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Listen, JJ knows he’s not always the best friend — he can be mean, he lashes out when things go wrong, and is usually the reason they get into trouble. He gets it, he knows he doesn’t deserve Pope or Kiara, especially not John B. After everything they’ve done for him, they’re far too good to spend their time with some waste of space.
But against every reason to go, they’re still here. They’re the Pogues and Pogues trust each other. So every time JJ has to practically get on his knees and beg, he trusts them enough to believe they’ll listen — that they'll never, ever tell anyone.
No matter how bad the bruises get, how close to breaking his bones are, no matter how many nights JJ has cried himself to sleep in their arms and pretended it never happened the next day, they cannot tell anyone what goes on behind closed doors.
Simple enough, right?
JJ doesn’t trust easily, not since his mom abandoned him to a shitty father, but he’s learned how to give this piece of himself over and believe that his friends will defend it. It’s not that JJ is ignorant — it’s a lot to deal with. He’s a lot to deal with, picking up the pieces whenever he crumbles and all that. Nevertheless, he never would’ve expected that trust and loyalty to be so ruthlessly destroyed.
The only people on this damn island that he actually loves, the Pogues, call the fucking cops.
JJ knows it was them, it had to be. He’s on his way to John B’s when Sheriff Peterkins finds him, saying she needs to ask him a few questions. Initially, his mind wanders back to the last thing he stole, which was a candy bar from a gas station which is not nearly enough to warrant the sheriff coming for him.
Without much choice, JJ climbs into the car and sits in tense silence down to the station. Peterkins doesn’t say anything until she closes her office door behind him, trapping him in.
“I just want to say, you’re not in trouble, JJ,” she says, settling on the edge of her desk. “We got an anonymous tip and -”
JJ fades it out. He knows exactly where this is heading. He’s not stupid, no matter how many times his dad screams it at him, and he’s old enough — fourteen — to know what he’s supposed to say.
Deny, deny, deny echoes in his mind, solidifying itself as his natural default. The lie slips off his tongue with ease, practice from years of concerned teachers and friends.
“My dad loves me, he’d never hurt me.” He hopes his dad can hear him, knowing that he’s been brought in by the resounding footsteps just outside the office.
Peterkins’ doubtful expression doesn’t faze him enough for the mask he’s carved over the years to fall. Though, his mind is racing at the mere thought of it.
He could just admit to everything, right now, right here, and be done with it. It could be over, it would be so easy just to say those few words.
But then where would he go? His dad, no matter how horrible, is the only family he has left. He’d probably be taken away to the mainland, put into some just as shitty foster home — taken away from everything and everyone he’s ever known.
At least here, he knows he can reach the Pogues, has some kind of refuge when things get too much.
And even if they ruined what little trust JJ has, he won’t give them up for anything.
So JJ denies everything, spinning the same story he knows his old man is. With no actual witnesses or evidence other than some tip, no charges can be placed and JJ walks out of the police station with his dad’s hand on his shoulder. A comforting gesture to most but JJ knows the threat for what it is.
They’ve gone barely a few meters down the road when JJ hears his name be called. Looking over his shoulder, he sees John B, Kiara, and Pope nearing, not so subtly glancing between him and his dad.
JJ knows his dad has put two and two together as his grip on JJ tightens.
“Hey, JJ,” John B says, taking a few steps closer. He looks deflated, as if he really believed they could put an end to the abuse. JJ grimaces at the sickening amount of pity in his eyes, like he’s a child. “We were about to go surfing if you wanna come.”
JJ chokes back a dry, bitter laugh. He’s resigned himself to his fate, the least his friends could do is to stop pretending there’s any chance of getting him out of this.
Through clenched teeth, his dad hisses, “Get in the car, boy.” His breath reeks of beer — it’s almost impressive he got through a police interview in this state.
“It’ll be fun.” Kiara flashes a forced smile, she seems more afraid than JJ is. “Let’s go.”
JJ takes a deep breath. He wants to shout, wants to take them all by the shoulders and scream that he doesn't have a choice — he never has, never will. He wants to slap them stupid until the sinks in that no one can stop this, maybe give them a taste of what’ll happen to him.
But he can’t imagine ever hurting the people he loves — supposed to love — so he bites his lip to stop any word slipping out, averting his gaze to the pavement.
“Now,” his dad says forcibly, dragging JJ away, and demanding he gets in the rusty truck.
