[a/n]: content warning for implied child abuse

***

THE HADLEYS ARE CARDBOARD CUT-OUTS OF PERFECTION, glazed over with a patina of old money and champagne parties, so filthily rich it's almost impossible to imagine them as flawed. Their children are smiling, their house is large and their furniture is nearly as shiny as they are.

Their perfection is cardboard for a reason. It's flimsy, papery, a thin veneer to hide the fact that whatever bond they share in front of others disappears behind closed doors.

Hadley knows this. He hates it.

He pokes the lamb roast on his plate. The incident at the shop sits in the back of his mind like an unwanted guest. At best, it's slightly annoying and at worst, it's a little creepy.

Across him, Philippa is subtly flirting with one of the dinner guests—the son of some broker who's sitting right next to him—in the way of glances and sly smiles that makes bile rise in Hadley's throat.

They catch each other's eye. Philippa quirks one perfectly stenciled brow: What are you looking at?

Hadley inclines his head ever so slightly in the direction of the guy next to him: Seriously?

Philippa shrugs her shoulders: I take what I can get.

She goes back to flirting. Hadley goes back to poking at his lamb roast.

Philippa and Hadley look eerily similar in the way that only fraternal twins can, but Philippa tends to have more luck in her love-life than Hadley. Though he isn't sure whether 'love-life' is the right term for what she does with men. Philippa goes through boyfriends in the same way most people would go through underwear. Ever changing, ever present, but always hidden.

At least she has something to distract herself with. Hadley's stuck with staring at the exquisitely roasted lamb, served with pea purée.

"Honey, are you alright?" his mother asks. Her voice is laced with worry. "You're looking a little peaky."

Hadley looks at his mother. Her face is regal and cool, an indifferent marble statue with only the slight crease in her brow that show any hint of concern.

Her concern is as genuine as the paste jewels she wears around her neck. It's meant for show, really, to keep up the fiction of the Hadleys being a perfectly happy family where mothers don't hit their sons and where fathers don't look on with coolness. It's a fiction Hadley is perfectly content with keeping up.

"Oh, I'm fine," he says. "Just not hungry."

"Well," she says, "do try and eat something. Marzia worked so hard on this. It is exquisite, don't you agree, Jack?"

The broker nods.

Hadley's father sits at the corner of the table, aloof and distant, as always. He has a lopsided smile on his face and he gazes expansively at the table, like an absent-minded king. Everything about him suggests blurriness—his face is forgettable, his voice is bland, he never speaks until necessary. Hadley sometimes has trouble recalling his father's face.

He doesn't know how someone like his father could've ended up with his mother. It's entirely possible that his mother may have reproduced via mitosis—no father required—and pushed out two green-eyed, brown-haired clones of herself.

Hadley stabs his roast.

The broker starts talking to him. "I've heard you played against my son."

Hadley smiles, the polite and obsequious smile of rich, well-mannered boys everywhere. "In what?"

"Soccer." The broker mirrors his smile.

Hadley turns to look at the broker's son. There's nothing remarkable about the son, really. Blonde hair, blue eyes, wide jaw—so obviously and blandly American that Hadley has no idea what Philippa finds attractive about him. Hadley's seen hundreds of boys like these, all slightly differing from each other in the way that only boiled potatoes had differences; pale and different in shape, certainly, but essentially the same.

The son tilts his head and smiles tentatively at Hadley. Hadley smiles back, quietly contemptuous. 'Potato' is a good name for the broker's son, Hadley decides.

"I think we did play against each other. This year, right? Beginning of the year, semi-finals or something?"

Hadley's making this up from the top of his head. He remembers jack-shit about the games.

"Sure, I remember." Potato looks relaxed. "Our goalie couldn't defend worth a damn—"

"Language," says the broker.

"—worth a heck," says Potato, rolling his eyes, "and you guys made us eat dirt. You were the striker along with some other guy and you guys won. Sound—" his voice goes up an octave higher, Philippa is looking away— "about right?"

