You Can't Win This Fight

Johnny woke up to bellowing yells beside his ear. "Johnny! Wake the fuck up, you idiot!" Matt was next to him, trying to move his limp body off the pedal while steering them. The force of Matt’s spare hand lifting him up by one armpit burned his skin like the sun, rubbing his flesh raw with his large hands. Johnny lifted his foot in a sleepy daze, shifting as Matt sat down on the seat beside him, taking up most of it. "Get to bed, Johnny."

He rubbed his hand all over his face, wiping away the exhaustion. "Shit, I'm so sorry Matt -- I didn't mean to fall asleep!" He didn't move for a long moment, as Matt's arm beside him tensed and his face hardened like stone. The bigger man was obviously just managing to stop himself from saying something, or punching the small body, but he held his arms close to himself and kept his posture tense.

"Just go to bed."

Johnny clambered over Matt to escape to bed, muttering frantic apologies. The tip of his mohawk brushed Matt’s chin, and Matt noted a limp greasiness that suggested neglect. Johnny really hadn’t been looking after himself. The fog of sleep deprivation blurred the fine lines of objects so as Johnny staggered back to the sleeping area of the bus he fell and cracked his ankle off of a loose box. He curled up in a still warm vacant spot that was most likely Matt's and fell asleep quickly against a cold, hard guitar case.

In his dreams Johnny ran, chased by a van. His terror choked him, expelling air from his lungs in wheezy, petrified gasps and distracting him as he ran. He fled round corners and ducked through pedestrian areas, but wherever he ran the van followed. As he ran he looked over his shoulder, each time scaring him anew when he noticed the van was a little bit closer than before. He couldn't escape; there was no one to save him. It was nipping on his heels when heads popped out the windows. “You tried to kill us!” Jimmy screamed at him. “You woke me up. I’ll fucking murder you!”

Zacky hurled baseballs at him, whacking them off of his head at a terrible speed that made him jerk and his head begin to bruise and bleed. He turned another corner, stopped in his tracks by a brick wall; tall and impossible to scale.

The van skidded to a halt with a screech of tyres and the doors opened. Brian, Matt, Zacky and Jimmy emerged holding piping and baseball bats. Whacking them menacingly against their palms they approached. Johnny screamed louder, calling for help; for mercy; for forgiveness.

“Johnny, Johnny,” Matt crooned. He walked closer, raising his bat above his head with a grin.