On Suffering and Animals

by ciitrus_fruitz

Summary:

Johnny Lawrence and Daniel LaRusso can't seem to get rid of each other. Every few years, on their birthdays, something will happen that makes them bump into each other again. It's honestly getting kind of annoying, especially with the whole "crush on my former enemy" thing. So inconvenient.

Or: Five times Daniel and Johnny almost kissed on their birthdays, and one time they did.

 

“I ache for him, his boredom and his solitude. On suffering and animals, inarguably, they do. I miss your heart, my heart.”

- Lucie Brock-Broido // Dove, Interrupted

 

I.

(1985)

You didn’t want to go to this stupid party anyways.

Sounds of laughter and booming music pour out of the house, and what looks like miles of cars are parked all around the roundabout. You find it absurd how someone can have a roundabout in their own front yard, but this is Encino, and the shit that happens here has already stretched your suspension of disbelief more than ever before.

Someone reels over and passes out on the pavement in front of your Ford, and yeah, you should have stayed home.

“C’mon, Ali, can’t I just drop you off?” you whine, turning dramatically to face your friend. She’s all dolled up in a silky red dress, and if it weren’t for you wearing the embarrassing blue suit you wore to prom, people would probably think the two of you were going together.

Ali shakes her head and pops open the car door, grabbing your hand to drag you out. “No, you’re coming! After two months in Japan-” 

“Okinawa-” 

“Okinawa, you owe this to me. Besides, this is like, the biggest party of the year, and I don’t want to go alone.”

You sigh, knowing she’s right. It looks like the entire school is here, and how could they not be? It’s Johnny Lawrence’s eighteenth birthday and the last summer before college.

Johnny Lawrence is a person who you have a… rocky relationship with, to say the least. Despite the fact that he spent the entire first semester beating you within an inch of your life, after the tournament, he was actually kind of cordial. You suppose your sensei saving him from being killed in a parking lot might’ve helped with that. Now, even though he’s left you alone ever since, you’re not really looking forward to seeing him again. Even if the way he stared at you during class and the view of his broad shoulders during gym made you feel things you didn’t fully understand.

“Daniel, I can hear you thinking from over here.” Ali’s voice catches your attention. Even after your breakup, the two of you had remained friendly, and she still acts like your mom sometimes. It’s kind of annoying.

“Oh, I’m sorry for not wanting to go into Johnny-fucking-Lawrence’s house,” you respond sarcastically, taking your thumbnail out of your mouth. You really need to stop chewing your nails.

“Relax, Daniel, it’s a big house! You probably won’t even run into him,” she sighs, dropping your arm. You look away, instead focusing on the white Mustang with three drunk teenagers pulling up the driveway. Seems like some decided to arrive already buzzed.

“Listen,” Ali says, voice suddenly soft. “I know you have a lot on your mind right now, so let’s just go and try to have fun, huh?”

Sighing, you turn back to Ali. “Yeah, alright. But we gotta leave by ten, I got curfew.”

Her face breaks out in a grin and she drags you the rest of the way, almost making you trip over the too-many stone steps leading up to the impressive front doors. You can admit, begrudgingly, that the place is nice. Just a little bit.

Stepping inside you’re confronted by the smell of weed and alcohol. Someone’s making out with someone else in the corner, and you tense up your shoulders as you look around for the snack bar. At least then you can be in your element.

It seems like most of the people here are the Encino type- broad shouldered, blond, smug grins adorning their faces. The semi-formal dress code at least helped to get them out of their polo shirts and khakis, though, so you’re grateful. 

A squeeze to your arm, and Ali is saying something about spotting Susan. You barely hear what she says before she leaves you, and now you’re stranded in the Foyer on your own, still no snack bar in sight.

You curse your poor luck and start weaving through the sea of people. You’re jostled around quite a bit, and you swear something almost spills on you, but you make it through the crowd and finally spot a long table covered in hors d'oeuvres in the massive kitchen. 

Grabbing a plate, you pile it up with all sorts of finger foods. If it was one thing you’ve learned about rich people, it’s that they know how to eat, and you feel a thrill of childlike excitement at all the options. Some girl from the other end of the table gives you a dirty look, but you don’t pay any attention, too busy stuffing your face with fried mac-n-cheese bites.

Anxiety partially quelled, you sigh contently and spoon some punch into a red solo cup. There’s no doubt in your mind that it’s spiked, but y’knowwhat, you came here for a good time and goddammit if you’re not getting it.

The first sip of the drink lies slightly bitter on your tongue, and yeah, that’s definitely vodka in there. Craning your neck above the crowd, you search for Ali’s telltale mop of yellow curls, but no dice- it’s almost impossible to find her in the sea of blond.

You sigh and lean back against the table, crossing your arms in front of your chest. The plate of food is nearly empty, but you don’t bother to refill it. The noise of the party is starting to rub on your already frayed nerves.

“Daniel Larusso?”

You look up to see one of the last people you hoped you’d see.

Bobby Brown re-fills his cup with the punch and takes a sip, leaning back next to you. You watch him warily. Your knee throbs dull beneath your baby blue dress pants.

“Wasn’t expecting you to be here,” he says, trying for some light banter. You can see anxiety in the way he holds himself, very carefully casual.

Maybe it’s the buzz, or maybe you just don’t give a shit anymore, but you decide to play along. “Yeah, me neither. Ali made me come.”

Bobby cocks his head a bit. “I thought you two broke up? She’s going with that college guy, right?”

You shake your head. “Nah, they broke up like a week in. And yeah, we’re just friends.”

He just hums in acknowledgement, taking another drink of his punch. You can see him watching you out of the corner of his eye, and he takes a deep breath before facing you fully.

“Look, man…” he starts, and pauses, searching for his words. “I’m really sorry about the tournament. It- I mean, it was a real messed up thing to do.”

You scoff. “Yeah, your sensei’s a real piece of work.”

Bobby cuts his eyes away. “We left.”

“Huh?”

“Me and the others, we all left Cobra Kai after what happened. I mean, what he did to Johnny… We just couldn’t stay.”

You let that sink in for a moment, gazing unfocused into your cup. The thought of Johnny Lawrence of all people leaving Cobra Kai is so foreign to you, but looking into Bobby’s sincere eyes, you know it’s the truth.

“Huh. Well, alright, man. Good on you,” you say, taking a long swig of the punch. You have the feeling you’re gonna need to get real wasted to get through tonight.

He breaks out into a relieved smile, even though you didn’t really accept his apology. “Hey, you want a real drink? I’m pretty sure there’s like, two shots in that whole bowl,” he asks, gesturing to the red punch bowl. It definitely seems like a terrible idea, but you feel like making bad decisions tonight, so you nod regardless.

That’s how you end up laughing and drinking with the rest of the ex-Cobra Kais. You lean against the sofa, the electric thrill of a Cosmo running through your veins. The others call it a girl’s drink, but you don’t care, taking their ribbing as friendly rather than aggressive. Dutch is telling some story about a stolen bike, arms flailing wildly, and you don’t even know what you’re laughing at, but it feels good. You get another drink once you empty your glass.

There’s a lot of things you learned about the group that you never would have guessed, like how Jimmy actually likes to read and Tommy is an avid car fanatic. The two of you end up talking cars for at least twenty minutes, and he compliments you on your Ford. You tell him your sensei gave it to you, and he looks away, something like jealousy behind the drunken gloss in his eyes.

Despite the fun, you can’t help but keep an eye out on the rest of the party. Your neurotic ways never leave you, you suppose, and you catch yourself looking for shaggy blond hair framing sea-blue eyes more times than you’d like to admit. Actually, where is Johnny?

“Hey, where is the uh, the birthday boy, anyway?” you ask after your third drink and a story from Bobby about Johnny’s ‘ace delinquent’ days that left you all in stitches.

“Ah, he’s probably sulking up in his room, or somethin’,” Dutch says, dismissing it with an exaggerated wave of his hand.

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Dunno.” Bobby stands up, teetering over a bit before steeling himself on Jimmy’s shoulder. “But I know a way to get him out.”

You watch as Bobby stumbles through the crowd over to the makeshift stage where the boombox is tied into the large surround sound speakers. A small chuckle escapes you as he pauses the music and taps the mic, gathering everyone’s attention.

“Hey, everyone, uhh… I’m Bobby, you all probably know me,” he starts, taking a break to laugh into his hand. “I’d like to dedicate this next song to the birthday boy, Johnny Lawrence!” he makes sure to yell that part out, and cheers ring through the room, everyone pumped to finally see the man himself. 

“But first, lemme take you back…” Bobby puts the mic on the stand, adjusting the bowtie on his classic black-and-white tux before taking it again. “Johnny, man, he’s come a long way from when we first met. How old were we, like twelve? Yeah, and lemme tell you, this kid was built like a beanpole…” He pauses for comedic effect, and maybe you’re too tipsy to think about it, but you laugh along with the crowd.

“Yeah, this kid was so skinny, he could be blown over by a stiff wind! But that’s not all, no, listen to this- he still had the same hair! So, so imagine-” Bobby takes a moment to laugh before finishing the line. “Imagine this little, five-foot-five twelve year old, with the longest emo front fringe in the world, trying to join Cobra-fucking-Kai!” 

You laugh at this too, the image too funny in your head to keep it in. The others seem to find it funny as well, though, so you assume you’re not too out of line.

Bobby keeps going like this for a while until the mic whines loudly in the speakers. Looking up, you see Johnny, playfully batting his friend off the stage. His voice is smeared when he speaks, obviously drunk already.

“Yeah, alright, Bob, that’s-”

You can’t stop yourself before you’re hollering with excitement, pumping your fist in the air. The others join in with your cheer, and soon the whole house is filled with shouting teenagers, excited to see the birthday boy in the flesh.

Johnny’s nose goes red, and from your spot away from the stage, you don’t notice how he’s got his eyes locked on you. He hops down the steps, and somewhere along the way the music turns back on, and you watch him make his way towards you. A suspenseful shiver runs down your spine, the anticipation too much to bear.

“Daniel, are you alright?”

You turn to see Ali, standing in front of you with a concerned expression. It takes you a moment to register what she says.

“What? Yeah, baby, I’m just fine,” you slur, eliciting a laugh from Dutch. Ali, however, is not impressed, instead letting out a sharp gasp.

“You’re drunk!”

You giggle behind your hand. “Wha-wha-whaddaya mean? I’m doing uh- I’m alright!”

Tommy howls with laughter as Ali disappears into the kitchen. You cut your eyes over to where Johnny is standing, and you can’t quite make out his expression, but it looks like anger.

“Here, drink this,” Ali says, and then a red solo cup full of water is being pressed into your hands. You roll your eyes, but take a sip anyway. But then, thirst hits you like a freight train and you guzzle the rest of the water down, wiping your hand on your sleeve afterwards. You guess drinking for who knows how long without a water break wasn’t such a good idea.

Ali sighs in exasperation and is about to say something before she looks over and sees Johnny. He takes this as an opening and finishes walking over. You tense your shoulders and sit up a bit, but he just plops down on the floor, leaning back against the couch next to your legs. 

Ali shoots you a concerned look. “Are you gonna be ok, Daniel?”

You wave her off and nod.

“Alright, just… make sure to actually drink water, too,” she says before walking back off to her friends.

You scoff. “Sure, mom.” The others burst out laughing, and so do you, but you can’t shake the tension that Johnny’s radiating off. His body is rigid, shoulders a tight line and brow furrowed. You watch as he takes a swig of the beer that somehow made it into his hands and have to look away, ears burning slightly.

“Hey, check them out,” someone says, gesturing to a group of girls gathered in the foyer. You look up just as Dutch stand to walk over to them. 

Bobby sighs. “Oh, lord…”

The five of you watch as he flirts with the girls, trying to appear macho. You almost spit your drink out when he flexes his arm, but the girls seem to enjoy it, and soon he’s coming back over with them in tow.

“Anyone up for some spin the bottle?” he asks, and good lord, you are too drunk for this.

Somehow, you end up in Johnny’s room upstairs, the large group circled around his empty Coors bottle. The room is surprisingly empty, something you didn’t expect when you entered, and it puts you off a bit. You gather your legs beneath you and take one last sip of whatever drink you had before sighing and focusing on the bottle. Dutch goes through the directions, but you don’t pay attention. You’re pretty sure everyone knows the rules for spin the bottle. All you hear is something about the loser jumping in the pool.