JJ is torn between getting a good look at his friends, to have something to hold onto, and knowing how much harder it’ll be to leave if he has to see any of that pity they all share for him. Forcing his stiff body to move, JJ gets in the truck, catching a glance of the Pogues as they leave.
JJ doesn’t exactly remember what happens from there, like he’s pulled from his own body and forced to watch, unable to control himself, unable to really feel anything. Pope did research once — he always wants to help — and said it had a name. But JJ can never recall the word until he asks Pope.
That's what he’ll do when this is over, he’ll ask Pope, he just has to get through this part first.
He remembers the front door slamming behind him, rattling the walls. He remembers his dad’s booming voice yelling in his face.
He remembers the pain. He always does.
-
The Pogues remember with vivid detail.
Numbly, they go back to John B’s, perching themselves either on the dock or in the Pogue, stolen beers from his dad growing warm in their hands. They’d sought to drown the guilt, anger, and regret that’s been tearing them piece from piece but nothing’s strong enough.
They’ve been in a self-loathing filled silence for hours, the sun already setting, when Pope says, “We fucked up.” He’s the most sober but even he can’t quite differentiate the bobbing of the current under him on the boat from the dizziness in his head.
Those three words were enough to draw out the others from their own minds.
“Wow, never would’ve guessed that if you didn’t point it out,” Kiara snaps, her feet dangle just above the water.
John B’s stretched out on the wood, only able to mutter a weak, “Shut up, both of you,” unable to find the energy to properly fight back.
Unable to let this go, Kie continues, “Who’s idea was it even?” She takes a long drink of the cheap beer. “I mean, he told us not. Why didn’t we listen?”
“You made the call,” Pope whispers so quietly John B doesn’t think he heard it correctly.
But as Kiara back straightens as taut as a bowstring, whipping her head around with roaring fury, John B is quick to action, throwing his hands up to keep her from attacking Pope.
“We all agreed to it, we share the blame.” John B sees Pope about to argue and adds, “Anyway, if JJ comes down here and hears you two bitching, he’s just gonna turn his ass around.”
Pope sighs. “What makes you think he’s even coming?” he asks.
“He always does. If he can walk, he’ll come here,” John B answers, knowing for a fact that here is more of a home to JJ than his real house. “I mean, where else does he have to go?”
“What if he can’t walk?”
“Kie,” John B sighs, anxiously running his hand through his hair.
“What?” Kiara throws hands up defensively. “His dad looked pissed.”
“He’s always pissed,” Pope notes.
John B fights the urge to fight them both on this, but takes a moment to collect himself, they can’t all start bickering right now. He won’t admit it but Kiara does have a good point. John B’s seen the calm before the storm more times than he’d like and he’s never seen anything like that in that old man’s eyes -- like hell had opened up and he was all that walked out.
Worse, he’s never seen JJ look that afraid.
From the moment they met, JJ always throws up a wall between himself and everyone else — shit, between himself and himself. If he can convince the world he doesn’t feel the pain, then maybe he doesn’t, at least that’s how JJ described it once.
John B has never seen that wall drop when JJ’s dad is around, has never actually been able to see what JJ feels in those moments before the storm hits. But he saw it today, saw the raw, unbridled panic and fear in his eyes — an image that will haunt his dreams.
JJ — smooth, quick witted, faintly aloof — was shaken to his core and John B could do nothing to stop it.
But he can’t linger on that fact for too long or he’ll fall about. He downs the last of his beer before saying, “If he doesn’t come by tonight, we’ll go to him tomorrow.”
Pope and Kiara mutter their agreement, the tension slowly dying down in turn of the apprehensive feeling at the idea of having a run in with Luke Maybank, especially since he’ll be seething for a long while over this. But ultimately, the loyalty to their fellow Pogue and a touch of guilt wins.
-
John B is the first to wake up after they collapsed on the pull-out in one pile, limbs tangled together, the noticeable absence only drawing them closer to each other. After unravelling himself from Kiara and Pope, John B finds his dad in the kitchen, peering over a cup of coffee.
“You kids gonna want breakfast?” he asks.
John B shakes his head.
“Good, didn’t feel like cooking anywhere.”
Despite himself, John B smiles softly. “Hey, uh, can we borrow the van today?”
“You know you’re too young to drive.”
“Never stopped you before. So?”
