i bet on losing dogs

the snippets of bad pop songs he carries with him feel out of place once he's out of the prom room, and connor is glad when the door shuts them in when it falls closed, leaving him in fresh air and a vibrating quiet.

james' hair is black now, even darker than usual now that the sun has melted away.

it's like when he empties out his water bottle over his head after baseball training, wet hair clinging to his sweat-soaked neck before he shakes it like a wet dog.

connor is a wet dog, standing there.

james hasn't noticed him yet, he's turned away from the building, exhaling smoke and looking like one of the actors on connor's sister's posters.

he's cool, and has some sort of magnetic pull even now, sitting on the ground in air that still dully vibrates with a radio love song - there are details to him that connor knows, details that make him hard not to focus on:

the way he skids pebbles across the lake when they have a barbecue, the lazy grin he flashes a girl at a party before a kiss, the warmth of his side pressed into connor's when they're in a crowded bus, the smell of his axe bodyspray, the bite marks in his pencil, the sound of his yawn in the morning after a party, the casual strength in the act of pulling a girl closer to put his arm around her neck, the way he cracks grapes open with his molars, his hot and sweaty palm on the back of connor's neck after a match when he shouts nonsense into his ear.

it isn't a lot but it is more than connor ever intended.

"hey james."

james turns around, still lazily exhaling smoke, and connor feels like a deer in headlights but in a very minor way - he loosens his tie, enjoying the way james' eyes drop to it.

they never really talk about things like this but when they study in the middle of the night before an exam, running on three energy drinks and a couple of last warnings, their elbows touch on the kitchen table.

either david used to be a businessman and failed in some way (or had to take time off to care for his mum), meaning he now has to work as a milkman - giving him reason to at least subconsciously dislike mr steven who went on to be successful,

pieces of glass lie glistening, dripping with artificial sweetness and drops of rubber duck yellow. his mum was the one who loved orange juice - insisted they had it on the table at every sunday breakfast - "a bit of colour", she'd say, "and some vitamins will do you good, sonny, you look like a ghost."

mark never liked it, and neither did his dad, but they still bring out the jug every sunday.

it's there on the table, big and stupid and unnecessary (his knuckles turn white), and they bring it back to the fridge completely untouched. his dad keeps quiet, so mark doesn't say anything either when he pours it down the drain every few weeks once it's gone bad.

his dad isn't home yet.

mark's got time, but not long- he feels his mind biting its own tail, a steel grip that leaves his breath shallow.

the puddle of juice glistens on the linoleum, making his stomach churn.

he's never fixed glass, he isn't sure they have the right glue for it.

he thinks of what clarissa always says - clarissa, who hasn't been over at his place yet, maybe he can avoid it, say his dad has some contagious disease (not that that's a lie - sometimes mark has to bite his own lips bloody to keep the shouting in) - "you can fix this, can't you? you're good at that sorta stuff."

he can fix this. he's just gotta be quick.

the broken glass bites his fingertips and mark watches as if in trance as a tiny cut opens on his ring finger. sharper pain blooms as soon as the juice finds it.

all johnny can think about is the gun.

it's heavy in the waistband of his jeans, like carrying too many keys in your pocket, and presses against the skin of his stomach - the metal is warm which makes johnny feel dizzy, he's heating this weapon with his own blood and the beat beat beating of his heart.

he has a job to do.

he doesn't mind the killing- he really doesn't.

it was easier than he thought, but then again, last time was an easy shot because the park ranger (richard bellinger, it said on the door to the hospital room) had been lying in bed, unconscious.

another three stations pass in a blur that feels like a feverish headache.

johnny wonders if the nurses really do think that bellinger just succumbed to his wounds, like the don said they would.

johnny's fingers ghost over the bump of the gun under his waistband, it's as if he can suddenly smell that expensive perfume in the dirty subway car, hear that silky-smooth purr of a voice.

the don.

sometimes he can't help but hate jimmy for being so slow.

it's always johnny who has to clean up the mess, who has to scramble for a solution. he's seen the men who lounge around the don's villa like honey-eyed tigers, has noticed the way cars seem to follow him and jimmy ever since their first trip to grandpa albert.

grandpa albert. he should have known jimmy didn't have a clue about what they were getting themselves into.

there's a plan- he'll be in and out of the apartment in no time, johnny's a good enough shot and jimmy's a follower, he just needs to stay still for a second while johnny does what he has to do. and then they can hide out in the don's beach house, apparently mostly used for expensive vacations with whoever's up high enough in his ranks.

they'll be safe for a moment. they'll have time to breathe.

johnny just has to do his job first.

the gun is heavy and warm at his hip as he exits the station.

it'll be hot at the beach, and the don will give them enough money to enjoy their hide out. johnny wouldn't mind a few hundred bucks, and jimmy's dad is an asshole.

there's something in the air - a hum like electricity, a twitching current running through the side walk they cross without talking as they make their way to the car.

prom isn't over, the music deafening in connor's ears as they make their french exit, something chaotic and raw like cicadas in august.

connor's driving - james still doesn't have his license, which connor loves to remind him of, always to rolled eyes ("oh, piss off") and a lazy shove.

it's hard to keep his eyes on the road.

james is undeniably there, a presence in the passenger seat, and connor can feel his grin without looking. he feels like the entire world's hearts are beating in his chest.

once, james reaches over and runs his hand over connor's head in a way that feels natural and heartbreaking all at once - the sensation of fingertips so close to his scalp still unusual, but connor finds himself leaning into it like a cat.

james was the one who suggested a buzz cut ("we need to rebel, man, show the others we're not like them") and the one who shaved it, both of them shirtless in james' bathroom, giggling breathlessly like little kids.

connor's a bit scared james might want to have sex.

it's not like connor doesn't want to (not like it's not incredible that he might get to), it's just that he hasn't yet, and doesn't really know what to do - he told the guys he'd done it with jess, but really, it was just some awkward fumbling before going back to watching their movie (connor's pick - an artsy italian one that jess probably didn't understand).

he's not sure if james- he probably has, but then again, james always said that he's not stupid enough for all those dumb high school dating games ("none of it's real, dude- everyone's just lying to themselves and each other, and then they feel real good about it").

the car's quiet.