Dig Your Fingernails Into My Chest and Pull Out My Heart

Now You Can See

December 19th, 1981 to New Years

There's not enough makeup in the world that can conceal all the marks that cover Johnny's body. Bruises on his hips from how hard Steven—No, Morrissey— had been gripping onto him. Bite marks on his shoulder, and just under his jaw. Two red dots on his cheeks from when Morrissey had forced his jaw down. Though, unlike him, Johnny didn't want these. He had already attempted to convince (read; gaslight) himself that the encounter was not any of his fault. He had gone there with the intent to murder him and yet he'd been bent to his will. Manipulation was another big word he could've used, but he couldn't bring himself to do so.

Violating. Morrissey's touch had felt violating, but in a welcome way. If that makes sense. He doesn't think it does.

He hides the bruises, the marks, the hickeys quite well. Not because he's had to do it before; no, Angie absolutely hates giving him these things. It's "drawing blood" and she just ends up feeling bad about it in the end. He only knows how because his wonderful mother taught him. The first time he and Angie had gotten intimate, and by that he means the first time she had sat on his lap, she had found her distaste of hickeys after giving Johnny one right below his ear. His mum had aided him by showing him how to conceal it. After lots of practice just on bare skin, covering up bruises from fights, Johnny was confident with how well he could cover them up. And by the end of it, you couldn't even tell that they were there.

Though, he didn't keep it on. He had gotten home at one and was just double checking, oiling up his skills once more, just to see if he was rusty or not. He wasn't. So, he wipes the makeup off his neck, retreating to bed.

His dreams are usually muddled and confusing, but this one even more so. He's laying across his bed, two darkened figures clinging to his arms, tied down to the mattress. They pull at his shirt, tug on his pants, whine and cry, one in a high pitched toney voice, the other in a deep melodic, soothing way. He equates them to the day and night, one side of his room bright with flickering lights and that squeamish sounding figure, the other shadowed and lonely, with the moonlight bouncing off that more mellow, crooning figure. Something is telling him to choose. Which one shall he choose? What if he can't? What if he is unable to decide. Both are appealing; Johnny drawn to quiet, content nature of the shadowed half, while equally attracted to the more bubbly, warmer, almost familiar side. Fuck, he can't decide. He can never decide. As the dream drags on, each side delves into more chaos, attempting to drag him in, showing Johnny things that would perhaps sway the scales and tip them to one or the other. He's practically pulled in half, his left brain searching for the darkened room, clinging onto the tall figure, holding onto it's arms for dear life, while his right pulls towards the brighter room, dancing with the ecstatic figure, pulling it into a smooth, slow dance. Both have their pros and cons, but his brain is split between the two. He's pushed together again and something screams at him to make a choice. He cries out, saying he can't, the figures surging forward, grabbing both his arms and tugging, and this time, as he splits, it actually hurts. He's got to make a choice; someone he's familiar with, or a risky, darker person who craves for his touch.

And Johnny awakes in a cold sweat. He's swaddled in his blankets, and his fringe is falling into his eyes. His body aches, his arms sore, along with his ass, which is weird because he was only slightly stretched and mostly finger fucked, so it shouldn't hurt that bad. But, if this is what Angie feels the morning after, maybe Johnny should stop rushing her. Prep is an important step. God, his back feels tight.

The light outside has shifted, showing that there was, in fact, a change of time. He groans, turning on his side, covering his face. He pushes himself back to sleep.

For the next couple of days leading up to Christmas, Johnny keeps everything visible on neck, and below, absolutely hidden. Makeup piled on under scarves, turtlenecks and necklaces, and a little bit of occasional praying that no one notices them. And for a while, no one does. Christmas comes and goes as usual, Johnny receiving notebooks, picks, and an old dial tone phone that his aunt just had around. He thanked her, ultimately giving it to his mother because what use is he going to have for a dial tone, corded phone that was broken. At least he waited until they got in the car to offer it to his mum.