Act One, I: ...in the blue of my oblivion

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There were days when the summer sun used to break through gossamer curtains, with the dirt-rotten smell of the marsh already in the air. In through perpetually half-open windows, mixing with a vague dampness and the waft of coffee fresh off the stove. Floor boards creaked underfoot. The heavy back door thunked and slid as Lo stepped out into the backyard. Somewhere in the house, Ainsley moved around – opening doors, slamming cupboards. Less a mother, more a warning to be heeded.

Moe used to wake on a summer morning with something warm in her chest. A seed of hope to be watered and sunned. She thinks, perhaps, that thing is still there. Just withered, blackened now. And it seems that even summer eternal would do nothing to reverse it. To restore it again to its full strength.

Perhaps that's just what happens when you get older. Who's to say she's wrong? Moe isn't particularly prone to want to talk to the adults in her life about this slow kind of rot.

Summer hasn't felt the same for a while now. Different from the unbridled Pogue chaos of seven through fifteen. Destined to be different now that Big John isn't around. That permanent presence in his office at the Château, now gone. Lost to the waves, or if you were to ask John B, still alive, waiting. Somewhere.

Moe doesn't ask John B.

Moe stays silent as John B indulges in whatever fantasies about his father's whereabouts that he can conjure up. Moe knows life without a father. Doesn't quite understand this sudden loss, this severance that he's suffering. But knows what it's like to live without– and doesn't care much for telling John B how or what to feel. Not that she particularly likes to enable the idea that Big John is still out there either – though she can't exactly prove him wrong.

Therein lies the problem.

Big John's absence casts a long shadow over what was supposed to be a summer for the ages. Maybe it's not exactly the thing itself, but the reminder of the real world when summer is supposed to be a time for forgetting, for careless youth.

Perhaps they're too old for that now.

Moe certainly feels it— the ocean wind in her chestnut hair, salt spray on her lips, her shoe tapping a discordant rhythm against the time-weathered dock. The flat horizon stretched out in front of her.

Sun exploding out in deep red and eggshell orange, gentle waves glittering in the early afternoon sun.

She shifts her weight, the worn planks creaking beneath her feet. Elbows press into splintering wood, yellowed paint flaking off in chunks. The breeze carries the hum of distant engines and the faint chatter of passengers boarding the ferry. Moe slides her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose, shielding her eyes from the sunlight dancing off the rolling ocean. She listens for familiar footsteps– finds them already approaching.

She turns. Malachi is waving a ferry ticket in her direction, the cotton-candy pink of it flashing in the air. Moe smiles, lips pulled tight over her teeth, her eyes fixed on the paper in his hand. She's glad the sunglasses cover her eyes, surely the smile would fall flat there.

"You managed," she says, summoning as much enthusiasm as she can. "Sweet."

He nods, curls bouncing. "Yeah, no hassles. He just switched the times."

Moe nods slowly in return, running her tongue over her teeth. "Great."

It must come out more clipped than she'd intended. She watches the smile faltering on Mac's face, his dark brows pull together, creasing the bridge of his nose. He blinks a few times, studying her. Moe does her best to look pleasant. As if he'd imagined the icy tone completely.

"Moe," he says, shoulders sagging. "You said you didn't mind if I made the two-o'clock instead of the four. I told you, I've got the internship early tomorrow."

Moe shakes her head, feigning confusion, "I know. It's fine, Mac. I swear."

She forces on a sweet smile, tilts her head, shrugs, all in a bid to convince him of the lie. She has no interest in another argument, especially not now, with the ferry to the mainland minutes from departure.

His mouth twists, "You absolutely sure?"

"Hundred per cent."

This placates him at least. His brows relax, his posture straightens.

"Today was nice," he offers, once the tension has been smothered by Moe's practiced smile. "Glad I got to see you."

Moe bites the soft flesh of the inside of her mouth. Tries not to remind him that what was supposed to be an overnight stay had dwindled to five hours, then to three. She wouldn't exactly call that nice, but that's just her opinion. Regardless, she doesn't want to seem ungrateful that he came at all, so she swallows it down.

She shrugs, "Glad you could get the day off."

Malachi hums in agreement, though his limbs shift awkwardly. He glances down the pier at the waiting ferry, a steady stream of people boarding it now. Eyes clearly lingering on the crew readying it for departure. He'd been in such a rush to get here to swap the tickets he'd cut lunch short.

