Chapter Text
Gyro watched Johnny sitting by the fire, legs being cradled by his arms, contemplation heavy on his mind. The way his brows tensed when another thought unwillingly swept on by, and how it was so clearly written on his face. It was obvious his earlier crying did not release all his emotions.
“What’s on your mind, Johnny boy?” Gyro asked, leaning on his hands that were stabilizing him from behind.
“Nothin’,” Johnny replied. He didn’t so much as look in his direction.
Gyro knew better than to believe that. With a sigh, he got up and sat right down next to Johnny, to which he hugged his knees closer to his chest. “Talk to me.”
Johnny didn’t make a sound for a long while, eyes fixated on the flame in front of them. Gyro did nothing but wait, eyes at the same place as Johnny’s. “When’s the last time you cried?”
That came as a surprise, but Gyro didn’t let that show. He finally shifted his weight before answering, “Never did. My mom told me I didn’t make a sound even after bein’ born.”
“Bullshit.”
Gyro smiled at his own joke, and was pleased to see Johnny’s brows relax a little. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not somethin’ I do.”
Johnny turned to look at him, who was still smiling. “Not somethin’ you do?”
Crying is not something Gyro does. Crying is not something he can do. That anti-sentimentality his father instilled in him from an early age caused his tear ducts to remain dry. Nothing could waver that side of him. He found a sense of jealousy in Johnny, who could so freely let out all his emotions.
Gyro’s smile faded as he turned back towards the fire. “Don’t be mistaken, Johnny, I have a heart. Just those functions in my eyes aren’t in the best condition, unlike yours.”
“Is this because of your father?” Johnny released his legs, letting them drop to one side as he shifted his weight to face Gyro. He always did that when he wanted to hear a story, Gyro noticed.
Gyro breathed in a long breath. Johnny knew about his father, of course. He had explained his intentions in the race and how his father was very strict with his emotions.
He played with the dirt at his boot before he answered, “Seems that would be the case.”
Johnny turned back to the fire. Gyro watched him. “I would’ve been six-feet under by now if crying was a punishment to my father.” Gyro understood. Johnny was extremely leaky-eyed. He could only imagine that his childhood didn’t differ too much in that aspect. “Sometimes, I think about what it would take to get you to cry.” Johnny phrased it like a confession to a weird thought tugging at him.
Gyro honestly wasn’t sure. What would it take? The pain he feels digs deep in his body, creating raw wounds that he quickly covers up, but could there be something that could tear him apart even worse than anything before?
Johnny. Since when was it that he’d get this fluttery feeling just by looking at him? He thought he knew the answer after some reflection, but he buried it deep in his heart. His fathers image hung on the walls of his mind, as if to scold him for thinking such things. But there was something there, between him and Johnny. It was something his father couldn’t get in between them, it was growing. He knew Johnny felt it too, with the way the air around them seemed to pull them together, like they belonged that way: together. Maybe it was okay to let it grow. Maybe he could even chase it.
“Hey, Gyro?” Johnny asked
“What is it, Johnny?” He had to admit how nice it was to say the other man's name.
“Have you ever seen your father cry?”
“No. Not even once.”
“That sounds scary.” Gyro silently agreed, it was. “I’ve seen my father cry a whole lot, especially when my brother died. But if he never did? I think he’d haunt me a whole lot more if he didn’t feel a thing.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing he could.”
“Yeah…” Johnny trailed off, like he had something else to say but kept it dangling there.
“I think sleep is calling my name, Johnny boy,” Gyro said, pushing himself off the ground and heading back to his sleeping bag.
Johnny nodded and began tucking himself into his own sleeping bag.
Sleep wasn’t calling Gyro’s name. He had thinking to do.
Sometimes, I think about what it would take to get you to cry
The words rang in his ears so much that it frightened him. He didn’t like that he knew the answer, and that it was because of Johnny. He hated the way he could hear his father’s voice in the back of his head. They had a conversation with each other, even with an ocean in between them.
This will not end well for either of you if you continue thinking like this.
But how was he to simply get rid of such feelings? He just couldn’t push them aside like his father could. Not only that, he didn’t think he wanted to. But there was a fear. He knew, no matter which way he could lean, either Johnny’s side, or his father’s wishes, there’d be a whole lot of pain.