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Johnnie wakes up.
It’s quite a miracle, really.
He wakes up, struggling for air, scratching at his throat as if that ever helped. Sill, he can’t stop, just like he can’t stop choking in his sleep.
Sometimes he worries he’s going to damage the skin and his spider tattoo along with it. But in the moment it never crosses his panic-filled mind.
Maybe it’s apnea, or whatever it is that tiktok keeps throwing on his FYP.
Considering he’s still drunk, it’s a surprise that he can be conscious for this fit at all.
Johnnie’s life consists of getting drunk, getting high, and waiting to die.
He stops choking after a little bit—his throat now burns from both the outside and the inside. Relieved that he can now breathe, he coughs a few times experimentally, still feeling like there’s something stuck in his windpipe.
That doesn’t go too well.
Everything inside of him feels gross and covered in some slimy substance, some mucus—or maybe it’s just rot—he does frequently feel like his body is decaying while he walks around. So he coughs more and more, to try and clear it out.
His throat gets itchy, irritated even more.
And now he can’t stop coughing.
He forces himself to stop breathing for a moment, no matter how much blinding hot panic it sends through his half-drunk monkey brain.
Everything is quiet.
The water turns on in the kitchen.
Johnnie exhales.
As air rushes past his lips, he feels nausea roll up from his stomach. It’s acidic and awfully sweet.
He throws up all over himself.
Some of it gets into his airway, burns so bad it makes him thrash about stupidly, like a caged animal. Johnnie shakes and rolls to his side, then off the bed, knees hitting the floor hard.
He can’t stand up.
More vomit. Now it’s all going straight on the bed.
Sometimes, Johnnie thinks that he could star in an ad about the dangers of alcohol. He’d nail that role.
Jake rushes into the room—Johnnie recognises his steps without looking up.
“Johnnie,” he says, like a prayer. “Johnnie.”
Johnnie wonders how much longer is it gonna take for Jake to figure out that he’s praying to a false god.
“Are you okay?”
Johnnie coughs, a limp, stinky mass in Jake’s arms.
“No,” he croaks.
Jake lifts him up like a princess, which Johnnie certainly isn’t. Jake smells like cigs and weed and Johnnie coughs and gags, but nothing more comes out.
“Let’s get you some water and a bucket,” Jake says.
Somehow—Johnnie is egotistically not paying attention—Jake manages to grab a bucket on his way to the living room and deposit Johnnie on the couch.
“I’ll get you some water,” Jake promises, unpeeling Johnnie’s hair from his face where it’s stuck to the skin with puke. He doesn’t seem to notice just how disgusting Johnnie is.
Johnnie stares at the ceiling and prays that God—the real one, the angry one, if he’s there at all—saves Jake from him, just like he did with all the other people that Johnnie had poisoned. Johnnie feels that Jake has had enough of him. He deserves to rest.
God stays silent, but the TV does broadcast an earthquake warning. Maybe Satan is sending regards.
“Let’s get you changed,” Jake’s voice comes from above.
Johnnie’s whole view is now taken up by Jake.
He helps Johnnie undress, hands caressing Johnnie’s brittle spine like it’s holy. Johnnie insists on not putting on anything but his underwear, and Jake doesn’t argue–never does. Johnnie hates the feeling of clothes on his body but Jake, he reckons, has more ulterior motives. Judging by the way his eyes slide over Johnnie’s body, he might.
Johnnie doesn’t understand him.
Jake has changed the sheets on Johnnie’s bed. It’s a field of white now, hard on the eyes.
It’s also harsher on Johnnie’s skin, but it’s not suffocating like clothes.
Johnnie resents a lot of textures and touches, if he thinks about it. One that he doesn’t—is Jake’s touch. Nothing quite compares to Jake’s hands, not even silk.
It’s so out of reach, so incomparable to everything else, that Johnnie never dares ask for Jake to touch him. He’s afraid to grow used to it.
Apparently, throwing up all over himself earns one some care. Johnnie doesn't have to ask. Jake caresses his head, fingers scratching at his scalp. Then moves his large palm to Johnnie's shoulder, lets Johnnie's bone dig into the meat of his hand. Hurtful, even when he's being touched with the purest intentions.
Jake's other hand pulls the sheets over Johnnie, up to his waist. Johnnie's fingernails catch onto Jake's wrist, almost scratch him because he's been forgetting to clip them.
He can't bring himself to tell Jake that he'd better stop touching him. His mouth refuses to move. Instead of pushing Jake's hands away, he clutches onto them, leaves half-moon prints in his skin.
“Shh,” Jake says, soothing. “I'm here, Johnnie, I'm here.”
“Why,” Johnnie moans, eyes closing. “Why?”
Jake's lips are on his forehead. He props a pillow behind Johnnie's back and he's warm. Johnnie isn't sure he cares about his own question.
“Because I love you,” Jake finally says, but it's so far away, Johnnie isn't sure he doesn't imagine it.
Even if he didn't, it doesn't mean much.
Of course Jake loves him. Johnnie knows that.
He just doesn't know why anyone would do that to themselves.