#early s2

They’re not friends with Jamie, not anymore.

Sure, when the prick first slunk off back to Manchester, Isaac and him had kept mum on that fact. Pretty easy, since in the odd silence of his unexpected absence, no one had wanted to bring him up at all – especially when the gaffer didn’t say anything beyond the fact that he’d left. But then Jamie never responded to any of their texts and he started slagging on them to reporters and isaac through a chair through a TV and –

Work colleagues, that’s what they’d been. Friends, in the sense that when you lived a hectic life, it was easier to hang out with people who worked the same schedule as you. They were acquaintance-friends. Bonded by necessity-friends, the kind that had started to tear when Jamie wouldn’t stow the attitude with Lasso and had split like a wet napkin once he was out of their lives completely.

Mostly out of their lives. Them not being friends was what made it acceptable for the team to have a separate, non-Ted-approved group chat for hate-watching Lust Conquers All.

Maybe once upon a time they had been friends, but they weren’t anymore.

That’s what Colin tried to remind his loudly thumping heart as he stood crushed against O’Brien’s side, the whole team crowded ‘round to listen to the video playing on Zoreau’s phone.

“–The fire, which broke out in the early morning hours, was quick to spread through the beachfront property which has now been confirmed as the current filming location for the popular reality TV show Lust Conquers All. First responders on the scene stated–”

“There’s more video of it online,” Cockburn reported, scrolling through his phone. “It leaked this morning on TikTok – a bunch of people ran onto the beach screaming in their underwear. People have been saying all morning that it’s the same house, but the production company wouldn’t make a statement.”

Muscle memory had Colin grabbing Isaac’s shoulder before he could storm forward. “You knew?! Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t confirmed,” Cockburn defended himself weakly. He’d been quiet when he rolled into training, but he was quiet most of the time. Colin had never heard him sound rattled.

They weren’t friends, Colin repeated to himself as Cockburn buried his face in his hands, digging the heels of his palms into eye sockets and scrubbing furiously. Having a mutual obsession with watching trickshots on YouTube did not make two people friends. 

“You guys,” said Sam softly, and if there were anyone in the room now that wouldn’t call Jamie Tartt a friend, it was him. “They are saying that members of the cast were taken to hospital in critical condition.”

Usually Sam stood taller than most of the team. Sitting on the floor with his knees curled up and his phone cradled helplessly between his hands, he looked small.

He’d been the first to turn away from the video. Colin could understand that. He was a sensitive lad. It was probably the flames that did it – nasty, violent things that towered over the fragile beach house, licking through a high-pitched whistling– no, a screaming–

They weren’t friends.

Colin conjured up the memory of watching City celebrate over Richmond’s ashes; shame and grief so thick he could choke on it as Richmond sank to relegation.

They weren’t friends. 

The footage looped, replaying the moment when the south wall collapsed, bringing the roof down with it as bystanders shouted frantically for help.

“–no explanation has yet been given to explain the authorities’ poor response time–”

“Any word on who it was?” asked Goodman, like Sam wouldn’t have led with that.

Goodman had seemed to like Jamie when he was here. They’d gone out drinking together. He’d been there the night Roy headbutted Colin in the face. He hadn’t hung out with Colin or Isaac since.

“They can’t say who until that person’s family has been contacted,” Beard said matter-of-factly before Colin could chase that thought any further. It was the first thing any of the coaches had said since they rushed into the gym, spurred by the commotion.

He had his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His hat, pulled down low, cast unhappy shadows on his usually unreadable features. Compared to Beard, Nate was an open book,  shell-shocked and appalled and a bit grey like he’d be fainting any second now. Ted–

Ted was leaving.

They weren’t friends.

The gym doors swung open and closed again as Ted disappeared.

They weren’t friends.

The team stayed huddled together as the broadcast lapsed into repetition, starting again from the top of the story now that new information had slowed to a crawl. Thierry, who hadn’t said a word since he’d called the team over with a hoarse gasp, still had one hand pressed over his mouth. Dani hung listlessly off his shoulder, his usually cheerful demeanour replaced with a stormcloud and a heavy brow that’make Roy Kent jealous.

They weren’t friends.

Someone should call Keeley, but Colin didn’t have her number. Not her direct line, the one that wasn’t tied to Nelson Road. He’d had it back when she was the half of Jamie-and-Keeley that could be relied upon to always have her phone on her and wouldn’t forget to text back. Because Jamie did that sometimes. In the middle of a conversation, he’d set his phone down, and then he’d get distracted, and five million years later Isaac and Colin would show up at his house with whatever food they’d ordered for him because Jamie had never texted back what he wanted, and it’d be annoying if he didn’t always look surprised and a bit sheepish. Forgot his phone on the bathroom sink. Set it down in the yard to do keepie-uppies and lost track of time. 

“What’d you order – oh, that’s fucking mint, that is. Next one’s on me,” he’d add with a quick grin. Friendlier, when he was away from football and everything to do with it.

