Chapter Text
Johnny wakes up warm. Almost uncomfortably so—like he fell asleep with too many layers on and decided to cuddle a furnace.
He’s also laying on something hard. And…bony. And it smells earthy like—pine, his sleep fogged brain supplies, it smells like pine. And ginger—tea? And sweat.
HIs eyes flutter open slowly—well, one opens easily, the other one hurts like a sonofabitch and it takes him a few tries and a few blinks until it stays open. His head is aching and he feels wrung out and sore, like he went ten rounds with Rocky Balboa and all he has to show for it is the giant ass bruise that is his entire body.
Johnny blinks, confused, propping himself up on his elbow as he looks around the room and comes to the realization that he’s not at home, in his room, in his bed, like he should be. He’s in someone else’s room and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to come up with an answer as to where he is. It’s not until his eyes land on a giant trophy sitting on the small desk shoved up against the only window in the room, glinting bright and shiny gold in the early morning sunlight peaking through the blinds, that he realizes where, exactly, he ended up last night.
He’s in Daniel LaRusso’s room, in Daniel LaRusso’s bed and if the bony thing poking into his cheek is anything to go by, Johnny’s currently using Daniel LaRusso as a body pillow. Or, more accurately, judging by the arms wrapped around Johnny’s middle, Daniel’s using him as some sort of teddy bear and Johnny…doesn’t mind it. Not that he’d admit to that out loud, anyway.
He just wishes he remembers how they ended up like this—squished together like sardines in a vacuum sealed container on Daniel’s tiny ass twin bed.
They’re both wearing clothes—Johnny’s in sweats that are a little too snug and a t-shirt that’s at least a size too small, undoubtedly Daniel’s, the skinny twerp, Johnny thinks with an amused twitch to his lips. Daniel’s own t-shirt is worn and soft underneath Johnny’s cheek and it smells like fabric softener and the pine soap he knows Daniel uses and the ginger tea Daniel drank before bed and something that must just be all Daniel. And he can’t see it for himself, but Johnny’s willing to bet that Daniel’s wearing boxers underneath the navy blue sheets that lay rumpled around his waist.
So I didn’t get laid, Johnny thinks and he finds himself oddly relieved and disappointed with the deduction.
But that train of thought pokes at something in his brain, bringing back flashes—lips and teeth and heat—and with the flashes, comes the floodgate of memories—of Sid and his fists, his mother’s yelling, the blind anger that made his hands twitch with that familiar itch to hit something, to make something hurt just as much he was. Worried brown eyes, soft hands on his bare skin as they cleaned him up and chased away the memories of harsh blows from crueler hands. Insults and heated words. Soft lips and whispered promises in the dark with only the glow from the Christmas tree.
Johnny shifts, his morning erection throbbing at the memories of those lips—Daniel’s lips, plush and warm and soft and demanding against his. The sounds he made, the feeling of having him trapped underneath Johnny’s body, under his hands, feeling him squirm and grind his hips against Johnny. The rush—the friction, the sheer want that had pulsed through every vein in his body—damn near made him cum on the spot like some inexperienced virgin.
Johnny can feel himself leaking in his boxers and he groans quietly, shuffling away from Daniel’s body, even though it puts him in danger of falling off the edge of the bed.
Daniel shifts, a soft sound of protest leaving his lips and it prompts Johnny to look up, a grin stretching across his lips when he sees the frustrated crinkle between Daniel’s eyebrows, frown on his lips. As an experiment, Johnny shuffles back, molding his body back into Daniel’s, just like it was when he first woke up.
Daniel’s arms flex around Johnny’s waist, tightening momentarily before they relax, almost like he’s checking that Johnny’s still there, confirming it for himself. The crinkle between his eyebrows disappears, the frown smoothing back into a tantalizing, sleepy pout that Johnny wants to kiss and almost does, but then he gets a look at the dark circles underneath Daniel’s closed eyes and thinks better of it.
He knows Daniel’s been having trouble sleeping—from the pain and having to stay stationary in his sleep so he doesn't aggravate his knee too much. Guilt swells in Johnny’s chest, not for the first time, at the thought of Daniel struggling because of something he had a hand in causing.
Bobby may have been the one to cause the original injury, but it was Johnny’s fault that Daniel had to be in that tournament to begin with. It was Johnny’s fault that Daniel had to even cross paths with Kreese and rise to his challenge. It was Johnny’s fault that Daniel felt the need to even take up karate, just so he could defend himself, because Johnny couldn't just…let something go. Let someone—Ali—go.
He can picture the look of horror on Ali’s face that night at the beach—fight me, she had said as she stood in front of Daniel, who lay crumpled and bruised in the sand, why don’t you fight me instead? she challenged, face twisted in disgust. This is bullsh*t, Johnny, fight me!
And what scared him the most, at that moment, was the desire to rise to that challenge, to answer her with his fists. He remembers hearing Kreese’s voice, shouting in his ear, NO MERCY! DON’T BE WEAK, JOHNNY! COBRA’S AREN’T WEAK! He remembers the way his hands twitched at his sides, the rush of blood in his ears, the ache in his muscles from being coiled so tightly, ready to strike.
What stopped him was the fear he saw in her eyes and it had made him sick to his stomach. He remembers stumbling away, back to his bike and riding as far from her as he could get. He’d damn near given himself alcohol poisoning that night, trying to drown the memories away.
Daniel shifts, breaking Johnny out of his morose thoughts. His gaze flickers down to watch the way Daniel’s lips move as he murmurs something in his sleep, too low for Johnny to hear. Daniel settles, his head turned towards Johnny and Johnny takes the opportunity to stare, unabashedly, at the sight Daniel makes this early in the morning.
Johnny has never used the word beautiful to describe another dude before, but there was no other word that would even come close to explaining how Daniel looks to Johnny, in this moment.
The light filtering in through the crack in the blinds casts Daniel’s face in a warm, golden glow, making his already tan skin gleam a smooth russet brown. His inky black eyelashes are long and curled in a way that Johnny knows most girls would kill to achieve and they cast spiderweb shadows on his round cheeks that are flushed pink from sleep. Johnny loses himself in the slope of his nose, the angle of his jaw, the way his lips seem to always be set in a slight pout, the way they form a perfect cupid’s bow. The way his dark hair curls at the ends and falls across his forehead as he dreams. The way his chest rises and falls with each soft exhale as he sleeps on, completely unaware and vulnerable to the world around him.
Johnny could lay there for hours, memorizing every dip and curve of Daniel’s face and it still wouldn't feel like enough.
Daniel shifts again, lashes fluttering, before sleepy brown eyes find Johnny’s and he watches, with bated breath, as those plush pouty lips frown in confusion before they stretch into an equally as sleepy smile.
“G’mornin’,” Daniel murmurs, closing his eyes as he snuggles into his pillow and Johnny’s chest, by default.
Johnny’s never understood the term morning voice before, but he understands it now. And what a glorious term it is. Daniel’s voice is low and raspy from sleep, heavy with fatigue and his Jersey accent is thicker, curling harshly around the vowel sounds and it’s—hot.
Huh
“Morning,” Johnny murmurs in reply, reaching out a tentative hand to cup Daniel’s jaw, letting his thumb stroke over the curve of Daniel’s cheekbone.
Daniel leans into the touch, humming, the sound an almost satisfied purr. It makes Johnny smile.
Daniel watches him, biting his bottom lip and Johnny finds himself fascinated with the way those teeth tug and pull at the soft skin, the way it makes blood rush to the surface and turn them even redder.
A rush of possessiveness washes over him and Johnny flicks his gaze back up to find Daniel still watching him, eyes dark, wanting, beckoning Johnny closer and he can’t help but fall victim to it.
Strike first, strike hard, Johnny thinks to himself wryly.
Their lips brush together, tentative, almost shy in comparison to the bruising kisses they shared last night. It’s soft and their lips are dry, but Johnny solves this by swiping his tongue along Daniel’s lower lip, groaning when Daniel parts his lips and lets Johnny in.
Daniel’s mouth is warm and tastes like sleep and stale toothpaste, but Johnny doesn't care, just plunders his mouth, wanting to memorize every ridge and groove for himself. Daniel responds eagerly, tangling his tongue with Johnny’s and Johnny can feel his inexperience but Daniel’s a quick learner and soon, he’s meeting Johnny stroke for stroke, suck for suck. Fire sparks in Johnny’s veins, heating his lower belly and his morning erection, that’s been hanging in there since he woke up, twitches to life, straining against the seam of the sweatpants, making them all the more tighter.
That possessive feeling returns and magnifies the longer their lips stay locked together. Johnny wants to be the only one who gets to feel Daniel likes this—hot and squirming underneath him, gasping and groaning with arousal, hips bucking, a silent plea for more that Johnny is only too happy to oblige.
Their lips part for air, but Johnny isn’t done, doesn't want his lips to leave Daniel’s body. He trails kisses down Daniel’s jaw, sucking a bruise where his jaw slopes into his neck, nips and teases the sensitive skin with his teeth, soothing it with gentle laves of his tongue.
Daniel’s hands are tangled in Johnny’s hair and when they tug him back up, back to his lips, all demanding and assertive, Johnny can’t help but let out an appreciative moan that Daniel swallows with his lips.
Their hips begin an easy grind, erections brushing together with every buck of their hips and it’s not perfect—the angle’s a little weird and there’s too many layers, but Johnny’s so keyed up, between last night and now, with Daniel rutting against him, nails scratching into his scalp, he’s going to cum embarrassingly quick.
But his ego won’t let him be the first one to give in, so he slides a hand down Daniel’s chest, flicks his thumb over a clothed nipple, smirking against kiss swollen lips when it makes Daniel shudder and whimper. He teases his fingers against the smooth skin of Daniel’s belly, a silent question that Daniel answers by grabbing Johnny’s hand in his own and sliding underneath the waist band of his boxers and together, they grip Daniel’s leaking erection, punching a moan from Daniel’s lips that sounds like a mixture between pleasure and pain.
“Show me what you want, Danny,” Johnny whispers against his lips, groaning when Daniel’s hand guides his into the first stroke without an ounce of hesitation. Johnny tightens his grip experimentally and Daniel whimpers, bucking his hips into the circle of their shared fists. “Like that?”
Daniel nods, lashes fluttering against his cheek. “Yes,” he breathes, quickening their shared strokes. “Just like that—f*ck.”
Daniel continues to guide him and while Johnny’s sure he can manage on his own—after all, he knows how to handle a dick, he’s got one himself—there’s something so hot about this: Daniel, showing him what he likes, how he wants it, using Johnny to get himself off. Johnny just lets it happen, content with watching the way Daniel’s cheeks flush, the way he seems to be incapable of being quiet—which, Johnny thinks himself with a grin, is no surprise—moans tapering off into breathless pants and whimpers keening and high and Johnny closes his eyes, grinding his co*ck into Daniel’s hip and just lets himself feel—Daniel’s co*ck, a warm and wet weight in his palm, Daniel’s hand on top of his, hot and calloused, Daniel’s lips as they brush over his ear, the feeling of his warm breath brushing against the sensitive skin of Johnny’s neck.
Johnny’s world has narrowed down to Daniel—his touch, his taste, his sounds, his smell. Nothing but DanielDanielDannyDanny—
“Johnny,” Daniel pants, breathless and pleading.
“I’ve got you, Danny,” Johnny promises, pressing a kiss to Daniel’s lips. “I’ve got you, baby.”
