Fic Exchange, for thingsyoumissed

[skyfalling]

Recipient: thingsyoumissed
Title: Nerve to Walk the Floor
Author: riflethrough
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Johnson/Nate
Word Count: 5307
Summary: Creepiness of the lead singer aside, Johnson recognizes that they're a pretty good band. The drummer, Nate, especially.

Johnson is honestly kind of weirded out by Cobra Starship, in general. Actually, more like one member of Cobra Starship. Their lead singer, Gabe, has crazyeyes, the kind that people see right before they die. Ian doesn't seem to get that.

"Dude, you're fucking hilarious when you're high," Ian says, laughing hard enough that it's difficult to even get the words out.

"I'm serious, Ian," Johnson says, kind of in the same tone of voice a parent would say their kid's full name because they were furious at them. Ian presses fingers to the corner of his eye, wipes away wetness. "If anyone on this tour ends up missing, we pretty much know who to look for."

"Is a tomato a fruit?" Ian asks, apparently not devoting as much attention to the conversation as Johnson is. "I think it is."

Creepiness of the lead singer aside, Johnson recognizes that they're a pretty good band. The drummer, Nate, especially. Johnson knows because, a couple times, sometimes, he spends their set sidestage, watches them play.

"Hey, um. You guys were really awesome out there tonight," Johnson says. Nate stops.

"Yeah?" Nate says. His hands come up to pull on each end of the towel around his neck. "You guys weren't looking too bad yourselves," he smiles. "Even with all of the hobbling and limping."

"You watched? I mean, I didn't see you around side stage or anything."

"I was up on the balcony," Nate says and points. Johnson nods.

"Cool, that's cool. I gotta go, but I guess I'll see you around?" Johnson says, fingers tugging through his hair.

"Yeah, no, I'm not really sure that's possible, you know? It's not like we're really going to the same place or anything," Nate says, smiling a little. Johnson rolls his eyes and waves when Nate starts to walk away backwards.

He finds Marshall sitting on an amp not too far away, fingering the band aid on his chin. Johnson sits down next to him, makes big eyes at the icy bottled water he's holding until Marshall hands it over. Marshall presses a cold hand to Johnson's burning cheek and he flinches before leaning into it.

"You are so gone," Marshall says quietly. It sounds like he's laughing at someone. Probably Johnson.

"What are you talking about?" Johnson rolls the water bottle across his forehead, down his neck. He's hot.

"Don't worry about it," Marshall says, but he's still smiling like he's holding a secret.

"Freak," Johnson says, just to hear Marshall squawk. He tries to snatch back his water and Johnson holds it away from both of them. Marshall reaches and reaches and Johnson holds it farther and farther away until they both fall from the amp, Marshall landing on top of him.

"Fucking hell," Johnson wheezes. He landed on a bruise. Marshall grins down at him before getting up quickly and taking his water with him.

"You kinda broke my fall. I guess I should thank you?"

He just jumps out of the way and laughs when Johnson aims a vicious kick at his shins.

*

"If you were an animal, what animal would you be?" Nate asks. He sits down on the curb next to Johnson.

"Um. What?" Johnson does not do well at communicating with new people on the best of days. Throw in the facts that he hadn't seen Nate walking up and that he's just the tiniest bit hungover, with a headache lurking somewhere behind his eyes but never actually making itself known, and he's downright incoherent.

"If you were an animal," Nate says, slower, "what animal would you be?" His smile is just a little mocking when he says it this time.

"A polar bear, I guess," Johnson says, after a pause. They have transparent fur. Can't get much cooler than that. "Why?"

"I read it in a book about how to make the best of small talk," he says, shrugging and looking sheepish. "I'd be a koala bear. In case you wanted to know."

"Why a koala bear?" Johnson asks and feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth for the first time that day.

"They're pretty damn adorable," Nate says, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs out in front of him. "And if they so choose, they could slit your throat with their long-ass claws. Awesome."

This might be another person's cue to say something like you don't need to be a koala bear to be adorable or you're pretty awesome yourself. This might be Johnson's cue, if he were another person. As it is, he just laughs and nods.

