Archive of Our Own ^beta

what i truly wanted to happen in my mad heart

Even though he would never admit it, Vance has been feeling quite lonely since last year’s seniors graduated.

Sure, Lefty is still hanging around, sixteen years old with the smoking habit of a forty years old and the emotional sensitivity of a five years old; truth be told, Vance would really be the last person to have a right to judge him. He’s been called many things, in his years at the Academy, but mature certainly isn’t one of them, at least not from people who meant well towards him. 

And Lefty isn’t a bad friend, either. Just, he’s a much better friend when there’s a hot dog to get or walls to tag, but as soon as the matters come a bit closer to feelings and emotions he dissolves, probably considering himself too confident in his ability to pretend he doesn’t have any issues of his own to allow himself to take a look at the inside of his mind.

For one, Vance had never quite seen how relevant having Lola around had been for him until her quiet, furtively dangerous presence had stopped snaking through the school. It’s not like they were particularly close — he seriously doubts she’s ever even had a heart to put on display for anyone, her entire being made out of cold and moldable marble, the eyes of an Ice Queen and the ruthlessness of an executioner. Yet, there was something familiar about her, something that Vance recognized and that he knew much too well the other guys just didn’t understand.

It’s all about the attention, about craving the spotlight, carrying on your body the eyes of everyone in the room and dancing with them however you desire, a fire-eater playing with her torches. There’s a feeling of power rushing through the veins, an illusion, for just a few seconds, of being able to be a god, and Lola had mastered the art of it even better than Vance did. 

He understood her, could see perfectly what her inexcusable reasons were, and she knew he did. If anything, he believes her only mistake was to get closer to Johnny, the most monogamous and committed guy on the block like a lonely dog. Now she’s gone for college, stopped answering all messages and phone calls, even from her parents; the Earth might as well have swallowed her, and shall Vance curse it forever for it.

Especially, though, Vance misses Larry. He misses him in a visceral way, the kind of hurt of not understanding how precious the thing was until it’s slipped away between your fingers, that vague feeling of knowing some part of your insides is missing but being miserably unable to figure out what that is.

They weren’t very similar, nor did they spend the most amount of time together, not when he was constantly crawling after Johnny, draining all his energies just for his leader, his best friend, his god, but was he special to Vance. The sweetest smile in Bullworth, even sweeter than that one ex, Emily, Katy or whatever the fuck her name was, loyal to a fault, always ready to place himself where one needed him. He would always listen, when Vance didn’t make sense even to himself, comforting him just by being there.

He couldn’t count all the stupid high school shenanigans they did together, the pranks on the teachers and the eggs on the Preps’ dorm, and he’s only now noticing how the first thing he’d do upon entering a party was looking for him in the crowd, as he finds himself realizing that he can wander through the sea of bodies all he wants, but never will he find Larry among them.

He, too, is gone, for college, in a city Vance can’t even remember the name of. He was never at home in this hole of a town, this Vance had always known; he should have just expected it, that he would have soared away at his first chance, and he probably did. But imagining it in expectation has been much different than feeling it actually happen, his calls rarer and rarer, promising he’ll come back for Christmas and other holidays, only then to stay a few days and fly away again.

It would be needy at best, egotistical at worst, for Vance to want him to stay. Larry is not like him, content with the microcosm that Bullworth is, existing within these borders and these streets that he calls home. He’s meant for much bigger things, stars in his eyes and the ability to feel a flow of life rush like a cascade around him, and never in his life would Vance want to keep him from having that. Still, this means he’s now left alone with his feelings, and they can be so loud and overwhelming, thundering in his ears and bouncing around inside his head, that it can be hard to find an outlet for them that doesn’t involve blacking out before midnight or kissing someone before asking their name.

Point is, this year he’s been spending much of his time with Johnny, either at his house or at the tire shop he’s working at. It had started by pure chance — what Vance remembers is waking up one morning in Johnny’s bed, with no memories of the earlier night, finding him asleep on the couch instead. What Johnny had told him, words sluggish and slurry for the sleepiness, had been that Vance had called him in the middle of the night, piss drunk and in tears because of a guy that he couldn’t have told the name of, but that had apparently broken his heart in a million pieces and abandoned him without anything to do anymore.

However, it must’ve been nothing more than another of his usual, unnecessary dramatic reactions, because he’d spent the following day hanging around with him, laughing and telling stupid jokes and reveling in the warm feeling in his chest at the sight of the grins he’s able to steal, between the boiling water for the pasta and the whirring of electric screwdrivers. 

At the beginning of the school year, Johnny had been quite messed up too, the two people he used to be the closest to suddenly disappearing. Vance had only been able to look at them from the outside, building the puzzle together from pieces of what they would tell about her and what the other people in town would say, but one thing he could say for sure is that, whatever one might call what had been happening between the three of them, it was nothing healthy. He wonders if, in some twisted, sad way, it is going to be for the best. At least, he hopes, he’s doing, in his small, something to take away some of that misery.

Vance thinks Johnny is handsome. Jaw refined and sharp and features solid, gaze naturally intense that it is really a shame to see it being clouded by the sadness and the grief. He’s much better the way he’s looking at him now, relaxed, cigarette hanging from his lips and the dim light in his room from the yellowish lamp he’s been saying he’s supposed to change for months drawing golden gleams along his face.

The thoughts must have gotten so turbulent, like they always do, that he must have been staring at him, or perhaps at the wall; either way, he hears Johnny chuckle, and Vance can focus his face again, the line of his cheekbone accompanied by the moonlight that keeps them company in Johnny’s bedroom. Pretty. «Whatcha thinkin’ about, kid?»

For a split second, Vance questions whether he should tell the truth. How Johnny might interpret a compliment like that, if he should start from the beginning, how to enclose this tempest of thoughts in just a few words — because Johnny has been patient, he’s always been, every time Vance ended up ranting again and again and again, but sometimes it gets hard for Vance too, to handle this skein altogether. So, he just shrugs, a half-apologetic small smile. «Nothing. Everything. You know how it is.»

Johnny just hums, pensive. He knows, of course.

