Chapter Text
When Sarah initially suggests they spend Christmas together, their first official one as adults, free from meddling parents and misguided cops and psychotic murderers guarding stolen treasure, Kie’s too hazy from the gentle buzz of lukewarm beers and the radiating warmth of JJ’s side where it presses firmly into her bunched up sweater to take immediate notice of the perilous glint in the blonde girl’s eyes. The excitement in them.
The problem is, at some point in their years of friendship, the pogues had come to the unanimous decision that they don’t really do Christmas.
It wasn’t much of a conscious decision. When the days grew short and weary—night falling too fast and bringing with it a biting chill that seeped through each of their bones, especially with the flimsy fabric of the boys’ winter jackets—they just didn’t end their weeks with enough festive cheer to actualize into elaborate celebrations. And for all of John b’s insistent pursuit for impossible things, even he wasn’t delusional enough to think there was anything to celebrate about Christmas on The Cut. So they didn’t.
That’s not to say that Kiara never celebrated Christmas. She remembers the holidays during her kook year, remembers the number of parties she was dragged to and her consciously hidden repulsion at the sheer magnitude of electricity needed to light up the decorative bulbs lined from ceiling to ceiling, twitching obnoxiously in shades of green and red. Remembers the piles of ornate, professionally wrapped gifts tipping over precariously on every linen covered table.
She winces now thinking about it, each sizeable contribution to consumerism, all because a couple teenagers never learned proper coping mechanisms and relied on the need to preen and gloat while their rich parents overcompensated for their lack of love with presents.
Kie didn’t even try to encourage gift exchanges when she broke out of her temporary lapse of judgement and rejoined the pogues. Not when any money the boys made went to weed, booze and spare parts and all of Kie’s tips from The Wreck already regularly equipped the communal fridge and financed keggers.
Now, at Sarah’s proposal, a churning unease swells in her gut the way it always does whenever a possibility of change arises, a leftover defence from the days when even the slightest shift in the dynamic left her unsteady friendship with the boys wobbly and at risk to break. She shifts a little deeper into the worn fabric of the pullout couch, her arm twisting to tug mindlessly on the frayed edges of the cushion, JJ’s arm moving with her to slope casually across her shoulders.
A sigh dies in her throat and she says carefully, “Sarah, we’ve gone over this—”
“I know and it’s fucked up!” Sarah interrupts without delay. The ponytail she had effortlessly coiffed earlier in the day, that’s now slipped out of shape, swings fiercely behind her as she declares, “You can’t just not celebrate Christmas because it’s too much work, that’s not a reason. What happened to cheer and holiday spirit?”
“It’s probably at the bottom of the ocean, right beside the gold we lost,” Pope mutters from the farside of the room, his head lolling over the side of the armchair. She can feel the weight of JJ’s torso jerk when he snorts in response.
Sarah’s arms wilt slowly from their place on her hips and her glance sweeps across the group plaintively, dejectedly. Kie’s head shoots up at twice her speed to avoid the risk of making eye contact, she catches a boot shaped cloud merge with a duck shaped one, the two blending together like two puffs of smoke while a sullen Sarah huffs, “Fine. That’s fine. You guys don’t want to do anything, I get it though I don’t respect it.”
Kiara realizes she probably shouldn’t feel a wave of relief at her friend’s crestfallen words but she does, even as it’s immediately hushed with the guilt of watching a dispirited Sarah drop back into John B’s lap, pushing her head into his shoulder until he starts rubbing soothingly along the length of her thigh. JJ squints at them, wrinkling his nose before passing Kie another can of beer to replace the one she’s just accidentally downed.
To her credit, Sarah lasts all of ten seconds before her determination overshadows her conscience. She sniffs a little, breaking the silence again with not-quite-watery eyes, “It’s just—” She breaks off long enough to level out a glare at their synchronized groans, before continuing, “I mean, with Rose not letting me see Wheezie and the rest of my family in jail I guess some part of me was hoping I’d get a Christmas like my childhood, with you guys, my real family. But I guess that thought’s dead now, too much work .”
There's a stretch of pained pause following Sarah’s exclamation, a rare period of discernible silence in The Chateau that emphasizes the cackling flames of the fireplace still going in the living room and the hollow whistling of twinkling chimes a distant neighbour had put up on their porch across the street.