Jimmy goes first after some ribbing from the guys, and his spin lands on some redhead you don’t recognize. They kiss briefly, and Tommy spins, and it goes like that for a while.

Despite the electric buzz rushing through your veins and your slightly swimming vision, you can’t take your eyes off Johnny. He almost looks sober, and you know that’s not true, he’s drinking right now, but some primitive part of your hindbrain kind of likes it. He looks like a… what was that expression? A young Adonis.

Wait, what? No, of course not. You’re drunk.

Something loud catches your attention, and you see Dutch smacking Johnny on the back and gesturing to a blonde girl sitting next to you. She looks nice enough, and bats her eyes at him. 

Johnny spins, and you watch in anticipation as the bottle stops short on the expensive-looking carpet.

The mouth is facing directly at you.

“What?” someone says.

The room is silent, and you look up the bottle to Johnny’s eyes, swimming blue. Maybe you’re just drunk, but there’s something sparkly in them that does weird things to your stomach.

Dutch bursts out laughing. “Guess- guess you lost, there, Johnny!”

“What?” Johnny rounds on him, an appalled glare on his face. “No, no! I’m not losing to him, not again!” He turns back to you and stares you down, a challenge on his face.

“Pucker up, LaRusso.”

Someone goes ooo– very helpful. Your brain stops, and somewhere beneath the alcohol you can feel your ears heating up, and you know it’s not from the drink. Everyone’s looking at you, and your heart is hammering in your chest. You wonder with sarcastic humor if this is how it feels to be a prey animal, a deer in headlights.

“What?” you ask.

“You heard me, it’s either you or me in that pool, and it sure as hell won’t be me.”

Eyes shifting between the others, you look for someone to save you, but lady luck really seems to hold some sort of grudge against you tonight. You wonder what you did to get on her bad side. Or maybe this is karma for your All-Valley win.

Johnny’s bright eyes trap you down, glossy from the alcohol, and you find yourself pondering how much to drink he’s had tonight. He wasn’t present for a good first half of the party. He works his jaw, cocking an eyebrow, and yeah, that’s enough.

Shooting up from your seat, you dash out of the room. Someone calls out to you, but you don’t hear them over the blood rushing in your ears. You nearly trip over on your way down the steps, your stomach doing somersaults in your gut. You think you’ve had too much to drink. You think you’re about to cry. You think that those were the most words you’ve heard Johnny speak all night.

You vaguely register bumping into Ali on your way out of the house, and she’s following you, asking you too many questions that you can’t hear.

She pushes you into the passenger’s seat of your car. You feel a hand on your clammy forehead, a water bottle being pressed into your hands. The ride back to your house is bumpy. You check the time on your watch. Midnight. Your Ma wanted you home at ten.

You didn’t want to go to this stupid party anyways.

 

 II.

(1987)

The thrum of your car’s engine rumbles against the cool pavement where you sit idle. Your hands are sweaty on the wheel, and the open top allows for the weak sun to warm your face. You don’t know why this is so difficult.

In theory, it would be easy. Just get out of your car and walk into the apartment complex, past the empty pool and up the stairs. In theory, you could just go to the party and not worry about it, but there’s something about seeing Daniel LaRusso after all these years that makes your gut twist uncomfortably.

It was his mother who invited you. She ran into you at the grocery store and asked a few awkward questions about your college life (you dropped out after your first semester), your family (Laura is doing fine, thanks for asking), and more things that you don’t really remember. Then she mentioned that LaRusso was coming back for winter break, just in time for his twentieth birthday, and she told you to drop by his place for what she called a “get-together”. 

You agreed without thinking, which was probably the dumbest decision you’ve ever made.

Now, you’re hyping yourself up to enter the building as other cars start pulling up in front of the complex. The drive here had been rough, and you were reminded multiple times about why you don’t like spending much time in Reseda to begin with. 

A loud, sputtering engine noise draws your attention to where LaRusso’s sensei is pulling up in his old yellow Ford. You wonder if he was upset about leaving it here when he went up north for school. The old man hobbles out of the car, a smile on his face. You feel a pang of jealousy at how excited he looks to see his student. In fact, it makes you a little angry, and that’s enough to force you out of the car.

LaRusso’s sensei- Mr. Miyaji, you think it was- notices you, and you curse your bad luck as he ambles towards you. He has a neutral expression on his face, but the slight tilt of his eyebrows make him look almost… pitying. It makes you even more mad than you already are.

“Johnny-san! You here for Daniel-san’s party?” He asks, and you have no clue why you thought he looked condescending when his face is lit up like christmas morning. You remind yourself that this is the man who saved your life, goddammit, just be polite.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so. I mean, I am,” you respond, and you curse yourself for stumbling over your words.

“Hai. Lucille-san tell me you coming. Daniel-san happy to see you.”

You scoff and mumble yeah right under your breath, but you instantly regret it when you see the old man’s unreadable expression.

But Mr. Miyaji- no, Miyagi, you remember now- just smiles and starts forward, beckoning you to follow. Shoving your hands in your jacket pockets, you do. “Come, come! Inside, party starting soon.”

The old lady with the dog who sits in the courtyard gives you a once over like she knows something you don’t. She scoffs and smiles when you lean down to pet the dog, and it sparks a little anger back into you again. Good lord, you want a drink.

But whatever, you need to focus on the task at hand, and that’s keeping your composure during this party. The door stands tall and imposing in front of you, but you don’t have time to hype yourself up before Mr. Miyagi is knocking on it.

Does LaRusso even have any friends? You guess he must, he’s been up in college for a year, but would any of them want to come down to SoCal from all the way up at Bakersfield? They all probably have family and friends to see during winter break, just like LaRusso. Basically, you have no clue who’s gonna be at this party.

A frazzled Lucille opens the door, curly hair mussed up and blouse stained with some sort of dip, but there’s a twinkle in her eye that’s unmistakably LaRusso . She beams at the two of you, stepping back to open the door.

“Johnny, Mr. Miyagi, you made it! Thanks for coming, Gosh, the party hasn’t even started and It’s already so hectic!” she laughs, and you step into the Larusso residence for the first time in your life.

You’ve been in other people’s homes, obviously- Bobby’s and Ali’s and every once in a while, more frequently after you and Ali broke up, some Encino kid’s house party. But this is nothing like the ornate mansions with the $300,000 vases and plastic covered furniture that you’ve become accustomed to. It’s plain, wallpaper peeling slightly at the edges, and you’re pretty sure one of the ceiling lights is broken, but it looks lived in and used in the way that nobody else you know’s house does. Framed photos dot the walls featuring some people you recognize and others you don’t. Potted plants and little trees litter every flat surface in the house. It reminds you of the apartments you and your mom lived in before Sid.

It’s quiet except for the chatter between Lucille and Mr. Miyagi. You hang awkwardly in the front hall, leaning against the wall, and muster up your best mom-meeting-face before Lucille starts talking to you. There’s an old stereo on the TV stand playing cheesy pop music. Overall, it’s a pretty shit party, and certainly not any Encino rager you’ve been to before.

A door from the back of the house slams open and you see him come out, and oh god, yeah, man. This is the reason you avoided him on your 18th birthday.

You think it’s wildly unfair that he’s filled out like this in the last two years. He’s still shorter than you, and his hair is still horribly wavy and soft-looking, and his face has barely aged beyond a little tiredness around the eyes. Basically, he looks almost the same as he did back then, and you swear the tip of your nose is on fire.

Listen, you’re not- ok, hold on, you’re not gay. You still like girls. They’re pretty and some of them are actually fun to hang around. But, let’s say, you’ve had your fair share of experimentation after high school, and you’ve come to realize that maybe not all guys are that  bad looking either. And maybe you also realized that maybe the long legs and big brown eyes and firecracker personality you often envision in the darkness of your bedroom belonged to someone you know.

LaRusso doesn’t even seem to notice you as he flits past and over to where his mother and sensei are waiting. It’s evident that he’s still as much of a loudmouth as he was in school, as he immediately starts up a long-winded conversation with them. You watch as Mr. Miyagi and LaRusso embrace and tamp down on the green envy threatening to rise in your chest. The bond they share is not unlike that of a father and son, and as you see the reverence with which LaRusso regards his mentor, you’re reminded of how you once looked upon your own in the same manner.

The brunet turns, and your eyes lock from across the room. His doe-brown eyes grow impossibly bigger on his face and you have to look away, training your gaze on the hardwood. The grout needs cleaning, you think.

“Johnny?”

His voice brings you back up, and it seems the both of you are frozen stock-still. Your heart slams against your ribcage, and you glance at the door. How many steps would it take for you to get to it? LaRusso’s a bit bigger now but he’s still a lightweight, and even after you quit Cobra Kai you still kept yourself in shape. You could probably kick his ass in a fight if you needed to.

No, no. You take a deep breath and remind yourself why you’re here. 

“LaRusso.”

The kid blinks a few times, dumbfounded, before questioning you again. “Why are you here?” and turning to his mother, “Ma, why is he here?”

Lucille shrugs and cuts her eyes to the floor. “Well, I ran into him a few days ago and invited him! I thought it’d be good for you, y’know? Clear the air, maybe.”

LaRusso stands frozen for a few more moments before throwing his hands, defeated. He mutters to himself a bit, and you think you catch a little Italian in there before he’s stalking over to you. Alarm bells ring out in your head and you look back over to the door, hands clenching into fists.

“Of course it’s me, it’s always me, just my fuckin’ luck,” you hear him mumble, and then he’s grabbing onto your wrist and dragging you back to his room. You go along with him, stumbling over your own bulk and unsure what’s going on.

LaRusso pushes you into his room and stands facing the door, foot tapping impatiently. You can almost see the cogs turning in his head. It looks like this is going to take a while, so you decide to take this time to look over his room.

It’s messy and cramped but in a way where you can tell he just cleaned it. He’s got the usual bedroom furniture, a bed and bookshelf and dresser, but it’s all much less extravagant than others you’ve seen. His sheets are hastily made, his desk has papers strewn across the surface, and one of his overflowing dresser drawers is sticking half-open. Looking to his bookshelf, you see less books than various knicknacks, and there’s a couple crates on the bottom shelf next to a small-ish record player. His All-Valley trophy (trophies?) stands proudly on his shelf.

“Alright, alright…” you hear, and when you turn around you see LaRusso, seemingly finished with his grumbling. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Lawrence, why are you here?”

It takes you a second to register his question. “Wh- uh, your mom invited me.”

LaRusso sighs, irritated. “Yeah, yeah, I know that, but why did you agree? Do I have to be worried that you’re gonna try and re-enact the All-Valley? My knee’s still fucked up from that, you know,” he rambles. 

The mention of the All-Valley makes you cringe and look to the floor. You wrap your arms around your chest and try to think of anything else, anything else but that night. Sometimes, you can still feel hands around your neck.

LaRusso takes notice of this and curses under his breath. “Nevermind, I’m sorry, man. I’m just confused as to why the hell you’d want to see me after… everything.”

You huff, letting your arms drop to your sides as you search for your words. You know why you’re here, of course, but if you’re brave enough to tell him is another question entirely. 

LaRusso stands there, staring at you expectantly, and Jesus fuck why do his eyes have to be so pretty? How is that fair? You cast your eyes to the sky, silently begging the big guy upstairs to free you from this torture.

After a few more agonizing seconds, you decide to bite the bullet. “I just… I wanted to apologize,” you sigh, and good lord you sound like a pussy.

The guy looks at you like you just grew another head, and yeah, you get why he’s so surprised.

“Wh- what, apologize for what?” 

You wring your hands in agitation, eyes darting around the room. LaRusso seems to notice and pads over to the bed, taking a seat and patting the space next to him. It takes you a second to register what he means, and when you do you can feel your nose turn red with embarrassment. However, you take the offer anyway, sitting stiffly on the sheets. They’re plaid- you’ve noticed he really likes plaid.

“Well… everything, I guess,” you finally respond, ripping your eyes away from your jeans to spare him a glance. “I mean, the stuff we pulled… it was uncalled for.”

“Yeah, that’s the understatement of the century,” he mutters, and it makes your stomach sink with guilt.

“Yeah.” you agree. “And- gosh…” it takes you a second to figure out what you’re gonna say next, and maybe it’s cheesy, but whatever. You’re going all in. “If I could take it back, I would. Like, I don’t even remember why I did it.”

And maybe that part isn’t very true. You had a lot of feelings regarding Daniel back then, many of which you didn’t understand. It made you angry, and you took said anger out on him. You regret it more than almost anything else you’ve ever done.

