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A little orange-faced robin sits only a stone's-throw away from the windowsill, but he hasn't got a stone and it's too cold to bother jimmying the window open where it's iced shut. Besides, if a tree falls in the woods and all that. If no one's watching Johnny finds he's a lot less interested in trouble, and the little robin seems to be miming The Clash back at him. His singing along is more mumble than melody, but he knows all the words. His breath fogs the glass lightly.
Holidays are here, and there's no one to tell him to keep it down, so he keeps quiet. His head rather hurts, despite the Tramadol he'd pinched ... no, liberated.
Fredrick (and he resists the ingrained urge to roll his wrist like the flourish before a bow, no Freddy here to be offended anyway) hardly needs Tramadol (hurt his shoulder playing cricket, boo hoo). Mummy and Daddy will certainly supply him with adequate painkillers, likely tucking him up in bed and spoon-feeding the soft little cretin what Johnny images to be some kind of Mary Poppins medicine, accompanied by a spoon-full of sugar and a kiss on his forehead for their pale, pink cheeked baby.
He is glad to be shot of that cunt, and good luck to him with his family Christmas dinner and suffering through weeks of being coddled, watched constantly by his boring bloody conservative family and missing his bottles of pills. Johnny wonders how he'll go detoxing from all the shit he's swallowed since they've shared a room, sweating under Mummy's hand and calling it a flu, a fever.
He thinks, perhaps, another Tramadol? But the last wasn’t the first today, and he's never had them before. He wants to be awake enough to torment whatever sad bastard's being sent to collect him this time. Certainly not Len, oh Daddy dearest learned his lesson last time he turned up and Johnny greeted him by announcing that he'd learned all about buggery this term, Daddy, then promptly throwing up on his shoes.
Len had kneed him in the chin, which looked a lot like an accident with Johnny already bent over to retch. Looked like him trying to get his shiny shoes out of the path of Johnny's stomach contents, but it wasn't an accident. Johnny developed a real dislike for sherry after that. An old ladies' drink anyway, but he should have known that before he stole it off of Miss are-you-married-yet Doyle, who stunk of it - and judging by her shrunken headed and well preserved look had probably been pickling in the stuff for years. Awful.
A thought knocks blindly on for entry into Johnny's consciousness, and he tells it to fuck off out loud.
If Len's forgotten him. He lets his forehead fall against the window pane.
"Fuck. OFF."
"That's not a very nice way to greet your Uncle, Johnny."
Johnny turns around with a start, the music's off and now he's moved, his head is spinning lightly just a little out of synch with his body. Good choice then, holding off on the next little pill. Archy's come for him. Archy remembered.
He doesn't mean to throw himself at Archy's feet, he means to give his Uncle a hug and take the pistol out of his waistband (he might try and trade someone for a gun of his own, this holidays, but this is more fun for now), like he had last time Archy'd picked him up, and the time before, like he always tries, but his head and body really aren't cooperating. He falls with a laugh at Archy's feet.
Archy catches him by a wrist and Johnny twists his fingers so he can cling to the exposed skin at the cuff of Archy's shirt, before he's hauled to his feet like he weighs nothing (and to be fair, he thinks he might have lost weight this term, maybe while gaining height). He can't stop the smile that stretches his cheeks.
"Celebrating holidays a bit early?"
"Celebrating seeing you again, Uncle Arch." Now he's thought of it it's a better reason to have his head floating away than any other, so it's not really a lie. "Hiii." And he means both that and the homophone, his death, which happened in his berth, etcetera.
“Come on,” Archy says.
Johnny wakes up in the car. He's not sure exactly when he decided to nap, but he's awake now. Probably. His head's pressed against the windowpane, and feels as if it's attached properly to his body once more, the glass shuddering and bumping against his temple sending gentle vibrations through his chest, tickling his teeth. Like the kind of loud music that rings in your ears for days afterward (permanent hearing damage, of course, but Johnny's of the opinion that all the most important things stay with you forever).
"Good mornin'," Archy says, glancing over at him.
"Is it morning?" Johnny genuinely isn't sure for a minute.
"You were only out for ten minutes."
Johnny straightens up and turns towards Archy, curling one knee up onto the backseat between them.
"When did I fall asleep?" Johnny hopes it was after they'd gotten in the car, though the idea of Archy having to carry him out of the main hall and down the steps to the car is almost equally mortifying and wonderful.
"Soon as you sat down, though I'm surprised it weren't sooner. Had to push your head off my shoulder," Archy grins at him, an open, uncomplicated smile, like Johnny's a little kid and it's cute when he does things like that.
Johnny contemplates leaning over and showing Archy precisely how grown up he is, but. He's tired, and there's no rest for the wicked; they'll be at home in not too long, and Len will no doubt be waiting with a lecture on the house rules this holidays, and Johnny will have to prepare his point-by-point rebuttal (short version: keep the fuckin' noise down and while you're at it, keep your fuckin' head down too to which Johnny will reply no: loudly, obscenely, and at length).
"You taking me home?"
"Nah."
"Len finally decided to be rid of me for good?" Johnny means it as a joke, but it falls flatly between them. Johnny blames it on how conscious he feels (not particularly), and gives Archy a grin with both rows of teeth.
Archy curls his top lip, scrunches his nose like he's caught the scent of something rotten. "You're stayin' at mine until he gets back from the States."
"He's away on business?" Johnny's heart attempts to make like his head earlier, and jump right out of his chest to float away on the breeze.
"For a few weeks."
