"Come on. Up you get."
Johnny wiggles his fingers and Connor lets himself be lifted a second time, leaning into Johnny as they make it the rest of the way there.
"Thanks," he mutters later as he's being looked at. Johnny hasn't left him for some reason. "Thanks, Johnny. Really.”
For the briefest moment, a warmth settles between his shoulder blades. Then it's gone.
"Don't owe me anything, Hapstader," Johnny says when the nurse leaves. "Least of all a thank you."
"We need a motif."
Johnny chews at the end of his pencil. "Yeah, already got mine picked out."
"Oh yeah? What is it?"
"The sea."
"For California?" Connor asks him, wondering.
Johnny chews off the eraser. Spits it out.
"That's part of it, yeah. Don't know what the other part will be."
Connor holds a hand out. "Can I see what you have so far?"
Johnny holds his paper a little closer. Cages it in.
"Why?"
"I'll let you read mine."
Johnny snorts. "Why would I want to do that?" But he's switching their papers anyway.
Johnny scans the few lines Connor's jotted down. He doesn't make a face like Missy would have. He doesn't comment either. Just reads it over top to bottom again and raises an eyebrow at Connor.
"You read mine or what?"
Connor reads his.
He frowns.
Johnny leans in, looking strained. "What the fuck's the face for? It that shit or what?"
Connor shakes his head slowly.
It's good. It's evocative, like Rigglesworth wants. It’s—
Connor sets the paper down.
"Why are you so good at everything?" he bemoans, burying his hands in his hair.
He hisses, forgetting the sore spot where the nurse patched him up after gym a few days before.
Johnny blinks and blinks at him. Watches his pained face. “You like it?"
"Yeah? I don't know if she'll let you get away with saying ‘fuck’, but I mean," he says, sighing dramatically, "You're gonna get an A."
"I still need a second motif."
"So what? You'll be fine. I'm gonna fail and repeat the year and everything will be screwed until kingdom come."
Johnny laughs softly at that. "Yours isn't bad, man. Just needs some work. That's what I'm here for, right?"
Connor looks at him. Really looks.
If he asked Johnny to kiss him, would he?
Johnny's smiling soft and nice at him. Then he's scribbling down notes in the margins of his paper, pointing out issues and offering suggestions. He doesn't ask if Connor wants him to, just goes ahead and does it.
Connor really appreciates that.
“I don’t know why I even bother.” Then he asks, “Has anyone else read yours?”
“No.” It’s brisk. “Only person seeing the whole thing’s gonna be Rigglesworth, and only ‘cuz she has to.”
He smoothes a hand over Connor’s paper, flattening it out.
“You shouldn’t write about school. This place isn’t your home.”
He squints at Johnny. “You don’t know that.”
“I know enough to know you don’t feel comfortable here. Doesn’t take a genius to see how you shrink whenever the priss and her new toy walk by in the halls.” Johnny runs his hand over Connor’s writing again. “Only time you really let loose is on the court. Or when we’re—” A sigh. “When it’s just us.”
Connor doesn’t know what to say. He feels seen. And it’s weird. Weird like liking how Johnny felt on top of him, weird.
“Anyway. You should write about someone.”
It’s been a week of this. “I don’t—have anyone, Johnny.”
Johnny’s mouth twists. “You’ve got me,” he says on a breathy little laugh and it’s lighthearted, clearly, but Connor his heart still picks up at the words. “What about the kids?”
“What about ‘em?”
Johnny inches the paper back across to Connor. “You’re always happy babysitting them. I see you in the parking lot.”
Okay, that’s not not true, but still. It’s embarrassing. “Johnny, they’re barely in high school.”
“I’m not calling you popular. Just calling it like I see it. You light up like a goddamn Christmas tree when they’re all blabbin’ their heads off at you.”
Connor’s surprised. First, for never noticing how much Johnny apparently keeps an eye on him when he’s not looking. And second, because Johnny’s not wrong. Johnny does see him, and it makes his stomach go all warm at the thought. That someone cares enough to see him, to notice when he’s happy and when he’s not.
That that person is Johnny Burns.
“You’re right,” he tells him, and Johnny smiles for real.
“You don’t have to pour your heart out or anything,” Johnny reminds him, snatching his own paper back. “Just write something that feels true to you and you’ll do great.”
Connor smiles down at the table, kicks a little at Johnny with the toe of his shoe. Johnny huffs.
“Fool me once, Burns…”
“I’m not fuckin’ with you, Conny. Just get back to fucking work.”
But he’s smiling when he says it.
Johnny’s on Connor’s bed a week later, on his stomach with his shirt riding up a little. Connor can see the tan of his skin, the swell of his—
“This is better,” Johnny tells him, tapping the tenth line. “You really love those little shits, don’t you?”
Connor’s got his elbows on his mattress and his knees on the floor as he sandwiches his face between his palm and his pencil. Johnny told him he’d get lines if he sat like that any longer, but Connor doesn’t care. He’s not going to pass.
“It’s terrible.”
“No, it’s not,” Johnny says firmly, like he always does. “It’s just rough around the edges.”
