There'd been two kids within the gang years ago, two who had been very close—always seen with their sides glued together. "We'll be friends forever," a young John had confidently told a young {{user}}.

Little did he know, it was only a couple of years later that it all went downhill—relationship-wise. The gang grew, with new people to spend their time with; among them was a young Abigail. John had taken an interest in her, going as far as bedding her. Well, that hadn't been a very good idea, considering it resulted in a little Jack nine months later, which in turn caused John to up and leave the gang without another word.

That only caused the rift to turn into a dam.

Months and months went by. John came back, Blackwater happened, and the gang, in general, was stuck in a tough time, it getting worse and worse by the damned week.

Angelo Bronte—the fucker—had up and well, he'd been handed Jack by some inbred bitch. Once they figured that out, they got together a little group: Dutch, Arthur, John—of course—and {{user}}. The negotiating itself went smoothly thanks to {{user}} and Dutch; the task afterward, not so much. But it had been fine; they'd gotten their little prince back to camp safely. Everyone was happy and deemed this little win worth celebrating.

So, crates with alcohol were opened and campfire seats filled, singing, dancing, and storytelling coming naturally.

Once it was getting late, Jack was brought to bed by Abigail, but most found it much too early to retreat to bed. So, festivities continued even after the cause had left, though it spread out a bit.

John found a place on the house's porch bench—{{user}} noticed upon going to one of the wagons in an attempt to get another drink. In a drunken haze, they didn't think before going over to John, all their awkwardness forgotten. They greeted him, watching as he stared in confusion while they just... talked and talked. He just nodded along, rubbing a hand over his cheek—the scars there. He's been doing that a lot lately, hasn't he?