Chapter Text
Johnny slams down his empty glass, and the room tilts around him as he gestures with the fingers of his metal hand for the pretty bartender to refill it. He lost track of the rest of the band hours ago - Henry and Denny started fighting at the first afterparty they careened through, and Nance called it a night after the second club they hit. Johnny's pretty sure Kerry's still here, somewhere, even though he hasn't seen him in a hot minute. He doesn't really give a fuck. Not at this point, not anymore. He's on a roll and has no intention of slowin’ down, and besides, he's got plenty of company.
He turns to said company, the petite woman currently perched on the barstool beside him. He picked her up at the last party - she's real cute, bleached hair and lotsa piercings - and she seems to know the lay of the land here, including where to score the best glitter and synth-coke. In other words, exactly the vibe Johnny's tryna chase. Tokyo is an easy city to get lost in. Which suits Johnny just fuckin’ fine.
As it turned out, Samurai wound up winnin’ two out of the four awards they were up for earlier at that corpo fuckin’ dog and pony show. When they got called up for the first award, Best North American Rock Album, Johnny only managed to slur his way through about half the speech he had loosely planned before Kerry yanked the mic from his hand right as he was gettin’ to the part where he was gonna give his extra special thanks to their corporate sponsors, vulgar gestures and all. And Nance didn't even give him a chance on their second win for Album of the Year, she just beat them all to the stage and gave a smoothly delivered thanks to their mostly non-existent families and their team at the label while Kerry and Johnny and the rest of them slouched behind her. Kerry's palpable relief at Nancy's save had pissed Johnny the fuck off even more. Still does. He hates havin’ to go to these things, to lick the boots of the corpos and act all fuckin' grateful for the opportunity to make their music on the world's stage. Playin’ nice for suits gives ‘em a bigger platform to shout from, sure, but sometimes Johnny misses when they were just a Night City bar band, when he could say whatever the fuck he wanted without getting a call from the label the next day threatening to drop ‘em.
He casts his eyes around the crowded club for Kerry; there's still no sign of him. But he does spot Katya - that media chick he was bangin’ in NC a few months back, the one who's stayin’ at the same hotel here - hangin’ off the arm of a big, ugly, corpo lookin’ gonk. She hasn't noticed Johnny yet, and that's just fuckin’ fine by him. It's all fuckin’ fine.
He sees Kerry then - he's in the corner makin’ out with some chromed-out little pink-haired twink. But despite the fact that his tongue is down someone's throat, Kerry’s eyes are on Johnny, because of course they fuckin' are. Probably tryna make him jealous or some shit. Johnny scowls and quickly looks away. He's sick of these dumb fuckin' games Kerry's always tryna play with him. Like Kerry thinks if he can twist Johnny's feelings just enough, in just the right way, it'll suddenly be some fuckin' homoerotic little fairy tale with the two of them.
And Johnny's not fucking dumb. He knows exactly what Kerry wants from him. What Kerry hopes for. What Kerry's been secretly wishing for, this whole fuckin' time. But Kerry should know as well as anyone that he's barking up a dead fuckin' tree, that it ain't something Johnny can give him. It's not something Johnny's sure he can give anyone. The closest he ever came was with Alt, and he couldn’t even…
Johnny sighs through tightly clenched teeth. It's been two years since she was taken. Two years, four months, and three days, to be exact. Not that he's been keeping count. He doesn't fuckin' have to - he's never not aware of the time that's passed, of every hour that Arasaka Tower is still fuckin’ standing. They got one here, too - the original model, looming over Tokyo like a tombstone, casting its shadow everywhere Johnny goes. Alt wasn't the first thing the corps stole from Johnny, and she probably won't be the last. Not that Alt was ever his. Not really. She could have been, but he never truly claimed her. Not in any way that mattered. Not in any of the ways she needed him to. Never told her any of the things she wanted to hear, never told her how he felt about her. He thinks… he thinks he might have actually loved her. But he isn't even sure he knows what that means, what it would feel like. He wonders, sometimes, on nights like these, if his mind only invented those feelings in hindsight. He wonders if it even matters, now.
