Archive of Our Own ^beta

John B met JJ in third grade.

He was the angry kid in the back row. Hoodie pulled over his face even when it was ninety degrees, sleeves tugged down past chewed-up He didn’t talk unless a teacher cornered him. He rarely spoke, never smiled, and met questions with a blank stare or a warning glare. He was that kind of kid—the one everybody kept a healthy distance from. The kind who might bolt, or bite, depending on the day.

But John B’s assigned seat was right next to his.

He remembers sliding into the desk that first day, glancing sideways at the blonde boy beside him—sun-bleached hair in his eyes, jaw clenched, knuckles red. JJ didn’t look at him. He didn’t even flinch. It was like John B wasn’t even there.

But he was. And he kept being there.

For weeks, JJ barely acknowledged him. Gave him a few side-eyes, muttered insults under his breath. But John B just laughed. He laughed every time. Not because the insults were clever, or even all that mean, but because something clearly shifted in JJ’s expression when the reaction he expected didn’t come.

John B saw it plain as day. The bravado, the bite—it wasn’t confidence. Not really. It was need. A stubborn, aching need to be mean first. To be untouchable before anybody could try to touch him.

But John B didn’t try to change him. Didn’t talk him down or talk him out of it. He just… kept showing up. He sat next to him every day. Ate lunch near him, even when JJ pretended not to notice. Picked him first for tag on the playground, even when JJ said he didn’t want to play.

And then—out of nowhere—it happened.

John B was sure JJ would say no, like he usually did. When he asked if JJ wanted to check out the marsh and find the sunken boat, JJ just stared at him like he’d lost his mind. Then, slower than John B expected, JJ muttered a small, ‘Okay.’

John B fought to keep his grin in check, but it was nearly impossible. That one word felt like the first real step toward something he hadn’t even dared hope for: making a friend who needed one just as badly as he did.

After that, everything changed.

JJ started waiting for him after school. He started elbowing him in the ribs during class when something was funny. He started talking. Rambling, even. About bikes and waves and the best kind of knots, about comic books and how he was definitely gonna own a boat one day. Not some fancy yacht. Just something sturdy. Something that wouldn’t let him down.

One afternoon, unprompted, JJ said John B could be the captain. “And I’ll be the colonel,” he added, grinning. “That’s above captain, dumbass.”

John B just nodded, swiping his curls out of his eyes, like yeah, obviously.

He couldn’t get enough of him.

JJ was hilarious. Wild and brilliant and reckless in the best way. He could make anything into an adventure. A ditch became a river. A broken AC unit became a spaceship. A single match was a campfire. Every moment with him was louder, brighter, better.

It felt like discovering a secret. Like finding a whole other world hidden behind someone’s eyes and realizing you were the only one who got to see it.

Because JJ didn’t let people in.

But he let John B in.

And once he did, it was like the whole damn island lit up.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In third grade, John B didn’t know what a crush really was, but he’d heard the word whispered a lot during recess. It seemed like it meant: you liked someone so much that it made your stomach feel weird. That you thought about them too much. That you sometimes didn’t even like them but you still wanted to look at them all the time.

JJ made him feel like that sometimes.

When JJ did something wild—like jump off the highest part of the jungle gym with a yell, or race across the blacktop pretending to be on fire—John B’s chest would fill up with something fizzy and bright. Sometimes he smiled so hard it hurt his cheeks. And other times, he’d catch himself just watching JJ: the way his hair stuck up after recess, the way he chewed his pencil until it was all flat and soggy, or how he always made things fun, even dumb spelling worksheets.

One afternoon after lunch, Pope and John B were hiding under the slide—knees tucked to their chests, trying not to breathe too loud while JJ shouted from across the playground.

John B sat quiet for a moment, then leaned over and nudged the other boy with his elbow. This was probably the only time they wouldn’t be interrupted.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Can I ask you something?”

Pope looked over.

John B hesitated. “Do you think… you can have a crush on a boy?”

Pope looked up from the acorn he was trying to crack open. “Like… you wanna marry him?”

“No,” John B said quickly, then frowned. “I mean… I don’t know. Not like that. Just… sometimes I feel weird around him. Like my stomach flips. And I wanna… I dunno… be around him all the time.”

Pope scrunched his nose. “Do you wanna kiss him?”

John B made a face. “Ew, no. That’s gross.”

“Hold his hand?”

John B thought for a second. “Maybe. I guess. But it’s not like that. He’s just…” He trailed off, picking at a scab on his knee.

Pope waited, quiet. He had that look on his face—the one he made during spelling tests when he pretended to be confused but always got every word right.

John B caught the familiar look and smiled, just a little—couldn’t help it. That face was so Pope it almost pulled him out of his own nerves.

That’s when JJ’s voice rang out from across the playground.

“Aha! Found you, Kie!”

