fic: awful feels softer (rocknrolla, johnny/archy)
Title: Awful feels softer.
Author: swear_jar.
Rating: R. Vaguely.
Fandom: Rocknrolla.
Pairing(s)/character(s): Johnny/Archy.
Warning: Johnny’s underage in the first bit but nothing too untoward happens. Slapping and so forth.
Notes: This literally only exists to cater to my surprisingly non-pornographic (sorry, sorry D:), yet decidedly perverted whims and to very hopefully please the wonderful, fabulous, amazerous Delilah Des Anges on and/or around her birthday. Much thanks to mandysbitch for wrangling my commas and telling me when I didn't make sense.
Summary: A kiss with a fist is better than none?
[1998]
Three a.m.
Archy's sleep sweaty under his suit collar. He'd been home in his too warm bed and now he's standing sweat-cooling under his collar on the pavement. The only part of him that's still warm is the ear Len's yelling into. He pulls the phone away from his ear a second, winces.
"He what, Len?" Archy asks, pinning his other ear shut with a finger and turning his back against the fierce wind.
"He took the fuckin' cash out of my safe, Archy."
"I didn't even know he knew the code."
"Well neither did I, or else I would have changed it wouldn't I? Christ, I don't know how many times I belted that boy, and none of it's sunk in. He's an ungrateful little bastard." Len growls out the last words like he's spitting out the bitter end of a cigar.
Archy hums in what he hopes Len will take for agreement. He's not sure Len understands Johnny. That's the problem, really. Johnny is a smart kid. Too smart for his own good, Archy thinks. Certainly too smart for Archy's good, since he's convinced Len that Archy's the one who should pick the kid up at three in the fucking morning, when he gets up to no good and runs off. Though he feels a flush of something like pride, thinking of it. Like pride, and that’s close enough: best not too closely examined.
"You just go get him, Arch. I know it's bloody early and cold as witches’ tits out there, so I won't blame you if the little shit comes back with a few bruises for his trouble. George knows the address."
It is cold and it is late, but what he won't tell Len is that he's a little relieved every time Len calls him about one of Johnny's fuck ups, despite being irritated by the hour. It means Len won't have sent Tony, or Jaws Lawson or any other guy Archy wouldn't trust to handle Johnny. Johnny's got a mouth on him and while Archy's seen him use it to talk his way out of situations, he's far more likely to talk his way in. Boy thinks he’s unbreakable, and convinces other people he is only too well.
"Okay, Len. I'll see what I can do."
"'Night Arch."
"Night."
George pulls up to the curb a few cold, windy seconds later. Archy rubs an eye with the back of his hand, face rubbery with cold and sleep, then takes a breath and climbs into the stale heat of the car.
---
The lot they pull up in is covered in sad, half-deflated helium balloons and shattered glass, shining under the car’s yellow headlights like the stars have fallen out of the sky. There's a pair of teenagers covered in shadows and not much else, fucking in the patchy grass beside a car. Archy can hear, and feel, the God-awful doof-doof music from the car. They pull up close enough for the windows to vibrate, which isn't all that close. He's not going to enjoy going in there and pulling Johnny out, and he might seriously consider giving Johnny a few of those bruises Len's sanctioned if he does go in and Johnny isn’t there.
Archy has never been to a “rave” and has absolutely no desire to fill in this gap in his life experience.
He calls Johnny's phone, listens to it ring and watches from the backseat of the car. A couple dressed in the remains of several dead Muppets stumble out of the warehouse, the side door spilling an arc of coloured light over them, then swinging shut. The girl-or the mostly likely to be a girl, it's hard to tell what's what from where he is -- swings an inflatable pink plastic backpack from her hand, arms ringed in glowsticks flung out like she's about to fall off a tightrope.
Archy glances down at yesterday's shirt, still fairly unwrinkled, a respectable pinstripe black pair of slacks and spit-shone shoes.
He would stick out like some serious dog's bollocks, if he had to wade into that crowd.
Archy pulls his phone away from his ear as it crackles and squeals abruptly.
"Johnny?" he says loudly, without putting the phone back to his ear. He can hear Johnny just fine with the phone a foot away.
"ARCHY? UNCLE ARCH? I CAN'T HEAR YOU ARCHY."
"Come outside," Archy says loud as he can without actually yelling. It's pretty fucking undignified as it is, and if he's going to have to yell, he's saving it for when Johnny can actually hear a word he's saying.
"COME OUTSIDE?" Johnny parrots.
Archy takes a breath and squeezes his eyes shut but before he can muster an answer, Johnny's hung up. Little fucker could no doubt hear him, but he's forever a smart arse.
"He's coming out," Archy says, and watches George glance back in the rear view mirror and nod. He says it in the hope that saying it out loud will make it true. A minute or so later, Archy glances out at the door, swinging open fairly regularly now, spilling out a rainbow of badly, brightly dressed teenagers like half-digested skittles. No Johnny, though. He searches for the long lines of his skinny limbs, the dark combed hair, Johnny's quick, loose walk that Archy's always thought of as a dancer's walk (something he’s never mentioned to Johnny, or to Len, for all sorts of reasons).
There's a tapping at the window and Archy takes a half a second to realise that it's Johnny pressing his nose and knuckles blindly against the tinted glass. His collarbones stick out, lit by rings of glowsticks leaning on them. He's soaked with sweat, wet right into the deep V of the ugly suit vest he's wearing over his bare chest. He's lean as a whippet and panting with a matching doggish smile.
"In the car, John," Archy says, and puts his hand out to open the door, not sure if he should be expecting an argument.
Johnny just smiles big and takes a long slug on a bottle of water before lobbing it away into the parked cars. Someone swears distantly.
Archy clicks the door open, holds out his hand and raises an eyebrow, unclipping his seatbelt to slide over and give Johnny room.
Only Johnny doesn't wait for Archy to move, he just clambers into the car, shifting and sliding slick skinned though Archy's hands as Archy attempts to keep from getting a sharp elbow to the nose. Johnny settles abruptly and heavier than Archy had imagined on Archy's lap.
"Archy!" Johnny plants a knee either side of Archy's hips and leans forward, draping himself fever warm and sticky damp over Archy in a clingy, painful hug. "You've got impeccable timing, Arch. I needed a lift."
"Jesus Christ, Johnny, you want to get off of me?"
"Nooooooo," Johnny pulls back and grins full force. "I want to stay right here, for-fucking-ever,” Johnny’s breath is sugary and hot on Archy’s neck.
Johnny's hair is plastered to his forehead and wet enough it looks black, instead of its usual dark brown. He smells like sweat and smoke and chemicals, but most strongly of something sweet, like cherry lollies. Archy notices all this before he acknowledges Johnny's not only sitting in his lap, but pressing his thin hips restlessly against Archy's crotch and it’s having an effect.
"Get off me, John," Archy says, and it comes out deep and rough, but he thinks it sounds more angry than he feels, which is good. Maybe Johnny will do as he’s told (though when has he ever). He grabs Johnny's arm, thin bump boned wrist, and squeezes. "Oy, are you listening?" he adds quietly, and glances up at the mirror, catches George darting his eyes away quickly. Archy's heart beats hard. "Don't make me give you a slap," he says, desperate to have Johnny off him. He is going to do something stupid. He can feel Johnny's pulse under his fingertips, fast, faster. The fingers around Johnny’s wrist aren’t helping.
Johnny groans like he's being paid to put on a show and Archy's hips shift of their own accord, pushing up against Johnny's arse. "Do it, then," Johnny says, and Archy meets his dark eyes for a second.
He raises a hand and shoves Johnny, hard, off his lap and half into the seat well beside him.
"Aw, Uncle Archy," Johnny laughs like Archy's just told him a particularly filthy joke. Which is apt, since Archy feels as if he's living one, only he's not finding this quite as funny as Johnny, who's shaking with laughter. "You never let me have any fun."
"Ain't the kind of fun someone your age should be having, John," Archy says. Not that he hadn't been fucking at fifteen, but he definitely hadn't been fucking someone nearly twice his age, and he definitely hadn't thought that slapping someone around might be considered acceptable or sexy anywhere but inside his own head.
"Is it 'cause I call you Uncle, Arch?" Johnny giggles and climbs up onto the seat, lies on his back, knees bent up so he can put his feet up on the seat. His hair brushes Archy's thigh and Archy relaxes his muscles steady as he can. "Because I can stop."
"George," Archy says, tapping the shoulder of the driver's seat. "Let's get home."
Ignoring Johnny doesn't work, Archy knows from experience. He attempts it anyway.
Johnny reaches back, his fingers creep over Archy’s knee, pale and spidery.
"Not as if you don't do boys, Archy."
"And how would you know that, Johnny?" Archy would genuinely like to know. It's not as if he minces around in a fucking tutu, nor does he talk about his sex life in front of Johnny. Johnny has always known a lot more than he should, though. Always come out with things that give Archy pause to wonder how the fuck the kid knew them, and how much he saw.
"That would be snitching."
"Would it just," Archy says. Archy'd vow to have a talk to whichever fuck had been chatting to Johnny, but Johnny's never going tell him and whoever was stupid enough to do it is likely not stupid enough to tell Archy. At least Archy hopes he’s never fucked anyone quite that embarrassingly unintelligent. "John." Archy says, quiet, glancing down at Johnny, knees up with his arm over his head. His fingers blindly creep higher on Archy's thigh. Treating Johnny like he's smart as he actually is sometimes works. Len hasn't realised this, but Archy hit on it years ago. "I'm not gonna do this with you. You're not fucking stupid. Think."
"Don't want to think, Archy," Johnny rolls onto his stomach and wiggles closer, his mouth touching Archy's trouser leg. "Don't want to think."
Archy feels, quite suddenly, older than his thirty-two years, and stupider than he should be with it. He blames being half hard for the last ten minutes, but it occurs to him that while Johnny doesn’t smell like alcohol, he might not be entirely sober.
"How much of Len's money did you spend on chemicals, Johnny?"
