In Fair Verona

Chapter One

A/N: Oh, god, so I'm really neurotic about posting this. Right off the bat, I have to give major thanks to jblostfan16 for being my ever gracious beta and cheerleader and listening to me go OH MY GOD WHAT IF EVERYONE THINKS I'M PSYCHOTIC FOR WRITING THIS, NO ONE WANTS TO READ ABOUT KENDALL AND JAMES WEARING HAWAIIAN SHIRTS IN A DYSTOPIAN FUTURE AND CARRYING GUNS, and to breila-rose for cheerleading and letting me text her every five seconds about this story (particularly James polishing his sword), and goten0040 for indirectly inspiring me with her fic So Here I Go Breaking All The Rules, in which Carlos was Mercutio. HE WAS, LIZ. Goten0040 also drew a fab picture of Kendall ala R+J, which is awesomesauce and I will link to it in my profile.

Now. I've been working on this story's concept since the end of October, when I got back from Verona, Italy (among other places). I'm not such a fan of Romeo and Juliet (shockgaspawe), but I love all things starcrossed lovers, and I love Leonardo DiCaprio's entire being in William Shakespeare's Romeo + Juliet. This is very much inspired by that, but if you've ever read anything by me, you'll know when I say inspired, I very much mean INSPIRED, and not BASED ON. I'm hoping this ends up being a very different creature. For instance, SPOILER: NO ONE WILL BE KILLING THEMSELVES. I'm not saying no one's going to die, but I don't do suicide. Ever. There will be a decent amount of minor character death in this (mostly people I created), and because it is a retelling of Romeo and Juliet, there's going to be major character death at points too. I'm warning for that right now. There will also be drinking, bad words, cursing, and a lot of gay sex in later chapters.

The end pairing in this story is Kendall/James. There is a bit of Kendall/Mercedes to get there, and likely James/ofcs, and I don't even know what else. Camille/Logan? We'll see. This is (obviously) totally AU, and it's kind of my baby right now. So idek, be kind.

"And you're from…?"

The sun hits his face, too bright and awkward angles. Kendall squints and tries to keep his cocksure smile from slipping. Helpfully, he supplies, "Minnesota, sir."

He's trying for confident and casual. But beneath the surface of the big oak desk, Kendall's fingers tap nervously against his knee, energy and fear fighting for dominance.

If he flunks this interview, he's all out of options.

"And how are people in Minnesota?" The man sitting across from him is wearing a red suit, the precise color of blood. It's almost funny, because a good portion of Verona was built using Arthur Griffin's blood money. Even before the Fall, he was a rich, powerful man. Now, he is the most rich, powerful man on the western seaboard. The streets are paved with the skeletons of people who dared defy his will.

"As far as I'm aware? Dead, sir," Kendall tries to keep his voice clear of anything like emotion. Getting all weepy eyed will kill his chances at this job. He needs this. Badly.

There's a stuffed raccoon sitting on the broad surface of the desk. It looks pissed, and Kendall's not sure if that's on purpose or if it's an experiment in taxidermy gone terribly wrong. He tries to avoid the dead thing's gaze, but Griffin's is not much better. Griffin's eyes narrow. "Your family?"

This is it. This is a test. Kendall can't choke. He swallows and says levelly, "Gone."

Kendall watches as Griffin brightens and jots something down on the gilded leather notebook in front of him, humming to himself. After a beat, he says, "Splendid. I like a man with no attachments. Means you'll have a flexible schedule."

Kendall will not punch his future boss. He will not. He reminds himself how much he needs this job. Things are getting bad in Verona. The riots are happening more frequently. Public executions occur every day. He needs the protection employment with Griffin will afford him.

Kendall is pissed, but that's nothing new. He has spent most of his life angry with the whole wide world.

"Why are you interested in security? What makes you think you've got the chops?" Griffin's lips smack together. He's old. His skin is thin. But he does not look frail.

Kendall has no trouble at all believing that Griffin could destroy him with a word.

"I've survived on my own all this time, haven't I?" Kendall puts just the right amount of challenge into the question, just enough reckless confidence that it sounds impressive.

Griffin doesn't know that Kendall hasn't ever done anything on his own. God willing, he'll never find out.

