Chapter Text
The trip to Charleston is Sarah’s idea. They’re young, they’re rich, they’re reunited. In the words of Sarah Cameron, it’s time to party.
They get an Air BnB in the middle of downtown, a stupidly expensive loft with exposed brick and hardwood floors. Sarah runs in squealing, swinging John B around with one hand. There are three bedrooms, each with a queen bed, and Sarah and John B, of course, take the master. As soon as they disappear, Kiara, Pope, and JJ scramble for the other hallway. Pope, unfortunately, gets there first and dashes into one of the bedrooms, slamming the door behind him.
“Mine!” he yells through the door. “JJ snores! I’m not sharing!”
There’s half a second before JJ and Kiara are violently wrestling to try and get through the doorway first. He uses his size and his stupidly broad shoulders to his advantage, but she’s smaller, wily, and, when necessary, a dirty fighter. JJ braces his hands on the threshold as Kie attempts to drag him backwards, trying to pull himself through. Her arms are a steel band around his waist, and she’s hanging dead weight, doing her level best to be as inconvenient as possible. His biceps flexing, he draws closer to the doorframe. In one last, desperate move, Kiara slides her hand up his side as fast as she can, jamming her thumb into his armpit.
JJ shrieks and twists away on instinct. Lightning-quick, Kiara pops to her feet and hurtles through the doorway, tossing her bag on the bed and throwing her body after it.
“Dibs!!” she shouts, laughing and breathless. But JJ is staring at her from the threshold, a grimace on his face, and she sits up, her weight on her hands, hair falling down her back. She notes the way his eyes flick to the cascade of curls. She misses that he wets his lips before he speaks.
“You’re not actually gonna make me sleep on the couch, are you?” JJ whines, and she throws one of the decorative pillows at him.
“You are such a pissbaby,” she says as he catches it. His fake disappointment breaks, a mischievous grin breaking out across his face, and dread fills her stomach. “No,” she says, scrambling backward on the bed, her hands held up in defense. He takes a step into the room, his smile holding steady. “ No,” she repeats, laughing prematurely.
Faster than humanly possible, JJ launches himself across the room and tackles her into the mattress, his fingers digging into her sides, relentless.
This is a thing, with them. For the first few years of their friendship, JJ put on a very convincing masquerade that he was, in fact, not ticklish at all. Every time John B lunged for his sides, he would look at him, shrug, and usually say something disparaging. Then, Kie jabbed her fingertips under his ribs one day and he jerked away from her with a squeak entirely too high to have possibly come from a grown man.
She learned that JJ is ticklish exactly once , if you get him when he’s not expecting it. John B is, of course, the worst stealth attacker in the history of subterfuge, and Pope is wildly ticklish and won’t start a fight that will debilitate him, so Kiara is the only one who ever gets JJ with this particular quirk of his. However, once he sees it coming, he’s invulnerable. Which means Kiara loses. Always.
JJ ends up on top of her, straddling her hips, her wrists pinned. His weight is heavy and thrilling, and the dark, wanting look in his eyes leaves her breathless, her chest rising and falling with the echo of laughter and unnamed anticipation. This has happened more than once between them. A wrestling match ending with him over her, desire crackling like lightning. She makes one final ploy to push up against him, a challenge in her smile. Shifting her hips, she moves to tip his center of gravity, but he stays firm, pushing her hands back against the bed with a strong, gentle grip, his head tilting to the side in teasing. Half his mouth rises in a smirk, and Kiara’s face settles into an expression of mock anger, even while her eyes spark and spit with lust and playful spirit.
She wants him, heat collecting between her legs, but there’s a hollow in her chest growing, too, making room for him. It’s like he’s been collecting pieces of her heart, slowly, leaving a gap between her lungs. A space that, if he chooses, his heart might one day fill. It’s dangerous and terrifying, falling for her best friend, but the sun is warmer than it’s ever been, the salt breeze stronger and whole, and every time JJ turns to her, smiling after some stupid joke, her face lights up in return. A few years ago, she might have been too terrified to acknowledge it, might have tried to run or rip it up even before it could truly grow, but so much has changed since they were sixteen and hunting for gold. She has a future, now, and so does JJ, and finally, they both have the means for happiness. To imagine that their futures may stretch forward, intertwined -- it’s not an impossible wish, anymore.
JJ wets his lips, his breath ragged and stuttering, and his thin barrier of hesitation is the last thing, the final tangle in the string tying them together. He never takes his chance in moments like these, even while she waits with her head foggy and her heart tripping and tumbling behind her ribs. She doesn’t want to take a chance and be wrong, childish and cowardly as it may be. There’s too much between them, too many years that she doesn’t want one wrong moment to set aflame. He waits half a beat too long, and sits up, releasing her wrists, his hands coming to rest on her sides, framing her ribs.
“I win,” he says, his eyes still dark and challenging, but like a door has shut behind them, like he’s swallowed the impulse, shoved it down before he could lean over her and meet her lips with his. She doesn’t have any idea why he might have done such a thing.
Kiara stretches her arms above her head before letting them relax, takes satisfaction in how JJ’s eyes drop to her chest as it moves. Settling beneath him, elbows slightly bent, her fingers twist together on the pillow, and she makes no move to escape his weight.
“Fine,” she says, “You can sleep here.” With me , she thinks, biting her lip. The small motion makes him inhale sharply, and he scrambles off of her like he’s been burned. Kiara sighs in defeat and sits up, rolling her eyes as JJ gathers his dignity from the floor.
“Good,” he says, his face flushed, eyes darting from side to side. “Glad we could come to an understanding,” he goes on, his voice even, like his emotion isn’t stupidly clear on his absurdly beautiful face.
Kie leans back on her hands, and she can’t help the skepticism and amusement that creeps into her tone, even as insecurity lurks beneath the surface. Humor, unfortunately, has always been her go-to coping mechanism.
“Uh-huh,” she says, “sure, of course.”
“I’m just gonna go…” JJ walks backward toward the door and slams his shoulder against the threshold before he makes it through. “Find John B,” he mutters, and then spins on his heel and darts to the other side of the apartment.
Kiara sighs and drops back to the mattress, her eyes tracing the lines of the high, peaked ceiling. What else does she have to do ? There’s something there. There has to be. If there isn’t, she’ll eat her boots. Well, she won’t, cause they’re leather and she’s vegetarian, but she’d be really fucking surprised.
Pope chooses that moment to interrupt her thoughts, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. “If you’re done creating your intricate little rituals, there’s currently an argument brewing about where to order dinner from.”
She sits up on her elbows and glares at him. “I find your use of that quote both appropriative and inaccurate,” she says.
He shrugs. “That is definitely not my problem,” he says, and leaves to join the rest in the living room. They end up ordering pizza, and then have yet another heated discussion about what movie to watch. The second argument -- conversation -- is after they have all had at least two (if not three) beers, so it’s much louder and more passionate, but Kiara finds it entertaining, melting into the couch beside Sarah as Pope passionately defends Interstellar and John B and JJ individually advocate for Lilo & Stitch and Tangled , respectively.
“I didn’t know JJ was this passionate about Disney princesses,” Sarah mutters, tipsy and comfortable, her cheek squished against Kiara’s shoulder.