From where Hadley's sitting, he can clearly see Philippa's foot go up and down Potato's trouser leg and Hadley bites his lip and resists the urge to stand up and walk away from the table and lock himself into his room and drink himself stupid.

Instead, he says, as calmly as he can—which is quite a feat when you can see your twin sister rub her foot onto some fucking stranger's leg— "Sounds right."

"James is into a lot of sports," says his mother.

Lie. He's doesn't think of sports as interesting, but more as an escape route out of the stifling presence of his mother. He cuts off a piece of roast and puts it into his mouth. It melts like cotton candy on his tongue.

"Swimming, soccer, lacrosse," his mother says. "To name a few."

Hadley tunes out of the conversation at this point. Nobody talks to him, so he sits there staring at his food until it seems to him that the food acquires a face of it own, and stares balefully back at Hadley.

The lamb roast is only half finished.

Dessert comes around and Hadley feels awful. These dinners always feel too awkward, too forced. There's no reason for Hadley nor Philippa to be here and Hadley thinks, not for the first time, how much he feels like a showpiece, brought out and polished by his mother to show friends and strangers and business associates, as if she's saying, look at my children, aren't they just perfect, like me?

Philippa yawns. "I think I'm going to go up." She looks slyly at Potato.

"Alright, honey." Mommy dearest is distracted, in earnest discussion with the broker. Hadley's father puts in a word or two, but mostly, he's disregarded.

Potato looks longingly after Philippa. He doesn't even wait five minutes before asking Hadley, "Hey, can we go up to your room?"

"Why?" Hadley knows exactly why: Philippa.

"You have pictures from that match?"

Hadley begins to say, "No, I don't." But then he feels his mother's eyes resting on him, drilling into his skull.

"I think I do," he says. "Do you want to leave now?"

"Dad?" Potato asks.

The broker waves him away.

They go upstairs. Potato's pace is hurried, he takes two stairs at a time. Hadley hangs back, walking as slowly as he dares. What he wants is to delay the inevitable, to soften the blow he'll feel when he'll see Philippa dragging Potato by the collar, like a dog, into her room.

On the landing, Philippa is waiting for them, hand on her hip. Hadley feels something churning in his stomach as he watches Philippa cock her towards her bedroom door and walks off towards it. In wordless agreement, Potato follows her and leaves Hadley alone on the stairs.

So much for those pictures, Hadley thinks with a scoff.

He goes up to his own bedroom and thinks of the six-pack hidden under his bed, still intact in its packaging. There's something tempting about chugging one can, just to take his mind off of his sister fumbling with some stranger in the next room, off of his body being ripped to shreds by three teenage girls.

He doesn't know which one he prefers; being brutally murdered or hearing his sister getting it on with someone whose name he doesn't know.

The walls are thick in the Hadley house, thick enough to muffle any sounds, but it doesn't stop Hadley from imagining all sorts of things. The six pack starts looking like a better and better idea the longer he stays here. But how would it look, James Bishop Hadley ambling down the stairs, with the stench of cheap alcohol on his breath? His mother would give him hell. He'll take being haunted by bloody visions over his mother screaming herself hoarse any day.

His eyes latch onto the calling card and binoculars sitting innocently on his desk. Maybe he should call David, see where that gets him. It'd be a distraction, at the very least.

And yet, there's still a rational voice that nags at his mind, telling him that he's just making this up. That everything so far has been a coincidence. Who was to say he didn't imagine all these things up? People see patterns where there are none. Would today really have been any different if someone hadn't told him he was cursed?

And yet, none of this seemed like a coincidence. It seemed odd, eerie, unsettling. It went under Hadley's skin and twisted his organs and made him wonder about luck and curses and himself.

And yet, he thinks he's imagining things.

And yet, he knows he's not.

And yet—

This is where Hadley wishes he never left the diner.

I'll call him tomorrow, he says to himself, as a compromise.

And yet, he takes a beer can out from under his bed, opens it, and drinks it in one go.

***

Hadley doesn't realize he'd been sleeping until he wakes up from a nightmare.

