#bittyjohnson

-

every night, johnson dreams.

he always remembers all of his dreams.

until one morning, he doesn’t.

-

it’s scary, to feel the blank spot.

he wakes up somewhere in the mountains, and there’s nothing.

in retrospect, johnson is embarrassed to admit that he thinks that means bitty died.

because... he doesn’t know everything. he just knows everything about bitty.

every night, it’s bitty’s life that unfurls in front of him: bitty’s thoughts, bitty’s future, bitty’s fears. bitty’s desires.

that last one has never been quite right, ever since johnson messed up. but he tries not to think about that.

and things do change, a little, from day-to-day, anyway. the Creator knows most of what will happen, of course. johnson has known the big things for years, and occasionally moments far into the future blink into existence all at once. but it’s not like the Creator knows everything in advance. so if things are a little off, if bitty sometimes dreams about johnson’s face instead of jack’s, well. that’s probably okay. it’s obviously not a big deal, really, because things are still happening like they’re supposed to. johnson didn’t mess it up too badly, because bitty is with jack, and he’s happy.

that’s always what the Creator said was the most important thing: that bitty’s story was happy. and he still is, so it’s fine.

before updates, things get progressively clearer and clearer, but johnson still can’t always tell what’s happening in the thumbs, and sometimes the roughs change substantially before inks actually get laid down. words always come last, and sometimes the Creator is rewriting jokes up until a few hours before posting.

so it’s not like things are set in stone, is all. it’s not until johnson actually wakes up each morning that he knows the specific details of that day’s canon.

so when johnson wakes up, and he sees nothing—realizes he didn’t dream at all—well. it’s not his fault if he overreacts. every day johnson sees bitty’s life. if he doesn’t see anything, it only follows that bitty no longer has a life.

johnson’s only thought is that he has to get to providence. he’s in the mountains, a hundred miles away, but distances have never been that important to him before, and this time isn’t any different. he has to get to providence, and he steps over a log and onto the pavement of canal street between one blink and the next.

this doesn’t surprise him. johnson is focused on his purpose. he needs to figure out what’s happened to bitty, and to do that he needs to find jack.

if anyone knows what’s happened, it’s going to be jack.

-

here’s the thing:

when johnson is supposed to do something, he can feel it beneath his skin.

the tension stretches around his muscles, tightening and tightening until he does the movement that’s required of him. it feels like someone invisible grabbing him, directing him, forcing him. it’s always been stronger than him, and johnson has always given in to what it wants. he almost doesn’t mind it, because he always knows why he has to do it, and he wants things to work out for jack and bitty. sometimes he wishes he could choose to help, instead of being made to, but it seems futile to wish for things he knows can’t happen.

it works in reverse, too.

when johnson does something he’s not supposed to do, he feels himself relaxing. it’s like the force that holds his atoms together starts to weaken, and johnson feels himself drafting apart, the fibers of is muscles unraveling, until it’s like he can’t even muster enough control over his body to blink his eyelids.

every time johnson wanted to do something wrong with bitty, he felt it happening. he’d want to take a step forward, but suddenly he couldn’t use his legs. he’d want to touch bitty’s hair, but he suddenly couldn’t feel his arm. it was good: a reminder that those desires were wrong, whenever johnson felt tempted.

it was like the invisible someone was saying, i gave you this body, but for a purpose. i gave it to you, but i can take it away, too.

(there was one time that johnson almost got around it: he held very, very still, and bitty touched his arm. johnson couldn’t have moved forward if he wanted to, but he didn’t have to, because then bitty kissed him.

it felt like the force laughed, begrudgingly impressed. it felt like it said, okay, fine, you win this round. you can have an hour.

and, god, johnson knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he took his hour, and he’d do it again.

what else could he have done? he was able to kiss bitty back, so he did.)

-

johnson gets to providence, ends up standing in front of the door to jack’s apartment, but it feels like he’s falling apart. he’s shaking, he’s cold all over, his heart is pounding so hard that he can hear it in his ears. johnson doesn’t know if this is the effect of doing something very, very wrong, or if he’s just having a panic attack. either option seems plausible.

he’s a little afraid of dematerializing right there on the doorstep, but, god, bitty could be dead. johnson has to knock. through sheer force of will, he pulls himself together enough to lift his hand and rap the door three times, hard.

it’s jack who opens the door.