Daniel’s cheeks get redder at the pet name and Johnny files that away for later, but for now—
On the next upstroke, Johnny flicks his wrist, swiping his thumb across the leaking head the way he likes and Daniel shudders, body going taught as he comes with a shout of Johnny’s name that Johnny tries to swallow with his lips, smirking in satisfaction as he feels Daniel’s body shake and tremble with the force of his org*sm.
And Daniel’s face—cheeks red, hair damp with sweat, lips parted as he gasps and whimpers is enough to tip Johnny over the edge with a groan that he muffles by biting into the soft skin of Daniel’s shoulder, coming messily into his boxers.
They lay there together, panting and sweaty, floating together in their shared bliss until Daniel nudges at Johnny with his bony ass shoulder.
“You’re heavy as sh*t,” Daniel informs him, still breathless, as Johnny rolls over.
Johnny wipes his cum covered hand on Daniel’s shirt in response, smirking when Daniel protests. Loudly.
“Aw, c’mon man, that’s nasty—“
Johnny shrugs, blissed out and relaxed. “It’s your cum, dude.”
Daniel grumbles, sitting up to yank the shirt off over his head, careful to avoid getting streaks of cum on his face.
Even though he just came not even five minutes ago, Johnny can feel the stirring in his lower belly, hot and unyielding, at all the new tan skin on display, mentally giving himself a pat on the back for the unplanned, but otherwise satisfactory side effects of his impulsive decision.
Daniel lays back down, curling into Johnny’s side and Johnny takes his weight easily, fingers find their way into the inky black strands that are slightly sweaty, but so soft that Johnny can’t find it in himself to care.
They lay there together for a while and it’s the most peaceful Johnny’s felt in a long time. His mind is still hazy and relaxed from his org*sm, blocking out any of the aches and pains he’d woken up with and his muscles feel worn and stretched out, the good type of fatigue that comes with either a really good work out or really good sex. Or both, if done right.
Eventually, he can feel Daniel’s muscles become taught with tension and he beings to shift and move, trying to get comfortable despite the pain.
“Is your knee bothering you?” Johnny asks softly, lips brushing against Daniel’s forehead.
Daniel nods, face pinched with pain and Johnny careful extracts himself from the bed, reaching over to the night stand to thumb out two pain pills, handing Daniel the glass of water he’d brought to bed with him last night to wash them down.
Daniel takes them with a grateful smile, dry swallowing them in that odd way that he does before he sips his water, eyeing Johnny over the rim of his glass. Or more specifically, the spectacle that Johnny was sure his face was.
Shame slithered like snakes in the pit of Johnny’s stomach and he can feel the age old urge to snap, say something poisonous and cutting to get Daniel to back off and divert his concern, over take him, thrum through his veins, making his fist clench—
You’re weak, Johnny, pathetic. Cobra’s aren’t weak, do you hear me Mr. Lawrence? I said COBRA’S AREN’T WEA—
“It’s not fair, you know,” Daniel says, pulling Johnny from his thoughts.
Johnny raises an eyebrow in question and Daniel elaborates, waving his hand in the vague direction of Johnny’s face and for a moment, Johnny thinks he’s going to try and get Johnny to talk more about it and he opens his mouth, the shame turning into anger and—
“—how pretty your face is, even with the bruises.”
—Johnny’s mouth snaps shut, eyes narrowing. Daniel’s cheeks are flushed bright red and he’s biting his bottom lip and there’s this twinkle in eyes that some how makes them look even bigger and browner and wait a minute—
“You flirtin’ with me, LaRusso?” Johnny demands, a slow smile spreading across his lips.
Daniel shrugs, bats his eyelashes—like no sh*t, he actually bats his f*ckin’ eyelashes like some Hollywood starlet—and puts the full force of those brown eyes into this come hither look that makes Johnny’s co*ck twitch in his ruined boxers and has any laughter bubbling in his chest dying out before it could even begin.
“That depends,” Daniel murmurs, leaning into Johnny’s personal space, long fingers trailing teasingly through the blonde hairs on Johnny’s forearm, sending a shiver racing down Johnny’s spine. “Is it working?”
Daniel smells like sweat and sex and Johnny’s faded cologne and it’s—intoxicating.
Johnny swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing heavily in his throat, all earlier annoyance and memories of Sid gone for the time being.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, LaRusso,” Johnny murmurs. “But I’m kind of a sure thing.”
Daniel hums, a coy smile dancing on his lips. “Oh yeah?”
Johnny nods, eyes tracing Daniel’s lips, belly heating when he notes that they’re still flushed and bruised from his lips, from his kisses. “Yeah,” he finds himself saying.
Johnny wonders if it’s crazy that he already wants to kiss them again, trace them with his tongue, taste his name spilling from them while he makes Daniel cum, againandagainandagain—
“Great, then you get to help me with my shower.” Daniel informs him with a grin, rolling out of bed with a surprising amount of finesse for someone down a leg.
Johnny finds himself momentarily distracted by the set of Daniel’s shoulders, the slope of his back, the way his muscles shift and ripple as he situates himself on his crutches, the way his back curves into the swell of his ass—
“Wait, shower?” Johnny asks, blinking up at a smirking Daniel. “What do you need my help for?”
“Uh, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kinda down a leg here,” Daniel says, nodding down to his knee that’s still wrapped up nice and snug in an ace bandage. “So unless you want to clean up my blood from the floor when I slip and fall and bust my head open—“
“Wait you want me—“ Johnny points to himself dumbly, making Daniel’s lips twitch. “—to shower with you? Like, me and you—“ Johnny swallows, pictures Daniel’s tan skin, all wet and soapy, water sluicing down his body in tiny little rivulets—
“I mean, you don’t have to,” Daniel offers, some of his bravado fading, replaced with a shyness that Johnny finds oddly attractive. “It’s just easier if I have help.”
Johnny smirks, slow and sensual—the one that makes all the babes swoon. “You feeding me a line right now?”
Daniel flushes, out of embarrassment or annoyance, Johnny can’t tell, but it makes his smirk widen.
“Fine, asshole, but if I brain myself on the edge of the tub, you get to explain to my mother why I was in there by myself to begin with—“
Johnny rolls his eyes, sighing long and suffering and ignoring his own nervous butterflies fluttering anxiously in his belly, he heads towards the door, pausing with his hand on the door handle. He looks over his shoulder when he doesn’t hear the telltale clickclickclick of Daniel’s crutches behind him, raising an eyebrow.
“You coming?”
Daniel mutters something underneath his breath before he follows Johnny into the hallway.
(Johnny’s not one hundred percent sure, but it sounded like Daniel said “hopefully” and those butterflies turn into the slow waves of arousal and suddenly, he’s not so nervous about this shower anymore).
And it also takes Johnny a minute to realize he’s no longer thinking of Sid or Kreese or the bruises the mar his body, even if they do kind of ache a little. It’s also the quickest someone has ever managed to dig him out of a downward spiral and all it took was LaRusso being, well, LaRusso.
Johnny doesn't really know what to do with that information, so like most things, he ignores it.
For now.
*
There’s a crucifix above the toilet.
As many times as Johnny’s been over here, he’s never noticed it before, but now, as Daniel hops, one legged as he wiggles out of his boxers, it’s all Johnny can concentrate on.
He’s not even looking at it, but he can feel Jesus’s eyes on him, burning into the back of his neck as Johnny tries to focus on wrapping Daniel’s knee in saran wrap for him, careful to avoid certain things for fear of being smite-d right there on the spot.
Johnny’s not like, religious or anything, but the thought of doing certain activities with Jesus watching makes his skin crawl.
Daniel must notice it, because he raises an eyebrow when Johnny tosses the box of off-brand Glad on to the vanity with a little more force than was warranted.
“What’s eatin’ you?” Daniel demands as he, very carefully and very slowly, steps over the lip of the tub to get into the shower. The steam is already billowing out from behind the half open curtain, little drips of water splashing onto the tiled floor and Johnny makes a note to be the first one out of the shower, so he can mop any wetness up so Daniel doesn't slip.
“Are you religious?” Johnny blurts out, feeling his cheeks flush when both of Daniel’s eyebrows raise.
“Like, do I believe in God or whatever?” Daniel asks, co*cking his head to the side. Daniel reminds Johnny of a confused puppy—all big curious eyes, head titled, like he’s trying to figure out a difficult puzzle.
Johnny wishes him luck because even he can’t figure himself out.
“I mean, isn't that kind of what religion is?” Johnny asks in a voice that suggests Daniel might be a bit slow on the uptake. He doesn't mean it the way it sounds, it’s just, Johnny really doesn’t know what he’s asking and he’s kind of confused and Jesus is still staring at him and it’s just—creepy.
Like why, in the ever loving f*ck, would you put a crucifix over a toilet? Does it help with exercising the demons while you’re taking a sh*t? Help with kidney flow? It’s kind of like Bobby’s mom, who has all sorts of motivational quotes in their house. There’s a quote, across from the toilet in the guest bathroom, in a cheesy wooden frame that says if you want the rainbow, you have put up with a little rain.
Like, was that pissing metaphor? Why would you have that in your bathroom?
Johnny also wants to know why now, of all times, he’s standing here, thinking of cheesy quotes; when he’s got Daniel, naked as the day he was born, tan skin glistening from the heat of the shower, steam trickling around his ankles—looking, for all intents and purposes, like he’s auditioning to be the next Fabio or whatever the ripped Italian’s guy name is that poses on the cover of all those bodice rippers novels Johnny’s caught his mom reading
My Secret Sacrilegious Shower Seduction: an erotic novel by Johnny Lawrence. Cover by Daniel LaRusso.
Johnny has to bite back a nervous giggle at the thought.
(In all his memories from the night before, Johnny can’t recall Daniel checking him for a concussion. He wonders, now, if that wasn’t an oversight on their part or if he’s really that freaked out about taking a shower with Daniel while Jesus watches, probably through the curtain, with his freaky Jesus vision. The creep would probably like it. Crucifixes were a Catholic thing, after all. Weren’t they? Johnny isn’t sure. He also wonders if maybe he shouldn’t of made a gay Catholic joke in the presence of Jesus).
Get a f*cking grip, Lawrence, Johnny thinks to himself.
Daniel actually looks to be considering the question and Johnny appreciates that. He’s not sure why he’s so concerned about the answer to this question, but all jokes aside, it kind of matters if they were going to do—whatever it is this was between them.
Johnny may not be religious, but even he knows that this was dangerous. This may be California, but it wasn’t all West Hollywood. There were people that would give them sh*t for whatever this was between them. Never mind what kind of sh*t Daniel might get if his family found out, because bullies were one thing, Johnny knew they could handle themselves it came down to it, but Jesus freaks were a whole ‘nother breed when it came to the fa*g sh*t.
Johnny may not care that much, but Daniel might and Johnny…can’t, won’t put Daniel through that.
(At least, Johnny doesn't think it bothers him that much)
He’s also really getting ahead of himself here, too, he realizes. They’ve only kissed a few times (multiple times) and while they both got off, so far, Johnny’s the only one that’s touched a dick that didn’t belong to him. He’s not against Daniel touching his dick, it’s just, baby steps. He doesn’t even know if Daniel wants to touch his dick.
God, Johnny thinks to himself miserably, when did I turn into such a f*cking weepy ass girl?
“I think,” Daniel says finally, slowly, voice considering. “that I believe in something. I’m just not sure what that something is.”
“Well gee, thanks for clearing that up, LaRusso,” Johnny says dryly, but he can’t deny the amount of relief that sweeps through him at the answer that wasn’t exactly an answer. It’s not a flat out no, but it’s also not a resounding yes, either and Johnny can live with that.