“Oh my God,” Kiara groaned. “Why is it always me first?!”

JJ cackled—that loud, wicked laugh of his that always came from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Which means Bree’s next, ‘cause I swear, if I find Pope first and have to stare at John B’s smug little face when he wins again—”

Then softer, but still teasing, “—I’ll actually explode.”

John B blinked, caught off guard by the sudden flutter in his chest. He didn’t need to see it—he could already picture that crooked grin lighting up JJ’s face.

He glanced at Pope again, quiet for a moment.

Finally, John B said, “He’s just really sunny. Like, everything feels better when he’s around. But he doesn’t get a lot of… good stuff. Not like we do. And I think he needs someone to love him. I just… I love him. A lot.”

Pope looked thoughtful, then shrugged. “That’s okay. You can like whoever you want. I think it’s nice.”

John B nodded, the tight feeling in his chest easing a little. He didn’t have the right words for what he felt—not yet—but he knew it mattered.

Even in third grade, it mattered.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By fifth grade, people had stopped asking where Big John Routledge was.

At first, it had been an innocent kind of curiosity—teachers wondering if they should call someone, other kids whispering about his cool, treasure-hunting dad who sometimes picked him up late in a dusty Volkswagen that smelled like pure gasoline. But by October, the van stopped showing up altogether. Big John had started disappearing for days at a time. Then weeks.

Eventually, no one came to pick John B up at all.

He got used to waiting on the curb by himself, backpack clutched in his lap, pretending to be busy digging for snacks or tying his shoelaces so it didn’t look so obvious. Most days, JJ walked home with him or waited with him in the grass, flicking pebbles at cars and pretending not to notice when John B’s voice got small.

But some kids did notice. And they didn’t keep it to themselves.

That afternoon, during recess, John B had been messing around on the monkey bars when it happened. He didn’t even hear the insult—just the tail end of it. Just enough to know it was about him. And about his dad. Something sharp and mean, tossed out by a kid named Marcus. The kind of kid who thought kicking people while they were already down was just another game.

By the time John B dropped to the ground and turned around, JJ was already on him.

Marcus was flat on the pavement, one hand over his face, legs sprawled out. His nose was bleeding. A lot. JJ stood over him, face sharp and unreadable, his right hand still curled into a fist. His knuckles were already swelling, smeared with blood and playground dirt.

“Dude,” John B said, stunned. “You didn’t have to—”

JJ didn’t look at him. Just shrugged. “Yeah, I did.”

Then, JJ slung an arm around John B’s shoulder and tugged him close, steering him away. “C’mon,” he said, tugging him close with a sideways grin. “No one messes with my boy.”

And John B’s brain… went weird.

Because it wasn’t just the punch. It was why. JJ didn’t care about rules. He didn’t care about teachers or detention slips or how much trouble he’d be in. He just heard someone say something rotten about John B, and his whole body had said no. Without hesitation. Without thinking twice.

And John B, being steered away with JJ’s arm slung around his shoulders, felt like someone had opened up his chest and filled it with bees.

His face got hot. His ribs ached in that weird, glowing way. And all at once, he had this wild, sudden need to wrap his arms around JJ and just hold on. Press his face against his chest, listen to the steady thump of his heart, and stay there until something finally made sense. Like if he squeezed hard enough, maybe that jagged place inside both of them would stop hurting.

He didn’t, of course. They were still just kids, and feelings like that were confusing and loud and hard to name.

So instead, he bumped JJ’s ribs with his elbow—light, almost shy—and muttered, “That was insane, dude.”

JJ smirked, like he always did when he got away with something.

But that night, lying on the thin mattress at the Chateau with the roof creaking in the wind and the blanket pulled up over his chin, he wondered:

Is this what love feels like?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Middle school made everything worse.

Everything got louder. Sharper. Messier. The feelings had never been simple—but at least they used to be light. Shruggable. Just best friends, or fun, or whatever. No one asked, no one named it. It was just ‘let’s jump off the dock again,’ and ‘you can have the last chip, and ‘stay over—I want you to.’

But now those same feelings had too many edges. Like something that used to fit perfectly but had started to press in strange places.

JJ started wearing his hair longer, letting his blond bangs fall into his eyes in a way that made half the girls in their grade stare. He rotated between the same two beat-up hoodies, always smelling like surf wax, engine oil, and that sharp, minty gum. He got detentions for back talking teachers, for skipping class, for fighting. He grinned like nothing could touch him.

And John B—he felt like he was always trying to catch up. To keep pace with this storm of a boy who didn’t stop moving unless it was to throw an arm around his shoulder or knock him over in the sand just to make him laugh. Who only seemed to breathe easy when it was just the two of them, alone.

One time, near the end of seventh grade, JJ climbed through John B’s bedroom window way after dark.

