Brat is a serialised adult fiction project about alt-rock chaos, messy house shares, and the kind of intimacy that leaves marks. I’m posting it chapter by chapter here on Witchsnacks.
New here? Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11.
Or you can go to the chapter index.
Dev
It started with a Dropbox link. Our new single. Fresh out of the mix session. I sent it at 2 a.m. my time, no explanation.
Me
for ref. don’t judge the mix
She replied six hours later with a photo of rain streaking down a window, catching on scratches in the glass.
Sadie
not judging
this sounds like wet leaves
and whatever’s left after a bonfire
She wasn’t wrong.
Another night, half-asleep on the couch with a guitar across my lap, my phone buzzed.
A photo: peeling teal paint on a corrugated wall. A shadow cutting across it, long and sharp.
Sadie
this colour = your bridge section
Me
moody. fading. peeling?
Sadie
lol. was going for unresolved tension but yeah, let’s go with peeling
We roasted each other’s clichés.
She sent me a charcoal sketch of a figure in the rain.
Me
wow. groundbreaking. ever thought about giving them an umbrella?
Sadie
says the man w/ three songs about headlights
Me
headlights = metaphor
Sadie
so is rain, genius
I screenshotted that one.
Officially, it was all about the single promo.
Finding the right tone.
Matching colours, moods, shapes.
But somewhere in the middle of it, I started keeping her images in a separate folder – not the one marked PROMO VISUALS for the label, but one marked later.
That folder filled up fast: grain on driftwood. A close-up of tide lines in the sand. An unfinished canvas with colours bleeding at the edges.
One night I sent her a voice memo – not a track, not even a lyric. Just a riff, slow and open.
Me
not for the single. just… felt like you’d get it
Sadie
feels like walking toward something you can’t quite see
Me
exactly the point
Sadie
you’re welcome then
I grinned at that.
I kept telling myself it was still about the promo.
But every time her name lit up my phone, I felt that itch in my hands – one that made me pick up a guitar before I could think.
The song might’ve been for everyone else.
These new ones?
They were mine.
Sadie
Lunchtime at art school meant claiming a patch of courtyard before the sun vanished behind the library and the pigeons got bold. I had last night’s noodles balanced on my knee, phone wedged between shoulder and ear.
“…and I told them,” Margot’s voice crackled, “if they send one more bloody partial shipment I’ll march down there in full tartan, bagpipes blazing, and personally hex them into next week.”
“Please do,” I said, wrestling with a knot of cold noodles.
“They didn’t dare,” she said, smug. “Merch is on track – shirts, totes, hoodies – all folded like humans, not flung like laundry. Gin distillery’s in for the raffle, candle-maker’s throwing in extras, and some saint donated a kayak. Don’t ask.”
I grinned, picturing her in Westwood tartan, glaring down some poor supplier. “Sounds like we’re ready to make a ridiculous amount of money.”
“Exactly. Gray’s going into that surgery knowing a small army of queers and allies have his back. Now. Make sure you eat something.”
Before I could answer, one of my tutors wandered out with a mug of tea. “Sadie, you in for the workshop after lunch?”
“Can’t. Logistics,” I said, which earned a frown but no further questions.
When the call ended, I checked my calendar. Gray’s surgery date was circled in red. Everything else could fend for itself.
By mid-afternoon I was back in the classroom, pretending to engage with peer critique. My piece was propped on the easel, charcoal smudges running down one edge. My phone was in my lap, screen tilted so the tutor couldn’t see.
No update yet. The order had been “in transit” since 10 a.m., and I was already drafting the passive-aggressive email in my head.
Tutor: “Sadie, thoughts on Mika’s composition?”
Me (still staring at my phone): “Bold use of rectangles. Very… compositional.”
Mika: “Iconic.”
Tutor: sighs in educator.
Jasper sent something to the group chat – a blurry selfie of him and Gray holding a bedsheet banner that read TOPS OFF in spray paint.
I snorted loud enough for the whole class to look over. “Sorry. Personal.”
Five minutes later, Sam popped her head in, lugging a cardboard box almost as big as she was. “Special delivery for Gray’s Queer Telethon.”
I waved her in. She set it on the table, grinning.
“Local bakery donated thirty cupcakes and a custom cake voucher,” she said.
“You mean for us to eat.”
“Quality control,” she said, already peeling a wrapper.
We sat on the edge of my workspace, demolishing cupcakes while she filled me in – folding tables, sound system, Margot strong-arming the community choir into a surprise set.
By the time she left, my phone finally pinged:
Shipment out for delivery.
I cheered loud enough to startle the room. “Sorry. Wrong kind of art.”
Margot’s bar had never been louder.