And exactly because he knows, he doesn’t push nor does he insist on untangling by force, violently, the knots of Vance’s thinking thread. Instead, he pats him on the shoulder, large palm resting on it, his fingers reaching the back of his neck. «You think it could get better if you had a good night’s sleep on it?»

Vance nods, unconsciously — or perhaps deliberately but innocently enough not to get caught — following with his head the movement of Johnny stroking his hair. Sometimes, it works; at some point, exhaustion just shuts his brain off until the next morning, and it can go back to a clean slate.

This time, however, it doesn’t work.

They go to the bathroom, brush their teeth together, get out of the jeans and, once Johnny has checked up on his mother, probably passed out on her bed, climb onto the mattress. It’s the same bed Johnny used to sleep on with Lola, filled with foam and regrets and still smelling with some strong, flowery perfume, and, if his nostrils can take a distant glimpse, a bit more than a voluntary olfactive hallucination, Vance can only imagine how bitter it must be to Johnny.

Vance has been sleeping in it since spending the night at his house has become a habit; Johnny, for a bit less time, since Vance had drunkenly asked him one night not to leave him alone and Johnny hadn’t found it in himself to deny him that. Faintly, delusionally, he hopes he’s managed to at least smear a bit that old smell, replacing it with his own cheap and pretentious cologne.

Usually, having Johnny by his side helps. It is strangely comforting, relaxing and soothing, leading him to a good sleep by the hand, better than the melatonin they used to give him when he was a child did.

Tonight, though, despite it all, tornadoes keep storming in his head, occupying all the space and leaving none for the rest he so desperately needs, and worthless are the attempts at turning around, on one side and then on the other, hoping that all the thoughts will leak out of his ears or something. He has no idea what time it is, when the irritation with this brain tickling reaches a peak and he kicks the covers to sit up, knees to his chin and eyes out of the window, an opaque moon staring back at him from the starless sky of New Coventry, high in the sky and rudely uncaring of the agonies of the Earth.

He doesn’t need to see, anyway, to hear Johnny moving on the bed as well, grunting lowly and lifting his back by pinning his weight on his elbows. «You alright, kid?»

«I can’t sleep.» Vance isn’t sure if it is a valid answer, if it is even what Johnny wanted to know from him. But it’s all he can say, the only thing he’s able to process about his condition, and, therefore, the only thing he can verbalize.

For a few seconds, Johnny says nothing; he just nods to himself, pondering. Vance remembers — memory can be a funny thing sometimes, random conversations and unrelenting images surfacing all of a sudden and uncalled for — Larry telling him how he found it intimidating, almost eerie, when Johnny would stare at him with his brows furrowed, right after he’d tell him something, making him question the very idea of talking at all. But he can be anxious at times, and all his fears and joys had always been amplified by the sole presence of Johnny around him. Instead, Vance can see that Johnny isn’t doubting the validity of his words, or is he holding back some tidal wave of fury. He’s just thinking, analyzing all the cards on the table and finding what he can do, what the solutions to the problem are. Vance can almost see the gear working behind his forehead, gaze directly at him.

Then, with a yawn that sounds more like a groan, he shakes his head and jumps off the bed. «’Right. Come with me.»

Trustfully, Vance slips his feet into his boots and strolls to the leather jacket on the coat hanger. Johnny doesn’t take his, putting instead his jeans on, opening the door as he grabs a few keys with a fluid movement of his slim fingers. Silence hanging comfortably over them, Vance follows Johnny to the car, and, according to his nod, he hops in the passenger's seat. Only then, the engine of the car purring below their seats, does he dares speaking up. «Where’re we goin’?»

«Nowhere in particular.» Johnny’s voice is almost mellow, soothing to Vance’s chaotic mind, accompanied by the dark and grimy alleys of the neighborhood sliding on the other side of the window. It’s an ocean of shadows, curtains that monsters and men can hide between and where crimes so grime and so frequent happen that not even the news reporters bother to try and see through. 

For its inhabitants, though, it’s home. No one is afraid of the dark — at least, Vance never remembers being, having given up the night light his dad would turn on in his room at the ripe old age of four, just a little bit of time after learning he was a big brother-to-be. If demons can hide in the shadows, so can he; of course, at that point it becomes harder to discern the real monsters from other cautious wanderers. But he has also learned that the line is horribly blurred, and that living them at their fullest can only come with the risks.

For Johnny it is an even different matter. The darkness is his one lover, the one that never left him, the one he feels at ease with, it is his home and he can read it like the palm of his hands. He makes the car glide gracefully in the narrowest alleys with the confident gestures of knowing exactly where it is going to come out of, a maze he needs no thread for. 

Though certainly not as familiarly as he does, Vance recognizes the streets they pass by, and he soon understands what Johnny meant; they are almost going around in circles, driving slowly and endlessly but without really reaching anywhere.

It takes a bit more than a few minutes for a placid mellowness to start flowing in Vance’s body, as he rests his back on the seat more heavily and folds his arms together over his stomach. His gaze goes from the buildings running outside of the vehicle and Johnny’s face, focused on the street. Only once in a while, Vance thinks he can see him turning his glance towards him, a smile — tender, could that be? — curling the ends of his lips, just for a second meeting his eyes, just briefly enough that Vance can question the reality of it, just long enough that he can revel in the sudden warmth spiking in his chest.

It doesn’t really make sense, but the question escapes his lips nonetheless. «What‘re we doing?»

«Jus’ drivin’ around.» Johnny shrugs, naturally. «Mom says Dad would do this all the time, when I was a toddler and wouldn’t let ‘em sleep. It worked.»

The last words come with a half-chuckle, a bitter nostalgia that dissipates as soon as he lets it out, a fleeting smoke that Vance doesn’t make it in time to breathe in.

His father. Johnny barely ever mentions him, since the day he left. Vance wasn’t there, not really — that was Larry, of course, who’d been by his side for the next days, when Johnny had not wanted to see anyone but him and Lola; the details of it, he guesses, will just rot in their graves with them when the day will come. In the meantime, what he knows is that that man had packed most of his stuff and he’d disappeared in the night, just a few days after being released from prison and a few hours after celebrating Johnny’s eighteenth birthday. It must have been a cold December, indeed, at least Vance remembers having caught at least a cold a week.