Kie’s mouth is already revoltingly bitter, the insides feeling scratchy and dry from the cheap alcohol but it gets worse then, her tongue suddenly heavy with all the condoling words she wants to say but doesn’t know.
John B’s eyes have gone wide, staring sadly at his girlfriend who’s studying the cracked wood of the floorboards like she’ll be tested on what she finds between them.
“Hey, stop doing that!” JJ interjects suddenly, accusingly, straightening from his slouched position against Kie. He looks to Pope who's apparently been appointed referee of this discussion. “If I don’t get to use my dad to keep the Cat’s Ass and still have to sell it all back, Sarah doesn’t get holiday accommodations because of her fucked up family!”
Sarah crosses her arms defiantly. “I’m not doing anything, it’s not my fault that my best childhood memories are tainted now. Excuse me for trying to recreate some of that joy with you grinches.”
Pope furrows his eyebrows, whether it’s from the prevailing noise of the squabble or the intensity with which JJ’s eyeing his silence, Kiara can’t tell. He clears his throat somewhat weakly. “Is anyone else concerned that our first defense in an argument is past trauma?”
Kiara shrugs her indifference at the same time that John B asks, “Why would that be concerning? It’s what it’s there for,” and JJ mutters, “I mean we could wrestle for it but I don’t think Sarah could keep up.”
As if it could get any worse, Sarah’s outrage zeroes in on JJ.
“I could keep up!” She protests and given how Sarah once managed to survive and fully heal from a gunshot to the abdomen while on the run as a bandit, Kiara doesn't doubt it.
John B runs a hand through his already dishevelled hair, genuinely concerned a physical brawl is going to erupt right in front of him. “JJ, please don’t wrestle with my girlfriend.”
JJ dismisses them both with a wave of his hand, scooting forward and giving Kie and Pope a focused gaze like they’re his last hope, which, they probably are since John B’s taken Sarah’s hand back in his to press against his heart. “Come on guys, John B’s already too far gone but you don’t have to go along with this madness. We love our christmases, remember? There’s no need to change anything now. It’s tradition.”
Kiara and Pope share a look but Sarah’s already speaking over both of them, audibly exasperated, “It’s not tradition if you're not doing anything.”
JJ retorts back, twice as loud, “Yes it is! I love doing nothing, it’s my favourite pastime!”
It feels almost like an act of defeat to admit it, but Kiara would be lying to herself if she didn’t acknowledge that he has a point.
Maybe, for the others, their yearly act of holiday negligence was just a preferred routine to escape a lacklustre event that inevitably stripped them of money and energy but for Kiara it’s always been more of a lifeline. A single method of escape from Anna’s disturbed neighbour-envy that somehow always resulted with her planting feelings of inadequacy in her daughter. Something as simple as decorating a gingerbread house to post on Facebook escalated so quickly into sniping insults and tear soaked cookies at worst and cold conversations at best.
It’s why she always cherished the little moments she could run off to The Chateau where her biggest holiday obligation was to pile on top of the pogues, put on an acclaimed Christmas classic through a putlocker link on her laptop, and allow Pope’s request to seasonally promote Junior Mints from the rank ‘would sooner resort to cannibalism than willingly consume’ to ‘bottom of the barrel trash that occasionally racoons might eat’ on the official accepted pogue tier list of movie marathon snacks.
Just then, as if telekinetically aware that she’s unwillingly persuaded herself to the cusp of accord with him, JJ addresses her, “Kie, you agree don’t you?”
Kiara licks her lips on instinct. “With you? Almost never.”
He twists to fully face her and Kiara has to tense all her muscles to restrain the twitch prematurely playing at the edge of her lips. “Come on, you’re into that hippie shit. You know, ‘it’s not about what you do, but who you’re with’ and all that.” Ignoring her protest that motivational quotes aren’t actually hippie and that she never wants to be affiliated with them ever again, he perseveres, “We don’t need any of that kook tinsel and glitter holiday magic bullshit, what we have is better, truer, because we’re not putting on a show like the rest of them.”
