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Chapter Text

“Love him and let him love you. Do you think anything under heaven really matters?” 

— James Baldwin. 

—

Johnny wasn’t exactly sure when it started. Not really, there wasn’t any definitive moment where he realised the depth of what he felt for his friend.

He was eleven and furious. They’d moved to Ballylaggin on a rainy day, grey skies overhead casting shadows over the grey roads, only adding to his misery. He’d loved Dublin with a near religious devotion, it was both absolute and irrational. The noise, the sprawl, the wind whistling against the trees. Everything about Ballylaggin only made him miss Dublin more. Jesus, nobody even cared about rugby, nothing even mattered there. It was all muddy fields and small-town sympathies.

For days he’d begged his parents to take him back. He hadn’t even tried to be subtle about it, wailing like Shakespearean widow, drowning himself in self-pity, slamming doors and the likes. Full blown theatrics. But there was no miracle reprieve, no miracle U-turn.

On the morning of his first day at school, he’d given his mother the cold shoulder. His final act of protest. He wasn’t here to settle down, to make friends. He wasn’t staying. He’d go back to Dublin even if he had to crawl back barefoot through mountains. 

So, he’d walked into his new classroom with his chin held high, every inch of his exuding contempt. Johnny didn’t give a fuck if they thought he was stuck up or frigid. He couldn’t care less about their stupid, Corky opinions.

But then—

(And Johnny hadn’t yet realised, that his life did not start thirteen years ago, in the May of 1987, it started now.) 

Then he saw him.

Sat alone on a desk next to him, staring down at his scrawly workbook, with a pale face that still clung to the vestiges of youth. His cheeks carried baby-fat, and he curled over himself like he wanted to be anywhere else, but there was this unassigned, impossible grace clinging to him, too. Some aching thing that wrapped around the curve of his hidden cheekbone, the flick of his fringe. His jumper was too big, and his handwriting atrocious. Johnny’s heart lurched.

The other boys spoke to Johnny, asked him about rugby and the like, but his mind was elsewhere, his eyes trained on his new desk-mate. 

“What about you?” he’d asked, before his mind could even summon it. 

“Me?” the boy asked, wide, beautiful eyes looking up at Johnny where he was sat beside him. 

God save me, he thought.

When his face had turned red from his classmates’ awful teasing, snide comments and sniggering jabs, Johnny couldn’t help the flush of anger that exuded in his tone. He’d seen red. His voice came out sharper then it should’ve, and he knew that none of these people were worth his time. Only the grey eyed blonde beside him. Jesus Christ, Johnny thought. He could look at him forever. 

And so like a complete fool, Johnny turned to him and asked, in a voice that cracked slightly: 

“Do you want to be my best friend?”, he said, internally wincing at the sheer desperation in his voice. Jesus, what had become of him. It was eager, and ridiculous, and he’d braced himself for rejection, but then—

But then the boy smiled. Shyly and sheepishly, he’d smiled and said yes. And after that Johnny was already so, so far gone. In that breathless, terrifying second, he was ruined. Willingly. He’d sold his soul to the angel that was Gerard Gibson, (Christ, even his name was beautiful,) and he couldn’t give two shits about whether or not he’d get it back. He would sell it over and over if it meant the boy would stay looking at him forever. 

—

When the school day was over, Johnny climbed into his Mam’s car, shutting the door with enthusiasm. The seatbelt clicked into place, and he forced his mouth into a neutral line, fighting the grin that kept threatening to tug the corner of his lips upwards. 

“How was it, pet?” she asked.

“I hate it,” he replied childishly, “the teacher’s accents are impossible to understand. But I made a friend.”

The last part came out too excited and Johnny groaned internally, knowing his Mam would latch onto this piece of news. A small part of him didn’t mind, because then he’d get the opportunity to talk about Gerard Gibson.

“Oh?” his Mam probed, smiling.

“Yeah,” Johnny nodded, trying to sound casual, “his name is Gerard Gibson but he goes by Gibsie. His Mam owns the towns bakery and he’s lived here his whole life.”

“That’s lovely, Johnny,” his mother said smirking, “I knew you’d like the school.”

“No, hold on,” he argued, “I don’t like the school, it sucks and I want to go back to Dublin. I just like Gibsie.” 

“Love, we aren’t moving back.” 

It hurt to hear. 

“Your grandmother needs us to stay here and help her, and for as long as she needs we’ll be here. And then some.” 

“But I liked Dublin.” he said, voice wet and eyes welling up with tears. 

“I know, son,” his mother soothed from the front of the car, “but this is how things have to be.”

“I know,” he conceded sadly, staring out the window at the faceless buildings, all picture perfect and utterly soulless.

“Tell me more about your friend,” his mother asked, “Maybe we can invite him and his parents over.” 

Johnny perked up. 

He’d tried his best to learn as much as he possibly could about Gerard Gibson, to the point it was probably annoying. His curiosity was insatiable. Gibsie didn’t seem to mind though, answering his questions politely, although he gave Johnny the impression that he was tightlipped, and he rarely divulged more than he’d been asked.

Gibsie had also introduced Johnny to his two other friends, Hugh Biggs and Patrick Feely, but Johnny hadn’t even registered them. He was almost annoyed that he couldn’t focus his entire attention on Gibsie instead. None of the other kids gave him the same feeling that he did, and he was making it obvious. Hugh and Feely kept side-eyeing each other when Johnny gave short stilted replies to all of their questions.

But then they’d walked off, and it was just the two of them again. Johnny liked that a lot more. 

“Yeah, Mam.” Johnny said, “I’d like that.”

—

It took less then a week for plans to be made. 

Edel Kavanagh was quick with anything that could bring her son happiness, and so she’d phoned the Gibsons, exchanging pleasantries, polite, clipped motherly voices arranging a ‘playdate’. Johnny stood by the phone as they conversed, ears straining to see if he could hear his friend from the line. His mam hung up the phone and smirked down at him.

“They’re coming over on Saturday. You can stop biting your fingernails.”

He ripped his hand away from his mouth. “I wasn’t—“

“You were never like this with any of your school friends,” his father laments from where he was standing by his wife’s side. “I’m excited to meet this Gibsie lad, if he’s got you acting like this.”

Johnny flushed. He didn’t know why he was so concerned about Gibsie. 

He spent the rest of the week in a daze, counting down the seconds till he had his friend in his house, away from prying eyes, just the two of them. Floating between elation and anxiety, but also something he didn’t have the words for yet. School was something he anticipated, because it meant he was allowed to see Gibsie again.

They didn’t talk a lot at first, but over time they became more comfortable with each other, and Johnny became more enamoured each and every day. Gibsie was funny. Real funny, to the point they were always snickering in the back of class, the rest of the kids eyeing them suspiciously. 

It was like they had their own little bubble, just the two of them. 

Saturday came too slow and too fast all at once. He cleaned his room without being asked and made an effort to wear his nicest jumper, as well as combing through his messy hair. He was buzzing with energy.

By the time they pulled up, Johnny had cycled through every worse case scenario. What if Gibsie hated his house, or thought his room was too babyish, or worse; what if they had nothing to talk about outside of school? 

When the door opened, revealing Gibsie and his mam standing outside, holding two trays of cinnamon rolls and apple tarts, all his worries faded away as his breath caught in his chest. 

Outside of his school uniform, dressed in a hoodie and some loose pants, with his hair slightly damp from the rain and his cheeks slightly flushed from the cold, Gibsie was a sight to be had. 

Johnny stepped aside quickly, suddenly unsure of how to move his body and speak like a normal person. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Gibsie said, voice light and breathless. “Your house is super cool.”

“Thank you for inviting us,” Mrs Gibson said kindly, walking the both of them in.

“Of course,” Edel said, taking the tray and ushering them in. “Johnny’s been talking about nothing else.”

Johnny nearly died on the spot, his entire face erupting in red. “Mam!” he hissed, mortified.

But Gibsie only smiled secretly to himself, as if the knowledge that Johnny wouldn’t shut up about him was pleasant, and suddenly it didn’t matter as much. 

They quickly snuck up to Johnnys room, Gibsie marvelling at the house as they made the trek over.

“This is practically a palace.” he commented in awe. 

Johnny snickered. “Come on, my room is this way.”

“I think you should make a map.” 

They spent the afternoon in Johnnys room, curled up with Sookie, eating cinnamon buns and playing old video games on his console, (Gibsie was so, so bad at GTA)  and every-time he laughed, a bright, upwards laugh, Johnny felt like he’d been given the sun in a bottle. 

At one point, they’d laid down on Johnnys bed, still giggling over something Gibsie had said, when Johnny just stopped. Stopped and looked at the boy beside him.

He took in the way the sun filtered through the windows and danced on Gibsie’s eyelashes, catching them in a golden haze of light. Gibsie met his gaze, and for one excruciating moment, Johnny thought he would cry. Just from how full his chest felt. 

And maybe it was nothing, but later, after the Gibsons left, after he watched their car pull out of the driveway with his throat dry, after he’d gone to bed, staring up at the ceiling alone again, Johnny had pressed his hands to his chest and felt the rhythm of his own heart.

—

By the time they’d started at Tommen, Gibsie and Johnny were inseparable. He’d begged his parents to let Gibsie come on all their trips back home, brought Gibsie as a plus one to all his rugby events. Even Gibsie had brought him to his annual summer visit at his Aunt Jacqui’s house, a sleepy little cottage on the coast, where they’d sunburned sitting out for too long and sat by the beach counting clouds.

Johnny had even made nice with Hugh and Feely, because it was important to Gibsie that they all got along. And Johnny would’ve befriended a brick wall if Gibsie asked him to.

They had all joined the rugby team at school, Johnny and Gibsie being particularly good, and therefore had received attention from the female population at school. 

And Jesus, did the girls notice them.

Johnny didn’t care when girls asked him out.  He rejected them all, stating he was too busy, too focused on rugby and the likes.

It wasn’t exactly a lie either. Rugby was his entire life. It was the only thing he ever saw himself doing, the only thing he woke up for in the morning. Nothing mattered when he was on the pitch. He was good, they both were. They had this uncanny, wordless understanding on the pitch, an almost telepathic connection that made their coach froth at the mouth and the girls who sat on the bench giggle. 

Sue him, he was a teenage boy, and it’s not like he minded. Sometimes it was annoying, and he definitely didn’t want a girlfriend — but it wasn’t all bad. The constant affirmation that he was something people wanted, something special. It was more than nice, it was everything. Because for all his nonchalance and stoicism, he wanted to be great, to make it. He wanted it more than anything else, to be successful, to make everyone proud. 

“You won’t believe what happened, Kav,” his best friend’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. They were both lying down on Gibsie’s bed after school. 

Johnny raised a brow. The blonde beside him looked gleeful and embarrassed all at once, like he was itching to say something but also trying to withhold it. “What?”

“You know Bernadette Brady?” Gibsie nudged him. “She’s in your maths class, I think.” 

“I’ve never heard of that name in my life,” Johnny replied. “But then again, I’m bad with names. I don’t think I even know Feely’s last name.”

Gibsie laughed. “Feely is his last name.” Then, turning to look at him, he said,

“Anyway, Bernadette Brady totally asked me out.”

Johnny felt his face flush. “Really?”

Gibsie nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah, to the Boiler Room disco next week.” 

“And you said yes?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“Of course I said yes,” Gibsie guffawed, “why wouldn’t I say yes? Now I know you really have no idea who she is, because if you saw her, you wouldn’t be asking that.”

“So she’s good-looking then?” 

“More than that,” Gibsie affirmed with a sigh. “She’s bloody gorgeous. And she asked me out.”

“Why’re you so surprised? It’s not like it’s the first time someone’s asked you to a dance.”

“Yeah but…” 

Gibsie sat up and leant on his elbow, looking down at Johnny. His face was entirely red and burning, cheeks and ears too. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Of course not,” Johnny replied, “who would I tell?”

“Okay, so— It was the day before yesterday, after practice, and she came up to me whilst you were getting your shoes, and she asked me to the disco and I didn’t really know what to say because she was really close to me, but then she kissed me.” 

Johnny sat up then too, a weird, scratchy feeling tickling his chest. “She kissed you?”

“Yeah!” Gibsie nodded again, raking his hand through his messy golden hair, “Like, on the lips and everything. It wasn’t long but it wasn’t a peck either. In between, I guess. It was like.. warm? I guess? I dunno, I was so shocked, I probably just stood there like an eejit, but she just giggled and said she’d see me at the disco.” 

Johnny made a noise that was meant to be a nonchalant hum, but came out strangled.

“Was it your first kiss?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

Gibsie looked down and then up, shoulders twitching in a half shrug. “It was my first kiss like that,” he admitted, “I mean, Claire — Hugh’s little sister — kissed me once, but that was kind of a dare. She wouldn’t count it.” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, “This one was totally different. Weird, but I didn’t hate it or anything, I just.. afterwards I kept thinking that maybe I didn’t do it right.”

Johnny looked at him for a long beat, willing the time to go back to before he knew about this. “Are you planning on kissing her again at the dance?”

Gibsie flushed immediately. “I dunno,” he muttered, “Maybe? I want to, I think, but what if I’m shit at it?” He groaned and flopped back down onto the bed, hiding his face with one hand. “Jesus, she’s so cool Johnny, if I mess this up..”

“You won’t mess it up.” He said, lying back down beside him again and crossing his arms over his chest. “Kissing isn’t hard.”

“Easy for you to say.” Gibsie mumbled, voice muffled from behind the pillow he dashed over his face. “You’ve kissed like a hundred girls.”

“Three.” Johnny corrected, “And they kissed me, I didn’t kiss them.”

“Still, they were older so it basically counts as a hundred more.” Gibsie turned his head away from the pillow to look at Johnny and squinted. “How did you even know how to do it the first time?” 

Johnny gave a noncommittal shrug. “You just go for it, I guess.”

“God,” Gibsie groaned again, covering his face with his hands. “She’s going to think I’m a complete idiot.”

Johnny hesitated. The thought of Gibsie kissing Bernadette again stirred something unpleasant and shapeless in chest. He tried his best to ignore it. 

“I could— if you want, I could show you.” he said, a bit too fast.

Gibsie peeked out from behind his hands. “Show me?”

Johnny felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. “Like… practice. So you’re not nervous. Just, you know—so you get the rhythm down.”

Gibsie blinked. “You mean… you want to kiss me?” He said it like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not.

Johnny immediately wanted to take it back. “No—I mean—only if you want to. You said you didn’t want to embarrass yourself. I’m just saying, if it helps… it doesn’t have to be a big thing. We’ve been best mates forever. It’s not weird.”

There was a pause, long and loaded. Gibsie looked at Johnny, something immanently human flickering behind his eyes.

And then, softly: “You really think it’d help?”

Johnny’s throat felt dry. “Maybe.”

Gibsie sat up again, more cautious this time, slightly awkward and slightly too fast.

Johnny followed, mirroring him. They were both silent for a beat.

And then Gibsie said, voice barely above a whisper, “Okay.”

Johnny’s heart stuttered. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Gibsie repeated, looking down, then up. “Just—just once. So I know what I’m doing.”

Johnny wasn’t sure if he was awake or asleep. If he had dreamed this moment up. If he had dreamed Gibsie up. There was a thread of tension in the air so tight it buzzed.

Johnny moved closer.

“Right,” he murmured, trying to smile, “no teeth. No head-butting. Just follow my lead, yeah?”

Gibsie nodded wordlessly.

Their faces were so close now Johnny could see the ridges in Gibsie’s grey eyes. They were cold, devoid of any warmth in hue or colour, and yet seemed to burn with the emblem of a thousand suns. He could smell the faint cinnamon on his breath from earlier, could practically feel the atoms shifting as they shared space. Every inch of his body was alive. It was both mesmerising and terrifying all at once. 

“Right,” Johnny said again, all thumbs and awkward breath. “Okay, just—uh—okay.”

Gibsie was still watching him, nervously but not unwillingly, sitting cross-legged on the bed, picking at a loose thread on the knee of his joggers. His mouth, the same one that had been kissed by Bernadette bloody Brady, looked softer up close. Plump and soft, like the pillow he sleeps on every night. 

Johnny exhaled through his nose. He rubbed his hands on his thighs and tried to normalise the beating of his chest. “It’s just practice. Think of it like… training. For the real thing.”

Gibsie gave a breathy laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What, like drills?” he asked, voice a bit tight.

“Exactly,” Johnny replied, scooting forward, sitting up straighter. “Just drills.”

There was a long beat where neither of them spoke.

Then Johnny, half-embarrassed and half-determined, cleared his throat and said, “Okay. First thing — you should, like… lean in slow. If you go too fast it feels like an ambush.”

Gibsie nodded, trying to look serious, like he was about to do a very important job interview. “Okay. Slow. Got it.”

Johnny hesitated. “And, uh… tilt your head. Pick a side. You don’t want to crash noses.”

“Which side?”

“I don’t know, just—pick one. Go left. No—wait, I’ll go left, you go right.”

They both tilted their heads. Opposite directions. Same direction. Then bumped foreheads.

“Jesus—sorry—!” Johnny pulled back, cringing, rubbing his temple.

Gibsie burst out laughing, the tension easing for a moment. “God, I’m going to be terrible at this.”

“No,” Johnny muttered, cheeks burning. “You’re not. That was my fault. I gave bad instructions.”

“You’re a terrible coach,” Gibsie teased.

“Shut up,” Johnny shot back, and then, quieter: “We’ll try again.”

This time, more carefully, Johnny leaned forward again, inch by inch, pausing to make sure Gibsie was following. Gibsie mirrored him, his smile fading into something more serious — not unhappy, just focused with thought and intent.

“There’s not much to it,” Johnny murmured, and before he could second-guess himself, he let their mouths touch.

It was chaste, again, only lips on lips.

Johnny’s eyes fluttered shut — a reflex, unthinking — and he felt the shape of Gibsie’s mouth pressed so gently against his own it was almost reverent. Gibsie’s breath came out through his nose, shaky, and Johnny swallowed the urge to take something, to want more.

After a second or two, he pulled back.

“That…” Gibsie whispered, looking stunned. “That wasn’t bad, was it?”

Johnny shook his head. His voice came out hoarse: “No. Not bad.”

“Did I—did I do it right?”

Johnny meant to say “yeah,” quick and easy. But instead his throat tightened. The answer that came out was slower. Lower, too revealing.

“You did it fine.”

Gibsie looked at him like he was searching for something, eyes moving between Johnny’s and his mouth, and then back again. “Should I, um… try again?”

Johnny’s breath caught. “Yes. Uh— If you want.”

And this time it was Gibsie who leaned in, less hesitant. As he shut his eyes Johnny watched golden lashes kiss gently at his cheeks, resisted the urge to reach out and touch. This time, when their lips touched, it was still soft but with a new kind of steadiness. His lips landed on Johnny’s, warmer this time, and he held it there — not urgently or with demand, but waiting for Johnny to do something.

Johnny’s hand twitched in his lap. He wanted to do something, to touch. He wanted so badly to lay his hand on the bare skin where Gibsie’s neck met his shoulder, the junction between the two. He wanted to curl a hand to the back of his neck, where stray hairs would inevitably catch.

Still, everything in him was humming, blood thick and slow.

The kiss was different this time, Gibsie pressed forward impatiently, a quiet confidence building in him as their moves moved in solidarity against each other. Johnny adjusted slightly to meet him, to guide him, and without thinking he placed a bold hand to lightly rest on the side of Gibsie’s face, brushing under his ear. Gibsie startled just slightly at the touch, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned closer. 

Gibsie’s mouth was unspeakably warm. Johnny tilted his head to get a better grasp of the heat, opening his mouth even so slightly, stifling a gasp when their lips slotted together. The mechanics of the kiss as it unfolded so, were clumsy at first. Johnny thought he was more experienced than most, but the thumping in his heart led to his brain blanking against the solidity of his friends mouth. He could feel every shiver and tremble, the cautious movements of their mouths fitting perfectly together. He felt Gibsie’s body, alive and present and perfectly real.

Gibsie lifted his hand uncertainly, cupping the back of Johnny’s neck, his fingers tangling tightly through his hair, tugging almost, so that the space between their bodies lessened. 

“I’m going to do something,” Johnny murmured against Gibsie’s lips, “tell me to stop if you don’t like it..”

His friend hummed absentmindedly, pushing forward, and when Johnny snaked his tongue out to lightly brush against Gibsie’s bottom lip, he let out a breathy sigh, sending a wave of sparking heat down Johnny’s chest. 

And then Gibsie’s tongue brushed against his, tentative, flickering against the curve, so lightly it was more suggestive than actual contact, but it was enough to unravel him.

Johnny’s mouth opened wider, as the kiss stretched and deepened in slow exploratory increments. Gibsie followed his lead, earnestly, and their tongues met again, this time lingering, sliding carefully past one another. Johnny guided him, tilting his head, matching Gibsie’s pace. He pressed closer, until their bodies touched more fully, and the kiss grew warmer, fuller.

Every movement was deliberate—delicate, and charged. Gibsie exhaled shakily when Johnny sucked very lightly on his bottom lip, as if testing the boundary of how far they could go before it was too much, and it was too much, Johnny’s heart was beating in his head, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think unless it was about the feeling of their mouths, together. 

“You okay?” Johnny asked, voice low, breath ghosting over Gibsie’s.

Gibsie nodded wordlessly, his lips red and his gaze unfocused. “You’re… really good at this,” he said, voice hoarse, like the words had been pulled out of him.

Johnny let out a laugh, soft and uneven. Trying too hard not to stare at his kiss-swollen lips. “Told you it wasn’t that hard.”

But it was, it was so goddamn hard. He couldn’t place the tension in his body, but he knew he was being pulled taut with the effort it took to hold himself back. It was the feeling that was hard. The knowledge that this wasn’t just an experiment, not to him. That his hands wanted to stay curled into Gibsie’s jumper, and it had nothing to do with tutoring and everything to do with the fact that he never wanted this to end.

They sat in silence for a moment, both still reeling. Then Gibsie cleared his throat and said, quietly, “If I kiss Bernadette like that… do you think she’ll like it?”

Johnny forced a smile. “Yeah,” he said, his voice raw. “She’ll love it.”

And then he turned away—because he had to. Because if he looked at Gerard Gibson’s lips again, he wasn’t sure he could stop.

—

After that, it was like a dam had broke in Johnny’s head. Like the thread that held his thoughts together had snapped and splintered, like a hairline fracture or a split end widening with every breath. 

He hyper-catalogued every interaction he shared with Gibsie, overanalysing each touch, each look, each laugh. it was obsessive, involuntary, an unwanted memorisation of all things Gerard Gibson, a constant revering for his nearness, a ritual, almost. It felt religious, it felt holy. Johnny was never an avid church goer, but in Gibs he believed. 

They never spoke of it again. Gibsie did kiss Bernadette Brady, did more than that, in fact, and Johnny just smiled and clapped him on the back, the perfect best friend.

He wasn’t delusional anymore. It wasn’t.. he knew that what he felt wasn’t normal, that he wasn’t normal. Looking at Gibsie the way he should look at girls, it was wrong. Buried underneath layers of guilt and silence. Johnny hated it, but not more than he hated himself. He wanted to want the girls that wanted him, to feel good whilst kissing them and touching them, to feel anything really — when their lips touched his neck, when their hands slid under his shirt —  but all he could think about was Gibsie. His hands, his hair, his mouth, — Jesus, his mouth — even his laugh, the sound on constant replay at the forefront of Johnny’s mind. 

The summer in between their third year and fourth year is when it got really really hard, when it started to hurt.

They usually spent at least three weeks out of the six together, either outside the country or not, but that summer they couldn’t. Johnny’s family had arranged for a summer in Dublin again, and Gibsie’s Mam wanted to go back to Paris to celebrate her and her husband’s wedding anniversary, leaving the two of them to spend the summer separated and miserable. 

Gibsie was the most upset over it. He’d never talk about it, but Johnny knew he didn’t like his stepfather. He’d only ever told him once, about the affair and the accident, but Johnny understood him, even if he didn’t like to talk about those things. For all his bravado, all his loud, open attitudes, Gibsie was a tightlipped boy. Austere with detail, everyone knew that when it came down to it, he’d keep your secret. Sometimes it felt like he kept a lot of his own. 

That summer was a bad one. He and Gibsie called each other everyday, listening to each other’s complaints. Apparently Keith had flown out some of his own family, so Gibsie had a bunch of annoying step-cousins to deal with. He hated them all, obviously. 

“I just wish I was back in Cork, with you.” he said at the end of one of their phone calls, his voice airy and low. Johnny held the phone closer to his mouth and closed his eyes when he replied, “Me too.”

When they’d both returned to Cork, they’d immediately met up. The second they reunited Johnny’s heart stopped, the universe turning slow and cruel, but also kind and soft for giving him an image he’d never, ever forget. 

Gibsie looked… different. Taller, broader—he’d filled out over the summer, shed his baby fat, sharpened his muscle. His hair was a little longer and messier, curling at the back of his neck, long enough to rake your whole hand through, and the Paris sun had done something to his skin, it was golden and glowing with lightly splattered freckles decorating his nose and cheeks. His jaw looked sharper, his shoulders wider under a thin white T-shirt that clung to his collarbones, long collarbones that jut out of skin, collarbones you could lick and taste the sweat from.

He still donned the same battered trainers and shorts that Johnny had seen him in a multitude of times, but everything about him was laser focused and intense, his grey eyes poked out at Johnny even from a distance, his lashes long, his lips plumper then the last time. He looked like a man.

“Jesus, you got taller!” Gibsie grinned when they saw each other, wide and toothy.

“Yeah.. you too,” Johnny managed, mouth dry. 

Gibsie’s voice had changed too. Deep and cool and raspy, like a movie star. Everything about him was amplified, still Gibsie but undeniably more. It had Johnny’s heart racing once more, his hands sweating where they lay awkwardly by his sides. 

“Lad, I couldn’t tell you how happy I am to see you again,” Gibsie sighed as they walked down the road. “I was this close to strangling myself. How can they ruin Paris for me? Twice!” 

Johnny winced. “Jesus, was it really that bad?” 

“It was,” Gibsie groaned, “Nobody was my age, and they kept talking about how great Keith’s son was. I don’t know why my Mam wanted me there, I’m old enough to spend the summer alone.”

“Keith has a son? I didn’t know that.” Johnny replied, stroking his chin. 

“Yeah,” Gibsie’s eyes flashed with  unreadable anger. “I fucking hate him.” 

“Why?” he probed, but his friend looked away, as if embarrassed to meet his gaze, a clear sign he wanted to drop the subject, so Johnny obeyed.

“I just do,” Gibsie offered blankly, “What about you?” he carefully switched, “how was your summer.”

Johnny carefully wrapped an arm around Gibsie’s shoulder, pulling him in lightly and playfully — pleased by the fact he was still taller than him and smiled directly next to his ear. “Nothing to speak about,” he said, “Let’s just be happy it’s over and we’re back together again.” 

Gibsie bumped their shoulders together smiling, and Jesus, it was the same, it was the same crooked smile Johnny fell for all those years ago, but it was more, it was wider, it was brilliant. “Aw Kav, you missed me didn’t you?”

Jesus, he had no fucking idea. 

— 

“You gotta tell us how you keep doing this,” Patrick Feely said as they all walked out of their after-school detention, a whole hour early. “What is this, the fifth time?”

“Maybe he wouldn’t have to do whatever it is if you stopped getting into trouble.” Johnny replied. 

“Don’t tell me you aren’t curious,” Hugh offered, “Twomey’s usually hell-bent on making us suffer through those two hours. How the hell does Gibsie keep getting us out?”

“Ah, Hugo-boss, a magician never reveals his secrets.” Gibsie smirked, continuing to walk on without giving them a piece of information. The three of them shared a look and caught up to him.

“It’s not that I care to be in detention, but seriously. How are you doing this?” Hugh repeated, but Gibsie only smiled slyly to himself. Fuck, Johnny was getting curious. 

“Like I said, it’s my hidden trick under my sleeve, and I’m keeping it that way.” 

“Christ,” Feely said, “Are you fucking Twomey?” 

Gibsie scowled and shoved him, “Fuck off. You can go back to sitting in that shitty room for two hours if you’re giving me lip.”

“I’m serious lad!” Feely laughed, “you gotta be doing something, because there’s just no way.” 

“Yeah,” Johnny said slowly, “what exactly are you doing?”

Gibsie looked between the three of them and closed his eyes before sighing.

“You won’t tell anyone?”

“Of course not,” they all said, ears wide open. 

“Fine, I guess I’ll tell you,” he drawled, slightly annoyed but also smirking. “You know Dee? From the office?” 

“Receptionist Dee?” Hugh said, catching on fast, “you’re lying.”

Gibsie raised an eyebrow and shrugged, all casual like. 

“Oh my god.” Feely gasped, grin taking over his face, “You absolute bastard.”

“Nope, I don’t believe it.” Hugh said, eyes wide and slightly breathless. “Dee? As in Dee? Receptionist Dee? As in sex on legs Dee?”

Johnny just stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

Gibsie didn’t respond, but his smugness intensified. His hands were in his pockets, and as they walked he kicked rocks down the exit of the school, the picture of nonchalance. Johnny thought he might be sick. 

“Mate,” Feely said, “How? She’s like, thirty. A banging thirty, but thirty.” 

“She’s in her twenties actually.” Gibsie said quickly, “Not that it matters.”

“Oh it matters,” Hugh laughed in disbelief, “You dog. No wonder she lets us out.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” Gibsie replied innocently.

Johnny shook his head. “Jesus Christ.” 

“Oh my god,” Feely laughed, “You’re insane, Gibson.”

“And you’re going to get caught.” 

“Probably,” Gibsie shrugged, “Until then, enjoy the early outs.” 

Afterwards, they split off into two. He and Gibsie turned the other direction towards Johnnys place. The sun was starting to dip below the buildings around them, streaks of orange melting into blue and bleeding across the sky.

Johnny shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I don’t like it.”

Gibsie glanced at him. “Are you mad I didn’t tell you first? They didn’t really give me a chance.”

“No,” Johnny said, “I don’t like it because you’re fourteen and she’s like.. I don’t even know how old.” 

“Fifteen in two weeks, actually,” Gibsie corrected him. 

“That’s not the point.”

Gibsie shrugged. “Then what is? There’s no use making a big deal out of it, because it isn’t.”

Johnny stopped walking for a moment, his brow furrowed. “She’s an adult. That’s wrong, Gibs. It’s not something to brag about.”

Gibsie frowned. “I’m not bragging, Hugh and Feely asked, and you know how they are. I wasn’t even going to say anything.”

“But you did.”

“Yeah, because I didn’t think you’d be a prick about it!” Gibsie bit out, defensively. 

“How am I being a prick?” Johnny rebutted.

Gibsie rolled his eyes. “Maybe because you’re being a massive hypocrite. When you slept with Loretta Crowley last year, I didn’t say a thing.” 

Johnny’s jaw tightened. “That’s not the same thing. She was older, not old.”

“Dee isn’t old.” Gibsie said frustratedly, “I don’t know why you’re making a deal out of this.”

“Because I’m not an idiot. Hugh and Feely are the ones under-reacting.” 

Gibsie snorted sarcastically and scuffed his shoe against the ground. “I’m not a child, I know what’s wrong and what’s right.” 

“Do you? Because to me it sounds like you don’t.” Johnny snapped, frustration and anger weaving together in his chest, entwining themselves with something else he didn’t want to name. Maybe he was worried for Gibsie. Maybe he didn’t want Gibsie touching anyone else. 

“Fuck you,” Gibsie swore. “I’m not stupid.” 

“I never said that—” Johnny started, but Gibsie had already turned away and started walking without him. 

He fucked up. He was rude — he knew he was rude. But the words had come out of his mouth before he could stop them, driven by something ugly and panicked, more than just righteous concern.

Johnny stayed standing there for a while, watching the space Gibsie had left behind, the warm imprint of his figure disappearing into the dip of the street. He rubbed the back of his neck hard, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

When he got home that evening, Johnny avoided his family. He went straight to his room, flung himself onto the mattress, and stared up at the ceiling. Everything felt hot and itchy under his skin. He wanted to throw something. Instead, he grabbed his phone.

He stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering over Gibsie’s name in his messages. He tapped out a message, deleted it, wrote a new one, deleted that too.

[You know I didn’t mean it like that.]

He quickly erased it, too defensive and sharp for his liking. 

[Sorry.]

No, that wasn’t right either.

He sighed, dropped the phone on his chest and tried not to think about it.

The next morning, Gibsie didn’t look at him.

They were at their lockers, close enough that Johnny could hear the clink of Gibsie’s keychain and the way he aggressively shoved his books into his bag. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t even glance Johnny’s way.

Hugh and Feely noticed, but they didn’t say anything, resorting to awkwardly sharing looks when they thought Johnny couldn’t tell. In third period Maths, a class he had only with Hugh, he was finally confronted.

Johnny slumped into his seat, eyes on the board, but he could feel Hugh watching him from across the desk.

Eventually, Hugh leaned in. “Cap,” he said under his breath, “what did you say to Gibsie?”

Johnny didn’t answer.

Hugh kicked him lightly under the desk. “Come on, tell me. He’s acting weird and I know it’s your fault.”

“It’s not my fault.” Johnny snapped with a glare.

Hugh winced, “Shit, bad choice of words,” he amended, “I just mean, did you guys get into an argument?”

“Is it about the Dee thing?”

Johnny scowled. “Of course it’s about the Dee thing.”

“Why’re you being so pissy about it,” Hugh whispered. “It’s not like he’s dating the woman.”

“Because she fucking works here,” Johnny bit out. “If anyone finds out, they’re both in trouble.”

“Is that what it’s about? Gibsie’s fine, lad. He can handle himself,” Hugh said. “Just apologise so it’s not awkward anymore.”

“I’m not going to apologise.”

“Jesus Cap, now is not the time to be stubborn,” Hugh said firmly. “I’ve known Gibsie my whole life, if you just apologise he’ll get over it.”

“Why should I be the one to apologise? I’m not the one fucking up my life.” 

Hugh sighed. “Lad, you might be overreacting here.”

Johnny’s grip on his pen tightened. “No, it’s you three that are under-reacting. Out of all of us, he’s the youngest. What business does a twenty year old have with him?”

“Ah,” Hugh said, “I know what happened. You said that to him and he got pissed because it’s condescending.”

“I wasn’t trying to be!” Johnny exclaimed. “He’s my best friend, alright? I worry about him. He’s—you know how he is, he’s always— sometimes he does things without thinking about it first, I just..” 

“Yeah, I know lad,” Hugh clapped him on the shoulder, “You don’t want to see him get hurt, but he’s a big boy, Johnny. He’s always okay, always getting himself out of trouble. He won’t take to coddling.”

“But—” Johnny let out a breath. “I know that, alright?. I know that. He’s my best friend.”

“Y’know,” Hugh started, averting his gaze. “If you… well, nobody would care.” 

Johnny stiffened. “What?”

Hugh scrubbed a hand over his face. “Come on, you know what I mean. I’m just saying, you wouldn’t get any shit from me about it.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he frowned.

“You don’t?!” Hugh let out a quick laugh, “Shit, forget I said anything then. Just talk to Gibs, alright?”

Johnny sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. “I’ll talk to him.”

“You better,” Hugh muttered. “It’s weird when you guys aren’t together.”

After school, Johnny waited.

He loitered by the bike rack, knowing Gibsie always walked past it on his way home. People filtered out around him, some paused to say hi, a couple of girls tried to start up conversation — until finally, there he was.

Gibsie saw him and immediately looked away.

“Gibs,” Johnny called out, stepping forward. “Please.”

Gibsie didn’t stop walking. Johnny jogged a little to catch up. “Gibs. I’m sorry. I was a dick.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Johnny kept pace with him. “I didn’t mean to come at you like that. I just… I was worried, okay?”

That made Gibsie slow down just a fraction, but he didn’t stop.

“It’s not right,” Johnny said, louder this time. “You can call me a hypocrite, or a prick, or whatever — but you’re my best mate, Gibs. And if something’s wrong, I’m gonna call it.”

Gibsie finally stopped. His expression was guarded, jaw tight.

“I’m not stupid,” he said again, quietly this time. “I can handle my own shit.”

“I know you’re not, and I know you can,” Johnny said, stepping in front of him. “You’re the smartest idiot I know.”

That got a snort — not quite a laugh, but close enough. Johnny latched onto it.

“Gibs,” he said, softer. “Come on.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“Let’s just not talk about it, okay?” Gibsie muttered. “We clearly don’t agree, so let’s just not.”

Johnny found himself nodding, and it felt like a betrayal. “Okay, I guess.”

“Great.” Gibsie said, flashing a smile, his change in demeanour so fast that Johnny got whiplash.

It scared him, how good Gibsie was at keeping secrets sometimes. How good he was at keeping to himself. Johnny, he was usually stoic, but when he was upset, you could tell. Gibsie on the other hand, was like a hard, hollow rock. 

Johnny gave a half-smile. “Thank fuck,” he said, as Gibsie wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “I had to listen to Hugh and Feely during lunch, and it was horror.”

“Ah, they’re good lads.” Gibsie smiled, “You should try make it less obvious that I’m your favourite.” 

Johnny rolled his eyes light-heartedly. “Who says you’re my favourite?”

Gibsie grinned. “Please.” And then, “For what it’s worth, you’re my favourite too.”

And yeah, Johnny wasn’t an idiot. He knew Gibsie liked him more than the rest of the lads, he knew that it was them, and then everyone else. It was always JohnnyandGibsie. But Jesus Christ, hearing him say that was— fuck, Johnny doesn’t have the words. 

“Yeah?” Johnny said, mouth dry and tongue heavy in his mouth. 

“Obviously,” Gibsie snorted, and then, looking a bit concerned, “Are you okay? You’re not upset or anything? I’m sorry I ignored you, I was pissed.”

“No, no,” Johnny assured him, “I’m good. Great actually.”

“Good.” Gibsie said, and then they went home.

—

That night, he’d thought about what Hugh had said to him. 

“Y’know, if you… well, nobody would care.”  

Had Johnny made it that obvious? Had he screamed it to the world, the way his heart only beat for Gerard Gibson? Was he truly that pathetic, that he couldn’t yearn in silence. It wasn’t like that. Everybody would care. He was Johnny Kavanagh. He was going to go pro, he was going to be somebody. 

He couldn’t have both. This was his real life, and he wouldn’t risk it on something that would only ruin everything he’d ever wanted. Gibsie wouldn’t.. he didn’t think about Johnny like that. Again, Johnny wasn’t delusional. 

This rotten thing that had borne fruit inside of him, this all-consuming, terrifying thing that creeped up on his soul like wild fire, had taken a hold of him, body and spirit alike — it wasn’t requited. It was Johnny, that had turned their friendship ugly, sullied it, Johnny who had taken from Gibsie, Johnny who had stolen and deceived his closest friend into trusting him and all his devious and deranged desires. 

The worst part was, he thought he was careful, he thought he was being careful, keeping up appearances, sleeping with girls and talking about girls, never sparing a second glance in public. Jesus, he thought he was being careful. He had tried so hard, not to let it show that everything inside him twisted when his friend looked at him for too long, that the sound of Gibsie’s laughed replayed in all his dreams, that he always knew where Gibsie was in a room, could feel his presence like a burning tattoo, that he listened for him. Watched for him. 

And shit, maybe Hugh wouldn’t care. But everyone else would. Gibsie would, and Johnny would die before losing him, not so something as ugly as this. 

Johnny would fix this. He would stop being greedy, stop.. taking things. He would stop, point blank, cold turkey. Nobody would know, nobody could know. 

The upcoming weeks, he made it a point to touch Gibsie less, to avoid his eye lest he get stuck in them more. 

He couldn’t tell if Gibsie noticed, and if he did, he never said anything about the slow chasm growing between them through the rest of the year. 

It was the hardest thing Johnny had ever done. Harder than any game, any diet plan, any training. It was harder because he was abstaining from something he wanted so badly. And it was hard because Gibsie made it hard. Johnny couldn’t tell if it was punishment or grace. 

Gibsie was so comfortable with him. He was relaxed with everyone, but mostly him. It was Johnny, who’s shoulder he’d sling an arm over, Johnny who’s thigh he’d hold. That made things impossible, because it was as if Gibsie was giving him the key to all his utmost desires, and Johnny had to resist, and resist, and resist.  
Gibsie was tactile, he was open, he was free. Unshackled by the bounds of longing that captured Johnny all those years ago. He had no qualms with touching Johnny, with making jokes about their closeness. Gibsie would freely say I love you if Johnny got him a burger from the chippy, would freely kiss his cheek when they were parting. 

To Johnny, it was only a confirmation that he was alone in his want. Because, surely if Gibsie felt even a quartile of what Johnny felt, he’d want to hide it, want to shelter it from everyone else, because of how big and ugly and twisted it was. To keep it hidden, and safe, deep down in his heart, so that nobody could take it away, and so that nobody could see it, and know what he was.  It was Johnny’s biggest secret, and yet sometimes, it was the only true thing he had.

—

It was their fifth year, the second time they kissed. 

They were studying, or at least Johnny was trying to.

“Look, we both know I’m going to fail, so what’s the point in even learning this shit?” Gibsie groaned as Johnny shoved another flashcard into his face. 

“Stop being so dramatic,” Johnny rolled his eyes, “You aren’t going to fail, if you just try.”

“I am trying,” Gibsie said, slouching deeper into his chair. “I’m trying so hard not to die right now out of boredom.”

Johnny sighed. “Describe the process of vaccination.”

“Ugh,” Gibsie exclaimed, covering his eyes, “Stop. It’s hurting my ears.”

“You literally know the answer to that one!”

Gibsie blinked. “Do I?”

“Yes, you do, you just aren’t listening to anything I say.”

“Well, how can you blame me? You start and it’s just blah-blah-blah over and over. It gets to a point, Johnny-boy.”

“I am going to shove these notebooks up your hole.” Johnny closed his eyes and said.

“I’d rather that over having to read them.” 

“You know what?” Johnny sat up and said, “Fine.” He shut his books, “Let’s stop studying and fail our mocks, Christ. Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Gibsie said immediately. “I’d like that very much. Not the failing part, although that’s pretty inevitable on my side, but yes to the no studying, obviously.”

Johnny sighed. 

“Do you know what we should do, though?” Gibsie said thoughtfully.

“What?”

“We should drink.”

“No—”

Two hours later, they were shitfaced in the Kavanagh’s fancy dining room where the liquor cabinet was.

Johnny couldn’t even remember why or how they got there, only that he had given in and indulged Gibsie like always. One second, he was swearing they wouldn’t, and the next he was stealing his mothers bobby pins so he could pick the lock, which embarrassingly he couldn’t do, and then Gibsie had to step in.

They’d moved from two small shot-glasses to necking the bottles pretty quickly, and the whiskey burned going down but it made it more enjoyable, somehow. 

“I can’t believe,” Gibsie slurred, “that you’re fucking Bella Wilkinson.”

“Jesus lad,” he choked with laughter, “Don’t remind me.”

“Y’know what Claire told me?” Gibsie mumbled, “Apparently it’s a part of this plan to get you to fall in love with them.”

“Huh?” Johnny sat up, his eyes going all out of focus. 

“Yeah, s’called Binding 13, the operation—something like that.”

“The fuck?” Johnny swore, “what’s that even mean?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and muttered, “it sounds made up.” 

“Dunno,” Gibsie shrugged lazily, “but does that mean Bella won?”

“Fuck no!” he said brashly, coughing on his drink. “I don’t even….like Bella.”

Gibsie glanced at him sidelong, his eyes hooded, unreadable. “Then why are you with her?”

Johnny’s fingers tapped against the glass in his hand, slow, rhythmic. Gibsie grabbed the bottle by the neck and took a long sip. When he was done his lips were shiny and wet with whiskey.

“I don’t,” he paused, swallowing his tongue, “It’s easy, I suppose.”

“I get that.” Gibsie hummed. “If only everything was easy.”

“Yeah, Gibs,” he leaned back into the large chaise, legs tangling with Gibsie’s. “If only.”

Johnny took another sip of drink, the world fading around him, becoming muddled and vibrant, the only clear thing in the room being Gibsie, right next to him, in front of him, behind him and beside him. He was everywhere. 

His friend exhaled a slow breath, deep and hot like he was trying to steady the spin of the room. His hand, still clutching the neck of the whiskey bottle, dangled carelessly between his knees. “M’head’s all floaty,” he said with a crooked grin. “Like it’s… all the way upstairs.”

Johnny snorted. “Your head is always upstairs.”

“True,” Gibsie said, nodding solemnly. “But that’s why I have you to make sure I don’t fuck up too bad, with my head being gone and all.”

Johnny leaned his head back against the velvet of the chaise, eyes half-lidded. The ceiling twirled a little. “S’quiet in your head, I bet.”

“Quiet?” Gibsie turned to face him more directly, eyes squinting at Johnny. “It’s a fuckin’ circus. I wish it was quiet.” And then, as he attempted to get another swig of whiskey, Gibsie spilt two thirds of it down his shirt.

Johnny burst out laughing, loud and sudden. His hand came up to cover his mouth but the sound escaped anyway, echoing slightly off the polished wood of the cabinets and the crystal decanters. “Gibs,” he choked out, “That’s my Da’s favourite whiskey.”

Gibsie groaned, pulling his wet shirt off, revealing his bare chest, glistening with sticky alcohol. “Fuck, I liked this shirt.”

He threw it to the other side of the room. “I’ll pay you back for the drink,” he grumbled, but when Johnny turned the bottle around to reveal a price label in the thousands, his eyes widened and he swore.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Johnny. That isn’t even.. on whiskey?” 

Johnny smirked lazily, still chuckling slightly. “It’s fine, if we finish the bottle now he won’t even notice. He never does.” 

“God bless John Kavanagh, because this is top tier liquor, Johnny-boy.”

“Tastes like shit though.”

“Yeah,” Gibsie erupted into a fit of giggles, “Yeah, it’s so bad. Why is it that expensive?”

“Ah, let my Da be sophisticated, he likes nerding out over all his collections.”

“God, if you turn out to be a snob, I’ll kill you.” Gibsie said solemnly.

Johnny shifted and clapped him on his back. “You’d never let me be a snob. You force me to eat shitty cheap chippy meals twice a week and I don’t think we’ve ever fine-dined.” 

“And it’ll stay like that for the rest of our lives,” Gibsie mumbled, “if I have any say in it.”

“Can’t wait, Gibs.” Johnny declared with a sigh, settling further on the chaise so that his arm was pressed against Gibsie’s.

“You can’t?” his friend said with something akin to surprise in his voice, although Johnny couldn’t place why. Of course he couldn’t wait to start the rest of their lives together.

“Yeah,” Johnny said, “Obviously. I’ll play rugby, and you’ll either be there as well or doing something else you set your crazy mind to and we’ll always see each other at least three times a week, so that you keep me humble and I keep you sane.”

Gibsie looked at him with hazy eyes. “You’ve really thought about it, huh?”

“Of course I have. You’re my best friend.”

Gibsie smiled and chuckled, but it trailed off, replaced by something more serious and slow. Their bodies leaned closer in degrees, warmth pressed carelessly and without thought. 

Johnny could feel the alcohol in his system, blurring his thoughts, slowing down his restraint. Gibsie looked at him, just looked, wandering Johnny’s frame with his eyes and it was… magnificent.

And every single cell in his body seemed to gravitate on this spot he’d found himself in, he wanted to set roots there and stay like that, in that exact position, in that exact proximity, and watch that wide smile, watch it curl up with life, and then, when he’d finally had enough— which at that point hardly seemed possible, he wanted to go closer, to wrap his arms around Gibsie, to kiss him and hold him, and then when his dearest friend pushed him away, (because of course that would happen, even in his drunken state, Johnny wasn’t deluded enough to believe in reciprocation.) 

He would apologise, because he there was nothing else he could’ve done. He simply had no frame of reference with regard to this thing between them and it was scary-natural with Gibsie, sometimes. Johnny never realised how close they’d become until they’d already covered the ground.

And they were so close. It was most like Johnny, who had stolen the space, who’d creeped up until he could feel Gibsie’s slow inhales and exhales on his face. The grey of his eyes flashing maddeningly in the darkness of the room, the sole claimer of Johnny’s attention, his heart, and he could’ve lived the rest of his life like that, next to his friend.

But then Gibsie spoke, low and intoxicating.

“I’m really drunk right now, Johnny,” he mumbled, dropping his head against Johnny’s shoulder. “Real drunk,”

“Yeah?” Johnny replied, his voice cracking at the contact, that suddenly came and vanished as Gibsie pulled away to look at him again. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, and then his eyes trailed down Johnny’s face, downwards and downwards, until it landed on his mouth, and Johnny had to stop himself from pinching the inside of his own thigh, because surely not. 

“Gibs..” Johnny whispered instead, as Gibsie’s hand travelled up the side of his leg, up his arm, settling on his shoulder and creeping slowly towards the back of his neck.

Then he curled his large hand, splayed it against Johnny’s skin, playing with the ends of his hair, tightening ever so slightly, just enough that he could feel it, feel the scorching heat emanating from his body. 

“I’m really, really drunk, I think,” Gibsie said again enticingly, but he didn’t sound drunk at all. No, he sounded sure and convinced, as he stared down at Johnny’s lips, making him shiver and shake with anticipation. “I, you are so...”

Like a man hypnotised, Gibsie brought his hand to Johnny’s face and pulled his lip with his thumb, robbing Johnny of his ability to breathe.

He knew how—of course he knew how—but the mechanism of it felt foreign now, unlearned, like Gibsie had reached into his chest and rewired him, he could feel the air lodged in his throat, and he was choking on his desire. Johnny’s whole world had narrowed to that single point of contact. The rest of the room dissolved. The dim gold glow from the antique chandelier blurred into a smear of warmth, and the distant sound of the wind outside the dining room window became nothing but background noise to the riot building inside his chest.

Gibsie’s thumb dragged slow across the corner of his mouth, and every cell in Johnny’s body leaned into it, craved it like a dog with a bone. His own hands hovered aimlessly, half curled fists in his lap, unsure what to do, how to move, if he even should, in fear of breaking the moment, the spell. The pull was magnetic, undeniable, and they were so close then that the smallest tilt of his chin would close the gap. That was all it would take. A single inch.

Just one.

And he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to. How badly had Johnny dreamed of it? For years and years, since they were eleven, since the moment he felt his heart beating against his ribs and in his throat, and he realised that he wouldn’t ever be the same.

He could smell him, that impossible mix of whiskey, cheap aftershave, and Gibsie himself. The scent that clung to every hoodie Johnny had ever borrowed, the scent that pervaded all his dreams. The scent that lived in his bones now, that he associated with laughter, and long nights, and the kind of affection that you weren’t supposed to want, not like Johnny did.

He was not allowed to want this.

Johnny’s throat was drier than dust, his tongue was heavy in his mouth, but he wanted to speak, to say anything, and he couldn’t, the words caught in his throat like barbed wire.

Gibsie nudged forward, nose pressing against Johnny’s. “I’m gonna.. I’m going to,” he stopped, waiting for Johnny to intervene, to stop this, but didn’t he know? Didn’t he know that Johnny would let him do anything, that Johnny would thanklessly kill for him, would die for him. 

“Please,” Johnny heard himself say, and he wasn’t a beggar, rarely asked for things politely, but he was so, so sick of being patient and waiting, and Gibsie was so, so close. “Please.”

“You should stop me,” Gibsie whispered, his breath hot and laced with whiskey. “You need to stop me, because I...”

He nudged forward then, only slightly brushing against Johnny’s lips, but even at the small contact, Johnny knew he wouldn’t stop him even if it were life or death. 

Johnny pushed forward, his way of telling Gibsie that it was okay. He was scared, too.

“Fuck, Johnny.” he murmured, before crashing their mouths together.

It wasn’t graceful, it wasn’t even kind. Their teeth knocked together. Gibsie tasted like expensive whiskey and cinnamon and it was all the things Johnny had never let himself admit he craved when he craved them so deeply. When Gibsie tilted to the side and pushed Johnny’s mouth open, licking inside, he found himself furrowing his brow — it was different to how it was those years ago, Gibsie had learned, was taught further than just Johnny, had gotten real good at it, and he hated the fact that there were people out there who had tasted the same flavour inside of Gibsie’s mouth, that Johnny wouldn’t be the only one. 

He took hold of Gibsie’s bottom lip, sucked it into his mouth slowly, and Gibsie groaned loudly, the sound echoing between their bodies. He pulled off of Johnny, then quickly kissed him harshly again before lowering himself to kiss and bite at Johnny’s jaw, threading his hands through Johnny’s hair, following him when he fell back against the chaise, leaning over him as he sucked marks into Johnny’s skin. 

“Tell me to stop,” he said, laving at the junction where Johnny’s neck met his shoulder, “Tell me to stop,” he repeated, tasting the sweat on Johnny’s skin. 

Johnny couldn’t speak, was too busy drowning in pleasure, so instead he held onto Gibsie’s shoulders and pulled him back into his mouth desperately, praying for the moment to never end. “Shut up,” he found the words to say, “Shut the hell up.”

Messy and wet; they explored each other’s mouths, Johnny pressed himself further into the couch as he counted Gibsie’s teeth with his tongue. All warm mouths and wandering hands, it felt like something was bursting out of both of them—something that had been caged for far too long.

Johnny wrapped his arms around Gibsie’s back and then felt Gibsie’s soft skin, felt the dip in his hipbones, pulled his hands between them so he could feel his abs, hard and strong against his. Heat pooled in his stomach, fiery and unforgiving.

Gibsie made a noise, low and aching, and snuck his fingers under Johnny’s shirt— and that sound cracked something inside Johnny wide open. He clutched at him, desperate, needy, drunk on the taste and the feel and the sheer rightness of it all. For years, he couldn’t help but think, for years he loved this boy.

He tried to memorise everything about the scene, tried to learn Gibsie by touch alone. He memorised the skin over his ribs, the way they slotted perfectly into Johnny’s palms, like that was where they were meant to be. He moved with fevered urgency, as he realised just how badly he’d been starved.

Their teeth clashed again, and Gibsie bit hard at his lip, but he didn’t care. Johnny let out a ragged breath into Gibsie’s mouth, tasting his own desirous greed in it. Gibsie then pulled back, leaving Johnny to whine embarrassingly at the loss, and grabbed at his shirt, practically ripping it off of him to feel his bare chest before latching back onto his lips like a man starved. 

The kiss deepened further, slowed, then picked up pace again, both of them locked in that maddening rhythm of more. He was shirtless and shaking, from finally tasting something pent up for so long it that it had started to fester quietly in the caverns of his chest. Every press of Gibsie’s mouth, every hungry pull at his bottom lip, every low sound caught between them felt like it had been carved into the stars years ago, a quiet inevitability he had been skirting around for years.

He hummed into Gibsie’s mouth and pressed their bodies tighter, chest to chest, heart to wild, traitorous heart. His fingers slid down again, found the hard edge of Gibsie’s hips and pulled. He needed contact, needed it like he needed air. Gibsie’s skin was hot under his touch, too hot, and Johnny wondered vaguely if he’d ever be able to touch him again without remembering this exact moment.

Gibsie kissed him firmly before moving downward, kissing and sucking at every piece of Johnny’s skin. “Fuck,” he sighed against Johnny’s chest, “I want..”

As if realising something, he quickly moved back up Johnny and squinted hazily, with someone akin to concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?” Gibsie nudged their noses together and toyed with Johnny’s nipples in his left hand, “Is this okay?”

Johnny could hardly speak from the jolts of pleasure overwhelming his senses. He pressed a hand to his mouth to quell the loud moans of delectation threatening to escape and nodded, but Gibsie didn’t think it was enough, because he asked again.

“Are you sure?” He kissed Johnny again, open mouthed, “Say you’re sure.”

Johnny groaned and pulled Gibsie closer by the shoulder. “Yes, yes, I’m sure. I want—” 

His words were cut off by his noisy groan, unable to stop himself from falling apart out loud as Gibsie curled a tongue around his nipple, and then, as if God had answered all his prayers, he went downwards, kissing at Johnny’s hipbone before snaking a hand down his shorts. 

“And this?” Gibsie asked with a lazy, drunk grin, “Do you want this?”

Johnny threw his head back and bit his lip, exposing his neck for Gibsie to attack, hand still loosely curled around his length.

“Fuck,” Johnny swore incoherently, “I do,”

The confirmation seemed to relieve Gibsie, as he tightened his hand, unravelling Johnny with every flick of his wrist, kissing him and biting him as he did so, and Johnny only barely had the proactiveness to move his hand down Gibsie’s trousers, grabbing hold of him. As they made out, breathing into each others mouths, they sent each other to new heights of pleasure, and Johnny knew he couldn’t forget it if he tried. 

—

They did not talk about it. Not the next day, or the week after. Months passed, and soon it was like it never happened at all.

The morning after, Johnny woke with a mouth as dry as sandpaper, with a blaring headache pounding behind his eyes. His body ached, and he stank of whiskey and sweat and sex.

Gibsie was gone. 

There was a quickly written, barely legible note claiming that his Mam needed him to open the bakery and that he was sorry he got so drunk last night. Johnny didn’t care about any of that, no. His attention had fastened to the last part on the faded page.

I’ll call you when I get home. Sorry for getting shit-faced, if I did anything stupid, forget about it.

Love, Gibsie.

Johnny couldn’t hear the blood rushing in his head, over the sound of his heart breaking clean in two. If I did anything stupid. 

Stupid. Is that was Gibsie thought it was?

Johnny was stupid. Johnny was the idiot who’d gotten greedy. But how could Gibsie expect him to.. forget about it, when it was the only thing he dreamed of at night, and every time he closed his eyes he saw him, mouth parted, kissing at his neck.

Something inside of Johnny felt hollowed out, after reading those words. Like a rot under floorboards, it was slow and deep, pervaded by a deep sense of wrongness instilled in his every breath. 

He shouldn’t have kissed Gibsie. Even if it seemed like the only thing he could’ve done. He shouldn’t have wanted to.

Gibsie was his best friend. Nothing more, and he’d do well to remember that.

Chapter Text

—

“You’re going to be okay, lad,” Gibsie soothed, low and steadily as Johnny cried silently into his shoulder.

They were in a hospital room. Johnny had gotten out of surgery, and was still kind of hazy from the anaesthetic, but he was awake when they told him that he wouldn’t be able to play rugby for a really, really long time.

He couldn’t think about anything but the vestiges of his future fading to pieces in front of him. 

“You’ll have to stay off your feet, for a while,” all the doctors said, “I understand you’re an athlete, but no rugby. At least two months, maybe longer. You have to understand, you’re lucky you can play again at all.”

He was fucking broken. And, sure, maybe it wasn’t life or death, everyone said that it wouldn’t be the end of his career, but it still felt like the world was falling out from under him, one ligament at a time. Two months could be the be all and end all of everything he’d spent his whole life dreaming of. Johnny blinked against the fluorescent lights, let the warm pressure of Gibsie’s body anchor him, and buried his face into the crook of his neck.

“It’ll be over before you know it, Kav.” he said, but Johnny didn’t want to hear any of that. Couldn’t bear to listen to anyone’s rationalisations. “You’ll be back on the pitch soon, you just have to heal up first.”

Johnny didn’t reply right away. He couldn’t. The lump in his throat was too large, the pain too loud in his chest. He couldn’t help but feel that like his dreams were being crushed in realtime. The unfairness of it all wasn’t lost on him. He’d sacrificed so much for this dream, and in return what had he achieved?

“I know it’s not what you want to hear,” Gibsie said softly, “but you’ve been through worse than this. You’ve gotten up before. You’re allowed to be wrecked about it, but it’s not over, Johnny. Not by a long shot.”

Johnny squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the hot prickle of more tears, and he hated that, it felt shameful and weak. He hated crying in front of anyone, especially Gibsie. But at the same time, it was only Gibsie. He was the only person who’d ever seen him like this and never judged. The only person who could ever make him feel comfortable enough to fall apart.

“I don’t have anything without rugby,” Johnny murmured into his shirt

Gibsie was quiet for a long time. “You have me,” he said eventually, brushing his thumb absentmindedly over the back of Johnny’s head. “Always.”

Johnny only sobbed harder, because he didn’t. Not in the way he wanted.

“I promise that you’ll be okay,” Gibsie added, his voice low and sincere. “And if it isn’t I’ll be there either way.”

Johnny scoffed. It was a bitter sound, ugly and raw. He pulled back slightly, enough to see Gibsie’s face. “Don’t say that.” he muttered.

Gibsie blinked. “Say what?”

“That I’ll be okay. You don’t know that.”

“The doctor said—”

“I don’t give a shit what the doctor said.” Johnny interrupted angrily, “This is my fucking life. My life. You don’t know a thing, Gibs.”

Gibsie straightened, his hold on Johnny loosening. “It’s two months, Kav. You can recover.”

Johnny laughed then, a joyless laugh that cracked in the middle. “Easy for you to say. You don’t give two shits about this.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Yeah, it is actually.” he said, voice rising, swelling with hurt. “Rugby was it for me. There isn’t anything else. And now it’s gone.”

“It’s not gone,” Gibsie insisted. “It’s just on hold.”

Johnny’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Don’t. I’m not stupid. I know what this means.”

Gibsie’s hand was still on him, steady and warm, but Johnny’s shoulders had gone taut beneath it. He was shaking with rage and pain and grief.

“I’m not trying to talk down to you,” he said. “But you’re acting like this is going to kill you.”

“Because it is,” Johnny spat. “This is a really big deal, okay? So stop fucking lying to me. Everyone else can, but not you. Never you.”

The silence after he spoke grew thick and electric. Gibsie looked at him, really looked, and Johnny felt it like lasers. It was hot, searching, and frustratingly tender.

“I’m not lying,” Gibsie said slowly, “I know you, and I know you can come back from this.”

Johnny shook his head, breath coming fast, tears spilling through his eyes. “Just go.” he mumbled, voice crackling and trembling. “I’m really not in the fucking mood right now.”

“You want me to go?” Gibsie replied, “Well that’s too damn bad, because I’m not leaving.”

“I said fuck off, Gibs. Seriously.” Johnny snapped, pushing Gibsie away from him slightly.

Gibsie didn’t budge. Instead he grabbed Johnny’s wrist and stared down at him. “No can do.”

Johnny turned his face away, jaw tight, lips pressed thin as he fought the shameful sob begging to escape his chest. For a moment, he felt incredibly young, incredibly pathetic.

“Johnny, it’s two months,” Gibsie talked him down, “Two months and you’ll be back.”

He didn’t look Gibsie in the eye, but Johnny could sense the growing concern in the way he shifted, how his frustration tightened. Without seeing, he could picture the pinch of Gibsie’s furrowed brow, the lip caught between his teeth, gnawing on it absently as he tried to figure out what to do. What to say, as if anything could fix it.

Johnny felt a strong hand cradle his jaw as it turned his head back to Gibsie. He stiffened, breath catching. Gibsie’s hand wasn’t rough, but it was firm, decisive. Leaving no room for retreat or rescinding, Johnny could only stare at his friend’s cold grey eyes. 

Gibsie’s thumb lingered against the hinge of Johnny’s jaw, catching on dried tears, warming the cold clammy skin with his palm. Johnny swallowed hard, his throat suddenly turning raw, as if he’d screamed for hours even though he’d barely raised his voice. Everything inside him felt clenched and raised, apprehensive but also impatient.

Gibsie leaned in slightly, eyes tracking his face as if to memorise, and then, without warning or ceremony, he pressed his lips to Johnny’s.

The calloused pads of his fingers tightened against Johnny’s jaw, grounding him and pulling him closer. Johnny leaned up, kissing Gibsie back immediately. It wasn’t muscle memory, instead, it was driven on years of want and a moment of defeatism.

Johnny let Gibsie pull his lips in between his,  let Gibsie snake his tongue out to brush the insides of Johnny’s mouth, let Gibsie taste him and the salt of his tears. In turn, he pushed forward, licking his own way into Gibsie’s mouth requitingly, almost greedy. 

If this was the way in which Gibsie wanted to console him or comfort him, then Johnny had no complaints. He felt hard done by, extremely wronged, weighed down by all the injustices in the world, and only God could forgive him for taking the one piece of happiness offered to him in this moment.

Gibsie caught his lower lip between his teeth, biting down gently. Johnny exhaled, a quiet, uneven groan, just as Gibsie let go of his wrist, moving his hand upwards, slowly and deliberately, until he had the both of them framing Johnny’s face.

They parted to breathe, but only just. Gibsie leaned his forehead against Johnny’s, eyes falling shut as their breaths mingled, hot and shared. Johnny stared, dazed and still, taking the time to indulge in the soft skin of Gibsie’s face, the harsh curve of his cheekbone, the uneven freckles that deckled his nose, the pinkness of his parted lips.

The moment stood still for a while, until a voice appeared at the door. Gibsie sprang back like live wire, flinching as though he’d been slapped. His hands dropped from Johnny’s face in an instant, back straightening as if scalded. His face was flushed deep with colour, chest rising.

Johnny had no time to think before his mother opened the hospital room door and walked in.

He wanted to scream.

“Good news,” his Mam said, none the wiser, “I’ve spoken to the doctors, and they’re willing to discharge you.”

Her eyes flicked instinctively to the machines beside his bed and the bandages under his gown. “Oh, you look better already,” she said, with a soft certainty. Johnny almost scoffed. He didn’t feel better.

“Your Dad is just at the front desk, filling out some forms.” she continued, smoothing out her shirt.

She turned to Gibsie then, who was standing awkwardly, feet away from Johnny as if he’d gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Thank you for keeping him company,” she chuckled, “I hope you kept him from spiralling too badly.”

Gibsie forced a tight smile, nodding. “I did my best.”

Johnny’s throat opened and closed. He tried his hardest not to look at Gibsie, knowing he it would hurt if he did and that it would reveal too much. His mam wasn’t stupid, after all. No, she was the opposite. 

“You’ll need to be careful at home,” she murmured. “They said crutches for the first week. No sudden movements, no stairs without help.”

Johnny made a vague sound of agreement, eyes fixed on the space between his knees.

She looked up again. “You’ll need help getting to the car later. Gerard—would you mind?”

Gibsie startled like he’d been hit. “Uh—yeah. Course not.”

“Good lad,” she said gently, patting his arm in passing. “He’s lucky to have you.”

And then she turned her back, heading to the little bathroom in the corner with her purse, obviously more worried than she let on. The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence filled the room, so loudly that it hurt his head. Johnny looked up, finally meeting Gibsie’s eyes again.

They said nothing. Neither of them moved.

‘He’s lucky to have you,’ his Mam had said.

Was he? There was not a single person alive who caused Johnny as much stress as Gerard Gibson. There was no one person more capable of hurting him, of ruining his life. In many ways, Gibsie already had. He had stolen his heart, taken captivity of it, engulfed his mind, left Johnny with only thoughts of his laugh, his smile, his eyes. Ruined him for anyone else. 

But there was also no other person who brought Johnny as much joy as Gerard Gibson. No other person who was capable of lightening his mood like Gibsie was. He made Johnny laugh and smile and grin with all the happy things in the world. When he was with Gibsie, Johnny felt invincible, like anything could happen and he’d be okay.

Even now, with that small kiss, he felt a weight lift off his shoulder, because Gibsie was there, wasn’t he? Stood in his hospital room, sleeping in shitty chairs that were bad for his back, so that he could be there for Johnny no matter what. So maybe his Mam was right, and he was lucky to have Gerard Gibson, even if it caused him immeasurable pain to love someone who wouldn’t ever feel the same way back.

“Fuck,” Gibsie swore, “I’m really sorry, Johnny.”

He suddenly felt a dangerous surge of emotion filling his veins. It was anger, the immediate response to another one of Gibsie’s apologies.

Why did he always have to take it back? To make it seem like it was a mistake. Didn’t he know?

“Okay,” he replied numbly. Gibsie winced.

They sat in silence until Johnny’s Mam returned and took them home. They didn’t speak in the car, and when they pulled up to Gibsie’s house, Johnny watched him walk away, his heart breaking into a million pieces once more.

—

When he got home, the only thing he wanted to do was collapse into his bed and maybe cry some more. Instead, he was forced into the living room because his mother wanted to ‘talk.’

She boiled the kettle and made them both a cup of tea. Johnny sat stiffly on the couch, eyes glued to the floor.

“How are you feeling, pet?” Edel asked him, voice oozing with concern.

“Peachy,” Johnny bit out, hands wrapped firmly around his mug.

“And the stitches?”

“They’re fine.”

“What about the bandages? Everything’s alright?”

“Yes Mam.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mam,” Johnny interrupted impatiently, “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Great, even.”

His mother raised her eyebrows and opened and closed her mouth. “You know,” she started.

“What?”

“You know your father and I will always love you, right?” she told him hesitantly. “And if there’s anything you want to tell us, just know that there’s no judgement here.”

Johnny blinked, his tea suddenly tasting like ash.

He frowned, looking up. “What… are you talking about?”

His Mam smiled faintly and sadly. “Just that… if there’s something bothering you, something important or something personal… you can tell me.”

He stared at her, heartbeat pounding in his ears. The tips of his ears started to burn. “I don’t—Mam, what?”

She set her cup down with a soft clink. Her fingers smoothed over the rim, as if she was searching to find the right words in the ceramic.

“You and Gerard,” she said gently. “You’ve always been close, you two.”

Johnny tensed, his fingers tightened around the mug defensively. “Yeah. So?”

She nodded, not unkindly. “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a lovely friendship. Just… if there’s more to it—”

“There’s not,” he said sharply, too fast. His voice cracked halfway through the words. “Mam, Jesus. There’s not.”

She paused. Her brows furrowed slightly, but she kept her voice soft. “Okay. You just… seemed upset in the car. And he seemed upset, too. And I thought maybe I might’ve seen, in the hospital—”

“I’m upset because I’ve just blown out my leg and maybe ruined my shot at making the squad,” Johnny snapped, standing abruptly. “That’s why I’m upset. Not—” he broke off, clenching his jaw tightly till it hurt. “Don’t make it into something it’s not.”

His mother nodded again, slower this time. “Alright,” she said carefully. “Alright, pet. I’m not saying it is anything. I’m just saying, if there it was something, you wouldn’t have to hide it.”

“There’s nothing to hide,” he muttered.

He hated how his voice trembled, how his hands felt too hot and too cold at once. He set the mug down too hard and it sloshed tea onto the table.

“I’m not—” Johnny swallowed. “It wasn’t—Gibsie and I— He’s my friend.”

“Mmhmm,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “Well, like I said. You can tell me anything. When you’re ready.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you,” Johnny said, and this time it came out more forceful than he intended. His throat felt tight. “There’s nothing going on. I’m not.. I’m not gay.”

She studied him for a beat, like she could see the lie stretched across his chest, suffocating him.

“Alright,” she repeated gently, and stood. She kissed the top of his head like he was ten years old again, and whispered, “I believe you, Johnny. Okay?”

He didn’t answer.

Later that night, he got a call from Gibsie.

Johnny let it ring for a moment, heart beating in his chest as he willed himself to calm down, to not let his voice betray his hurt. He picked it up on the fifth ring.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” Gibsie replied, “Are you—” he paused. “How are you feeling?”

Johnny shifted on his bed, looked down at his hands and tried his best not to cry. He’d done enough of it. “I’m okay,” he finally said. “Healing up just fine.”

“Mhm,” Gibsie hummed, and then, “Listen,” he asked, so close to Johnny’s ear, “we’re alright, yeah?”

He sounded like he was begging Johnny to forget anything had ever happened. “Yeah,” Johnny mumbled, betraying himself, “We’re alright.”

Gibsie huffed out a smile. “That’s uh, that’s good.”

“I was worried.” he said.

“You were?” Johnny blinked. The way Gibsie was acting, it seemed like he wanted nothing more than to be away from him.

“Of course I was,” Gibsie reiterated, and they were both still avoiding the elephant in the room. “You’re my best friend, you know.”

“Yeah,” Johnny’s eyes fell shut as he nodded, “I know.”

There was another pause, longer this time. Johnny’s hands were clenched in the fabric of his blanket now, tight enough to hurt.

“I’m sorry if I messed things up,” Gibsie added quickly, apologising again. “I didn’t mean to. I, uh. I don’t want to make anything harder for you, especially now.”

“You didn’t,” Johnny said, the words falling out of his mouth immediately. “It’s fine.”

Gibsie let out a relieved breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Another beat passed.

“I should probably let you sleep,” Gibsie said eventually.

“Yeah.” Johnny stared at the ceiling again, unblinking. “But, uh. Thanks, for staying at the hospital.”

“Anytime.”

Johnny hesitated, then added, “Night, Gibs.”

“Night, Kav.”

He hung up, but the echo of Gibsie’s voice lingered like smoke in the room. Johnny let his head fall back against the pillow, the ache in his chest growing sharper each second. He had no idea what to do, how to fix everything that was going wrong. It felt like his entire life was over. Maybe he was being dramatic, caught up in teenage angst but, it still felt real. It still hurt. 

He had wanted to scream at Gibsie. To shake him by his hypothetical shoulders and beg him to answer the multitude of questions running through his mind. Why did you kiss me? Johnny wanted to say. Why did you kiss me twice and act like it was nothing? He wanted to scream. 

Why, he wished he could find the words, are you always breaking my heart?

—

Johnny was talking to a girl. A real pretty, real funny girl.

Shannon Lynch was beautiful. Stunning in a way Johnny rarely took note of, with long dark hair similar to his, and big blue eyes. In an odd way, she reminded him of a deer, small and nimble. Shannon wasn’t like any other girl he’d met before, she was shy and quiet, reserved and jumpy.

But the more he spoke to her, the more she got comfortable, and the more he liked her. She was quick-witted, sharp and astute. In the few conversations they’d had since he’d embarrassingly given her a concussion, he realised very quickly that she was a lovely girl.

Shannon was close with Claire Biggs, Hugh’s little sister, who was close with Gibsie, so he saw her often enough. Johnny wanted to look out for her, out of guilt but also out of friendship. It didn’t help that she exuded this air of vulnerability that worried him. So when he saw Ronan Mcgarry, the prick, being locked out of school by Gibsie near a crying Shannon, he was very obviously concerned. And of course he intervened. He hated Mcgarry anyway, and he wasn’t one to leave a crying girl, let alone his friend alone without a ride home.

Shannon smiled. “Thanks again for offering to drop me home.”

“It's no problem," Johnny replied. “I figure I still owe you for the broken head, huh?”

“You didn’t break it,” She was quick to clear up. “You just knocked my brain around a little.”

Johnny grimaced. “I kind of did, didn’t I?”

“Well,” She mused. “It's fifteen miles to my house. So, between the money, threatening to cut off Ronan's penis, and the spin home, I think we can call it quits.”

“He's not in your class, is he?” Johnny expelled a frustrated breath. “Because that can be sorted, too.”

“We only have one class together twice a week,” she explained. “He's never spoken a word to me until this evening,” she added.

“Well, if he gives you even a whiff of shite then let me know,” Johnny informed her, “And I'll fix it.”

“You'll fix it?” she questioned. “Like how you and Gibsie did today? Because I think he might’ve just enjoyed hitting Ronan.”

Johnny laughed, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “Yeah, he’s like that.”

“Are you guys close?” she asked, “Claire said so, but with boys it’s hard to tell.”

He nodded. “We are, yeah. He’s my best friend.”

“Did you meet at Tommen?” she continued to ask, and Johnny smiled. He could talk about Gibsie for ages.

“Nah, a year before that. I’d just moved to Cork from Dublin and I was absolutely miserable about it, so on my first day of school I’d made like, this vow of silence or whatever,” He told her with a nostalgic grin, “But then I was sat next to him and you know, I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I think we got kicked out of class five times just in that first week.”

She laughed, tucking a soft strand of her behind her ear. “He’s funny. And he sounds like a good friend. I know Claire gets on with him well.”

Yeah, he almost said bitterly, they get on so well. Instead he just smiled. “He’s a great friend. Loyal. Always looking out for me,” Johnny looked down at his lap, “I’m uh, lucky to have him.”

It wasn’t that he was jealous of Claire. He wasn’t, that would be pathetic, and Johnny Kavanagh was not pathetic. However, it gnawed at him, annoyed him and aggravated him, that Gibsie could just go on and act so goddamn unaffected, flirting shamelessly with Claire Biggs not even a week after kissing the daylights out of Johnny. It was frustrating, a quiet, sharp irritation that simmered in his bones. Why did he have to be the one that cared? He was always the one that cared. Gibsie was always carefree and unbound, the opposite of Johnny who had to second guess every look, every touch that crossed between them.

Shannon glanced at him, then glanced away quickly. “Sound’s like he’s a good guy.”

“Yeah,” Johnny agreed. “He is.”

—

“We are going on the lash,” Gibsie announced the second Johnny stepped out of the car after training.

“No." Shaking off Gibsie’s hand when he reached the back door, Johnny pushed it open and stepped aside for him to pass. "We're not."      

"Yes," he argued, sauntering into his house. "We fucking are."

Holding the back door open, Johnny let out a whistle and waited for his beloved dog to come running.

Waddling out of the garage, Sookie hurried towards him.

"Good girl," he cooed, encouraging her to hurry her arse up before the other two noticed. Reaching down, he helped her up the step before quickly closing the door again.

"I'm really not up for it tonight," Johnny explained, walking through the kitchen to the hallway with Sookie at his legs. "You go ahead, though. I'll hang here."

"You're not spending another Saturday night alone in the manor," Gibsie argued, following after him. "You're coming out with me.”

“Come on, Johnny," Gibsie pleaded. "You've been in a horrible mood for weeks."

"I wonder why," he grumbled. "Listen, lad, I know you mean well –" He paused to grit his teeth when a nerve pain shot up his leg, "but I'm not going out tonight."

"Because of Bella?" Gibsie asked, leaning against the banister. "Or because of Shannon?”

"Because of me," He snapped, bristling. "Because I am dead on my feet."

Forcing himself not to limp, he made it to the staircase, inhaled a steadying breath, and pushed his legs to comply and not let him down. Like they had earlier.      

"You're limping, Johnny," Gibsie acknowledged in a quiet tone as he followed him down to his room.

"Keep your fucking voice down," Johnny hissed, pushing his bedroom door open. "My Ma's in her office."

"Well you are," he countered in an oddly serious tone. "And you have been for a while now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Johnny grit his teeth, but Gibsie didn’t give up. 

“Shannon asked me about it.” he said, and Johnny stopped right in his tracks. If Shannon asked, that meant it was noticeable. Had his coaches noticed? Was it all over?

“She’s concerned,” Gibsie added, “And I am too.” 

Johnny groaned out loud. “Can we not right now, please Gibs?” He pleaded, begging Gibsie to drop the subject. 

Gibsie sighed. “Fine, but we are talking about this later okay?”

“Okay.”

They sat down on the beanbags, Johnny trying his hardest not to wince when a sharp pain rocked up his pelvis.

“Do you uh,” Gibsie started, “Do you like her?”

Johnny blinked. “What?”

“Shannon,” Gibsie said, watching him carefully. “Do you like her?”

The question hung in the air for a second too long. Johnny glanced away, focusing instead on Sookie who was now curled up at his feet, oblivious to the awkward tension that had settled between the two boys.

“I like her as a friend,” he said eventually, tone neutral.

“Right,” Gibsie said slowly, drawing the word out like he didn’t believe him for a second. “Because Claire mentioned that she’s trying to set the two of you up.”

“Claire said that?” Johnny frowned.

“Yeah,” Gibsie shrugged. “Apparently Shannon said something to her about you being sweet. That you’re always looking out for her.”

Johnny shifted uncomfortably on the beanbag. His thigh screamed in protest, but he ignored it. “I am looking out for her,” he replied. “She’s had a shite time, and Ronan was being a creep.”

“No argument there,” Gibsie said. “But that’s not what I asked.”

Johnny ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a frustrated breath. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Gibsie quickly said, “I just want to know.”

“You never want to know.” Johnny told him. “You hate Bella and all the other girls I’ve slept with.”

Gibsie wrinkled his nose. “That’s different. Everyone hates Bella.”

“What about all the other girls then? Some of them were decent.” he pushed.

Gibsie averted his gaze. “You don’t know that. You’re biased cause you fucked them.”

Johnny’s brow furrowed at the slight flush donning Gibsie’s cheek. “Hugh and Feely haven’t had any problems with any of them.”

“Well,” Gibsie snapped, biting his cheek, “Hugh and Feely don’t know you as well as I do. Therefore their opinion is moot. And besides, you’re changing the subject. I asked you a question.”

“And I answered. She’s my friend.”

“Just that?” Gibsie raised a brow, “Only that?”

“Yes,” Johnny repeated, staring at him uncertainly. “Why do you keep asking this?”

Gibsie shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Do you care?” Johnny felt brave enough to ask. 

“I don’t know,” Gibsie said again, low and serious, “Should I? Do you want me to?”

“Gibsie,” Johnny whispered. “Please don’t.”

Johnny couldn’t do it again. He was hurt and in pain, fighting for his future when it was crumbling before him, and if Gibsie broke his heart again, if Gibsie.. kissed him again, touched him again and forced him to forget about it, acted like it was nothing, he wouldn’t be able to get up again. He wouldn’t recover. It would kill him. Johnny.. he wasn’t that strong.

Gibsie blinked. “Don’t?”

Johnny shook his head. “Oh,” Gibsie said. “Okay then.”

“It’s not,” Johnny pushed frustratedly. “You know why.”

“No,” Gibsie bit out, “I don’t think I do, Johnny.”

He didn’t reply. Gibsie continued. “You know, you were the one who—”

His mouth snapped shut.

“What, Gibsie?” Johnny asked. “I was the one who what. Because from my side of things, you are the one who—”

“You know what, never mind, Johnny.” Gibsie shut his eyes for a moment. “It’s fine.”

“Right,” Johnny said bitterly, “It’s all good.”

Eyes still closed, Gibsie blew out a sharp exhale. “Forget it, I’m sorry I asked.”

Johnny sighed. “We’re good, Gibs.”

“Okay.” He nodded, and then, with a sudden shift, switching moods like the conversation never happened, “What do you want to watch?”

Johnny’s heart ached. This is always how it played out between them. One step forward was another ten steps back, and he wondered if he’d be stuck in this limbo of want for the rest of his life.

“You can go out,” he told him, “I’m not holding you back.”

“Nah,” Gibsie said, switching on the PlayStation. “I was only trying to get you out the house.”

“Appreciate it,” Johnny muttered, his hand brushing over Gibsie’s as he grabbed a controller, “But not tonight.”

Gibsie looked at him. “You’re going to make that team, Johnny.”

Exhaling a steadying breath, Johnny fought down the pain threatening to engulf him and tried to concentrate on the boy in front of him. 

“You think?” he whispered, voice cracking and betraying him.

“I know you will,” Gibsie added quietly.

“I hope so,” Johnny bit out, “I really fucking do, Gibs.”

“Do you want to get drunk?” Gibsie offered then, “Here, with your Da’s whiskey and no clingers hovering around?”

Johnny thought about it for a moment and exhaled a heavy sigh. “Yeah, lad,” he replied with a nod, “I really fucking do.”

—

His back was pressed against the couch, head thrown backwards, exposing his neck completely. Above him, Gibsie mouthed at his jaw, his Adam’s apple, every part of him. His breath was hot, damp where it ghosted over Johnny’s throat, every brush of lips burning in his chest.

Johnny threaded his hands through Gibsie’s messy curls, wrapped them in and pulled his head back to look at him. His grey eyes were lidded and hazy, cloud with drink and want.

“Johnny,” Gibsie rasped intoxicatingly, lips stretching around his name.

“Kiss me,” Johnny whispered into the warm air, and Gibsie complied.

Closing the space between them, he crashed their mouth’s together, slowly and maddeningly. The hand in Gibsie’s hair tightened, and Johnny’s other hand curled into his shoulder, pulling Gibsie in as close as possible, till it felt like they were one body, one person. 

Gibsie’s lips were warm, parted slightly as they met Johnny’s, tentative at first, soft, almost questioning. Johnny answered it with a tilt of his head and a firmer press, opening up under the pressure. His bottom lip dragged against Gibsie’s top, catching slightly on the swell before he sucked it in gently, testing the limits of how much he could take. He wanted to take so badly.

Then Gibsie’s hand slid up, fingers tangling at the nape of Johnny’s neck, large palm splaying over, his thumb brushing Johnnys jugular, tugging just enough to tilt his head back. The angle deepened.

Gibsie’s tongue traced along the seam of Johnny’s lips, asking silently. Johnny’s pulse stuttered as he let him in, and their tongues met in cautious brushes, then deeper strokes. Gibsie tasted like whiskey and sugar, like all of his deepest dreams and Johnny couldn’t get close enough. He tilted his hips up without thinking, their chests now flush, grinding together.

Gibsie’s teeth caught slightly on Johnny’s bottom lip, molars sharper then knives, in a moment of clumsiness that made Johnny gasp as pain blurred with pleasure. Gibsie groaned low in response, swallowing the sound as he licked into his mouth, chasing the sharp edge of it with soothing softness. His tongue was deliberate now, curling, coaxing, pulling Johnny into it.

Johnny responded with a desperate sort of grace, matching the rhythm, his hands sliding up Gibsie’s sides. Fingertips met skin, so smooth, so warm, alive, and trembling. Gibsie shuddered, the kiss faltering for half a second as he exhaled raggedly against Johnny’s mouth.

Then Gibsie leaned in again, anchoring himself with a hand braced beside Johnny’s head. The kiss slowed, no longer relying on just hunger anymore. It was somewhat tender—tongues mapping out the familiar made new. Every drag, every slide, every wet parting of their lips carried a truth neither of them had words for.

Johnny’s breath hitched when Gibsie sucked gently on his tongue before releasing it, only to chase it again with another kiss, just as sloppy, hot, and utterly consuming as the last.

By the time they pulled apart, only to breathe — Johnny could’ve spent his whole life connected to Gibsie like that, it wasn’t clean. His lips were swollen, spit-slick and parted, and his breath was still ghosting across Johnny’s mouth as if it would hurt him to stray too far.

Johnny blinked, dazed, heart thudding, body tingling in every place Gibsie had touched.  

“Johnny,” Gibsie breathed, “I…” He licked his swollen bottom lip and stared directly into Johnny’s eyes, sending a wave of heat through him. “I want this,” he trailed his hand down Johnny’s chest, “I want you.”

Johnny shut his eyes and nodded. He now realised this was a dream. It had to have been. There was no pain in his legs, no pain is his heart. And his best friend was speaking the words Johnny had longed to hear his entire life. There wasn’t any way it was real.

—

He woke up. It was inevitable of course, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

A dull thud echoed through the quiet. Once and then twice, successive barely there knocks. Johnny jolted upright.

The room was dark, lit only by the soft pale moonlight. Sookie lifted her head from the end of the bed, ears perked. Another knock occurred, sharper this time, from the window.

He blinked, still half-caught in the dream.

Then he heard an unmistakable hissed whisper from behind the window.

“Johnny! Open up!”

He stumbled to his feet, legs unsteady, half convinced he was still asleep. But there Gibsie was, crouched on the low garden wall outside Johnny’s window, hoodie pulled over his head, soaked from top to bottom, eyes rimmed with red.

Johnny slid the window open, the cool air biting at his flushed skin. “What the fuck—”

“Can I come in?” Gibsie whispered, already climbing over the ledge without waiting for an answer. “I’ll explain, just—”

“Jesus, lad, it’s half three in the morning!”

Gibsie dropped down inside, landing with a soft grunt. He straightened up and looked at Johnny apologetically.

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I uh, needed to get out the house.”

Johnny blinked, echoes of the dream still draping over his shoulders like a second skin. “You walked here?”

“Yeah.”

“From yours?”

“Yeah,” Gibsie said again, eyes darting away. “It’s okay if I…”

“Of course,” Johnny nodded quickly, shutting the window behind Gibsie and pulling him closer to the room.

“You’re bleeding,” he said suddenly, nodding to the red sleeve of Gibsie’s grey hoodie.

Gibsie froze. “Am I?”

Johnny nodded toward his arm. “Yeah. Left sleeve.”

“Oh, shit,” Gibsie muttered, turning slightly like he might look—and then didn’t. His face went pale.

Johnny saw the moment it hit him.

“Don’t — don’t look at it,” Johnny said quickly, stepping forward. “It’s alright. Just sit. I’ve got you.”

“I—I can’t. If I see it, I’ll—”

“You’ll pass out,” Johnny finished gently. “I know. Come here. Sit on the bed. I’ll get your hoodie off.”

Gibsie obeyed without argument, hands trembling as he sat down beside Sookie, who stirred but didn’t wake. His shoulders were taut, jaw clenched like he was bracing for impact.

Johnny knelt beside him, careful and slow, fingers tugging at the hem of the hoodie.

“Lift your arms.”

Gibsie shut his eyes tightly and did as he was told.

Johnny worked the soaked fabric up and over his head, careful not to jostle the arm too much. Underneath, Gibsie was shivering, gooseflesh rising on his bare skin. The cut on his forearm was long, shallow, still bleeding lightly—but not dangerous.

“You must’ve caught it on the fence,” Johnny muttered. “It’s not deep, just messy.”

“Is it bad?” Gibsie asked, eyes still squeezed shut.

“No,” Johnny lied easily. “Nothing dramatic. Just sit there, yeah? I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Gibsie couldn’t see him, so Johnny took a moment and allowed his eyes to trail down his body, much like the drops of rain travelling down his chest. His stomach tightened, as he tried not to remember his dream and whispered revelations that hadn’t actually happened.

Sometimes Johnny felt so swollen and full of longing that he thought he would die from the pains it gave his heart. But there wasn’t anywhere to put it, no method of disposal, so he was forced to let it fester, grow and engulf his soul, until it threatened to swallow him whole. That is what he always did, and it was what he always would.

He returned with the small plastic first aid kit, hands steady despite the tremor humming inside of his skin. He sat beside Gibsie, the cool moonlight making the gauze in his hand look almost luminous.

“Hold out your arm,” he said, voice low.

Gibsie obeyed, silently, stretching his arm out, the cut visible now in full detail—just angry enough to need cleaning, not enough to warrant panic. It was deeper than Johnny had thought, though. The skin around it had goose-pimpled from cold, and Johnny watched a drop of water slip down the inside of Gibsie’s forearm before catching it with a cloth.

The silence between them was thick. Gibsie emanated tightly wound tension as Johnny dabbed gently at the wound, the antiseptic sting of the alcohol swab rising into the air between them. His eyes were clenched shut, his entire body turned away from his arm.

“You’re not gonna tell me what happened, are you?” Johnny asked, barely above a whisper.

Johnny wrapped the cloth tighter around his fingers and bent a little closer, swiping away the last of the blood. The scent of rain clung to Gibsie’s skin: earthy, sharp, and clean in a way that somehow made Johnny’s chest feel too tight, his heart thump too loud. His fingers brushed Gibsie’s wrist lightly as he reached for the gauze, feeling the faint but fast pulse beat under the skin.

The air between them buzzed.

He held Gibsie’s arm still and wound the bandage slowly, deliberately, spiraling upward. Each wrap smoothed over the last like a secret being tucked into flesh. He tied the end off, the pad snug against the wound, and then rested his hand briefly on Gibsie’s forearm.

“Too tight?” Johnny asked.

“No.” Gibsie’s voice was rough. “It’s fine. Can I open my eyes now? It’s gone, right?”

He still hadn’t looked at Johnny.

“Yeah, lad. You’re okay to look,” he assured Gibsie, and he did.

Johnny sat back on his heels, the bandage work done, but didn’t move further. For a second they were just staring at each other, barely breathing.

“Thanks, Johnny.” Gibsie broke the tension, “And uh, sorry.”

“It’s no problem. You’ve done the same for me.”

Water still clung to Gibsie’s chest, drops curving along the dips of his collarbones, slipping down the centreline of his torso. Johnny’s gaze flicked there for a half-second too long. He turned quickly and stood, grabbing a clean towel from the chair near his desk.

“Here.” He tossed it to him, not trusting himself to step closer again. “You’re dripping all over the floor.”

Gibsie caught it, dried his hair and chest messily. When he was all cleaned up, Johnny gave him some joggers to sleep in.

They were only slightly too big for him, hanging low on his narrow hips, going just over his ankles. Johnny fought a smirk.

Then he moved toward the bed and pulled back the blanket. “You can take the right side this time, I’ll be considerate.”

Gibsie’s eyes lit up, a flicker of something boyish cutting through his exhaustion. They always fought over for the right side of the bed. It was closer to the windows and further from the alarm clock, and had a nice divot in it, shaped by years of Johnny’s heavy sleep, like a little hammock.

He lay down first, on his back, facing upwards to the ceiling. A moment later, he felt the mattress dip from beside him. Johnny suddenly cursed his bed for being too large, the distance between him and Gibsie undesirable. Only barely out of reach, Gibsie settled in the bed, on his back as well.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Johnny offered, tilting his head to look at Gibsie.

He didn’t reply for a while, the silence stretching out between them, only punctuated by the pitter patter of the rain against the glass.

Then, Gibsie spoke at last, barely audible.

“It wasn’t..” he opened his mouth, “It’s not a big deal, or anything, I just got into an argument with my Mam.”

Johnny hummed. Sadhbh Allen was a formidable woman went she wanted to be, and she had no problems scolding Gibsie for everything and anything she didn’t like. Usually it was harmless, but she had a tendency of bringing Keith into the picture and Gibsie really, really fucking hated that, more than her extremely religious lectures, or her love for the ugly Maine coon she lets run rampant in his house.

“What about?”

Gibsie sighed heavily. “It’s the anniversary of my father’s and sister’s death next week,” he shuddered out shaky exhale.

Johnny winced, knowing how badly Gibsie hated talking about it and placed a hand on his shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”

He shut his eyes. “That’s not what I was upset about. I mean, usually Mam tries to head down to the grave with me and pay her respects, but for some fucking reason she’s decided that next week is the perfect time to go on holiday with Keith.”

Johnny’s brow furrowed. “Actually?”

“Yes, actually. And then when I brought up how weird it was she acted like I was overreacting and that I should just get over it. ‘We always have next year,’ that’s what she said.”

Johnny didn’t know what to say, so he continued to just let Gibsie talk.

“Do you know what I think?” he asked, “I think that she hates whenever I bring up my father and my sister because it breaks this fucking illusion she has with Keith. She’s so in love with him it makes me sick.” he swore, “And I tried to be happy for her, because he makes her happy, he makes her so fucking happy it’s disgusting, way happier then Dad and Beth ever did, but it’s hard, y’know?”

Johnny’s chest ached at the bitterness in Gibsie’s voice. It was so raw, so unguarded. Gibsie rarely let things show. He made a joke, and then he made ten. But tonight, the mask had slipped, almost as if the rain had washed it off.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Johnny said quietly. “You’re allowed to be mad.”

Gibsie didn’t reply right away. He was staring up at the ceiling again, his eyes shining faintly in the moonlight.

“I feel like she’s trying to forget them,” he whispered. “She so clearly wants to replace them and jet off with Keith. I don’t even have any pictures of my Dad, because she got rid of them after the divorce. It’s like I’m not allowed to miss them, even though I do. I really miss them, Johnny.”

“I know.” Johnny’s hand hadn’t left his shoulder. He squeezed gently. “I know you do.”

After a while, Gibsie rolled onto his side, facing Johnny. Johnny mirrored him instinctively, turning so their faces were only inches apart. Gibsie’s eyes looked darker this close, the moonlight drawing shadows under his lashes, softening the edges of his exhaustion. Johnny’s breath caught.

Gibsie looked like he wanted to say something else, but the words never came. His mouth opened, then closed again, and instead he just watched Johnny, his gaze heavy.

Johnny shifted slightly on the mattress, suddenly feeling tired all over again, the night settling over him. His eyes drifted half-closed.

“We should try get some sleep,” he said after a moment, “It’s late.”

Gibsie blinked slowly. “Yeah.”

They both turned around so that they were back to back, only a few inches between them.

“Hey,” Gibsie said quickly, “Thank you.”

Johnny fought the urge to turn around. “It’s no problem, Gibs.”

“Seriously though, thanks.” he repeated, “I wasn’t….”

He trailed off, but Johnny didn’t need to hear the words to know what he meant.

“Gibsie,” Johnny said sternly, “I’m happy you’re here, okay?”

“Yeah?” Gibsie asked quietly.

“Obviously.” Johnny replied. I always want you here, he thought, but instead of saying that he turned back around to face Gibsie’s back and wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him in. “Now let’s sleep.”

Gibsie froze for a split second and then relaxed all at once, all the tension oozing out of his body. “Why am I the little spoon?”

“Shh,” Johnny mumbled into the space between Gibsie’s shoulder blades. “Sleep.”

Gibsie was warm and firm. “Okay, gosh.” he said, and Johnny could hear the smile.

“Goodnight, Gibs.”

“Night, Kav.”

—

The light was soft when Johnny woke, the grey hush of morning creeping in through the gap in the curtains. His whole body was lax, unspooled by a good nights sleep.

Gibsie was beside him, still sleeping. At some point during the night, they must’ve shifted, as he woke to find Gibsie curled into him. His arm was draped across his middle, his forehead tucked against the side of Johnny’s neck. Their legs were tangled loosely beneath the blanket, and Johnny was flat on his back, one of his hands resting instinctively on Gibsie’s.

Johnny turned his head slightly, just enough to glance down at him.

Gibsie was a silent sleeper. Still, like he’d been set down carefully and forgotten. Johnny hadn’t noticed that before. Gibsie wasn’t.. he didn’t sleep much. But Christ, when he did it was a sight to be had.

His wispy lashes kissed the tops of his cheeks, and his lips were parted just barely, the faintest space between them like he was caught mid-thought. His face, softened in sleep, had none of the usual tension Johnny had come to associate with him—no guarded eyes, no wide grin that stretched across his face. Only the pale bare truth of him.

Johnny’s eyes traced the rise of his chest, slow and almost imperceptible, like even his breathing was shy of making a sound. It struck him then, this strange, tender stillness— that if he didn’t know better, he might’ve thought Gibsie was something fragile and unreal. A dollish beauty made of warmth and breath and quiet.

He was… pretty like this.

Not handsome in the way Johnny had always known Gibsie to be,—loud and boyish and careless—but genuinely pretty, like a painting you’d catch in the corner of a museum, revered and ethereal.

Johnny swallowed and shifted his hand slightly where it still rested over Gibsie’s skin, slow enough not to wake him. His fingers brushed the warmth, trailing stars and shapes onto it.

He stirred. Fingers twitching at Johnny’s waist, inhaling his sleep scent. Gibsie’s nose brushed against him as he blinked, lashing tickling Johnny’s skin.

He could almost feel Gibsie’s slow dawning awareness of where he was. Of how close they were. The intimacy of it all was undeniable. Gibsie had to have realised, right?

Johnny froze and stared up at the ceiling, counting to ten in his head whilst trying his best to seem like he wasn’t watching his best friend sleep like a total creep. 

“…What time is it?” Gibsie’s voice was low and rough with sleep.

Johnny cleared his throat, eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling plaster. “Early.”

Another pause. The weight of Gibsie’s arm lifted as he rolled away slightly, stretching out with a groan and rubbing at his face.

“Your bed’s so soft,” he muttered with sleepy awe, already turning over again and flopping onto his stomach, his voice fading into the pillow.

Johnny made a vague sound of agreement. His skin still buzzed faintly where their bodies had touched.

—

Johnny had no idea how he had gotten himself into this situation.

One moment he was having his arse handed to him in a wonderful game of GTA, the next he was being kissed. 

He stilled, his entire body freezing in the warmth of his room. Shannon’s lips were soft against his, unmoving as well. It was nothing more than a chaste press, and it still took Johnny by complete surprise.

“Oh my god,” Shannon blurted out, pale and mortified. “I’m so sorry.”

Johnny blinked. “It’s okay.”

“No,” she shook her head furiously, “No it’s not okay.”

“Shannon, it’s okay—” he tried to appease, but she was too embarrassed and distraught.

“It’s not okay!” she strangled out, scrambling off the bed and far away from Johnny, hitting her back against the drawers. “I just— oh god!”

Staggering backwards, she closed her eyes and shook her head, “I’m really sorry.”

Shannon seemed almost… afraid? Backing away from Johnny as if he would— as if he would hurt her. He flinched, all the signs pointing towards the obvious.

Someone was hurting Shannon, that was the real pressing issue, not her kissing him. In fact, he was almost convinced she did it to distract him from the bruises donning her skin. 

“Shannon, it’s okay.” Johnny said with his hands held up. “Just stop moving around for a second and talk to me, okay?”

“I need to go.” she announced.

“No you don’t,” he replied calmly. “We can talk about this.”

“No!” she slipped around him and grabbed her clothes. He’d forgotten she was only in a towel, mind preoccupied with worry. Who was hurting her, and for how long had it been going on?

“I need to leave!” She added, before locking herself in the bathroom. 

It took almost half an hour before she came out of the room. Johnny had tried his best to console her, but none of it worked.

“I’m ready to go now,” she mumbled in a quiet voice, with puffy cheeks and red eyes.

In the car, he felt conflicted. Johnny wanted to address the bruise without making her feel cornered or uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to upset her more than he already had. He didn’t want to make her feel rejected, he firsthand knew what that felt like.

“Shannon,” he started awkwardly. “Do you want to talk?”

“I’m sorry,” she quickly said, turning to face him, “I am so sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” he replied, “I just.. didn’t expect you to do that.”

She groaned and flushed red. “I don’t know why I did.. I’m really sorry — I was confused, and you were asking me all these questions and I..”

“You kissed me to shut me up?”

“No!” she exclaimed, “No, not at all!” and then, blushing, “Well, actually..”

“It’s okay, seriously,” he repeated, and with a more serious tone. “But you didn’t answer my question. The bruise, Shannon. That’s what I care about right now.”

She closed her eyes. “I told you that it was an accident.”

“We both know that’s not true,” he said softly. “You can trust me, Shannon. I want to know that you’re okay.”

She looked down at her hands frustratedly. “What makes you say that?” she spat, “Why would I be able to trust you?”

“Because I’m your friend,” he told her, “Or at least I want to be.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Well,” he raised an eyebrow, “whose fault is that?”

She coughed out a dry laugh. “I suppose that’s fair.”

He hummed, keeping his eye on the road. “Are you going to tell me?”

Shannon was silent. “I don’t know if I can.”

He frowned. “Shannon if someone is hurting you, you need to tell me.”

“No it’s..” she trailed off, “I don’t know if I can get the words out. And I can’t trust that you won’t tell anyone.”

“If you’re in danger, then I can’t keep that secret. But you can trust that I’ll try my best to help you. No, I will help you. I was serious when I said I want to be your friend.”

Shannon looked out the window, fingers picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I’ve never had a friend before. At least not for a while.”

He glanced over at her, heart pulling at the uncertainty in her voice. “You do now.”

She looked at him. “Are you going to tell anyone that I kissed you?”

“No,” he said honestly. “That’s not something I’d tell anyone.”

“Thank you,” she said earnestly. “I really did just fall. The bruise isn’t anything.”

She was lying. Lying straight to his face like he was stupid.

“Okay then,” he said, hiding the bitter tone in his voice. “If that’s what really happened.”

“It was,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

When they finally reached Shannon’s place, she reached for the handle before the car had fully stopped.

“Shannon,” Johnny said, catching her wrist before she could bolt.

She looked back at him, startled.

“You can talk to me me. Anytime, yeah? Doesn’t matter what it’s about.”

Something flickered behind her eyes, brief and unreadable. She gave a small nod, and then she was gone—out the door and up the walk, not looking back.

Johnny sat for a long moment in the car, engine running, watching the door she disappeared through.

Something was wrong.

He could feel it in his bones.

—

His entire body was shaking, as pain filled his senses. Every breath felt like fire in his lungs, and the agony that overcame his lower body was crippling.

Gibsie was right beside him, firm and unyielding, one arm looped around Johnny’s ribs, the other guiding his half-limp body into a dry pair of boxers with slow, deliberate movements. His grip was tight and protective, but Johnny felt the way he was trembling with fury.

“This stops, Johnny,” Gibsie growled, his voice a rasp in his ear, close and full of emotion.

Johnny flinched and hissed, glancing at the door that led to the locker room. “Can you keep your goddamn voice down?” he whispered hoarsely. His thigh burned. Everything burned. “I don’t want anyone knowing.”

“It’s too fucking late for that,” Gibsie snapped, voice low but seething. “You left a trail of blood from the clubhouse to the fucking pitch. Everyone knows something’s wrong.”

“Jesus,” Johnny choked out, shaking harder now. Partly from the pain, partly from the panic. He didn’t know which hurt worse.

Gibsie’s eyes were dark and livid as he adjusted the waistband around Johnny’s hips, careful not to aggravate the bandaged gash at his groin. “This stops right fucking now,” he repeated, more steel in his voice than before. “No more pushing through. No more hiding your pain. No more lying, Johnny.” He grabbed a towel from the bench and knelt down, scrubbing away a streak of blood smeared on Johnny’s thigh. “No fucking more.”

“I’ll be fine,” Johnny rasped, even though he could feel how close he was to passing out again. His vision kept greying at the edges.

“Fine?” Gibsie spat, standing abruptly and pacing like a caged animal. He turned on Johnny with a look that was almost heartbreak. “You look fucking peachy, alright—bleeding your mini fucking Johnny’s all over the bed.”

“Stop—” Johnny tried, already crumbling at the look on Gibsie’s face.

“You’re killing yourself.” Gibsie’s voice cracked, louder now, vibrating with pain. His eyes slowly welled up with tears. “You do realise that, right? You’re putting your entire fucking life on the line for a green jersey that won’t mean a thing if you’re dead or ruined for the rest of your life!”

“Gibs, stop, lad,” Johnny begged, eyes closing, voice barely audible. “I can’t…I can’t fucking hear this right now.”

“Oh, you’re going to hear it,” Gibsie snarled, storming back over and grabbing Johnny’s shoulders roughly—but still careful, always careful. “You’re not doing this again. I won’t stand for it.”

Gibsie’s large hands were warm against his skin and Johnny couldn’t take it.

“I fucking can’t,” Johnny choked out, burying his face in his arm, tears stinging his eyes. “Okay? I can’t..”

“Look at yourself!” Gibsie barked. “Look at what you’ve done!” He jabbed a finger at Johnny’s thigh where blood had begun to seep through the gauze. “You’re torn open. That leg should’ve healed weeks ago.”

Johnny’s breathing was ragged. “He ripped me with his boot studs, Gibs. It could’ve happened to anyone.”

“It wouldn’t have happened if you’d let your body heal like a normal fucking human being,” Gibsie snapped, towering over him, fists clenched. “You’re not invincible, Johnny. You’re exhausted, weak, and stitched up in places that should’ve never been opened again. And now you’ve nearly dick-capitated yourself!”

A humourless laugh bubbled out of Johnny before it turned into a groan. He dropped his head back against the bed and exhaled sharply. “It’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Gibsie’s voice rose into a near-scream. “Lad, your leg looks about four hours away from full-blown septicaemia!”

“Gibs—”

“No, Johnny! You heard what the doctor said. You know how serious it could’ve been—” He took a breath, hands shaking. “You scared the shite out of me today. You weren’t moving on the pitch. When I saw you go down like that, when you didn’t get back up—I swear to God, my heart fucking dropped.”

Johnny closed his eyes. Hearing that—feeling that—cut deeper than anything. His throat tightened until he couldn’t speak.

“You’re so fucking selfish sometimes,” Gibsie muttered, avoiding Johnny’s eyes. “You don’t think. There are other things that matter. I don’t understand why you would do this to yourself.”

“I’m doing this for the team,” Johnny managed, voice small and raw. “For the campaign. For—”

“No, you’re doing it for a fucking jersey that doesn’t actually mean anything,” Gibsie bit out. “Don’t you understand? This could kill you.”

Johnny couldn’t meet his eyes. He stared at the ceiling instead, blinking back tears. “It is my whole life, Gibs.”

“And what good is that life if you can’t even walk by twenty-five?” Gibsie was kneeling again, this time gripping Johnny’s shoulder, holding him still. His face was close, too close. “Coach called Dennehy at the Academy. And I called your mam.”

“No…” Johnny whispered, seconds from a breakdown. “Jesus Christ…”

“She’s on the next flight to Dublin. Your da’s meeting us at the hospital. And I don’t care how pissed you are. Someone had to do it.”

Johnny’s chest caved. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Everything—everything—was crumbling. His chance. His summer. His dream.

“You’ll play again,” Gibsie said softly, brushing damp hair from Johnny’s forehead. “Just not now.”

“Now is when it matters,” Johnny whispered. “Now is all that matters.”

“No, Johnny. You matter. Getting you healthy is all that fucking matters.”

Johnny’s composure cracked. “What am I going to do, Gibs?” he whispered through his hand, trying to hide the sob he couldn’t suppress. “It’s my whole life.”

Gibsie sighed and leaned in, pressing his forehead to Johnny’s, spreading his warmth. He cradled Johnny’s face in his hands and wiped his tears with the pads of his thumb,  a gesture so fleeting and so loaded, Johnny barely registered it.

“We’ll figure it out,” Gibsie murmured. “Just lie still, yeah? Let the meds kick in. Ambulance’ll be here soon.”

“I don’t want to go out there,” Johnny said, voice barely audible. “I don’t want them to see me like this.”

“No one knows the details,” Gibsie said gently. “Just that you took a hit and blacked out. That’s all.”

“Don’t tell them,” Johnny whispered. “Please… I can’t—”

“I won’t,” Gibsie promised, his voice quiet but steady. “Not a word.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was Johnny’s breathing, shallow and broken, shuddering almost, and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Gibsie stood in front of him, hand never straying from Johnny’s face, holding him up.

—

The room was warm and humming.

Too warm, Johnny thought. Or maybe that was just his skin. Or his bones. It felt like he didn’t have bones anymore, that he was just a loose sack of skin with no muscles or nerves or aches.

Johnny blinked, slow and glassy-eyed. He focused all his attention on trying to lift his hand, but it was too heavy.

“Da?” Johnny croaked. His throat felt like he’d swallowed sandpaper.

“I’m right here,” his father said, soothing. “You’re alright.”

The sound of a chair scraping back echoed in the room, and then warm fingers brushed his hair from his face.

“Where—where am I?”

“Recovery room. You had surgery. Everything went fine.”

Johnny blinked up at the ceiling, trying to find a solid thought to hold onto. “Feels weird.”

“You’re on morphine. That’s why.” His father chuckled. “Just rest.”

“I don’t feel pain.”

“Good. That means it’s working.”

There was a pause. Then Johnny mumbled, “Is my dick still there?”

His dad snorted. “Still there.”

“And my balls?”

“Also there.”

Johnny exhaled with visible relief. “Thank God.”

The door creaked open then, a sliver of hallway light slicing across the floor.

“How’s he doing?” a nurse asked in a soft voice.

“High as a kite,” his dad replied, amused.

“He’ll settle soon. We need you at the front desk to sign some forms,” the nurse said. Then the door clicked shut again.

Johnny sighed. “Everything’s floaty.”

“Go back to sleep, son. I’ll send Gibsie in whilst I go to the front alright?.”

He blinked, eyes glazed and heavy. Then he mumbled, “Gibsie’s here?” 

“Yeah, I’ll send him in on my way out.”

His father left the room, ushering a pale looking Gibsie and whispering something into his ear. He took a seat in the chair beside the bed, legs splayed wide, elbows on knees, hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms. He was staring right at Johnny, his blonde hair all mussed up, his skin pale and clammy, the way it got when he didn’t sleep.

“Hey, buddy.” he said, brows pinched with concern. “How’s it going?”

“They fixed my dick, Gibs,” Johnny lazed, with a great deal of effort. He managed to hold up this thumbs and wave his hand around aimlessly.

“Woohoo,” Gibsie cheered, holding onto his hand. “I’ll have you back on the tiles in no time.”

“Yay,” he slurred happily, “You get it, Gibs. You get me.”

“I get you, buddy.” he coaxed, smiling now.

“I’m really happy my dick still works,” Johnny slurred out again, “I’m gonna use that lube, Gibs.” he croaked, twisting around to find him. “Hey—where’d you go?”

“I'm right here,” he told Johnny, patting his head. "And I'll buy you a big basket of it once we're home."

“You're my best friend," Johnny told him, his eyes reading Gibsie’s face as a pillow. Still beautiful, but he did look like a pillow. "I love your big, rugby ball head.”

“My head isn’t shaped like a rugby ball, we’ve been over this.”

“Shhh,” Johnny hushed. He made an exaggerated effort to lift both arms but succeeded only in flopping his hand onto the edge of the mattress. “Come ’ere. Come on, I wanna tell you something.”

“I can hear you just fine from right here,” Gibsie replied, arms crossed—but he was already rising, moving to stand by the bed, because resistance was futile and, frankly, Johnny looked like he was about to attempt rolling off the side.

Johnny smiled like a man who’d just discovered fire. “Hi.”

“Hi, you lunatic.”

“You’ve got such a lovely face,” Johnny slurred, reaching up and awkwardly pressing his palm to Gibsie’s cheek, missing at first and booping his nose instead. “Pretty, but not like a girl.”

“Gee, thanks,” Gibsie replied dryly, letting Johnny map out his features with his hand.

Johnny hummed. “Not like a girl cause, cause you have all those muscles. Arms and legs.”

Gibsie laughed, head dropping forward. “Christ, you are out of your mind.”

Johnny managed just enough arm power to loosely grab Gibsie and tug him so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, really close to him. He grinned. “Finally.”

Johnny leaned closer, or tried to— he only got about an inch off the pillow before falling back dazed. He decided to look up at Gibsie, whose messy blond curls fell in front his eyes, covering the beautiful grey. With his expression one of a desperate drunk, Johnny whispered into the air between them.

“Will you kiss me?” 

Gibsie froze. “Johnny..”

“Just a little kiss,” Johnny went on drunkenly and dreamily, “I can’t use my dick yet, so it’ll have to do.”

Gibsie covered his face with both hands. “Jesus fucking Christ.” he spoke into them, “That’s not happening.”

“But why?” Johnny cocked his head, “I want you to.”

He looked down and swallowed, avoiding Johnny’s gaze.

“I’d kiss you,” Johnny added sleepily. “If you let me. Would you let me?”

“Johnny,” Gibsie said quietly. Warning.

“I’ve thought about it,” Johnny said, not stopping. “Loads. Since like… I don’t know.”

He exhaled sharply. “You’re off your fucking head, nothing you’re saying is.. it’s not.”

He sounded more like he was trying to talk to himself than Johnny, as if he was trying to remind himself of something.

“But you’re… really pretty, Gibs,” he slurred, voice syrupy and slow. “Like, really… pretty. I don’t think I’ve told you that. Have I?”

“Only just now.” Gibsie sighed.

“Hmm,” Johnny thought. “I don’t know why I don’t more often. It’s true.”

The corners of Gibsie’s mouth twitched, a reluctant smile fighting to break through the worry. “Maybe because you’re usually too busy yelling at me,” he teased gently.

Johnny laughed softly, fragile and a little breathy. “Maybe.” He paused, his gaze locking onto Gibsie’s face with a strange intensity. “Will you kiss me now?”

Gibsie stiffened again. “Johnny, you’re out of it,” he said softly, brushing a hand over Johnny’s sweaty forehead.

Johnny reached out again, fingers brushing the edge of Gibsie’s jeans. “Just one kiss,” he murmured, voice thick and pleading. “To make me feel better.”

Gibsie swallowed hard, Johnny could see the apple in his throat moving with tension. “I’m here, alright? I’m not going anywhere.”

Johnny’s eyes fluttered closed, smile faltering. “You don’t like me?”

Gibsie didn’t reply.

“Oh,” Johnny said numbly, “Okay. You don’t..?”

“What? No, Johnny.” Gibsie scrambled to say, moving closer to him. “It’s not that, it’s not that at all.”

“S’okay,” Johnny mumbled, “You don’t have to..”

“Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face before leaning real close into Johnny’s space.

“I do like you.” he said tightly, “I do. So much, okay? But it’s not… we can’t.”

Johnny blinked, ignoring the last past. “You do?”

“Yeah, Johnny.” Gibsie said, “I really do.”

Johnny beamed. A slow, triumphant grin stretching wide across his face. “So you think I’m pretty.”

Gibsie laughed under his breath, shaking his head, then leaned in and kissed him.

It was barely a kiss, more on the corner of Johnnys mouth then his lips, but it was warm and kind, and Johnny liked it. A lot. He loved it, even.

“Mmmm,” he grinned when Gibsie separated from him. “That was nice. Do it again.”

Gibsie just smiled sadly at him. “You should sleep, Johnny.”

“Will you kiss me when I wake up?” Johnny asked hopefully.

“Yeah, lad. I’ll kiss you how many times you want.”

“Okay.” Johnny replied gleefully, and then he went to sleep.

Hours later, once the morphine wore off properly, Johnny stirred. His head was foggy, his mouth dry, and the pain in his thigh was dull but aching, a sorry reminder.

“Jesus Christ,” he croaked, rubbing at his face.

There was movement beside him.

Gibsie was slumped in the chair uncomfortably, rubbing at his eyes blearily. “You’re up,” he yawned.

“Gibs..?”

“Everything went fine, Johnny. Your mams just getting you some breakfast.”

Johnny nodded. “I feel weird.”

“That’ll be the morphine,” Gibsie said, voice steady.

Johnny frowned faintly. “I’m still on it?”

“Not much,” Gibsie said. “Just the dregs now. You’ve been out a while.”

Johnny swallowed and stared at the ceiling, piecing things together in slow fragments. “Da?”

“He’s at the canteen as well. Talking to the consultant.”

“Oh.”

Silence fell for a moment. Heavy. Familiar. The kind that usually came after an argument or just before one.

Johnny glanced at Gibsie again. The way he was sitting forward, tense through the shoulders, hands pressed between his knees—there was something strange about it.

Johnny’s brows pulled together slowly. “What?”

Gibsie blinked. “What?”

“You’re looking at me all weird.”

A pause. Gibsie’s mouth twitched.

“You don’t remember anything?”

Johnny blinked, confused. “From when?”

“Earlier,” Gibsie said lightly. 

Johnny searched his foggy mind. He remembered being cold. Then warm. He remembered someone holding his hand—maybe his mam?—then nothing.

“I remember getting wheeled out of surgery,” he said slowly. “That’s it.”

Gibsie sat back in the chair, arms crossed, and looked to the side.

“Right,” he said quietly. “You were pretty out of it.”

Johnny narrowed his eyes. “What’d I do?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a shite lie,” Johnny muttered. “Did I piss the bed or something?”

“No,” Gibsie said. “You just… talked a lot.”

Johnny’s stomach sank. “Fuck. What’d I say?”

Gibsie looked at him, brows pinched.

“You don’t remember any of it?”

“No. Why?” Johnny tried to push himself up, but the pain made him hiss and collapse back against the pillows. “Jesus. What did I say?”

Gibsie paused and licked his lips. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“…Was it about rugby?” Johnny asked, too quickly. “Did I say something about the team?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Gibsie looked at him for a long moment. Then he leaned forward and picked up the plastic water cup from the tray, pressing the straw toward Johnny’s mouth.

“Just drink,” he said softly. “You need to hydrate.”

Johnny sipped in silence. The water was lukewarm. It hit his stomach like a stone.

When he was done, Gibsie set the cup back down carefully, deliberately, like every movement was something to hide behind.

“Whatever I said,” Johnny murmured, watching him, “you’re not telling me, are you?”

Gibsie looked at him, working his jaw.

“You were high. It doesn’t matter.”

“…Okay,” Johnny whispered. “If you say so.”