Kiara pats Sarah’s hands where they’re looped around her forearm. “Rapunzel is his favorite,” she explains. Sarah laughs, and Kiara’s not sure why that’s funny, but she laughs, too.
After a while, Kiara just picks up the TV remote and opens the Disney+ app, clicking around until she finds Moana . When the opening music starts, all three boys turn to the television, looking mildly betrayed, and then to the sofa, where Kiara is quietly watching animated islands pop up on the screen. John B shrugs.
“Works for me,” he says, and collapses into the couch, tugging Sarah into his side. She’s already half asleep and goes willingly, releasing Kiara before her head lands on her boyfriend’s chest. Her eyes fight to stay open as she tucks her arm around his waist. There’s something strange about the way the sight makes her feel, like an echo of melancholy with envy travelling in its wake. She thinks it might be a wish.
JJ crashes into the other corner of the couch and, as usual, takes up entirely more space than he should logically occupy. One of his arms stretches out over the top of the cushions, and the other props his head up on the arm of the sofa, his fingers making a mess of his hair. He tucks one foot underneath him and props the other on the coffee table, casual even as his bent knee brushes against her thigh. It’s frustrating, the way she always seems to be aware of his physical presence, the way he has his own gravitational field. Almost unintentionally, she drops her head against the back of the couch, her hand resting on his knee. He picks up a ringlet and curls it between his fingers, absent minded. When she glances at him, he’s watching the movie placidly, no single emotion obvious on his face.
This touch is normal, expected, welcome, common to the way all of them prop feet in laps and heads on shoulders. She wonders if he’s hyper-aware of every point of connection like she is, if the thrill of it hums through his body like it does hers. He didn’t used to be like this with her, even when he always has been this way with Pope and John B. This intimacy, while outwardly nonchalant, is hideously irritating, in a way. The kind of touch that can be pushed off as platonic when, to her, it really, really doesn’t feel as such.
During ‘How Far I’ll Go,’ Kiara gets up to get another beer and grabs one for him as well. When she gets back to the couch, she lands much closer to him, in between his bent leg and the back of the couch, her back pressed to his side, her head resting in the curve between his neck and shoulder. Keeping her eyes on the television, she hands him both bottles. Carefully, like he’s trying not to spook her, he brings one arm down from the top of the cushions, awkwardly curving it around her in order to hold the bottle, using his palm and one of the rings on his other hand to lift off the cap. He hands her the first and then opens the other. When he lifts his arm to lay it back on top of the sofa, Kiara sits up a little, settling into place before placing her head against his shoulder once more. His arm pauses in mid-air and then, cautiously, lowers to cross over her body. The weight of him is warm and wonderful, security and comfort and, in its own way, triumphant. Grinning quietly to herself, she takes a sip of her beer.
As the movie goes on, JJ slowly relaxes, melting against her, and his head comes to rest against hers. She keeps turning away from the television to rest her face against his arm, sinking into the scent of Old Spice and the lingering smell of saltwater that never fades from his skin. The alcohol makes her head buzz and her blood warm, and she dozes, feeling nearly perfect.
Pope is the one who hauls himself out of the armchair to flick on the lights when the movie ends, not sparing any of them a glance and muttering something about ‘fucking heterosexuals’ as he stalks off to his room. Sarah and John B are both asleep, the latter open-mouthed and snoring lightly. Kiara blinks back to full awareness when JJ jostles her with his arm, whispering into her hair.
“Hey look,” he says softly, jerking his chin toward their friends, both out cold and stone-still. Kiara giggles, still a little tipsy, but mostly drunk off his proximity and comfortably sleepy. They just sit there for a moment, JJ’s hand resting on her forearm where it’s crossed over her middle, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth over her skin. Neither of them want to get up, because they know that doing so means that they will have to invent a new reason to get close to each other again. But then Kiara starts to drift off, and JJ nudges her softly.
“You wanna go to bed?” he asks, like a part of him wants the answer to be no. She doesn’t want this to end, either, but she doesn’t want to fall asleep on the couch and wake up cranky and sore. For a second, these desires battle in her head, until she finally allows herself to nod. JJ gets up first, and she clings to his arm until he’s too far away and it falls from her grip. Noticing she’s not following, he stops and looks at her, half-lidded and liquid, laying on her back on the couch.
“You have to actually get up to go to bed,” he says, exasperated and teasing. She shakes her head slowly, her eyes fighting to stay open.
“Mm-mm,” she mutters. “Sounds fake.” Sighing, he crosses the living room and tugs at her arm again. She goes completely limp, chuckling as he pulls at her hand. JJ casts a glance at John B and Sarah, still dead asleep through this encounter.
“Kie, come on,” he says, confusion, caution, and exhaustion swirling and bubbling in his eyes. He’s holding back, and they both know it, and Kie is just intoxicated, tired, and bold enough to challenge him with it.
“Make me,” she mutters, and his eyes flash, sharp and hungry. The sight wakes her completely, bringing to life a beast in her body that hasn’t been touched in much too long. Before she can process his intent, he’s stooping down, putting his shoulder against her center of gravity, and pulling on one arm, the other scooping underneath her as he throws her over his shoulder. Reflexively, she shrieks, a sound that dissolves into laughter as John B and Sarah startle awake.
It takes JJ and Kiara a moment to notice the way they’ve startled their friends. JJ swings her around, one arm secure around her hips, the other holding her knees, and she shouts and laughs, her hands scrabbling at his back.
“JJ!” she yells, “put me down, you fucking animal!” but she’s laughing while she says it. He spins around again, and she stops protesting when she sees Sarah sitting up, eyes wide and still half-glazed over. Her silence is what alerts him to a problem, and he whirls around, jostling her in the process. John B is standing in front of the couch, hands held up like he’s in an old ninja cartoon, still processing what’s actually going on in front of him. Sarah collapses into giggles, shaking her head at the absurd picture.
“Uh, sorry,” JJ says, and lets Kiara down, slowly letting her slide through his arms until her feet touch the floor. He waits to make sure she’s steady before she pulls away, and the press of him is warm and solid, sending butterflies tumbling through her stomach. She looks up at him, just for a moment, when her heels come to rest on the hardwood and her forearms are pressed against his chest, but he’s still staring at John B, flushed and embarrassed, so, reluctantly, she steps away from him.
“I didn’t want to get off the couch,” she explains, and the words feel small and weak in her mouth. Her hands flutter at her sides, unsure of how to hold themselves, and she keeps her eyes on her feet as best she can. They betray her, flickering between JJ’s shell-shocked face and Sarah’s smug, satisfied one, and heat rises in her cheeks. How can it be so obvious, when JJ himself still doesn’t know?
“Uh-huh,” Sarah says. The incredulity in her tone makes JJ’s ears turn red, and he looks down as well. For all the world, the two look like chastised children, ashamed to be caught being so foolish and immature. Sarah smiles, understanding that, finally , the pieces are coming together. John B relaxes, a good-natured smile on his easygoing face, and he steps forward to punch JJ in the arm.
“Dude,” he says, completely casual, like this is a Very Normal Thing that Happens All The Time, “scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry,” JJ says again, and he can’t be too embarrassed, because his cocky demeanor starts to grow once more as he looks up and relaxes back into his shoulders. “Didn’t know she would be so loud.” He laughs when Kie jabs him in the ribs, and the smile on his face when he turns to her stops her heart in her chest. Her annoyance, luckily, restarts it just as quickly, and she crosses her arms, attempting to project frustration even as a smile of her own threatens to spill forward.