Suddenly, Jesus doesn’t seem so judge-y.
“Well, I don’t know,” Daniel huffs, face twisting into a grimace when he has to lift his bad knee over the lip of the tub. Johnny rests a hand on his shoulder, just as much to steady him as it is an excuse to touch the damp, warm skin on display—sue him, Johnny may not be a complete self-serving asshole, but he’s not a complete saint, either.
Johnny follows him in only when he’s sure Daniel’s got a decent grip on the shower wall. He may be enjoying the view a bit too much, but Johnny’s also taking his job as lifeguard seriously. Daniel isn’t going to slip, not on Johnny’s watch.
Daniel still looks contemplative, so Johnny takes it upon himself to find something to start washing Daniel with, snorting when spots the pink loofa hanging from a little hook next to the soap dish. Daniel raises an eyebrow, almost as if daring Johnny to say something and while he really wants to, he’s trying hard to not be an asshole all the time. So he settles for a smirk as he grabs the soap and rubbing too much on to the loofa, rubbing it between his hands to get it all sudsy and starts washing Daniel’s body.
Daniel hums an appreciative sound, face melting into a relaxed, lazy expression that reminds Johnny of earlier—Daniel underneath him, lips swollen and bruised from kissing, co*ck hard in Johnny’s hands— and he feels himself harden in response, but he ignores it.
For now, at least.
“If you really want an answer,” Daniel begins, voice soft, so soft Johnny steps closer to hear him over the pitter patter of the water hitting the fiberglass. “I think my answer is: I was raised to believe in God. And maybe, at one point, I did, but now,” Daniel shrugs, chewing on his lip in a way that’s very distracting, considering their situation and all, “I don’t think I believe in God so much as I believe in the universe. In the things that make it up as a whole—plants, flowers, the ocean, you, me, us.”
Daniel smiles, huffing a laugh. “Mr. Miyagi is always tellin’ me about balance—how it’s more than just a term used in karate. How you have to have balance in life, in yourself, in your relationships, with the world. That if you don’t have balance, you’ll always feel like there’s this…piece missin’. Like you’re not whole or somethin’. Unsteady, shaky. Like you’ll never be strong enough to take the sh*t life throws at you, if you’ve got that piece of you missin’.” Daniel shrugs, cheeks flush with more than just the heat from the shower. “Maybe it’s all bullsh*t, but all I know is that it makes more sense to me than anythin’ I learned in the pews of a church when my ma would make go.”
Daniel shrugs again, but he won’t meet Johnny’s eyes, like he’s bracing himself for Johnny to tease him or make fun of him. Maybe poke fun at his sensei for such hippy-dippy bullsh*t and maybe, once upon a time, Johnny would’ve.
But he thinks of everything that’s happened over the last few weeks—with Kreese, Daniel, Ali, himself. The anger that’s always just there, simmering right below the surface, ready to be called upon at any slight inconvenience.
Ali had said something to him, the day she broke up with him, that had confused the absolute sh*t out of him at the time and the weeks afterwards.
Everything’s a fight for you, Johnny, she had said, in a voice that sounded so tired and worn out, like maybe she’d been fighting for a long time, too. It’s like you look at the world and all you see is winning or losing.
I won you, he remembers saying, trying for sweet and charming, but Ali had just given him a smile filled with so much pity that Johnny had wondered just who she felt more sorry for. Him, for not getting the point or herself, for putting up with him for so long.
That’s the thing, Johnny, she had said in that same tired voice, I’m not some trophy for you to win and put on a shelf for everyone to see. I’m a person, Johnny, not some fight you had to pick just to prove you could win.
He’s never really sure what that meant, until now.
“I don’t think it’s bullsh*t,” Johnny whispers.
Daniel blinks up at him, eyes wide and hopeful. “Really?”
Johnny swallows heavily, thinking, again, of these last few months—these last few years, really—how it always felt like he was chasing after something he never had a hope of catching up to. How, even when he won every fight he managed to get himself into, it never really felt like winning. How it never really filled the ache of not enough that he’s been carrying with him ever since his mom married Sid and his life turned into this sh*t show that he has no hope of ever getting himself out of.
“Really,” Johnny says, this time with more conviction.
Daniel grins, bright and beautiful, like the sun peaking over the horizon after a long day of rain and for the first time in a while, Johnny feels at peace.
More…balanced.
Huh
Maybe the old man’s on to something.
*
They don’t end up messing around in the shower and rather than be disappointed about it, Johnny finds himself relieved. After their rather heavy discussion, Johnny’s left with the sensation of feeling too open, too raw, to really focus on anything that’s not making sure Daniel doesn't split his head open and getting both of them cleaned up.
Daniel must sense something’s off—he’s annoyingly perceptive and Johnny finds himself more relieved by it than annoyed and that, in and of itself, is weird—because he doesn’t try and break the silence or even try to start anything remotely sexual. He just lets Johnny…do whatever Johnny needs to do.
He does start to hum, though, a song Johnny doesn't recognize, but it’s low and soothing and he keeps it up until they make it back to Daniel’s room.
Johnny slips back into his jeans he kicked off on the floor last night and he’s trying to find his shirt when he hears Daniel let out a soft gasp of pain.
Johnny looks over his shoulder, opening his mouth to ask him what’s wrong, but the words die on his tongue when he sees the source of Daniel’s pain.
Johnny’s never seen Daniel’s knee without the ace bandage wrapped snugly around it and the image he’s had in his mind and what it looks like, he’s finding, are two very, very different things.
The incision is still raised and red, starting at the bottom of Daniel’s thigh and ends about two inches under his knee, not stitched together, but stapled together every few centimeters. From here, Johnny counts twelve. There’s bruising around the entire wound, in various stages of healing and his knee doesn't really resemble a knee, more like a massive, swollen lump that blends from his thigh to his shin. And if that’s not enough, a few of the staples have popped loose and look like they had been bleeding through the night.
And it could've only come from one thing, Johnny thinks to himself, feeling the bile rise in his throat.
In his mind, he’s back in the bed of Miyagi’s truck, can feel Daniel’s hand reach out and rest on his knee, feels himself strike without thinking, shoving Daniel away. In his mind, it was Sid reaching out to him, it was Sid touching him and Johnny had just…reacted without thinking. He remembers realizing, too late, that it was Daniel reaching out to him. It was Daniel touching him. He remembers Daniel’s sharp cry of pain, the thunk of his knee hitting the side of the truck, hard. The feeling of Daniel not breathing under Johnny’s hands.
Johnny feels like he’s genuinely going to be sick.
But then there’s a hand, reaching out to him, curling around his wrist, grounding him back to the present. Johnny swallows around the lump in his throat, raising his eyes to meet Daniel’s, who is already watching him.
The guilt brings Johnny to his knees in front of Daniel, coming face to face with the consequences of his own actions, something Daniel will have to bear for the rest of his life in the form of a scar and knee that will never be the same again.
Johnny can remember the way the knee gave underneath his elbow, can remember feeling the bone break, the muscles rip, the soft pop of cartilage snapping in his ears, even over the roar of the crowd. The feeling of satisfaction. The dawning horror at what he’d done when he stepped away and saw Daniel, lying face down on the mat, face screwed up in agony.
Bobby may have delivered the initial blow, but Johnny delivered the kill shot.
And it was only made worse, once again, by Johnny.
You’re nothing, you lost, you’re a loser
Hands, warm and soft, cup Johnny’s face. Thumbs, calloused and gentle, wipe at the tears that Johnny was completely unaware of shedding.
“Hey,” Daniel murmurs, eyes liquid pools of brown. “I’m okay.”
It’s an echo of the first time Johnny had stopped by. Johnny, unable to put into words how sorry he was, how much he hated himself for doing this, how much he wished he could take it back. And Daniel, Daniel f*ckin’ LaRusso, had stood there, high off his ass on pain pills and told Johnny the same lie he’s telling him now.
“Seriously,” Daniel continues, voice filled with a gentle teasing. “I was supposed to get ‘em out today anyways, you just saved the doctor a few steps.”
“Don’t—“ Johnny starts, voice harsh, but he stops himself. Takes a breath. Takes another. When the fire stops burning in his veins and his temper tapers off into embers, he tries again, softening his voice. “Please, don’t—don’t joke about this, Danny.”
Daniel bites his lip, but nods and Johnny can read the apology in his eyes, see the guilty set of his chin.
Johnny has a million apologies on the tip of his tongue, a million excuses, but it doesn't seem like enough. So he does the next best thing.
Grabbing the first aid kit Daniel must’ve brought in here last night, Johnny grabs what he needs and sets it down next to him on the floor. Taking a breath, he looks up at Daniel and asks the question that’s been burning at the back of his mind since Daniel had first let him into his life, all those weeks ago.
“Do you trust me?” Johnny whispers.
And without even hesitating to think it over, Daniel answers him, equally as soft, “Yes,” and maybe, just to make sure Johnny believes him, he adds, “Yeah, Johnny, I trust you.”
It feels like a redemption, a second chance at having something worthwhile and Johnny grabs onto it with both hands.
“Then let me take care of you.”
*
Johnny takes his time, cleaning the dried blood from around the staples with alcohol wipes, soothing the burn by blowing gently over the damp skin that’s a few shades lighter than the rest of Daniel’s leg. He can feel Daniel’s eyes, watching him from above, as Johnny measures and cuts the gauze before he lays it over the incision. Shivers when Johnny’s thumb rubs over the tape, smoothing it into place over Daniel’s skin, to make sure the gauze doesn’t go anywhere. Re-positions his leg so Johnny can start the slow process of re-wrapping the ace bandage around and around, protecting his handiwork and the wound from the outside world.
When he’s done, Johnny presses his lips one, two, three, times gently, softly, on the inside of Daniel’s knee.
An apology.
A request for forgiveness.
And a promise, that he’ll never do it again.
And when Daniel smiles back at him with a mixture of exasperation and fondness, Johnny grins back and the imaginary weight that he’s been carrying since the tournament—since that night at the beach, really—feels a little bit lighter, a little bit easier to hold.
*
Daniel makes him breakfast, despite Johnny’s protests that he should be resting, but Daniel waves him off and tells him to kindly shut up, declining any offers from Johnny to help.
So Johnny watches from his position on a bar stool, as Daniel manages to putter rather gracefully around the kitchen—even on crutches—mixing up pancake batter, coaxing bacon to crisp, cracking eggs expertly into a pan—one handed, the show off. He’s humming the same song from their shower and it’s not until he starts singing the words under his breath that Johnny recognizes the tune as a Frank Sinatra song.
And I've got no defense for it
That heat is too intense for it
What good would common sense for it do?
'Cause it's witchcraft
Wicked witchcraft
Daniel’s voice is actually pleasant and it harmonizes with the sounds of bacon sizzling away in the pan, the soft tick tick tick of the whisk hitting the sides of the glass bowl. The whole scene is oddly...domestic, Johnny thinks to himself, laughing when Daniel tries to flip a pancake, one handed, but instead of it landing back into the pan, it flops to floor with a rather wet sounding thwack.
Daniel pouts, eyes drifting to the pan then back to the pancake that’s half cooked and now oozing wet batter onto the tile floor, like he doesn’t understand where he went wrong.
Something soft and warm twists in Johnny’s heart, despite his laughter.
“Way to go, Julia Child,” Johnny teases, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.