“You would know.”
Johnny turns those piercing eyes on him. “Calling me rough?”
Connor does not look at the inviting press of Johnny’s pecs that catch underneath his shirt as he flips onto his side, facing Connor.
It’s been two weeks of this. A week of Johnny coming over after practice to work on writing together, even though it feels more like tutoring than anything else.
But it’s been two slow weeks of Connor having dreams about Johnny ten fold. Of having the scent of his hair stuck in his nose and waking him up in the middle of the night. Of Connor stuffing his hand down his pants just to try and get to sleep in the first place, because it’s kind of getting ridiculous. This little crush he’s got. This really bad, big fucking crush.
“I’m calling you an asshole,” Connor tells him, forcing the snide tone. “And a liar. Yours is already done and you won’t even let me read it, and mine is barely even—”
“Hey.”
Connor huffs and plants his face on his sheets. Johnny’s hand lands on his head. It’s gentle for as long as it takes for Connor to sigh at the touch before he’s being smushed face down.
Connor comes up spluttering. “Fuck off.”
Johnny rolls his eyes. “You only need a final stanza or two and you’ll be set. You’re going to pass, Hapstader.”
“How do you know? How can you be so sure?”
Connor’s neurotic on his best days. He doesn’t get the carefree ease Johnny carries every moment of every waking hour.
The one time he’s seen Johnny break down, at his absolute lowest was that day he’d pulled Johnny back off that cliff. He never wants to see Johnny like that again.
“Because you waxing poetic about the little dipshits makes even me go a little gooey. Got no good reason on this earth to lie about that.”
It makes him laugh. “I know your secret, then.”
“One of ‘em,” Johnny offers, biting his lip. Then he’s rolling onto his back, hand on his stomach, the other holding his paper aloft. “Get up here and I’ll show you.”
So Connor goes. He can’t exactly resist.
He lies beside Johnny, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Johnny shifts and looks at him when he’s settled. Points at his paper.
“You’ve got a solid start and middle. Just need an ending.”
“I’m no good with endings,” he admits, because it’s true.
Figuratively and literally.
Johnny hums. “You don’t need an ending then. You could leave it open. Poetry doesn’t need to have a final say, you know.”
“I hate poetry. It’s stupid.”
“Well, duh. But it’s highly respected for something, right? Teach says we can be free with it, remember?”
“Yeah, pretty sure she used to be a hippie.”
Johnny snorts, dissolving into laughter as he turns and presses the sweet sounds into Connor’s shoulder. It feels like fresh rain and Connor wants to roll on top of Johnny. Drown in him.
Or something.
“You sure you don’t want me to read yours?”
Johnny’s laughter dies away, and he huffs a final time. Shakes his head hidden against Connor.
“Okay,” Connor mutters. “Guess you’re right. I’ll just bullshit it.”
“Connor,” Johnny urges into his arm, the sound muffled.
It’s still so rare hearing Johnny say his name. Makes Connor a little giddy with it.
“I’ll wing it. That better?”
Johnny nods.
“I could fall asleep, man. Shit, gym wore me out.”
Then Johnny slumps against him, paper abandoned as he flings an arm loose across Connor’s chest. Connor stills, not knowing what he should do.
His pulse is in his ears and he’s kind of scared. Scared of chasing Johnny off. He wants to relax into the touch. The casual way Johnny treats his friends, because this is just what Johnny does.
And now he does it to Connor. Because he called Connor his friend last week and that’s the weirdest of all the weird lately, but Connor will take it. It’s the most progress they’ve made in weeks.
They’ve only got one more day before they have to turn their poems in. They get graded individually, but they also have to grade each other, which is stupid in his opinion. He’ll give Johnny a good grade, because Johnny’s been doing, honestly, great. But Connor? He’s hardly helped Johnny with anything. Johnny doesn’t need help with his school work.
“Stop thinking,” Johnny tells him. Lifts his head a little and gets Connor meeting his eyes. “You’re too tense. Make a terrible pillow.”
Then Johnny’s just...bullying him onto his side. And Connor’s got no choice but to slide an arm over Johnny’s waist as he pancakes himself to Connor’s front and they’re basically hugging and Connor can feel the telltale spin of heat making its way down his spine and he panics. Bucks a little, trying to get some space between them before Johnny knows. Before Johnny tells him to leave, and that he’s not really gay, and that the notes were all a lie or a fever dream, and he doesn’t care that he slept over and they showered that one time and he couldn’t give a shit if Connor kind of, surely, maybe, probably, loves—
Johnny hums and simply takes it as an invitation to open his thighs, to slot Connor’s between his own.
His thoughts stop. He’s getting hard.
Johnny will know.
He can’t keep his shuddery breath reined in. Can’t feign the calm he so wants. Johnny will know, Johnny will feel him and then they won’t be friends anymore and he’ll probably beat him up again and—
Johnny says, “I’ve missed you.”
And Johnny’s looking at him. And his eyes are soft. And he’s looking at Connor’s mouth and makes a little questioning sound and Connor nods, even though he doesn’t know what he’s being asked. Even though he hopes and wonders if his heart is about to be squeezed like a lemon before it’s broken.