Moe frowns now, openly, something stirring in her stomach. She wishes he'd at least pretend to want to stay longer. Instead he's basically jumping at the chance to put that stretch of water between them again.

"Me too," he says finally.

Moe has already forgotten what they were talking about.

She watches him watch the line to board as it shortens, waits for him to decide what to do with the little time they have left.

A little disjointed, Mac leans forward and pulls her into a hug. Clunkily, Moe returns it as he begins to rub a hand up and down her back– soothing, rehearsed. Trying to soften the blow before he's even delivered it.

Into her hair, "I probably won't be back again till summer's over."

There it is.

Moe bites her tongue. Pulls back naturally, tilting her head back for a kiss that he grants– short, closed-mouthed. She leans back against the dock railing and tries to shake the anger now roiling in her gut.

Typical, so typical.

There is an unmistakable iciness when she speaks this time, one she can't shove away, "Right... and what about seeing your Mom?"

There's something awful in the predictability of this moment. An argument not yet begun, but already started.

What she really wants to ask is: and what about me, Mac? Your girlfriend? The person you decided to date?

But she knows the answer already– he'd call her selfish. Tell her she doesn't get it. He's doing this for a good job, to be able to build a future off this forsaken island. Moe would rather not hear that. So instead, she asks about his mom and digs her nails into her palms so hard it hurts.

Betraying his priorities he casts another pointed glance down the dock, then back at Moe, "She'll stay with me and my aunt. It'll help me focus, cut down on distractions and all that."

Moe nods. Tries to not open her mouth, lest she go ballistic. And she doesn't want to go ballistic, not in front of all these people. No. Moe would like to keep everything trapped right in the rotting cavity of her chest until it wastes away.

Malachi's eyebrows furrow again, genuine confusion flitting across his face. "Are you mad? Don't be mad."

"I'm not mad," she sighs, another lie. "I just– I– No. It's nothing. It's all good, swear."

To anyone else it must be obvious she's pissed off. JJ would have been able to smell it a mile off. If Mac knew her well enough he might be able to tell too. If he had time and if he would let her, she might sit him down and ask him the million burning questions she has that would help her figure him out.

Moe wonders, more frequently now if he cares about her at all? Cares enough to carve out time for her, somewhere between the internship and his family and all his side hustles?

But he doesn't see it. Can't. Won't.

It's just him. This is whats normal.

She is a girl he's known for a few years of high school, dated for less than one and the rest of his life is still stretched out in front of him waiting to be shaped, with or without her. She lies easily.

He looks concerned for a moment, then it fades from the planes of his pale face. He glances down the pier, curls flattening in the wind.

He smiles apologetically, taking her dismissal at face value. Fingers fidget with the strap of his backpack. "Gotta get goin' before they leave."

The corners of her forced smile dip. "Sure, Mac."

He leans forward, presses his lips to hers like he means it for once. Pliable, warm. He tastes like the cigarette they'd shared in the alley earlier and like the tomato sauce on their pizza, like salt spray. It's disarming, leaves a gooey feeling in her shoulder blades and a pit of guilt in her stomach.

"I'll text you," he says when they part, "Miss you already."

"Sure, yeah. Text whenever you have time."

He brushes a thumb across her cheek, and she leans into it despite herself. Despite her better instincts. Then she blinks and he's jogging down the pier, with a goodbye that he delivers without looking back

Moe watches him move swiftly to the top deck. She waits for at least a last-ditch wave. But he disappears behind a pillar, then he's gone.

Her shoulders tighten as she moves back down the dock, paying as little attention to the ferry as it pulls away as Malachi had to spotting her. Today had been disappointing– to say the least. As so many days had been recently. She doesn't know how much longer she can last like this, pretending everything's fine and not being able to tell anyone it isn't.

Malachi doesn't get it– all he thinks about is himself, his future. She can't talk to her friends, not because they wouldn't listen, only because she can't bring herself to. But that's on her, not them.

Her knuckles whiten as she clenches her fists tight. She takes exactly three deep breaths, just like Lo told her was supposed to help, then stares down into the depths of the ocean for a long silent moment before heading into town.

Her tinnie is docked near the Italian place where they'd cut lunch short. She avoids looking at the pizza joint as she bounds down the dock and climbs into the boat. The gentle rocking of the waves are familiar, comforting. She sits for a minute, listening to the slosh of the water.

Her phone buzzes against the metal. She considers ignoring it, but a quick glance at the screen confirms it's not her mom. Moe presses it to her ear, offering a vague, half-hearted "hello" while jamming the keys into the boat motor.