Daniel rolls his eyes, but there’s a pink flush to his cheeks. “I’ve done it before, okay? It’s just these damn crutches, they limit my range of motion or somethin’—“
Johnny chuckles, grabbing a rag from the drawer next to the sink and leans down to mop up the mess.
“You know, it’s a poor craftsman that blames his tools,” Johnny says as he tosses the rag into the hamper, unable to resist kissing Daniel’s still pouting lips.
“I ain’t blamin’ the tools, Johnny, I’m blamin’ these damn crutches, they get in the way of everything,” Daniel pauses, eyes gleaming with an idea that Johnny knows right away he’s not gonna like. “You know, the doctor did say I should start putting some weight on it soon. Maybe I could just—“
“Nope,” Johnny says with a dismissive shake of his head.
“Aw, c’mon Johnny, I can just hold onto the counter and—“
Johnny kisses Daniel, both in the hopes of distracting him and making him shut up. It works, momentarily. But when they pull away from each other, there’s still a determined gleam in Daniel’s eyes and Johnny rolls his eyes.
“You’re using the crutches, Danny,” Johnny says, tone booking no argument. It’s the same tone is mother uses when she says, don’t argue with me.
But Daniel still has the stubborn set to his chin, eyes glinting in defiance like he’s going to argue further.
And Johnny doesn’t have to wait long
“But—“
“No.”
“Lemme just—“
“No.”
“But I can—“
“Your bacon is burning,” Johnny interrupts, pointing behind Daniel, to the stove, where there’s an awful lot of smoke coming out of the pan that’s cooking the bacon.
“sh*t.”
*
Breakfast is banana chocolate chip pancakes—bananarama pancakes, Daniel had called them when he slid the plate over to Johnny with an over dramatic flourish—scrambled eggs cooked to perfection and (slightly) burnt bacon.
Johnny can still taste the chocolate from the pancakes, sweet and sugary, on Daniel’s lips. Can still feel the stickiness from the maple syrup when he traces the plump bottom lip with his tongue, mixing with the saltiness from the bacon leftover on Daniel’s tongue.
It pains him to have to end this, but he needs to go home and face the music. Knows his mom, as unaffected as she was last night, will be worried if he doesn’t come home soon.
“Daniel, I’ve got to—mmm, f*ck—I’ve got to—“
Daniel sinks his teeth into Johnny’s bottom lip, soothes it with a caress of his tongue, leaving Johnny momentarily speechless, mind scrambling to remember what he was even trying to say in the first place.
It’s only when his heavy lidded eyes blink open and see the time on the alarm clock next to Daniel’s bed, that he remembers that he really needs to go.
He pulls away from Daniel’s lips, a zing of arousal traveling down his spine when Daniel whines and chases his lips and Johnny lets him have it—enjoys the smooth slide of their lips, the heat from their shared breath, the wantwantwant that stirs in his belly, co*ck half hard and straining against his zipper.
Johnny groans when Daniel cants his hips up, chasing the friction they both need and he hates to end this, just when it’s getting good, he’s tempted to stay, but—
“Danny, I’ve got to go,” Johnny murmurs against his lips, smirking when Daniel tries to give chase again but Johnny avoids it, rolling off Daniel’s body and using the springs in the mattress as leverage to hoist himself up off the bed.
Daniel glares, but the effect is ruined by the high flush on his cheeks, kiss swollen lips, blown pupils, co*ck a hard outline in the cut off sweats he’s wearing. He looks properly debouched and it makes Johnny’s co*ck ache with a want so strong, it renders him momentarily speechless.
Johnny’s no virgin, but he’s also a teenage boy and even at his most hornie*st, he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted someone this badly before. And a male at that, too.
“Do you really have to?” Daniel asks, borderline whines and it only makes Johnny’s smirk grow wider.
“Gonna miss me, LaRusso?” Johnny teases, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull his shoes on.
“I always miss you when you’re not here,” Daniel says with such a bold honesty that Johnny fumbles, fingers catching clumsily in the laces. “Besides, it’s nice, having someone else take care of this,” he gestures to his hard on, still straining against the seam of his sweats. Johnny swallows heavily when he sees the damp spot in the front, surprised with how much he wants to taste it for himself. “I like not having to do all the work.”
Johnny snorts. “You mean, it’s nice having something else that’s not your own hand?”
Daniel flushes. “Hey, man, I ain’t no virgin—“
“Now I know why your right hook is so strong—ow! See? Who knew all that muscle was because you couldn’t get laid—“ Johnny was prepared for the next hit, blocking it easily and using the leverage to roll himself back on top of Daniel, knees pinning his hips, elbows tucked against his ribs, wrists gripped in a gentle hold above his head.
Daniel swallows, breathing stuttering, pulse fluttering wildly where Johnny’s fingers are cradling his wrists. Johnny smirks down at him, body shivering with heat at having Daniel trapped underneath him.
“Easy, LaRusso,” Johnny whispers, a gentle reminder that while Johnny may have him pinned, Daniel has all the power.
Daniel licks his lips, eyes searching Johnny’s face carefully and Johnny can physically see Daniel fight against his instincts—the urge to fight back, to gain the upper hand—as his body goes lax in Johnny’s arms, limbs loosening, submitting to Johnny’s hold. Trusting him.
And God, does that do something to Johnny.
“Tell me, Danny,” Johnny whispers, nosing at his sharp jaw, teasing his lips over the sensitive skin of Daniel’s neck, “have you ever f*cked someone before?”
Johnny feels him swallow, hears his breath stutter in his throat and he’s got his answer before he hears the breathy no fall past Daniel’s lips.
Johnny hums, sucking a bruise into Daniel’s pulse point. “Has anyone ever f*cked you?”
Daniel shakes his head. “No,” he whispers.
“Tell me, baby,” Johnny murmurs, nipping at Daniel’s earlobe. “Has anyone ever touched you before?”
Daniel moans, squirming in Johnny’s hold and Johnny presses down a little harder, still mindful to be careful. He can feel Daniel’s erection brush against his own, feel the heat of it through the material of his jeans and Johnny bites back his own moan.
“Answer me, Danny,” Johnny breathes, letting his own hips fall into an easy grind.
“N-no—f*ck—no one—ah—but y-you,” Daniel groans, whimpering when their co*cks tease against each other on a particularly rough thrust.
Johnny purrs in satisfaction, sucking another bruise into Daniel’s neck before he pulls away, meeting Daniel’s lips in a messy kiss that’s more panting into each other’s mouths than actually kissing.
Heat coils low in Johnny’s belly and he sneaks a hand down between them, popping the button on his jeans, groaning in relief when his co*ck springs free, pushing past the zipper, that’s how hard he is.
“What about you, baby?” Johnny whispers against his lips. “You ever touch anyone else before?”
Daniel shakes his head, moaning when Johnny reaches into his sweats, hands meeting warm flesh and grips Daniel’s fluttering co*ck.
That possessive feeling—the desire to be the only one who gets to touch, taste and tease Daniel like this—returns, burning like a fire in his veins, adding fuel to the flames of his arousal.
“Can I try something?” Johnny asks softly. “You can say no.”
“Trust you.” Daniel murmurs, capturing his lips again.
Warmth—that has nothing to do with arousal—pools in Johnny’s chest at those words, heart threatening to burst.
Johnny loosens his grip on Daniel’s wrists, wrapping his hand around one of Daniel’s and guides it downwards, down down down, until it’s brushing against both of their erections.
“Touch me,” Johnny whispers. “I want you to.”
Daniel whimpers, wrapping his hand around Johnny’s co*ck, giving it an experimental stroke and Johnny’s hips twitch in response.
“Uh huh, just like that—“ Johnny says softly, coaxing. “Just like Danny—f*ck—“
Daniel grows more confident, quickening his pace, thumb stroking underneath the head, wrist twisting on the upstroke.
Johnny’s head is spinning, every nerve ending feels like it’s burning white hot, like a brand pressing over and over into his skin and he revels in it, chasing after Daniel’s touch, wanting more more more—
“Johnny,” Daniel pleads, lashes fluttering open and Johnny’s hit with the full force of those Bambi eyes—pupils blown, black eclipsing the brown, staring up at Johnny with a mixture of desperation and pride and it’s f*ck, the hottest thing Johnny’s ever seen.
Johnny grips Daniel’s co*ck—leaking and swollen and so so hard—and strokes once, twice and then Daniel’s cumming—dick twitching, cum splattering across his chest and it sends Johnny over the edge, muffling his moan into Daniel’s pliant mouth.
“f*ck.” Daniel says breathlessly, eloquent as ever.
Johnny snorts in laughter, pressing a kiss to Daniel’s lips, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his forehead, before stealing another kiss from his lips.
“It was alright,” Johnny says, trying for nonchalant, but his lips are twitching and Daniel rolls his eyes, swatting at Johnny with his hand still covered in cum and Johnny dodges it because ew.
“Watch it,” Johnny huffs, biting back a grin when Daniel laughs. “I don’t have time for another shower.”
Daniel hums and Johnny takes the opportunity to tuck them back into their respective pants, wiping his hands on Daniel’s once again soiled shirt, helping him out of it and cleaning up any stray drops of cum that landed on his belly.
He tosses it in the general direction of Daniel’s hamper and judging by the annoyed look Daniel shoots him, he missed by a mile. Johnny kisses him to make up for it and when he pulls away, Daniel’s annoyance has melted into a soft smile.
“Smooth talker,” Daniel teases, brushing Johnny’s bangs back from his face, cupping his cheek into his warm palm and Johnny leans into it, affection trickling like warm honey into his veins.
There’s something lurking behind Daniel’s eyes that Johnny can’t place, but it makes something twist uncomfortably in his stomach.
“Will you—“ Daniel bites his lip, watching Johnny carefully. “Will you be okay?”
Johnny wants to be annoyed, even tries to summon some anger at the assumption that he’s unable to take care of himself. But Daniel looks genuinely concerned about him and it’s…odd. But not unpleasant. It soothes the blow to his ego, knowing that Daniel isn’t asking to be a dick, but because he’s genuinely worried about him.
Johnny offers him a small smile that he really hopes comes across as reassuring.
“Gonna fight my battles for me, Danny?” Johnny murmurs, quirking a teasing eyebrow. “Be my night in shining armor?”
“Johnny,” Daniel chides gently. “I’m bein’ serious here.”
Johnny strokes a thumb over the hinge of Daniel’s jaw, backandfortth backandforth, unable to meet Daniel’s eyes and he hates himself for it.
“Sid left this morning for a business trip, he’ll be gone for a few days,” Johnny says. “I think him and my mom are going on vacation when he gets back,” he adds with a shrug. “For New Years, they usually do it every year.”
Daniel still looks unsure, so Johnny kisses him, gently, sweetly, hoping Daniel understands what he’s trying to say but can’t—thanks for caring, for worrying, for being here, for caring about me, for taking care of me. All of that and more.
“I’ll be fine,” Johnny says when he pulls away.
Daniel doesn’t look convinced.
Johnny doesn’t really blame him.
*
It’s another twenty minutes before Johnny’s actually leaving Daniel’s apartment—trading gentle kisses, which turned into making out, which turned into frenzied making out and it took every ounce of will power Johnny had to pull away and finish getting ready to leave.
The high he’s been riding since this morning, fades the closer he gets to home and the further he gets from Daniel. He tries to listen to a cassette tape, but not even REO Speedwagon can soothe the tight knot of anxiety that’s lodged itself in his throat.
