Let me help you, like Johnny helped me.

 Every so often his features will pinch tautly in discomfort, a portrait of pain which ricochets from spine to nape and back again. The vision alone makes Peanut’s chest ache in a performance of utmost sympathy. Had he only the foresight to leap into action, use his body as a shield comprised solely of muscle and desperation, he could have protected the man he cherishes most; perhaps even rip Dana from the clutches of something so atrocious he dares not linger on such thoughts.

 Damp lips flower open across Vance’s temple – idling for several moments simply to feel him. Heavy fingertips press hesitantly over his scalp, breezing through vibrant copper strands and halting there. Experiences like this are rare, after all. Were Vance to arise from a slumber he has finally claimed after so long, he would surely complain about his boyfriend’s fussy fingertips; his image transcending such dire circumstances.

 “I love you,” Peanut whispers, his syllables left slurred from a sleepless tongue.

 For a moment, he swears he can see the crevices of Vance’s mouth twitch upward. Just once, just for a second-

 “Ain’t that cute.”

 Johnny’s voice is a hardened edge cutting through the sanctuary of an otherwise motionless air. Dark and cynical; his body a picturesque shadow tilted against the door frame. Despite how his arms wrap tautly across his chest, Peanut can easily analyse the plum and charcoal bruises staining solid palms; an aftermath to the beating inconsequentially performed on his closest companion.

 Peanut loathes himself for trembling in the way that he does, his eyes positively vast and jaw set into an infallible ridge. Somewhere beneath his skin he can feel his fractured ribs throb pitifully in response – phantom wounds tearing open to oxidize in the acerbic air - irritated by proximity alone. Trauma reinvigorated; blisters forming on areas certain to scab and heal.

 He splutters frantically for breath. Cautious. Careful. Determined to maintain his lover’s ample rest.

“Wh... What’re you doin’ here, Johnny?”

“What’s it look like, Lar? I’m visitin’ my friend in hospital. S’what good leaders do.”

Peanut scoffs at once and then immediately regrets such a sound when Johnny’s eyes flicker momentarily; a somersault through molasses. Vulnerability tears through his stomach with fascinating precision. Yet, he cannot seem to halt the quickening of his vowels nor the distaste powdering his tone.

“Really? Yous still callin’ yourself that? After everythin’ you did to me?”

“I hadta, Peanut, you know that,” Johnny pinches delicately at the bridge of his nose. Counts his breaths. “I hadta show you who is in charge. I make the rules ‘round here. I can’t have my troops runnin’ around and makin’ a joke outta me, now, can I?”

Cautiously, Peanut allows his eyes to flutter to a close; praying that the magnificent darkness will swallow Johnny’s intrusive presence. Cleanse him of a phenom which has haunted him considerably over these past few weeks. And, yet, there is a petite portion of his soul which aches terribly at the notion of losing Johnny Vincent.

Sad, isn’t it? To crave the very poison which could decimate you.

Johnny’s footsteps drag across buffed linoleum with thunderous insistence, the rusted buckles on his boots rattling with every motion, his fingertips tracing unintelligible patterns across Vance’s scarcely moving torso.

“So. He got shot, huh?”

The words can’t bare to leave Peanut’s lips. He nods instead.

Johnny’s whistle strikes like nails on chalkboard – each decibel bouncing throughout bleached walls.

“That’s pretty badass.” He croons, his free hand caressing Peanut’s shoulder – the one free from imposing sling and ill-managed anguish; the one which has not been torn from its socket and then forced back together.  Peanut finds himself flinching regardless.

Johnny’s thumb traces slow semicircles underneath the fuchsia of Peanut’s chin, guided by gnarly bruises favouring his own boot print. An emblem of ownership. He cannot keep the smirk from peppering his voice. “Did you do it?”

Every nerve in Peanut’s body, wired red-hot, sparks to life at such an implication; ears burning and lungs plump. “Of course not! Is you crazy?”

“Mhm,” Johnny purrs, amused, tracing the tip of his nose down the flourish of Peanut’s throat; lingering on a pulse which bounces with life. “This is what I was talkin’ about, Larry. That’s the typa loyalty I wanna see.”

“I didn’t fuckin’ shoot my boyfriend, Johnny!” Peanut’s fingers curl that bit tighter around Vance’s frail palm. Instinctive. “It was Harrington. He wanted Dana back – stole her back – an’ he shot Vance for tryna protect her. Cos I couldn’t.”

Johnny tilts Peanut’s face closer to his own, serpentine breath full of nicotine and spearmint; features aglow with the thrill of the chase. His lower lip curls darkly across his chin in a most theatrical pout and his fingertips scrape against the nape of Peanut’s throat. Keeping him tethered in to the moment.

“Pity. I liked my version better. Was cooler.”

