Chapter Text
Johnny scowled down at his new phone. After his old one had broken, he’d just finished manually importing all of his contacts. One by one. It wasn’t as if he talked to very many people. Hot Pants, Steven, Lucy and a handful of others. But that hadn’t made the process any less annoying. Or less tedious.
Sitting at his kitchen table, he thumbed over Hot Pants contact and created a new chat. She’d been his closest - and embarrassingly, only - real friend since he’d dropped out of college a year and half ago. Only real friend since he was born, if he was being completely and pathetically honest. But when was he ever?
Johnny: yo, it’s johnny new number
He didn’t contact anybody else regularly enough to bother informing them over text. Steven and Lucy, he’d see in person sooner or later. Putting his phone down, he stabbed a fork into the long-cold scrambled eggs, and took a bite. He scrunched his nose up at half-cup of cold coffee left. The post-man had arrived with the phone halfway through his breakfast.
Recently, it’d felt like all the days were all blurring together. He’d wake up. If he wasn’t working, he’d lay in bed until well into the afternoon. Sometimes staring at his phone, sometimes the ceiling. The common denominator being the lack of productivity. The lack of feeling.
Sometimes, he’d meet Hot Pants. She was busy now, working full-time in social care and helping out at her local church on the weekends. It was harder for her to make time. Johnny understood. He was happy for her. But that didn’t make him any less jealous of her sense of purpose, of direction, of the community she’d found with her faith.
The gulp of cold coffee felt like a reminder of what his life was like in comparison. Disappointing. Not what it was made to be. He wasn’t who he wanted to be, and now he never could be. His hands balled into fists on his lap as he glared down at his legs.
Once-famous jockey turned college dropout working in retail. What a joke.
His phone buzzing on the table cut the all too familiar spiral short. Hot Pants. He let out a quiet breath. A welcomed distraction. Picking it up, Johnny’s eyebrows knitted together.
Hot Pants: I can’t say I’ve met anybody called Johnny New Number before
His lips twitched. It didn’t seem like the type of joke she’d usually make, but she’d changed a lot since they’d been two college students getting shitfaced together every Thursday. Johnny felt a bit like he was stuck in stasis in comparison.
Johnny: very funny
Hot Pants: Glad you liked my gag!
Johnny stared at the screen, eyebrow raising. Gag? His thumbs hovered over the keyboard as he stared at the text.
Johnny: you’re way too happy for a Tuesday morning
Johnny didn’t have work until ten. He was pretty sure his boss was halfway to firing him, he’d been getting rostered less and less over the last few weeks. When he was rostered, the older man was always on his case about smiling more and ‘being less off-putting to customers.’ Whatever that meant.
Hot Pants: Aww did somebody wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?
Johnny narrowed his eyes at his screen. That didn’t sound like Hot Pants. He typed out a few variations of a reply- first, ‘fuck you’, then ‘you alright?’ followed by a groan as he gave up and hit the call button instead.
It rang.
And it rang.
Hot Pants' name blinked up at him, but she didn’t answer the call. After a few seconds, the call was declined. A crow squawked loudly outside, and Johnny felt a little like he was being mocked by even the birds.
“What the hell?” Johnny muttered. Then, he typed out that exactly and hit send. What was wrong with her? Johnny chewed at his lip. Her reply didn’t come as instantaneously as the other ones had.
Hot Pants: I’m at work!!!
Johnny stared at the three exclamation marks. His eyes darted at the time, then back to the three exclamation marks. She wasn’t meant to start work until nine. He clicked into her contact, and double checked her number on his old phone.
He’d put in a six instead of a seven.
Johnny clicked his tongue, creating a new contact and putting in Hot Pants actual number. He sent the real Hot Pants a text. Swiping out of the chat, he looked down at the only three chats on his phone.
An automated text from his service provider from when he’d put in his SIM card, Hot Pants and the stranger.
Clicking into the chat with the stranger, his thumb hovered over the delete contact button. He’d only texted them because he thought they were Hot Pants. Why keep their contact information? Johnny hadn’t even replied to their last text.
Johnny clicked his tongue at his own hesitation and then clicked rename instead. He didn’t fully get why he did it. But he found himself saving them under the name of ‘Not Hot Pants.’
Taking a breath, he placed the phone face-down on the table. He stared at it for a moment, before looking back at his breakfast. What was he expecting exactly?
