That Bastard.

Someone was touching him. His hair. There was a hand in his hair. He tried to recall yesterday, vaguely remembered the glass in his arms, picking it out, eating??? Then what?

It was all a blur.

He was burning up. Although he was sure he'd slept, he was still very dizzy. His throat felt dry. Too dry.

He tried to get up, get away from whoever the fuck was touching his hair, and somehow managed to fall off the couch. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

He didn't feel very well at all. He stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he sick? He never got sick. What the fuck? He couldn't be sick. He cursed, voice muffled by the fact he was face down on the floor.

"I'm not sick." He insisted, crossing his arms. He was sick, though. He was running a fever, his head hurt, he was tired and his body ached. He was coughing, not as much as before thanks to the cough drops, but you know.

Since he had the whole deck in his hands, he began shuffling the cards. "Are we playing again?"

Francis seemed amused, continuing to tease Johnny a bit. He didn't reach out after Johnny swatted his hand, though. He knew when to stop, unlike she ever did. He smiled, watching Johnny shuffle the cards already. He took it as an answer in of itself.

Sure, of course. If you want to, that is. Slapjack again, or...?

He asked, raising his eyebrows and leaning his face onto his palm. He winced when his elbow rested on his knee, but he didn't really care to shift. It hurts, but he learned to deal with it. He was half convinced his injuries were psychosomatic anyway.

He watched Johnny's face a little closer, watching the paleness and the subtle shivers. It was clear as day the other man was ill, and the fact he was damp probably wasn't helping. Maybe he should do something about it.

"Actually, I'm a little tired."

He didn't want to test his luck and end up losing.

Besides, Francis seemed worried about his health, anyway. Johnny didn't get it.

"I don't have a fever," he insisted. "I'm just– whatever! You don't need to give me anything. I have my work uniform."

He trailed off, as if remembering something he didn't want to remember. Maybe it would be best if he stayed in uniform, anyway, he couldn't let himself get too comfortable. The boss would come and whisk him away and then it'd be back to doing paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. His hands twitched.

"I can go change."

Johnny stood from the couch.

He needed to remind himself that this was only temporary. He made an effort to wipe his smile off of his face and return to his stern, almost solemn demeanor. "I should've, earlier, but I– uh, didn't... Think about it."

Francis already stood up with his crutches, leaving Johnny without the opportunity to even argue or disagree. He slid along his crutches to the bedroom, already searching through all the clothes he set aside years ago because they were too thin on him. He'd gotten fatter over the years— not like he cared. He always kept the smaller shirts and pants just in case somebody needed them. For once, someone did.

He returned with a pair of clothes in hands, already tossing it into Johnny's lap while leaning on his crutches next to him. He watched Johnny before hopping backwards, making sure to give him enough room to stand and leave towards the bathroom.

It could be a home, you know, we could try–

Not now, Blue.

But I don't want to leave!

I said: Not. Now. We'll talk about it later.

Johnny shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now wasn't the time to get sappy. Johnny opened his mouth to decline, but Francis had already left, and when he returned he was already pushing clothes into Johnny's hands.

He sighed and decided there was no point in arguing, turning to make his way to the bathroom.

He locked the door when he was inside, even though he knew nobody would walk in on him. What if they saw his back?

He was restrained belly down against a table. He screamed every time the whip came down. For yet another failure, this was his punishment.

Red Johnny blinked back to reality. He didn't need to remember any of this.

Once he was sure the door was secure, he slipped out of his damp clothing and put on the clothes he would be borrowing.

Francis just smiled at him as he settled back onto the couch, leaning back against the cushions. He sighed, holding the crutches between his thighs protectively out of habit. He was staring at the TV, disassociating a bit again. He caught himself when he felt Johnny stiffly sit on the couch, turning his head.

You know you don't have to be so tense, yeah? I'm not gonna hurt you or anything, I promise. It's just me, I can't do much harm anyway.

He laughed awkwardly, looking away from Johnny and back at the TV. That damn TV and its sickly glow. It was starting to make him damn uneasy, with the fake laughter and the face of that actor and--

He grabbed the remote and turned it off without a fuss. He was still up in his head, and he couldn't really get out of it. He stared at the blank TV for a while before his face scrunched and he looked around in slight confusion. His eyes landed on Johnny, and a few gears rattled around in his empty skull, before he finally groaned.

I feel like I've jus' had 7 neat whiskies 'nd a goddamn lobotomy. Je-sus Christ.

Anyway, he found himself observing Francis while the guy stared at the TV, then turned it off. He just kept staring at the blank TV. It was almost concerning, really, he almost considered asking about it, but before he could, familiar(?) old Clef came around.

Johnny tensed further at the mention of a lobotomy.

Screaming, blood, screaming, needle in his eye, screaming, screaming, screaming, thrashing, fighting–

He blinked the memories away and started tapping his foot against the floor. "What?"

He didn't feel secure. He needed his gun, or his knife– right, his knife, he knew where that was.

Johnny stood up and walked to the kitchen, grabbed the knife from where it was hidden, and attached the sheath to his belt again, then he returned to his spot in the living room. He needed to move. To pace. Back and forth, back and forth.

Clef grumbled, unaware of what was going on or why he was squeezing two crutches between his thighs like an idiot. Right. Francis. He blinked the headache out as he gathered them in his hands and walked off to go hide them in the closet like always. He didn't care if they were hard to find, it wasn't his goddamn issue. His leg ached a bit, but it wasn't anything noteworthy. Not crutch worthy. God, Francis could be a pussy sometimes.

He kept rubbing at his face, clearly annoyed and working with the plagues of some kind of dissociative headache. He finally looked at Johnny when he approached the couch again, leaning against the back of the sofa.

Calm the hell down, kid. Fuck ya panicking for? Yer safe 'nd shit. Fuckin' 'ell.

Still somewhat kind, still trying to be nice, but it doesn't feel as soft and sweet as Francis kept wrapping it as. Clef was realer, blunter, a bit meaner. But at least it meant when he begrudgingly tried to be nice it was genuine, instead of Francis' constant kindness and sympathies that would extend to psychopaths if it had the opportunity.

He continued tapping his foot, tap tap tap tap tap, over and over against the floor.

Clef was moving a lot. Johnny had to keep his eyes on the threat.

What?

No, Clef wasn't a threat, what was he thinking? He needed to calm down.

Why the fuck did he ache so bad?

Right, he was sick. Damn it all. This was unacceptable.

"Do you actually want a recap or was that a rhetorical question?"

Clef shrugged as he rounded over to sit on the sofa. He stretched out like some fat, orange cat, already propping his feet up on the coffee table while crossing his legs subconsciously. He looked at his hands, boredly picking at some chipping nail polish. Damn, how long ago did he paint them? Whatever. He should invite Draven and James over to paint them again. That was a nice night out with Kon's little shits.

I don't really fuckin' care, since I'm half sure it ain't anythin' interestin'. But if ya really wanna tell me about what stupid shit I did while I blacked out- go ahead.

Because of course Clef's going to assume he drank himself into a stupor and just sobered out of nowhere. It was the most reasonable explanation that didn't have him dealing with the idea of Francis of all people being out. Listen, if it was Ukulele, he'd have less complaints. At least that motherfucker knows how to hide it and not act like a completely different person. Francis, however... whatever.

"Anyway... I believe Gr– uh, I threw up." Fuck, he almost slipped up. He needed to be more careful.

"You freaked out about it. I can't remember the rest of it." He looked up at the ceiling, trying to recall. "You gave me a protein shake and then I eventually fell asleep, I believe. This morning we played Slapjack."

Johnny stopped pacing then, and put his hands on his hips. "Yeah, I think that was pretty much it."

He looked down at his clothes. "Oh. Right. My clothes were soaked, so I'm borrowing yours."

He glanced at the door again, just in case. Anything could happen. Anyone could bust it down. They could come in with their guns and turn him into swiss cheese.

Clef nodded, chewing his cheek as the memory of Johnny vomiting and him having a panic attack over it. He scoffed bitterly, if mostly at his own weakness. Who freaks out over a little vomit? Hell, who has a panic attack over somebody vomiting when they're in their fifties? God, Clef needed to get a grip, he thought.

Fuck, 'course I did sum' stupid shit like tha'. Ignore wh'tever I did while I was freaked out, bet it was sum' loser shit anyway.

Was he throwing strays at Francis? Probably. He didn't really mean them. He just hoped Johnny hadn't truly noticed or questioned it. Even if people knew, it was best they never talked about it. Just like the rest of his life. Better left undiscussed.

He looked over at Johnny again, doing a once over to see what clothes Francis he gave him. His face scrunched up as he remembered the shirt, remembering the days he was still as skinny as that... something disgusted him at the thought.

It was locked.

Good.

He turned back to Clef. For some reason, the idea of the guy being as skinny as Johnny was now seemed wrong. "I really can't imagine you being this small."

He coughed a bit. Fucking Hell. He shouldn't be sick. It was so unlikely. Why were his odds so bad?

"And only twenty years ago?" He struggled to recall how long he had been alive for himself. He'd lived so many. God, what if he was older than Clef? That'd be a nightmare.

He decided not to think about it too hard. Besides, Clef likely wouldn't believe anything Johnny said about it– Johnny knew he looked young. An unfortunate side effect of dying and respawning was that his physical appearance always reset to... Back then. He'd been twenty, then. God, his first life had been so long ago.

Oh well. That's a problem for later.

Sit down, dude. Nobody's coming. Door's locked three different ways.

He shrugged, scratching at his stubble mindlessly while still monitoring every little thing Johnny did. It felt... odd. Off. He wouldn't ask, it's not his place to, but it still made the defensive side of him perk up.

Fuck ya mean only twenty? Ya can lose or gain a ton of fuckin' weight in twenty years. Hell, ya could change entirely as a person in twenty years! God knows I did.

Alto laughed at the idea. 20 years ago? Jesus. He was still fresh in Foundation hands. Still an oddball that many people didn't really care about. It was so distant, such a weird time, that it felt fuzzed over with dissociation. Before he started trying to work his shit out. Before he became the true Dr. Alto Clef that stood today.

He couldn't sit still, though. He kept tapping his foot. He was too on edge, too nervous, and he was pretty sure Clef could tell, and that pissed him off even more.

"Right. Nobody's coming."

The boss is.

Green wasn't being very helpful.

The boss. The boss was coming. That was the root of all this, wasn't it? Red knew it. Green knew it, Hell, even Blue probably knew. Johnny's freak out had been caused by the boss. His paranoia was because of the boss. He was unable to relax because he knew the boss would be waiting to pick him up.

Soon, soon, soon. Johnny knew his escape wouldn't just be brushed under the rug. The Boss had warned him. That door wouldn't hold him for long, no matter how many boards they bolted against it.