It takes Kie a couple of seconds to actually process what he says, too used to the ebbs and flows of their easy banter, the ones based on fruitless abstract ideas, to adjust to the way these ones sound so in tune with her reality. He’s been doing that a lot lately, slipping in truths like she wouldn’t notice the sudden weight of his normal words. Her eyes fleet to his ring-adorned fingers at the sound of metal tapping against the wood frame of the couch, lingering to discover them still under her attention. She can’t figure out what it means.
And what’s worse, she doesn’t remember since when not knowing bothered her this much.
Thankfully, her words don’t come out nearly as choked as they feel. “He’s not wrong, ” she shrugs to the rest of the group.
It’s helpless the way her gaze turns back to him, unconscious, like she’s just a wave caught under the pull of his moon. He catches her eye too, mistakes her expression to mean she’s impressed with his persuasive speech. His smile is dopey and arrogant when he remarks, “You know, your motivational speeches would be a lot more effective if they borrowed some of my wisdom.”
Her right eyebrow arches up in mock consideration before she asks, “And where is it you collect all this wisdom from, Reddit?”
“The heart,” he corrects her, dramatically placing one hand over his chest. She hums, allows the slightest lift of a smile as she places her hand on top of his to move them to his left, the correct anatomical placement. She pats his chest condescendingly before letting it drop and pretends she doesn’t notice that his eyes follow her arm’s descent.
“Would it really hurt to try something new this year? We don’t need to change who we are, we can just put some actual effort into our celebrations, pogue style. It could be fun!” John B offers, his voice the same tone of encouraging corruption it always is when he’s trying to coax them into a new adventure. Disaster. Same thing.
JJ shakes his head frantically until Kie points out how the last time they all listened to John b they almost died, giving JJ one more fighting chance that he ruins the very next second when he retorts, much too quick and frenzied to maintain any authority in the debate, “That is a fair point. Did everyone hear that one?”
Pope pipes up finally, which worries Kie considering he looks distinctly more interested than he was seconds earlier. Her hunch is proved correct when Pope announces, “I think we should go somewhere exotic!”
JJ deflates, like one of those flailing inflatable tubes that’s been out in the sun for too long, and Kiara’s not faring much better, her face a permanent scowl as she writes ‘traitor’ next to Pope’s name in one of her many mental lists.
John B mulls over the new idea, ponders out loud, “We could always go back to the Bahamas? Reclaim our unfairly hijacked trip from hell, Christmas edition?”
Kiara stops listening then, the responding voices fading into soft background music, something about Sarah’s refusal for a tropical Christmas, a newly proposed city, Pope’s announcement of a knife show and a certain someone he wants to take to it, JJ’s renewed attention at his required assistance as a wingman. It’s not much of a difference to Kie, she’s already admitted defeat, they can figure out the logistics without her.
She does let her mind wander though, briefly thinks back to what JJ said. She wonders if it’s true, if different people—or a different person—make any difference at all.
⋆⋆⋆
It’s cold in New York.
A fact that really shouldn’t come as a shock to Kiara considering Pope had sent at least 7 messages in the group chat reminding each pogue of this exact fact, with varying intensities of aggressiveness and the same crooked screenshot of his weather app. The problem is, Pope says a lot of things. So much so, that most of the actual important bits often slip through the cracks.
The airbnb they’d rented out for the week certainly isn’t helping. Not when, even collectively, all they could afford was a self-acclaimed ‘cozy’ cabin with rustic, wobbly , wooden frames and broken windows that are forced permanently ajar. She had found it almost quaintly beautiful when she first walked through the entrance, the way one might admire the beauty of a vintage, low budget indie movie, preferably from afar and not through personal experience.
The cool breeze slipping in beneath the curtains relentlessly mock her and her humble packing decisions, as she’s wrapped, mummified really, under the thickest blanket she could find in the guest storage closet.
Meters away Cleo sleeps soundly in the next bed over, peacefully unaware of her suffering. Kiara should be joining her, snoring restfully while her subconscious dreams her someplace far away, someplace her appendages aren’t at risk of falling off from frostbite.
The day had been a long whirlwind of nearly missed flights and dubious security checks that the group very nearly failed—she fucking knew she shouldn’t have let JJ pack his carry-on by himself—so Kiara thinks that she’s earned herself at least a century of quiet reprieve. There just happens to be one small problem standing between her and a sweet rest from reality.