“johnson?” jack says. “i... what? how did you—”

then, from deeper inside the house, the sweetest voice in the world says, “oh, john, i knew you’d come.”

bitty appears from behind jack, and gives johnson a warm, blinding smile.

johnson passes out.

-

he wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later laid out on a couch.

“oh, thank god,” bitty says, when johnson blinks open his eyes. “how are you feeling?”

bitty and jack are both sitting in armchairs nearby. bitty looks concerned; jack still looks a little confused.

“okay,” johnson says. he actually feels quite a bit better. he lifts up his arm, and he’s amazed by how smooth the movement is, the way his muscles respond instantly and easily to his desires. “i think i feel better.”

bitty smiles. “that’s good. i’m glad you came.”

“how did you come?” jack asks. “i mean, how did you know to?”

johnson isn’t sure how to answer that question without seeming crazy, so he says, “i—ah. i was worried about bitty. i sort of... dreamed that maybe he was, maybe... hurt, or something?”

bitty squints at him. “you had a dream?” he sounds a bit disappointed, and he’s frowning.

the way he says it, a little loaded, and definitely like it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, makes johnson want to tell the truth, even though the truth is crazy. “i guess, technically, i didn’t have a dream.”

“you didn’t have a dream?” bitty asks.

“i did not,” says johnson.

jack looks between the two of them. “i’m confused. that’s good, right?”

bitty reaches over and pats jack’s hand. “yes, honey, it’s good.”

-

johnson explains everything to them even though it sounds crazy.

what’s weird is they don’t call him crazy.

instead, bitty says, “i thought it was something like that.”

johnson swallows. “you did?”

“yeah,” bitty says. “i’ve been thinking about all of the things you said to me at school. a lot.”

johnson blinks. “a lot?”

“a lot,” jack says. johnson can’t tell if he’s annoyed or if that’s jack’s normal voice. “he’s been trying to figure it out for years.”

“oh,” says johnson. “for years?”

bitty nods. “once you said to me, ‘you were supposed to get rid of that couch’ and… it just seemed so odd, how confident you were, like you knew what was going to happen. or what you thought was supposed to happen, at least. and you’d predicted stuff before, you know? somehow i’d gotten it into my head that you could tell the future. i’d been thinking it for a while, actually. it was… well, it was…” bitty groans, then stares down at his hands. “oh, this is embarrassing.”

without meaning to, johnson asks, “what’s embarrassing?”

bitty looks up. his cheeks are pink. johnson feels transfixed.

“i, um. that’s why i kissed you. i thought you knew i was going to do it. i figured if you didn’t want me to, you would, uh. y’know. find an excuse to get up and leave. before i did it.”

johnson’s heart is pounding. “oh,” he says, glancing over guiltily at jack, but jack is just watching them silently. his expression is unreadable to johnson’s eyes. johnson says, “i didn’t know you were going to do it.”

“i know that now,” bitty mutters. “i. well. it was what you said about the couch that gave me the idea, actually.” he sighs. “it was just such an odd thing to be wrong about, you know? because i had planned to get rid of it, and then i changed my mind. because of, well, because of what we did on it, obviously—so. i don’t know. at some point, i came up with this idea. it seemed so silly but i couldn’t shake it once i’d thought of it. it just fit.”

johnson stares. “what… what was the idea?”

bitty stares back levelly. “i wondered if you could tell the future, but only one future. what if you couldn’t tell the future when it was me, and—um, and you?” he takes a deep breath. “my theory was, if i did something—well, if i did something really, uh, huge, something that would change the future a lot… well, maybe you’d notice, and maybe you’d come back.”

johnson has no idea what to think about that. bitty’s gotten a lot more right than johnson ever would have expected him to. it’s slightly unsettling, but also kind of incredible. bitty is so smart.

it’s moments like this that johnson thinks, of course i fell in love with him.

johnson takes a slow breath. “bitty, what are you saying?”

bitty says, “i talked to jack about something.”

johnson looks at jack, just sitting there calmly on the couch. how can jack be so calm? johnson feels like he’s coming apart, and not in the metaphysical way. he feels like he’s coming apart in the emotional way, which is almost worse. his heart hurts.

when bitty doesn’t say anything else, johnson forces out, “what did you talk to jack about?”

bitty looks embarrassed and very determined when he says, “well, i, well—the fact that i’m in love with you.”

oh.