“I’m going to bed,” Kiara announces and turns to leave the living room, hoping she hasn’t left her dignity scattered in pieces over the old, weathered boards.
She takes her pajamas to the bathroom and changes quickly, twisting her hair into a floppy pile on her head and assessing herself in the mirror as she brushes her teeth. It’s unlike her, to be so obvious and giggly like -- well, like a girl . She was never like this before she and Sarah reconnected, and part of her wants to blame her friend for this newfound, almost childish nonsense, even while the logical part of her mind understands that it has nothing to do with Sarah at all.
There’s a knock at the door. It has to be JJ -- the bedroom Sarah and John B had claimed has its own bathroom attached.
“M’in,” Kie mumbles around her toothbrush, and JJ slides through the door, his small toiletry bag under his arm. She’s surprised he has one, instead of just keeping everything in a gallon ziploc bag or letting it free-float around his duffle and pick up disgusting bits of grime, but when he drops it on the counter and unzips the top, she spots the initials in faded silver sharpie on the handle. L. M.
Her eyes slide back to the mirror, determined to keep things Very Normal, even while she sneaks glances at his bare chest and well-muscled arms, her gaze tracing the v-shaped cut that descends into the waistband of his basketball shorts. He bends to dig through the kit for something, and the flex of his stomach actually makes her choke as the memory of his sharp, flashing eyes returns at full force.
JJ jerks up, concerned, and Kie bends over the sink, coughing. His automatic instinct, of course, is to help, and he pats her sharply on the back until she can breathe again. Turning on the faucet, she rinses out her mouth before standing back up.
“You okay?” he asks, genuine concern in the shadows of his stupid fucking blue eyes. His hand is still on her shoulder. Her eyes dart to it, and he swallows, dropping it back by his side. Her gaze follows, and something hopeful and electric zips through her when he sees his fingers flex and curl, his fist shaking back and forth in small motions. His nervous habit.
“Kie?” he prompts, and she realizes she’s paused too long.
“Fine,” she blurts out, too many feelings rushing and crashing over her to name, and he’s too close, and still shirtless, and warm and golden and so fucking beautiful she might just hyperventilate.
“Okay,” he says, confusion wrinkling his forehead. He’s adorable. What an asshole.
“Okay,” she confirms. He stares at her for a long second, trying to read her facial expression in hopes of understanding what the fuck is going on her strange, wonderful head before he turns back to the counter and pulls his toothbrush out of his small bag. She hopes he doesn’t hear the breath of relief that rushes out of her.
Kie finishes her nightly routine, washing her face and moisturizing, trying to ignore the literal human sunbeam standing nearly inches away. She slides off the headband she uses to keep her hair out of her face as JJ rinses off his own cleanser (it was a birthday gift from Sarah, who politely bullied him into using it), and she tucks herself behind him as he straightens to pat his face dry. Her hand trails over his shoulder blades as she passes him and slips out the door. Even she doesn’t know if it’s absentminded or intentional, but she feels him stiffen under touch, and he looks up, keeping his eyes dead set on his own reflection, unmoving and terrified that she might notice what she’s doing. She does, but not until she’s in the hallway and the door has closed between them. Unbeknownst to both, they stand on opposite sides of the door, facing each other fully, eyes soft and skin aching to be touched. The only thing standing in their way is a barrier easily breached.
Kiara goes slowly as she tucks away her toiletries and finally takes the time to unpack, hanging up her tank tops and tucking the three pairs of shorts she brought into the drawers. They’ll be there for a week, and she did her best to neither over or underpack. (Were the four pairs of shoes necessary? Probably not, but she likes to be prepared.)
It’s almost painful, standing there as she waits to hear the door open behind her. Her ears are tuned to every thump and creak, listening for JJ’s footsteps to cross the hall. But it’s an apartment complex full of young adults, and music thumps from somewhere near that sounds far away, so she still jumps when the hinges creak as he steps through the door. He keeps his eyes on the floor as he tosses his bag on the desk next to the door and quietly crawls into bed. He turns off the lamp on his nightstand and settles on his side, his back to the center. She doesn’t know what she was hoping for, but silence and a lack of acknowledgment was not one of them.
Dissatisfied and, illogically, mildly upset, Kiara slaps off the light before crawling into the other side of the bed. She thinks she hears him take a sharp inhale when she stretches up to turn off the lamp, but by the time she finally chances a glance over her shoulder, all she sees is the back of his head, his shoulders already rising and falling with disingenuous ease. Tightening her mouth into a line, she burrows into the covers and closes her eyes, even while she knows it will be difficult to get to sleep. Her heart is racing, goosebumps on every inch of her skin, and she wants nothing more than for JJ to turn over and let his arm fall over her waist.
She waits, but they’re both stone-still. Or, at least she is. She can hear JJ rubbing a corner of the pillowcase between his fingers, so she knows he’s still awake -- and thinking way too hard about something. Eventually, with an energy that suggests he’s been holding out, he walks over to the air filter by the closet and punches it on, squatting down in front of it to fiddle with the settings until a soft, constant rush of air blankets the room with gentle white noise. She’d turned to her other side to watch him go, and is surprised when he slips back between the sheets and settles on his side again, but this time, facing her.
“Too quiet,” he whispers, and his eyes are locked on her hand, resting on her pillow, fingers relaxed and gently curved.
“S’okay,” she says, his eyes boundless and dark as the ocean at night in the gentle gray moonlight that filters through the windows. One of his arms comes up to tuck underneath his head, and the other stretches out -- her heart crawls up to the base of her throat, waiting to feel the warm, gentle brush of his skin against hers, but it doesn’t come. When she looks, it sits on the mattress between them, his fingers twitching minutely, a visible restriction of his impulse to touch her.
Her skin aches for him, like a thirst that can only be quenched by dry, rough calluses, and his soft, perfect mouth. The rest of the world seems inconsequential, distant and half-perceived, and fantasy wends its way into their bed, every breath cherished, as if it was taken in a different world. Quietly, unable to meet his eyes, she watches herself reach out for him, the air getting caught in her chest as she lifts his hand and tucks her fingers between his. He says nothing, only exhales, as if, together, they had taken only one breath. Her thumb moves slowly over his knuckles, and she can feel his eyes on her, knows the inevitable result of looking up.
She waits too long. When her gaze finally lifts from their joined hands, JJ’s eyes are closed, and if he hasn’t fallen completely asleep, he’s near to it. Bravely, she reaches out her other hand to smooth the crease between his eyebrows, smiling as it slowly relaxes. She closes her own eyes, then, exhaustion and alcohol catching up to her in the warm, dark room, secure in the brush of JJ’s skin.
Just before she falls asleep, she feels the barest brush of lips against her knuckles.
At some point in the night, JJ tugs her closer to his chest, and she wakes in the circle of his arms. The hand he was holding is tucked between them, and her other is curled loosely against his chest. He has one arm shoved under his pillow, the other draped over Kiara’s middle, his fingers anchored in her too-baggy t-shirt. She wakes up sweating before dawn, and, upon realizing where she is, holds her breath on instinct. It takes less than a second to ascertain that JJ is completely asleep, and she smiles at the thought.
