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Johnny Joestar hates beer. Hates the taste of it, detests the smell of it, squirms against the slight, uncomfortable burn it leaves in the pit of his stomach. His drink of choice happens to be clean whiskey straight out of the bottle, but when that’s otherwise unavailable or he’s trying not to get absolutely wasted, a simple rum and Coke is always a safe bet. However, the shitty, run-down convenience store on the corner of Johnny’s apartment block doesn’t sell whiskey or rum. Which is why he’s currently three sheets to the wind on some Coors, the crushed cans of emptied drinks littered rather pathetically around the couch that Johnny’s taken to melting himself into.
He has class tomorrow, some bullshit astrophysics course he’s only taking for an extra three credits this semester, but he’s been drinking all morning and can’t find it in himself to care about much else. His wheelchair is parked squarely next to the couch, but he isn’t planning on going anywhere.
Johnny tosses yet another empty Coors can at it after crumpling up the thin metal in his hand and it falls to the floor gracelessly. One more for the pile , he thinks wearily as the alcohol threatening to bubble back up his throat softens his brain into something resembling mush. Again, he can’t bring himself to care - he’s like his father in that regard, he supposes, in that once his drunken mind latches onto a subject, it’s impossible to let go. Tonight’s subject, rather than yesterday’s ‘Dad’s gonna shit himself when he finds out I failed chemistry again’, or the previous night’s ‘I’m going to drink until I swear I can feel my legs again’, or the classic ‘Wish it had been me on that horse and not Nick’, was a certain grad student named Gyro Zeppeli.
The two had been friends since Johnny was a freshman in college, going on nearly two and a half years now, and he was everything Johnny wished he was. Tall, handsome as all hell, flawless winning smile, kind bottle-green eyes, and a med major. Johnny can’t help but hate hospitals since his accident, but he’s pretty sure he’d brave both med school and whatever came after if it meant he could see Gyro more than a handful of times a year. Things had been easier back when Gyro was in his last year of undergrad, when Johnny could see him nearly every day around campus. He’d always be with some blushing girl or a laughing group of guys, but the man was constantly smiling. That fucking smile. It haunted Johnny’s dreams, in both a pleasant and infuriating way. His drink-addled brain helpfully reminds him that Gyro is way out of his league in every conceivable way and he tells it to stuff itself and stick to opening another damn can.
God, if only Gyro could see him now. Drunk and alone, bleary and bloodshot-red eyes unable to focus on the shitty spaghetti western movie playing on the television in front of him. He hasn’t showered in nearly four days, let alone brushed his teeth or remembered to eat something other than the saltine crackers that happen to be lying on the coffee table by the couch he’s rooted to. The only texts he’s responded to are Gyro’s, and that was only to assure him that he was drinking responsibly ( he wasn’t ) and to promise him that he’d get out of the house soon ( he didn’t plan on it ).
Contrary to what whispers around campus were saying when they thought he wasn’t listening, Johnny didn’t actually get drunk that often. But when Gyro moved nearly seventy miles away that summer to enroll in a top-tier medical school, he couldn’t help but feel a little abandoned and resorted to nights like these to take the edge off.
He supposed it was his fault for getting so attached to the way Gyro would cheerfully push him around campus, the way he would constantly refuse to let Johnny eat by himself, and even the stupid jokes he would tell through a mouthful of half-masticated sandwich. There was more than one occasion, after Johnny had gotten his shithole of an apartment, that Gyro had visited and the entire feel of it changed. Instead of being bare and old-looking, Gyro somehow made it feel warm and cheery and gentle in ways Johnny wished Gyro would direct toward him. They ate cold, leftover pizza and drank their preferred alcohol (Johnny knew Gyro was a big fan of those damn hard seltzers that made him want to puke, but he always made sure to stock his fridge with them for these occasions) as the late-night programs started to air. The slow trip alone to the Seven-Eleven on the corner was terrible compared to the times when Gyro ran behind his wheelchair, propelling them both down the sidewalk as they laughed breathlessly. When he was with Gyro was the only time in the recent past that Johnny actually felt more than disdain, regret, and anger. When he drank, he felt all three in rapid succession.
“Johnny-boy!”
The sound of the door clicking open was enough to startle him out of the thoughts that had been threatening to sink him further down into his secondhand couch and if his legs had worked, he was sure he would have jumped high enough to hit the ceiling. Through the fog in his brain, he could vaguely recognize the cheery tone and silhouetted figure: but if he were being completely honest with himself, he was pretty sure he could recognize Gyro even if he were in a coma - and also in a sensory deprivation tank.
He sluggishly peeks over the back of the couch and groans at the harsh light spilling in from the hallway outside his apartment. Gyro appears to be standing there in his scrubs (a pretty mint-green that complemented his eyes nicely - he had sent pictures shortly after buying it and Johnny would rather die than admit that the selfie with Gyro grinning from ear to ear in his scrubs was currently his phone’s background picture) with a bag of something resembling takeout containers held within the thin plastic. They meet eyes for a brief moment before the light proves to be too much for the drunken undergrad and Johnny flops back down onto the couch.
