Now What?

Bobby made good on that promise whenever he could, but he couldn't be with him all the time. He knew that. He just wished it didn't have to get worse.

Johnny stumbled his way to Bobby's house, past his confused mother, collapsing on the floor of his bedroom and crying the minute Bobby shut the door. He managed to mumble out the details, as he watched Bobby's expression turn from hyper-aware concern to barely contained anger.

Bobby didn't know what else to do, except sit on the floor with him and hold him as he cried. He just prayed his mom wouldn't come knocking on his door asking what the hell was wrong with Johnny. What would he even say? Johnny's grip on him is tight and desperate.

"Shh, shh, shh. You're okay, you're okay now, it's over now." God, what should he even say to this? Clearly it was not okay, very very not okay, and they should've reported this shit like he suggested and this might not have happened. People take this shit seriously don't they? But it was too late for suggestions in hindsight. Not to mention, it would have probably made him feel even worse.

Johnny had never felt more useless. He tried to stop it, he really did, but he couldn't. He was much too emotional and weak for his own good, no wonder people got so fed up with him when all he did lately was cry. Bobby just stroked his hair and let him curl around him, hands wrapped around his shoulders and face buried in his neck as he attempted to comfort him.

"Shh... " Running a hand up and down his back, Bobby could feel him shaking slightly. The blonde sniffled, slipped from his grasp, and stiffly laid himself down in his immediate position on Bobby's bedroom floor.

He tried to get him up, to no avail. "C'mon, you can lay down in bed," He couldn't just lay on the floor.

Except Johnny wasn't moving, at all. Bobby knew that he was likely going to remain in that state for a few hours and was left with no other option than to try and comfort him from his position on the floor. If he tried to lift him up, he might start panicking. He was trying to avoid a full-blown meltdown.

Johnny breathed shallowly in and out, shoulder pressed between the wall and Bobby's leg, while he felt him try and lift his head from the ground and place it on his lap. He just hoped that his crying wasn't as loud as it sounded in his own head.


Back to Start

"What the hell is wrong with you?" My eyes dart up from my plate. The biting accusation is like a slap to the face.

"Nothing," I say. My voice is flat, like every time I have to entertain whatever shit he drudges up.

"Then sit up and eat what your mother cooked, for Christ's sake. Stop looking mopey, nobody likes that shit."

"Sid, please, maybe he's not feeling well–"

"Can you stop making excuses for him all the time Laura? I mean look at him, he's too fragile you're gonna turn him into some kind of faggot–"

"Sid!"

They're just talking over each other now. It's like he needs to start arguments. I go to touch my neck and remember that I left my headphones in my bag, despite my Walkman being on me still.

"He can't even look at people when he talks to them! You've got no respect, look at me when I'm talking to you, you little brat."

Can he just fuck off? He's so loud, so intrusive. Why does he even care if I'm eating or not? Or does he just like to interrogate me, like usual it's just to make things harder for me–

"Johnny, sweetie?" She says it like she's afraid I'll run away. I'm a deer in the woods again, skittish and easily startled, one wrong move and I'll dash out the door. Fuck this. "Are you not feeling well? You don't have to eat if you don't want to." Her voice is soft. It's nice.

You should eat. You're physically hungry.

"No, I'm okay, really." I smile, trying to ease her worries. It works thank god, and she continues eating. Sid doesn't say anything else for a while.

I find my voice again. "Mom?"

She looks hopeful. If Sid wasn't there, maybe I'd say something. I want to.

"Is it alright if I go see Bobby after dinner? We're gonna see a movie." Is it convincing?

She looks happy now, relieved even. "Yeah, of course you can. Just don't be home too late, okay? You've got school tomorrow." She cares about you, can't you see? Just say something... ANYTHING. You can get her alone after dinner and spill your secrets.

"Yeah, okay."


If a murderer always returns to the scene of the crime, then what does that make me?

Am I a masochist for staying here? For coming here and trying to figure out a reasonable explanation?

I get that anxious, adrenaline-fueled feeling in my chest like when you shake a bottle of coke without removing the cap and it all bubbles up at once. There's no explosion, no bubbling over just as long as the lid is on; it just dissipates inside. I can feel my heartbeat but it doesn't feel fast, just heavy. Memories bubble up.