"I suppose you're correct," Johnny knew Clef didn't believe him when he said he could come back, and so he'd decided not to push the subject. Green wouldn't have pushed the subject.

Johnny didn't think he was very skinny at all, he wasn't quite sure why Clef was lying, but he wasn't going to insist otherwise, it would be a waste of time. What the fuck even was a twink, anyway? Johnny obviously looked a bit confused by the term, but said nothing about it.

"I forget twenty years is a long time, is all," he shrugged. "My schedule has been the same practically forever. It's difficult not to lose track of time."

Clef simply nodded along, deciding the less questions he asked, the better the outcome. Nobody liked being interrogated, after all. It's stupid and uncomfortable, and Alto wasn't just saying that because he himself hated the annual interviews and questionnaires and--

Shit, I can't be talkin'. I done so much bullshit in my entire life, I couldn't tell it in a day. Or two, really. No wonder everythin' feels like fuckin' forever fer me.

He found himself picking up the remote to click through the channels, not particularly caring about what he would put on. He just wanted something to do with his hands.

Shit, at least I'm spicin' yer life up.

- @dr-buck 🦌

Someone was touching him. His hair. There was a hand in his hair. He tried to recall yesterday, vaguely remembered the glass in his arms, picking it out, eating??? Then what?

It was all a blur.

He was burning up. Although he was sure he'd slept, he was still very dizzy. His throat felt dry. Too dry.

He tried to get up, get away from whoever the fuck was touching his hair, and somehow managed to fall off the couch. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

He didn't feel very well at all. He stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he sick? He never got sick. What the fuck? He couldn't be sick. He cursed, voice muffled by the fact he was face down on the floor.

"I'm not sick." He insisted, crossing his arms. He was sick, though. He was running a fever, his head hurt, he was tired and his body ached. He was coughing, not as much as before thanks to the cough drops, but you know.

Since he had the whole deck in his hands, he began shuffling the cards. "Are we playing again?"

Francis seemed amused, continuing to tease Johnny a bit. He didn't reach out after Johnny swatted his hand, though. He knew when to stop, unlike she ever did. He smiled, watching Johnny shuffle the cards already. He took it as an answer in of itself.

Sure, of course. If you want to, that is. Slapjack again, or...?

He asked, raising his eyebrows and leaning his face onto his palm. He winced when his elbow rested on his knee, but he didn't really care to shift. It hurts, but he learned to deal with it. He was half convinced his injuries were psychosomatic anyway.

He watched Johnny's face a little closer, watching the paleness and the subtle shivers. It was clear as day the other man was ill, and the fact he was damp probably wasn't helping. Maybe he should do something about it.

"Actually, I'm a little tired."

He didn't want to test his luck and end up losing.

Besides, Francis seemed worried about his health, anyway. Johnny didn't get it.

"I don't have a fever," he insisted. "I'm just– whatever! You don't need to give me anything. I have my work uniform."

He trailed off, as if remembering something he didn't want to remember. Maybe it would be best if he stayed in uniform, anyway, he couldn't let himself get too comfortable. The boss would come and whisk him away and then it'd be back to doing paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. His hands twitched.

"I can go change."

Johnny stood from the couch.

He needed to remind himself that this was only temporary. He made an effort to wipe his smile off of his face and return to his stern, almost solemn demeanor. "I should've, earlier, but I– uh, didn't... Think about it."

Francis already stood up with his crutches, leaving Johnny without the opportunity to even argue or disagree. He slid along his crutches to the bedroom, already searching through all the clothes he set aside years ago because they were too thin on him. He'd gotten fatter over the years— not like he cared. He always kept the smaller shirts and pants just in case somebody needed them. For once, someone did.

He returned with a pair of clothes in hands, already tossing it into Johnny's lap while leaning on his crutches next to him. He watched Johnny before hopping backwards, making sure to give him enough room to stand and leave towards the bathroom.

It could be a home, you know, we could try–

Not now, Blue.

But I don't want to leave!

I said: Not. Now. We'll talk about it later.

Johnny shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now wasn't the time to get sappy. Johnny opened his mouth to decline, but Francis had already left, and when he returned he was already pushing clothes into Johnny's hands.

He sighed and decided there was no point in arguing, turning to make his way to the bathroom.

He locked the door when he was inside, even though he knew nobody would walk in on him. What if they saw his back?

He was restrained belly down against a table. He screamed every time the whip came down. For yet another failure, this was his punishment.

Red Johnny blinked back to reality. He didn't need to remember any of this.

Once he was sure the door was secure, he slipped out of his damp clothing and put on the clothes he would be borrowing.

Francis just smiled at him as he settled back onto the couch, leaning back against the cushions. He sighed, holding the crutches between his thighs protectively out of habit. He was staring at the TV, disassociating a bit again. He caught himself when he felt Johnny stiffly sit on the couch, turning his head.

You know you don't have to be so tense, yeah? I'm not gonna hurt you or anything, I promise. It's just me, I can't do much harm anyway.

He laughed awkwardly, looking away from Johnny and back at the TV. That damn TV and its sickly glow. It was starting to make him damn uneasy, with the fake laughter and the face of that actor and--

He grabbed the remote and turned it off without a fuss. He was still up in his head, and he couldn't really get out of it. He stared at the blank TV for a while before his face scrunched and he looked around in slight confusion. His eyes landed on Johnny, and a few gears rattled around in his empty skull, before he finally groaned.

I feel like I've jus' had 7 neat whiskies 'nd a goddamn lobotomy. Je-sus Christ.

Anyway, he found himself observing Francis while the guy stared at the TV, then turned it off. He just kept staring at the blank TV. It was almost concerning, really, he almost considered asking about it, but before he could, familiar(?) old Clef came around.

Johnny tensed further at the mention of a lobotomy.

Screaming, blood, screaming, needle in his eye, screaming, screaming, screaming, thrashing, fighting–

He blinked the memories away and started tapping his foot against the floor. "What?"

He didn't feel secure. He needed his gun, or his knife– right, his knife, he knew where that was.

Johnny stood up and walked to the kitchen, grabbed the knife from where it was hidden, and attached the sheath to his belt again, then he returned to his spot in the living room. He needed to move. To pace. Back and forth, back and forth.

Clef grumbled, unaware of what was going on or why he was squeezing two crutches between his thighs like an idiot. Right. Francis. He blinked the headache out as he gathered them in his hands and walked off to go hide them in the closet like always. He didn't care if they were hard to find, it wasn't his goddamn issue. His leg ached a bit, but it wasn't anything noteworthy. Not crutch worthy. God, Francis could be a pussy sometimes.

He kept rubbing at his face, clearly annoyed and working with the plagues of some kind of dissociative headache. He finally looked at Johnny when he approached the couch again, leaning against the back of the sofa.

Calm the hell down, kid. Fuck ya panicking for? Yer safe 'nd shit. Fuckin' 'ell.

Still somewhat kind, still trying to be nice, but it doesn't feel as soft and sweet as Francis kept wrapping it as. Clef was realer, blunter, a bit meaner. But at least it meant when he begrudgingly tried to be nice it was genuine, instead of Francis' constant kindness and sympathies that would extend to psychopaths if it had the opportunity.

He continued tapping his foot, tap tap tap tap tap, over and over against the floor.

Clef was moving a lot. Johnny had to keep his eyes on the threat.

What?

No, Clef wasn't a threat, what was he thinking? He needed to calm down.

Why the fuck did he ache so bad?

Right, he was sick. Damn it all. This was unacceptable.

"Do you actually want a recap or was that a rhetorical question?"

Clef shrugged as he rounded over to sit on the sofa. He stretched out like some fat, orange cat, already propping his feet up on the coffee table while crossing his legs subconsciously. He looked at his hands, boredly picking at some chipping nail polish. Damn, how long ago did he paint them? Whatever. He should invite Draven and James over to paint them again. That was a nice night out with Kon's little shits.

I don't really fuckin' care, since I'm half sure it ain't anythin' interestin'. But if ya really wanna tell me about what stupid shit I did while I blacked out- go ahead.

Because of course Clef's going to assume he drank himself into a stupor and just sobered out of nowhere. It was the most reasonable explanation that didn't have him dealing with the idea of Francis of all people being out. Listen, if it was Ukulele, he'd have less complaints. At least that motherfucker knows how to hide it and not act like a completely different person. Francis, however... whatever.

"Anyway... I believe Gr– uh, I threw up." Fuck, he almost slipped up. He needed to be more careful.

"You freaked out about it. I can't remember the rest of it." He looked up at the ceiling, trying to recall. "You gave me a protein shake and then I eventually fell asleep, I believe. This morning we played Slapjack."

Johnny stopped pacing then, and put his hands on his hips. "Yeah, I think that was pretty much it."

He looked down at his clothes. "Oh. Right. My clothes were soaked, so I'm borrowing yours."

He glanced at the door again, just in case. Anything could happen. Anyone could bust it down. They could come in with their guns and turn him into swiss cheese.

Clef nodded, chewing his cheek as the memory of Johnny vomiting and him having a panic attack over it. He scoffed bitterly, if mostly at his own weakness. Who freaks out over a little vomit? Hell, who has a panic attack over somebody vomiting when they're in their fifties? God, Clef needed to get a grip, he thought.

Fuck, 'course I did sum' stupid shit like tha'. Ignore wh'tever I did while I was freaked out, bet it was sum' loser shit anyway.

Was he throwing strays at Francis? Probably. He didn't really mean them. He just hoped Johnny hadn't truly noticed or questioned it. Even if people knew, it was best they never talked about it. Just like the rest of his life. Better left undiscussed.

He looked over at Johnny again, doing a once over to see what clothes Francis he gave him. His face scrunched up as he remembered the shirt, remembering the days he was still as skinny as that... something disgusted him at the thought.

It was locked.

Good.

He turned back to Clef. For some reason, the idea of the guy being as skinny as Johnny was now seemed wrong. "I really can't imagine you being this small."

He coughed a bit. Fucking Hell. He shouldn't be sick. It was so unlikely. Why were his odds so bad?

"And only twenty years ago?" He struggled to recall how long he had been alive for himself. He'd lived so many. God, what if he was older than Clef? That'd be a nightmare.

He decided not to think about it too hard. Besides, Clef likely wouldn't believe anything Johnny said about it– Johnny knew he looked young. An unfortunate side effect of dying and respawning was that his physical appearance always reset to... Back then. He'd been twenty, then. God, his first life had been so long ago.

Oh well. That's a problem for later.

Sit down, dude. Nobody's coming. Door's locked three different ways.

He shrugged, scratching at his stubble mindlessly while still monitoring every little thing Johnny did. It felt... odd. Off. He wouldn't ask, it's not his place to, but it still made the defensive side of him perk up.

Fuck ya mean only twenty? Ya can lose or gain a ton of fuckin' weight in twenty years. Hell, ya could change entirely as a person in twenty years! God knows I did.

