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The men's bathroom door must be broken. Johnny realizes it too late, in a sudden moment of clarity that hits him like a slap through the haze of alcohol: the club's music reaches him loud, not muffled at all, but he's too drunk for this small detail to worry him – the tension in his body vanishes as it came, in just a heartbeat. It returns in a new and unfamiliar form when Diego claws at his thigh and levers himself up to stand. Johnny watches him wipe a corner of his mouth with an expression he interprets as disgust, despite the smile pulling at his lips.
« Come on, get up. », he mutters. « It’s my turn, innit? »
God, it’s so dumb. And what for, anyway? All of this for a stupid bet, for the chance of shutting him up for a few minutes. Johnny takes a moment and leans his back against the toilet seat, despite Diego’s urgency. A moment to look him in the face, check the erection straining his pants, and curse himself one last time for giving in to that idiotic provocation; then he slides to his knees, taking Diego’s place, the movement slowed by his drunken stupor.
« Fuck. »
-
One hour earlier, sitting at the counter of that same club, Johnny already knows his evening is about to take a weird and unpleasant turn; he knows it the moment he sees Diego making his way through the crowd gathered around the counter, a couple of meters away, yelling something to the bartender while pointing directly at him.
He doesn’t wonder why he’s there; he’s more perplexed on how exactly he managed to find out at what specific bar he intended to run to that evening. Did he follow him? He can’t rule out the possibility. In the two months Diego has spent as a guest in his house, Johnny’s become convinced that stalking him might be his favorite pastime. He doesn’t know how else to justify how often he seems to be around, even though the Joestar mansion is big enough that you can manage to not meet anyone for a whole day; Diego uses his private bathroom (“Sorry, Jojo, got no hot water in mine”), he’s in the kitchen every time Johnny comes down for a drink, and he somehow managed to perfectly synchronize his study hours in the library with Johnny’s. He’s always, constantly in the way, with that cocky little smirk on his cocky little face. His father didn’t even listen when Johnny tried to complain about the situation, unsurprisingly: the only thing that matters to him is the prestige of hosting an equestrian enfant prodige like Diego Brando, he has no time for teenage whining.
In the time it takes for the bartender to prepare their drinks, Diego vanishes into the crowd and reappears beside Johnny. He throws an arm around his shoulders with the kind of confidence Johnny never gave him – and the kind he doesn’t give him now either, keeping his eyes fixed on the beer he ordered for himself.
« Jojo! You here too? »
...and that stupid nickname, seriously. He must’ve gotten it from Nicholas, damn his big mouth, but who gave him the right to use it? He doesn’t even try to be polite, just shrugs him off and replies in a deadpan tone.
« Clearly. »
No reaction from Diego. When he turns to look at him, he’s smiling the same smug, sly smile as always, like someone who knows he’s in the right place at the wrong time – wrong time for other people, certainly not for him. He’s wearing a dark leather jacket that Johnny observes closely in the few seconds of silence he gets before Diego starts talking again.
« This one’s on me. », he says, pushing one of the drinks toward him: it’s a Shirley Temple, that Johnny eyes suspiciously. Diego plucks one of the maraschino cherries from the glass and brings it to his lips, biting it off the stem; he starts speaking again with his mouth still full. « You know, seemed like your kind of drink. »
He knows he’s taking the bait, but he can’t help himself. He furrows his brows and, despite gritted teeth, yells over the unbearable volume of the live music a few meters away. « And what’s that supposed to mean? »
Diego shrugs. He pulls the cherry pit from his mouth and places it on a napkin next to the drink, which he then lifts to his lips under Johnny’s furious gaze. Only after gulping half of it in one go does he bother to answer.
« Told you, it suits you. Effeminate. »
«What the hell did you just say?! »
« You here alone? No friends from uni? »
The change of topic is so abrupt it throws him. Johnny follows his gaze around for a second, then brings it back to his face. He refrains from answering directly.
« What about you? » he yells back. « Got no one else to bother? »
He has no intention of hiding his hostility anymore. Diego raises an eyebrow, surprised at the tone. He tilts his head toward a table of guys and girls, some of whom are now looking in their direction.
« Actually, yeah, I do. Some friends from the equestrian course – you must be familiar with some of them? You know, Al, Simon… the girls, they go to the same uni of yours, and we met them on the way here. Don’t know ‘em either? » He smirks. « God, Jojo, don’t tell me you didn’t manage to make even a single friend all these months… »
« Hey, I think your friends are calling you. Say hi for me when you go back to the table. »
Johnny pushes the Shirley Temple toward him, aggressively enough that part of the drink spills over the rim. The headache he had walking into the bar seems to have worsened. He has no intention of continuing the conversation.
