Monthly Bonus Content #1: 'Never Can Say Goodbye' (James Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: An image of wooden swing with chains attached to what appears to be an oak tree. The empty swing is set in a partially sunny clearing with a few other trees around its edges; it seems to be waiting for a child to come swing on it. 'Never Can Say Goodbye' acts as the title in a white font with a green accent around it.]

[Sidenote: This writing is set on the night of the house fire, so the MC and J. Corvin are teens. I also made some assumptions about past dynamics for angst.💚]

_ _ _

"…I still can't believe you actually tripped him…"

The stagnant night air does nothing to soften James's muttered comment, which he realizes a second too late when the arc of your swing decreases. He hears the faint creaking from the old rope—how it strains once your feet smack down into the grass below. He's still working on pouring you a cup of refreshing juice, unsure where this sudden humidity came from.

There's hardly even a breeze rustling the trees.

It's a too quiet night.

"Verner started it! You saw what he did."

Your determined proclamation should be echoed by another voice with an equal amount of certainty. Fortunately, he's only dealing with his best friend rather than his best friend's rival. James ducks his head further in a poor attempt to hide his smile, once again unevenly pouring fresh apple juice from the pitcher. He dumps his untouched portion into yours. Now, there is absolutely no comparison to be made.

"Of course I did," he admits. James scoops up the almost overflowing cup, handing it to you once you're mostly stationary. "But was he really taking—?"

"Stealing," you quickly interject.

"—from your basket or just trying to get a peek?"

"He wanted to make a competition out of us picking berries, so he got one…"

Your trailed off sentence isn't followed up with an actual answer. The petulant pause teases more good humor into James's expression as he watches you think, possibly reconsider what disrupted the school field trip to a neighboring farm. "I only ended your 'competition'"—he says the word with a hint of amusement—"because I didn't want either of you getting prickles in your skin. Tripping, pushing, and then tackling each other into a bush is where it was heading. Do you have any idea how badly they sting? Alina once trampled through some—she didn't feel them under her skin until later on. They hurt."

"Reese still counted it as his win," you point out.

"Reese isn't gonna count ties," James replies while taking your half-full cup to free up your hands again. He says more once his back is to you as he walks to the nearby picnic table. "Your basket had more though… I saw it."

"I knew it! He was bluffing about his berry haul."

Satisfaction gives way to happiness when you laugh; it's a sound that instantly makes him turn back around. You're pumping your legs in addition to a triumphant fist, swinging higher with renewed vigor. It's a unique victory lap that has James's expression softening within seconds until he's looking just a little too long with a smile that's a little too tender—too much.

He's too much.

Apple juice splashes weakly against his wrist from the force he used to set the cup down; it feels oddly lukewarm. His mom recently pressed this batch, so it should be somewhat chilled from the fridge. James shakes the juice off his hand, glancing up at the late evening sky with a slight furrow to his brow since why is it so still out? There are usually bugs chittering in the trees or—

"James."

His head instantly turns in your direction, but he's already instinctively stepping closer after your tone lost any trace of happiness. You're staring at the recognizable truck that's rapidly barreling through the property. It's kicking up dust like an approaching storm rolling over the hills, tires spinning and engine overworking to cut a path through Corvin land. It isn't even on the marked paths! Your grandfather is tearing through some of the fringe fields and outskirts before finishing his forceful shortcut to the dirt driveway, except he isn't slowing his approach.

James grabs your hand before you can fist the aged rope of the swing any harder; there are likely fine marks along the inside of your palm.

You are still only staring at the truck—at the man behind the wheel who's been so absent—at someone James knows you love, but who distanced himself from you.

"…When's the last time you saw him?"

"Too long," you answer shortly.

"Okay," James exhales. "Okay. We're both okay. I'll get my mom, and she'll do something—let's go to the house—my room! You can stay over."

"But he's here for a reason."

"Your parents can handle it," James quickly replies. "You shouldn't have to. You don't owe him anything after how he's been treating you."

The two of you have moved away from the swing when the truck door loudly slams shut with a force that causes James to reflexively startle. He locks his jaw to steel himself, eyes darting between you and his house. It's too far. The bright beams of light stretching out from the truck's headlights only make the distance seem greater, while the shadows are disrupted.