I talk to myself in my head like there's another me.

'You should tell her, she cares about you and she deserves to know what's been happening these past few months.' (She's already stressed, she doesn't need that.)

'She's going to find out eventually.' (Not if everyone keeps their mouth shut.)

'What about others? There's got to be others. You saw one with your own eyes. Don't you want to help?' (Stop blaming me!)

'You have an obligation.' (Fuck your obligation.)

'You must' (Someone else will speak up. Someone who isn't weak. I just need to be quiet, avoid involving anyone else.)

'And how's that working for you so far?'

I feel dizzy so I sit down, eventually I lie down. The ground is hard and inflexible but I don't mind at all. I try to seek out the stars.

Some nights they're visible but other's you can't see them at all. I've lived in California all my life and I still hate the smog and the people. The sun is nice and so are the girls, but there are too many people and the city is too loud. Why does everyone come here of all places, surely there's somewhere else to be that's better than this. I take a deep breath through my nose and breath out my mouth, like they use to teach us in school if we were panicking about something. I like to count the stars, the constellations and the trees and feel the grass, but there's too much around to enjoy it often enough. I figure that maybe I'll move up the country when I get older, but I always end up worrying about leaving here, about being lonely. I don't like thinking about the future too much; it's too ambiguous. There's no worse feeling than ambiguity except maybe the idea that you know things are going to get worse. Come to think of it, I don't know if that's better or worse than not knowing. I thought it was going to be a good year, but I was wrong. It's so quiet and I'm so relaxed for once that I end up falling asleep right there in the grass.

By the time I wake up, Orion has skittered to the left. Are you hiding from me now?


It's quiet at home. I figure everyone's asleep already but when I walk in she's still at the table, drinking something from a large mug and reading a book. It's late, what is she doing up? Maybe she was waiting for you. Quietly, I pad into the kitchen.

"Hi, mom. What are you still doing up?" I try to sound amused rather than concerned.

"Oh, I was just reading. Listen, I wanted to talk to you for a second, but uh," She's looking me over, I can tell, trying to gauge something, anything. I can't blame her for trying. "If you're too tired we can talk tomorrow."

I shake my head "No, no, I-I'm not tired." I sit down across the table from her. Somehow sitting next to her was too much right now. "What did you wanna talk about?" Do I look as nervous as I feel?

She pauses for a moment and in that time I feel like she somehow knows, like she can tell just by looking at me. It's a daunting thought but somehow that would still be easier than saying it. Nothing is worse than saying it.

You could write it down. Just write it down and pass it to her like a note. Or maybe you could write it to her in a letter and mail it to your own house. A two-line letter just to say 'hey, your son is being felt up by a grown man.'

"You can always talk to me, about anything you know. I'm here if you need me."

Just tell her, just get it over with. She'll understand. My head plays an internal back and forth, but I still can't say it. "I know."

She doesn't look satisfied. "Are you sure everything is okay?" She goes to brush the bangs off my forehead and my first instinct is to flinch but I fight it back. "You just... seem a little off lately. I just want to make sure everything's okay with you. I know he's not the easiest to live with... but he's just a hot-head. Try not to let him get to you, okay? You're wonderful, you shouldn't listen to him. It's a good situation we've got here, you have everything you'll ever need." She looks tired, stressed maybe. She takes on all this responsibility. I can't tell her now, it'll ruin her. I can't give that stress to her, she's got more than enough already.

"Everything's fine, really. I've just had a rough week is all. It's nothing serious, I promise."

I don't know if she believes me, but she lets me go to bed after that. I still feel like being outside since the night is clear and warm. I wrap myself in the blankets from my bed and crawl out my window to sit on the roof.

The moon is there to greet me tonight.

It's so bright it almost drowns out the stars. I almost want to sleep here instead of in bed, but I'm afraid I'd roll right off the roof. I crack a smile at my own lame sentiment.

How long until I can stop thinking about this? Are there directions on how to manipulate your own memories? If muscle memory fades over time, will this? If I don't think about it, will I forget it completely until I can't even remember what he looks like?