“It was because of Ali, wasn’t it?” He asks, and it would sound patronizing if it weren’t for the way he tilts his head when he asks. Stupid… puppy eyes.

“I don’t know, man,” you reply, squirming. “It was at first, but then it just… went past that.” 

LaRusso grunts noncommittally, staring off into a random corner of his room.

Silence stretches thin like fabric over the room, settling uncomfortably over your shoulders. You can hear talking coming from the living room. A bird caws outside and the ceiling fan makes the curtains flutter.

Your skin prickles with anxiety and it feels like there’s a fire burning over your bones. Please, lord, please just say something, this is unbearable, you think. You crack your knuckles and press your fingers one by one against your palm until you feel normal again.

Suddenly, LaRusso stands up and heads over to his bookshelf. He rifles through the plastic bins on the bottom shelf, and your suspicions are confirmed when he pulls out some records and cassettes.

“You listen to Bon Jovi?” he asks, flipping one of his records in his hand.

“Wh-what?”

“What, do I gotta repeat myself?” LaRusso snarks, giving you a look and popping his hip. The little brat.

“Wh- no, I-I listen to Bon Jovi. Of course I do, who doesn’t?” you stammer out. Good lord, if Kreese could see you now. You’d be doing 100 push-ups on your knuckles, that’s for sure.

He stares at you a bit longer before doing that stupid little smile-headshake that he does all the damn time and crouching back down to put the record on. A little crackling, and then the opening notes of Let It Rock ring out through the room. You can already feel your hackles lowering. Does this mean he accepts your apology?

LaRusso comes back to sit next to you, doing a stupid little skip-hop-dance to the music that really shouldn’t be as cute as it is. His foot taps along to the beat, and when the lyrics kick in, both of you start singing at the same time.

You laugh a little bit and turn to face him. That proved to be a mistake, however, because the sheer happiness on his face he gets just from listening to this music makes your heart do a flip in your chest. Calm down, Jesus. 

“Hey, this is new, like, came out this year. How the hell do you already have it on vinyl?” you ask.

LaRusso shrugs. “I make my own money now, you know. I like to have a little collection for myself when I come down for holidays and summers and stuff, and last summer I saw it in the little record shop down on second and fourteenth, so I just picked it up. I mean, Bon Jovi hasn’t really disappointed in the past, and this is like, their best yet.”

Good lord, he never shuts up. But instead of being annoyed, you find yourself fascinated by the animated way his hands fly around when he talks and the sparkle in his eye. He’s always been a charmer, you suppose.

“Hey, speaking of that,” you start, and at this point you’re surprised you can even still speak, “Who else is gonna be at this party? I mean, all your little college friends are still in Bakersfield, right?”

LaRusso rolls his eyes, but you can tell by the little blush on his face that he’s embarrassed. “Nobody. It was just supposed to be me and my mother and Mr. Miyagi, but then you decided to show your ugly mug around and ruined it all.” You would be angry if it weren’t for the way he elbows you in the arm and winks when he says it, like it’s some inside joke the two of you share. Like you’re old friends and not awkward former rivals.

Instead of being a dick about it, though, you roll with it and shoot one back. “Yeah, I guess I’m just so irresistible to LaRussos that your mom couldn’t resist inviting me. It’s that Lawrence charm, I guess.”

LaRusso laughs out loud, a hearty sound that rocks through his entire body and sends warmth flooding through yours. “Yeah, right, man! Like you’re not the one who pestered me for the entire first semester of senior year. You just couldn’t get enough of me!”

Alright, alright, that’s cutting it too close to the truth, you think. But whatever, be cool, roll with it. LaRusso’s eyes shimmer mischievously and it makes you smile, like he’s a virus infecting you and making you feel all light and floaty.

You end up talking about all sorts of stuff with him, everything from relationships to school to prospects of the future. You find out he’s still doing karate with his sensei, and he spent the summer after senior year in Okinawa fighting in death matches and saving kids from hurricanes. You gotta say, it really puts your 1985 summer to shame- you spent it on a three-month-long bender and getting kicked out of Sid’s house.

He gets antsy when you ask about the rest of that year, though. You can see the way he closes up, and his face falls ever so slightly. He tells you that he opened a business with Mr. Miyagi that failed after its first year and he won the All Valley again. When he mentions that, he goes quiet. It seems like both of you have… issues, related to it. You change the subject quickly.

You end up talking until the sun starts sinking below the horizon. You fly between records and cassettes, discussing them as you go, and find that both you and LaRusso have similar opinions on most music. You both think Motley Crue, AC/DC, and REO Speedwagon are the masters of their time, and you both agree that Van Halen and U2 are absolutely terrible. But he seems to think Guns n’ Roses are overrated (they’re incredible), and that INXS is actually good (it’s total chick music).

Eventually it gets late enough that his mom pops in to tell you dinner’s ready. LaRusso claps his hands together and rubs them in excitement, then stands to take the needle off the record (The Doors’ first album- revolutionary, in your opinion).

“Aw man, Johnny, you’re gonna love this, my mom’s the best cook on the planet,” he says, then rushes past the door to wash his hands. 

You take your time to get into the kitchen instead of rushing, allowing yourself to calm down from the adrenaline buzz coursing through your veins. This is nice, this is good, it seems like he’s having a good time like you. You think he accepted your apology? You don’t know, but you do know that you don’t wanna mess this up. Like, you didn’t intend to become friends with the guy, but if that’s the way it’s going then you’re definitely not going to complain.

Dinner is… interesting. Much more lively than you’re used to, that’s for sure. For most of your life, dinners either consisted of silent staring contests between yourself and Sid, and then later on falling asleep with a half-eaten microwave meal in your lap. This was very different, with the way both LaRusso and his mother talk, and sometimes Mr. Miyagi will chime in. You can definitely see where LaRusso got his chatterbox from. For the majority of dinner, you stay silent, feeling a little bit like you’re intruding. The conversation moves too quickly for you to follow, so you just focus on eating.

And eat, you do- this is the most delicious meal you’ve ever had. The cooks at Sid’s place are good, but this is fucking decadent. At first you were hesitant, green pasta with no detectable meat not really being your forte, but once you started eating it was like you couldn’t stop. You find yourself thinking that if this is what dinner at the LaRusso house is like, then you definitely wanna stay friends with the kid. Well, you’re not quite friends yet, but whatever. You finish your food sooner than the others, so for the remainder of dinner you simply watch the conversation, speaking only when spoken to. 

LaRusso and his mom have this crazy way of speaking over each other but still understanding what the other is saying. You seriously cannot comprehend a word coming out of either of their mouths. Mr. Miyagi catches your eye from his place adjacent to you and smiles, almost as if he understands where you’re coming from. Seeing how quiet the guy usually is, you believe it, and you give him a small smile back. Despite how hectic it all is, you find yourself feeling like you’re a part of it, this mismatched family.

You don’t really know what to do with that.

After dinner, you follow LaRusso back into his room for a little more music. You check the time and see that it’s almost nine pm. The sun is well past setting, and looking out the window, you see the faint glimmers of stars in the light-polluted sky. As much as you’d love to stay longer, you have responsibilities at home- Junebug might’ve scratched up all your furniture by now.

Turning to LaRusso, you see he’s lost in the sounds of Speedwagon, moving along to the music in perfect syncopation. It looks like he’s the only one in the world; it’s captivating.

But, you have to go, so you reluctantly interrupt him. “Hey, LaRusso, it’s getting kind of late.”

LaRusso pauses in his movements to look at you, staying still for a moment before speaking. “Oh, yeah, man, if you wanna go you can.”

“Yeah, it’s just- y’know, I gotta get home…”

“Oh, for sure,” he says, and then he gets up to walk over to the door.

You follow, and the two of you face each other awkwardly in front of his door, neither sure where to go from here. The night had progressed far past what you’d been expecting on your way here, but you’re all the more happy for it- if you and LaRusso could be friends, as unlikely as it is, you’d be forever grateful.

LaRusso drops his jacket from where he’d been fiddling with the hem to look you in the eye. You feel your heart do a somersault as his big brown eyes gaze sheepishly into your own- he looks soft and vulnerable in the yellowish lighting from his desk lamp.

“I really… I appreciate you coming over to apologize like this, Johnny. It means a lot,” he says, and good lord it’s unfair how good your name sounds in his voice.

“Uh- yeah, I mean. If I didn’t do it I would probably combust,” you say, trying for a joke. He doesn’t laugh, though, just keeps staring into your eyes, almost as if he’s searching for something.

His eyes flick down to your mouth, and oh, oh, we’re doing this? You wipe your clammy hands on your jeans and look away nervously. Daniel keeps looking back and forth between your eyes and mouth. Good lord. His lips part a little, and alright, alright. He seems to be leaning forward ever so slightly.

“Yeah, uh- I’m just gonna-” You dart your eyes to the door, scratching the backs of your hands and shifting your weight from foot to foot.

LaRusso snaps out of whatever stupor he was in and jumps back slightly, hands flying up to his jacket strings. “Oh, yeah- uh, go ahead.”

“Yup- uhm, bye. It- um. This was- it was nice.” Good lord, you sound like a pussy.

“Yeah, we should uh, we should do it again. Sometime.”

“Alright.”

“Yeah.”

Silence falls again and neither of you move for a good five seconds. You reach for the door at the same time as him, accidentally brushing his finger with your own. He pulls his hand back like he just touched a hot stove, and you twist the doorknob to slip out.

“I’ll see you around, then,” you say, and he nods in response, looking too embarrassed to actually say anything.

You say brief goodbyes to Lucille and Mr. Miyagi before slipping back out into the crisp night air. Pulling your leather jacket tighter around your body, you go down the steps two at a time and slip into the red warmth of your car. The Avanti’s cushioned seats serve as a place for you to relax before pulling out of the driveway and speeding back down the highway to your apartment.

Good god, you almost kissed Daniel LaRusso.

The thought sticks in your mind even as you’re slumped on the couch later that night, three beers in with Junebug purring on your lap. You scratch between the torby’s ears and take a swig of your Coors, deciding not to think about it.

You think about it anyway.

 

III.

(1988)

“Yeah, I- Ma, it’s alright, I said I’ll be there.”

The road is packed this evening. Cars line up bumper-to-bumper all around you, and the light remains annoyingly red even as the sounds of honking and swerving tires fill the street. Neon signs blare from the stores lined along the pavement, declaring their “world-famous fries” and “24-hour service”. Some asshole on a motorcycle weaves between cars.

Your mother says something else in your ear about are you sure, Daniel, it’s your own cousin, Daniel, and you’re not sure how much more of this you can listen to.

“Listen, Ma, I gotta go, alright? I’m driving,” you say, and just to get her off your back, “I promise I’ll be there.”

Your mother sighs on the other end. “Alright, if you’re so positive. And dress nice, too, it’s not every day your cousin gets married.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. Bye, love ya.” and you end the call, dropping the Motorola back onto the passenger seat. You have a lot more on your mind tonight than your cousin Camilla’s wedding.

You pull the piece of yellow notebook paper out of your pocket again, checking to make sure you got the directions right. Your schoolmate Jerry gave the paper to you during one of your talks in between classes. He said it’s the best dive in town, great booze and even better women, whatever that meant. You don’t like Jerry that much.

Point being, you’re a twenty-two year old bachelor looking to get hammered, and maybe take someone home doing it. It’s been a while since you’ve taken some time to treat yourself like this, what with school and work and whatnot. It’s the summer of 1989, and you’ve been able to legally drink for exactly one year, eight months, and two days. 

It’s time to get trashed.

The parking lot is dimly lit and warm. You see moths crowding by the half-broken street lamps and broken glass on the sidewalk. All around you, street sounds fill the air. A cloud of smoke billows up from somewhere in the back alley, and you think you spot a thin white cat on the street corner. The bar is neighbored on either side by a smoke shop and a psychic, promising to give all-knowing advice.

You head up to the glass door and pull it open, the wind chimes in the doorway tinkling brightly as you do so. Inside, the bar is full of different smelling smokes and vapors floating through the air. There’s a busted old jukebox in the corner, yet somehow loud music blares inside the establishment. Your shoes audibly cling to the mysteriously sticky floor. It smells like spilled booze and greasy food, and the lighting is all over the place.

You don’t think you’ll be listening to Jerry anymore.

Taking a seat on one of the rickety, too-tall barstools, you look down the bar to get to know the patrons a bit before ordering. From your position at the far-right side, you get a clear view of who’s sitting down the line. 