"You'll be working with Gustavo Rocque. He runs the studios on the beach. The equipment costs more than your life is worth, and Gustavo's more of a hassle than his life is worth too. But the people want music." Griffin shrugs. "They'll get it. For now."

Kendall nods. It sounds like easy work.

It sounds like he's hired.

He's saving his victory dance, though, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Gustavo's got talent, loathe as I am to admit it. Your only job is to keep him happy and alive."

"I can do that."

Probably. Kendall can't imagine why someone would want to kill a fat cat record producer on Griffin's payroll when there's fifty more just like him down the street. Music is the foundation on which Verona was built.

"Goody." Griffin couldn't make the word sound more blasé if he tried. "You start tomorrow. Rocque Records. Nine o'clock. Oh, and, Knight?"

Kendall's in the process of standing, ready to get the fuck out of the big, spacious, slightly creepy office as quickly as humanly possible. But the edge on Griffin's words makes him pause. "Yeah?"

"I don't like failure. I'd recommend you get very, very good at your job, very fast."

Kendall swallows. He's got no backup plan; this is it. This is the way he's going to live out the rest of his life. "Understood."

The interview's over. Griffin tells him where to report in the morning and then mumbles something about cold pants, which Kendall takes as his cue to leave. He steps out into the sunlight, wincing under the harsh glare of it.

The pavement is cracked and unsteady beneath his feet. Heat rises off it in waves. Even the houses don't cast shadows, like the dark is scared to defy the ever-present sun.

This is his city.

Verona; fair as a summer breeze.

That's what they say, anyway. Mostly Kendall thinks it's miserably hot, and the only thing the rare breeze carries is the stench of sea salt and dead fish. But it's home, and it isn't like he's got another one.

When Los Angeles was hit, it was hit hard. Nearly ten million people gone in an instant. Survivors were few and far between, and mostly consisted of people like Griffin, who was vacationing in Bora Bora at the time. There were a lot of people who thought California wouldn't bounce back from the strike.

They were sorely mistaken. In Hollywood, people always thought they were the center of the world. Just because the apocalypse came and went, they were supposed to roll over and play dead? Become irrelevant? Not likely. Arthur Griffin and men like him stepped up. Verona, formally a quaint beach hotspot known by another name, was created to assuage the vanity of the entertainment industry; all those wealthy souls who were convinced the world could not go on without them. But it was also created for music.

Even at the end of the world, people want to fold themselves inside notes and lyrics. Verona is about recapturing that feeling, about losing and finding, about inspiration and hope. It's a city of dreams. At least that's how they spin it in the pamphlets they hand out to refugees.

Kendall doesn't buy any of that. Music doesn't make the world go 'round. But he can admit it's the epicenter of Verona.

There's only one long range radio station on the entire west coast, jury-rigged from the government's emergency broadcast signal, which has been flatlining the airwaves for close to fifteen years. Griffin owns it. Well. Not technically, but if the government minds that Griffin's pirating their EBS, they haven't said anything. He runs a good business, and for all intents and purposes, it's made him a god amongst mortal men. Griffin also owns the blocks of Verona closest to the coast, while George Hawk stands guard at the outskirts, his employees more like a militant blockade, controlling who comes and goes.

Hawk controls half the city. His men are everywhere. He and Griffin don't like each other much, but they have an understanding, and that understanding keeps the city from chaos.

And, of course, the music. No one outside the starry-eyed refugees expects it to change the way everything has gone to shit. But the constant flow of new musicians on Griffin's pirated-broadcast gives Verona something to focus on. People still need to be entertained, and the influx of ever changing songs and artists make the world feel almost like normal.

If you don't take a good look at the world.

A woman pushing a cart over the fractured pavement brings a cacophony of creaky wheels and rattling metal along with her. She grins a toothless grin at Kendall, who ignores her. As a general rule, he doesn't smile at strangers.

Kindness doesn't get anyone anywhere.

On the corner, beneath a faded green road sign, there's a guy chain smoking. He's got this whole James Dean thing going on in a tight white v-neck stained with age and even tighter black jeans.

Kendall walks up to him, and now he does smile. This wannabe desperado is not a stranger.

"That took forever," James draws out the word. He takes a drag off his cigarette and throws it to the ground. The embers smolder against asphalt.

