Chapter Text
There was one thing, and one thing only that kept JJ from tearing off his stupid uniform polo shirt and throwing it at his manager’s feet nearly every shift. And that one thing was that he really, really needed the money. Besides, as far as jobs that would actually hire a guy like him, the country club was by far the best option. Say what you will about Kooks, but they pay decent wages and—while having very few good qualities, in JJ’s opinion—were nothing if not fantastic tippers. It was good money; the best a half-baked Pogue like him could find on the island.
Even so, JJ found himself often wondering if the money was worth having to deal with the snobby residents of Figure 8.
This was one of those times.
“Did you hear what happened?”
“I heard he kidnapped her.”
“Of course it was a Pogue. What did you expect?”
JJ’s hands clenched tighter around the glass of water as he set it on the table, trembling slightly; a few drops of water spilled over the sides. He didn’t need to ask what the all-too-familiar teens were talking about—loud enough for him to hear from across the porch. He knew. They were talking about John B.
“He’s a murderer.”
“I’m glad he’s dead.”
Seven days. Seven fucking days since John B had sunk beneath the waves, and they were celebrating it. They didn’t even care that people had loved him. That JJ had loved him. They didn’t even give him time to grieve.
His jaw clenched as he approached the source of the blasphemy.
“John B got what was coming to him, and it saved them the expense of a trial. I’m just saying, John B’s going to hell for what he did to Sheriff Peterkin.”
Despite all his dillydallying, JJ reached them, and with white knuckles, he refilled Topper’s water from the pitcher he’d grabbed. The other boy glanced up at him uneasily. JJ refused to make eye contact with him.
Topper came to the Country Club more days than he didn’t; sometimes with friends or family, sometimes alone, looking to cool down after a surf or blow off steam on hot afternoons. And he always sat at the same fucking table, comfortably within JJ’s station. But every time, JJ had been polite. He’d slapped on his stupid “what overpriced food or drink would you like to buy this time” smile and did his job. It was aggravating, to the nth degree. But seeing Topper nearly every shift meant that JJ had started to notice a change in the boy: though he came in with the same Kooks as always, he was... quieter now. Most of the time, when JJ spared a glance, he found Topper slouching and sipping from his drink, staring blankly ahead while his friends gossiped. Today didn’t seem any different.
Except, it was. Maybe it was because JJ was present. Or maybe Topper had finally managed to grow some semblance of a conscience and the things he had done were eating him up inside. Because just as the girl—Rachel, JJ knew—opened her mouth again, Topper frowned and cut her off. “Guys, they’re still investigating.”
As JJ turned away from the table, he rolled his eyes. Big words from the guy who jumped his best friend not long ago and pushed John B from the bell tower.
Rachel scoffed. “Yeah, I don’t know why. It’s obvious who did it.”
“Exactly,” Kelce agreed.
Suddenly, JJ snapped. “Shut up!” he shouted, turning back to the table.
Topper looked back up at him; he didn’t seem surprised by the outburst. “Listen—”
“Shut up, Top!”
The boy extended an arm towards JJ, signaling for him to calm down. “JJ, just walk away. It’s not the time.”
“I don’t think we were talking to you, Pogue,” Kelce said. Pogue. He spat the name like it was the scum on the bottom of his daddy’s boat.
Frustrated, JJ bit down on his lip and grabbed Topper’s glass, taking a fork off the table as well. He turned to face the occupants of the club, clanking the silverware against the glass to get their attention like he’d often seen in the movies. “Can I have everybody’s attention, please? I have a little announcement to make!” At his shouts, the porch quieted. “My best friend, John B, did not kill Sheriff Peterkin! Rafe Cameron killed and shot the sheriff in cold blood! That’s what happened!” Most of the Kooks collectively scoffed, and JJ turned his attention back to Kelce. “Is that so hard for you to believe?”