“Please, John B harder, yes, yes, oh God — ”
The next time Kiara agrees to take a room that shares a wall with the couple who, individually, each have the lung capacity of mating hedgehogs, not to mention a drastically nocturnal sleep schedule, she’s going to make sure the rooms are soundproof. If only so she doesn’t feel the imminent need to scrub her skull with a toilet brush as soon as the trip is over.
As if on cue, the wall behind Kiara pushes in, effectively disrupting her inner monologue as the headboard slams against the back of her head while she’s assaulted with another set of unfortunate noises.
She lets out her own groan, one laced with actual frustration, into her pillow and tries to remind herself that the love Sarah and John B share is a good, lovely, thing, that the holidays are a rough time for them both, and that, usually, Kie doesn’t think their nauseating affection is a direct method of torture being used against her, specifically.
Kie swings her legs up and over the side of the bed, stretches out the remaining tension in her body and sets off to find someplace that will lessen her desire to commit homicide.
The halls are dark, the sun having fully set by now, and Kie’s eyes strain to adapt to the lack of light as she makes her way across the halls. She uses her body as a makeshift cane, one leg at a time swinging around her to feel for any fixtures in her proximity, and leaving behind what she’s sure will be a horrific scattering of bruises along her limbs. Despite her greatest attempts and a fully functioning, well-thought-out plan, Kiara still manages to fall, tripping over a loose floorboard upon entrance through a doorway and dropping onto a mattress that squeaks out a protest.
The lumpy surface she’s landed on wiggles beneath her and it’s not until she digs her elbow downwards to steady herself and causes a forced grunt coming from below in return, that she realizes it’s actually a body. The gruff voice remarks, amused, “Woah, I didn’t know this airbnb came with special amenities.”
“Gross, JJ,” she mutters, falling limp to let him move them both until they’re equally sharing the small plane of his bed. It’s harder to keep still then she would’ve expected, hard to not twitch and fidget when the rough pads of his fingertips are holding her wrist so gently, a hand gripping her hip to roll them over, a pose so utterly non-platonic that it’s much too easy to forget where she is. And with who.
Even once they settle, both their bodies curled inwards so neither falls off the side, Kiara doesn’t feel at ease. They’re close, too close, and it takes more effort than she’d like to admit to focus on the words falling from JJ’s lips rather than the shape of his mouth and the way it’s leaving soft puffs of air against her shoulder with every breath. Eventually she makes out, “Finally realize why I called dibs on the farthest room from JB?”
Kiara rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe you just let me sacrifice my sleep like that. Your conscience must hate you.”
She’s never been much of a cuddler, always the first to pull away from a pogue pile, always too antsy in her own skin to withstand the claustrophobic hold of someone else’s, but she thinks she might get it now, thinks she could learn to like this. It’s warm, familiar, and easy, and makes everything feel a little better, like the hazy kind of burn that rushes down your chest after a shot of tequila.
JJ’s eyes are fluttering shut, a reminder of the late hour that has her almost feeling embarrassed for coming here and interrupting his sleep instead of just coping with the lack of hers but then he quips, mirthful, “My conscience is quite happy to not be the sole victim of Sarah’s vocal chords actually.”
“Hey!” She kicks his leg, the plush of her pyjama shorts hiking up no doubt, “leave her vocal chords alone.”
Kiara’s breath hitches as he tugs on her calf while laughing, pulling it, and by extension her, until she’s hooked her limb over his.
“You’re the one who brought it up,” he argues. And he might say something else too but it’s too hard for Kiara to hear anything over her own heartbeat, her ears popping at his motion of casual intimacy the same way it did on the airplane over here.
She thinks it’s moments like these that she hates being a pogue the most. The frustrating, undefined physical grazes. The lingering shivers his touches, always his, no one else's, would elicit. How they were always done with just enough conviction for her to feel it, all the way to her toes, but never to fully satisfy her. And the way she was almost certain she would never actually figure out if they were done with purposeful motivation, with romantic intent.
There’s a lot you can brush off as platonic when physical touch is embedded in your friendship. Too much, a borderline smudged to hell and back.
She’s known she’s liked JJ for a while now, maybe since she thought he was drowning, definitely since they were stuck on an isolated island together.