There’s a douchey looking guy, probably mid-twenties and frat ready, scoping out the women in a group closer to the door. Beyond him are a woman with more ink than bare skin on her body, an elderly man chatting intensely with the bartender, and a pair of younger looking guys who probably shouldn’t be in here in the first place. There’s also a broad, hunky looking blond guy at the other end, but he’s turned away so you can’t make out his face.

The bartender finally glances in your direction, and you brush some straw-paper off of the counter as she comes over to you. She has purple-dyed hair done up in liberty spikes and about three million piercings in her face alone, and she pops gum behind her teeth. Despite her youthful appearance, you can see the crows feet and eyebags telling of a much older and wiser woman.

“Whaddaya want?” she asks, leaning against the bar with a notebook clasped in her hand. She sounds more like she’s from Jersey than California.

“Uh, I’ll have a cosmo, on the rocks,” you say, and she nods and heads back to where the glasses are hanging from the ceiling.

“LaRusso?”

What the fuck?

You look back down the bar, and sure as your left hand, the blond hunk from the end had turned into Johnny fucking Lawrence.

“Wh- Johnny, what are you doing here?”

Y’see, you and Johnny haven’t seen each other in a long time. You see each other twice yearly when you come down for your birthday and the summer. Usually you avoid each other, but sometimes you hang out once or twice. You always fail to get his number. Now, since you’re back in LA for the summer, he’s here too. It feels like the guy always finds you somehow.

Johnny picks up from his seat, half-drunk Coors Banquet secure in his hand, and slips into the empty stool next to you. Your heart skips a beat and you can feel some heat rise to the tips of your ears. He reels and almost spills his beer on the floor. It’s clear that he’s pretty drunk already.

“Wh- you’re here?” he slurs, and yeah, he’s drunk as shit. It’s only 8:30.

“Johnny- of course I’m here, it’s summer. Are you okay?” you reply, placing a hand on his arm.

He scoffs and waves you off, taking a long drink of his beer. “I thought you’d be up in Bakersfield with your, uh. Your little college friends. What’re you doing here?” he asks. 

You sigh and look back behind the bar, wondering where your drink is. Obviously, you’re not going to drink too much, you still need to drive back to Mr. Miyagi’s place, but you’d still like to know where your money is going.

“I come down in the summer to visit my Ma, I thought you knew this,” you tease, but even still, somewhere deep down you’re worried for him. You know he can hold his liquor, Lord knows how he can, but he looks pretty fucked up already.

Johnny doesn’t answer, instead taking another swig of the beer. You wonder how he can stomach the stuff, and even more how many he’s had so far. The bartender finally comes back with your cosmo, and you and Johnny sit and sip your drinks in silence. It’s not quite sweet enough for your taste.

Suddenly, a realization dawns on you.

“Johnny, isn’t it your birthday today?”

For some reason, the question makes him laugh. He places the beer on the table and turns to face you fully for the first time all night. Somehow, even though his eyes are glossy with the alcohol and he has a healthy blush to his cheeks, he looks even more handsome than when you first saw him all those years ago. Just like all the other times you’ve seen him drunk, his blue eyes are still clear as crystal, even beyond the gloss.

“Damn right, LaRusso. Finally reached twenty-two!” he shouts, almost like he’s expecting a cheer from the other patrons of the bar. When he doesn’t get it, he just swallows another mouthful of beer.

You sigh and shake your head at him a little, but you’re smiling anyway, because he still has this effect on you that you have no idea how to change. “Do you wanna get a booth?” you ask, because fuck it, you’re gonna spend the night chatting up Johnny Lawrence. 

Johnny orders a few more beers from the bar before you usher him over to the cleanest booth you can find. You sweep some little bits of crumbs and paper off the tabletop before sitting in the under-cushioned booth seats.

He drinks in silence for a bit. You watch his face as he gazes out the bar window. His expression is stony and closed off, as usual. You contemplate his eyes, blue and shining; there’s a forlorn and sorrowful glint to them that you hadn’t noticed earlier in the evening. Johnny turns back to you and catches your eye, expression unchanging.

“Um…” You try and fail to think of something to break the awkward tension. “So, what have you been up to?”

He shrugs, plopping the beer down onto the complimentary coaster. “Oh, you know, odd jobs here and there. Mostly repair work. And I’m still taking care of Junebug and stuff.”

“You know, you never told me who Junebug is,” you say as you pour a splenda packet into your cosmo.

Johnny takes another drink before answering. “She’s my cat. My best friend and closest confidante!” 

You laugh behind your hand and take another sip of the drink. Johnny isn’t normally this upbeat when drunk, at least not from what you’ve seen. “So, you’re not going to school or anything?” you ask, hoping you don’t sound judgmental.

He seems to contemplate a little but before responding. “Nah, but I’ve thought about pilot school a little. Course, it’d never happen,” he chuckles, “but I think it’d be fun. See the world, and everything.”

You feel your eyebrows raise into your hairline. “Oh, man, you should do it!” you assert, knocking him playfully in the arm. “You’d be great!”

“Oh, no,” he dodges, waving you off. “It’s too much work. Plus, I couldn’t be away from Juney so much. She has separation anxiety.”

You chuckle and shake your head again. “It’s up to you, but the pay is incredible.”

He hums in acknowledgement, staring unfocused into the distance for a bit. “Hey, what are you studying anyways? You getting a PhD or something?”

A startled laugh bubbles its way out of your chest. “Ha! No, Johnny, I’m not getting a PhD,” you say, gazing fondly at him. “I’m majoring in Small Business Administration and Management.”

“Wha?”

“Basically, I’m learning how to open a business,” you explain. Johnny chugs the rest of one of his beers and quickly unseals the next one with the bottle opener on his keys.

“What kinda business? Like a, uhhh…” he trails off, spacing out briefly. “A car dealership?”

You balk out a shocked laugh. “What? No, I fuckin’ hate car dealerships, man. I dunno, maybe I’ll try to re-open Little Trees or somethin’.”

He hums and looks back out the window. You sip the rest of your drink in silence, enjoying the sweet taste of the cosmo now that you’ve added sweetener.

“Still drinkin’ those girl drinks, I see.”

You glare at Johnny playfully and roll your eyes. Man, you kinda missed having him around. And it helps that he’s such a looker. “I’m sorry that I require a bit more flavor than the piss-in-a-bottle that you seem so content with,” you tease back. 

Johnny just puts his beer back on the table with a thunk and looks you squarely in the face. “I’m a real man, LaRusso. I drink a real man’s drink.”

“Sounds to me like you just can’t hold your liquor,” you retort, because of course he can. You’re the lightweight here.

“Right, but if i remember correctly, you’re the one who spewed behind a dumpster last winter.” Johnny downs the rest of his beer as if to hammer in the point. He’s only got one left.

You whistle lowly in your throat and place a hand over your heart, feigning offence. “Wow, low blow, Lawrence. Did you learn to shoot for the balls from Cobra Kai?”

As soon as it’s out of your mouth, you regret it.

The smile on Johnny’s face drops along with your stomach as he casts his gaze to his shoes. You cover your mouth with your hand and glance awkwardly out the window. A young woman in tall platforms struts by, and you long to be in her place instead of this horrible tension.

Sighing, you place your hand on the table. “Johnny, I’m sorry-”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he cuts you off, finally lifting his eyes from the floor with a heavy sigh. 

You lapse back into silence as you wait for him to say something.

“Cobra Kai was… I mean, they probably did,” he chuckles, but it’s dry and devoid of humor. 

“Johnny…”

Said man sits up straighter in his seat and cracks his knuckles anxiously. “Kreese was… well, he was very into order. Masculinity. You know the works.”

“Tell me about it,” you mutter under your breath, but Johnny still catches it.

“What?”

Your eyes dart back to the window, trying to think of something to say. You get the feeling of blood on your knuckles and a strong hand on your back. 

“It’s nothing, what were you saying?” you say, hoping he’ll back off a little. You’d rather not talk about your time in Cobra Kai when he’s about to talk about his own.

Johnny shrugs, cracking open the last beer and emptying half of it in one go. He stares with unfocused eyes at the glass tabletop before starting again.

“I was his favorite, you know.” It feels like the rest of the bar has gone silent. All you can hear is your heart beating steadily in your chest and Johnny’s words. “He let me lead the classes, and kept me after to give me extra lessons. He’d say, ‘Johnny, you’re the best damn man out of the lot.’”

He takes a long drink of the beer. You stare into your now-empty glass. The lemon slice seems to wilt.

“And I felt…”

He takes a long pause again. You wait with baited breath for him to speak.

“I felt so important. But it’s-” he sighs in frustration, glaring at his bottle as if it’d turned into Kreese’s face. “It’s nothing. And it never- it never meant nothing to him. I was just another soldier in his… his fucked up army.” And he downs the rest of the beer, slamming it onto the table.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he- instead, he flexes his hand like it’s full of fiery energy. The door creaks and jingles as another patron enters the bar. You consider having another drink, but no. You have to drive home.

Speaking of which. “Johnny, how are you planning on getting home after this?” you ask gently, still unsure of how stable he is.

He shrugs, folding his arms on the table again. “I was just gonna drive, why?”

“What??” Your eyebrows shoot up into your hairline in surprise. “Johnny, are you crazy? You can’t go driving like this, you’re drunk as a box of birds!”

Johnny brushes you off, grumbling something about I do this all the time, and alright, that’s enough. “No, John, I can just drive you home. Or call you a cab. You don’t need to drive.”

He shrugs and downs the last of the beer. You look at the empty bottles, short and brown, and feel a pang of worry and concern shoot through your heart. Even though it’s normal for Johnny to drink like that, you still know it’s unhealthy, and you can’t help but fear for his safety as you watch him nearly reel over.

“I’m driving you home, ok?” you press, and he notes mutely, defeated by your masterful wordsmithing. Yeah, right.

Grabbing his arm as gently as possible, you drag him out to the parking lot after smacking a wad of bills on the counter. His sparkling red Firebird is parked front-and-center, and you wonder how you didn’t notice it before. Instead, you direct him to the Ford, and watch as his face lights up like a christmas tree.

“Oh, man, this thing… I remember looking at it when we was in high school, this car is gorgeous, Daniel,” he rambles, and you feel your heart skip a beat when he looks you in the eye at gorgeous, Daniel.

“Yeah, whatever. Just get in,” you mutter, slipping into the driver’s seat. Johnny follows, sliding into the passenger’s seat and immediately dropping his head to the dashboard with a thump. Sighing heavily, you turn to pull out of the parking space.

Johnny gives you his address and you roll down the street with music playing quietly from the tinny speakers. The traffic has died down significantly in the time you spent at the bar, and as you pass by all the street signs and restaurants, you feel less anxious than before.

A groan, and you look over to see Johnny clutching his stomach in pain. His eyes are screwed up, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to hurl- instead, a loud grumble emits from his belly, and you smack your hand over your mouth to stop yourself laughing.

“You’re hungry, huh, big guy?” you tease with a laugh.

“Ughhh… shut up, LaRusso…” Johnny groans, and you only snicker and look out the window. You can see the sign for ‘world famous fries’ again, and making what is probably a rash decision, you pull into the parking lot outside the building.

Unlocking the car, you hop out and help Johnny onto his feet. He seems confused, but once he sees the sign on the door, you hear his groan with relief. “Great thinkin’, ‘Russo,” he mumbles, and god damn this guy is fucked up.

Inside the burger joint it’s too bright and too loud. There’s only one other person inside, but the fans at the ceiling blare loudly, and the lights shine in a way that’s too much for this late at night. Johnny grumbles and unhooks the aviator shades off his shirt front, sliding them into place on his face. You don’t miss the irony in that, but you take pity on him and don’t say anything about it.

Instead, you find a spot in the darkest corner of the restaurant and order two of the “Big Buck’s Sloppy Greasy Cheesy Delight” burgers despite the name. Johnny is still pretty quiet, and you order a couple waters for the table just in case.

When the burgers arrive, piping hot and smelling surprisingly good, Johnny takes his in hand skeptically. You choke back a chuckle as he sticks his tongue out to lick the cheese dripping from the side, ignoring the way the action sets storms alight in your belly. Then, you watch in horror as the blond tears into it like a ravenous animal, and after what you swear was only thirty seconds, the entire massive burger is gone.