By the time he makes it back to Encino Hills, that knot has turned into a vice like grip, threatening to choke him. It eases when he pulls into the driveway and Sid’s car is gone from it’s usual spot, but he still has to face his mother and somehow, that’s worse than anything Sid could dish out.
Because Sid’s words stopped hurting a long time ago—back when Johnny realized he’d never been the father figure he’d always dreamed of having, when he was little and begged his mom to tell him stories about the father he never knew. The one who never stuck around long enough for them to even meet.
It was his mother’s compliance to Sid’s anger—the way she turned a blind eye to it the longer they lived in a cushy mansion with access to more money that some people could live a thousand lifetimes and still never see—that hurt worse than any blow Johnny could ever receive at Sid’s hand.
That his mother cared more about money and status than the wellbeing of her own son.
Being comfortable comes with sacrifices, Johnny, she’d murmur in his ear while he cried into her shoulder, back in the early days, when he couldn’t understand why Sid hated him. Why nothing he did was ever enough. Why he wasn’t enough. Just don’t make him angry, baby and he’ll take care of us.
Eyeing the bruises on his face, Johnny snorts in disgust.
Is this enough of a sacrifice for you, mom? He thinks to himself bitterly.
The pain pill Daniel had given him before breakfast is wearing off. His ribs ache with every breath, the cut on his lip throbs in time with his heartbeat and his eye hurts like a bitch. But Johnny ignores it—making his way into the house, where is mother is waiting for him in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hands.
She looks up when he enters, but he ignores her, bypassing the bar stool already pulled out and waiting for his arrival and opens the fridge, pretending to pursue it’s contents just so he can avoid looking at her just a little longer.
His stomach twists at the thought of food—the breakfast he ate back at Daniel’s is currently sitting like a rock in his stomach. His fingers twitch longingly towards the beer—alcohol is about the only way this conversation will be even slightly bearable—but he was planning on going back over to Daniel’s later, so getting sloshed this early in the day is out. He grabs a carton of juice instead, even though he’s really not even that thirsty and he closes the door, leaning wearily against it and finally faces his mother, who’s been watching him since the moment he walked through the door.
Her blue eyes flit over his face, taking stock of his injuries, assessing the damage, the evidence of her husband’s violent temper that’s always been Johnny’s cross to bear—his sacrifice to the better life his mother always wanted for him.
A part of Johnny wants an excuse to take his shirt off, to show his mom the imprint of Sid’s shoes that make his ribs resemble the priceless Jackson Pollock painting hanging in their foyer.
I call this one: Angry Asshole by Armani for Men. The medium used in this particular piece was unconventional but ingenious: the sole of an Armani loafer. When used with excessive force, it causes the blood capillaries to explode, leaving behind beautiful shades of violet and indigo that will eventually fade into a color I like to call shockingly chartreuse. How to get one of these one of a kind pieces, you ask? Just piss off Sid Weigner! The cost? Oh, only your dignity and self respect!
Johnny shakes his head and takes a sip of his juice, wincing at the taste of overly sweet grapes and sugar.
Johnny hates grape juice. And his mother can’t ever seem to remember that when she goes grocery shopping.
It’s so stupid and insignificant, in the grand scheme of things, but it just adds fuel to already raging the fire that, up until now, has been on a low simmer ever since he woke up this morning—lying in wait for a lit match to set it up in smoke.
“So where’s step-daddy dearest? He didn’t feel like finishing what he started last night?” Johnny asks, chucking the still full carton of juice in the trash. Some of it lands on the bleach white tiling and Johnny hopes it leaves a stain.
His mother sighs and the flash of guilt at how tired she sounds only makes him angrier. He shouldn’t feel guilty.
“Johnny, don’t start,” Laura says tiredly, taking a delicate sip of her coffee. Her lipstick is red today and it leaves a smudge behind on the bright white mug.
What is it with rich people and the color white? Johnny thinks to himself absently.
“Let me guess: he’s out buying my Christmas present, right?” Johnny continues, ignoring her. “What’d you tell him to buy me this time, mom? Is it a new car? Maybe a new dirt bike?”
“Johnny,” Laura warns, lips thinning.
“Or is it just a check with my name on it?” Johnny goads, smirking when his mom purses her lips. Bingo. “How much money do I get for being his punching bag? Five hundred? Six, maybe? C’mon, mom, don’t tell me you lowballed me. A fight like that? I’d at least need a grand to make sure I keep quiet—“
“Enough,” Laura snaps, rising from her delicate perch on the modern barstools she picked out earlier in the year. It was the fourth time she’s redone the kitchen since they moved in six years ago. Before Sid, their old furniture never even matched. They were lucky to be able to afford to keep the lights on, let alone worry about being able to buy new furniture.
Now his mother changes furniture like someone changes their underwear. Just simply because she can. Because now they have the money to redecorate a room whenever she gets bored with the interior design. Because that’s another thing rich people do—buy overpriced furniture that no one’s allowed to sit on for fear of damaging it.
Johnny clenches his jaw so hard his teeth grind together, the desire to hit something making his fists tingle. But he won’t, because this is his mother and he can’t—won’t unleash that kind of anger, not around his mother. Not when she could get caught in the crossfire.
His mom must see just how hard he’s struggling to keep himself in check, because some of her anger softens, gentling into a look of concern as her eyes trace over the bruises once again, lingering on the worst ones—his eye and the bruise on his jaw.
Shame wells in his gut, hot and fierce and Johnny looks away, but her gentle hands catch his chin, forcing him to look at her.
There’s a steely glint in her eyes, a tightness to her mouth that gives her usually beautiful face a pinched look that makes Johnny’s stomach a twist.
“This won’t happen again,” She whispers fiercely.
Johnny scoffs. “Yeah, okay. You say that now—“
“Johnny,” She says, louder, more insistent. “This will not happen again,” she repeats slowly, determinedly. “Words are one thing but this—“ She brushes a warm thumb over his lip, his eye, “—will never happen again. I’ll make sure Sid knows that.”
Johnny can remember the look on his mother’s face when Sid landed the first blow, the way she screamed at them to stop once Sid got him on the floor, the tears in her eyes when Johnny stormed out of the house, Johnny wait don’t go—
Johnny wonders if this means his mom’s finally found something that money can’t buy—the ability to forget her husband smacking her kid around. Or the absolution of guilt for letting him get away with it in the first place.
“Now mom,” Johnny intones condescendingly. “You know if you do that, Sid may not write a check the next time you want to redo the kitchen. Or the living room. He might even take away your membership to the country club and then who will you get to show off to?”
Hurt flashes in his mother’s eyes and Johnny zeroes in on it like a shark smelling blood in the water
No mercy. Hit her where it hurts.
“Who knows, mom, maybe if you let him cause permanent damage next time, you’ll finally get to take that trip to Paris you’ve been hinting at. Maybe he’ll even spring for a shopping spree. You’ve always wanted to do that, haven’t you?” Johnny sneers, yanking himself out of her grip.
Tears glitter like the diamond ring on her finger, blinding in the florescent lighting of the state of the art kitchen. A part of Johnny hates himself for it, but the bigger part, the part that’s still aching and hurt at the memory of his own mother, standing idly by and let her husband beat the sh*t out of him, revels in it.
No mercy
“Johnny, that’s not fair—“ She tries, voice whisper soft, but Johnny’s heard this before. Has it branded into his brain like Sid’s sole marks on his rib cage.
“No, mom, what’s not fair is you continuing to making excuses for that asshole just so you can pretend you did the right thing by marrying him in the first place,” Johnny snaps.
“I just wanted us to—“
“—have a better life,” Johnny says, cutting her off with a roll of his eyes as he turns on his heel to leave. “Well, I’m glad it worked out for one of us.”
“Johnny, baby, c’mon—“ She tries, but Johnny ignores her.
Blood is rushing through his ears, heart beating wildly in his chest, his muscles ache with the overwhelming urge to strike out at the first thing that crosses his path and he just needs to get away get away get away runrunrunrun—
He slams the door to his room behind him, collapsing against it and tries to breathe past the weight pressing into his chest. He can feel a sting, the foreign pressure forming behind his eye sockets and it heightens his panic because Cobra’s don’t cry, they don’t—
The minute you shed those tears, you’ve already lost, Kreese murmurs in his ear. Are you a loser, Mr. Lawrence? Because I don’t train losers, do you hear me? Cobra’s don’t cry, cobra’s aren’t weak—
You’re nothing, you’re a loser. You hear me, Johnny? A LOSER—
Arms, wrapped around his throat, corded muscles flexing and pressing downdowndown—
“Let him go, Sensei! You’re hurting him—“
Chest burns with the need to breathe, can’t breathe, need air cantbreathecantbreathe—
You’re nothing, you're nothing, loserloserloserloser—
“That’s enough, Sid, you’re hurting him—“
“No good, good for nothing street punk—“
Got to get out got to get out outoutoutout awayawayaway—
Can’t breathe can’t breathe, need air, need air—
—you’re nothing, you’re a loser, A LOSER, JOHNNY, A LOSER—
A shrilling ringing startles Johnny so badly, he throws a fist out and connects with something that shatters across his knuckle, barely registers the tiny pinpricks of pain that dance across his skin, eyes snapping open to find himself alone, in his room, back pressed to the solid wood of the door.
It takes him a minute to realize the shrill ringing is the phone next to his bed—his own private landline, another one of Sid’s gifts he so graciously presented to Johnny when he moved in.
So you can call all your little friends, he’d said to Johnny, face twisted into a nasty smirk.
They both knew it was a waste of money considering, at the time, Johnny had a grand total of zero friends to call and talk to. But again, Sid had known that, and he still spent the money to have a phone guy come out and install it, even going to the trouble of getting Johnny his own line. All of that money and time, just for a sick taunt.
And it worked.
Johnny remembers staring at that phone, willing it to ring, to answer it and have someone his age on the line, calling to ask him to come and play. How lonely it was, to be the only kid in a house this big, with no one around to talk to. How he’d been afraid to even leave his room, to touch anything, to even breathe, lest he break or damage something.
The phone is still ringing.
Johnny’s temped to ignore it, he’s not in the mood to talk to anyone, but then he remembers that of the few people that have his number, Daniel is one of them and it could be him calling.
Johnny tries not to think about how it’s that possibility that gives him the strength to get himself off the floor—when he ended up there, he’s not sure—and propels him towards the phone, catching it on the last ring.
It’s not until he glances at the clock that’s next to phone that he realizes, with a sinking heart, that it wouldn't be Daniel calling him, because he’d be on his way across town, to his doctor’s appointment.
The disappointment that comes with this particular realization makes him snap an impatient, “What?” into the receiver, which makes the person on the other end laugh.
“Well, hello to you, too, Johnny,” Bobby says cheerfully and while it’s not Daniel, something about the familiar cadence of Bobby Brown’s voice soothes some of the irritation bouncing around in Johnny’s chest.
“Sorry, man I—“ Johnny sighs, collapsing onto his unmade bed. “It’s been a long day.”
The 11:30 flashing across the alarm clock begs to differ, but it certainly feels like it’s been a long day.
“Hey, is everything okay?” Bobby asks, tone switching from teasing to serious and Johnny can’t help but smile. Out of all of his friends—Dutch, the bad influence with a quick temper, Tommy, the instigator, Jimmy, the follower—Bobby is the peace maker. The one constantly trying to steer them away from trouble, not towards it.
Bobby is also a great listener and he’s the only one who really knows what goes on behind the doors of this big empty house. Up until Daniel, Bobby was the one Johnny went to when things got bad at home. When Sid’s anger was too much for Johnny to handle, when the panic sent him running, it was always Bobby’s house he ran to. Bobby would let him in, no questions asked, letting Johnny into his house, his space, with his family, who treated Johnny like he was one of their own.