Cash comes out of the gas station, not so accidentally hitting Johnson on the back of the head with a bottle of soda, arms full of junk food. He grins at Johnson, says, "We're about to leave, c'mon. What‘s up, Nate?"

"Nothing much. Johnson and I were just engaging in some small talk," Nate says.

"No shit?" Cash asks, eyes wide. "He actually talked to you, like, words came out of his mouth?"

"It was pretty amazing," Nate says, grinning up at Cash before turning to grin at Johnson.

Johnson scrambles to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that comes with the movement. He grabs Cash by the shoulders and spins him toward the buses and their van, pushes him a little too roughly.

"So, uh. I'll see you later?" Johnson says to Nate, still shoving Cash to the van, even as he swears and threatens to beat Johnson down, but doesn‘t drop all the food he‘s holding.

"Yeah, see you around," Nate says, laughing at them a little.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Cash asks as soon as they're in the van, out of sight of Nate.

Johnson can't really articulate all that had gone through his head now that they're not in close proximity to Nate anymore. "Um. I hate you," he says instead of a real explanation.

Cash throws a bag of chips at Johnson's head and grumbles as he climbs over the back of the seat, presumably so that he doesn't have to sit next to Johnson anymore.

"Always the fucking quiet ones," he mutters and doesn't actually speak to Johnson again until later, at the show. Until Johnson sneaks up behind him before they go on stage, grabs him around the waist and spins him. Cash shoves him as soon as his feet are on the floor again, grinning.

"Asshole," he says, as they walk onto the stage.

*

"Cash," Singer says. His hands are twisted in his hair and he's staring at something on his laptop that they can't see. He looks kind of homicidal. "Cash. Can you please stop downloading porn onto my Mac?"

Cash's expression changes from guilty to amused to teasing in one quick moment. "Hey. You know I only do that so that we can have more fun together." He wags his tongue at Singer.

Singer begins to move the stuff in front of him around, searching for something.

"What are you looking for?" Cash asks, still smiling.

"Something to throw at your fat fucking head, seriously--"

"Singer, man, it's not that big of a deal--" Cash starts and walks toward Singer.

"Just stay away from my shit, I'm not even kidding," Singer says and slaps Cash's hands away from his shoulders.

"Look," Cash says as Singer stands up. "I'm sorry."

Singer looks like he won't accept the apology, stubborn and angry, but he deflates just as soon as he'd gotten riled up.

"Whatever," he huffs and crosses his arms. They all know that they will be stuck in the van for far too long in a space that is far too small for any of them to really stay genuinely angry at each other. The few arguments they do have usually end in wrestling matches or wedgies that are violent enough to make Singer give up on finishing 99 Bottles of Sunkist on the Wall.

"See," Cash says, smiling. "No need for the whole diva fit--" is as far he gets before Singer is tackling him to the floor.

Johnson sits up in his seat and, "Oh, shit," Ian says because, yeah, they're both biters. Marshall actually stands up and leans over the table to get a better view.

"Whoa," Nate says, jumping over them as he comes into the room. "Are you guys," he starts before noticing that Ian and Marshall are betting on the two rolling around on the floor.

"They cool down eventually," Johnson says. It's actually a pretty sad wrestling match, as both Singer and Cash are kind of disabled at the moment with Cash's knee being fucked up and Singer's foot, too.

"Right. I came to, uh, get you for your sound check," Nate says and hisses sympathetically when Singer's knee jerks a little too close to some of Cash's very precious bits. Cash's teeth sink into his shoulder.

Johnson wonders why Nate came and not Drew, their tech. He wonders and tries not to jump to conclusions. "Thanks."

"Yeah," he says, shooting a quick smile in Johnson's direction. "I put twenty on Singer," Nate says to Ian.

"Shit, my knee, my knee," Cash yells and Singer lets him go immediately.

"Damn, Cash, I didn't mean to--" he starts before Cash pins him on his stomach, knee pressed into his lower back and arms pinned to floor.