Big John shoots him a look but instead of answering, he says, “I heard about JJ and his dad. Wonder who made the claim.”
There’s a heavy weight dangling between them. John B knows his dad would’ve figured out what was happening with JJ long before John B was old enough to put the pieces together. And they’ve both patched up the kid plenty of times when he’s come stumbling to the chateau, yet, neither of them have said the few damning words.
It’s never needed to be said out loud. Kiara was probably the first one to actually use the word abuse when making the anonymous call to the cops. But admitting to it is what got them in this mess.
“Yeah, yeah, me too,” John B says. “We were actually hoping to go see JJ, make sure he’s good, y’know.”
His dad’s gaze flashes with a knowing look - knowing he might have blood on his floor soon. “Just don’t crash it.” He chucks John B the keys from where they rested on the bench.
John B thanks him and turns back around, rustling the slowly awakening two on the couch before they all pile out the door and into the car, the atmosphere thick with tension.
The way to JJ’s house is ingrained in John B’s mind, he barely has to think about the stops and turns, which, unfortunately, gives his mind space to wander away from the road ahead. He can’t stop himself from picturing just how bad JJ could be that he couldn’t even make it to the chateau.
Not even a hurricane or a sprained knee have stopped him in the past. Sometimes John B has wondered whether JJ even feels the pain anymore.
Pope and Kiara are deadly silent in the back, as stiff and still as statues. It’s usually JJ that makes endless chatter when things get too serious, too overwhelming — he’s the one that stops everyone else from falling too deep into their own despair.
John B never realised just how much of a needed and comforting presence JJ is.
They shouldn’t have called anyone is all that John B can think, the phrase replaying in his head like a taunt.
But whoever’s idea it was — they won’t play the blame game — it doesn’t matter anymore, nothing does. Only getting JJ and making sure he’s safe. It’s the only way they can make it up to him.
JJ’s house is a daunting sight, all rotting wood and violence. John B parks slightly down the road, not wanting to risk JJ’s dad seeing it.
The morning sun has already grown higher in the sky, the sole on looker of the vacant street. Only the sound of chirping birds fills the air, filling the Pogues with dread.
They creep forward, footsteps muted by the dirt as they make their way for JJ’s bedroom window. Admittedly, they only know which one it is because they’ve seen him climb out of it so many times — no one's actually been inside his house. For good reason, though.
A shiver goes down John B’s spine, remembering that mistake.
The window is barely at eye level for the boys, so Kiara has to go onto her tiptoes to see in. Even with a net obscuring the view, they all get the same bone chilling sight.
JJ lays half in his bed, as if he barely reached it before passing out, his eyes closed more because of the deep purple bruising surrounding them rather than by choice. Beneath the red and purple caking his face, barely a peak of his tan skin comes through.
“Is he…?” Pope trailing off as his voice fails him.
“No, he - he’s fine. He has to be,” Kiara says, trying to convince herself more than Pope.
“He looks - ”
“He’s fine,” John B interrupts. He has to focus to see the minuscule rises and falls of JJ’s chest. “We need to get him out.”
Without thinking, he starts to pull at the window, hoping sheer determination would open it.
Kiara rolls her eyes. “Even if that did work, we can’t just drag him through a window.”
“Are you saying we have to go inside?” Pope shakes his head. “Nah, if his dad catches us, we’re all dead.”
“Got a better idea?”
“Yeah, we call the cops.” Pope ignores Kie’s sigh. “No one can deny this -” he points at JJ’s unconscious body - “not even JJ.”
Ignoring then, John B glances around the front yard. “I don’t think his dad’s even here. Do you see his car?”
Pope looks around, sighing, becoming resigned to this. “Let’s just make this quick.”
John B fishes out the keys from his pocket. “Kie, bring the van up and we’ll carry him out.”
She nods and hurries off while the boys move for the front door. John B opens it slowly, just in case, but when nothing moves, they continue forward.
They stand in the threshold of JJ’s room, frozen, useless, bile rising upwards.
If possible, JJ looks worse up close. Every inch of his skin — from his knuckles to his throat — seems to be covered in discoloured bruises. Hand prints wrap around his wrists, snaking around his neck.
On top of a swollen and cut bottom lip, a graze that travels the length of his cheek, too much effort goes into each shaky breath — he’s barely hanging on.
JJ?” John B calls, moving across the room to gently shake his shoulder. The boy doesn’t stir. “JJ, can you hear me?”