“Good lord, you were hungry, huh?” you laugh as you take your own burger in hand. To his credit, it tastes pretty good, and your stomach thanks you for the fuel.

“Fuck off, man,” is all he says before he’s chugging down one of the glasses of water. You just laugh again, and he shoots you a playful glare.

It’s silent a bit longer, and you start to run your hands up and down your pants legs, needing an outlet for your energy. Despite the late hour, you don’t feel tired, and your light buzz from the cosmo has all but faded with the water now in your system.

Johnny, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to crash and burn. You lift an eyebrow as he drops his head down on the table, tapping against the surface rhythmically. The burger tastes like the greasy garbage you knew it would be- delicious.

Once you finish, you tap on Johnny’s shoulder, who’s fallen asleep in the time it took you to eat. He starts and looks around in fear a bit before coming back to himself, shielding his eyes against the bright lights of the restaurant. You heave him up and drag him back to the car, the street sounds mostly quieted with the late hour. 

The rest of the drive to his house is mainly uneventful, and when you ask how he’s gonna get his car from the bar, he brushes it off and tells you not to worry. 

Outside the apartment, you find yourself surprised at the… understatedness of it all. What are you talking about, you’ve known he didn’t really enjoy the extravagance of the houses he grew up around, but you were still expecting something a little more than the cheap, sort of run-down building he lives in.

While you wait for Johnny to finish fumbling with the key, you look around the drab hallway. There’s really nothing but a runner down the floor and a sad looking plant on a table at the end. You remind yourself that you’ll probably be living somewhere like here in the future, once you graduate and you can’t stay in the campus dorms.

The door cracks open, and immediately you hear a mrrp from below. Looking down, you see a kind-faced, fat calico gazing back up at you, green eyes narrowed. Her striped tail swishes behind her as she stares suspiciously at you, but then Johnny leans down and scoops her up unceremoniously, drawing a startled meow from her.

“So this is the famous Junebug?” you ask with a chuckle. Johnny nuzzles into her fur, and you look away a bit, feeling like you’re intruding on something.

“Mhm… she’s a sweet girl, isn’t she?” He says, but it feels like it’s more to the cat than you.

It strikes you that Johnny is really drunk as a skunk if he’s willing to let you see this sort of thing. From what you’ve known of the guy, he doesn’t often show more than a bit of humor behind the anger. You’ve at least known him well enough that you’ve seen him be genuine sometimes, but it’s something about the way he treats this cat that makes you think there really is a loveable guy behind all of the walls.

And maybe the little crush you have on him is starting to deepen into something more.

Everything, from his joy when he saw you, to the way he opened up at the bar, to now with the cat, has made you think that maybe there’s more to him than the angry, abrasive persona he puts on. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s a real looker, too, with a broad chest and shoulders and those baby blue eyes. There’s a reason you almost kissed him all those years before.

Your eyes flick down to his lips, pale pink against paler skin, and you imagine how soft they would feel against your own. You imagine how his large hands would feel on the small of your back, and how his blue eyes would look as you gazed into them.

But… no, you can’t. He’s too far gone, too inebriated to properly consent, and the last thing you’d want to do is take advantage of him. 

“You sure you can take care of yourself?” You ask as he drops Junebug back onto her feet.

Johnny just scoffs and waves you off. “You think this is the drunkest I’ve ever gotten, ‘Russo? I’ll be fine,” he says, leaning heavily against the doorway. You pointedly ignore how his bulky arms sit casually, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Ok, if you’re sure,” you say, at a loss for anything else. “... It was nice seeing you, man. Take care.”

He smiles back, pretty behind the drunken wobble, and closes the door.

You stand there for a moment longer, eyes on your shoes, before you turn and leave.

 

IV. 

(1990)

You huff in frustration at the contents of your fridge. Microwave noodles and reheated pizza stop being novel after a few months of basically living off them, and you’re sort of running out of options.

“Mrrrr-ap!”

Turning around, you stare down at Junebug, who had managed to get herself up onto the island counter. Her green eyes are narrowed as usual, paws gathered beneath her in a regal sitting position.

“I know, Juney, I know,” You say, leaning over to scoop the cat up in your arms. For not the first time that morning, you feel your stomach growl, and with a weakening resolve, you tuck Junebug under your arm and return to the fridge. The calendar on the wall catches your eye, a date two weeks from now circled in red with the words, ‘Midterm Today’.

Once you’ve set your fifth cup of microwave ramen of the week to cook, you pour a glass of orange juice. Junebug gazes up at him from her place at your side, dainty paws hanging towards the ground.

Without warning, there’s a thunderous crash from outside the apartment door. Junebug leaps from your arms and bolts for her hiding spot beneath your bed, tail puffed up in fear. After a moment to slow your heart rate from the sudden shock, you creep to the door, opening it slowly.

Before you can fully see anything, you hear a familiar voice.

“Aw, fuck me right up the ass, fuck-- ah, shit-- god fucking dammit--”

“LaRusso?”

The brunet looks up from where he’s leaning over a pile of books and a broken cardboard box, embarrassed flush covering his cheeks. He looks different, older, and only now do you realize how long it’s been since you’ve seen each other, not since your birthday two years ago. You can see a little more muscle on his arms as he scrambles to pick up the books, but he remains lean, as if he’s still doing Karate even today. There’s a sadness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, a hardened look that says he’s seen enough to lose his bright-eyed appearance. 

He’s gotten really, really hot.

You barely have time to register the thought before LaRusso’s apologizing profusely, hand clasped against his forehead as he scrambles to pick up the dropped books.

“Hey, it’s alright, man. I’m just surprised to see you,” you say, dropping down to help him out.

“Oh, thank you, Johnny, I knew I shoulda gotten new boxes but I thought the ones from moving to my dorm would still be good. I mean, obviously they weren’t, this one had a tear big as the grand canyon that I didn’t even notice, but you know, that was my thought process anyways. Jeez, I’m so sorry about all this, it really was just a huge accident… Oh, I hope none of them are damaged…” LaRusso frets in his typical long-winded fashion, and you just chuckle deep in your throat and shake your head. Part of you wants to reach over and touch his hands, just let him know it’s alright, but you won’t. You can’t.

“Typical LaRusso,” you tease, drawing an indignant expression from him that makes you laugh behind your fist. “What are you doing here anyways? Thought you were still up in College being all… studious and proper.”

LaRusso scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I’m moving in, dickweed. You know it only takes four years to get your bachelor’s, right?”

Now it’s your turn to scoff, pointedly snatching a book from the pile. “Of course I know that, asshole. But-- wait, did you just say you’re moving in?” You ask, the realization hitting you like a brick wall.

“Yeah…” he says, a little sheepish. “I’m sorry, I forgot you lived here. If I’d known, I would’ve picked someplace else.”

Wow, that hurts. You won’t tell him, though, you don’t want him to think you care that much. Instead you just say, “No, man, it’s totally cool! I mean, I’m not gonna stop you from living here or anything. You’re your own person.” God, that sounded pussy, but whatever.

But LaRusso’s face brightens, so it’s alright. “Oh, good, I thought you’d be annoyed,” he mumbles to the books, continuing to pick them up.

You keep grabbing books until they’re all gathered, three stacks piled up in your arms. You can hardly see where you’re going as you hear the click of a door unlocking, and then there’s hands on your back, searing through your grey sweatshirt and almost making you stumble.

“Easy, boy,” you snark, earning yourself a hearty punch to the back. Laughing, you crash against the nearest sitting area, a pale blue futon shoved up against his front wall. You dump the books unceremoniously on the soft surface, watching a couple of them tumble onto the floor.

“Oh, you ass,” LaRusso complains, picking up the discarded books and beginning to stack them on a pretty mahogany bookshelf across the room. 

Out of boredom, you lift up a paperback from the pile, flipping it over to read the cover. To your surprise, the art consists of a burly man cradling a wispy woman in a position that couldn’t possibly be anatomically correct. Behind them is some sort of ambiguous mountain range, and the woman’s flowy silk dress billows in the imagined wind, her expression one of wistful nothingness. Before you can actually read the title, LaRusso snatches it from your grasp, face searing red.

You laugh out loud, slapping your knee in both shock and mirth. “You– oh my God, LaRusso, I–” you dissolve into laughter, covering your hand with your mouth as LaRusso stands before you, hands on his hips.

“It isn’t funny, Johnny, and you shouldn’t be going through people’s things.” LaRusso scolds you as he puts the book back on the shelf, pointedly turning away so you can’t see his face. You know he’s still embarrassed by his voice, which has gone up an octave and become strained.

“No, no, I’m not makin’ fun of you or anything,” you say, though you’re still laughing, “I just– I didn’t peg you as the type.”

“Oh, you–!!” LaRusso bowls over and shoves against your arm, and you laugh, playfully batting him away as he repeatedly whaps you on the head with the book. He’s laughing too, though, so it’s all okay.

You end up helping him haul boxes up from his trunk to the floor you live on. For not the first time, you relent the broken elevator, the repeated trek up to the fourth floor sending searing heat up your calves. You needed the workout, though, so you won’t complain.

A few times, you think you catch LaRusso’s eyes on your arms, which burn pleasantly from the heavy loads you’re carrying to his apartment. You ignore it, though. Don’t wanna get your hopes up. What you would even do with that, though, you have no clue.

“No, you– Johnny, you gotta lift it from the bottom,” LaRusso scolds as the two of you carry a heavy leather sofa up the steps.

“I am, LaRusso, I’m not stupid,” you argue, though you hike your end up anyways, dragging it backwards until you can drop it heavily on the hallway floor. LaRusso collapses into a pile against the sofa, chest heaving as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand.

“Don’t be a lightweight, LaRusso, it’s not that heavy,” you tease, though you also take a short break, sitting on the cushy leather of the couch.

“Ah… fuck you, man…” he wheezes out, turning to look at you with his face flushed. It sends warm heat down to your belly. “Not all of us can have… fuckin… tree trunk arms and barrel chests.”

You snap your head away, ignoring how your nose burns red. How does he just go around saying shit like that?? It baffles you how the little twerp still hasn’t lost any of his headstrong confidence, after everything that’s happened to him.

“Okay…” LaRusso sighs. He heaves himself up and cracks his back like an old man, leaning down to take up his end of the sofa. “Let’s finish this, and then we can start unpacking the boxes.”

You roll your eyes playfully and grab the other end, backing up into the apartment and setting it down perpendicular to the futon. LaRusso squints at the layout, foot tapping rapidly on the ground. You can almost see the gears turning in his head as he chews on his thumbnail, eyes darting from the futon to the sofa.

“Okay… yeah, alright. This is fine,” he says, and then he takes a seat on the sofa, crumbling into it like a crushed piece of paper.

You laugh and sit next to him, keeping a considerable distance so he doesn’t assume anything. “Tired, eh?”

He hums an affirmative, leaning forward and resting his forehead in his hands. “Didn’t expect to have to do this on my birthday, so…”

“Oh, shit! That’s right, it’s your birthday!” you cry, sitting up straighter. “I’m sorry, man, I completely forgot.”

“What? Johnny, I wasn’t expecting you to remember anyways. I mean…” and he gestures broadly between you, the implications louder than words could express. It feels almost like a slap in the face, but you know he’s right, so you just look away and offer an awkward grunt.

After a few beats of unbearable silence, LaRusso gets up and starts rifling through a box of dishware, making piles of plates, bowls, and mugs. You quietly stand and join in, sorting the dishware without a word. The air presses thick and heavy against your lungs, and you hope upon hope that the awkward tension ends soon. It makes you want to rip your hair out and scream, that just when you thought you were getting somewhere with him, things fell apart all over again.

Look. You’ve been trying for a long time to get past this invisible wall with LaRusso. The guilt you feel about the way you treated him all those years ago never leaves you, and you’d do anything just to make it go away. Plus, your little crush on him doesn’t help to deter you. You know that you should probably just let it go, allow him to move on, but you can’t help but try, even if you could just become acquaintances or something. You don’t want whatever you had all those years ago to slip away. As pathetic as it sounds, you don’t really want to lose him.

The last time you saw him, when you talked to him at that bar, meant a lot to you. 

Whatever.

The tension dissipates naturally after a while, and the two of you fall back into the easy push and pull of your not-quite-friendship. Even so, as you watch him rifle around his new home, setting things into their places, you can’t help but feel that you’re peering into something intimate and sacred. LaRusso folds his dish towels carefully and deliberately. He sets the cutlery into its drawer with precision, each utensil facing the same way. In the living room, he organizes his record collection in a particular order, lined up perfectly on the shelf. It feels like you’re seeing some secret side of him, one that he doesn’t show freely to others, and it fills your chest with a fuzziness you can’t quite place.