He was limping, just a little, like he’d jumped down wrong—but John B knew better. His hoodie was zipped halfway up, sleeves tugged down over his wrists even though the night was warm. His lip had a small split in it, fresh and not quite scabbed over. One eye was starting to swell, just enough to be noticeable if you were looking.

“Sup,” he said, casual as hell.

John B didn’t say anything. Just made room on the bed.

“Let’s run away,” he said, flopping face-first down beside him with a grunt, cheek against the pillow. “Seriously. You and me. We’ll steal a boat, sleep on the sand, disappear. No one would find us. No one’d even look.”

John B sat up, heart thudding, his mind racing with everything he wanted to say.

“JJ…”

He could see the slight tension in JJ’s jaw even before the words came.

“I’m fine,” JJ said, rolling onto his back and folding his hands behind his head. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Seriously. Don’t make it a thing.”

John B knew him too well—when to push, when to pull back. He wanted to keep digging, to get past the words, but he held back, sensing this wasn’t the time.

Still ‘just us’ was still hanging in the air—casual on JJ’s lips, heavy everywhere else.

Because JJ had chosen him. He always did. But something in John B still didn’t believe it—not completely. Not when he looked at JJ, all sharp angles and fight, and saw someone who could have shut down, lashed out, left. And instead, he’d come here. Bruised and quiet. Wanting him.

John B rolled over on his side and stared at the ceiling. He tried to shake it off. He told himself it wasn’t what it felt like.

JJ was loud and untouchable and cooler than anyone had the right to be. Everyone wanted to be near him, even when he was mean. Especially then. He said the things no one else dared to say. He acted like the rules didn’t apply.

But John B didn’t trust most of the people who hovered around him. He could see it—how they watched JJ like he was a fire they wanted to get close to, not because they liked him, but because he made them feel something. They laughed at everything he said, even when it wasn’t funny. They dared him to do reckless things, hyped him up, dragged him into chaos—then turned around and said nasty stuff behind his back. Called him crazy. Said he’d end up just like his dad.

None of it was true. JJ was impulsive, yeah, but he was also the one who’d give you the last bite of his sandwich. The one who’d carry your bike home if the chain broke. The one who never forgot when you were having a bad day.

John B didn’t want to kiss him. Not exactly. He just wanted… all of him. He wanted JJ to stay, to never crawl back out that window. To have a home where the bruises would fade—and never come back. He wanted to fall asleep next to him and wake up in the morning and have it still be true—have it always be like that. JJ curled into the blankets, their elbows touching, and everything still.

That didn’t sound like a crush. But it didn’t not sound like one either.

Later that year, in the rush between classes, John B caught up with Kiara by the lockers and blurted it out before he could second-guess himself.

“Hey—random question, but… how do you know if you have a crush on someone? Like, for real. Is there a sign or do you just—figure it out eventually?”

Kiara slowed, giving him a sideways look. “That’s a pretty specific ‘random’ question.”

He shrugged, tugging at the strap of his backpack. “Just wondering.”

She nudged him lightly with her elbow. “Who is it?”

“No one,” he said a little too quickly.

Kiara raised an eyebrow but let it go. “Well… you kinda just know, I guess. Like, you get butterflies. You wanna be around them all the time. You think about kissing them and it doesn’t weird you out.”

John B hesitated. “What if it’s not butterflies?”

She looked at him again, a little more curious now.

John B blinked. “What if it’s like…a hurricane? What if you just want to always be near them and it makes you crazy when they’re sad and you’d do anything to fix it?”

Kiara squinted at him, then smiled—crooked and knowing. “Okay, that might be a crush. Or maybe you’re just really codependent.” She nudged his arm gently. “Either way, whoever it is... they’re lucky. You’re, like, one of the sweetest boys I know. Don’t screw it up.”

He didn’t totally get what she meant—codependent sounded weirdly adult, like something you’d hear in therapy or read in a self-help book—but he didn’t laugh it off either. He just nodded, quiet for a second, the word echoing in his head.

Maybe it wasn’t a crush. Maybe it was just that JJ made everything brighter, easier, less lonely. And if needing someone like that was wrong... he didn’t want to be right.

Then the bell rang, and they drifted in opposite directions, swept back into the noise of school like it had never happened.

He didn’t bring it up again.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not through math, not during lunch, not even when JJ slid past him at the table, not watching where he was going.

Suddenly, JJ’s foot came down hard on John B’s toe.

“Fuck!” John B gasped, grabbing JJ before he could get away.

They collapsed into the grass, tangled up, wrestling without really trying to be rough. JJ’s breath tickled John B’s cheek, his laugh—a light, easy sound—shook through his whole chest.

John B closed his eyes for a second, letting that laugh wash over him and clear his mind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That night, lying in bed with the sheets kicked off and the creaky ceiling fan spinning slow above him, he looked it up. Tried to make sense of it.

