Archive of Our Own ^beta

June Rouclere successfully runs away from home at seventeen. She says successfully because she’d tried doing so twice to no avail, but really, two attempts at twelve don’t count for much. It’s stupidly easy to pull off. June has to stay in line, but not enough in line to make her parents suspicious (after changing five schools they tend not to trust if your GPA rockets past the 3.0 mark). 

This is her disappearing act: the day after graduation—somehow achieved from her father’s donations to the school and a barely-passing grade in all of her classes—she’s brought home. They have an eye on her the week before and the week after. She gathers her things, gathers her money, and leaves when they’ve brought their guard down enough to focus more on her older sister’s summer wedding rather than ensuring their burgeoning escape artist doesn’t plan another getaway. 

She takes public transit to New York over five days, sleeping in hard-to-reach places—rooftops, fire escapes, highway rafters and the spaces behind building vents. She finds a job that pays her badly and teeters through the city, struggling sometimes but not once regretting her decision. If it really got hard she could go back to her parents’ suburban wonderland, though she’d never do it. They’d accept her back, probably, just put her on house arrest and debutante her, and marry her off to a family friend. So she keeps going, getting cash from waitress shifts but mostly pickpocketing, doing magic tricks to entertain on the edges of sidewalks. 

Then she walks into Tannen’s Magic Shop for their lock section one day, and her whole life changes. 

Bosco Leroy is a failed child actor. This is a depressing thing to be, considering as a child, there’s not really a possibility of being good or bad at something beyond what naturally comes to you, and thriving in the show business mostly relies on your parents. Bosco doesn’t have much—some grandparents who reluctantly drive him to open calls and an enthusiastic drama teacher—but he treasures what he does.

His career doesn’t kick off at the age of five, though, nor does it at age eight or ten or eleven. He gets some commercials and some roles as an extra. He can cry on command, which is a goldmine for most directors, so he shows up in a handful of horror flicks bawling in the background. He books a holiday Hallmark special and makes eight hundred dollars at age twelve. This is the peak he reaches before dedicating himself to the stage, which only occurs because he has no agent nor a way of getting one. 

His high school education is measly. Bosco books the lead roles most times, and the times he doesn’t, he plays the sides like they’re the leads. He applies early decision to Julliard and gets in, which he privately always knew was going to happen. They don’t offer him much of a package, though. His grandparents have to hire a live-in nurse. The math doesn’t add up. Privately, Bosco always knew that was going to happen, too. It was just a matter of time. He tries to compete with his BFA-having cohort, but it pales. Nothing works. 

Between sidewalk acts, though, he falls into petty crime, an impersonator for street groups scamming people and stealing from homes, and his whole life changes. 

Charlie Vanderberg’s whole life changes a whole lot of the time. It changes when his sister’s mom dies, changes again when his own mom does, a third time when he winds up in a foster family in New York City. He bounces from house to house—life change, life change, life change—and person to person. Job to job. He is used to inconsistencies. He himself is inconsistent because of it. 

He watches some old videos of the Horsemen during his teenage years and then his life changes again. Charlie is wanting for some stability. He’s had none of it for so long, so he turns magic into it: reads books and books, practices in playgrounds after school, shows off his tricks to the foster families who care and uses them to prank the ones who don’t. When he fades out of the system—another life change, but Charlie’s not really counting by then—and lands on the street, he spends his time perfecting them. 

He sets his life up like a magic trick. He spends his life plotting the perfect heist: a better one. A family. He gathers money and information in the hopes of one day being able to use it. He follows the Horsemen, figures out how they do what they do, certain that one day—one life change later—he’ll do the exact same thing. 

After pursuing historical research at Tannen’s magic shop, his whole life changes; after joining a street group doing house scams, his whole life changes again. 

June’s living under a highway. She likes these hideouts worst: they’re grimy, caked with exhaust fumes and dirt, but they’re always empty. There’s no human shit, because June’s the only person who can wiggle her way up to them. She climbs over the twisted fences blocking the upwards-sloping cement to the freeways, curls between the columns holding all the cars up, finds the nooks and crannies beyond them or flat below the road itself. They’re tight fits, but if safety is June’s problem, it’s a perfect solution. 

Being born a suburban princess tends to make the worst of your street-life situation, but June tries not to complain. She washes up at the local community college before her waitressing shift starts. She eats in the vinyl booth closest to the back, in the corner opposite the bathrooms. She spends her free time milling about Times Square to nab watches and wallets. She spends it on second-hand clothing and magic tricks. 

Tannen’s is the best place to go to in the city. It’s cozy, warm inside, and the clerks don’t mind if you linger about for three or four hours. June doesn’t steal from places she likes, so she mostly just stares, disappointed by the fact that she’s trying to scrounge enough money to rent an apartment eventually. 

There’s a lock section in the back, with a bunch of test locks for the local crowd to try their hand at it. June wastes a good few hours of her week trying the giant replica Bramah, which usually turns no effect given by the time she returns to the shop some other kid has messed with the few wafers she’s gotten past. 

June’s day is usual. She slips free of the highway’s underbelly, flashes her stolen student ID card to take a shower and do her makeup, then clocks in for eight hours. Afterwards she takes the bus to Tannen’s and settles her stuff by her feet, bent over the Bramah again. 

June likes puzzles. She can find a way to solve things that don’t need to be solved in the first place. It’s all the same to her: running from her family to escape the pretend love they gave her, the front they falsified for their neighbors; skipping from bench to lamp post to building roof like a staircase waiting to be found; sliding her fingers in the right place at the right moment to fish out a wallet; setting wafers and pins to pry a lock open. 

It’s a sort of meditation, so while the Bramah drives her absolutely fucking crazy, the jitter in her arms and the cynical wonder of what the fuck she’s doing with her life leaves while she’s attempting to pick it. 

She’s an hour an a half in when she breaks to take a sip of her water and realizes someone’s watching her. June’s spatial awareness is usually up to par, but the Bramah had enraptured her totally. She’s unsure whether her admirer has been there for seconds or minutes or hours. 

It’s a boy. He looks a little older than June, though she always does her makeup to look at least twenty-two, with curly dark hair and a practiced slouch to his spine. June sets down her water bottle and meets his eyes. They’re kind. Doesn’t mean much. 

“Don’t stop on my account,” the boy says. 

“You think I’m getting anywhere?” 

The boy shrugs. “Who knows. The Bramah remained unpicked for sixty-seven years before Alfred Charles Hobbs managed it after a month of work. You’ve been here for an hour and forty-two minutes, and you’re picking blind.” 

June narrows her eyes. “I’m pretty sure Hobbs was picking blind, too.” 

“Maybe.” 

“You gonna give me a name, stalker?” June bends over the lock again, plucking her pick from where she’d set it on the table. The boy laughs—it’s abrupt, but strangely soft despite, like even his surprise has learned to muffle itself. 

“Charlie.”

June stalls her hand. The Bramah can wait. There’s a much more interesting puzzle here. She slopes her head to the side, hair falling across her cheek to block her view. Charlie looks sheepish. 

On second thought, maybe he hadn’t snuck up on her. Maybe June had been so enraptured in her picking.

Maybe Charlie is used to being quiet. 

“You have a home, Charlie?” June asks. She already knows the answer. His elbows stick out in all the awkward ways, the positions you make when squeezing between two things, when trying not to take up any space. His curls are sad, muffled, so he clearly doesn’t have a hair routine enough to define them. His voice most of all, though. It has all the sharp points sanded off. 

“No,” Charlie says. “I’m guessing you don’t either.” 

June returns to her lock picking. “If that’s supposed to be a line, I don’t know what you’re expecting. One homeless person can’t get much from another.” 

“Are you a magic fan, or just here for the locks?” 

“American households aren’t using Bramahs on their front doors, genius.” 

The smile that slips up Charlie’s face is silent. “Are you going to be here tomorrow?” 

June presses her tongue to the tip of her teeth. She lines up another slider, listens for the click-click-click of it moving. Charlie holds his breath as she leans her head to the side of the lock, which is—sweet. Weirdly sweet. June would make a quip about it if she wasn’t so busy. 

“I have a date,” she says. 