So he's home for the entire Christmas holidays and Len isn’t. For a few glorious weeks Len won't be home, Len won't even be in the same country, never mind on the same mass of land.
Johnny's not alone, either. For the holidays he’s Archy’s, he's all Archy's. His face stretches with the grin.
Archy's house isn't large, but Johnny supposes most aren't compared with Len's. It's two-story and brick, narrow, and pressed between other narrow brick two-story homes, like dominoes laid too close.
Johnny likes it. Archy's leather couch is comfortable, the living room is warm, and though it’s rather Spartan what is there looks and feels and smells like Archy. His polished, well-worn shoes stick out from underneath the turned wood legs of the couch (because when he's not at school it's a couch, not a sofa), there's a tie hanging over the couch arm right above them. There's a bar, and a stereo, but the telly is upstairs in Archy's room (Johnny stuck his head in uninvited last time he was there).
Johnny plucks the tie from the arm of the couch, legs curled under himself on the warm leather, and slips it over his head. The knot is still done, all he has to do it pull it tight. Probably looks ridiculous over his vest, but Archy smiles at him as he sticks his head in from the kitchen. He presses the tie tails to his nose as he catches Archy's eyes, and Archy looks away.
"I'll have one of what you're having, Arch!" He calls.
"You're not of legal age to drink, last time I checked," Archy says.
Sixteen is close enough.
Johnny glances over at Archy's stereo, his own case of CDs flung open beside the shining silver of a frankly sexy speaker. Oh, he bets you can get a real sound out of them.
"You don't give a fuck about the legal drinking age, last time I checked," Johnny says, and puts Joy Division CD in. He switches the volume up high as it can go and closes his eyes, sings along to Warsaw, lets the guitars massage his heart, shake a smile loose from his vibrating teeth.
Abruptly Archy’s reaching around him to turn the music down. He stands close enough to Johnny's back he's sure he can feel the material of Archy's shirt brushing his elbow. Archy leans over his shoulder, his shirtsleeve rolled up to his elbow, holding a tumbler of scotch out for Johnny. "Aren't you lucky," he says.
Johnny takes the cold glass from Archy's warm fingers, wishes he'd turned around quicker as Archy moves away to sit in an armchair as soon as he does.
Johnny feels warm and happy even before he sips his drink.
Which makes it hard to explain he hadn't been trying to get caught, and he certainly hadn't been trying to make Archy pissy. Not the first time.
Sometimes these things happen, though. The night starts out well enough.
He meets Pete.
He’s an odd duck and Johnny's somehow fond of him immediately. Perhaps because he seems to think that Johnny's the second coming of our lord and saviour and has no problem expressing that. All Johnny had been doing was tapping out a tune he’d written on the pub’s piano.
Of course, another reason might be that Pete slips him a handful of acid tabs, free of charge, right after they meet.
“My brother’s studying chemistry,” Pete says, grin flicking on and off like a faulty fluorescent light.
“I can see that,” Johnny replies and smiles back. Looks like Pete’s brother’s using him as his lab rat, too.
More people should say hello with drugs, Johnny thinks. How cheerful the world would be, if that were the case. ['Good morning Missus, have some hallucinogens.' 'Good morning to you too, giant lizard creature, did you watch Fear and Loathing on the telly last night too? Nevermind. I offer you this eccy and welcome you as our new overlord.' 'I see you’ve already partaken this morning.' 'I’m really surprised you can still talk without a mouth.']
Johnny thinks he could work with that.
They’ve had enough to drink that Johnny’s feeling warm and generous, and decides Pete’s a keeper and he’s having him the rest of the night.
"I have a story for you Pete.”
“Go on then.”
“A gentleman walks into a bar," Johnny leans over, chest bumping the table. He swipes Pete's cap out of his loose fingers as Pete grabs desperately at his wobbling beer. He flicks the hat on and tips the brim at Pete. "Quick, he says to the bartender, gimme a drink before the trouble starts."
"Oy, hat off please," the non-fictional bartender shouts.
Johnny uses his middle finger, making sure it's pointed in the direction of the bar, to dislodge the cap and chuck it back at Pete. Pete fumbles the catch, but rights himself fairly quickly, grasping it back in his lap.
"So the bartender, who's less of a cunt than the usual dishrag," he stage-whispers, hand on the wrong side to block the movements of his lips from the bar staff. "Plonks down a shot, and the gentleman downs it quick-smart." Johnny reaches over and grabs Pete's drink, the last third of a beer, and chugs it. "Then he says to the bartender, quick, mate, gimme another before the real trouble starts. Bartender, still not being a cunt, plonks another in front of him. He grabs it, shoots it down." Johnny sips his own beer. "The Bartender looks as if he's going to open his mouth, but this gentleman, he's fast, and he says 'one more, one more. Quick, before the trouble starts,'" Johnny finishes his beer, places it clinking up against Pete's empty bottle.
The waitress catches his eye, and he smiles at her. She's a flirt, and good at it. Johnny's not bad himself.
He waves her over. "Two shots of whatever you'd have."
She sways her slim hips over to the bar, practically bellydances her way back. Quite cute.
"So the gentleman downs the next drink," Johnny picks up his shot, a typical sweet, girlish thing that's blonde on top as the waitress, and darker as she probably is downstairs. "Cheers." Johnny downs his shot, same time as Pete; it tastes mostly of Baileys.
"Finish the joke then, John?"
"Ah, right," Johnny speaks for the room, instead of just Pete now. The joke works far better if everyone hears the punchline properly. "So the bartender finally says to the gentleman, 'exactly when's this trouble going to start?' and the gentlemen stands up from his stool and replies --" Johnny stands up and places a foot on the seat of his chair, catches the gaze of the waitress, "-- 'the trouble starts soon as I tell you I don't have any money.'"
