Chapter Text
JJ had one boot up on the dash, picking at the laces. Luke was humming along to the radio, off-beat and too loud, like he was trying to drown out the sound of them both. The sweater JB had put on itched at the collar. His dad had given it to him last Christmas and the tag was still on. This morning, he pulled it out like an idiot. Like maybe they’d do something together. Maybe Big John had actually meant it when he said we’ll have a real one this year.
But the house was empty. JJ had been trying to cheer him up all day and hadn’t managed it. Then Luke was honking out front, yelling something about family and food. And yeah, he hated the guy with everything in him…
But after JJ took those pills last spring and Luke stormed into the Chateau to drag him out, JJ had sworn up and down they were good. He's cool now, I swear, B. There hadn't been any unexplained bruises since then, and he hadn’t stayed over at all. So John B believed him.
He still hated Luke. But the thought of spending Christmas alone in the empty Chateau made his stomach turn, so he kind of asked JJ to come with. Who then asked his dad. Who took a swig from his bottle, chuckled, and said, “I don’t give a shit, just hurry your asses up.”
And here they were.
John B watched the houses blur past. Plastic Santas slumped in brown grass. Inflatable snowmen collapsed in the dirt. Luke banged the heel of his hand against the steering wheel in time with the drumbeat, a beer balanced between his knees. The truck drifted toward the gravel at the road’s edge before he pulled it back and turned up a long drive. They pulled up to a one-story house already spilling people into the yard. Cars blocked half the street. Smoke poured from two grills in the back. Somewhere, someone was playing Christmas music, and a dog barked nonstop.
“You comin’ or what?” JJ asked, already out the door. John B followed, dragging his bag behind him. The air smelled like burnt meat. Something exploded in the backyard, a firecracker, maybe, and no one flinched.
Inside was even louder, voices stacked on top of each other. A woman with a Santa apron smacked a teenage boy’ s hand with a wooden spoon and yelled, “If you open that fridge again, I’ll break your damn fingers.” A girl with purple hair and too much makeup shoved past, balancing a tray of deviled eggs and a cigarette in the same hand. A toddler in a dirty diaper was crying somewhere near the bathroom. There were lights on the TV but no sound.
“Hey!” JJ veered off, catching a taller boy in a side-hug that turned into a wrestling move. “Don’t be a bitch, Boone. Say hi to my friend.”
The cousin gave a nod, barely glancing at him. “You the one he’s always ditchin’ us for?”
“Uh. Maybe?”
“Well, he hasn’t locked me in a dog crate, asshole” JJ slugged Boone’s shoulder on the last word. “Not a hard choice.”
Boone shoved him back, hard, but both of them were grinning. Then Frankie appeared, wild red hair tied up with tinsel, a Band-Aid across one knuckle. “Hey, surfer boy,” she smiled, and John B had no idea if that was an insult. “Don’t eat the shrimp. It’s from last week.”
“Frankie.” A voice cut through the din. “Don’t scare the guests.”
She didn’t even blink. “Shut up, Malcolm! Tell that to your daughter. She's the one tryin’ to poison y’all.”
“Fuck you, Frankie!” came a shrill voice from the kitchen. Something glass hit the floor and shattered.
JJ glanced over and only shrugged. And John B was still stuck on the shrimp, the haze of smoke hanging in the room, the press of so many people who all looked mad at each other in different, complicated ways. It was nuts, but kind of cool too.
A younger kid came up and tugged at JJ’s sleeve. “Did you bring your knife?”
“Nope.” JJ said. “Santa took it. Said I ain’t allowed weapons anymore.”
The kid nodded like this made perfect sense and ran off. John B lingered near the hallway, eyes scanning the room. Luke had disappeared somewhere, probably to find booze. JJ was talking to Frankie again, laughing like this was the best place in the world.
Sighing, John B pulled at a loose thread on his sleeve. Last year, they had a tree. Crooked, missing half the needles, but it lit up the whole room anyway. Big John strung popcorn while pretending not to burn the cinnamon rolls. He gave John B a gas station gift card and the sweater. It was good. This year was supposed to be better. His dad said that, said they’d go full-out -– real tree, turkey, actual presents. Said he had plans.
Then fucked off and didn’t show up.
“Hey,” Ricky suddenly appeared next to him. “You want something to eat? I can fish out the not-shrimp.”
“I’m good.”