"And that," Cash pants, "is how you take a bitch down."

*

Nate's arms fly when he plays, fast enough to almost be a blur.

Johnson thinks that, when he plays, he couldn't possibly look like that himself.

Once, Nate turns his head in the middle of a song, maybe grinning in Johnson's direction, but then a spotlight is glinting off of a vibrating cymbal, and Nate is looking away again by the time Johnson blinks.

I want, Johnson thinks, can't finish the thought, not even to himself.

*

"Yo, Cash," Johnson says, "I'm gonna go play Halo on the Cobra bus while everyone's still stopped."

"Yeah? Who with?"

"You know. The Cobras," Johnson shrugs. "Nate invited me, sort of."

Cash's eyebrows go almost comically high. "Uh huh," he says slowly. "Well. Be safe."

Johnson makes sure to stare at Cash out of the corner of his eye, let him know that he's being weird. "Whatever. See you later."

On the bus, things are loud, raucous. Gabe is telling a story about this one time, in Tijuana, with a bottle of tequila clutched tightly in his hand, liquid sloshing over his fingers, and Suarez is reminding Gabe that he's never actually been to Tijuana. Gabe just violently shakes his head, eyes wide and pupils dilated.

Ryland and Nate have already started the game. They sit on the floor in front of the tv, close enough that someone who cared would probably tell them to back up, save their eyesight.

It's pretty hilarious, Ryland and Nate playing each other. They're competitive and the jibes they throw back and forth make Johnson laugh more than a couple of times.

Ryland makes an inarticulate noise of rage in the back of his throat. "Shit! Nate stop looking at my goddamn screen!"

"No one's looking at your shitty-ass screen," Nate protests, and even as he says this, his eyes cut to the left.

"Ugh." Ryland sounds disgusted. He looks it, too, as he throws his controller down, walks off toward the kitchenette, muttering the whole way about cheating cheaters who cheat. Johnson can see him sort of bury his face in Victoria's neck. She pets his head, laughing down at him and holding her hand with her drink away from Ryland when he reaches for it.

Nate throws his own controller down, though a lot more gently than Ryland had. He sits on the couch, next to Johnson, says, "You any good at this game?"

"Good enough to beat Marshall," Johnson answers. He almost expects to hear Marshall protest this, jump up and call him a liar. It's what happens every other time Johnson discredits Marshall's self-proclaimed expertise at Halo, but Marshall isn't here.

"Right," Nate says. "Well, I have absolutely no idea how well Marshall plays, so you're gonna have to show your own skills." Nate grins at him, and Johnson smiles back at him a little.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea." Nate's smile changes, not like it dims, but maybe it's a little less open. Johnson wouldn't even notice if he wasn't staring so hard. "It might turn you off the game forever, getting beat by me."

Nate laughs, surprised. "Is that so? Because I think I can take you. And my ego isn't that fragile, actually."

"Okay," Johnson sighs as he slides to floor and picks up Ryland's abused controller. "I'm just saying. Your eyes did look a little wet for a while when Ryland was in the lead."

Nate laughs again, shoves Johnson's shoulder a little when he sits next to him. Johnson ducks his head, hair sliding forward to hide his smile, wide and pleased.

*

"Dude, where are you going? We just got here," Singer says.

"Probably to go make out with Nate or something," Cash says and Ian laughs.

Johnson freezes, heart stuttering in his chest. He forces himself to relax after a panicked second.

"Ha. Ha," he says, dryly. "Please, stop. You're gonna make me piss my pants, that's how hard I'm laughing."

"It's a gift," Cash says, preening, as if Johnson hadn't just been sarcastic.

"Where you goin', Johnson?" Ian asks, smile smug. Johnson crosses his arms.

"I was just gonna walk around a little bit with Nate--"

"I knew it," Cash crows, clapping his hands like the dork he is. Marshall looks torn between calling Cash names and laughing along with him. Johnson isn't very fond of his bandmates sometimes.