“Dude, he’s out cold, let’s hurry this up,” Pope says.
It takes some manervouring but the boys manage to lift JJ up — Pope holding his legs while John B wraps his arms under his armpits. As gently as they can, they carry the broken and bloody body from the house. It’s hard not to jostle him too badly as they lower him into the awaiting van. Kiara drives away before Pope can even close the door.
Kie risks a glance behind her, struggling to keep her attention on the road. “So, he’s not…”
“No, he - he’s fine -” JJ’s wheezing breathes proves John B right - “he’ll be alright.”
John B looks down, noticing how he’d adjusted JJ’s head into his lap, unconsciously running a hand through his curls. But he finds no urge to stop. At least here, like this, he can protect him.
The ride back to the chateau is somehow quieter than before — Kiara holds the steering wheel like it’s the only thing grounding him, Pope is torn between inspecting every inch of JJ and staring mindlessly out the window. John B can only hold them, praying his gentle touches just might heal every wound.
Kie pulls around the back and conventionally, Big John isn’t home when they arrive.
“Okay, what now?” Pope asks, voicing all their thoughts.
They’re not doctors, all John B has is a ruddy first aid kit. It’s only the fact that JJ would kill them all if he woke up in a hospital that’s making them take the situation into their own hands.
“Put him on the porch,” Kie says, her voice devoid of any emotion. “I’ll - I’ll get some water, clean him up.”
They simultaneously fall into a state of shock, moving about numbly. Carrying JJ, John B doesn’t quite process that beneath all the damage is his best friend. Maybe it’s better this way — he can freak out later.
Pope looks the same way, his eyes glossed over and his gaze can’t seem to land on JJ too long.
Kiara reappears shortly, the boys take a step back to let her get to work with a dirty rag and bowl of water. John B hadn’t even noticed the dark crimson before, can’t quite place where it came from.
The water quickly turns a sick shade of brown but it starts to bring some colour back to JJ’s face. Now, John B can see how crooked his nose is, where all the blood must have rushed from.
Satisfied with her work, Kiara leans back on her heels and looks up at the boys. “Help me get his shirt off,” she says with a tiny voice.
John B lowers to their level, thinking fuck it and simply rips JJ’s shirt down the front. It was worn and stained anyway, he won’t miss it.
The moment he does so, regret strikes John B like a train.
If JJ’s face was bad, the utter mess of his chest and abdomen are sickening. Dark purple stains litter his skin, almost outlining where each of his ribs lay, looking more like a splatter of paint than human skin.
“Is that… glass?” Pope points to JJ’s lower abdomen, broken shards lodged deep into his body.
Kiara sucks in a deep breath. Her hands tremble as they hover over the area. “It’s from a beer bottle,” she says bluntly. “Asshole probably threw it at him.”
It’s slow work taking out each piece of glass, the smaller pieces that barely broke skin fall easy but the larger shards draw blood as they leave his body. Kiara takes JJ’s ruined shirt to staunch the bleeding.
“Does he need stitches?” John B asks.
Kie shakes her head, hair falling over her face as tears start to brim in the corner of her eyes.
He reaches over, taking the last piece of glass from her hand — it was deep, JJ’s blood stains almost the entire thing.
JJ’s blood. His best friend’s blood. A damn kid’s blood.
Everything that had been numbed all comes rushing forward as red hot anger tears through his system.
It’s bullshit. Everything’s bullshit. This shit isn’t fair, JJ doesn’t deserve this life, doesn’t deserve to be laying here half dead.
God, if he ever sees Luke Maybank again, he’ll kill him. He won’t be able to stop himself. It’s the least that piece of shit deserves.
He’ll make him feel everything JJ’s gone through at his hands. At the hands of the one man, no matter what, that is supposed to protect him.
“John B,” a voice calls, it sounds so far away over the rushing of his blood.
He doesn’t realise Pope is before him until he’s clawing at John B’s hand, digging for something. He opens his fist, revealing the shard of glass he’d been clutching hard enough to draw blood.
He never even felt it.
“Look, dude,” Pope says, one hand taking the piece of glass while the other rests on John B’s shoulder. “We can all freak out later. Okay? Hold it together.”
“Yeah, shit.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m good.”
Pope opens his mouth to say something else but a sudden raspy groan snatches everyone’s attention. John B moves faster than he ever has before in his life, collapsing onto his knees next to JJ’s head.