« And take this with you. », he concludes. « I’m good. »
Diego gives him one last of his dumb smirks, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing – but he backs off, granting him some peace. Johnny watches him go until he reaches the table: he sees his friends make room for him, swarm around him like moths to a flame. Only then does he notice Diego left him both drinks.
-
He doesn’t understand what kind of hold Diego has over people. What do they see in him? He’s a show-off, a blowhard. He tosses judgments at others without knowing anything, absolutely anything.
« He knows jack shit about me. », he mutters, staring into his beer. A girl nearby gives him a weird look and walks away.
Johnny knows he’s popular. He’s made friends with his classmates, teachers love him, girls chase after him. If he’s alone that night, it’s by his own choice: he’s not a social butterfly, he doesn’t care about being constantly surrounded by people. It makes sense, wanting to be by yourself sometimes, doesn’t it? Especially when you’re forced to share space with someone whose ego takes up every inch of the room you’re in, forcing you to leave. Yes, that’s it – that’s what Diego feels like: an oppressive presence, a constant. He’s suffocating him even now, despite the distance. He hasn’t turned to look back at the table, afraid Diego might be doing the same, terrified of looking pathetic, but just knowing he’s in that same bar is enough to take his breath away – and not in a good way. The only reason he’s still sitting at the counter is the sheer need not to give Diego the satisfaction of seeing him run away, a drive stronger than anything else.
And then there’s that sarcastic little jab that keeps buzzing in his head. Effeminate? What a dick. Just because he doesn’t bring people home in the middle of the night, unlike him… he’s caught him with at least three different girls since they started living together. One morning, while Johnny was having breakfast, Diego even let one sneak out the kitchen door that leads to the back of the house – he had to witness a pathetic movie scene complete with make-out-at-the-door (a classic Brando move) and melodramatic goodbye (“Last night was amazing, text me, okay?” “Of course I’ll do, love, now go”). He felt a bit sorry for the poor girl. A lot more for himself, and for the bowl of cereal that nearly got down the wrong pipe.
He rests his arms on the counter and his head on his arms. When will this torture end? How many more months will he have to put up with this? And how many beers has he had? The sugary smell of the Shirley Temple, no longer a virgin due to rum being mixed in it, stings his nostrils. He lifts his head and grabs the still-full glass, drinks it in a few gulps, forcing himself not to think about anything. It’s disgusting – way too sweet. It’s Diego’s public image in drink form.
But it gets the job done. The rum burns his throat, flooding his chest with an unbearable heat. Johnny sets the glass down and reaches for Diego’s with a fumbling hand; his index finger brushes something wooden-y and wet. He looks down to see what he’s touching: it’s the cherry pit Diego left on the napkin. He stares at it for a few seconds, then picks it up and brings it to his lips.
-
Despite the cloud of smoke surrounding it, the air outside the club feels like a godsend. It’s cold, almost freezing, and it slides over his flushed, overheated skin. Johnny stumbles until he finds a place to lean against, a wall he can press his back to so the world stops spinning for a second. Clusters of college students – in some cases, high schoolers – fill the sidewalk all the way across the street, where there’s another club, just as crowded. It’s an orgy of bodies, vape smoke and tobacco that only exacerbates his sense of isolation. He wouldn’t feel so bad if Diego hadn’t pointed out how lonely he must have looked.
He pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and somehow manages to light one up. The hit of tobacco has an unpleasant contrast with the nausea in his throat, but reawakens his dulled senses. Holding it between his fingers makes him feel less of an alien – look, everyone, I’m smoking too, I’m not here by accident. He presses his closed fist against his eyes.
God. Maybe he should call Gyro. Get picked up on his busted old motorcycle – but seriously, who the hell still rides a bike in the big ‘25? – and spend the night on his couch, laughing and drinking. Hoping for something more.
« Jojo? »
He lowers his hand and opens his eyes. Diego emerges from the cloud of smoke like a demon, a cigarette hanging between his lips.
« You okay there? You look a bit out of it. »
The lack of concern in his voice is so clear that it almost makes Johnny laugh. Almost. He’s never seen him smoke before, did he grab a cigarette just to follow him outside? What a fucking stalker.
« I’m fine. » he manages to mumble. He immediately regrets answering: his tongue feels heavy, and he can barely focus on Diego. But he can still see his smile.