In a lot of ways, Daniel was a lot like Bobby.
(Except, Johnny is pretty sure he isn’t like, half in love with Bobby Brown. He might of had like, a tiny crush on Bobby at one point in his life, but finding someone, male or female, who didn’t have a crush on Bobby Brown—with his floppy sandy brown hair and kind eyes—well, finding a needle in a haystack would be easier, Johnny was sure).
(He’s also going to add being half in love with Daniel LaRusso to the list of things he’ll think about at a later date. Maybe. Possibly. Slim chance.)
“Yeah, just you know, sh*t with Sid and my mom,” Johnny answers, purposely vague. “Anyway, what’s up, man?”
Bobby hesitates, like he wants to push, but he must hear Johnny’s silent I don’t want to talk about it and trudges on with only a small, exasperated sigh that Johnny’s beyond used to by now.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Bobby says and Johnny can hear the underlying question, but he ignores it. “Not since the whole—“
You know, when you and I ganged up on Daniel LaRusso on the instruction of our Sensei, who later tried to choke you to death in a parking lot full of witnesses as punishment for losing the tournament to an illegal crane kick to the face.
Yeah, doesn't exactly roll right off the tongue.
“—anyway,” Bobby continues, after an awkward pause. “I was wondering if you want to meet up at the diner? Jimmy’s still upstate with his parents, but the rest of the guys are free, if you’re in.”
Johnny hesitates, biting his lip, forgets he can’t do that, hissing when it tugs uncomfortably at the freshly scabbed over cut.
“Hey, man, are you sure you’re alright?” Bobby asks and Johnny can just picture his face, scrunched in concern and it makes something twist in Johnny’s stomach. Because the guys will see the bruises on his face and want to know what happened, who caused it and it’ll be a whole thing when it doesn't need to be one and—
Johnny hears footsteps by his door before a soft, hesitant knock raps against the wood.
“Johnny? Can we talk?” His mom asks hesitantly through the door.
—but if he has to pick between staying here and getting into it again with his mother, which will no doubt turn into Sid getting involved if he comes home and finds Johnny’s mom crying or explaining a couple of bruises and a split lip to his friends, well. It’s really a no brainer, isn’t it?
“Yeah, man, I’m fine,” Johnny finds himself saying, just as his mom knocks again, this time, more insistent.
“Johnny, c’mon, we need to talk about this, baby—“
“—are you sure? You sound kind of distracted—“ Bobby’s says and Johnny can hear the frown in his voice.
“Yeah—yeah, I’m good, man, just—“
“Johnny? Open up—“
“I’ll see you at the diner, okay? I’ll be there in twenty.” Johnny says before hangs up.
His mom’s still knocking but Johnny ignores it—her, the pleading in her voice, the ache in his chest—and heads into the bathroom to shower and change so he can get the hell out of this goddamn house.
*
Sal’s diner is a popular spot for kid’s to go after school to get a milkshake and a plate of fries while they sit in the retro booths to do their homework. It’s where everyone goes on Friday night after the football games to celebrate a victory with root beer floats and cheese burgers with just the right amount of grease to line your stomach to avoid a hangover after a night of drinking cheap beer and boxed wine at one of the parties on the Hill.
It was where Johnny and the guys would go after a hard practice, bitching about their aches and pains over chili cheese fries and sodas. It was where Johnny had taken Ali on their first date, after spending hours at Golf N Stuff, playing arcade games and putt putt. Johnny remembers sitting next to her in the booth, the leather warm from their shared body heat, as they talked and flirted over a plate of fries. It’s where they shared their first kiss—Ali’s lips had tasted like cherry lip gloss she’d worn all night and the vanilla milkshake she’d been drinking. That’s all Johnny could taste the rest of the night, long after he’d dropped her off at home and spent the night, grinning up at his ceiling like an idiot.
It sits in the middle of town, right in the middle of the coming and goings of rich house wives from Encino Hills and the working class people who came over from Reseda and the rest of the Valley.
It’s also right across the street from the Cobra Kai dojo.
A fact that had slipped Johnny’s mind until he’s sitting in the parking lot, waiting for Bobby, Tommy and Dutch to get there.
Johnny hasn't been back since the tournament and there’s a part of him that aches to enter those doors, to enfold himself back into the place that had given him friends, a place to belong, to grow strong—mentally and physically. Cobra Kai had given him a sense of family and home, no matter how cruel and grueling training could be with Kreese’s harsh words and taunting as a backing track. Johnny always knew where his place was in the world of Cobra Kai. At Kreese’s side, pushing his body to it’s ultimate limits in order to be quicker and stronger than his enemy. Better. Meaner. Crueler.
No mercy.
That ever present itch is back—crawling underneath his skin, lurking and lying in wait for a fight he’s just itching to start, just to subdue the anger that’s been coiling like a snake ready to strike ever since the tournament.
He feels like a junkie, waiting for his next high. Kreese had never taught him how to suppress the anger, he only taught Johnny how to harness it—to use it like weapon in a fight. To fight with it, not against it.
They always say never to fight angry, Kreese had said with a glint in his eyes that Johnny had always secretly feared, but that’s because they don’t know the secret. You can fight angry, kid, you just have learn how to use it to your advantage.
Johnny has always had a hot temper, Kreese just taught him how to use it. How to focus the anger into his fists, into his kicks, rather than keep it at the forefront of his mind so it clouded his vision and he couldn't think straight. It was a fine line that Kreese was only too happy to teach Johnny how to walk.
Without Kreese at his back to fan the flames, Johnny had thought some of that anger would fade. But the truth was, Johnny is more angry now that he ever remembers being in his life. And without Cobra Kai, he’s got no outlet for it anymore. And that terrifies him more than he wants to admit.
A knock on his window makes him jump, but it’s just Bobby and Tommy, both with stupid grins on their faces and it’s such a welcome sight, that Johnny momentarily forgets all thoughts of Sid and Kreese.
As soon as he’s out of his car, Bobby and Tommy tackle Johnny into a hug, that Johnny accepts with an eye roll, but he’s secretly pleased because he didn’t realize how much he’s missed these idiots over the last few weeks.
Tommy whistles when they pull away, catching sight of the bruises on Johnny’s face at the same time Bobby does.
“Damn, that’s one hell of a shiner, Johnny,” Tommy says, stepping closer to inspect it. “Did you get into it again with LaRusso’s Sensei?”
Johnny rolls his eyes, swiping half heartedly at Tommy’s head, but he dodges it, laughing.
“No, asshole,” Johnny says, mentally wincing at the reminder. For an old man, Mr. Miyagi could pack one hell of a punch. “Some dickwad was giving me sh*t about the tournament, had to set him straight.”
Bobby’s eyes narrow, lips pulled into a frown at Tommy’s side and Johnny refuses to make eye contact with him.
“Well, if you look like that, I’d hate to see what you did to him,” Tommy says, shrugging.
Johnny doesn't know what’s worse: Bobby’s worry or Tommy’s nonchalance about Johnny potentially beating the sh*t out of someone.
Give him a body bag, Johnny!
Tommy wanders off when he sees Dutch whip into the parking lot a few spaces down and Johnny knows they’ll go around back to smoke whatever Dutch has brought with him and for once, Johnny doesn't feel the need to join them, even if his ribs ache from all the bro-hugs and back slapping.
When Johnny turns back, Bobby still watching him, this time with a calculating look on his face that Johnny decides he doesn't like in the slightest.
“Sid did that to you, didn’t he?” Bobby asks, keeping his voice quiet, even though Tommy and Dutch have already disappeared into the alleyway behind Sal’s.
Johnny looks away, down at the scuffed tops of his Converse and after a moment of hesitation, he nods once, sharply and shakily.
“Jesus Christ, Johnny,” Bobby breathes. “When did this happen?”
Johnny wishes he would’ve worn his sunglasses today because it’s bright as f*ck outside and also, he’s pretty sure if he sees the concerned look on Bobby’s face, he’ll start crying and that’s just. No.
“Last night,” Johnny says. Clearing his throat, he adds, “He was drunk and running his mouth and I—I got mad. Threw the first punch and well,” Johnny shrugs. “You can imagine the rest.”
Bobby sighs and it sounds sad and exasperated and Johnny shifts, uncomfortable.
“Look, it’s not that bad. I’ve had worse after training with Kreese.”
Bobby sighs again and this time, when Johnny looks up, he’s met with that same look that Ali used to give him when he was being unreasonably obtuse. Like Johnny and the point were never going to formally meet.
“Johnny, this is bad. If Sid’s hitting you—“ Bobby starts and Johnny cuts him off with sneer.
“What, Bobby? We’ll go to the police and report it?” Johnny demands mockingly.
Bobby swallows, but there’s a steely glint in his eyes that means he’s not going to go down without a fight.
“Maybe we should,” Bobby says ignoring Johnny’s scoff. “We’ve got proof, Johnny. Those bruises—Sid’s gonna have a hard time explaining that away—“
“And what happens when he tells them I threw the first punch?” Johnny asks. “Huh? What then, Bobby? Because that’s what happened. He was drunk and running his mouth and I got pissed so I hit him. I’m eighteen, I could go to jail and you know I will,” Johnny says, when Bobby opens his mouth to protest. “You think Sid will pay for my lawyer when I’m trying to hit him with assault charges?”
Bobby closes his mouth, but there’s still a frustrated scowl marring his usually sweet baby face and it doesn't make Johnny feel any sort of victory.
“Well,” Bobby says after a beat of silence, when they’ve both cooled down a little bit. “I could talk to my parents, maybe you could move in with me—“
“I’m not leaving my mom alone to deal with that asshole,” Johnny says with a dismissive shake of his head.
The thought has crossed his mind serval times, late at night, whenever he went ten rounds with Sid. He’d dream of running away or asking Bobby’s parents if he could move in with them, just until graduation. But one thought always stopped him from ever attempting it: what would happen to his mother if Johnny was no longer there for Sid to target? His mom may not get the full force of it like Johnny does, but even she’s not completely immune to Sid’s anger. And as much as Johnny’s pissed at her, he won’t leave her alone in that house, not if being there keeps her safe from Sid turning his rage on to her.
Bobby bites his lip, something he does when he’s got something to say, but he’s knows he needs to tread with caution. Johnny’s already dreading whatever it is that’s going to come out of his mouth, he can already feel it.
“Maybe it’s time you start worrying about yourself, Johnny,” Bobby says quietly. “After all, you didn’t ask for this. Your mom made her choice by marrying the guy,” Bobby hesitates, adding, voice whisper soft, like he already knows the answer. “Did she even try to stop him?”
Johnny swallows, looking away, doesn’t want to see the sadness or the pity in Bobby’s eyes at his non-answer.
“Johnny, you know you could’ve come over,” Bobby says, resting a hesitant hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “You didn’t have to stay there, not after—“
“I didn’t stay there,” Johnny assures him quickly. “I stayed at a—uh, a friend’s house.”
Johnny chances a glance out of the corner of his eye just in time to see Bobby’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair line.
“You uh, don’t know him,” Johnny continues, mentally wincing at the lie, on both Daniel and Bobby’s behalf. “He’s um, a friend from—before, you know, uh, my mom and I moved here.”
Stupid, Bobby knows you were a friendless loser before you moved here.
And judging by the look on Bobby’s face, he knows it, too. But Bobby, thankfully, doesn’t call him on it.