"Moey," JJ croons, his voice garbled through her water-damaged speakers. "Where you at?"

"Town. Why?"

"I'm at your house," he replies, and now she can hear the clang of him messing around with the scrap pile on the front lawn. "We're going to the Château."

Moe rolls her eyes at the demand– definitely not a request. "Are we?"

"Yeah, dude," he drawls. "Gotta get our drink on. Come get me."

The motor sputters gloriously to life. Phone jammed between her shoulder and ear, Moe steers toward open water with one hand.

"You're such a dumbass. Do you even have beer?"

He hesitates, and Moe can practically see the way he's rolling his head around on his neck, "Nah. But I swiped a bottle of vodka off the old man."

Moe cringes to her self– an emotional hurt like physical pain hitting her in the gut, "Fuck. Won't he catch you JJ?"

"No way," he waves it off in that easy dismissive way of his, "He doesn't remember shit with the pills he's on. Benzos, man."

"Far out," she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Alright. Meet me out front – I'm just around the corner."

"Siick, see you soon."

The line goes dead. Exasperated, Moe leans over and chucks her battered phone somewhere into the recesses of her backpack. Fucking JJ. That boy is going to give her an honest-to-God heart attack one day. He certainly tries hard enough.

With renewed purpose, she guns the motor and tears into open water, heading toward the shoreline in front of her house. It's a ten-minute ride past white picket fences and two-storey homes. 'Til she's back in the Cut where she belongs. Falling-down houses with overgrown lawns. Rusted-out cars slumped on flat tires.

She spots JJ a mile off – tall, blonde, and knee-deep in murky marsh water, lit by the yellow haze of streetlights. He's holding a backpack high over his head.

He wades out and launches it into the tinnie, then hauls himself over the edge before she can yell at him to stop. The boat rocks violently, nearly taking on water, before he slides all the way in.

"Dude!" she shrieks, slamming the motor off before he can lose a limb to the propeller.

He just grins - all teeth and trouble - soaked to the bone and proud of himself. The only consequence of his reckless dive is that now he's dripping wet, shirt clinging to his chest. Maybe getting torn to shreds would have taught him a lesson.

Moe's heart is still hammering from the fright, but she rolls her eyes at him to pass it off.

JJ settles cheerily into his seat. Moe restarts the engine and points them down the coast. Wordlessly, they tear through the marsh, the air thick with salt and heat, heading for John B's - tucked away deep in the Cut like a secret.

The familiar sight of the Château emerges like an oasis around the bend of the shoreline. Wind-twisted branches left to grow wild make way to reveal the dilapidated shack the Pogues call home. The motor's purr carries on the evening air; the screen door that never latches clatters open, and Pope jogs out toward them.

The tinnie rocks precariously as JJ stands to throw a line around a piling. Moe kills the engine. He hoists himself up onto the half-rotting dock, then offers her a hand. Ever overzealous, he yanks too hard and they spill into a tangled heap.

At least they don't go straight into the water on the other side.

Moe's elbow ends up jammed into his ribs; her free hand nearly clocks his face. One of his half-bent knees digs into her stomach and his muddy shoes smear marsh muck up her shin.

"Jesus," she hisses, rolling off him, "Be careful."

He groans and swats a hand in her direction, all the while he writhes around on the floor holding his ribs.

Pope reaches them a beat later, scooping up Moe's bag– and the vodka bottle hanging out of it. He passes the bottle to JJ (now clambering upright) with a look of disdain.

Moe winces back at him, shoving her sunglasses into wind-tangled auburn hair. "Pope."

He gives her a tight but warm smile. "Hey, Moe. How's it going?"

"Same old shit." She shrugs. "You?"

"I've got that scholarship interview coming up. Dad's on my ass about it." He grimaces, then shrugs it off– never one to make a fuss.

Moe shoulders JJ aside and finishes tying off the line, giving it a hard tug to double-check it's secure. JJ abandons the job without issue and pivots to force Pope into a hug, griping something about "not being so responsible," which earns an eye-roll from Moe.

JJ and Pope: a classic case of the under-thinker meet over-thinker. Both chronic cases.

With the tinnie secured, Moe heads up toward the house after them.

She often feels distinct and conflicting things about the Château. She very much enjoys the freedom of a parentless house– it's the perfect place for them to do whatever they want, free of adult supervision. She loves coming here when home feels too suffocating, when she needs to forget her problems. Her complaints might suggest otherwise, but secretly she likes waking up in the morning, squished into the corner of the pullout bed by JJ or tangled in blankets with Kie. Dangling her feet off the end of the dock with John B. Feeding the chickens with Pope.