Hence, before he can elaborate how indiscreet and insensitive it might turn out, he finds himself asking, in the silence of the car: «Do you miss him?»

Johnny’s jaw goes sharp, gaze hard and fixed somewhere beyond the street in front of them, somewhere they wouldn’t reach if they drove for a million years. The question must have troubled him, and Vance does regret asking at all, but, as his hand tightens around the steering wheel, he actually answers him, not a drop of sadness in his tone, if not a veil of resentment. «Not sure if miss is the right word. Mostly I think I’d like t’know why, I guess. But it’s been more than two years already, so. Maybe I’m jus’ better off without ‘im.»

«Maybe you are.» There are so many things that Vance would express, right now. How Johnny needs someone who can return at least a bit of the love he gives, how someone that makes him suffer like that isn’t even worth a thought from him, how there might have been no reasons aside from him simply being an asshole, how he should fill his heart with all the people who are here for him and care, instead of keeping all that space occupied with ghosts and skeletons. But his mind is already dizzy with the sleepiness, tongue heavy, so all he’s able to say is: «Maybe you jus’ deserve better.»

For some reason, Johnny didn’t seem to expect that. His frown, the tempest in his eyes, halts, as if he needed to let those words sink in, seconds of silence, loaded, Vance hopes, with everything he hasn’t been able to properly articulate but that has made it through nonetheless. Then, he gives Vance a smile, brief enough that he will be able to pretend this never happened. It’s a moment of calm in the constant storm in his mind, and Vance thinks — only in his head, because the realization fills it too much and too long for his mouth to pick a moment to say it and formulate it well enough — that it suits him absurdly well, and that he would climb to the moon if it meant always seeing him like this.

Vance has a problem.

In all fairness, he has many problems, from Mom and Clara being at war with each other as soon as they breathe the same air, to Dad coming back home drunk again, to the Math teacher placing a test about functions when he’s still trying to understand how inequalities work. Mostly, though, the problem he needs to deal with, before it ruins the only good thing left in his life, is that he desperately wants to kiss Johnny.

The issue isn’t much about the kissing per se; Vance has always been a good kisser, and never a picky one, nor has he ever struggled to make someone want to kiss him back. Ever since he found out what offering his body on a golden plate felt like, the ecstasy of being touched and the electricity flowing through his nerves, sweetly painful and terrifyingly addictive, he’s learned the craft as masterly as he could, the ability to make anyone fall at his feet at his will — or to make anyone have him at their feet, for that matter.

Thing is, this isn’t about anyone. It’s Johnny.

Vance’s techniques of seduction only work because the other person doesn’t know him, doesn’t know about the way his thoughts and his emotions always spill out and make a mess of his so well curated mask, only an unattractive and insufferable moody kid left. But if he keeps all of that inside, the prime of his beauty on the shelf for them to see, he can be satisfactory enough that he can feel something at being handled with no care as he plays the part.

Which is why this isn’t the case, now. Johnny has seen him laughing so hard that he fell off the bed and bawling his eyes out for his bike crashing into a wall, he knows about his mood swings and the home he’s always escaping from and all the constant twirling of his mind that can only make all his nerves ache. To him, Vance is not a body and a whirl of psychedelic lights — he’s a human being, in all his vulnerability and all his fucking exaggerated fragility; it’s a version of himself that he really despises, always too hard to handle, as annoying to himself as it has always seemed to be to guardians and to all the kids on the playground, who never had much patience to follow the fully fleshed story he had in mind for his beloved toys.

To think that Johnny does not only appreciate it, but has decided to take care of him all this time without an apparent intention to stop anytime soon scares him to death, breath suspended for the day he will get too tired, too.

He hopes it isn’t naive to pray the day never comes.

What he can do, to delay it as much as is in his power, is to at least fight the urge to kiss him as soon as he meets his gaze, settling for staring at the way his smiles crinkle his eyes in two cracks that the light in his chest peeks through.

Which, after all, isn’t so bad, not enough to cure the itch at the bottom of his chest but sufficient to scratch it for a few seconds. It’s a brief consideration that he does as they laugh, sitting on Johnny’s bed, fighting the scorching heat that has come early in June with old magazines and a pair of scissors after the old and cheap fan has died on them.

The flea market has been one of their best options to hang out, these days of a spring that has soared fast and light as a flock of swallows, some inexplicable fun in wandering through the stands of sellers, admiring and eyeing some more mundane and even useful things and giggling at the most improbable objects, hardly blending among the busy old ladies in their trained, mindful shopping. Four kilos of old car magazines could have seemed the stupidest purchase they could think of, and, in hindsight, it might have been just another manifestation of Vance’s terrible habit of acting before thinking, but the price had been more than convenient, and Johnny hadn't looked too pained at leaning in to Vance’s enthusiasm.

Even right now, as they sit in a pond of open magazines and cutouts sinking between the folds of the bedsheets, he’s laughing almost breathlessly, holding a piece of paper next to his face. «C’mon, this guy looks nothin’ like me!»

It’s the photo of some actor from the eighties, one that Vance had somehow never heard of and that probably had managed to appear in one or two B-movies. However, as soon as Vance had spotted his face in the corner of a page, he hadn’t resisted the temptation of cutting it out for Johnny to see.

He laughs back at him, touching it with his finger. «But it’s the same nose!» He crinkles it, at the contact, between the chuckling, and Vance, faultily, thinks he’s as cute when he just lets himself enjoy little things like the twenty year old he is as he is when he’s laying the gaze of a lion all around him. 

«But,» Johnny lifts with his other hand another cutout, placing it at the other side of his face. «I always thought I looked more like Marlon Brando, don’t I?»

He does, to be fair. But Vance will die before he lets him have the final word, so he parallels his gesture with a pic laying next to his thigh. «Yeah, the same way I look like James Dean.»

Johnny scoffs with an amicable mockery. «One day, kid.»

As an answer, Vance sticks his tongue at him, and Johnny throws his head back in laughter, the pleasant sound of it warm and vibrant resonating in his chest. Then, as the decisive counterattack — Vance snatches the Marlon Brando cutout and runs off, jumping off the bed and dashing away towards the other room; Johnny usually makes a lot of fuss about running around in the house, ‘cause if something breaks I ain’t gonna repay it!, but it remains a fact that no one messes with the King. Therefore, since Vance has dared subjecting him to such outrageous injury, he has no choice but to leap on the floor as well, the fluid moves he used to channel in his feared kicks in high school still noticeable in his legs.

