#8 for Angel and Johnny :)
8. Confessions ; prompt challenge - set somewhere near the end of sr2. 1.4k words.
Y’know, it’s honestly surprising that this hasn’t happened sooner. ‘This’ being the big feelings talk, or whatever the fuck you want to call it.
It’s been a long time coming, really, and there’s been more than a handful of moments throughout their lives that could have almost been this moment; God knows they’ve been inches away from kissing on at least three separate occasions, and Angel likes to fondly reminisce on the nights they’d go out clubbing and things would get a little too close, a little too handsy.
Still, they’ve never really properly addressed it. Angel had always guessed it was pretty obvious on his end, what with his lingering stares and obnoxious flirting and the way he does anything and everything to be close to Johnny—he figured that Johnny got the message, it’s hard not to, but wasn’t interested in that way, probably doesn’t swing that way at all, and was politely ignoring his advances so as not to ruin their beautiful platonic friendship. Their bromance, of sorts, except with like, touching a little too near to hips sometimes and lips being suspiciously close.
Angel tries not to think about it.
It’s been several years since they met, since Angel had joined the Saints, and it’s been a rough past few months in particular. If losing Carlos wasn’t enough, he found out all that shit about Julius and Dex, and now they have fucking special forces from Ultor on their ass.
Regardless, they try to find time for positivity, or at least short moments to relax amidst all the chaos. Shaundi had taken Pierce and a bunch of saints out on business, saying something about how she’ll keep Ultor occupied and to “chill out, boss!”, and left Angel alone with Johnny.
(She’d also pulled him aside privately before she left, giving him a serious staredown.
“You better talk to him,” she raises a finger, stern, pointing a long purple nail at him, “I’m serious, Angel. I’m like, soooo sick of hearing you pine and get all sappy and shit.”
Angel frowns, rolls his eyes, and looks away from her knowing gaze.
“I do not pine,” he mutters, “and I’m definitely not sappy—aren’t you supposed to be my girlfriend? What do you get out of this?”
“I get to see my boyfriend be happy,” she leans up to kiss him on the cheek, chaste, and then punches him in the arm, “figure your shit out, boss.”)
There’s a weirdly awkward silence between them. Or Angel just feels awkward, because Johnny seems uncaring, clumsily wiping at his eye under his glasses and then dropping down onto the sofa, kicking his feet up on the table and looking over at Angel.
“What’s up?” He stretches his arms behind his head, the sleeves of his shirt pulling tight around his biceps, “you said you wanted to talk.”
He did say that, but like, he was lying. Angel does not want to talk. More like he has to, at this point, because he can’t keep doing any more restless nights thinking about the way Johnny’s eyes look when he takes his sunglasses off, or the way his smile is slightly uneven when he grins, and the charming sound of his laugh when Angel tells him a joke. There are other thoughts, of course, that he feels slightly bad about thinking of his best friend, but he can’t help it—it’s not his fault that he can’t shake the feeling of Johnny’s hand on his lower back when he slips past him in a crowd, the warmth of his breath on his ear when he leans in to whisper something private and the low voice he does it in, how he bites his lip to hold back a smirk when Angel teases him with a flirty comment.
He has to get this over with. Worst case scenario, everything is awkward forever. That’s fine. He can live with that.
“Boss?” Johnny snaps him out of his thoughts, “come on, man, you’re startin’ to worry me now.”
“Nah, it’s not serious,” Angel shrugs, settling down on the couch next to him, kicking Johnny’s feet off the table with his own.
They play a little footsie for a few minutes, fighting over who gets to keep their feet up, until Angel ends up swinging his legs over Johnny’s thighs and sitting somewhat in his lap; Johnny doesn’t seem to care, resting his arms over Angel’s legs and idly playing with the frays of his denim shorts.
Angel swallows down the lump in his throat, nerves kicking in. Ugh.
“Just—” he sighs, starts again, avoiding Johnny’s curious gaze, “look, I don’t know how to say this when I’m pretty sure you probably already know, and like, you’re just not mentioning it to save me the embarrassment and whatever, and I’m actually not that good at talking about my feelings—”
“Wait, wait,” Johnny interjects, cutting through Angel’s rambling, his hand stilling over Angel’s knee, “feelings?”
Angel winces. He watches Johnny shift out of the corner of his eye, moving to sit up properly, and it jostles Angel in his lap; still, he doesn’t push him away, which is a good start.
“Yeah, feelings,” Angel shrugs, staring down at his feet, “like, me having feelings for you. Y’know.”
It’s funny, Angel knows he’s usually so loud and annoying and getting on everyone’s last nerve, and he’s not afraid to start fights or cause shit or say what needs to be said—he wasn’t shy when he started dating Shaundi, and he’s never been all that shy with his previous partners or flings.
The difference is that it’s Johnny. Johnny Gat, Angel’s best friend, the first person to actually start giving a shit about him in the Saints, trigger-happy and charismatic and intimidating and kind of insane, in the best way. There’s something about those extra two years in age he has over Angel and the four inches in height, the confidence he has when he speaks, his unwavering devotion to the people he loves, his boldness and the way he can match Angel tease-for-tease and flirt-for-flirt and punch-for-punch.
He makes Angel nervous. It’s something he’s rarely felt before, not with people, and it’s scary.
There’s a tap to his knee, and then another, a rhythmic pattern. Angel glances up to find Johnny smiling at him, coy. Smug.
“I’ll bite,” he says, giving a little smirk before looking away, teasing, “what kinda feelings are we talkin’ about?”
Oh. Well. Maybe it isn’t the worst case scenario.
“Hm…” Angel tilts his head, considering how to play this. He feels like he’s said it enough times already, not wanting to repeat the word feelings for the fiftieth time, and he knows that Johnny knows that—Johnny knows what he means, knows what fucking type of feelings. He’s just toying with him, making him say it.
He won’t fold that easily, not now that he knows they’re teasing, that Johnny is receptive to it. The back-and-forth between them has always been the best part.
“Why don’t you guess?”
A quiet settles between them at that, comfortable this time, only broken by the nearby radio playing something on K12, the low hums and buzzing of experimental electronica filling the air. Johnny stops his tapping to drag a finger across Angel’s skin, gentle and soft, tracing a burn scar up his leg and then stopping at his thigh.
“Nah. Don’t need to,” he says, pulling Angel closer and then reaching up to run a hand through his hair, toying with the blonde curls, “c’mere.”
He’s pulled forward into a light kiss, just a press of lips and nothing excessive, but he inhales sharply and feels his heart flutter for a second before sitting back. Johnny’s hand slides to the nape of his neck, thumb rubbing idly against his skin, soothing, and Angel can’t hold back the goofy grin on his face.
“So, what,” he laughs, throwing his arms over Johnny’s shoulders, “are we like, boyfriend and boyfriend now?”
“Listen, I’ll be real with you boss, I figured we were dating weeks ago,” Johnny gives a smug little smirk, “I just thought you were takin’ shit slow. Super fuckin’ slow.”
Angel blinks at him.
He immediately climbs up out of Johnny’s lap and grabs his hand, tugging him up off the couch and dragging him in the direction of the spare bedroom.
“You’re telling me I’ve been missing out on weeks of action?” Angel lightly shoves him, “I gotta call Shaundi and tell her to stay out a little longer.”
Johnny laughs loudly as the bedroom door closes.