“You sure? There’s pie. Frankie damn near stabbed Jace with a fork to get the last slice, but it was kinda worth it.”
“No.. But thanks.”
Ricky nodded, then added quieter, “You look like you lost something.” When he didn't get anything in return, he shrugged and went away.
Near the fridge, JJ and Frankie were back to arguing over something. He threw a balled-up napkin at her and got a kick on the shin. They were laughing, JJ’s face lit up in a way John B hadn’t seen in weeks. He looked right at home here, like he belonged. John B watched for a moment, then looked away. He didn’t feel like he belonged anywhere right now.
JJ grabbed a plate off the counter and nudged Frankie with his hip. “Go, before the gremlins take your seat.” She rolled her eyes but moved, and he followed her into the next room. John B trailed behind, still holding an untouched soda.
The table was too long for the living room. There were sixteen people crammed around it, maybe more in motion – standing, sitting, leaning in to steal bites. The chairs didn’t match. One guy sat on a paint bucket with a towel over it. A little girl with a messy ponytail was perched on a milk crate, elbows on the table like it was normal.
Someone whistled sharp from the kitchen. “Heads down. Grace.”
It didn’t seem like it’d work, but it did. The noise pulled back. A pan stopped clanging. Someone turned down the music. Even the dog went quiet, like it knew. A few people bowed their heads. Boone yanked off his cap and grumbled. The purple haired girl stuck her cigarette between her lips and laced fingers with the woman next to her. One of the kids started to giggle and got shushed fast.
Frankie reached for JJ’s hand without looking. JJ took it, then reached to tap John B’s knuckles. He stared for a second before curling his fingers around JJ’s sweaty palm. A boy across from them said “gross” and didn’t join in. On the other side, Ricky linked pinkies with the toddler on his lap and that was it.
It got quiet. At the head of the table, a large man with blonde hair stood, red cup held like a goblet. His voice came low.
“Lord,” he said, “thanks for this food. Thanks for this roof. Thanks for everyone who showed up. Whether we get along or not… we’re here.”
A mutter of agreement. The toddler burped,but nobody laughed.
“We’ve lost some. We got more on the way. Most of us got no clue what we’re doin’, but we’re tryin’.” He cleared his throat. “Keep us safe. Keep us together. And…”
“Keep us outta jail,” someone added from the far end.
A sharp smack. “Shut up, Caleb.”
The man didn’t blink. “Amen.”
“Amen,” most of them echoed. Some forgot. One voice came in late.
JJ let go first, kicked aside a chair to make space and elbowed John B lightly. “There. Quick, before the dogs claim ’em.”
John B sat and JJ flopped into the seat across from him, already shoveling mashed potatoes onto a paper plate.
“You want ham or ham? We’ve got both.”
John B blinked. “Is there a difference?”
“Yeah. That one’s sober ham. That one’s whiskey-glazed.” He pointed with his fork. “Which means the kids already ate half the glaze and licked the rest.”
John B stared at the ham, suddenly not that hungry. “Cool,” he chuckled and reached for a biscuit.
A tray clattered nearby. Stephanie – JJ had said that name earlier – was arguing with a chubby woman in a too short dress about who forgot to thaw the pie crusts. A large man with a biker beard reached across them for the deviled eggs and knocked over a bottle of ranch.
“Is he… okay?” John B asked, watching the guy squint at the ceiling.
“Travis?” JJ looked. “Yeah. Ain't meth, so probably the brownies Frankie made… or he’s on painkillers again.”
The food was everywhere – trays of mac and cheese, green beans with bacon, sweet potatoes crusted in marshmallow. It looked like enough for a whole block. John B scooped some Mac and cheese and tried not to think about the shrimp.
From behind him, a woman’s hand appeared, pressing a Solo cup into his fingers. “Merry Christmas, sugar,” she drawled, smiling big. Her perfume was heavy and sweet, and her shirt didn’t quite contain her chest.
“That’s aunt Patrice,” JJ said under his breath. “Don’t ask what’s in the cup.”
John B sipped. It was syrupy, sharp, and definitely alcoholic.
“Got those in Mexico,” JJ murmured, tracing the shape in front of his chest with both hands, eyes cutting sideways to see if John B caught on. Patrice swatted the back of his head without looking. “Don’t believe a damn word this boy says,” she added with a wink, lighting a cigarette off a table candle.