“It is actually hard to believe, because it’s always the...” Kelce stood from his chair, “the Kooks’ fault. It’s never the Pogue’s fault.”
Before JJ even had time to think, Kelce was moving towards him; and then their faces were only inches apart. JJ reached over and grabbed his water pitcher once more, dumping its contents on Kelce’s face. In a mere second, the two were lunging at each other. JJ was stronger than Kelce. He’d had it tougher. He knew pain. And he knew that if it came down to it, he would and could kill him. But as angry as he was, JJ wasn’t currently fighting under his mantra of “live fast, die hard”. He was angry, yes. But mostly... mostly he was just sad.
JJ couldn’t hear the shouting around them, the screams for the two of them to stop. All he could hear was Kelce’s voice—what he said about John B.
The next thing he was aware of, as his adrenaline dipped back down, Topper’s hands were gripping his biceps tightly. JJ took a deep breath. Hesitating, he allowed Topper to pull him away from the brawl and step between him and Kelce.
“I told you it’s not the time, man,” Topper growled. This time, he didn’t linger on JJ the way he sometimes did. He turned right around to Kelce, taking heavy breaths.
Panting, JJ took a few distracted steps through the club, looking at his feet and running his hands through his hair. The world around him was spinning. And in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind, he cursed everyone on that fucking island. He cursed Kelce and all his Kook buddies for the things they’d said; for thinking that they were better than JJ. He cursed Topper for trying to play both sides. He cursed Ward Cameron and his psychopath son for starting all of this. And he cursed John B for ever getting them into this shit in the first place. For dying.
He was pulled from his frustration by his manger’s angry shouts.
JJ stumbled towards the man, face contorted in rage as he untied his apron. “Yeah, I know, Raz, I know.” He slammed the apron into Raz’s chest. “I’m fired.”
As he stormed out of the club, JJ fought to contain his crying, but a few small whimpers escaped from his lips. He tapped his chest incessantly in an attempt to quell the flaming ball of sadness, rage, and anxiety that was stuck in his throat. His dignity was the last thing keeping his tears from streaming down his face. He wasn’t about to cry in front of fucking Kooks.
He could hear them yelling after him as he walked to his bike but didn’t process their words. JJ flipped up his middle finger towards them. Awkwardly, he fixed his bike onto a nearby flower bed and ran it long enough to tear up what he thought to be a suitable amount of dirt and flowers.
He didn’t feel particularly great about the move, but desperate times call for desperate measures. They had enough money for more.
Before anyone could come after him, JJ sped away on his bike, cutting across the club’s lawn, and back in the direction of home.
It was dusk when Topper pulled his truck in front of what had once been the Routledge home. His stomach turned lightly, nervous. No matter what state JJ was in—and it probably wasn’t a sober one—there was a solid 50/50 chance that he’d try to beat Topper up. And Topper would probably let him. He couldn’t do it anymore; he couldn’t fight these petty little battles.
Frankly, Topper was sick of the island’s stale class feud. He’d been the face of it for so long, but now... he was done.
Sarah was gone. For good. Not just lost to him but wiped from the face of the Earth; he tried not to think about her body on the bottom of the ocean floor, rotting, where no one would ever find her.
It had taken the loss of Sarah—and John B, Topper reminded himself, he’s dead too—but he was... reevaluating his priorities. He was reevaluating a lot about himself. Everything about the island seemed like such bullshit now. The Pogues. The Kooks. The feud. None of it mattered anymore. Thinking about Sarah beneath the waves—so far down the golden sunlight would never wash over her face again—Topper realized that none of it had ever fucking mattered. And yet, he had let it consume his life for 17 years.
He was done.
All he could really do to move forward instead of backward was to just... try to pick up the pieces of everything he’d helped break. If it was even possible.
Sarah saw the good in you, once, he thought, so it has to be there. Sarah was good.
Hopefully, JJ would agree that one fight in a day was more than enough.