Alto laughed at the idea. 20 years ago? Jesus. He was still fresh in Foundation hands. Still an oddball that many people didn't really care about. It was so distant, such a weird time, that it felt fuzzed over with dissociation. Before he started trying to work his shit out. Before he became the true Dr. Alto Clef that stood today.

- @kingofbooterflies

Francis jumped a little, still sitting on the couch. He realized that it was probably one of Clef's colleagues or friends, and he considered whether or not to fake the accent Clef always fakes. Fuck it, he decided he'd try to just meld an in-between so whoever was there wouldn't question it.

He grabbed his forearm crutches that he had finally found holed up in the closet, settling his arms into it and walking his way to the door. He hoped the visitor wouldn't ask, but it wouldn't be a problem if he did. He'd just say he sprained his ankle or some bullshit like that. With that, he unlocked the door and opened it carefully.

Oh. Good mornin', Ben. How are you?

What the fuck did you do that you need crutches for?

Francis stumbled over his words, laughing awkwardly while swinging a bit on his crutches. He didn't know why he was always injured whenever he came to, not necessarily. She was long dead, yet her injuries stayed on his body. I guess it's because the axe forgets, but the tree remembers.

I broke my ankle, that's all.

It's an unconvincing lie, considering he didn't have the cast that would accompany a broken or sprained ankle. Hell, maybe he'd say he simply didn't trust medical with it. That's something Clef would do, right? He stepped back to make space for Kondraki to come inside, flashing a weirdly polite smile that never graced Clef's face.

Need help getting it bandaged up and shit?

Francis shrugged, trying not to seem suspicious. He didn't think it'd exactly help, since every time he got it checked he was simply called crazy. He was never exactly sure if he was actually injured or if he was just imagining it. Maybe he was imagining it. Maybe Lily never hurt him and he just wanted her to for an excuse to hate her. What if he was the one in the wrong?-

Do you want to sit down? I can make, uh, coffee, if you want. Or whatever you'd like right now.

[Kondraki might be a bit drunk, but he wasn't stupid. If Clef had really broke his ankle and didn't go to medical to get it checked up, he should at least let Ben look at it.]

Francis babbled, not wanting Kondraki to touch it. Sure, maybe it'd do him some good to see what injury manifested itself, but did he really want to go through all that? What if Kondraki touching it made Francis remember Lilly, remember--

No, he wouldn't risk it.

Um... Why are you here, anyway? I don't remember you being so friendly all of the time, haha...

[he sits down on the couch, looking pretty comfortable]

Was planning to drag you out for a few drinks, but with how your leg is ya probably shouldn't go anywhere right now.

Francis couldn't help but stiffen a little more when Kondraki sat close, hands in his lap helplessly fidgeting. He wasn't sure why, but he tried not to focus on it, not focus on the faint touch of knees as he discreetly made some more space between them.

The idea of drinking wasn't Francis' favorite, but he was sure he could fake sipping on something if Kondraki asked. He was fine with Kondraki drinking, of course, it's not like he could control what other people did, but... the idea of being out of control and vulnerable in his own body? No way.

Someone was touching him. His hair. There was a hand in his hair. He tried to recall yesterday, vaguely remembered the glass in his arms, picking it out, eating??? Then what?

It was all a blur.

He was burning up. Although he was sure he'd slept, he was still very dizzy. His throat felt dry. Too dry.

He tried to get up, get away from whoever the fuck was touching his hair, and somehow managed to fall off the couch. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

He didn't feel very well at all. He stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he sick? He never got sick. What the fuck? He couldn't be sick. He cursed, voice muffled by the fact he was face down on the floor.

"I'm not sick." He insisted, crossing his arms. He was sick, though. He was running a fever, his head hurt, he was tired and his body ached. He was coughing, not as much as before thanks to the cough drops, but you know.

Since he had the whole deck in his hands, he began shuffling the cards. "Are we playing again?"

Francis seemed amused, continuing to tease Johnny a bit. He didn't reach out after Johnny swatted his hand, though. He knew when to stop, unlike she ever did. He smiled, watching Johnny shuffle the cards already. He took it as an answer in of itself.

Sure, of course. If you want to, that is. Slapjack again, or...?

He asked, raising his eyebrows and leaning his face onto his palm. He winced when his elbow rested on his knee, but he didn't really care to shift. It hurts, but he learned to deal with it. He was half convinced his injuries were psychosomatic anyway.

He watched Johnny's face a little closer, watching the paleness and the subtle shivers. It was clear as day the other man was ill, and the fact he was damp probably wasn't helping. Maybe he should do something about it.

"Actually, I'm a little tired."

He didn't want to test his luck and end up losing.

Besides, Francis seemed worried about his health, anyway. Johnny didn't get it.

"I don't have a fever," he insisted. "I'm just– whatever! You don't need to give me anything. I have my work uniform."

He trailed off, as if remembering something he didn't want to remember. Maybe it would be best if he stayed in uniform, anyway, he couldn't let himself get too comfortable. The boss would come and whisk him away and then it'd be back to doing paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. His hands twitched.

"I can go change."

Johnny stood from the couch.

He needed to remind himself that this was only temporary. He made an effort to wipe his smile off of his face and return to his stern, almost solemn demeanor. "I should've, earlier, but I– uh, didn't... Think about it."

Francis already stood up with his crutches, leaving Johnny without the opportunity to even argue or disagree. He slid along his crutches to the bedroom, already searching through all the clothes he set aside years ago because they were too thin on him. He'd gotten fatter over the years— not like he cared. He always kept the smaller shirts and pants just in case somebody needed them. For once, someone did.

He returned with a pair of clothes in hands, already tossing it into Johnny's lap while leaning on his crutches next to him. He watched Johnny before hopping backwards, making sure to give him enough room to stand and leave towards the bathroom.

It could be a home, you know, we could try–

Not now, Blue.

But I don't want to leave!

I said: Not. Now. We'll talk about it later.

Johnny shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now wasn't the time to get sappy. Johnny opened his mouth to decline, but Francis had already left, and when he returned he was already pushing clothes into Johnny's hands.

He sighed and decided there was no point in arguing, turning to make his way to the bathroom.

He locked the door when he was inside, even though he knew nobody would walk in on him. What if they saw his back?

He was restrained belly down against a table. He screamed every time the whip came down. For yet another failure, this was his punishment.

Red Johnny blinked back to reality. He didn't need to remember any of this.

Once he was sure the door was secure, he slipped out of his damp clothing and put on the clothes he would be borrowing.

Francis just smiled at him as he settled back onto the couch, leaning back against the cushions. He sighed, holding the crutches between his thighs protectively out of habit. He was staring at the TV, disassociating a bit again. He caught himself when he felt Johnny stiffly sit on the couch, turning his head.

You know you don't have to be so tense, yeah? I'm not gonna hurt you or anything, I promise. It's just me, I can't do much harm anyway.

He laughed awkwardly, looking away from Johnny and back at the TV. That damn TV and its sickly glow. It was starting to make him damn uneasy, with the fake laughter and the face of that actor and--

He grabbed the remote and turned it off without a fuss. He was still up in his head, and he couldn't really get out of it. He stared at the blank TV for a while before his face scrunched and he looked around in slight confusion. His eyes landed on Johnny, and a few gears rattled around in his empty skull, before he finally groaned.

I feel like I've jus' had 7 neat whiskies 'nd a goddamn lobotomy. Je-sus Christ.

Anyway, he found himself observing Francis while the guy stared at the TV, then turned it off. He just kept staring at the blank TV. It was almost concerning, really, he almost considered asking about it, but before he could, familiar(?) old Clef came around.

Johnny tensed further at the mention of a lobotomy.

Screaming, blood, screaming, needle in his eye, screaming, screaming, screaming, thrashing, fighting–

He blinked the memories away and started tapping his foot against the floor. "What?"

He didn't feel secure. He needed his gun, or his knife– right, his knife, he knew where that was.

Johnny stood up and walked to the kitchen, grabbed the knife from where it was hidden, and attached the sheath to his belt again, then he returned to his spot in the living room. He needed to move. To pace. Back and forth, back and forth.

Clef grumbled, unaware of what was going on or why he was squeezing two crutches between his thighs like an idiot. Right. Francis. He blinked the headache out as he gathered them in his hands and walked off to go hide them in the closet like always. He didn't care if they were hard to find, it wasn't his goddamn issue. His leg ached a bit, but it wasn't anything noteworthy. Not crutch worthy. God, Francis could be a pussy sometimes.

He kept rubbing at his face, clearly annoyed and working with the plagues of some kind of dissociative headache. He finally looked at Johnny when he approached the couch again, leaning against the back of the sofa.

Calm the hell down, kid. Fuck ya panicking for? Yer safe 'nd shit. Fuckin' 'ell.

Still somewhat kind, still trying to be nice, but it doesn't feel as soft and sweet as Francis kept wrapping it as. Clef was realer, blunter, a bit meaner. But at least it meant when he begrudgingly tried to be nice it was genuine, instead of Francis' constant kindness and sympathies that would extend to psychopaths if it had the opportunity.

He continued tapping his foot, tap tap tap tap tap, over and over against the floor.

Clef was moving a lot. Johnny had to keep his eyes on the threat.

What?

No, Clef wasn't a threat, what was he thinking? He needed to calm down.

Why the fuck did he ache so bad?

Right, he was sick. Damn it all. This was unacceptable.

"Do you actually want a recap or was that a rhetorical question?"

Clef shrugged as he rounded over to sit on the sofa. He stretched out like some fat, orange cat, already propping his feet up on the coffee table while crossing his legs subconsciously. He looked at his hands, boredly picking at some chipping nail polish. Damn, how long ago did he paint them? Whatever. He should invite Draven and James over to paint them again. That was a nice night out with Kon's little shits.

I don't really fuckin' care, since I'm half sure it ain't anythin' interestin'. But if ya really wanna tell me about what stupid shit I did while I blacked out- go ahead.

Because of course Clef's going to assume he drank himself into a stupor and just sobered out of nowhere. It was the most reasonable explanation that didn't have him dealing with the idea of Francis of all people being out. Listen, if it was Ukulele, he'd have less complaints. At least that motherfucker knows how to hide it and not act like a completely different person. Francis, however... whatever.

"Anyway... I believe Gr– uh, I threw up." Fuck, he almost slipped up. He needed to be more careful.

"You freaked out about it. I can't remember the rest of it." He looked up at the ceiling, trying to recall. "You gave me a protein shake and then I eventually fell asleep, I believe. This morning we played Slapjack."

Johnny stopped pacing then, and put his hands on his hips. "Yeah, I think that was pretty much it."

He looked down at his clothes. "Oh. Right. My clothes were soaked, so I'm borrowing yours."

He glanced at the door again, just in case. Anything could happen. Anyone could bust it down. They could come in with their guns and turn him into swiss cheese.

