Warnings: Explicit content ahead.

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That night, Johnny is curled up next to the dying fire in the lot, his arms wrapped around his knees for warmth. He knows he should go find kindling before the fire goes out entirely and he has to waste twenty minutes trying to start up another, but he is too sleepy and apathetic to get up and go searching. He doesn't know if can face the Curtis family ever again.

Johnny's nodding off into his knees when he snaps fully awake in sudden alertness. With sixteen years of experience in both running from home and being kicked out, he knows the difference between the sound of a person and the sound of a raccoon. And that's definitely not a raccoon.

He looks behind him and sees a vague figure of a man in the distance, making his away over towards his fire. In the darkness of the night, the only thing he can tell for sure is that the man looks tall and lean. Cautiously, Johnny gives the gang's customary whistle, hoping the passerby is Two-Bit or Steve or Dally. He has a scratchy low voice from all the cigarettes he smokes, and the whistle ends in a high note that he can never quite reach.

Nobody returns the whistle.

Johnny stands up and pulls out his switchblade. He flicks it open and holds it in front of himself, his body taut, the blade reflecting the red embers of the fire. The person wanders closer. He's stumbling, Johnny realizes. It's a drunk.

Johnny steps back tentatively towards the fire. He holds the handle of the blade more firmly, his palm suddenly sweaty. Johnny knows what comes of men getting liquored up and going wandering around, looking for trouble. And it ain't nothing good. He takes a deep breath. Whoever it is is definitely coming toward him. It isn't an accident. He's almost close enough that Johnny can make out his features when-

"I was hoping I'd find you here," Randy says.

Johnny sees him now, deep shadows moving across his face. His adrenaline is still running like crazy, but for a more confusing reasons now than he cares to admit, now that he knows it's Randy and not some homeless wino. He wishes he could tell the pounding of his heart to shut up. He realizes he's only ever seen Randy at nighttime once before. And he's only ever seen Randy drunk once before as well. And that didn't end well for him.

"Don't come near me," Johnny warns. "You've been drinking."

"Yup," Randy admits. "You caught me." He steps closer to Johnny. "But don't worry, I'm not wasted. I'm just tipsy enough to make bad decisions. I've drank enough in my life to know the difference." His speech is slurred but comprehensible.

Johnny swallows.

"You're wearing my sweater," Randy says. He sounds touched. It's probably the liquor talking, Johnny thinks.

Johnny looks down at himself. He's dressed in that same argyle sweater that he had been wearing when he walked out of Randy's house over three weeks before. It's long on him, and the lower half peeks out under the hem of his jeans jacket. But Johnny isn't wearing it out of sentiment. He's wearing it out of necessity. It's a cold night.

"I missed you, too," Randy says.

"Yeah. I could tell by the way you laughed when Bob tripped me," Johnny snaps.

"Come on. I had to go along with it. You know that."

"Just get away from me, Randy. You're drunk." Johnny waves the knife in front of himself, loosely, in the way that Two-Bit taught him. It's a casual threat.

"I'm not here to hurt you. So why don't you get rid of that knife?"

Johnny looks at his blade; he looks at Randy. Reluctantly, he closes it, staring at Randy the whole time in case he's trying to trick him. He puts it back in his pocket, his hand hovering in the event he needs to make a quick grab for it.

"I don't mean put it away," Randy clarifies. "I mean get rid of it for good."

"You must be drunker than you think. Why the hell would I do that?"

"Because I don't want you to hurt someone in a way you can't take back. I don't want you to live with that on your conscience." Randy pauses. "Like I do."

Johnny crosses his arms. He won't let himself fall for Randy's pity party. "Just go away, man. Leave me the fuck alone and go back to your perfect life and your perfect girlfriend."

"I'm not leaving," Randy says.

"I have nothing to say to you! How many times do I have to tell you that I don't want to talk? I think I made that pretty clear the last time you came around."

"I didn't come here to talk."

"Then what did you come here for?" Johnny's voice is low and quiet, barely audible above the dull crackling of the fire.

"I think you can guess." Randy steps so close they occupy the same space. Stubbornly, Johnny stays put. He stares down at their touching shoes: his worn canvas tennis sneakers caught between Randy's leather brogues. Despite the bitter chill of the night, a long bead of sweat runs down Johnny's back. If Randy tries to hit him, he's ready.

Randy doesn't hit him. He grabs Johnny's bangs and uses them to pull Johnny's face toward him; Johnny's neck cracks as his head is jerked back and his lower lip feels the sharp bite of a forced kiss. He can taste the stale liquor in Randy's mouth.

