Chapter Text
There’s an important distinction to be made between the day Johnny met you, and the day you met Johnny. A similarly important distinction has to be made between seeing somebody and truly meeting somebody, a lesson you learned fairly quickly, though possibly didn’t understand until halfway through the school year.
Your first interaction with Johnny was not one you would define as 'positive'. In fact, it had sparked somewhat of a childish rivalry between the two of you. It had been the first day of your 8th grade year at a new school in a new town. You'd stayed up late - too late, really - the night prior, to chat with your old friends about their own first days back home (at the time, you hadn't considered Mayview your home in any way, shape, or form). You were tired, groggy, and at risk of running late, so all in all, not a great day for Maxwell Puckett.
Your father was, thankfully, understanding of your tardiness, and disregarded your bad mood the way he always miraculously did. Quickly, and a little bit desperately, you prepared for the day, pulling on a pair of crinkled jeans you found on your bedroom floor and pulling your favorite black hoodie on over your head. As you raced into the kitchen, you grabbed something to eat for breakfast on the way to school and bid your father goodbye, ignoring his grandiose prattling the whole while. Popping into the back room of your brand new cornerstore-cum-apartment, you grabbed your trusty scooter and started the ride to school, apple gripped tightly between your teeth.
Four minutes into your seven minute commute, your phone buzzed in your jean's back pocket. You threw the apple core to the side of the road ("It's biodegradable," you reassured yourself, "I'm returning that fruit to the earth") to free up a hand, one leg steadily pushing you and your scooter along the road. You grabbed your phone - an old, flip-style one; you were frankly too lazy to get it replaced - steering yourself sloppily with your left hand.
(Nowadays, you can't even remember what, exactly, that text message said, meaning it must've been largely unimportant; ironic, really, considering the impact it would end up having on your life.)
It was a message from one of your hometown friends, asking you some kind of question and wishing you good morning. In your typical fashion, you prepared a long, eloquent response, chock full of snark and general pessimism. Riding a scooter while texting was difficult, however, and probably ill-advised, and you noticed too late the sharp curve of the road. You veered with all your might, just barely rounding the bend, before immediately ramming into something - or, rather, someone, resulting in the two of you tumbling to the pavement.
A jolt of pain went down your leg from your hip where you landed, earning a wince from you, but otherwise you were uninjured. You rolled onto your back from your side, readjusting your signature cap on your head to appear casual. The trio of people looming over you and gawking certainly weren't as concerned with appearing unfazed, staring at you like you had just murdered their family - which reminded you of the person you had mowed down with your scooter just seconds ago.
Said person was sprawled on the asphalt a bit pathetically, and the first thing you noticed about him was his jolt of bright red hair. The second was the massive, bulky leather jacket he was clad in. The third was that his name was apparently Johnny, though you gathered that information not by staring at his unmoving body but from one of his friends kneeling down and calling his name.
"Bro, get up," the child said, or rather, bellowed, because wow was his voice deep for a 13-year-old (though he effectively looked like a high schooler, perhaps due to his sheer size alone), "Johnny, c'mon."
At that, the so-called Johnny shifted, lifting himself using one hand, the other swiping across his face only to come away wet with blood. Well, damn, you thought, that makes this a lot more awkward.
"Hey!" a voice snapped, this one higher pitched and also a bit gruff. You snapped back to attention, only to find the enraged face of Johnny turned towards you. The injury was mostly superficial - a cut underneath the eye, right beside his nose - but, still, you could see why he would be angry with you. So, perhaps against your better judgement, you decided to just do what came naturally - crack a joke about it, laugh it off. Besides, the situation was kinda funny. In some way. Probably.
"Oh, snap," you grinned cheekily at him as you stood, brushing off your jeans as you did so, "are you, like, okay?"
As Johnny hefted himself to his feet, one of his other friends stepped forward, practically frothing at the mouth with (what you felt was) melodramatic indignance.