He grimaced at the sight of his still-cold scrambled eggs. Placing the plate on his lap, he wheeled over to the microwave. Maybe if he warmed them up, he’d actually eat them.
—
Work was as painfully slow as it had been since he started the job a year ago. He really needed to find a new job. Johnny locked the door of his apartment behind him and shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on one of the stick-on hooks he’d put up within arms reach when he first moved into his place. Only two of the five hooks remained.
Pushing himself down the hallway, he went inside his sparsely decorated bedroom. Even though he’d been living here for almost two years now, he hadn’t done much with the place. There was a picture-frame of him and Hot Pants on his bedside table. A few half-read books stacked beside the drawers he used to store his clothes.
He swung his legs onto his bed, and then hoisted himself off of his wheelchair and into his unmade bed. Johnny dragged the blanket over him and lay back, despite the fact he was still in his work clothes. Shutting his eyes, he ignored the rumbling in his stomach. He could deal with dinner later. It was only six now, he just needed a nap after his shift. Or to never wake up again. Either worked.
Then, just as he felt the edges of sleep creeping into his usually-overactive mind, his phone started buzzing in his pocket. Someone was calling him. Johnny groaned, shoving a hand into his pocket. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he barely registered the word Pants on his screen and tapped the answer button.
“What the hell do you want, asshole?” Johnny asked, holding the phone to his ear and glaring at the lampshade above his bed. His voice was slightly hoarse in the way it usually got when he first woke up. This better be good.
An unfamiliar - and unusual - laugh crackled through the phone speaker. “Bad time?” the masculine voice questioned with a teasing lilt, and Johnny stilled. He whipped the phone away from his ear, suddenly wide awake as he sat up. The name Not Hot Pants blinked back at him from the call screen.
Johnny clicked hang up, and threw his phone down on the mattress beside him. Scrubbing his eyes, he groaned. He should’ve just deleted their contact like he’d intended to that morning.
As he was debating doing just that, his phone buzzed. Once. A text.
Frowning, Johnny picked it up.
Not Hot Pants: >:0
Johnny huffed at the dumb emoji. How old was this guy anyway? If he was at work on a Tuesday morning, he had to be an adult, right? He stared at the text, waiting for something more but that was it. The stupid shocked face.
A minute passed. Then, hands shaking slightly, Johnny did something equally as stupid as the emoji he’d been sent. He impulsively hit the call button.
The seconds dragged on, and Johnny was about to hang up. Then, finally, the stranger answered his call.
“Nyoho!” He was greeted by that same strange laugh. What a weirdo. “Back for seconds?” He hadn’t realised it the first time - but the man had an accent. Maybe Italian?
“What?” Johnny asked, irritation creeping into his voice, despite the annoyed red in his cheeks. “No. I’m just- I’m calling to clear things up. Alright?”
The man hummed, as if was considering. “By all means, clear them up.”
Johnny blinked, thrown. He hadn’t expected- he shook his head, he didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this. “Well,” he started, sounding more confident than he felt, “I thought you were my friend. But I texted the wrong number. That’s all.”
“Or maybe you texted the right one,” the man replied, words rolling off his tongue. Definitely Italian but… what did he mean by that? He didn’t even know Johnny. Or anything about him.
“Definitely not,” Johnny replied flatly. Scowling, he thought about hanging up again.
As if sensing Johnny’s apprehension, the man backed off. “Just kidding!” He said, and Johnny wasn’t entirely sure if he believed him. “It was another gag. Good, right?”
That word again.
“A gag,” Johnny repeated, dry.
“Yep!” The stranger said, too happy for Johnny’s liking. “I know you don’t know me but I’m a very funny guy.”
Johnny rolled his eyes. What a dickhead. “I don’t know about that,” he said, wondering why, out of all the wrong numbers he could’ve texted, it was this guy.
“Well, you could know me,” the guy continued, and Johnny wondered if he’d never woken up at all. If this was all some absurd dream. Not thrown off by the lack of response, the man went on, “For starters, you can call me Gyro.”
“What kind of a name is that?” Johnny scoffed.
For the first time, the man - Gyro - sounded annoyed. Johnny found a weird sort of satisfaction in it. “It’s Italian,” he said, muttering something, presumably in Italian. Then: “Stupid American.”
