

Erin twirled a dart between her fingers and smiled a big, crooked smile. It was a bit of a wicked grin, the grin of someone rising to a challenge. She would never relent. James’ heart thumped a little—he must’ve eaten too many of the salty nuts.

“Best out of three?”

James’ throat was dry—it was definitely the nuts. He nodded, and Erin made the first throw before he had a chance to blink. Bullseye. He might have been too confident in his abilities; Erin was apparently not as clumsy at bar games as she was at everything else.

Two rounds later, Erin had bested him with an ease he didn't know she possessed. Satisfied, she skipped over to the pool table and held the cue out for him to take. James took the stick with clammy hands, and was soon after completely and utterly defeated. James inhaled; he hadn't breathed the entirety of the game. He blamed his failure on the noise from the band, and the distraction of Orla setting drinks artfully aflame. James' defeat was certainly not due to the rosiness of Erin's cheeks or her endearingly competitive shouts, not at all. As for the rapid beat of his heart and his inability to breathe, James decided that he simply needed to cut back on his sodium intake.

Reveling in her victory, Erin gave a little dance and shoved his shoulder playfully. James felt unsteady for a moment, his gaze sleepily focused on her. Erin was laughing at the pitiful look on his face, her eyes darting behind him for a fraction of a second. The air changed; her laugh stopping in her throat and her gaze turning steely. Clearing her throat, she turned around and started reorganizing the billiard balls. James looked in the direction of the stage. John Paul was dancing with a girl, the movements far too intimate, and the patrons far too invested in the display. He pulled her in and they started snogging, eliciting some errant “oohs” from some of the midday revelers.

Erin’s back was still turned to the pool table. James slowly walked over and reached for her hand. She spun around to face him, eyes hard. “What d’you want?”

He just tugged her hand a little.

Erin scoffed, “Catch yourself on, James! You’re not getting’ me any closer to that!” She nodded sharply towards the stage, where John Paul and the girl were fused together at the lips.

“I just want to dance, honest! I like this song!”

“This song is rubbish.”

“Okay, yeah, it is. But I really want to dance, Erin!” James tried to pout a little.

Erin recoiled, “Stop doing that with your face, and I’ll come.” James gave her a toothy grin and she followed him past the dance floor and nearer the television by the bar. Grabbing both her hands, James started dancing. Erin snorted. “What is this?”

“The song is rubbish, right? I reckon the sounds of the game are much preferred.” As James said that, the sports announcer yelled “Goooooooooooooooooal!” James smirked. Erin smiled and moved one of her hands to his shoulders, and he led them around in small circles in a skipping motion. Michelle was rolling her eyes next to Orla, averting her gaze. “Worst dancers I have ever seen. No moves. None.”

Erin’s carefully pinned hair was messy, new wisps coming loose with every bounce. James’ breath caught as he watched her stare at her feet. His fingers unconsciously clenched around the fabric of the shirt at her waist and she lifted her head to look up at him, giggling breathlessly. “I really am a shite fiddler, aren’t I?”

James let out a loud laugh and nodded, “But it’s the passion that counts, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think it does, James,” she said, choking on another laugh.

“Goooooooooooooooooal!”

***

Chapter Text

***

It was the Monday before Christmas and James was having a shit week. The Friday before, James had been sitting with the girls watching a concert on the bar television. He had very gently broached the subject of going back to England with his mum. There were better jobs there, and his mum was finally ready for him to come home. He had honest-to-God just wanted their feedback, but hell, if it wasn’t a complete and utter disaster. “Hey, dicko, you can’t leave.” Michelle had been so cross, every limb in a battle stance.

“What else am I doing here? No one even orders the food!”

“It’s not about the food, James,” Orla interjected, “It’s about the friends we made along the way.” Michelle grimaced at that, and Clare nodded thoughtfully.

“Look, guys, I was just thinking about it, it’s not a big deal.”

Clare was gesturing like mad, the occasional indignant puff of air escaping her lips.

“It’s obviously a big deal to us, James.” Erin’s voice was calm. It was unnerving. “So you don’t get to say it isn’t a big deal.”

Michelle nodded, a sort of reluctant desperation on her face. “You’re our family, James. You can’t even joke about leavin’ us alone with Jenny Joyce!”

“Come on! It’s not like I’m choosing my mum over you all—and even if I did, she’s my mum!” James had apparently said the absolute wrong thing. But then again, he always seemed to have his foot in his mouth, didn’t he?

Michelle’s eyes widened, “Catch yourself on! Who did the raisin’?”

After that, everything snowballed into utter warfare, the concert abandoned in favor of a full knock-down, drag-out of James’ entire life. Michelle was so upset afterwards that she didn’t speak to him the entire way home that night. She had only come around when he stopped by her room before going to bed. Michelle had apologized for freaking out, and James apologized for hurting her feelings. Orla had seemed to forgive him when he came in after the weekend, throwing a maraschino cherry at his head when he crossed the bar to the kitchen—a peace offering. Clare had taken until early afternoon to warm back up to him.