Restless and unable to stay still, he finally slipped out of bed and padded down the hall to his dad’s old study. The room smelled of dust and stale air, untouched for too long. He pulled the heavy dictionary off the wobbly shelf, opened it—and the very first word that stared back at him was abandonment. A bitter chuckle escaped as he read the definition, the words hitting too close to everything he and JJ had been through.

Luke had left wounds no one else could see—deep, invisible scars that weighed on JJ’s soul—and scars that showed, like the faint line along his hairline. John B would always trace it with gentle fingers while comforting him, quietly running his hands through his soft blonde hair after a night full of restless tears.

Big John stopped showing up, leaving empty spaces that only grew wider, spaces John B felt every time the school day ended and there was no familiar face waiting to pull him into a hug. JJ didn’t have anyone waiting either, so they became each other’s safe place—the one constant they could count on.

Both their moms had left when they were really little, disappearing so early that neither of them had more than a hazy memory—a face blurred at the edges, a name whispered but never quite known.

Their supposed parents had all walked away in different ways, leaving behind cracked pieces that John B and JJ were desperately trying to hold together. Without each other, John B wasn’t sure they’d have made it this far.

John B swiped angrily at his stubborn, burning eyes and dropped down cross-legged onto the floor. He flipped forward to the letter C and found the word he’d been searching for:

Codependency: A psychological condition or relationship in which a person is controlled or manipulated by another who is affected with a pathological condition, or where one person enables another’s poor mental health, immaturity, irresponsibility, or under-achievement.

He read the definition again, frowning. That didn’t feel right. JJ wasn’t broken, and their relationship wasn’t about enabling. It wasn’t unhealthy or one-sided.

He skimmed a few more entries—attachment, loyalty, devotion.

Attachment: An emotional bond between people that endures over time, providing comfort and security.

John B stared at the definition, fingers tightening around the edge of the page. That felt closer. Because with JJ, no matter what storm was raging, no matter how messy or loud or dark it was, he always felt safe.

Next, he found devotion:

Devotion: Profound dedication and love toward someone or something, marked by commitment and care.

He traced the letters with his finger and smiled faintly. That sounded like JJ all right—fierce, wild, protective.

Finally, he landed on companionship:

Companionship: A relationship between friends or partners that is marked by mutual support, trust, and understanding.

He let the book fall shut beneath his hand, slowly, almost reverently. The word stayed with him.
There was comfort in it—more than he expected.

Kiara’s theory didn’t feel so important now. Codependent didn’t scare him like it used to.
Not when this—whatever this was with JJ—had held him together through things that should’ve broken him.

It didn’t need a label. But if he had to name it, deep down, he already knew:

It was love.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

High school hit and so did puberty, and suddenly everyone was obsessed with who was dating who, who kissed who, and who was secretly crushing on who.

JJ dated a girl for three weeks in sophomore year—Lexie something. John B didn’t like her. Maybe it was the way she wore way too much body spray, or how she pulled JJ around by the collar like he was hers to show off. But mostly, John B didn’t like what he overheard one afternoon.

John B sat on the bleachers, casually munching on a granola bar, his gaze fixed on JJ across the courtyard. Pope and Kiara were off in one of their advanced classes, the kind that made John B’s brain ache just thinking about, so it was just him for now.Well… not really.

JJ wasn’t next to him, but John B was still with him—watching, keeping an eye out like he always did. JJ was playing the part perfectly—grinning easy, flashing that effortless charm, leaning in just right when Lexie laughed. For a moment, he looked like he belonged, like he owned the place, the king of the school. But John B knew the subtle tells. Every so often, JJ’s smile tightened just a little too much, his fingers twitched at the edge of his sleeve, and his eyes flicked away, even if only for a second.

And when JJ caught him watching, John B gave him the look—I’ve got you if you need out—and JJ gave a barely-there nod back. I’m good, really, it said. Then Lexie slung an arm around JJ’s shoulder and kissed him, long and loud enough to draw cheers from her friends.

A couple nights back, JJ had been excited. Giddy, almost, in that low-key way he got when something good happened and he didn’t know how to handle it. He’d actually said it out loud—‘She wants to hang out again. Like, actually hang out. She likes me.’ It was the first time in forever someone had seemed to want JJ not just for a quick thrill, but for something real. He’d smiled so wide it made John B’s chest ache.

But as much as JJ had smiled, as much as he’d tried to let himself enjoy it, John B would bet anything that JJ didn’t feel good enough for her. That deep down, he was still bracing for the moment she’d realize he wasn’t what she wanted.

And that killed John B a little—because JJ loved better than anyone he knew. He showed up. Every time. Whether it was a dumb inside joke when John B was spiraling, or slipping his hoodie over John B’s shoulders without a word when it got cold—then pulling him close, pressing a soft smile against the top of his head—JJ had a way of making you feel like you mattered, like you were worth everything. That kind of love only comes once in a lifetime, and John B knows he’s the luckiest guy alive. Anyone who got that—who got him—should feel lucky as hell. And John B vowed he’d spend his whole life trying to show JJ even a fraction of that love back.

