Fan Fiction - Krasobruslení - Drabbles
Johnny is speechless when he first sees your hair, or the lack of it. Then, closing his mouth, he steps closer. He reaches out as if to touch you, but pulls away in the last moment, smacking the back of your head instead. It’s a light slap and you laugh because you think he’s just playing. But Johnny frowns and slaps you full force, his palm stinging where it hits your cheek.
“What the fuck?!” you cry out, shocked, and start rubbing at the reddened skin.
Johnny has turned his back at you, so you grab his shoulder and make him turn around; he’s not going to get away with this!
Or maybe he is. Because there are tears in his eyes when you look into his face and a hunch to his shoulders that’s all kinds of wrong. He looks at you as if you had just hit him.
“What –? It’s just hair, Johnny!” You know he’s a little sensitive about the whole beauty thing, but getting this upset over a haircut...
He reaches out again and this time runs his fingers over the short spikes of your hair, shuddering at the sensation as they tickle his palm. And then he breaks your heart, whispering: “You look just like him. Just like Evan.”
Images of that summer two years ago flash through your head: Johnny and Evan playing charades on the ice, laughing. Them sitting together every night on the road – Johnny’s head dropped onto Evan’s shoulder in light slumber, or with Johnny in Evan’s lap, kissing in the dubious privacy in the very back of the bus. Johnny giggling at the way Evan’s hair felt under his touch after he’d shaved his head.
Johnny’s red-rimmed eyes when Evan decided that the summer was over and so was their inappropriate ‘summer fling’.
It’s not about your hair, after all.
You turn to leave, holding your own tears back, but just barely. But he speaks again, voice coarse and trembling:
“Are you going to leave me, too?” Scared. Desperate. Crushed.
And you finally understand. It’s not about your hair. It’s not about Evan, either. It’s just about you.
“No,” you answer and pull him close, let him claw at your skin. “I’ll stay,” you add to let him know that he’s not... disposable. Not for you. For you, only one thing had to go for the summer: the hair.