Clef nodded, chewing his cheek as the memory of Johnny vomiting and him having a panic attack over it. He scoffed bitterly, if mostly at his own weakness. Who freaks out over a little vomit? Hell, who has a panic attack over somebody vomiting when they're in their fifties? God, Clef needed to get a grip, he thought.

Fuck, 'course I did sum' stupid shit like tha'. Ignore wh'tever I did while I was freaked out, bet it was sum' loser shit anyway.

Was he throwing strays at Francis? Probably. He didn't really mean them. He just hoped Johnny hadn't truly noticed or questioned it. Even if people knew, it was best they never talked about it. Just like the rest of his life. Better left undiscussed.

He looked over at Johnny again, doing a once over to see what clothes Francis he gave him. His face scrunched up as he remembered the shirt, remembering the days he was still as skinny as that... something disgusted him at the thought.

Someone was touching him. His hair. There was a hand in his hair. He tried to recall yesterday, vaguely remembered the glass in his arms, picking it out, eating??? Then what?

It was all a blur.

He was burning up. Although he was sure he'd slept, he was still very dizzy. His throat felt dry. Too dry.

He tried to get up, get away from whoever the fuck was touching his hair, and somehow managed to fall off the couch. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

He didn't feel very well at all. He stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he sick? He never got sick. What the fuck? He couldn't be sick. He cursed, voice muffled by the fact he was face down on the floor.

"I'm not sick." He insisted, crossing his arms. He was sick, though. He was running a fever, his head hurt, he was tired and his body ached. He was coughing, not as much as before thanks to the cough drops, but you know.

Since he had the whole deck in his hands, he began shuffling the cards. "Are we playing again?"

Francis seemed amused, continuing to tease Johnny a bit. He didn't reach out after Johnny swatted his hand, though. He knew when to stop, unlike she ever did. He smiled, watching Johnny shuffle the cards already. He took it as an answer in of itself.

Sure, of course. If you want to, that is. Slapjack again, or...?

He asked, raising his eyebrows and leaning his face onto his palm. He winced when his elbow rested on his knee, but he didn't really care to shift. It hurts, but he learned to deal with it. He was half convinced his injuries were psychosomatic anyway.

He watched Johnny's face a little closer, watching the paleness and the subtle shivers. It was clear as day the other man was ill, and the fact he was damp probably wasn't helping. Maybe he should do something about it.

"Actually, I'm a little tired."

He didn't want to test his luck and end up losing.

Besides, Francis seemed worried about his health, anyway. Johnny didn't get it.

"I don't have a fever," he insisted. "I'm just– whatever! You don't need to give me anything. I have my work uniform."

He trailed off, as if remembering something he didn't want to remember. Maybe it would be best if he stayed in uniform, anyway, he couldn't let himself get too comfortable. The boss would come and whisk him away and then it'd be back to doing paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. His hands twitched.

"I can go change."

Johnny stood from the couch.

He needed to remind himself that this was only temporary. He made an effort to wipe his smile off of his face and return to his stern, almost solemn demeanor. "I should've, earlier, but I– uh, didn't... Think about it."

Francis already stood up with his crutches, leaving Johnny without the opportunity to even argue or disagree. He slid along his crutches to the bedroom, already searching through all the clothes he set aside years ago because they were too thin on him. He'd gotten fatter over the years— not like he cared. He always kept the smaller shirts and pants just in case somebody needed them. For once, someone did.

He returned with a pair of clothes in hands, already tossing it into Johnny's lap while leaning on his crutches next to him. He watched Johnny before hopping backwards, making sure to give him enough room to stand and leave towards the bathroom.

It could be a home, you know, we could try–

Not now, Blue.

But I don't want to leave!

I said: Not. Now. We'll talk about it later.

Johnny shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now wasn't the time to get sappy. Johnny opened his mouth to decline, but Francis had already left, and when he returned he was already pushing clothes into Johnny's hands.

He sighed and decided there was no point in arguing, turning to make his way to the bathroom.

He locked the door when he was inside, even though he knew nobody would walk in on him. What if they saw his back?

He was restrained belly down against a table. He screamed every time the whip came down. For yet another failure, this was his punishment.

Red Johnny blinked back to reality. He didn't need to remember any of this.

Once he was sure the door was secure, he slipped out of his damp clothing and put on the clothes he would be borrowing.

Francis just smiled at him as he settled back onto the couch, leaning back against the cushions. He sighed, holding the crutches between his thighs protectively out of habit. He was staring at the TV, disassociating a bit again. He caught himself when he felt Johnny stiffly sit on the couch, turning his head.

You know you don't have to be so tense, yeah? I'm not gonna hurt you or anything, I promise. It's just me, I can't do much harm anyway.

He laughed awkwardly, looking away from Johnny and back at the TV. That damn TV and its sickly glow. It was starting to make him damn uneasy, with the fake laughter and the face of that actor and--

He grabbed the remote and turned it off without a fuss. He was still up in his head, and he couldn't really get out of it. He stared at the blank TV for a while before his face scrunched and he looked around in slight confusion. His eyes landed on Johnny, and a few gears rattled around in his empty skull, before he finally groaned.

I feel like I've jus' had 7 neat whiskies 'nd a goddamn lobotomy. Je-sus Christ.

Anyway, he found himself observing Francis while the guy stared at the TV, then turned it off. He just kept staring at the blank TV. It was almost concerning, really, he almost considered asking about it, but before he could, familiar(?) old Clef came around.

Johnny tensed further at the mention of a lobotomy.

Screaming, blood, screaming, needle in his eye, screaming, screaming, screaming, thrashing, fighting–

He blinked the memories away and started tapping his foot against the floor. "What?"

He didn't feel secure. He needed his gun, or his knife– right, his knife, he knew where that was.

Johnny stood up and walked to the kitchen, grabbed the knife from where it was hidden, and attached the sheath to his belt again, then he returned to his spot in the living room. He needed to move. To pace. Back and forth, back and forth.

Clef grumbled, unaware of what was going on or why he was squeezing two crutches between his thighs like an idiot. Right. Francis. He blinked the headache out as he gathered them in his hands and walked off to go hide them in the closet like always. He didn't care if they were hard to find, it wasn't his goddamn issue. His leg ached a bit, but it wasn't anything noteworthy. Not crutch worthy. God, Francis could be a pussy sometimes.

He kept rubbing at his face, clearly annoyed and working with the plagues of some kind of dissociative headache. He finally looked at Johnny when he approached the couch again, leaning against the back of the sofa.

Calm the hell down, kid. Fuck ya panicking for? Yer safe 'nd shit. Fuckin' 'ell.

Still somewhat kind, still trying to be nice, but it doesn't feel as soft and sweet as Francis kept wrapping it as. Clef was realer, blunter, a bit meaner. But at least it meant when he begrudgingly tried to be nice it was genuine, instead of Francis' constant kindness and sympathies that would extend to psychopaths if it had the opportunity.

He continued tapping his foot, tap tap tap tap tap, over and over against the floor.

Clef was moving a lot. Johnny had to keep his eyes on the threat.

What?

No, Clef wasn't a threat, what was he thinking? He needed to calm down.

Why the fuck did he ache so bad?

Right, he was sick. Damn it all. This was unacceptable.

"Do you actually want a recap or was that a rhetorical question?"

Clef shrugged as he rounded over to sit on the sofa. He stretched out like some fat, orange cat, already propping his feet up on the coffee table while crossing his legs subconsciously. He looked at his hands, boredly picking at some chipping nail polish. Damn, how long ago did he paint them? Whatever. He should invite Draven and James over to paint them again. That was a nice night out with Kon's little shits.

I don't really fuckin' care, since I'm half sure it ain't anythin' interestin'. But if ya really wanna tell me about what stupid shit I did while I blacked out- go ahead.

Because of course Clef's going to assume he drank himself into a stupor and just sobered out of nowhere. It was the most reasonable explanation that didn't have him dealing with the idea of Francis of all people being out. Listen, if it was Ukulele, he'd have less complaints. At least that motherfucker knows how to hide it and not act like a completely different person. Francis, however... whatever.

Someone was touching him. His hair. There was a hand in his hair. He tried to recall yesterday, vaguely remembered the glass in his arms, picking it out, eating??? Then what?

It was all a blur.

He was burning up. Although he was sure he'd slept, he was still very dizzy. His throat felt dry. Too dry.

He tried to get up, get away from whoever the fuck was touching his hair, and somehow managed to fall off the couch. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

He didn't feel very well at all. He stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he sick? He never got sick. What the fuck? He couldn't be sick. He cursed, voice muffled by the fact he was face down on the floor.

"I'm not sick." He insisted, crossing his arms. He was sick, though. He was running a fever, his head hurt, he was tired and his body ached. He was coughing, not as much as before thanks to the cough drops, but you know.

Since he had the whole deck in his hands, he began shuffling the cards. "Are we playing again?"

Francis seemed amused, continuing to tease Johnny a bit. He didn't reach out after Johnny swatted his hand, though. He knew when to stop, unlike she ever did. He smiled, watching Johnny shuffle the cards already. He took it as an answer in of itself.

Sure, of course. If you want to, that is. Slapjack again, or...?

He asked, raising his eyebrows and leaning his face onto his palm. He winced when his elbow rested on his knee, but he didn't really care to shift. It hurts, but he learned to deal with it. He was half convinced his injuries were psychosomatic anyway.

He watched Johnny's face a little closer, watching the paleness and the subtle shivers. It was clear as day the other man was ill, and the fact he was damp probably wasn't helping. Maybe he should do something about it.

"Actually, I'm a little tired."

He didn't want to test his luck and end up losing.

Besides, Francis seemed worried about his health, anyway. Johnny didn't get it.

"I don't have a fever," he insisted. "I'm just– whatever! You don't need to give me anything. I have my work uniform."

He trailed off, as if remembering something he didn't want to remember. Maybe it would be best if he stayed in uniform, anyway, he couldn't let himself get too comfortable. The boss would come and whisk him away and then it'd be back to doing paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. His hands twitched.

"I can go change."

Johnny stood from the couch.

He needed to remind himself that this was only temporary. He made an effort to wipe his smile off of his face and return to his stern, almost solemn demeanor. "I should've, earlier, but I– uh, didn't... Think about it."

Francis already stood up with his crutches, leaving Johnny without the opportunity to even argue or disagree. He slid along his crutches to the bedroom, already searching through all the clothes he set aside years ago because they were too thin on him. He'd gotten fatter over the years— not like he cared. He always kept the smaller shirts and pants just in case somebody needed them. For once, someone did.

He returned with a pair of clothes in hands, already tossing it into Johnny's lap while leaning on his crutches next to him. He watched Johnny before hopping backwards, making sure to give him enough room to stand and leave towards the bathroom.

It could be a home, you know, we could try–

Not now, Blue.