After a few moments, JJ cleared his throat, a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as Lexie’s friends cheered her on for more. He flashed that signature grin. “Be right back, gotta hit the bathroom.”

With a confident wink at Lexie, he walked off—all swagger and charm. But John B wasn’t fooled. JJ was putting on a show, like he always did when he felt cornered.

John B stayed put, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bleachers, finishing the last bite of his granola bar. He didn’t follow. Not yet.

JJ sometimes just needed to breathe.

It was a quiet understanding between them, one never spoken aloud but built over years of knowing. When JJ disappeared into the bathroom back at the Chateau, John B didn't knock right away. He gave him space. Let the silence settle. Waited for the water to run, for the weight in JJ’s chest to lift just enough. And when JJ was ready, he’d reappear—hair damp, eyes a little softer—and flop onto the couch beside him. They’d throw on a movie or an old CD, and the air would shift back to something lighter.

Sometimes, JJ stayed on his end of the couch, stretched out with a bit of distance, just needing to exist nearby. Other times, he’d fold right into John B’s side. And then there were the times—his favorite times—when JJ would get a little bossy about it. He’d grab John B’s hand mid-scroll, mid-sentence, whatever, and plop it right onto his head with a muttered, ‘Do the thing,’.

John B would roll his eyes, grinning, and go, ‘Wow, demanding much?’—but his hand was already moving, fingers weaving through JJ’s hair in that slow way he knew worked every time. It made him smile without thinking, that soft, helpless kind of smile he only ever wore around JJ. And without fail, JJ would be out in seconds, breath evening out, noise in his head finally settling.

On the harder days—when the silence stretched and JJ didn’t come out—John B would lean his forehead lightly against the doorframe, knock once, and murmur something like, ‘You up for some company?’ or ‘I saved you the good blanket if you wanna come watch something dumb.’ Little things. Small openings. Always enough room for JJ to come through when he was ready.

When JJ would finally crack the door or mutter a quiet ‘yeah’—John B would ease inside, sit beside him on the cool tile. If JJ was trembling, John B would slip out just long enough to grab the blanket he knew JJ liked most—the soft, worn one—and drape it over his shoulders before settling back down beside him. He’d only touch him if JJ leaned in first—always on his terms. And when JJ looked up, or shifted closer, or gave that tiny nod that said okay, John B would help him up, arm steady around his back, and walk them both to the couch. It was just part of the rhythm of loving him.

So now, even here, John B gave him that space.

He let his phone rest in his lap, pretending to scroll, but mostly listening for footsteps—listening for JJ.

Then he caught the low whispers from nearby, too faint to be meant for his ears.

“Why’s Lexie even with that guy?” one girl murmured, skepticism thick in her voice.

Another snickered quietly. “He’s cute and all, but I heard she’s just using him.”

John B’s stomach twisted as he glanced up, catching Lexie’s smirk from across the courtyard. She was leaning close to her friends, voice barely more than a breath.

“Honestly? Look at him. He’s gotta be so good in bed,” Lexie said, not realizing—or not caring—that John B could hear every word.

One friend arched an eyebrow and asked, “Really? Just for that?” while the other shrugged, completely unsurprised.

Lexie flipped her hair back with a careless flick, eyes cold as ice. “What can I say? I’m not here for a boyfriend—especially not a screw-up like JJ. Just a good time.”

Her friends laughed behind their hands, and John B sat frozen on the bleachers. His jaw tightened. JJ wasn’t some party trick, or a body to pass time with. He was real. Raw. Complicated in ways no one bothered to understand. JJ wasn’t someone you used for two weeks of attention and then discarded—he was someone you stayed up with on the worst nights, someone who carried more weight than most adults ever would, someone who still made people laugh even when he could barely breathe himself.

John B's fists clenched, nails pressing crescent moons into his palms. He didn’t stand up. Not yet. But something in his chest shifted, solidified.

When JJ came back a minute later—swagger turned back up like a defense mechanism, charming grin reloaded—John B stood and met him halfway.

“Let’s bounce,” John B said casually, nodding toward the far side of the field. “I think Coach left that janky ball cart out. Wanna go mess around?”

JJ glanced past him toward Lexie’s group. “We’re not—”

“Nah,” John B cut in smoothly. “You’ve been hanging with them all afternoon. I’m bored.”

JJ hesitated, then grinned and bumped his shoulder. “Dude, you’re always bored.”

“Exactly. Come on.”

And just like that, JJ followed. No protest. No second glance back at Lexie. John B steered him toward the courts, away from all the bullshit, like he always tried to do when JJ’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He never got the chance to tell JJ what he overheard. Not because he was hiding it—John B didn’t keep things from JJ—but because the timing was all wrong.