He doesn't remember anything about the nightmare, only that it was absolutely terrifying and he was sure he'd die if he didn't wake up. So here he is, awake and afraid, hand clutched over his heart, drenched in his own sweat.

He sits up, turns on the bedside lamp, and is unsurprised to find three beer cans strewn around him.

He glances at the alarm clock. 3:41 AM.

Which means his mother and his father and Philippa are asleep, and his mother must've gone to bed pissed because James didn't go down and say goodbye to the nice guests, which, in turn means his mother is going to lose her goddamn—

His stomach rumbles.

He gets up from the bed, peels off his sticky clothes till he's in nothing but his boxers, slips into a bathrobe and walks down to the kitchen.

Marzia, god bless her, has saved whatever remains of Hadley's lamb roast in the fridge, which he microwaves with a silent prayer of thanks to Marzia. Praise be.

He eats the lamb roast in his bedroom, chewing placidly on the meat and glancing every so often on the card on his desk.

He's had nightmares before, a lot of times really, but the irrational part of him keeps telling him to call, find help, do something. Prevention is better than cure. Only Hadley doesn't know what he's supposed to preventing.

He sets the plate aside on his bed, picks up his phone with one hand, a piece of lamb with the other and stares at the card from the desk. Amazingly, it still has that faint scent of lavender clinging to it.

He takes bite of the lamb in his right hand as he dials the number written on the card. He'd have expected some sort of anticipation bubbling in him, some momentous feeling washing over him, something like the feeling you'd get when right before the steep drop on a rollercoaster ride, but he feels normal. The moment feels normal, not momentous.

He waits, patiently, for the call to go to voicemail. No normal person would ever be awake at this ungodly hour. Besides, he's not sure if he wants to talk to this guy.

"Hello," a voice greets. It's David.

Hadley's mouth goes cotton.

"Hello?" David repeats, somewhat uncertainly, sounding completely awake.

Hadley looks at his alarm clock again, trying to make sure if he's read the time right. 3:49 AM. The world outside of his window is asleep. And here's one person on the other end of his line, awake.

"Hello," says Hadley. His throat is dry.

"You know, all we've said so far is the word hello. So I'm going to ask you who you are."

"You walked into my garden earlier today. Told me I was cursed."

"Oh!" Hadley can practically hear David's eyes widen with realization. "Milkshake boy!"

"Yeah. Me. That's me. Jesus, why are you awake?"

"I'd ask you the same, but I already know. Let me guess; nightmares?"

"Yeah." Hadley's too exhausted to question any of this. He's past caring.

"So first thing you did was call me." David's voice sounds like it's a flicker away from laughter. "I'm touched."

"Actually, first thing I did was eat something," Hadley corrects. "Then I called you. And I didn't want to call you, I wanted to leave a voicemail. Why are you awake again?"

"You could've sent a text message or something," David says. He's avoiding Hadley's question. "Don't you know how to use a phone?"

"I do. I just wanted to hear my own voice."

"A man who isn't afraid to stroke his own ego. I like that." He's mocking Hadley. Or flirting. Hadley's not sure which.

He can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. "About this curse. How do I stop it? What is it, really?"

"Well, jeez, man. I don't know. I can only feel these sort of things. I'm not exactly—Billy, no!"

Hadley hears something like a loud thump and a bark. Some muffled laughter.

"You have a dog," says Hadley. The fact that David has a dog called Billy makes him seem less like a wildly eccentric boy and more like a normal, pet-loving teenage boy. Or Hadley's just supposing things again.

"More like an oversized puppy—" someone is pushing something else—"that doesn't ever sleep. Billy, stay. There's a good boy."

"I need help," says Hadley. He presses a finger to his temple, slowly massaging it.

"Who doesn't?"

Hadley closes his eyes. "Please. Will you help me?"

There's a long moment in which both of them say nothing. Even the dog is silent. Hadley starts to panic; what did he expect, what's he expecting? Help from a stranger? Doubt rises again. Given enough time, he could've forgotten everything. This could've meant nothing, nothing at all. What was a few angry glares and a nightmare in the grand scheme of things?