He spares the time to give Pete a wink before he legs it.
Out the door, he hears Pete curse and a chair fall, doesn't look back to see if he's kicked his over or if Pete's struggling to keep pace. The bartender comes out of his pretty little pub, but only makes it half a block after them, swearing a disappointing string of blandly unmodified fucks, fuckers and fuck yous. He's a fat chap and the strain of yelling and running all at once takes the wind out of him fast enough he can’t even catch up Pete, who runs like a seasick squid.
Johnny's stomach rumbles mildly, probably the protesting the inclusion of Baileys, which is closer to a food than a drink.
"Couldn't have warned me first, then?" Pete asks breathless, but smiling his mild mannered smile.
Johnny slaps a hand on Pete's back and jogs them across the road. "No I could not have warned you, Pete. It's not funny if you already know the punchline, is it?" He feels Pete shrug against his hand and squeezes his thin shoulder.
He's outside the third bar, for the second time.
He'd have thought that maybe there was some hyperbole employed in the slagging-off he’s heard these bouncers cop tonight, but a borrowed sombrero from a stumbling passerby had been more than adequate to ensure him walking right back in the front door ten minutes after he’d been ejected the first time.
It hadn't, of course, ensured his staying in the bar, as it was rather hard to keep himself all Mexican Clark Kent in his cunning disguise when he'd been cheered as he walked back in. To be fair, he hadn't actually kept his head down or his hat on, and he was quite visible from the top of the bar.
Giving the people what they wanted was apparently not an acceptable excuse for his behaviour, and perhaps breaking the nearest bottle over the bouncer's shoulder (and he would in fact practice his aim later on because that was shameful, no matter how pissed he was) didn't endear him either.
So out he went with a bruise around his upper arm that would blossom later to a pretty armband of autumn colours: green, yellow, brown, like leaves.
Of course it's a mystery for the ages why he doesn't get caught out on his utterly fake I.D. all night, but he’s ejected twice and no one bothers to check.
So he’s outside the third bar, for the second time.
Johnny is abruptly blindsided by what sounds, inside his own head, like the greatest chorus ever written. He's conveniently equipped with a thick black marker, and inconveniently without any paper. It occurs to him that he could write on his arms, but there's a glass-shaking slap on the window and J-something, Janinta, Jane, the bird with the bird tattoos, is smiling at him out the glass. Next to her, glassy-eyed and smiling like he's in orbit somewhere outside whatever planet happiness is manufactured on is Pete.
A hopeless case, Pete. Johnny smiles back.
They'll want to read this, he thinks. For when he's become a famous fuckin' rockstar, they can tell the story about how they literally watched him compose this song, and it's going to be one of his best.
So he takes the marker and starts around the corner on a flipped over plastic crate that smells of burning cabbage and piss. No one has noticed except the bird and Pete, faces pressed like little kiddies against the glass watching.
It’s not until he's squeaking out the foot high letters on a simple old favourite, cunt, lovingly curling the tail on the "t", that anyone else gets wind. It's only because he has to come around to the front window to finish his sentence that the two big hairy bouncers in their ugly plastic uniform jackets to notice him and come at him with a roar.
It occurs to Johnny quite a lot later that they probably couldn't read it all that well backwards, anyway.
Archy's smile disappears the second the police station’s doors slide shut behind them. Despite Johnny's vague hopes, it stays gone even after they're in the car.
It's 8 a.m. and Archy's just bailed him out.
"Don't do it again," Johnny says, gruff and silly, a deliberately bad imitation of Archy's cranky voice. "Not much point saying it, I suppose." Johnny says.
There's not, of course. He certainly isn't expecting Archy to laud his general integrity, pat his back and tell him he knew he hadn't meant it, because he was a good kid. Johnny isn't a good kid, and Archy isn't stupid. He's long since filed both those truths away.
He hadn't, though, meant for Archy to have to come get him; he almost (not quite) wishes Len were in the country so he could have wasted his one phonecall on him (though he would most likely have sent Archy anyway), just so he wasn't on Archy's bad side for the rest of this glorious, Len-free holidays.
"Might as well tell a pig to grow wings and get on with it," Archy says. "No, I'm tellin' you don't get caught again. I can't handle making nice with those cunts, John."
Archy actually makes nice with those cunts quite well, and Johnny thinks if he hadn't known Archy since he was only up to his knees he wouldn't have noticed the sneer in his smile.
Johnny laughs, rubs his wrists where the handcuffs had been. Only the barest marks, more's the pity. He's always fancied bruises on his own skin.
Archy glances at his hands, but he's frowning deeper now; which isn't what Johnny wants at all. A fuck-up he is, and he quite honestly does not give a shit about that most of the time, but he doesn't want Archy to frown when he looks at him. It grates worse than the metal around his wrists did.
"What's so fuckin' funny? You could have been charged, 'cept apparently all your poetry washed off."
Johnny says nothing for a minute, until he thinks of a good answer.
"Hey, Arch. You know why they bury coppers six feet under?"
Archy keeps his eyes on the road and Johnny doesn't fidget. Archy'll bite, Archy loves a joke. Johnny's been telling him awful little stories and terrible jokes for years, since he was little, and he can always make Archy laugh.
"Why?" Archy says, with a deep sigh.
"'Cause deep down they're good," Johnny says, hands clutched to his chest right smack over his heart.