The motion pulled John B’s eyes down to her chest before he could stop it. His face went hot, and he turned quickly toward the other end of the table where Luke sat, loud and too animated, leaning into a woman with glossy lips and high heels. She was laughing, head tilted, long nails brushing his sleeve. He said something in her ear and grinned. A second later, a tall guy appeared with a scowl and grabbed the woman’s wrist, yanking her toward the door. The grin stayed on Luke's face as he watched them walk off.
“Give it ten minutes. He either gets punched or laid. I hope Jason fucks him up,” Frankie's voice was too loud to be subtle, but JJ didn’t even crack a smile.
A metal fork clanged against a glass. A man at the head of the table -- thick arms and a gold chain over his wrinkled t-shirt – stood and raised his glass.
“TO FAMILY!” he bellowed.
Everyone groaned. JJ sighed. “Here we go.”
The man kept going. “To loyalty. To blood. To women who don’t know what they’re missin’… ”
“Oh god,” Frankie rolled her eyes and chugged whatever was in her cup.
The man’s voice cracked. “She’s gonna come back. She always comes back. This is the fourth time, and we still ain’t signed shit.”
“That’s uncle Larry,” JJ explained. “Ricky’s dad. Divorce specialist.”
Someone tossed a roll that bounced off Larry’s shoulder. He didn’t stop. “... and I told her, this family don't quit, and you know what she said? You know what she said to me?”
“Sit down, Dad,” came Ricky’s tired voice from a few seats away.
Larry paused. “I… right.” He sank back down, missing his chair the first time.
John B's cup was empty by now, but luckily, a drunk man in a frayed leather jacket passed over a can of beer and winked. “Don’t tell your mama.”
JJ saw and raised his own cup. “Welcome to the family.”
Somewhere in the back, music started up again, a phone hooked to a busted speaker. “Jingle Bell Rock” came through in staticky bursts. The toddler with the dirty diaper John B had seen earlier crawled under the table, tried to bite someone’s ankle, and got kicked by accident.
“I said someone get that baby off the floor before she eats a cigarette butt.” *Patrice bellowed. “Jesus Christ, I raised four of you like this and not one of y'all turned out decent.”
A young woman with dark eyes dragged the wailing kid from under the table and looked around with annoyance.
"Jolene! Where the fuck are you? Daisy stinks again". When Jolene wasn't anywhere to be found, she rolled her eyes, hugged the baby to her chest and carried her away to the hallway, muttering about fucking drunks.
John B washed down a bite of over-peppered beans with a sip of beer. It tasted off, a little like soap, but the knot in his chest was loosening, his head turning light. Across the table, JJ grinned back, flushed and tipsy, but his eyes were sharp, tracking everything.
“How you doing?”
“Good. Only my ears are bleeding a little.”
JJ laughed. “You’ll live.”
The old woman next to John B snored. Loud. JJ reached over and stole a chicken wing off her plate.
John B stared at him.
“What?” he shrugged, ”She’s out cold. Ain’t gonna eat it.”
A laugh broke through John B’s lips, the first all day. A real one, sharp in his throat. It felt strange, but it stayed. Trough the noise, the smoke, and the fact that his dad ditched him. Even the hole in the door beside the table, the one someone had clearly punched, couldn’t shake it.
_________________
At some point, someone handed him a sparkler. That’s how it started.
He didn’t know who, the living room was a blur of voices and smoke at this point. A bald man had just started singing karaoke into a remote when suddenly he was outside, boots thudding on the porch boards, one hand full of smoke and fizz.
Kids were yelling in the yard. Not like play yelling. Like feral. Two of them tore around the side of the house, shrieking and throwing something that might’ve been shredded napkins or cheese. One had a Spiderman hoodie and no coat. The other had socks but no shoes and was carrying a lit glowstick in their mouth.
“Jolene threw up in the shed,” a guy in a camo beanie called over, grinning.
“Damn,” JJ muttered, cracking a fresh beer. “My bet was on Larry.”
“Your what?”
JJ gave him a look like he’d missed the obvious. “We take bets every year. Puke, first punch, and the Christmas tree. Daisy already took out the tree, so now it’s down to the punch.”
A laugh broke out, too hard, and John B nearly dropped the sparkler. He caught himself against the porch railing, breath fogging. “You guys make bets…” he wheezed,“Jesus.”
The world tilted when he tried to steady himself. “How many beers have I had?”
JJ thought for a second. “Since the ham? Five. Maybe six. Not counting the sangria.”