But I don't want to leave!

I said: Not. Now. We'll talk about it later.

Johnny shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now wasn't the time to get sappy. Johnny opened his mouth to decline, but Francis had already left, and when he returned he was already pushing clothes into Johnny's hands.

He sighed and decided there was no point in arguing, turning to make his way to the bathroom.

He locked the door when he was inside, even though he knew nobody would walk in on him. What if they saw his back?

He was restrained belly down against a table. He screamed every time the whip came down. For yet another failure, this was his punishment.

Red Johnny blinked back to reality. He didn't need to remember any of this.

Once he was sure the door was secure, he slipped out of his damp clothing and put on the clothes he would be borrowing.

Francis just smiled at him as he settled back onto the couch, leaning back against the cushions. He sighed, holding the crutches between his thighs protectively out of habit. He was staring at the TV, disassociating a bit again. He caught himself when he felt Johnny stiffly sit on the couch, turning his head.

You know you don't have to be so tense, yeah? I'm not gonna hurt you or anything, I promise. It's just me, I can't do much harm anyway.

He laughed awkwardly, looking away from Johnny and back at the TV. That damn TV and its sickly glow. It was starting to make him damn uneasy, with the fake laughter and the face of that actor and--

He grabbed the remote and turned it off without a fuss. He was still up in his head, and he couldn't really get out of it. He stared at the blank TV for a while before his face scrunched and he looked around in slight confusion. His eyes landed on Johnny, and a few gears rattled around in his empty skull, before he finally groaned.

I feel like I've jus' had 7 neat whiskies 'nd a goddamn lobotomy. Je-sus Christ.

Anyway, he found himself observing Francis while the guy stared at the TV, then turned it off. He just kept staring at the blank TV. It was almost concerning, really, he almost considered asking about it, but before he could, familiar(?) old Clef came around.

Johnny tensed further at the mention of a lobotomy.

Screaming, blood, screaming, needle in his eye, screaming, screaming, screaming, thrashing, fighting–

He blinked the memories away and started tapping his foot against the floor. "What?"

He didn't feel secure. He needed his gun, or his knife– right, his knife, he knew where that was.

Johnny stood up and walked to the kitchen, grabbed the knife from where it was hidden, and attached the sheath to his belt again, then he returned to his spot in the living room. He needed to move. To pace. Back and forth, back and forth.

Clef grumbled, unaware of what was going on or why he was squeezing two crutches between his thighs like an idiot. Right. Francis. He blinked the headache out as he gathered them in his hands and walked off to go hide them in the closet like always. He didn't care if they were hard to find, it wasn't his goddamn issue. His leg ached a bit, but it wasn't anything noteworthy. Not crutch worthy. God, Francis could be a pussy sometimes.

He kept rubbing at his face, clearly annoyed and working with the plagues of some kind of dissociative headache. He finally looked at Johnny when he approached the couch again, leaning against the back of the sofa.

Calm the hell down, kid. Fuck ya panicking for? Yer safe 'nd shit. Fuckin' 'ell.

Still somewhat kind, still trying to be nice, but it doesn't feel as soft and sweet as Francis kept wrapping it as. Clef was realer, blunter, a bit meaner. But at least it meant when he begrudgingly tried to be nice it was genuine, instead of Francis' constant kindness and sympathies that would extend to psychopaths if it had the opportunity.

Someone was touching him. His hair. There was a hand in his hair. He tried to recall yesterday, vaguely remembered the glass in his arms, picking it out, eating??? Then what?

It was all a blur.

He was burning up. Although he was sure he'd slept, he was still very dizzy. His throat felt dry. Too dry.

He tried to get up, get away from whoever the fuck was touching his hair, and somehow managed to fall off the couch. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

He didn't feel very well at all. He stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he sick? He never got sick. What the fuck? He couldn't be sick. He cursed, voice muffled by the fact he was face down on the floor.

"I'm not sick." He insisted, crossing his arms. He was sick, though. He was running a fever, his head hurt, he was tired and his body ached. He was coughing, not as much as before thanks to the cough drops, but you know.

Since he had the whole deck in his hands, he began shuffling the cards. "Are we playing again?"

Francis seemed amused, continuing to tease Johnny a bit. He didn't reach out after Johnny swatted his hand, though. He knew when to stop, unlike she ever did. He smiled, watching Johnny shuffle the cards already. He took it as an answer in of itself.

Sure, of course. If you want to, that is. Slapjack again, or...?

He asked, raising his eyebrows and leaning his face onto his palm. He winced when his elbow rested on his knee, but he didn't really care to shift. It hurts, but he learned to deal with it. He was half convinced his injuries were psychosomatic anyway.

He watched Johnny's face a little closer, watching the paleness and the subtle shivers. It was clear as day the other man was ill, and the fact he was damp probably wasn't helping. Maybe he should do something about it.

"Actually, I'm a little tired."

He didn't want to test his luck and end up losing.

Besides, Francis seemed worried about his health, anyway. Johnny didn't get it.

"I don't have a fever," he insisted. "I'm just– whatever! You don't need to give me anything. I have my work uniform."

He trailed off, as if remembering something he didn't want to remember. Maybe it would be best if he stayed in uniform, anyway, he couldn't let himself get too comfortable. The boss would come and whisk him away and then it'd be back to doing paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. His hands twitched.

"I can go change."

Johnny stood from the couch.

He needed to remind himself that this was only temporary. He made an effort to wipe his smile off of his face and return to his stern, almost solemn demeanor. "I should've, earlier, but I– uh, didn't... Think about it."

Francis already stood up with his crutches, leaving Johnny without the opportunity to even argue or disagree. He slid along his crutches to the bedroom, already searching through all the clothes he set aside years ago because they were too thin on him. He'd gotten fatter over the years— not like he cared. He always kept the smaller shirts and pants just in case somebody needed them. For once, someone did.

He returned with a pair of clothes in hands, already tossing it into Johnny's lap while leaning on his crutches next to him. He watched Johnny before hopping backwards, making sure to give him enough room to stand and leave towards the bathroom.

It could be a home, you know, we could try–

Not now, Blue.

But I don't want to leave!

I said: Not. Now. We'll talk about it later.

Johnny shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now wasn't the time to get sappy. Johnny opened his mouth to decline, but Francis had already left, and when he returned he was already pushing clothes into Johnny's hands.

He sighed and decided there was no point in arguing, turning to make his way to the bathroom.

He locked the door when he was inside, even though he knew nobody would walk in on him. What if they saw his back?

He was restrained belly down against a table. He screamed every time the whip came down. For yet another failure, this was his punishment.

Red Johnny blinked back to reality. He didn't need to remember any of this.

Once he was sure the door was secure, he slipped out of his damp clothing and put on the clothes he would be borrowing.

Francis just smiled at him as he settled back onto the couch, leaning back against the cushions. He sighed, holding the crutches between his thighs protectively out of habit. He was staring at the TV, disassociating a bit again. He caught himself when he felt Johnny stiffly sit on the couch, turning his head.

You know you don't have to be so tense, yeah? I'm not gonna hurt you or anything, I promise. It's just me, I can't do much harm anyway.

He laughed awkwardly, looking away from Johnny and back at the TV. That damn TV and its sickly glow. It was starting to make him damn uneasy, with the fake laughter and the face of that actor and--

He grabbed the remote and turned it off without a fuss. He was still up in his head, and he couldn't really get out of it. He stared at the blank TV for a while before his face scrunched and he looked around in slight confusion. His eyes landed on Johnny, and a few gears rattled around in his empty skull, before he finally groaned.

I feel like I've jus' had 7 neat whiskies 'nd a goddamn lobotomy. Je-sus Christ.

Someone was touching him. His hair. There was a hand in his hair. He tried to recall yesterday, vaguely remembered the glass in his arms, picking it out, eating??? Then what?

It was all a blur.

He was burning up. Although he was sure he'd slept, he was still very dizzy. His throat felt dry. Too dry.

He tried to get up, get away from whoever the fuck was touching his hair, and somehow managed to fall off the couch. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

He didn't feel very well at all. He stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he sick? He never got sick. What the fuck? He couldn't be sick. He cursed, voice muffled by the fact he was face down on the floor.

"I'm not sick." He insisted, crossing his arms. He was sick, though. He was running a fever, his head hurt, he was tired and his body ached. He was coughing, not as much as before thanks to the cough drops, but you know.

Since he had the whole deck in his hands, he began shuffling the cards. "Are we playing again?"

Francis seemed amused, continuing to tease Johnny a bit. He didn't reach out after Johnny swatted his hand, though. He knew when to stop, unlike she ever did. He smiled, watching Johnny shuffle the cards already. He took it as an answer in of itself.

Sure, of course. If you want to, that is. Slapjack again, or...?

He asked, raising his eyebrows and leaning his face onto his palm. He winced when his elbow rested on his knee, but he didn't really care to shift. It hurts, but he learned to deal with it. He was half convinced his injuries were psychosomatic anyway.

He watched Johnny's face a little closer, watching the paleness and the subtle shivers. It was clear as day the other man was ill, and the fact he was damp probably wasn't helping. Maybe he should do something about it.

"Actually, I'm a little tired."

He didn't want to test his luck and end up losing.

Besides, Francis seemed worried about his health, anyway. Johnny didn't get it.

"I don't have a fever," he insisted. "I'm just– whatever! You don't need to give me anything. I have my work uniform."

He trailed off, as if remembering something he didn't want to remember. Maybe it would be best if he stayed in uniform, anyway, he couldn't let himself get too comfortable. The boss would come and whisk him away and then it'd be back to doing paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. His hands twitched.

"I can go change."

Johnny stood from the couch.

He needed to remind himself that this was only temporary. He made an effort to wipe his smile off of his face and return to his stern, almost solemn demeanor. "I should've, earlier, but I– uh, didn't... Think about it."

Francis already stood up with his crutches, leaving Johnny without the opportunity to even argue or disagree. He slid along his crutches to the bedroom, already searching through all the clothes he set aside years ago because they were too thin on him. He'd gotten fatter over the years— not like he cared. He always kept the smaller shirts and pants just in case somebody needed them. For once, someone did.

He returned with a pair of clothes in hands, already tossing it into Johnny's lap while leaning on his crutches next to him. He watched Johnny before hopping backwards, making sure to give him enough room to stand and leave towards the bathroom.

Someone was touching him. His hair. There was a hand in his hair. He tried to recall yesterday, vaguely remembered the glass in his arms, picking it out, eating??? Then what?

It was all a blur.

He was burning up. Although he was sure he'd slept, he was still very dizzy. His throat felt dry. Too dry.

He tried to get up, get away from whoever the fuck was touching his hair, and somehow managed to fall off the couch. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

He didn't feel very well at all. He stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he sick? He never got sick. What the fuck? He couldn't be sick. He cursed, voice muffled by the fact he was face down on the floor.