“Oh.” Charlie doesn’t look too upset. This either means he’s not hitting on her or it means he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t care about that. 

“With this lock,” she adds. 

“Okay with a third wheel?” Charlie asks. 

June sits back. “You know how weird you’re being right now, right? You’re trying to hit on me by watching me pick locks?” 

Charlie’s shock sputters out of him—still quiet, but a little more alive than the other reactions. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—you’re just really—”

“I’m fucking with you.” June turns towards him. “I’m June.” 

“Where are you crashing?” 

“Beneath a freeway. You?” 

“Alleyway behind a deli. They give me free sandwiches.” Charlie shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’ll bring one tomorrow?” 

June can feed herself—the restaurant does that for her, at least—and she’s not so much of a priss to take a good thing as a good thing. The sandwich could be laced, after all. “Don’t bother,” she says. “But I’ll be here.” 

Bosco should get into palmistry. He has a knack for shit. For improvising. For knowing what to do. He’s a natural at new things, at other people—imitating them, impressions, following recipes. It’s just common sense. He’s not so good at himself, of course, is the downside. Spends too much time focusing on the what-ifs, the everyone-else, interiorizing the exterior instead of exteriorizing the interior. What fucking ever.

Point is: palmistry. Tarot. Reading stuff. Bosco’s good at reading stuff. He knows shit, like he always knew he was destined for great things, that he’d go to Julliard, that he’d lose it to his wallet, that he’d fall into a life of crime. 

Weird shit, he knows, but that’s how he feels. Anyway, the crime isn’t so bad: Bosco’s good at villainizing other people. One of the reasons he’s not good with socializing. And it’s realistically pretty safe as far as crimes go. It’s a performance. 

“Who’s this?” It’s a girl who speaks. She’s short, dark hair, eyeliner haloing her sharpened gaze. “I thought you said Dean was gonna be here.” 

“Dean couldn’t make it. Said Bosco was okay.” There’s a guy with her. He’s not as tall as Bosco, a little less filled out. Bosco already hates both of them. They’re talking like he’s not here and all he’s done is wave. “You’re—Bosco?” 

“Got a problem with that?” 

The girl narrows her eyes even more. She’s not flicks of eyeliner dragging by her inner corners, making her pointed from front to end. “Did Dean say he was a dickhead?” 

“If you have a problem with me being here, I can leave. You just won’t have a finished gig.” Bosco keeps his hands in his pockets to hide the fact they’re turning to fists. He could pull them out, isn’t really opposed to it, but Dean’s one of the few guys he knows who hooks him up with relatively safe scam gigs, and he’s not keen on losing the connection. “Charlie, right? Who’s the pipsqueak?” 

The girl bares her teeth at him. They’re white. Clean white. Not street white; why the fuck she’s here is beyond him, now. “June. Is your name seriously Bosco?” 

“If you have a problem with that—” 

“We don’t,” Charlie says. “Look, it’s an easy job. We’re an TV repair company. Dean was our guy, but we need someone to do the calls for us—get into the houses, do the appointments. Someone to lead. June’s great at the stealing, not so great at the performance.” 

June smirks. “If I’m too mean to be a good actor, Charlie, this bitch is gonna do way worse than me.” 

Heat flares at the peaks of Bosco’s cheeks. “Fuck you.” 

“Hey,” Charlie says. “We’re all here to make a little money, okay?” 

They soothe most of their bickering, changing into their uniforms while Charlie commands them from a van out back—a rental. Bosco shoves past June, heading up to their next address as he asks, “What kind of rich person calls to repair a TV?”

“The ones who are poor about their money because they hoard it like a fucking dragon,” June says. “Dumbass.” 

“Guys,” Charlie crackles over their earpieces. 

Just for that, Bosco lays it on thick. He pauses, purrs, flirts with the mom, asks about her day, makes conversation. He messes with the TV, makes a big show as Charlie mutters to him how to actually fix it—they know it’s a scam, right? This seems a tad overkill. June eyes him dubiously, slipping from room to room under his distraction, returns with  barely-noticeable bulges in her pockets. They get a few hundred cash and slip out the front door with Bosco blowing a kiss to the mother. 

They fall into the back of the rental van; Charlie drives them a good few minutes away before joining them and checking out their load. June empties her jewelry-filled pockets. Bosco pries a sticky note off of his toolbox. 

“Is that a phone number?” Charlie asks, bewildered. “A suburban mother is hitting on you?” 

  June’s a little less believing. “How did you do it?”

“He was great over the comm line.” 

“How did you do it? You were all up in her face. Why didn’t she think anything was wrong?” June insists. 

Bosco leans back and lets himself relax in the praise. “The closer you look, the less you actually see.” 

Charlie freezes. June’s mouth falls open. “You’re a J. Daniel Atlas fan?” Charlie asks, excitement ramping up his voice. “You like the Horsemen?” 

“Obviously.” 

June groans. Charlie nudges her. “No.” 

“He’s not that bad.” 

“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” 

June buries her face in her hands. “Let’s do this again,” Charlie says. “You’re better at this than Dean. You—it’s an art. It’s an art for you.” 

Bosco glances at June. Charlie follows his gaze. 

Finally, June lifts her head. “Fuck you,” she says. “Fine.”  

Charlie finds them both, technically. Charlie finds everything. He finds the loft. He spends a lot of time studying the windows barred with planks and tapes across the buildings of New York, figuring out which ones are studios and apartments, which ones used to be. Which ones are out of order or in disarray or stuck hidden to the current owners, who don’t give a shit about it. 

Bosco has an apartment, but it’s tiny, and he’s got roommates. June loses jobs enough that her paycheck isn’t steady, so she never bothers finding a place to rent. Charlie finds it, then; he gets them into it and fucks with the breaker to reroute the electricity. And then they have a place. 

“This is sweet,” June says, standing by the windows the first morning after they stay over. They’ve boarded most of it up, taped and painted black some sections, but June strays towards the daylight in the mornings. Charlie had noticed on his own and Bosco had whispered it to him too, so they kept one corner open for her. She’s like a cat, light pooling across her hair, fading the dark brown into sun-kissed gold. “It feels normal, almost.” 

“It does, doesn’t it?” They haven’t set up the kitchen yet, so Charlie’s plugged a panini press into the wall socket, making sandwiches from lunch meat and sliced cheese. “Could get used to this.” 

“You’re jinxing it,” Bosco says. 

Charlie rolls his eyes. “Shut up and move the couch.” He picks a piece of cheese off the side of the panini press—it burns for a millisecond—and licks it off his finger. “What do you guys think about going furniture shopping today?” 

“I’m working tonight,” Bosco says. “Don’t give me that look, Junebug. Try getting employed before talking to me.” 

“I’m between jobs!” 

“You really need to figure out how to act.” 

“The line cook was an asshole!” 

Bosco rolls his eyes. “So am I, and you haven’t thrown a plate at my face yet.” 

June turns around and makes for the kitchen. “Want me to?” 

The only plates they have are paper, but Charlie keeps that information to himself, a laugh buzzing at his lip as he opens the panini press. A waft of steam curls at his neck. He slides the sandwich onto the awaiting paper plate and unplugs the press. “Breakfast. Come and get it.”

June falls into space beside him. They’ve crowded a few stools around their kitchen island. “You’re the best, Charlie.” 

“Truly a blessing. Where would we be without you?” Bosco hops onto the island itself and grabs one. “Shit. Hot. Fuck.” 

“Rid the Earth of yourself, Bos, oh my god,” June mutters. “That vintage shop on Flannegan had a cute nightstand.” There’s a bedroom in the flat—a bathroom, one, and a side room which they’ve divvied into two using a curtain, one bed on each side, another two curled with the main room. Bosco had asked why four; Charlie said there’d been four on the side of the street labeled FREE when he’d been looking. 

“I guess this way two of us can sleep in the living room if one of us has someone over,” Bosco had said. 

June had said, “Why the fuck would any of us have someone over.” 

Bosco had replied, “I don’t know, sex or something,” and June had promptly threatened to kick him out of their group. There’d been an uneasiness on her face. There’d been a curl of something in Charlie at Bosco’s words, and then at the uneasiness on June’s face. That’s neither here nor there, though. 

