PETRICHOR ━ pope heyward

- THREE -

WARNING : canon typical violence, blood

Frankie's foot pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor, the engine loud as it struggled to keep up with the speed the driver was demanding. He kept his eyes on the road, a man on a mission.

He tried to recite what he was going to say to Pope in his head as he drove, but all he could think of was I'm sorry. Hindsight is 20/20, but what could Margot and River really do to him for hanging out with Pope? Margot might have her reservations, but she'd come around eventually. She didn't hold the same unwavering prejudices that the rest of Figure Eight held and she was never the type of person to be hateful for no reason.

River, however, would be a tougher nut to crack. He always followed his parents lead when it came to the Kooks vs Pogues arguments and they had no qualms about voicing their dislike for those from the Cut. But Frankie figured if River stopped being his friend because Frankie was also friends with Pope, then he wasn't someone Frankie ought to be friends with anyway. The thought of not having his best friend was saddening, but it was also true. 

Arriving at the Island Inn, Frankie parked the golf cart by the curb in the looped road. For a moment he pondered how, exactly, Pope got to the resort, but he spotted the dock on the left side of the property with a small boat tethered to the cleat, and his question was answered. The boat had to be Pope's father's because, as shitty as he felt for thinking it, it was too small to be a boat owned by a Kook.

He shut off the golf cart and stepped out, walking to the side of the building and following the beaten path from the dock around to the back. It continued past the restaurant patio on the back of the main resort hall and slowly filled with sand as it entered the golf courses. Frankie continued to follow it, his parents' resort membership card was in his wallet, anyway, so even if he was stopped by an employee, he'd be okay.

The path continued to snake around the outer edge of the dunes, tucked up against the trees so golfers were on the higher ground. He walked until he was halfway across the course, wondering if he'd wrongly assumed Pope went this way, when he heard a voice yell from around the side of a sand dune.

"Stay off Figure Eight, Pogue!" The voice threatened. Frankie had heard that voice before, but he couldn't pin who it was. "Hey, Top, let's go! Wanna beer?" With a laugh, the man's voice became quieter as he assumedly walked away.

Frankie kept moving forward, only stopping in his tracks as he rounded the dune and saw a figure flat on their back in the sand. A boy was writhing in pain on the ground, a Quiksilver hat and a pair of flip flops left astray with broken glass surrounding him, and Frankie knew that hat. He immediately broke into a run, his feet sliding around in the loose sand.

The backs of Topper Thornton and Rafe Cameron were visible just around the other side of the hill, a case of Stella Artois in the latter boy's hands, but they didn't matter to Frankie. Not right now.

"Pope?" He asked, his heart dropping as he saw the sheen of blood dripping down the side of his forehead. Frankie ran forward and lowered himself to his knees beside Pope, taking note of the red coating his teeth and lips as he achingly moaned. "W-What happened?" Frankie gasped out, eyes wide at the image before him.

Whipping his head around, he looked for Rafe and Topper, but they were gone now, having fled the scene of their crimes. Pope groaned as he attempted to roll himself over, but his arms shook at the elbow as he tried to support his weight on his hands and knees.

"Wait, wait," Frankie spoke gently, moving forward to prop his own shoulder under Pope's chest. Supporting his upper body, Frankie pulled Pope's arm around his shoulder as the other boy took shuddering breaths.