Getting to the kitchen, they run around the table, but after a few seconds of chasing Johnny has the great idea of a sharp turnaround, so that he can catch Vance from the front and tackle him to the ground as if he had been a Jock, instead of a Greaser. It’s a matter of moments before Vance finds himself under him, his weight over his waist and his hand pinning the wrists, heart stopping in his chest and the realization of the position making him hyper aware of the fire flooding his veins just below the skin. 

It’s really despicable, how his senses overreact, firing up for a position that lasts less than a second — none of the lightning-fast fantasies that had materialized in Vance’s brain come to life, as Johnny only needed a strategy to stop him and snatch the cutout from his hands. He’s still laughing, but now it’s only him filling the hot air of this suffocating summer. Vance’s arms remain spread out above his head, still stuck in an instant before as he is.

When Johnny talks to him again, Vance doesn’t respond immediately, all his attentions enraptured in just looking at him, at the way his shoulders cave in down to him and his eyes come closer, giving him a view on the bottom of their deep pits, where sparks only wait to become a fire. «Kid, you okay?»

Vance is supposed to say yes. It would be the fastest thing, and the one that would reassure Johnny the most; however, the heart pounding inside him won’t let him, condemning him to just bite down on his lower lip in uncertainty. 

And Johnny rests his hands at the sides of Vance’s head, so his arms tense after his torso, chin tilting upwards in a motion that he had always thought was supposed to be automatic, but that he finds himself doing like it’s the only natural option at the moment, and as Johnny leans closer any trace of common sense that he had at least tried to learn vanishes.

He had wondered for a while how Johnny’s kiss would have felt, whether it would’ve been warmingly soft or rough and tempestuous. But the moment that his lips meet Johnny’s hesitating ones, he understands — despite the tenderness almost he presses them with, there is some intrinsic firmness, an intensity in him that no softness or unease can mitigate, and for Vance there’s no other choice but to dive into the tidal wave, with all the shivering and the abandonment to the force of nature it brings. 

Just as soon as Vance discloses his mouth and finds Johnny’s grazing teeth, though, he stands up, sharply, suddenly, removing the warming and familiar weight from Vance’s suddenly cold body. His lip bleeds, and so does something inside of him.

Trying to decipher Johnny’s expression is useless. It’s such a jumble of panic, of surprise, of — Vance’s stomach turns upside down — disgust that it’s all too much for him to elaborate, still laying on the kitchen floor like he's ready to be had by him or to be put six feet down under these white tiles, buried like any memory of this forsaken kiss that should’ve never happened.

Why had he even hoped for anything at all? The more it replays in his head, the more he realizes how delusional and chimeric it had been all along, to even dream of it happening. He had known it from the beginning, after all, that Johnny wasn’t just another date, that just having him fall for him for a few minutes would never be enough, nor something that he’d ever want. 

Vance is strikingly aware of how impure he must be, how all the hands that have held his body must have left their fingertips down to his soul, tainting it forever, and how inconsiderate he must have been, to let it happen. Perhaps, it had never been the best strategy, to find a way to remind himself of his own existence, to be appreciated, if not loved. He’s given away all his innocence in this desperate attempt, but he’d never thought it would’ve been a problem, how implausible it would have become to think he’d be a good keeper, certainly not with the reputation of a heartbreaker — or a whore, like some others like to call him — he’s built for himself. 

But still, still, with Johnny, he’d hoped—

Johnny isn’t even looking at him, back turned and already walking back towards the bedroom. «You comin’ or what?»

Hoped what? It becomes stupider and stupider. Because even if Johnny was willing to take a mess like him, even if he committed to it with the patience and the care he’s displayed until now, he still doesn’t like men, and he sure as hell doesn’t like pansies; Vance just so happens to be both.

He really had only deluded himself from the start, hadn’t he.

He isn’t even sure he is actually crying, but he bats his eyelids a few times, fills his choking lungs with oxygen and beams, jumping up with the smile worthy of a truly great performance like only he can deliver. «Comin’!»

For how believable his acting might be, though, it doesn’t lighten the air between them, heavy and tense like it’s begging to be cut with the scissors they’re still handling. Vance only stays until six; Johnny says that his mom is coming back late from her first day at work, and he wants the house to be clean and for her to find nobody else. While Vance can only appreciate his sweet care for his mother, he knows exactly what it is really about, and in all fairness he does think he’s right not to want him around anymore, at least for a while.

Vance’s head is so full with regret and black clouds that he barely hears his mom and his sister fighting again when he enters the house. He only wants to wash himself the strict necessary and crawl under his covers, in the faint, useless hope that they will hide him from the desperation — except that it pours out of his own body, somewhere inside where he couldn’t reach if he ripped his organs open to grab it with his fingers, making running from it quite difficult. 

His entire life he’s been used to being rejected — it’s part of the game, after all, a loss every ten wins. Yet, tears that he can’t stop, nor does he try to, wet his pillow with the soul he doesn't do what to make of anymore.

Johnny had forgotten what being scared felt like.

He knows worry, the vivid knowledge that something can quickly go from bad to worse and the need to stay lucid to find the way to untangle the yarn. It should have been scary, for a thirteen years old, to find his mother passed out on the bathroom floor with an empty bottle of pills next to her; however, Johnny had already learned how to handle it, what to do to keep her breathing until the arrival of an ambulance, and there’s no fear in his memory, only the cold blood he had inherited from his father and the firm awareness of everything he needed to do.

It had been a matter of survival, an attempt at cutting any dead weight holding him from swimming, drowning being the only alternative. 

From here, though, there is no way out. Not when the only enemy he should run from is himself. 

It is true that he has been avoiding Vance, for at least a few days. It has been unfair, and cruel of him, that he’s very well aware of, and countless times has he decided he’d walk up to him and apologize, but each time he’s found himself stuck at the bottom of the pit forming in his stomach at the sole thought. Johnny is a man of action, but when he gets lost in his own head it becomes a maze, and there’s no Ariadne holding a thread for him to get out of it. 