The woman sitting before Johnny swims back into focus. She's dipping her long, manicured nail into a vial of red, slightly iridescent powder, and Johnny’s eyes follow her hand as she lifts it to her nose. She inhales sharply, then trails her finger down to her mouth to lick the remainder, gazing at Johnny through her eyelashes as she runs her tongue along the point of her painted claw.
Johnny frowns, his appetite for indulging her suddenly soured, but he takes the vial from her when she offers it. In Tokyo, glitter doesn't come in the familiar plastic inhalers that litter the streets of NC - here, they snort it like coke for some fuckin' reason. He pours a bump into the crook of his thumb, then lowers his head to his fist and sniffs up the drug. He feels his heart race and his muscles relax as it hits his bloodstream, and the club around him shimmers and warps, almost like the walls are breathing.
That's better.
His eyes find Kerry's again, unbidden, and he grins lazily at his bandmate. Kerry, predictably, pulls away from the little idiot he's been kissing and holds Johnny's gaze. So Johnny lifts his metal hand and crooks his fingers at Kerry, beckoning him from across the room before turning back to the bar and downing his refilled drink, not bothering to wait and see if Kerry’s obeyed his silent summons. He knows him well enough to know that any second now, he's gonna-
“Got something to say, or just tryna yank on my leash to prove a point?” Kerry slurs into his ear, and Johnny twists to meet Kerry’s unfocused eyes. His pupils are blown wide, probably on MDMA or some shit. Johnny waves the glitter vial in his face.
“Want some?” he drawls.
Kerry's eyes drop to the vial, then to Johnny's wide grin, then to the local chick still perched on the stool beside Johnny. She's lookin' at ‘em both now, smiling slightly, her nail pressed into her lower lip.
“Mieko here is generous enough to share,” Johnny adds, gesturing at her as he waggles his eyebrows at Kerry, and Mieko giggles around one of her long nails. Maybe he and Ker can both rail her later, he thinks, giving her an appreciative once over. Chick seems down as hell, based on the way she's eyein’ Kerry up right now. Johnny's already slightly hard at the thought. Or maybe that's just the drug doin’ its work. The holographic make-up on Mieko’s eyelids is catching the light in a way that Johnny finds suddenly mesmerizing, and he drags his eyes away to look back at Kerry expectantly.
But Kerry just shakes his head. “Nah, I'm good,” he says, his voice raised slightly to be heard over the throbbing bass.
“Fuckin’ square,” Johnny taunts, placing his palm on Kerry’s chest and shoving him backwards with a gentle push. Kerry's eyes flash as he stumbles backwards, his balance clearly compromised by whatever the fuck drugs he's been doing on his own personal Tokyo dick-sucking adventure.
“Fuck you,” Kerry huffs, snatching the vial from Johnny and pouring a bump onto his hand. He snorts it almost violently, then shoves the vial back at Mieko.
Mieko pockets it, then places her slender hand on Johnny's knee, leaning in close.
“Shall we dance?” she breathes into his ear in her heavily accented English.
“Read my mind, sweetheart,” Johnny purrs back, stumbling to his feet as the room sways dangerously around him. He grabs her wrist with one hand and Kerry's with the other, yanking them both after him into the undulating pulse of bodies that populate the dancefloor.
“Are you Johnny Silverhand?!” someone shrieks as he pushes past them. Johnny doesn't bother turning to look.
“Johnny-san!” shouts another voice, and Johnny grins and sticks out his tongue, turning back towards Kerry.
Kerry looks like he's inches from either passing out or throwing up, so Johnny ignores him and puts his hands on Mieko’s slim hips, grinding into her as she gyrates against him.
“Gonna call a car back to the hotel,” Kerry shouts in his ear.
“Fuck that!” Johnny shouts back, pulling away from Mieko to grab Kerry by the shoulders.
Kerry’s lips are pressed into a tight line, and Johnny leans in close to his neck.
“Stay,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low, and he feels Kerry shudder in response.
“Johnny…” Kerry cautions, but his voice wavers slightly, so Johnny lets his mouth stretch into another broad, lazy grin.
“Atta boy,” he says, giving Kerry a small shove and slapping his ass as his bandmate’s eyes widen, then tighten. “Don't pretend you're not enjoying this,” Johnny says into his ear, pulling him close again and sliding his metal hand down to cup the front of Kerry’s pants, squeezing slightly.