Careful not to wake him, she rearranges herself into a more comfortable position, her forehead level with the hollow of his neck. Tapping the pads of her fingers gently against his collarbone, she drifts between the gray, heavenly room, and the buzzing black void of sleep, fighting her falling eyelids to hold on to this moment just a little longer. Before she drops off entirely, JJ rolls onto his back, and she immediately misses his overbearing warmth.
After a moment’s debate, she wriggles closer to him, laying her head over his heart, one arm crossed over her middle, the other draped around his waist. There’s a long, treacherous moment where she squeezes her eyes closed, waiting for him to go stiff or shrug her off. Instead, the arm under his pillow stretches and lowers around her, the other bending up to support his head. He sniffs and settles in, making a small, contented noise, the sound light yellow and sparking a smile on her own face.
Warm and peaceful, she lets her eyes close, soaking in the heat of his skin, the firm shape of him, the weight of his arm over her body. Somewhere in her unconscious mind, she thinks this might be what falling in love feels like.
The morning is decidedly less romantic.
John B slams the door open around nine, bringing with him Pope and Sarah’s chatter from the kitchen and some very offensive sunlight. “Hey Kie --” he starts, but stops dead when he sees them together in the bed, JJ’s chest bare and glowing in the golden morning, Kiara’s hair messy, tangled and catching the light. John B slaps a hand over his eyes so quickly it has to actually hurt. “Shit!” he exclaims, “Sorry, guys!” Spinning on his heel, he rushes out into the hall -- and leaves the door open behind him.
Kie looks up at JJ, restrained panic waiting in her chest. If he’s freaking out about this, then she’s going to freak about it, and that’s really not ideal at all, but if he’s calm, she’ll have a lot more answers than she did the day before. Cautious brown eyes meet sparkling, mischievous blue ones, and the tension in her chest unravels at the smile she finds there.
“Oops,” says JJ, and Kie can’t help it -- she dissolves into childish giggles, pressing her laugh into his skin. He kisses the top of her head, one hand on her shoulder, the other resting on her forearm where it’s draped around him, his thumb absentmindedly stroking back and forth. His chest shakes beneath her, and months of tension break and dissolve in the rays of morning light. The acknowledgement was all it took, just one word from him, just some indicator that he saw it, too. Relief floods over her with kind, early-summer sunlight, and her eyes drift closed again as their laughter subsides and they soak in the warmth and yellow light.
Kie dozes, content and quiet, but after a while, she can feel JJ practically vibrating underneath her, trying to contain his nervous energy, his thumb tapping incessantly against her wrist, his body basically nudging up and down every few minutes in barely-restrained twitches of excess energy. Finally, she sits up, faking a yawn and a stretch, and JJ nearly bolts, ready to get on with the morning. He does pause long enough to leave a kiss on her forehead before darting to the kitchen for absurd amounts of caffeine, which, for some bizarre reason, quells his incredible hyperactivity.
She’s so taken aback by the gesture, she doesn’t notice Pope lounging in the doorway until he says something. “If you guys had sex, Sarah owes me fifty dollars,” he says, scrolling through his phone and taking a sip of iced coffee through a metal straw. Rolling her eyes, Kie gets out of bed, flinching at the cold floor underneath her bare feet. She redoes her bun in the mirror above the dresser and crosses to where Pope stands at the threshold.
“We didn’t have sex,” she says, taking his iced coffee and stealing a sip before making a face and handing it back. Pope always dumps way too much flavored syrup into it, usually in stupid flavors like cinnamon-sugar or hazelnut-vanilla. Give her a good old caramel latte, thanks.
“Yet,” Pope says, grinning around his next sip, both at his own joke and her disgusted face. She’s half-convinced he makes his coffee like that just to keep the rest of them from stealing it. Except John B, who drinks his sugar-syrup with light coffee every morning and consequently has a tendency to act like a hyperactive child. JJ, at least, comes by that naturally.
“I didn’t say that,” she tosses behind her as she drifts into the bathroom, her face heating at the thought of her friends placing bets on the tension that sits, no, practically hums between her and JJ. She starts the water in the tub, running it over her fingers to check the temperature. Pope rolls his eyes and plods back toward the kitchen. She vows to herself that she is going to be absolutely insufferable when he gets a boyfriend.
Still, she thinks as she washes her face and freshens up her shave in the shower, he has a point. Her thoughts crash and pile into each other like a trainwreck, senseless and burning and impossible to look away from. Waking up in JJ’s arms, laughing about the confrontation from John B-- she finally has the confirmation she’s been waiting for. Right? Or maybe he was laughing at the idea of them even being together at all. But then, this morning, and the way he let her settle against him once their friend left the room -- shit , and then how eager he was to get the fuck out of there, too.
Kiara climbs out of the shower and wraps herself in a towel, looking her reflection in the face and feeling like she could really benefit both from receiving and giving a decent right hook across the face. She’s nineteen fucking years old. She hasn’t overanalyzed a boy like this since eighth grade, at least. She wants to talk to Sarah about it, but Sarah is friends with him, too, and she can’t put Sarah in the middle like that. Grinding the heels of her hands into her eyes, she groans, long and from the bottom of her chest. These are her best friends, her family . Things were never supposed to get that complicated.
As in any situation where she feels like absolute garbage, Kiara decides to Get Cute, because she can’t have a bad day if she feels like a bad bitch. She goes back to the bedroom to dig out an outfit -- a loud, turquoise and yellow hawaiian shirt she cuffs the sleeves of and then leaves open over a blue-green crop top and high-waisted denim shorts. After scrunching some product into her hair and putting on concealer and mascara, she hooks gold hoops through her ears and holds her hair back from her face with a black bandana, tied around her wealth of curls and set just back from her hairline. Seeing her reflection, she feels much better, and manages a smile as she pads into the kitchen.
Sarah is still half-asleep and leaning on her elbows on the counter, languishing over what has to be her third cup of coffee. Pope is pouring together sugar syrups as the espresso machine hisses, and John B shoots the shit with JJ as the latter sits on the counter, bumping a hacky-sack off the inside of his elbow and trying to catch it. John B has to keep leaning down to pick it up.
He flashes her a smile as she joins them, giving Sarah an affectionate head-squeeze as on her way by. Sarah grins and winks at her friend in response. “Good morning!” Kiara says cheerfully, hip-checking Pope out of the way and reaching up for a glass. She receives a chorus of salutations in response, except from Pope, who narrows his eyes as she picks up a bottle of caramel syrup from his assorted stash (which, of course, he brought along) and eyeballs a small amount in the bottom of the glass mason-jar mug. “This for you?” she asks innocently as espresso begins to pour into the waiting carafe.
“It’s yours,” Pope says unexpectedly, but then, less unexpectedly, “On one condition.”
She blows out a breath and sets her glass down. “What condition?” she asks, and then follows his pointing finger to the stove in the kitchen island, where ingredients have been placed out for omelettes and pancakes. No one made breakfast while she was in the shower because they were hoping Kiara would, even going as far to do the prep for her. She looks up to see Sarah sitting straight, a hopeful smile on her face, and matching ones on JJ and John B. They look like a bunch of little kids asking if they can have class outside on a sunny day.