johnson brings his hand up to touch his chest, the space over his heart, to make sure he’s still whole there. he’s honestly surprised he’s able to move his hand. he’s smiling involuntarily, but he shouldn’t be happy right now. this was not supposed to happen. it’s wrong. bitty was never supposed to love him.

how could this have happened? what happened to the invisible force? why didn’t it stop this?

the only thing johnson can think to say is, “you're supposed to be in love with jack.”

bitty shrugs. “oh, yeah. him too.”

johnson looks at jack again. “how do you feel about this?”

jack shrugs. he seems fine. “i don't know. it's all a little weird, honestly—with the dreams and the prophecies and everything. i can't say it came out of nowhere, though.”

johnson frowns. “what are you talking about, this came completely out of nowhere.”

johnson wants to add, bittyjohnson is a crackship, but he’s still wary of coming off as crazy, and anyway, explaining that comment might slightly derail the conversation.

and johnson doesn’t want to derail the conversion.

he wants to see where this is going. even if he shouldn’t.

jack says, “i mean, i guess it was a long time ago that you and bitty hooked up? but he's talked to me about you. i could tell he never really got over you.”

the wave of guilt that johnson feels is paralyzing. this is all his fault.

“oh, right,” he manages, weakly. it feels a little like he’s floating. “it's been years from your perspective. bitty never got over me. okay. fuck. okay.” this is all his fault, then. kissing bitty did have an impact on the overall story. now bitty won’t get the happy ending he was always supposed to get. because johnson fucked it all up.

“are you okay?” jack asks. johnson tries to nod, but he’s not sure if he actually moves his head. this is probably what a panic attack feels like after all.

to bitty, jack says, “do you think he’s going to pass out again?”

bitty makes a little noise. “oh, goodness, i hope not.”

johnson takes a deep breath, and then another. he has to calm down. he has to explain himself. he has to fix this. “this is all my fault. i’m—i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t have kissed you, back then, no matter how much i wanted to. if i’d known… i just didn’t think it would matter. i thought you’d forget about it, after a while. i didn't—i really didn’t mean for this to happen.”

bitty blinks, clearly trying to sort through all that. eventually, he says, “honey, i’m the one who kissed you.”

which is... true actually, but not important. it’s still johnson’s fault. he shouldn’t have let it happen. and even if bitty kissed him, johnson certainly shouldn’t have taken more, shouldn’t have sank down to his knees and pressed bitty back into the couch, shouldn’t have taken something that was supposed to be for jack just because he had the opportunity to. it wasn’t fair of johnson to do something like that. bitty didn’t know what was supposed to happen.

but johnson did.

and he’d done the wrong thing anyway.

it’d clearly been a test, when the force had let him do what he wanted, and johnson had failed it.

“i’m sorry,” johnson repeats. “it’s just… this is wrong. this was never supposed to happen.”

“it’s ‘wrong’?” bitty rolls his eyes. he looks slightly pissed off. “come on, john, it's 2020... polyamory is legal. we could all get married tomorrow if we wanted.”

“oh god,” johnson says.

bitty looks suddenly stricken. “i'm not suggesting we all get married tomorrow!”

“yeah,” jack says. “why don’t we try dating for a while first?”

it’s a joke, johnson knows it’s just a joke, but he’s serious too—they both are—and maybe it’s already too fucked up to salvage, anyway. maybe it doesn’t matter anymore whether it was was supposed to happen or not. it clearly already did. it already is.

so, somehow, even though it’s not supposed to, what comes out of johnson’s mouth is, “okay.”

-

a couple hours later, with bitty asleep between the two of them, jack says, “what’s up, john?”

johnson has been lying on his back, trying to keep completely still so he wouldn’t disturb them. he hadn’t realized jack was still awake, too.

to the ceiling, johnson whispers, “this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

jack hums. eventually he says, “i have a little experience doing things that i'm not supposed to do.”

johnson rolls sideways to look at jack’s face.

he’s lying on his side, spooned around bitty, one arm under the pillow. he looks comfortable and completely awake, like he has been for a while. johnson wonders how long jack has been watching him.

“you do?” johnson asks.