Kerry shoves his hand away. “Cut it out,” he says in a hard voice.
“Or what?” Johnny retorts. “Gonna run off and jerk it in the bathroom again?”
Kerry’s face twists, and he steps away from Johnny completely, his eyes cold and his jaw tight. Johnny reaches for him again, but he’s already gone, vanishing into the crowd. The room swims, and Mieko grinds against him, biting his ear and running her nails down his spine. Time stretches and blurs, and the song changes, and suddenly the beat coalesces into a track that Johnny recognizes, one Alt used to spin at afterparties. She loved this stupid fuckin’ techno shit. A sudden memory bubbles to the surface of his drug-addled mind - Alt, plugged into her netrunning chair in her shitty little Japantown studio; Johnny sprawled on her bed, smokin' cigarette after cigarette, watching her work. She always used to code to this song. Drove Johnny fuckin’ crazy. But the memory is suddenly so vivid, he can almost smell her incense, see every curve of her body visible under the white netrunning suit she always wore, the way her blonde hair fanned out around her serene face, so similar to how it looked when…
Johnny tenses, his fingers digging into Mieko’s waist. She pulls back to look up at him, her face doubling and stretching before Johnny’s as her mouth unwinds into a coy smile.
Johnny’s jaw locks, and he fights the sudden urge to slap that smile off her pretty face. He pushes her away instead, and heaves himself into the crowd.
He doesn't remember arriving back at the hotel. He is vaguely aware of stumbling back into the suite, tripping over something that feels and sounds like it might be Henry's bass. And sure enough, there’s Henry, sprawled out snoring on the couch in the main area of the suite - Denny musta fuckin’ kicked him out of their room again.
He all but collapses against Kerry's door, but feels a dull, muted sense of surprise to find that it's locked. Maybe he pushed things too far with him today. Maybe Kerry's finally done with his bullshit, for real this time. Maybe he'll actually quit the band and do his own thing, like he's always threatening to. Sometimes Johnny just wishes he would, instead of always starin’ at Johnny with those big, sad, wet eyes, so full of things that Johnny can't accept or return the way he knows Kerry wants.
“Kerry,” he mumbles, resting his forehead against the cold metal door. And then, slightly louder, “Kerry!”
There's no response, so he bangs his head against the door a few times, then shouts his bandmate's name again, rattling the door handle.
“Jesus, fuck, Johnny, you're gonna wake up the whole fuckin' band,” Kerry hisses, opening the door and yanking Johnny inside by the wrist. Johnny stumbles and falls to the floor of the room as Kerry kicks the door shut behind him, and Johnny rolls over onto his back, flipping Ker off and laughing hysterically.
“Kerry,” he mumbles again. He isn't sure he could muster up any other words right now, even if he wanted to. He reaches blindly for Kerry's hand, but his bandmate takes a step back, hands on his hips, looking down at Johnny with something almost like pity.
“Fuck,” Kerry says, shaking his head, his dark brows furrowed. He’s wearin’ only his boxers and a loose, tattered, oversized t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, his black hair hanging down over one eye. “You’re a fuckin’ mess, choom.”
“Don’t pretend ya don’t love it,” Johnny slurs. “Now ya get t’play nurse, take care of me. Have me all to yourself. You like that, right?” He swipes his hand weakly at Kerry’s ankle, rolling over onto his side as he does so. Another manic giggle escapes from between his teeth. Kerry dances backwards, but Johnny takes another swipe, and this time his metal fingers wrap around Kerry’s heel. Kerry’s mouth twists into a scowl, and he kicks Johnny off and steps back, crossing his arms as Johnny collapses onto his back, laughing again.
But Kerry is still frowning as he shakes his head again. “The fuck do you want from me, Johnny?”
Johnny stops laughing. He props himself on his elbows and meets Kerry’s eyes. Kerry swallows, face defiant, but Johnny can tell Ker’s fighting with everything he’s got not to look down, look away. So Johnny doesn’t back down, he just watches Kerry squirm for a minute under his cold, steady appraisal.
“Are you wearin’ my shirt?”
Kerry’s mouth drops open slightly, and he blinks at Johnny, then looks down at the threadbare shirt hanging off his thin frame. “I… what?” he manages.