“Who gives a fuck about a nightstand? I want a fridge.” 

“We will get a fridge,” Charlie says meditatively. “And a nightstand.” 

“We have to pay for that shit. How is June supposed to steal a nightstand? That’s not big enough to put in a pocket.” Bosco sizes June up; really looks at her, from head to toe. An irritated flush climbs up her face. “She’s probably small enough to fit in the nightstand.” 

“Can you shut up for two seconds?” 

A lopsided grin flashes the points of Bosco’s canines. “Make me.” 

June barrels at him. Charlie sighs, watching as she jumps Bosco, and he nearly drops the sandwich he’d grabbed. He flings it onto the table; they fall to the floor, play-fighting. “We can pay for the furniture. I think we’re well within our right to break into our savings.” 

Maybe they’re real fighting. “Losers,” Charlie says. “Break it up.” 

They learn to fight through fits and starts. June took jujitsu as a kid; she relearned it on the streets, muscle memory she’d thought had degraded pulling back into her body the first time a guy had followed her back to her tent. Bosco’s only good at stage fighting; Charlie for nothing. 

June brings them to a self-defense class three times a week. It’s something they need to know. This is a year before they start living together; two months after they’ve met. They head out of Tannen’s and walk to the studio together. 

“How come you’re so crazy about this anyway?” Bosco asks. 

“I’m a girl,” June says. 

“Very funny. The full story, if you please.” 

“That’s the full fucking story, loser. Sorry that you don’t have to worry about getting assaulted every time you walk around at night.” June rolls her eyes; there’s alarm in Bosco’s gaze, so she knocks her hand against his chest. “Sheltered pretty boy. It’s okay. We’ll get you fucked up. Anyway, my parents had me in jujitsu when I was five. Kept until I was like, fourteen.” 

Bosco frowns. Charlie stops walking. “That’s nine years of experience.” 

“You can do math. Amazing.” A hiccup startles June’s heart. This feels like a slip-up. She has made a mistake, she just doesn’t know which one. She doesn’t know why. 

Charlie fits it all together for her. “Your parents could afford nine years of jujitsu experience?” 

June pauses. 

“Dude.” Bosco pulls them both into the street, nestled into the jut of a corner, away from the crosswalk they’d been about to take. The light turns green, but he doesn’t let them go. “That’s like—rich. You’ve—you’ve never talked about your family.” 

June’s throat seizes. “I don’t have one.” 

“Did they kick you out?” 

The answer is much worse. June counts the gum stuck to the cement underfoot, then decides she’s not going to be a pussy about it. She meets Bosco’s eyes, then Charlie’s. “I ran away.” 

Bosco’s mouth purses. Charlie doesn’t manage to hide the flinch in his cheek. “Abusive,” Charlie says. June shrugs. 

“Does it matter?” 

It does. It’d make both of them feel better. Both of them—no families, nobody to take care of them, whether because of finances or death. June’s got it all. She walked away from it. She’s on the street out of her own fucking volition. 

Charlie looks stricken. “They—do they want you back?” 

“Probably not. They probably have a good cover story about it by now. It’d be hard to weave me back in if I return. Ruin the whole perfect suburban life they’ve got going on.” June sucks at her teeth. Both of the boys still look shellshocked. The defensiveness sets in. “Can you stop?” 

“Do you have siblings? Money? A trust fund?” 

“It’s been years. Let it alone.” 

“June,” Bosco says. 

“Shut the fuck up, Bosco. It’s none of your goddamn business.” June turns around and shoves her way across the crosswalk. Bosco’s arm seizes for hers; his fingers burn against her skin. June rips herself out of his grip. “Can we just—go? You two need to learn how to take care of yourself.” 

Charlie’s voice is a little softer, but June can still hear the accusation in his voice. “Did you—”

“I got kicked out of five boarding schools, genius. Obviously my family is rich.” Their footsteps scatter behind her, quick, hot. “Look, I know I’m privileged and I threw away my whole life, okay? I know. You don’t need to tell me.” 

No “June—” comes. They’re both too angry with her to reason with her. 

They still go to the jujitsu studio that night. It’s awkward. June punches too hard and Bosco knocks the breath out of chests and Charlie flinches at each move coming his way. They go again and again, doing jobs, scamming people, hanging out at Tannen’s. June cracks the Bramah finally. June feels heat cracking at each look, each gaze, each touch. It’s horrifying. It’s electric. She’s got no idea whether she likes it or not. 

She sets down the Bramah lock. The congratulations have trickled out: the excited whoops and catcalls, the picking her up and spinning her around. June leans back into the lockpicking gallery table, letting its edge dig into her spine. 

“Listen,” Charlie says, words even softer than they usually are, his eyes awkward. Bosco’s tongue follows the seam of his mouth as he licks his lips. June’s ears soften at Charlie’s voice; her eyes follow Bosco’s tongue. “We—we don’t get it. But it’s—your decision. Ultimately. Okay?” 

“I could’ve crawled back to them any time these past two years,” June says stiffly. She’s warm all over; she crosses her arms; indignant in the shadow of the corner. “I’m not homeless because it’s fun, okay? I’m trying to make a life here.” 

“We know,” Charlie says. 

June looks at Bosco. 

“We know,” he repeats. 

“I’m sorry about your tuition,” she says. 

Bosco shrugs. “I’m way too good to hide behind a camera or hundred-dollar Broadway tickets anyway.” 

June follows his throat as it bobs; glances at Charlie and sees him doing the same. “That you are.” 

Bosco doesn’t have secrets. This is a little uneven on his part, given June and Charlie have ones they hide, but Bosco just has two grandparents in the middle of nowhere Indiana with a live-in nurse who thinks he’s making it big with gigs in the city. They pass away two years after he’s gone, within days of each other, and an aunt gets everything, so now Bosco has nothing. He’s an open book. He detests that he is. 

They’re at a club a few weeks after they meet. Bosco doesn’t go out often—he tends to get distracted—but it’s a good place to pickpocket and a good place to have fun. Music thrums from the floor up Bosco’s legs. He’s not totally sold on them yet: June is still annoying, and Charlie is complaisant to a fault. 

They’re people, though. They’re people who stick around him. Who apparently want him around, even if it’s just because Bosco is a fan of Charlie’s hyperfixation. 

June’s clearly a few drinks in when she finds him. He’s in the center of the dance floor, changing partners every few songs, when she sidles up to him and takes his hands off a girl’s hips and onto hers. “Why are you still here?” she calls over the music, Her voice is a little slurred. “We’re both dicks to each other. Charlie’s a walking encyclopedia. I’m unmanageable.” 

Bosco spins June. The song that’s playing is mostly bass; she somehow finds a beat anyway, her hair fluttering around her head, lights flashing colors against the bronze of her skin. He pulls her close, hands pressed to the small of her waist, feeling out the vertebrae of her spine.

“I don’t know,” he says. 

June snorts. She almost falls into him; he holds a little tighter, fingers digging into the sequins of her dress. Pinching. “Yeah, fucking right. See how you’re holding me?” 

“What?” Bosco can’t even hear his own voice. He can’t even feel his own skin. His heartbeat throbs into his fingers into her spine. 

“Like you’re afraid to let go. You’re afraid to let go.” 

Bosco bristles. “You’re going to fall, pipsqueak.”

June laughs. It’s light. He shouldn’t be able to hear it beneath the music, but he does anyway; her breath mists across his chin and cheeks, warm and hot. “You just want to hold on to someone.” 

It’s suddenly stifling on the dance floor. Bosco’s fingers flail against June’s dress; she’s twirling away, and he almost reaches out for her, hands flexing with the lack of her underneath them. He catches himself and stumbles to the side of the room to gather himself. 

Charlie’s leaning back against one of the couches by the bar. There’s a couple making out beside him. Bosco shoves them over. “She’s right,” Charlie says. 

“Do you have a fucking bug on me?” 

“No,” Charlie says. “I could tell what you were talking about.” 

A bubble of discomfort seeps into the pit of Bosco’s stomach. “Why are you here?” Charlie asks. “Why are you hanging out with us? You could get—you could have so much more.” 