“Fuck off,” Johnny bit back, feeling more at ease despite his annoyance. Arguing he could handle. Why was he like this? He could never talk to people normally.
“You’re the one that texted me, stronzo,” Gyro said, tone nowhere near as light as it’d been before.
“Not on purpose!” Johnny retorted, but he’d heard the dial tone beep before he’d spoken. That asshole had gotten the last word in.
Fuelled by his irritation, Johnny opened the chat.
Johnny: fuck you man
Not Hot Pants: Real mature
Johnny stared at the two words. He did not want that guy to have the last word. But what could he even say?
Johnny: you have a stupid laugh
Not Hot Pants: At least I don’t have a stupid culture!
Huffing, Johnny narrowed his eyes. That was a low blow.
Johnny: you’re the one who moved here
Not Hot Pants: You don’t know anything about me
Johnny chewed at his lip, trying to think of a reply that’d annoy the man the most. Ignoring the fact that he was letting his anger drive him.
Johnny: I know you aren’t as funny as you think you are
Not Hot Pants: And I know you sound like a lonely asshole. Happy?
Staring at the text, Johnny almost growled. Happy? Of course he wasn’t. Who did this guy think he was? It wasn’t as if Johnny had meant to text him, and he didn’t even have to call Johnny back in the first place!
He clicked into the contact again, thumb hovering over the block button. He should block him. This wasn’t good. But - pulse faster than usual, brain buzzing with insults - but, it was the most awake Johnny had felt in weeks. Maybe months.
Johnny hated that Gyro was right. Maybe he was lonely. Lonely enough that even this - this hint of a connection built on insults, on animosity - wasn’t something he wanted to let go of.
Instead, he clicked rename. Typed in the first thing that came to mind. Then, immaturity crawling under his skin, he took a screenshot of the contact name and sent it to the man.
Italian Idiot: I see how it is
Before Johnny could type out a reply, a picture followed the text. It was of his own edited contact name with an eagle emoji beside it. He huffed in amusement, and then paused. Stunned by his own reaction. His eyebrows drew together as his lips twitched.
American Asshole: don’t copy me prick
The minutes ticked by without any reply. Johnny refreshed the chat and then threw down his phone for the second time. Whatever. What was he expecting? They’d been insulting each other. It was no surprise that Gyro stopped replying.
After a pathetic fifteen minutes of Johnny laying in bed and not waiting for a reply, he got up and pushed himself into the kitchen. His stomach was growling too loudly to be ignored for any longer.
Opening his freezer, he took out some frozen fries and spread them out on a tray. He threw them into the oven, not caring that it hadn’t heated up yet. Fingers drumming against the arm of his wheelchair, he stared at the fries. As if it’d make them cook any faster than the advertised 15 minutes.
Through his paper thin walls, he heard his phone buzz from where he’d left it on his bed. Embarrassingly, Johnny felt his heart jump in his chest. And he refused to move from the spot in front of the oven. That asshole could wait.
Despite his resolve, a part of him wanted to see what Gyro had replied with. He was weirdly excited about it, even.
Johnny inhaled a breath, throwing his head back as he looked up at the ceiling. He really needed to get out more. He shouldn’t be excited about being insulted, he wasn’t even into that! His own brain worked against him enough already.
The minute he’d taken the cooked fries out of the oven and placed the tray on the counter to cool, he’d pushed himself back into his bedroom at an embarrassingly fast pace.
Stretching to pick up his phone from his bed, he opened the message straight away. Disappointingly - and that was weird, he shouldn’t be disappointed - it wasn’t from Gyro.
Hot Pants: Are you free this Saturday?
He glanced over their texts from earlier - it’d been brief. Him telling her he had a new number, a quick catch-up, but nothing too deep.
Johnny: should be. why?
Hot Pants’ response was instant.
Hot Pants: Church charity cook-out. Be there or you might end up going to hell
Johnny scoffed, lips quirking upwards. Religion had been the subject of many of their earlier conversations - Johnny not being the most religious, to put it lightly. After almost five years of friendship, they’d reached an easy middle ground where they could both joke about it.
Hot Pants: I’m sure it won’t be entirely the overly religious type you hate. Diego’s coming and you know what he’s like. Plus, it’s been far too long
Even without the convincing, Johnny already knew he’d be there. He wasn’t exactly the biggest fan of crowds - not anymore - but she was right, it’d been far too long since he’d seen Hot Pants. He’d go just for that, though she was sure to be busy.