“That my fuckin’ shirt?” Johnny repeats, gesturing with his chin.
Kerry’s brow knits. “Who the fuck cares?” His face screws into an angry sneer. “What’s your fuckin’ problem, choom?” He spits the last word, makin’ it clear he thinks of Johnny as anything but that, right now.
Johnny pretends to consider this. “Well, for one, you’re not suckin’ me off right now.” This seems to have the desired effect on Kerry, because his whole body immediately tenses. “Had to watch you get off earlier,” Johnny reminds him, pushing his advantage, letting his voice soften into a low croon. “Time to return the favor.”
Kerry flushes a brilliant red, and Johnny’s idiotic grin returns, wider than ever. Fuckin’ dork loves it when Johnny talks to him like this. And as for Johnny… he can’t help how much he gets off on seein’ Ker all angry and flustered like this. And sure enough, a quick glance down confirms that Kerry’s already half hard right now. Kerry’s eyes dart down as well, then back to Johnny’s face; Johnny greets him with an eyebrow raise and a downward jerk of his chin, further articulating his point. Kerry predictably blanches, caught. Johnny licks his lips and holds Kerry’s gaze, feelin’ his cock pulse in his pants. Johnny’s almost got him now, and they both know it.
But then Kerry’s face sours again, and suddenly the expression he's wearing - just for Johnny - looks almost like grief.
“You were always a fuckin’ prick…” Kerry begins, then falters, swallowing hard. “But ever since Alt…” He trails off, and Johnny's eyes narrow in response. Ker knows he’s in dangerous territory here. Johnny tracks the motion of Kerry’s hand as he pushes it through his hair, his dark eyes sizing up Johnny, his face still flushed with rage and still-evident arousal. “Fuck, man,” Kerry breathes. “Keep thinkin’ that one of these nights, it’s not gonna be you at my door, it’s gonna be some fuckin’ PD pig tellin’ me I should sit down, that you’ve finally fuckin’ done it, gone and driven your car off a fuckin’ cliff or through the front fuckin’ door of Arasaka and I gotta come down to the station to identify your mangled arm,” he admits, his voice low. His eyes fall to the floor. This is as close to a confession as Johnny’s ever heard from his lips, and Johnny ain’t in the fuckin’ mood for Kerry’s concern, or his sermons, or his misplaced sad-sack lovesick worrying.
“Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Johnny drawls. “Could write a whole fuckin’ album about it, then. Make me into whoever you wanted me to be.”
Kerry’s face contorts. “Maybe you’re right,” he sneers back. “Sometimes I wish you'd just fuckin' die. But then you'd be a fuckin’ martyr and everyone’d just… love you even more… and then I’d just…” He takes a ragged breath, and then his dark eyes dart back to Johnny’s. “Bet that gets you rock fuckin’ hard, huh?”
“Kerry,” Johnny says, and Kerry’s eyes lock onto his. The room suddenly feels like an amp that’s runnin’ too hot. Johnny holds his gaze for a heavy beat, watchin’ Kerry wilt under it. He heaves himself to his feet and stumbles over towards Kerry, unbuckling his pants as he does so. “Three things,” he says, his voice rough as he steps close to Kerry, until their faces are only inches apart. “One, watch your fucking mouth,” he growls. ‘Two, keep Alt’s name the fuck out of it. Three…” He looks down his nose at that very mouth, which is still frozen in a tight scowl. “If you’re gonna open it at all, put it to better fuckin’ use.”
Kerry’s lips part slightly at this, his eyes half closed but still defiant. Johnny leans closer until their breaths mingle together - liquor and cigarettes and god knows what else - and Kerry’s eyes flutter shut. But Johnny pulls away at the last second and grinds his cock roughly into Kerry’s hip instead.
“And one more thing,” he adds. “Stop thinkin’ you’re gonna fuckin’ save me.”
“Johnny…” Kerry chokes, the fight seemingly gone out of him. But then his mouth tightens into a line, and his eyes snap back to Johnny’s. “I'm not in love with you,” he says, and Johnny knows that Kerry knows it’s a lie.
