In Fair Verona
Chapter Eight
A/N: Soooo, I apparently haven't updated this in a really long time. I didn't realize it's been about six months. O_O I am absolutely not ever giving up on this story (there are only five chapters left after this), but the chapters are pretty lengthy (this one is 9k, which is ridic, I know). I actually would have posted sooner because of the length, but the next chapter is wear things really begin to spiral in terms of bad shit going down, and I didn't want to impose on the drama there with what's going on here. Other things the next chapter will feature: smut. Um, I do really, really, really appreciate the reviews/faves/alerts, because this fic has been my baby for about a year and a half now, and it's really cool to see other people liking my pet projects, even though I'm slow. You guys are the greatest. :) For reference, this chapter is unbeta-ed, so hopefully there aren't any huge glaring errors.
Griffin's fair, they find out later, spiraled out of control in the wee hours of the morning.
Kendall and the guys weren't around to see it, having left the premises shortly after Carlos began moaning about too many fried sausages and followed it up by puking all over the tilt-a-whirl. Camille and Mercedes, on the other hand, were eye witnesses to the fighting that broke out somewhere around one.
"It was nothing. Some guy threw a bottle," Mercedes says nonchalantly, spinning her shot glass so that the cheap shine creates a cyclone.
Camille glares at her. "Uh, no, shots were definitely fired."
Oddly touched that they stuck around, Kendall inquires, "Were you two hanging out together? Like, bonding?"
Both girls laugh in his face, which is considerably less touching. They do, however, continue to relate the tale of the riot that broke out smack dab in the middle of Griffin's shindig. Whether shots were fired at the beginning or at the end of the night, the results are the same; six dead and some seriously busted up equipment.
"I saw some guy yelling down with the establishment," Mercedes tells them both with no small amount of nose wrinkling. "I don't even know what he was thinking."
"Probably that the establishment sucks," Camille answers flatly.
"And how is that my fault? A few carnival rides never hurt anyone."
"Really? You think? What about the people living in squalor, with no food or light or place to rest their heads? What were they supposed to think, watching all that excess unfold around them?"
Mercedes lifts one perfect ash-blonde eyebrow. "Uh, maybe thank you?"
Kendall winces. He understands the electrical supply is so much less than the demand. Even Griffin lights his chandelier with candlelight. And he's grown used to living in a world where fire and batteries are king. Every three months, citizens of Verona are allowed to put in a request for a pair of corroded Energizers or Duracells, to operate a flashlight or a lantern or, preferably, a radio. Hawk's men guard the supply chain, from the store of scavenged goods by the Wall to the traders outside, who risk life and limb to keep Verona stocked. Sooner rather than later, they'll run out of abandoned Sam's Club warehouses to raid. The only place left to listen to canned music or bask in electric light will be at the town center, where the miniature power grid still hums.
Still. He's never gotten used to stumbling around in the dark, especially not on the coldest of nights, when the wind feels like it dipped its hands in ice before caressing his neck. He has it good in his tiny, illegal apartment with his friends and their jobs, but there are places in Verona where law-abiding citizens are suffering. Mercedes has to see that, has to know that Griffin could make a difference, if he wanted them to.
"Thank you?" Camille growls, outraged. "The generators for that stupid fair could light a city block, but your daddy hoards them away for special occasions while the rest of this city squats in darkness. Don't even get me started on the food-"
Mercedes narrows her eyes. "No, please, get started. I'm ready to hear a compelling argument about why we should give stuff away for free."
"Who would it hurt if we did?"
"Do you know how much we pay to import, um, anything into Verona? Daddy's radio is the only thing that keeps money and vendors coming, and trust me, there is not nearly enough of anything that we can commit to acts of charity."
"Oh, but an entire circus show is okay?" Camille snipes.
"Since visiting vendors were paying for it as an act of goodwill for my engagement, I'm going to go with yes."
Okay, then. As one of those poor individuals squatting in the dark and a recipient of Griffin's excess, Kendall decides it is time to intervene. He catches Camille's fist before she can put it squarely in Mercedes's face. He imagines he sees a flash of silver in Mercedes's hand, but when he glances back it is gone, her expression guileless.
Kendall does not stop staring. As far as he's concerned, girls are a lot like feral animals in that a little deference, a lot of adrenaline-pumping fear, and some eye contact never hurt anything.
"Was that a knife?"
Mercedes bats her eyelashes. "Where would I hide I knife?"
"I have no idea, but I am determined to find out." Two seconds too late, Kendall realizes how much innuendo is packed into that statement, and it totally isn't what he meant.
Mercedes still smirks and says, "Later, baby," and Camille makes a sound somewhere between disgust and homicidal rage.
Kendall switches subjects quick. "Look, the important thing is that both of you are okay. You both are okay, right? No terrible gaping wounds anywhere? Nothing broken?"
"Pshaw," Mercedes says dismissively. "Dak, Jett, and Daddy wouldn't let me stay for any of the fun."
Camille's face reddens with fury again at the word fun, but she grits out, "I can take care of myself."
Like Kendall ever had any doubt of that.
She adds, "All of you didn't have to leave so early. Logan could have taken care of Carlos."
He nearly bites down on his own tongue.
Logan did take care of Carlos, letting their friend whine and moan and curse badly processed foodstuffs while Kendall and James piled beneath the shabby comforter on one of the futons and let their hands wander. It's humiliating, how little self-control Kendall possesses. The second he was presented with the opportunity to touch James's skin, he seized it, desperately.
Sure, he tried to be careful. Every time Logan's boots creaked too close against the hardwood floor, Kendall went rigid. But it was preternaturally easy to feel safe beneath the darkness of the blanket, tucked against the nooks and crannies of James's body.
Kendall swallows metallic, his culpability a physical reaction. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Please," Camille replies with an airy grin, her forgiveness completely genuine, "No one even missed you."
