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The best nights, for Kerry, are the ones where Johnny is buzzed and Kerry is sober. Those can be the worst nights, too. Just like everything else when it comes to Johnny, it’s anybody’s guess.
There are times when they write songs, or when one of them says something they don’t mean and they end up with sore throats from shouting. Kerry thinks most fondly of the late hours when they sit quiet on the same rooftop looking up at the stars, pressed close together “for warmth”.
Tonight is just like all the others. Could go either way. Doesn't matter much, does it? Kerry plans to stick around regardless.
The train of thought is interrupted by a noise that sounds like a cough, but isn't quite.
“Fuck.” Johnny says, under his breath.
Kerry searches Johnny's eyes. The club lights are a dim purple. It's impossible to see well enough to glean anything useful. Johnny's eyes are the same kind of dark they've always been.
Something twists in Kerry's chest. He ignores the feeling. “Take something bad?”
“Dunno.” Johnny says “Doesn’t feel bad yet.”
Bullshit. If it really didn’t feel bad Johnny would’ve laughed the question off. It’ll be five minutes, or maybe fifteen, before Johnny decides to start a fight with the chrome-jockey bouncer or lock himself in the bathroom where nobody can see his trembling and throwing up.
“What do ya say we get out of here?”
Johnny gives a nod—trying to seem casual—only he does it too quickly to be convincing. It’s not anything. It’s just a nod. But, shit, if Kerry doesn’t feel a little giddy about it.