“Good,” he replies. “And we both know you’re just tryna pick a fight ‘cause you want me t-” Johnny slurs, but his words are cut off when Kerry grabs Johnny’s hair in his fist and yanks hard, slamming his open mouth against Johnny’s. Johnny can’t control the gasp that passes from his lips to Kerry’s, but he recovers quickly, forcing Kerry’s tongue back with his own, both of them panting hard. He feels Kerry immediately melt into it, groaning softly as he leans heavily against Johnny, grinding their hips together. And then he yanks Johnny’s hair again, hard enough to make tears sting in his eyes, and Johnny’s cock swells on cue to near-painful hardness. He suddenly doesn’t give a fuck what kinda shit Ker’s been talkin’ - it’s Johnny’s turn to groan loudly as he shoves his hips against Kerry’s, pushing and rubbing against the hard bulge in Kerry’s thin boxers.
The room tilts as Kerry pushes Johnny backwards, maneuvering them in stumbling steps towards the bed. The backs of his knees hit the mattress as Johnny collapses onto his spine, and then Kerry’s standing over him again, eyes raking him up and down, catching on the now obvious tent in the front of Johnny’s fancy fuckin’ suit pants.
“Gotta ask nicer’n that, Johnny,” Kerry murmurs, leaning forward to brush his knuckles against Johnny’s cock, his eyes gleaming when it twitches visibly in response.
“Wasn’t askin’,” Johnny growls low in his throat. He reaches for Kerry’s head in an attempt to grab it and shove that smart mouth downwards, but Kerry straightens slightly, withdrawing his hand and eluding Johnny’s grip.
“Shut the fuck up and take your pants off.”
Johnny flails his arm, meaning to slap that smug look right off Kerry’s idiotic face, but Kerry catches his wrist and pins Johnny’s arm out to the side, leaning his full weight on Johnny’s elbow to hold it there. “If you’re gonna act like a fuckin’ brat then I’m gonna treat you like a fuckin’ brat,” Kerry hisses, his other hand moving to palm Johnny’s cock again. “Now take off your fuckin’ pants unless you want me to make you come in ‘em.”
Johnny twists his head to bite the soft meat of Kerry’s forearm, makin’ him yelp and release Johnny. Hands freed, Johnny starts fumbling with the front of his suit pants, shoving the zipper down so he can drag his swollen cock out, palming it in his organic hand with a groan. He looks back up at Kerry expectantly, but it turns out Kerry’s determined to be the one doin’ the slapping tonight - he winds up and delivers a brutal, sharp one to Johnny’s jaw.
Johnny barks a laugh as stars explode across his vision. His cock throbs in his hand. Kerry wrings out his wrist and stares down at Johnny furiously in the dimly lit room, his breathing ragged.
“Poor baby,” Kerry mocks him through his teeth, bending closer again. “Crawlin’ in here late at night to get his dick sucked.”
“Only ‘cause you’re so fuckin’ good at it,” Johnny retorts as Kerry’s lips connect with Johnny’s jaw where he slapped him, his hand snaking down to shove Johnny’s hand aside so he can wrap his fingers around Johnny’s cock. Good. That’s where he wants him, Johnny thinks as he grits his teeth and closes his eyes. Kerry gives him a few slow, hard strokes, and Johnny’s hips buck into Kerry’s hand - he’s too fuckin’ drunk to retain any semblance of restraint.
“Open your mouth,” Kerry says.
Johnny does, a new insult ready and waiting on his tongue, but before he can say anything, Kerry spits into his mouth then slaps him again. Johnny groans, as much from the pain of the blow as from the fact that Kerry had to let go of his cock to deliver it.
“So fuckin’ pathetic, Johnny,” Kerry murmurs as Johnny’s head spins. “So fuckin’ desperate.”
“You’re one to fuckin’ talk,” Johnny counters, his words slurred as he winds his metal fingers in Kerry’s hair. This time he’s successful in dragging his bandmate’s head roughly downwards, forcing Kerry to his knees. Kerry doesn’t resist, and parts his lips willingly as Johnny jolts his hips upwards, shoving his cock into Kerry’s warm and waiting mouth.