"Miss me?"

"You wish." James snorts. "I just spent an hour watching clouds and avoiding the handsy bag lady over there."

The woman with the shopping cart smiles and winks. James pouts. "I want to go to L'amour."

Of course. James is bored out of his blessed little mind, and no one's informed him that it's not actually Kendall's job to entertain him. Kendall actually has a real job now, working for Griffin, which he tells James.

Who doesn't even have the decency to look impressed. "Duh."

"Duh? That's all you have to say to me? Duh?" Kendall gapes.

James shrugs. "I knew you'd get the job. But congrats anyway. We'll be living the high life now. My buddy, working for Arthur Griffin."

James slings an arm around Kendall's neck, guiding him forward. He's making a beeline for L'amour, the billiards bar right up on the beach where everyone they know wastes away the day.

When they turn the corner, Kendall's steps falter, but only for a beat.

There's a man hanging in the middle of the boulevard, strung up from a streetlight. His bloated body sways in that barely-there, fair Verona breeze. The birds have already been at him, and there are gaping wounds where his flesh served as carrion, including a chunk of his purple lips. There's a piece of rainbow fabric tucked into the belt loop of his ratty jeans.

James is fearless. His lip curls when he sees the corpse, and there is a flash of something dark in his eyes. Then it passes. He salutes the body like it can actually appreciate the gesture, and then he draws his sword. James nicked the thing from the museum of medieval whatever that lays in ruins on the outskirts of LA. He has no idea what to do with it, but he spends a lot of time polishing it and admiring his own reflection in the cold steel. Now he uses the pointy edge to lift the rainbow cloth from the dead man's pocket, twirling it in the air once before it floats down to the ground.

James makes sure to stomp on it as they walk past, his laughter carrying on the wind.

Kendall looks away.

They say in Verona you can taste the creativity in the air, the sweetness and the tang of it on your tongue. Sometimes all Kendall can taste is death.

They walk to L'amour, a ramshackle building with stained siding and red accents, splintered wood and peeling paint. By the door is a poster, the edges curling. The words stand out in bold letters.

Do your civic duty. Repopulate.

It's a slogan that all of them know by heart, perpetuated by the Reproduction Initiative, known in common vernacular as the Copulation Counsel, or CC. It's the reason that man, that dead man met his end. The human race has to keep on going, and he wasn't doing his part.

That's probably what it said on the execution notice, anyway. Kendall swallows back bile. He stumbles forward, trying to get away from the sunlight and the smog and the constant reminder that Big Brother is always watching.

Inside, he bumps into the hard planes of James's back, skidding to a halt in front of an enclosed window just past the doorframe. There is a man sitting with his feet propped up on a rickety plywood desk. He's busy reading an ancient issue of Playboy, faded curves and pale peeks of flesh, a surprise around every corner. Without even looking up from his magazine, the man jabs a finger toward the brassy plaque closest to the door, the one that every single patron of L'amour tries to ignore.

Check your gun at the door.

Kendall sighs.

Carrying a gun isn't a prerequisite. It's just smart. Kendall is so used to his weapon's constant presence throughout the day that taking it off always feels like dismembering himself. Still, he fumbles with the straps of his holster, trying to shrug the thing off his shoulders. James's hands stop him, deftly fingering open the buckle by Kendall's armpit like he's got ages of practice helping people undress.

Which, he's James, so he probably does.

He sets Kendall's gun, holster and all, on the counter and then pulls his own from the holster hidden beneath his jacket. He slams that and his sword down next to Kendall's. The man at the desk lifts his gaze to the gleaming metal, neglecting some bunny's tits long enough for skepticism and a touch of grudging respect to flit across his face.

James grins.

"Always making an entrance, you two," Carlos calls from the bar. His skin is crusted with sea salt, steeped through with sunlight so that he practically glows golden. "Did you get the job?"

"Of course he got the job," James answers for Kendall, pulling him into his side. "Was there any doubt?"

"Never," Carlos replies, tilting his glass towards them. He's halfway to drunk, or maybe halfway to sober; it's hard to tell. He obviously split most of his day between the bar and the beach, because he can. He doesn't go to work until well past nightfall, and it's not like he needs to be on the straight and narrow to do it. Carlos's job is to dance.