Guilt Cake

Eventually, Bobby was over every day, having slept over most nights in Johnny's bed. His absence from home was noticed but not pressed enough by his parents to stop visiting. The sleepovers became routine, much to Sid's disapproval, and Bobby got accustomed to waking up next to someone else. Occasionally he'd have a nightmare, but holding him seemed to help. Bobby didn't mind and tried his best to ignore the tugging feeling in his chest as Johnny slept curled into him, soft blonde hair smooshed against his chin.

Lounging on Johnny's parent's sectional couch, a blanket draped over Johnny and half over Bobby, the blonde pressed into his side and a bowl of popcorn between them. They had decided on Friday the 13th Part III, having a mutual craving for cheesy horror, blood and gore.

Bobby's attention was only half concentrated on the movie though, with his concern for Johnny slowly seeping into the forefront of his thoughts. It had been a whole two weeks since the biggest incident, and he was painfully bitter about it.

You had one goddamn job, and you failed. You failed and now he's a fucking mess all the more.

He closed his eyes, sighing.

You PROMISED him, and now what?

His grip on the blanket tightened. He hated thinking about it but the more he pushed it down the more it decided to come back up. It was useless. Trying to imagine Johnny in that place, in that situation...

Was it sudden, or gradual? Slow enough to trick him into thinking it was an accident but continuing long enough to make it clear that it wasn't? Did he struggle or stay still? Oh god, somehow it made it worse to think he didn't even try to stop it. He couldn't stand it.

A sudden weight on his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts. Turning his head, his nose met soft hair. Johnny's head was on his shoulder.

Is he asleep? He spoke his name, softly but loud enough that he'd hear him if he was.

No stirring.

Again.

Still nothing, and Bobby let out a breath, turning his head back toward the screen. He could feel him breathing, tiny puffs against his neck, and he twitched involuntarily. He closed his eyes again for a moment and swallowed before looking over at his friend, arm going to rest across his shoulders. He just wants to hold him.

Guilt stuck to his thoughts.

Why couldn't we have just left? I should have convinced him to join another even if I had to drag him there.

Cobra-fucking-Kai was not the only option they had.

I didn't think it would get this far. I thought it would stop and we could forget about it and never return after the tournament. Please, please forgive me.

I just didn't know what to do.

(sigh).

Keeping it from everyone else was difficult.

Tommy snagged him after class one day, dragging him to the back of the change rooms after everyone was out of earshot.

"What's up with Johnny?

"What do you mean?"

"I mean like, is something wrong?"

He shook his head, he didn't want to have to have this conversation right now, not after last night. "It's nothing." However, Tommy was unexpectedly persistent.

"It doesn't seem like nothing. Didn't you see him today? Somethings up, I can tell."

Bobby fiddled with his belt, looking at his bare feet. "How would I know?"

"I just figured, since you guys have been hanging off each other lately. Nobody's telling me jack shit."

Bobby's temper flared. "I'm sorry, but how is that my problem? We're just spending more time together, that's it. Nothing's happening. I wasn't aware I needed an explanation for spending time with him–"

"Hey hey," Tommy's hands go up. "I'm not accusing you of anything I just... thought I'd ask." He sounds tired. Bobby eyes him again, Tommy's expression betraying his surprise at his outburst.
"I'd just appreciate being in on whatever's happening here. He could talk to the rest of us too, you know." His expression is nothing short of indignant.

Bobby held back a bitter laugh. 'If only.' He thought for a second, whether or not telling the rest of them would be a good idea or a bad one.

His instincts chose the latter.

"He's just been fighting with his dad. He'll get over it eventually. He's just been in a mood." He looks at him again. Seeing Tommy's genuine concern made guilt well up in his stomach. He didn't want to lie to him but, really, what choice did he have?

He nodded in acknowledgement, but Bobby could sense the bitterness of being left in the dark. Johnny was his friend too, and all he wanted to do was help.

Dutch's voice startled them both. "Are you homos done gabbing? If you don't mind I'd like to get to the movie sometime today, okay?" He's smirking at the two of them.

His body jerked suddenly. Looking over at Johnny still huddled up on his shoulder, he was glad to find the sudden movement had not woken him up.