Later on, when you’re having a cup of coffee in the kitchen with LaRusso, you watch him water his many houseplants around the apartment. You suppose he never quite grew out of them, remembering the greenery in his mother’s house all those years ago. You kinda like it, though– it makes the place feel alive. Sort of like you and Junebug.

“So, uh…” you grasp for any words, suddenly feeling awkward again. “How’s life been? You’re done with school now, huh?”

LaRusso looks up from where he was watering a ficus in a large pot on the floor. He looks strikingly beautiful in the mid-day light streaming through the open curtains. “Oh, yeah. Got my degree and everything. I really think I’m gonna try to reopen Little Trees; I think Mr. Miyagi would love it, and even though we weren’t doing too great, it coulda been perfect. ’Sides, I miss it, and I know a lot more about business stuff now, so it might go better.”

“Y’know, you never told me what Little Trees was,” you say, taking a sip of your black coffee.

“Oh, what? I swear I did… oh well, anyways, Back after high school, when me and Mr. Miyagi came back from Okinawa, we tried to open a shop called ‘Mr. Miyagi’s Little Trees’. We sold little bonsai and stuff, it was a lot of fun.”

LaRusso’s voice becomes quieter as he went on, and you see as his eyes become unfocused, gazing into the leaves of the ficus. The watering can in his right hand tips down, dripping onto the floor, and it looks like he’s transported to another place entirely. 

You place your cup on the counter, padding gently over to where LaRusso stands stock still, not even seeming to notice your presence. Looking down to his hands, you get the sense that there’s more he’s done with them than you’d ever know. Sorrow, joy, and long-lasting pain, all etched into the lines of his palms, the faint scars you can see on his knuckles. It feels wrong, vulnerable, like you shouldn’t be seeing it. Your chest burns and you feel your eyes prick with tears that aren’t yours to shed.

Coming to a decision, you press your hands on the watering can, lifting it up gently so it stops spilling. Your eyes never leave his face, and you watch as he startles, fumbling with the watering can as he snaps out of his stupor. LaRusso looks around, confused, before his eyes land on the puddle on the tile.

“Aw, shit… Damn it, hold on–” LaRusso seems frantic as he rushes into the kitchen, grabbing a dishrag from where it hangs on the oven’s handle. He drops down, scrubbing at the water in a way that pushes it around more than cleaning it up, while spouting apologies all the while.

“Hey, Daniel…” You crouch down, laying your hand over his without thinking. LaRusso’s head snaps up, and for the first time, you see the tears pricking his large, glossy eyes. It fills you with a protective urge that you can’t even bring yourself to be embarrassed about, and your eyes flick down to his lips, briefly considering…

No, no, not now. That would be all levels of wrong, not when he’s like this. Instead, you gently take the rag from him, cleaning up the rest of the water before dropping it in the hamper you helped set up in his bathroom.

Coming back, you find LaRusso sitting on the ground, eyes unfocused as he wrings his hands. When he looks up and sees you, he has guilt on his face, as open as a blooming flower. You wonder how the hell he has the strength to hold his heart on his sleeve like that all the time. 

You crouch down to sit next to him, forgetting about the distance in lieu of making him feel safe. How the hell you of all people would do that is lost on you, but you’re gonna try anyways.

“Johnny–”

You shush him and place your hand on his once more, stopping the apology mid-sentence. His eyes are blown wide and doe-like, as beautiful as the first time you saw him, and he looks like the moon at night, and the sound of rain, and the profound loneliness locked in your chest.

Good lord, you’re so smitten it’s sick.

LaRusso silently leans heavily against your shoulder, heaving a sigh long and deep. Your heart kicks up a fuss in your chest, but you ignore it in favor of trying to comfort him. LaRusso feels like a much older man than when you saw him last. You know he hadn’t told you the full story of what happened to Little Trees, but you won’t press him for it. He’s carrying too much with him already. Instead, you tuck your arm behind his back, silently holding him as he sniffles quietly next to you.

After a bit, LaRusso sits up, rubs his eyes, and heaves a deep sigh.

“Sorry, man. Didn’t expect today to go like that,” he says with a sad little chuckle. It fills your heart with sadness, and you frown deeper as you lay your hand over his again.

“Don’t apologize, man. It’s… it’s no big deal.” And you give a little smile for reassurance. He smiles back, tiny and tentative, and it’s like the sun shining through storm clouds.

“You hungry?”

It’s only now that you realize you haven’t eaten anything all day, and your stomach growls loudly, answering his question for you. It draws an eruptive laugh from back in his throat, and you’d be embarrassed if it didn’t mean he was laughing. His smile is bright like a crescent moon on a dark night, seemingly the only source of light in the room.

You end up ordering pizza, from a new place that you’ve never heard of. It’s the best pizza you've ever had in your life, though, so you take down the name of the restaurant for later.

Conversation flows easily, encompassing future plans, relationships, school, and everything in between. You find out that LaRusso is gay, or something along those lines, as he’s had relationships with both men and women. He regales you with tales of his college escapades while you try not to have a heart attack. You’re almost one hundred percent sure that your face is glowing brighter than the sun.

“And then– get this– the guy says to me, ‘I can do better than some scrawny Italian twink!’ I mean, can you believe this guy? Anyways, to make a long fuckin’ story short, I did not go back to that book club.” LaRusso leans back on his futon, hands flailing wildly as he narrates his story.

It’s been about forty minutes since you finished your pizza. You and LaRusso are lounging in the living room as you nurse a beer each, exchanging stories about the two years since you last saw each other. The stuff he’s got is too expensive and citrus-y for your taste, but you never say no to a beer, so you’re not complaining.

“You know, I never thought you’d actually go through with it!” he’s saying, eyes wide in surprise.

“What? I mean, I’ve been thinking about it for two years, ever since you told me to. And besides, I need a way to make better money, and flying doesn’t seem too bad.”

LaRusso shudders dramatically. “God, I hate flying. I don’t know how you do it, man.”

You shrug, taking another swig of the beer in your hand. “You get used to it after a while.”

LaRusso just shakes his head in amusement, leaning closer into the futon. He looks unfairly cute, all cuddled up in comfortable clothes, but you suppose you should have expected that from him. He seems hellbent on making your heart beat like a drum every time you look at him. You’d almost think it was intentional if it wasn’t for… well, everything.

Glancing out the window, you see that it’s already evening, the sky beginning to darken as the sun sinks over the horizon. LaRusso follows your eyes, and seeing the darkness outside, he sighs and turns back to you.

“Hey, I probably shouldn’t keep you any longer. Thanks for all the help,” he says, an easy smile on his lips.

“Oh, it’s no issue, really. I mean, I wasn’t doing much today anyways.” You respond with a shrug.

Daniel hums, standing up and stretching his back. He offers you his hand, and you take it as he heaves you up, holding it a few lingering seconds longer than necessary. You walk with him to the door, and once you’re facing him from the hallway, you pause for a moment.

“... Well, happy birthday, Daniel,” you say, gazing down into his eyes. He looks beautiful, washed in the artificial light of the hallway, like some sort of nature spirit that belongs in the forest.

Daniel smiles back at you, brown eyes glossy in the light, and for the second time today you consider just leaning down and kissing him silly right there. He looks incredible, more so than you’d ever imagine. You curse your past self for ever hurting him and ruining what you could have had.

Daniel dips his head down bashfully, and the moment disappears. 

“Thanks for everything, man,” he says, and he sounds genuine, twisting his hands in front of him.

“No problem. Welcome to the neighborhood,” You say with a wink, and he scoffs and rolls his eyes playfully.

“Bye, Johnny,” he says teasingly, and before you can respond, the door closes with a soft click .

Good Lord, this guy is gonna be the death of you. You stand there with a stupid grin on your face, thanking your lucky stars that he chose to move in here, before turning to go back to your apartment.

 

V.

(1991)

The sound of chatter fills the cafe as waiters bustle about, serving trays filled with drinks and finger foods. Some summer hit you don’t recognize plays over the radio, adding a background to the usual noise of the cafe. Air conditioning pumps through the vents to combat the late-summer heat, and you watch as the door opens and closes with its usual customers, the little bell jingling in the corner.

You push the straw in your iced caramel espresso around as you scribble numbers into your sudoku workbook. The puzzle you’re working on now is a tricky one, but you’re bored out of your mind right now, so why not. Besides, you promised yourself that you’d finish this page today. 

Taking a sip of your drink, you keep your eye trained on the door, foot tapping impatiently. You check your watch and sigh heavily, leaning your head against your hands. 12:32. What’s with this guy and always being late? The song switches to something Guns n’ Roses, and it makes you chuckle at the irony.

Right as you have that thought, though, the door jingles cheerfully and in walks Johnny Lawrence, hand stuffed up in his sweaty hair and chest heaving. You find it incredibly unfair that he chooses to wear tank tops that just happen to strain against his chest and show off his arms, and you also find it unfair that his cheeks are flushed from his run.

Ignoring your palpating heart, you wave to catch his attention, and the third unjust thing within three minutes happens– Johnny’s face lights up and he jogs over, pulling out the chair across from you and plopping down into it.

“Why is it that you insist on taking these meandering runs right before everything we plan to do together?” you ask, instead of saying anything else. Teasing is easier than pleasantries for the two of you.

Johnny shrugs, finally catching his breath, and says, “Guy’s gotta stay in shape somehow.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t deny that you’re smiling a little. Your pencil sits next to your book, abandoned. The puzzle can wait.

“This Guns n’ Roses?” Johnny asks, as if he hasn’t had this CD on loop for the past week.

“Yeah, I told the manager it was your birthday,” you lie, drawing a playful scoff from Johnny.

“Yeah, right.” Johnny pushes back his chair and takes a swig from the plastic water bottle in his hand, draining it. “I’m gonna go order.”

“Be quick!” you call out to his back. “It’s not nice to keep a lady waiting.”

He just waves you off, and you laugh softly to yourself, turning back to your workbook. This fucking 3 is giving you trouble.

Johnny returns a few minutes later, steaming mug of black coffee snug in his hands. He retakes his seat, stretching his legs out so that his feet tap yours under the table.

“It’s ninety degrees out,” you point out, glancing at his coffee.

Johnny shrugs, taking a swig and making a point to smack his lips loudly. “Can’t beat hot coffee!”

You scoff. “Y’know, you coulda gotten it with ice, even if you insist on drinking that flavorless crap.”

“Ha!” Johnny balks out a laugh, almost knocking his mug over as he pounds his fist on the table. “As if! I don’t drink girl drinks like you, LaRusso.”

“What’s a girl drink if it keeps me cool?” you respond, rolling your eyes.

Johnny picks your drink up off the table and scrutinizes it. “How can you even taste the coffee under all that sugar?”

“How can you even feel your tongue after drinking that scalding, bitter shit-water?” you retort, snatching your drink back and taking a pointed sip.

“I don’t drink coffee for the taste, LaRusso, I drink it for the energy. I’m not a pussy.”

“Last Halloween proves otherwise.”

“Hey!” Johnny shouts, but there’s no anger in his voice. “Anyone would be unsettled by Freddy Krueger, he’s just so fucked up looking.”

“But not anyone would hide under a blanket and hang off my arm the whole night, would they?”

Johnny’s face turns slightly red, and he shakes his head, looking off to the side and muttering whatever, man with a smile. 

“Oh! Hey, check this out,” Johnny says after a beat, leaning over and baring his left bicep to you. It would make your heart stutter if it weren’t for the horrifying ink monstrosity staring you point blank in the face.

Painted across his arm, in a rich black ink, is the most horrific abomination of a tattoo you’ve ever seen in your life. From what you can make out, it looks like a skeleton riding a motorcycle. Clasped around its arms are two heavy chains trailing backwards, and flames flicker up in the background. For all intents and purposes, it looks awful, and the only saving grace is the fact that it has no color. Peering a little closer, though…

“Is that Junebug?”

“Yup!” Johnny grins, and he points closer at an image of a cat, leaping out from the center of the motorcycle. “Thought I’d pay tribute to her, just like a… a little nod. Y’know.”

You laugh, eyebrows shooting into your hairline as you cover your mouth with your hand.

“Wh-what?” Johnny asks, brow furrowing slightly.