A bottle rocket screamed into the sky, crooked and too low. It cracked sideways and smacked the edge of the roof, fizzing out. More people poured out onto the yard – older cousins maybe, or uncles, or boyfriends of cousins, or some combination. A guy with braids and a green hoodie lit something bigger and JJ stepped back. “If you wanna keep your eyebrows, move.”
John B stumbled sideways, nearly knocking over a woman with a cup in each hand and raccoon-eye makeup halfway down her face. She winked at him. “You’re cute. Don’t fall in the bushes.”
Then she tripped on the mat and took both drinks with her. JJ helped her up without saying anything, which earned him a smack on the shoulder and a slurred “Good boy”, then she wandered toward the lawn yelling for someone named Seth to give the “damn lighter back.”
“That’s Aunt Katie. She's cool.”
John B was laughing so hard he had to bend over. A few fireworks went up in a row, the kind that sputtered green and shot sideways and made a weird hissing sound. People were cheering. A boy, maybe twelve, hoodie way too big slammed into someone’s legs and hit the ground face-first.
“Shit,” JJ muttered, already moving. “Sammy, you good?”
The kid sat up, dazed, blood smeared across his top lip. He sniffled, blinked hard.
“Lemme see.” JJ crouched, fingers light as he tilted the kid’s chin. “Nah, not broken. Just ugly.”
Sammy snorted and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Get some ice or you’re gonna look like a tomato tomorrow.”
The kid gave a small nod and wandered off. No one else even looked.
JJ turned back with a crooked grin and handed John B something that looked like a roman candle wrapped in duct tape. “Let’s make it interesting. Point it up. Unless you wanna piss off Ricky.”
John B lit it and the firework cracked so loud his ears rang. JJ was already lighting another thing and aiming it skyward. It went off, part of the fence catching a spark, and someone whooped like they were at a sports game. John B was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. His legs didn’t quite feel attached anymore.
“Man,” he said, breathless, “this is the most fun I’ve ever had on Christmas.”
JJ handed him another beer. “You set the bar real low, man.”
The door opened behind them, heavy boots coming closer. John B turned, losing his balance, and almost crashed into Luke's grinning face. A cigarette was tucked behind one ear, and he was holding a chipped plate stacked with uneven cookies.
“Look at this little pirate,” he chuckled. “You gonna puke, champ?”
JJ rolled his eyes and stepped closer. “He’s good.”
“Bet you forgot how to spell your name already.”
“I can,” John B argued, but it came so slurred it didn’t really prove his point.
A laugh, then a hard back clap that rocked him forward. “Atta boy. Knew you had a party bone somewhere.” Still smiling, Luke shoved the plate toward both of them. “Sugar helps with hangovers. Y’all keep drinkin’ like that, you’re gonna wake up beggin’ for death.”
JJ grinned and took one. John B stared, then grabbed the one with the least suspicious color. It was warm in the middle and crunchy on the edges. Luke lit a cigarette, blew smoke sideways, and wandered off, calling for someone named Jared.
"Gotta listen to him,” Another cookie disappeared in JJs mouth before he headed back toward the fireworks. “Pretty sure he’s, like, the hangover king.”
Swaying a little, John B leaned against the rail, eyes full of sparks. Wasn't sure he could listen to anyone at this point. Head was floating and he felt better than ever.
____________________
The yard was all smoke and shouting. JJ had lost count of how many he’d had – didn’t feel drunk, exactly, but his thoughts were scattered. His eyes tracked the sparklers, the flash of cell phone lights, the glow of the bonfire. It was a good night. John B was sitting on the porch steps, grinning like he was having the time of his life, so yeah, mission accomplished.
Headlights cut across the grass, slicing through the dark, and a second later Big John’s voice carried over the noise.
“John B!”
JJ turned toward the driveway. There he was, storming through the mud, jacket unzipped like he’d run the whole way. His eyes searched the crowd, frantic, and then locked on his kid.
“Oh thank God!” He pushed through the crowd, not caring who he bumped into, and crouched down next to John B. Pulled him in, then pushed him back to look him over like he’d been the one missing for days.
“You alright?” he asked, voice tight. “Jesus, kid, why didn't you pick up? I thought… ”
That’s when John B swayed forward and puked all over his shoes.
Everything went still.
Big John leaned back so fast he almost fell on his ass. He stared down, blinking at the mess, then up at his son again. “Are you… are you drunk?”
