Thursday Night

[billboyd]

The evening of the Open Call, the Bill/Johnny Convo, and the Bill/Orlando Convo.

Bill pulls the Mini half onto Johnny's drive and half on the grass. There's plenty of room at the moment, but once he's ready to go, he's not interested in getting blocked in. In his experience, when he's ready to get away from the DBY crew, he's ready now.

Comments

[_johnny]

Bill retaliates with a vicious noogie; Johnny catches the leg of the coffee table with one bare foot and yelps, more from surprise than pain, but Bill's not going to be caught down again, oh no; he flips and twists like a trout on a hook, and Johnny can't both tickle and keep him down. He loses his advantage before he knows it, the air rushing out of his lungs when he's turned and pinned and the whole time Johnny's just fucking howling with laughter, kicking and grabbing and swearing when Bill lands solidly on top of him, straddling his pelvis.

"Aw, hell no you ain't," Johnny groans; he swats at Bill's hands ineffectually and Bill pinches his arm. "Fuck you," Johnny snaps, or tries to - the giggles ruin it as Bill rucks the front of Johnny's shirt up and then Johnny's screaming with laughter again, writhing and kicking while Bill says, "Take that, ye mad gobshite, that's for punching me in the face, mate."

Johnny can't remember the last time he laughed this hard, can't remember the last time he let go like this in a completely nonsexual way, both losing himself and just being, man, letting the masks fall away, letting it all just... be. His heart feels lighter than it has in years.

So it is that they're laughing too hard, still battling for position, for leverage, to hear the front door slam.

[keira_nightly]

She's not late, but she's not early either. She would've been, given the option, but even changing in the ladies at school right after class didn't afford her that kind of time. Stripping to her knickers in a stall to wriggle into a trashy little black dress (gotta play the part) and tracing eyeliner in the greenish light above the sink made just late enough to miss one bus but not the other. Bill had offered to get her, but he had better things to do, or ought've had, she pointed out on the end of a bad mobile connection.

Johnny's domain, which gives off an idea of contained ambition, looms suspiciously peaceful behind its creeping greenery, but as she clatters up the drive, Keira can make out the muffled sounds of ... possibly murder? Johnny watching snuff? Or has Orlando come home?

The knob turns freely in her hand and she shoulders her way in, swinging her bookbag, heavy with shed denims and twisted camisole, onto the foyer tiles with a stunned thud.

"What the bloody hell--"

[billboyd]

Bill is on his feet before she finishes the sentence, but Johnny's legs are tangled up with his in some incomprehensible fashion, and he can feel his face heating -- what? eh? -- in absolute mortification even as he feels himself losing his balance. In spite of years of martial arts, his external balance seems too tied in with is internal balance for a handful of seconds, and he knows even as he starts to tilt that he isn't going to be able to regain it.

"Shite!" he barks, and tucks in his arm to minimize any potential damage from the fall -- Keira's wide, wide eyes imprinted almost painfully onto his brain -- and Johnny chooses that moment to attempt to be helpful.

He reaches up and catches a double handful of the front of Bill's shirt and pulls, which, rather than righting Bill, or even slowing his fall, merely changes the direction.

"Shit, man!" Johnny starts, and shoves both heels against the carpet hard, but only scoots backward about six inches before all hundred and seventy pounds of Bill lands directly in his lap. Johnny wheezes, and Bill flails a bit -- the only real thought in his head that he does not want to be in Johnny's lap, thanks, it's not what it looks like, love -- and then raises up just as Johnny's leaning down and Wham!

"Bugger!" Bill snarls, overlapping with Johnny's equally pained "MotherFUCK!" and when Bill glances up (without moving any other part of himself this time, no need to cause any more injuries), Johnny has one hand on his forehead, and is looking at Bill with wide, disbelieving eyes. Bill realizes he's got one hand to his forehead as well, and he doesn't doubt he's mirroring that expression as well.

As one, they turn to look at Keira.

Bill realizes he's still straddling his boss at the same time that Johnny says, "Hey, you!" and nonchalantly shifts one leg, leaving Bill sitting in the open space between Johnny's thighs, his own thighs on either side of Johnny's waist.

"Uh," Bill says.

"Are you..." Keira says, frowning so that her brow crinkles into little ridges, apparently genuinely concerned, "... all right?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Bill sees Johnny turn an look at him. Against his better judgement, he turns as well, because... well, somehow it just seems like the bloody thing to do.

