Chapter Text
Johnny didn’t know where to start on how badly the night was going. By badly, everyone else of course meant well- but the thumping bass from somebody’s heavy duty speaker and the loud, drunk chatter of students was making it awfully difficult to sleep. Not impossible , per se- but certainly a challenge.
There was a smash of glass followed by raucous laughter, the most prominent of which came in a characteristic ‘nyo-ho-ho’. That better not have been his favourite mug, he thought darkly.
He stared up at the ceiling in defeat from atop his covers. How the hell was he supposed to be up for class the next day? Not that Gyro seemed to care in the slightest. Johnny was beginning to question if there was anything at all that his roommate wouldn’t throw down the priority ladder for a good time.
Johnny looked across his room; a few study books on the desk, his hat on the doorknob, his hoodie on the floor by the bin and a half-empty glass of water that rippled from the beat through the floor. Not exactly a tidy set-up, but it could have been a whole lot worse.
As if on cue there was a knock on his room door.
“Who the hell is it?”
The response came in a distinctly Italian accent. “The world's best roommate.”
“Ugh. Come in.”
The music from outside became louder with the opening of the door, but Gyro quickly closed it behind him with a thud. He was a sight to behold, dressed up entirely in a pizza costume, complete with felt pepperonis and bright red leggings. Johnny didn’t particularly want to know where he’d got the thing or how much it cost, let alone what was going through his head when he made the decision to wear it in public. Gyro roughly sat himself down on the others bed.
“It’s getting good out there, Johnny.”
Nothing in the world was less appealing than the combination of that beard and that costume, so he felt like he owed him the truth on it.
“No it’s not, Gyro. And you look like an ass.”
“Laugh all you like, this ass is having way more fun than you are in here.”
“I’m not laughin'. I’m not joinin' your party either.”
“Suit yourself, suit yourself.” Gyro said nonchalantly. He struck a pose in front of the mirror- something that might have been in place if he’d have been in a western rather than in a full body pizza slice outfit. “You know, Johnny- eventually people will stop asking you to join them if you keep refusing.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Five minutes.”
“Gyro.”
“Five minutes- less time than it takes to have cutting-edge laser eye surgery.”
Johnny offered a look from across the bed. “Is that supposed to sound appealin' or something?”
“Does to a medical student.”
“Well it ain’t to me. I can see just fine,” he glanced at Gyro’s outfit. “-unfortunately.”
“Rude bastard.” The man said. “Hey, I know exactly how to cheer you up in here. I’ve just been working on a new gag you’re gonna love, this one’s a winner.”
Johnny groaned in exasperation. “Five minutes only - throw me my hat.”
Gyro grinned, exposing a mouthful of shining gold grills. Absolutely disgusting. “That’s the spirit!”
----
While Johnny had attended more parties than he could count, none of them were quite the same thing as the affair going on in the flat. There were drinks on the table, drinks on the windowsill- students lounged across most of the available surfaces, the floor especially. Half of them he didn’t even recognize, the other he pretended not to have noticed in the first place. The air smelled like alcohol and faint cigarette smoke despite the strict ‘no smoking indoors’ rule. A “house-warming” party, apparently. Not that student flats needed warming; the places were already stifling and England had apparently never heard of a house-wide air conditioner.
He took a long look around the room, unimpressed. Where the hell was Gyro anyway? He’d somehow disappeared into the thick of the party without so much as a trace. Well, it was barely like he’d be having fun with him there anyway. The cans of beer and cups of mixed drink on the table were among the most uninviting things in the world; He might have danced at the idea of the drinking age being eighteen if he was younger.
Now he couldn’t care less.
"Of course. I was born in inner London, but not raised there. I wouldn't know how to live with myself if I had that ghastly accent. Still, it may have been better to be closer to Ascot for the races and all..."
That voice was almost instantly recognizable in a crowd- drawn out, languid syllables.
He groaned. Dio.
Of all the times he’d been convinced fate was fucking him over, never had he been so sure as his first day moving into his student flat. He’d been all but ready to knuckle down and actually do work; student finance in his account, belongings ready to furnish his shared flat; and then his world had come to a grinding halt when he’d seen that horribly familiar face in the corridor. Fate wasn’t just fucking him over: it was downright laughing at him.
