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Like a lot of what was wrong in Johnny Lawrence’s life, this one came back to Sid. The fine print in the trophy stepson contract required Johnny to put on a tie from time to time and soldier his way through soul-crushingly boring dinner parties. The only person he felt like talking to was always the centre of the crowd, flashing her dazzling smile at Sid’s Hollywood asshole friends and pretending their jokes were funny. Occasionally Johnny’s mom would look at him across the room and lift her eyebrows just a fraction, widen her eyes, her mouth pulling down at the corner for the briefest moment. Oh baby, that face said, when are these people going to leave?
About a month after the All Valley Under 18, when the bruises around Johnny’s neck were finally gone, Sid decided it was a great time to invite over all his friends to celebrate some award nomination. Of course he couldn’t resist making a dig about the tournament, when Johnny’s mom was out of earshot. Being a gracious loser is just as important as being a winner, right? Like he believed that, like anyone here would think for a second he believed that. Johnny pasted a stiff smile on his face and imagined the perfect roundhouse kick that would launch Sid into the pool.
Afterwards, though, a guy with bleached blond, slicked back hair and an expensively ugly suit came over with an offer. Johnny didn’t understand what he wanted at first. He was looking Johnny up and down like he was sizing him up for a suit, or figuring out how to take him out of this one, and while it wasn’t like Johnny had never been undressed by somebody’s eyes before, it was usually girls on the beach doing it, not creeps twice his age. The guy kept talking, though, ignoring Johnny’s stony disinterest, going on about teen athletes and front covers until Johnny clicked why he was shirtless in this guy’s head.
“You want to take photos of me?” Johnny said doubtfully.
“The camera is gonna love you,” the guy said, like Johnny had already agreed to this bullshit. Then he started talking about the money and it didn’t sound so much like bullshit any more. Johnny had no illusions about what his future was going to look like after graduation. If male modelling paid those kind of figures…Anyway, he took the guy’s card, and a couple of days later he called the number on it.
Sid hit the roof when he found out. When he threatened to kick Johnny out, Johnny had taken a savage, reckless joy in saying, “Don’t bother, I quit.” He’d packed that night, piled his stuff into the back seat of Bobby’s car, thrown the keys to the Avanti on the driveway.
Johnny had never been much good at being gracious about anything.
It was true, though. The camera did love Johnny.
It was weird, at first. The baby oil got everywhere and standing out in the surf with wet jeans clinging to his legs while the asshole photographer messed around with filters got old really fast, but Johnny had rent to pay and he was getting paid to smile these days, which was a step up from Sid’s parties. He was making good money, and soon he started making better money, and then he was walking past newsstands, catching a glimpse of his own abs from the corner of his eye.
Dutch gave him hell for it, but Johnny never let him hear the end of paying his bail, so that made them square.
Johnny didn’t think about LaRusso much. Just the normal amount, you know, wondering every so often what the feral little punk was doing these days. If he was still doing karate with the weird old man who had come over, in the parking lot, after – after. It had been a memorable time. Who wouldn’t think about it?
The thing was, he wasn’t expecting to actually see LaRusso again. He definitely wasn’t expecting the accusatory “I don’t believe this,” coming from behind him when he was busy chatting up the girl behind the bar at his favourite nightclub.
“Johnny Lawrence,” said Daniel LaRusso, his mouth pursed and sullen, as if Johnny’s existence revolved around pissing him off. “It is you.”
Johnny took a minute to say anything, because he might not exist to piss off LaRusso, but it was fun to do. At twenty two, LaRusso looked much as he had at seventeen – short and skinny, with brown doe eyes too big for his face and an air of barely contained energy, like he’d just chugged half a pot of coffee and was ready to smart off at God.
“What are you doing here?” LaRusso said, a slight flush spreading across his face as Johnny silently looked him up and down. The bartender was watching them with interest.
Johnny held up his beer bottle and shook it obnoxiously. “What does it look like?” he asked, with the brilliant megawatt smile that paid his bills. “His drink’s on me,” he added to the bartender, which made LaRusso splutter with some emotion between bewilderment and anger. He didn’t stomp away, though. LaRusso never did back down from a challenge.
Which was some sort of an explanation for how they ended up doing shots at a corner table. Johnny tried to view this objectively; on a scale of one to ten, how bizarre was it to get wasted with your former karate rival, the kid whose ass you had kicked with, yes , slightly obsessive enthusiasm, who had returned the favour by kicking you in the face, who had been there watching in the parking lot, after – after.