She’d actually liked him for even longer, probably.
And still, nothing would come out of it. She’d accepted it, had looked back on her streak of past relationships, had looked back on her streak of past pogues , and even if most of them weren’t even long enough to be considered a real trial, it was not exactly an encouraging trend.
If it were anyone else she might give it a shot anyway. Vocalize her crush, go on a date or two, makeout and fuck and get whatever this relentless, hungry ache is out of her system until she waits a little too long and gets a little too bored and either she gets disinterested or he gets tired of her defective nature and they break apart. She’d deal with the cataclysmic outcome of the fallout later, leaving it as a problem for future Kiara to figure out. But it wasn’t anyone else, it was JJ, and whatever possible cataclysmic outcome, it wasn’t worth considering with him. Wasn’t even an option really.
She tightens her hold where she’s half straddling him horizontally, forcing herself not to back down even as all she wants to do is freeze completely and squeeze her eyes shut so he never finds out the way he’s affecting her.
“Hey if you two are also gonna start having loud sex, give me a heads up now so I can make it to Cleo’s room before being traumatized,” Pope’s voice calls out from his bed, shocking Kie so bad she jolts closer to JJ, her head falling squarely against his chest.
“Fuck, I forgot he was here,” she mumbles into JJ’s shirt, quiet like it’s just for the two of them to share, startling a snicker out of him.
JJ’s voice projects, bouncing off the unadorned walls when he teases Pope, “You’d like that wouldn’t you? An excuse to join Cleo in her bed?”
Pope whisper-shouts back, “No one even mentioned her bed JJ and I swear to god if she hears you incriminating me I’ll kill you. Well she might try to kill you herself but either way you're ending up dead.”
She falls asleep like that, with Pope’s yammering lulling her unconscious and the sloshing of JJ’s heartbeat against her ear.
⋆⋆⋆
The next day, it takes Kiara twenty minutes to build enough courage to crawl out from under the heat-holding covers. The floor is even colder than it was at night, the surface of her bare feet freezing with each step and the flimsy cotton of the worn shirt that’s been cycled through the pogues’ wardrobe since it was first bought doing nothing to lessen the chilly morning draft.
She shuffles—realizing a couple steps in that the key is to take short steps, lots of them, with minimal contact time between her and the floor—into the kitchen where she can already hear a crescendo of chatter starting up.
As always, Kiara’s the last to wake up, the flashing digital clock on the oven judges her and the room washes her in a glow of blinding blue that has her blinking rapidly.
The granite countertop is empty except for two boxes of stale looking cereal that she's pretty sure the host had left as a gift for their first day and Sarah’s lounging beside them, leaning her weight against the counter as she pours a carton of fat-free almond milk, that Kiara’s pretty certain they didn’t even have in the house, into a ceramic bowl.
She grins at Kie’s entrance, chirping with her mouth full, “Good morning!”
“If you say so,” Kiara answers, hopping onto an open stool and leaning face down into crossed arms.
A hand ruffles her hair, John B’s laugh echoing off the empty cabinets that must’ve been thrown open during this morning’s quest for tableware when she swats him away. She rests her cheek against her arm, giving herself an unobstructed view as John B smiles sweetly at Sarah, already dressed and with a set of keys in his hand, asking, “What’s the plan babe? Cleo and Pope are already off to get wood for the fireplace.”
“Thank god, we’re finally getting heating in this place.” Kiara twists her head just as JJ walks in, he narrows his eyes at her judgmentally, “you stole the entire blanket last night.”
Kie scoffs, arching her neck to look him in the eyes. “You don’t need it as bad as I do, you’re built like a furnace. Why else do you think I came to your bed?”
JJ whistles then, puckering his lips and shaking his head at her. Almost like he’s disappointed. “Damn, I thought it was for the charming personality.”
Kiara doesn’t deign him with a response. She stands up from the stool and walks to the oversized hiking backpack she brought along for the trip, digs into the front pocket for the granola bar she packed in consideration of the first grocery-less morning.
She doesn’t move back right away, stays by the entry table where a big circle mirror reflects her every movement as she opens the bar to pick at and stares at the replicated image trying to figure out if the bird nest sized mess of tangles staring back at her is an optical illusion or a definite sign to steal one of JJ’s hats today.
