Chapter Text
Daniel LaRusso. That fucking snitch. He just had to go cry wolf and drag Bobby into this. His fear twists into something hot & fierce, and the feeling surges through him. Johnny grits his teeth into a cold smile, trying to keep the anger off his face.
He answers Bobby’s irritated question in kind with, “Hi Bobby. Nice to see you, Bobby. Wow, has it really been two weeks? Oh, how am I doing? Great, thanks for asking. How are you?”
“Cut the bullshit, asshole,” Bobby fumes, voice low and venomous. Bobby’s one of the few people who can look at Johnny like this and make him feel small. “What the hell is going on? Why did I get a phone call from Daniel LaRusso freaking out and begging me to check on you? We both tried calling you, but we couldn’t get through! You could’ve been dead for all we knew!”
Johnny rolls his eyes and scowls at his friend. “And you call me dramatic. Look, my phone’s broken, and LaRusso’s a nervous nelly. We got a few beers one time, and now he thinks he’s gotta play savior or some shit. Guess y’all have that in common.”
Bobby pauses, his fury obviously building (and god, does Johnny love to see that), and he asks, “Oh, is that how you see it. Because he told me you’re getting into shit way over your head, and he’s scared something bad’s gonna happen to you.”
Johnny doesn’t even give Bobby a chance to breathe as he snaps, “Look, unless you came here to apologize for that bullshit at the bar-”
“What bullshit at the bar?” Bobby interrupts.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Johnny starts, “being a total asshole to me about Cobra Kai & Kreese, writing me off about our fucked memories.”
Johnny suppresses a wince. Why did he defend Kreese? He doesn’t need to do that anymore, not after all these years, not after what he did.
“Are you still upset about that?” Bobby asks incredulously. “Oh my God, Kreese was a shit man who almost killed you and taught us to be tiny fighting machines. It’s a miracle we didn’t kill anyone. It’s a miracle Daniel is still alive to call me!”
“Fine!” Johnny snaps, leaning into the hall. “You can hate Kreese all you want. Whatever. You still wrote me off and acted like I was crazy for wanting to figure out why none of remember the same fucking thing, like that isn’t fucking scary.”
“Holy shit, I’m so sorry for thinking diving back into our past was a bad idea. Is that what you’ve been doing? Is- Is that how you’ve been spending your days? Drinking and digging up old shit?” Bobby asks, throwing his hands into the air to support his point. If Johnny couldn’t tell he was furious before, he absolutely can now. He throws his hands around like he’s has to put more energy into his movements, so he doesn’t literally blow his top off.
Johnny stifles at the mention of drinking, but he says, “Yeah, maybe I have been doing that. It’s not like you would care, huh? Am I wrong?”
“Yes! You are!” Bobby exasperates, but he deflates for a moment, glancing down the hall at some unknown neighbor. “I’m not doing this out here. Open the door.”
Johnny drums his fingers on the door and pretends to think it over. “Hm, well, maybe I don’t even want you here,” he seethes.
“Well,” Bobby says through gritted teeth & clenched fists, “I think you’re an idiot because if Daniel’s even half right, I don’t think you should be alone right now.”
“Well, I think he needs to mind his goddamn business!” Johnny half-shouts, and a cold realization worms its way into his head. He scowls, “What? What did that blabbermouth say to you?”
Bobby sneers at Johnny at the word “blabbermouth”, the fucking goody-two-shoes he is. “God, you’re such a prick,” Bobby sighs, but he moves on quickly. “Daniel didn’t tell me much, unfortunately, but he did say he was worried as hell, and he begged me to check on you. Begged me. Said your sleepwalking is getting dangerous, and he’s scared that you’re alone. That no one can get through to you. Now, are you gonna open the goddamn door or not?”
“Oooo,” Johnny mocks, “Not very priest-like of you Bobby.”
Bobby’s already flushed face turns red hot, and that sick twist of satisfaction curls through Johnny’s gut again. He smiles at the anger radiating from Bobby, but it disappears the second Bobby stomps towards the door and pushes Johnny out of the way with a, “That’s it, move.”
“Hey, I didn’t fucking-,” Johnny starts, but the words die in his throat as Bobby shoves his way in. The familiar inkling of anxiety (from Bobby being here, apt to find something) mixes in with the anger, and it’s like putting gas on a fire. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?”
Bobby pushes further into the cramped apartment, past Johnny, and turns to face him (while also blocking Johnny’s way into the kitchen.) “I’m ready to have this fucking conversation now. Why the hell do you think I wouldn’t care about you digging into Cobra Kai and Kreese? Of course I’d care, you fucking dumbass! And you wanna know why I care and think it’s a shit idea? Because I knew it would fuck you up!”
“I don’t need your fucking protection,” Johnny fumes, slamming the door shut. The thin walls shudder, and the air grows thick with tension as he stomps over to Bobby. “What, you think if I think about Kreese too hard, I’m gonna fucking shatter?”
“Well, if you have been trying to sort this out all on your own, then you’re proving me right! You’re- You’re sleepwalking. You look awful. You-,” Bobby starts, but he wrinkles his nose and looks around the room. “What are you burning? You don’t own candles.”
The heat of Johnny’s anger is tempered with icy fear. Don’t turn around, stop looking and focus on Johnny. “Some shit my mom gave me. It smells good so I figured I might as well use it,” he lies. God, he hates lying to Bobby. “Now, can we get back to this stupid argument so you can leave already?”
Bobby ignores him, too busy looking at the incense (and remembering Johnny’s mom is, in fact, a spiritual weirdo), and Johnny’s heart races. The Demonologist’s Dictionary is right there. He fights not to stare at it as Bobby picks up his pack of cigarettes.
He turns to Johnny (thank god), and he says with surprising softness, “I thought you didn’t smoke.”
Johnny swallows thickly. It’s a small phrase. It’s so simple, and it cuts him to his core. It’s easy to forget the depth of his care. “I don’t.”
‘Don’t look over. Don’t notice the books,’ Johnny begs in his head, fighting not to directly look at the incriminating evidence.