Johnny watches him, propped on his elbow, as Kerry chokes a muffled moan around his cock, takin’ him all the way down his throat on the first pass. As fuckin’ eager for it as always, Johnny thinks smugly, his thoughts fracturing and blurring as Kerry’s tongue drags around him on the upstroke, licking at his head as he looks up at Johnny in the soft glow of the city filterin’ in through the enormous hotel room window. Their eyes meet briefly before Kerry ducks his head again, swallowing Johnny all the way to the hilt. Johnny groans loudly again and collapses backwards off his elbow, pistoning his hips greedily into Kerry’s throat, his hand still clutched in Kerry’s dark hair. An image surfaces in his mind from earlier, of Kerry furious and wrecked with his hand frantically pumping his cock in that bathroom stall, of the shame and humiliation and defeat on his bandmate’s face when he finally came all over Johnny’s fingers. The memory makes Johnny’s balls tighten, and he lets out a soft whimper and fucks Kerry’s face even harder.
The whimper turns into a moan of protest when Kerry pulls off him, and Johnny sits up, trying and failing to form words.
“Ker…” is all he manages as he watches Kerry crawl over to his open suitcase and dig around for something, cursing softly in the darkness as he tosses various items aside. When he stands, he is clutching a small tube in one hand, and he tugs off his boxers as he turns back to Johnny, his cock falling heavily against his thigh.
“Turn over,” Kerry rasps.
Johnny licks his lips and doesn’t obey, but his cock spasms violently and a small bead of pre-cum escapes from the tip, betraying his apparent excitement. Kerry leans forward and grips Johnny’s hips, turning him over and yanking his pants down around his thighs in the same movement, and Johnny experiences only a dim sense of mild surprise to find himself utterly boneless and compliant to this new turn of events. This usually goes the other way, after all. Not that he’s complaining. He hears Kerry fumble with the lube, hears the wet sounds of Kerry stroking himself in preparation, and then he feels the head of Kerry’s cock pressing firmly against him, and Johnny can’t stop himself from grinding his cock eagerly against the bedding in anticipation. He’s done enough drugs and he’s beyond mindlessly horny enough now that he knows he doesn’t need any more fuckin' teasing, he just wants Kerry to get the fuck on with it and-
A ragged groan is torn from his throat as Kerry does just that, pressing himself slowly and firmly into Johnny with a sharp hiss that dissolves into a low moan.
“Fuck, Johnny,” Kerry whines as he bottoms out. “You take it so fuckin’ good.”
Johnny can only make a strangled sound in response, arching his back and fisting the bedsheets as Kerry leans forward to press his chest against Johnny’s back. Kerry wraps his hand in Johnny’s hair and twists his head almost tenderly to the side, his mouth at Johnny’s ear as his hips begin to move in slow, tentative thrusts.
“Harder,” Johnny chokes, rocking his hips backwards to meet Kerry. Kerry gasps against his throat and bucks into Johnny more forcefully, and their desperate, mismatched rhythm drives them both into a sideways collapse, trapping Kerry’s hand underneath Johnny’s head as his other hand pulls Johnny’s hips back flush against his own. His snakes his fingers further to grasp Johnny’s cock, and Johnny moans, loud and unabashed, as Kerry starts to jerk him off while he fucks him, his body curled fast around Johnny’s.
“Better be quiet if you don’t want the whole band to hear you,” Kerry grits out, but his words are as frayed as Johnny feels. “Fuck,” Kerry murmurs again, rutting into Johnny with increasing desperation, and Johnny lets out another heavy, fractured moan. Kerry manages to shove the hand that’s under Johnny’s head forward, twisting his wrist upwards to clamp his palm over Johnny’s mouth, his other hand stroking up and down Johnny’s leaking, throbbing cock in time to his frenzied thrusts.
Johnny’s eyes roll back and he whines into Kerry’s fingers. He’s fully lost now, his mind can’t form a single fucking coherent thought. His body is pinned between Kerry’s cock and Kerry’s palm - all he can do is helplessly grind his hips back and forth between the two, the sensation of it all nearly overwhelming him.
“Fuck, Johnny,” Kerry whimpers, his lips on Johnny’s throat, his rhythm becoming uncontrolled and erratic and shamelessly needy. Johnny lets out another strangled groan against Kerry’s palm, and the fingers of Kerry’s other hand tighten around Johnny’s cock as he whines pathetically in Johnny’s ear. Johnny feels a burst of warm heat inside of him as Kerry’s body convulses, and fucking fuck, Johnny’s seein’ stars again as he suddenly and explosively comes hard in Kerry’s hand, on Kerry’s cock, all over Kerry’s bed. Kerry’s fingers are hooked in his mouth now and Johnny’s moaning loud around them and neither of ‘em seem to give a flying fuck anymore.
