𝟑𝟑𝟑

he doesn't reply to her whining, the same way he was taught to when he'd throw fits himself growing up. she'd tire herself out eventually, or give in. a satisfied sort-of smile ghosts upon his face as he hears her retreat, and he makes quick work of assembling their late night dinner. his sandwiches weren't made with the same love or care he was used to (he'd only kept the ingredients in the fridge for benji to make when he came over). they're sloppily thrown together, but he pauses at the last minute before setting the plate on the table, almost self consciously throwing a nearby granola bar onto the side of the bread where cheese spills out a bit too much.

“i think we’re a little bit past modest gentleman, romes.” but there was something sweet about the the offer. innocent in a way tristan wasn’t really sure she deserved. the fact he didn’t want anything from her. at least, not the typical thing. he was being nice for the sake of being nice. “it’s your bed. y’know, if you don’t want to share it, you can send me to the couch.” but it’s not cockiness that made tristan sure he wouldn’t. it was the food delicately placed on the counter and the way he quickly got to work with safety pins on the bottom of the pants. “worried i’m gonna scuff them all up?” it’s playful teasing — it’s an attempt to diminish the care he gave.

“i think we both know you made your mind up on that one a while ago.” and tristan had never given her a reason to reconsider. never cared to. if she really stopped to think about it — beyond delusions of immortality and grandeur, when the music stopped and big light came on — did tristan even think any different? as a surprise to no one, that wasn’t something she’d be unpacking with leah. with anyone, really. but least of all leah.

obviously it wasn’t needed, considering leah carried on.

“god, not everything is about amelia.” tristan didn’t think leah’s world revolved around in amelia, even in the slightest. not before she died or after, but deflection was the easier conversation. “figured you would’ve assumed she was above me.” well, she still could’ve. technically, she was. they weren’t even, that’s for sure.

except still thinking that but assuming tristan was torn up about it probably made things seem way more pathetic than they really were. there’s a small bout of insecurity that wants to explain that assumption away. no doubt fueled by the alcohol. maybe even the hangover that she had drank away when she had woken that morning. or afternoon, if we’re being real.

“trust me, i know everyone has bigger and better going on right now.” a direct contradiction to her saying that not everything was about amelia just a moment ago. “i know i wouldn’t do amelia numbers.” which, somehow, was the closest tristan had gotten to cracking a joke. “so don’t worry. not about me. loud and clear.”

the words held a weight leah couldn’t have even meant to strike where it did. in a serious way she wouldn’t discuss with the other woman. it’s why she had tried to distance herself from some of those closer to amelia. juniper, romy, eliza — even if she failed, she had tried. because it wasn’t about her. it was about them.

“she   was   dramatic,   not   -   not   hopeless.   she’d   threaten   to   quit   life   every   time   she   broke   a   nail,   but   she   didn’t   actually   mean   it   !”   she’s   talking   too   fast   now,   words   spilling   like   water   from   a   cracked   pipeline.   she   mumbles   some   more   words   but   they   tangle   in   her   throat,   strangled   by   disbelief   and   whimpers.   “…   she   was   stubborn   and   selfish   and…   sometimes   cruel,   but   she   wanted   to   live.”

juniper’s   fingers   find   tristan’s   arm,   gentle   but   desperate.   it’s   a   touch   that   pleads   don’t   move,   don’t   leave.   “they’re   wrong.   the   police   -   they’re   covering   something   up…   they   have   to   be.”   she   sounds   like   she   should   be   wearing   a   tin-foil   hat   !   “they’re   protecting   someone   -   one   of   their   own,   maybe.”   her   breath   catches,   lips   catching   the   salt   running   down   her   cheeks.   “that’s   what   happens,   isn’t   it   ?   cops   protect   cops   ??”

the soft spot for juniper she could never seem to get rid of justified it. it’s denial. holding onto a mystery means holding onto amelia. she didn’t have to face the fact she maybe didn’t know her best friend as well as she thought. that things could be hidden from her. “maybe you’re thinking about the wrong pain. okay, maybe that — ” the words weren’t difficult to conjure because of the subject matter, but the receiving end. with all things considered, she didn’t want to be the salt in the wound. “maybe that stopped the pain.” was that, in a sick and strange way, comforting?