It’s just too bad that the patent pending Lawrence luck pulls through.
Bobby sets down the pack of cigarettes, and the next punchline of Johnny’s shit life is the way Bobby’s head shifts the wrong direction. He picks up The Demonologist’s Dictionary, and Johnny whispers, “…Fuck.”
Bobby looks over the book with furrowed brows. He rotates it in his hands, flicking through the pages. They meet each other’s eyes again, and Johnny knows he looks guilty (because he is guilty, to some degree.) Bobby holds the book up and asks, “Why the hell do you have this?”
It’s lost the anger, now just genuine confusion. If Johnny listened carefully enough, he might even hear a hint of fear. Johnny answers, “Look, it’s not what you think.”
“I don’t even know what to think,” Bobby quickly admits, glancing between Johnny & the book. “Why do you have this? Don’t bullshit me, Johnny. You owe me that much.”
Johnny turns around. Fuck. Fuck. Why the hell did he have to come today? Come now? Why did LaRusso have to be a fucking snitch? Why is his life falling apart at the goddamn seams? He can’t even face Bobby when he admits, “I have been trying to figure out what’s wrong with us. I’ve… I’ve gone through a lot of different theories.”
“How the hell did you settle on demons?” Bobby asks, flabbergasted. Johnny’s door is a fascinatingly cheap piece of carpentry, now that he’s really looking at it. His neck burns from Bobby’s gaze & red-hot embarrassment.
“It wasn’t my first theory if that makes you feel any better,” he says, but that’s not really true. “I tried to the normal route, looking into the past, doing research, but I got nowhere. I ended up going to the dojo, and I found a… God, don’t call me crazy, but I found a pentagram under the mats.”
Johnny winces as he admits that fact, but Bobby is silent. A chair scrapes across the floor, and that forces Johnny to finally turn around. Bobby sits in it, head in his hands.
“You can see why-,” Johnny starts, but Bobby cuts him off.
His head lifts, and he says, “The dojo has been closed for years. You broke in there, and then you found a pentagram and jumped to demons?”
“Will you let me fucking finish?” Johnny hisses, and Bobby drops his head back down, waving for him to continue.
Johnny takes another breath. “I thought that was weird, but when I touched it, I remembered something, and ever since then, it’s all been shit. I can’t sleep. I’m a ball of fucking nerves. I started fucking sleepwalking, but someone already told you that,” Johnny bites, but his anger chills. He looks down to his feet. “Bobby, I sleepwalked through breaking my plates, and- and I walked over them. My feet are fucked. That’s not normal. It was… fuck, it was terrifying.”
He looks back up to find Bobby staring wide-eyed, his face a wash of emotions Johnny can’t even begin to name. This is the point where if Johnny had half a brain, he’d shut up and leave it there, but he can’t. Something about Bobby makes Johnny spill his guts, no matter how hard he tries not to.
“I wish that was the worst part,” Johnny shakily laughs. “Don’t- Don’t call me crazy. I’m serious. But uh, this morning… I went to answer the phone, and- and- Oh my god, I sound insane. I shouldn’t be telling you this. When I answered it, no one was there. Just, just this person wheezing, exactly like in this nightmare I had. Then the cord it… fuck, the phone cord turned into a snake, and it tried to bite me.”
The words keep tumbling, and Johnny wishes he could shut up, but he can’t. He opened the floodgates, and there is no turning back. He continues, “I know it wasn’t real. I know it wasn’t! But fuck, it felt so real. I had to unhook my phone from the wall. That’s why calls wouldn’t come through. I thought- I really thought-”
His voice grows thick with watery emotions, and Johnny fights to quell the avalanche threatening to bury him. Bobby, meanwhile, stands from the chair and begins to pace in the small space as best as he can. Johnny feels sick to his stomach. He doesn’t know what nightmare he prefers – whatever he’s experiencing right now or the one where he gets to hear that awful breathing again.
Bobby stays silent. Johnny stays silent. Even if they knew what to say, would it get through the tension coursing through the air? Bobby pauses his pacing. His feet still, and he turns to Johnny with a worried, grim look. He says, “You… You went back to the dojo. You remembered something there, when you touched the… pentagram. And ever since then it’s just… spiraled out of control. That’s why you think it’s demonic.”
Johnny shrugs and shifts his unsure feet. He swallows and says, “That’s the gist of it.”
Bobby sighs slowly, turning his face away one last time before approaching Johnny. He put a feather-light hand on Johnny’s arm, and without meaning to, Johnny leans into its warm, steady presence. It makes his heart grow tight and weary, suddenly all too aware of how lonely the past two weeks have been.
Bobby looks Johnny in the eyes. He starts, “Sorry. I didn’t think I’d have to do this so soon.”
Johnny squints in confusion, and Bobby continues, “Johnny. You have a problem. A serious one. I don’t think any of this-” Bobby vaguely gestures, implying the nightmare that was Johnny’s week. “-is demonic. I… I’m putting this as gently as I can… I think you have an alcohol problem.”
With every word that comes out of Bobby’s mouth, Johnny’s heart falls; it’s a slow degradation from gentle, confused hope into bitter despair. Johnny asks, “Bobby, what are you talking about?”
“How much have you drunk this past week? Guesstimate for me,” Bobby asks, and Johnny’s weary heart only aches harder.
“More than usual, but what does that have to do with this?” Johnny pushes. Bobby drops his hand from Johnny’s arm, and the uncovered space feels cold and empty.
“Numbers. Estimates. Come on,” Bobby asks again.
Johnny opens and closes his mouth before harshly settling on, “Fine. A lot more than usual. Think I got through a few cases after the dojo…”
“So, the sleep stuff got worse as you drank more,” Bobby says rather than asks, and the quiet moment they shared begins to morph & twist into something different. Something much more painful.
“Are you seriously blaming all of this on- on a few beers?” Johnny asks, eyes narrowed & fists clenched.