But now it was evening and Erin still had not spoken to him at all, and it had really begun to stress him out. The look on her face the Friday before was bad, but the elongated estrangement was just as bad. Christ, fancying her had become a full-time job all its own. By some cruel twist of fate, James couldn't even find a moment to talk with Erin. Today was the one day people were actually coming in for food! The only times he saw Erin were during the small breaks in his day. Walking out of the kitchen for a quick breath of air, James saw Erin huddled up against Orla several meters away from the kitchen door. Their backs were to him, but he could catch the rise and fall of Erin’s shoulders when she breathed, the up-and-down of Orla’s hand on her arm, the small plate of scones on the table in front of them.

“James!” Michelle called him, his eyes tearing away from the scene. “Some eejit wants chips." He sighed. “I’m on it.” He trudged back into the kitchen and up to the giant freezer, Michelle following close behind. She had been a lot more attentive since the whole disgreement, often sitting with him whenever she had a chance. Not that James minded. He very much liked his existence being acknowledged as valuable to his cousin. She leaned on the wall and watched him adjust his apron and hairnet, snickering at his expense. He rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at her, grabbing a box of chips and throwing them into the oven. Pulling up a stool beside Michelle, the two watched the pale potatoes turn brown. “I think they’re done, James.”

“One more minute, they might still be cold inside.”

“So?”

“They’re supposed to be hot.”

“The guy that ordered them was completely pished, it’s not like he’s gonna sue us for a frigid spud.” Michelle grabbed James’ oven mitts and pulled the crisps out herself, haphazardly dumping them into one of the paper containers and kicking the door open on her way out. James sighed raggedly and got up to turn the oven off before dragging the stool to a nearby counter and sitting down again, elbows on the stainless steel surface. Running his hand over his face, he closed his eyes. Great, a headache. He was probably dehydrated, which was the absolute cherry on top of this miserable day.

James glanced at the clock and dropped his head back down. He just needed to make it a little longer and then the day would be over. From the other side of the kitchen door, he hears Orla shout for last call, and he waits a minute. Michelle doesn’t come in with any last requests, so he jumps out of his apron and hairnet as fast as he possibly can. When he opens the door, he can hear the last shaky strains of Erin on the fiddle as the last song of the night ends, and he stands next to the bar for a moment, watching the band pack up. But he’s James, and he’s just so tired he can’t stand it, and he is tired of the dance he’s been locked into with Erin these past few days. His exhaustion overrides his overthinking, so he strides up to the stage and gently takes hold of Erin’s arm.

She looks at him with surprise and rage, trying to pull her arm back.

“Please,” the sound of James’ voice for the first time in days halts her resistance. The rest of the band is done packing, and they’ve made their way off the stage and out the door. James lets go of Erin’s arm and she leans down to put her violin in its case, the gentle click of its locks loud to their ears. “What do you want, James?” she sounds just as fatigued as he feels. He wonders why, when she had held him at her mercy the whole weekend. But he carries on. “I’m not leaving, you know that?”

“I do know that, James. You’ve gone on about it enough.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

“Then why aren’t you talking to me?” Erin responds with a shrug. James was at his wits’ end. It was one thing to realize you’re fully in love with a girl that you might never have a chance with. It was another thing entirely to realize, through a ridiculous string of events, that she might be just as affected by you. James could see splotches of redness creep up her neck despite the delicate blankness she had willed her face into. “Even if I did go anywhere, I’d never really leave, y’know?” He scratches the back of his neck and watches Erin glare at him. “That came out wrong. I’m definitely not leaving.” The continued silence pushes him forward, “Why does it even matter so much?”

Erin averts her gaze. She didn’t spend the whole weekend sorting through the chaotic filing system from hell that was her thoughts and feelings just to blurt everything out now. James is English, and that’s bad. But he’s also a proven flake, and that’s worse. Okay, so maybe he’s not a flake. But his stupid questions last Friday were pretty flaky. All boys are useless anyway—Erin is adamant about that now—regardless of whether or not they’re one of the girls.

In the background is that little symphony of James’ again, playing softly and sweetly this time. Michelle is wiping off the tables, and there is a gentle clatter of silverware every now and again. Clare is close behind her, putting the chairs back up on the tables, cussing a little every time the bottom of a chair scrapes her arm on the way up. She has a rag of her own, wiping down the legs of each chair she puts away for the night. There is a hazy chatter coming from the bar where Orla is finishing up with the last few patrons. The bills rustle as they count and pay, the water hums when Orla goes to wash the dirty glasses.

