all of my goodness is goin with you now

The road is dark and long, the headlights of the car being the only source of light. Even so, it's so dark, too dark. Dark around the edges of his sight, dark when he tries to see through his peripherals, dark on the spot where he knows Daniel sits behind the steering wheel, body shaking — with adrenaline or fear, he does not know, does not want to — from his toes to the tips of his fingers to every single lock of his hair. He is shaking, and he is trembling and he is sobbing his name. Johnny, he says, and Johnny feels a hand on his arm, quickly moving up to his nape when he sways.

You'll be alright, Johnny. Jus'–jus' hang in there. 

Johnny cannot see him, Johnny can barely hear him, the ringing in his ears not having ceased. Time is but a concept now, a mere suggestion instead of a fact. Has it been an hour since then? A minute? A second? It does not matter — would not. They have won, surely they have. The costs may have been one or two too many, but they have won. The shadows looming over them, the demons haunting their dreams — they are gone, and they have lost. Johnny and Daniel, they have won. 

Johnny, no! Johnny, stay with me, come on. Don't—don't go to sleep, asshole—! 

Pain is not a foreign concept, nor is staring death itself in the eyes. He has done so two, three times too many. Johnny supposes now is a good time to admit his regrets, his faults and his mistakes. A shit son, a shit boyfriend, a shit student, a shit father, a shit sensei, a shit friend. He wishes he could turn back time, one of those back to the future-esque moments when he goes back without meaning to, without a means of coming back. Maybe then he'd be a better son, maybe then he'd ended things amicably with Ali, maybe then he and Daniel could have been friends, could have been something more; maybe then Robby would not stare at him with eyes as green as the grass in Miyagi-do, lacking the place's warmth and instead glowering and glaring the way Johnny used to — the way Johnny still does whenever he faces his enemies. 

Idly, he thinks about how he definitely does not look at Daniel like that anymore. 

Johnny, you ass! You're—you're bleeding all over my goddamn passenger seat! You're changing those, so you can't fuckin' die! 

He should have stopped blaming Daniel. It is — was — all him, he knows this now. It has always been him. He, who always strikes first; he, who hurt an innocent boy who was only trying to help; he, who started a war when he could have stepped aside and let life run its course, immovable objects and unstoppable forces be damned. 

He is bleeding on the passenger seat of Daniel's Audi, the bodies of the people who have done the most damage to their bodies and their minds and their souls wrapped in body bags in its trunk. Johnny is bleeding on the passenger seat, and the road is still dark, and there are barely any stars in the sky, and he could not see Daniel but he knows that he is beautiful, even with blood running down his forehead, blood on his knuckles, blood on his dress shirt. 

Daniel is beautiful, he always has been. A part of Johnny has always known, he regrets only acknowledging it now. 

Johnny thinks, make something happen. He thinks, pull over, we're safe. No one can stop us now. You're divorced, Carmen hates me, Kreese and Silver are dead, what else is there for us? There's only you and I now. There are no sirens, there are no policemen. The road is dark, I can barely feel anything, and I only have eyes for you. For once in your life, Daniel, strike first; make something happen.

He cannot say these. His throat is tight, both dry and quickly filling up with blood. All he can do is cough, and turn his head, the movement enough to send pain through his entire body. Daniel is beautiful, but the sight of him with pinched eyebrows and wet eyes and red-bitten lips that was caused because of something else but pleasure makes his heart twist in his chest.

He chokes out, pull over, even when it takes everything in him to do so. Daniel hiccups on a sob and does as he says, slamming on the breaks and immediately focusing on Johnny. 

He is saying what's wrong? while his hands grip Johnny's face, tight and grounding, for who, Johnny does not know. They both need it, he supposes. The hand that is pressing on his bullet wound is weakening along with the rest of him. He does not want it to be like this. Johnny? Johnny, please. Daniel is begging. Daniel is begging Johnny and Johnny does not find pleasure in this. 

It was not supposed to be like this. 

I love you, he whispers, swaying forward, lips and noses brushing against each other but not pressing, the drying blood on Daniel’s forehead merely an uncomfortable itch on Johnny's forehead. I love you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to be like this. 

Daniel says, I know, because he always does. Johnny should have expected it, but he is not surprised. I know, Daniel is continuing to say, pressing their lips together with a tilt of his head. I do, too, he does not say, but Johnny hears it all the same.

The blood on Daniel's hands flows down the drain in dark flakes, not unlike the one on Johnny's abdomen. Daniel scratches at it idly, and Johnny sighs. The water is hot, teasing the line between uncomfortable and acceptable, a welcome warmth in contrast to the cold feeling of dread and emptiness that fills both of them. 

"Good thing your dad forgot about this place," Daniel says, voice quiet. Johnny nods, hand twitching as he resists the urge to pick at his stitches.

Daniel's hands are in his hair now, gently scratching and scrubbing. Silently, he thinks he has always been good with his hands. Silently, he thinks about his own fists, how they left bruises that he is not proud of, not anymore. He thinks about how he could leave bruises that he could be proud of, thinks about how Daniel's hands can leave bruises on him that they both would like to look at, would like to touch. 

Out loud, he says, fuck me, breathless and genuine. He says, fuck me like you mean it, because he needs this, he needs Daniel, because Daniel is Johnny's lifeline now as much as he will be the death of him. I need you to, he does not say, but he knows that Daniel hears it all the same.

Out loud, Daniel says, "No," with only the slightest hint of exasperation and a whole load of fondness. He says, "Not yet," like the promise it is. Johnny does not know what Daniel is thinking, but he thinks it's something along the lines of this fuckin' guy while shaking his head with that dopey smile of his.

Later, much, much later, when the searing pain in his abdomen is nothing but a slight ache, when Daniel’s hands and lips roam all over his body, when Daniel’s fingers are pressed tight into his hips, grip bruising and forgiving, he thinks, this is a man who knows what to do with his body. When their eyes lock with Daniel thrusting into him, he thinks, we are not dirty. We are destroyed, but we are not dirty.