Chapter Text
The electricity had been out since around 9. Whole neighborhood dead. Streetlight graveyard. Buildings looking like cardboard cutouts of their daytime selves. John b had lit a half-functioning lamp with a dying battery—something big john probably stole from a Walgreen’s in 2019—and placed it on the floor of the living room like it was some holy altar.
"This is the biggest window," he said, matter-of-fact, gesturing toward the living room's glass front that faced the street. "So if a murderer comes, we’ll see him before he kills us."
"Thanks," Pope muttered, dropping his backpack and sitting cross-legged on a throw blanket that definitely smelled like weed, Doritos, and something vaguely mildew-y.
Jj was already sprawled out like a starfish on the floor, shirt ridden up, socks mismatched, face lit with that orangey glow from the lamp that made him look more haunted than usual. He kept kicking his feet in the air. One foot, then the other. Then both. Then neither. Just to prove he could.
It wasn’t cold, but they had blankets anyway. Crumpled masses of cotton and fleece that felt like they hadn’t been washed in months. Maybe hadn’t. Kiara had texted something about her parents being pissed and not being able to sneak out tonight.
So it was just them. The Core Three Plus One: john b, Jj, and Pope, and a battery-operated lamp with a will to live as strong as Jj's attention span.
Jj cleared his throat. Then again. Then louder. Then made some gagging noise like he was preparing for a TED Talk.
"If I was a fruit," he began, "I’d be a grape."
"No," John b said immediately.
"No one asked," Pope added, rubbing his face.
"No, listen. I mean it. A grape. Think about it. Think. About. It. You can be wine. You can be raisins. You can be juice. You can be cut in half and put in chicken salad if you're sick and twisted. Grapes are versatile as fuck."
"Versatile isn’t the word I’d assign to you," Pope said, laying down with his hoodie pulled over his eyes.
"And also—also—grapes travel in bunches. They don’t leave their bros behind."
John b made a noise. Some combination of breath and scoff and being deeply, cosmically tired.
"Okay. Fine. Pope," Jj turned with a sense of performance. He rolled onto his stomach and pointed a dramatic finger. "You’re a coconut."
"Excuse me?"
"Hard shell. Complicated interior. You know, kinda tropical but in a way that’s like... not even trying to be. No one knows what to do with you until they do."
"You’re projecting."
"Am not."
"You're literally describing yourself."
John b, from his place next to the lamp, mumbled, "You're both coconuts. Rotting ones."
Jj sat up abruptly. "Okay, what fruit are you then, Johny-boy? Huh? You give off—no. Wait. Wait. This is important. You’re like... a plum."
"Kill yourself."
"No. Hear me out. It’s not an insult. Plums are all serious and dramatic on the outside—dark purple, mysterious, ooooh—but then you bite into it and it’s like sweet and juicy and—"
"If you say juicy again, I’m suffocating you with this pillow."
Pope groaned. John b laughed once. A short, breathless noise like something that slipped past his defenses. He hasn't been laughing like that much anymore after big john just....more or less ghosted his ass.
Jj flopped back down with a theatrical sigh that could’ve rivaled a dying Shakespearean prince. He whispered, "Plum," to himself like it was the final word in a sacred scripture.
And for a moment, there was peace. The kind that only existed when you were exhausted, didn’t have cell service and couldn’t pretend to be busy. Just the glow of the lamp, the breathing of three boys who were both too tired and too wired to sleep, and the creaking of the house settling like it, too, had finally given up. Bout time.
Then Jj hiccupped.
Pope flinched. "Oh no."
"No," John b said at the same time.
Hiccup.
"It’s fine," Jj said, eyes wide and already watery. "Just a—hic—just a—"
"Don't say 'grape spasm,'" Pope said.
"I wasn’t. I was gonna say internal struggle."
Hiccup.
He curled slightly, clutching his stomach like the hiccups were physically hurting his soul. They might’ve been. Jj made everything into a Greek tragedy.
John b rubbed his face. "Drink water."
"There’s no water."
"Hold your breath."
"I can't, what if I die."
"Good."
Hiccup.
Pope stared up at the ceiling. Or what he imagined the ceiling looked like in the dark. He was entering the stage of Jj-fatigue where everything Jj did was both hilarious and exhausting.
John b leaned over and threw a blanket at Jj's face. "Smother yourself."
Jj kicked out, blanket sliding off, hiccupping again with a little whimper. "Why are you so mean to me when I’m vulnerable?"
Pope was ninety percent sure John b was actively debating the pros and cons of cuddling him until he passed out versus stuffing a sock in his mouth.
John b eventually sighed. Deeply. Like this was his divine burden.
He shifted over, blanket half on him, hand dragging along the floor like he couldn’t even be bothered to lift it. And then—he shoved a water bottle at Jj’s chest.
"Sip. Don’t talk."
Jj blinked. Took the bottle. Sipped. Hiccuped. Made an exaggerated crying noise.
"One day," John b murmured, "I’m going to sell you for parts."
Pope turned over. "To who? Satan?"
"Satan wouldn’t take him."
"You guys are so fucked up," Jj hiccupped again, curling under the blanket now, like a burrito of emotional instability. "I’m a grape. Grapes are sensitive."
Pope muttered, "Grapes are annoying."
John b kicked him under the blanket.
And still, somehow, the hiccups kept coming. Little gasping sounds every few seconds, like Jj was being haunted by his own esophagus. He tried holding his breath. Then tried upside-down drinking (which failed because he spilled water on his shirt). Then tried scaring himself by yelling "BOO!" randomly into the dark.
Nothing worked. The hiccups stayed.
John b groaned into the pillow. "I swear to god if you hiccup one more time—"
Hiccup.
John b stared at the ceiling. Then rolled over. Then reached out, grabbed Jj by the arm, and yanked him over until he was curled next to him, all elbows and messy limbs and muttered protests.
"There. Now shut the fuck up."
Pope watched all of it with one eye open. Said nothing.
Eventually, the hiccups faded. Eventually, Jj’s breathing evened out, cheek mushed against John b’s shoulder. Eventually, the lamp dimmed into nothing, the last bit of battery flickering out
And eventually, Pope closed his eyes and thought:
Yeah.
Let John b handle it.
That’s his fucking fruit salad to deal with.