Mercedes nods along agreeably, and somehow, their total lack of suspicion makes Kendall feel worse. Betraying people's trust isn't supposed to happen so effortlessly.
Laughter lights Mercedes's dark eyes. "You missed a good time. Before the whole public outcry thing. I beat Camille at the rifle game. Twice."
Camille, never one for sulking, downright deflates. "She's a total savant with a gun."
"Excuse you, that is finely honed natural talent." Mercedes's tongue, pink and wet, darts out against her lower lip lasciviously. "You're welcome to a rematch."
Camille perks up. "You're so beyond on."
Kendall nudges Camille with his shoulder, angst dissipating in the midst of all the barbs. "Are you sure your pride can take it?"
Mouth dropping open, Camille gasps, "Traitor. You know what? I can take you too."
Mercedes makes a rude noise, her delight in the idea of a challenge evident.
Tossing her curls over one shoulder, Camille declares, "Both of you, the Lover's Wall, sunset. I'll sort you out."
Kendall has no doubt that she will. That doesn't stop him from dragging James, Carlos, and Logan along as orange-red touches the sky, because he is nothing if not competitive.
Carlos carries his dad's gun, a practical black .40 caliber Smith & Wesson that he inherited when Mr. Garcia passed away. It's holstered against his bare skin as he and Logan run half-naked down the road.
They shove each other back and forth, continuing an argument they've been engaged in since they were five. Kendall doubts either boy knows what the original topic of dissent was, but they consistently find new things to bicker about. When they wrestle, the bumpy nodes of their spine protrude beneath skin, both of them too skinny for all the food they eat. Kendall tries not to let that failure feel like a direct reflection on him. He focuses on Carlos, on the black gleam at his hip.
Figuring out how to fire a gun was fun, at first. Mr. Garcia taught them, with glass bottles carefully balanced on split tree trunks out in the isolation of the woods, the earth squishing soft beneath their feet. They were kids then, and the idea of using a firearm on anything other than the odd deer hunt was completely unfathomable.
None of them were very good at taking aim, and that was okay. They didn't even use real bullets.
Logan and Carlos scream and they whoop, letting everyone in the city know that they are coming. The dark, brown leather straps of Logan's holster stand out against his skin like strange tattoos. It houses a Walther P5c with an intricately carved wooden handle that he picked up in the Midwest, long after things went wrong.
They stayed in Minnesota until they were fourteen, until Carlos's dad was gone and there wasn't anything left to care for or mourn. There were towns before Verona, places without walls, but inevitably, they fell to the wasteland. And somewhere in between them all, Kendall and James and Carlos and Logan learned how to shoot in earnest, because there was no other option but to take care of themselves.
Kendall caries a Taurus PT 99 that he picked up off a corpse. It's emblazoned with faded religious iconography on the grip, Our Lady of Guadalupe staring beseechingly into his palm.
Or maybe she's Our Lady of Lourdes; he's never been able to distinguish between the two.
The gun's weight is a comfort at his side as he makes his way to the outskirts of town, past rundown shacks that barely imitate houses. They are just out of view of the beach's abrupt end, at the monstrosity of a brick wall that indicates Verona's border.
This close to the edge, Hawk's men are en masse, guarding the city from those wily refugees that might try to swim to shore. Most of them are out on the silver-blue Pacific, steely eyes scanning the waves for a hint of flesh, but there's always a guard or two right near the Wall. Today, it's Camille and a buddy or two.
The sun dips on the horizon, meaning Kendall and the guys are right on time.
Up ahead, Kendall stops short in deference for the Lover's Wall. It's one small portion of Hawk's creation, but the people of Verona have reclaimed it, in a way. Blue and red and yellow, pink and green and purple, teal and orange and a blackgoldgrey. There are names and hearts and the word love repeated over and over and over, a mantra of hope for everyone who has ever stood in front of it.
This place exists for all the lovers that have ever walked Verona's streets. Kendall is intensely aware of James, trotting behind him, Beretta 92fs in hand. He's wearing acid washed jeans and a t-shirt gone loose and ragged at the deep V beneath his throat, but all the lazy ensemble does is remind Kendall how good James looks out of it. Trying to chase away the thought, he blinks against the light of the gigantic sun, the color of molten lava as it dips low over the city, threatening to burn them all.
"Stop stalling, Knight," Camille calls out to him. "Fortune favors the brave."
They line up in a row, taking aim at dented coke cans that still wash up on shore, from time to time. The ocean likes to remind humanity that pollution's fingerprints will stick around long after everyone is gone.
Camille squares her stance in the sand, the waterfall of her curls spilling down her back. She blazes with sunset colors, the orange-red light catching in her hair, blooming across the purple flowers decorating her sundress. She is fierce and otherworldly. She doesn't miss a single target.
Neither does Mercedes, dressed head to toe in white, ethereal in the sun's dying golden glow. She smirks crookedly at Camille and reloads her clip.
The waves are quiet thunder. Hawk's guys jostle each other, placing bets on Camille with catcalls and hollers. She flips them off and gets away with it. Kendall doesn't know how high she ranks in the militia, but it's high enough that he's never seen anyone even try to reprimand her.
Next to him, James takes aim. His gun is every bit as flashy as his stupid, useless sword. The grip is white, shiny and rainbow polished like the inside of an oyster shell, and when he shoots the sunlight catches on a custom compensator that helps angle his shots.
James is not really a fan of things that don't sparkle.
In the end, Camille, who is frighteningly competent at her job, outshoots them all five rounds in. Every single bullet lands dead center through the C on the old coke cans, a thin lip of red between the puncture and the curling white calligraphy. There's a reason she works the fences.
Mercedes takes a break, curling a hand around the back of Kendall's neck and laughing, laughing. Her fingertips are pinpoints of ice, but her palms seep warmth through his skin. "She's owning us all."