“A few cases in a week is not a few beers!” Bobby implores, and his almost pleading tone makes Johnny equal parts furious and sick. “Between that and poking an open wound – going back to fucking Cobra Kai like you don’t still struggle with everything Kreese did – of course you’re gonna spiral. Jesus, Johnny, either one of those by themselves is bad enough.”
Johnny’s mouth is closed into a tight, sharp line. Biting down against his teeth, so hard his molars ache. He should’ve known. He should’ve goddamn known Bobby would do this. Say this. Treat him like a fucking child who doesn’t know jack shit. It takes everything in him not to drag Bobby out by the ear.
Johnny eventually grits out, “Are you fucking kidding me? I drank so much because I was dealing with a fucking demon trying to fuck me over from the inside out. How- How can you hear this shit and blame alcohol. Did you even listen?”
“Yes, Johnny. I listened. But- Even as a Christian, I don’t see how this is demonic. You can’t lie, you drink a lot, and alcohol and old trauma can make our brains go fucking stupid. I had to take a psych class-”
“What?!” Johnny snaps. “So you can play doctor and psychoanalyze me?! I’m not some fucking victim! I’m a grown man, I’m over this. I have a life again. I have a future.”
“What future?” Bobby pushes. “Your future in your dead-end construction job? Your future using the degree you couldn't even fucking finish?! You had a future, but you fucking wasted it getting- getting fucking wasted! You wanna know why I think you were out for a damn month? Because you couldn't keep away from the bottle long enough to stay sober! I know you had a lot of shit thrown at you, but all you've done to deal with it is get drunk. You probably could've gotten through college if you tried hard enough! You could’ve had- had so much more if you just tried, but no! You-”
“If I tried?” Johnny asks, voice raising. Rage boils over into his every tendon & muscle fiber. “Are you serious? I had to piece myself back together after having the one man I thought I could trust throw me away like fucking rat crap! I had to fight to find a reason not to throw it all away! You think that wasn’t trying, maybe I should show your pretentious ass what not trying is.”
“You’re right. You’re right,” Bobby backtracks, hands raised. “But I’m not wrong that it isn’t fucking demons making you not sleep. You had nightmares for weeks after Kreese hurt you, how the hell are you not surprised your sleep is dogshit again?”
Johnny scoffs, “Because I didn’t get attacked this time! Because I’m just nosing around for answers! I’ve accepted what’s happened. I’ve-”
Bobby barks a laugh, “Are you kidding me? I can’t even breath a word about Kreese without you running to his defense. He’s the one that almost killed you, and you still act like his fucking lap dog! You’re not over this! You never have been! If he walked through that door and gave some half-assed apology for what he did, you’d beg him to take you back.”
Johnny’s mouth falls agape. The words hit him like a slap to the face, stinging like freezer burn. He’s too furious to even think.
“Get out,” Johnny growls, fighting to control his voice into a reasonable volume.
“Excuse me?” Bobby asks like it isn’t obvious Johnny wants to give him a taste of Kreese-brand medicine.
“I said get the fuck out of my apartment.” Each of Johnny’s words drip with cold venom, controlled & constrained because somehow, he can still hold himself back. Bobby better be grateful Johnny gives enough of a shit about him not to tear him to pieces, verbally or otherwise.
Bobby smiles again, though not an ounce of it reaches his eyes. He says, “Hate to break it to you, Johnny, but I’m not going fucking anywhere! You’ve been thinking about Kreese all week. You can’t even sleep, much less without hurting yourself. I don’t care how pissed you are, I’m staying!”
“Stop pretending like you care!” Johnny finally yells, the first to break this inevitable barrier. “If you did, you’d fucking listen! You never listen! I have been trying and trying for the past five years to get over this shit, but that doesn’t mean shit to you, does it? Oh no, Johnny’s just fucked in the head, no need to listen to what he says or give him any goddamn grace.”
“I don’t listen? Me?” Bobby shouts in kind, pointing a harsh thumb at himself for emphasis and leaning into Johnny’s space. “All I ever do is listen! Ever since Kreese pulled that bullshit, I have been there day after day helping you pick up the pieces! I have let you say and do all kinds of bullshit to me because I know you’re hurting. I love you. You are my brother. Do not say don’t care. Do not fucking say that, you prick.”
Johnny puts a hand over his eyes and turns around. Son a bitch is right, to some degree. They are brothers. Johnny’s pissed as hell, and even if Bobby isn’t perfect, Johnny’s not being fair. Bobby isn’t being fair, either, but…
“Fine. I’m sorry,” Johnny bites out. His shoulders deflate as he turns back around to face his fuming friend. “Stay if you want. I don’t care.”
“Good,” Bobby states. “Because I am.”
“Fine,” Johnny relents. “Fine.”
━━━━━━━━━╗✹╔━━━━━━━━━
Johnny’s ungracefully awoken by Bobby’s blubbering, “Johnny. Someone’s at the door.”
For emphasis, Bobby gently shakes him, and Johnny groans in response. The question of “what the hell?” sits on his tongue until he hears it: knocking at his door.
When Johnny went to bed after a painfully awkward & quiet dinner with Bobby, Bobby slipped into bed with him so he would wake up easier if Johnny tried to sleepwalk. Now, he’s using it to bother Johnny about this. He doesn’t get visitors for two weeks, and now, he’s Mr. Popular. Ugh.
Johnny sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes. Is he destined to never get a full night’s sleep? Can’t he get a full eight hours for once? Another set of knocks makes him sigh loudly as he drags himself out of his warm, comfortable bed (now complete with a concerned & cuddly asshole.)
He shuffles his way over to his door, glancing at the oven clock that reads it’s half past one. Who the fuck is knocking at this hour? They’ve got to be insane. Or a dick. Or both. He flicks on his kitchen light as he crosses through his poor excuse of a living room towards the door.
Another knock, knock, knock sounds from the door, and Johnny sighs. His lips curl into a frown as he calls out, “I’m coming, calm down!”