Topper approached the front door slowly and hesitated before knocking. But he knocked. He stood waiting on the doorstep for a full minute; no answer. Topper knocked again. Waited. No answer.
With a sigh, he walked away from the front door and began making his way around the house, peeking in the windows for any sign of JJ. He felt like a creep. Still, he looked. He didn’t even know if JJ would be there. He had no reason to think he would be. But Topper didn’t know where else to look, and everybody knew that John B and co. had set up home base there.
Aside from a few self-cut muscle tees strewn about, there was no sign of JJ.
He quietly walked around the back of the house, just about to give up when he saw him. JJ Maybank. Sitting on the hard dirt with his back turned to Topper, next to a small fire—so close to the flames they colored all of him orange. Slowly, Topper approached JJ from behind, the way one approaches a dangerous animal. He took in the boy’s appearance; JJ’s hair was wet, plastered to his scalp and absent of his usual backwards baseball cap. Soon, Topper was only a few feet behind him, still unnoticed.
Without thinking, Topper cleared his throat. Loudly.
JJ bolted up from the ground, beer flying from a can in his hand as he turned to face the other boy. “The fuck-” he began, stopping as he recognized his visitor. Surprisingly, he seemed to relax at the realization that it was Topper. JJ looked him up and down, chugged what was left in his can and sighed. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”
“Uh, yeah... it’s- it’s me. Definitely me.”
Well, shit. Off to a fantastic start there, Topper. Fucking moron.
JJ just rolled his eyes and turned back to the fire; he crushed the empty can in his palm and tossed it in a small pile of them, dropping back to the ground. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Cicadas and mosquitos buzzed incessantly in the thick summer air. Topper did not try to talk to JJ. JJ did not ask why Topper had come. Everything that had happened—from the second the boys were born into their role on the island, up till now—hovered between them, unspoken. There had always been a wall there; and now, after John B and Sarah, it was barbed wire.
Topper wasn’t sure what to say; he’d forgotten why he was there at all. He just stood, silently, watching JJ crack open another beer and sip for what felt like hours.
Then, finally: “Why’d you come here, Top?” JJ’s words slurred together, just a bit; he was drunk. “You come to finish the job for your little Kook buddies? Kelce too scared to come himself?” He snickered obnoxiously at the thought.
Stepping closer to the fire—to JJ—Topper stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a phone. He crouched down next to the other boy. “I didn’t come here to fight you, JJ. I just came to give you this.” He held out the phone before tossing it lightly onto JJ’s lap. “You left it in your apron. Raz was gonna throw it out.”
“Oh.” JJ blinked and picked up the phone. The screen lit up, so bright in the August evening that it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. The lockscreen was a selfie of JJ and John B, taken earlier that summer, with sand coating their sun-leathered faces and wide smiles. JJ stared at it for a moment, then shut it off unceremoniously and threw it to the side. “You’re still an asshole,” he said.
Topper opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. This is it , he thought. A chance to make things right. And you’re going to screw it up, like you have everything else. He let out a strained laugh and stood up again, dusting off his shorts with his hands. “Okay, Maybank,” he whispered, reaching for the wallet in his pocket. He pulled out a twenty and dropped it on the ground next to JJ. “One last tip. We’ll miss you at the club.”
With that, Topper turned and walked away. He didn’t make it very far before he heard JJ’s laugh break through the symphony of the August evening. He turned around to face him again.
“Of course, classic Kook,” JJ scoffed. “throwing money at your problems in the hopes that they’ll go away.” He stuffed the bill in his pocket before standing up and marching towards Topper on unsteady legs. When JJ reached the other boy, he shoved him violently, grabbing fistfuls of his pretentious pink polo. “Why do you let them talk that shit ? Huh, Topper?” he shouted through gritted teeth. JJ was right up in his face now, mere centimeters away, and Topper could smell the beer on his breath. He shoved him again. “Why do you let them talk that shit ?”