Naked, usually.

Female strip clubs went the way of the dinosaurs when the Reproduction Initiative clicked into place. The general idea is that a person can't raise a child when they're dancing for cash. That's where the drag cabarets come into play; dress up a twink in a wig and turn the lighting down real low. Let a man's imagination do the rest.

The places are regulated real strict-like; there are time limits and rules about touching and there are constant inspectors weeding out the imaginative patrons from the ones who are actually interested in the real thing. Carlos says that's actually an added bonus for the CC. They weed out men endangering the future of the human race, the sodomizers and the homos and the fairy boys who end up hanging from the wrong end of a rope. Kendall just thinks it's dangerous. What if the CC decides that the dancers are encouraging it, somehow? But the gig shells out more than what Logan or James makes in a month, and it rivals Kendall's new paycheck in number.

Besides, if there's one thing Carlos enjoys more than corndogs, it's shaking his hips to a beat.

"I see you've been productive today," Kendall nods the line of shot glasses near Carlos's elbow. Halfway to drunk, then.

"Not much else to do." Carlos shrugs, and he's right. There aren't a lot of people around in the middle of the day.

There's the man at the desk and the bartender, Lucy, who's deep in conversation with a grifter from the east side of town. There's Logan, who's matching off with two tattooed dudes over the billiards table. His opponents obviously have no idea what they're in for. Logan is a shark at pool. He hits three balls in at once, all geometric angles and careful science. One of his opponents says a foul word and accuses him of cheating. A fly buzzes past Kendall's face and he swats at it idly, watching the game.

"Don't even think about joining," James says, following his gaze.

Carlos agrees, "Remember what happened last time?"

Kendall does remember; the satisfying crunch of wood and bone and the look on the face of that asshole that tried to gyp him out of his winnings. That's why they let Logan handle the gambling now.

Kendall smiles placatingly and says, "Don't worry, mom, dad. I'll figure out another way to stay entertained."

James asks which one of them gets to be mom, bickering with Carlos about titles while Kendall sizes up the rest of the crowd. His eyes land on a couple of skeleton-girls swaying lethargically to the music, this tinny, metallic song buzzing out from a beat up jukebox. When their eyes flash towards Kendall, he doesn't see anything but pupil, huge and black. One of them bares their teeth, a mean, feral gesture, and her lips are a bloated purple-blue, like that dead man.

Kendall stumbles back into James, surprised.

"You okay?" James asks, a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Fine. I'm fine."

Now that he's looking, really looking, he can see her mouth is just berry stained.

It's not that Kendall is scared of death, exactly. It's just that what happened in Minnesota was a tragedy, and there were a lot of empty roads between there and California. Kendall has seen enough of bones and dust and death. And now he feels like it's followed him.

James's breath is hot on his ear as he says, "I'm going to get some shine."

He might as well have said sit, stay, behave for the edge in his words. Kendall rolls his eyes skyward and saunters over to the pool table, Carlos at his heels. Kendall isn't going to play, but James will take forever over at the bar, chatting up Lucy, the tough-as-nails 'tender.

Lucy never caves to James's advances, but he never stops trying, either. It's simultaneously admirable and skeezy.

Logan's wearing a pair of jeans and his empty gun holster and probably about eighty layers of sun screen, knowing him. He lifts a hand in greeting and says, "I'm almost done thrashing these guys."

One of the guys flips Logan off, but he doesn't even notice, too busy lining up a shot. He's going to win. Logan always wins.

He calls a pocket.

The fly buzzes.

Carlos says, "Really, man. I knew you were going to get the job."

"Yeah? How?"

"You've never let me down before," Carlos says solemnly. Kendall dreads the day that stops being true. He changes the subject, asks how the cabaret is. Carlos starts going on about some client who may or may not have been checking out his real junk as opposed to the fake push up bra he dons for his act, and Kendall zones out.

There's a girl perched on one of the end tables by the blacked out window, arguing with Camille.

She's obviously insane.

Camille looks completely innocuous in a flower print sundress and combat boots. It's misleading. Every time Camille shifts her legs, Kendall can see a flash of black high on her thigh; her gun holster. The actual weapon is at the door, checked, just like everyone else's, but that doesn't actually mean much. Camille works for Hawk, hunting down refugees who get into the city without papers. It's a thankless job, but it gets her the kind of notoriety she likes, the kind where she's got a gun and most of the self-entitled dickwads that prowl Verona in search of tail leave her alone.