They exchange a long look, and Bill rubs at his aching skull -- hard-headed twat -- and he sees the second that it strikes Johnny funny. Johnny's lips twitch and his eyes go bright, as though someone behind Bill has a spotlight and Bill's seeing the reflection.

Shite, Bill thinks, because he can feel his own lips twitching in response, and the laughter gurgling up from his belly has that inevitable, irrepressable feel to it.

Johnny snorts out a little snicker. It's one of the most ridiculous things Bill has ever heard, and he clamps his lips together so as not to respond, but Johnny's eyes crinkle up and his lips curl and he says, "hee," once. Very quietly.

Bill shakes his head.

"Hee." Johnny says again, and Bill can feel the grin coming on.

"Quit it, you daft prick," Bill growls, his cheeks almost aching with the effort of resisting the grin.

"Hee hee," Johnny replies, his eyes squinted almost shut. "Sexual assault, hee!"

And then they are both roaring, laughing so hard it fucking hurts Bill's throat and belly and ribs and Johnny grabs him, shaking so hard he's nearly toppling over, so Bill slings and arm around him to keep him upright, still bloody howling, simply unable to stop.

[_johnny]

It's not joy, this laughter, it's fuckin' catharsis, it's just shedding energy, bottled up emotion, and it feels amazing, christ, to just get it out. Here, on the floor, clinging and shaking and holding on for dear fuckin' life, yeah, feels good and right and human and-

He can see Keira out of the corner of his eye, still making faces like she don't know whether to call 911 or not, and Bill is still shrieking like an electrocuted banshee, and it suddenly hits Johnny all over again, how much he's confessed today. How far he's come, how much he's gained and how much he's lost... He lets go of Bill, falls back hard against the base of the couch, one hand over his eyes, the crossing the distance from laughter back to tears in barely a step.

Johnny bows his head and finishes what he started hours ago. All the wounds are open, it's time to just let it bleed.

[billboyd]

It happens -- the way it never does with Orlando -- quite naturally.

One second Bill is sitting in the cradle of Johnny's thighs, one of Johnny's arms slung around his shoulders while the two of them howl, and then Johnny is falling backward, and Bill identifies the very small leap from hilarity to grief in the lines around Johnny's mouth, though Johnny's hand goes up to shield his eyes.

The next second, Bill -- not entirely sure how it had even happened -- has one elbow on the seat of the couch and the other wrapped around Johnny's back, under one arm and over the opposite shoulder, something that can't even be remotely identified as anything but a hug, an embrace, especially when Bill factors in the way Johnny clings, pressing his forehead painfully into the line of Bill's collarbone, and Bill does nothing to stop him, doesn't even want to.

"Sorry," Johnny gurgles, his voice liquid and garbled, "sorry, man, thanks, sorry..." and Bill just tightens his hold (and Johnny's got his shirt fisted in both hands, and Bill can feel dampness on the front of his shirt, which he sincerely hopes is tears and not snot) and mutters:

"Don't ever apologize to me," his voice so low that he doubts Johnny even hears him.

[_johnny]

Johnny nods and then shakes his head and says "'M sorry," again, and Bill makes a sort of shushing noise, not entirely a comforting noise but more of a 'shut up and cry like a man' noise. Johnny snuffs loudly, clings tighter, tries to resist pushing his face into Bill's neck like a little kid.

Gotta get your shit together, gotta breathe, gotta stand up and smile and do what you have to. You made your bed, man. You made it.

"Okay," he says, pushing Bill back to arms length, and Bill looks faintly insulted. Johnny shakes his head, wipes his nose on the side of his hand. "Right. I." He looks up at Keira and smiles a smile chock full of bullshit. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I. Am... going to go get some more coffee." He scrabbles to his feet, nearly knocking Bill over in the process.

[keira_nightly]

Before she realises she'd stepped into the livingroom, she's got a hand at Bill's elbow, steadying him -- and herself. Their eyes meet on the way back from staring at Johnny's retreating back. Bill's face is flushed, eyes shining and the lingering shock of a smile still on the corner of his mouth. The look on his face is nothing she's seen on him before, somewhere between amused and dead serious.

He's righted himself without problem but her fingers still curl into the fabric of his shirt, grounding.

"Is he all right?"

There's a loud bang in the kitchen and she starts, flinching at the sound -- and the idea of Johnny being the source of it.