Of all the universities in England, of all flats and halls he could have rented student accommodation in- it just wasn’t fair. How was he supposed to lead a normal life if his new neighbour happened to be Diego Brando?
Diego Brando who loitered in the doorway, a strange mixture of confidence and slyness in his posture. It only took him a quick scan around the room for his eyes to fall on Johnny. But- lo and behold- he only looked for a moment, perhaps with interest, before vanishing into the crowd.
Thank god.
Though Johnny’s relief was short-lived when he reappeared in the doorway with a red cup in his hand, gone only a minute at best.
Of course he was coming towards him. Of course. Johnny wished he’d stayed in his damn room— he didn’t have the energy for this. He really, really didn’t. Why the hell had Gyro invited him of all people?
Diego sauntered across to the sofa where Johnny had parked his wheelchair and straightened the green collar of his dress shirt, taking the seat opposite him without asking.
He was even annoying to look at— elegant streamlined cheeks, sharp shoulders and long lashes that framed blue-green eyes, icy and actively watching.
He gave what he thought was a disarming smile
“Fancy seeing you here, Joekid.”
“I live here.”
“Of course you do, of course you do.”
We’ve already had this fucking conversation before, over and over again- this year, three years ago- always the same stupid conversation. Fancy seeing you here- you lost today even though you tried your best- perhaps you just weren’t born to race.
“Dio, I’m gonna be honest and save us both the time. I don’t wanna talk to you.”
“I still barely understand that Southern drawl of yours, sometimes. That’s the thing about visiting America, when I toured the great races- some of you just speak in such indecipherable dialects.”
“Leave me alone.”
Diego did pause for a moment, though he became much more smug and began again. "It’s rather odd, you see. I remember you being rather partial to parties, Joekid.”
“Then your memory is shit. And it’s Johnny. John-ny . Nobody calls me Joekid here.”
“No, my memory is flawless. I distinctly remember reading something on you and some young women after the Kentucky Derby- how old were you then? Sixteen, wasn’t it? Not that I care enough to keep track of you.” Diego laughed loud enough to make others look over. “I heard you did all kinds of things back then.”
And just like that Gyro appeared, like some food-themed apparition from the party nether. He didn’t look particularly happy either, brows low and one hand on his hip.
He pointed squarely at Diego’s face “Who the hell invited you? ”
There was the answer. Gyro didn’t invite him whatsoever and nobody else did either.
“I did,” said Diego, ease in his tone “seeing as you must have somehow let it slip your mind.”
“No, you’re just not invited.”
“You invited Hot Pants.”
“She leant me these leggings.” Another mystery solved.
“You invited Pocoloco .”
“He’s an alright guy!”
Diego took a moment to snort, “Well,” and another to execute a sweeping view of the apartment “as far as I can see, your judgement of good company doesn’t seem to amount to much, does it?”
“Then go back to sitting by yourself in your flat.”
Diego got to his feet to stare Gyro down properly- perhaps a mistake on his part with how that accentuated the height difference. Gyro was a full head taller than him at least and built twice as well.
“You’d be honoured to have me anywhere near a party of yours.”
“If that were true you wouldn’t have to resort to gatecrashing, would you?”
“I’m not gate-crashing, pasta-boy.”
“Mangia merda, asshole.”
“I came briefly to socialize with-”
“You got some weird crush on my roommate, you sort that out in your own space.” The party, by now, had noticeably hushed to listen in on the argument.
“How dare you insinuate that I, Dio- ”
“Go die.”
“Wanker!”
“Get out of my apartment, horse-boy.”
“Horse-boy?” He balled his fists and all but snarled up at Gyro, his neck craned at an uncomfortable angle to stare him in the eyes. “You’re a disgrace to your entire family, Gyro Zeppeli!”
Perhaps Diego truly didn’t know the weight of the insult. Perhaps, even months later, he would still be confused (and very offended) at how quickly things had escalated at that part. Because it was then that Gyro- pausing, as if to truly consider his options- took one long look at the blonde and clenched his fist.
Don't do it. Thought Johnny. Don't do it Gyro.
He punched Diego Brando straight in the face.