"Later," he says, as he's walking through the doorway, ignoring Cash shouting after him. They don't know what they're talking about. He doesn't know what they're talking about.

*

Maybe he has been spending a lot more time with Nate on the past few dates. Maybe he has been found on the Cobra bus/walking/talking/laughing with Nate kind of often. It doesn't really mean anything, just that he's making friends. Isn't that part of what touring is all about? Making meaningful lifelong friendships and shit with other musicians?

"The thing is," Johnson says, tightly, smoke in his lungs. "They don't know shit. Really."

"What don't they know shit about?" Nate asks, amused. He takes the joint from Johnson, takes his own hit.

"About me," Johnson says, exhaling. "And you."

"And what exactly don't they know about us?" Nate's lips are red, a little wet. The paper is a little damp from his spit when Johnson takes the joint back, holds it between his lips.

"They don't know," Johnson says, pauses. He's not the most well-spoken when he's high. Even when he‘s sober, truthfully. "They don't know. How it is."

"Oh," Nate says, drawing it out as if he really understands what Johnson is going on about. His eyes are twinkling, like he's humoring Johnson just a bit, twinkling like they do when Gabe starts talking about respecting the Cobra. "But," Nate continues, "how is it, exactly?"

It's a lot of things. It's, like, a lot of things that Johnson can't really explain right now. Or ever, if he doesn't want to embarrass himself.

Instead, he says, fake disappointedly, "Dude, if you don't know I can't tell you."

Nate's eyes crinkle at the corners, and he laughs quietly. Nate laughs a lot when he's high, Johnson has noticed. Johnson likes making him laugh.

"Is it good, at least?" Nate asks, looking interested and like he really wants an answer.
"Of course," Johnson says, nodding.

"Really good, right?" It's possible that Johnson's not sure what they're talking about anymore, and also that Nate is making fun of him a little.

"Right." Nate hums, edges of his mouth still curved up. Johnson has found that he can't look away from that smile most days.

"Come here," Nate says, pulls on his shoulder with one hand before taking a last hit off the joint and putting it out between spit-wet fingers.

"What," Johnson starts, stops when Nate's hand goes from his shoulder to the back of his neck. He tugs Johnson close, closer, until he has to fall on his hand, grip Nate's thigh to keep himself upright. Johnson's lips are parted from surprise so it's easy for Nate to exhale, push the smoke out into Johnson's mouth, so that it can trickle down his throat. Nate's lips barely, just barely, brush his own and Johnson very nearly has a coughing fit like he hasn't since the very first time he smoked. His lips still tingle when Nate leans back, lets him go.

"Good like that?" Nate is staring down at his hands as he drops the joint back in a baggie, shoves it into the pocket of his hoodie.

"Yeah," Johnson breathes. He blinks, his eyes watery from the almost-coughing fit.

Nate laughs.

*

"Where's your boyfriend?" Cash asks, and Johnson smacks him on the back of the head. "Ow, jesus! What the hell's your problem?"

"You shouldn't tell lies," Johnson says.

"Okay, but I didn't tell any lies--" Cash starts, and Johnson's hand flies out again.

"Son of a bitch," Cash mutters. Johnson might be a little sensitive when it comes to Nate, to say the least.

*

One night, Johnson watches Nate from side stage, watches him as he plays, drums with all he's got. Nate smiles at him a couple of times, between songs and during. Johnson grins back at him.

The point is that it's a pretty normal night, like any other.

Nothing to really warrant the way Nate sort of stalks off the stage in Johnson's direction.

"Hey, you're," Johnson starts.

"Come with me," Nate says, hand wrapping around Johnson's wrist. Johnson follows. Nate leads him down the back, to the empty bathroom, and honestly, Johnson is a little freaked out right now because he isn't really saying anything.

Wow, Johnson thinks as Nate pushes him into the handicapped stall, and locks the door after them. He may even say it out loud if the smirk Nate has is anything to go by.

"Um," Johnson does say, and then Nate is kissing him, really kissing him, and Johnson totally isn't daydreaming right now, he knows he's awake. Holy shit.