“What’re you tal-“

Johnny’s kisses are never tender. They are thorough, wild, tongue dancing akin to otherworldly flame over the crease of Peanut’s sealed lips and across faded wounds just beginning to fuse back together. Splayed palm pressed desperately into Johnny’s chest in an attempt to dilute his taste – his head held steady within monstrous digits – Peanut can only grunt meekly in response to such an assault. He didn’t want this. Maybe he never did. Certainly, thirteen-year-old Peanut with scraped knees and a killer overbite could never have imagined his flustered testosterone-heavy fantasies would develop into this.

Lopsided infatuation. How the tables have turned.

“Stop fuckin’ doin’ that!” Peanut hisses when their lips part, his voice sullen and dark, lips throbbing from the implication of a violation he never asked for.

“Nah.” Those same wet lips push down Peanut’s throat. A nip here. A nip there. “Yous so good to me. My best friend, Lar.”

Guilt twists Peanut’s abdomen with serrated precision, knotting through flesh and bone, leaving him utterly breathless as Johnny finally peels himself away from his presence. Because Johnny is his best friend; inseparable minds and even tighter fingertips. And if it weren’t for him, for his guidance and persistence, Peanut wouldn’t even have been on Vance’s radar to begin with…

The smack of cigarette packet hitting the bedside table is enough to make Peanut leap from his skin; Vance’s favourites all wrapped up in a hilariously vast bubblegum bow. They blend into the rather large collection swelling by Vance’s side – fragrant bouquets and unopened chocolates and a rather inappropriate phallus-shaped popsicle from Donna.

“Tell him I came, will ya?”

Peanut cannot bare to lift his head. “Okay.”

“And Peanut? You better start seein’ that everythin’ I do – I do it for your sake. You got it?”

Out of the corner of his flooded eyes, Peanut can see the silhouette of Johnny raising his arms. He stretches them outward as though steadying an invisible shotgun, twists his fingers around a materialized lens, pumps the trigger, and-

“Bang!”

And just like that? He’s gone.

When Peanut allows himself the gift of exhaling, he does so s l o w l y; a desperate attempt to settle a heartbeat which has catapulted from the safety of very ribs. He tilts himself forward until his temple rests beside Vance’s twitching fingertips. Needing so desperately to breathe; to eradicate his selfishness with every taut puff. Here Vance was – fresh wounds and scented gauze – and Peanut was worrying about his best friend caring a little too much. He’s a fucking fool.

From his position on grotesquely uncomfortable hospital bed, Peanut doesn’t quite witness the tell-tale fluttering of amber lashes. Cannot fathom how open his boyfriend’s ears have been to this entire discussion. Nor can he detect the ache infiltrating his heart.

[TEXT]: hey sorry I haven’t been around

[TEXT]: I uh

 He has never willingly lead him astray, ill-fitting boots skidding eagerly across the straight and narrow, coaxed into obedience by the flutter of a tinted brow on dark skin. Peanut has always been entirely malleable, putty effortlessly shaped into a vigilant accomplice Johnny could be truly proud of.

 So when his phone lights up, screen blindingly white and with a familiar name printed neatly across the top (accompanied by vast cartoon hearts that Johnny himself had applied – clearly perceptive to Peanut’s oh-so-subtle emotions), pleading for Peanut to meet him at the tenements, it does not take more than a minute for him to throw on his jacket and give Vance a swift kiss goodbye.

 Typical Peanut; Johnny tells him to jump and he will continuously do so until he reaches the correct height, paying no attention to the weakness of his toes after the first five attempts. He’s loyal to a fault.

  He finds Johnny where he expects to see him, back pressed flush against a stack of dusty discolored bricks – the smell of rot immediately combated by a delicious snare of smoke pouring from his parted lips. He does not lift his head as Peanut shuffles blindly into the room, simply makes a small noise of acknowledgement with his shoulders rolling back into damp walls. There’s a rosette of crimson bleeding over his neck, faded but undeniable, a gift undoubtedly crafted from Dana’s lips after their impromptu rendezvous amidst murky New Coventry streets.

 Admittedly, it’s a good look on him; all chewed up and roughened around the edges.

 “Hey,” Peanut announces, approaching his best friend tentatively, all those eggshells crunching underneath his feet. “Is you okay? Ya sounded kinda urgent in the text s’all.”

Head kept perfectly straight, focused on the blankness occupying the space in front of him, Johnny’s tongue wraps around the blades in his throat; speaking so sharply it almost staggers Peanut.

 “I’m great.”

 There’s a look in his eye which can only be described as serpentine. Venomous scales slinking throughout his iris. Forked tongues cracking like lightening bolts across his vision. Peanut has only ever seen that look once – only now there is no Lola Lombardi with her knees skidded and mouth wrapped around someone else’s cock.

There’s just him. Just Peanut. What could he possibly have done?

 “Uh… is… is you sure?” Peanut tries, dry lips smacking against every consonant. “Cos yous lookin’ at me real funny right now.”

 Tossing his cigarette blindly from the window, a curling coil of amber twisting whimsically amidst the indigo air, Johnny makes a move toward Peanut. He circles him s l o w l y – inhaling sharply on every turn – a predator enslaving his prey with a dynamic glance. Watching him. Haunting him. Hunting him.