“Fine,” she says, receiving a chorus of celebratory exclamations and one enthusiastic fist pump from John B. “You guys are ridiculous,” she says, laughing as she turns to finish making her coffee.
“Still love us though, right?” JJ asks, and she meets his eyes as she turns from pulling the milk out of the fridge. His mask is one of mischief, but he knows the weight of what he’s asked, how it lands differently between them.
Her eyes flash and sparkle as she responds, answering his challenge. “Of course I do,” she says, giving him a quick wink, hoping the amazonian-size butterflies swirling in her stomach aren’t obvious on her face. Turning away before she can blush, she pours espresso over the caramel in her glass as Sarah slips off her stool.
“Mm, you’re the best , Kie,” she enthuses, coming around the island to Kiara’s side and wrapping her arms around Kie’s waist. After pressing her face to Kie’s shoulder, Sarah gives her a kiss on the cheek. Kiara steps out of her arms, holding her face away.
“Go get ready, dog breath,” she teases, and Sarah responds by releasing a hot breath in her direction before ducking Kiara’s attempted forehead-thump and wandering away. John B follows, no doubt to join her in the shower, and Kie is grateful for the bluetooth speaker system in the kitchen that she will undoubtedly start up before she starts cooking. Pope’s eyes dart between the espresso machine and the hallway, clearly eager to claim the shower next. “Go,” Kie says, “Leave the door unlocked and I’ll bring you your abomination when it’s done.”
“You’re a real one, Kiara,” Pope says, shooting her finger guns as he backs down the hallway before doing a dumb little hop-skip turn and jumping into his room.
“He is so weird,” she chuckles, hyperaware that she and JJ are now the only ones left in the kitchen. He jumps off the counter as she pours milk up to nearly the top of the cup and steps back to the fridge to replace it. Closing the fridge, she goes to get a cup to collect some ice, but he opens the cabinet and hands her one before she gets there.
“That’s why we have to be friends with him,” JJ says, and she wonders if he feels the spark that runs up her arm when her fingers brush his as she takes the glass. This is absurd. She woke up in his arms , but she’s still getting fluttery over hands touching? He waits til the ice maker is done grinding to finish his joke. “He’s too weird for anyone else to want around.”
Kie throws an ice cube at him before dumping the rest in her coffee. “You’re mean,” she says, but she’s laughing, because he’d ducked and tried to catch it in his mouth. The ice cube clatters to the floor, and JJ chases it like a puppy as Kie pulls a straw out of a drawer and takes a long sip. It’s perfect, and her mind settles and glows in the warm morning, the delicious coffee, JJ’s antics and their stupid friends.
Sarah was right. They needed this, the five of them. A getaway, from the humming little island that Kildare had become after their historic discovery and the following cross-oceanic chase. Even after Ward had been finally caught and convicted for the murder of John B’s father, his son also arrested and tried for the death of Sheriff Peterkin, there was a legal battle over the rightful owner of the gold bars. The crazy old Mrs. Crane had a stake -- the treasure was found on her property, after all. The historical society and Ward’s estate also wanted ownership, but after Rose’s conviction for aiding and abetting, Sarah was able to play the overwhelmed girl just trying to provide for herself and her little sister, protect their family’s legacy, and honor the original finders all at once, so the judge finally caved and allowed her to divvy up who got what.
The Pogues didn’t get the full amount, of course. They had to create an allowance for Mrs. Crane and dole some out to the Historical Society of Pelican too, but luckily, Ward’s lawyers got none of it. The boys expressed some disdain over the fact that the majority of their (still rather significant) portions were placed in a trust that would remain inaccessible until they were 25, but Kiara was silently grateful that they couldn’t start blowing it all immediately, and that some hope remained for making them see the sense of living below their means. (She was still haunted by JJ’s vision of a koi pond and an enormous statue of himself, but, unfortunately, that seemed to be a dream he was unwilling to let go of.)
Setting her coffee down by the stove, Kie decides to start mixing the pancakes first, reasoning that it’ll be easier to just keep them warm on the counter for people to grab while she makes omelettes. No one wants cold eggs. JJ tosses the ice cube in the sink, and she looks up from a drawer as she hunts for measuring cups.
“Can you grab my phone from --” our room , she’d almost said. “The bedroom?” He nods, jogging off, either unaware of her halting pause or not thinking anything of it. Locating a stack of measuring cups, she returns to her station and starts measuring out dry ingredients. The rest of the pogues had even chopped up peppers and mushrooms and gotten out the shredded cheese for the eggs. She smiles and shakes her head. They did all the food prep, but wouldn’t dare touch the stove. That, apparently, is her domain.
JJ returns with her phone, and she sets about hooking it to the speaker system, her fingers leaving floury prints on her purple case. The speakers chime, indicating she’s connected, and JJ steps closer into her space as she searches for the perfect playlist. Her stomach jumps as he slides an arm around her waist, his forehead bumping against her temple, whether from the brush of his skin or the unexpectedness of the move, she doesn’t know.
“You look really good,” he murmurs into her hair, and she bites down a smile as his other arm comes around her hips and he pulls her side into his chest. He still isn’t wearing a shirt, and the heat of him is thrilling.
“Yeah?” Kie asks, feigning distraction by opening a playlist and scrolling through it to determine if it’s the correct vibe. In truth, her entire being is aware of him, the lean power of his body, his warm breath stirring the soft curls at her temple. It’s about as bad as Sarah’s was, but she doesn’t mind it all that much, considering there is a very significant difference between having to endure your best friend’s stinky morning breath and stale breath as an inadvertent consequence of being held by a Very Cute Boy who’s trying to distract you from making breakfast.
“Mm-hm,” he hums, nodding and pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“You like the shirt?” she asks, teasing him now, because she can, because they’re something now, more than they were when they got here, more than they were last night. This sanctuary, outside of their town and away from the press that still wants as much of them as they can get, even after two years, has allowed them something, some degree of freedom they didn’t have before. The non-reaction from their friends is something, too. She’d been holding back some, before, afraid of stirring up weird shit or making it awkward for the rest of them, and she thinks JJ was too, but Pope and Sarah have a bet , and John B clearly doesn’t give a shit, so they’ve been given license to cave to all their stupid tension and finally, finally , fall together.
“I really like the shirt,” he says, and the undercurrent in his tone has no place in a kitchen at 9:30 AM. Well, maybe it does, but not this kitchen -- a stranger’s kitchen that she is about to make breakfast for her friends in. That particular boundary, though, starts to fuzz and blur as he ducks his head to lay kisses down her neck.
Distracted entirely now, Kie selects a playlist, tossing her phone on the counter as the loading wheel spins, and turns in JJ’s arms to face him, her hands resting on his biceps. He picks his head up from her neck, his eyes wide and flickering between her eyes and her lips. The joke she was about to make dies on her tongue as their gazes meet, and her stomach flutters again when she realizes that she could just kiss him, now, no fear of rejection, no misunderstandings or misinterpretations of how he feels. It’s a little terrifying, but it’s like cliff-jumping -- it’s scary looking down from the edge, but she knows she’s going to love the fall.
Before either of them can take the leap, the music finally starts, and the opening beat of ‘High School Lover’ by Cayucas startles both of them. Kie laughs first, and JJ follows, resting his forehead on the top of her head when she drops it against his shoulder. They stand like that for a moment, his arms around her waist, hers relaxed around his neck. He kisses the top of her head, and she lets out a contented sigh.