“isn’t that how those things always go?” not juniper’s cop theory, but the only option tristan would consider. “they had an amazing life, they were so happy. they’d never do that — and then they do.” the way gossip spread… no wonder she’d try to keep those cards to her chest. “it’s shitty. it’s really shitty.” and tristan wouldn’t say it out loud, especially not to juni, but she was pissed at amelia for it. for keeping it from them, for doing it — for all of it. “but it happened and none of this is going to do anything but fuck you up. if it was some conspiracy, the cops wouldn’t let that folder out of their sights. they’re not masterminds. they’re stupid and shitty. it all comes back to shitty. it’s just,” a sigh. “shitty.”

"I just have something I think you'd like more." -- Not by virtue of assuming she knew really anything about Tris, just by virtue of it being objectively better! Thus, she withdrew a plastic bag, sealed by yours truly, with two joint and some other plastic bags and baggies inside. "It's her sampler." Indeed, Dolly the Daytime Hooker (a joke May did not steal from Greg Garcia) was officially expanding her services, trying to branch out and become Dolly the Daytime Dealer, and Mick was more than happy to help her in her ventures... even if that meant spending money on drugs not intended for herself!

But, christ, if Tris's defining features were going to make their way to Mick through the words of the Tommy Chapel? The Tommy Chapel who had made one of his goonies friends eat a chipmunk because he called it cute? Man, deal with grief however you need (she had never been great with grief, herself), but do your best to go through Dolly the Daytime Hooker Dealer instead of the Tommy Chapel. Better quality, better prices, and a lot less questionable in character!

she could have been a little nicer about. or more chill. if not for mick’s sake, then her own dignity. was all hope for that lost in wrensted? tristan mei would alway be tristan mei. “sounds a lot like policing.” a life lesson you’d think she’d know by now: don’t be a bitch to the person giving you free drugs. assumed free. mick might have been accepting something in return, but tristan had already decided giving her friend ( ? ) consideration was return enough. as if tristan wasn’t the one gaining something in this situation.

“why do you even give a fuck?” a small play in a grand scheme to take down tommy chappel? seemed more likely than being concerned about where tristan specifically was getting her highs from. or perhaps this was some weird strain of girl code she hadn’t heard of… for tris and dolly. two birds, one stone.

it was a shitty olive branch, tristan knew that, but there was been the clearly false hope that she would just be ignored. “what an achievement. you should be so proud.” it usually rolled off her back. tristan notoriously never took things seriously.

as far as their usual interactions went, leah was playing the part perfectly. it was tristan that wasn’t normal. blame the bender, blame the anger. the desertion. if you could even call it that. “i’m sure stacy martin could afford lipgloss but that didn’t stop her from cashing in on the five finger discount all sophomore year.”

and yet, in the weird reality of it all, tristan should’ve been grateful for leah. her defences shot up, she lashed out — but god it was better than the alternative. something soft, laced with pity. maybe it clawed at insecurity. it cradled abandonment issues. leah hated her. they were both aware of that. it was perhaps the most stable thing in tristan’s life. a revelation both surprising and yet typical. of course she would be.

there was nothing tristan could do to sabotage it. blow it up. push her away then pull her in. not like everyone else. did she have leah in any sense of the word? no. but what better way to ensure you never lost someone?

“i have legs.” and it’s not like kiri would be waiting up for her. there was no rush for tristan to be anywhere. she could take as long as it took to stumble home, considering wrensted was nowhere near massive. “don’t worry, i’m not a fucking idiot. you don’t have to wrestle keys off me.”

tristan was reckless, impulsive, destructive — but only to herself.

she   staggers   back   a   step,   shaking   her   head   so   fast   it   looks   like   she’s   trying   to   undo   time   itself.   “no   -”   the   word   comes,   useless.   “no,   no,   no   -   it’s   not   -   it   can’t   -”   her   voice   fractures,   half   scream,   half   prayer.   “you’re   supposed   to   tell   me   they’re   fake.” 