"Yeah, but. You look hot with a gun," he tells Mercedes without thinking twice about it, because it's a true thing. Mercedes might make a habit of flouncing around Verona unarmed, but she assumes the Weaver stance with confident, practiced ease. When she zeroed in on her target minutes before, Kendall was mostly just glad it wasn't his face.
The back of his neck prickles as though someone really has him in their crosshairs, but when he looks, it isn't the business end of a gun he's staring down. James's grimace is nearly as bad, cheeks hollowed from biting inside, jaw clenched.
It takes Kendall a full minute to figure out what he's done now. Sussing it out shouldn't be that hard, but hey, he's a moron.
I'm sorry, he tries to say with his eyes, but James is already funneling his rage into a line of Coke cans.
Bang.
Pow.
"James," Kendall starts, only remembering they have an audience when the rest of his sentence refuses to come. How can he apologize for acting exactly the way he's expected to?
"Fuck you," James retorts through gritted teeth. Bang.
"What's his trauma?" Logan asks Carlos, who shakes his head, bewildered.
Surprised by the sudden aggression, Mercedes lowers her firearm completely, pantomiming surrender. "I'm out."
Camille frowns. "You've got three more clips in your bag."
"Thanks for the newsflash, Stalkerazzi." Mercedes doesn't say it unkindly, flashing Camille a grin. "I don't want to get in the middle of his little therapy session, there."
Camille glances at James, worriedly.
Each shot echoes back at them, thunderous. If Kendall could cover his ears somehow, he would. As it is, his head rings with the zing of bullets fired long after they've gone silent.
When James's ammo dries up, Camille stalks over to him before he has a chance to reload, murmuring something low and urgent. Mercedes leans back against Kendall and says, "You take me on the most romantic dates, Knight."
Her words ring too close to the day before; James on the beach, calling him a hopeless romantic. Kendall squeezes his eyes shut, his heart pounding and pounding. When Mercedes stands up on her tippy toes and plants a kiss on his mouth, he takes it because he has to, knowing all the while how easily the intricate clockwork of a heart can be stopped.
James manhandles him away from Carlos and Logan the second they leave the beach. He's rougher than usual, but it doesn't stop Kendall from shivering, leaning into the touch. He doesn't think he'll get used to this anytime soon, not to the calluses on James's palms, his big hands, or the surety with which he moves.
"How mad are you, exactly?" Kendall asks, trying to gauge his reaction as he's guided into an empty alleyway, bricked in on three sides, with no cover on the fourth.
James is being careless. Kendall is too. This is how things are going to go wrong, one day. Being careful is already becoming a game, where they linger too long in the cavern of warmth created beneath the thin blankets on their futon or are okay with sharing stolen, desperate kisses in a back alley. Kendall doesn't try to stop it. His hands slip over James's hips, bone solid against his palms. His breathing fractures. His pulse jumps into his throat. It still hurts, being this close. It's still forbidden.
But forbidden translates as sexy, because if they haven't gotten caught yet, who is to say they will?
James's fingertips are points of fire, searing the back of Kendall's neck. He kisses him so hard and so deep that he's dizzy with it, his head spinning with depleted oxygen and the reckless press of James's mouth. Possessively, James knees Kendall's legs apart, widening his stance until he fits properly against him, their dicks dragging through their jeans. Cloaked in blackness, Kendall goes with it. Yes, okay, definitely yes, he will give him whatever he wants.
Then James pulls back, shakes his head, muttering, "You're so fucking stupid."
"Thanks," Kendall replies, because he'd figured James would be way angrier than this. James pushes Kendall's thin jacket off his shoulders, rough but easy. Kendall stumbles back until his shoulders hit the wall. "You really like manhandling me up against immovable objects."
James's fingers still. "Is that a problem?"
"There are worse ways to get laid."
Eyes flinty, James bites at the lobe of Kendall's ear. He growls, "You owe me."
Kendall swallows, hard, ghostly gunshots reverberating in his ears. Right. He definitely owes James. But.
Kendall's pretty okay with the idea of James servicing him, but they've barely been together for two days; not nearly enough time to try it the other way around. The idea makes Kendall vaguely nauseous, jangles his nerves and turns his stomach. There's something uncomfortably subservient about getting on his knees and putting James's dick in his mouth. It makes him want to gag, and worse, what if he really sucks at it? It scares him.
Which is dumb. He was scared of letting James fuck him, but that turned out to be one of his best life decisions, at least in terms of sexual satisfaction. Besides, James had enough courage to try sucking Kendall off. Anything he can do, Kendall can do better.
Probably. Most likely. Hopefully, because Kendall really doesn't want to lose James to his poor oral skills.
He has a significant bump in respect for every girl he's ever been with as he fumbles with James's belt buckle and says, "Okay."
Not so encouragingly, James laughs in his face. "What are you doing?"
"Repaying you," Kendall says, trying not to sound too insulted.
He must fail hard. This time, James full on snickers. "I appreciate the gesture, but, uh, forced intimacy isn't the best building block for a relationship."
"Are you sure you're James?" Kendall knocks his knuckles lightly against James's skull, battling simultaneous relief and hurt. "Is this a bodysnatcher thing?"
Sure, he's not ready yet, but dudes don't shoot down blowjobs. In Kendall's experience, that is really not a thing that happens ever. He wonders if there's something wrong with him, expression turning forlorn.
"Kendall," James says, laughter dying down. "Why are you always thinking these horrible things about me, man? I would never force you to do anything, or guilt you into it, or…I don't know. I want you to be happy." He nips Kendall's ear again, licks the pinch away and works up until Kendall is squirming. Breathing hot against wet skin, James and murmurs, "When you blow me, I want you to want it."
His words spike light and warmth in Kendall's stomach. Kendall licks his lips and tilts up on his toes to kiss James's nose. It's silly and affectionate, and he doesn't feel the least bit ashamed about how happy it makes him to do it.
Rocking back on his heels, he asks, "So what is it I owe you?"