Just seeing him takes him back on the floor of his kitchen, Vance’s eyes calling for him, begging to do something — and so Johnny had done, following his instinct as always, but little did he know where it would have brought him. He keeps replaying the scene in his head again and again, but never once does he choose not to kiss Vance, and it’s sending his brain haywire. No amount of walking back and forth in his room or staring at the floor or skimming through the magazines they were looking through that cursed day gives him an answer on the reason, any reason for him to have done what he did, and the irritation emerging in his chest has nothing or no one do aim at, thoughts and sensations just twirling on themselves.

There are thousands of reasons not to have done it. Because Vance is his friend, because it should’ve been predictable that things would have become awkward, because he is a man, and Johnny is only interested in girls. He’s long accepted some of his friends just happening to be queer in one way or another, and really, after some time he’s even grown used to it, seen how nothing seemed to have changed about them — for instance, he’s actually very happy about Ricky and Lucky finding each other the way they did.

But — himself? Johnny Vincent has a reputation around New Coventry, has always been regarded highly by the men of the neighborhood since he was less than a boy; he can’t even visualize what would happen to him if they found out he was into men. There are words, heavy and dirty, that are thrown at the weak of heart, at everyone who doesn’t live up to the standards of real men, and the knowledge of what they originally meant is branded with fire in the back of his brain. 

His father has raised him better than that — hasn’t he? He’s taught him to be tough and to take care of his women and to never bend but to break the other’s nose. Certainly he hasn’t taught him to kiss boys. 

But then again, he was also the one who would yell at his mother and answer with his fists when she’d throw glasses and plates at him, and the one who sold drugs hiding them in his five year old’s son nightstand and the one who disappeared one night and erased himself from their life, almost tried to leave their memories, too. He’d always referred to himself as one of the last real men; is that what being a man really means?

There are many fatherless kids, in this godforsaken neighborhood. There are many reasons, here, why a man shouldn’t want a child, but they never seem to worry about whether their partner might be ready to face motherhood alone; maybe they just don’t worry about a problem that won’t be theirs anymore.

If Johnny left this alone, if he just stopped seeing Vance, if he pretended not to know him when he’d cross him in the street, it wouldn’t be so different. It wouldn’t be any business of his anymore, and he’d just leave Vance to his own devices, to his hookups and to the self-destructive constant implosion of his brain. 

Oh, God. It hits him in the back, an invisible fist from himself. He doesn’t want to do this. Now, it begs the question if that is what a man would do, and what it says about him, but the importance of the answer is secondary, at the moment. His priority, as of now, is reassuring Vance, making sure he’s there for him, if anything to bring things back the way they were.

It is with such intentions that he parks his bike in front of the Bullworth Academy gates, cigarette in one hand and eyes on the high school kids walking by, waiting for one senior in particular to come out and see him. He doesn’t keep count of the times or of the students that send him curious or disdainful glances, but luckily, his patience isn’t tested too much, as a loud whistle announces Vance and Lefty approaching; there’s something almost unsettling, in the difference between their expressions — Lefty is grinning from one ear to the other, pleased surprise in his ice blue eyes, impudence for everything and everyone constantly stamped into his gaze, the nerve not to care and the audacity to never even fake it.

Next to him, though, Vance can barely hide the discomfort in his faux nonchalance, or at least Johnny can see it, unable to meet his eyes, watching Vance’s focus escape his like a hunted rabbit. Johnny swallows back the fear that is clotting in lumps of anger.

Lefty, however, seems blissfully unaware of the tension, instead waving widely with both his arms. «Well, well, well, if it ain’t the King himself!»

Even though he’s supposed to be more or less of an adult, by now, the epithet still pumps his chest with pride, and Johnny crosses his arms with a grin. «What, missed me?»

For how much he might try to keep it casual, though, Johnny keeps looking back at Vance, at the lips he keeps torturing with his teeth, at the leg that keeps bouncing. He reminds himself the reason he was here in the first place; serious, trying not to sound too harsh and hoping it comes out in a gentle caress rather than an aggressive bark. «I need to talk t’ya.»

Though he doesn’t physically gulp, Johnny can see Vance wincing, helpless, as if he had swept the ground from under his feet, and Lefty seems to suddenly notice that something is actually off. «Did I, uh. Miss somethin’?»

Vance sighs, tiredly. Vance never displays tiredness with resignation like he’s doing now, and Johnny notices with a drop of his heart. «Go in to the others, tell Hal I’m comin’.»

Without hiding his perplexity, Lefty obeys to his leader and jogs back into the gate, thus leaving Johnny alone with Vance’s fugitive eyes, darting around; everywhere but on him. At least, he doesn’t seem to be the only one who doesn’t really know how to deal with what happened between them.

There are moments of awkward silence, no right words that may fill it the way they need. Therefore, since he was the one to initiate the interaction, Johnny finally clears his throat, hoping his voice doesn’t crack, hoping his mind doesn’t fail him, hoping the planets align just in the right position. «So… Between you and me…»

«Nothing happened.» Vance doesn’t even let him put a few words together. His answer is snappy, like he’d rehearsed this scene a thousand times in his head and he was only playing the part he’d prepared for this situation, and fast like his brain always works, dashing faster than he can control, just until he will crash and burn. He tries to smile, a small and forced smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and doesn’t brighten him up like a little sun, only making the clouds over his gaze greyer. «Serious. I’m sorry if you were… uncomfortable, or anythin’. But nothing happened, I promise. Now forgive me, but I really gotta go, I’m this close to failing Math and I’d really, really like to graduate.»

Faithful to his words, Vance disappears, slips from Johnny’s vision, just as fast as he’d appeared, almost making Johnny question whether he was really there — this trick does not, however, work, as Johnny can still feel the anguish permeating Vance’s whole figure echoing in his own chest. He keeps working all of it as he drives back home, deprived of any chance to answer and left with only his words to bounce around his skull, tries to grip the sense of it all from the turbid mud of this entire, absurd situation, plants his feet in it not to be blown away by the tornadoes raging all around him. 

He gathers it soon, with the consequent lava boiling in his stomach — Vance doesn’t want to see him, too caught up in his own stupid self-convictions of whatever crime he must have committed towards him, and his way of preserving an appearance of peace of mind he has is by avoiding the issue altogether.