her   body   folds   in   on   itself,   shoulders   curling   inward,   spine   bowing   as   if   she’s   collapsing   under   a   weight   that   isn’t   just   grief   -   it’s   guilt,   disbelief,   realisation.   she   makes   a   sound   that   isn’t   quite   a   word,   just   a   howl   caught   behind   trembling   fingers   pressed   to   her   mouth.   “please   -   tell   me   somebody’s   just   messing   with   me !”   the   plea   unravels   mid-breath,   voice   wet   and   breaking.   they   weren’t   supposed   to   see   amelia   like   this.

juni’s   body   sinks,   half-kneeling,   forehead   pressed   against   her   arm.   tears   drip   freely,   darkening   the   fabric   of   her   sleeve.   “she   was   there   the   whole   time,”   she   chokes   out.   “she   was   hurt and alone for so long !” seared into her mind, she can still see it - the cold phrasing of the report. lacerations to the wrists. presumed self-inflicted. oh, the sterile certainty of people who never knew her. “someone   fucking   killed   my   best   friend !”

it’s masochistic… it’s the least she can do. tristan reached for the file once again. cracks it open just a little, just enough to slide the photos out, and place them face down on the couch. the page of writing is the only thing left when she finally braves opening it up fully. she read the words. read them again. over and over, trying to find anything that she could flag as wrong. see, this was clearly written by some twelve year old. they didn’t know how to spell decomposition and this line is from CSI.

but that gotcha! moment never came. that was the easier portion. both for tristan and any faker. the hard part?

there was no hesitation when tristan reached for the photos. if there was, juniper would have been able to see the way her hand shook. cold, detached tristan just there to tell her it was fake. it came once her hand was firmly on top of them, when she had to will herself to bring them back into view. she couldn’t imagine being juliette.

the first thing she looked for was the confirmation that it was amelia. the things that time couldn’t touch. her clothes, though notably changed, still hers. her shoes, her hair out just enough to sit around her like a halo. the question crossed her mind, had she posed? did she sit there a play with her hair instead of writing them a note? had she just fallen back from sitting up? the first hurdle was out of the way. it was amelia. not just some still from an indie gore horror movie no one would recognise.

she scanned for weird lines that would suggest photoshop, ai — any straw she could cling to. all of it beating her. “i can’t,” the admission no louder than a whisper. tristan wasn’t even sure if juni would be able to hear it over the sound of her own cries. “i’m sorry, june. i can’t.” and she wouldn’t lie to her.

tristan looked up to juni, hunched over and crying. it made her sick in a whole new way. “your best friend did.” tristan had taken their word from the original broadcasting of the news. not because it made her feel better. there was no peace or relief. when amelia had run away without saying goodbye, there was a silver lining. she got out. to leave in this way without a goodbye, it was almost cruel. every conversation they had that night, weeks before. how long had amelia known what she was going to do? there were pens and paper in that fucking house, tristan would bet money on it. but juni didn’t deserve the lash of her rage. wouldn’t understand why in the first place.

the paper clip returned the pictures back to their original spot, sliding off the couch to kneel next to juniper. she was well aware that she could be risking a bloody nose like chief taylor had gotten, but she wrapped around the other woman. “i’m sorry.” that this happened, that someone dropped that file off, that she opened it. all of the above. take your pick.

will was still distracted by her nearness, by the fact that if he wanted to, he could just lean down and pick back up right where they'd left off, but now that he'd made his choice, he was going to stick by it. which meant establishing a tiny bit of distance - if only so his senses could properly snap back into place (standing too close, all of his senses were entirely too attuned to her).

"i think the term fan would be more accurate, as i have attended zero shows. i think there's a travel component to the actual definition," he pointed out before leaning down for one last, brief kiss. he only lingered for a beat longer before wandering towards the first item he saw.