His eyes are patient. They’re focused on Bosco’s face, on his eyes, on the hollow of his cheek, on the flutter of his eyelashes. Bosco undoes the top few buttons of his shirt. “You two are psycho.” 

Charlie’s nursing a drink. He’s not very deep into it. His words are decidedly sober; Bosco isn’t certain whether this is better or worse than June’s alcohol-tinted observations. “You’re lonely.” 

“No I’m not.” 

“You’re lonely,” Charlie repeats. “I’m lonely too.” 

Bosco looks at him. Really looks. His curls are neat. His jaw is tight. His eyes hold the world in them, soft at the edges, hard in the center. He’s relaxed. Very. This is his resting state: squeezed together like a trigger being pulled, like he’s about to rocket out the barrel of a gun. His spine is pulled taut; his shoulders slouched forwards. His gaze fits straight on: his neck falls downwards.

How can a boy so densely rigid in the middle be so pliant at the sides? 

Bosco pressed his fingers hard against the skin of his thigh. He says, “I don’t know what the fuck kind of drugs you two are on tonight.” 

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees. 

Bosco wonders if he’s not the complete opposite of Charlie. His outsides are sinewy and strong, built-up walls, costumes slipped on and off and back again. His insides are soft sticky warmth. 

June makes her way for them. She sways as she walks; her high heels pitter-patted against the floor. Charlie holds open an arm. She falls into him; curls her face into his chest, swings her hips up onto his lap. Her legs dangle off the sides, crooked. 

Bosco leans over and sweeps them up. His fingers trace along the bone of her calf. He settles her feet into his lap, straightening her all out. His throat constricts. 

“Rest a little,” he says. He can feel their eyes on him. “Then we can get out of here.” 

Charlie doesn’t know when to say it. 

It’s too early for the first few months. It’s not something they bring up. Street kids—even poor ones that haven’t slept on a sidewalk, like Bosco—know not to ask. How’d you get here? 

My mom’s affair partner’s wife killed herself and my half-sister cut my mom’s brake lines in exchange. We were flung into the river. I almost drowned. 

Not exactly great small talk. 

It’s too late by the time they move in together. Too late even when Charlie starts plotting. He doesn’t mean to, to be fair. The thought just curls into his head and makes a home. The plan starts making itself.

Their flat is furnished. It’s nice. June sits by the moonlight; Bosco lies along the couch. Charlie washes the dishes. He stares at the plates. He says, “You know Veronika Vanderberg?” 

“Yeah,” June says. “The diamond heiress.” 

“She’s my sister.” 

Silence echoes around the room. 

“The fuck?” Bosco asks. “There are Black people in that family?”

“Obviously he’s an affair baby,” June says, getting up to kick Bosco in the shin. He glowers at her. “Shit, dude. How’d you get from South Africa all the way to here?” 

“Shit happens,” Charlie says. 

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Bosco asks. 

“What the hell am I supposed to say?” Charlie looks up from the sink. There are suds on his hands, so he stays where he is, narrowing his gaze at the two figures sloped around the living area. “Are you going to handle this normally?” 

June and Bosco exchange glances. “Not to doubt your word, but how do you know for sure?” June asks. 

“And what are we supposed to do about it?” Bosco adds. 

Charlie tells them, though he ignores Bosco’s question. He says stuff about his mom and his dad; the Vanderberg history, the criminal network, the tabs he’s kept and kept and kept and kept. They both listen. They both take it and swallow it down—hard. June talks shit about getting an inheritance, getting rid of Veronika, making the fortune his, doing a real Robin Hood act with the money and the offshore bank accounts. Bosco doesn’t talk at all, he just nods and curls his lip into his teeth, kicking stuff around, muttering quips. Trying to hide the flinch of hurt in his face. 

Bosco waits until they’re alone in their bedroom, the privacy curtain up to separate them. The sound of June slinking around the main room is muffled through the wall. “I didn’t keep it from you because I didn’t trust you.” 

Bosco’s answer is automatic. He sounds ghostly beyond the veil between them. “We know.”

“Honestly—” 

“I know.” 

“Bosco.” Charlie gets up. His feet land against the floor, bare and biting. He sweeps aside the curtain. Bosco’s curled on his side. “I—I didn’t. I just didn’t know what to say.” 

“You both have people.” 

Charlie attempts to solve this problem using logic. It’s futile but he tries anyway. “June’s family is abusive and mine commits war crimes.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Bosco says. “You have people.” 

Charlie sits. He doesn’t perch himself on Bosco’s bed; that’s too much of a stretch, too tall, too much of a power imbalance. He sits beside it instead, falling to the floor, faced away from Bosco but right by his pillow. “You do too.” 

“You both have options.” 

“Me taking the company is not an option. It’d be doling out justice. Veronika’s not about to welcome me in with open arms. If she did, I’m not about to accept it. She killed my mom. And June’s not going back to her family. It’s been years. It’s been forever.” 

Bosco doesn’t say anything. Charlie leans his head back; they bump, hair against hair, skull against skull. 

The next morning June lazes on the floor like a cat, doing a puzzle in her little patch of sun. Charlie sits on a beanbag a few feet away, scribbling away in a notebook. Bosco sits between them, leaning back on his haunches. 

“So,” he says. “How are we supposed to get this inheritance in your hands?” 

It’s the middle of May, which means heat has seeped into the apartment, hot and soft and sticky. They’ve just started planning out Charlie’s revenge, something that’ll take them at least a year, but today is a lazy day. The sun melts along June’s skin, glowing molasses across the bronze of her shoulders. She’s wearing a camisole and sleep shorts, her hair swept up in a bun. Sweat trickles from the nape of her neck. 

The door opens. “I brought ice cream,” Charlie declares. “And Bosco got another fan.” 

There’s no air conditioning in the flat for obvious reasons. They’ve got numerous fans running—the old ceiling one, along with five plug-ins arranged in careful alignments around the room.

“Why are you by the window?” Bosco demands. His shirt is stuck to his skin with sweat. He's wearing shorts; his knees are pink. “Fucking psycho.” 

“The window is open, hello? It’s called a breeze." 

“It’s as stiff as your mom out there, Junebug. The only breeze you’re feeling in the air sweeping through the complete lack of stuff in your brain.” 

June rolls her eyes. There are straps poking out from Bosco’s shirt’s neckline. How he’s wearing a beater beneath his long sleeve is beyond her. “You’re wearing two shirts, dickhead. At least I have a sensible incentive.” 

Bosco directs their new fan at her and plugs it in. This is likely supposed to be to get back at her, but it’s just a nice change; June’s hair flutters backwards, the bottom of her shirt grazing her stomach. She catches Bosco’s eyes darting to the strip of skin of her torso before returning to her face. 

“Get over here,” he says. “Have some ice cream.” 

Charlie unpacks a few pints of ice cream and takes out a few spoons. His hair is stuck to the sides of his face with sweat.

“Turn on the TV,” he says. “Let’s binge something. I’m in the mood to do nothing today.” Charlie carries the hair cream over; June shifts away from the window, the peaks of her shoulders settling in relief as they soften into the shade. She slips up beside him and tugs at his hair. 

Charlie winces. “Sorry,” June says. “My fingers are warm.” 

“Understatement.” 

The sweat at Charlie’s hairline is cold. June sweeps up his hair, using her fingernail to pry the curls from where they’re pressed slick to his skin. She picks up a pint of ice cream and presses it to the back of his neck. He hisses. 

Bosco flips through the DVDs they have before putting on Leverage. He settles back, taking his shirt off; his head ducks, fabric peeling away from bicep, hair trembling out of the neckline. He discards it beside him, in a spot that just so happens to be by June’s feet.

June kicks it away. “Gross,” she says, watching the lines of his muscles gathering to his mid-back, just barely visible beyond the neck of his wifebeater. “You’re on laundry duty this week.” 

“I don’t want to wash sweat stains out of your bras.” 

Charlie snorts, shoving a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. “Should’ve thought that through before throwing your nasty clothes into her face.”  

“I don’t trust you to wash my bras anyway. You’re going to tumble dry them.” 

“I don’t think there’s a laundry dryer that doesn’t tumble the clothing inside of it.” 