"I'm not sick." He insisted, crossing his arms. He was sick, though. He was running a fever, his head hurt, he was tired and his body ached. He was coughing, not as much as before thanks to the cough drops, but you know.

Since he had the whole deck in his hands, he began shuffling the cards. "Are we playing again?"

Francis seemed amused, continuing to tease Johnny a bit. He didn't reach out after Johnny swatted his hand, though. He knew when to stop, unlike she ever did. He smiled, watching Johnny shuffle the cards already. He took it as an answer in of itself.

Sure, of course. If you want to, that is. Slapjack again, or...?

He asked, raising his eyebrows and leaning his face onto his palm. He winced when his elbow rested on his knee, but he didn't really care to shift. It hurts, but he learned to deal with it. He was half convinced his injuries were psychosomatic anyway.

He watched Johnny's face a little closer, watching the paleness and the subtle shivers. It was clear as day the other man was ill, and the fact he was damp probably wasn't helping. Maybe he should do something about it.

Someone was touching him. His hair. There was a hand in his hair. He tried to recall yesterday, vaguely remembered the glass in his arms, picking it out, eating??? Then what?

It was all a blur.

He was burning up. Although he was sure he'd slept, he was still very dizzy. His throat felt dry. Too dry.

He tried to get up, get away from whoever the fuck was touching his hair, and somehow managed to fall off the couch. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

He didn't feel very well at all. He stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he sick? He never got sick. What the fuck? He couldn't be sick. He cursed, voice muffled by the fact he was face down on the floor.

Francis' voice was soft, already awake since he never slept for more than one or two hours. He leaned down to see Johnny, noticing the distress from getting touched.

I didn't mean to freak you out, kid. Are you alright?

He reached out a hand, a gentle smile as he offered to help Johnny up and back onto the couch. It was odd, nothing like the Clef that Johnny knew. Well, of course not, it was Francis, but it wasn't like Johnny knew that quite yet. He didn't touch, not when Johnny damn near jumped off the couch. He'd ease him back into it.

Come here, I... I won't touch you if you don't want me to. You know that, right?

Dimly, he realized that it was likely because he'd somehow let his injuries get infected, or because he was still covered in his own dried up blood, or maybe he was just unlucky. He doubted it was infection, did that make people cough? Fucking hell. He didn't know.

He blocked his eyes from the light overhead, not bothering to respond to Francis for a moment. He knew something fucked up had happened, had a feeling that was why "Clef" was acting so weird. God fucking damn it, Johnny, you're useless!

"I'm fine," he snapped. "You don't need to baby me."

It's okay, you don't have you yell, Johnny... you're not in danger, there's no need to be angry!

He wasn't sure if this was the proper response just yet, since he didn't know this version of Johnny too well. He raised his hands placatingly, trying to show he wasn't a danger and he didn't mean to cause harm. His gentle smile remained, something he'd keep until he really couldn't anymore.

I'm not babying you, I'm simply... trying... to help you! It's not anything bad. It's not bad to be helped, I just...

Johnny realized what was happening because he'd seen it happen before. Jerry used to act the same way, right after Johnny made that horrible, horrible mistake.

He took in a raspy breath and sat up. He didn't apologize. He never apologized. He had apologized a lot, yesterday.

He should apologize.

No, he didn't feel bad. He was incapable of it. That's what he had to keep telling himself.

"You're fine," he said, BEGRUDGINGLY. "I'm not going to fucking... kill you, or anything. Its fine. I just don't need any help."

You've killed people before for less, Johnny, what changed?

Johnny started coughing again. He groaned, realizing that yes, he was definitely sick. "Fuck."

He picked himself up off the floor and returned himself to the couch, trying to ignore how dizzy he felt, how the headache seemed to get five thousand times worse every time he moved.

Migraine, maybe. The last time he got one of these was after-

Something sharp, digging through her eye. A small hammer, tapping, tapping, tapping. Pain, pain, pain. The cycle repeated thrice. Then nothing.

...You're coughing a lot. And, uh, I didn't think you were going to kill me, haha. Obviously...

If anything is snitching on the fact he isn't Clef, it's the fact he thinks Johnny wouldn't kill him given half the chance. Francis stared at him for a moment before looking away, tapping at his knee. Johnny's state looked rather bad, for a lack of a better word. Francis couldn't place his finger on exactly what malady Johnny could have at the moment, but he'd try his best. Maybe it was a cold? The flu?

Do you want, um, cough medicine? You like you, uh, need it.

"I don't need medicine," he said, quieter, taking care to control his tone, to avoid sounding angry. "I'm fine."

He wasn't fine, that much was certain, but Johnny would rather rip off his own skin than admit that. God, he felt so pathetic. He had been taken care of far too much. He hated it. Anger, or maybe guilt, burned in his chest. He wanted to yell, to lash out, but he didn't need another fiasco like yesterday. He needed to restrain himself. He couldn't show weakness again.

Besides, something about Francis reminded him of Jerry The Secretary. He didn't want to see that look again. That stupid, stupid, pathetic smile that told Johnny the guy was just trying to appease him rather than it being something genuine. He hated it.

Whatever. He'd hurt plenty of people, he didn't know why the thought of hurting Jerry this guy made him feel so awful. He was a monster. He was a weapon. He was civilized.

His brain preferred the latter.

...I'll grab you some cough drops, okay? You don't have to take them, but they'll help with your cough.

He stumbled up from where he was sitting, an obvious wince coming from him as he beared weight on his legs. He cursed Clef for not leaving the crutches in the bathroom, but he had stuff to grab, shit to do. He managed his way to the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards in search of where the medicine was hidden.

His hand grazed by a knife, one he wasn't exactly familiar with. A small "Hm," left his lips before he took it out to inspect it. Shitty hiding spot. He'd relocate it later, he thought, leaving the sheathed blade next to the sink while he continued on his search for the damned cough drops.

Francis finally curled his fingers around a bag of Ricola cough drops, pulling it out and stumbling to the back of the couch. He plopped the bag next to Johnny with a grin.

There. I think they're extra strength, but I don't remember. Have at them. I'll be right back, I gotta find... something.

GOD, it BURNED.

Johnny grimaced and stood up. He needed to wash this shit off himself, even he had limits, and his hand had brushed against his fucking beard when he'd put the cough drop in his mouth and it reminded him he needed to fucking shave.

He stumbled to the kitchen, using other surfaces to keep his balance because he was dizzy as all hell, and grabbed his sheathed knife before making his way to the bathroom and locking the door this time.

He unwrapped the bandages and made sure the injuries underneath didn't show any signs of infection. As far as he could tell, they were fine, so he threw the bandages into the trash. He didn't need them.

He needed to shower.

He didn't want to take his clothes off, not ever, but they were disgusting and sweaty. He decided to just shower with them on. It'd clean two things at once.

Before that, however, he needed to deal with the problem of his hair. It was more efficient to do it before he got in the shower so that the water would wash off any hair that landed on him.

He stared into the mirror. That's not him, that's not him, that's not him and unsheathed the knife, then measured out his preferred length of hair. He'd done this plenty of times at the company and so he knew exactly how to do it. With little fuss, the red strands came off and into the sink. The scruff around his neck and chin was less easy, he had to be very precise or he'd cut himself. Luckily he had a mirror this time, so it was way easier. Eventually he'd properly cleaned himself up, and he looked like his normal, clean-shaven self, now with proper shoulder length hair instead of that fucking mop that'd been on his head before.

Then he got into the shower and cleaned the dried up blood off of his skin. Washed his hair. Washed his clothes. Got out. Waited until he was dry. (By dry, he meant not dripping water everywhere, his clothes were still damp.) Unlocked the bathroom door, made his way to the kitchen, returned his knife to its hiding spot, because there was no way it needed to be next to the sink, it was clean!

Did he do something? Who made Johnny cut his hair? Did Francis remind of somebody? Did Francis make him think it wrong to have long hair or facial hair? Did he do what she did to him? Did he? Oh, God, did he hurt Johnny?

...What'd you do to your hair?

His voice was unsure, apprehensive. A little meek, but more confused than anything. He really did think he did everything right. Did he not? Maybe Johnny's partner got a hold of him. Maybe the one that prefers him not looking too healthy. The one that made Francis feel a little sick inside.

You know it's okay to be, you know. You don't have to...

His hair? Really?

"Uh, I cut it?" He replied, uneasily. "It was getting too long."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Really, why was Francis so hung up on this? It was concerning, honestly, not that Johnny was Concerned, no, he would never, why would you suggest such a thing? Maybe the other man was concerned because Johnny freaked out yesterday. Maybe he didn't want Johnny around anything sharp enough to cut hair.

He stepped away from the couch, another raspy cough rattling through his chest. It was less intense than before, mostly thanks to the cough drop, but God damn. He really wished he wasn't sick right now.

Nobody, uh... nobody made you feel like you had to, right? There's nothing wrong with long hair. It's not bad. You choose your own appearance! Don't let, uh, other people choose it for you.

If only Francis knew he sounded insane preaching this to a man who decided this of his own volition. It's not like he knew. All that flashed through his mind was the night Lilly berated him for looking like a woman, like some kind of fag. The night she grabbed him by the hair and forced him to cut it. Told him if he really wanted to be a woman, he might as well shave off that ugly stubble. God, he couldn't help but be concerned for Johnny. What if the same could've happened? What if someone convinced him he had to? What if?

Really, buzzing all off it would be the most practical, but-

He really didn't want to look like a soldier again.

It just didn't suit him.

He averted his eyes when Francis suggested he lay down. "Not sick enough to lounge around all day, like some lazy fuckin'--"

He realized he was just repeating what his boss would say. Working hard, or hardly working? The phrase had internalized itself in his mind.

He remembered the time he'd worked himself into an exhausted stupor, and then Jerry had laced his drink with something, he'd passed out. Johnny knew the stupid fucker didn't have any nefarious intentions, the robot was uh... Odd. Drugging Johnny into sleeping was the most efficient way to follow his directive (help the workers of the company, Johnny needed "help" sleeping)...

Well, anyway, when Johnny woke up from that the boss had berated him for being lazy, lazy, lazy, and Johnny'd gotten overtime.

He supposed he didn't want it to happen again, though he wasn't at the company anymore and would probably get a worse punishment when he went back.

He didn't need to lay down.

There's nothing wrong with femininity. You can be feminine if you want. It's not a bad thing...

He was quiet after Johnny's comments about being lazy or confused by TV. The thought made him sad, really. Had Johnny ever gotten rest without feeling guilty about it? How do you convince a person like that just to sit down for a while?

And, I mean, there's nothing really better for you to do.

He sighed. He shouldn't have to explain it, didn't really know how to, but it was likely that this guy wouldn't remember later. If the reason for his weird behavior was what Johnny thought it was. Hopefully.

