Warnings: References to sexual activity.

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"I can't do this."

Johnny can feel his fear like a drum throbbing inside his ear. He doesn't want to go through with this. They're face-to-face, Randy is holding him down by his arms and rubbing against him. Johnny's breathing is labored, labored from the pressure of Randy's body on top of him, labored from the pleasure burning through the center of him.

"I can't do this," he repeats.

Randy leans in, taking in the sweaty scent of Johnny's neck. His eyes are squeezed shut, his body a long, taut line of misery.

"I can't do this," Randy says a third time. He slides off of Johnny.

For several seconds, Johnny doesn't understand what has just happened. He hears Randy's words, but their meaning is incomprehensible. He only feels the stinging cold of the night replace the heat of Randy's body. As he lies there, staring at the stars, which are murky under clouds and light pollution, he realizes Randy has stopped. Not paused. Stopped. He hears the thud, thud, thud of his heart. He sits up.

Randy is sitting beside him, his pants are already pulled up and zipped, his fingers grasping at his collar. Johnny can see the tension and frustration in the way his veins protrude more prominently than normal on the back of his hands. They're dangerous hands, Johnny thinks. Then he realizes he's staring at Randy, and he turns away. It strikes him that he's just been rejected.

Johnny swallows. Confusion and humiliation replace fear and desire. He pulls up his jeans, his hands shaking as he zips his fly. He has to try three times before his fingers are steady enough to close the button at the top of his pants.

The impossibility of the situation, the sheer, utter shame of it is closing in on him. He'd been willing to give into those baser instincts that he knows are immoral for Randy's sake; he'd been willing to do something he wasn't sure he even wanted to do for Randy's sake; he'd been willing to go against his promise to Dally, which is the worst thing he's ever done. And now Randy doesn't even want him. He just threw him aside like trash, right after they started. Like all he cared about was Johnny giving in, and now that Johnny has soiled himself he's worthless.

"You said you loved me." Johnny hears the betrayal in his voice and bites down on his lip. He needs to change that. He needs to sound cold and uncaring.

"And that's why I stopped."

"I, I don't...I don't get it."

Randy turns to him. He's angry. "I stopped because you don't want to do it."

"That's not true!" Johnny shouts. Except, it is. But why his feelings on the matter would have stopped Randy when he had Johnny's permission makes no sense to him.

Randy rubs at the stubble above his lip. He sighs. "For a second there, I really thought you had forgiven me. I thought you loved me back. But I was lying to myself because I wanted to believe it. You were just giving in. And I'm not going to make you do something you don't want to do."

"Screw that," Johnny snaps. He's relieved he doesn't have to go through with it, so he should be grateful. But he's not grateful. He's pissed. "I didn't give into you, okay? I'm old enough to make my own decisions. I don't need your patronizing shit."

"Yes. Yes, you do. Jesus." Randy glowers at him and shakes his head. "You were about to let me fuck you when you didn't want it, and why? Because I said I loved you? You never stick up to anybody who you think might care about you, no matter what they do, and it's so messed up I could scream. You are so goddamn weak and I-"

"Fuck you."

"No. Fuck you." Randy stands up. "You know what? You want me out of your life? I'm out of it. I give up. I can't keep doing this."

Johnny stands up, too. He vigorously brushes a layer of dirt off his jeans. "Good, get out!"

"I will!"

Johnny steps towards Randy and pushes him. Randy stumbles back, but he doesn't fall down.

"Stop it, Johnny. Don't make me hit you."

"I'm just sticking up for myself," Johnny mimics Randy's voice, bitterly. He pushes Randy again.

Randy shoves him back, and then Johnny socks him in the face, hitting the place where his cheekbone meets his ear. Randy falls back, balls his hand in a fist, and aims at Johnny.

The booze has affected his aim, and he narrowly misses Johnny's chin. Johnny socks him again, this time in the eye, and then he makes a move to elbow him, when Randy grabs his arm, violently twists it behind his back, kicks his ass, and shoves his face into the dirt. Randy's on top of him in seconds, and Johnny knows, now that he's pinned, he has no chance of winning the fight. Randy's over six feet tall. He's athletic and he probably has a hundred pounds on him. But Johnny's livid, he's furious, and for the first time in a long time, the certainty of losing doesn't stop him from trying.

They grapple there in the dirt. Randy throws him on his back. Johnny's skull cracks against something hard. The world is going black, in and out of focus, black then blurry, black then blurry. Randy doesn't hold back when punches him in the face. And again. And again. And again. He's passing out.

When the world comes into focus, it's still not in focus: Johnny can't see straight. He knows what that means; his eye is already swollen. Nobody's on top of him now, but still his whole body smarts, and he tastes the sour copper of blood in his mouth. He touches the back of his head. There's blood there, too. Johnny turns around and sees a round, rusted piece of discarded metal poking out from the dirt, perhaps the remnants of an electric pole or lamppost from when the state had money and the lot used to be kept up.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Randy screams. "I told you I didn't want to hit you! Shit! I came here to make up, not fight." His voice breaks on that last word.

Randy's already got a bruise forming on the side of his face, and he's going to a black eye as well, but Johnny can take a good guess that he looks a lot more messed up than Randy does.

They stare at each other for a couple seconds. And then Randy turns around and leaves him there, alone.

TBC