“You’re supposed to air dry them, you idiot,” June says. She thinks about kicking him, but she’s too hot to, and she’d just press her foot against sweat-slicked skin anyway. After a moment's hesitation, she kicks him anyway. His forearm flexes beneath her toes. 

Her palms feel hot. She cups them around the ice cream she’s been holding to Charlie’s neck. His heartbeat thuds against her fingernails; Charlie turns around, glancing at her. His breath drifts just barely across her face. “You’re gonna melt it,” he says. “That’s the raspberry cheesecake one. It’s gonna be all soupy.” 

He looks so upset about it that June laughs. A stirring rumbles in her throat along with the giggle. He’s leaning back on one arm; his muscles strain, bicep flexing. June watches the side of his neck. “Here. We can switch them out.” 

She hands him the raspberry cheesecake pint; waits for him to hand her another. When he does, their hands brush; his fingertips are dry, a far cry from the cool condensation on the ice cream container. June’s heart hops up into her mouth. She tastes it, mulls it over, careful not to crush it. Her gaze darts from Charlie to Bosco and back again. 

Bosco used to play a lot of board games with his grandparents. Clue; Monopoly; Chutes & Ladders; The Game of Life; Catan; Tetris: Letters from Whitechapel. He’s in a thrift shop with Charlie when he spots a Monopoly box out of the corner of his eye. He looks at it, fans through the pieces. Charlie watches him then buys it. 

They get a bit of a collection after a while. Most nights, after whoever has a job at the time is done their shifts, they play together, scattered around the living area floor with their dinners mostly finished on their plates. June’s good at puzzle games, like Tetris or Mouse Trap; Charlie’s good at strategy, like Monopoly or Clue; Bosco’s good at reading tells and bluffs, like Letters from Whitechapel or Battleship. They usually win their niches, but it’s still fun anyway. 

They’re locked in a game of Monopoly. It’s been four hours; the sun has disappeared beyond the horizon, the moon faintly glowing in through June’s window. Hazy lights ring the area around them, kept low and warm. 

Charlie’s outfitted in boxers and a hoodie. His palms are covered by the sleeves; he rolls the die, hitting a seven—the exact number that landed him on the only empty property for the next twelve sections. 

Bosco narrows his eyes. He places his hand on Charlie’s, hooking his fingers underneath his hoodie sleeve. “You’re cheating,” he accuses, pulling his sleeve up. 

Charlie jerks away from him, laughing. “What are you talking about?” 

“You’ve got rigged dice hiding up there. I know you do!” Bosco yanks at his sleeve; Charlie forces it back down. In his peripheral vision, Bosco can see June’s eyebrows lift in disbelief. “He does,” he insists. “That was the exact number he needed! It’s not luck!” 

“Stop harassing me!” Charlie squirms, trying to keep his sleeve down. 

“June, help!” Bosco pleads. 

Charlie wrangles Bosco off of him. “You’re fucking psycho—June, no,” he moans as June slides up beside him, tugging at his other arm. “I’m not cheating! Stop it!” 

Giddy hilarity has bubbled its way up Bosco’s throat. He laughs, the peal higher than he could’ve imagined. “Off. Off,” June says, yanking Charlie’s arm out of his sleeve; Bosco follows with his other arm, exposing his bare chest underneath. “Ew, Charlie, who wears nothing underneath a hoodie? It’s outerwear." 

The heel of Bosco’s palm is press against Charlie’s chest. “Put a shirt on,” he says, shoving him away. Heat thrums up Bosco’s skin, his wrist. 

He shakes out Charlie’s hoodie. A clatter loosens a pair of dice from his sleeve. June shrieks. 

Bosco lets out a triumphant noise. “Ha! I knew it! Cheating at Monopoly, you sick fuck!” 

June rockets at Charlie, toppling him over onto his back. He’s gasping, hands up in surrender as he laughs. “Okay—okay, okay, I’m cheating, you caught me—” 

June’s wearing a slip dress. The hem of it slides up her thigh as she wrangles Charlie to the ground. “You’re just like your sister! Scamming the poor out of their businesses, taking up all the properties on the block—” 

“Hey, June, you’re the one with fifteen properties,” Bosco says, knocking her in the head. She glares at him—he braces himself, but it’s not enough. She jumps at him next. His breath gusts out of his chest as she knocks him over, arms scrambling for purchase. “You—too—” 

“Junie, Junie,” Charlie gasps, somehow still managing to click his tongue. He sits up, leaning over to tug June off of Bosco. “You can’t fall to violence every time you have a disagreement—” 

“I’ll show you violence.” 

“Junebug!” Bosco shrieks, laughing; he grabs for her, finds his hand cupping her torso. She softens on top of him, and then they’re like this—her sitting on his lap, his neck strained upwards, hand tucked in the curve of her waist, Charlie’s arm caressing the soft of his back, helping him up. 

Something stirs in the depth of Bosco’s stomach. 

Charlie’s probably out of his depth. 

Things come at him all at once. He’s not really the dawning type; realizations curl to him in a lightning shock, not like June’s careful puzzle-fitting or Bosco’s grudging, growing acceptance of the truth. 

The first time he meets June he knows she’s pretty. Anyone with eyes can see that. He knows she likes her eyes and her lips to give her an everlasting pout; that she likes short skirts and tall heels; that she’s obsessive about her hair. These all strike him as evidence to the fact he’d eventually confirm—which is that she used to be pretty well off before being homeless—but it also files itself under the tab in his brain very useless information that I might need someday. 

He never needs it. He always uses it, though. 

The first time he meets Bosco his mouth goes dry. He’s a total asshole, sure, but so is June—maybe Charlie likes them that way. But he’s tall, lanky to boot, which bends him like an illusion and makes him seem taller. He holds himself all grand, poised in the places Charlie isn’t. His expressions move freely, fluidly. He spasms muscles and twitches features Charlie hadn’t known existed on the face. He tries to ignore this beyond the satisfaction of realizing it’s because he’s an actor, that he knows how to morph expression and utilize all the bits and pieces of his body because of his time on stage, but it doesn’t work very often. Not when Bosco slides the side of his mouth up into a lopsided smirk or flutters the creases by his eyes into a soft quirk of a smile. 

They’re both very conventionally attractive people. 

They’re at a party—a college one, some rich kid throwing a rager at their parents’ penthouse. June had scored them invites by knowing the right group of girls. Their fingers are sticky going in, eyes wary, minds calibrating the spaces the cameras take in and the angles the bodies around them are blocking. They soften once they’ve found the cash and hidden it in the soles of their shoes and the linings of their jackets.

It’s a loud party. Charlie isn’t much for them. The Vanderbergs used to have them all the time—galas, not ragers like this, but they all blend together to him. He could hear the muffle of the music from his room at the live-in housemaid quarters. He’d press his ear to the wall to catch bits and pieces of conversation, perking up when he heard his dad’s voice. He’d never been to one. 

Now he sits at the sidelines, sloped against a wall with a drink in hand. The crowd is painted in strobing lights, his center of gravity grounded in two different people. Bosco is surrounded by a group of girls, all bent a little forwards to flash a glimpse down their dresses. He’s got an arm around one of them and flirt in his mouth. His eyes flutter, never in one place at a time, each girl on her tiptoes, leaning in. Charlie watches as he teases, puts a hand at one waist, touches the arm of another. They fall for it. They’re moths. 

June is dancing. She likes it, she’s always doing it when they’re out; swiveling her person to person, gyrating her hips, arms twisted out above her. She hadn’t taken any dance classes to Charlie’s knowledge, but she feels trained—ballet, maybe, for the core strength, or hip-hop for the footwork. She’s passed around the floor, its most loyal attender, stroking her hands through hair and down spines, wicking her fingers across cheeks. Light flashes in her eyes. She’s a lick of flame. 

They come to find him when they’re bored. June’s breath is heavy. She plops down beside Charlie, curling her feet into his. 

“You should join me,” she gasps. “You’re always wallflowering. You should dance. It’s fun.” 

“I don’t know how.” 

June’s eyes glitter. “I’ll teach you.”