Erin and James are just staring at each other now; it’s a standoff but the rules are unclear. James looks soft, and Erin clicks her tongue inside her mouth and taps her foot a little impatiently. “It’s not a big deal, James. At all.”

James can see the tension at her shoulders, and he’s known her for long enough to tell when she’s nervous. Erin is teetering between pale and flush, fear making her nauseous and panic making her hot. James is glad he’s not the only one that looks ill. “Then why aren’t you talking to me?”

“I’ve just been busy.”

“With what?”

“Work.”

“You work here.”

“Exactly.”

James’ face scrunched up in confusion. He made a questioning noise in the back of his throat and looked at her quizzically.

“Let’s go, ladies, its closing time!” Jenny was literally singing her announcements now. Hell on earth, that was.

Erin rolled her eyes. “Look, James, I don’t think it’s the best idea to be talkin’ about this right now, so let’s just go home.” She moved to walk off the stage, but James was blocking her path.

“Erin, James! I’ve got your coats, come on!” Michelle, Orla, and Clare were standing by the door. After a sharp look from James and Erin, they scoff and turn to lean on the wall and chat.

“I don’t want to go home without clearing the air first.”

“Well, I do.”

“I don’t know what you think of me, Erin, but I actually do care about you.”

“Boke.” Erin made a retching gesture with her finger.

James’ patience was wearing just as thin as Erin’s veil of sarcasm.

“Get a move on, people!” Jenny shut the lights in the bar, save for the holiday lights that were controlled by the switch at the side of the stage next to Erin and James.

“Are you seriously that mad at me?” The lights made James’ eyes twinkle. Erin blinked hard for a good five seconds.

“Okay, we’re goin’ to wait outside, and if you’re not out in ten minutes, I will drag you two out by the ear.” The door opened with a sustained creak and the girls walked out into the chilly December air, Orla pausing to give a thumbs-up to Erin on her way out. Erin saw the motion in her periphery, and almost broke her staredown with James. So it seemed Orla had read her diary again. Great.

Erin pulled her mental focus back in. “Aye, you’re dead-on, James. I’m so angry.” Erin rolled her eyes again and shook her fist to the sky, mockingly. Derisively.

“You know, I’m not half the idiot you think I am, Erin!”

Erin’s face fell. “I don’t think that!”

“Then why are you being so mean to me?”

Erin exhaled roughly. She was drained and wanted to go home, and so the filter between her brain and her mouth was not up to its usual standard of functioning. Whether or not that was a good thing was yet to be seen. “You’re English.”

James scoffed, “Oh, piss off-“ his retort dying on his lips almost immediately. The soft lighting painted the planes of Erin’s face. Her brow was furrowed and her mouth was set downwards. She bit her lip and raised her eyes to his again. “I’m English?” He repeated, eyes like circles. Erin nodded slowly.

James made a sort of choking noise. Maybe he choked on his sense of logic as it flew out of his brain. “Does that mean I shouldn’t tell you that I fancy you?” His voice was small.

Erin balked. James hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I’m sorry, Erin, but I’m really tired and it’s really hard for me to think right now, and that is certainly not how I wanted to tell you," he searched her eyes, "but I do really, really like you, like, like-like you, I completely fancy you, Erin, and now I can't stop talking at all, please say somthin-mmpf!”

Erin was kissing him. Erin was holding his face and kissing him. Erin was standing on an instrument case and kissing his face area. His hands were useless at his sides until Erin opened her eyes and they looked at each other with their mouths connected and their faces so close they looked like a pair of cyclops. So he squeezed his eyes shut and pulled her closer, her arms falling to his chest as they fully began to make out.

“I have had it! I need to lock up, please get the fuck out of here!” Erin and James were startled apart at the sound of Jenny screeching. Giggling breathlessly, their noses bumped as they slowly untangled themselves, stumbling off the dark stage and out the door. “We’re going to have to talk about this some more, aren't we?” Erin grimaced and James pulled open the heavy old door for her.

The cold air hit their faces, blowing Erin's hair behind her. The bright light from the adjacent streetlamp illuminated the blotchy flush of her cheeks and rosy bruising on her lips. “Not tonight,” James grinned dreamily, equally disheveled.

Michelle, Clare and Orla were at the end of the street waiting for them. Hearing the strangled sound of the old bar’s door, the girls turned to see their friends smiling sheepishly. Michelle gestured to the sidewalk expectantly, “Shall we go, or d'you need a red carpet?” Clare gently smacked Michelle's wrist, grinning back at Erin and James as they ran to catch up, hands woven together. A bag a crisps blocked their path as they fell in step with the group, “Want some?” Offered Orla. Erin grabbed a fistful with her free hand, shoving them in her mouth and smiling that wicked smile at James. With a quick cringe and a bright blush, he grasped her hand tighter, their little pack slowly making its way home for the night.

***