And then Johnny’s kissing him. A soft press of closed lips and Connor’s melted through the bed straight to the floor. Makes a needy little sound right back.
Johnny whispers, “Connor,” and holds him steady, holds him up, keeps him grounded.
Connor doesn’t see Johnny until English.
His heart’s all a bundle of nerves and every beat is almost painful with how heavy he feels. He slides into his seat, the poem he finished with an open ending the night before, after Johnny left him with a kiss to the cheek, feels just as heavy when he pulls it out.
Reading it over again, it reads terribly. Connor hates it. He wants to tear it up. Johnny was wrong.
But then Johnny’s walking by him, and there’s a brush of a hot palm on his shoulder as he passes and sits behind him and Connor relaxes.
Johnny’s leaning forward, breath hot at his ear when he whispers, “Did you have any good dreams?”
And Connor turns and sees a wide grin, can smell the tobacco on his breath, and wants Johnny back in his bed as soon as possible.
“Never slept better,” he says, and it’s the truth. All they did was sleep really. Kiss and sleep. And fret over homework.
Johnny beams.
“You should come over again,” Connor tells him before he can back out of it. “I’ll make dinner.”
It’s then that Raya takes her seat beside Johnny and she’s looking at them. Between them. She bites her lip and starts getting her work out.
Johnny licks his lips. Breathes out a, “I’ll follow you back.”
And just like that, they have plans.
Mrs. Rigglesworth walks in and bellows her usual hellos and welcomes. Frowns over the class until she gets to Johnny, like she usually does.
Connor sighs. Hears Johnny say, “You’re gonna do fine.”
Rigglesworth starts writing groups out on the board before numbering them. Connor wonders why.
“Who’s ready to read!” she calls, excited and Connor’s heart sinks.
Behind him he hears Johnny swear.
“We’ll go by group number, then by last name.”
Burns, then Hapstader. Johnny will have to read his first.
“I thought we weren’t reading aloud?” Connor’s asking before he’s even realized it.
“I thought it would be more engaging this way. Everybody loves showing off to their classmates a little. It’ll be fun.”
Johnny is strangely silent behind him as one by one, groups go up to the front of the class to read.
Then he zeroes in on the scratching.
Connor cranes his neck, sees Johnny scribbling away with a bitten-down pencil.
“Johnny,” he whispers. “Johnny, just read yours fast, no big deal. Don’t write something new.”
Johnny kicks his seat. “I’m fucked.”
“You’re not. I’ll clap when you’re done.”
“Jesus, please do not.”
“Mr. Hapstader, since you’re keen on speaking up would you like to go next?” Click asks when the last kid is through. She looks expectant.
“Uh.”
But Johnny’s already up and brushing by.
He gets to the front and stands there, flips his hair over his shoulder. He glares out at the class before looking down at his paper.
Connor sees his hands are trembling.
Johnny doesn’t tremble. He doesn’t get nervous.
“Whenever you’re—” Click says, but then:
“Home is nowhere.”
Johnny takes a deep breath.
“Home is violent pity and batshit crazy
And all full of funhouse mirrors.”
Johnny takes another breath, his cheeks puffing out. Then he’s glaring at Click. “This is ridiculous. Can’t I just turn it in?”
Mrs. Rigglesworth gives him a soft thing of a smile. And it’s all understanding. “Take your time, dear.”
Johnny grumbles something but doesn’t storm off.
His eyes flick to Connor’s for an instant and then back again.
Connor is rooted to his seat. Couldn’t move if he wanted.
And he doesn’t.
�
�Because when I see myself I see bruises and lacerations and the shit
I've sent off ten fold
To every other you
I told myself was asking for it.”
The room is silent. Connor doesn’t want to breathe.
“Because when I see myself reflected back, stretched wrong and all made of wax, I see what makes me up.
And it's all wax
And in a funhouse everything is a joke
And wanting a home in you is the biggest of them all.
Wax melts.
A fist in the ribs feels like melting too
When you go down hard and have to think—”
Johnny’s breath leaves him in a rush. The sides of the paper scrunch in his fists.
“Of all the good you never let yourself think of otherwise
Because if you do you start to melt
And wanting a home feels like melting
And letting everyone see you melt isn't on the fucking table
Because no one knows you, no one knows you're made of wax.”
Connor swallows painfully hard when familiar, comforting, fire filled eyes flit up to his a second time.
It feels wrong to blink, so he doesn’t. Needs Johnny to know he’s listening.
Johnny’s eyes are back on his poem.
“So when you're on the floor and you're melting, just enough to be reminded maybe you are a person after all the shit life's handed you
You wonder what home is like.”
He’s quiet so long, Connor’s lungs burn. He sucks in a breath and hears Raya do something similar. Like everyone’s forgotten, somehow, what life was before Johnny started speaking. That the world is still spinning.
But then he starts again and Connor’s hooked. Knows he’ll always be hooked.
He needs Johnny to know.
You've Never Seen the Sea Page 7