It's an oasis in the desert.

The other feeling, far less overwhelming, but still persistent, is the mess. Always a tinge of annoyance when she crosses the threshold and sets her sights on whatever John B's left lying around this time: blankets and clothes strewn across the floor, cigarette ash littered everywhere, bowls with bits of moulding cereal or sauce, crushed beer cans, empty solo cups, crumpled receipts and scraps of paper.

You name it, it's probably on the floor of the Château somewhere.

Moe's not that clean. It's not a major priority at home, but they don't live in a total pigsty. Somehow, she supposes, neatness has become one of the few things she can rely on her mom for. So John B's place– even if she loves it here– sometimes feels like a dump.

She's never quite understood why it doesn't bother the others like it bothers her. Maybe she just feels bad for John B. He's been her friend since third grade, and she's been coming here for about as long. It was hard enough when Big John went missing nine months ago– maybe it's just harder for her to see the evidence of it piling up on every surface. But John B doesn't seem to mind. He only insists that his dad's study stays locked and the pictures on the walls stay hanging.

Hard as she tries, Moe can only keep the urge to tidy at bay until she's past the front porch and into the living room. The sight of one of John B's shirts slowly soaking up sour milk in a discarded bowl is too much to handle without taking action.

Kie, sprawled across the couch and scrolling on her phone, gives Moe a sweet smile and a wave. Moe smiles back, dumps her bag on the floor, and leans over to start picking trash up off the ground.

"John B," JJ bellows, crashing onto the couch with Kie, "She's doing it again."

"What?" John B steps out of the kitchen, chewing a piece of soggy looking toast. "Oh. Hey, Moe. What– Seriously– stop cleaning."

She levels him with an unimpressed stare, "You want ants, John B? 'Cause this is how you get ants."

"Ants are part of the ecosystem," Kie says without looking up.

"Yeah," Moe snorts, straightening up with all the dishes she can carry. "Well, the ecosystem doesn't need to be inside John B's house, Kiara."

Pope snorts. "She's got a point."

Moe grins at him, lifting a crusted bowl and brandishing it at John B like it's exhibit A, "Thank you. At least someone here hasn't gone completely feral."

"I try," Pope says, scooping a few cans off the speaker.

To his credit, John B shoves the rest of his toast into his mouth, takes the stack of dishes from Moe, and disappears into the kitchen. Moe gathers the scattered clothes from the floor and hurls them into the laundry room– out of sight, out of mind.

She'd love to see this place cleaned up, sure, but she's no one's maid. Her sympathy only stretches so far before she remembers it's John B and JJ creating most of the mess, not her.

Back in the living room, Pope has wedged himself into the corner of the couch Kie hasn't claimed. JJ has slumped across the lone armchair, and John B has flopped across the pull-out again, dropping crumbs all over the blanket.

Moe settles cross-legged by his feet.

"So," Pope leans forward onto his knees, "What's the plan for the afternoon?"

"Huh." John B grunts from behind her, like it hadn't even occurred to him they'd do anything at all.

But that's how it always starts: sitting around the Château until someone throws out an idea only marginally more interesting than plugging in the speakers and smoking a joint on the porch. It snowballs from there. Gets out of hand, as always.

Moe has always liked those days best.

Kie props herself up on her elbows, "There's that new Kook development up north. We could check that out?"

The suggestion simmers in the air for a moment, passed around in glances and half-shrugs, before John B springs to his feet. He snatches the Twinkie's keys up off the counter.

"Load up poguies. Let's go."

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Moe has never been one for cars– or being in them.

She's too used to the glide and thump of her tinnie or the HMS Pogue one the water– or just walking. But she's known John B longer than he's had that beloved VW bus in his life, so she's had to acclimate. Still, that doesn't mean she likes being squished in the back, jostling with every bump in the road.

Her phone rattles in her pocket, loud enough to warrant a quick check before it announces to the whole van that she's received a message.

It's from Mac. Letting her know he's made it back to his aunt's.

Of course. Should've seen that coming. She stares at the screen, thumb hovering, but doesn't reply. Throws her phone on silent instead, shoves it away into her bag.

JJ's voice snaps her out of it.

"Hey," he says, shooting her an accusatory look from across the van. "Pretty sure you tore a chunk out of my hair earlier. My scalp itches."

