Warning: This chapter contains (relatively) explicit material. Please do not read if you do not like.
Author's Notes: In this chapter, the essay prompt was taken from Spark Notes.
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There are exotic animal heads staring out at Johnny judgmentally from the walls of the Adderson's spacious living room. It is decorated to look like a hunting lodge, from the tribal rug on the hardwood floor, to the shotgun above the fireplace, to the overstuffed leather chairs. Johnny has never been in a house this big. Scrap that. Estate. A place so colossal and obnoxious can't be called a home. It has columns outside.
"Wow," Johnny says, staring up at the face of a taxidermy zebra, its glossy, beady eyes boring into him. "I've never seen so many dead animals in one place."
Randy chuckles. "Very elegantly put. I'm sure my mother would love to hear your compliments on her decorating."
"Where'd they come from?"
"Mostly Africa, but South America, too. My paternal grandfather was a big game hunter. These are his kills."
"They're kind of terrifying," Johnny says.
"Imagine growing up here," Randy comments dryly. "I used to have to listen to him brag about how he went on safari with Ernest Hemingway."
"You mean the guy who wrote the book I'm here to write a report about?" Johnny asks dubiously.
"I'm not entirely certain my grandpop's stories are true. He was kind of a jerk. You know, the type of guy who liked to name drop to feel more important," Randy says. "Come on, let's go upstairs to my room."
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Even though Randy has a desk, a chair that completes the desk, and an easy chair, they're sitting on Randy's bed, A Farewell To Arms and a thick, hardbound Hemingway criticism textbook sloped down in the center, wrinkling a large pile of blankets. Johnny makes sure they're on opposite sides of the bed. He has a pencil and notebook in hand.
"So," Randy's looks down at the prompt to he reads. "Unlike many war stories, A Farewell To Arms does not glorify the experience of combat or offer readers portraits of heroes as they are traditionally conceived. What is the novel's attitude toward war?"
"This is supposed to be six pages and that's a huge question. I have no idea how to even begin," Johnny whines.
"You can start by writing down ideas as to what and why you think the novel's stance is," Randy suggests. "Then, we'll figure filter out the weak ideas until we're left with the best, and then search the novel for evidence to support your argument. After that it's only a matter of writing the thing."
"It's times like these I wish I had dropped out." Johnny's teeth are chattering. It's cold in Randy's house. He can't imagine a heating system large enough to support it.
"Do you need a sweater?" Randy asks.
Johnny shakes his head no.
"I'll get you a sweater."
"I said I didn't need-"
But Randy's already heading to his dresser. He starts sorting through his drawers, pulling out madras shirts and sweater vests and turtlenecks.
"These are all too small on me," he says as he dumps a large pile onto the bed.
Johnny raises his eyebrows, not sure at what Randy's trying to get at.
"Here," says Randy, "try this one on." He tosses him an argyle sweater. It's green, with thin cream and brown lines in the pattern.
Johnny stands up and reluctantly pulls it over his head.
"You look good," says Randy. "It brings out your eyes. Not that you need anything to bring them out."
Johnny catches a glimpse of himself in Randy's enormous mirror above his dresser. "I look like a damn pansy."
"A handsome pansy. A tuff pansy." Randy laughs. Johnny rolls his eyes.
Whatever Randy says, Johnny knows it doesn't look right on him. Not against his tan skin, or with his greased up hair and the split lip he got last night. He feels as uncomfortable wearing as this he does sitting in Randy's bed, beneath a shelf full of athletic trophies and framed academic achievement awards. He reluctantly touches the sides of the sweater. It's the softest thing he's ever worn.
"It's cashmere," Randy adds in an offhand way. "I want you to have it." Randy gestures with his head over to the pile. "And the rest."
Johnny narrows his eyes. "I ain't your charity case."
"It's not for charity," Randy clarifies. "They're too small on me now, and they're just going to sit here because I can't get rid of anything. So you'd be doing me a favor, taking them off my hands. Plus, I get to look at you in them. That's a favor, too. I like seeing you in my clothes."