“You’re modelling ?” LaRusso said, sounding a little bit furious about it, and a little bit like he was going to laugh. “Of course you are.”
“Okay, what are you doing, hotshot?”
LaRusso looked at the table, rubbing at the condensation circle under his glass. “I sell cars,” he said. It didn’t sound like he really wanted to talk about that. Cool with Johnny – only losers wanted to talk about their jobs all the time. He looked at LaRusso’s long, slim fingers, moving restlessly on the tabletop. There were scars on his knuckles that Johnny didn’t remember being there before.
“Still driving that yellow monster?” Johnny asked.
Daniel looked up quickly, eyes narrowing. “Fuck you, Johnny Lawrence.”
Only, it turned out what he meant was: fuck me, Johnny Lawrence.
Johnny’s apartment was a ten minute walk from the bar. It made sense to offer one last drink at his place, to stretch out this random encounter into some sort of closure for both of them. Johnny could apologise for driving LaRusso off a hill, LaRusso could judge Johnny’s life of ill-gotten gains, they could walk away with a few ghosts of the past laid to rest.
Johnny had not meant to kiss him, shutting up his busy, pretty mouth. He was pretty sure LaRusso had not intended to climb up his body like a tree, but it was happening now and Johnny needed it to keep happening, so he got his hands under Daniel’s thighs and lifted him onto the kitchen counter to make out properly. Daniel gasped and bit Johnny’s lip.
“You just, you just have to, don’t you,” he ground out. “You have to push me around.”
“Oh yeah,” Johnny mumbled sarcastically, shoving his hands under Daniel’s shirt. “This is all on me. You – fuck, LaRusso. You’re a goddamn innocent bystander.”
They pushed and pulled each other towards the bedroom, losing clothes in a messy scattering trail. Daniel wrestled Johnny out of his pants like he wanted to rip them into pieces and put his mouth on the tented front of Johnny’s boxers, forcing a shocked moan from Johnny’s lungs. They were both naked when they hit the bed, Daniel on his front and Johnny on top of him, making the most of his advantage in height and weight. He opened Daniel up with hasty, urgent fingers, groaned as he pushed inside.
“Asshole,” Daniel panted. “You are such an asshole , Johnny.”
Johnny froze, with sudden cold doubt.
“Don’t – no, don’t stop,” Daniel whined into the pillow, pushing his hips up, and Johnny got it. Daniel wanted it rough. He wanted it to hurt, at least a little bit. Well, Johnny could give him that. He shifted his grip on Daniel’s hips, adjusted the angle of Daniel’s body beneath him, pushing him harder into the mattress, and fucked the living daylights out of him.
Daniel was gone by the time Johnny woke up the next morning, but Johnny knew he must have left with a limp, and that was good enough for him.
It became a thing.
Johnny wouldn’t call it regular – sometimes Daniel wouldn’t call for weeks, and Johnny would decide this, whatever it was, was over now, done with. He’d make up his mind to go out and pick up some straightforward chick with a great rack and reasonable expectations , and because Daniel LaRusso was a psychic little motherfucker, that was when he’d finally call. Johnny could say no to him, obviously. He would, if he wanted to.
He didn’t want to, though. Daniel had always been a mouthy, fiery troublemaking little punk as a teenager, and Johnny had always had a primal need to shove him face-first into the dirt. A mattress would do. Any flat surface, really. Or a nearby wall. Johnny was open to all options. Daniel was a wildcat in bed, thrashing and kicking, yanking on Johnny’s hair, scratching his back. Johnny couldn’t take his eyes off him for a moment, and why would he want to anyway? Daniel with those big, blazing eyes, his mouth red and raw, teeth bared and spine a desperate arch. Johnny had his number now. He wanted a fight, sure, but he wanted Johnny to win. He wanted to be pinned down, to be chased and caught. He wanted Johnny to be his big bad wolf, to eat him all up.
Why would Johnny ever say no to that?
It was like being back on the mat , figuring out the strengths and weaknesses of a formidable opponent. Daniel wasn’t going to make it easy by, like, saying what he needed, so Johnny had to put it together himself. He quickly learned that Daniel didn’t like pet names – he got so pissed off at being called ‘Danny’ that Johnny had to coax him back to bed with vodka and blowjobs. Daniel was, however, fine with being called a whore, so that was worth knowing. When Johnny stripped off his hideous car salesman tie and wrapped it around his wrists, holding him down against the rug, Daniel had made a gasping, starving sound and come writhing against Johnny’s thigh. He didn’t like bites to the neck; practically howled when Johnny bit his nipples. Getting fucked could make him scream, but getting fingerbanged made him cry.