The grin dies off James's lips.
"I want to know where this is going." Kendall's stomach sinks. James's cheekbones are sharp in the twilight, painted in shadowy brushstrokes of indigo, violet, and the pale, electric blue of starlight. He continues, "I told you. You're it. But you haven't told me…anything."
Kendall opens his mouth.
Kendall closes his mouth.
James releases him completely, not even trying to cover up his disappointment.
Which, no. There are things Kendall wants to say, about how this is the already the kind of relationship that devours, that consumes. It goes to the dark place, where Kendal thinks he would lie and beg and steal, where he would do anything to make James smile; looking back, it always has. Like that time outside L'Amour, when Kendall stepped in front of a gun just to protect James, and how he would do it again, and again, and again.
Anything to keep James safe.
Anything.
Except for maybe telling him that.
He opens his mouth again, but James has watched it all, flickering across his face. He cuts Kendall off. "You're not ready yet."
"I-"
"Don't worry about it. You're not – you don't – it's fine." James cuffs his cheek, and when he smiles, it feels like a lie.
The days tumble past with neck-breaking speed, October come and gone in a blink. Winter's teeth loom in the distance, set to clamp down over California, bringing the date of Kendall's wedding date closer and closer still. He spends his days locked up in the studio, patrolling the grounds or, more often, watching Gustavo work his magic on performer after performer. Kendall is less reluctant to voice his input to the grumpy producer now.
Once or twice Gustavo even bothers to listen to him.
Nights are different, whiled away in the heat and color of L'Amour, hustling pool tables with Logan or drinking other patrons beneath the table. Kendall stays very, very far away from Carlos's cabaret, but if anyone notices, they don't say.
And then, later, there is James.
James, who unlike Kendall, doesn't appear to notice the chill in the air. He continues to waltz through the streets of Verona with his dazzling smile and his carefree charm. Kendall doesn't know what it is that James does during the day, but at night, he still chats up Lucy and flirts with wasted girls. The only real difference is their routine lies in how he drags Kendall along to watch. During the evenings, James has become a steadfast fixture at his side.
Alright, maybe that's not the only difference; neither of them ever brings anyone home but each other.
Kendall spends less time with Mercedes, avoiding both her and the shame that dogs at his heels. She does not deserve to be treated this way.
She doesn't object to it either, watching him with dark, concerned eyes whenever he declines sex, but never once voicing her consternation.
There's no easy solution for the mess Kendall's gotten himself into, but there is also no easy fix for the way James makes him feel. They have a whole new world of discovery between them; stolen moments spent jerking each other off slow, learning the shape of their bodies without clothes.
James's mouth on him is forever a revelation, come flecking the corners of his lips, and if Kendall's first, eventual attempt at a blowjob lacks finesse, it's not like James laughs in his face. He guides Kendall through it with fond, husky words, his voice scratched with want, his dick pulsing against the back of Kendall's throat. Kendall had entertained the vaguest notion that James orgasming in his mouth would disgust him, but instead he swallows down the bitter salt of him with the strangest satisfaction, the way James tugged at his hair and fucked between his lips trembling through him like an aftershock.
Kendall doesn't remember ever spending so much time thinking about sex, but with James in the picture, it's always on the forefront of his mind. He passes his evenings frantic, trying to get James in him, over him, on him, and as far as he can tell, James is every bit as eager for it.
The problem with such intensity is that it makes Kendall blind to everything else, to any thoughts of the future except for how he's going to get James's pants on the floor. They never talk about the things that Kendall won't say and Kendall never quite gets over his shame.
He tries to figure out if he has anything else to offer, at least for now. There is one thing.
Maybe.
James always wanted to be on the radio. He was their original hope, back before Camille found them rotting on the other side of the fence. He was the plan. They'd get to the end of the ref line, sing for Hawk's cronies, and everyone would see how damn great James's voice was. All the pretty songs he crooned were supposed to be their ticket in.
Then Camille whisked them to safety, and James's singing was one more thing relegated to the back of a long list of more important priorities. Kendall never thought to ask why James gave singing up, because it wasn't like he stopped. He sings over breakfast, he hums over lunch. He wraps out melodies when he's bored or sad or trying to charm a girl. He harmonizes along with every song he dances to at L'Amour, or the ballads on the radio, or when passing a street musician. James is never quiet, not ever, so why hasn't he followed it up?
Kendall asks, one day, phrases the question as innocently as possible. "Hey. Why haven't you tried to get on the radio?"
In response, James blinks at him and says, "I did. I kept getting turned down."
He doesn't appear to be especially bummed about it, but Kendall can tell it bugs him. Once upon a time James was going to be the biggest superstar in America, if not the world, and now he can't even make it within the confines of a miniscule city. Why is that? Kendall can't imagine anyone turning James down, for anything.
He can, however, use this to his advantage. The next day at work, he talks to Gustavo. Talks being the loosest definition of the word, because Gustavo thinks most conversations should include an excess of yelling. Kendall isn't sure if his point ever comes across.
That night, he goes home, kisses James hard on the slippery shingles of the roof, and wonders if anything will come of it.
James kisses him back, happy and oblivious. Winter creeps down the coast with stormcloud eyes and the distant ring of wedding bells, but in this moment, at his most vulnerable, all Kendal can thinks is that they should have been doing this much, much sooner.
Kendall might be lulled into complacency, but the city never rests. Mercedes confront him on the first day of November with a brusque tone and a letter to take to the church, confirming their ceremony's date.
"But why can't you do it?" He whines very maturely, half-sick of everything to do with this wedding. "I'm your fiancée, not your errand boy."
Instead of a snarky retort, Mercedes ducks her head, uncharacteristically shy. "Fiancée. I can't get over that word."
She's beautiful this way, soft and timid, but Kendall thinks he prefers her cocksure and too cool for anyone, even him.
"Second thoughts?" He asks neutrally, not even daring to hope.