Moe raises a brow and cranes her neck to look at the spot he's scratching. It's a little red if she squints, but she doubts she did any real damage when he catapulted her off the boat.

"You're fine. You've probably gotten worse from screwing one of those tourons anyway. Besides–" she yanks her sunglasses off her head and tosses them at him, a little sharper than intended–"you broke my glasses."

The sunglasses land unceremoniously into his lap. He picks them up with the hand not nursing his scalp and squints at them, brow furrowing.

"Hey! These are mine."

"Huh." Moe shrugs. "Karma, I guess. Isn't that right, Kie?"

Kie twists around from the passenger seat. "Uh, no. That's not really how karma works."

JJ's grin is a little too smug when Kie turns back around. Which is why Moe doesn't feel all that bad when John B turns into the housing development street a little too sharply, and JJ slides right off his seat, landing in a heap on the floor.

Then the Twinkie screeches to a halt outside the house Kie had pointed out, thrown into park a bit too abruptly. Moe and Pope are jolted forward. Moe catches herself on a picnic blanket, glares at both the back of John B's head and JJ.

She supposes that that is how karma works.

"John B," she groans, crawling out of the now-open door, thudding her sneakers into the asphalt. "Ever heard of driving like a normal person?"

John B, who is more than used to Moe's abrasiveness by this point, just shoots her a toothy grin as he comes around the front of the van.

Moe scowls.

Last out, Pope emerges carrying the six-pack Kie had swiped from under her parents' noses.

"Sweet," JJ breathes, reaching out and making grabby hands. "Gimme one of those."

Moe shares a long-suffering look with Pope, then spins JJ around by the shoulders before he can get purchase.

"Wait till we're inside, JJ. Christ."

JJ laughs raucously and lets her push him toward the half-finished house. They splinter off once they're through the front door– the boys heading for the back deck, while Kie and Moe head the other way to look around, promising they won't be long.

"I can't believe it," Kie mutters, stepping into what will be an open-plan living room and kitchen. "There's a whole ecosystem being destroyed just so some Kooks can have ocean views. It's like, actually the height of greed."

Moe hums, even though she's not so sure she agrees with Kie on that one, there are a lot of things that she'd call the height of greed over this, but she knows better than to say that to her friend's face.

"Yeah," she says instead. "This room's bigger than half my house. It's messed up."

"Sure is." Kie's voice drips with contempt. She fishes a pink Sharpie from her back pocket and brandishes it. "I'm gonna go vandalize a wall or something."

Moe snorts. "Fuck yeah, Kie."

"You wanna help?"

"Nah, I'm good. Enjoy your foray into eco-terrorism though."

Kie laughs and disappears down a hallway.

Moe finds her way through the house and out to the obscenely large back deck where the boys are. Or at least where Pope is. As John B seems to have found his way onto the roof of the house and JJ's legs are hanging off a section of scaffolding just above them.

Moe resists the strong urge to reach up and yank his shoe just to annoy him.

"Where's the beer?" she asks.

Pope nods his head at the counter next to him, far too preoccupied with fiddling with the power tools to hand one to her, or to even point. Moe snags a can out of the pack and looks up.

"Routledge," she calls, "drop me your keys."

John B grimaces at the name– he's weird about not being called John B the same way she's weird about being called Maureen– but he digs into his pocket anyway.

"Oh shit," JJ perks up, like a dog getting a treat. "Are you gonna shotgun it?"

Moe doesn't answer. She picks up the keys where they land, pierces the aluminum, and lifts it. John B and JJ egg her on as she pops the tab. A decent amount of beer soaks her shirt. The rest goes where it's supposed to. Five seconds flat. Not a personal best, but respectable if she says so herself.

JJ slaps the scaffolding, hollering. "That's our shotgun champ!"

"Putting everyone else to shame." John B declares from above them, taking a swig out of his own beer.

Pope laughs. Moe smiles sweetly and gives a mock curtsy before crushing the empty can under her shoe and shoving the keys into her pocket.

There's a lot Moe's not good at. But this? This, she can do. Not that it'll get her far unless she lands at some college party, still it's a point of pride. Besides, her friends enjoy it— and Moe would do anything for them.

"It's what I do best," she shrugs, and wanders toward the edge of the deck.

Peering down at the unfinished portion of the deck, built over flattened sand dunes and wilting vegetation.

As much as Kie's environmentalist thing gets old sometimes, she's right. This development is swallowing the coast. Built for assholes who'll spend two months a year here and leave devastation in their wake for the brief taste of luxury.