“i wasn't supposed to go to samwell, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“oh,” johnson says. jack looks so sure, and honestly, it’s... true. well, it’s sort of true. obviously jack was always supposed to go to samwell—that was the story. if he didn’t, the story wouldn’t exist at all—but it’s true from the point of view of the characters within that story that it wasn’t supposed to happen. jack couldn’t have known what the story was supposed to be, since he was the one inside of it.

which is… well. that’s something to chew on, isn’t it?

maybe johnson can’t tell the future anymore because... he’s in the story, too.

almost unwillingly, johnson mutters, “oh my god, i’m—this—it’s an au.”

johnson’s voice is barely more than a whisper on his breath, and it doesn’t seem any more believable once he says it aloud, but jack says, “sure.”

“sure?” johnson echoes.

jack shrugs slightly—as much as he can while lying on his side with an arm wrapped around bitty’s waist. “sure. i don’t know what that means, but sure.”

“okay,” johnson says. “it means, uh. it means this might be okay.”

“oh,” jack says. “good.” he smiles, apparently sincerely, which is honestly slightly bizarre. it’s like jack is fine with all of this, and johnson has no idea why. he has no idea how jack could be okay with the idea of sharing bitty.

“is it good?” johnson asks.

“yes?” jack says. “i’d obviously rather you not be wracked with guilt because you’re dating us?”

“but...” johnson says. “why would you even.... want to?”

jack kind of stares. “honestly?” he says. “i had a huge crush on you, too, back at samwell. i get it. i was pretty jealous that bitty actually got to hook up with you.”

it feels like johnson’s heart stops. “what?” he manages. “you had a crush on me? i, shit, i definitely didn't mean to do that—”

jack chuckles. “you didn't have to do much. don't look so shocked.”

johnson stares. he has no idea what to say.

“really?” he asks.

jack smiles. “yeah, really. come on, hot guy lives across the hall from me for a year? it’s not that complicated. at least the second time it happened i got it together enough to make a move.”

“oh,” johnson says. “really?”

“you—already said that,” jack manages, before he starts laughing—he’s quiet, little huffing breaths, but his shoulders shake enough that he wakes bitty up.

“whassat?” bitty slurs. “what’s funny?”

“it’s nothing,” johnson says. “jack’s making fun of me.”

bitty tucks his face into the pillow. “mmm, he does that.”

“sorry,” says jack.

“he’s not,” bitty mumbles.

johnson can’t help but laugh, too. “it’s okay. i probably deserve to be made fun of.”

“glad that’s settled,” bitty says. “now come here and go to sleep.”

johnson stays on his back, but he scoots a little closer, so bitty can throw an arm over his chest.

johnson always sleeps on his back—honestly, he usually just lays down and shuts his eyes and ceases to exist until the next time he’s needed—but for the first time in a long time, johnson actually feels himself drifting off to sleep.

it’s a nice feeling.

-

that night, johnson doesn’t dream.

But Johnson has never been one for discontinuity, so he’s going to start at the beginning.

The first time Johnson becomes aware of himself, he’s standing at the entrance of the Haus along with all of the other frogs. At this point in time he very strongly knows three things: one, that he has a job to do, and that job is to keep things going exactly as they should be. Two, that there is someone very, very important to him that will be standing in this exact spot in three years. And three, that Johnson is Not Important.

Huh. He’s non-essential. The only Important thing about him is that he’s here to keep an eye on things, and otherwise nothing else matters. Shit, that kinda sucks.

As he’s trailing through the Haus, trying his best to get his bearings even though the Feelings are everywhere, images piling themselves on top of the present, a blur of blond hair that may or may not be important and the strange, out-of-place smell of cinnamon. He has to work hard to answer the question someone asks him—he manages a ‘yes’ and has a beer plopped in his hand. Personally, he thinks that this is surreal enough without adding alcohol to the mix, but he knows instinctively that he has to seem at least somewhat normal within the realm of the narrative. He cracks the top open and takes a sip.

He wonders if all of these Feelings are normal. His instincts tell him ‘no’. Just to be sure, he turns to the guy next to him. “Anyone else feel like they’re new to this storyline?”

The guy looks at him, shaking his head, and all at once Johnson knows many things: his nickname is Cribs. He’s a left-wing. He’s even Less Important than Johnson himself is, but he also has a girlfriend and a couple friends on the rugby team and even aspirations for the future.

Dimly, Johnson wonders—why isn’t Johnson allowed all of these things? The answer comes to him immediately: it would obstruct the narrative. He needs to remain a blank canvas, just another cog, spinning things in the right direction.

