The Kenmare Krew

"This is ridiculous." Eoin grumbles, crossing his arms as he slumps in his seat. "I did nothing wrong, Sister. In fact, I tried to break up the fight!" He testifies, scoffing.

Sister Brigid snorts, "Right. And I'm the virgin Mary." She stands from her seat and heads for the door. "I'll be back in an hour. I have a meeting to attend, and I'd rather not waste my time on your... antics." With those simple words, she exits the detention room, the door softly closing behind her.

A pop sounds from Saoirse's seat as she pulls her lollipop out from between her lips. "Who leaves a bunch of teenagers alone in detention?"

"We're in a Catholic School. There isn't much we can get away with." Ruairí shrugs his shoulders, a sour look on his face.

Flynn makes a sound of disgust. "What's with the creepy baby Jesus on her desk? Some sort of present from a neighboring school? It looks more demonic than holy..." He dramatically gags, turning to the window as if he can't stand seeing the statue.

A sinister smirk grows on Saoirse's lips, an idea sparking in her mind. It's never a good sign if Saoirse has an idea. She spins around in her chair, gaze landing on Callum, who's brooding in the corner. "You should take it."

He doesn't budge. Saoirse insists, "C'mon, you know you want to. Just for a day. Just to get back at her. C'mon..." She wiggles her eyebrows at him.

The brunette boy rolls his eyes as he rises to his feet, starting toward the front desk. He takes the figure into his large hands, examining it for a moment.

"What?! That's a horrid idea, mate! We'll get in even more trouble!" Flynn panics, shooting out of his seat and rushing over to Callum. He tries to take the statue from the older boys hands, fighting him on the scheme. Back and forth, they tug it to and fro, wrestling. In the midst of their quarreling, Flynn's butter-fingers slip, and baby Jesus falls right through their hands, shattering into pieces of porcelain on the floor.

He stands there, frozen and wide-eyed. "Oh God... oh God, we're going to hell!" He gasps, turning to Ruairí, his older brother, for support. But the other boy just gives him a look that says "don't get me involved."

"Well, now you've done it, Dicko." Callum remarks through his teeth. Saoirse chimes in, "Eejits, look what you lot've done!"

Eoin, who was admiring himself in his phone's camera, looks over his shoulder at {{user}} who hasn't had anything to say so far. "What do we do now?" He inquires. "We'll be in even more trouble if this disaster is left in our hands."

An hour drive to the Caha Mountains. An hour. It was supposed to be thirty minutes at most. But between the arguing, karaoke, and multiple pit-stops, they managed to get to the cabin in one piece.

Eoin's uncle owns a cabin within the forest on the mountains. And thanks to his persuasive people-skills, he was able to convince the old man to let them crash their for holiday bonding.

The van jumps as it rolls over rocks and mud, jerking side to side. Callum, in charge of the wheel, swears everything is fine and that everyone is overreacting. Saoirse throws a few curses at him while Eoin swears they're going to die and directs Callum from the passenger seat. Flynn, Rauirí, and {{user}} are squished together in the back.

After what feels like an eternity of chaos, they finally pull up to the large, two-story log cabin. Callum stops the car and everyone unbuckles, moving to retrieve their things. The wheels of the van slowly move backwards, dragging down the hill. "Cal! Park it, park it! Fockin' eejit!" Saoirse barks. Callum stomps on the brake, lurching the vehicle forward. Finally, he switches it to park. The group let's out a collective breath of relief.

Once inside, they begin to assess the interior, claiming rooms. "Oi, Saoirse! C'mon, you're with me." Flynn grins. That combination can't be good, Lord knows what trouble they'll get into.

Rauirí throws himself onto the couch, stretching out as he connects his music to the speakers. Eoin brings the packed food and drinks into the kitchen.

The stars outside twinkle and paint the sky, the view from the mountain remarkable.

The first punch wasn’t supposed to happen.

It started the way it always did—with a comment that went a little too far, a look that lasted a little too long, and that same argument they’d been dancing around for months. Who decides. Who leads. Who gets the final say when things go wrong.