Nate is pressing him against he wall of the stall, pushing him against it. He's kissing Johnson like it's important, like it's really important that he gets it right, hands on either side of his face, tilting his head. Johnson wraps his arms around Nate's waist, pressing them closer together, rubbing his fingers into the skin at the small of Nate's back where it's a little damp with sweat. Nate's mouth still hasn't let up, tongue swiping across the seam of Johnson's lips, and Nate is just kissing him and kissing him, and fuck, Johnson thinks he might actually be getting a little dizzy.

He gasps, pressing his forehead to Nate's when he finally pulls back, breathing hard through his nose. Nate licks his lips, eyes still on Johnson's mouth.

"You have no idea how fucking long I‘ve wanted to do that," he says, low and like a secret, and Johnson has to push forward, kiss him again.

"You could have done it a lot sooner," Johnson says, laughs a little. Nate smiles widely, bites his lip.

Johnson tips his head back against the wall, takes a deep breath, because this--Nate in his arms, pressed against his front--feels pretty fucking unreal. Amazing, but unreal. Johnson shivers a little, when Nate's lips brush over the bared column of his throat, kiss just under his ear.

"You okay?" Nate asks, mouth by his ear. Johnson is still shivering, sort of trembling a little.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Johnson looks at him again. "I just. I think I have a huge crush on you."

Nate's mouth twitches. "You think?"

"Sometimes," Johnson says, and makes a face at him.

Nate presses his face back into Johnson's neck, mumbles, "I really like you, too."

God, Johnson can't for the life of him stop the stupid, happy grin that he shows then. It's kind of embarrassing. But.

"My bandmates are really stupid," he says. Nate pulls back to look at him, eyebrows raised. "So, maybe we could just not tell anyone, you know?" Yeah, Johnson kind of is that spiteful, not wanting them to know they were right or whatever.

"If you want," Nate shrugs, looks bemused. "Fine with me, either way."

Johnson kisses Nate again, because he can do that now, he's allowed to. His hands fall to Nate's hips, pull him up against Johnson even tighter.

"We should probably go back," Johnson says, mumbles really.

"We should," Nate agrees, teeth sinking into Johnson's lower lip, tugging a little. He twists a hand in Johnson's hair.

"Mmph. Um, inside," Johnson says, after Nate still hasn't shown any signs that say he's leaving, or even trying. And, hell, if he keeps tugging on Johnson's hair that way, keeps kissing him harder, they definitely won't be leaving anytime soon. But they kind of have to, if they‘re planning on keeping this just between them.

Johnson pushes at Nate's shoulders, just hard enough to make him step back. Nate blows out a breath hard enough to ruffle his bangs.

"You're staying on our bus. Soon," Nate says, no question in his voice.

"Am I?" Johnson asks, grin huge and probably dorky.

"Yes," Nate says, grinning back just as hard.

*

Singer is staring at him, and Johnson is seriously about to punch him in the fucking face if he doesn't keep his goddamn eyes in his own head.

"What," Johnson says through gritted teeth.

"Nothing," Singer says, sort of smirking, and Johnson swears he can feel Singer's stare burning into him just a little harder.

"I fucking hate you," Johnson mutters, lets his head fall into his arms.

"You're a very angry individual, you know that?" Singer asks.

"Why you don't you stop reading psych blogs in your spare time?" Johnson says, smirking when Singer gets a little red.

"Stop changing the subject--"

"There is no subject, you f--"

"Also, I think you have avoidance issues," Singer cuts him off.

"How's that, exactly?" he asks, crossing his arms.

"Your crush on Nate? You should talk about it, not keep those--"

"The hell? I don't have a crush on anyone," Johnson says. "Besides your mom, of course."

Singer tsks at him, crosses his own arms. "You're gonna lie about it now?"

"Singer," Johnson says, voice concerned. "You should stop smoking that shit Gabe hands out, it really fucks with your perception or whatever."

Singer's face twists, and he looks about two seconds from sticking his tongue out at Johnson. "Whatever. If you want to talk, though, about your big gay crush, I'm all ears."