You give yourself a moment to finish laughing before replying. “It’s nothing, man, just…” You lean forward, wiping a tear from your eye. “You’re such a fuckin’ dork.”

Johnny scoffs, taking his elbow off the table. “Whatever, man, you just don’t wanna admit how badass it is.”

“What time did you even have to get this thing?”

“Last night, after I left the bar!” he responds, smug look back on his face. “But I’d been thinking about it for weeks.”

You just chuckle again, hiding your smile behind a sip of your coffee. Johnny doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring at the ink on his arm. He traces a finger over it and you have to suppress a shudder, imagining how those broad hands would feel trailing over your own arm. Quick, change the subject–

“So, pilot boy, how’s school been going?” you ask, unable to keep the flirtatious streak out of your voice. It makes him smile, though, so you’re not complaining.

“Oh, so good! I’m getting close to earning my license. Soon enough I’ll be Captain Johnny Lawrence.”

You roll your eyes even as the title stirs something in your gut. “God, I can already tell you’re gonna rub that one in my face for ages .” And yes, you’re ignoring the way that sounds. Goddammit.

“Yeah, whatever,” Johnny chuckles, taking another sip of his coffee. “How’s your plant thing going? Banzai trees, right?”

“Bonsai,” you correct, even though you know he knows the actual pronunciation and just likes to make fun of you. “And Little Trees is actually doing pretty good. The partnership with Earth Works is going really well and Mr. Miyagi is helping me to fix the place up. Feels just like old times.” 

You pointedly don’t mention the anxiety, the overwhelming paranoia you have whenever you’re at Little Trees. The fear that some blond bozo and his two lackeys will barge in, or the fear of a slender man with a jet black ponytail, a smooth voice, sharp eyes. You don’t mention it. You ignore the crawling feeling that runs up your spine in that moment.

“Y’know, I keep meaning to pop in sometime,” Johnny says, bringing you out of your head. He’s remarkably good at that, you think. “Pester you at work a little. I mean, I got no clue how you have the patience to trim those trees, man. Looks… boring.”

“Ha! But we both know you have the attention span of a goldfish!” You cry, fully back in the moment as you slam your hand down on the tabletop. “You can’t pay attention to a thirty minute TV special, let alone the artistry of pruning a bonsai. It takes discipline, Lawrence.”

Johnny sputters a bit, throwing his hands out. “Discipline?? I have discipline, LaRusso, I just choose to use it on things that are actually productive.”

You tsk at him, but you know he’s joking because he’s got that little quirk to his lip like he’s trying not to smile. “One day I’m actually gonna get you to trim one with me, John, just you wait.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, LaRusso.” Johnny leans back, and good god, the way he is sitting should not be so attractive. You need someone to dump a bucket of water on your head. Or hit you with a wooden bat. That would actually be preferable.

After a while of banter and drinks, you see Johnny start to get antsy. He usually can’t stay in one place for long, but you thought after his run he’d relax a little. You get it, though; the café can be overwhelming at times, especially on busy days like this one. You’re starting to feel a little restless yourself. He cracks his knuckles and does that thing with his fingers he does, eyes shifting around the room.

Eventually the guy stands up, looking to his sides before turning back to you. “Wanna get outta here?” he asks.

“I thought you’d never ask,” you reply, taking up your remaining things.

After disposing of the garbage, you step through the door into the dry heat, which has lessened as the sun set. Across from you, someone walks a tough looking dog across a busy crosswalk. The palm trees sway in the subtle breeze, and cars line up and down the street, trying to push through rush hour traffic. 

Johnny smacks the side of his firebird, snagging your attention. He’s leaning against it, a sly smile across his features that makes your heart skip a beat. Why, dear god, must he act like this? You don’t know how much you can take until he flourishes his hand toward the car, and yeah, you’re dead now. God, please forgive the cause of death.

“You up for a drive?”

You say yes before you even know what you’re doing. If your brain weren’t inebriated by entirely embarrassing gay thoughts, you’d probably be worrying about a lot of things right now. Things like what are you gonna do about your car, and how are you gonna get home, and you have work tomorrow. And oh my god, your mother would kill you for this. You think. Whatever.

You get in the car anyway, slipping into the leather seats as Johnny turns the key, setting the engine rumbling with a deep purr that fills your belly with a deep warmth. You hate car dealerships– you never said you hated cars.

He pulls out of the parking space slowly, leaned back with one hand on the wheel, and you don’t think it can get any worse until he takes the sunglasses off the rearview mirror and snaps them on his face, shooting you a winning smile. You try your best not to show how much this affects you, but you don’t get to find out if he noticed, because soon enough he’s out of traffic and speeding toward the beach.

The convertible hood is down and you can feel the wind blowing through your hair as the sun sinks lower down the horizon. Beside you, Johnny switches to an alternative rock station, crooning along to the sound of buzzing guitars. He’s actually good, and god dammit, there’s one more thing you have to check off the list of ‘Hot Things Johnny Lawrence Does’.

“Where are we even going?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself from your thoughts.

“I have something I want to show you,” Johnny says, turning to you with a grin. “Or we could just see where the road takes us.”

You scoff at the cheesy line, and no, it doesn’t make you blush. “We’re not even on the road, this is the beach.”

Johnny turns back to the front of the car and you swear you can see him roll his eyes. “It’s an expression, LaRusso. I thought Mr. College Degree would know that.”

That makes you laugh, and you bomp him in the shoulder playfully as he turns the radio up more, the music matching his smile.

Eventually, you come upon this little alcove by the shore. Johnny parks the bird facing the ocean as the tide comes up and recedes, kissing the sand like a lost lover. The sun is well past its peak, now, hovering just over the horizon and painting the scenery in warm golden light. You look over at Johnny, who is bathed in the sunlight, and find yourself tracing his profile with your eyes.

His hair is much shorter than when you were kids, no longer falling as far in his eyes, and a little tuft comes off the back in a faux-mullet. On anyone else you’d think it looked distasteful, but he manages to pull it off. His blue eyes match the ocean and you gaze at his roman nose and strong jawline, feeling yourself growing more and more enraptured, as if he were an incubus and you a lowly Greek peasant. 

“What is it, do I got something on my face?” Johnny teases out of nowhere.

“Man, fuck you!” you say, embarrassed as you turn away from him.

“I’m just messing with you, LaRusso, no sweat,” Johnny laughs, elbowing you in the shoulder. You roll your eyes and bat him away, but you’re smiling and he knows it. 

The two of you lapse into comfortable silence, watching as the waves glide across the sand. Some sandpipers hop in front of the tide, sticking their long beaks into the ground. The sun burns orange as it sets, making the sky look like some sort of Renaissance painting. How fitting, you think.

“Hey, Johnny, how did you even know about this place, anyway?” you ask, looking back at him. With the way his expression steels, you feel like that was a bad move.

“My mom used to take me here as a kid,” he says, looking away, and it’s like the whole world has stilled apart from you. From what little you can see of Johnny’s face, he’s got a little wistful smile on his lips.

“We’d  come out and she’d set out a blanket and a basket full of food, and I’d run to the shore and play in the water until I was so salt and water-logged that I could hardly take another step. We’d have lunch, and then she’d wade out into the sea with me. 

“I remember she had this big floppy hat she’d wear with this sheer overdress to cover her bathing suit. She was beautiful. It felt like we were the only two people in the world.”

If you didn’t know him better, you’d think Johnny looks a little misty-eyed. His right hand grips the stick shift.

“Anyways. When she married my stepdad we stopped, so.”

You stay silent for a while, just looking at him, really looking at him. And for the first time, or maybe not, you see a man carrying just as much as you. Maybe even more. His mouth slopes down into a frown, and you get the thought to kiss it away.

Instead, you say, “Y’know, me and my folks had something like that back in Newark.”

Johnny remains quiet, and you continue.

“It was no beach, believe me, the beaches in Jersey were more like rocks and pebbles and they were freezing a lot too– no, we had this spot at this really nice diner my cousin owned. It was like this little closed off, private booth really close to the kitchen, and we’d go there whenever we could scrape up the money for it.

“I used to watch the waiters come in and out of those swinging doors. My dad had to hold me back sometimes,” you laugh, “like I’d almost launch myself at them, I was so excited. And when we’d get our plates, my dad would make this show of like, smelling all the dishes and then listing all the ingredients. I thought it was magic until a few years after we stopped going, I found out he helped open the place and wrote the recipes.”

You trail off a bit, gazing out at the waves and their steady push and pull of the shore. The sun is well on its way out, sky painted in brilliant ruby and indigo. The sound of your voice echoes against the rock.

“Why’d you stop?” Johnny asks, the first time he’s spoken in a long time. He doesn’t turn his head, instead looking at you from the corner of his eye. You can almost hear the Daniel on his tongue.

“Well…” You debate whether or not to tell him. Studying his features, you detect only curiosity, but you can sense the somber reality that he knows what you’re about to say. You wonder if you’re just as transparent as he is.

“My dad died when I was eight,” you say finally. Johnny’s face hardly changes except for his eyebrows lowering. He turns back to the ocean.

“Never knew mine,” he says simply. You feel your chest heat up the same way it does when you get caught doing something you’re not supposed to.

“What about Sid?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

Just as you predicted, Johnny scoffs. “That asshole was never a father to me. He just liked my mom. The only sort of… father figure I had was Kreese. And we all know how that went.”

You hum in agreement. Johnny’s hand is still gripped around the stick shift of the car, white knuckled. Before you can think about it, you place your hand over his. It’s so small compared to his, your fingers barely reaching the other side.

You search Johnny’s face for anything, and all that changes is his face goes red and his mouth tightens into a line. He looks scared, like any moment Kreese or Sid or his Father is going to jump out from behind the rock and call him a fairy. But he turns his hand, ever so slightly, lets go of the shift. And then his palm is facing yours, pressed against it. You twine your fingers through his, giving a light squeeze. He reciprocates weakly. You feel your heart hammer in your chest.

“Johnny…”

The sun has set. Somehow, the light pollution doesn’t reach here, and you see a sky full of brilliant stars. Something pulls in your chest and you don’t move your eyes from his face. He’s not looking at you.

Then, he lets go of you, and he shifts the car into gear. “Getting pretty late.”

“Johnny, wait–”

“What??” he shouts, whipping around to face you. The anger takes you aback, and you flinch backwards into the car door. “What could you possibly want, LaRusso?”

“Well, I mean, I just thought we should talk about–”

“About what? About us? There’s nothing to talk about.” And he jumps over the car door, crossing over to the shore. The water laps at his running shoes, beckoning him closer.

You open the door and step out, slamming it behind you as you follow him. “Oh, really ? Because I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who feels it, this– this thing between us.”

“No, Daniel, you are!” he turns, stalking close to you. “You’re the only one who feels it! You’re the only one who wants it, because I– I–” He fumbles for the words, hands balled into fists. 

“Spit it out, Johnny!”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I did!!”

You’re shocked into silence. You clench your fists at your side, mimicking him.

“I don’t… I’m not…”

Johnny turns away and sinks to his knees. He presses a fist into his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. You don’t move any closer. The sky glitters, indifferent.

You want to hit him. You want to go closer, to kiss his stupid face, to tell him it doesn’t matter. You want him to be mad at you again.

“Just… just take me home,” you say instead.

When he does, and when you’re in your own apartment in your own empty bed, you wonder if there’s anything you could have done differently.

 

I. 

(1991)

He’s hardly spoken to you for months.

That’s all you’re thinking about as you check your calendar and see that today is December 18, his birthday. You scratch your stubble-covered face absently, marking an X on the date before moving on with your morning.

You miss him, alright? You fuckin miss him. You miss spending time with him, you miss his laugh and his smile and the little furrow in his brow when he concentrates. It’s been five goddamn months and you’re tired of waiting for him to forgive you.

Junebug drags her rough tongue across her tabby back, grooming over the brown and cream spots until they shine. She turns a sardonic gaze in your direction, and it feels like she can see right through you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble, slamming the fridge door shut from where you were rifling around for a beer.

The molly hops off the sofa and trots over to her food bowl, jumping up on the special stool you bought in an effort to help her lose weight. You roll your eyes and crack open the tab, downing the can in one go before slamming it into your forehead, just like when you’d have those raging parties at Dutch’s house.

Seems like today’s gonna be just another meaningless day of channel surfing and drinking. You don’t have class til next week, and even though you’ve been making efforts to curb your bad habit (at Daniel’s insistence, of course), you get the feeling that today will be kinda hard to get through without it.