“Well,” Bobby says carefully, eyes roaming over Johnny in a way that makes Johnny feel like he’s under a microscope. “I guess that explains that bruise on your neck.”
Bobby nods to the hickey Daniel sucked into Johnny’s skin, as he fumbled his way out of the door between kisses and laughter and promises of coming back later. It was tucked right behind his ear, a spot that made him moan like a two dollar whor* when Daniel found it by chance. It was out of the way enough that his mom would either miss it or write it off as a bruise from Sid, but Bobby, the observant f*cker that he is, zeroed in on it the moment Johnny stepped out of the car. Johnny knew it, too. It was like the hickey burned underneath his puzzled gaze, like Bobby couldn’t figure out how a bruise could land there when most of them were on Johnny’s face.
Bobby looks like he wants to press for more, but Johnny’s saved from further interrogation by Dutch and Tommy stumbling up to them, eyes glassy and smelling like they just got out of a hot box with Cheech and Chong.
“And just what are you two ladies gossiping about over here?” Dutch demands teasingly, throwing an arm over Johnny’s shoulders.
Johnny’s stomach twists at the sickly sweet smell and knows he’s gonna have to take another shower before he goes back to Daniel’s, just incase Mrs. LaRusso ends up taking a half day from work after Daniel’s appointment and is there when he comes over.
She’s been gracious enough to forgive Johnny for all the sh*t he’s given Daniel and Johnny would even wager that she actually likes him, if he were a betting man. He doesn’t want to f*ck that up by coming over to the house, smelling like he just came from a Grateful Dead concert.
Bobby opens his mouth to answer, but he’s cut off by Dutch, who finally takes a good look at Johnny with eyes that are all pupils and redder than Johnny’s Firebird.
“Whoa, dude, what the f*ck happened to your face?”
Johnny sighs, Tommy giggles and Bobby looks like he really wishes he would’ve stayed home.
Johnny commiserates with him in the feeling.
*
The feeling of regret fades when they fall into their regular booth, laughing and joking around over plates piled high with food they probably won’t finish and milkshakes so thick, Johnny needs a spoon to eat it.
They talk about everything Johnny’s missed over the last few weeks—parties, bonfires—but not once does Cobra Kai get brought up. If anything, it seems like they’re purposefully avoiding talking about it and Johnny finds himself relieved for it. It’s just the four of them, hanging out and goofing off and while Johnny wishes Jimmy were here, too, it feels good to be hanging out with them again like this. A part of him feels bad for avoiding them for so long, but that doesn't mean he regrets it, either.
Because if he did, that would mean regretting Daniel and Johnny’s time with Daniel over the last few weeks is what’s kept his head on straight for so long. Don’t get him wrong, Daniel can piss him off and rile him up in ways that no other person has before, but he’s also exudes a calm, an assuredness that soothes Johnny’s frayed edges, keeping the anger he’s been carrying around at a tolerable level.
It helps, too, that verbally sparring with Daniel is almost as good as physically fighting with him. Daniel is a grade A smart-ass and he can keep up with Johnny’s quips and verbal barbs with a sarcastic wit all his own. He’s quick as a whip and smart and he keeps Johnny on his toes in a way that no one—other than Ali—has before.
He’s a firecracker, unpredictable and loud, quick to temper and passionate—about anything he focuses his attention on.
Johnny’s belly swoops when he remembers just how it feels to be on the receiving end of that passion. Having those big, Bambi eyes focused solely on Johnny and Johnny alone. The way they darken with heat and want when Johnny lays a particularly rough and dirty kiss on those swollen lips, hearing his name whispered like a prayer, over and over—
“Hey, so has anyone heard about LaRusso?”
Johnny damn near chokes on his milkshake at the question, his eyes snapping to Tommy, who’s dipping a fist full of fries into his strawberry milkshake.
Dutch snorts, not bothering to look up from the sugar mountain he’s made from dumping out all the sugar packets at their table. Dick. “Who the hell cares?”
Tommy shrugs. “I don’t know man, his knee looked pretty bad.”
Bobby set the last bite of his burger down, looking a little green around the gills.
“I still feel really bad about that,” Bobby says, shooting Johnny a guilty look. “I hope he’s not hurt too badly.”
“You’ve got nothing to feel bad about, Bobby,” Dutch says. “That annoying little f*ck deserved it, especially after what he did our little Johnny, here.”
“I don’t know, that kick was pretty bad ass,” Tommy says, contemplative, dipping another fry into his milkshake. “No offense, Johnny.”
Johnny shrugs. “None taken. Kid put up a good fight, he deserved to win.”
Dutch scoffs. “So that’s it? The kid comes into town, steals your girl, takes away your title and you’re gonna defend him?”
Johnny can feel Bobby’s eyes practically burning a hole into the side of his face, but he decidedly doesn't look at him. He swallows, trying to stay calm, but the anger from earlier is rising to a steady level, like a swell at high tide.
“First of all, Ali wasn’t my girl. She broke up with me weeks before LaRusso moved here,” Johnny shrugs again. “Besides, I hear her and LaRusso aren’t even a thing anymore. She’s dating some jock-strap from UCLA. And second of all, he won that title fair and square. We’re the ones the tried to fight dirty.”
“Kid’s got balls,” Tommy agrees with a nod. “I’ve been on the other side of Bobby’s kicks, I don’t know if I would’ve gotten up after that. That was a dirty shot, by the way, dude. Nice kick, but dirty.”
Bobby looks torn between guilt and pride. “Thanks?” he asks, more than says. Clearing his throat, he adds, “Anyways, Johnny’s right. Daniel took three shots to that knee and he still managed to fight and beat Johnny. That’s pretty impressive.”
Hope blooms in Johnny’s chest. These guys are his friends, after all and Johnny had been nervous over the last few weeks, wondering how he was going to explain his new found friendship with Daniel LaRusso. It’s not that he cared much about what they thought, but he also didn’t want to have to be forced to choose—especially not now, not after last night and this morning and whatever this new thing is between him and Daniel.
Dutch looks between the three of them in disgust.
“You three are a bunch of puss*es, man,” He says with a shake of his head. “But whatever. If you want to stand up for the little fa*ggot be my guest—“
Johnny’s up and out of the booth so fast, he almost knocks the table over. Bobby manages to snag it, but not before a few glasses spill over, sending melted ice cream and fries everywhere.
Johnny ignores it in favor of snatching Dutch up by the collar of his shirt, fist flying before he really registers making one in the first place. It catches on Dutch’s nose with a satisfying crunch, sending him flying backwards into booth, right into Tommy, who shouts, “Johnny what the f*ck!” loud enough to attract the attention of the whole diner.
Johnny stands there, frozen, heart racing, as he watches Dutch groan in pain, blood gushing like the Red Sea out of his nose.
Bobby shoots everyone an apologetic smile, reaching into his wallet and throwing enough cash on the table to more than cover their tab before he grabs Johnny by the arm and drags him out of the diner.
Johnny shakes himself out of the hold. He feels spun out and out of control and he needs space to think, to breathe.
He just punched one of his best friends in the face, over a comment that Johnny himself has probably made more times than he can count over the years and probably the same comment he’s made about Daniel before, if he really searches through his memories hard enough.
(He doesn’t, because he knows he’ll only prove himself right and he’s got enough guilt to pass around to the whole town and still have plenty left over for himself).
His hand aches and he’s sure he can add bruised knuckles to his list of growing injuries, but he can’t really find it in himself to care. Dutch was being a dick and he deserved to get hit.
(Johnny refuses to examine it any closer than that. Doesn’t want to think about why, hearing that word, used in reference to Daniel, had heated his blood quicker than taking a match to gasoline).
The door to the diner opens and Tommy comes out with Dutch, who looks down right murderous as he holds a blood stained rag to his still gushing nose, in his grasp. Dutch lunges for Johnny, but Tommy was already anticipating it and tightens his grip on Dutch’s arm and drags him back into the alley, probably to smoke up some more in order to get Dutch to calm down.
Bobby watches the exchange with an odd look on his face—the same look he was watching Johnny with when Daniel got brought up in the first place. There’s a smile dancing on his lips, an amused little quirk of his lips as he seems to appraise Johnny in a whole new light.
“So,” Bobby says, biting back a smile. “LaRusso, huh?”
Johnny can feel his cheeks flush and it only makes Bobby’s knowing grin widen.
“That’s where you’ve been spending all your time lately, hasn’t it?” Bobby asks.
And even though Johnny knows it’s a rhetorical question, he nods. “Yeah,” he says in a way that comes out as and what do you have to say about that?
Bobby holds up his hands in a placating way. “Hey, man, I come in peace.”
“You don’t sound surprised.” Johnny says accusingly.
This time, Bobby’s smile is exasperated and fond—his you’re missing the point again, Johnny smile that gets on Johnny nerves.
“I am, a little,” Bobby admits with a shrug. “But I also knew there was more to your little tiff with LaRusso than the whole ‘he’s dating Ali’ thing.”
Johnny frowns. “What do you mean?”
“It’s called sexual tension, my friend,” Bobby says with an annoying wiggle of his eyebrows and a salacious smirk. “And you and LaRusso have it in spades.”
Johnny considers this, fiddling with his keys just to keep his hands busy. Bobby’s little knowing look is making his hands twitch again.
“Did you—“ Johnny pauses, licking his lip, wincing when it makes the cut burn. “—did you know?” Johnny asks softly, can’t seem to make make direct eye contact with Bobby, so he looks somewhere over his shoulder while he waits for him to answer.
It takes him a while and when Johnny chances a glance at his face, he’s relieved to see that Bobby seems to be taking the question seriously. It reminds him so much of Daniel this morning, in the shower, when Johnny had asked him about his religious beliefs and rather than laughing at Johnny or dismissing the question with a half assed answer, Daniel had given it genuine thought.
It sends a pang of longing through Johnny so strong, he has to fight to keep himself here, in the parking lot, rather than hop in his car and drive across town to see Daniel for himself.
“I think,” Bobby says slowly, quietly. “I think I always knew that there was more to the situation. I mean, Johnny, you hated the kid, like, really hated the kid and I’ve known you for a long time and I’ve never seen someone bother you the way LaRusso does,” Bobby shrugs, biting his lip. “It just didn’t make sense, to hate someone that much, over a girl no less. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Ali’s a great girl, but she didn’t seem worth all the trouble you were putting yourself through. And then earlier, you said something about a friend and then there’s the hickey and then what just happened—“ Bobby nods to the diner, eyeing the alley Dutch and Tommy had disappeared into. “—I kind of just…put it all together, I guess.”
Johnny bites his lip, worrying the cut and focuses on the sting, the burn, of the wounded flesh reopening rather than the panic he can feel fluttering around like angry wasps in his stomach.
“Do you—“ Johnny pauses, swallowing around the lump in throat. “Does it, you know—“
“—bother me?” Bobby asks softly.
Johnny nods curtly, jutting his chin out in a way that he hopes looks like he’s prepared for any blow Bobby could dish out. Johnny just hopes Bobby misses the way it trembles.
“No, Johnny,” Bobby whispers, blue eyes honest. “It doesn’t bother me.”
The relief Johnny feels at his answer is enough to make his knees buckle and he has to lean up against the side of his car for support.
“I do think you need to be careful,” Bobby warns, tone serious. “Just because it doesn’t bother me, doesn’t mean it won’t bother other people.”
Johnny nods. “I know,” thinking of Dutch’s words, he grimaces. “I know.”