"Whatever," Johnson echoes, and does stick his tongue out.

*

Johnson is by the van smoking a cigarette when Cash and Mason come out, also for a cigarette break it looks like. Johnson is sort of around the corner, so they don't see him at first, they'd have to actually make an effort and look, which they don't.

"Your drummer disappear often?" Mason asks, flicking ashes from his cigarette.

"Probably with Nate, yeah," Cash says.

"Right," Mason says, nodding like, of course, he should've thought of that answer himself. What the hell? "They're pretty tight, huh?"

"You could say that," Cash snorts. Johnson is kind of offended at this point.

"I'm right here, actually," Johnson says, and Cash turns, eyes kind of wide.

"Johnson, bro, you lurk way too fucking much," he says.

Johnson punches his shoulder, says, "I don't fucking lurk, you just don't pay attention."

*

Johnson is leaning against a wall, legs spread so that Nate can stand between them. Nate's leaning against him, letting Johnson take his weight with his arm s around Johnson's neck. They've been making out for almost an hour straight.

Johnson's mouth feels a little raw, mostly tingly, and he's been turned on ever since Nate found him, dragged him off and pushed Johnson against the wall just outside of the back entrance, kind of in an alley. Which, maybe if Johnson were a little more conscious of the troubles of the world, he'd be kind of worried about, but whatever. He's making out with Nate, not, like. Gabe.

Nate's hands are pushed up under his shirt, fingers pressing into Johnson's stomach, tucking under his waistband.

Someone rounds the corner, saying, "Nate, dude, you said you'd only be--whoa."

Nate jumps back, hand to his mouth. Johnson tugs his shirt down quickly, thinks, fuck.

Gabe laughs, says, "Nasty Nate, you did not say you were hooking up with your secret boyfriend. Ryland totally would've left you alone if you'd just said that."

"What?" Johnson asks, heart pounding. Nate presses a hand over his eyes.

Gabe's eyes widen comically, hand flying to his mouth, "Oh, man, I forgot, yeah, secret. Don't even worry about it, guys, I've got you covered." He winks at them before backing out of the sort-of-kind-of alley.

"Oh my god," Johnson says, tipping his head back against the brick. Nate laughs, hard, next to him, squeezes a hand around Johnson's forearm.

"I don't know how he knows, but, um. He probably won't tell anyone. Besides whoever‘s he‘s already told." Nate tips his head onto Johnson's shoulder, keeps laughing. Johnson can't help but laugh with him, after a moment.

*

The first time Johnson spends the night on the Cobra bus, it's accidental. He'd come over to play Halo with Nate and Ryland again, and the uncomfortable nights spent curled up in the back of the van had caught up with him. He was passed out on the couch before long, waking up with the sun shining through the trees, and a terrible crick in his neck. He panics for a second, disoriented, before noticing Nate sitting up next to him.

"Hey," Nate says, rubbing his eyes. Johnson is not disoriented enough to not notice how fucking cute that is. "You fell asleep." Nate rolls his eyes, continues with, "Well, obviously, you fell asleep, but. We just decided to leave you here. You were out like a light."

"Oh," Johnson says. "Thanks."

Nate palms the back of Johnson's neck, smiles at him. "No problem."

Victoria comes out of the bunk area, Gizmo in her arms. Johnson sits up, clearing his throat, tries to shake off the heavy feeling in his skull. Victoria smiles at them.

"You guys are pretty cute," she says, back to them as she begins making coffee.

"Uh, thanks," Johnson says, confused. It's a pretty random compliment.

It isn't till later, when Johnson's leaving their bus, and going to find the guys that he gets it. He stops in his tracks, says, "She meant we're pretty cute together. Didn't she," a little flatly.

Nate eyes widen, before he says, "Um, yeah, probably." Johnson sighs, shakes his head.

"Does anyone not think or know we're together?" he asks.

"Well," Nate says. He doesn't finish.