« Nice. » Diego replies. He gestures towards his hand. « Mind if I borrow your lighter? Left mine inside. »
Liar. Rotten, filthy liar. He’s never had a lighter, never even smoked – he’s just obsessed with him. Screw him, his dumb blond mullet, his dumb British accent, and that dumb leather jacket that—
« …Diego. »
« Mmm? »
« Are you wearing my jacket? »
Diego looks down. Checks what he’s wearing, pinches a sleeve, as if he’s only then realizing what he’s wearing. In a theatrical gesture, he taps his forehead with his fingertips.
« What, this little thing? Yeah, looks like it. Must’ve grabbed it from your closet. It was hanging just between… the winter blankets and the stack of gay porn magazines, yes. »
All Johnny sees is white. The lighter slips from his sweaty fingers, which clench into fists. He lunges at him, but it’s a useless, off-balance move, completely powerless. He intended to punch his face, but all he manages to do is fall onto him with his full weight, which Diego catches in an embrace – and a tight grip. He holds him up, their faces close. Diego’s laughter scrapes across Johnny’s brain like sandpaper.
« Jojo, Jojo, what are you doing, mmm? » he asks, still laughing. He lowers his voice, speaks directly in his ear. « Did you fancy the drink? Was it gay enough for you? »
Johnny tries to break free from his grip, but can’t. It’s like his muscles don’t respond. A crazy thought flashes through his mind, one that somehow seems perfectly in line with Diego’s personality.
« Did you spike my fucking drink? », he asks, looking him straight in the face. He’s never looked at him this up close. Diego bursts out laughing even louder.
« Is that your opinion of me? I’d never do something like that. You did this to yourself. », he says, shaking his head. « And you’re avoiding my question. »
Johnny stops struggling. His heart pounds in his ears, deafeningly loud. He saw them. Diego saw them. He went into his room while he wasn’t there. The fucking bastard.
« I’m not gay. » he manages to blubber – once again, not very convincingly. And yet, it’s true: he’s not sure he actually is – but what are his options, sit down and open up to Diego about his sexual doubts and his need to explore himself? He bites his tongue, swears to himself not to fall for another provocation. Diego chooses that exact moment to rub his pelvis against him, forcing him to shut his eyes tight.
« It’s funny how you insist, ‘cause I’d say the magazines spoke for themselves. Or maybe it’s the way you moan your classmate’s name late at night, when you think everyone’s asleep… what’s his name, now? Gyro? Man, American walls are so thin… »
« Let me go! You’re completely insane! »
« I’m just curious! »
He really does let go. The backlash makes Johnny stumble, forcing him to fall back against the wall. He catches his breath, never looking away from Diego’s face – who steps closer, trapping him between himself and the wall.
« Seriously, Jojo, we can share this secret. », he insists. He places one hand on the wall, the other over his own chest. « Aren’t we friends? »
« No we aren’t?! »
« You can tell me anything », he continues, ignoring him. « It’s clear that you can’t talk to your family about this, but you can be open with your friends. Like Gyro… does he know? Have you ever done anything with him? Have you ever sucked a cock, Jojo? »
Johnny can’t even breathe. He’s not even sure this is really happening, it feels like a nightmare. He wants to curl up on the ground and scream until the cops or an ambulance show up – but all he manages is to fire back the most instinctive, childish response possible.
« What about you? You sound a little too interested – have you ever sucked a cock? »
Diego just smiles at him.
« What if I said I did? », he whispers. « Care to find out for yourself? »
Flatline. Johnny stops thinking about anything but Diego’s voice – he can taste the maraschino burning his stomach, his throat, his tongue. Diego’s hand brushes against his, plucks the cigarette still somehow dangling between his fingers, and brings it to his lips. He takes a drag, not once breaking eye contact; then he ups the ante.
« I bet you couldn’t do it. », he murmurs.
« I bet I'd be better than you at doing it. »
There. Nice job, Johnny, another gold-medal answer. Diego’s smile takes on a feline edge, his voice dropping into a low growl.
« Only one way to find out. »
-
The dash to the bathroom is a sprint, made harder by the drunkenness, made easier by the shame. He’s grateful Diego went in first, leading the way, because otherwise he’d have spent the whole time turning around like a pathetic idiot to make sure he hadn’t imagined the whole thing. And despite the urgency, despite the excitement, every step makes him repeat to himself how stupid he was to fall for his provocation so easily.
What’s Diego’s goal? To drag him into something he can’t escape from? He’s still wondering as the bathroom door shuts behind him, Diego’s hands grabbing his side and shoving him into one of the stalls. He sits down on the toilet, legs spread, and watches Diego kick the door shut, lock it, and drop to his knees. He’s not smiling anymore; he wonders when he stopped.