"And third, fourth, and fifth. It's not you, Green Eyes, it's-" Kendall waits patiently for her to tell him what it is, exactly, that makes a carefree warrior queen like her falter, but even their prospective marriage rites aren't getting him past her defenses. "You know what? Never mind. It's not like Daddy would let either of us back out now."
She has an exceedingly valid point.
"Alas. I was hoping for more time to sow my wild oats," Kendall says theatrically, wanting to wipe away the edge of sadness in her expression. He rubs at imaginary tears and stoically does not think of James.
Mercedes rolls her eyes. "I didn't ask for lip. Go on, shoo. Do my bidding."
Despite himself, Kendall snickers. "As milady wishes."
Clouds bathe Verona in shadows. The sunlight quavering through mostly dissipates before it reaches the ground, but the places where it touches down become golden spotlights. Up ahead, the church is big and ancient, standing in total defiance of all the old mission architecture around California. There is no white-washed adobe, no tier of bells, nothing clean or simple about it. Whoever designed the old broad was infatuated with Europe, with flying buttresses and intricate stained glass, and their creation squats amidst the cheerfully faded pastel sea chanteys and terracotta-roofed homes like an ornately adorned toad.
Lacy white blossoms bunched in threes crowd around the entrance, too many trees vying for light in the shadow of the behemoth. So late in the year, most of the clusters are dying or dead but for a few lovely sprigs.
Saints peer forebodingly down at Kendall as he ascends the big, gray stone steps, taking his measure and finding him wanting. He hasn't had anything to do with religion for a long time; all the Our Father's and Hail Mary's he whispered beneath his covers as a child have done nothing to save him. Currently he and God aren't even on speaking terms.
That doesn't stop him from genuflecting inside the door, cowed by the gigantic cross at the end of a long aisle. This place is eerie, evoking his dreams of electric and neon, of walking down this very aisle to a wedding or a funeral. He doesn't like it. He is distracted by his own unease.
Kendall does not see the thick, sticky substance he steps into until it slips beneath his boots.
"What the hell?" He curses as he skids to a stop against a pew, solid wood bruising his hipbone.
It's blood, puddling right in the center of the aisle, too much to have come from a single human being.
There's so much it's black, caked beneath the treads of his boots, the reflection of his face watery and dark in the puddle. Kendall thinks he's had a nightmare like this.
Instinctively, he steps back, feet squelching into the still-wet red, because he's been avoiding situations like this for years. Good Samaritans often end up Dead Samaritans. But the church is quiet and still, the peace unbroken but for the garish red streaks on the tile.
Kendall squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the gore, and tries to figure out what to do.
"Can I help you?" A hard voice asks. Kendall's eyes fly open, but he's hallucinating. He has to be.
The girl in front of him is clothed in plain, loose clothes. Her hair, sun streaked and dry, is twisted severely behind her head. Her skin has darkened since the last time Kendall laid eyes on her, blotched with freckles. She is still very beautiful.
"Kendall?" Jo watches him with open shock for a beat, for two, and then her face fixes itself into something strange and resolute. She latches onto his elbow and says, "Good, you can help."
"Help with what?" Kendall demands, squeaking when Jo's fingernails dig too deep. He hasn't seen her in nearly a year, but she's every bit as bossy as he remembers.
"Just come on."
Jo follows the trail of blood into the room adjoining the main church, which turns out to be a hallway that leads into the rectory next door. The place is dark, even with candlelight flames burning high. Kendall can't stop looking at her, at her once-familiar face and the determined set of her posture.
"What's going on," Kendall asks insistently, scanning Jo's clothes for traces of injury. There are flecks of red spotting her pants and the hem of her shirt, but not enough for this mess.
"They came in through the side entrance, by the garden," Jo informs him, and Kendall wants to demand who?, but before he can get the words out, he has his answer.
The rectory is a crime scene, missing yellow tape or flashing lights, but illegality still clinging to the air. Or maybe those are the screams. Pathetic, gurgling things, clogged thick with fluid. A girl he's never seen before with heat frizzed hair and dark brown robes is trying and failing to hold down another. There are too many weakly flailing limbs keeping her at bay, even as she murmurs calm down, it's okay, please, we're trying to help.
The woman stretched across the rectory's dining room table is young. Emaciated. Infected. Kendall can smell the sweetness of her, the rotten stench only marginally overpowered by the copper taste in the air. Worse is her friend, propped in a corner, bruised feet emerging from beneath a stained sheet. Crimson puddles around the edges of the cloth; most of it congealed and foul.
Whoever that is, they're long gone and the unseasonable fall heat is making sure they all know it.
"Help Jennifer hold her down," Jo orders, brandishing a pair of tarnished forceps at Kendall. "We have to get the bullet out."
Mechanically, Kendall rushes forward to press his hands against the woman's thin frame, trying to look at anything other than the wound gaping in the middle of the woman's chest. The slap of his palms against skin soggy with blood makes an uncomfortable squelching sound, but it's nothing compared to the wheeze of oxygen rattling the stranger's throat, or the way she cries out.
How is she still awake? He's not a doctor-in-training like Logan, but even he knows that pain so acute should have long since lead to unconscious bliss. He looks at her skin, tinged yellow, near unnatural, recognizing her for a refugee. Under the raw, puckered edges of flesh, Kendall can count out the woman's ribs.
His senses have gone sharp, assaulted by the smells and the too-bright splash of lifeblood, blinding in the sunlight. The rectory floor is creaky and old, half faded with sunshine. He shifts his weight for leverage and is startled by the groan.
Jo goes through the motions of extracting shrapnel detachedly, like she sees this sort of thing all the time. Maybe she does. But all the impromptu trauma experience in the world does not compensate for the surgical skillsets she lacks. The woman dies, bleeding out beneath Kendall's hands.
Swearing up a storm, Jo falls back against one of the laminate countertops, bending in on herself.