"What's your problem?" he quite literally snarled, which was a little alarming, to say the least, "Where do you get off ramming yourself into our friend?"
You scoffed, put off by the stranger's bad attitude and also the massive scar stretched across his face, "Okay, first off - phrasing, and second off -,"
You never got to finish your thought, however, as Johnny grabbed his seething friend's shoulder with a short bark of 'Stephen'. The latter immediately stopped his raving and aforementioned frothing, instead moving to sulk and glare from over Johnny's shoulder. The redhead rolled his shoulders and his neck in what was probably meant to be an intimidating gesture, hand scrubbing at his scraped cheek again.
"So, kid," he said brusquely, and you had to resist the urge to grumble a correction, "I don't appreciate being knocked around - but, seeing as how I'm in a good mood this morning, I'll forget about it if you just gimme an apology... and all the money in y'pockets," the sentence was punctuated by a sly smile, as if he'd just committed the greatest act of mercy.
"What? You gotta be kid-," you began, in absolute disbelief, but the earnestly expectant look on Johnny's face stopped you in your tracks. He was not, in fact, kidding. With a sigh and a shake of the head, you reached into your back pocket to fish out whatever change existed there. "Fine. I'm sorry, okay?" you admitted, finally dropping the snarky attitude, "Didn't mean t' hurt you, I'm just running late," probably super late now, due to this ridiculous exchange, you added, though only to yourself.
To Johnny, you gave the meager pocket change (a whopping 35¢), and said a touch hopefully, "We're cool, right?"
He looked you over, brow furrowed and face investigative, as though he was trying to figure out how honest you were being. The tension all but vanished from his figure, however, as he nodded and drawled, "Yeah, we're aight. C'mon, guys, let's go." Johnny's be-scarred pal, Stephen or whatever, looked less than satisfied however, glowering impressively in your direction as the quartet wandered off, thankfully turning off the street in a different direction than yourself.
With a final huff, you picked up your scooter and went back on your way, hoping you weren't too dreadfully late for first period.
You didn't really speak to Johnny again for awhile; you saw him about school, sure, but you mostly stayed out of one another's ways. After about three days, however, for seemingly no reason, he decided to start going out of his way to pick on you or taunt you or otherwise be a nuisance. It was never anything genuinely hurtful, of course, but constantly having to deal with these bizarre interactions (the only kind of interaction possible with Johnny) was a bit tiring and a lot distracting. He also loved to take your money, which was a pain, to say the least.
So you were never quite nice to Johnny back; you were snarky, callous, and just the tiniest bit sadistic, reveling in the punishments he would receive from teachers for rough-housing and bullying and other such mischief. You couldn't be in a room with one another without butting heads, and then pinning the resulting conflict on the other, like kindergarteners caught in a tiny fist fight. Your feud was petty from the start, and you had to admit that, even as you indulged fully in it.
School was not all bad, of course, as you quickly found other friends in the form of the Activity Club (which was formed by similarly apathetic students who wanted to avoid joining other, more invested clubs; you fit right in). So forgetting about Johnny wasn't too hard, most days. Until the day that became impossible, AKA the infamous day you really, honestly met Johnny Jhonny.
It was a Sunday afternoon, and you were, once again, teetering about on your scooter. Three months into the school year, and you'd settled comfortably into Mayview, despite all its weirdness. You were rolling down the side of the road, minding your own business, when you spotted the signature shock of bright red hair, crouched on the curb across the street from you.
Normally, you wouldn't have done anything about this fact, except maybe speed up so as to avoid confrontation, but there was one thing you could not ignore about Johnny - he was bleeding. As in legitimately injured, clutching his nose and snuffling loudly to himself a touch pathetically. He was also alone, which was honestly a first, seeing as he was typically always surrounded by his goons. The absolute unfamiliarity of the situation was what halted you, and you couldn't help but gawk.
Internally, you knew that leaving Johnny like this would be a dick move. But you also didn't think he'd want comfort from you, seeing as how you were pretty much enemies (or the 8th grade equivalent). Eventually, your moral side won over; that, and you'd been standing there, bewildered, for so long it'd be kind of awkward to just leave without saying or doing anything.