Fairy lights hung like a low-budget galaxy, the raffle table groaning under prizes ranging from artisan gin to an inexplicable kayak, and Jasper was onstage working the crowd like he’d been born with a microphone in his hand.
“Alright, my beautiful degenerates,” he called, “every ticket gets us closer to Gray’s top surgery and gives you the chance to win a gourmet meat pack, an artisan vegan cheese basket, a custom leather harness, or…” he paused for effect “…an awkward conversation with my mother. Your choice.”
The crowd roared.
Behind the bar, Margot was in her element – tartan trousers, safety pins, sharp eyeliner as per usual – pulling pints, trading hugs, and making sure the donation bucket never sat empty for more than thirty seconds.
I was stationed at the merch table by the door, surrounded by stacks of T-shirts, totes, and hoodies I’d designed. People ran their hands over the prints, grinned at the TOPS OFF slogan, and handed over cash. Each sale made my chest loosen just a fraction.
Gray drifted by now and then, grinning shyly, eyes glassy from the sheer amount of love in the room. I caught Sam sneaking him snacks when she thought no one was looking.
Halfway through the night, I checked the fundraiser total. We were close. So close. But not there yet.
Margot leaned over my shoulder, scanning the numbers. “We’ll get it,” she said, low and certain, with that not on my watch steel in her voice.
I snapped a photo of the crowd with the merch table in the foreground and posted it to my story.
@still.just.sadie
Almost there. Let’s get Gray across the line. 🖤
Within minutes, my phone was buzzing with shares and DMs. Jasper was shouting the link from the stage, Sam was texting it to everyone she’d ever met, and one of Margot’s regulars was posting it to three separate community groups from their barstool.
The room was electric, thrumming with that collective push you can’t fake.
We just needed one last kick.
Dev
Industry brunches were just gigs without the music.
Same small talk, same tight smiles, same plates of food no one touched.
Some PR had decided it’d be a good look for me to be photographed with two models “up-and-coming in the wellness space.” Perfectly nice girls – all cheekbones and we should collab sometime – but my interest was running on fumes.
Someone topped up my champagne. I didn’t even remember picking it up.
I slid my phone out under the tablecloth, scrolled right past the label group chat, past the news apps, straight to her profile.
@still.just.sadie.
Her story loaded: a shaky pan across a packed bar, merch stacked high in the foreground. White text over the top:
Almost there. Let’s get Gray across the line. 🖤
Tap. Next story: the fundraiser link.
Curiosity tugged. I clicked. Top surgery.
Connor’s face came to mind first –mate since school, sticky pub carpets, and shared rehearsal rooms. He’d had top surgery a couple of years back. Recovery had knocked him flat for weeks, boredom almost as bad as the pain.
I knew exactly how much it cost… in every sense.
The total flashed on my screen. Close. Close enough I could tip it over without blinking.
So I did. Goal plus a little extra. Recovery takes it out of you – Connor taught me that. I clicked “anonymous” and shut my phone.
Suddenly, the room felt too warm, too staged. I made polite excuses, let the PR girl’s hand hang mid-wave, and stepped out into daylight.
Connor picked up on the second ring.
“You in?” I asked.
“Yeah. Where?”
“Somewhere that’s not a fucking brunch.”
We ended up walking along the Thames first – clear, cold winter morning, the kind London almost never gives you. Richmond was quiet, the towpath edged with bare willows and rowers cutting clean lines through the water. Then it was a pub we’d both forgotten the name of, low beams and damp warmth, pints sweating on the edge of a pool table.
Connor broke first, dropped three stripes in a row, then leaned on his cue. “Alright, mate. What’s going on?”
I chalked mine slowly. “What makes you think something’s going on?”
“Because you’re missing shots you could make drunk and blindfolded.”
I laughed, but it came out thin. “Saw something on Insta today. Fundraiser for top surgery. Friend of a… friend.”
“Someone you care about?”
I took the shot, missed by a mile. “…Yeah.”
Connor didn’t push. The silence left room for more.
“She’s an artist. We’ve been working on visuals for the single.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Bush girl? The one who sketched you in the hut?” he leaned on his pool cue and laughed at me. “Fucking knew you were still in touch with her.”
“Yeah.” I leaned on my cue, eyes fixed on the scatter of balls. “we message back and forth a bit. She sends me textures, colours, half-finished work. I send her riffs, demos. It’s the only thing lately that’s felt… real. Everything else is just the machine.”
Connor nodded, quiet.
“You’re thinking about her a lot.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah,” I met his eyes. “More than I should, man.”
He gave me that sideways look he saves for when he’s about to call me out.
“So you called me, and you’re here with me… yet your head – both heads – are with her.”
I laughed, but it came out rough. Tried to line up a shot, missed it by a mile. “…Fuck off.”