"She was sick," the robed girl murmurs, but even she doesn't sound convinced.
Kendall isn't paying attention. Somewhere in the midst of the melee, he zeroed in on a mason jar resting dusty atop the windowsill. A tiny bouquet of Black-Eyed Susans stands inside, wilting in the hot, stagnant water someone forgot to refill. His eyes trace the intricate, veiny curvature of the yellow petals, entranced until Jo says his name, razorblade sharp. "Kendall."
Pointedly, Jo looks at his hands, which are still clutching the dead woman's shoulders. He lets go in a rush, desperate for…for soap. All the soap ever created, preferably. And more, if he can find it.
Kendall is vaguely aware that he's going into shock. He says, "She died."
Jo says, "They snuck through the Fence. Got shot at for their troubles." She pauses. "Might've died soon anyway."
He blinks at her.
"Radiation sickness," Jo explains shortly, gesturing to the unnatural red-yellow of the woman's skin. "They must have come up from the South." She pushes up off the countertop and takes hold of Kendall's wrists, trying to distract him from the dead woman's unblinking eyes. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. Jennifer's got this."
"Sure," the robed girl mutters resentfully. "I've totally got this."
Jo takes Kendall into the rectory bathroom, where jugs of brownish water stand in a neat row on the tiled floor. She scrubs at his knuckles with a rough bristled sponge, ignoring his attempts to bat her away. This isn't his first dance with death, or his last. He's not a child.
Petulant and unhappy, Kendall demands, "Why would they come here? Why would they think it was safe?"
Jo snorts. "Church? Sanctuary?"
He's quiet, mulling this over and over in his head. What he says next isn't supposed to be out loud. "I thought you went to a convent in Mantua."
"I never said it was a convent." Jo arches an eyebrow at him, setting the sponge on the edge of the sink. The porcelain was white once, probably, before age and the sludge water they all use ate away at it.
"Right," Kendall says, because it was James who made that joke, when Jo told him she was leaving to serve God. He made a bunch of naughty nun jokes that Kendall never found funny, but in retrospect, they're hilarious. Or maybe that's the shock.
He misses James, abruptly, wildly. Kendall wishes he'd brought him, only he's pretty sure there are rules against dragging your boyfriend on an errand to confirm the date of your wedding to someone else.
"Is everyone – are they okay?" Jo asks, too gentle. He must be wearing his best impression of a frightened rabbit. "Logan? Carlos? James?"
"They're fine," he mumbles. "They're all fine."
"Okay." Jo prods, "Then – don't get me wrong, it's nice to see you, but – why did you come?"
"Wedding. I'm supposed to-" Something else occurs to him. "That girl, Jennifer. She was wearing robes."
"Yes."
"Like those – the crazies." He bops his head and drops into a bow, intoning, "May grace light your way."
"Crazy is a harsh term," Jo tells him, the brightness in her dark eyes dimming.
Kendall is afraid. Of a lot of things. Of being found out. Of dead refugees. Of the girl he once loved housing political terrorists. He counters, "It's not. Have you read the pamphlets? Going up the Reproduction Initiative is insane."
Stonily, Jo replies, "I wrote the pamphlets."
And oh. Oh.
"I'm going to need to sit down."
In the back of the rectory, there's a common room milling with women and men. Jo heads straight to the far-most corner, plopping down amidst about eight hundred and ninety one pillows. She tucks her knees into her chest, curling her back into the harem of multicolored fluff. A cluster of embroidered flower petals peeks from behind her left hip. A tribal pattern of ochre and rust frames her right bicep. She folds her fingers against the blood stained fabric at her knees and asks, "What do you want to know?"
Kendall sits beside her, intensely aware of all the eyes in the room that are now trained on him. There's an old printing press settled into one alcove, but the people bent over it's strange mechanisms are obviously eavesdropping. Closer still, Jennifer sits with two similarly clad girls, manipulating paper into neat tri-folds. All three of them are noticeably staring.
He bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to let it get to him.
"For one, how haven't you gotten caught?"
Jo answers smoothly, "They can't touch us because we're technically a religious organization."
"Yet. They can't touch us yet," Jennifer grumbles from the floor. She shoves a piece of partially folded propaganda towards him. "Have a pamphlet. It's full of obvious."
Sensibly, Jo rebukes her, "If you don't explain why something's wrong, how can you expect a person to know it's wrong?"
"It should be instinctive," Jennifer argues. "People should be in control of what happens to their own bodies. This legislation is crap, and those douchebags up top know it. Educating them isn't going to help."
"Not everyone was born with the same good sense as you. Education is a weapon, just like this." Jo reaches out and takes Kendall's gun from his holster, spinning it over her finger. Our Lady of Guadalupe winks colors against her skin, green and red, blue and gold. Jo says, "Don't get discouraged. Jennifer likes to yell."
"You blame me? I have to explain myself to every other idiot who crosses my path. How would you like it?"
"Patience helps enact change. Gandhi said so."
"I don't know if you heard, Jo, but Gandhi died like a million years ago."
Throwing Kendall a fond look, Jo says, "See? Yelling. She thinks it gets the point across."
"Does it?"
"Sometimes." Jo inclines her head to the side. "There are a lot of stubborn people out there. Once you scream your agenda in their face or tell them they're wrong, I've noticed they tend to dig their heels in even harder."
"Does your way work any better?" Kendall pulls the pamphlet from Jennifer's outstretched fingers, waving it in the air.
"Sometimes," she repeats, crooking a smile. "Everyone's different."
Jo is different. A few months ago, Kendall was still parading around Verona, pretending his memories of her were cut with diamond clarity, because she is the girl that completely broke his heart and Kendall is good at grudges. But now he can admit that they've taken on a foggy hue of time, everything left in snatches and clips: the groan of the boardwalk beneath their shoes as he twirled her in circles, so fast that they were both left breathless. Her hair between his fingers, soft and perfumed, and the sweet way she'd kiss his forehead whenever she said goodbye. The smudged lipstick she'd leave on his skin, the color of crushed cranberries, and the way James never seemed to much like her. Kendall supposes that last one makes sense now.