For how angry he might be, though, after smashing a few boxes and garbage around New Coventry, Johnny finds himself questioning — perhaps it might really be better, if they just try to stop seeing each other, if they just take their distances until they don’t hurt anymore, until the large cut between them becomes a faded scar and it stops bleeding and hurting. Maybe that kiss had felt so natural, to Johnny, exactly because they needed a signal to sign the end of their contract of mutual support, and it is time that each go back to their own lives.

Tenacity has always been his greatest virtue, and he has been a shameful champion in persuading himself of lies and living in them for the longest time, but he’s not a kid anymore, and really, this seems like the only possible solution and certainly the easiest one.

It’s already seven, when he gets home, heavier than he thought he was supposed to be after finally being able to take a grip of the situation, but he just waves it off as the hurt of a difficult decision. It must be symbolic, like a sign from the destiny — Larry always loved to make these strange connections, and, despite how stupid Johnny has always called them, it might have lingered on him as well — that the cigarette he puts between his lips sitting on a chair of the kitchen table is the last on the packet.

He stares at the gray curls of smoke rising in front of his eyes, blowing all the doubts away with it, pretending it is somewhat working. Whether it has been the noise of the door or the smell of the smoke, his mom emerges from her room, arms crossed over her husband’s old football jersey from when they were in high school together. She has been beautiful, in the prime of her youth, and, though she doesn't’ appear any less such to Johnny, the signs of age and sickness of everything she has ever experienced suffocate the light of her eyes.

She’s often worried about Johnny, and he understands how terrified she must be, not to see him come back; she has always told him he was a lot like his father, after all.

Although she doesn’t sit down, she comes closer to him, her smile always that bit faint that looks like she’s fatigued by it. «Everything okay?»

«Yep.» It isn’t exactly a lie. Not quite. «Had to talk to Vance. Nothin’ important.»

Walking to the fridge, she hums, almost a melody. «He hasn’t come here in a while, ain’t he?»

The open cut bleeds. At the idea of choosing the way to explain, those sparks of fear that he thought he had extinguished light up again, and he can only take another draw of the cigarette, keeping them in check, making sure they don’t turn into a fire. «Somethin’ happened, so now things are a bit complicated between us.»

His mom leans against the countertop, white yogurt in her hand. «Shame. I liked that kid, y’know. Liked him better than that Lola girl you used to hang out with.»

Saliva is suddenly bitter on his tongue, and Johnny can only try and cover it with the taste of nicotine. Even though the longing can still sting, even though there’s still a void inside of him where the rage and the horror of her venom was, where they harbored together misery and jealousy, he’s been able to find a corner of peace, in the silence of his phone not ringing in a vacuum in waiting for her answer or the absence of someone to scream at and who’d scream back at him. It is long anchored in him, that it is but the longing of an addict, but he’s finally getting clean, and it is a knife being turned in the wound to hear her name again. Still, he manages to scoff, overwriting the grimace he was letting out. «She was my girlfriend, mom. It’s different.»

In response, she waves the spoon at him. «I’m not talking about that. I didn’t like the way you were when she was around.»

This time, Johnny is caught off-guard, hit in a blind spot he didn’t know was open. He blinks once, twice, and the only words he can speak are half-fumbled. «Like what?»

She grimaces, her eyes on the yogurt like it was too bitter for her, and shakes her head. «You were always angry about something, always trying to be the bigger man, like you had somethin’ to prove. Remember you were almost fired ‘cause you fought with your boss?»

Of course Johnny remembers. However, it still doesn’t sound quite right of an argument, as he struggles to see the connection with Lola. «I’ve always been sort of a hothead, mom.»

«I know, but I’m talking in general. It’s like you were constantly on the edge, y’know?» She lifts her gaze on him, searching for his eyes, and the heartbeat he misses tells him it’s not just because she finished her yogurt. That Italian saying, the mom is always the mom? Just like that. «You’ve been better since Vance has spent more time ‘round here. You smile more, you laugh at jokes. Dunno, you look more serene. Have you smoked less?»

Johnny opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He’s suddenly revisiting all the memories he’s made in these last few months, all the colors Vance’s presence has added to the palette of his world, all the little reasons he’s given him to smile and the jumps of his heart, the runs and the rides around New Coventry, whirlwinds of lights and sparkles that have come to life in the eternal and yet never long enough hours they have spent together. Somehow, his friend has penetrated his heart like water in a sponge, and he can only curse himself an idiot for not realizing sooner. 

All this time, he’s kept Vance’s light in his life; and of course, there’s already a sun shining over all their heads, and probably Johnny wouldn’t really need to keep him by his side, might as well carry out the intention of leading lives on opposite sides of the tracks — but why should he want to?

The noise of the yogurt cup thumping into the trashcan calls him back to reality, snatching him from the train of his thoughts. His mom caresses his head as she passes by, directed towards the door of her room. «Let me know if things get better. I’ll go to bed a bit.»

Finally stumping the butt of the cigarette in the ashtray on the table, Johnny nods, fighting to keep the current circumstance a priority over the unruly twirling of his mind. «Try not to fall asleep though, I’m makin’ dinner in a couple minutes.»

She keeps walking away, sing-songing almost in understanding. Johnny is, once more, alone, with an empty packet of cigarettes and a decision to make.

New Coventry can be a dangerous place at night. Even Johnny Vincent, who’s been such an arrogant and smug kid, knows well that the predators always lurking are not to be challenged, has learned to slink through the alleys with as few eyes on him as possible.

It is the reason why he usually prefers avoiding going out after a certain hour, rather staying at home or hanging with someone in some more closed off and private place. This time, though, he perceives it as an emergency, something he couldn’t put off if he even felt like it, an absolute priority burning in his chest with urgency, keeping his body restless and his brain working. Fear has completely dried away, and a pressing worry is all that is fueling his legs right now.

After his mother’s words knocking some fucking sense into his thick skull, Johnny has spent the evening pacing through his room like a caged animal, forcing himself not to go out of it until he’s found some clarity. He’s flipped through the magazines they had bought that day and the cutouts resting between the pages, he’s set on one side of the closet the empty hangers of all the tees he had lent Vance and that he’d never seen again if not on him, letting his heavy steps accompany the feral thoughts in his head. 