Archy chuckles. "Heard that one before, John." But he's smiling now, and Johnny doesn't care. It was an apology, and Archy must know that.
"I don't have to find somewhere else to stay the rest of the week, then?" Johnny only asks as he's sure enough now Archy'll say no. They turn into Archy's street and Johnny risks walking his hand over the console between them, eyes dead ahead, and attempts to pick Archy's pocket of whatever might be on offer. "Not going to leave me a homeless teen delinquent like so many of our unfortunate youths today?"
"Get your hand out of my pocket, John," Archy says. They bump up the driveway and into the garage. Archy doesn't shift his hands off the wheel to remove Johnny's hand until they're parked, and the engine's off.
Johnny's hand is in his pocket for quite some time. He strokes his fingers across the edge of Archy's wallet, the leather worn and warm. His heart beats faster and he meets Archy's eyes when he glances over, smiles like Archy isn't as his wrist is trapped between Archy's long fingers.
"Out of it, John. If you nick my wallet I promise you'll be worse off than all those unfortunate delinquents on the streets."
It's not as if Johnny doesn't have the hair trigger of any teenager, but he's well on his way hard.
Johnny lets his wrists be tugged, his fingers slide free of Archy's pocket, smiles: Archy looks away first.
Johnny sings along to Love Will Tear Us Apart, third time round, full of liquid happiness and leaning backwards over the arm of the couch. Blood is rushing to his head. Upside-down, the shadows across the hard lines of Archy's features make him look like a painting of himself. He looks softer upside-down, but that could be the liquor, or the lighting; the lamp on the table pours warm yellow light over everything. It could be that he's smiled at Johnny so often tonight, and Johnny's not even been really trying.
He keeps shaking his empty glass at Archy the second he finishes, mostly because Archy fills his own glass every time he fills Johnny’s.
"Still in the choir at school?" Archy asks.
"It's the only thing there I could say isn’t torture," Johnny says. He pulls his head back up and the room spins as his blood pounds against his veins like it wants out before everything settles again.
It feels a little too honest. He's not fishing for Archy's sympathy, besides which, Archy's said nothing.
"You ought to know my faith is the unshakable rock on which I've built my entire scholastic career," he adds, and feels a little better when Archy raises an eyebrow and a lip corner. "Plus I quite like the pretty pictures on the windows. Have you ever seen Saint Sebastian, Archy? I'm pretty sure the priest tosses one off to that picture all the time," Johnny slumps in his seat and mimes a vigorous wank with a smirk. "Can't blame him."
"I won't be telling Len," Archy says. Johnny's heart skips a beat like there's a club-loud baseline abruptly banging in his chest. "'Bout this morning."
Johnny presses his face against his knees, feet on the couch and curled into a ball. Rubs his warm forehead against his baggy flannel pyjamas. He's thought for a brief moment they were having a somewhat different conversation, and his face burns. Archy wouldn't know St. Sebastian from the Virgin Mary.
Johnny looks back up and Archy's watching him, not smiling now.
"I won't be so nice next time, though, John," he says. John, so Johnny knows he's serious.
"Gonna give me a smack next time?" Johnny asks. Resisting his impulses has never been his strong point, and he's pissed and comfortable and hopeful right now.
"You're a bit too old to spank, Johnny," Archy's smiling again now but it's not quite the liquor soft thing of before, this is teeth and tension.
Johnny's mind is momentarily a car crash of images the clearest: arse naked across Archy's lap. Archy’s hand that'd been flat on the lounge chair's arm curls up as if too keep from reaching out and giving Johnny a little slap.
Johnny is sure they're together in this. He's thought it before, but the tense bend of Archy's knuckles seems perfect and telling.
"I'm really not," Johnny says and stands, weak, heavy-limbed from alcohol and the redirection of blood from his brain to his cock. It might be obvious he's half-hard, it might not be. He doesn’t glance down. Standing in front of Archy, he watches Archy's eyes rakes over him, up and down, then his gaze slides away from Johnny for a long moment before he stands up.
Johnny has to look up a bit to meet his eyes, wonders if he'll ever meet Archy's eyes straight on.
"Yeah, John. You really are."
Archy’s hand brushes Johnny’s cock as he passes, and Johnny doesn’t breathe and Archy walks away, heads for the stairs, leaving Johnny hard and frustrated.
He downs the rest of the body temperature alcohol in Archy's abandoned glass. It tastes disappointingly of nothing but scotch.
He's sure to moan as loudly as he can manage when he wanks on Archy’s couch, replaying one of a few dozen times in his mind he's seen Archy hit someone, cued up like the best bits of a porno, well-thumbed memory carrying the unreal smell of sex with it, sticky with use.
He hopes Archy will walk in on him, but settles for the memory: "Watch you mouth," Archy says, pinning some insect with a look, and then the crack of skin on skin and Johnny's the one that jerks and shivers at the memory as if his hand had connected with Johnny's own skin.
Oh, and Johnny wouldn't whine, complain, tear up, he'd be Oliver fucking Twist and ask for more.
He listens, listens, listens for hours afterwards, hears nothing from upstairs at all.
Flirting with danger and flirting with Archy is almost the same thing. Johnny's fond of both. The former he's always been a little in love with, the latter since he realised that Archy just as bent as he is.
Alone in the living room, lit only by the red of the stereo on standby, eyelids slipping shut heavy with alcohol and sleep riding along the heals of his orgasm, he dozes and thinks.