He’d helped Isaac drag Colin to hospital, that time with the concussion. Sent the girls home with Goodman and sat with him at the A&E for ages after Roy Kent left him seeing stars. Isaac had muttered something about it later – how Jamie probably didn’t want to go home with Keeley after being scolded by Roy in front of her – but he’d also helped Isaac get Colin’s car home when Colin had moaned at them about not wanting to get a parking ticket.

They’re not friends.

If they were friends, Isaac wouldn’t be furious right now, his grip painful around Colin’s arm as Jamie’s phone once again goes to voicemail.

They’re not friends, because if they were friends, they’d know who to contact to make sure this was all some misunderstanding, because surely Jamie would’ve called someone. They’d know who that someone was – if he had a mum who needed checking up on or a dad who on his way to the airport.

They’re not friends, because the last message Colin had sent from a karaoke bar in Everton had gone completely unanswered and was still sitting at the bottom of his message history:

“Don’t be like that, boyo. Call us.”

They’re not friends, because Colin had never even typed any of the follow up messages he’d wanted to send after being struck dumb by the news that Jamie had completely abandoned City at the beginning of the season:

“What the fuck are you doing? Are you crazy? Like, have you actually lost your mind?”

“Are you on drugs? You can tell me, this is a secure line.”

“Seriously tho man, you in crisis? Blink twice for help.”

(“Are you okay?”)

They’re not friends.

The sombre news reporter confirmed delicately that they’d have the list of names of the victims soon.

They’re not friends, Colin repeated, because it was true. They were, but now they’re not. Maybe they could’ve been, if he stuck around. If something had changed after the ghost room fire, maybe he’d be hunched over Theirry’s phone like the rest of them.

“–incomplete list, with members of cast and crew still being assessed for injuries–”

They’re not friends.

So how come it fucking hurt?

Dean did. He knew Dean did. But Dean knew what they’d lost. All Sam could do was stare at the emptiness left behind, wondering. Watch Dad grieve. Watch Dean grieve. Try, himself, to grieve for something that was never there. A vacuum, a black hole. Anti-matter. Anti-mother.

But all that was before Dad died.

Now it’s been two weeks, and Sam’s as much a wreck as the car was before Dean got his hands on it again. He sits on the steps at Bobby’s, elbows on his knees and chin in his hands, like he used to as a kid. Worries about Dean. After all, that’s easier than dealing with his own swirling mess.

He wasn’t close to Dad. He didn’t expect all this. Hell, Dad dying was always a daily possibility; he’d learned that at eight years old. If they can get Dad, they can get us.

And maybe that’s it, ridiculous as it is. Dad wasn’t much in the way of parenting but he was a roadblock, a barrier. He was good at this crap. Defying death, scraping by without ever seeming afraid. Dad wasn’t weak. Close calls left him angry, not shaking. Nothing got to him.

Except this, Sam corrects himself. And he closes his eyes. Whatever happened in the wreck, in the hospital. Something got Dad, and now he and Dean—well, it’s just them.

He thinks he’s starting to understand what it meant when they lost Mom.

There’s a creak on the stair behind him, and Sam looks up. Bobby’s lowering himself to sit close by.

“You hanging in there, Sam?” he says.

“I guess,” says Sam.

“Miss your Dad, expect,” says Bobby.

“I miss my Mom,” says Sam.

Bobby’s eyebrows rise. Sam breathes in deep.

“I never knew,” he says, quietly. “I mean, Dad and I. You know we didn’t get along that great. But I’m still just—I’m struggling, Bobby. So I guess now, it makes more sense. What it meant when she died.”

“Sure,” says Bobby.

“It’s like what you’re standing on rips away.” Sam can’t stand looking at Bobby anymore, so he just stares out at the yard. Dean’s out there somewhere, wandering. “You know? Like the road you’re driving on just disappears, or the bridge is out. And even if you hated the way you were going, that doesn’t mean you know where to go now. You just—you feel lost. And if you loved that road, felt safe or happy going that way, well. That’d be a lot worse.”

Bobby nods. “Stability’s stability. Even if it sucks, we hate to lose it.”

Sam laughs a little. “Yeah, even if almost the only stable thing was the instability. I mean, it’s not like it was easy knowing what Dad wanted. Sometime he’d tell you and then other times, you gotta figure it out. But at least you knew…you knew he’d come and go. You knew he’d change certain things, and other things he’d be stuck on forever. Does that make sense?”

“Sure, kid,” Bobby says again.

“I guess Mom must’ve been easier.” Sam hesitates. “I mean, the way Dean talks about her. Like she just—she was stable. And I didn’t know her, I know, but like, I’ve lost a parent now. And I’ve lost—lost someone who was stable and loving and safe. So now I’m dealing with Mom’s death, too, all these years later. And I don’t know how.”

Bobby claps him on the back. “You’ll figure it out. You’re real bright, Sam.”

Sam looks down. “Sure, maybe. But sometimes I just feel really, really young, I guess. I feel—”

“Like an orphan,” says Bobby.

“Yeah,” says Sam, surprised. “Yeah. That.”

“Think maybe it’s cause you are one?”

Sam laughs again, because he’s tired of sighing. “Yeah. Maybe so.”

Bobby nods. “Well, you got me if you want.” And then he goes into the house.