She forgets in her cloudy, sluggish state the unwritten—and perhaps most important—pogue rule. The one that enforces the significance of staying alert and distraction free when armed with food if you want it to actually reach your mouth. Which is the only reason why Sarah succeeds in breaking off and then promptly eating a chunk of Kie’s bar after her hand swipes at it.
Kiara's reaction is delayed, a heartbroken protest of, “Hey, get your own!”
Sarah rolls her eyes, undisturbed and still chewing, “I always forget you’re an only child.”
And then, as soon as she’s swallowed, she’s moving again.
Gracefully gliding across the room, Sarah gathers her keys, wallet and purse with the skilled, adrenaline-fueled rush of a suburban soccer mom with four kids and two divorces before reaching John B, pecking him on the cheek and informing him, “I’m gonna take the bus and get some groceries, you three are going to get the tree.”
Kie’s eyes narrow at the change of plans.
John B looks just as confused when he questions, “What? But I thought you and Kie were—”
Sarah doesn’t even regard them with another glance, she moves to the front door and calls behind her shoulder, “I know but the tree is more important and I don’t really know if I can trust it to just you two.”
Which was weird, not because her concerns were unfounded—Kie had actually thought it was a typo when she first saw how the task distribution left JJ and John B with the most objectively fundamental christmas assignment—but because Sarah’s movements, hurried and methodical, came across frantic and calculated the more Kiara watched her.
It was equally uncommon for her to leave Kiara in charge of something she was already concerned about not going successfully. If all Sarah wanted to do was make sure the tree acquisition went smoothly, she would’ve just done it herself. But Sarah’s never been that self-absorbed, even when she acted like she was, which has Kiara even more agonized about JJ’s admittance to her spending the night with him seconds earlier.
“Hey!” John B protests at his girlfriend's apparent lack of faith in him.
JJ puffs out his chest, his face one of reliability, “Don’t worry Sarah, I won't take my eyes off him.”
The words have a provocative effect on Sarah, causing her to halt immediately only to spin around and narrow her eyes at him. “JJ, don’t threaten me on Christmas Eve.”
He stammers, “That wasn’t even—”
Kiara’s quick to put him out of his misery, interjecting to assure Sarah, “I got it. We’ll get you a perfect tree.”
Sarah visibly relaxes, “You’re my favourite person,” she declares to Kie decidedly.
“Sarah,” John B whines at that, pouting.
She points a finger at him, repeats firmly, “Tree.”
There’s a creak from the rusty hinges that sharpens when Sarah swings the door open, a blast of cold that invades the cabin before she shuts it behind her.
She lets out a sigh, as soon as the door clicks shut. She can already feel it, today’s going to be a long day.
When she turns back to face the others and entertain herself at least with their equally doomed looking expressions, all she sees is JJ’s smirk and bright blue eyes twinkling with laughter. Eyes that are glued to her chest.
“What are you looking at?” She chastises, though more curious at his stare than indignant.
When she ducks her chin to follow his stare she find two pebbled points poking through the thin material of her shirt and rushes to defend herself, protesting, “Shut up, it’s cold,” as she crosses her arms over her chest and bites her cheek to avoid breaking out into a laugh, either from the nervous energy surrounding them now or the way even JJ’s eyebrows kinda wink at you when he gets annoyingly smug.
“I didn’t say anything but even if I did, what happened to freedom of speech?” He jokes, but even so he’s taking off his sweatshirt and handing it to her, the hoodie heavy in her hand. He has a long sleeve shirt under it, one that she bought from the male section of a store JJ would rather die than actually step in, a set of 5 that she had left ‘accidentally’ in the chateau, her only surefire way of successfully expanding any of the boys’ closets.
“What about you?” she asks.
He flashes her a half-smile, “Furnace, remember?”
“Ready to go guys?” John B interrupts, eyes flickering, shifting side to side from Kie’s face to JJ’s, his head tilted slightly like there’s something between them he can’t figure out before turning around to leave. Kiara wants to assure him that she can’t figure it out either.
JJ dashes after John B, yells louder than he has to in the too small space, “I call shotgun.”
“Asshole. ” She replies automatically.