“JJ?” It escapes his lips without thought, hesitant hands hover over his face — afraid to touch, afraid to break any more — settling on his shoulders. “Hey, come on, open your eyes for me. Wake up, buddy.”
Nothing can compare to the utter relief that floods John B as those warm blue eyes flutter open, landing instantly onto him.
He’s fighting back tears, grinning like an idiot but manages to choke them back enough to say, “Hey, JJ, it’s okay, I’m here. We’re all here.”
JJ furrows his eyebrows, his hand makes a few clumsy attempts before latching around John B’s arm. His lips start to move, a fruitless effort to speak that comes out more as a whine than anything else, when his eyes haze over, and slip closed once again.
“No, no, no, shit, please, JJ, open your eyes. JJ, please.” John B’s voice breaks. His resolve falls apart completely. He’s just a scared kid who can’t help his friend, who doesn’t know how much longer he can deal with seeing scenes too close to this.
Pope rests a hand on John B’s shoulder, a small attempt at comfort. “It’s gonna be okay, that was probably a good sign.”
“Yeah,” Kiara agrees, “he just needs rest.”
John B nods weakly, unable to find his voice. Kie is the first to stand, offering her hand down to him. He lets her pull him up before he and Pope lean down to pick JJ up again. Wordlessly, they agree to carry him into John B’s room, the bed softer than the pull out couch.
Once satisfied JJ’s comfortable — not that he would even know — John B rummages through his closet for a shirt. He finds one that his dad passed down, it’s battered from wear and tear but it feels right so as gingerly as he can, John B puts it on JJ. It hangs loosely off his frame, making him seem smaller, younger than he is. Than he was forced to be.
With nothing more they can do, John B settles on the bed between JJ and the wall, while Pope and Kiara find a place on the floor and sit. Together, they stand watch, observing any twitch and every breath — waiting with a suffocating sense of dread, waiting for this nightmare to end.
-
When JJ does wake up, as all things JJ, it’s dramatic, drawing all attention. It’s early evening and the other Pogues had been starting to drift off into restless sleeps when they jolt awake, all scurrying around the bed to get a good look as JJ drags in a gasping breath.
John B leans over JJ on the bed, Pope and Kiara kneel on the ground next to them. Kie takes JJ’s hand, snaking their fingers together and squeezes him so tight it might back. But, like the first glimpse of the sun after a storm, knowing the worst is over, JJ squeezes back weakly.
“JJ,” Pope says, always the one to shatter the silence, “are you okay?”
“Fucking fantastic,” JJ mutters.
A collective laugh of relief passes through the Pogues as his eyes blink rapidly as he adjusts to the light, his face twisting in a small grimace. JJ lifts his head just high enough to see where his and Kiara’s hands lay interlocked, adjusting his grip as if she might leave if he lets go.
When JJ attempts to sit up only to have three sets of hands push him back down, he collapses without much fight.
“Hey, where are we?” JJ looks mostly to John B, leaning towards him on instinct. His eyes are half-lidded as he looks up and that wall is nowhere to be seen. Every wave of pain and mild fear that feels like a knife to John B’s heart.
He blinks owlishly. “It - it’s my room, JJ.”
“Oh - ” he rubs his eyes - “oh okay.”
A spike of worry goes through John B. The idea that JJ not being able to recognise the room he’s spent so long in sounds impossible — JJ can walk the whole place blind. Kiara and Pope share a glance, thinking the same thing.
“Did you hit your head at all?” Kie asks, reaching out with the intention to check.
John B notices the mistake just as JJ does.
JJ flinches. Hard. Violently. Slamming against John B in a desperate attempt to get away, his eyes scrunch shut as a trembling arm tries to cover his bruised face. Rushed breaths escape him.
It sounds underwater but John B hears Kiara gasp, sees from the corner of his eye that she’s covering her mouth as she slowly backs away, horror clear as day on her face. But he can’t find the piece of mind to spare for her — all that matters, all that he cares about is JJ.
Fear is a disgusting, foreign look on him.
“JJ, hey, hey it’s okay,” John B says softy, resisting the urge to touch him. “JJ, look - look at me, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
It’s a long, aching moment later until slowly, JJ comes back to himself, his breathing returning to a steady rhythm. Though his body still trembles with dying panic, JJ uncovers his face, only giving a fleeting glance to John B and adamantly not looking at Kiara.
