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Without the Liars, Beechwood grows dreary and monochrome, cold even though it’s always summer. The Sinclairs try to resume their normalcy, but the island feels all too quiet now, and nobody can quite look at fire the same way anymore, nor feel its warmth.
Carrie Sinclair sees the flames dancing and mistakes them for shadows.
“Carrie,” Penny snaps, sharp like she always is, but even her sharpness has lost its point; it further dulls as Carrie slowly turns to her, akin to a withering rose. “I believe you need rest,” she states simply.
Only now does Carrie feel the sting of tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She hurriedly blinks them away, gives a short, “oh—yes, yes, I will get some now, please excuse me,” and politely bows before rushing out of the living room, then the house.
She drags her hands across her face, then her hair, then her face, then her hair again, masking her sorrow with frustration.
It was just a candle. Damn it, Carrie, pull yourself together!
She takes some deep breaths, cherishes the nature surrounding her and shit, and brushes dust off her clothes that don’t exist, but, for her own sake and sanity, she can pretend is a manifestation of all of her regret and guilt; mourning that has cut her into pieces, but it’s alright, it’s okay—Sinclairs are built for getting back up again.
Not from ashes, though, a cruel voice in her head murmurs, but she shuts it up; Sinclairs don’t murmur. Sinclairs can’t be defeated.
But, oh—only now can Carrie accept that Sinclairs can burn.
She puts herself back together; rearranges herself and breathes slowly and carefully as everything clicks back into place.
She looks up.
A rainbow shines over Beechwood.
Carrie Sinclair breaks all over again.
—
Johnny almost laughs at the sudden arch of color above the isle, but joy doesn’t feel the same when your heart has stopped beating. His every attempt only comes out as strange beats, irregular and pulseless like the final gasps for breath in a burning house. He tries again, and again, and again, but laughs that aren’t laughs turn into sobs that are sobs, and, fuck, he wishes God would just take him right then and there.
But the fact that He still hasn’t says enough. Sometimes, he thinks this is his hell—eternally wandering the palace he never got to escape. He never thought he’d want to, but once he realized that the gates, no matter how golden, were still locking him in, it was too late; now that all the fun is out of it, and now that the luster of its original, shining walls has melted with him, he’d do anything to go anywhere else— anywhere but here. Beechwood is like a prison in this state, only if prison both gave you everything and left you with nothing.
He thinks of what his mother said to him the morning before he died.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
He thinks the burns that sentence left prepared him for the fire; those words, seared into his skin the way demons are punished for their sins. He remembers, amidst the smoke and the suffocation and the smell of burnt paper, that the way the flames hugged him reminded him of something. That the last thought his dying brain could gasp out before it suffocated was,
“This fire sounds like you, mom.”
Warm, comforting, and killing him.
“Johnny?”
His mother’s voice cracks like the pieces she has to put back together every day after his shadow grows taller than he ever grew to be.
He swallows before turning around. “Mom,” he tries for a smile, but it falls the way he would if he ever tried for heaven. “Hi.”
He swears he feels crackling around them. Granddad would say the rainbow paints immaturity over the calm, amber sunset.
Carrie’s face morphs into a hundred different micro-expressions as she takes what must be a thousand deep breaths before she can finally whisper, “there’s— there’s something you never got to tell me,”
Johnny only takes one breath, but it feels deeper than all of his mother’s combined— which is funny, because he doesn’t even need air anymore, yet his lungs still desperately gasp for it like it could ever revive him. “Well, there’s a lot of things I never got to tell you,” he hums. She huffs frustratedly, so he relents, “—but, I guess there is...one, uh...important thing. Really— really important,”
His mom’s bottom lip quivers. “God, Johnny, it’s been more than a hundred tomorrows already. I want to talk about it. I want you to talk to me about it,” she whimpers.
“Honestly, you...probably already know,” he winces as he thinks of his Grindr profile, his DMs— Jesus Christ, his gallery. “Uh...it’s just that you, um...never gave me the time to tell you.” He rubs his thumb across his palm and swallows at the feel of blisters.