So you rolled your scooter over to Johnny, trying to find something intelligent to say. When he spotted you, he immediately tensed up, preparing to fight, like a cornered animal being approached. The rawness and honesty of the moment only made it that much more surreal, however, and you were just having second thoughts when he snapped up at you, "What're you lookin' at, dillweed?"
"Dude," you sighed, dropping down into a crouch in front of him, "Johnny." The use of his name was what got him to look you fully in the face, moving his hand away from his nose. "What the hell happened to your face?"
It mostly looked like Johnny had gotten punched really hard. His nose was bleeding, crimson liquid smeared onto his lips and smudged on his cheeks and fingers. His eyes were rimmed with gross, yellow splotches, the beginnings of bruises. He was glaring at you, tired and defensive and ashamed all at once. He opened his mouth, seemingly to tell you to buzz off and mind your own business, but seemed to think better of it. A beat, before he admitted without meeting your eyes (which wasn't unusual; he rarely made eye contact, even when you fought), "Got in a fight. With an 11th grader."
"Jesus, man," you blurted, falling back into a sitting position, right there on the side of the road, "What were you expecting? You'd magically and inexplicably be capable of beating up a seventeen-year-old? Despite being, y'know, five-foot-three and also twelve."
"Thirteen!" snapped Johnny, as though you did not know this already, "And I didn't pick a fight with him, really. Was his fault."
And you outright snorted in laughter at that, because if there was one thing you knew (or thought you knew) about Johnny, it was that he always started things. "Yeah, same way it's totally my fault that you chose to be a huge jerk to me all the time; you never pick fights."
Instead of retorting immediately, however, like you'd expected, Johnny just narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, confused and obviously frustrated by... something. After this moment of silent consideration on his part, he said with conviction, "You lied to me."
"...I did what now?"
"Back when we first met," he mumbled, like it was obvious and you should've known, "you said you were sorry but you weren't, and I thought you were but then Stephen explained y' were being 'sarcastic'," and he said the word like it was in air quotes, like it wasn't a real thing. This accusation stunned you silent, at first.
(Your first assumption, from this small bit of befuddling information, was that Johnny's friend, Stephen, had purposefully tried to incite conflict between the two of you. In a few months time, however, you would discover that it was a genuine misinterpretation on the boy's behalf.)
"That's," you began, with a huff, "That's just blatantly not true. So -,"
Johnny dismissively shrugged and interrupted you then, with a wet sounding splutter. "Stephen is better with that kinda stuff. Whatever." Fair enough, you said to yourself, as you plopped down next to him on the curb. He sniffled miserably. "I can't go home yet, though, my mom'll be pissed if she finds out I let some high schooler clock me."
"So... what," you prodded, "you just gonna wait here until the bleeding stops? Until the bruises fade?"
"Until I think up somethin' real convincing to tell my parents."
And that did make some sense, really, so you just nodded quietly. Then the two of you sat there; you were trying to ignore the thick air of tension, while Johnny was just trying to clean his face using only his bare hands. The sight was pitiful, really, and despite your rivalry and general disdain for one another, you really couldn't help but feel bad for the kid. Even if he was a bully, he didn't deserve an injury to this degree. You sighed, shuffled awkwardly, and finally made a decision that would end up being monumental, even in its simplicity.
"Why don't you come by my place?" the offer was half-assed and mumbled, but still enough to shock Johnny into staring at you, "You can clean up, maybe get some ice for your, like, entire face, and try to come up with an elaborate lie to feed to your parents, as any good son would."
He stares owlishly at you, one hand still curled around his nose. His brow twitched, the corner of his lips quirking down for a second as he considered your words. But when he finds no dishonesty or malice in your proposition, the frown turns into a tiny smile, which turns into his trademark massive shark-toothed grin, and if it wasn't for the blood all over his face and the bruises, you'd think he was perfectly fine and uninjured. It was almost shocking how quickly his mood completely changed.