He just smirked, chalking his cue. “Thought so.”
I didn’t answer. Just lined up another shot, let the crack of the cue ball cover it – like noise could drown out the truth.
Sadie
I was halfway through folding another stack of T-shirts when Margot’s voice cracked like thunder over the mic.
“Shut up, everyone!”
The crowd actually did. Even Jasper froze mid-dance.
Margot held her phone in one hand, the other gripping the mic. “We just had an anonymous donor put us over the line…” She paused, grinning like she was about to set the place alight. “…and then some.”
The room exploded.
Jasper screamed. Sam burst into tears. Someone at the back set off a party popper that showered glitter over half the merch table.
I couldn’t look at Gray right away. The air was already thick with heat and noise, and I knew if I saw his face too soon, I’d lose it.
But then Sam grabbed him, spun him around, and I caught it – that grin. Wide, stunned, almost disbelieving, cracking his whole face open. His shoulders had dropped like someone had finally lifted the weight off.
My chest tightened. My eyes burned. My hands moved on reflex. I pulled out the small sketchbook I always carried, flipped to a blank page, and started drawing fast – quick lines catching the tilt of his head, the looseness in his posture, the light in his eyes that had nothing to do with the fairy lights overhead.
Five minutes later, it was there on the page: Gray, mid-laugh, free in a way he hadn’t been yesterday.
Before I could overthink it, I snapped a photo.
@still.just.sadie
To our mystery angel, you didn’t just give Gray his surgery. You gave him his freedom. 🖤
The likes started rolling in before I even put the phone down.
Across the room, Gray caught my eye and mouthed thank you. I nodded, but the truth was, the thank-you didn’t belong to me.
The room was still buzzing when Jasper leapt onto a chair and bellowed, “TOPS OFF!”
It wasn’t random – we’d talked about it the night before, laughing until we cried. If the fundraiser hit the goal, we’d do it for Gray. Loud, public, unapologetic.
Jasper stripped like he’d been waiting his whole life for this cue.
Half the crowd followed, whooping, waving shirts overhead.
Sam rolled her eyes but still yanked hers off, patches bright under the fairy lights. “CONSENT FIRST!” she yelled, which only got a bigger cheer.
Gray doubled over laughing, shoulders shaking in disbelief.
I hesitated for a beat – then tugged my tee over my head. The flesh-coloured bandeau I’d put on earlier blended so well it looked like bare skin. The room howled approval. Jasper clutched his pearls.
“Iconic,” he whispered.
And just like that, it wasn’t about tragedy or surgeries or money anymore. It was joy. Stupid, messy, sweaty joy.
By the time we got back to the flat, the adrenaline was wearing off and everything felt louder than it was.
Jasper dumped his coat on the floor, kicked off his boots, and declared, “I am spent, emotionally and spiritually.”
Gray lowered himself carefully onto the couch, still grinning like he couldn’t quite believe it. Sam draped a blanket over him as if she were tucking in royalty.
The coffee table vanished under the debris of the night – merch boxes, cupcake crumbs, a raffle ticket stub someone swore was lucky, and the bottle of prosecco Jasper had smuggled home for the debrief.
“Okay,” Gray said, looking around at us like we’d just pulled off a heist, “who’s going to admit they’re the mystery angel?”
The room erupted.
“It was definitely Margot,” Jasper said. “She’s just pretending it wasn’t her so she can keep her punk cred.”
Sam shook her head. “No, Margot would’ve signed her name in rhinestones.”
Gray’s eyes narrowed. “One of you knows something.”
They all looked at me.
“Don’t,” I said, hands up. “I don’t know. I wish I did.”
It was true. Not knowing made it feel even bigger, like the whole city had chipped in.
We threw out names – a rich aunt none of us had, the kayak donor who just wanted their garage back, someone from Gray’s old workplace trying to clear their conscience.
I laughed until my cheeks hurt, but under it all, I kept replaying that moment in the bar – Gray’s face when Margot announced the total, the way the roar of the room seemed to lift him clear off the ground.
When everyone finally drifted to bed, I curled up in my room, phone in hand. Opened Instagram.
The sketch post was already past a thousand likes, my notifications a wall of hearts, shares, and messages from strangers saying how much it meant to see joy like that.
I scrolled back up to the image – quick pencil lines, smudged shading – and for a second, the noise in my head dropped away.
Gray, free.
I smiled to myself, not knowing that somewhere on the other side of the world, someone else was looking at that same post.
I resonate so much with the way you've captured that intense, almost unconcious, collaboration between artists. The way images build their own narrative, like curated metadata for an unfolding story, is just brilliant and makes me think about how we process information, artistic or otherwise.