He walks up to the door and glances through the peephole. He instantly knows that this person is both a dick and (probably clinically, to some degree) insane because just outside the door, standing on swaying feet & buried in a beaten-up leather jacket, is none other than his best friend Dutch. The sight of his weary face shakes the last dredges of sleep from Johnny, and he quickly unlocks and opens the door wide open to get a better look at his friend.
Dark circles (ones that nearly match Johnny’s) are painted under bloodshot eyes. The hall’s harsh, artificial light makes a normally tan & lively Dutch look sickly & weak. The familiar yeasty smell of booze practically radiates off him.
Dutch runs a hand through navy blue hair (freshly dyed since Johnny last saw him, it seems), and his eyes are trained on the dated carpet as he slurs, “Sorry to come ‘ere so late and wake you up. I just… Can I crash here tonight?”
Johnny holds open the door and ushers his absolutely wasted friend inside. Dutch threatens to trip on his feet as he staggers inside, even though the couch is barely even a yard away from the door. “Of course,” Johnny reassures as Dutch thuds onto the couch. “You know you’re always welcome.”
Dutch snickers to himself and sways into the laugh. He smiles up at Johnny and says, “Even after that party at the Reiland’s?”
Johnny snorts back and rolls his eyes affectionately as he locks the door behind them. “Yeah dipshit, even after that.”
Dutch’s snicker tempers off into a soft sniffle. His blinks fiercely as he says, “Sorry. I was- my aunt was ‘posed to be here tonight, but she had to fly to Milan last minute.”
Dutch puts his face in his hands, like he can physically hide from the heavy emotions that chased him into Johnny’s apartment. In that moment, it all clicks for Johnny. The days have been blurring together so bad he didn’t even realize what today (or yesterday, really) even was
“Shit, yeah, it’s… it’s your parent’s anniversary, right?” He asks softly.
“Yup,” Dutch says. His voice is thick with tears, and it feels like only a matter of time before they spill. “Twelve years since it happened. Thought it’d be easier by now. That I could be alone. Guess I was wrong.”
Dutch laughs, but it turns into a series of hiccuping sobs. His heart aches. Even if Johnny’s brand of gentle sympathy is clumsy at best, he knows its better than nothing. Besides, it’s Dutch. He’d take a bullet this dumbass, and as such, Johnny sits beside his friend and wraps an arm around his shoulders.
“You’re not alone now, man. I got you,” he whispers. He’s known Dutch for… well, twelve years, and for all twelve of those years, the anniversary of his parents’ death has never been easy on the guy. Without fail, it sends Dutch spiraling – or least, almost spiraling. His aunt could usually reel him in before he turned into a total train wreck, but with her gone…
Johnny’s just glad Dutch found his way here. There’s a million things he could be doing, each one more dangerous than the last, but at least he’s here – relatively unbruised and seemingly just drunk, thank god. That’s practically a miracle, and not one Johnny will overlook.
Johnny pulls away from Dutch and stands. (He doesn’t want to, though. He can feel the magnetic pull between them, his fingertips itching for connection.) He says, “I’ve got a blanket… somewhere. Katie never came back for it.”
He walks away before the magnetism grows so strong he falls onto the couch, and he makes his way to the hall closet. Dutch gruffly asks, “Which one was Katie?”
Johnny rolls his eyes (with more affection than he’d ever admit) and starts to make a joke, but it dies in his throat the second his hand touches the closet door. The memory of trophies scattered across a bloodstained floor jolts through him, and Johnny freezes. The horror still feels so real. It’s a bitter irony, honestly. The memories he’s desperate to recall refuse to make themselves known, and the experiences he’d rather forget stay front & center in his mind.
He can’t stop himself wondering: has something else been rearranged while he wasn’t looking? What could have been changed? Maybe the trophies moved again, prepped & primed to fall again – except this time, instead of falling to the floor, Johnny will take the brunt of the impact and learn what a cracked skull feels. Maybe-
“Earth to Johnny!” Dutch calls from the other room, and Johnny snaps out of it. He pulls open the closet door before his mental footing slips, dreading what may be hiding behind inside – only to find nothing has changed. Everything is in order, exactly where it was when he reburied those trophies. He grabs the baby blue throw blanket from the top of a small pile and absently answers, “She was the blonde who did volleyball. Hated our bikes?”
“I ‘member her,” Dutch answers while Johnny quickly & quietly shuts the closet door: out of sight, out of mind. “She was a bitch. Good riddance. She wasn’t even that good at volleyball.”
Dutch begins to quickly ramble away, and Johnny takes the opportunity to poke his head into his bedroom. Bobby’s still there, fast asleep and sawing logs with his head buried in a pillow. The sight makes something in Johnny’s chest unspool and gives him the confidence to turn the corner into the main room.
He finds Dutch, still mumbling & grumbling away and trying (and failing) to undo his bootlaces. He’s managed to undo half a boot, but that’s about it. It’d be much funnier if Johnny wasn’t half-dead on his feet and Dutch wasn’t neck-deep in grief.
Johnny throws the blanket at Dutch’s head, half-hoping he’ll pass out like parrots do. (He doesn’t. He fights his way out of the blanket while threatening to throttle Johnny with his bare hands.) Johnny ignores him and pushes Dutch onto his back, using the man’s disorientation to grab a shoe and start undoing laces. He takes a fraction of the time Dutch did and teases, “Why do you always get wasted in shoes you can’t take off?”
Dutch, finally free, takes the opportunity to sprawl out, kicking one foot onto the armrest and holding the other up so Johnny can reach it easier. “To make you do it for me?”
“You’re an asshole,” Johnny snickers; he can’t stop himself from laughing, not around this dipshit. Dutch is so intoxicated he devolves into a puddle of messy giggles, making Johnny’s life twice as hard, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s a nice moment to melt into. It’s a nice breather before the next hit of Lawrence luck.
As Dutch nestles his way under the blanket, he shifts and squirms until he stops at an odd angle. Johnny carefully watches Dutch as he tosses the man’s shoes by the door, and his heart catches in his throat (for the umpteenth time this never-ending day) as Dutch reaches between the cushions where a book Johnny wants no one to see has been stashed.