That night, JJ had shown up at the chateau late, shoulders tight, lip a little swollen. He didn’t say much, just dropped onto the porch and stayed there, staring at nothing. Luke had been in one of his moods again, and John B hadn’t pressed. He just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, until JJ’s breathing evened out.

John B thought he could wait until tomorrow. Let JJ rest, let that wild, imperfect smile—the one with the dimple and those sharp canines—come back before he said anything.

But even waiting felt like a kind of cruelty, knowing he’d have to shatter that moment of light before it could truly settle.

And yet, tomorrow came all too fast.

The very next night, JJ climbed through John B’s window like he always did. But this time, he didn’t crash to the floor talking a mile a minute, or make a beeline for the kitchen. He didn’t say anything at all. He shut off the lamp without even glancing at John B. But before the room went dark, John B caught a glimpse of his face—tired, sunburnt, and quietly sad.

No new bruises that he could see.

Just the same split lip from yesterday, cracked back open, raw at the edges.

But no bruises didn’t mean JJ was okay. And John B knew that too well by now.

He peeled back the covers and slid in beside John B without a sound—still in his shorts and shirt, arms tucked in, face turned toward the mattress.

For a long while, they lay quiet together, the room thick with the sound of JJ’s quiet breathing—John B stared at the ceiling, wide awake, tuned into every tiny sound beside him.

Then, barely audible—so faint John B almost missed it—came a stifled, bitten-off sob.

John B's lips trembled at the sound, and tears sprung unbidden, because when JJ hurt, it wasn’t just JJ’s pain—it was theirs.

He ached to reach out, to pull JJ close and tuck him under his chin where he belonged. But he held back. Not yet. JJ always came when he was ready.

And, eventually, he did.

“I went over to Lexie’s today,” he said, eyes closed, voice low.

John B hummed softly, a gentle sound of acknowledgment. His fingers itched to find JJ’s under the blankets.

“I’d saved up,” JJ went on, barely more than a whisper now. “Thought I’d take her somewhere nice. A surprise. I dunno. I just thought... maybe if I did something good, she’d like me more. Like, she wouldn’t think she was dating some screw-up.”

It killed John B to hear him talk like that—like he believed it. Like he’d absorbed every shitty thing people had ever assumed about him and decided that it must be true. But he didn’t interrupt. Not yet. JJ needed to get it out, and John B was going to let him. Even if every word made his heart ache.

JJ swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, John B could hear the way his voice fought to stay steady. “But her parents answered the door first. Gave me that look. Like I was something they needed to scrape off the porch.”

John B’s stomach turned. Yeah. He knew that look.

“And then Lexie came out, and I told her I had a surprise. Said I’d been planning something for a while. And she just—” His voice cracked. “She laughed. Said she didn’t know me. Told her parents I must’ve been some random Pogue creeping around the neighborhood.”

A silence stretched between them.

“I just stood there,” JJ said. “Had the damn movie tickets in my pocket. Like a fucking idiot.”

His voice cracked again, thinner now. “I never felt good enough for her. I thought... maybe if I treated her to something she liked... maybe she’d love me more. Or just… love me at all.”

He blinked hard, eyes shining. “She was so kind, at first. I don’t even know what happened. I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” John B said gently, firmly.

JJ didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead like he hadn’t heard, jaw clenched, eyes glassy and distant.

And John B had to bite the inside of his cheek, had to hold his breath against the swell of emotion in his throat, because he knew JJ had shut the door now—tucked himself away, like always.

It made his stomach twist. Because the truth was, Lexie didn’t want JJ. Not really. She wanted what she could take from him. She wanted his easy charm, his reckless devotion, the parts of him that made people laugh, made them feel like the center of the world. But she didn’t want his weight. His realness. His heart.

She saw something tender and cracked in him and decided she could use it for a while—until it didn’t serve her anymore.

And maybe JJ didn’t see that yet. Maybe he wouldn’t for a while.

But John B did. And it made him want to march to her front door and remind her exactly what kind of person she’d thrown away.

Because no one—no one—got to make JJ Maybank feel like he wasn’t enough.

JJ swallowed hard. “But I guess I wasn’t enough… I never am. I should’ve known better than to think otherwise.”

John B shook his head softly. “You’re more than enough, bub.” he whispered.

JJ didn’t say anything for a long time. Just laid there beside John B in the dark, curled on his side but not touching, his back barely brushing the blankets between them. His breaths were shaky, uneven. Every now and then, John B could hear him sniff quietly, like he was trying to keep the crying under wraps. And John B stayed still beside him, fighting tears of his own. Because it felt like JJ was still trying not to be a burden, even while breaking.

The silence grew oppressive, the space between them suddenly unbearable. John B’s chest hurt watching JJ shut down like this, knowing he needed more than just a silent presence. He knew JJ—he knew what this moment demanded.