« The zip. » he commands, serious. The tone is too commanding, makes Johnny want to do the opposite, to bolt from that tiny stall; but the hand gripping his inner thigh is so hungry it convinces him he hasn’t completely lost yet. Diego has urgencies too. He grits his teeth and unbuttons his dark jeans, lowers the zipper, hooks his thumbs under his underwear to slide them down just enough. His face is burning so hot it hurts, and it burns hotter still when his erection slips free, hanging mere inches from Diego’s face before rising upright. Diego looks at it, biting his lower lip, then lifts his eyes to Johnny’s face.
« Seriously? » he asks. « I didn’t even do anything... »
« God you talk too much. », Johnny snaps, teeth clenched. «Come on. You wanted to go first. »
Diego tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. It’s only when he opens his mouth and lowers to lick from the base up that Johnny’s struck by a stupid, childlike thought: “I didn’t even kiss him.”
After that, thinking becomes pretty much useless. Diego’s tongue slides up the length of his cock, wet with warm spit; it stiffens near the tip, insists, teasing spots so sensitive that Johnny’s whole body falls forward. Diego’s fingers brush and close around his shaft, guiding it between his lips; Johnny is enveloped in a heat that radiates from his pelvis outward. The alcohol in his system dulls every reaction, every feeling, and yet the second Diego takes him into his mouth, broken, senseless moans escape his lips.
« F... fuck... »
He tries not to look down. And fails. Diego is focused, eyes closed, brows furrowed in intense concentration. Johnny feels his cock pushing against the inside of his cheek, and he grips his hair, pulling him close, unable to stop himself. The alternative is to melt into the air, go insane from the constant stimulation of that suction. He doesn’t guide Diego – couldn’t, even if he tried; when Diego pulls back to breathe, when he looks up at him from below, Johnny feels a shiver rip through his spine and explode in his hips, which jerk forward.
« Enjoyin’ it, luv? »
Diego’s voice drips with cutting irony. He strokes him slowly, then swallows him again before Johnny can reply with a smartass answer, breaking his voice into a muffled cry. Johnny ends up staring at the ceiling, locking eyes with the halogen light, hoping to blind himself so he’ll never have to look at Diego again. His hips spasm, making the job harder – more than once, Diego has to chase him, get closer, take him deeper, nose buried in the blond hair of Johnny’s crotch. Johnny doesn’t even try to silence himself, responding to the suction exactly how Diego wants. He’s letting him win, has no idea how to stop it. The thought that Diego might have actually done this before flickers through his mind and vanishes in the whirlwind of sensations.
He has no idea how long it lasts – whole minutes, maybe, only broken by Diego’s shallow gasps for air. When Johnny feels the orgasm mounting, he grips Diego’s hair tighter, pulling him into a relentless grip. His free hand presses against the thin wall between stalls, nails scratching into it; he comes in his mouth with a guttural, pathetic sound, eyes squeezed shut until they ache.
Only after several moments does he fully return to himself. As the orgasm’s aftermath fades, he realizes the bathroom door isn’t fully closed, that someone might’ve heard them. He doesn’t care that much; he slides to the floor, cheeks burning with shame, pushed by Diego’s persistence. Diego’s fingers press to his throat, and for a moment Johnny tries to resist it – but it’s just Diego’s way of tilting his chin up and prying his mouth open. He sees white again when Diego kisses him, letting remnants drops of his own cum slide onto his tongue; Johnny chokes in disgust, wiping his mouth angrily.
« You’re disgusting… God, you’re so fucking gross. »
« The audacity. », Diego mutters.
Johnny rubs his eyes. He’s still drunk, has to force himself to stay sharp. Diego has already taken his place without a second thought: legs wide, inviting Johnny to kneel between them as he undoes his fly. Seeing him undress and finding himself face-to-cock is so surreal that Johnny visibly flinches. It’s all real, it’s actually happening: he’s on his knees in a bathroom stall, between Diego’s thighs, one hand halfway between the floor and a rock-hard dick. He can’t believe it, and disgust burns his guts… but alcohol manages to numb that sensation as well, makes him hungry. He furrows his brow and grits his teeth, before spitting into his palm and beginning to stroke him.
