♥ Chords Between Us

The piss yellow light from the bathroom spills into the living room, illuminating the dirty and cluttered space where Johnny lives with his girlfriend, which is now occupied by Jerry and Johnny. Packs of cigarettes, picks, moldy coffee mugs litter the mirrored coffee table between them. Johnny fumbles with his cigarette, the ashes precariously long as he waves his hand animately in conversation on the phone. Jerry, on the otherhand, sits in a pile of unwashed clothing.
"play that bit again," Jerry says, nodding towards Johnny's guitar.
"Hold on Nigs. No not you," Johnny continues on the phones, "why can't you make it out here? I'm too sick to go out now."
Jerry waits for him to hang up.
"No go?"
"Naw man, he's busy." Johnny picks up his guitar, obliging Jerry's request from earlier. He strikes the same haunting meoldy he's been obsessing with all week. The sound hangs between them, like a sad and nostaligic frost.
They've been at it for hours, not being able to cop, they resorted for songwriting and their patience is fraying. Johnny's face is half-hidden behind a messy cascade of black hair, his big eyes peaking out at him with a frustratingly endearing mix of wild bewildrement and vulnerablility.
Jerry mentally kicked himself for thinking anything like this. What was he, weak? Fuck, had he been staring too long? Thankfully Johnny spoke to break the tension.
"It's missing somthing. Bite.. or maybe more weight.." he tosses his cig into one of the putrid mugs and nervously puts his pick into his mouth, never once breaking eye contact.
Fuck, look away, Jerry berates himself internally.
Jerry closes his eyes and leans back, settling deeper into the pile. Thankfully Johnny starts strumming again, he opens his eyes only to see Johnny still staring, his little eye studying him curiously. He starts to slap his hands against his thigh in rhythm with Johnny's playing out of nervousness.
"Maybe you're just overthinking it," he counters, his voice calm but not dismissive.
"You're always the anchor to my storm," Johnny responds half-joking. Both know it's actually quite acuarate.
While Johnny navigates life with a reckless "live fast, die young" credo, Jerry moves through it with quiet strength, like a steady heartbeat keeping Johnny's chaos in check, most of the time.
The tension between them simmers, not as adversaries this time but something else, something that has always been there since their Dolls days. Beneath the surface lies a tenderness Jerry doesn't want to acknowledge.
All it took was a few good punches to get Johnny to love him, follow him around like a puppy. He always insisted he was like the father Johnny never had. but he'd be lying if he said what he was feeling right now was at al filial.
He gulps.
Jerry gets up and makes his way to the kitchen. A bottle of whiskey in the fridge. He looks around for glasses but finds nothing clean. "What's the point in having a skirt around if she won't do the dishes?" Jerry taunts.
Johnny either didn't hear the comment or care. Or maybe he was starting to get real sick.
He emerges back to the living room, almost tripping on the phone cable, two semi clean shot glasses richer. "Jeez, really John, you live like The piss-yellow light from the bathroom spills into the living room, illuminating the dirty and cluttered space where Johnny lives with his girlfriend, which is now occupied by Jerry and Johnny. Packs of cigarettes, picks, and moldy coffee mugs litter the mirrored coffee table between them. Johnny fumbles with his cigarette, the ashes precariously long as he waves his hand animatedly in conversation on the phone. Jerry, on the other otherhand, sits in a pile of unwashed clothing.
"Play that bit again," Jerry says, nodding towards Johnny's guitar.
"Hold on, Nigs. No, not you," Johnny continues on the phone. "Why can't you make it out here? I'm too sick to go out now."
Jerry waits for him to hang up.
"No go?"
"Naw man, he's busy." Johnny picks up his guitar, obliging Jerry's request from earlier. He strikes the same haunting melody he's been obsessing with all week. The sound hangs between them, like a sad and nostalgic frost.
They've been at it for hours, not being able to cop, they resorted to songwriting, and their patience is fraying. Johnny's face is half-hidden behind a messy cascade of black hair, his big eyes peeking out at him with a frustratingly endearing mix of wild bewilderment and vulnerability.
Jerry mentally kicked himself for thinking anything like this. What was he, weak? Fuck, had he been staring too long? Thankfully, Johnny spoke to break the tension.
"It's missing something. Bite… or maybe more weight…" he tosses his cig into one of the putrid mugs and nervously puts his pick into his mouth, never once breaking eye contact.
Fuck, look away. Jerry berates himself internally.
Jerry closes his eyes and leans back, settling deeper into the pile. Thankfully, Johnny starts strumming again; he opens his eyes only to see Johnny still staring, his little eye studying him curiously. He starts to slap his hands against his thigh in rhythm with Johnny's playing out of nervousness.
"Maybe you're just overthinking it," he counters, his voice calm but not dismissive.
"You're always the anchor to my storm," Johnny responds half-joking. Both know it's actually quite accurate.
While Johnny navigates life with a reckless "live fast, die young" credo, Jerry moves through it with quiet strength, like a steady heartbeat keeping Johnny's chaos in check, most of the time.
The tension between them simmers, not as adversaries this time but something else, something that has always been there since their Dolls days. Beneath the surface lies a tenderness Jerry doesn't want to acknowledge.
All it took was a few good punches to get Johnny to love him, follow him around like a puppy. He always insisted he was like the father Johnny never had. But he'd be lying if he said what he was feeling right now was at all filial.
He gulps.
Jerry gets up and makes his way to the kitchen. A bottle of whiskey in the fridge. He looks around for glasses but finds nothing clean. "What's the point in having a skirt around if she won't do the dishes?" Jerry taunts.
Johnny either didn't hear the comment or care. Or maybe he was starting to get really sick.
He emerges back to the living room, almost tripping on the phone cable, two semi-clean shot glasses richer. "Jeez, really, John, you live like pigs," he said, handing John a glass.
"It takes a pig fucker, to know a pig."
"That don't even make sense," he retorts, but they still break out in laughter.
"Hair of the dog?"
"Hair of the dog," Jerry said, drinking his double shot like water.
It grows quiet again, another drink poured, drunk.
They put on a record but soon turn it off, too sick to listen.
Johnny ends up on the bed.
"Why do you always gotta give me that look?"
"You're fucking crazy," Johnny pats and smoothes the space next to him, giving Jerry a little wink. "C'mere, I don't bite anymore."
"Jeez."
Jerry complies. Johnny slowly crashes into Jerry's shoulder, eventually sliding down to rest his head on his lap.
They stay that way for a while, the drummer humming the earlier guitar melody to break the silence; they don't break eye contact.
Jerry starts to run his fingers through Johnny's hair. He responds by closing his eyes and smiling.
Jerry tries to stifle a smile.
Johnny's eyes open again when Jerry rests his hand on his cheek.
There's so much left unsaid, and it'll remain unsaid. But they don't need to talk. It's like they got some type of sixth sense; at least that's what Syl used to say.Johnny coyly reaches out to touch his face, but the spell is broken.
Jerry quickly backs away.
"You love me, Jer."
"Only for your money."