"wait, wait, wait... is that a lava lamp?" tristan's room was full of surprises.

the distinction between groupie and fan made tristan roll her eyes, head thrown back slightly in typical dramatics. “i said groupie for a reason,” she teased. when he kissed her again, she grinned as if he had fallen for her trap. “that makes you a groupie.” though he wasn’t wrong about the travel aspect. “and be real, you know you attended that paris show in your heart. did you know there was a vegas stop they just glossed right over? bitches, right?” then a glance at will, as if she had forgotten it wasn’t a friend in her room. not eliza or mick, but a guy. “you’re actually not allowed to agree with that.”

tristan moved to follow will, switching the lava lamp on at his question. “have you never been in someone else’s room before?” the possibility that he was so interested in the tiniest things because they were so tristan didn’t cross her mind even once.

until what sounded like the slam of the door.

to say it had been a rough 24 hours would be an understatement, but as per usual, will had been managing decently well. the same, it seemed, could not be said about tristan. the girl he was... seeing? dating? in a relationship with? (though social cues were not his forte, now did not seem like the time to define it!) who, by his count, had been gone for about an hour.

by the time she finally returned, it had been long enough that he'd questioned whether she would come back. if he was meant to go looking for her. if he was supposed to take the hint and leave or if something else had happened overnight that had demanded her full attention. but, ever-observant, he'd noticed her phone by her side of the bed. somehow, he'd done the math from there.

he'd been scrolling on his phone to pass the time, checking the comments on the little used wrensted reddit and various social posts about amelia, scanning and searching for any little tidbit that could make things make sense. when he ran out of amelia-related posts to review, he shifted to some light reading on dark matter, an article that summarized a recent study. and then another article. one more and then, finally, tristan was there.

it was still dark, and it was probably kind of weird that he was just sitting there waiting, but he couldn't help it. he set his phone down on his bedside table and glanced towards her. and that, it seemed, had been enough to draw her attention. and also freak her out.

"it's a perfectly normal time to wake up," he lied, a glance at the clock evidence of the early morning hour. still, he nodded at her excuse even as alarm bells he didn't even knew existed rang in his head. "both of those are basic needs to sustain life, equally as human as house plant," he pointed out.

obviously, there was water in the room - it may have been outdated, but there was a sink. two glasses. so, that was illogical. but if that was a lie, where had she been? what had she been up to? "all good, or?" he asked, eyes flicking towards the door and then back. it was his way of getting at things without actually stating them, but he was prepared to verbally raise the topic if needed.

with her, amelia took that hope.

the reassurance of human v house plant, pretty much confirmed that it wasn’t a normal time. tristan assumed he was just trying to make her feel better. it was a kind gesture — it made her chest feel tighter. “okay, whatever, human.” though she knew it wasn’t correcting her, the defensive tone still slipped out as if he had.

tristan’s eyes flickered around the room for anything she could look at instead of him. anything to ignore the fact she could feel his gaze. or just lingering paranoia from someone pulling up when she was trying to pull herself together alone. honestly, she couldn’t tell which option was worse. there’s temptation to sneak a glance, hope to see william already rolled back over. or scrolling through his phone. instead, trembling fingers wrapped around the handle to the mini bar in the room.

“yeah.” the nod of her head following soon after, considering how uncharacteristically small her voice had come out. “uh, do you want anything? there’s a guy on the front desk, he’s pretty chill.” rough translation: tristan was pretty sure she could flirt her way out of the fine. the tiny bottle of whiskey taken from the shelf.

for a few seconds, tristan just focused on the feeling of the cold glass against her fingertips. she wasn’t overheating. far from it, considering she had just come in from the outside. but it was a jolt to the system that seemed almost grounding. quickly discarded for other coping mechanisms with the crack of the seal.

“maybe you should call liza.” at this hour? “she might need you back home. or, i mean, just if you want to. it’s fine.”