Johnny scowls at Randy, but his heart jumps, no matter what he's trying to force his face to convey.
"I can't accept these," Johnny says.
"Come on. Just take them."
The sweater does feel nice, and while Johnny would never wear something this preppy in public, if he can layer a few of those sweaters under his jeans jacket, he won't risk freezing to death in the lot this winter, and he won't have to burden Darry half as often, showing up on his doorstep at two in the morning when he can't handle the cold any longer.
"I'll take them," Johnny agrees. "But only 'cause they'll look good in court."
"In court!" Randy exclaims. His words come rushed, and he hurries over to Johnny's side. "Are you in trouble? Why didn't you say anything? My dad doesn't normally work defense, but maybe he could represent you pro bono if I convinced him. Or maybe he knows an expert who will. What happ-"
"Calm down," Johnny interrupts. "I ain't in any trouble. I was thinking I'd take these just in case. Dal says the judge will let you off easy if you're dressed nice and act respectable."
"Already preparing for your life of crime, huh? Just like a greaser," Randy pulls his hand through Johnny's hair, affectionately pushing his bangs out of his eyes. He's speaking as if Johnny acting like a greaser is somehow cute. While Johnny doesn't appreciate the sentiment, he leans into the touch.
"You really oil it up, don't you?" Randy asks. "Man, I'm gonna have to wash this hand for an hour," he jokes.
"At least I'm not pretending I'm a Beatle," Johnny mutters defensively. He pulls away from Randy.
Randy steps toward him. "I happen to find beetles to be beautiful insects."
"You know what I mean, Randy. You look like every other stupid Soc who's hopping on the latest trend."
"You don't think that," Randy says. Johnny doesn't, actually. He thinks Randy's among the most handsome men he's ever met.
Randy's hand is on his chin. He leans toward him. Johnny jerks away, but Randy's lips touch his forehead. And then his temple. Gently. Like a lover. No, not like.
Randy kisses him again, this time on the neck. His hand moves to Johnny's hip. In the back of Johnny's mind, he remembers he should hate him, he remembers he should be repelled by his touch, but he still doesn't move away. "I want you," Randy mumbles against Johnny's mouth, half-kissing him as he speaks.
Johnny opens his mouth and gives in. There's teeth against teeth. Johnny's arms are somehow wrapped around Randy's neck, pulling him in, allowing himself to be pulled. His heart is beating rampant with desire and fear.
"I want you," Randy repeats. He pushes Johnny so he's backed up against the dresser. His tongue is in his mouth, one hand grips Johnny's neck so roughly it almost chokes him, the other presses into his hip, and then reaches for his fly. Johnny can feel Randy pressed against his body in a way that is entirely inappropriate. There is no question whether or not Randy can feel him back.
It is strangely incongruous, but Johnny suddenly remembers the words of kindly old pastor's sermon one time at church. The words that made Johnny go back to church again and again, hoping he could find a deeper meaning to it all. The pastor had spoken about submitting and surrendering to a higher power. Now Johnny knows exactly what he found appealing in that message. He wants to trust implicitly and entirely, to forgo fear, to give control over to somebody else for once. He wants, for the first time in his life, to not look over his shoulder anticipating disaster, but let himself experience pleasure and freedom without abandon. Randy kisses him so passionately he accidentally bites his lip; he pulls down Johnny's jeans to his knees in one rough tug. Johnny's not afraid of Randy. He likes it.
But he is afraid of deeper things. He's afraid of going to hell. He's afraid of letting down his friends. He's afraid of allowing himself to be vulnerable. He's afraid of letting go. He's afraid of getting caught. The fear wins.
"No," he says softly, putting his hands on Randy's arms as if to push him away. "Stop."
Randy gasps in frustration and lets go of him. They stare at each other. Johnny pulls up his jeans and zips his fly, his eyes trained to the carpet.
"Randy!" a woman calls from downstairs. "Supper time!"
TBC