There's nowhere to hide.

"[Name]!"

Your grandfather's shout is hoarse, but still positively booming in the resounding silence that has settled over Fernweh. Even the truck's warning ping about the key being left in the ignition with the door ajar is muted compared to your grandfather's shouting. He's calling for you in a way that James hasn't experienced; it's far too urgent with a desperation that's hard to listen to. His hand melds to yours, conforming.

"[Name], please!"

He can't hold you back, but he can hold on.

When you move to be more clearly visible, James does so too, stepping partially in front of you to fix your grandfather with a hard look.

"Mr. [Surname], my parents—"

Your grandfather doesn't seem to hear him, or perhaps, he doesn't care to listen, rushing over despite his age and scuffing up his shoes. It's enough to make James instantly tense up until your grandfather clasps his hands in what could be a silent prayer or to steady their quaking. He is shaking. He's shaking, while you're stock still, frozen with a concerned and confused frown.

James can feel the tension—the conflict—in how your nails lightly bite into his skin, but he remains close by your side.

"Get in the truck now. We're leaving."

"What's wrong?" you ask him.

Something must be wrong. James probably can't see it as well as you can considering how close you were with your grandfather, but he looks stricken. His eyes are wild, red-rimmed and glistening, in the harsh lighting from the truck while his hands are clenched too tightly so his knuckles appear pronounced. There's a faint whiff of smoke, a horrible habit to start at an old age. (His mother would say something chiding about it.) There is absolutely no trace of the man with the fond smile reserved for his grandchild—the best one in the whole universe, as James often used to overhear at school events or competitions. That kindness has vacated, leaving behind a shell, possibly a stranger…

"[Name], listen to me. Come."

"But I don't want—"

"Now!"

Your grandfather's fierce outburst is enough to quiet you, while it galvanizes James to speak.

"Mr. [Surname], you can't take—"

Apparently, he can and will.

Your grandfather takes your other hand, guiding you away, while James ignores every ingrained manner and learned instinct about situations like this that force his heart to race.

"Stop it!"

He raises his voice rather than stays silent.

"Let go!"

He reacts by tugging back instead of resigning himself to someone else being the one to act.

"[Grandfather_Name], let [Name] go!"

He isn't looking at your grandfather with anything resembling respect, only a quiet anger that's moderated by his care for you. If only that care could stifle this sickly fear about whatever is going on that could hurt you. It has to be bad; adults get like this when something or someone has been bad, right? He hasn't ever seen your grandfather do anything like—

"James." "James."

Two people call his name.

One is concerned, the other holds a caution.

He only wants to ever listen to one, but his hand still lets go of you when he turns to see his mother on the front porch. In that instant, your grandfather is able to haul you away with a ferocity that isn't rough, just urgent. James is able to share one last look with you before you're rushed into the backseat, but you seem stunned, utterly shell-shocked. He can't blame you after such a whirlwind of emotion.

He can fault someone else…

Your grandfather is already swinging out of the driveway, possibly after never having put the truck in park. Dust billows from the tight turn, wheels faintly screeching from his maneuver as he starts to leave—to escape—with you. James swears his heart is racing as fast as the stupid truck; it actually pounds in his chest. "[Name]!"

You're peering out the back window at him, hand pressed against the glass, although he's soon unable to see you as the truck speeds off.

He scrambles for his helmet that was left discarded in the yard, hurriedly picking it up before he's trying to find his bike. Where did the two of you last ride? James is pivoting in an attempt to find it, nearly tripping over his own two feet from having too many thoughts to act on while still watching the truck become smaller and smaller, more distant. The cabin! You'll be taken to the cabin and then he can get you. His bike has a light mounted on it; the dark roads won't deter him—he knows to be careful. James tries to take a breath, muffling the scream he can feel building in his chest that isn't all because of this, but it's too much.

Why was your grandfather acting like that?

He goes still when another, far calmer set of footsteps join his frantic search for his bike.

James looks up from the grass to see his mother with her hand patiently extended.

"Momma…"

Something about her smile makes him second-guess if she wants his helmet or his hand.