JJ stumbled, falling forward into Topper and collapsing against his chest. Without thinking, Topper grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him. The boy panted roughly. He was hardly holding himself upright. Suddenly, JJ’s heavy breathing turned to sobs, and Topper felt warm tears falling and soaking into his shirt.
“You know,” JJ spat through the tears, voice muffled by Topper’s shirt, “you know that it’s all bullshit.” He shoved Topper away again, breaking free from his hold and wracking his hands through his hair. His chest heaved with each sob. “John B never hurt anyone in his life, and you know it, and you let them talk that shit.”
Turning away, JJ eased himself back onto the ground. Topper stood, frozen behind him. Of all the things he’d expected to happen, this was not one of them. He didn’t know what to say; he didn’t even want to hear his own pitiful excuses. Slowly, he sat down next to JJ, avoiding looking at him; he focused on the fire instead, hot flames dancing in the ocean breeze, casting shadows all around the yard.
JJ snotted into his elbow, trying to pull himself together. “You’re a coward, Topper Thornton.”
Ashamed, Topper just stared ahead, saying nothing. His eyes trailed off, landing on an old tree a few yards away. Its thick bark had been hacked off in the shape of a lopsided heart, and John B’s name had been burned into it. Underneath the name, there were three characters; P4L. Topper had seen those same characters graffitied onto fences and buildings enough times to know what it meant. Pogues for life.
Even just reading it sent a fresh wave of nausea over him. He looked away, back to the fire, still refusing to look at JJ. “You’re right,” he said. His voice was barely over a whisper. And here they come, the excuses: “They’re gone, JJ. I can’t-” Topper choked on his words, paused. “I can’t lose anybody else. My friends are dicks, but they are all I have left. And I hate myself for it as much as you do.”
JJ let out a half-hearted snort, beer dribbling from his mouth down his chin. He looked right at Topper, eyes red; he’d been crying long before Topper showed up. “You’re a fucking coward,” he said again.
“You already said that.”
Again: “You’re a coward. You could have helped them. You could have saved them. You’re a coward,” JJ whispered.
Topper just nodded. “I know,” he said. “Trust me; I think about it every day.”
“You know the truth. About who shot Peterkin. About all of Ward and Rafe’s shit. But you just let them tear up John B’s name—call him a murderer, celebrate because he’s dead. Well, none of your fucking Kooks that you love so dearly knew him. None of them. Didn’t even know Sarah.” He paused and took a sip of beer. “And I thought maybe after... everything... you might actually try to be a decent fucking person.” Pause, sip. “But you’re still the same dick.” Pause, sip. “Pining after Sarah and getting all pissy when things don’t go your way.” Pause, sip. “It should have been you on that boat. It should be you who drowned,” JJ cried. “I wish it had been you, Topper. Topper, Topper, Topper... God, that’s such a shit name. You really were born to be a douche-”
“Just... stop, JJ,” Topper interrupted. He reached up and wiped the wetness from his eyes. JJ drank the last from his can and threw it to the pile; Topper followed his eyes. He counted all the cans up in his head. Five. “Do you really think getting drunk off your ass is going to help anything?”
Without acknowledging him, JJ grabbed another beer from his small cooler and cracked it open. He turned back and grabbed another, chucking it at Topper. Too slow to catch it, it hit him on the arm, rolling down to the dirt.
“Don’t tell Pope and Kie,” JJ murmured.
Topper rubbed the spot where the can had hit him; JJ had a good arm; it would probably bruise later. Against his own wishes, Topper let a small laugh escape his lips as he reached for the can. He wiped the dirt onto his shirt before opening it carefully and taking a sip. “It can be our little secret,” he said.
And there they were, the King of the Kooks and a Pogue, drinking together; mourning together.
This JJ, drunk on sadness—and beer—was far different than the JJ Topper normally knew. Still hostile, yes; passionate. But instead of being angry, he mostly just seemed sad.