Johnny's quite clear (at least theoretically and based on what he can get done himself with guitar straps, roommates, and other sex toys) where his predilections, preferences, perversions, lie. Johnny has excellent observational skills but what he hasn't figured out, beyond that Archy likes boys, is to what extent Archy's personal life overlaps with the professional (there is something, Johnny knows, in the curl of Archy’s fingers and the way he looks at Johnny when Johnny pushes).
Now he's almost sure it overlaps as far as himself, and not in the entirely familial way he used to think--oh, Uncle Archy-- Johnny's lips twitch briefly. Only one way to find out.
Next time he has the urge to write, he's sitting on Archy's couch watching cartoons and wishing desperately that Archy had a piano, a guitar, and the idea nags at him enough he'd settle for the perpetually saliva scented melodica from the school's music room.
His dirty edged notebook sits beside his leg, crossed by a marker pen. He won't forget the lyrics currently looping through his head, at least. They're about Archy, too, so it's only fair he gets to see them -- the lounge room walls are canvas coloured and empty.
"Do you like it?"
"I like my walls without foot-high obscenities," Archy says, facing the wall behind his stereo with one hand in his pocket and the other one against his temple.
Johnny can't help but feel a tinge of disappointment, though the actual point was to rile Archy, not garner praise for his lyrical ability, and on that level he has won.
"Next time, just show me your bloody notebook. Fuck," Archy rubs his forehead violently for a minute, "I thought we'd had this conversation,"
"I didn't get caught," Johnny says, and grins behind Archy's back.
"I caught you. Consider this caught," Archy says. He turns and faces Johnny with one eyebrow raised.
"Ah, well," Johny says, grasping the opportunity before Archy can say anything more, "Boy my age requires more discipline. Something stronger than words to get the message across, Uncle. You're the adult here, do something about it."
"I'm not your dad, John," Archy snaps, closing his eye briefly and taking a long breath. Controlling himself. Johnny's chest tightens, his guts twist, like someone's thrust a fist into them and squeezed, his face flushes with the rise of unexpected and genuine rage.
He can't tell if it's that that Archy won’t see, or that Archy isn't his dad (he's not so stupid, he's not so childish anymore), or if it's the tone Archy says it in, teeth bared in a grimace, like he can't imagine anything worse.
"Fuck you," Johnny spits and grabs the closest thing at hand, the speaker of Archy's stereo, and pitches it off the desk. It hits the floor with a thud, sharp little bits of silver plastic shrapnel burst across the room as the body of the stereo follows, dragged down by the cords, bouncing with a sharp crack off the first speaker.
There's a beat, and Johnny looks down and see his leg is bleeding where he's rolled up his sweatpants and a bit of clear plastic has scratched his shin, but any sting it might have is lost as Archy hits him. Backhands him across the face and has him by the collar before he can straighten up, his toes leave the ground briefly as Archy jerks his arms.
"I don't know what to fucking do with you, John," Archy says, looking down at him with his eyebrows pulled together, dark as storm clouds, but his mouth untwists and he hides his teeth behind his lips again before he speaks, "I don't know what you want." Johnny is willing to bet that's a load of shit, but before he can open his mouth and remind Archy of all the reasons that's so, Archy's has a hand over his mouth. "Shut it."
Johnny licks the palm of Archy hand and Archy takes a little too long to drop him.
On Christmas Eve, Johnny decides holidays are not for him (and he’s not waiting around to see if the rest of the world agrees) and drops the tab of the acid Pete had given him.
He spends the night wandering amongst the Christmas lights, rendered dumb by their beauty, knocking on the wrong door a few times trying to find his way back to Archy’s house, scares an old woman inadvertently by touching her hair. He has to hide in a rosebush for an hour after the police drive up and down the street three or four times, trailing comets of light and sound behind them as far as he can see.
He eventually finds his way to Archy’s front door. He sits on the doorstep for a long time before he goes in, feeling the spin of the earth and watching the dance of coloured lights.
He sleeps through all of Christmas proper, and wakes up feeling smug, despite the long scratches all over his forearms (he remembers, slowly, roses and police). It's the best Christmas in his living memory -- fuck guitars, and he doesn't say that lightly-- and he hadn't been there for a second of it.
Something jabs him not-quite painfully in the ribs, and he looks up to see Archy standing over him, bleary-eyed and holding a mug of tea. He's kicked Johnny in the ribs with a socked foot. Johnny abruptly realises he's slept on the floor, albeit in a huge nest of blankets and pillows he's not entirely sure the origins of.
Archy reaches down and grabs his wrist and Johnny lets him pull his arm up and twist it delicately, staying limp muscled in his grip as Archy inspects his war wounds.
"Should I ask?"
"You could," Johnny offers, yawning, feeling too warm and sleepy to bother elaborating, though it occurs to him the thin scratches might look a little unsettling to an outside eye.
"Tell me after I've had me tea," Archy says and wanders back to the kitchen again. Johnny watches the thin cotton of his long sleeved shirt stretch over his back as he puts the kettle on.
School’s back before Len is.
He's sandwiched quite comfortably between Fredrick and Mahesh.
Old Fredrick who is at his worse irritating background noise, though he's been particularly pleasant today (Johnny may be basing his momentary good feeling towards him on a handful of pills and the taste of a joint, borrowed from Fredrick's renewed sock draw stash, still burning on the back of his tongue) and his other slice of bread being Mahesh, who has taken a liking to Johnny.
They're next to each other in choir, and he's hard to find fault with, particularly as he finds no fault with Johnny and in fact hangs on his every word, batting big brown eyes outlined with eyelashes prettier than a girl’s at him. That, and Mahesh can play bass, and Johnny is contemplating getting a band together and is short of everything, including a pretty bass player.