Bosco slips over to them. His mouth is plump—a jolt of something hits Charlie’s chest; June narrows her gaze. She lifts her hand and pinches Bosco’s bottom lip between two manicured fingers. 

Charlie’s voice strangles him from the inside out. “Who did this?” 

Bosco’s drunk. He grins; June’s fingers slip into his mouth, just the first knuckle in. “Jealous?” he slurs. 

June removes her hand delicately. “You’re so fucking wasted right now.” 

“Get down here.” Charlie grabs onto Bosco’s arm and tugs him into him. He falls, pliant, collapsing onto the floor. The hardwood shudders beneath him. Charlie does too. 

Charlie is more than out of his depth. Charlie is fucked. 

Here comes the million-dollar question: how do you tell your two best friends in the whole world that you’re in love with both of them? 

They wish they could say they fell into it. That they slipped and suddenly loved each other and all knew it. That one day they bantered over their kitchen island—Charlie chopping the vegetables, Bosco preheating the oven, June mixing the salad—and paused, looking at each other, really looking. That upon doing so, they suddenly knew. That they sorted out all the heats and flicks and flares of jealousy and hurt and want in one glance. That it was easy. 

But—

June’s never been adept at falling: her feet are too quick, her legs too limber. Bosco fell once, and he takes great pains to ensure it never happens again: he’s not the kind of person to trust anyone to catch him, even after all this time. Charlie stumbles often—he’s used to falling flat on his face—but he finally has the chance not to, and he’s not giving in that easily.

And they all have issues. Authority. Abandonment. Insecurity.

June hates being told what to do. Authority is something she’s fought her entire life—her parents, her teachers, the cops. She’s barely acquiescent during jobs. She needs to have some sort of say in herself: she’s a girl of free will. She has to be. 

It happens after dinner time. They’ve finished a round of Clue—a game they all know how to win by now; it’s a game of luck, not strategy, seeing who has the most weapons, who asks questions first—lounging around the television in the middle of the room. She’d won; she’d basked in the win, soaked in her feelings, lockpicked her own heart. 

“What if I told you I’m in love with you?” she asks, one question, one unwavering one of voice. Out loud. 

Time freezes. 

Life is a puzzle. June knows this. She solves each thrown her way. Charlie’s widened eyes, Adam’s apple caught mid-swallow, heat gathering to the edges of his nose, clear his breath has caught. Bosco’s parted lips, his ever-shifting gaze, his twitching fingers spasming at each knuckle so both hands pulse like an out-of-sync spider. June isn’t afraid of the answers. She knows what they are. She’s afraid of what comes after the answers. 

“June,” Charlie says carefully, because he’s weighed all the options already, and he doesn’t think that it’ll work. That’s what she catches from his voice and his face and the breath that tumbles out from him before he steadies himself to say her name. 

“June,” Bosco murmurs, softly, because this is something he had privately always known, deep down, but he didn’t want to tell himself because there was some chance in there that it wasn’t true. Like Julliard. Like money. Like everything else in his life. 

“I’m just saying, we’ve been fine for all of this already,” June says. “All the girls in New York know me as the bitch with two boyfriends, not to be crass—”

“June,” Charlie snaps. 

Tension pours out between them, sickly soft, drizzled from one person to the other in a triangular zigzag. Caramel on a chocolate. Icing on a cake. June swallows. It’s thick. 

“Don’t June me. I’m not an idiot.” 

“Relationships are hard.” 

“Charlie,” Bosco starts. There’s pain laced in his voice. 

June’s too incensed to register it. “So is taking down your billionaire sister but we’ve wasted all our time and resources on that for the past five months.” 

Charlie flinches. “Wasted?” 

Hurt flashes along the lining of June’s rib cage. “Oh, so it’s not a waste when it comes to your hyperfixation and revenge, but it’s a waste when it comes to me and Bosco?” She stands up abruptly. Charlie scrambles to his feet. “Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to feel.” 

“June—” 

“Shut up, Charlie. I don’t give a shit.” 

June slams the bedroom door behind her. She locks it. Her chest heaves. Barely a minute, at the maximum it was three. Three minutes for her world to crush down on her. A flurry of feelings drag along her spine and crackle at her rib cage. It’s mostly anger. 

Voices flood out from the living room. They’re arguing. Someone knocks on the door; instinctively, June knows it’s Bosco, so she opens it. Charlie looks over his shoulder. 

She wants to be mean; to bite at his insecurities, so yanks Bosco inside and slams the door on Charlie. 

Then she kisses Bosco full on the mouth.

Bosco has always been good at improv. He only fumbles for a second before his fingers are sliding to June’s waist; he slopes down, curling his shoulders inwards, sagging at the knees. June’s hands hang around his neck; she pulls him down as much as she hoists herself up, scrambling at his shoulders for purchase. 

His mouth is hot and fuzzy, smearing the edges of her brain into fog, softening the tautness of her muscles into jelly. He kisses her like he’s been waiting to do it forever: like he’s thought about it every night, tracing his lips with his, prying her mouth open and gliding his tongue against every individual tooth. One of his arms slides down to curl at her thighs, pulling her up. 

June’s feet gasp free of the ground. Her heart pulses against her teeth; Bosco presses his tongue right against it, his thumb kneading circles into her spine. She shudders, involuntary, and sucks on his bottom lip. A groan tears from his mouth; he tilts his head away, gasping, and her lungs crumple. 

“Jesus—fuck,” Bosco manages out. His face is flush with heat. June presses her palm to his chest, the other still pinching the skin of his name. “You’re a bitch.” 

“I know,” June wheezes. “That’s—” 

“He’s right outside, you asshole.” 

“I didn’t see you complaining.” 

Bosco sets her down. It hurts to touch the floor: the balls of her feet press against the hardwood like she’s crashing back down to earth. “Shit.” 

“Stop cursing.” June’s hot all over. Bosco’s eyes are bright and wide; his pupils have swallowed the color of his irises. “Come back here.” 

“That’s not nice.” 

“Fuck being nice. He doesn’t think it’ll work. We can do it without him,” June snaps. 

“Junebug.” Bosco looks pained. “He didn’t—he’s just worried. You can’t—just end it all. Because of this.” 

Afraid, June realizes. He looks afraid. “Pick a side,” she demands. “You can’t kiss me like that and then say to hear him out. Playing Switzerland isn’t going to make both of us stay.” 

Bosco flinches. Regret is sure to settle in later, but it’s not there yet. “Get out,” June says. 

“June—” 

“No. Fuck you both. Get out.” 

Bosco leaves. June’s heart aches. Her stomach aches. She can still taste him; he sits on her tongue, slots in the nooks of her gums. She’s left unsatisfied. She’s missing one flavor. 

Fuck. Fuck. 

No knocks come to the bedroom door. June can’t sleep after that—can’t get Charlie’s voice out her head, Bosco’s mouth off of hers—she just thrashes angrily in her bed, shoving at her pillow like it’s their heads. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. They were supposed to fall. It was supposed to be easy. 

Bosco thinks he’s going insane. 

There’s electricity pent up in his veins, burning at his skin, peppering third-degrees from the inside out. His breath comes out in forceful cycles. Charlie watches him stumble free of the bedroom with a flex in his chin. 

“What did she do?” 

“What does it look like?” Bosco shudders, his entire figure shaking like he’s having a seizure. “Why the fuck would you say that?” 

“I was just—” 

Bosco’s a little thrown to glare, but he musters up his features into it anyway, pulling taut his brows and slackening the line of his jaw. His mouth feels painfully soft. “Relationships are hard?” 

“Considering her reaction to just this—” 

“That is very fucking rich of you to say considering you were the one who started it.” Terror bites at the edges of Bosco’s anger. He knows this, has already predicted this. He’d known. He knows how Charlie watches the hollow of his throat and the way June’s eyes follow the lines of his shoulders. 

He’d known and he didn’t want it—didn’t want the screaming and the tossing, the bottles against the walls, the hands around the throats, the early graves. His grandparents were better, at least. Loved each other. Did stupid shit, spent too much and hoarded, weaponized incompetence and guilt-tripped, but it was there, at least. Bosco finally fucking has something. He finally has something and now he knows—like everything else—that he’s going to lose it. 

