matthew lynch hadn’t meant to get kidnapped by joseph kavinsky. he was a happy kid, a good kid. jubilant golden curls, never missed a sunday in church with his brother. the lynch brothers, the orphans lynch.

so it was of most horror to his elder brothers, declan and ronan, when he never showed up to mass. and of even more when a text from matthew pinged on ronan’s phone: what’s up mofo

kavinsky. no one else. his annual fourth of july party was held at the henrietta drag strip, an infamous spectacle attended by none other than fools willing to hit the gas pedal, for a bit of fame and some of kavinsky’s spark. the drag strip, a long dusty field was packed by the time ronan, gansey, blue and you arrived.

bass thundered, seniors and college kids added to the throng, red plastic cups were strewn everywhere. at least ten white mitsubishis pulled up, revving and hungry and all identical. matthew.

while ronan went off to presumably beat the shit out of kavinsky, you and blue and gansey ran off to check the matching cars. a fire dragon and a night horror whipped through the sky a few minutes later, distracting the crowds. the three of you tore open car doors, to no avail.

one of the mitsubishis was thrown on its side by the dreamt fire dragon and went up in flames — matthew. somewhere, a siren howled. kavinsky laughed like a wild creature. then you fumbled through one of the cars, and there was a thumping from inside the trunk. he was alive.

when you’d opened the trunk, the boy tumbled out, stumbling as if drugged. right into your arms, blonde curls against your neck. “{{user}} — {{user}},” he mumbled thickly, lashes fluttering.

the fire dragon screamed once more and was gone: joseph was dead. “you thaved — saved me. thank you.” the youngest lynch mumbled, shaking slightly. tears in his dreamy big blue eyes. well, shit.