Topper had earned all of JJ’s hatred. He’d been violent and cruel. He had done things that he would be ashamed of long after he’d died. He’d let Rafe—that psychopath—and Kelce, and all the Kooks manipulate him for years. 17 years. His whole life. He’d earned the right to sit down and shut the fuck up and let JJ kick him until his organs bled.
Instead, JJ just cried.
Topper breathed deeply, slowly. “I’m sorry.”
And there it was. Out in the open.
JJ didn’t respond; didn’t even acknowledge the apology for nearly a whole minute, before finally saying: “Yeah, I bet you are.”
Again, there was quiet.
“I’m not going to forgive you,” JJ continued, “if that’s what you’re waiting for. I won’t.”
Slowly, Topper nodded. “I understand.” He took a sip of his beer, thinking, reading over the name on the tree over and over again. John B.
And it’s all he could think about. John B kissing Sarah like she was the only think that mattered in the world. The two of them, clinging onto one another as the waves overtook them; screaming, thrashing as they were dragged apart by the currents. John B and Sarah dead on the ocean floor.
Suddenly: “I want to help you guys clear John B’s name,” Topper said.
At his words, JJ seemed to falter; blinking, his mouth fell open, and he turned to look at Topper. “What?”
“I’ve been thinking—which I guess I didn’t do a lot before the past few weeks. I was... really shitty. To you. To John B. To Sarah. And I mean really shitty. And I have no excuse for it. I hate that it took my whole world falling apart for me to realize that this world, this fucking ‘Kooks vs Pogues’ thing... it’s all dumb as fuck. But we’re born and we grow up with everyone screaming in our faces that we are who we are and if you’re not with us, you’re against us. It’s all bullshit.”
Slowly, JJ nodded. “Right, right, I don’t disagree,” he breathed, “But here’s the thing Topper: you and me, we’re not friends. And we never will be.”
“Trust me, I know,” Topper sighed. JJ glared at him. “I know we’re not friends. I know that you don’t forgive me, and that you never will, and that I don’t deserve it. That’s not what I need.”
“Then what?” JJ asked. “Why do you care what happens? What do you get out of it?”
“Maybe I can forgive myself,” he whispered. “Even just a little bit. I can’t bring back Sarah, or John B. I can’t undo anything that I did. All I can do is try to fix the things that can be fixed. John B doesn’t deserve to be remembered as a murderer. He was a good guy. The world should know; that John B is innocent, and that Rafe Cameron killed Peterkin. It’s his fault. He is the reason that John B and Sarah got on that boat. He is the reason that they’re de-” he choked on the words, unable to finish. “I just want to do the right thing, for once.”
JJ nodded along, then looked down. After a long moment, he opened his mouth. “Then why’d you come to me?” he asked quietly; his voice was so small it was nearly impossible to hear.
Topper looked at him, confused.
“I always do the wrong thing.”
Slowly, thinking over his answer, Topper responded: “Then maybe we have more in common than we think.” He paused, took a sip of his beer. He opened his mouth to say something else but stopped. What else was there to say?
Finally, JJ finished his beer and tossed the empty can at Topper; this one bounced off his knee. “I don’t like you, Topper,” he said.
“I understand.”
“But... I love John B more than I hate you,” he relented, “And I guess it could be helpful to have your around...” His eyes turned up towards the sky as he dragged out his words, avoiding giving Topper too much acceptance.
But still, he had one foot in the door.
Topper flashed a small smile and breathed a long sigh of relief. “Oh, um, great. Awesome. So do you, uh, want my number?”
“Why would I want that?” JJ questioned, furrowing his brow.
“....to contact me about everything?”
“Oh. Right. Yeah.” He reached over to grab his phone, holding out for Topper who took it and put himself in the other boy's contact list. When he was done, Topper handed back. And was promptly hit with another empty beer can, landing in his lap.