You’re struck by the thought that not only is it Daniel’s birthday, it’s also the anniversary of him moving in. You glance towards the door as if you could see him, just last year, stacking boxes and dropping books all down the hall. It brings a sarcastic grimace to your face, and you take another swig of your beer.

You know you fucked up. Well, he’s made it painfully obvious, what with the way he barely even exchanges hellos with you in the hallway. You just… you didn’t know what to do. As much as you’ve tried to come to terms with your sexuality and everything, there’s a staunch difference between making out with some guy at a college party and an actual committed relationship. Especially with Daniel. Everything is so complicated with him.

Whatever. No point in thinking about it any longer. He’s probably at work all day, anyways. That guy never lets up.

Junebug hops on your lap and starts kneading on your sweatpants, purr rumbling up from her. Your hand finds her soft fur, threading through the downy pelt that she spends so many hours grooming.

Daniel really loved Junebug, you remember. He was the only other person she ever really got along with. You remember he used to come over and spend the whole time playing with and petting her. It was nice, and you miss it, miss having him in your home. 

A few hours and a few more beers later, a knock comes on your door, sharp in the fuzzy quiet of the room. Junebug leaps off your lap where she was making bread, and you push yourself up to see who’s there. How many beers have you had? You count three on the coffee table, and that’s much less than you thought, huh. You straighten the collar of your t-shirt and pull your sweatpants up a bit, trying as much as you can to look presentable.

When you open the door, you feel like your brain short-circuits.

“Hey, John, what– woah, dude, are you ok?” Daniel LaRusso steps back a bit like he was hit with a bad smell. “You look wrecked.”

You stand there, buffering, as Daniel looks at you expectantly. It feels like there’s a loading screen in your head, turning and turning as you stare back at him, jaw slightly dropped.

“Yeah, I’m… What are you doing here, man?” And oh, that’s anger bubbling up in your chest. How dare he?

“I…” Daniel just looks at you, just as confused as you are. “I wanted to talk.”

You scoff and look to the side, shaking your head. “Yeah, yeah, you– now you want to talk. Only talk when you want to, only when you’re up for it,” you stumble, and goddamn, you can’t be that drunk. Or maybe you’re not.

Daniel’s brow furrows. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” If he were a cat, he’d be bristling. You imagine him like a little brown tabby scrap of a thing, scarred and scrawny from all the fights he gets into.

“Man, I’ve been trying to talk to you for months, and all I’ve gotten is the cold fuckin’ shoulder,” you argue, and you can hear your voice raising, but you don’t care enough to stop it. The neighbors can go screw their noise complaints.

Daniel’s eyes dart around the hallway, and instead of saying anything he just puts his hand on your chest, shoving you back a bit. In your rational hindbrain, the part not hindered by alcohol and anger, you know he’s just trying to get you inside and stop your yelling. But you don’t like the way it makes your heart skip, he has no right to do it, and your leg comes out before you can even think. But there isn’t enough room in the entrance for a full sweep, so you just end up tripping the both of you and tumbling backwards, Daniel’s face colliding with your collarbone.

You shove him off you and scramble up off the floor, glaring as he follows suite. His face is a mixture of confusion and anger, probably mirroring your own, and good. Let him feel like shit. Ass.

“Johnny what the f–”

Without pretense, you swing your fist out at him, and he catches it in a perfect imitation of that stupid wax on, wax off thing he told you about. It just fuels your anger even more, and you strike again. He blocks, you strike, and suddenly you’re in the living room, circling each other around the coffee table. Daniel’s eyes never leave yours, and you see the bottles in your periphery, notice the fourth and fifth ones that rolled under the couch. So that’s how you got like this.

“Johnny, please, I just wanna–”

“No!!” And you lunge over the coffee table just to prove your point, knocking the bottles off. 

For a second, his face flashes with fear, and it does something to your stomach; not a thrill or an excited feeling, but dread. That’s probably why you stumble and miss your next strike. No, it’s the alcohol. No mercy.

“Johnny!” Daniel shouts, and you feel a hand on your shoulder. It makes you even angrier, and you lunge forward again, aiming to take his legs out.

Daniel manages to hop out of the way, and you feel the blood rushing in your ears. He’s always been a twerpy little shit, dancing around the mat on his injured knee. You feel a strong hand on your shoulder where Daniel’s once was, a rough voice in your ear. Sweep the leg. Sweep the leg.

Yes, Sensei.

Daniel goes crashing to the hardwood, just missing the slight cushion of the carpet. It feels wrong, wrong, so wrong, but you don’t know what to do. Your body is moving on autopilot as he scrambles for the kitchen, stalking like a predator. Why won’t he leave?

Your knuckles ache and your skin pricks where your nails press into the palm, almost hard enough to break. But your skin is thick, like your skull, which can’t seem to realize that you’re not supposed to be hurting Daniel. You promised yourself you wouldn’t. You can’t.

Rounding the corner, you catch his face out of the corner of your eye. His eyes are wide, fearful, but his jaw is set in determination. He stands guarded, palms open and in position, and you see the faint scars on his knuckles. He never told you where those came from. You feel like now is a bad time to ask.

“Johnny…” Daniel says, like he’s talking to a scared animal, and yeah, he might as well be. You feel your eyes prick with tears, and God, no, you can’t do this. You almost start praying.

LaRusso’s arms go down, dropping the defensive stance. His eyes never leave yours, but he takes a step back. You want to stop being angry. You want all the anger and sorrow and guilt to stop. You just want to rest.

But you can’t. You can’t, because there’s a barking voice in the back of your head telling you to keep going, soldier, don’t rest, strike first, no mercy. You’ve been striking first your whole life. You don’t know how much longer you can continue.

You feel your fist clench tighter at your side, see LaRusso’s eyes flicker, his hands raise again. He takes another step back, bumping into the counter behind him. Cornered. The fear in his eyes makes you curse yourself. You promised you’d never hurt him again. 

LaRusso dodges your next sloppy punch, weaving away and pacing back to the living room. Why does it always have to go like this? Every time you think you’re getting somewhere with the guy, it backfires and you end up right back at square one. You growl under your breath and turn to pursue.

He’s standing behind the sofa, as if that will help. You ignore the bottles that had fallen off the coffee table, miraculously still in one piece. LaRusso keeps a trained eye on your every move, but something has shifted in his expression that you can’t place. A stray piece of hair falls into his eyes and you see his chest rise and fall with his breath.

“Johnny, I really think we should–”

“Just shut up, LaRusso,” you growl, not moving from your place. You try to keep yourself under control. You promised you’d never hurt him again. “I’m tired of these fucking games.”

“I’m not playing games, John,” LaRusso’s brow furrows, a firecracker even in this moment. “I came here to talk to you about–”

“About what.” You keep your voice dangerously low, never breaking eye contact no matter how much you want to. “What the hell could we possibly talk about?”

LaRusso blinks, and for a moment you see him as he really is, for the first time. “Well– everything!”

You scoff and finally look away, shaking your head and grinding your teeth. “Everything.”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Don’t you feel it?”

“What?”

“This– this thing, between us.”

“This is exactly what you said last time.”

“And you felt it then, too!” Daniel cries, throwing his hands up. “You denied it but– but I know it.”

“Oh, well, describe it, then,” You snark, shooting a glare in his direction. “Describe just what this thing is.”

“It’s– well, you know!” he says hopelessly. “Some sort of… a spark, or electricity, or something. Between us.”

“What?”

“How come you think we keep running into each other? It’s gotta be fate, or something.”

“I think it’s just that I can’t seem to get rid of you.”

“You don’t want to get rid of me.”

You blink. Daniel stands firm, eyes searching yours, and you think he sees something you’re missing. You want to surrender everything to him.

“I tried to hurt you. I did hurt you,” you say instead. Daniel closes his eyes and breathes out slowly.

“Did you want to?”

The question hits you like a sack of bricks and you hear yourself breathe in sharply, nearly staggering back. You catch him opening his eyes and close yours instead, just so you don’t have to see him.

Because he’s right, isn’t he? He’s always right. He was right about you drinking less, he was right about you being into him, and now he’s more right about this. You promised you wouldn’t hurt him again.

Even still, there’s one thing you have to get out before you can put an end to this.

“And what if there is? What if there is something between us, some cosmic force or whatever.” you say. “What if after everything we’ve been through, we keep coming back to each other? What do we do then?”

Daniel stays silent for a moment, just looking at you, looking through you. His deep eyes are doe-like and watery, aged, and his knuckles are scarred and rough where he grips the back of the sofa.

“I don’t know. But we should do something.”

The answer hangs in the air above you, lingering like a bad smell. Something. That sets something off inside you, and all the weight of the world crashes in on you. There’s nothing you can do.

“There’s nothing we can do,” you whisper to the hardwood.

There’s shuffling, but you don’t look up. Daniel stands tentatively in front of you, trying to peer up into your eyes from where your head is hanging. One of his hands brushes against yours, and you don’t do anything to move it.

“What happened to your knuckles?” you ask. You’re pretty sure you already know.

He winces, and his hand comes up to entwine with yours. You let it happen, not moving an inch except for breathing. Still breathing.

Daniel takes a couple seconds just to stand there, holding you. “You’ve never asked before.”

“Never felt the need to,” you mumble, still not looking up. “Felt too. Heavy.”

He still says nothing. He shuffles a little closer to you. His scuffed up sneakers bump against your ratty slippers, and then he drops your hand. You think, that’s it, this is the part where he hits me and leaves, and we never talk again aside from strained conversation in the halls.

But then his arms come up around you, solid and warm, and it’s like a dam gives inside you. You hear an ugly sob tear from your throat like a choked animal, and he helps you to the floor when your knees give out. You clutch him desperately, fearing that he’ll disappear into mist if you let go.

One of his hands comes up to cup the back of your head, threading into the hair back there, more like a mullet now than five months ago. The world is still outside of the two of you, two cosmic entities alone apart from each other. Always in orbit, but never touching. That is, until one of them gave in. You think it would be inappropriate to ask who did it first, not now when you’re crying into his hair.

When you calm down slightly (ten minutes or maybe three hours later), Daniel leans back and bumps his forehead against yours, still grasping the threadbare material of your shirt. You feel the warm huffs of his breath against your face, utterly exposed. He wears his bleeding heart on his sleeve every day, and you wonder just what you did to find a place in it. But it’s always been him, hasn’t it? Always been LaRusso, always been Daniel, Daniel, Daniel–

“Daniel…”

You collapse into his shoulder again, no longer sobbing but still wrecked. Your insides feel hollowed out but not empty, just with something new. Clearer. You’re exhausted.

“Yeah, John?”

You pull back again to look him in the eye. You see the same fucked up kid from the beach all those years ago, and you see yourself reflected back from his dark pupils. And you see a man holding everything you hold, a man you’re willing to share the burden with.

When you surge forward to catch his lips in yours, he meets you halfway, and from there it’s fire and fury and all the anger you carry in yourselves, and all the love, too. You want to drown in him forever. You want him to keep holding you. You want him to use those scarred, calloused hands of his, and teach you how to make something with your own. You want to stop destroying everything you love. You want, you want, you want.

He pulls back, all hot breath and flushed cheeks, and then dives in again like a swimmer surfacing for air. You get lost in the touch, in its sobering embrace, the roughness of his fingers where they press into your hip. He kisses you like the waves kiss the shore, like a lost lover, like the sun and the moon, forever caught in their celestial dance. You wonder when he made you so philosophical.

Daniel pulls back again sometime later, when the sun is long past set and your head is laying in his lap on the couch. Delicate fingers thread through your hair, and it’s everything you’ve ever wanted, ever. You think you could burst with all the love in your heart. For once in your life, it outweighs the anger; you feel something set in place inside your chest, something that was askew for a long time. You take his other hand in yours, threading your fingers through his.

“Happy birthday, Daniel,” you whisper into his knit sweater. Junebug rattle around in the kitchen. A door down the hall creaks. Cool rain batters the window.

Daniel LaRusso chuckles, squeezing you a little tighter.

“Love you too, Lawrence.”

 

Fin.

 

 

“Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there?”

- Richard Silken // Crush

Notes:

Another longer fic that took me 9 months to write-- I'm sensing a trend here. Anyways, this is my first fic in this fandom, and I'm pretty proud of it! Johnny and Daniel hold a very special place in my heart, and I'm so happy to be able to share this with you all. Feel free to leave any thoughts in the comments, and thanks for stopping by!