Work Text:
Oh, You Pretty Thing
(Emetephobia warning, Trypanophobia warning. As you'd expect, and brief, but I'm just being safe.)
Ten minutes to time. Not that the audience gives a fuck if they're out on time, or if they're out at all, but even they have some sort of image to maintain. Show up on time just to disappoint the people hoping to get away without being insulted. Leave early just to disappoint the people who were just getting into it. If you can't "get into it" on your own, you don't deserve an "it" to get into.
Eight minutes to time, and all this rambling is getting him no closer to finding his bloody bassist. Oh, of course- he pushes open the door to what might be called the bathroom in a higher-end establishment, but here isn't much more than a sink and a hole in the floor.
Slumped on the floor between the hole and the sink is Sid, needle still hanging out of his arm. The fucker couldn't even wait until after the show. Johnny crouches down, slapping Sid's face to get him conscious enough to respond.
"Sid!" Nothing. He grabs his shoulders and shakes. "Sid, goddammit!"
Sid blinks, shakes his head, and smiles. "Hey. S'it over?"
"Is what- No, you fucker, it's not over. It hasn't started yet, because you were in such a hurry to shoot up." Johnny's angrier than he's acting, but also immeasurably sad. He brought Sid into this, back when he was still (they were both still) John. This lifestyle, this band, this whole fucking scene. That godawful Nancy girl, he'll never forgive himself for that one. Still, what's done is done, and he has to get Sid through what's left.
Five minutes to time. He rests his forehead against Sid's, doesn't pull away when Sid tilts his head over and up, quickly pressing his lips to Johnny's before jerking away and vomiting into the hole. He waits, and when Sid stops shaking he helps him up, half-supporting, half-dragging him to the sink to wash his mouth, and then the door.
Two minutes to time and Sid stops, leans against a support pillar and refuses to move. Not true- just not with Johnny's aid. He starts banging his head against the wall, smacked out and seemingly oblivious to Johnny's hands on his shoulders jerking him away. It's just lucky there are no bottles nearby - Johnny remembers what happens the last two times Sid got hold of broken glass, and he doesn't want to be blinded or stabbed if he can help it.
It's time, and the crowd is getting louder, but they can fucking wait, because this isn't about them, it never was. It's about these two boys, backstage without a proper stage, trying to help each other without self-destructing, and failing at both.
Two minutes after time, Sid finally gives up, collapses forward onto Johnny, who staggers under the sudden weight but holds on. Then Sid's arms are around Johnny and he's crying, just sobbing wordlessly, but Johnny understands. He hugs Sid as tightly as their assorted pins and spikes will let them, and just waits it out.
Five minutes after time. Sid straightens up and scrubs at his face with the back of his hand. He sets his jaw and smiles grimly, a sharp contrast to the goofy smile of thirteen minutes ago. "Guess we better do this shit, huh? They'll kill us if we're not out there on time."
Johnny laughs. "We're already late, you prick. Fuck 'em, they can wait."
"Course they can! S'what they're here for. Still. M'sorry."
This is the closest Sid has ever come to an apology for anything, and John bites his tongue to keep from apologising back. They don't actually have all night, which it what it'll take if they get into another self-blaming war. He steps back, but finds that the hall is smaller than he thought and the wall is at his back, which makes it far too easy for Sid to lean forward, hands braced against the wall, and kiss him again. This time there's no interruption, from sickness or bandmates or managers who can fuck right off to hell. There's only them, and for now that's enough.
Not for long, though, because then it's ten minutes after time and Malcolm's storming down the hall and dragging them out and onstage. Johnny throws himself into his performance and tries not to scream to Sid more than he normally would, but he can see from the looks Paul gives him (and he's so fucking smug, safe behind his kit) that it doesn't work. Well, so what? It's not like anyone's opinion matters, is it? That's the point.
And if Johnny cringes when Nancy runs up to them after the show, well, he's always done that. But Sid rolling his eyes at him over her shoulder, that's something new. And he's pretty sure that's one opinion that does matter.