Before, in Randy's bedroom and on the bleachers, Randy had been gentle, holding back even when acting rough. Johnny can feel the difference now; their kiss feels more like a brawl than an embrace. Randy pulls at the collar of his jeans jacket, and Johnny pulls at the buttons of Randy's shirt, snapping off three with the force of his grip. Johnny doesn't know whether he wants to beat him up or get him off.

And somehow, they're tumbling in the dry grass, pushing and pulling at each other, stopping short of being intimate, stopping short of being violent. Randy pins him, knees pressed down on Johnny's elbows. Johnny groans at the weight that half-suffocates him, half excites him. His pulse is racing. He should push Randy off. But he thinks if he tried to push him away he'd start pulling him towards himself instead. So he speaks.

"Get off me." His lungs are constricted by Randy's weight; his words come out muffled. His whole body is shaking. Before, there was no distinction between where his arousal ended and his panic began. Now, a clear, sharp fear courses through his body. He should never have put away his knife. Johnny is hyperventilating as Randy slides a hand under his hips, feeling him through his jeans. He's still hard. He squeezes his eyes shut. Even if it does feel good, Randy is drunk and Johnny doesn't want it.

"Randy, come on, please. Stop." He hates how panicky he sounds.

Aggravated, Randy pushes off of him and cusses under his breath. As his weight recedes, Johnny's left relieved and disappointed, the feelings muddled together somehow. He sits up and wraps his arms around his knees. He's not sitting like that for warmth this time.

Randy, standing now, towers over him and stares down. "You're such a coward, Johnny Cade," he spits. The word 'such' is drawn out too long, thanks to alcohol.

"Shut up," Johnny mutters through clenched teeth. "You shut the hell up."

"No."

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Johnny begs. "Go away."

"It's public property. I can be here if I want." Which just shows how obnoxious he is, Johnny thinks bitterly; Randy can take advantage of the fact that he has the whole world at his feet and Johnny has no place else to go but some shitty vacant lot.

"Randy, go home to your girlfriend."

"You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"What, do I have to break your nose again? Is that what it'll take?" Johnny's ready for it, too. Even though he's still sitting on the ground, dirt smudged on the side of his face, covering his scar, his body is tense, his hands curled in fists in anticipation of a fight.

"Why can't you let me love you?"

Johnny feels the blood drain from his face. That was not what he expected to hear. Not at all.

"You don't love me. You want to screw me. There's a difference." He says this with absolute certainty.

Randy runs a hand through his hair. "No. I love you. You probably think I'm crazy, but it's true. These past two months…I've never met anybody like you. Everyone I know is so shallow. All they care about are cars, and girls, and grades, and acting tough. But not you. You get it. And you have to trust me when I tell you how horrible I feel about what we did to you. Please, Johnny, you have to let me make it up to you. Let me love you."

Johnny gives Randy a mistrusting look. "You're drunk. It's the booze talking." But even Johnny can hear his own resolve softening in that sentence. He thinks, even if it is the booze talking, it's the nicest thing booze has ever said to him.

"It's not the booze," Randy says. "I'm being honest about what I want right now. I came looking for you tonight because I feel like shit about what happened in the cafeteria today."

"You should," Johnny mutters.

Randy frowns at him and continues. "I thought I could try one more time to make it right. I thought I could force you to forgive me. But there's nothing I can do or say to make you believe me, is there?" He sounds sad, defeated. He rubs his shoes in the earth.

Until tonight, nobody has ever told Johnny that they love him. The boys have come close to it, especially Pony. They'll say things like, 'We can't get along without you.' Or even, 'You're so important to me, Johnny.' But never 'I love you.' They're just words. They shouldn't mean so much. Randy said them three times.

"You really love me?" Johnny asks, his words spoken to his knees.

"Yeah. I must be a masochist or something. But I do."

"Okay then."

"Okay what?" Randy asks.

"We can..." Johnny's voice trails off into his knees, leaving the end of the sentence open. He doesn't understand why, but he's the one who sounds defeated this time.

Randy approaches him, slowly. He kneels down in front of him. Gently, he takes Johnny's chin in his hand. He kisses his cheek. He kisses his neck. Johnny closes his eyes. Randy kisses his lips, but even a soft kiss still tastes like the rank flavor of cheap vodka. Randy pulls away, checking his face. "You're not going to back out on me again, are you?"

Johnny shakes his head.

"Do you want to go to my car? It's parked a few blocks away."

Johnny's eyes widen. He shakes his head again. He hates that car.

"We don't have anywhere else to go," Randy says, looking around nervously.

"Nobody really comes by here," Johnny mumbles.

Randy guides Johnny so that he's lying down on his side. He's doesn't need to pin him, Johnny complies. Randy's fingers graze Johnny's belt buckle.