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“Gettin' lonely yet, Ker?” Johnny taunts from just outside the bathroom door.
It's open. Johnny could just come in. But he won't.
Kerry dry heaves, again, into the toilet.
He started his period, what, half an hour ago? But the booze is what's killing his stomach. Fucking hell. Just his luck, isn't it?
Taking pain meds can only make it worse.
“Thought you would've fucked off by now,” Johnny continues. “Or blacked out. Party's over.”
Makes sense, Kerry guesses. Given that he can't hear any voices. Other than the ones coming through the radio speaker. And Johnny.
“‘M busy.” Kerry says. Like he's not hunched over a stranger's toilet.
Johnny's seen nastier things, probably.
There's a wet spot, right by his crotch. Maybe he bled through his jeans. Kerry doesn't want to check.
They're playing an ad now. Lotto tickets. Winner gets a weekend's retreat to the seaside. What Kerry wouldn't give…
“Stupid fuckin' waste of money.” Johnny snarls. Kerry just barely catches it, through the static.
The radio goes quiet. Kerry doesn't move. Just…plays dead.
Fake it till you make it, right?
Johnny says something else, but it gets lost in between all the hurt and the not-quite vomiting.
There's another sound. Footsteps. Kerry raises his head, slowly. Johnny's still outside. Pacing. Pissed off.
“Get up.” Johnny insists.
Kerry'd rather immolate himself
“Listen to me.”
He's sure of it now, his pants are blood soaked.
“Kerry.”
For some reason, that's what finally gets him.
“Can't.” Kerry chokes.
Johnny's not one to take no for an answer. So they sit in silence. Letting the pressure pot cook itself.
Cheap trick.
Kerry shifts. Halfway between sitting and squatting. His insides don't agree with that choice. Kerry swallows back the nausea.
Johnny is the still one, now. He leans up against the doorframe, more out of the room than in it. A live studio audience.
“Ready to quit fightin’?”
“Don't.” Kerry warns.
“And here I thought you loved it when we got along.”
Kerry dips his head back over the bowl. Waiting to puke. It doesn't happen.
God he's tired.
“Say you're right. What then?” Misery leaks through, in Kerry's tone. Stupid mistake.
Johnny goes quiet for just a second too long.
“Get up.” He demands. All teeth. So maybe it's about proving a point. Maybe that's how Johnny's seeing this.
Kerry’s too far gone to care.
He hoists himself off the floor, props himself up against the wall.
“You win.” Kerry says “Now fuck off.”
Johnny fixes him with a glare. Doesn't take more than that. Kerry shuts up. Johnny, meanwhile, lets his eyes trail downward.
He doesn't say anything about the blood.
How goddamn cordial.
Johnny pulls out his phone. Dials a cab, then hands Kerry his jacket. To hide the mess, Kerry realizes.
Makes a joke. Something to the effect of “Good luck.”
Johnny's gone, after that. And Kerry takes the cab home. Doesn't say a word to the driver. He just presses his face to the window and focuses on the car radio static.
He gets home, in the end. Holds on to the jacket, too.Tries his damnedest not to think about it.