Johnny laughs and licks a dark spot into the middle of Archy's thigh.
"Stop it, John."
"Make me," Johnny says, the words brushed out with his lips against Archy's thigh. "Make me.” Archy has to grab Johnny's hair, just long enough to get a handful of. It’s slippery damp with sweat; Archy tightens his fingers. Johnny tugs back, and Archy can see the flash of his teeth illuminated by the faint glow of the neon necklaces and the uneven lights of the midnight city through the dark windows.
Johnny spends the rest of the car ride with a hand shoved down under his hips, pushing down and groaning every time the car takes a tight corner and Archy's grip tugs hard on his hair.
Archy doesn’t let go. He knows he should, and he doesn’t. The grip is both ineffective and painful on more than one level. Archy’s hand aches after a minute, and every time he loosens his grip, Johnny tugs hard enough to bump his mouth against Archy’s thigh, knee, crotch.
It’s worse than just letting him do what he wants. Archy tugs every now and then, hard, and times it with the jerk of his hips. It makes it worse. Johnny groans every time he does it.
The car pulls into Len’s driveway with a slight squeak of the brakes and Archy unclenches his fingers. Johnny’s forehead drops heavily to Archy’s thigh.
"Out you get, Johnny."
He expects more argument, but as soon as he says it, Johnny sighs and sits up slowly. He looks tired, and Archy expects he's coming down.
"Len's not going to be happy with you,” Archy adds.
"No," Johnny says and leans his forehead against the window, facing away from Archy. Archy wants to reach a hand out and touch his shoulder, give the kid a hug, but he’s still hard and the ache in his fingers is a persistent reminder. It's a bad idea. "Fuck him," Johnny says after a long moment, turns back to Archy and smiles. He opens the door and slides out. Archy had almost expected Johnny to exit the way he came in, slide over and out Archy’s door. Arch leans over and presses the button, the window creeps down.
"You give him back the rest of his money, too. Before he has to ask."
"Can't do that, Arch."
"Why not?"
"Spent it."
"You spent everything in the safe."
Johnny laughs, Archy's face must be something to behold. He feels his eyebrows hitting their peak.
"Your face, Archy. He left it open. He'd just cleared it out. There was only a couple hundred pounds, nothing worth getting mad over anyway."
Archy shakes his head.
"Johnny there ain't no such thing as only a couple hundred pounds."
Sometimes he thinks the way Johnny grew up can't lead to anywhere good. Not like Archy grew up, not like Len grew up. They'd both done the hard yards. A couple hundred pounds isn’t anywhere near what might have been in there, but it’s still something. He has to admit, though, Len hasn't exactly done much to set Johnny on the right track, despite the firm hand.
The sky has lightened from black to grey, Archy hadn’t noticed until now. Johnny stands outside the car looking like he's in a black and white film, the glowsticks have turned dull and plastic and even the psychedelic pants are no longer a punch in the eye to look directly at. His eyes are darkly shadowed, Archy knows it's the light and Johnny being up all night, but it looks like he's been in a fight.
"Don't give him cheek, all right?”
Johnny salutes sarcastically, goes up the wide grey front steps to Len's house slowly, skipping one step forward two steps back and singing some mournful tune about drugs not working at the top of his lungs.
He's got the voice for it, Archy thinks, but he's not sure Len'll appreciate the show. Archy watches Johnny lingering on the doorstep, straightening out and lighting a crooked cigarette he's pulled from his vest pocket. He watches for a beat, until his fingers twitch against his thigh where Johnny'd been pressing his lips.
He pulls out his phone to call Len, tell him Johnny's home. George drops him back at his own place and Archy heads directly to the shower, thinks of Johnny as he gets himself off with the hand that’d been buried in Johnny’s hair.
---
[2000]
He lets himself into Len’s and follows the blaring music and faint smell of marijuana, right up to Johnny’s door.
"Hullo, John. What's the emergency, I was on me way home." Archy rubs his fresh washed hands together, licking a finger and dabbing at a rusty stain on his cuff. He pushes the half open door with a finger, hands aching across the knuckles from use.
Johnny turns around with a red lollypop in hand and a grin on his face.
Johnny's always sucking on something sweet now, though his skin looks like it's stretched thinner over his bones than is strictly healthy. Archy tries to remember the last time they had a meal together, comes up with nothing but wet lips and white lollypop sticks. Johnny's always been slight, though, and he's nearly grown now, tall as Archy. He'll fill out as he stops going upwards. Archy's sure he went through the same gangly, beanpole stage somewhere in his teens. Johnny's a lot prettier than he ever was, though. His teeth are rich-kid straight, for starters.
“Archy!” Johnny presses the buttons on a remote, the music goes abruptly silent. “Sorry, I didn’t know you’d been working.” Archy smirks at Johnny’s complete lack of sincerity. Yeah, yeah, yeah, can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Johnny saunters up to him, looks him up and down at his leisure.
“Mmhmm,” Archy sidesteps Johnny, into the room which is far tidier than he’s ever seen it since Johnny’s been out of school. There’s a suitcase open over the middle of the bed, more CDs than clothing inside. Archy’s fairly sure he catches a glint of silver in there, too. One of Johnny’s guitars lays across the bed next to it, zipped into a case covered in peeling stickers and graffiti. Most everything else is in a pile in the corner, including the acoustic Archy remembers buying him for a birthday a long time ago. “What exactly are you up to, John?”
"Moving out, hence the suitcase,” Johnny gestures impatiently. Keep up Archy. “Moving in with the band. Wanted to say goodbye, Uncle."
Archy raises one eyebrow at Johnny's cheeky grin. Liar, liar, he thinks. Len's finally kicked him out.
Which explains why the old bastard has been whistling like a canary all afternoon.
"Need a hand?" Archy offers, turning back around. Johnny’s standing just a hair closer than would be entirely comfortable, were he someone else. It’s Johnny though, and Archy’s used to it.
“Wouldn’t say no to a lift. Daddy’s a little unhappy with me at the moment, and everyone else seems to have gotten the idea talking to me might garner his displeasure. Also, I’m skint and can’t afford a taxi.” Johnny crunches the remains of the lollypop and smiles with red-stained lips, vaguely pink teeth.
“I’ve got nothing on me right now, afraid you’ll just have to ride with me. I’ll drop you where you need to go.”
“Aw, come on Archy, you’ve always got a roll of bills,” Johnny comes at him with a laugh and a hand aiming for his front pocket. Archy catches his wrist.
“No fucking fear, John,” Archy feels his smile dies on his lips as he stares at Johnny’s bare arm. Archy stares at the pale insides of his elbows for what feels like a full minute before he processes what he’s seeing: needle marks. Proper dirty fucking junkie needle holes. Archy’s top lip curls at the thought.
His fingers are digging bloodless valleys into the pale skin near Johnny’s wrist: there are needle marks on Johnny's arms.
His first real thought it that it certainly explains the fucking physique.
It’s not as if he hadn’t known Johnny had recreational habits, but this isn’t the same as a drink or a pill or a puff at a party. It’s not the same as a line of coke.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Naive isn’t something I ever thought you, Arch,” Johnny says. Archy meets his eyes and can’t speak for a second, a flush of anger tightening his throat. He tightens his fingers on Johnny’s arm. “Drugs,” Johnny says, “D-R-U-G-S. Specifically, heroin. Though you know, I’m open to new experiences and so on.”
Johnny pulls his arm away, wrenches and twists it. Archy lets go, feels the edges of his fingernails catch skin. Johnny's eyes are darker than usual, dipping from their deep brown into black.
"Don’t you start thinking that’s why he’s given me notice here, Archy. Don’t give him the credit. I wouldn’t dream of impugning Len’s observational skills, but frankly he’d have to look at me directly to notice.”
Johnny turns his back on Archy for a second. He doesn’t talk about Len like this, and it’s unsettling.
“Hey, John,” Archy starts, but he’s relieved when Johnny turns around again, cigarette hanging from his lip. Archy doesn’t mind listening, but he hasn’t got much to say when Johnny talks about Len. He can’t say much. It’s not his place. If anyone else talked about Len the way Johnny does, Archy would be compelled to teach them a lesson about respect. It’s the proverbial rock and a hard place, and Archy grinds his teeth.
Johnny shakes him out of it by taking a step forward, close enough he’s almost on Archy’s toes. Archy raises an eyebrow, then realises what Johnny wants, pulls his lighter out of his pocket and flicks it on.
Johnny takes a long draw on his fag and if Archy ignores the sweat across his upper lip, he looks much like himself again.
“The last little while, I've felt like the gear has been a kind of father figure to me. Embracing. Warm. Leaves less marks than the real thing," Johnny gestures to the familiar neat line from nostril to the peak of his top lip. "You see that scar, Archy? Hurt a lot more than those on my arm, and I got a lot less for it," rubs his arm. "Of course, you know how I got it."
"I took you to get the fucking stitches for that, Johnny, don't try and pull that shit with me. You'd drank Len's scotch, too fucking young to know what the hell you was doing, smacked your face on the stairs passing out. I picked you up off 'em myself. You reeked of good single malt."
Johnny laughs, and Archy feels the hair rise on the back of his neck. Archy can’t think about this, and Johnny shouldn’t be throwing it at him now. Of course, Johnny knows that.
"Of course, Archy. You're right. Far too young to know what I was doing. Clumsy me, I tripped and fell down the stairs."
"Jesus." Archy stares at the few clean, pink puncture wounds in Johnny’s left arm. They look like they're half-healed. The scar on his lip is old and pale. It doesn't make him feel better. "My Dad belted me plenty, John, you don't see me sticking needles in my veins."
"Is any of that lovely crimson stain upon your collar your own blood, Archy?"
Archy flattens his chin to his chest and attempts to look at his collar.
"Not unless I've nicked meself shaving this morning and not noticed."
"Your fingernails too," Johnny laughs.
