Chapter Text
Johnny knew the hit was coming.
It hit fast, hard, but he knew it was coming.
He saw it from a mile away.
It approached from the distance like a cowboy in an old western film.
Slowly growing larger over the hill.
It was the kick that changed everything. The turning point. The exciting climax.
Humbled him, broke him, pushed him, turned him inside out and back again.
But at the same time it changed nothing.
It froze him in time.
He was a teenager in an adult’s body, taking advantage of the fact that he could get booze without being looked at suspiciously.
He was a taller-than-average child with the same anger he had in his teens.
He never changed his favorite movies.
He never listened to new music.
Because if he did he feared all the feelings he’s plugged up since 1984 would come rushing back to him like a broken dam.
He would drown. He would get washed away by the strength of the water. And Johnny Lawrence would never be weak enough to drown.
He would run, and run, and run.
Run until his chest was heaving and his knees buckled.
Run until it caught him.
When it slithered like a snake and gripped his neck.
When he felt the suffocation and tightness.
He would get caught on a sunny afternoon, a beautiful afternoon, he presumed.
A day where everyone was enjoying themselves.
Walking with their families and enjoying the sun. Soaking it in.
And when it caught him, nobody would care. And they would keep going on with their day. And they would walk around him choking on the sidewalk.
It was better that way. The way it was meant to be.
Johnny was never meant to be the winner.
He was a stepping stool for LaRusso. He was an overconfident pawn.
He was a pathetic guy if you got to know him.
He was still hung up on a guy he knew for a year in highschool. A guy he barely knew. A guy who did nothing to deserve what he got, though Johnny would never admit that. He knew it, though, in the back of his mind. He tried to push it down but it kept coming to the surface. Simmering and bubbling and popping in a grotesque cycle every day.
He was the guy whose girlfriend left him. A couple times, actually.
As much as they tried to make it work it never did. They tried, over and over again.
For the sake of Robby, she said.
But she knew.
And he knew.
That Johnny was nothing but a fag.
And nothing was ever said about it.
But they both knew.
And they didn’t know at the same time.
Another simmering and bubbling and popping grotesque cycle.
Robby was everything.
And Johnny was nothing.
And no matter how hard Johnny tried, nothing he did would amount to anything.
So what was the point in trying with Robby?
He’s a kid with possibilities. A future.
Not like Johnny.
Johnny wouldn’t taint Robby’s future by getting involved.
But he had to.
He didn’t hate Shannon. He loved her. But he couldn’t love her how she wanted him to.
That caused some problems.
Johnny had Robby on the days he didn’t work, and Shannon had Robby on the days she didn’t work. Or, didn’t want to take care of him.
It worked well that way, even though sometimes it didn’t work out and Johnny would find Shannon drunk in some bar at 2 P.M.
He’d be carrying Robby with him, on his back, on his shoulders, in his arms.
Robby was used to it.
He was a kid, but he understood for some reason.
Some sickening reason.
The kid always had a solemn look on his face. Like he knew.
Johnny could never look at him for that reason.
And also the fact that Robby looked like Johnny’s mother, but that was a whole other issue.
When he’d find Shannon she’d usually yell at him to fuck off, leave her alone, but eventually she’d let him drive her home and her breathe would stink of alcohol and cigarettes as she spoke. Spoke about what? Johnny didn’t know. He never listened.
Robby would sit all quiet and still in the backseat. He’d scrunch his tiny body up to take even less space even though he hardly took any in the first place. Even though he was the only one sitting in the backseat. Maybe Johnny and all his problems were taking up too much space in the backseat of the car.
When Robby was much younger, Shannon was concerned about the fact that he hardly spoke.
Johnny didn’t take it as anything. He was the same way, and he turned out fine. Shannon only looked at him quietly after he said that. A disbelieving look, like she knew him or something. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know who he was. How could she know anything about him if Johnny didn’t even know himself?
The point is, Shannon took Robby to a bunch of specialists.
In Johnny’s opinion, it was all a huge waste of money.
Why would you wanna know what’s wrong with your kid unless it's an actual illness like measles or some shit?
Johnny wouldn’t raise his son to be a pussy. A pussy that didn’t speak. Johnny would prevent Robby from being anything like him.
Seeing Robby become more similar to Johnny as he grew up, even though Robby was only a child, stung. It was sour and sickening like the taste of bile.
Robby was brilliant though.
He was smart and clever and understanding.
Yeah, parents usually say that about their kids, but Robby really was different.
Different from Johnny.
Johnny needed to preserve that. Because even though Johnny didn’t know who he was, he did know he was someone who destroyed everything he touched. Johnny was okay watching from the sidelines of Robby’s life. He’d make sure to handle him with gloves. Robby could grow to resent Johnny and that would be okay as long as Robby never grew up to become a Johnny.
If Robby did, Johnny wouldn’t know what to do. The thought that Robby could become a nothing like him made him sick. It would be wasted talent. A wasted life.
Robby would never end up like Johnny.
In a shitty apartment, working a shitty job at a party supply store which he was now late to.
Oh, yeah, and owning a shitty alarm clock. A stupid shitty alarm clock that wouldn’t beep when it was supposed to.
Robby would never be like him. Never.