"Look at it this way," Jo continues, and watching her now, Kendall can't really remember what demarcated her as his first love, what made her different than every other girl he'd ever been with. She is lovely and fierce to be sure, but Verona crawls with fierce, lovely women. Even so, Kendall was crushed when she left without much explanation, without any kind of apology. She was snuggled in his arms one day, and the next she told him it was over, and now there's…this. "Your whole life, you've been told the Earth is flat. You're in the middle of a conversation, and you mention that. The person you're talking to starts freaking out and screaming about what an idiot you are, because the Earth is obviously a globe. What do you do?"
Kendall considers it. "I guess, if I couldn't convince them to stop yelling, I'd just walk away."
"Exactly. But if that person calmly tells you you're wrong, and then tries to explain that the earth is round?"
"…I'd at least listen, even if I thought they were wrong."
"And maybe they convince you, and maybe they don't, but at least there's a discourse instead of a monologue that nobody's listening to."
"I hate to break this to you, but no one's listening to this." He lays the pamphlet against her knee, the big, bold headlines about regaining control of his body and taking charge of his destiny swimming in front of his eyes. He never tried reading one before. "They're too scared."
"They shouldn't be," Jo says with utter conviction. "This is America, a nation of rabble-rousers and pioneers, prisoners and pilgrims. An entire country of people who decided or were forced to go their own way, and in the end they are all braver and stronger and freer for it. We don't need Griffin, or Hawk, or the Reproduction Initiate. It's time to take back control."
"That sounds great in theory," Kendall concedes, because who doesn't like democracy and streets paved with gold? "But do you even remember what it's like on the outside?" How could she not? There are two dead refugees in her kitchen serving as a reminder that might as well be lit in neon. "This isn't America anymore, it's large scale fucking chaos. Even if we could take down the Council and the City Board, then what? Who rushes in to fill the void they've left? All we've got left are tyrants and murderers."
"No," Jo corrects, eyes steelier than Kendall has ever seen them. "The people will take their rightful place. It's time for Verona to govern itself, without the conceit of the rich or their power hungry foot soldiers."
She is so stern, so ferocious, so unwavering that Kendall wants nothing more than to believe her. He has an inexplicable fondness for this girl, despite how she wrecked him, and besides, the dream she's selling in a heady one. Kendall could buy into it.
If he'd never been a refugee. If he'd never witnessed an execution or tried to survive a riot. If. If. If. There are way too many ifs. The truth is, dreams are dreams for a reason and all the bravery bled out of Verona before Kendall ever stepped foot in it.
"Jo, people are soulless monsters. You give anyone that much power, they'll go mad."
Jo stares at him for what feels like an eternity, unsympathetic and unmoved. When her face finally softens, it is a gradual thing, bravado flaking away until she is his peach-blossom girl, pretty, sweet, and exhausted. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"I-"
The transition from honeyed to furious takes but a moment. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Kendall Knight. Absolutely ashamed."
"Uh." Kendall tries his very best to appear chastened, even though he has fuck-all idea what's happening. "Uhhh. Help me out here?"
Jo snaps, "You don't get to write people off like that."
"I-"
"Do you even know how lucky you are, that you haven't been facing all of this alone? You're afraid, and that's okay, but you don't get to lose faith in humanity. Not when you're so damn lucky."
"I-"
"What about Carlos? Logan? James? Are they soulless monsters? Camille? Me?"
"I-"
She gesticulates rapidly about the room, jabbing her fingers at each of the girls by their feet, at herself, at Kendall. "For every bogeyman that lives outside these walls, there is a counterpart. There is grace, and light, and goodness. There are people who are trying to make things better."
"I-"
"That's how you lose, when you stop believing, when you lose the will to fight. You, of all people, can rage against everything. You're going to be the future Mr. Mercedes Griffin. You need to be strong – all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing!"
"Okay, yeesh, can you let me finish a sentence?" Kendall ducks the glare Jo shoots at him, raking a hand through his hair. He waits for her to start in on him again, but she's waiting, it seems, for his promised words. Only, he's not sure where to start. Carefully, he asks, "That last thing. It was a quote, right?"
"That doesn't make it less true," Jo responds, a tad stiffly. She crosses her arms and frowns at him, and Kendall honestly has not been the recipient of this much frowning since James threw pants in his face. Why does he keep having this effect on people?
"Maybe calling everyone monsters was the wrong thing to say," he allows.
The quirk of Jo's eyebrow says you think?, but the rest of her stays silent, leaving Kendall to work through his thoughts.
"What you're all doing is…really, really courageous. It could even be necessary," Kendall concedes, although he can't fight the idea the devil he knows is a lot less dangerous than all the other demons outside Verona. Maybe that's own fault, though, for buying into the propaganda the CC circulates. They say Verona is a safehaven, Verona is peace, but Verona also hasn't felt like either of those things since day one.
Jo huffs a sigh. "But?"
"But I can't afford to be a revolutionary."
One of the floor girls makes a dismissive sound, commenting, "The rest of us can't afford not to."
"Kendall," Jo says patiently. "You're poised to be one of the most powerful men in this city. Don't let that go to waste. Help us."
"No, I- can we talk somewhere private?"
Jo surveys her minions, obviously convinced there's nothing she can't say in front of them. Which, whatever, Kendall doesn't trust any of these fanatics as far as he can throw them. But he's willing to trust Jo, because he thought he loved her once, and maybe he still does. Differently, perhaps, than he used to, more like a friend than a lover, but it doesn't make the impulse to tell her everything less strong.
She purses her lips together. "Follow me."
She leads him over cobblestone, towards a strangely arched wooden door in the back of the church.