"My fingernails what?" Archy inspects them. Despite washing his hands, his fingernails are black tipped with dirt and dry blood. Benny S. had had a problem keeping his word, and neither Len nor Arch is fond of people who don't keep their word. He's not telling that to Johnny though. He's always felt off talking openly to Johnny about work, despite Len not seeming to even see Johnny skulking around the edges of a room when they're talking business. Problem is, while Archy is for Johnny taking an interest in the business, Johnny's always been a little too interested in the blood under his nails.
He gets what John's driving at, but Archy isn't exactly an introspective bloke: gets done what needs done, he minds Len and he lives his life. As far as Archy's concerned he does his job because he's good at it. He likes his job and that makes him better at it. All of it. He's not a lawyer or a doctor or a driver the same reason no lawyer or doctor or driver does his job.
"Don't be smart."
"I can't help it, Archy, anymore'n I can help being pretty."
Archy realises Johnny’s dragging the conversation somewhere more comfortable, and chooses not to think about when comfortable with Johnny became this, the game they’ve played for years. Flirting. Pigtail pulling. Archy would rather put his own eye out than admit either out loud, but they’re apt. He can’t let it go that easy, though:
“You know that kind of thing isn't something you can keep a hold on. It gets a hold on you. You've seen 'em, Johnny.”
"What, junkies?" Johnny asks.
"Yes, junkies. Dirty fuckers sitting in the gutters, selling stolen watches. You’re smarter than that.”
"'We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.'" Johnny says, reaching a hand towards the ceiling. Johnny’s recently had a real hard-on for that poof Wilde, half to get on Len’s nerves Archy’s sure, and the other half to get on his.
Archy must be making a face, because Johnny watches him and grins.
“Ah, sorry. Know you’ve got an aversion to our Oscar.”
“Our?” What fucking ‘our’, Archy would like to know.
“You know, Archy,” and Johnny’s kissing him hard. Archy’s fingers find Johnny’s wrist as Johnny’s hand slaps down on his belt and his other hand finds Johnny’s throat.
“Your timing needs work,” Archy says, and shoves Johnny away, hearing the hitch in Johnny’s breathing, though he’s not squeezing against his neck, just pushing him back lightly. As a way to change the subject, it’s pretty fucking effective. Archy’s torn between the urge to shove Johnny down to his knees, or pull him closer.
“Come on, Arch. Think of it as a going away present.”
Considering the marks on Johnny’s arms, that sounds a little too ominous for comfort. He shoves Johnny back a step, lets his throat go, his wrist free and immediately regrets the loss. If Johnny wants to change the subject, Archy’s going to go with that.
“Not as if you’re moving to fucking Australia, John.”
“Gimme something to take with me.”
If he wants this as a going away present, Archy’ll give it to him.
Archy frowns at Johnny, makes sure it’s dark as thunder. Johnny smiles, the bitter little twist of his lips Archy has seen more often directed at Len. He’s off guard. Archy knows he's got the drop, and he feels it too-- a slow burst of adrenaline in his guts, warm as blood and spreading like a stain. Johnny doesn't think he's going to do it, which shows what Johnny thinks of Archy is too high indeed.
Archy keeps his teeth bared and hits him. Hard. Twists on the spot and lands a satisfying slap, a perfect backhander that'd do a tennis pro proud.
Johnny's whole body jerks, and he stumbles a few steps sideways before Archy registers the tingle in the back of his hand.
Johnny makes a sound, a huffing sound that rings in Archy's ears, a gasping noise like sex. When he straightens, he spits a gob of pink-tinged saliva onto Len's pristine caramel carpet, in the room that's no longer Johnny's.
Archy suppresses the thought, but not the urge to touch. He wants to give Johnny something to take with him, and this is it. Archy is opportunistic, it's in his nature as sure as pushing is in Johnny's, and he’s wanted to do this for a long time.
Archy adjusts himself, uncomfortably half-hard before Johnny even looks up at him through his damp dark eyelashes. They catch eyes and Archy's not hard, he's concrete.
"You never stop pushing me, do you?"
"Don’t stop now, Archy. Scared of what Daddy'll say if he finds out you fucked me? All bark, no bite."
Archy flushes hot-cold. Johnny's good at pressing buttons, just enough to make Archy want more and to peel that layer of bravado and sarcasm off like skin. To smack him again. He grabs Johnny's upturned face, pulls him up, fingers digging into the surprisingly rough skin of his cheek. He holds him until Johnny stills, then turns his head so his slapped cheek catches the better light. He gives into the urge and slaps it again lightly, a gentle pat as compared to the first, palms the pretty red mark with his free hand as he holds Johnny's face and really looks at him. "What's this, a fucking kiss?" Archy says, squeezing Johnny’s cheek.
Johnny's eyes flutter shut, then slowly open again. He's breathing heavy as if Archy's touched a lot more of him than just his face. It makes Archy wonder if maybe he's the first person to really do this to Johnny. To really shut up smart-mouth Johnny.
The thought's as good as a tug on his cock.
The world narrows to his hands on Johnny’s skin.
---
In the car, he thinks about offering Johnny a place to stay. Telling him the only rule would be no more sticking poison in his veins. The thought feels like a betrayal. Len wouldn't have it. Rightly so too. He doesn't say anything, and Johnny's gone in a cloud of cheap cherry lollies and their combined sweat. His smile’s the last thing Archy sees and it sticks in his mind, like the fucking Cheshire Cat.
---
[2002]
If he wasn’t sure Len would take care of it, Archy might be thinking that he was three days away from spending a long stretch in lock-up. He’s guilty, of course, but only in the legal sense, which isn’t a particular hurdle for Len.
Archy finishes talking out his case with Len, and feels less assured than he should at Len's shoulder pats and don't worries. Archy's seen Len get people off the hook before, but the idea of being in lock up-- he's dreamt of the last time he was in a cell a few times. He was been underage, so it was only the kiddie pen for a few months, nothing big, never got it any worse than anyone else, but there's not a single thing about it he wants to experience again. He hadn't even thought of it (sober, conscious) for years. Fuck it, Len'll take care of it. All he’s got to do is stop thinking about it.
“The other thing is he’s been back in and swiped more of my bloody silverware,” Len says, and Archy takes a second to catch up.
“You mean Johnny?”
“Who else’s got a key to the front door.” Len takes his glasses off and sets them down on his desk, sits back in his chair with a tired sigh. “I need that key back. Smart arse little shit’s got it too easy.”
Len gives Archy a long look when he volunteers to get the key back from Johnny, and Archy spends a long minute making sure he looks as if he couldn’t care less who goes. Len's wanted to send someone after Johnny who won't be kind as Archy is for years, even while Johnny was at home, still practically a kid. Archy doesn't like the thought of it (there’s something displeasing about the thought of other people's heavy hands on Johnny).
He cocks his eyebrow at Len, a question, not pushing too hard because nothing makes Len angrier than someone acting as if they know better, and lets Len make the idea his own. Archy's always gotten out of Johnny what Len couldn't, and Len knows it.
---
The backroom of the closed club is hazy with smoke and the trickle of daylight spilling through the badly blacked out windows. Johnny's sucking on something sweet, twirling the stick between chapped lips, alternating licks and lazy drags on a cigarette. The smell of cherry is familiar, sends Archy back a few years to when Johnny'd been less hungry looking, less haunted, carrying less luggage under his eyes. Archy's not stupid, but it had taken him a long while to connect some dots with Johnny, to realise that what he was looking at now was the end of the powdery line. Johnny himself supplied the name of the disease that's wasting his smooth skin and perfect teeth away, drilling already hard eyes bottomless: junkie. No gooder. Addict. Rock star, apparently.
"Shoot it, smoke it, snort it. Fuck it." Johnny makes a gun with his fingers and fires at the near empty liquor bottle on the table. "I'm a rock'n'rolla now."
Johnny's perched on a cigarette burnt lounge-chair, skinny like a skull and half-sunk in it. There's dirty looking girls who need to touch up their bad dye jobs, and boys who need to keep their fingers out of the girls make-up cases, strewn like rubbish across the room. Archy feels old, but in the pleasant way where you know wisdom has come with age. Two of Johnny's Quid Lickers (the smile the name usually prompts isn’t forthcoming. Archy’s simmering with annoyance, and too busy reminding himself that if he boils over he's only giving Johnny exactly what he wants) stand to one side of him, at his elbow, like loyal subjects in too tight jeans, ready to serve their king all the poison he can handle.
Despite the attire of his subjects and the drug paraphernalia, he reminds Archy of no one so much as Len behind his desk right now. Archy keeps that to himself. Neither would appreciate the comparison. Len, though, Len's got something worth sitting on, Len's made something. Johnny's on the other hand is king of shit and it riles Archy up. This is Johnny's world and it's only right he sits on top of the slag heap. Archy has never expected less from the little bastard. Too smart for his own good, too pretty for any one else's, too aware of how to work people over. He’s never expected less than this, but he’s always expected a hell of a lot more.
Too fucking late to tell him that. Archy's tried. Len's given up and Archy understands why. He's thinking, right now, of whether he'll pick up his phone next time it rings at two a.m. with John's name on the screen.
In the end, inevitably, Johnny refuses to give back the key.
"A key to my door, a key to my car, a key to my heart you may have, but the key to my childhood home and all its cherished memories? No." Johnny says. "Sadly, I lost it."
Which is a lie, and a lazy one at that. They look at each other for a moment, knowing.
The few souls in the room still capable of comprehending speech titter with laughter and Archy has the strong, hot urge to slap someone's face. Preferably Johnny's, as that might momentarily shut him up, along with his filth-caked, drugged-up friends. Archy, though, has enough self-control he just smiles tight, toothy and angry. He will not give Johnny the satisfaction of a slap right now.
"Let's talk somewhere more private," Archy says. He doesn’t like all the empty eyes on him.
"Really, you could have just said that in the first place."
Johnny gets up, sways like a punching bag, swinging for a second before going still. He scratches where his pants ride indecently low.
"Step into my office," Johnny says. His shirt is more hole than material. Archy reads the jailhouse scratch of a tattoo on his shoulder: chip. Smart arse. Archy thinks momentarily about inquiring why Johnny thought he needed more needles stuck in him recently.
They're followed by catcalls and whistles, some cheeky Scot yells out not for forget protection, Johnny's a dirty wee scunner. Archy shakes his head as Johnny turns briefly, two fingers raised swaying in the vague direction of the voice.
“Charming friends you’ve made, John,” Archy directs it at Johnny and plasters a smile over it, but he means it as a warning.
Johnny just smiles back.
Johnny's "office" appears to be used to store broken chairs and rat-piss. The overhead light is like a jail cell fluorescent and Archy is uneasy with the size of the room, six by eight at a glance.
Archy focuses on Johnny, quicker they have this talk, quicker he's out:
"Johnny, don't fuck about, Len's going to hurt you next time."
"You mean you are?"
Archy can't answer that. If Len asked him to.
"I wouldn't want that, John." He means it, but it comes out flat, falls with a heavy wet slap between them, sounds like a threat. If Archy were saying it to anyone else, it would be. But it isn’t and he trusts Johnny to know that.
"You are a good dog, Archy, you're a good, good loyal dog," Johnny's tone is lacking its usual pin-prick sharpness. "You shouldn't be so good to 'im."
"I know Len ain't been a perfect Dad to you, John, but he's always done right by me."
Johnny laughs.
Archy feels himself flush, anger rising.
“What’s between you and Len is between you and Len, and I ain’t here to chat about it. Just give me the key, Johnny, and I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you rockstars do.”
"Giving up, Archy? No, no, you don't have to say a thing. I am not worth the hassle, Uncle, I am really," and Johnny trail off, scratches at the inside of his arm, doesn't speak again for a long moment. He looks up, his face bare and foreign. He looks lost and Archy's eyes slide to the wall behind his head. He studies a stack of chairs intently.
"You really shouldn't be so trusting, Arch. He's not who you think."
"Who, John?" Archy looks at him again, but Johnny just shakes his head.
"Come 'ere," Archy says, frowning.
"No use putting me over your knee now, Arch, it's far too late for that, and frankly, I'm not even sure I can manage another hard-on today," Johnny looks up and smiles a slippery imitation of the sharper-than-a-razor smirk Archy's gotten used to.
"Shut it and come here, John."
Johnny stands and walks across the room, unsteady. Archy puts his palm over Johnny’s cheek, and tilts his head up towards the dangling overhead light. Johnny's eyes are sunk into the bruised bog of his eye sockets, and his pupils are pin-points surrounded by muddy green.
"If you're looking for Johnny, he's not here right now. Leave a message after the beep."
"Johnny, if you've got the key, just hand it over." Archy has too much on his mind for this. He's got a court date in a couple of days and, despite the reassurance of Len's many connections, it's running him down.
"Beeeep."
---
Archy sits in his car, tinted windows up, and twists the key off his own keyring, deliberately slow. His fingers hurt from how hard he’s gripping it, but he can’t make himself ease up.
It's a parting gift to Johnny.
He's got no time for him anymore.
It does neither of them any good, and Archy can't do it anymore. Johnny's bound for the junkie shitheap and Archy doesn't want to watch. Can't watch.
“Done.” He drops the key into Len's hand, and says nothing else.
Len's fingers close around the silver key, but when he looks up at Archy there's none of the good-job, well-done, he'd expected. Len'll believe him if he has to lie outright, but he'd rather not.
"How'd you manage that then?" Len asks, staring at Archy hard through his glasses.
Archy smiles reassuring as he can, shrugs and makes sure it looks more comfortable than he feels, pinned under Len's gaze. Len just looking has cracked a lot of people, but Archy keeps cool, bites down hard on the what are you looking at anyone else'd get, and smiles.
He's always thought Johnny'd kept his mouth shut about anything that'd happened between them, but for a long, long second he's not so sure.
"Hm. Alright, well done Arch. I'm gonna get back to my paperwork now. You might wanna go out on the town. Have the rest of the week off, long weekend before court, you know. And don't spend it worrying."
"Thanks, Len," Archy says. He spends it worrying, almost entirely, about court.
---
Archy gets four years.
He walks determinedly upright, half-blind with the picture show inside his head of himself, much like he is now, only quite a bit less smart, fifteen and no idea, stuck for six months in hell.
No Len at court, no Johnny. It takes Archy seven more years to work that one out.
---
[2010]
"I honestly would not have thought one little junkie would take so much finding," Johnny says.
Archy snorts and readjusts his fingers on the collar in his grip, producing a mild choking cough from the man he’s holding up. Blood drips off the point of the man's chin, the fingers of his left hand shaking off another drop. Silly fucker had fallen through his own drug laden coffee table. All they'd done was walk in and he'd taken Johnny's perfectly civil hello, and Archy’s friendly wave, entirely the wrong way (well, perhaps not entirely) and stumbled backwards, crashing through the glass topped table.
Archy is, all in all, rather proud of Johnny.
The man Archy's holding by the scruff whines as Archy shakes him a little, leans forward to speak into his ear: “Calm down."
"Thank you Archy," Johnny says, and flops loose limbed onto the couch. He fiddles idly with a girly mag on the cushion next to him, then flips his feet up onto the empty frame of the coffee table. "Nice couch," he directs at the man in Archy hands. "Anyway, as I was saying: hello, James. Don't worry, we're just here to ask you about Pete. No need to try and hide all your drugs falling on them." Johnny kicks at the black stained spoon at his feet. "I'm really not interested in your cheap scag and dirty needles."
"I don't know 'bout Pete, Johnny. I don't have the fucking faintest. I don't keep tabs on him, haven't spoken to him for ages, hate the useless prick."
"Of course you do, he's your brother."
"I swear, I don't know anything."
"Are you sure about that, James?"
"Fuck it Johnny, I don't fucking know, you're the one fucking dragged him out of here--"
He's cut off mid-speech by the back of Archy's hand cracking across the slippery side of his face. That is not how you speak to Johnny Quid. Archy's finding impressing on the people Johnny used to know that they no longer know Johnny frustrating, but interesting.
"Show some respect," Archy says simply, standing over where the quivering blood flecked idiot is cowering against the wall.
He steps back and waits for Johnny to speak again.
There's a long silence, and Archy shifts, looks back at Johnny over his shoulder. Johnny's still sprawled on the couch, one leg cocked out, one foot up on the remains of the table. His hands are folded against his stomach, long fingers over his white button up. The clothing Johnny wears, with impeccable cuts and pristine fabrics, wrinkle in ways they were never meant when he slumps. Boy never learned to sit up straight. Archy snaps shoulders back at him, sometimes. Doesn’t do any good. Johnny's eyes are dark and his head his cocked to one side, considering.
Archy bites back on the urge to step closer. Stays still, head turned, instead.
"Alright, John?"
Johnny shakes his head slowly, slides his feet off the glassless coffee table with a crunch.
"Sorry, Uncle. Just love watching you work."
Archy flushes so hot it feels icy down the back of his neck. He is going to talk to Johnny when they leave. Calling him Uncle not only fucks with the hierarchy, it fucks with Archy's self-control.
Johnny strolls over like he's taking a walk down a pretty country lane, not stepping on shattered glass and over dirty needles. Archy watches, but has to look away to click his fingers in the face of the idiot in front of him, as he slips down against the wall. He doesn't move quick enough for Archy's liking, so he grasps the back of his collar and hauls him up.
"Stand up," Archy says.
Johnny stands in front of the bleeding lump in Archy's grip.
"I'd really like you to think about the question. Just take a deep breath. I’ll be very very nice and replace all the junk you just ground into the carpet if you give me a good answer. Ah!” Johnny holds up a finger, presses it across bloody lips just parting to interrupt. “Just so you're fully cognisant of your position: if I find Pete and he's not exactly as I left him, which was frankly in mint condition for Pete, you're going to share whatever state I find him in."
They get an answer, but it will take legwork to follow it up. Legwork some might say could be better spent on more profitable business, but Archy understands why Johnny needs to know. There’s not much in the world Archy understands better than loyalty.
---
Outside, Johnny lights a cigarette. Archy watches the cherry, briefly red in Johnny’s cupped hands, then burning dull in the sunlight. “You want one?” Johnny asks, blowing smoke in Archy’s direction. The wind scoops it out from it between them. He holds out the cigarette and smiles.
“Yeah, thanks,” Archy says and takes the cigarette. He doesn’t want a smoke exactly, but he’s had an idea and he’s not passing up the opportunity. “Come ‘ere.” Archy pops the cigarette in his mouth and talks around it, crooks his fingers at Johnny, holds out an upturned palm.
Johnny smiles and cocks an eyebrow, ready to bullshit his way through, but Archy can tell he has no idea what Archy’s about. Perfect.
“Hand, John.”
Johnny puts his hand palm down into Archy’s own, prim as some posh bird being escorted to a show. Archy twists his wrist and turns their hands over, shoves Johnny’s sleeve up over the back of his arm and catches Johnny’s eyes. Johnny holds still because he’s curious. Archy knows one of the easiest ways to get Johnny to cooperate is to make sure he’s got something to think about, make sure he’s not bored. Archy waits, waits until the corner of Johnny’s mouth twitches, waits.
“Archy, I’m not sure standing out here holding hands like girl scouts is-“
Archy grins plucks the cigarette he’s puffed hot from his lips, and grinds it out against Johnny’s arm.
Johnny’s words collapse on themselves like a punctured lung with a loud whining suck of breath. Archy smells burnt hair, which isn’t his favourite smell in the world, but staring at Johnny’s dark eyes and open mouth, it’s close to perfect. He tugs Johnny closer by their joined hands.
“We talked about callin’ me Uncle, didn’t we John?” Speaks right in Johnny’s ears, holds his burnt arm hard and warm between them.
“You do know,” Johnny breathes against his neck, “that you’re only encouraging me, Uncle.”
He steps away and opens the car door for Johnny.
He knows.
Author: swear_jar.
Rating: R. Vaguely.
Fandom: Rocknrolla.
Pairing(s)/character(s): Johnny/Archy.
Warning: Johnny’s underage in the first bit but nothing too untoward happens. Slapping and so forth.
Notes: This literally only exists to cater to my surprisingly non-pornographic (sorry, sorry D:), yet decidedly perverted whims and to very hopefully please the wonderful, fabulous, amazerous Delilah Des Anges on and/or around her birthday. Much thanks to mandysbitch for wrangling my commas and telling me when I didn't make sense.
Summary: A kiss with a fist is better than none?
[1998]
Three a.m.
Archy's sleep sweaty under his suit collar. He'd been home in his too warm bed and now he's standing sweat-cooling under his collar on the pavement. The only part of him that's still warm is the ear Len's yelling into. He pulls the phone away from his ear a second, winces.
"He what, Len?" Archy asks, pinning his other ear shut with a finger and turning his back against the fierce wind.
"He took the fuckin' cash out of my safe, Archy."
"I didn't even know he knew the code."
"Well neither did I, or else I would have changed it wouldn't I? Christ, I don't know how many times I belted that boy, and none of it's sunk in. He's an ungrateful little bastard." Len growls out the last words like he's spitting out the bitter end of a cigar.
Archy hums in what he hopes Len will take for agreement. He's not sure Len understands Johnny. That's the problem, really. Johnny is a smart kid. Too smart for his own good, Archy thinks. Certainly too smart for Archy's good, since he's convinced Len that Archy's the one who should pick the kid up at three in the fucking morning, when he gets up to no good and runs off. Though he feels a flush of something like pride, thinking of it. Like pride, and that’s close enough: best not too closely examined.
"You just go get him, Arch. I know it's bloody early and cold as witches’ tits out there, so I won't blame you if the little shit comes back with a few bruises for his trouble. George knows the address."
It is cold and it is late, but what he won't tell Len is that he's a little relieved every time Len calls him about one of Johnny's fuck ups, despite being irritated by the hour. It means Len won't have sent Tony, or Jaws Lawson or any other guy Archy wouldn't trust to handle Johnny. Johnny's got a mouth on him and while Archy's seen him use it to talk his way out of situations, he's far more likely to talk his way in. Boy thinks he’s unbreakable, and convinces other people he is only too well.
"Okay, Len. I'll see what I can do."
"'Night Arch."
"Night."
George pulls up to the curb a few cold, windy seconds later. Archy rubs an eye with the back of his hand, face rubbery with cold and sleep, then takes a breath and climbs into the stale heat of the car.
---
The lot they pull up in is covered in sad, half-deflated helium balloons and shattered glass, shining under the car’s yellow headlights like the stars have fallen out of the sky. There's a pair of teenagers covered in shadows and not much else, fucking in the patchy grass beside a car. Archy can hear, and feel, the God-awful doof-doof music from the car. They pull up close enough for the windows to vibrate, which isn't all that close. He's not going to enjoy going in there and pulling Johnny out, and he might seriously consider giving Johnny a few of those bruises Len's sanctioned if he does go in and Johnny isn’t there.
Archy has never been to a “rave” and has absolutely no desire to fill in this gap in his life experience.
He calls Johnny's phone, listens to it ring and watches from the backseat of the car. A couple dressed in the remains of several dead Muppets stumble out of the warehouse, the side door spilling an arc of coloured light over them, then swinging shut. The girl-or the mostly likely to be a girl, it's hard to tell what's what from where he is -- swings an inflatable pink plastic backpack from her hand, arms ringed in glowsticks flung out like she's about to fall off a tightrope.
Archy glances down at yesterday's shirt, still fairly unwrinkled, a respectable pinstripe black pair of slacks and spit-shone shoes.
He would stick out like some serious dog's bollocks, if he had to wade into that crowd.
Archy pulls his phone away from his ear as it crackles and squeals abruptly.
"Johnny?" he says loudly, without putting the phone back to his ear. He can hear Johnny just fine with the phone a foot away.
"ARCHY? UNCLE ARCH? I CAN'T HEAR YOU ARCHY."
"Come outside," Archy says loud as he can without actually yelling. It's pretty fucking undignified as it is, and if he's going to have to yell, he's saving it for when Johnny can actually hear a word he's saying.
"COME OUTSIDE?" Johnny parrots.
Archy takes a breath and squeezes his eyes shut but before he can muster an answer, Johnny's hung up. Little fucker could no doubt hear him, but he's forever a smart arse.
"He's coming out," Archy says, and watches George glance back in the rear view mirror and nod. He says it in the hope that saying it out loud will make it true. A minute or so later, Archy glances out at the door, swinging open fairly regularly now, spilling out a rainbow of badly, brightly dressed teenagers like half-digested skittles. No Johnny, though. He searches for the long lines of his skinny limbs, the dark combed hair, Johnny's quick, loose walk that Archy's always thought of as a dancer's walk (something he’s never mentioned to Johnny, or to Len, for all sorts of reasons).
There's a tapping at the window and Archy takes a half a second to realise that it's Johnny pressing his nose and knuckles blindly against the tinted glass. His collarbones stick out, lit by rings of glowsticks leaning on them. He's soaked with sweat, wet right into the deep V of the ugly suit vest he's wearing over his bare chest. He's lean as a whippet and panting with a matching doggish smile.
"In the car, John," Archy says, and puts his hand out to open the door, not sure if he should be expecting an argument.
Johnny just smiles big and takes a long slug on a bottle of water before lobbing it away into the parked cars. Someone swears distantly.
Archy clicks the door open, holds out his hand and raises an eyebrow, unclipping his seatbelt to slide over and give Johnny room.
Only Johnny doesn't wait for Archy to move, he just clambers into the car, shifting and sliding slick skinned though Archy's hands as Archy attempts to keep from getting a sharp elbow to the nose. Johnny settles abruptly and heavier than Archy had imagined on Archy's lap.
"Archy!" Johnny plants a knee either side of Archy's hips and leans forward, draping himself fever warm and sticky damp over Archy in a clingy, painful hug. "You've got impeccable timing, Arch. I needed a lift."
"Jesus Christ, Johnny, you want to get off of me?"
"Nooooooo," Johnny pulls back and grins full force. "I want to stay right here, for-fucking-ever,” Johnny’s breath is sugary and hot on Archy’s neck.
Johnny's hair is plastered to his forehead and wet enough it looks black, instead of its usual dark brown. He smells like sweat and smoke and chemicals, but most strongly of something sweet, like cherry lollies. Archy notices all this before he acknowledges Johnny's not only sitting in his lap, but pressing his thin hips restlessly against Archy's crotch and it’s having an effect.
"Get off me, John," Archy says, and it comes out deep and rough, but he thinks it sounds more angry than he feels, which is good. Maybe Johnny will do as he’s told (though when has he ever). He grabs Johnny's arm, thin bump boned wrist, and squeezes. "Oy, are you listening?" he adds quietly, and glances up at the mirror, catches George darting his eyes away quickly. Archy's heart beats hard. "Don't make me give you a slap," he says, desperate to have Johnny off him. He is going to do something stupid. He can feel Johnny's pulse under his fingertips, fast, faster. The fingers around Johnny’s wrist aren’t helping.
Johnny groans like he's being paid to put on a show and Archy's hips shift of their own accord, pushing up against Johnny's arse. "Do it, then," Johnny says, and Archy meets his dark eyes for a second.
He raises a hand and shoves Johnny, hard, off his lap and half into the seat well beside him.
"Aw, Uncle Archy," Johnny laughs like Archy's just told him a particularly filthy joke. Which is apt, since Archy feels as if he's living one, only he's not finding this quite as funny as Johnny, who's shaking with laughter. "You never let me have any fun."
"Ain't the kind of fun someone your age should be having, John," Archy says. Not that he hadn't been fucking at fifteen, but he definitely hadn't been fucking someone nearly twice his age, and he definitely hadn't thought that slapping someone around might be considered acceptable or sexy anywhere but inside his own head.
"Is it 'cause I call you Uncle, Arch?" Johnny giggles and climbs up onto the seat, lies on his back, knees bent up so he can put his feet up on the seat. His hair brushes Archy's thigh and Archy relaxes his muscles steady as he can. "Because I can stop."
"George," Archy says, tapping the shoulder of the driver's seat. "Let's get home."
Ignoring Johnny doesn't work, Archy knows from experience. He attempts it anyway.
Johnny reaches back, his fingers creep over Archy’s knee, pale and spidery.
"Not as if you don't do boys, Archy."
"And how would you know that, Johnny?" Archy would genuinely like to know. It's not as if he minces around in a fucking tutu, nor does he talk about his sex life in front of Johnny. Johnny has always known a lot more than he should, though. Always come out with things that give Archy pause to wonder how the fuck the kid knew them, and how much he saw.
"That would be snitching."
"Would it just," Archy says. Archy'd vow to have a talk to whichever fuck had been chatting to Johnny, but Johnny's never going tell him and whoever was stupid enough to do it is likely not stupid enough to tell Archy. At least Archy hopes he’s never fucked anyone quite that embarrassingly unintelligent. "John." Archy says, quiet, glancing down at Johnny, knees up with his arm over his head. His fingers blindly creep higher on Archy's thigh. Treating Johnny like he's smart as he actually is sometimes works. Len hasn't realised this, but Archy hit on it years ago. "I'm not gonna do this with you. You're not fucking stupid. Think."
"Don't want to think, Archy," Johnny rolls onto his stomach and wiggles closer, his mouth touching Archy's trouser leg. "Don't want to think."
Archy feels, quite suddenly, older than his thirty-two years, and stupider than he should be with it. He blames being half hard for the last ten minutes, but it occurs to him that while Johnny doesn’t smell like alcohol, he might not be entirely sober.
"How much of Len's money did you spend on chemicals, Johnny?"
Johnny laughs and licks a dark spot into the middle of Archy's thigh.
"Stop it, John."
"Make me," Johnny says, the words brushed out with his lips against Archy's thigh. "Make me.” Archy has to grab Johnny's hair, just long enough to get a handful of. It’s slippery damp with sweat; Archy tightens his fingers. Johnny tugs back, and Archy can see the flash of his teeth illuminated by the faint glow of the neon necklaces and the uneven lights of the midnight city through the dark windows.
Johnny spends the rest of the car ride with a hand shoved down under his hips, pushing down and groaning every time the car takes a tight corner and Archy's grip tugs hard on his hair.
Archy doesn’t let go. He knows he should, and he doesn’t. The grip is both ineffective and painful on more than one level. Archy’s hand aches after a minute, and every time he loosens his grip, Johnny tugs hard enough to bump his mouth against Archy’s thigh, knee, crotch.
It’s worse than just letting him do what he wants. Archy tugs every now and then, hard, and times it with the jerk of his hips. It makes it worse. Johnny groans every time he does it.
The car pulls into Len’s driveway with a slight squeak of the brakes and Archy unclenches his fingers. Johnny’s forehead drops heavily to Archy’s thigh.
"Out you get, Johnny."
He expects more argument, but as soon as he says it, Johnny sighs and sits up slowly. He looks tired, and Archy expects he's coming down.
"Len's not going to be happy with you,” Archy adds.
"No," Johnny says and leans his forehead against the window, facing away from Archy. Archy wants to reach a hand out and touch his shoulder, give the kid a hug, but he’s still hard and the ache in his fingers is a persistent reminder. It's a bad idea. "Fuck him," Johnny says after a long moment, turns back to Archy and smiles. He opens the door and slides out. Archy had almost expected Johnny to exit the way he came in, slide over and out Archy’s door. Arch leans over and presses the button, the window creeps down.
"You give him back the rest of his money, too. Before he has to ask."
"Can't do that, Arch."
"Why not?"
"Spent it."
"You spent everything in the safe."
Johnny laughs, Archy's face must be something to behold. He feels his eyebrows hitting their peak.
"Your face, Archy. He left it open. He'd just cleared it out. There was only a couple hundred pounds, nothing worth getting mad over anyway."
Archy shakes his head.
"Johnny there ain't no such thing as only a couple hundred pounds."
Sometimes he thinks the way Johnny grew up can't lead to anywhere good. Not like Archy grew up, not like Len grew up. They'd both done the hard yards. A couple hundred pounds isn’t anywhere near what might have been in there, but it’s still something. He has to admit, though, Len hasn't exactly done much to set Johnny on the right track, despite the firm hand.
The sky has lightened from black to grey, Archy hadn’t noticed until now. Johnny stands outside the car looking like he's in a black and white film, the glowsticks have turned dull and plastic and even the psychedelic pants are no longer a punch in the eye to look directly at. His eyes are darkly shadowed, Archy knows it's the light and Johnny being up all night, but it looks like he's been in a fight.
"Don't give him cheek, all right?”
Johnny salutes sarcastically, goes up the wide grey front steps to Len's house slowly, skipping one step forward two steps back and singing some mournful tune about drugs not working at the top of his lungs.
He's got the voice for it, Archy thinks, but he's not sure Len'll appreciate the show. Archy watches Johnny lingering on the doorstep, straightening out and lighting a crooked cigarette he's pulled from his vest pocket. He watches for a beat, until his fingers twitch against his thigh where Johnny'd been pressing his lips.
He pulls out his phone to call Len, tell him Johnny's home. George drops him back at his own place and Archy heads directly to the shower, thinks of Johnny as he gets himself off with the hand that’d been buried in Johnny’s hair.
---
[2000]
He lets himself into Len’s and follows the blaring music and faint smell of marijuana, right up to Johnny’s door.
"Hullo, John. What's the emergency, I was on me way home." Archy rubs his fresh washed hands together, licking a finger and dabbing at a rusty stain on his cuff. He pushes the half open door with a finger, hands aching across the knuckles from use.
Johnny turns around with a red lollypop in hand and a grin on his face.
Johnny's always sucking on something sweet now, though his skin looks like it's stretched thinner over his bones than is strictly healthy. Archy tries to remember the last time they had a meal together, comes up with nothing but wet lips and white lollypop sticks. Johnny's always been slight, though, and he's nearly grown now, tall as Archy. He'll fill out as he stops going upwards. Archy's sure he went through the same gangly, beanpole stage somewhere in his teens. Johnny's a lot prettier than he ever was, though. His teeth are rich-kid straight, for starters.
“Archy!” Johnny presses the buttons on a remote, the music goes abruptly silent. “Sorry, I didn’t know you’d been working.” Archy smirks at Johnny’s complete lack of sincerity. Yeah, yeah, yeah, can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Johnny saunters up to him, looks him up and down at his leisure.
“Mmhmm,” Archy sidesteps Johnny, into the room which is far tidier than he’s ever seen it since Johnny’s been out of school. There’s a suitcase open over the middle of the bed, more CDs than clothing inside. Archy’s fairly sure he catches a glint of silver in there, too. One of Johnny’s guitars lays across the bed next to it, zipped into a case covered in peeling stickers and graffiti. Most everything else is in a pile in the corner, including the acoustic Archy remembers buying him for a birthday a long time ago. “What exactly are you up to, John?”
"Moving out, hence the suitcase,” Johnny gestures impatiently. Keep up Archy. “Moving in with the band. Wanted to say goodbye, Uncle."
Archy raises one eyebrow at Johnny's cheeky grin. Liar, liar, he thinks. Len's finally kicked him out.
Which explains why the old bastard has been whistling like a canary all afternoon.
"Need a hand?" Archy offers, turning back around. Johnny’s standing just a hair closer than would be entirely comfortable, were he someone else. It’s Johnny though, and Archy’s used to it.
“Wouldn’t say no to a lift. Daddy’s a little unhappy with me at the moment, and everyone else seems to have gotten the idea talking to me might garner his displeasure. Also, I’m skint and can’t afford a taxi.” Johnny crunches the remains of the lollypop and smiles with red-stained lips, vaguely pink teeth.
“I’ve got nothing on me right now, afraid you’ll just have to ride with me. I’ll drop you where you need to go.”
“Aw, come on Archy, you’ve always got a roll of bills,” Johnny comes at him with a laugh and a hand aiming for his front pocket. Archy catches his wrist.
“No fucking fear, John,” Archy feels his smile dies on his lips as he stares at Johnny’s bare arm. Archy stares at the pale insides of his elbows for what feels like a full minute before he processes what he’s seeing: needle marks. Proper dirty fucking junkie needle holes. Archy’s top lip curls at the thought.
His fingers are digging bloodless valleys into the pale skin near Johnny’s wrist: there are needle marks on Johnny's arms.
His first real thought it that it certainly explains the fucking physique.
It’s not as if he hadn’t known Johnny had recreational habits, but this isn’t the same as a drink or a pill or a puff at a party. It’s not the same as a line of coke.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Naive isn’t something I ever thought you, Arch,” Johnny says. Archy meets his eyes and can’t speak for a second, a flush of anger tightening his throat. He tightens his fingers on Johnny’s arm. “Drugs,” Johnny says, “D-R-U-G-S. Specifically, heroin. Though you know, I’m open to new experiences and so on.”
Johnny pulls his arm away, wrenches and twists it. Archy lets go, feels the edges of his fingernails catch skin. Johnny's eyes are darker than usual, dipping from their deep brown into black.
"Don’t you start thinking that’s why he’s given me notice here, Archy. Don’t give him the credit. I wouldn’t dream of impugning Len’s observational skills, but frankly he’d have to look at me directly to notice.”
Johnny turns his back on Archy for a second. He doesn’t talk about Len like this, and it’s unsettling.
“Hey, John,” Archy starts, but he’s relieved when Johnny turns around again, cigarette hanging from his lip. Archy doesn’t mind listening, but he hasn’t got much to say when Johnny talks about Len. He can’t say much. It’s not his place. If anyone else talked about Len the way Johnny does, Archy would be compelled to teach them a lesson about respect. It’s the proverbial rock and a hard place, and Archy grinds his teeth.
Johnny shakes him out of it by taking a step forward, close enough he’s almost on Archy’s toes. Archy raises an eyebrow, then realises what Johnny wants, pulls his lighter out of his pocket and flicks it on.
Johnny takes a long draw on his fag and if Archy ignores the sweat across his upper lip, he looks much like himself again.
“The last little while, I've felt like the gear has been a kind of father figure to me. Embracing. Warm. Leaves less marks than the real thing," Johnny gestures to the familiar neat line from nostril to the peak of his top lip. "You see that scar, Archy? Hurt a lot more than those on my arm, and I got a lot less for it," rubs his arm. "Of course, you know how I got it."
"I took you to get the fucking stitches for that, Johnny, don't try and pull that shit with me. You'd drank Len's scotch, too fucking young to know what the hell you was doing, smacked your face on the stairs passing out. I picked you up off 'em myself. You reeked of good single malt."
Johnny laughs, and Archy feels the hair rise on the back of his neck. Archy can’t think about this, and Johnny shouldn’t be throwing it at him now. Of course, Johnny knows that.
"Of course, Archy. You're right. Far too young to know what I was doing. Clumsy me, I tripped and fell down the stairs."
"Jesus." Archy stares at the few clean, pink puncture wounds in Johnny’s left arm. They look like they're half-healed. The scar on his lip is old and pale. It doesn't make him feel better. "My Dad belted me plenty, John, you don't see me sticking needles in my veins."
"Is any of that lovely crimson stain upon your collar your own blood, Archy?"
Archy flattens his chin to his chest and attempts to look at his collar.
"Not unless I've nicked meself shaving this morning and not noticed."
"Your fingernails too," Johnny laughs.
