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Johnny doesn't like the rain. That doesn't mean he won't step in the path of a lightning bolt, though.
The first time he meets - in the true sense of the word - Steven is in the library, and even then he knows - he knows that it must be fate. Fate or madness. It's also a little romantic, but he also knows Steven's already written a song about the lad behind the counter, however much he will deny it, so he says nothing.
The thing about gin is...
The first time he sees Steven is rather an entirely different affair. He'd been preoccuped with trying not to go home black and blue, in between the wall and two sets of fists - and in a split second, in which he reasons to himself it's time to give up, surrender and graciously fall to the floor, he catches a glimpse of pink and green down the end of the alley.
It can't be his saviour; not when it catches his eyes and flees, but he's pretty sure it's as close as he'll ever be allowed when a policeman comes barelling down the street minutes after.
The necklace will be a peace offering - but all he will see is vanity, vanity, vanity.
The first time he talks to Steven is only a few days later - Johnny walked up with sweaty palms, rapidly shortening breath and a blooming blush down his neck to match the trail of yellow bruises and asked to borrow his pen. They'd been in the middle of the park and Steven had walked off before Johnny could finish his sentence. He doesn't blame him.
The first time Steven talks to him is weeks and weeks after that.
"You're in the way."
He'll lock himself up in his room and refuse to come out for days on end. When he does come out - well.
The first time he actually has a conversation with Steven is the furtherest from accidental. Johnny knows it's fate, even if he doesn't know why or how or why and he's not going to sit around and wait for something great to happen to him. He sits in the chip shop and knows Steven will come eventually, if not tonight, prepared to play the waiting game. He's just about to leave, is pushing through the doors into the street, eyes downcast and lips turned the same, when -
"Excuse me?"
Johnny had nearly started, mouth parting and eyes widening. Steven was seemingly oblivious, arms crossed and nose scrunched impatiently, and Johnny had felt himself go warm, red pooling to his cheeks.
"Do you have a pen on you?"
Johnny, of course, will be a fool for a purpose and a grand, sprawling plan.
He'd heard about Steven long, long before he ever saw him. Nasty whispers from his neighbours, the giggling that followed gossip from his former classmates, the heavy set of a cornerstone thug's jaw and the mutter that would follow.
Freak freak freak fucking fag or - something like that.
However, the thing about giving it up, letting it go, keeping it safe and driving with your seatbelt on is...
It was sometime while his bruises were still yellowing but he had yet to know the sound of Steven's voice that it all began to make sense for Johnny. No sense for those around him in the widening concentric circles but - a glimmer in his eyes, a catch of his breath, darting gazes when accompanying a mate to the pictures: sense.
Cinemas are romantic, right?
Johnny doesn't like the rain. It makes his hair wet and he always ends up looking like some kind of deformed, stray cat. Steven of course, can pull it off - misery is absolutley breathtaking.
"Do you know what time that film about The Marvelettes is on?"
"It's on in a few minutes, sir. 3:30. There are only a few tickets left."
"Johhny, hurry up, come on!"
"Two tickets then please."
How much of human life is lost in waiting?
He goes dancing with his mam three weeks after they take him into the police station, eyes narrowing at the hair and the shoes and the eyeliner, hands shuffling papers that needn't be shuffled, lips pursing that needn't be pursed.
They go to the dancehall and they spin and waltz and are probably the only ones who don't collapse after the third song, putting the band through their paces. When his mam totters off to the ladies, Johnny altenrates between swaying and spinning slowly on his own in the middle of the emptying room. There's an argument going on behind the stage, Johnny can hear it, rising slowly in pitch.
There's a crash and a flash of pink and green, and Johnny gives up and grins.
They'll meet at the bar, downstairs, afterwards. Johnny will look like death; with skirting eyes, matted hair, a hollow smile. Misery. Steven with his charming, smug smile and flushed cheeks. Misery: a tailored suit.
Johnny likes grapes, guitars, girls, gin.
He likes flowers and diamonds - he likes football more than rugby, curry more than chips, poetry more than prose. He likes being called John by his dad; biology, cigarettes, make-up, Man City.
He likes Steven so, so much more though.
That doesn't mean Johnny won't step in the path of a lightning bolt, though.
"One ticket for 3:30 showing, please."
"I'm sorry, sir, it's sold out."
"Wait -"
"Johnny, what are you doing?"
Steven's misery, of course, will be pointless without a touch of yellow danger to illuminate the worst of his ill fortune.