A crawling feeling curls up his spine, and Johnny chastises himself for forgetting to put away the book from Sage already. He dashes over to steal it out of Dutch’s hands, but the man could win Olympic gold playing keep-away.
Johnny swings around the front of the couch for a better angle, but he catches a lazily thrown kick from Dutch (it’s sloppy but annoyingly effective) as the shitbag snickers, “Oh hell no, I wanna see what you’ve been jerking to!”
Unfortunately for them both, it’s no Playboy, stashed in the couch for later use. Johnny isn’t fast enough, and Dutch curls around the book to protect it from Johnny as he reads the cover. Johnny can’t see Dutch’s face, but his friend’s gleeful snickering fades away all too quick.
Still fighting Johnny’s grabbing hands away, Dutch asks (with a shocking amount of soberness), “Johnny, what the hell is this?
“It is none of your business,” Johnny snaps, trying to grope his way around Dutch’s side, but his friend shoulders him off and takes the opportunity to dart (stumble) towards the kitchen.
“Dutch!” Johnny cries out, forced to reorient. (Though, Dutch doesn’t pay him any attention. He’s happy to flick through the fragile pages.) “Give that back!”
The book snaps close, and Dutch spins on his heel, almost falling on his ass but not quite. “Not until you tell me about this!” He says, holding the book to his chest. He cocks his head to the side for a moment as he asks, “Also, where the hell’s your phone?”
“Broken,” Johnny too easily supplies. “And I don’t have to tell you shit!”
“You have a book on demons!” Dutch cries, holding it up as if Johnny’s hasn’t almost read it cover to cover. To make matters worse, Dutch’s gaze travels over to the kitchen table, and he sees the library books. “Two! Two books on demons! What the hell, man? When’d you get all spooky?”
Johnny rubs his eyes. Exhaustion weighs his limbs down. He doesn’t want to do this again tonight. He just wants to crawl back in bed and pray he can get some semblance of rest. He asks, “Do you really want to know now? Can’t we go to bed?”
“When have I ever put things off?” Dutch asks with the confidence of a drunk man. Johnny opens his mouth to answer, but Dutch interrupts, “Don’t answer that. Just tell me why you’re going all… Exorcist on me, or else I can and will keep you awake ‘til you fess up.”
Johnny puts his hands over his face and groans into them. That asshole will follow through on that threat. He hates this. He hates himself. He hates Dutch and Bobby. He should’ve let Dutch sleep on the doorstep. “Fine,” Johnny relents. “But I’m getting a beer first.”
The two settle into new places: Dutch clumsily glides over to the dining chair behind the TV, and Johnny plucks a cold can of Coors from the fridge. He cracks it open and chugs it as Dutch tries (and fails) to sit in the chair. Johnny almost has to intervene when Dutch finally gets his ass fully planted in the seat, tossing the stolen book beside the other two Johnny has.
“Alright,” Johnny finally says once he gets through half a can. “If you call me crazy or interrupt me, you can find somewhere else to crash tonight, so zip it.”
Dutch mimes locking his mouth shut and throwing away the key. It’s a kind gesture knowing Dutch will break that promise the second he feels like it.
“You remember the bar?” Johnny starts as he clicks the fridge door closed. “Where you guys refused to listen to me that our fucked memories were a bad thing we needed to worry about?”
Dutch has terrible poker face sober, so Johnny can almost pinpoint every awkward, shameful emotion that washes across his face. Dutch begrudgingly answers, “Yeah… Guess I do.”
Johnny’s too tired to look smug, even though he really wants to rub that admission in with a shit-eating grin. “Yeah, well, I looked into it anyways. Looked into Kreese & Cobra Kai, and I wound up snooping around in the dojo, and you won’t believe what I found in there.”
Dutch squints at him, and his mouth shapes into a thin line. It’s the face he makes when he wants to say something but is deciding against it. (Johnny’s seen this look a handful of times at best.)
Johnny doesn’t wait for answer, “A fucking pentagram. Under the mats. Craziest part? I actually half-remembered something there, too. Fucking crazy what happens when you don’t leave shit alone! Didn’t take me long to put two and two together after my sleep schedule fell to pieces, what with all the nightmares and sleepwalking- oh, I sleepwalk now. By the way.”
It’s a very abridged story, but it’s sufficient enough. Dutch leans onto one arm, face still pulled tight with confusion, and he blankly gestures, “So, you had all that shit ‘appen and decided demons was the answer?”
“Choose your next words carefully,” Johnny warns. He physically cannot put up with any more bullshit after Bobby, and he’s happy to make good on his threat.
Dutch raises his hands defensively. “Hey, ‘s alright. Sounds like a, uh, real shitty… week? Two weeks? Yeah. But what’s the books for?”
Johnny rolls his eyes. His friend really is an idiot. He leans against the fridge and sharply answer, “So, I can figure out how to get rid of this. Kreese did… something with a demon, fuck if I know what, but he tried to get us in on some scheme, and because I didn’t drop it, I know how to take care of this.”
Dutch squints. “Wait, take care of this? How?”
Johnny pushes himself off the fridge and walks forward. He leans against the table, one hand holding him up and the other holding Sage’s gifted book up. “This is how. It talks about what we’ve got going on – demons messing with memories. I’m gonna try and get it out of me and then do you guys.”
Johnny expects many things from Dutch: to call him crazy, to laugh in his face, to drunkenly nod like he’ll somehow remember a lick of the conversation come morning. Those would make sense. Those would be annoying but reasonable reactions.
He doesn’t expect Dutch to lean back in his chair, scoff with a loose smile, and say, “Why’d you wanna do that?”
The words settle into the air like a haze. One simple sentence, and every muscle in Johnny’s weary body is screaming in terror. The air (is stolen from) flees his lungs, and Johnny watches as Dutch realizes the gravity of his own words, the mistake he’s committed.
“What did you just say,” Johnny says- no, demands rather than asks, voice barely above a whisper. His shoulders are rigid mountains, unwilling & unable to move.