 His thumb brackets against Peanut’s collarbone before he can halt the motion, nails leaving dark crescents over doughy skin, and their bodies collapse into the adjacent wall with an uncoordinated tumble. Before a single decibel of protest can leave Peanut’s shaking lips Johnny is suddenly reaching l o w. He grabs his cock with vigor; pleasure and pain ricocheting up his length all at once. He sputters in protest and shoves Johnny as violently as he can possibly manage.

 “W-What the fuck are you doin’, man?!” He can feel his eyes bulging, his heart clattering desperately into frail ribs. “I’m with Vance, now, ya can’t do that!”

 Johnny tuts in response, a roll of those reptilian eyes providing a momentary distraction as he rips Peanut from the wall and throws him to the ground as though he were trash. His foot collides with Peanut’s ribs so forcefully that his vision bleeds into a faded amaranth. The sounds which burst from his lips are strangled – frightened – and utterly betrayed.

 “You know, Peanut. I’m so disappointed in you,” Another hard kick to Peanut’s sternum, his own balance wavering from the impact. “I expect this sorta bullshit from Vance. He’s a fuckin’ slut. Givin’ it to everyone and everyone. But not from you. D’ya know how this all fuckin’ fag shit makes me look?”

 All of Peanut’s teeth feel suddenly too large for his petite mouth, tongue tracing over those crooked bumps as he fights to salvage what little oxygen remains in his lungs. He coughs sharply, attempting to balance forward on splintered palms. Normally he would apologize, cower in fear and plead for his position within the greasers to remain at its peak.

 Not this time.

 “Watch ya mouth. D-Don’t fuckin’ talk ‘bout him like that.”

 Johnny laughs, volcanic and enthusiastic; a sound akin to nails dancing along vandalized chalkboard.

 “Just what I thought. Yous too far gone.”

 The sound of Johnny whistling came so abruptly that Peanut is certain he’s hallucinating, the pain radiating like current from his center playing tricks on an already impressionable mind. It takes a moment (or was that a century? His head aches too much to differentiate properly) for two familiar yet blurry figures to dip into his peripheral view.

 Norton’s jaw is locked firmly in place, lips quivering and hands shaking; resigned strictly to the task at hand.

Hal can’t even look at Peanut, his eyes darting wildly throughout every corner of the room as though seeking a purpose; justification for what is being asked of him.

 “Boys, you know what you need to do.”

 The assault happens quicker than Peanut can comprehend, a pack of ravenous wolves tearing him apart along embossed seams. Their fists are forged from obsidian, shattering his skin into a collision of disgusting aubergine and grotesque scarlet – splitting his lip into individual segments, vision stolen from his eye as the skin blossoms and swells twice its size. His bones pop and crackle underneath the weight of Norton’s boots; his whimpers of agony stolen by Hal’s kneecap as it crushes his windpipe. They treat him as though he were expendable – a mere blip on their radar. Something to be snuffed out for the good of the group.

 A blind loyalty that Peanut himself has been pathetically guilty of.

 The smell of his own blood, nicotine and copper, causes Peanut’s abdomen to twist in on itself. His shirt has become soaked in the stuff, a choker of violence pouring down his neck and trembling arms. Broken. Fractured. Stained. The fingertips wrapped tightly around his throat can only temporarily distract from the pain of a dislocated shoulder and yet, through the ringing of his ears, he swears he can hear Hal muffle several desperate apologies.

 Perhaps that’s wishful thinking.

 There is a single moment of tranquillity – of relief – when their abuse draws to an almighty stop; when he can barely breathe through the bubble of his lungs and bask in the fact he is somehow still alive. And then Johnny is pulling his leg right back only to strike at once, kicking Peanut so hard under the chin that his head reels back and then there’s n o t h i n g.

Just darkness.

 He isn’t sure how long he is unconscious for, only certain that he is absolutely fucking dying when he has been ripped back from the depths of delusion, finally seeing his Dad again and oh his Ma will be so upset and fuck he didn’t even get to tell Vance how much he loved him.

 Too much pain. Too much agony. This is it his life is over he’s gonna die right here in the tenements and no one will notice or care and he’s going to fucking die-

 And then there’s a hand on his collapsed chest. Calloused, blood-stained fingers trace invisible circles over tarnished muscle in a motion which reads as nothing short of affection, concern and utmost love. Through the small pocket of space he can successfully witness, Peanut can just barely make out Johnny’s lazy silhouette. And he hates himself for whimpering the way he does.

“It’s okay. Yous okay. I’ve got you,” Johnny coos, brushing his fingertips over Peanut’s matted hairline. “I had to do that. Ya had to remember your place, okay? You made me do that.”

 His lips brush Peanut’s slowly. Wet and warm from the drench of his blood, tongue just barely massaging his own in an act of possessive delight. And then he’s retreating back, wiping the blood from his mouth with the tint of his knuckles.