"Sure!" he jumped up from the curb, a blur of leather and red hair dye. When you didn't immediately follow him at the same speed, he frowned down at you, though it was mostly joking, "Yo, c'mon, le's hustle."
"Jeez, okay, okay," you groaned, though you were smiling (just a little). You stood up at a much slower pace than Johnny, to his chagrin, and grabbed your scooter. You folded it up, so you could carry it under your arm, and then the two of you began the trek to your house. The trip was silent, partially due to a lack of things to say, mostly due to Johnny keeping a firm grip on the lower half of his face.
The corner store that also served (and continues to serve) as your home was not far from where you had found into Johnny, so thankfully the awkward, silent stroll was not too long. You walked in, hearing the satisfying ding of the bell above you, and called out a greeting to Zoey, who looked bewildered by your company but, fortunately, not enough-so to ask. You led Johnny up the stairs to the actual house part of the building, and instructed him to sit on the couch and stay there. He beamed wildly up at you, in mock innocence, and with a sigh you went to the kitchen to grab a bag of frozen peas and some paper towels. You wrapped the peas up in the paper towels, just thick enough that the cold would be less painful to touch, and wandered back into the living room only to find Johnny on his knees right in front of the TV.
"Hey," you barked; Johnny shot a distracted glare in your direction before turning back to face your various consoles, "Don't bleed on my video games."
"Too late," he replied snappily, and you could only sigh in amusement at that, "and do you have Smash Bros?"
The question stunned you, just for a moment, before you fully comprehended what he had just said. "Uh, yeah... d'you wanna play or -?"
"Duh," he smirked, jumping back up and onto the couch, "This is my chance to fight you in the digi-realm."
"Everything you say is nonsense," you deadpanned, nonetheless kneeling down to turn on the Wii and set up the games, "you know that, right?"
"Did you know shut up?" he responded, and the absurdity of the retort actually made you smile widely, "Because shut up."
And you did, instead opting to just collapse on the sofa beside Johnny (who was cradling the makeshift ice pack his lap, injury mostly forgotten for now) and play the game. Johnny picked Bowser, which was not at all a surprising choice, while you went with your typical main, Samus. God only knows how long you played against one another; you were both fairly even in skill. You played for ages, each of you changing up characters and stages and even, at one point, playing on a team against NPCs. It was easy to get along with Johnny like this, honestly. There was no pressure to talk about anything other than to shout insults and game strategies to one another. Eventually, your playing was cut short, as Johnny began to loudly complain about his face hurting; the splotches of purple and green that rimmed his eyes had grown considerably worse, and you had to convey your sympathies.
And when Johnny caught sight of himself in the reflection of the now-turned-off television, he began to panic about what he could possibly say to his mother.
“How about,” you said, trying to keep a level head, “you tell her we were hanging out and you tried out my scooter and fell on your face?”
“No, that’s –,” he started, face scrunched up in a frown; he blinked and cut himself off, however, before bouncing his head up and down eagerly, “Yeah, yeah, that’ll work! Thanks, bro.”
“Uh, you’re welcome... bro.”
If Johnny had noticed the hesitation and confusion in your voice, he certainly didn't respond to it, instead just beaming back at you from behind his bag of peas. With his perfect lie finally decided, he hopped up from the couch and dropped the bundle of paper towels and frozen veggies onto the coffee table (which he had just been using as a foot rest). He adjusted his signature leather jacket, right back to his usual confidence despite his prior hysterics, and started off to the door, but not before flashing a parting peace sign in your direction over his shoulder. "I'll see you around, Max, right?"
You blinked, shifted the bill of your snapback out of habit, and called back, "Yeah," Johnny smiled real wide at that, swinging the door open, "Yeah, see ya soon."
And as Johnny left your apartment (for what was the first time, but not the last), you were surprised to realize that you were looking forward to school tomorrow for a whole new reason.