Dutch laughs nervously and shrugs. “S-Say what?” He asks. His friend’s body tenses as he sits straighter, smiles tighter.
A million thoughts swarm Johnny’s mind like flies, their buzzing drone blocking out any & everything from the outside world. Among the crowd of thoughts, however, two notions stand out unmistakably: Johnny really is fucking right, and it’s got Dutch.
He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know why. Maybe he’ll never understand it, but whatever has been plaguing him night after night has sunk its claws into Dutch, and it has no plans of letting go. Oh shit, what does he do? Act like he didn’t hear? Pretend that it didn’t happen? Start reciting bible verses? Is it too late? Neither of them have said anything for a while. That’s not good, is it?
“Johnny,” Dutch finally says. His voice shakes, and his eyes are deep pools of raw fear. He didn’t expect that look on his face, and it cuts to Johnny’s core. “You didn’t hear that, okay? It’s gonna be okay. You didn’t hear that.”
Johnny wants to say something, but the words catch in his throat. What could he even say? What should he even say? How does he approach this? What can he do? Why is everything falling apart before he has the chance to even catch his fucking breath? What did he do to deserve this?
“Johnny,” Dutch repeats, but Johnny can’t answer. There is no answer to this. There’s only action, but Johnny’s too weak to do anything. Maybe that’s why Kreese pushed all the ‘strike first’ bullshit onto him because he knew Johnny was too much of a fucking coward to do something when it mattered.
As Johnny’s painful inability to decide what to do lingers, Dutch’s expression only grows more frantic & pleading. He bursts from his chair and stomps up to Johnny, hands planted on the mountains of Johnny’s shoulders. The weight is almost enough to force them to relax. The grip is iron tight, like that might stop Dutch’s hands from trembling. (It doesn’t work. Not in the slightest.)
Up close, Dutch looks terrified rather than simply shaken. His eyes are stretched wide in horror, and his lips curve ever so slightly downward with the same shock that comes when you’re about to watch an car accident happen, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it.
“Please. Johnny. Come on man. Please act like nothing happened,” Dutch begs. His grip hurts, but it’s tying Johnny back to reality. “Just say it. Just say it. Everything’s fine, right man?”
Johnny’s answer doesn’t come in words; his voice is still lost in the depth of fearful uncertainty. No, his answer finally comes in a single step backwards, away from Dutch. A simple condemnation of the man’s request because nothing is fine. Nothing can be fine. Not when every one of Johnny’s fears is being confirmed.
Dutch flinches back as if burned. He steps back once, then twice, and raises his hands to run his fingers through his hair. He spins on his heel, his panicked & pleading mumbling barely audible. Dutch wanders his way to the TV and grabs it for support as he leans down and over. He looks like he’s going to be sick, so much so that Johnny starts to walk forward to maneuver him to a sink.
Except the second his foot hits the floor, and the floorboard creak, Dutch freezes. His shoulders tense. The constant mumbling dies like doused flames. Even the steady rise & fall of his chest stops.
“Dutch?” Johnny asks, the first words he’s spoken. Shame sits on the edges of his vision because of course, now he’s found his voice. Now he’s able to speak.
Dutch doesn’t answer. He simply unfolds himself, stacking the shapes of his body one on the top of the other. His friend rolls his shoulders back as he takes full height, posture perfect and fingers flexing at his side.
It looks wrong. He can’t say how. He can’t say why. It just is.
“D-Dutch? You good, man?” He asks again, cautiously toeing forward. One foot in front of the other as his friend embodies statue-like stillness. Johnny is the one who’s going to be sick, now, only barely keeping himself together enough to reach forward and place a hand on Dutch’s shoulder – barely there, gentle, weightless.
Johnny has known Dutch for half his life. They’re brothers in almost every sense of the word, only missing the same parents. He’s one of the few people who truly understands Johnny. He knows what it’s like to be in a constant free fall, struggling to keep you head above water as everyone else skates by like nothing’s wrong. Johnny knows Dutch. Knows him better than Dutch’s aunt, honestly.
It’s how, when Dutch turns his head around and looks at Johnny, he knows that’s not Dutch staring back at him.
His eyes hold that same deep brown color, but they’re not Dutch’s. Johnny couldn’t tell you exactly why they’re wrong – just that they are, without a shadow of a doubt. He flinches back (pathetic) and stumbles back, foot almost slipping along the linoleum out of sudden shock.
Instinct pushes Johnny to move back and make space between them, between him and what should be his friend. That growing gap must be what makes Dutch take a swing at him. Johnny reflexively blocks it, once again thankful that Cobra Kai’s training is ingrained so deep, and he swallows down the terrifying certainty that something has Dutch.
Johnny’s heart pounds in his ears like war drums as he’s forced to take the defensive. Dutch’s features warp into a vicious, cruel snarl, every wrinkle & crease marked with vitriolic hate. It’s startling enough to distract Johnny into receiving a sharp jab to the chest, followed by a forceful kick he barely has the mind to block. It pushes him back. He’s losing ground.
He’s rusty. Too rusty. Dutch (or whatever’s inside him) knows he’s all offense. Johnny manages to squeeze in a jab, but it’s blocked and reciprocated blindingly fast. His friend should be even rustier than Johnny, but he’s- he’s fucking ruthless.
Dutch forces Johnny back further into the kitchen, but Johnny pays it clumsily in kind with a kick that sends Dutch stumbling into the table with a vicious clatter.
“Dutch!” Johnny begs, panting for air. “I know you’re in there, please.” This… This is a nightmare come to life. Not the snake, not the breathing, not the library – it’s this. Confirmation of his living hell, one that’s now stolen his friend. His worst-case scenario is unfolding before his eyes.
Dutch regains his footing as Johnny strengthens his, and his friend takes advantage. He throws two quick jabs, one blocked and one connecting. The speed, the precision, the rage – it’s terrifying.
What’s even more terrifying is the way Dutch pounces at Johnny like a wild animal. He knocks Johnny to the ground with a massive thud (he’s getting a noise complaint), and instinct takes over Johnny as they devolve into a frantic blur of grappling hands & darting limbs.