« Ah… », Diego laughs, flashing perfect teeth – it must be a trick of the light, but for a moment they seem… sharp. Perfectly sharp. «So vulgar... »
For once, Johnny manages not to reply. He’s too focused on the feeling of having someone else’s dick in his hand, on the fact that he’s touching it right, the way it flushes Diego’s face despite his ironic bravado. He hasn’t really looked at it until now, but he forces himself to: Diego might be a bit bigger than him, and for a moment Johnny wonders if he can really take it in his mouth without gagging. His head is spinning; he leans in, tries to emulate him, pressing his lips against the head. It feels slimy, heavy, terribly fleshy. He opens his mouth hesitantly, then slowly sticks out his tongue to lick it. Having it over his tongue doesn’t feel as bad, Diego doesn’t even smell strongly enough to disgust him. When his expression breaks into a small aroused spasm, his nose wrinkling, Johnny finds out that shame can turn into petty revenge, and he commits to licking deeper, better. Heavy, clumsy swipes of saliva soak Diego’s entire length. He looks up and knows it’s getting harder for Diego to keep that smirk in its place.
« Enjoyin’ it, luv? » he mocks, parroting him. He doesn’t care for his reply – he’s learned the trick: he suddenly grabs him and pushes his cock into his mouth, cutting off any reply. Diego gasps in surprise, covers his mouth with one hand, but Johnny is too focused on analyzing the foreign sensation to care. It’s… strange. He should feel humiliated, submissive, and yet having it in his mouth makes him feel pleasantly full. He sucks, draws fluid from the head, swallows him down, fights the gag reflex, grabs his hips with both hands. He only moves his head, unlike Diego, holding him in longer than he ever did. He feels his fingers gripping his hair, trying to pull him back, but he clings on, eyes defiant. Hard to tell from this angle, but it seems like Diego’s eyes are glistening with tears.
« Christ… slow down, go easy on me… »
Johnny doesn’t comply. He releases him voluntarily, but immediately returns to licking from base to tip, even daring to tease his balls with his tongue, curious to what they feel like. Shame is a distant memory, as is worry over consequences: now he only wants to beat Diego, to prove him wrong. He wants to drag him down with him; Diego unknowingly handed him the perfect weapon to do so.
When he hears voices behind him, he feels only a flicker of that old shame. Diego stares at the door behind them, body taut like a cat, shoulders tense, lips shut in a hard line – and Johnny thinks the funniest thing would be to take him back into his mouth right then, shove him down his throat as he strokes his balls. He’d laugh at the stunned look on Diego’s face if his mouth wasn’t full. Footsteps nearby signal someone entering the stall next to them; when Diego pounds a fist against the wooden wall, making it shake, Johnny knows he’s won. The rest is a free fall into total depravity: the unknown bystander flees the bathroom while Johnny tries his best to hold onto Diego and he struggles not to finish too soon. Johnny takes his final victory by letting go just as Diego’s hips begin to tremble violently – he lets himself be humiliated by an orgasm Diego unleashes all over his face, jerking himself off in frustration while gripping Johnny’s hair to keep him close. He stares at him the whole time, lips curled in a perfect copy of Diego’s own smirk.
-
They don’t exchange a single word afterward. They step out of the stall, and Johnny lingers at one of the sinks to wash his face, scrubbing off the evidence of Diego’s pleasure; he’s surprised to still see him standing behind him when he looks up to the mirror.
« What? », he asks. His voice is a bit raspier than usual due to the effort – but his tone is mocking, triumphant. Diego looks at him for a moment before slipping off the jacket and tossing it at him. Underneath, he’s wearing only a black tank top.
« Don’t need it anymore. », he murmurs. He doesn’t say anything else, but Johnny can read in his silence that he got exactly what he wanted. They exchange one last hostile glance, then Diego shakes his head and walks out of the bathroom. Johnny goes back to washing his hands, the jacket clutched between his thighs.
-
Outside, the world hasn’t changed a bit. Same groups of people, same heavy smoke hanging in the air. It doesn’t really feel that cold anymore, but Johnny slides his arms into the jacket sleeves anyway. It’s unlikely Diego’s scent has clung to it – but for some reason, Johnny thinks he can smell it, and doesn’t really find it unpleasant.
He knows there will be consequences. It’s inevitable. He runs a hand through his blond hair, disheveled from Diego’s grip, and then reaches for the pack of cigarettes in his jeans’ pocket. He pulls it out along with his phone, which he checks absentmindedly. Below the time, which reads just past half past midnight, there’s a message notification from Gyro: “Doing anything tonight?”
He smiles to himself. His heart is still pounding from the disbelief of what he’s just done, and he decides to leave the worrying to the next day. He unlocks the phone and brings Gyro’s chat up, starts typing a reply with the cigarette still between his lips:
“Nothing special. Got the whole place all to yourself tonight?”