"I'll try," says David, reluctantly. "I can't promise you anything."

Relief floods into Hadley's chest. "That's alright. Thank you."

"Not for free, though," says David. Guilt creeps into his tone. "Sorry, I don't work like that."

Hadley, absurdly, thinks of hookers. The desperation in his voice, the slight standoffishness in David's, the demand for payment—it's all very fitting.

"How much?" he asks. He's not sure what David's offering, he's not sure what he's supposed to paying for.

"It depends." David sighs a very Gregory-like sigh into the phone. "This isn't a conversation we should be having over the phone. Just—" he sighs again— "I'm trying to think. Okay. Jeez, why the hell not. Okay, so all you have to do is just meet me, face-to-face, and we'll talk it out."

Hadley nods, though David can't see him. "Alright, where and when do I meet you?"

David tells him. Hadley scrambles for the nearest pen and paper and jots down the address. He proceeds to squint at it.

"Here?" he says, incredulous.

"We're on a limited budget." David doesn't offer to explain who we is.

"So," Hadley says. "That's it?"

"That's it, unless you have a problem with it, which I'm assuming you don't." David yawns. It's the least convincing yawn Hadley's ever heard. "Good night, see you tomorrow morning. Or should I say, today morning? Well, it technically is morning already, but whatever." He yawns unconvincingly again. "Take care. Sweet dreams."

David hangs up. Hadley stares at his phone for a good long while. He sets the plate of finished lamb roast onto the floor, wipes his hands on his bathrobe, takes it off, lies down in his bed, pulls up the covers to his chin and thinks, right before he goes to sleep, he never apologized for pushing me.

***

Hadley arrives at the meeting place without incident. He parks his car a little way off, gets out and looks around for David. The meeting place isn't much of a meeting place, really. It's somewhere on the borders of Chinatown and the rest of downtown, an unremarkable street, nothing special about it.

Hadley feels oddly let down. His breath comes out in wispy white clouds as the cold bites at his cheeks. A girl on a bicycle speeds by, giving Hadley a wave. She's gone before can he can think to wave back. If he spends any longer here, he'll freeze to death. He hasn't worn the right clothes for the weather, and the cold goes right past his cashmere sweater and sinks right into his bones. He's considering going back into his car, cruising the street as he looks for David. He'd look like a creep, but at least he'd be warm.

He's halfway to his car when he spots David.

David's on the opposite sidewalk, waving excitedly at Hadley. The latter lifts his own hand in a half-hearted wave.

When Hadley crosses the street, David grabs Hadley's hand and gives it a ferocious handshake. David's hands are softer than they look.

"Good to see you, man," he says. Hadley doesn't know why it would be good to see him.

"Sure," says Hadley.

David starts walking and Hadley, after a moment of uncertainty, follows him. Gregory's voice keeps telling him that it might be a scam, a trick, and Hadley cannot afford to turn back now that he's here. Instead, he blocks out Gregory's voice. He looks at David's back, at his clothes. David's wearing one too many layers of clothing. His beige jacket (which Hadley suspects is on top of another jacket) gives him the appearance of a puffed up chicken. Not like Hadley would know; he's never seen a chicken.

They turn right into an alleyway, which manages to block out most of the sunlight, creating the illusion of twilight. It's like stepping forward into time. Hadley feels unsettled.

"Where'd the door go?" David mutters, and paces the alley back and forth.

Hadley stands there, awkwardly, until David 'finds' the door. He lets out a little 'aha!' and motions at Hadley to come over.

David smiles and it looks like a genuine smile, the way it tugs at his eyes and stretches his cheeks. He's enjoying this.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"I'm good." Hadley's not good.

"Good." He takes a breath and looks at the door before him. He puts his hand on the door handle, and turns it, slowly, intentionally dragging the moment out. It feels like a performance he's putting on for the sake of Hadley.

David looks at Hadley again. His eyes gleam like an oil spill.

He pushes the door open. "Welcome to curse club."

***

[a/n]: (sobbing) just... just fckin take this please... oh ym god