She's bad news.

She's also the reason that Kendall and the guys made it into Verona when the rest of Hawk's men wanted to turn them away. She saw something in them- to this day Kendall will never know what- and went to bat on their behalf. That was two years ago, when they were sixteen and stupider than they are even now, and Logan and James both fell head over feet in love with this pretty girl with her wild eyes.

Kendall has never had that problem. He loves Camille like a sister, and he's every bit as scared of her as he was with his real sister, before Katie…well. But the girl involved in the argument is obviously not scared, which means she's probably got a death wish.

Definitely crazy.

Definitely cute.

She's wearing this little white dress, all silky and flowy and hugging all of her curves. When she smiles, it dimples, making her look like she's up for anything. Kendall likes girls like her, wild and carefree, like they don't even know the city is a battleground; they're a catastrophe waiting to happen. And Kendall has never, ever been able to resist that kind of temptation.

Logan wins his game right about when James appears at Kendall's elbow with his chastising expression and a couple of drinks in tow. Logan snatches up one of the glasses of shine, downing it before Kendall or James can object. He takes in the both of them with his big brown eyes, still sharp from focusing on the game, and then he says, "Look at that girl. Gorgeous and psychotic."

He raises his eyebrows at Kendall like maybe he knows Kendall's been checking her out all along.

"Aren't they all?" James muses. He would know. He likes his girls flawed, enigmatic on the surface and all cracked underneath. Kendall is the same; they both are constantly walking into relationships that they know are going to destroy them, but they do it anyway.

James takes a sip from his glass. Kendall supposes that means he's out a drink. Oh well.

"Maybe you should step in, Romeo," James nudges Kendall with an elbow. "Save her from Camille."

"I don't think so," Kendall replies immediately.

"Go on, ask her to dance." James grins.

"You don't want her?"

"Of course he does," Carlos supplies, leaning into James's side. "But he also wants you to stop moping about Jo."

Kendall's eyes narrow. "That true?"

"Hey. Your girlfriend joined a convent. Not you." James grins his wicked grin and adds, "Live a little."

Kendall thinks about saying no, but James doesn't know how to resign himself to anything. He's a fighter.

It's part of what Kendall loves best about him. So Kendall caves. He approaches the end table just as the conversation falls quiet. Possibly on his account.

"Kendall," Camille greets with an edge in her voice. She's glaring daggers at the girl, who brightens when Kendall draws near.

"Hi," she says, lazy confidence and a hint of amusement coloring her tone.

"Hi," Kendall says, and for a beat there is this awkward moment that he lets stretch on for far too long, nervous beneath the pretty gaze of this pretty girl. Camille glances back and forth between them, her expression bouncing from curiosity to realization to annoyance in seconds flat.

"Oh for-" Camille throws her hands up in the air, muttering curses under her breath. "Kendall, meet Mercedes. Mercedes, meet Kendall."

"Mercedes. That's a beautiful name."

Camille makes a gagging noise.

"Do you wanna dance?" Kendall interrupts, ignoring the outraged look on Camille's face.

Mercedes shrugs. "Sure."

She follows him out onto the sawdust dance floor, far from the bone-girls and their demon eyes. Kendall glances towards his friends, but Logan and Carlos are occupied by another game of pool, and James is flirting with a redhead, freckles and fire and sky blue eyes. He's got that predatory look that means he thinks he's going to get some, and when the girl laughs coyly and stares up at James like he's a young god on earth, Kendall knows that certainty isn't invalid.

Girls in Verona treat James like he exists to save them from this shithole, and he in turn treats them the way he's treated girls his whole life; as vestibules for his own pleasure.

"Thanks for the save." Mercedes says, interrupting his thoughts.

"The what?" Kendall plays stupid.

"You think I don't see you trying to save me from that?" She jerks a finger towards Camille.

"She's opinionated," Kendall allows, and he feels an immediate flush of guilt for even wording it that way. It's not like he doesn't agree one hundred percent with all of Camille's strong-willed ideals. He's just learned to be careful with saying so in public.