"I-" How did he word it? "Used to be, uh..."

He didn't want to say it.

"I used to be a... You know. Not, uh. A guy. Weird, I know." He grimaced. "I just prefer my hair short, okay?"

Johnny wanted to get out of this conversation as fast as possible. If he was asked to explain himself any further he might just combust.

Francis felt his face go a little pink as he realized what was actually going on. He laughed, nervously at first, before he actually fell over onto the couch from laughing at himself. He felt really stupid, in a really amused way.

That's not— I'm so sorry! That's not weird, I— haha— sorry. That was stupid of me, wasn't it?

He finally collapsed against the couch, sliding his arms out of the forearm grasps and resting them against the couch. He grabbed the remote before staring at the TV, realizing he didn't exactly know what to watch. Sure, he watched a bit when he was younger, but when Lily was around it wasn't exactly an option. Knowing Johnny, he probably didn't watch TV all too much either. Shit.

He cycled through a bunch of random channels on the Foundation cable before settling on something with a mildly interesting name, laying back and watching it. He eventually looked back at Johnny, staring at him, assessing his look. He really did look like Francis did, except... he chose it. It didn't make sense to him, but, really, it wasn't his body. It didn't have to make sense to him. Maybe he understood why Lily got hung up on it. Maybe he shouldn't have made a fuss about it. She loved him. She knew what was best for him. She was just trying to look out for him, right?

I think your hair looks good.

"Thanks." The compliment didn't really register to him, Johnny never really got compliments, so when he did he usually assumed they were lies and tuned them out.

Speaking of tuning things out, he really wasn't able to pay attention to whatever was happening on the TV. He didn't see the point in just watching shit on a screen. He'd rather be doing something more active, more hands on.

"Why do people like this shit?" He asked, leaning back on the couch. He wished he had a drink or something. "What's even the point?"

I don't know. I just know I'm supposed to like it. She really liked it, I mean, so I guess I liked it too.

He shrugged, leaning into the couch as some stupid scene played out on the TV. It really didn't mean anything to him. The actors didn't feel human, the scenario felt fake, and all of it felt so unsettlingly fake. It's like playing dollhouse. It's the fake smiles after coming home from work and not being able to say anything remotely bad.

I'd suggest board games, but I don't know where Cle- I mean- I don't know where I put them.

Huh. Odd.

Was he hallucinating??? No, he doubted it, he felt fine now. Right?

He looked over at Francis, observing the guy, wondering if he'd noticed it too.

She. Who was the "she" he was talking about? Johnny felt like he shouldn't pry, but he filed the information away for later. Just in case it came up.

He also made note of the slip up.

His suspicions had definitely been correct. Clef was... like him, in a way. He could've guessed way earlier, but he wanted more evidence.

Anyway. Board games. Board games, what were those? He wasn't quite certain. He'd never played one. He was sure there were rules. They were a group activity, right? He couldn't recall.

Francis gestured awkwardly, smiling nervously. He hoped at least one part of it would make sense to Johnny and they could do something more engaging or fun. Maybe Johnny knew some kind of card game? God, Francis just wanted something to do to get rid of his thoughts for once.

You know card games? Like, um, blackjack, slapjack, some kind of other jack, war, probably with the jacks--

While he listed off random names, he pulled out a decorative deck of cards out of nowhere, shuffling them while thinking. Yes, Johnny surely would know card games. There's no way he's so sheltered he didn't.

His eyes practically lit up when he saw the cards, a smile forming on his face before he remembered how sharp and ominous his fucking teeth are and forced himself to frown instead. He was very stern and mature, trust him, he never smiled.

He would never lie, what are you talking about?

Johnny never played cards in the company, but there was that one time on that horrible vacation– Johnny shivered a little, and tried to forget about the rest of it– and all those other times in his former lives. When he was a soldier, sometimes he and his unit would pass the time with cards. They were very easy to carry around when other things meant to entertain were not.

Slapjack, huh? I love slapjack. It's such a fun game to pass the time, and it's always been one of my favorites...

He babbled just to pass the time as he dealt the cards between them, forgetting about the shitty TV show still on in the background. Francis finally picked up his deck and looked up at Johnny.

Believe me when I say I'm gonna beat ya, kid. Believe me. Because I'm fantastic at slapjack.

He opened his eyes when Francis was done and adjusted his posture so he could pay better attention. Man, his nose felt so sniffly. He sighed and wiped his snot on the sleeve of his shirt like a loser. His clothes were still mildly damp, which was at least helping to lower his high temperature.

"If you say so," he replied, taking his own deck in hand.

...he realized how sickly Johnny looked.

Maybe this isn't about really winning, he thought. Maybe I should give him a chance. Francis bit his cheek while grinning, deciding to gloat before "karma" would kick his ass and cause Johnny to "win." Not too obviously, of course, but enough to... hopefully make him feel better about his illness.

Damn, son, you're awful at slapjack, aren't you?

Francis quickly "regretted" his words when his own reaction time began to slip, the game ever leaning into Johnny's favor... wow, what a sad turn of the tables for Francis. Soon enough, the half deck that was previously in Francis' hands was now in Johnny's instead, and Francis was left comically cursing and whining with each missed opportunity.

Okay, what the hell, Johnny? When the hell did you become better than me? This isn't faaaair...!

The whining was theatrical. Maybe a bit too theatrical for Francis' taste, but he didn't care. He just wanted to peep that victorious grin on Johnny's lips, whether that meant selling throughout the entire game or not. All he knew was that this was much more fun than just winning outright.

Okay, he was a bit of a sore loser.

That's why as soon as he started winning, he was so happy about it that he didn't even seem to realize Francis was letting him win.

"You're just getting old," he taunted, even though he could say the same about himself, with all the lives he'd lived. Not that Francis was aware of that, his physical body always reset back to how old he'd been before-

He had just turned 20. The leader had declared that Johnny would face execution for his failure. He remembered pain, pain, pain, pain.

He shook his head like a wet dog trying to dry itself off and focused on the game.

Francis couldn't help the way he laughed out loud when he got taunted. He couldn't even bother with faking feeling annoyed over losing because it felt like such a reward to see Johnny grin like that. Even as he lost his last card, he couldn't help the way he was giggling.

Damnit. You're a bastard.

Even so, he couldn't help but reach over and pinch Johnny's cheek affectionately, just to annoy the other man. And maybe just because Francis was naturally affectionate. Come on, he couldn't help himself. He let go just as soon as he did it.

Someone was touching him. His hair. There was a hand in his hair. He tried to recall yesterday, vaguely remembered the glass in his arms, picking it out, eating??? Then what?

It was all a blur.

He was burning up. Although he was sure he'd slept, he was still very dizzy. His throat felt dry. Too dry.

He tried to get up, get away from whoever the fuck was touching his hair, and somehow managed to fall off the couch. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

He didn't feel very well at all. He stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he sick? He never got sick. What the fuck? He couldn't be sick. He cursed, voice muffled by the fact he was face down on the floor.

Francis' voice was soft, already awake since he never slept for more than one or two hours. He leaned down to see Johnny, noticing the distress from getting touched.

I didn't mean to freak you out, kid. Are you alright?

He reached out a hand, a gentle smile as he offered to help Johnny up and back onto the couch. It was odd, nothing like the Clef that Johnny knew. Well, of course not, it was Francis, but it wasn't like Johnny knew that quite yet. He didn't touch, not when Johnny damn near jumped off the couch. He'd ease him back into it.

Come here, I... I won't touch you if you don't want me to. You know that, right?

Dimly, he realized that it was likely because he'd somehow let his injuries get infected, or because he was still covered in his own dried up blood, or maybe he was just unlucky. He doubted it was infection, did that make people cough? Fucking hell. He didn't know.

He blocked his eyes from the light overhead, not bothering to respond to Francis for a moment. He knew something fucked up had happened, had a feeling that was why "Clef" was acting so weird. God fucking damn it, Johnny, you're useless!

"I'm fine," he snapped. "You don't need to baby me."

It's okay, you don't have you yell, Johnny... you're not in danger, there's no need to be angry!

He wasn't sure if this was the proper response just yet, since he didn't know this version of Johnny too well. He raised his hands placatingly, trying to show he wasn't a danger and he didn't mean to cause harm. His gentle smile remained, something he'd keep until he really couldn't anymore.

I'm not babying you, I'm simply... trying... to help you! It's not anything bad. It's not bad to be helped, I just...

Johnny realized what was happening because he'd seen it happen before. Jerry used to act the same way, right after Johnny made that horrible, horrible mistake.

He took in a raspy breath and sat up. He didn't apologize. He never apologized. He had apologized a lot, yesterday.

He should apologize.

No, he didn't feel bad. He was incapable of it. That's what he had to keep telling himself.

"You're fine," he said, BEGRUDGINGLY. "I'm not going to fucking... kill you, or anything. Its fine. I just don't need any help."

You've killed people before for less, Johnny, what changed?

Johnny started coughing again. He groaned, realizing that yes, he was definitely sick. "Fuck."

He picked himself up off the floor and returned himself to the couch, trying to ignore how dizzy he felt, how the headache seemed to get five thousand times worse every time he moved.

Migraine, maybe. The last time he got one of these was after-

Something sharp, digging through her eye. A small hammer, tapping, tapping, tapping. Pain, pain, pain. The cycle repeated thrice. Then nothing.

...You're coughing a lot. And, uh, I didn't think you were going to kill me, haha. Obviously...

If anything is snitching on the fact he isn't Clef, it's the fact he thinks Johnny wouldn't kill him given half the chance. Francis stared at him for a moment before looking away, tapping at his knee. Johnny's state looked rather bad, for a lack of a better word. Francis couldn't place his finger on exactly what malady Johnny could have at the moment, but he'd try his best. Maybe it was a cold? The flu?

Do you want, um, cough medicine? You like you, uh, need it.

"I don't need medicine," he said, quieter, taking care to control his tone, to avoid sounding angry. "I'm fine."

He wasn't fine, that much was certain, but Johnny would rather rip off his own skin than admit that. God, he felt so pathetic. He had been taken care of far too much. He hated it. Anger, or maybe guilt, burned in his chest. He wanted to yell, to lash out, but he didn't need another fiasco like yesterday. He needed to restrain himself. He couldn't show weakness again.

Besides, something about Francis reminded him of Jerry The Secretary. He didn't want to see that look again. That stupid, stupid, pathetic smile that told Johnny the guy was just trying to appease him rather than it being something genuine. He hated it.

Whatever. He'd hurt plenty of people, he didn't know why the thought of hurting Jerry this guy made him feel so awful. He was a monster. He was a weapon. He was civilized.

His brain preferred the latter.

...I'll grab you some cough drops, okay? You don't have to take them, but they'll help with your cough.