He realizes he’s a little sad about that, so he takes another sip of his beer.

xXx

It gets easier, being around the Haus. Slowly, Johnson starts to be able to see through all of the echoes of the future, and as he gets more and more present, things start to make sense. He’s the goalie. Sometimes he has to block goals, and sometimes he has to let them through—it’s important to stay at the correct ranking, although when Johnson tries to focus on why, it’s still a little hazy. He’ll find out later, he thinks.

Occasionally his Feelings tell him Not to do things. He listens. Strangely, he’s allowed to talk about his Feelings as long as he doesn’t spoil too much of the plot. It’s the closest thing to a character trait he has at this point, so he embraces it, and eventually all of the guys know to turn to him when they’re in the mood for a laugh.

Funny. Johnson can be funny. He likes being humorous, likes putting smiles on other people’s faces, and something in him swells. He looks up jokes online, crafts a repertoire of interesting anecdotes—he kind of appreciates having such a blank background in that regard, because he can easily weaves stories about the parents and older brother that he’s dimly aware exist. Theoretically, that is. He’s never met them.

He’s telling a girl in his class a story he’d read on the internet, adding details that make it into his own, when something funny clicks in his chest.

He momentarily panics—what the fuck was that? But it didn’t feel bad—just different. He thinks about it as he walks back to his dorm, investigating the Feeling—and he knows it was a Feeling. It had that aura about it.

Eventually he comes to the realization that he had just changed fate.

It hadn’t been a bad change—not a large enough change to stop any of the events that need to be set in motion. He’d grown a personality where one hadn’t been before, where one perhaps hadn’t been meant to exist, and that had been enough to shift fate just a tiny notch. That’s not so bad. But it’s not good, either. It scares him so much that he resolves to try his best not to do it again.

A few weeks later, he wakes up knowing that he absolutely must befriend his teammate Shaker. And so he does, sitting a little nearer to him at lunch and purposefully making jokes that he knows Shaker will laugh at. “Aiming for dibs?” Shaker raises an eyebrow at him, as Johnson picks up both he and Shaker’s trays at lunch.

“Huh. Yeah, I suppose I am,” Johnson says, and Shaker laughs and pats him on the back as he stands.

Things go on in kind of a blur for a while. Johnson’s extremely grateful that he doesn’t have to hide his ability to know things; he thinks he would burst from holding the secret in his chest. He has to hide what exactly he knows, of course, but that’s not quite so bad. After all, time loops aren’t something he has any desire to fuck with.

His first Kegster is a mess. That one night has more echoes than the previous two weeks combined—there’s more bodies than should be possible packed onto the dance floor, and when Johnson tries to use the bathroom, there’s someone throwing up in the toilet even though it had been distinctly empty a few moments before. Even the upstairs isn’t safe—there are people flickering in and out, talking in the hallway, flashes of quiet conversation with words that are too garbled to understand. Johnson feels a little overwhelmed, so he heads outside and sits on the front porch. It’s the quietest place he can find given that he doesn’t think he’s supposed to leave yet.

Shaker finds him out there half an hour later, stepping out into the cool fall air behind some giggling girls who are leaving the party. “Hey, bro, what’s up?”

Johnson sits up a little straighter—ah, so this is why he’s out here. He knows what dibs means, knows that he’s destined to live in the Haus starting next year, and it’s looking like it’ll be Shaker’s room that he’ll be living in. This is another one of those talks, probably. A friendly thing.

Johnson’s been nursing a beer for most of the party, so he’s in the middle of trying to decide whether he should act drunker than he actually is when Shaker sits down next to him. “Relax, man. You don’t have to think so hard.”

Johnson huffs a laugh. “You don’t know half of it,” he says wrily.

“And I’ll never learn, is that right, Johnny boy?” Shaker nudges him with an elbow, and Johnson grins at him easily, something like happiness blooming across his chest.

He’s done the right thing, he’s made friends with Shaker—he’s succeeding at his job, isn’t he?

But as he’s looking at Shaker, staring into light brown eyes framed by dirty blond hair, his Feelings click in his chest.

Oh, fuck. Fuck. He’d been doing everything right! What had he done to change fate this time?

Slowly, he lets out his breath. It hadn’t been a bad click; just like the first one, it doesn’t seem like this will change much. Maybe he’d gone overboard trying to make friends with Shaker? He doesn’t know.

