Outsiders Interracial Imagines

Brown- Johnny

There is nothing good about the color brown.

Because brown is the color of his father's belt. The belt that loosens around his waist when he drinks. The belt that lashes out at Johnny when the drinking becomes heavier and his intoxication increases.

And when the lashings turn into a beating, brown becomes the color of the blood on his white shirt and denim jacket, dried, hours later. A brown that stays and stains and reminds him just how helpless he is. How hopeless his life is...

He scrubs and scrubs at the brown, but, just like his situation, there is nothing he can do about it.

***

Brown is the color of his mother's lipstick, staining her cigarettes as her mouth purses at the end of one.

Cigarettes are her vice. Johnny can handle her when she has one. Even when she's blowing smoke in his face and flicking her ashes in his direction...

Brown is the color of the burns she sometimes leaves, after time heals them over.

She wears an ugly shade of nail varnish, too, the same color as her lipstick. She paints her sharp nails expertly with multiple layers of shiny coating.

He knows the feel of their smoothness against his face. The back of her thin, weathered hand across his cheek, in an almost loving gesture. Almost...

She'll strike him, leaving a gash on his jaw. The brown scab will form later.

***

Shards of shattered beer bottles shine golden in the lot. You say they look pretty- from an angle. Aesthetic even. You've always had a thing for that sort of crap. But to Johnny, they're just brown. Dull. Broken.

He never snaps at you. But he just can't help it when he sees you "playing" with the fragments. Turning over the brown glass with your hand and observing it. Pulling out your phone and taking a damn picture.

"Jesus, (Y/N), leave that alone before you cut yourself!"

You drop the glass and go back over to him, continuing your walk to the bus stop. You've got your arms folded; he's rubbed you the wrong way.

"I'm sorry." He feels bad about raising his voice. But he knows all too well the feeling of cuts by glass.

From a bottle thrown across the room, smashing against the wall and raining glass bits all over him. Or hurled at his bare feet.

"Clean up your damn mess," his father will say.

Days will pass and he'll still find the remnants on the floor, in his shoes...

A piece got stuck in your own shoe, you discover on the bus, later. You cut your heel. His resentment for the color grows.

Because there is nothing good about the color brown...

Except that it is the color of your skin. Dark and smooth through and through.

The two of you stop at the Curtis house, and Johnny helps you bandage your bleeding heel. You're still mad- more from the fact that Johnny "told you so" than about his upset earlier.

He's long since forgotten about it, instead focusing on the task at hand... And the long, smooth brownness of the skin that your shorts expose.

You're sitting on the sink top in the bathroom, begrudgingly telling him that yes, he was right, and giving him a thank you, when you notice him gawking at your legs, your thighs.

"Johnny Cade, my eyes are up here," you tease.

He flushes, apologizes. But he can't stop staring.

***

"You look good, Johnnycake."

The two of you are sitting quietly  side by side, lounging in the grass while the rest of the gang plays football. Your sudden compliment breaks the silence.

The heat rushes to Johnny's face at your statement. You see his embarrassment and go on to explain, shyly.

"I mean, you look good, healthy. Living with Dally's helping." Recently, Johnny moved in with the older boy, away from his parents and their abuse.

"How can you tell? It's only been a week," he replies, slightly modestly.

You block your eyes from the sun, turning away from where it's beginning to dip in the sky, behind him. He likes the smile you give him next, genuine and happy.

"I don't know....You're getting skin on your bones. And color to your cheeks, as my mama would say. Nice and tan and brown." You look at the ground where you sit, smiling to yourself and repeating, "You look good, Johnnycake."

"Thank you."

The quiet returns and you're going back to looking at the other boys- making passes and shouting- when Johnny adds, "But I really can't owe it Dally over looking better."

"Oh really?" you smirk, gazing at where Dallas prances across the field, having made a touchdown.

"Yeah, I think it's you."

Your grin softens, and you look up at him, suddenly shy once again. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm gettin' plenty of Vitamin D and exercise. You're always draggin' me out in the sun. Making me walk all  over town with you."

You smile, amused, and retort, "I never hear you complaining."

"Very true. That's because it's usually you doing the complaining."

You throw your head back and giggle, and suddenly Johnny forgets what else he'd wanted to say. He's focusing on your mouth- stretched wide in a laugh- and your hair- curly and dark brown and fanned around your head.  And your eyes. Golden brown as the light hits them just right.

Your laughter dies down and you're taking notice of Johnny staring at you, again. "What?" you ask, coyly.

"Nothing." He looks at his hands. "I just wanted to tell you...thank you. For making things more enjoyable. And for...gettin' me through."

You find yourself scooting closer and whispering, "You're welcome."

His eyes flicker to your mouth and you add, "You can kiss me already."

He smiles sheepishly and works himself up enough to lean in. He eyes the other boys, down the other side of the field with the ball, quickly, before following through and meeting you halfway.

Your lips are soft and your breath is warm against his mouth. He follows your lead, feeling that you know more of what you're doing than he does. He slowly gets the hang of it, opening his mouth slightly and resting his hand on the back of your neck. You deepen the kiss in response, slightly pulling his lower lip with yours.

He doesn't want to stop, but he's afraid the gang will return and ruin the moment. Johnny pulls away, slowly, opening his eyes.

You bite your lip self-consciously, smiling. "I think I have to get home now."

He stands up with you, watching you brush the brown dirt from your pant leg. "I'll walk you to the bus stop."

"I'll just complain the whole way," you say, teasingly, linking your fingers with his.

Johnny grins, glancing at your brown hand joined with his own. A wave of certainty washes over him and he gives it a squeeze "I don't doubt it. Not for a second, doll."