John B was wiping his mouth on his sleeve and didn't look capable of speaking. JJ tried, but no words came out. Something shifted in Big John’s face as his eyes bounced between them. Then his hands gripped John B’s shoulders, voice shooting up. “Are you kidding me? You’re fifteen!”
Before he even knew he was moving, JJ slipped half between them. Felt like he was gonna puke too, but he finally found his voice. “It was mine, okay? Just a beer. He only had one. I didn’t think he’d drink it that quick… thought it’d be fine. I’m sorry, alright?”
Big John didn’t seem to hear a word. He straightened, squared his shoulders, and barked loud enough to make JJ flinch.
“Maybank!”
Well, shit.
Heads turned. A few people looked up from their drinks. Someone shouted back from near the firepit, probably Katie, “Yeah, only thirty of us here, gotta be more specific!”
Someone snickered. Boone elbowed Frankie, who was already reaching for her phone. Then Dad stepped out from the side of the porch like he’d been waiting backstage. Beer still in hand. The lazy grin was the same one he wore before every fight JJ could remember.
“Well shit, look who decided to show up.” He pointed the beer at John B. “Kid’s been havin’ a great time without you.”
“You got my son drunk?” Big John bit out.
Luke laughed. “Relax, Routledge. You think I’m pourin’ shots down his throat? He’s a big boy. Wants to party, he parties.”
“He’s a child.”
A long swig, then Dad wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “So’s my boy… And he can take a drink without makin’ a scene.“
Two sets of eyes snapped to JJ and he wished he could disappear right there.
“Dad…” John B started, but bent forward and heaved again. Both men ignored him.
“What, you mad someone actually invited him to a dinner?”
“He was home,” Big John snapped. “You dragged him to this circus and–”
“Don’t talk shit about my family, Johnny,” Luke stepped slowly down the porch steps. “Your boy only came ‘cause you ditched him.”
The fist cracked into Dad’s face before JJ even registered the motion.
But his body had already moved. Before the hit, before the swing, before anything, his gut turned cold. His shoulder dipped like he was flinching from something behind him. Around the yard, a few people gasped. John B made a choking sound. Luke staggered from the punch, shook his head… and smiled.
But JJ wasn’t even looking at him. He was watching his jaw. The tension there. The shift in weight. And yeah, he knew.
He knew.
“Real smart.” Dad slowly wiped the blood on his mouth. Then swung.
Everything after that felt too fast and way too slow. JJ barely caught the way Big John dropped. Didn’t clock the second hit until it landed. Then the third. By then, the shouting had started. John B was yelling now. Or maybe someone else was. It all blended together. Big John tried to swing back sloppily and Luke ducked it with ease. He shoved him down into the dirt, then followed with another hit, and another. Not aiming anymore. Just pounding, like that was the only thing left.
“Dad! Stop!” JJ was already moving, body outpacing thought.
Dad's fist hovered mid-air for half a second. He turned, wild-eyed, and stared at him. JJ froze. Then Frankie grabbed his arm and yanked him back.
“Don’t,” she muttered. “Stay here, dumbass.” Her grip bit into his skin, but he barely felt it over the roar in his ears.
A second later, Malcolm pushed through the crowd and grabbed Dad around the chest. Travis followed, wrapping him up from behind. But he was still flailing, red in the face, yelling over the noise.
“Hey!” Malcolm snapped. “Cool it, man! He’s down!”
He jerked forward for another hit, but Travis shoved him into the siding before he could land it. “That’s enough, you crazy bastard!”
Dad spat into the dirt and snarled something about goddamn coward.
Coughing hard, Big John stayed down. Blood was slowly dripping from his mouth. Someone ran past -- Alyssa – and crouched next to him.
Still by the porch steps, John B sat shaking, eyes wide. His hands were out like he’d meant to do something but forgot how. The noise started to fade, or maybe JJ’s hearing gave out. His heart wouldn’t slow down and his arms felt numb.
“Fuckin’ drama queens,” Dad muttered. The lighter clicked twice before it caught and he inhaled like he hadn’t even noticed the blood on his hands.
Malcolm was still barking at him, people were yelling. Someone called Ricky's name and Frankie was whispering in JJs ear, but he didn’t hear much anymore. Everything was muffled, like it was happening underwater or behind glass.
He was looking at John B.
And wished like hell he’d made him stay home.