Apparently, he’s made the same mistake he does with everyone he ever meets in his life — he’s started taking Vance for granted, never expecting him not to be there the way he’d been until that moment, never contemplating the idea that something, anything might have been any different at any moment. And he can only guess that is why the kiss had shaken him so much; everything he thought he’d known about them had crumbled in a second, he had to second guess his own feelings, the mechanisms he thought he could always trust, and he’d slipped, dragging both of them down.

It’s a bad habit of his, to project all of his negative emotions in a black cloud all around him and let it rain all over the people who dare stay close to him. Even in this moment, he can feel the fear nagging at his stomach, nibbling until he’s more annoyed than hurt and the annoyance is turned into blind rage; however, he’s keeping it down, drowning it away with a strategy that he had never tried before, one fueled by a plethora of feelings that he never knew could so much stronger than the anger. The truth is that he’s decreed that he simply doesn’t give a shit about all the things they will say, about how his definition of man is supposed to change and how his entire perception of himself might be overthrown by it, about how he’s going to tell his mother or anyone or even about how he’s going to make peace with his own honor.

And honor! What an empty and absurd concept that he’s found it to be, probably a bit later than he should’ve. He’d always thought it would be a synonym for dignity, but there must be something rigged about it, if something fleeting and distant like other people’s opinion is enough to even dent it, if it’s worth so much that he might as well grab it in his two hands and rip it apart in favor of something— someone that certainly will brighten his soul so much more and with so much more surety. Vance’s large smile, his genuine freckled laugh, appears if for a second in his mind at the thought, and, as if to prove the point he’s made with himself, it’s enough to tear a smile from him too.

Nevertheless, knowing isn’t enough; he has to tell him, has to say sorry and to let him know everything he feels, regardless of how Vance might answer.

He’s tried knocking at his door, but his mother had informed him he was out with friends. Unfortunately, though he has politely thanked her and turned away without further inquiring, he’s known for a while that, when Vance doesn’t give names, he’s never with his real friends, and this can only mean he’s dived into much more dangerous territory than a kid his age is supposed to.

In his search, Johnny has already visited three bars; calling his name, a few people have answered, but never much more than a glance from homonyms. It’s at the fourth club, the one on the other side of the street of the Blue Balls Pool House, air heavy with smoke and a diffuse reek of alcohol, that the redhead he was looking for actually answers his call, gaze lost and surprised and green eyes shining, gems that Johnny isn’t supposed to find so fascinating right now. 

The unease in his unsteady look is masked as annoyance, hands hidden in the pockets of his leather jacket. «Johnny, what—»

«We need to talk.» This time, Johnny doesn’t give time nor any other opening to let him divert the conversation, voice firm and steady, in the hope that he can hold the reins of the irritation and not turn this into a scene like he’s always been accused of making.

Before Vance can say anything, biting down on his lip in an attempt at escaping once more, the guy next to him whistles, a reminder that this twenty-something year old thinks he has some choice in the matter. «Uh, hello? Sorry, but who the fuck are you supposed to be exactly? His boyfriend?»

«Yes, actually.» Whether it’s force of habit or just the easiest way out, Johnny spits it out before thinking better of it and of its implications, nor does he believe they are important as of now, despite the spark in his chest in saying it or the stunned stare Vance gives him. After all, they can talk all about it later, but the prime concern of the moment is getting out of this hole.

Therefore, almost without waiting for an answer, he grabs Vance’s hand and walks towards the exit, long strides and the awkward goodbye of the other guy disappearing behind him; he can’t quite tell if Vance is resisting or not, but he’s ultimately following him, so that Johnny can finally take him to the parking lot behind the club, the loud music badly muffled by the old walls and the only lights preserving them from the dark of the summer night coming from the flickering street lamp above their heads.

Vance snatches his hand from Johnny’s grip, snapping. «Alright, what’s this for?» He looks angry. Johnny doesn’t blame him.

Collecting his patience, though, he exhales, taking a second to gather the right words. «I told ya, we need to talk. You didn’t let me last time.»

There’s almost a shift in Vance’s demeanor. That apparent anger that was there until one second ago pops into a scoff, loudly, forcedly, shaking fingers fidgeting with the zip of the jacket, his voice trembling feverish. «And I told you, there’s nothing to say. Absolutely nothing. What would you even want to say? We fucked up. You fucked up. I fucked up. I don’t know. We blew it— didn’t we? I mean, I believed there could be something for a second, right? I did, I admit it, I did! But I’m sorry about that.»

Johnny sees the glint in his eyes, an alarm on the cockpit, the headlights of a car that’s going fast, too fast. «Vance—»

«I know! I know.» He doesn’t even seem to notice Johnny trying to speak, the train of his thoughts dashing before the eyes so fretful that everything around him must be a bit more than a blur. «Nothing could ever be, right? See, I toldja I knew! ‘Cause why would you ever want me, right— I mean, who cares about my jokes, of course they’re funny, but I’m still a faggot, right, and you ain’t, and I’m such a slut, I mean, have you seen that guy inside—»

Each word he says lights more and more alarms inside Johnny’s brain, a thousand things he knows he should say to him, a dam to build with him to keep all those blades from flowing in his blood, to tuck him in and keep him somewhere safe from his own mind. Still, he finds himself helplessly unable to reach his ears with his voice, no matter how solidly he tries to get through to him. «Vance—»

«I’m just sorry I messed it up, okay?» The volume of his voice rises at the same rate at which the speed increases. «I’m sorry ‘cause I know that you were starting to actually like me in some ways, but I’m a fuckin’ mess, and— fuck, I am confident, ain’t saying I hate myself or anythin’, I’m so confident, but I’m just not the type you can just love, right, and especially not you, you need someone more stable, someone who can actually repay you for all the good you do, ‘cause you’ve been there for me so much and I’ve just made things awkward and—»

«Vance!» Eventually, despite his best efforts, Johnny’s impulse takes over, one second away from imploding, as he grabs Vance’s face in his hands and lifts it up towards his own. At least, it finally stops his flood of paranoid nonsense, a gasp that leaves his mouth agape and his eyes wide, at a dead end and suspended between a vain temptation to find another way out or a plea for mercy. 