Fingers claw, knuckles collide with soft skin, knees aim for vulnerable ribs. This isn’t boyish roughhousing – it’s a fight for survival. It’s a fight Johnny’s losing.
Dutch shouldn’t be- no, isn’t this strong, especially when drunk, but whatever is puppeting his body is. It’s strong enough to slam a fist into Johnny’s cheek that makes his skull bounce against the floor. Aching, shallow pain blooms across the back of his head.
Johnny snags his wrist, but Dutch uses his other hand to ram a fist into Johnny’s jaw. He swears the bone cracks. His head swims, and Johnny tries to defend himself, but it won’t be enough. He’s too strong. It’s too late.
“What the fuck!?” Bobby shouts, startling both Johnny and Dutch (but god is Johnny grateful for him.) Dutch clumsily stumbles off Johnny (like he hadn’t just tackled him to the ground.) Johnny can’t focus on the new scene unfolding before him; it’s nearly impossible to focus with the hazy pain enveloping him. (Is it shock or a concussion, who the hell’s to say?)
By the time Johnny can finally sit up and his vision stops swimming, Bobby is standing between him and Dutch. His brain stalls at the image of Bobby being close, too close to their friend-turned-attacker, and Johnny hauls himself by the counter. Bobby yelps as Johnny drags him away, snarling, “Get away from him.”
Bobby yanks himself from Johnny’s grasp with a sharp, “Get off me.”
Bobby steps back into the middle ground, Dutch now leaning onto the TV for support (like he had before pouncing on Johnny.) Maybe it’s in Johnny’s head, but those brown eyes are full of that same malice. He wants him- no, it- out of his apartment as fast as possible.
Bobby looks between them both and demands, “Okay, what the fuck happened while I was asleep?”
“He,” the thing possessing Johnny’s friend accuses with a finger, “went fucking crazy on me! I jus’ needed a place to crash, and then he attacks me, talking about demons ‘n shit.”
“I attacked you?” Johnny seethes, but he strangles his growing anger into place. He turns his focus to Bobby, pleading, “Bobby. You gotta listen to me. That’s not Dutch. He’s possessed. He said that-”
“I’m possessed?” Dutch hisses, copying Johnny. “I’m drunk! Are you fucking crazy?!”
That sentence drives a railroad spike through Johnny’s last, frayed nerve. He slams his fist onto the counter, making the dishes in his sink rattle, and shouts, “I’m not crazy! I told you I could get rid of whatever’s fucking with me, and you asked why’d I want to do that! Then you attacked me. You saw it Bobby, he was pummeling me!”
“It’s called self-defense, asshole. Stop lying and just-”
“Shut up!” Bobby shouts, face red and chest heaving. “Will you two shut the fuck up? Jesus Christ.”
Dutch sways toward Bobby, a fake apologetic look on his face, and Johnny acts rather than thinks. He pulls Bobby back over, and Bobby pulls away from a second time as Johnny warns, “Don’t you fucking touch him, you slimy motherfucker.”
“Johnny!” Bobby snaps, eyes frantic and furious. “What the hell is wrong with you? What’s going on?!”
‘Just believe me,’ Johnny pleads inside his head. ’Don’t make it a fight. Don’t make everything a fight. Why can’t you just believe me?’
“I already told you,” Johnny insists. “That’s not Dutch. I-I mean, come on, he overpowered me. He’s wasted, and he did that? You should’ve seen him, he shouldn’t be able to fight like that.”
Something flickers in Bobby’s eyes. The man purses his lips and glances at Dutch, then back to Johnny. It’s the best news Johnny’s gotten yet. He’s gaining ground, just not the physical kind. Bobby relents, his shoulders deflating, “Look, Johnny, let’s talk it over in your room. We should-”
Johnny bristles, “And leave that out here with my books? Hell no.”
Dutch glares at Johnny, and Bobby sighs, too tired to mask any frustration. “That is your friend, you fucking- Fine. Whatever. Take the books with you, I don’t care.”
Johnny frowns. He doesn’t like this. Not one damn bit, but what choice does he have?
He starts to reach for the book, but in a flash of movement, Dutch snatches the burgundy book off the book and races for the door. Johnny swears, loudly, but Bobby (with the reflexes of a well-rested man) tackles the man to the ground. As Bobby pins his wrists down, Johnny runs over and pulls the book away – and Dutch responds by snapping his teeth.
Below them, someone bangs on the ceiling (Johnny’s floor), but Johnny can’t be bothered to care. Not in the middle of this mess.
“What the fuck, Dutch!” Bobby snarls, fighting to keep him pinned down. "Are you on something? I thought you were just drunk.”
Dutch doesn’t answer. He flails about, biting at the air and flailing as to throw Bobby off. Johnny steps away, mind already racing with ideas to take care of this, and he states, “Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere.”
━━━━━━━━━╗✹╔━━━━━━━━━
“I hate you,” Bobby says to no one in particular. Maybe to Dutch. Maybe to Johnny. Maybe to his god. Fuck if Johnny knows or cares
“He’s still breathing. He’s fine,” Johnny reassures blankly, patting a passed-out Dutch on the shoulder. The man is sat in one of Johnny’s dining chairs, wrists and ankles tied to the chair legs with zip ties. His head lolls to one side as a soft, droning snore drifts out of his mouth.
During the struggle to subdue their friend, Bobby had (somehow) knocked Dutch’s head onto Johnny’s coffee table. It had only taken him a few minutes after that to all but pass out, and now, he’s sleeping off probably a keg’s worth of alcohol, knowing him.
“You’re not a doctor. You don’t know that,” Bobby grumbles, checking over Dutch for the hundredth time. “Jesus Christ, Johnny. What mess have you gotten us into?”
“That I’ve gotten us into?” Johnny scoffs as Bobby retreats to the fridge. Johnny avoids looking at the top of the fridge. He can’t bear the sight. “Hate to break it to you, none of this is my fault. You love to blame Kreese for everything, so why don’t you blame him? Like you should?”