*

Once, Johnson and Nate squeeze into his bunk, but not to do anything serious, not to hook up. They don't bother to make up any excuses either. They only talk, laugh, until their eyes start to feel heavy, and the pauses between every conversation become longer and longer.

Nate's shirtless and wearing basketball shorts, with Johnson in a wife beater and sweats, because it'd gotten kind of warm with both of them pressed that close together. Nate is laying on his stomach and pressed up against the inside of the bunk, head pillowed on his folded arms. Johnson's on his side, one leg hooked over Nate's, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

"People cuddle in one-person sized bunks all the time. People who are just friends," Johnson says, words muffled against Nate's skin. Nate squints at him, laughing a little.

"Yeah, but Vicky T and Ryland are kind of. Special friends." Johnson snorts.

"Half of this tour is special friends with someone else," he says, remembers how he'd walked in on Mason and Trace.

"True," Nate says, eyes closing. Johnson raises a hand to trace down the wide expanse of smooth skin that is Nate's back. He trails his fingers down, all the way to the waistband of Nate's shorts and back up to the nape of his neck. Nate sighs.

Johnson leans up onto his elbow, bends to press his lips to Nate's spine, the dip of his back, hair falling forward. He brushes his fingers across Nate's skin, where he'd just kissed, as Nate smiles widely, turns his face into his arms.

*

When Johnson climbs into the van, Ian and Cash seem to be arguing about whether or not a tomato is actually a fruit.

"It has seeds, Cash, therefore it's a fruit," Ian says, crossing his arms.

Cash is quiet for a moment, staring down at his lap, then, "It's a fucking vegetable."

"And what's your reasoning?" Ian asks, rolling his eyes.

"I fucking said so, that's what," Cash says, also crossing his arms. He stares at Ian, who stares back at him.

"Oh my god, how high are you two right now?" Johnson asks.

Almost as one, they burst into laughter, slumping against the seats. "We're not," Cash says, as if that's supposed to be convincing even while he's still laughing his ass off. For no apparent reason.

"Right," Johnson says.

"They're blazed right now," Marshall says. "If you couldn't tell already."

Ian flips them off, leaning against Cash's shoulder and side, apparently a little weak from laughing so hard.

"Just in case any of you guys wanted to know, I'm gonna be hanging out with Nate later, probably making out." Johnson pauses, clears his throat, "'Cause that's what we do. Pretty often, actually."

The van gets pretty quiet. Cash turns around in his seat to blink at him, owlishly. He turns to Ian says, "Did he just come out to us?"

"I think so," Ian says, thoughtful. "Does he think we didn't already know?"

"I think so," Cash says, equally thoughtful. Johnson grits his teeth and climbs over the back of the seat, kind of accidentally-on-purpose elbows Cash in the neck.

"What'd I miss?" Singer asks when he climbs into the van because Cash has a hand to his neck, is coughing and rubbing it. He sends a hurt look in Johnson‘s direction. Marshall snorts.

"I'm not gay," Johnson says. "I'm not gay, therefore I can't come out, so. Fuck you all."

"He's still in denial," Singer says, a little sadly, shaking his head.

"No, not really," Marshall says, putting on his headphones. "He just told us that he's made out with Nate. Pretty often, actually," Marshall says, grinning in Johnson's direction.

"I hate repeating myself," Johnson mutters, slipping into one of the sleeping bags in the back because it's his turn to get a nap there. "So, I'm not going to say ‘fuck you all' again. I'm not."

"Yeah, Johnson's totally not gay," Cash pauses, and Johnson tenses. "But his boyfriend is."

Ian doubles over laughing, even slaps his knee. Johnson kicks the back of the bench hard, which does nothing at all to quell any of the guys' laughter.

"You're not as funny as you think you are, seriously," Johnson says, earnestly, because people need to know those kinds of things about themselves.

"You should've stayed on your boyfriend's bus," Jes says as she climbs into the driver's seat. The guys laugh harder.

Cash reaches back to pat his leg, says, "We love you no matter what, bro. Don't worry about it."

"Yeah, you're pretty much stuck with us," Singer says.

"I know," Johnson says, and sighs.