It’s only second day back, but term is starting off well.
The hall is brightly lit and yellow-tinted, easy enough on Johnny's eyes, which are feeling decidedly itchy, what with lack of sleep and being half-baked.
The only blight on this night's dinner is sitting across from him, cheeks filled with far too much bread. Johnny's not hungry. Never has any particular appetite worth speaking of for anything that doesn’t have some point to it (intoxicating, narcotic, interesting). Being stoned can sometimes tempt him into digging into dinner, but even were he fully flying on the red-eye right now, he's sure he'd be put off by Harry's puffy white cheeks, doughy smirk, and aggressively insistent stare.
"Fredrick, have I got something on my face?" Johnny asks.
"No, John, you're all right," Fredrick says placidly. He's not noticed his missing joint yet, and by the level of concentration he’s giving to pushing his dinner around his plate he might have dipped into something himself, which means a good few hours, perhaps a day, before Johnny has to talk him out of snitching on him for whatever it is he'll threaten him with this time.
Not that Fredrick makes things up. That is, after all, more Johnny's area. He's almost always done whatever Fredrick threatens to tell, but Fredrick never goes through with it. Johnny only has to bat his eyes at him, usually. Rarely does it go much further than that (a handjob is hardly much further).
Of course he could just as easily threaten to tell where Fredrick keeps his stash, but it’s nowhere near as fun, and of course he’d have to find someone else to borrow from, then.
"Thank you."
Harry continues to chew and stare like a particularly malevolent cow at its cud.
"Harry, they say too much mastication can turn you blind," Johnny says.
"Johnny Queer," Harry mumbles. He finally swallows, after he speaks. He doesn't look away. Harry's big, blond and utterly fantastic at every kind of ball game there is. Except, Johnny assumes, the most fun ones, given the usual conversation they have when they're forced to communicate.
"A true original, our Harry.” Johnny wags a finger at him.
Harry nods and smirks unpleasantly, and Johnny isn't entirely sure if he thinks he was genuinely being complimented, or perhaps just didn't understand the words.
"You really couldn't be gayer, could you?" Harry says, holding his hand out limp-wristed and wagging a finger back at Johnny. He tears a chunk off his bread and chews open mouthed. The sight is frankly making Johnny feel worse than anything Harry could possibly say (or repeat, to be more accurate).
"Why don't you just admit you want to fuck me, Harry?"
Harry goes an immensely satisfying brick wall red. "Why don't you just use your own name, John?"
"Stop talking, Harry," Johnny snaps.
Usually Harry sticks to calling Johnny some synonym of gay, Johnny flirts back to spite him, they squabble, boys will be boys, go their separate ways. It's never physical, except if Harry can get away with tackling him particularly meanly when they’re playing football.
No one tends to give Johnny shit, half because he’s entirely capable of giving it back and half because the cute little incident with Archy's gun has followed him for years. Though he's never managed an update within sight of his classmates again; Archy learns fast, and leaves his guns in the car.
He developed a reputation, and like most reputations, it was by turns useful and irritating. Useful, in that he'd been popular from the beginning of his schooling as the story of his wicked Uncle with the gun who was probably some kind of gangster James Bond figure circulated. Irritating in that, well - idiots like Harry, years later, still won't lay a hand on Johnny. Instead there is a distinctly feminine drawing-out of quarrels that Johnny would vastly prefer were settled with fists.
It’s like he’s protected. The idea of Archy intervening in schoolyard squabbles amuses Johnny, he's not sure if it's the surreal quality of the mental image, or if it’s that the idea of Archy really doing something to the sneering specimen in front of him is actually kind of appealing.
This, though, is a little too far. Johnny doesn't particularly like the man he shares his legal name with, so he prefers his nom-de-plume of "Quid". It's common knowledge he prefers it, but he keeps just how strong that preference is close to his chest.
He sees, as he speaks, that he's said precisely the wrong thing as Harry's handsome blue eyes narrow, and his mouth widens in a smirk.
"Why don't you use your real name, Cole?"
Johnny's pulse thunders to a crescendo, audible in his ears above the chatter of the dining room, and Mahesh has a hand on his elbow. He shakes Mahesh off with a violent shrug of his shoulder, and holds his hand up between himself and Harry, gestures at Harry's ugly smile with the tines of his fork. The words that come to mind he appropriates from Archy in their entirety along with the flat, dead tone: "Watch your mouth."
"Calm down, Johnny," Mahesh says, glancing to the side at Mr. Strand, who's drinking a cup of tea slowly, staring unblinking into space.
"I am calm, Mahesh," Johnny says, and he realises that it's true as he says it. He's angry, oh yes, but he's calm too. He's very, very calm. The edges of the fork handle dig into his palm. "I am calm," he repeats, steady as his hands.
Harry rolls his eyes and glances back at his plate, comes up full mouth half open.
"Harry," Johnny says.
Harry glares up at him.
Johnny leans forward quick as he can and jams his fork into the tendons across the back of Harry's hand. He concentrates on putting his whole weight behind it, his chest half over the table, feels the jerk in his arm as the tines pop through skin. Harry squeals and Johnny's wrist tinges like a sprained ankle. He wonders if it's because he's hit bone.
The fork is tugged out of his grip as Harry jerks his hand away hard, the fork still stuck in him. A few fat drops of blood fly red and heavy through the air. Harry falls backwards off the bench and scrambles aimlessly, pulling his hand into his chest and contracting around it.