“And now I’ve run out. I have no more time with you, you’re gone, and I’m not getting you back. I know that, Johnny,” she grits out, eyes shimmering with tears as her wrinkled hands try and fail to smoothen the stress off her face. “I—It’s only thanks to mismatched prescriptions and missing wines that you’re even here right now. And even now, you’re punishing me, I— I get it. But...please. Please, tell me yourself,”
“Pretty sure my self died in the Clairmont fire,” He jokes; it doesn’t land. His voice must be raspy from inhaling all that smoke. Carrie levels with him in a pleading stare. He sighs. “Okay, mom. Fine, alright, you really wanna hear it from my voice, huh? Well, here goes: I’m gay. Your son, former oldest male heir of the Sinclair name, isn’t just dead; he’s also gay! You must be so f— so proud of me,”
He sees his reflection from the tears streaming down his mom’s face. They match.
“Oh, Johnny...” she sniffles as she cups his face. It’s cold to the touch.
“How’s that, mom? Does that make you happy? Is that what you wanted? That I’d still somehow find a way to disappoint you even after I’m dead?” His voice shakes, unstable from all the force he’s using to stop more tears from flowing out.
“You are not disappointing me,” she whispers as she strokes her thumbs down his cheeks. “Oh, I’m— I’m so sorry...—”
“You know, I still remember those dreams you had for me,” he interrupts. “That, one day, I’d meet a pretty girl at the Vineyard, bring her home for everyone’s approval, get married, and give you— you and Ed— the most beautiful grandchildren,” he chews his lips and swallows the sob building up in his throat. “But I...that...I never got to do that. And, you know what, mom, I never would’ve. Even if I didn’t die. Doesn’t that just make you so—”
“Proud,”
“—disappointed in...” he blinks, “...me?”
“Oh, no,” she touches their foreheads together and holds him the way she should’ve when he was still breathing; when he was still warm. “No, no, no, Johnny, that doesn’t make me disappointed. It makes me so proud. You— telling me that. Telling me who you truly were,”
“And who I never got to be,” he whispers shakily.
Sometimes, he wonders if a part of her is glad he couldn’t come out when he was alive. Glad she’s the only person who’ll ever know his secret, locked in an iron cage that died with him, both now one with the ashes.
A part of him can’t help but wonder if she would’ve even reacted this kindly had he not been dead. Had he actually told her when he was still trying to live his life. Of course, now, she’d love him no matter what— only now, when it’s too late for it to matter. Only now, when the chance for this kind of love to save him has long since passed.
If she didn’t know he would die before he even got to graduate, he knows what she would’ve said.
Johnny, you’re too young to be sure of that. Tell me again after— after you graduate. Hm?
Or, perhaps:
But what about your— your children? The bloodline? The Sinclair family tree? Your side can’t just be— it can’t just be barren. Oh, Johnny, don’t do this to me.
Or maybe even:
Go to your room, Johnny. It’s okay. You’re just not thinking properly, but you’ll be okay. Get rest. We will talk about it some other time, when you’re ready.
Well, apparently, he had to die to be ready.
The fact of the matter is he’d never know for sure. Maybe he was never supposed to know— maybe dying was the most merciful way out. Maybe his story would’ve been worse if he had lived: silent tragedy unnoticed behind perfection, picket fences, bribe-won trophies, an arranged wife, and unwanted kids. If they hadn’t made the decision to burn down the mansion on that fateful night, maybe he never would’ve summoned the strength to free himself in the first place.
Maybe, no matter what, be it from a lack of courage or a lack of time, Johnny would still never become who he really wanted to be in his life. Maybe he’d always remain shackled by his family name; nothing more than dust kindling the Sinclair fireplace.
The rainbow flickers out of existence, and Carrie Sinclair’s teardrops follow the fiery sun down the horizon as she dreams of her son’s wedding day.