"My fingernails what?" Archy inspects them. Despite washing his hands, his fingernails are black tipped with dirt and dry blood. Benny S. had had a problem keeping his word, and neither Len nor Arch is fond of people who don't keep their word. He's not telling that to Johnny though. He's always felt off talking openly to Johnny about work, despite Len not seeming to even see Johnny skulking around the edges of a room when they're talking business. Problem is, while Archy is for Johnny taking an interest in the business, Johnny's always been a little too interested in the blood under his nails.
He gets what John's driving at, but Archy isn't exactly an introspective bloke: gets done what needs done, he minds Len and he lives his life. As far as Archy's concerned he does his job because he's good at it. He likes his job and that makes him better at it. All of it. He's not a lawyer or a doctor or a driver the same reason no lawyer or doctor or driver does his job.
"Don't be smart."
"I can't help it, Archy, anymore'n I can help being pretty."
Archy realises Johnny’s dragging the conversation somewhere more comfortable, and chooses not to think about when comfortable with Johnny became this, the game they’ve played for years. Flirting. Pigtail pulling. Archy would rather put his own eye out than admit either out loud, but they’re apt. He can’t let it go that easy, though:
“You know that kind of thing isn't something you can keep a hold on. It gets a hold on you. You've seen 'em, Johnny.”
"What, junkies?" Johnny asks.
"Yes, junkies. Dirty fuckers sitting in the gutters, selling stolen watches. You’re smarter than that.”
"'We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.'" Johnny says, reaching a hand towards the ceiling. Johnny’s recently had a real hard-on for that poof Wilde, half to get on Len’s nerves Archy’s sure, and the other half to get on his.
Archy must be making a face, because Johnny watches him and grins.
“Ah, sorry. Know you’ve got an aversion to our Oscar.”
“Our?” What fucking ‘our’, Archy would like to know.
“You know, Archy,” and Johnny’s kissing him hard. Archy’s fingers find Johnny’s wrist as Johnny’s hand slaps down on his belt and his other hand finds Johnny’s throat.
“Your timing needs work,” Archy says, and shoves Johnny away, hearing the hitch in Johnny’s breathing, though he’s not squeezing against his neck, just pushing him back lightly. As a way to change the subject, it’s pretty fucking effective. Archy’s torn between the urge to shove Johnny down to his knees, or pull him closer.
“Come on, Arch. Think of it as a going away present.”
Considering the marks on Johnny’s arms, that sounds a little too ominous for comfort. He shoves Johnny back a step, lets his throat go, his wrist free and immediately regrets the loss. If Johnny wants to change the subject, Archy’s going to go with that.
“Not as if you’re moving to fucking Australia, John.”
“Gimme something to take with me.”
If he wants this as a going away present, Archy’ll give it to him.
Archy frowns at Johnny, makes sure it’s dark as thunder. Johnny smiles, the bitter little twist of his lips Archy has seen more often directed at Len. He’s off guard. Archy knows he's got the drop, and he feels it too-- a slow burst of adrenaline in his guts, warm as blood and spreading like a stain. Johnny doesn't think he's going to do it, which shows what Johnny thinks of Archy is too high indeed.
Archy keeps his teeth bared and hits him. Hard. Twists on the spot and lands a satisfying slap, a perfect backhander that'd do a tennis pro proud.
Johnny's whole body jerks, and he stumbles a few steps sideways before Archy registers the tingle in the back of his hand.
Johnny makes a sound, a huffing sound that rings in Archy's ears, a gasping noise like sex. When he straightens, he spits a gob of pink-tinged saliva onto Len's pristine caramel carpet, in the room that's no longer Johnny's.
Archy suppresses the thought, but not the urge to touch. He wants to give Johnny something to take with him, and this is it. Archy is opportunistic, it's in his nature as sure as pushing is in Johnny's, and he’s wanted to do this for a long time.
Archy adjusts himself, uncomfortably half-hard before Johnny even looks up at him through his damp dark eyelashes. They catch eyes and Archy's not hard, he's concrete.
"You never stop pushing me, do you?"
"Don’t stop now, Archy. Scared of what Daddy'll say if he finds out you fucked me? All bark, no bite."
Archy flushes hot-cold. Johnny's good at pressing buttons, just enough to make Archy want more and to peel that layer of bravado and sarcasm off like skin. To smack him again. He grabs Johnny's upturned face, pulls him up, fingers digging into the surprisingly rough skin of his cheek. He holds him until Johnny stills, then turns his head so his slapped cheek catches the better light. He gives into the urge and slaps it again lightly, a gentle pat as compared to the first, palms the pretty red mark with his free hand as he holds Johnny's face and really looks at him. "What's this, a fucking kiss?" Archy says, squeezing Johnny’s cheek.
Johnny's eyes flutter shut, then slowly open again. He's breathing heavy as if Archy's touched a lot more of him than just his face. It makes Archy wonder if maybe he's the first person to really do this to Johnny. To really shut up smart-mouth Johnny.
The thought's as good as a tug on his cock.
The world narrows to his hands on Johnny’s skin.
---
In the car, he thinks about offering Johnny a place to stay. Telling him the only rule would be no more sticking poison in his veins. The thought feels like a betrayal. Len wouldn't have it. Rightly so too. He doesn't say anything, and Johnny's gone in a cloud of cheap cherry lollies and their combined sweat. His smile’s the last thing Archy sees and it sticks in his mind, like the fucking Cheshire Cat.
---
[2002]
If he wasn’t sure Len would take care of it, Archy might be thinking that he was three days away from spending a long stretch in lock-up. He’s guilty, of course, but only in the legal sense, which isn’t a particular hurdle for Len.
Archy finishes talking out his case with Len, and feels less assured than he should at Len's shoulder pats and don't worries. Archy's seen Len get people off the hook before, but the idea of being in lock up-- he's dreamt of the last time he was in a cell a few times. He was been underage, so it was only the kiddie pen for a few months, nothing big, never got it any worse than anyone else, but there's not a single thing about it he wants to experience again. He hadn't even thought of it (sober, conscious) for years. Fuck it, Len'll take care of it. All he’s got to do is stop thinking about it.
“The other thing is he’s been back in and swiped more of my bloody silverware,” Len says, and Archy takes a second to catch up.
“You mean Johnny?”
“Who else’s got a key to the front door.” Len takes his glasses off and sets them down on his desk, sits back in his chair with a tired sigh. “I need that key back. Smart arse little shit’s got it too easy.”
Len gives Archy a long look when he volunteers to get the key back from Johnny, and Archy spends a long minute making sure he looks as if he couldn’t care less who goes. Len's wanted to send someone after Johnny who won't be kind as Archy is for years, even while Johnny was at home, still practically a kid. Archy doesn't like the thought of it (there’s something displeasing about the thought of other people's heavy hands on Johnny).
He cocks his eyebrow at Len, a question, not pushing too hard because nothing makes Len angrier than someone acting as if they know better, and lets Len make the idea his own. Archy's always gotten out of Johnny what Len couldn't, and Len knows it.
---
The backroom of the closed club is hazy with smoke and the trickle of daylight spilling through the badly blacked out windows. Johnny's sucking on something sweet, twirling the stick between chapped lips, alternating licks and lazy drags on a cigarette. The smell of cherry is familiar, sends Archy back a few years to when Johnny'd been less hungry looking, less haunted, carrying less luggage under his eyes. Archy's not stupid, but it had taken him a long while to connect some dots with Johnny, to realise that what he was looking at now was the end of the powdery line. Johnny himself supplied the name of the disease that's wasting his smooth skin and perfect teeth away, drilling already hard eyes bottomless: junkie. No gooder. Addict. Rock star, apparently.
"Shoot it, smoke it, snort it. Fuck it." Johnny makes a gun with his fingers and fires at the near empty liquor bottle on the table. "I'm a rock'n'rolla now."
Johnny's perched on a cigarette burnt lounge-chair, skinny like a skull and half-sunk in it. There's dirty looking girls who need to touch up their bad dye jobs, and boys who need to keep their fingers out of the girls make-up cases, strewn like rubbish across the room. Archy feels old, but in the pleasant way where you know wisdom has come with age. Two of Johnny's Quid Lickers (the smile the name usually prompts isn’t forthcoming. Archy’s simmering with annoyance, and too busy reminding himself that if he boils over he's only giving Johnny exactly what he wants) stand to one side of him, at his elbow, like loyal subjects in too tight jeans, ready to serve their king all the poison he can handle.
Despite the attire of his subjects and the drug paraphernalia, he reminds Archy of no one so much as Len behind his desk right now. Archy keeps that to himself. Neither would appreciate the comparison. Len, though, Len's got something worth sitting on, Len's made something. Johnny's on the other hand is king of shit and it riles Archy up. This is Johnny's world and it's only right he sits on top of the slag heap. Archy has never expected less from the little bastard. Too smart for his own good, too pretty for any one else's, too aware of how to work people over. He’s never expected less than this, but he’s always expected a hell of a lot more.
Too fucking late to tell him that. Archy's tried. Len's given up and Archy understands why. He's thinking, right now, of whether he'll pick up his phone next time it rings at two a.m. with John's name on the screen.
In the end, inevitably, Johnny refuses to give back the key.
"A key to my door, a key to my car, a key to my heart you may have, but the key to my childhood home and all its cherished memories? No." Johnny says. "Sadly, I lost it."
Which is a lie, and a lazy one at that. They look at each other for a moment, knowing.
The few souls in the room still capable of comprehending speech titter with laughter and Archy has the strong, hot urge to slap someone's face. Preferably Johnny's, as that might momentarily shut him up, along with his filth-caked, drugged-up friends. Archy, though, has enough self-control he just smiles tight, toothy and angry. He will not give Johnny the satisfaction of a slap right now.
"Let's talk somewhere more private," Archy says. He doesn’t like all the empty eyes on him.
"Really, you could have just said that in the first place."
Johnny gets up, sways like a punching bag, swinging for a second before going still. He scratches where his pants ride indecently low.