Bobby gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry man. I’m sure LaRusso will give anyone who gives you sh*t a nice crane kick to the face.”
Johnny rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Asshole,” Johnny mutters
Bobby laughs, but his face turns serious. “How is he, by the way?”
Johnny grimaces and Bobby’s big blue eyes turn sad. “That bad, huh?”
“His knee is in rough shape, man,” Johnny admits, rubbing his thumb over his car key. “He tries to hide it, but I know he’s in a lot of pain. We really did a number on him.”
Bobby bites his lip. “Do you think—“ he hesitates, shoving his hands into his pockets nervously. “Do you think maybe I could like, come by some time? I meant it earlier, I still feel really bad about what happened and I’d like to apologize in person. Again.”
Johnny smiles. “I think he’d appreciate it, but Bobby,” Johnny adds, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “he doesn't blame you. He may rib you about it, but he’s—“ amazing, wonderful, sweet, kind, caring, forgiving, “—been really gracious about the whole thing.”
“Well of course he is,” Bobby teases with a smirk. “He’s got Johnny Lawrence coming over and givin’ him goo goo eyes all the time.”
Johnny flushes, shoving Bobby away. “Shut up, asshole.”
“Aw, c’mon now Johnny, don’t pretend like you know you’re not a total babe—“
“Excuse me?”
Bobby eyes snap worriedly to a mousy looking girl who Johnny recognizes as their waitress. She’s biting her lip nervously and there’s a flush to her cheeks, like she heard too much of their conversation.
Johnny feels his hackles rise as panic overtakes him—they were in a crowded parking lot, in the middle of the day, talking about Johnny having the hots for another boy, anyone could’ve over heard them—
Bobby, ever the proper gentleman and can recognize a Johnny Lawrence meltdown from a mile away, cuts smoothly in front of Johnny and intercepts the waitress.
“Can we help you with something, ma’am?” Bobby asks politely, giving her a charming smile.
It only serves to make the poor girl even more flustered.
“Sorry, I didn’t—um, I didn’t mean to interrupt your uh, conversation,” She casts her gaze nervously over Bobby’s shoulder, where Johnny’s standing, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.
“Oh, no worries, I was giving my friend here a hard time, that’s all,” Bobby assure her, waving off her concerns. “Did you need something? I thought I put enough money down on the table to cover everything. I’m awfully sorry for the mess, by the way, we can help you come clean it up—“
“Oh no,” The girl—Rhonda, her name tag reads—rushes to say. “That’s kind of you, but that won’t be necessary. It’s just um—“ her eyes flit back over to Johnny and while she still seems nervous, there’s a determined look in her eyes that Johnny decides he doesn’t like. “I wanted to say thank you for what you did back there.”
Johnny can’t see it, but he’s pretty sure his and Bobby’s eyebrows go up at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” Johnny says, confusedly. “You’re thanking me? For what?”
Rhoda smiles, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her pierced ear. “It sounds silly, I know, but well,” She clears her throat, lowering her voice as her eyes scan the parking lot nervously. “My brother—he’s um, you know, gay,” she bites her lip and waits, like a bible thumper is gonna pop out of thin air and berate her for using such language. “And I heard what the other guy said—the word he used and well, thank you, for not letting him get away with it.”
Well. That was unexpected.
The back of Bobby’s neck is red and Johnny just knows the asshole is trying not to laugh in this poor girl’s face.
“You’re welcome?” Johnny offers hesitantly.
It must be the right thing to say, because Rhonda beams and holds out a large styrofoam cup that Johnny’s just now noticed.
Johnny takes it, giving it a weary look and Rhonda laughs. “It’s a milkshake, on the house,” She explains, looking suddenly shy. “It’s not much but, like I said I just wanted to say thank you. That word can really hurt people and I’m happy to see that someone agrees with me.”
Bobby, the dick, loops an arm through Johnny’s, giving the Rhonda an aw chucks smile that makes Rhonda’s cheeks go up in flames.
“It means a lot to us, ma’am,” Bobby says, digging an elbow into Johnny’s side. “Right, honey?”
Johnny plasters on his smile he reserves for the country club, elbowing Bobby back even harder in the ribs. “So much.”
Rhonda smiles, placing a hand over her heart. “You guys make such a cute couple.”
Someone steps out from the diner and shouts her name, waving her over with annoyed look on their face.
“Oops,” she says, backing away with an apologetic smile, “I have to get back to work. Enjoy the milkshake!”
“We will,” Bobby shouts back, giving her a bright smile and a wave that could rival Princess Diana’s.
When she disappears, Johnny shoves him away with a scowl while Bobby howls with laughter.
“You’re such an asshole,” Johnny says, annoyed.
Bobby ignores him, wiping tears out of his eyes. “sh*t man, I did you a favor. I thought Rhonda was gonna start swooning and asking to feel your muscles.”
He reaches for the milkshake, but Johnny shoves him a way, cradling the styrofoam cup to his chest protectively.
“Hey man, back off. This is my milkshake, okay? I earned it.” Johnny says and takes a sip. He leaves out the part where he was planning on bringing one back to Daniel, but then he punched Dutch and all thoughts of ordering a milkshake to go seemed to go by the way side as a result.
Rhonda just saved him an embarrassing trip back inside.
Plus, it’s chocolate. Johnny prefers strawberry anyway.
(He doesn’t, actually, he’d been drinking a chocolate shake earlier and it seems as though Rhonda had remembered that when making this one for him. He also knows chocolate is Daniel’s favorite ice cream flavor and Johnny knows he’ll need a pick me up after his combined doctors appointment and physical therapy appointment).
Bobby just rolls his eyes. “Whatever, man, tell LaRusso to enjoy the milkshake.”
f*cker
Johnny flips him off over his shoulder as he unlocks his car, ignoring Bobby’s laughter as he makes sure Daniel’s milkshake is safely in the cup holders before Johnny gets in.
“Oh, hey, man, before I forget,” Bobby says, grabbing Johnny’s door. “Tommy’s parents are going away for New Years and he’s throwing a party. He was gonna tell you about it today, but then…” Bobby trails off awkwardly. “Anyways, you should bring Daniel.”
Johnny bites his lip. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Bobby rolls his eyes, waving a hand. “C’mon, man, all this stuff will blow over and besides,” Bobby adds, lower his voice, “if this thing with you and LaRusso is serious, they’re going to have to at least get used to the idea of you two being friendly with each other. What better way to do that than a party?”
Johnny still doesn’t feel convinced. “I don’t know, man.”
Bobby shrugs. “Just think about it. Oh and don’t forget to Daniel I’d like to come over and visit him sometime.”
Bobby taps on the roof in goodbye and Johnny watches him go, mentally adding two more things to an already growing list of things he most definitely doesn’t want to think about.
*
Daniel’s not out on the couch when Johnny lets himself into his apartment. It doesn't exactly make Johnny panic, per se, but the change in the routine momentarily throws him for a loop and he’s left standing in the doorway, a sinking feeling in his belly.
Normally Daniel’s waiting for him, TV on whatever rerun is showing this late in the afternoon (Daniel still hasn't managed to convince his mom to spring for cable TV), smile on his face no matter how worn out or tired he is. There’s those rare days where he pushes himself too hard in physical therapy and not even the pain pills make the pain stop. On those days, Daniel usually ends up in his room and doesn't move for the rest of the night. On those days, Johnny will sit on the floor of his room, next to Daniel’s bed and read one of his comic books to him or just talk to him—tell him stories about the antics he’s gotten up to with Tommy, Jimmy, Bobby and Dutch or stories about his mom. Anything to make Daniel smile and forget about the pain that Johnny wishes, more than anything, that he could take away.
Johnny’s guilt is almost unbearable on those days, pressing down on his chest and making it almost impossible to breathe or think of anything else but the memory of Kreese telling him to sweep the leg. The cold look in his blue eyes when he whispered no mercy.
Johnny shakes himself from the memory.
LaRusso needs you, Johnny reminds himself, this isn't the time to feel sorry for yourself.
Steeling himself, Johnny makes his way down the hallway, to Daniel’s room. The door’s propped open and Johnny takes that as an invitation to let himself in, shutting the door behind him.
Daniel’s asleep on his bed, chest rising and falling evenly, lips parted, curled up under the covers in a position that doesn't look comfortable in the slightest, but Daniel looks peaceful, so that’s something, at least. Johnny sets the milkshake down on his nightstand, kicking off his shoes and this time, instead of taking his usual spot on the floor, Johnny slides in behind Daniel, carefully curling around his body.
Daniel stirs, lashes fluttering, but he doesn't wake up. He just rolls over, snuggling into the collar of Johnny’s t-shirt, body going lax with sleep. Johnny makes sure his knee is in a comfortable position before he relaxes back into the pillows, fingers finding their way into Daniel’s soft waves and even in sleep, Daniel leans into the touch, humming.
Johnny isn't sure how long he lays there—Daniel curled into his side, his warm breaths teasing over the skin of Johnny’s neck, hair tangled around Johnny’s fingers. But he feels more at peace here than he’s felt all day—after his mom, that thing with Dutch at the diner, Bobby finding out about…whatever this is with Daniel.
It’s been a trying day, but here, now, Johnny didn’t feel so lost at sea. He feels buoyed, anchored. Calm. All that anger and frustration, the itch that’s been there since the tournament, has…not completely gone away, but it doesn't feel as…heavy. Not as…important, maybe.
Here, with Daniel in his arms, Johnny feels almost balanced.
(And later, when Daniel wakes up, he drinks the milkshake Johnny brought him—even though Johnny’s sure it’s gone all foamy and warm by now—and tells him about his doctor’s appointment and how he can now bend his knee fifteen degrees which—
“—may not sound like much, but it’s better than nothin’,” Daniel says excitedly around the straw, eyes shining.
Johnny can’t help but lean in and press a kiss to his lips, tasting the sugary sweet chocolate milkshake and Daniel.
That kiss turns into another one and another one and another one and by the time Daniel’s mom comes home from work, Daniel and Johnny have to scramble to get their clothes back on just in time for Lucille to knock on Daniel’s door. Judging by the amused look she shoots them, she’s not fooled for a second, but she invites Johnny to stay for dinner, so Johnny takes that as her seal of approval.
She also frets and worries over his black eye and split lip like a concerned mother and it’s just…nice, to be fussed over, for once. Daniel grins at him from across the table, relieved to not be the main focus for once and Johnny may or may no soak it up like a sponge that hasn't seen water in days.
And when she goes to bed with the reminder for them not to stay up too late, Johnny and Daniel wait all of three seconds after they hear her door click shut before they pounce on each other— laughing and giggling, kissing anywhere they can reach, sucking bruises into each others skin and it’s—everything Johnny wants and more.
It’s not until he’s on his way home that he realizes he never mentioned what happened at the diner or Bobby or the New Years Eve party.
He’ll do it tomorrow, he tells himself).
*
Johnny doesn't do it tomorrow
*
Or the next day
*
Or the day after
*
Today’s the day, Johnny tells himself as he enters the apartment. Today’s the day, I’m gonna tell him about Dutch and Bobby and ask him to come to the party with me. Like a date.
But then he catches sight of Daniel lying on the couch, in a pair of cut off shorts and nothing else and all thoughts of Bobby and Dutch and a party get swept away in heated kisses and feverish touches.
Tomorrow, Johnny promises himself as Daniel falls asleep on his chest that night,I’ll tell him tomorrow.
*
(He doesn't tell him tomorrow….
but he’s going to really…
…eventually)
(Maybe)