“I was trying to be realistic.” 

“Realistic is that we crash and burn,” Bosco says. He tries to make himself sound matter-of-fact. Usually it’d work. He’s good at it, after all. But right now his voice cracks. Charlie’s mouth is hinged slightly open; Bosco wonders what he’d say if he slotted his own over it, sucked his soul straight out from his throat. “Great. So glad to have your genius opinion on that, Charlie, really great stuff.” 

“Bos.” 

“No. Now I’m mad at you too.” 

“You think I’m confirming it,” Charlie says. “You’re mad because you think it’s true.” Heat flares in the pit of Bosco’s stomach. “Look, you—you—you can go and try it with June. It’ll probably be fine with just the two of you. I don’t need to be part—” 

Bosco shoves Charlie. It’s not hard; it makes him teeter off his balance, flattens him into the couch, no harm done. “You do not get to give up,” he hisses. His teeth are grit together; the scrape of them against each other rings pain up into Bosco’s gums. “You do not get to cut yourself out of the equation. I am not losing you.” 

“I’ll still be here, you just won’t fuck me—” 

Bosco grabs Charlie by the biceps. “Stop talking.” 

For some reason, Charlie listens. Maybe it’s because they’re so close to each other. Charlie shifts his head away. “She already made out with you.” 

“Can you not be an idiot for three seconds?” 

Charlie doesn’t blink. His eyelashes flutter. In the dim light, it casts dancing shadows across the slopes of his cheeks, ghosts writhing against each other. His gaze is low, on Bosco’s mouth. “You can’t expect to kiss me and get all this fixed. It won’t work.” 

“Is this supposed to be reverse psychology?” Heat tightens along the forefront of Bosco’s brain. He lets go of Charlie and slumps onto the couch beside him. He feels cold after letting go, though, so he brushes his foot against Charlie’s; presses their legs together. “Don’t be a jealous bitch and cut yourself out of this because you’re insecure.” 

“Bosco—” 

“You are the heart of this. You are the heart of us. You’re the fucking mastermind. Don’t sit there saying you’re whatever we need you to be. You’re not.” 

Moonlight glows through June’s window. It’s soft and sleek. Charlie slackens, his head falling back. “It might not work.” 

“It definitely won’t if you stop it before it can.” Bosco shifts onto his side. His breath warms Charlie’s skin. He can see the blossom of heat in patches, smooth brown rosying under his caress. Bosco traces the line of his neck with his eyes. “Self-sabotage isn’t a good look on you.”

Strained, Charlie says, “I don’t—“

Bosco never figured out what it is he doesn’t, because he tilts his head to Charlie’s neck and kisses the junction by his collar bone. Charlie seizes beneath him; Bosco smooths against his chest, keeping him steady. Heat drips into Bosco’s lungs as he kisses Charlie again, and again, following the tensed line of his muscle from the point of his clavicle to behind his ear. 

He flutters his mouth across the slope of Charlie’s cheek. “Don’t,” Bosco murmurs, lips buzzing against his skin. “Say anything.” 

Charlie gasps beneath him, his eyes red at the edges, fixed open like he’s been frozen in time. Bosco seals his mouth over his: it’s soft, yielding, not nearly as desperate as he’d been with June. She’d bitten the edges off of him. She’d shed the spikes. There’s just sticky warmth left for Charlie. 

Charlie rouses beneath him, one hand curling at Bosco’s stomach, the other tangling in his hair. He strokes his thumb against the nape of his neck as Bosco kisses him deeper, mouthing open his lips, curling his tongue in the seam between them. Sparks flutter between them, embers trembling from a fire, startling but gentle enough to ignore. 

Heat unfurls from Charlie’s mouth, and Bosco softens his movements, lifts himself up and away with a final lick against his lips. Charlie’s voice wrings out of him like the last droplets of water from a towel. “You’re not going to kiss me into agreeing.” 

“You’re ruining the moment, fuckwad.” 

Charlie’s eyes flutter shut. “Shit. I have to apologize.” 

“Give her the night.” Bosco stands up. His heart feels like it’s going to fall out of its socket. He takes care in walking to the kitchen, fishing in the fridge for a drink. Fuck. Fuck, what had they been doing before this? Playing Clue? “She—probably needs it.” 

Pain flashes across Charlie’s face. “Bos.” 

“Yup.” Bosco takes a swig of his seltzer. “We all fucked up.” 

The morning comes too fast and not fast enough. Charlie sleeps on the couch overnight; his elbows and knees sink into the cushions like putty, a crick flushing the spine at his neck. His head aches. He sleeps, wakes up, sleeps again, wakes again. It’s blue outside, the pale light shining through from June’s window. He gets up off the couch. Bosco’s figure is curled atop one of the beds. 

Dying embers of jealousy sizzle at the bottom of Charlie’s stomach. He knows it’s stupid. That he’d kissed Bosco minutes after June had; that he’d swallowed him down, that he loved him as much as she did, and the other way around too. But they’re so fucking brilliant. Charlie’s just—Charlie. 

His feet sweep against the ground. He knocks on the bedroom door. It slides open after a second. June’s eyes are like the reflection on asphalt during a night rain—glossy and dark, fading out all the colors given to her. Her shirt—she’s wearing one of Bosco’s—has sloped off of her shoulder, baring a prickle of goosebumps at its peak. 

She wordlessly slips inside of the room. Charlie closes the door behind him. “Look—” 

“As far as I’m aware, you’re here for a change of clothes.” June slips back into bed, tossing her blankets over her figure. Charlie leans back on his heels. “Don’t stare.” 

“Junebug.” 

“Don’t. And don’t say “I was just—”, either. Give me an actual reason.” She speaks into her pillow, words partly muffled. Charlie has to strain to hear her. The slope of her body lifts and falls as she breathes: deep, burning, cycling in and out in perfect seconds. She’s counting down the seconds for her inhales and exhales. 

“You’re both too good for me,” Charlie says finally. He feels the slightest bit of shame prickle the back of his neck as he speaks. “You’d figure it out and cut me out eventually.” 

“No, we wouldn’t.” June’s words are bitterly fierce. “But I’m not going to say anything else because I’m too pissed off to compliment you right now.” 

Charlie’s voice broke. “You kissed him. I know you told him you wanted to do it alone.” 

June’s voice soars. “Because you rejected us!” 

“I didn’t reject you—I—I didn’t mean to—” 

“But you did anyway,” June says. “And yeah, okay, I was a bitch. I’m sorry that I’m not perfect and that I’m messy and mean, and that we’re all messy and mean to each other. You evidently already knew it was going to happen. It’s not fair to be mad about it.” 

Charlie makes his way over to her bed. It takes him a moment; his feet are stuck to the ground, caught in a honey trap. He moves sluggish but all at once. His legs seize underneath him. Finally he collapses, curling into her side, pulling his legs up to the mattress after flattening himself at the bed’s edge. Her spine is to him. 

Charlie traces its journey down her back with a finger. He slides his free hand across her waist when he gets there, curling his knuckle at her last vertebrae, turning her slowly around. June’s gaze is still full of fight as she locks eyes with him. Her face is crumpled into her pillow, hair snaking out all around her. She hasn’t taken her makeup off. Charlie lifts his hand from where it’s perched at her waist—slides it up her side, her neck, her chin—and rubs at her lip liner with the crook of a finger. 

A breathy murmur parts June’s lips. Charlie finds her hand and entangles it with his own. He presses kisses against each of her knuckles. “Are you still mad at Bosco?”

“Yes.” 

“At me?” 

“Definitely.” 

“Can I kiss you?” 

June’s face twitches. “Please.” 

Charlie is careful with everything. He sets everything up like a magic trick, like a heist, searching for the perfect payoff, the biggest payout. He thumbs a wisp of hair lying across her cheek with one hand, keeping the other entwined around hers, and pries it to the side. He settles her head back and leans in. He’s careful, soft, barely grazing his lips with his own, moving from corner to corner, mapping out the cameras and the exit routes. 

He softens his way into the kiss, easing her mouth open, pushing down her bottom lip with his and tracing out the perimeter of it with his tongue. She tastes like light and candy sugar, heady and thick, slow as molasses. He sucks his words into her mouth; rumbles them out along the seams of her teeth. “I’m sorry.” 