Moe doesn't usually get fired up about this stuff. But right now, she kind of does. She wishes they'd realise what they're doing to Kildare's locals– animal and human alike.

Pope calls up to John B, who's still balanced on the roof. "That's what, a three-story fall to the deck? I give you about a one-in-three chance of survival."

"Should I do it?" John B taunts.

Moe turns around to watch Pope jokingly threaten to shoot John B with the drill he's holding– empty of a drill bit.

"I'm not taking you to the hospital again." Moe says by way of a response.

"They're going to have Japanese toilets with towel warmers." Kie cuts in as she rejoins them, derailing John B before he can argue about said hospital visit.

"Of course they are." Pope replies like it's the most normal thing in the world for a house to have (which Moe supposes it is for a Kook, she wouldn't know), "Why wouldn't they?"

"This used to be a turtle habitat." Kie mutters, walking beneath JJ. "But who cares about the turtles, right?"

JJ goes along, mock-offended, incredulous even. "I can't have cold towels."

Kie sighs and squints up at John B. "Can you please not kill yourself?" Ever annoyed by the constant idiocy of her friends.

"I already told him to get down," Moe adds.

John B points accusingly. "No, you did not! She just shotgunned a beer, Kie. The evidence is right there."

Kie eyes the crushed can and gives Moe a disapproving look. Moe just shrugs. She's not their keeper. If anything, eight years with JJ and John B has made her worse. If he falls, he falls. She's years past trying to parent them. Mostly. (There are still some things she worries about in the dark of the night.)

"Don't spill that beer." JJ shouts., "I'm not giving you another one."

Naturally, John B's can goes flying. It lands with a clatter and splashes Moe's legs with lukewarm beer.

A chorus of groans rise as John B scrambles for balance.

"Hey, guys." Pope warns, hanging halfway off the railing, peeking around at the front of the house, "Security is here. Let's wrap it up."

Moe leans to look– two guards approaching from an ADT car. A tight thrill curls in her gut. JJ and John B scramble down, and for a second Moe is frozen.

Kie knocks her in the arm. The adrenaline hits like a switch. Moe tosses John B the keys.

"Oh fuck," she laughs, taking off in a sprint.

JJ barely slips past the guards. Pope eats it coming over the fence. Moe doesn't register much else. Gets tunnel vision. For a flying moment it's just the van. Just getting there.

The Twinkie comes into view, door flung open by Kie. Without hesitation, Moe dives in.

JJ and Pope collapse behind her, landing in an unceremonious heap at her and Kie's feet. John B guns it the road as they watch Gary– an ever familiar presence in their escapades– chase them down the road.

"Check out Gary, gunning for a raise." Pope laughs.

Gary starts to gain on them slightly. Whether it be because John B is slowing the van down or that Gary's actually getting faster.

"Holy shit," JJ says, grabbing the last beer off the floor. "Slow down, slow down, slow down–"

JJ anchors a hand to the door and leans halfway out the van while brandishing the beer, egging Gary on as he runs and yells obscenities at them. JJ relishes in it as he always does, taunting him even further.

"Come on," Kie groans, tugging at his shirt. "You're gonna give him a heart attack."

JJ brushes her off, waits for Gary to get close, then tosses the beer. Gary manges to catch it– and stumbles backward, slowing just enough for the second guard to catch up.

"Aw. They don't pay you enough for this, bro!" JJ yells.

"JJ, come on. Stop." Kie says, still laughing despite herself. "Stop."

Moe reaches forward, yanks him back in as Kie slams the door shut.

"Oh come on." JJ grins at them, overcome with excitement, "That kind of initiative is just begging to be punished."

Moe snorts unceremoniously in response. JJ settles in his seat, buzzing with spent adrenaline.

The van flies down the road, radio blaring Pond. As they leave the guards– and their mess– behind.

Moe is loathe to admit, but this what she lives for. Balmy summer afternoons, spent getting in and out of trouble with her friends and forgetting that she's ever faced a problem in her life. Living in the Outer Banks might suck for a Pogue, but Moe can live with that for now. Knowing she has this.

Knowing she has them.
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☀️ thank you thank you for coming back to this or reading for the first time i love and appreciate u so much!!!! to return readers i hope u found this easier to read. not much has changed except for the fact that this is going through editing. i'm trying to flesh out characters and relationships more tho, hopefully that shines thru.

🔎 ao3 @/faevalentine
📺 pilot: s01e01
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