Though they barely made eye contact, John B knows exactly what JJ’s thinking. He looks to Pope and Kie and asks, “Can you give us some space?” — not caring how harsh it sounded.
Not one to argue, Pope stands silently and moves for the door. Kiara, on the other hand, hesitates, her eyes brimming with tears as she hovers by the bed, frozen in place.
“Kie, it’s okay.” John B tries to give his best reassuring smile. “I’ve got this.”
She looks unsure but nods anyway, slowly dragging herself away and leaves the room.
After another glance from JJ, he adds, “Leave the door open.” Not that JJ could run even if he wanted — needed — to but it does no harm.
Once John B hears the back door open and close as the pair wander out to the porch, he turns back to JJ — who’s regaining his composure quicker now it’s just the two of them.
“How’d I even get here?” JJ asks, there’s still a slight tremor in his voice that neither acknowledges. He tries again to sit up, only for John B to push him down a little more forcibly than before.
“We, uh, we might have kidnapped you,” John B answers.
JJ gives a breathy laugh, wincing slightly as the movement jostles his aching body. “Nice.” A small smile spreads across his lips until a stark realisation comes to him. “My dad - he wasn’t - he didn’t see you?”
“Nah, he wasn’t there. Don’t think he’ll notice for a while.”
“Yeah, good point,” JJ says quietly.
John B falls silent, he’s never been the best at this part — the aftermath, the recovery. Usually, JJ can brush it off, make some stupid joke, and they act like nothing happened but even this is too much for him.
Too many thoughts and ideas are racing through John B’s mind, all begging for attention. He wants to stay at JJ’s side forever, wants to cry, scream, punch something — not necessarily in that order — and not something, someone.
But above all else, he just wants JJ to be okay.
“Kie had a point,” John B says at last, “you probably hit your head at some point, you were out for a while. So, can I - I - do you mind?”
An internal struggle passes swiftly over JJ’s face — the evidence of broken trust fighting against natural instincts to believe in John B. Eventually, he mutters a small, “Yeah, go for it.”
Still, his eyes follow John B’s slow movements, wincing as his feather light fingers prod around, searching for dried blood, a large bump, anything really. Anything that could convince JJ to go to a hospital. But when he comes up with barely a lump, John B resolves to give his friend this one thing.
“Nothing too bad.”
“Is that your professional opinion, doctor?” JJ teases and if he were in any other state, John B would push him off the bed for being an idiot.
Instead, John B just laughs — JJ can’t be too hurt if he’s still himself. Right? Not that JJ’s ever been one to ever fully admit the extent of his injuries. They should’ve done a more thorough examination while he was still out, to make sure nothing’s broken.
“JJ, listen,” John B says, catching them both off guard by the seriousness in his voice.
JJ immediately groans. “Don’t.”
“No, look, we fucked up. I fucked up. I should’ve known, it was stupid, and we should’ve told you - should’ve fucking listened to you but I -”
“What’s done is done, it doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.” His voice raises without his consent. “You matter, JJ.”
“Just stop, please. I don’t want to get into it.”
There’s silence for a few moments. JJ’s chest starts to pant far too heavily for John B’s liking, the minuscule fight robbing him of his energy. John B has to physically bite his tongue to stop himself from pushing back anymore - it’s not a conversation that needs to happen right now, apparently.
“Well, what do you want?” John B asks.
JJ thinks for a while, chewing on his bottom lip no matter how swollen it is. “I don’t know, I’m just tired, man.”
“Okay, then, in my very professional opinion, you should get some sleep.”
“God, you’re such a mom.”
As he shuffles off the bed, John B softens his voice, saying, “Do you want me to tuck you in?”
“Can you kiss my boo boos better?”
“That sounds more like Kiara’s job. I’ll go tell her.”
“Oh, please do, wouldn’t mind that right now.”
John B covers his amusement by rolling his eyes. “Shut up, go to sleep.”
He’s crossed the room and about to close the door behind him when he hears, “Love you, too,” and he’s about to say it back but he sees JJ’s eyes have closed, his breaths already falling into a steady pattern.
With a fond smile he’ll never let JJ see, John B leaves his door open just a peak and joins Pope and Kiara out on the porch —finding that seated between them, surprisingly, is his dad. He’s seamlessly pulled in the conversation, offering only a glance to his friends to let them know JJ’ll be fine.