Although it had been years since Mick had traded the dilapidated house for the two slight upgrades there were a motel and a trailer park, her roots still laid firm in that, quite literally, bloody castle and all that surrounded it. She still knew them, her old neighbors and 'skinning squirrels for fun is a passion of mine' cohorts, just as well as -- if not more than -- the more centered folks she had gone to school with, associated a bit more with now. Thus, Mick was very well-versed in what all of those 'punch me so I feel alive' 'friends' were up to as they entered adulthood. And Tommy Chapel? The Tommy Chapel? King of them all? It was almost surprising that he was selling drugs -- so much more lucrative than any other job anyone in their right mind could see him in! Why, it was a shock he had gone this long without being in prison! And word spread, and word spread, and word spread, and word made it to her. There had been an uptick in his business since the news of Amelia's death, what a score! But there had been nothing notable -- not to them -- about any of the clients (as he, a very professional businessman, called them). To Mick, on the other hand... "Tommy fuckin' Chapel..." she said, meandering towards Tristan... wherever they were. "There's this one girl, higher quality and same charge, who didn't rip tails off squirrels for fun when she was a kid who I could hook you up with instead. Woman run business, better lay..."

all of that was before the bomb juniper had dropped on her. more accurately, shown her. the pictures, the words that were somehow just as graphic. there was no longer just grief to drown out, but the information that had burrowed itself into her mind. while she loved a good horror movie, it was different being someone she knew so well.

yet also, someone who was meant to be a stranger. someone that everyone else had more of a right to grieve, or seemingly didn’t care to.

“what’s it matter to you?” tristan didn’t really have a reason to get defensive with mick, besides the fact it felt like a criticism. something that tristan had gotten wrong. “i don’t remember asking for your opinion on who i’m spending my time with.” if you could call it that.

there’s   a   folder   that   sits   on   the   table.   beige,   ordinary,   the   kind   of   thing   that   should   hold   tax   documents   or   school   behaviour   reports.   instead,   it   holds   her.   amelia…   kind   of.   there’s   photos   followed   by   what   she   assumes   is   police   jargon.   someone’s   tidy   handwriting   noting   the   wounds,   the   knife   found   beside   her,   the   way   her   mouth   was   too   clean   for   the   fire   to   have   been   her   cause   of   death.   juni   can’t   stop   seeing   the   words   stage   of   decomposition   -   a   phrase   so   sterile,   so   ruinous.   she   shouldn’t   have   looked.   she   keeps   telling   herself   that.   but   she   had.   and   now   the   images   feel   like   they   live   behind   her   eyelids,   flickering   every   time   she   blinks.

tristan’s   voice   pulls   her   back,   muffled   through   the   wood.   june?   it’s   tristan.   of   course   she   came   –   she   always   does.   juni   isn’t   sure   whether   to   be   grateful   or   sorry.   the   hinges   sigh   when   she   turns   the   knob   to   greet   the   other,   but   her   smile   falls   flat.   she   doesn’t   know   how   to   start.   hi   feels   wrong.   thank   you   for   coming   feels   worse.   finally,   she   exhales   a   shaky   breath.   “someone   left   me   somthing,”   she   swallows   hard,   her   voice   cracking   into   the   hallway.   “and   i   need   you   to   see   it.”   not   help   me.   not   tell   me   what   to   do. just   that   – see   it.   because   once   tristan   sees   it,   juni   won’t   be   alone   in   knowing   what’s   inside.   was   that   being   selfish?   “it’s   on   the   couch.”

tristan made her way to the couch with a practiced ease that would surely be salt in a reopened wound if there weren’t more pressing matters at the front of her mind. when the only thing on the couch is a basic manila folder, there’s a small sigh of relief that leaves tristan’s lungs. it’s not that she thought juniper was being dramatic. no, she had every right to be upset. it’s that she was expecting some kind of mean letter. ‘amelia castro will rot in hell!’ the kind of bitchy shit tristan had been tuning out since high school. she had skin thick enough to deal with that. to take the brunt of it for juni.

she was entirely unprepared for the horrifying sight she was met with upon opening the folder. it was amelia. not as tristan remembered her, but as warrick and juliette had found her. she knew whatever was in here had upset juni, but she still thought that was the kind of thing you gave someone a heads up about! “what the fuck is this?” tristan hissed, shoving the folder away like it had the ability to maim her. “is this a prank?” except not one juni was the victim of. “i needed to see — are you fucking with me? this is sick, juniper. sick!”