June’s words muffle against his lips. She raises her free hand, digging it into his nape, tangling her fingers into his curls. She tugs him down, presses his chest to hers so he can feel her heartbeat shocking into his. She tries to pry into him, tongue flat against his, but he tugs at her hair and she relaxes, letting him suck into her lip. His breath cycles into her mouth and across her face from sharp gasps of his nose. She whines into him; he nudged her away. “I’m sorry.” 

“Oh, is that what you were saying?” 

“I still don’t know if it’ll work.” 

“I think that’s kind of the point,” June says. “Just like your insane plan to get the Horsemen back together, and living here, and pulling off all of the tricks we have. We don’t know but we try anyway.” 

June trembles in their venue, checking the time every few seconds. She’s sloped, leaning, against the bar in the back. Charlie fiddles with the controllers a few feet away; Bosco is checking the hologram sheets at the stage; June’s palms itch. Her wig is cheap, from the corner beauty market, and it digs into her nape at the back, scratching at her hairline. 

“You keep fidgeting,” Charlie says, not looking up. June takes this as a sign to fidget more. “Was just an observation, June. Don’t need to pick out of spite.” 

“Saying that is just gonna make her—” Bosco calls from the stage. On cue, June yanks at her wig. It slides off. “Told you.” 

Charlie sighs. “Come here.” He slides over to her instead, taking the wig from her and tucking it underneath his arm. He smooths back her hair. June wonders what she’s done in life to get to this. All the things she’d selfishly given up; all the things she’d stumbled into. “It’s okay. This isn’t even the biggest night.” 

“What if he doesn’t find us after?” June asks. 

“He will. Might take a few days, but he will,” Charlie says. He sweeps up the last of June’s hair and slips her wig back onto her scalp, tugging it at the back and straightening it at the front. His cheek presses close to her nose as he does this. 

June leans forward and kisses him as he leans away; catching him at the chin. She tilts him downwards. He acquiesces, hand pursing at her hip, pushing her back into the bar countertop.  

“Seriously, guys?” The thud of Bosco jumping off the stage echoes around the room, the sound dancing in the rafters. He slips beside them, curling his fingers beneath the neckline of June’s shirt and tugging it downwards to expose her shoulder. He bends down; fluttering soft kisses along the line of her collar as Charlie parts her lips, licking into her mouth. 

Bosco’s the one who speaks: “It’ll be fine. Atlas is way too arrogant not to show up and get pissed off by my amazing impersonation." 

June pushes Charlie off of her, sealing her fingers over his mouth for a moment. “This is a deeply unsexy topic to be talking about.” 

Bosco rolls his eyes. “We’re working. We’re not supposed to be being sexy.” Still, he pushes June’s hand away, bending down to steal a kiss off Charlie’s lips. 

“Such a dork,” June mutters. Bosco grins. 

“He’s right. We should be working.” Charlie straightens. “Back to the stage, Bos. June—?” 

“I’m fine,” June reassures him. She spreads her hands across her skirt, flattening the pleats against her thighs. “It‘ll go great.” 

They get a few stolen moments on their way to the chateau. Bosco tugs June and Charlie into the back as the Horsemen get to their bickering on the train. “Isn’t this kind of crazy?” he asks, dubious. “If we—I don’t know.” 

“You say this while we’re on the way to France?” Charlie asks. “Really?” 

Bosco shakes his head. “Sorry. It just—kinda feels like we’re out of our depth here.” He squirms a little. They’re stuck in one of the kitchenettes in the back of their train car, so they have to keep their voices low; Bosco is sloped up near the back, Charlie sitting on the counter beside him as June stands in front. 

“You’re doing the thing,” June says. “You know, where you undercompensate instead of overcompensate.” 

“Hey.” 

“She’s right,” Charlie says unapologetically. “We know the chateau is ready. We got the hard part over with, okay? Now we just need to play our parts convincingly.” 

“The police are after us.” 

“Which was something we all figured was going to happen.” 

“Don’t try to reason with him. I can fix this,” June says with a roll of her eyes. She gestures for Charlie to move; he obliges, a smile dancing at his lips, as June hops up onto the counter beside Bosco. She tugs him to her, pressing her palms against his stomach and pushing. 

Bosco buckles over, and June kisses him quickly, hurried, tongue licking into his mouth without giving him so much as a moment to breathe. Her hands slip to his hips, gripping him tight. June has this movement about her—she does things fast, all at once, but she’s never sloppy. It’s like the practiced movements of a dancer, a jump from a lamp post to a store awning, done in the blink of an eye but only made easy after years and years of practice. 

“Break it up before someone notices,” Charlie says; Bosco breathes out, his lungs constricting. “I think Merritt’s suspicious.” 

“About the fact that we’re dating? Who cares,” he scoffs. “If we find out one of the Horsemen are homophobic, I will gladly—” 

“Shut up,” June and Charlie say in unison. 

Bosco bats his eyelashes. “Make me.” 

“You do it. I’m done with him.” June jumps off the counter. “I’m gonna go see if I can cozy up to Henley.” She blows them both a kiss and struts off around the corner. 

Charlie is going to lose it. 

He digs his fingernails into his palms, hay pricking into his legs. It’s been almost two hours since June was captured by the police. He and the other Horsemen slipped away into a barn; they’re all on the ground, discussing backup plans, but Charlie had slipped up to the loft to be amongst the hay and alfalfa. He’s an idiot. June kidnapped, Thaddeus dead. All because of him. All because he needed revenge. Fuck. Shit. 

“You being emo all by yourself up here, handsome?” Bosco clambers up to the loft, his feet crunching against the hay below foot as he settles beside Charlie. They take turns going insane—it was Bosco first, but now he has to stay in line as Charlie freaks out. “Existentially spiraling?” 

“Not in the mood,” Charlie grits out. 

Bosco puts his hand at the nape of Charlie’s neck. His heartbeat shudders into his palm. “I know.” 

“I—” 

“I know. We’ll get her back.” 

A strangled sentence rises out of Charlie’s mouth. “An innocent man died. Because of me.” 

Bosco doesn’t have anything to say for that. He hesitates. “Charlie. It’s okay. We knew things might happen. We planned for it.” 

Charlie shakes his head. It’s a sudden jerk, a spasm that cracks a few of the bones in his neck out of place, echoing pain up to the crown of his skull. “We should just—” 

“We are not telling everyone about the plan. Sunk-cost fallacy.” 

A horrified laugh leaves Charlie. “It’s called a fallacy for a reason.” 

Bosco either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care to answer. He circles his fingers into the hollows of Charlie’s neck, working up and down his spine to soothe out the crick he’d set into it. His breath ghosts against his skin; he presses a kiss to his neck, and then another. “You’re fine. June is okay.” 

“I know your tells.” 

“Yeah,” Bosco says, then kisses Charlie closer to his nape. “But I know what turns you on, so I figure that’s a pretty good distraction.” 

Charlie elbows him in the gut. “June is in jail and you’re trying to turn me on?” 

Bosco makes a face. “Don’t say it like that. That makes me sound bad.” 

“I wonder why,” Still, Charlie lets him kiss him; they’re not very clean ones, all hurried and messy, wet at the edges. He swallows them down like medicine. 

“Are you two up there?” Atlas calls from below. “We figured something out.” 

Bosco leans back, licking away the line of saliva connecting their mouths. “We have a show to put on. Ready for it?” 

No. Charlie says as much. Bosco doesn’t much care; he tugs Charlie down anyway. 

Bosco is making quesadillas. He’s surprisingly adept at cooking—but to be fair, he’s adept at most things he attempts. The Horsemen have left their flat, their home reduced back to the three of them. Charlie sits at the kitchen table, notebook and map in front of him as he works on their next show. June’s chair is tilted towards him, her feet kicked up onto his lap. 

June Rouclere is selfish and controlling. Bosco Leroy is anxious and overcompensating. Charlie Vanderberg is insecure and jealous. They often bring out the worst in each other. Their whole lives change with every insult dashed their way. But between the curls in their guts and the anger in their eyes, they figure it out.