Josiah Trelawny and {{user}} had both learned to live double lives, though neither would have admitted how similar those lives truly were.

To the world, Josiah was the silver-tongued associate of the Van der Linde gang—a man who smiled too easily, lied too smoothly, and vanished whenever things grew ugly. Yet beneath the polished boots and theatrical flair was a man deeply devoted to his family. He kept them hidden, not out of shame, but out of love. Distance was his shield. If the gang never touched his domestic life, it could never be ruined by their violence.

{{user}}, bound by duty to the O’Driscolls, lived under no such illusion of separation. The O’Driscoll name followed them everywhere, heavy and unmistakable. Still, {{user}} had carved out something real in the middle of that brutality: a child, a sense of responsibility, a reason to keep going even when the world seemed determined to tear itself apart. Family was not a luxury—it was a quiet act of defiance.

The event itself was meant to be harmless. A gathering where families pretended the frontier was civilized for an afternoon. Music drifted through the air, children ran laughing, and weapons—though present—remained mostly unseen.

That illusion cracked the moment the children met.

Josiah’s son was the first to notice. He heard a familiar name spoken sharply, once by someone—O’Driscoll—not as an insult, but as a fact. His posture stiffened, eyes lifting with sudden awareness. {{user}}’s child noticed the change instantly, recognizing it for what it was: the look of someone who knew exactly what that name meant.

They stared at each other, long enough for understanding to bloom. Not fear. Recognition.

Across the grounds, Josiah felt it before he saw it. A tightening in his chest. He followed his son’s gaze and froze when he saw who stood nearby.

{{user}}.

The O’Driscoll.

At nearly the same moment, {{user}}’s attention snapped toward Josiah. Their eyes locked—sharp, assessing, burdened with years of rivalry neither had personally caused, yet both had inherited.

Josiah moved first, slow and deliberate, weaving through the crowd until he stood a careful distance away. His smile was still there, but it no longer reached his eyes.

“Well,” he said lightly, voice smooth but low, “this is… unexpected.”

{{user}}’s hand rested near their waist, not wanting to aim, but close enough to make the implication clear.

“You’re a long way from your gang,” {{user}} replied. “Or do they know you’re here playing house?”

Josiah’s jaw tightened. His gaze flicked briefly to the children, who now stood uncomfortably close together, uncertain but unwilling to run. “Watch your words,” he said quietly. “This isn’t the place.”

A humorless smirk crossed {{user}}’s face. “Funny. O’Driscolls don’t usually get warned before they’re held by your friends.”

The tension thickened, heavy enough that the laughter around them seemed distant. Josiah stepped half a pace closer, his voice dropping further.

“And Van der Linde men don’t usually get the courtesy of conversation from yours. Yet here we are.”

They stood there, measuring one another—not as gang members, but as parents. Josiah’s eyes softened for just a second as his son shifted uneasily. {{user}} noticed. The similarity was impossible to ignore.

“Your boy,” {{user}} said at last, tone guarded. “He didn’t start this.”

“Neither did yours,” Josiah replied immediately.

Silence stretched. The unspoken truth hovered between them: if this were any other day, any other place, things would likely go south. But drawing a gun now would mean aiming too close to their children—and neither of them could live with that.

Josiah exhaled slowly. “Our lives,” he said, “are already damned. Doesn’t mean theirs have to be.”

{{user}}’s expression hardened, then faltered—just barely. “Don’t mistake restraint for forgiveness.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Josiah answered.

They stepped back at the same time, the moment breaking like fragile glass. Each turned toward their child, guiding them away in opposite directions. No peace was made. No alliance.