“You want me to help with breakfast?” JJ asks, because, as sweet as he is, he can’t stand still for very long.
“And set fire to the whole place?” she asks, teasing.
“Oh come on,” he exclaims, and she laughs as she pulls back. “That was one time!” he insists, but he’s grinning, too. She raises her eyebrows, cocking her head and pressing her lips together. “Okay, twice,” he admits. And she giggles as she watches him sort through the memories. “But there were extenuating circumstances!!”
“Oh?” she asks, because she remembers, too. “The ‘circumstance’ was that you were high,” she says dryly, but there’s no heat or accusation at all. She was there both times and, admittedly, they were both pretty fucking funny.
“I rest my case,” he says, satisfied, and she laughs again.
“That does not make me feel better,” she says, finally stepping away from him. He protests in stuttering syllables, and she waves him off. “Start Pope’s coffee,” she says, “that’s how you can help.”
“I’m not high now ,” he points out. “I can be useful.”
“Starting coffee would be useful,” she reiterates, and he rolls his eyes and goes to fiddle with the espresso machine. Pope bought one for the Chateau with their first windfall, and JJ became the most avid user, displaying his surprising creative streak with all the drinks and combinations he learned to make. Deftly, he disassembles the brew basket and taps out the grounds, spooning new ones in and setting the shots to pull in record time.
“You could work at Starbucks,” Kie says, and JJ shoots her a look over his shoulder.
“I’m better than Starbucks ,” he says with unmitigated disgust injected into the last word.
“Make me a pink drink,” she says offhandedly, “then I’ll be impressed.” When he doesn’t return the jape, she looks up from mixing the pancake batter to see him typing something into his phone. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“Googling the ingredients,” he states, and looks surprised when she barks out a laugh. He definitely wants to ask what’s funny, but gets distracted by the espresso beginning to pour, and goes to get milk and ice to finish the drink. Before he goes to deliver Pope’s coffee, he pauses in the entrance to the hallway, turning with a grin.
“I’m just saying ,” he starts, clearly still on the Starbucks thing. “They have automatic shot-pullers. They just press buttons, there’s no love.”
“Oh, and your coffee has love?” she asks, smiling still, at his absurdity, at the brightness of his expression, at the smell of coffee and pancakes and the warmth of sunlight.
He winks, and her stupid stomach flips again. “Every sip, baby,” he says, and then turns and heads for the bathroom door. Her heart thuds as she hears JJ knock, and then the rattle of the shower curtain as Pope reaches out for his coffee. JJ doesn’t come back to the kitchen, just ducks into their room to start getting ready, and Kiara allows herself to bite down a smile as she starts to spoon batter into the pan. Even though it was probably just for the joke, she can’t deny it -- she liked hearing him call her baby.
A few minutes later, she hears the bathroom door open and leans away from the counter to see into the hall. Pope walks down to his room, his wet feet slapping against the floor, still holding his half-full glass, and JJ takes his place, closing the door behind him. The switch is seamless, done with an exchange of nods as they pass, and Kie is reminded how like a family the pogues really are. And yes, Sarah now, too. She was gifted the honorary title over a year ago, with Wheezie, of course, in a ceremony that included grand speeches, cheap beer, a bonfire, and crowns made from palm fronds.(Which could have been a safety hazard, but turned out alright.)
Flipping a few more pancakes onto a plate, Kie starts on the eggs. They’d left her a sticky note with a list of omelette ingredients next to their names, but she just checks it to be sure nobody wants anything different. (They don’t.) She hasn’t needed their orders for years. John B, JJ, and Pope always ordered the same thing when they would eat at the Wreck, and she learned Sarah’s quickly, as well. She starts with Pope, and plans Sarah for last, since she’ll do her makeup once she and John B finally pull themselves out of the shower.
She times it well, sliding the omelette onto the plate as Pope reenters the kitchen. She hands it to him and he takes his place on a bar stool, starting a conversation about what they might want to do today and googling places on his phone. The others join not long after, and a discussion ensues over how to spend their first day in Charleston. Sarah pushes for shopping, Kie for the Aquarium, and Pope wants to see the natural history museum. John B and JJ just eat their eggs and watch.
Pope also brings up seeing something about a swing dancing club, casting his eyes carefully over his friends cautiously. Kie’s seen this look from him before, about things he wants to do that he knows the others might hate. If they make fun, he will too, but if they agree, he’ll secretly be delighted.
Which is the only reason she says; “Sounds cool, I’m in!” Pope looks absolutely delighted, and so does Sarah, who turns to John B, tugging on his arm. John B, on the other hand, gives Kiara a desperate, terrified look that echoes with undertones of great, cosmic betrayal. Snickering, she shoots a look at JJ, and he’s laughing, too, surprisingly less apprehensive.
“Oh, Kie!” Sarah gasps, interrupting her wonderings as to why JJ seems so cool. Kie turns her head, finding Sarah’s eyes, which are wide and excited. “Did you bring a dress?” JJ barks out a laugh and turns it into a cough quickly as Kie whips around to glare at him. She swipes at his arm and he dodges, grinning into his (third) coffee.
Sensing she’s in danger, Kie glances between Sarah and JJ. “Um, no,” she mutters. Sarah claps her hands together a little bit, and John B cheers up a little at the sight of her joy.
“Oh we have to wear dresses,” Sarah insists, and immediately begins planning their outfits. Kie looks to JJ, desperate for help, but he just shrugs. They’re standing next to each other, leaning on the counter, and JJ leans down to whisper in her ear.
“Kinda like the idea of you in a dress,” he says, and she can’t decide if she wants to slap him or take off his clothes. She settles on elbowing him in the ribs and glaring at him, but letting him see that she doesn’t mean it with an indignant grin.
“Shut up,” she whispers.
The plan for the day is finally settled, and, after Kie and Sarah watch John B and Pope do the dishes while JJ fiddles with his hacky sack in the living room, trying to attempt an elbow-knee-ankle combo he can’t quite get. Pope insists on the natural history museum and Sarah, bless her, has a veritable list of boutiques she wants to visit. Kie cares more about sea otters than any of that, so she and JJ split for the aquarium, Sarah drags John B shopping, and Pope plugs in his earbuds and hops on a bus to his precious museum.
The line for tickets isn’t long at noon on a weekday, and JJ pays, but only because Kie doesn’t get her wallet out of her purse fast enough. Their hands keep brushing, and after the fourth time, JJ reaches over and laces his fingers through hers while they stand in front of a tank filled with some waving pink anemones. His rings are cold in the frigid A/C, and the bite of them against her skin makes her smile. She watches his hands all the time, the way they fiddle and fidget, twirling pencils and lighters and drumsticks between long, dextrous fingers. She likes the rings he wears, the leather bracelets interspersed with the knotted, thread ones she makes for him. She likes the callouses from fixing cars and knotting fishing line and pushing surf wax over too-old boards. She’s thought about holding them before, and the way he reaches for her, natural and unquestioning, feels like they were always meant to fit together.
“Aren’t those the little fuckers from finding nemo?” JJ asks, shattering the moment like he’s always so excellent at doing, and she laughs, closing the distance between them and propping her chin on his shoulder.