Johnny: I’ll be there. what time?
Then, as Hot Pants replied that it was at noon, he got another notification. His stomach lurched at the sight of ‘Italian Idiot’ on his screen. Without thinking, he opened it instantly. It was a photo of some pasta dish with meatballs and damn, did it look good. Shit, he’d forgotten about his fries.
He was about to wheel himself back into the kitchen when his phone buzzed in his hand again. Looking down, he narrowed his eyes.
Italian Idiot: Here’s a taste of some real culture, idiota
Asshole American: looks like it could be dog food
Italian Idiot: My food is far too good for mutts like you!
Italian Idiot: You wish you could have a taste
Johnny snorted at the two texts sent in rapid succession. The word idiot really was fitting for this guy. Without replying, he slipped his phone into the pocket of his work pants - that he was still wearing, he really should get changed - and rolled his wheelchair back into the kitchen.
He decidedly was not disappointed at the sight of the now lukewarm fries. Spurred on by something like irritation - or maybe just pettiness - he took a picture of them, still on the tray and sent it.
Asshole American: not when I have real American cuisine
Italian Idiot: My God you have to be joking
Italian Idiot: Is that your dinner? FRENCH Fries aren’t even American!!!
Johnny barely stifled a laugh, taking a fry off the tray and eating it. Lukewarm, as expected. Unfortunately they could not compete with meatballs.
Asshole American: whatever they might as well be
Italian Idiot: No way, don’t you even start with that
Struck, Johnny realised he was smiling. Like, actually smiling. With his teeth out. Not with sorry excuse of his customer service smile, but a genuine one. His expression dropped. When had the arguing devolved into something more… friendly? Or was Gyro still arguing?
Taking a breath, he stared down at his phone. The realisation had sent him off-course, and suddenly, he was unsure of what to say. He stuffed a handful of fries into his mouth, chewing angrily.
Johnny jumped, as the phone buzzed in his other hand. He’d expected Hot Pants again but -
Italian Idiot: But seriously is that your dinner?????
Asshole American: were the five question marks really necessary?????
Asshole American: and maybe
Johnny felt his cheeks heat up a little. Gyro’s text seemed so… shocked. Who doesn't have frozen food for dinner every once in a while? Or in Johnny’s case, most of the time. But that was besides the point.
He could cook if he wanted. He was good at cooking, even. But most of the time he didn’t want - or have the energy - to.
Italian Idiot: Absolutely yes!!!!!
Johnny snorted.
Italian Idiot: Oh my god wait are you a CHILD you didn’t sound like one
Narrowing his eyes, Johnny felt his chest prickle. Defensiveness crawling in. The thought of Gyro’s age had crossed his mind - he’d assumed the other was an adult. But he couldn’t stand for letting him think Johnny wasn’t one.
Asshole American: I’m 21
Italian Idiot: The fries make sense suddenly
Johnny raised an eyebrow. What was that supposed to mean?
Asshole American: what the hell?
Asshole American: what age are you then grandpa
Unconsciously, Johnny held his breath.
Italian Idiot: 26 o_<
Letting out a breath, he rolled his eyes. Another stupid emoji - was that supposed to be someone winking? He ate another fry. They were cold now.
Asshole American: you definitely don’t act like it
Instead of getting riled up, Gyro’s reply surprised him. His lips twitched at the sparkles.
Italian Idiot: What can I say? I’m young at heart ✨
Asshole American: old and wrinkly in body
Italian Idiot: Hey! I’ll have you know I have a very good skincare routine
As time passed, they continued to text. Fries forgotten on the tray. Johnny didn’t realise exactly how much time had passed until his fingers had grown stiff from holding his phone. He glanced at the time and his eyes widened.
10:23 PM.
They’d been texting for around three hours. Hot Pants had texted him about the cook-out closer to seven. He’d put on the fries at nine. Three hours.
As if he’d read his mind, another text popped up from Gyro.
Italian Idiot: Ah I fear I must go to bed now. Time passed so quickly! I have work in the morning T_T
Italian Idiot: Good night, Mr. American Asshole!
Johnny huffed. That was right - he still didn’t know Johnny’s name. He hadn’t asked and well, Johnny hadn’t told him. Part of him liked it like that.
Asshole American: wrong way around idiot
Asshole American: gn