"Bring her back in one piece," Jennifer calls, staring at Kendall like if she tries hard enough she might be able to skewer him with her eyes. Kendall's not convinced she can't; something pricks hot and hard beneath his collarbone.
Maybe that's his conscience. If the world was different, defender of the innocent might've been a role he'd be good at.
Inside a tiny chapel between the church and the rectory, he and Jo face off. She touches his face, cups his cheek. She says, "I know you want to help. I can see it in your eyes."
"I'm not that easy to read," Kendall protests, without drawing away. She has small hands, like Camille's, like Katie's, and her affection is sisterly. A few months ago, he might've tried to delude himself into thinking it means something more, but now he is simply grateful they're still friends. Even if Jo isn't into him anymore, the way she still cares is clear.
That will make this easier.
Kendall squeezes his eyes shut tight and confesses, "It's James."
He cannot see Jo's face, but he can hear her bewilderment. "What's James?"
"The reason I can't help you."
Jo drops her hand, the cold air inside the church leeching the warmth from his skin immediately. "I'm not following. What does James have to do with-"
"We're together," Kendall blurts.
Jo's mouth closes with an audible click, her teeth snapping together. "You're-"
"For nearly a month now." Kendall cracks one eye open, peering out at her. In the shadows of the rectory, she doesn't appear to be particularly shell-shocked, but it is pretty dim. He rushes to say, "You can't tell anyone."
"Duh. Kendall, look at me," she coaxes, touching his arms now, his shoulders, rubbing soothing circles against his skin. He obediently opens his other eye, meeting her pretty gaze head on. She does not flinch away from him, or call him names, or run to report him to the nearest authority, so he figures he hasn't made a completely horrific mistake in telling her. Probably. "How did this happen? You and Mercedes are supposed to be getting married."
Miserably, Kendall says, "Thanks for reminding me."
Jo squeezes his shoulders, reminding him that she's waiting for an explanation, here.
"James, he's – well, he's James, and he came to me, and it escalated so fast that I couldn't, I don't –" Kendall takes a steadying breath, trying to find the thread of his thoughts. "I can't lose him, Jo. If I work with you, if I spy for you, if I fight for you, someone might find out. That puts James at risk, and he's…everything, Jo, and why do you not look very surprised by any of this?"
Jo snickers, her delight bubbling up and out until it is a full blown laugh.
"It's about time he made a move. Oh, don't look at me like that! He stares at you like you hung the sun in the sky." Kendall makes sad, pitiful eyes at her, completely confused. She forges on, "I thought he'd be stuck forever denying it in a bevy of increasingly inadvisable one night stands."
He opens his mouth, but his words have fled the building. Possibly the town. Maybe even the Earth.
Jo asks, "So how is it? Everything you hoped it would be?"
"Everything I hoped-" Kendall gawks, "I didn't hope for anything. I had no idea this was going to happen, Jo!"
"Really?" Jo tilts her head just enough that the light streaming through one of the stained glass window catches her eyes, dancing red and green across their surface. "Oh."
Really, oh, doesn't exactly encompass all the longing and terror Kendall has been experiencing since all of this started, so he doesn't bother hiding his outrage. "You knew? You knew?!"
He sounds all wrong, voice worn-out and underdone and plaintive. It's enough that Jo stops chuckling to herself and considers him with some small amount of solemnity. "Relax. It's not as obvious as I'm making it out to be, but sure. I had my suspicions."
"Explain. Now." Kendall stomps his foot, but Jo is not impressed in the least with the order. She refuses to say anything until he tacks on a timid, squeaking, "Please?"
"You guys are all so close. Closer than any friends I've ever met, which is nice. I said it before, Kendall; you're lucky. But you and James, you guys are something else. You shouldn't work, and you do. I don't get it."
Kendall is not pouting. Just because his lower lip is jutting out quite a bit does not mean he's got a pout going on.
She says, "You're oil and water. You like some of the same things, sure, but he wants parties and girls and everyone in town to know his name, while you? You go along with all of it, because of James, but I dated you for a long time, Kendall. You're a white knight. You want a challenge and a soul mate and a white picket fence. Together, you guys shouldn't work, you shouldn't click. There should be sparks, explosions-"
"Oh, there are definitely sparks," Kendall mutters under his breath, and Jo allows herself a tiny grin.
She says, "Savor it. People don't get many chances to be cherished."
Regret cracks the mortar that holds him together, tears him down brick by brick. "You thought about this the entire time we were dating, didn't you?"
"It wasn't the reason I broke up with you, if that's what you're asking. I cared about you, Kendall, a lot. But this is important; not just for me. For everyone. For the future. If we give up control now, we'll never get it back."
"You're right. I'm sorry I can't help."
"You can."
"I'm sorry I won't help, then," Kendall corrects, trying to put everything he can into it. Trying to tell her his worst fear without actually saying it out loud; how he worries he and James are bullets with each other's names written across the casing. "I can't put any of the guys in the way of danger. I need to protect them."
"They'd be safer if they were free." Jo pins him with her eyes, but she isn't angry. Merely exhausted. It must be hard, being a rebel.
"Wars have casualties. Always. But I wish I didn't have to leave you by yourself in this."
Jo cocks a wry grin. She says, "Stars tell us we're not alone. My dad used to tell me that all the time when I was little."
It's a weird change of subject. Kendall makes a noncommittal sound, but Jo leans forward and touches his hand, the specter of a dead girl's blood invisible around his knuckles, but still so painfully there.
"He was right. Even when you can't see the stars, we're not, you know. Alone. Not any of us, even if it feels like it." Almost unnecessarily, she adds, "I'll always be here if you need me."
Kendall needs a lot of things, but he hadn't understood how much he needed this; one person, other than James, who knows what he is and doesn't care. It makes the future feel less bleak, less disheartening. Without even realizing he's doing it, Kendall squeezes Jo's hand and hopes and hopes and hopes.