"Step into my office," Johnny says. His shirt is more hole than material. Archy reads the jailhouse scratch of a tattoo on his shoulder: chip. Smart arse. Archy thinks momentarily about inquiring why Johnny thought he needed more needles stuck in him recently.
They're followed by catcalls and whistles, some cheeky Scot yells out not for forget protection, Johnny's a dirty wee scunner. Archy shakes his head as Johnny turns briefly, two fingers raised swaying in the vague direction of the voice.
“Charming friends you’ve made, John,” Archy directs it at Johnny and plasters a smile over it, but he means it as a warning.
Johnny just smiles back.
Johnny's "office" appears to be used to store broken chairs and rat-piss. The overhead light is like a jail cell fluorescent and Archy is uneasy with the size of the room, six by eight at a glance.
Archy focuses on Johnny, quicker they have this talk, quicker he's out:
"Johnny, don't fuck about, Len's going to hurt you next time."
"You mean you are?"
Archy can't answer that. If Len asked him to.
"I wouldn't want that, John." He means it, but it comes out flat, falls with a heavy wet slap between them, sounds like a threat. If Archy were saying it to anyone else, it would be. But it isn’t and he trusts Johnny to know that.
"You are a good dog, Archy, you're a good, good loyal dog," Johnny's tone is lacking its usual pin-prick sharpness. "You shouldn't be so good to 'im."
"I know Len ain't been a perfect Dad to you, John, but he's always done right by me."
Johnny laughs.
Archy feels himself flush, anger rising.
“What’s between you and Len is between you and Len, and I ain’t here to chat about it. Just give me the key, Johnny, and I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you rockstars do.”
"Giving up, Archy? No, no, you don't have to say a thing. I am not worth the hassle, Uncle, I am really," and Johnny trail off, scratches at the inside of his arm, doesn't speak again for a long moment. He looks up, his face bare and foreign. He looks lost and Archy's eyes slide to the wall behind his head. He studies a stack of chairs intently.
"You really shouldn't be so trusting, Arch. He's not who you think."
"Who, John?" Archy looks at him again, but Johnny just shakes his head.
"Come 'ere," Archy says, frowning.
"No use putting me over your knee now, Arch, it's far too late for that, and frankly, I'm not even sure I can manage another hard-on today," Johnny looks up and smiles a slippery imitation of the sharper-than-a-razor smirk Archy's gotten used to.
"Shut it and come here, John."
Johnny stands and walks across the room, unsteady. Archy puts his palm over Johnny’s cheek, and tilts his head up towards the dangling overhead light. Johnny's eyes are sunk into the bruised bog of his eye sockets, and his pupils are pin-points surrounded by muddy green.
"If you're looking for Johnny, he's not here right now. Leave a message after the beep."
"Johnny, if you've got the key, just hand it over." Archy has too much on his mind for this. He's got a court date in a couple of days and, despite the reassurance of Len's many connections, it's running him down.
"Beeeep."
---
Archy sits in his car, tinted windows up, and twists the key off his own keyring, deliberately slow. His fingers hurt from how hard he’s gripping it, but he can’t make himself ease up.
It's a parting gift to Johnny.
He's got no time for him anymore.
It does neither of them any good, and Archy can't do it anymore. Johnny's bound for the junkie shitheap and Archy doesn't want to watch. Can't watch.
“Done.” He drops the key into Len's hand, and says nothing else.
Len's fingers close around the silver key, but when he looks up at Archy there's none of the good-job, well-done, he'd expected. Len'll believe him if he has to lie outright, but he'd rather not.
"How'd you manage that then?" Len asks, staring at Archy hard through his glasses.
Archy smiles reassuring as he can, shrugs and makes sure it looks more comfortable than he feels, pinned under Len's gaze. Len just looking has cracked a lot of people, but Archy keeps cool, bites down hard on the what are you looking at anyone else'd get, and smiles.
He's always thought Johnny'd kept his mouth shut about anything that'd happened between them, but for a long, long second he's not so sure.
"Hm. Alright, well done Arch. I'm gonna get back to my paperwork now. You might wanna go out on the town. Have the rest of the week off, long weekend before court, you know. And don't spend it worrying."
"Thanks, Len," Archy says. He spends it worrying, almost entirely, about court.
---
Archy gets four years.
He walks determinedly upright, half-blind with the picture show inside his head of himself, much like he is now, only quite a bit less smart, fifteen and no idea, stuck for six months in hell.
No Len at court, no Johnny. It takes Archy seven more years to work that one out.
---
[2010]
"I honestly would not have thought one little junkie would take so much finding," Johnny says.
Archy snorts and readjusts his fingers on the collar in his grip, producing a mild choking cough from the man he’s holding up. Blood drips off the point of the man's chin, the fingers of his left hand shaking off another drop. Silly fucker had fallen through his own drug laden coffee table. All they'd done was walk in and he'd taken Johnny's perfectly civil hello, and Archy’s friendly wave, entirely the wrong way (well, perhaps not entirely) and stumbled backwards, crashing through the glass topped table.
Archy is, all in all, rather proud of Johnny.
The man Archy's holding by the scruff whines as Archy shakes him a little, leans forward to speak into his ear: “Calm down."
"Thank you Archy," Johnny says, and flops loose limbed onto the couch. He fiddles idly with a girly mag on the cushion next to him, then flips his feet up onto the empty frame of the coffee table. "Nice couch," he directs at the man in Archy hands. "Anyway, as I was saying: hello, James. Don't worry, we're just here to ask you about Pete. No need to try and hide all your drugs falling on them." Johnny kicks at the black stained spoon at his feet. "I'm really not interested in your cheap scag and dirty needles."
"I don't know 'bout Pete, Johnny. I don't have the fucking faintest. I don't keep tabs on him, haven't spoken to him for ages, hate the useless prick."
"Of course you do, he's your brother."
"I swear, I don't know anything."
"Are you sure about that, James?"
"Fuck it Johnny, I don't fucking know, you're the one fucking dragged him out of here--"
He's cut off mid-speech by the back of Archy's hand cracking across the slippery side of his face. That is not how you speak to Johnny Quid. Archy's finding impressing on the people Johnny used to know that they no longer know Johnny frustrating, but interesting.
"Show some respect," Archy says simply, standing over where the quivering blood flecked idiot is cowering against the wall.
He steps back and waits for Johnny to speak again.
There's a long silence, and Archy shifts, looks back at Johnny over his shoulder. Johnny's still sprawled on the couch, one leg cocked out, one foot up on the remains of the table. His hands are folded against his stomach, long fingers over his white button up. The clothing Johnny wears, with impeccable cuts and pristine fabrics, wrinkle in ways they were never meant when he slumps. Boy never learned to sit up straight. Archy snaps shoulders back at him, sometimes. Doesn’t do any good. Johnny's eyes are dark and his head his cocked to one side, considering.
Archy bites back on the urge to step closer. Stays still, head turned, instead.
"Alright, John?"
Johnny shakes his head slowly, slides his feet off the glassless coffee table with a crunch.
"Sorry, Uncle. Just love watching you work."
Archy flushes so hot it feels icy down the back of his neck. He is going to talk to Johnny when they leave. Calling him Uncle not only fucks with the hierarchy, it fucks with Archy's self-control.
Johnny strolls over like he's taking a walk down a pretty country lane, not stepping on shattered glass and over dirty needles. Archy watches, but has to look away to click his fingers in the face of the idiot in front of him, as he slips down against the wall. He doesn't move quick enough for Archy's liking, so he grasps the back of his collar and hauls him up.
"Stand up," Archy says.
Johnny stands in front of the bleeding lump in Archy's grip.
"I'd really like you to think about the question. Just take a deep breath. I’ll be very very nice and replace all the junk you just ground into the carpet if you give me a good answer. Ah!” Johnny holds up a finger, presses it across bloody lips just parting to interrupt. “Just so you're fully cognisant of your position: if I find Pete and he's not exactly as I left him, which was frankly in mint condition for Pete, you're going to share whatever state I find him in."
They get an answer, but it will take legwork to follow it up. Legwork some might say could be better spent on more profitable business, but Archy understands why Johnny needs to know. There’s not much in the world Archy understands better than loyalty.
---
Outside, Johnny lights a cigarette. Archy watches the cherry, briefly red in Johnny’s cupped hands, then burning dull in the sunlight. “You want one?” Johnny asks, blowing smoke in Archy’s direction. The wind scoops it out from it between them. He holds out the cigarette and smiles.
“Yeah, thanks,” Archy says and takes the cigarette. He doesn’t want a smoke exactly, but he’s had an idea and he’s not passing up the opportunity. “Come ‘ere.” Archy pops the cigarette in his mouth and talks around it, crooks his fingers at Johnny, holds out an upturned palm.
Johnny smiles and cocks an eyebrow, ready to bullshit his way through, but Archy can tell he has no idea what Archy’s about. Perfect.
“Hand, John.”
Johnny puts his hand palm down into Archy’s own, prim as some posh bird being escorted to a show. Archy twists his wrist and turns their hands over, shoves Johnny’s sleeve up over the back of his arm and catches Johnny’s eyes. Johnny holds still because he’s curious. Archy knows one of the easiest ways to get Johnny to cooperate is to make sure he’s got something to think about, make sure he’s not bored. Archy waits, waits until the corner of Johnny’s mouth twitches, waits.
“Archy, I’m not sure standing out here holding hands like girl scouts is-“
Archy grins plucks the cigarette he’s puffed hot from his lips, and grinds it out against Johnny’s arm.
Johnny’s words collapse on themselves like a punctured lung with a loud whining suck of breath. Archy smells burnt hair, which isn’t his favourite smell in the world, but staring at Johnny’s dark eyes and open mouth, it’s close to perfect. He tugs Johnny closer by their joined hands.
“We talked about callin’ me Uncle, didn’t we John?” Speaks right in Johnny’s ears, holds his burnt arm hard and warm between them.
“You do know,” Johnny breathes against his neck, “that you’re only encouraging me, Uncle.”
He steps away and opens the car door for Johnny.
He knows.