Kerry eventually stills after a final, grunting thrust, and Johnny can only lie there, limp and panting and spent, enveloped by Kerry completely. The sheets are a soaked mess and the room is spinning and Johnny is suddenly sure that if he looked at Kerry right now, he’d fall headfirst into a spiral he wouldn’t be able to get out of. He groans softly and tries to wriggle away, but Kerry’s arms only tighten around him, open mouth pressed to Johnny’s neck.
“Mmph,” Kerry mumbles, and Johnny gives up, relaxing into Kerry’s embrace. He can still feel Kerry’s cock pulsing inside of him, slowly softening, and the room is still careening violently around them. Johnny's got a feeling he’d be incapable of goin’ anywhere far, even if he wanted to. He’s not sure he does want to. He’s not sure if…
His mind lurches rapidly towards unconsciousness, be it sleep or a drunken pass-out. Not that there’s an appreciable difference at this point. The scene has already tumbled into a strange half-dream when Kerry suddenly speaks again, his voice low and thick.
“Wanna do an album about the war,” he mumbles into Johnny’s ear. “Just you ‘n me, not the rest of the band. Somethin’ more pared down, maybe even acoustic.” He swallows, his lips sticking to Johnny’s sweaty neck. “Whaddaya think?”
If Johnny responds, he doesn’t remember it.
The morning sun pouring through the window wakes Johnny like a knife to the head, and it takes him a beat, and then another one, to fully orient himself. He’s sprawled on his stomach on Kerry’s bed, pants around his hips, the sheets still damp beneath him. He stifles a groan and, with some effort, rolls over to find Kerry curled up beside him, lips parted, snoring gently.
Johnny’s entire body feels sticky and miserable; his bones and organs and skull all scream in protest as he slides to the edge of the bed, yanking his pants back up around his waist as he pulls himself into a sitting position with a quiet groan. He looks over his shoulder at Kerry again - Kerry’s closed eyes flutter, his hands twitch where they’re curled beneath his chin, and his dick hangs, limp and crusted, against his smooth thigh. He doesn’t wake up. A strand of hair flutters across Kerry mouth, shifting back and forth as he breathes, makin’ his nose twitch. Johnny watches him for a moment, then reaches down to gently brush the errant curl back behind his ear. It falls forward again, and Johnny purses his lips and watches it dangle for another moment before heaving himself to his feet and staggering for the exit.
He hears Kerry shift and mumble something as he opens the heavy door and steps through, but Johnny doesn’t turn back, letting it fall shut behind him with a definitive thunk. The rest of the band appears to still be asleep - Henry’s snoring on the couch right where Johnny last saw him, and both the girls’ doors are still closed. Johnny drags a hand through his hair and starts to lurch for his own room, but changes course midway and staggers into the bathroom instead, where he doubles over the sink and catches himself on his palms just in time to puke a disgusting cascade of colors down the drain. He turns on the faucet and tries in vain to rinse it all away; the smell that bubbles up nearly makes him puke again. He groans and lifts his head to the mirror, meeting his own haggard, sunken stare.
He abruptly remembers the last thing Kerry said to him right before they passed out, his little album pitch slipped in post-coitus. Johnny realizes he doesn’t actually hate the concept; fuck, he’s toyed with it himself more than a few times already, has notebooks full of half-scribbled songs about exactly the subject matter Kerry was suggesting. But Johnny’d always pictured those songs bein’ angry, loud, noisy, and violent… not whatever the fuck Kerry’s probably envisioning. He can imagine Kerry’s version all too clearly - some sad-boy contemplative bullshit, pryin’ Johnny’s chest wide open for all the fuckin’ world to see, with none of their usual screeching instrumentals to hide behind.
Johnny scowls, the expression making his reflection even uglier somehow.
“Yeah,” he says out loud, sneering at his own face. “Fuck you, too.”
Maybe in another decade, he thinks. Maybe in another life.
He tilts his head forward and pukes again.