John B closed the space then. Reached out and rested a hand lightly on JJ’s arm. “Hey,” he said softly.

JJ didn’t move. His eyes, raw and red, stayed fixed on the blank wall ahead, his jaw clenched tight.

Then, in a trembling whisper, JJ broke the silence. “What am I supposed to do? What do I have to be… for someone to just… love me?”

John B felt a sharp ache. JJ didn’t realize how many people already loved him—Pope and Kie, for one, no matter what. And John B? He loved JJ with a depth he’d never known before, his whole being tied to JJ’s.

He shifted closer, until they were chest to back. His arm curved gently around the blonde’s waist, his palm resting softly over JJ’s pounding heart. JJ didn’t pull away—he never did with John B.

“You don’t have to be anything else,” John B said, low and certain against the nape of JJ’s neck. “You’re already enough. More than enough.”

JJ gave a shaky exhale, but it wasn’t relief. It was disbelief, maybe, or the kind of exhaustion that only came after being let down one too many times.

“I think I’m just… unlovable, Bree.”

John B didn’t try to undo the damage with a thousand words. He just pressed his forehead to JJ's temple, breathed against his skin and gave him the only truth that mattered. “You’re loved. By me.”

JJ froze. For a second, John B thought maybe he’d crossed a line, maybe it was too much—but then JJ turned. Slowly, like it hurt to move. He shifted in close until his forehead was tucked under John B’s chin, his hand fisting in the front of John B’s shirt.

And then he cried. Quiet, messy, shaking sobs that wracked his whole body, muffled against John B’s collarbone.

John B held him through it, one arm tight around JJ’s shoulders, the other rubbing slow, careful circles into his back. He didn’t say anything else. Just stayed there, letting JJ come apart in the safety of his arms. Letting him feel it. Letting him believe, maybe for the first time, that he was allowed to be loved.

Eventually, JJ’s breathing slowed. The tears ran dry. His hand stayed fisted in John B’s shirt, but his body grew heavy with sleep, his face still tucked close, warm and damp against John B’s skin.

And John B kept holding him, long after JJ had drifted off, one hand stroking slowly through JJ’s tangled hair. He pressed a small kiss there, then another—featherlight.

“I love you,” he murmured into the strands, barely louder than a breath. “You’re loved, JJ. So much.”

Another kiss. Another breath.

And as the room grew still, John B’s voice grew softer, slower—fading into a sleepy murmur.

“I love you… I love you…”

Until at last his lips rested softly in JJ’s hair, and sleep claimed him too.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It wasn’t much. It wouldn’t fix anything. But John B needed to do something.

That weekend, JJ crashed hard after a long surf—salt still in his hair, mouth open, one arm slung off the edge of the couch. He hadn’t said much all day. Not about Lexie. Not about what had gone down. Just paddled out with John B that morning, surfed like he meant to lose himself in it, then came home and passed out cold.

So while JJ slept, John B slipped out.

At the library, John B sat down at one of the clunky old computers and typed in Lexie’s school email. The password was still the same—her birthday with three exclamation points. JJ had told him, grinning like it was some sweet inside joke. Just one of those dumb, flirty things you say when you’re into someone—or pretending to be. Now, it just felt hollow. Pathetic.

He started by unsubscribing her from the cheer team mailing list.

Then, without much ceremony, he swapped out her profile picture for a blurry photo of a moldy sandwich he pulled off Google—something sad and green and oozing at the edges. It felt fitting.

And then—because he couldn’t help himself—he pasted the full lyrics to ‘Oops!...I Did It Again’ into an email. Then another. Then ten more. All sent straight to her own inbox.

Petty. Pointless. Nowhere close to what she deserved.

But it made him feel better. For a minute.

It didn’t undo what she said.

It didn’t stop JJ from getting hurt.

But as John B stepped out into the thick Carolina heat, stuffing his hands deep in his pockets, he felt a little less useless. A little less like he’d stood there and let someone take a cheap shot at his person without lifting a damn finger.

Because JJ would never say it—never ask for backup or admit how much it stung.

But that didn’t matter.

No one messed with his boy and walked away clean. Not if John B had anything to say about it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By the time junior year rolled around, both John B and JJ had kissed around—a handful of flings that never went anywhere.

But none of that even came close to the feeling John B had when JJ curled up beside him—limbs everywhere, shirt riding up, one arm flung over his face, bruise fading beneath the collar.

It didn’t feel romantic. It just felt like his favorite person in the world was safe, and in that certainty, John B found his own safety.

Maybe that was love, in its own way. Maybe it didn’t need a label.

He just knew he’d never felt it for anyone else.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One summer night, after the Pogues had finished building the new dock at the Maybank place, everything smelled like salt, sweat, and cheap beer. John B and JJ were sitting on the dock, feet dangling in the water, passing a joint back and forth—their unofficial new dock inauguration ritual.