“They’re called anemones,” she says, teasing, and he nods, pursing his lips in false contemplation.
“Anenomees,” he sounds out, grinning when she laughs. “An-eh-mones,” he tries again, reading off the sign above the tank, and Kie giggles again, squeezing her eyes closed and resting her forehead against his cheekbone. “Alimonies,” he says, shooting for the moon and landing well below the stratosphere.
“Ah-neh-mo-nees,” she sounds out for him, picking her chin up off his shoulder, her stomach flipping as he turns and meets her eyes. He’s close enough to kiss again, and his eyes track the lines of her mouth as she spells out the word.
“Asteroids,” he says, teasing now, leaning in, and she pulls back, smirking.
“Anemones,” she says again, and turns, taking a step toward the seahorse exhibit. JJ sticks his tongue in his cheek, looking away before looking back at her, his eyes tracking up her body in a way that is fully indecent to be happening in a public place, lingering on her hips, her waist, exposed by her top.
“You’re mean,” he says, tilting his head back and digging in his heels. She tugs at him with both hands, swinging his arm slightly and looking up at him through her lashes, smiling flirtatiously.
“You like me,” she teases, and he sighs.
“I do,” he admits, and follows her down the dimly-lit hall.
They pause at every tank, and, as slyly as she can, she watches his face in the blue light, biting her lower lip, her eyes flicking over his features, his sharp jawline, pert nose, blue eyes wide as he watches the small, colorful fish darting through the water. She has to keep reminding him not to tap on the glass, and he stops to read every plaque, wanting to identify every fish in the tank.
“You’re a secret nerd,” she says as he tilts his head, trying to determine if a rockfish is male or female. He barely glances at her, shrugging minutely.
“You knew that,” he says, and then, satisfied in his identification, rocks back on his heels. “I’d name that one Gladys,” he says, pointing to the (male) orange rockfish as it glides by.
“No but seriously,” she insists, and his brows are furrowed when he looks at her, confused as to why she’s pushing this. “All that stuff you know about engines, and boats…” she trails off, and he turns to look at her.
JJ has walls. Everyone does, but JJ’s are thick and tall, made of concrete and topped with barbed wire. She knows what he’s been through, can’t possibly understand the deep pain he’s endured, but she knows, at least. Most of the stories, if not all of them. She wants to know the rest. The walls are obvious, to anyone who looks at him. They can see them, just by looking at him, in the way he holds himself, closes off his feelings and refuses to share what’s happened to him. But here, with her, surrounded by blue lights and colorful, strange sea creatures, there is none of that, no walls and no fences, no defense mechanisms or repressed feelings. The way he looks at her is so completely open, she’s almost taken aback. She knew, of course, that he trusted her, but in this moment, she finally understands the depth of it.
“...fish,” she finishes, nodding to the tank, and JJ laughs and looks down, shaking his head. “You’re like Pope.”
He looks up, pointing at her with his thumb half-bent like he always does. “I am way cooler than Pope,” he insists, and she giggles. “But I’m not as smart as him,” he continues, turning back to the tank. He tries to say his second point with nonchalance, but JJ’s never been good at that. He tucks his hands in his pockets and won’t look at her. Biting her lip, she leans on the fake rock that frames the tank and makes up the wall.
“I don’t know,” she says, circling him, falsely pensive. “Pope would never name a rockfish Gladys,” she goes on, stopping on his other side. She pauses long enough that he turns to look, his lips pursed, shaking his knee. He doesn’t want to be having this conversation, but she’ll be damned if she lets him think he’s stupid. “What?” she asks, leaning on the wall and feigning innocence.
“C’mon, Kie,” he says, looking down at his feet and then back up at her. “You don’t actually think --” his eyes dart over her shoulder, and he stops dead. “Oh my god, sharks,” he says, and steps around her, beelining out of the small-exhibit faux-rock tunnel and toward a viewing window that takes up an entire wall, stretching to a high ceiling.
She watches him go, feeling vaguely like she’s unsure of what’s just happened. JJ bounces on his toes in front of the enormous exhibit, craning his head to see the sharks circling at the top and lurking at the sides. There’s a little boy standing by the tank, holding a stuffed great white toy, and he bounces on his toes, too, looking around. He’s towheaded and vibrating with energy, wearing a blue tie-dyed shirt and little green cargo shorts. His sneakers flash as he dithers, and the little lights on the velcro shoes are shaped like sharks. Kie’s heart almost explodes at the sight.
JJ doesn’t notice him, and the little kid starts to look distressed, so Kie follows him, interrupting his wonder with a hand on his back. “Baby,” she whispers. His dazed look is replaced with delight at the pet name. (Which was unintentional, but definitely well-received.) The kid keeps rising on his toes and back down again, and Kie realizes she can’t see anyone that might be his grown-up. She nods to the little boy, and JJ turns, freezing when the kid beams at him, like he’s startled to find him standing there.
“Um --” he starts, but the little boy doesn’t let him finish.
“Like sharks?” he asks, his eyes wide. He can’t be older than three. His feet pitter patter on the floor, unadulterated joy on his tiny little face.
“Yeah,” JJ responds, taking a second to recognize exactly what’s going on. “Yeah, I like sharks.” He does so well with kids, which is so incongruous to his devil-may-care attitude it was almost shocking the first few times, but she’s getting used to it. It’s not even anything he does , the charming bastard. He’s just friendly and lovable and kids gravitate towards him. Once, he helped a nine-year-old boy learn to surf at the beach one weekend and, well. Ovaries exploding is probably genuinely devastating and horrifically painful, but also Kie is sure it might have happened to her that day.
“Can’t see,” the little boy explains, and then lifts one arm, the other clutching his stuffed toy to his chest. “Up?” Kie opens her mouth to suggest that picking up a stranger’s kid when said stranger is absent is probably not the best idea, but JJ hesitates exactly 0% before shrugging and crouching down to lift the kid onto his shoulders. His arms flex and his shoulders shift as he effortlessly lowers the boy’s legs over his chest, and Kie is struggling handling the whole ‘looking spectacularly hot while being adorable with a toddler’ thing.
The little boy giggles and bounces, wriggling with glee at his much better perspective, and JJ glances up, beaming. Kie’s heart stops, just a little, before stumbling and going on. In the back of her mind, she’s concerned about finding this kid’s parental unit, but right now her best friend (and/or boyfriend?? unclear.) is being cute with a baby and she’s a little preoccupied.
“...and see that one, all the way up there?” JJ says, pointing, “That’s a tiger shark!”
“Tiger?” the little boy asks, leaning forward. They match -- this small child and JJ. Striking blond hair, blue eyes full of wonder. Leaning forward, craning their necks to see the massive animal circling the top of the tank, enraged to be confined when it once ruled the sea.
“Don’t fu --” JJ starts, and Kie elbows him in the ribs, shoving the word out of his chest before he can finish it. He swallows and pats the kid’s ankle. “Don’t mess around with them,” JJ amends.
“Kittyshark,” the little boy whispers. He’s lost in the rippling, blue world expanding in front of him, eyes reflecting the light that dances over the atrium and the bottom of the tank. His grip loosens on his stuffed shark, and the tail slips and pushes some of JJ’s hair over his eyes. JJ winces, his nose scrunching and his mouth tugging to the side in an exasperated grin. Kie chuckles, and JJ cuts his eyes at her with a wink that makes her breath stop at the base of her throat.