And it really sucks, to learn that he can do his job too well. He’s going to have to watch himself carefully from now on, because even when things seem like they’re working out perfectly, he can never truly tell until he feels the click in his chest.

“Hey. John,” Shaker says, and he’s the only one that calls him John even though his first name and his last name are basically the same. (He kind of wishes that his name had been more creative, but because he’s Not Important, it doesn’t really seem to matter.) “Remember when I asked you if you were aiming for dibs?”

“Yeah, of course,” Johnson says. “Why?”

Shaker’s expression is soft. “I’m kinda wondering if I jumped the gun on that.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, bro,” Johnson says, because the way Shaker’s looking at him is making something funny twist in his gut. Not a Feeling, just regular emotions for once.

“Shit,” Shaker sighs, looking away. “Never mind—you’re probably not into dudes anyway.”

All at once, Johnson realizes what Shaker had wanted. With him, with Johnson—and Johnson feels kind of exhilarated. “I’ve never really had to think about liking dudes,” he admits. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t fit within the realm of the narrative.”

Shaker looks at him again, raising his eyebrows and huffing a laugh. “You’re a weird guy, John.”

Johnson doesn’t get a chance to respond before Shaker leans in and kisses him, lips soft and the taste of beer on his breath. It’s warm and electrifying and not something he’d expected at all, which is saying something. Johnson briefly pulls away, sets down his own mostly empty beer can and leans in again so that they’re properly making out, and Shaker’s tongue is down his throat and Johnson’s feeling brave enough to put his hand on Shaker’s thigh and wow, fuck, he’d never anticipated that this would feel so good.

His first kiss, he thinks. His first anything.

Shaker pulls away, panting. “Wanna come up?”

Johnson searches his Feelings but doesn’t find anything in particular—this must be what the fate shift had been. So then he considers his regular emotions, and he finds that yes, he really, really wants to go up—“Yeah,” he nods quickly, and Shaker cracks a grin, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Mind if we go up separately? I don’t really want the other guys to find out—you don’t mind, right?” Shaker looks worried.

Johnson feels a pang of something isn’t entirely pleasant, but he nods anyway. He waits five minutes before climbing up the stairs and looking across the doors. He knows immediately which one it is, because there’s the ghost of a short blond head standing there for a split second. Johnson walks over and knocks on the door.

Shaker pulls him into the room, shutting it behind him and shoving him up against it. Johnson lets out a groan as Shaker kisses him because it’s so good having Shaker’s body pressed all up and down his own, Shaker’s thigh brushing deliberately against his crotch. Fuck, Johnson is hard. He’s been hard before, has jerked off before, but that had been more of a physiological response than anything like this.

Shaker kisses his jawbone, then the patch of skin in front of his ear. “You’ve never been fucked then, right?”

“No,” Johnson breathes, and then he chokes out a gasp because Shaker’s pressing his palm against Johnson’s dick and it feels so fucking good.

“Wanna?” Shaker raises an eyebrow, and Johnson’s never thought about this before, but he likes Shaker and Shaker is making him feel good and so he nods and says yes.

Shaker motions him over to the bed, pulling his own shirt off as he fumbles at a rickety nightstand drawer. Johnson fingers the hem of his own shirt, watching Shaker tear off a condom from a line of them. “Shaker—should I take my clothes off?”

“Yeah, that’d be good. And uh, you can call me Sam,” Shaker—Sam—grins at him, and Johnson feels something easy and warm unfolding in his chest.

“Sam,” he grins, and Sam’s eyes roll back in his head.

“Ah, fuck. Yeah, please get naked,” Sam nearly growls, fumbling at his own zip.

Johnson takes his eyes off of him to start getting undressed, and it’s when he does that he sees them.

The echoes.

They’re everywhere. Walking all over the floor, sitting, laying on the bed, leaning over the desk to reach for something, and it’s all that blond head he’s seen before, so many iterations of him that it’s almost overwhelming. Johnson stumbles over to the bed, shirt off and pants halfway down to his ankles—he kicks those off, boxers too, and then he has to sit there with his eyes closed for a good moment before his mind will settle.

There’s no one in the room except he and Sam, he reminds himself.

“Hey. You all right?” Sam sits next to him, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Johnson says. “It’s just—a lot.”

“We don’t have to do this,” Sam squeezes his thigh. “We can just like, I dunno. Blow each other or something.”