JJ passed the joint back to John B, who took a slow drag and held the smoke deep, eyes half-lidded, already swimming in the buzz. The night was quiet except for the soft crackle of the joint and the distant hum of crickets.

JJ bumped John B’s shoulder lightly, grinning. “So... we actually pulled it off. We built a home.”

John B’s eyes popped wide like the thought was exploding inside his head. Without thinking, he grabbed JJ’s hand with a fierce, almost desperate grip. His heart hammered, and his high brain scrambled, words tumbling out before he could catch them.

“You’re—no, you are my favorite person. Not just now, not just ever, but, like, ever ever. If there was a ranking for favorite people, you’d be at the top. No contest.”

Then, caught up in the feeling, John B threw his hand up, flailing wildly to drive the point home—and accidentally yanked his hand right out of JJ’s grip.

JJ caught it, but pulled a little too hard.

John B’s high, goofy face bonked right into JJ’s chest.

JJ blinked, then let out a breathy laugh. With both hands, he sank his fingers into John B’s hair and started ruffling it with dramatic flair.

John B groaned, muffled against JJ’s shirt. “Dude. Come on. You know it’s gonna look all dumb tomorrow.”

He frowned instinctively, face scrunching where it was pressed against warm cotton—and JJ felt it.

JJ froze mid-ruffle, head tilting, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Hold up. Are you seriously frowning right now?”

He snorted. “Bro. I can feel your little angry eyebrows. That’s so weird.”

John B, still muffled.“It’s a reasonable reaction.”

JJ snorted, patting the curls down gently. “There. Calm your vanity, princess.”

John B grin returned, soft and crooked against the fabric of JJ’s shirt. “I’m serious, though. You’re my favorite person. No contest.”

JJ smiled, warm and soft, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Then he leaned back onto the dock, dragging John B down with him, their shoulders bumping. The wood was warm under their backs, the night thick with salt and distant cicadas.

John B let his head roll to the side, eyes half-lidded, and tried to focus on JJ’s profile. “Man… I’m gonna pass out soon, huh?”

JJ snorted. “You’re already halfway gone, Bree.”

They stayed like that a while—just lying there, stupid and stoned. The moonlight caught in the soft gold of JJ’s hair, making it glow like something unreal, and John B thought—like he had hundreds of times since the third grade—that JJ might be the most beautiful person he’d ever met. Not just the face or the hair or the stupid grin, but all of it. The whole messy, loyal, reckless heart of him.

Then JJ shifted and reached over, tapping his cheek twice with two fingers.

John B blinked up at him, slow and bleary. “What?”

JJ gave him a look. That look. The one that meant pay attention, dumbass.

“I heard what you said,” JJ muttered, voice rough but clear. “About me being your favorite person or whatever.”

John B’s heart did that old familiar stutter, just like it used to in third grade—like it wanted to say something, do something, leap somewhere—but stayed frozen in midair instead.

JJ tapped his cheek again, then let his fingers drift down to poke his jaw. “Well—same goes. You’re mine too.”

He glanced at John B, voice quieter now. “You know… third grade was hell for me. Everything was loud, and I was always in trouble. But then there was you.”

John B blinked, caught off guard.

JJ smiled faintly. “You didn’t fix it, but you made it suck less. You been doin’ that ever since.”

Then he turned back to the stars like nothing happened, like he hadn’t just casually handed John B the only words he’d ever really needed to hear.

So John B just closed his eyes and let his head roll sideways until his forehead rested lightly against JJ’s shoulder.

Two idiots, side by side. Salt-stung and sun-tired. No labels. No pressure. Just them.

A brotherhood with no rules.

A friendship with no fences.

A love that didn’t need a name to be real.

“You’re loved. By me.”

John B had said it in the dark, the night everything cracked open—after the Lexie thing, after the way Luke grabbed him the day before. JJ hadn’t meant to fall apart. But it was all still sitting heavy on him—the sting of Lexie’s words, leaving him feeling used and stupid and like there was something broken in him no one would ever actually choose.

He’d come home to John B and slipped into bed feeling like his own skin was too tight, too wrong. John B didn’t press or ask. He just waited, letting the silence stretch until the words spilled out. Then he pulled JJ close, wrapped himself around him, holding him steady until JJ stopped pretending he was okay.

“You’re loved. By me.”

Now, JJ remembered—not just the words, but the weight behind them. He hadn’t answered then. Couldn’t. His throat had clenched tight, the way it always did when something mattered too much, and the sobs tore through him without warning.

JJ turned his head slowly and let his fingers drift over John B’s face—soft in sleep, a little sunburnt, a little freckled. He traced the curve of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbone. Still here.

He paused, then pressed another gentle tap against John B’s cheek.

“Hey.” His voice came quiet. “You're loved by me too, Bree.”