-
JJ’s eyes shoot open, heart beating out his chest, cheeks stained wet as the last remains of his dream start to leave. Even as every muscle in his body screams in protest, JJ sits up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and drops his head into his hands.
His throat contracts at the memory — the air being stolen from his lungs, the hard floor digging into his back, his dad, face beet red in anger, he can’t breath, it hurts, please, please, stop, dad —
With practiced ease, JJ swallows those thoughts down, he won’t — can’t let them rise up now.
He stands up, ignoring the jolt of pain that radiates across his entire body. The pale moonlight illuminates the room enough for him to make out enough to remember he’s at John B’s.
Shuffling across the room, JJ bites his lip to stop a groan escaping only to be painfully reminded of the tenderness there. He has to lean against the wall to keep himself upright. Really, he should’ve just stayed in bed, at least called out for help — but he just needs to move, needs a conscious moment to himself before undoubtedly he becomes swaddled like a child.
Once sure he won’t falter, JJ sucks in a breath and hobbles out the room as silently as possible. Each step brings a new wave of throbbing pain but he fights through it, almost collapsing when he finally reaches the kitchen bench. Across from him, the Pogues sleep peacefully on the pull-out, the light still on above them.
At first, JJ’s tempted to fish out a beer from the fridge — the last thing he wants right now is to be sober. But decides against it, picking up a glass from the sink and fills it with water.
His wrist trembles with effort, the hand shaped bruise aching with just the little amount of weight he’s holding. JJ clenches his jaw — he’s not this useless, is he?
The water splashes over the sides. He can do this one thing, this one stupid thing. He’s not useless, he’s not — he — he’s not. He can’t be.
Worthless.
Pathetic.
Waste of space.
The glass slips from his hand, shattering into tiny pieces before him.
JJ hears rushing footsteps — shit, shit, shit, his dad’s gonna kill him. This is the last straw. Oh god, oh god, oh fuck —
Someone touches his arm, fingers barely brushing his skin but it’s like being set ablaze. JJ pulls back, slamming against the bench.
He doesn’t beg. He knows better but he can’t stop a pathetic whimper. He can’t take it anymore.
He can’t.
“JJ.”
JJ, not boy, not piece of shit but JJ and the hand on his arm never goes further than a light touch. It can’t be his dad — that man’s never known how to be gentle, probably doesn’t even remember his son’s name.
“Breathe, JJ, you have to breathe.”
He follows the distant instructions, not caring who’s giving them. JJ sinks to the floor as his legs give out. With stable ground under him, JJ shakes himself free from the claws of his memory. He’s not there — he can’t be.
He only realises he’s begun to cry when a soft hand wipes his cheek. When he doesn’t flinch from the touch, reality comes back to him.
“You with us?”
Pope’s face is just a few inches from his own, his eyes shining with concern — barely hiding the pity he feels. Behind him, Kiara and John B watch on, close enough to step in but far away enough to give them space.
JJ nods. “Yeah, yeah, I — um, I’m good. I’m good.”
“Are you sure? You were pretty out of it, dude,” Pope says.
He nods again, wiping his cheeks as he tries desperately to pull on that uncaring mask he’s worked so hard to master. He hates this, hates breaking down so easily — like he’s just some broken kid that needs to be fixed.
He pulls himself together in one uneasy breath, running his hands through his hair. Forcing himself to meet Pope’s gaze, the mask crumbles in a heartbeat.
JJ doesn’t have to pretend he’s okay, not here.
He starts to think they’ve all spent too much time together when Pope offers his hand to JJ and pulls him up, while John B starts to clean the broken glass up, and Kiara moves to get another cup of water. Working around each other to help him.
Pope leads him into the living room where he promptly collapses onto the edge of the pull-out. Kiara comes out soon after, sitting next to him and holds out the drink. He takes it, gulping down the water greedily — not even caring that Kie doesn’t quite let go of it.
His thirst quenched and the fear dissolved, JJ feels all of his energy be depleted and not wanting to have to stumble back to John B’s room, he shuffles back on the pull-out couch and lays down.
Kiara is the first to lay next to him, followed by John B curling into his other side, while Pope takes Kie’s back.
JJ doesn’t even care if he’ll be feeling the bruises for weeks to come, he doesn’t care that eventually he will have to go home. Nothing matters, not really.
He falls asleep surrounded by the people he loves most in the world. And he’ll be okay, in the end.