They all stand there for a moment, Kie’s hand still warm on JJ’s back, curled in his shirt, the little boy comfortable and in awe, and JJ… he feels like he’s floating in the iridescent reflections and the weight and warmth of the people with him. It reminds him of the shape of a memory, an old one, and a distant dream, at the same time. In the memory, he’s the boy with the shark, and the light is so bright it’s almost painful. In the dream, it’s softer, warmer, like the early afternoon that drifts through the water and dapples across all three of them. He is himself, and Kie is there, and the child on his shoulders has his eyes and Kie’s hair and he belongs to them and they belong to each other, fully and without reservation.
It’s a good dream.
As if she can feel it, Kie leans her head against JJ’s shoulder, and the little boy looks over, and picks up one of her curls, tugging on it. She jumps a little and looks up, smiling back at his inquisitive face.
“What’s your name, kiddo?” Kie asks, reaching up and gently removing her ringlet from his fingers.
“Jamie,” he says, calmly, picking up another curl.
“Jamie, honey,” she says, evenly, careful not to scare him. “Where are your grownups?” Jamie shrugs in the way little kids do when they know they’ve been bad and they can’t tell the truth, but they also don’t want to lie. “C’mon buddy,” she coaxes, putting her hand on his tiny shoe and tugging just a bit. JJ jostles him too, and the part of her brain that read the parenting books her mom would leave in the living room remembers something about ‘presenting a united front.’
“We don’t wanna get you in trouble, kid,” JJ reinforces. “But somebody’s worrying about you.” There’s a longing in his voice somewhere, a lost and childish tone that no one but Kiara would hear. In it, she sees a little boy playing in the dirt in the front yard, an empty driveway and a setting sun. She sees blankets untucked and a nightlight warding off the dark, wide blue eyes trained on the crack in the door, hoping it will widen, spilling golden comfort and a familiar voice.
Jamie’s saved by the bell. Two women come around the corner, clearly worried, bickering the way parents do when they’ve lost their child. Kie and JJ turn, and Kie watches Jamie’s face fall at the sight of his moms, knowing he’s about to get in some major trouble. JJ lets go of his ankles in order to move him, but the kid holds on tightly to his hair, blue eyes wide, refusing to move. One of the women finally looks their way, and relief melts into her features.
“James Robert Coleman!!” She says, marching towards the three of them. JJ lifts the kid off his shoulders with some difficulty, wincing as Jamie’s hands tear free of his hair. “Oh honey,” she sighs, kneeling down to take the little boy into her arms and holding him close. “Oh, you scared us.”
“He’s fine, babe,” the other woman says, her voice tinged with an Australian accent. “I told you, he just wandered off.” Her wife gives her a glare from behind coke-bottle glasses, hands constantly busy, tucking in Jamie’s tag, smoothing out the shoulders of his t-shirt, even picking up and checking on the stuffed shark.
“Don’t you ever do that again, young man,” she mutters. “I turn around for one second and you’re God knows where --” Jamie’s face screws up and turns red, and JJ reaches for Kiara’s hand, like an afterthought. His grip is tight, and her other hand comes up to hold his wrist, her fingers resting on his stack of bracelets, most of them made by her. Stepping into his side, she bites her lip, unsure of how to act in this situation. She knows parents make JJ nervous, and she stands as closely as she can, holding his arm in front of her, rubbing her thumb back and forth over his forearm.
“Oh, bub, don’t cry!” The Australian woman says, bending down to her son’s level and brushing a tear off his face. Scooping him up, she rests the toddler on her hip, bouncing up and down to soothe him. “You just scared mumma, that’s all.”
“Oh honey,” his other mom sighs, brushing blond hair off his forehead. “I’m not upset, baby. Mum’s right, I was just worried.” They share a look, the two women, one built from years of teamwork and communication, understanding and arguments and making it all up as they go. It’s a look full of love, for each other and their little boy, and Kie can’t help but glance up at JJ, and wonder if one day, they might share a look like that.
As if she’s finally noticed them, the woman with the glasses turns, adjusting the strap of her purse while her wife murmurs to their son. “I’m so sorry,” she says, one hand on Jamie’s back, absentminded contact, grounding, a connection between the three of them that seems unbreakable. “I’m Rachel, and this is my wife, Gwen. We just turned around for a second --”
“It’s fine,” Kie interrupts, knowing JJ is too uncomfortable to say anything at all. “He just wanted to see the sharks.”
“They’re his favorite,” Rachel chuckles, glancing back at the little boy, who’s nestled in his mom’s neck, toy held tight and thumb in his mouth.
“His too,” Kie says, nodding to JJ, who seems to unfreeze, breathing out an embarrassed laugh and looking down at his feet, rubbing at the back of his head. Rachel laughs, too, clear green eyes flashing.
There’s something in a person’s eyes, in their smile, when they’re genuinely happy. Something golden and shining and clear. It cuts through the haze of pleasantries and stress and the rest of the day-to-day bullshit, a glimpse of truth behind everything else. Whatever this woman’s been through, whatever she does or doesn’t know, she’s spending a beautiful Wednesday afternoon at the aquarium with her family, and is grateful that she can. Kie dreams of that, of the kind of understanding of self and security of home that renders the rest just useless chatter. There’s something in the way that Rachel looks between JJ and Kiara that reassures her that one day, they’ll get it.
“Well aren’t you two just the sweetest,” Rachel says, and the comment is completely offhanded, a reasonable conclusion to draw, with the way that Kie is glued to JJ’s side, their entwined hands between them. “You’ll be good with your own, someday, I’m sure.”
Kie knows what she means, the statement dropping through her chest and landing with a thrilling, terrifying certainty. But JJ has to ask.
“Our own?” he prompts. The first words he’s said, and they have to be these ones.
“Kids,” Rachel says, like it’s obvious. She doesn’t spare another thought to it, even though Kie can see JJ’s mind blowing up in slow motion and then tail-spinning through negative space. “Well,” she continues, turning to go, “We better get this little man some lunch.” She gives Jamie a little smile with a comforting hand on his face, and through his tear stains, he grins a little back, and so does Gwen, adoration for her wife clear in her eyes. “Thank you though, really.”
JJ’s still mostly debris, so Kiara answers. “Of course,” she says, forcing a smile through the crisis of acknowledgment that’s just broken over the two of them. “It really wasn’t a problem.”
“Still,” Gwen echoes, “thank you.” Kie shrugs, and JJ smiles distantly, and that seems to be enough for the couple. “Say bye, bub,” Gwen says to her son, and Jamie waves, suddenly shy.
Kie waves back, and JJ says; “Bye, buddy!” as he slowly steps back into the world.
“Thank you,” Rachel says one last time, and the little family turns to go, heading back toward the fake rock tunnel toward the front of the aquarium.
It’s just the two of them now, in this enormous room filled with sunlight, the entire interaction hanging like cobwebs around them, and Kie swallows, terrified that JJ’s going to step away, drop her hand and withdraw into himself, the way he always does when things start to scare him.
But he doesn’t.
“They were nice,” he says, and she waits, but he stops there.
“Yeah,” she agrees.