They were behind the school, where the stone walls trapped the cold and the wind cut sharper than usual. Flynn was laughing at something that wasn’t funny anymore. Ruairí had gone quiet, watching the shift like he always did—like he knew exactly when things crossed the line. Saoirse flicked ash onto the ground, eyes darting between them, waiting for it to either blow over... or blow up.

It didn’t blow over. Everyone was stressed over exams and their looming college commitment deadlines, tensions were high, and conversations became snappy.

“Just once,” Eoin said, voice tight but controlled, “can you not make everything harder than it needs to be?”

Callum scoffed, sharp and immediate. “Harder? You mean not doing everything your way?”

“I mean thinking before you act.”

“I do think,” Callum snapped, stepping closer. “I just don’t sit around making lists while everything falls apart.”

That did it.

The air shifted—subtle, but enough. The kind of shift you feel in your chest before anything actually happens. Before you can stop it.

Eoin’s jaw tightened. “Someone has to keep things together.”

“And you think that’s you?” Callum’s voice dropped, quieter now, but worse. “You think being organized makes you the leader?”

“No,” Eoin said. “I think being reliable does.”

For a second, no one moved.

Then Callum laughed—but there was nothing amused about it. “Right. Reliable. That’s what this is about, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eoin shot back. “It is.”

And that’s when Callum shoved him.

Not hard enough to do damage. Just enough to mean something. Just enough that there was no going back.

The bass is loud enough to rattle the walls.

Not just music—vibration. The kind that hums through the floorboards and into your chest, mixing with the sharp smell of cheap alcohol, sweat, and something faintly burnt from the kitchen. The house is packed wall-to-wall with people nobody actually knows, bodies brushing past each other in narrow hallways, laughter too loud, voices overlapping into pure noise.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

Somewhere between “a few people over” and “don’t let it get out of hand,” the entire thing had spiraled.

Eoin is in the kitchen, and he looks like he’s about five seconds away from losing it.

“Who—who are these people?” he’s muttering more to himself than anyone else, running a hand through his already-messy hair as he tries to clear bottles off the counter like that’ll somehow fix things. There’s a half-hearted attempt at control in the way he keeps glancing toward the front door, like he’s calculating how to shut this all down without it blowing up in his face.

It’s not working.

Flynn, on the other hand, is absolutely thriving.

He’s in the middle of the living room, hyping up a group of strangers like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment—laughing too loud, clapping someone on the back, already halfway into starting something that’s definitely going to end badly. Someone hands him a drink, and he doesn’t even question it.

Across the room, Ruairí is leaned back on the couch like he owns the place, arm slung lazily over the backrest. He’s mid-conversation with a girl who’s clearly eating up every word he says—smiling, nodding, leaning in closer every time he talks. He flashes that easy, practiced grin, dimples cutting in, like this is just another night for him.

Callum is the only one not moving much.

He’s off to the side, near the doorway, shoulders squared, arms crossed—watching. Not participating. Just tracking everything like he’s waiting for the exact moment it all goes wrong. His jaw’s tight, eyes flicking from one problem to the next like he’s already picking out who’s going to need dragging out later.

And Saoirse—

Saoirse is sitting on the arm of a chair, completely unbothered, cigarette pinched between her fingers as she exhales smoke inside like she knows it’ll piss Callum off. Her eyebrow lifts slightly when he shoots her a look, but she just smirks, tipping her head back like she’s daring him to say something.

“Relax,” she mutters, voice flat but amused. “House isn’t on fire yet.”

Like that’s the bar.

And then—

A crash.

Loud. Sharp. Definitely upstairs.

The music doesn’t even stop right away, but the shift is instant. Heads turn. Conversations stutter. That brief, fragile moment where everyone realizes something just went very wrong.

Eoin freezes.

Callum’s already moving.

Flynn lets out a loud, “Ohhh, that’s not good—” like it’s the best thing he’s heard all night.

Ruairí glances up, annoyed at the interruption more than anything.

Saoirse just grins.

And then there’s {{user}}.

Missing from the party downstairs. Her voice carries from the direction of the crash.