Oh. Sam thinks he’s talking about the sex. Johnson swallows and doesn’t deny it, because he doesn’t want to ruin this moment with his weirdness, and looks over at him. “I want—whatever you want,” he says carefully, and Sam grins at him.

“Let me know if we need to stop, okay?” Sam says, and then he’s pressing him to the bed and kissing him.

Johnson ends up on his stomach, panting, face against the pillow as Sam slides thick fingers in and out of him. It feels strange and good and also makes him feel terribly vulnerable. He wonders if he’d let anyone else do this besides Sam. Probably no one he knows at this point in time.

“You ready?” Sam asks him, pulling his fingers away, and Johnson whines at the loss.

“Yes,” he says, even though he isn’t quite sure—but the idea of having Sam’s dick inside him sounds really good, so he pushes his hips up in the air so Sam can line up, push himself in—

“Aww fuck, John. Goddamnit that’s good,” Sam groans.

Johnson groans too, but that’s kind of because it hurts, because Sam is bigger than he’d expected and he needs time—he chokes out a gasp, focusing on breathing.

“Hey. Hey. Bro, talk to me,” Sam says. “You need me to stop?”

“No,” Johnson lies, but Sam stops moving anyway and Johnson is grateful for it.

The next time Sam moves, it feels better. “Touch yourself,” Sam mumbles into his back, and Johnson does, holding himself up on one arm while he strokes himself to hardness.

Sam starts fucking him in earnest, and Johnson can’t help moaning—“Oh,” he shudders, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he opens his eyes again, there’s a blond head of hair on the pillow in front of him. The face is contorted into a gasp, and this is the clearest picture Johnson’s ever seen of him, fuck—this is him. This is the person important to him.

And then Johnson hears the ghost of a whimper and he comes with a low whine, spurting out over the sheets, clenching around Sam because he can’t help it. Sam’s hips stutter against Johnson’s, and then Sam’s groaning too, wrapping his arms around Johnson as his dick pulses inside of him.

Afterwards, when Sam pulls out, Johnson feels sensitive and raw, both in his body and in his emotions.

He gets dressed quietly. “I’m sorry you have to leave,” Sam says.

Johnson’s sorry too. “I understand,” he says anyway. “They aren’t supposed to know you like boys in this universe.”

Sam gives Johnson a breathy laugh and a kiss on the cheek before he leaves.

xXx

They fuck whenever they get the chance to do it without anyone noticing. Sometimes Johnson sees the blond guy next to him when he comes, Sam hard inside him, and Johnson feels a little bit guilty afterwards even though there’s not much he can do about it.

Family weekend comes and goes. Johnson gets a text from his mother saying that they can’t make it; Johnson understands. He’s a little disappointed. He’d wanted to meet them.

He stays on campus over Thanksgiving break, but he’s not allowed to do that over winter. He’s not sure what will happen, but he packs his bags up when Sam does the same anyway.

It turns out that Johnson simply doesn’t exist over winter break. How strange. He goes to sleep the night before he’d been meant to leave, and when he wakes up, he’s standing in his dorm room, listening to other guys shouting about what they got for Christmas in the hallway.

Halfway through spring semester, Sam meets Sophie.

Sam tries to let him down gently, and so Johnson takes it as lightly as he can, even though his heart feels like it’s crumpling inside his chest. He makes it back to his dorm before he realizes he’s crying.

Fuck. He’d known that the chances of staying with Sam within the narrative were low, but he hadn’t expected it to hurt so much.

Afterwards, he sees Sam giving him sad little looks when no one else is looking. Johnson tries very hard not to stare at how Sam’s arm is around Sophie’s waist at the next Kegster.

xXx

“Hi, John,” Sam greets him. “You doing okay?”

“The story’s going,” Johnson nods, because that’s about as okay as it gets.

“I’m really sorry, you know,” Sam says. He doesn’t sit next to Johnson on the porch.

“I know,” Johnson says, and then he has to look away or risk feeling emotional again.

Sam sighs. “Hey,” he says, and then he extends his hand out to Johnson. Johnson takes it, shaking it, trying not to show that he’s trembling—he knows that hand. That hand has been all over his body, has been inside him, and now—“You’ve got my dibs. You’ve always had them, you know?”

Johnson’s never felt so miserable at achieving an objective.

Time will heal this, he thinks. And it does. By the time he goes to graduation with the rest of the crew, he feels okay enough to give Sam a last hug before he leaves.