Stealing Johnny

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired.
-Richard Siken

Part I.

“Don’t go.”

Johnny paused before continuing to shrug his arm through his jacket.

“I have to.”

Morrissey wasn’t usually vocal during this part. It had always been a clean split; a quiet nod goodbye before he’d turn back to the morning paper. But now he stood straight, his arms folded tightly over his chest, watching as Johnny collected his car keys from the coffee table.

“You don’t,” Morrissey grabbed Johnny’s wrist, pulling him towards him. Up close Johnny could see the creases of the sheets still lining the other man’s cheek. How was it that no matter where they were, from his tastefully decorated flat to run down cheap hotels, Morrissey always had the best bed?

“I’m recording today,” he didn’t like to bring up his new projects, but it had its advantages. Usually it was a cue to dismiss whatever subtle words of inquiry Morrissey would ask before they fell asleep. That wasn’t to say that Morrissey didn’t realize what Johnny would be doing in New York. Likewise, he knew the singer had a solo concert tonight at Radio City Music Hall. If he hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have come looking.

Some people thought Morrissey was unreadable, a closed book. But to Johnny, it had always been easy rile whatever emotion was most convenient. At the moment he was looking for resentment, he’d settle for annoyance. But Morrissey was unfazed; he merely pushed the slighter man against the wall, his fist wrapped tightly in the material of Johnny’s jacket, as he crushed their lips together. Johnny groaned in spite of himself, as Morrissey parted the kiss only to trace lightly down the outline of Johnny’s jaw. Being this close made Johnny’s thoughts fog up with the dizzy feeling only Morrissey could stir up. Morrissey’s quiff, unstyled, toppled over to the side, wasn’t doing much to help Johnny to fight the feeling.

“Come on Morrissey,” he said, his voice hard like it’d become in the final days of recording Strangeways, a voice that he’d crafted, that never came naturally, but was handy just the same, usually. Morrissey kissed him again, forcing his way into Johnny’s mouth with unchecked need. Johnny’s eyes fluttered close in an act of betrayal. He turned his head sharply away for a breath, his lips swollen and pliant against the stale air of the hotel room.

“Don’t ruin this,” Johnny said, struggling against Morrissey’s grip. This was supposed to be easy, it had always been easy to leave. Morrissey shoved Johnny back into place from the lee-way he’d made, and kissed him once more, softer this time, the kind of kiss that was supposed to mean something. But Johnny couldn’t work out what, even if he hadn’t been so annoyed. His whole body was warm under Morrissey’s body and if anything he wanted to be closer. Just another reason to leave, he reminded himself.

“Enough,” he said simply, throwing enough weight against the other man to knock him aside. “I have to go.”

Morrissey grabbed his arm, “No.”

“Morrissey. Let go of me,” his teeth were gritted, if he’d known it were going to get this out of hand he would have stayed out last night.

“You’re high, you can’t drive,” Morrissey said, and Johnny was beginning to wonder what drugs Morrissey was on.

“Not your decision, now let go of me,” Johnny wished he’d bothered putting his sunglasses on before he’d left Morrissey’s bathroom this morning. But it was just coke, most people couldn’t tell.

Morrissey laughed, gripping Johnny tighter now, their faces close, and his voice was a breath on Johnny’s cheek; “I love you.”

Johnny’s head pounded with the words, and he quickly shook it, “you don’t, you don’t love anyone.” He felt shaky all the same, backing away as if he could put space between himself and the feeling.

“I want you to stay with me,” he continued matter-of-factly, seemingly not hearing Johnny.

The guitarist laughed under his breath, “too late.”

“It’s not about the band,” Morrissey continued, eying Johnny closely, “it’s about what you’re doing to yourself.”

“I’m a fucking adult,” Johnny couldn’t understand where this was coming from. He’d have half expected this was some elaborate joke if Morrissey didn’t look so damn earnest.

“The last several times you’ve dropped by,” Morrissey paused and took a calming breath, “you’ve been incredibly frail, you almost always taste like gin. I don’t know what drugs you’ve taken up, but they’re not doing you any favors. And the last time you had a black eye. Tell me you’re not getting in fights you can’t remember the next morning.”

Johnny could remember the fight vividly, but that wasn’t something he could use to defend himself. Best to let Morrissey believe the worst in him, as always.

“Then I guess I won’t come by anymore,” Johnny replied, not believing himself even as he said the words.

“It doesn’t have to be like this Johnny,” Morrissey said, gripping Johnny’s shoulders, “come away with me; we’ll take a break from everything.”

Johnny looked at Morrissey like he was completely mad, “No. I have stuff to do that I’m going to be late for.”

“It’s not important.”

“That’s not for you to decide!”

“It is when I’m not sure if I let you walk out that door that it could be the last time. You’re not well Johnny. And obviously the people you’re going to see don’t care whether you live or die.”

“Enough, this isn’t one of your old movies where you’re the hero. You don’t even sound like yourself.” He walked towards the door and turned the handle, only to have a strong hand clamp around his arm and jerk him backwards. Before he had time to react, he heard the sharp click of metal. He struggled roughly as he felt himself being half drug half carried across the room, and then held until there was another click of metal. Morrissey had handcuffed him to the banister. Johnny stared in disbelief at the cuffs, before turning to Morrissey, outrage lining his face. He was out of breath with the struggle, his bangs hanging erratically in his eyes. “What is your fucking problem!?”

Morrissey frowned deeply. “We’re going away. I didn’t want to force you. But if it saves your life, it’s worth it.”

“Morrissey!” Johnny said breathlessly, “My life doesn’t need saving,” he tugged hard at the handcuff on his left arm. “Maybe your judgment does!” He briefly wondered where Morrissey had gotten the cuffs, pulling hard from the frame of the stairs until the metal started to break the skin of his wrist.

Morrissey paced the room before sitting cross-legged on the floor a safe distance from Johnny, regarding him stonily. “I can’t do this anymore Johnny,” he said finally. In that moment, he looked so tired, so profoundly defeated, that Johnny felt a twinge of regret.

“This isn’t happening,” Johnny stated, more for himself than Morrissey. Morrissey wasn’t always known for his follow-through. And he needed any comfort he could cling to at the moment, the feeling of entrapment creeping in, as he realized he really was at Morrissey’s mercy. Johnny swallowed hard, and looked away from his hand, staring at the cuffs of his jeans with feigned interest.

“I want you to get better,” Morrissey said, “even if that means you have to hate me.”
Johnny said nothing, as if to confirm the accuracy of the statement. After another moment of contemplation Morrissey stood, disappearing into the bedroom, only to return with a suitcase.

“This is typical,” Johnny said under his breath, the cuffs no longer cold against his skin. “Someone shows you the slightest bit of affection and you don’t know how to react.”

“I don’t think seven years of sleeping together can really be defined as the “slightest bit” of affection,” Morrissey said, looking like he wanted to get closer to Johnny, but kept his distance.

“Pity fucks,” Johnny spat.

“So what,” Morrissey looked away.

He retrieved Johnny’s car keys from where they’d been dropped in the struggle. “I’m not going to let you kill yourself because you’ve hurt my feelings too badly.”