It's a little like watching a cockroach curl and twitch in its death throws, only more satisfying. Prettier, too. The same urge to curl his lip and go stomp on its head and put it out of its misery is there.
Chaos erupts and Johnny wades through the crowd shaking his sore wrist. He’s half pulled, half pushed, depending on if he's walking past friends of Harry’s or not. Mr. Strand makes a beeline for him, long arms out like a mummy over the top of the little first years heads, bellowing and lumbering fast as Johnny thinks he's ever seen the old goat move.
“You’ll never take me alive, you cunts,” Johnny turns around to give Strand the finger over the heaving mass of students. He jumps up on the nearest table and ends up leaving gravy-stained footprints across the top of half the tables in the hall before he's pulled down by Mr. Strand and Mr. Smith.
He smiles even through smacking his temple on a chair on the way down.
Suspended (Len must have pulled some strings for that one. Purse strings, most likely). A week at home. That's when he begins to regret it.
Len’s flight is delayed. Johnny feels like a death row inmate whose execution has been unexpectedly put off.
It's past midnight and they're occupying Archy's living room furniture. This has become almost familiar, and it’s unsettling, somehow, but in a way that isn't unpleasant.
He's suspended until they've spoken to his father about the incident, but the prospect of permanent expulsion was on the cards young man. Ah, well. Archy seems to think Len might put forth a big enough cash incentive for his re-enrolment, or perhaps another school, and Johnny thinks that Archy hasn't been paying enough attention.
Archy nods a lot when he's on the phone to Len this time, and Johnny would put forth some smart comment but he actually feels some sympathy with having Len screaming and grunting like an angry monkey that's discovered masturbation right in your ear.
"Orright, Len," Archy says, then hangs up without a goodbye. Len's probably hung up first.
"He'll be back on Friday," Archy says. "Says he'll talk to you then. Do I need to mention he's not happy?"
Johnny rolls his eyes because he can't help himself. "I just couldn't resist the prospect of spending more time with you, Archy."
"Do I need to tell you I'm not fucking happy?" Archy says, slapping his phone down on the arm of the couch with a thud.
"He didn't tell you to give me a slap then, in the meantime?" Johnny asks. He smiles sweetly as he can, which is to say not very sweetly at all. The adrenaline of sticking a fork in Harry has entirely worn off, but he isn’t tired.
Archy just looks at him, a long searching stare Johnny meets. Archy looks away first. He goes upstairs without saying a word, but Johnny calls that lying by omission. He's wants Johnny here, Johnny is sure of it.
Friday, which is technically less than two days from now as it's 12:32 a.m. according to Archy's new stereo.
Johnny's not spending what feels like his last free night on earth alone, not when Archy's right there, fifteen steps above him. It's better to go out with a bang than a whimper.
Archy's room is dark, curtains drawn. His bed's a double with pinstripe linen and white pillowcases over the top like a shirt collar, all the furniture is slick and dark as his hair. It looks as if his wardrobe has spilled across the room leaving its mark on everything. Very Archy. Johnny tip toes quiet as a mouse to the window sill and draws the curtains back.
When Johnny turns around there’s enough light he can quite clearly make out the steady, strong line of Archy's arm, and the gun.
"Could have fuckin' killed you, John."
"Not without this, unless you planned on chucking it at me really hard," Johnny holds up the gun's clip between thumb and index finger, before tossing it over to Archy. It lands with a whump on the bed linen and Archy ignores it in favour of shaking his head.
He's smiling, teeth bright in the bare light, and looking at Johnny like he's lost a battle with a lot of other emotions and ended up on proud, and Johnny feels an abrupt urge to drop to his knees.
"Sometimes I forget," Archy says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
"Forget what?" Johnny asks, shifting foot to foot. He's got a stomach full of adrenaline and feels higher than a kite, despite the fact he's entirely sober right now.
Archy doesn't answer him, but Johnny forgets the question as soon as he really looks at Archy. He's wearing pyjama bottoms and nothing else, and Johnny's never, ever seen Archy so naked. His hair isn't done, not neat.
"Come here," Archy says, standing abruptly at the foot of his bed, not so far from Johnny. Johnny's thankful for his voice because it's as familiar as ever, and sways forward for a second without thinking.
"Make me," Johnny says, and grins. Archy matches him tooth for tooth.
Johnny makes no move to get out of the way of Archy's backhand, turns his face into it a fraction, and Archy's knuckles miss his cheekbone and crack hard across his bottom lip. He makes a sound as all his breath goes out of him, and Archy matches it, but lower pitched.
Johnny tastes copper. Getting what he wants hurts, brilliantly. His cock twitches like Archy's flipped an on switch with his knuckles.
Archy takes a full two steps back away from him, and repeats himself: "Come here."
Johnny goes, a licking at his bottom lip, pushing at the tiny split to milk it for blood. It stings and his mouth waters, he licks wetly at his lips.
"On your knees," Archy says.
Johnny doesn't move. Archy doesn't hesitate in hitting him again, this time the slap connects perfectly with his cheek, Johnny feels it down to his cock, the sting fades quickly, and he gets harder with the ache. Archy does it again and Johnny goes down then, weak-kneed and wanting.
He grips his cock, and squeezes, doesn't think of tossing himself off yet -- or it'll be game over. He swallows copper. Archy's cock is right there, pressing out rudely against the soft cotton of his pants, and Johnny leans his hot cheek against it.
A heartbeat, he can feel Archy's pulse against his skin, and Archy's hand is in his hair.