He always passed out pretty much straight after coming, his wrung out body relaxing into a deep sleep, deep enough to Johnny could pick him up and carry him to the bed without him waking. He was a natural early riser, though, or maybe just had finely tuned schedule for his walks of shame, because Johnny always woke to rumpled sheets and a cool pillow on the other side of the bed. He’d pad out of the bedroom and find the living room immaculate, the previous night’s glasses freshly washed in the dish rack.
It was good. Johnny respected Daniel’s ability to keep things casual. If it felt like fucking Cinderella sometimes, well, how could Johnny complain about that?
Daniel liked being spanked. Another point to Johnny – figuring that one out gave him a buzz almost as good as the orgasm that followed.
He tied Daniel’s wrists to the headboard, pulled his ass over his knee and gave it to him until Daniel was sore and sobbing, his whole body loose and pliant. Johnny looked down at the flushed, tear-streaked cheek visible beneath the curtain of Daniel’s dark hair and wanted, stupidly, to kiss it, to soothe away the hurt. Daniel wouldn’t like that. He tensed up when Johnny veered too gentle with him. Johnny fingered him mercilessly over the edge instead and climbed out of bed afterwards to get an icepack, so practical it was virtually platonic.
Yeah right, Johnny, his self-preservation instinct sneered. So why are you stroking his hair?
But Daniel didn’t seem to mind that, lying dazed and dreamy with his eyes barely open, the slight flutter of those absurd eyelashes the only sign that he was still awake. And his hair was soft, thick, nice to touch. Who wouldn’t want to mess with it, just a little?
“Mm,” Daniel sighed, rolling onto his side. “The biceps aren’t just for show, huh? You still get your kicks beating my ass seven ways to Sunday.”
“Maybe I do,” Johnny said softly, very close to Daniel’s ear, mostly to watch the way he shivered at the touch of warm breath, “but so do you, LaRusso.”
Johnny’s mom had demanded a divorce after Johnny moved out. It had been heading that way ever since she’d come to the hospital, white-faced, and turned on Sid in the hallway outside Johnny’s room. Worse than it looks? How could it be worse than it looks? Look at him, Sid! Look what he did to my son! Johnny had closed his eyes, pretended to be asleep. Anything was better than seeing that look in his mother’s eyes, huge and blue and helpless. Worse than a mirror.
She was Laura Lawrence again now, waving from the table at her favourite restaurant, catching Johnny’s face between her hands to kiss him on the cheek when he bent to hug her hello. He sensed more than saw her eyes fall to the red marks not quite hidden under his collar, caught the considering quirk of her mouth, but she didn’t ask about it. Johnny’s mom was great at boundaries.
Most of the time, anyway. “You look happy, baby,” she said, when he was helping her with her coat at the end of the night. “You deserve to be happy.”
What the fuck was he supposed to do with that?
Daniel screamed the place down when Johnny ate him out, which was a good reason to do it as often as possible. He writhed around a lot too, and this time – it was an accident, Johnny knew that even as it was happening, Daniel hadn’t meant to lock that arm around his neck. It wasn’t his fault Johnny couldn’t fucking hold it together.
“Hey,” Daniel said, shaky and worried, very close but not touching. “Hey, Johnny, do you want – I mean, I want to – I’m sorry. Can I touch you?”
“You touch me all the goddamn time,” Johnny said. It came out muffled because his hands were still over his face.
Daniel must have taken that as a yes, because Johnny felt the warmth of a palm settle on his chest. Safe ground. “I do breathing exercises,” he said, which was such an incredibly stupid thing to say that Johnny actually looked up, the better to stare at him.
“It helps,” Daniel said. “To, to – it’s about balance. Between the things that happened and what I want to happen next. Sometimes I – it’s hard to figure out which side things belong.”
Johnny was still staring at him. What else was he going to look at? What else had he ever looked at, when Daniel LaRusso was around?
“I’m not doing any fucking breathing exercises,” Johnny said, reasonably.
“Okay,” Daniel said, with a little sigh of laughter. Still a bit shaky. “Okay, tough guy.”
He lay down, and Johnny could handle that, lying down with him. His face pressed against Daniel’s slim chest, listening to the steady throb of his heart, which was safe inside his chest where it belonged. Daniel’s fingers settled in Johnny’s hair but didn’t pull like they usually did. They just stroked through, slowly, over and over again, until Johnny’s eyes closed and he let go.