Bobby sighs, long & loud, and Johnny basks in his frustration. His friend throws open the freezer and pulls out two ice packs, muttering, “Just give me some fucking dish towels.”
Johnny digs out two towels from a drawer and tosses them Bobby’s way, who wraps the towels up. Johnny doesn’t know why he bothers with the extra step when it just makes the ice pack work worse, but whatever makes him happy. Bobby hands one to Johnny and carefully says, “For your face. He… really did a number on you.”
The fight was so fast he can’t even remember where he was hit, and the fact his entire head aches does him no favors. Johnny settles for gingerly setting the ice pack against his cheek. He needs a painkiller. Or three. He gives Bobby a small, grateful, “Thanks.”
Bobby walks over to Dutch (he thinks it’s Dutch now, but he could be wrong). He pulls a chair over and settles into it before pressing the pack to their friend’s slowly blooming black eye (that he doesn’t remember causing.) Johnny’s blood pressure spikes at the closeness, and he softly fumes, “What are you doing? You’ll wake him up!”
“He is our friend,” Bobby returns with a glare. “I don't know about you, but I’m still gonna look out for him, possessed or not…” The man pauses, thinks over something, and looks back at Johnny. “You know, I’m not even convinced you’re right. For all I know, he’s on some wild shit, and you’re just making everything worse.”
“He’s not, I swear,” Johnny insists, free hand raised in surrender. “No twitching, no nothing. Why else would he attack me? Or try to steal my crummy old book and bolt? It’s crazy, but it’s true, and you know it!”
Bobby almost slams his fist on the table, but he stops just short, eyeing Dutch and deciding against it. He sharply replies, “No, actually, I don’t know that. I don’t entirely trust your judgement, right now.”
“Well, just because you don’t believe me doesn’t mean my judgement is shit,” Johnny retorts. He shifts and sits on the counter, legs dangling and toes brushing the floor. He looks down at it, remembering the broken, bloody plates strewn across the floor. The arcs of shards. The stinging pain as he hobbled over.
“Johnny,” Bobby repeats, and Johnny snaps out of it, snapping his head up.
“Sorry, what was that?” He distantly answers.
Bobby sighs and shakes his head, switching the icepack to his other hand and giving the arm a rest. “Never mind,” he sighs, but he stops mid-thought and looks at Johnny. He parses his words over in his head. “Well, actually… you said you… remembered something? At Cobra Kai?”
Johnny nods, knowing where Bobby’s going. “Not much of anything, but… it’s something. We were kneeling on the mats in the dojo. I remember feeling… really uncomfortable. Like I didn’t have much choice in being there. Kreese wanted me to swallow some… pebble?”
Bobby looks scared. In barely a whisper, he admits, “I thought it was a marble.”
Johnny pops off the counter and takes two quick steps over to Bobby (who distinctly avoids looking his way.) “Wait, wait. Do you- did you already-?”
“I…” Bobby starts, shoulders rising to his ears. “I don't know. I don't know! You… you just jogged my memory. A-And just because I remembered that because you said something doesn’t mean there isn’t some other explanation for- for all of this!”
“Like what?” Johnny scoffs. “That Kreese did occult shit for fun, and all the shit’s that’s been happening to me is because I’m fucked in the head? Is Dutch acting like that because he’s fucked in the head or on crack? And- and the memories are just one big fucking coincidence?”
“Maybe it is!” Bobby snaps so he doesn’t raise his voice, still adamantly soothing Dutch’s bruises. “Maybe it isn’t! I don’t fucking know! But demons?”
“You already believe in all this religious bullshit. Why can’t you see?” Johnny tries, and he pauses thoughtfully. “Wait. Am I gonna need to start going to church?”
“I cannot believe thinking you’re possessed is what finally gets you to church,” Bobby deadpans with a shake of the head. “Look, Johnny. I don’t know if you do need to start going or don't, but I just… I need some time to… process all of this. I don’t know how you’re so together right now.”
Johnny frowns and wanders back to the counter, leaning on it for support. (He’s been on his feet a lot today, and he’s starting to feel it in every cut.) He admits, “Bobby, this has been my life for the past week. I don't know what's real or what's not, but I know none of this feels right… I wish I wasn't right. I really don't- and don't fucking argue with me about that. Just let me have this."
Bobby concedes with a silent nod, and Johnny continues, “I’m just… I’m tired. Fuck, I'm so tired. It’s been one fucking thing after another all week. I just need a break. One break.”
His voice is fragile, like a glass teetering on a counter and one wrong look will tip it over the edge, sending it careening into a thousand shards. Bobby shifts the ice pack to another sore spot on Dutch’s face; the lines of his face are painted with worry.
The silence stretches between them. It threatens to become a canyon neither can cross when Bobby finally says, “You should go to bed. You’ve… you’ve been through a lot. I’m not going to bed anytime soon, so I can keep an eye on Dutch. A-And you. I don't think I'll be sleeping anytime soon. There's too much on my mind."
Johnny nods and pushes himself up. He understands. He really does. “We’ll… we’re gonna sort this out. One way or another.”
Bobby nods, and every fiber of Johnny’s being wants to close the gap between them, wrap himself around the man, and get lost in the warmth of his body heat. Bobby whispers back, “Thank you.”
Guilt gnaws at Johnny's heart. He never should've gone digging around in the past. If he had just left everything alone, then everyone would be fine. None of this would be happening. Why couldn't he just keep his head down and push through everything, like he always has?
Before the guilt can eat him alive, Johnny skulks back to bed like a scolded dog, leaving Bobby to deal with Dutch. This is all Kreese’s fault, and Johnny knows that, but he can’t shake that familiar feeling of self-blame. Most of his life is his own damn fault; why shouldn’t this be too?
Under any other circumstance, Johnny would toss & turn all night thinking about this, how this is all his fault. However, with Bobby standing guard and the slurry of exhaustion, pain, and dropping adrenaline coursing through his body, Johnny falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow.