Vance’s flesh was colder than Peanut had remembered. Taut ivory skin sprinkled in cinnamon and fractured in the centre where sterile needle floods his tender veins with nutrients and necessary doses of morphine. He feels so fragile beneath Peanut’s fingertips, peaked knuckles tinted maroon from blood which cannot be scrubbed clean no matter how coarse the sponge. The arctic atmosphere of the surrounding room plays host to an abundance of clinical sounds – that dreaded beep beep beep of Vance’s heartbeat fluttering with rhythmic consistency and the drip drip drop of a rusted facet leaking innocently in the corner. The translucency of his ill-fitting hospital gown, drowning the astronomy of gaudy polka-dots and faint stylized ducks, only heightens the grotesque hue of his flesh; once opalescent and pure now painted a most unsettling shade of moss. Only his thigh has retained pigmentation – swaddled beneath padded bandages soaked in iodine.
Every so often his features will pinch tautly in discomfort, a portrait of pain which ricochets from spine to nape and back again. The vision alone makes Peanut’s chest ache in a performance of utmost sympathy. Had he only the foresight to leap into action, use his body as a shield comprised solely of muscle and desperation, he could have protected the man he cherishes most; perhaps even rip Dana from the clutches of something so atrocious he dares not linger on such thoughts.
Damp lips flower open across Vance’s temple – idling for several moments simply to feel him. Heavy fingertips press hesitantly over his scalp, breezing through vibrant copper strands and halting there. Experiences like this are rare, after all. Were Vance to arise from a slumber he has finally claimed after so long, he would surely complain about his boyfriend’s fussy fingertips; his image transcending such dire circumstances.
“I love you,” Peanut whispers, his syllables left slurred from a sleepless tongue.
For a moment, he swears he can see the crevices of Vance’s mouth twitch upward. Just once, just for a second-
Johnny’s voice is a hardened edge cutting through the sanctuary of an otherwise motionless air. Dark and cynical; his body a picturesque shadow tilted against the door frame. Despite how his arms wrap tautly across his chest, Peanut can easily analyse the plum and charcoal bruises staining solid palms; an aftermath to the beating inconsequentially performed on his closest companion.
Peanut loathes himself for trembling in the way that he does, his eyes positively vast and jaw set into an infallible ridge. Somewhere beneath his skin he can feel his fractured ribs throb pitifully in response – phantom wounds tearing open to oxidize in the acerbic air - irritated by proximity alone. Trauma reinvigorated; blisters forming on areas certain to scab and heal.
He splutters frantically for breath. Cautious. Careful. Determined to maintain his lover’s ample rest.
“Wh... What’re you doin’ here, Johnny?”
“What’s it look like, Lar? I’m visitin’ my friend in hospital. S’what good leaders do.”
Peanut scoffs at once and then immediately regrets such a sound when Johnny’s eyes flicker momentarily; a somersault through molasses. Vulnerability tears through his stomach with fascinating precision. Yet, he cannot seem to halt the quickening of his vowels nor the distaste powdering his tone.
“Really? Yous still callin’ yourself that? After everythin’ you did to me?”
“I hadta, Peanut, you know that,” Johnny pinches delicately at the bridge of his nose. Counts his breaths. “I hadta show you who is in charge. I make the rules ‘round here. I can’t have my troops runnin’ around and makin’ a joke outta me, now, can I?”
Cautiously, Peanut allows his eyes to flutter to a close; praying that the magnificent darkness will swallow Johnny’s intrusive presence. Cleanse him of a phenom which has haunted him considerably over these past few weeks. And, yet, there is a petite portion of his soul which aches terribly at the notion of losing Johnny Vincent.
Sad, isn’t it? To crave the very poison which could decimate you.
Johnny’s footsteps drag across buffed linoleum with thunderous insistence, the rusted buckles on his boots rattling with every motion, his fingertips tracing unintelligible patterns across Vance’s scarcely moving torso.
The words can’t bare to leave Peanut’s lips. He nods instead.
Johnny’s whistle strikes like nails on chalkboard – each decibel bouncing throughout bleached walls.
“That’s pretty badass.” He croons, his free hand caressing Peanut’s shoulder – the one free from imposing sling and ill-managed anguish; the one which has not been torn from its socket and then forced back together. Peanut finds himself flinching regardless.
Johnny’s thumb traces slow semicircles underneath the fuchsia of Peanut’s chin, guided by gnarly bruises favouring his own boot print. An emblem of ownership. He cannot keep the smirk from peppering his voice. “Did you do it?”
Every nerve in Peanut’s body, wired red-hot, sparks to life at such an implication; ears burning and lungs plump. “Of course not! Is you crazy?”
“Mhm,” Johnny purrs, amused, tracing the tip of his nose down the flourish of Peanut’s throat; lingering on a pulse which bounces with life. “This is what I was talkin’ about, Larry. That’s the typa loyalty I wanna see.”
“I didn’t fuckin’ shoot my boyfriend, Johnny!” Peanut’s fingers curl that bit tighter around Vance’s frail palm. Instinctive. “It was Harrington. He wanted Dana back – stole her back – an’ he shot Vance for tryna protect her. Cos I couldn’t.”
Johnny tilts Peanut’s face closer to his own, serpentine breath full of nicotine and spearmint; features aglow with the thrill of the chase. His lower lip curls darkly across his chin in a most theatrical pout and his fingertips scrape against the nape of Peanut’s throat. Keeping him tethered in to the moment.
“Pity. I liked my version better. Was cooler.”
Johnny’s kisses are never tender. They are thorough, wild, tongue dancing akin to otherworldly flame over the crease of Peanut’s sealed lips and across faded wounds just beginning to fuse back together. Splayed palm pressed desperately into Johnny’s chest in an attempt to dilute his taste – his head held steady within monstrous digits – Peanut can only grunt meekly in response to such an assault. He didn’t want this. Maybe he never did. Certainly, thirteen-year-old Peanut with scraped knees and a killer overbite could never have imagined his flustered testosterone-heavy fantasies would develop into this.
Lopsided infatuation. How the tables have turned.
“Stop fuckin’ doin’ that!” Peanut hisses when their lips part, his voice sullen and dark, lips throbbing from the implication of a violation he never asked for.
“Nah.” Those same wet lips push down Peanut’s throat. A nip here. A nip there. “Yous so good to me. My best friend, Lar.”
Guilt twists Peanut’s abdomen with serrated precision, knotting through flesh and bone, leaving him utterly breathless as Johnny finally peels himself away from his presence. Because Johnny is his best friend; inseparable minds and even tighter fingertips. And if it weren’t for him, for his guidance and persistence, Peanut wouldn’t even have been on Vance’s radar to begin with…
The smack of cigarette packet hitting the bedside table is enough to make Peanut leap from his skin; Vance’s favourites all wrapped up in a hilariously vast bubblegum bow. They blend into the rather large collection swelling by Vance’s side – fragrant bouquets and unopened chocolates and a rather inappropriate phallus-shaped popsicle from Donna.
“Tell him I came, will ya?”
Peanut cannot bare to lift his head. “Okay.”
“And Peanut? You better start seein’ that everythin’ I do – I do it for your sake. You got it?”
Out of the corner of his flooded eyes, Peanut can see the silhouette of Johnny raising his arms. He stretches them outward as though steadying an invisible shotgun, twists his fingers around a materialized lens, pumps the trigger, and-
And just like that? He’s gone.
When Peanut allows himself the gift of exhaling, he does so s l o w l y; a desperate attempt to settle a heartbeat which has catapulted from the safety of very ribs. He tilts himself forward until his temple rests beside Vance’s twitching fingertips. Needing so desperately to breathe; to eradicate his selfishness with every taut puff. Here Vance was – fresh wounds and scented gauze – and Peanut was worrying about his best friend caring a little too much. He’s a fucking fool.
From his position on grotesquely uncomfortable hospital bed, Peanut doesn’t quite witness the tell-tale fluttering of amber lashes. Cannot fathom how open his boyfriend’s ears have been to this entire discussion. Nor can he detect the ache infiltrating his heart.
Because it all suddenly makes sense. Johnny has been the enemy all along.
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