Now back in place, Johnny sighs, loosening his hold and cupping his cheeks instead, though still searching for his gaze before it goes back wandering in some dark places. «Sorry. But, really, you need to slow down, for one second.»

And he does. Vance stops running, and he crashes.

The gasp becomes a sob, the sob becomes tears, and then he bursts, crumbling right into Johnny’s hands, a cry that must have waited just a bit too much to come out, pouring out everything they both have felt these days.

Johnny’s heart is crying with him. Gently, he guides Vance’s head so that he can sink his face into his shoulder, one hand holding him on the back and the other behind his neck, like he might fall if he doesn’t, like he’s made of glass and scaringly fragile in his arms. Somehow, he’s aware of not having been the best partner he could’ve been in the past, sometimes too suffocating, or too uninterested, or too harsh; in the exact moment, though, he suddenly realizes how easily he might just break this precious person in his embrace, how much trust Vance must be putting in him, if he holds onto his jacket like his life depends on it, weeping on his heart.

The realization comes sudden, but not for that less certain or determined, that he needs to handle him with care, and that is exactly what he means to do, what he’s willing to always be prepared for. He tries to talk to him, softly, checking where his senses are in the carcass of the accident of his mind. «You hear me?»

Vance doesn’t properly answer, but he nods, face still buried in Johnny’s shoulder, arms wrapped around his waist. He’s stopped wailing, but his whole body is shaking like a leaf; Johnny keeps caressing the back of his head, as to soothe his mind just a bit more. «I’m sorry I avoided you all these days. I was just a bit scared, y’know? But it was all me. Not you. You heard me? Ain’t your fault.»

He feels him gulping, his fingers tugging at the back of his leather jacket, but he still doesn’t answer. It isn’t worrying, at least; as Johnny as long learned, Vance needs a few minutes, when he’s that upset, and cradling him in the hug is more than enough, asserting his last words with a low hum. «I was just a bit confused, ‘cause I’d never kissed a guy before. ‘Cause, remember? I was the one who had the initiative. I wasn’t expectin’ it, but it was me. It is me.»

«“Is”?» The volume of his voice is still a bit more than a whisper, like his energies have been drained by the breakdown, but Vance has turned his head, so that his ear is resting against Johnny’s heart. «But I thought—»

«Never take nothin’ for granted, kid.» Johnny interrupts him before he can go down that path again. «I shoulda learnt that lesson long ago, don’t make the same mistake.»

Yet without speaking, Vance nods, pensive, the quiet ethereal and reassuring as a dream on a good night, lulled by the buzzing of the shabby streetlight. It’s comfortable, a different world, that Johnny would stay in indefinitely, just as long as Vance is in his arms, head on his heart and their bodies exchanging warmth. 

Vance’s voice doesn’t quite break the silence, rather accompanying it, faintly. «So, does that mean… We…» Words tangling on his tongue, he chuckles, almost to himself, lifting his chin just slightly. «God, this is awkward.» One more second of silence, that he fills by locking eyes with Johnny, snatching his breath away. They are green — that of course Johnny had always known, but flickering with a radiance coming from the inside, rays slipping through the cracks. He’s always been better at acting than speaking, but he’s pretty sure there must be some word to describe how he sees Vance, right now. «Would you just kiss me?»

For a second, Johnny hesitates, toe-dipping sliding his fingers down Vance’s face, from his temple to his cheekbones to his jaw, feeling his skin below his own, looking for the courage that he thought would have been already inside. It’s not that he doesn’t want to; in all fairness, there’s nothing he’d want more, his lips so tempting, calling for his own almost, caressed by the upper teeth in uncertainty. Just, the last time it didn’t end well, and he finds out that much stronger than the fear of everyone else’s opinion is the fear of fucking this up. This, that seems so right and that his heart and soul desire so much, that every part of him is pushing him towards, that has made his life better without him even noticing for a ridiculously long time.

He wants to get this right. Wants to be a good boyfriend, a good friend— wants to be good for Vance, as a matter of fact. He just needs to take this step, in the right direction, this time.

When he meets Vance’s lips, he’s holding them only half-closed, leaving just the right space for Johnny’s to settle into place; they are chapped, still tasting like nicotine and those horrid fruit mints he loves, soft, and especially built like they were made just for him to kiss them. Vance tilts his head, interweaving their breaths, and shivers run down Johnny’s spine from where Vance touches his neck, chest exploding at the touches, his own fingers running on his back under his jacket.

If they part it’s only because they have run out of breath; their bodies, though, remain pressed against each other, if anything, holding on tighter. Vance’s hands rest against Johnny’s jaw, as he looks up, the laughter of joy shining through the last drops of tears still lingering in the back of his eyes, reflected by them in a million shades of a thousand colors. He’s beautiful, and dreamy, the ringing sound resonating in his ears and in the bubble of air around him, so precious that Johnny would like to keep him between his hands like a firefly. Perhaps he should tell him.

However, he just brushes defiant strands of his hair with the tips of his fingers, delicately, hoping that his own smile is enough to let the message through. He hasn’t mentioned how much of a walking landmine he still is, how risky it is for Vance to actually let him into his heart, and how easily the first whirlwind in his head can turn into a destructive tornado, but he can bet he knows already, knew long before Johnny himself noticed. Maybe they just need to learn to be delicate towards each other. It will work, though, Johnny believes it — Johnny is a good believer.

He kisses the tip of Vance’s nose, without holding back a chuckle when he wrinkles it. «So, you wanna sleep at my place or do you want me to walk you back to yours?»

Biting on his lower lip  with his teeth — God, Johnny might go crazy the next time he does that — Vance hums, faux musing. «Dunno. Your bed is comfier, I think.»

«Then my place it is!» Johnny announces it with a staged enthusiasm that hardly covers the real one, draping one arm around Vance’s shoulders, who holds his hand with one of his own and slips the other in Johnny’s back pocket. He’s warm against Johnny’s torso, familiar but just new enough that he finds himself wondering if he’s doing this right.

It’s like learning to love all over again, but really, if it’s with Vance, he has faith, it will be fine.