But.

That doesn't really give him an excuse to sound like Camille is a wayward puppy that he tolerates, even when she pees on the rug. She's one of his best friends in the whole world.

"She's wrong, is what she is," Mercedes retorts. Kendall's mouth drops open, and he's prepared to argue on Camille's behalf, to defend whatever cause she's championing this week. But Mercedes continues, "Obviously the surfing is better on the north end of town."

Kendall's mouth drops open for real. "Surfing? That's what you guys were arguing about?"

"What did you think, we were having a discourse on women's rights? Duh," Mercedes rolls her eyes and flings her arms around Kendall's neck. "You're lucky you're cute, because you're not very bright. Or that good of a dancer. Fortunately, I've got a thing for white knights."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. But don't overstep your boundaries." Mercedes grins, flirting. "I can take care of myself."

"You don't have a gun," Kendall points out.

"I don't need one," she rejoins, and okay, that is hot. Kendall swallows, wondering what kind of tricks this girl has hidden in her pretty blonde head.

She pulls a flask from her cleavage.

"Is that shine?" Kendall asks.

"Vodka," Mercedes wiggles her eyebrows.

Kendall wrinkles his nose, "Like from potatoes?"

"Like from a legit distillery. I've got connections. Want to try?"

Of course Kendall does.

James approaches after three songs, two more glasses of shine balanced carefully in his hands. He introduces himself to Mercedes with none of his usual charm, and Kendall figures that's for his sake; James doesn't want to steal her away. But then Mercedes says, "Oh yeah, we've met."

Kendall blinks. "You have?"

"He came by the studios last week, looking for a job. I work there," she adds hastily, almost guiltily. Then she rushes on to say, "Gustavo turned him down flat."

James makes a face. "It wasn't that bad."

"Yeah it was." Mercedes looks him over, critical. "It's a shame. You've got a nice voice."

James perks up. "You think?"

"Too bad you're not my type. I like my boys a little more…fiery."

Kendall completely ignores the way Mercedes pinches his cheek, something hot and sickly in his throat. "You went to the studios? To Rocque Records? And you didn't tell me?"

He doesn't like how irritable his voice sounds, but all the liquor is making his heart feel too big and raw in his chest, blowing everything out of proportion. Mercedes laughs and mumbles something about a lover's spat, but James can read Kendall like a book.

Quietly he says, "It wasn't a big deal. I didn't get the gig."

"But why did you try in the first place?"

"I just wanted to help out."

"You do help out. All the time. And you should have told me."

It's not that he's upset, exactly. It's just that it bothers him when James keeps secrets, and it feels important for James to know that.

Secrets are annoying, is all.

"Hey, hey, hey." James squeezes Kendall's shoulder, eyes going all soft and fond. "Cheer up. You've got a new job and you're dancing with a beautiful girl. You shouldn't be worried about what I do with my time."

The thing is, Kendall always worries about James and Carlos and Logan and Camille. They're the only family he has left, and if they're keeping secrets, how is he supposed to protect them? How is he supposed to make sure that they're safe? Kendall almost asks as much, but Mercedes shoves his shoulder and says, "Pretty boy, you are being such a buzzkill right now. What kind of party is this?"

"Not much of one," James concedes, forcing a grin. He drops his hand back to his side and passes Kendall the moonshine. James spins his own glass between his fingers, letting it sparkle in the dim light before he downs the thing in one long gulp.

Mercedes cheers. She tells Kendall, "Right, so wipe that melancholy look off your face and let's drink."

That actually sounds like a great idea.

Things go a little hazy after Mercedes pulls out her second hidden flask. Kendall's present breaks into a kaleidoscope, into James dancing with the redheaded skank, Carlos laughing too loud, too loud. Into Mercedes pressing her body against Kendall's, and he can feel the softness of her curves, the heat of her through that tiny sundress. "Play your cards right, and I might give you a private tour of my bedroom."

"Is that a promise?" He breathes heavy.

"It's a helpful suggestion," Mercedes replies, winking. She snatches the flask of vodka from Kendall's fingers, taking a liberal sip.