Archy holds him roughly and Johnny doesn't relax into his grip, but tugs against it. Archy holds him back with one hand and shoves his pyjamas down just enough to free his cock, framed darkly by hair, strokes himself once, twice.
"You ever done this?" Archy asks. Breathing harsh through his nose.
Johnny looks up and finds Archy looking down at him, studying his face. Johnny glances at Archy's cock, thick and hard in Archy's hand, and licks his lips. Archy's fingers squeeze himself briefly.
"Once or twice," Johnny lies. He's no virgin, though. A quick fuck with a bright-eyed girl from their sister school, fucked in the toilets underage at an over-18s show (turned out that was a girl, despite looks and a near complete lack of tits), been blown by his the obliging roommate a number of times.
Never returned the favour though -- beyond a swift handjob so Fredrick never got too whiny.
Spent plenty of time thinking about doing this to Archy in particular, however, and Johnny has always had a very vivid imagination. He's hardly going to tell the truth and risk Archy stopping. He can take anything he's given. The only thing he wants more than Archy hitting him again right now is for Archy to hit him then fuck him.
He twists hair-plucking hard against Archy's hand, his eyes water and he grips his own cock hard, hips jumping as the sensations twine around each other like snakes fucking. Takes a breath that turns ragged at the ends and tugs against that grip again, tongue out for the tip of Archy's curving cock, not. Quite. Reaching.
Archy pulls him back an inch for every one he makes forward, until he stops, frustrated, hanging from Archy's grip. Archy slaps his cheek lightly, and Johnny's breathes out sharply, his mouth open, and just like that as Johnny's really still, as he stops fighting, Archy holds his cock and pushes the damp tip against Johnny's lips.
He feeds half of it into his mouth hot, hard and soft skinned.
Johnny pushes his tongue up against the underside, tasting.
Archy shoves his hips forward shallowly a few times, then pulls Johnny closer by his hair, closer onto his cock until Johnny's eyes are watering, nose pressed against Archy's pubic hair. He can't breathe and resents the need to and the tickle, spasm, choke that's building, the noise he makes -- Archy pulls him off as he jerks backwards, coughing and very nearly bringing up the few morsels of school dinner he'd eaten.
When he can breathe again, eyes still watering, he decides the gag reflex has got to go, and leans back against Archy's too-slack grip to lick at the head of his cock. Archy's hand is moving on himself, his chest is moving heavy and deep like he's been doing hard work, and Johnny's dick likes the thought that it’s him that’s gotten Archy so winded. He tugs himself, biting at his sore lip.
"Look good like that, John," Archy says.
Johnny glances up, flushes all over and feels himself trip closer to the edge. Archy's grips gone the wrong side of painful on his hair, which is to say it doesn't hurt enough.
"Want you to hit me again," Johnny says, over the wet slap of skin on skin, the slick quick obscene sounds of tossing off. "Harder," and Archy gets no chance to do it, the tightening of Archy's fist as he asks and the quickening of his hand on his cock, right then, sends Johnny over the edge and he comes eyes screwed shut, breathing hard through his mouth, over his shirt and pants.
"Next time," Archy says, his voice rough and deep. The moonlight through the open curtains is thin and weak as watered scotch, casting more shadows than light. Archy’s eyes are pitch black, darker than usual as Johnny blinks up at him.
"Belt," Johnny suggests, boneless limp and slurring fat lipped.
Archy's hand quickens, breathing. "Open your fucking mouth," Archy groans and Johnny says:
"Please."
With a smile, reaches his heavy arms up to press warm against Archy's thighs, leans in and looks up, mouth open.
Archy mangles something that starts out as fuck and then he's coming in thick splashes across Johnny's lips.
Archy swipes at his come on Johnny's top lip with the pad of his thumb, and Johnny looks up past Archy's naked cock, softening, to his face as he sways tall and dark over him. He lets Archy slide his thumb and the fairly unpleasant-tasting trail of come into his mouth, press slick flesh past his lips to mix with the spit and faint taste of copper already on Johnny's tongue.
Abruptly, he has an idea and grips Archy's wrist to tug himself up and stand in front of Archy, lets his thumb slip out of his mouth with a tiny pop, and leans over to press his lips against Archy's, press his tongue inside Archy's mouth.
He expects maybe another slap, a half-hearted shove and a slurred getouttait, but what he gets is Archy's arm around his back pulling them together full body length, chest to cock, both of them damp, dirty and hot skinned.
Johnny's cock twitches against the softness of Archy's. It's the most skin they've had together tonight and Johnny forgets, momentarily, that he was teasing, as Archy's teeth press against his bottom lip, a ghost of pain, a reminder, punctuation, in the bite before he lets go and the kiss is soft again (still consuming, still sucking the thoughts out of his head with a swipe of his tongue).
Archy shifts his grip, lifts Johnny by his arse and thighs, and Johnny garbles a surprised, half-moan noise against Archy's lips he's embarrassed by. Archy walks them the few backwards steps to his bed and sits heavily, Johnny sprawled on his lap. His scalp tingles where Archy's loosened a few strands of his hair.
For the first time Johnny has trouble meeting his Archy's eyes, and instead of leaning back, getting up, getting on his pants and making a beeline for his own room, when their lips part he buries his face in Archy's neck and tries to think of nothing at all. Archy is enough of a gentleman he doesn't kick Johnny out of his bed, and Johnny half wishes he would.
He can't shake the feeling he's gotten away with something, and normally, that would make him feel excellent, but all he feels is a high whose hangover he's not sure he can handle, and an increasing feeling he doesn't deserve this.
That in an entirely different way, Archy doesn’t either.