“Y’told me you’d be comin’ later on,” Johnny slurs, bringing a palm up to press against his pounding forehead.
He can feel Gyro’s frown from across the room, wincing as the door closes with a click. There's the sound of shuffling feet across his wood floor and Johnny wants to hide his embarrassingly drunken self away from the world, and especially away from Gyro. “Obviously I came at the right time, or you’d have missed our dinner date.”
Johnny tries to ignore that word, but his chest aches regardless. He rolls himself onto his side and his stomach lurches in protest. For a moment he’s pretty sure Gyro is going to bear witness to him puking what little contents are in his belly onto the shag-carpet rug under the couch's legs that the man had bought him as a housewarming gift, but his gut eventually settles with an agitated rumble. Christ, Gyro could not have come at a worse time. The thought of trying to eat sends an involuntary cold shiver down his spine and bile rises at the back of his throat. Johnny swallows it back down just in time to direct his eyes to where Gyro is plopping his ass down on the couch and giving him a concerned once-over. He swats at a hand that attempts to brush unruly strands of hair out of his face and huffs. Gyro’s frown deepens.
“You’re absolutely wasted,” Gyro comments, and the disappointment in his voice is enough to make Johnny’s stupid, drunk, emotional brain want to cry. “I thought you said you’d be fine drinking alone.”
“I’m alive, ain’t I?” Johnny retorts and pushes himself up into a sitting position while Gyro places the takeout on the coffee table. More bile rises in his throat and he has to hold a hand against his mouth to prevent it from spilling out.
“Barely!” Gyro whines and ignores Johnny’s whine of protest when he manages to hold onto his face long enough to get a good look. “God, you look like shit. You look even worse than you normally do.”
“Oh, ha-ha,” Johnny mumbles and slaps Gyro’s hand away. The chuckle that Gyro lets out at the action makes his face burn hotter than it already was. “You’re real funny.”
Gyro is quiet for a moment and when he speaks again, his voice is soft. “It’s interesting: your accent is more noticeable when you’re drunk.”
“‘M not drunk,” Johnny argues, attempting to hide his face in his arm. “And so does yours, dumbass.”
“At least mine doesn’t make me sound like I’m deepthroating a bottle of moonshine.” Gyro puts on his best exaggerated Kentuckian accent alongside his trademark grin and Johnny can’t help but snort at how ridiculous it sounds. It's a strange mix of Italian and mock-American Southern and for some reason it makes Johnny long for home. Not in the physical sense, though. Unfortunately, the thought is too complex for his brain's current processing capability and it's lost just as quick as it came. Gyro sighs through his nose and stands, holding his arms out to Johnny who looks back at him warily. “Come on, let’s get you to bed. You’ll feel better after you sleep.”
“I feel fine now.”
The look Gyro gives him in return silences all of Johnny’s further arguments and he grumbles to himself as he grabs onto Gyro’s arms. He’s immediately hoisted up so Gyro can wrap an arm around his back while the other scoops him up under the legs. He feels dizzy at the sudden movement, but the smell of Gyro’s aftershave and light cologne more than make up for it. He feels lightheaded with the realization of how close he is to Gyro - he’s literally being cradled like a child, or - God help him - a bride on her wedding day.
“How’s this?” Gyro chimes from above him.
“Terrible. Gonna throw up on ya.” Johnny wraps his arms around Gyro’s neck and buries his face against the man’s shoulder, suddenly feeling entirely too tired even though he’s done nothing but drink since he woke up.
“It’ll probably smell better than you do. Shower after you sleep, yes?”
“No promises.”
“That’s my boy.”
Johnny is vaguely aware that he’s being moved into his tiny bedroom, but his eyes have since slipped closed with the gentle, comforting aura Gyro is inadvertently washing over him and he’s ceased feeling nearly everything but where the other man’s body is touching his own. He could die right here, in this very instant, and he’d be content so long as Gyro held him through it. With Gyro next to him, he’s pretty sure he could brave Hell itself.
He’s suddenly being set down on a relatively firm mattress and he almost cries at the loss of contact. Gyro hushes him and manages to pry his arms free of Johnny’s grip long enough to get him safely settled into the center of his bed, pulling the covers up to Johnny’s waist.
Before Johnny can stop them, a few quiet, slurred words escape his throat and he cringes internally at the sincerity and pleading they hold. “Don’t go.”
Gyro just smiles and leans down so their faces are centimeters apart. His long hair falls down from his shoulder and Johnny can smell the faint scent of lavender braided into it, as well as the faint mint on his breath. “Get some rest, I’ll just be in the other room. Shout if you need anything.”
“Need you.” Johnny mumbles with half-lidded eyes, but Gyro has already moved to the doorway. He spares one last glance at Johnny, smiling, before he exits and closes the door behind him.
His head feels like it's splitting at its seams and his stomach is rolling, but Johnny is pretty sure he's never felt safer than he does in this moment. Johnny is asleep before he can even ponder how Gyro managed to let himself into his apartment, or explain the feeling of lips pressed to his forehead before he left.
He dreams of horses and dust.