The next thing Kendall knows she's gone, and he is running, racing James down side streets far from L'amour, from the safety of the dimly lit bar and the hollow echo of laughter. He can't quite figure out what's happened, or how much he's had to drink, or what time it is. The sky is that eerie combination of low hanging clouds and late dusk that makes it look electric blue and all aglow. Their footsteps reverberate down the empty streets, and James is fast, faster than Kendall could ever dream of being. It's like the wind pushes him along, like he has wings that curve soft in the fading light.

"Too slow," James yells, breathless, and Kendall speeds to a sprint, his energy already running low. They break into a clearing, or no, it's the beach, and then Kendall catches his foot on the last rotten step of the boardwalk. He falls headfirst into James. They tumble onto the beach in a dog pile of laughter and curses.

For a second, Kendall lays there, content with the thrum of James's racing heartbeat under his fingers. James is grinning, sand in his hair, and the reflection of the last shreds of sunset in James's eyes is blinding, gold orange like a burning star.

"First one down to the water," Kendall dares, and James rolls Kendall off of him so that Kendall ends up with a mouthful of sand and an image of James's ass as he dashes off down the beach. They make it to the water, kicking off their boots and shedding their shirts, whooping into the empty air.

It's early evening, but not many people brave the beaches at night, when the city shows her meaner side, and Kendall can hear the laughter behind him, can hear Mercedes and Camille cheering him on while Logan and Carlos egg on James.

Oh, he thinks. That's where they got off to.

Kendall does not beat James into the water, but when he walks out, soaking wet and shivering cold, Mercedes is there, pulling him into a hug and murmuring, "My hero."

She still wears the sun's last gasp in her hair, golden across her skin. Kendall is intoxicated with her, the way she smells, the way she laughs, and the brilliant way she smiles. He's still not sure what the race was about, vodka burning in his bloodstream, but obviously it had something to do with this beautiful, crazy girl.

He glances over at James, who has a girl of his own wrapped around him. Not the redhead, but a dark haired beauty with tiger eyes, kajol thick in her lashes. He mumbles something in her ear and she smiles, which makes James smile, bright and fierce.

Kendall swallows and looks back at Mercedes.

She kisses him then, and her lips taste like sunshine, like vodka, like sea salt and Verona. When she pulls back she tells him to follow her, and Kendall does; he walks in her footsteps until the boardwalk and the beach are memories. Until even James, who wears nightfall on his shoulders- carved of shadows and starlight- is a distant thought.

The city is beautiful. The city is ruined. Mercedes is a combination of both. Their feet stir dust and litter, the remnants of old repopulation flyers and other bits of decay. They reach a house that must be hers, and it's gigantic, bigger than anything that Kendall has ever seen in his life.

"What the fuck do you do at Rocque Records?" Kendall demands, his awe making him noisy. Or maybe that's the liquor, a burning supernova in his blood.

"Shhh." Mercedes laughs. "We have to be quiet."

"I am being quieeet," Kendall replies, kissing soft across her neck. The arc of it is distracting, swan-like, beautiful.

She nips at his ear, pushes him away. "You're really not."

Mercedes slaps him on the ass, shoving him towards decorative lattice work. "Climb."

Kendall blinks, stares up. There is a balcony the size of the entire crashpad he shares with the guys looming highhighhigh above.

"You want me up there?" Kendall frowns at the balcony. "That's…far."

"The sacrifices we make for love," Mercedes teases, already halfway up the rungs. And this is not love; they've barely known each other for five minutes, and even Kendall cannot fall that hard or fast. But as soon as Mercedes reaches the balcony, something lacy and white floats down and lands on Kendall's shoulder.

It takes him a full minute to realize that it's her underwear.

Kendall fumbles his way up in seconds flat, until he's falling into what has to be Mercedes's bedroom, snow white with flashes of color peeking out at him from every nook and cranny. Mercedes laughs. "You're eager. I like that."

She's aggressive, jostling him back onto the snowy expanse of her bed, and Kendall crashes down, down until he's drowning in a sea of white silk, trying to find his way back out to catch one more glimpse of her gorgeous dimples.

A/N: So unlike all my other multi-chaptered stories, I imagine the next chapter of this won't take long. Mostly because I already wrote most of it. This was supposed to be a oneshot, but the girls named in the above author note conned me into breaking it up into parts. So, uh...tbc?