He stumbled up from where he was sitting, an obvious wince coming from him as he beared weight on his legs. He cursed Clef for not leaving the crutches in the bathroom, but he had stuff to grab, shit to do. He managed his way to the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards in search of where the medicine was hidden.

His hand grazed by a knife, one he wasn't exactly familiar with. A small "Hm," left his lips before he took it out to inspect it. Shitty hiding spot. He'd relocate it later, he thought, leaving the sheathed blade next to the sink while he continued on his search for the damned cough drops.

Francis finally curled his fingers around a bag of Ricola cough drops, pulling it out and stumbling to the back of the couch. He plopped the bag next to Johnny with a grin.

There. I think they're extra strength, but I don't remember. Have at them. I'll be right back, I gotta find... something.

GOD, it BURNED.

Johnny grimaced and stood up. He needed to wash this shit off himself, even he had limits, and his hand had brushed against his fucking beard when he'd put the cough drop in his mouth and it reminded him he needed to fucking shave.

He stumbled to the kitchen, using other surfaces to keep his balance because he was dizzy as all hell, and grabbed his sheathed knife before making his way to the bathroom and locking the door this time.

He unwrapped the bandages and made sure the injuries underneath didn't show any signs of infection. As far as he could tell, they were fine, so he threw the bandages into the trash. He didn't need them.

He needed to shower.

He didn't want to take his clothes off, not ever, but they were disgusting and sweaty. He decided to just shower with them on. It'd clean two things at once.

Before that, however, he needed to deal with the problem of his hair. It was more efficient to do it before he got in the shower so that the water would wash off any hair that landed on him.

He stared into the mirror. That's not him, that's not him, that's not him and unsheathed the knife, then measured out his preferred length of hair. He'd done this plenty of times at the company and so he knew exactly how to do it. With little fuss, the red strands came off and into the sink. The scruff around his neck and chin was less easy, he had to be very precise or he'd cut himself. Luckily he had a mirror this time, so it was way easier. Eventually he'd properly cleaned himself up, and he looked like his normal, clean-shaven self, now with proper shoulder length hair instead of that fucking mop that'd been on his head before.

Then he got into the shower and cleaned the dried up blood off of his skin. Washed his hair. Washed his clothes. Got out. Waited until he was dry. (By dry, he meant not dripping water everywhere, his clothes were still damp.) Unlocked the bathroom door, made his way to the kitchen, returned his knife to its hiding spot, because there was no way it needed to be next to the sink, it was clean!

Did he do something? Who made Johnny cut his hair? Did Francis remind of somebody? Did Francis make him think it wrong to have long hair or facial hair? Did he do what she did to him? Did he? Oh, God, did he hurt Johnny?

...What'd you do to your hair?

His voice was unsure, apprehensive. A little meek, but more confused than anything. He really did think he did everything right. Did he not? Maybe Johnny's partner got a hold of him. Maybe the one that prefers him not looking too healthy. The one that made Francis feel a little sick inside.

You know it's okay to be, you know. You don't have to...

His hair? Really?

"Uh, I cut it?" He replied, uneasily. "It was getting too long."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Really, why was Francis so hung up on this? It was concerning, honestly, not that Johnny was Concerned, no, he would never, why would you suggest such a thing? Maybe the other man was concerned because Johnny freaked out yesterday. Maybe he didn't want Johnny around anything sharp enough to cut hair.

He stepped away from the couch, another raspy cough rattling through his chest. It was less intense than before, mostly thanks to the cough drop, but God damn. He really wished he wasn't sick right now.

Nobody, uh... nobody made you feel like you had to, right? There's nothing wrong with long hair. It's not bad. You choose your own appearance! Don't let, uh, other people choose it for you.

If only Francis knew he sounded insane preaching this to a man who decided this of his own volition. It's not like he knew. All that flashed through his mind was the night Lilly berated him for looking like a woman, like some kind of fag. The night she grabbed him by the hair and forced him to cut it. Told him if he really wanted to be a woman, he might as well shave off that ugly stubble. God, he couldn't help but be concerned for Johnny. What if the same could've happened? What if someone convinced him he had to? What if?

Really, buzzing all off it would be the most practical, but-

He really didn't want to look like a soldier again.

It just didn't suit him.

He averted his eyes when Francis suggested he lay down. "Not sick enough to lounge around all day, like some lazy fuckin'--"

He realized he was just repeating what his boss would say. Working hard, or hardly working? The phrase had internalized itself in his mind.

He remembered the time he'd worked himself into an exhausted stupor, and then Jerry had laced his drink with something, he'd passed out. Johnny knew the stupid fucker didn't have any nefarious intentions, the robot was uh... Odd. Drugging Johnny into sleeping was the most efficient way to follow his directive (help the workers of the company, Johnny needed "help" sleeping)...

Well, anyway, when Johnny woke up from that the boss had berated him for being lazy, lazy, lazy, and Johnny'd gotten overtime.

He supposed he didn't want it to happen again, though he wasn't at the company anymore and would probably get a worse punishment when he went back.

He didn't need to lay down.

There's nothing wrong with femininity. You can be feminine if you want. It's not a bad thing...

He was quiet after Johnny's comments about being lazy or confused by TV. The thought made him sad, really. Had Johnny ever gotten rest without feeling guilty about it? How do you convince a person like that just to sit down for a while?

And, I mean, there's nothing really better for you to do.

He sighed. He shouldn't have to explain it, didn't really know how to, but it was likely that this guy wouldn't remember later. If the reason for his weird behavior was what Johnny thought it was. Hopefully.

"I-" How did he word it? "Used to be, uh..."

He didn't want to say it.

"I used to be a... You know. Not, uh. A guy. Weird, I know." He grimaced. "I just prefer my hair short, okay?"

Johnny wanted to get out of this conversation as fast as possible. If he was asked to explain himself any further he might just combust.

Francis felt his face go a little pink as he realized what was actually going on. He laughed, nervously at first, before he actually fell over onto the couch from laughing at himself. He felt really stupid, in a really amused way.

That's not— I'm so sorry! That's not weird, I— haha— sorry. That was stupid of me, wasn't it?

He finally collapsed against the couch, sliding his arms out of the forearm grasps and resting them against the couch. He grabbed the remote before staring at the TV, realizing he didn't exactly know what to watch. Sure, he watched a bit when he was younger, but when Lily was around it wasn't exactly an option. Knowing Johnny, he probably didn't watch TV all too much either. Shit.

He cycled through a bunch of random channels on the Foundation cable before settling on something with a mildly interesting name, laying back and watching it. He eventually looked back at Johnny, staring at him, assessing his look. He really did look like Francis did, except... he chose it. It didn't make sense to him, but, really, it wasn't his body. It didn't have to make sense to him. Maybe he understood why Lily got hung up on it. Maybe he shouldn't have made a fuss about it. She loved him. She knew what was best for him. She was just trying to look out for him, right?

I think your hair looks good.

"Thanks." The compliment didn't really register to him, Johnny never really got compliments, so when he did he usually assumed they were lies and tuned them out.

Speaking of tuning things out, he really wasn't able to pay attention to whatever was happening on the TV. He didn't see the point in just watching shit on a screen. He'd rather be doing something more active, more hands on.

"Why do people like this shit?" He asked, leaning back on the couch. He wished he had a drink or something. "What's even the point?"

I don't know. I just know I'm supposed to like it. She really liked it, I mean, so I guess I liked it too.

He shrugged, leaning into the couch as some stupid scene played out on the TV. It really didn't mean anything to him. The actors didn't feel human, the scenario felt fake, and all of it felt so unsettlingly fake. It's like playing dollhouse. It's the fake smiles after coming home from work and not being able to say anything remotely bad.

I'd suggest board games, but I don't know where Cle- I mean- I don't know where I put them.

Huh. Odd.

Was he hallucinating??? No, he doubted it, he felt fine now. Right?

He looked over at Francis, observing the guy, wondering if he'd noticed it too.

She. Who was the "she" he was talking about? Johnny felt like he shouldn't pry, but he filed the information away for later. Just in case it came up.

He also made note of the slip up.

His suspicions had definitely been correct. Clef was... like him, in a way. He could've guessed way earlier, but he wanted more evidence.

Anyway. Board games. Board games, what were those? He wasn't quite certain. He'd never played one. He was sure there were rules. They were a group activity, right? He couldn't recall.

Francis gestured awkwardly, smiling nervously. He hoped at least one part of it would make sense to Johnny and they could do something more engaging or fun. Maybe Johnny knew some kind of card game? God, Francis just wanted something to do to get rid of his thoughts for once.

You know card games? Like, um, blackjack, slapjack, some kind of other jack, war, probably with the jacks--

While he listed off random names, he pulled out a decorative deck of cards out of nowhere, shuffling them while thinking. Yes, Johnny surely would know card games. There's no way he's so sheltered he didn't.

His eyes practically lit up when he saw the cards, a smile forming on his face before he remembered how sharp and ominous his fucking teeth are and forced himself to frown instead. He was very stern and mature, trust him, he never smiled.

He would never lie, what are you talking about?

Johnny never played cards in the company, but there was that one time on that horrible vacation– Johnny shivered a little, and tried to forget about the rest of it– and all those other times in his former lives. When he was a soldier, sometimes he and his unit would pass the time with cards. They were very easy to carry around when other things meant to entertain were not.

Slapjack, huh? I love slapjack. It's such a fun game to pass the time, and it's always been one of my favorites...

He babbled just to pass the time as he dealt the cards between them, forgetting about the shitty TV show still on in the background. Francis finally picked up his deck and looked up at Johnny.

Believe me when I say I'm gonna beat ya, kid. Believe me. Because I'm fantastic at slapjack.

He opened his eyes when Francis was done and adjusted his posture so he could pay better attention. Man, his nose felt so sniffly. He sighed and wiped his snot on the sleeve of his shirt like a loser. His clothes were still mildly damp, which was at least helping to lower his high temperature.

"If you say so," he replied, taking his own deck in hand.

...he realized how sickly Johnny looked.

Maybe this isn't about really winning, he thought. Maybe I should give him a chance. Francis bit his cheek while grinning, deciding to gloat before "karma" would kick his ass and cause Johnny to "win." Not too obviously, of course, but enough to... hopefully make him feel better about his illness.

Damn, son, you're awful at slapjack, aren't you?

Francis quickly "regretted" his words when his own reaction time began to slip, the game ever leaning into Johnny's favor... wow, what a sad turn of the tables for Francis. Soon enough, the half deck that was previously in Francis' hands was now in Johnny's instead, and Francis was left comically cursing and whining with each missed opportunity.

Okay, what the hell, Johnny? When the hell did you become better than me? This isn't faaaair...!

The whining was theatrical. Maybe a bit too theatrical for Francis' taste, but he didn't care. He just wanted to peep that victorious grin on Johnny's lips, whether that meant selling throughout the entire game or not. All he knew was that this was much more fun than just winning outright.