Work Text:
dick for brain
yo
class borin asf
lets go makeout instead lol
meet in bathroom? :3
cumbag
bro
u r so right
coming over rn
2nd floor
?
dick for brain
ya
waitin
cya :p
After John’s text, Smitty made his way over to bathrooms as soon as he was permitted out, hurrying like he’s got no time to lose. It had been a long day for him, too, and he’d been looking forward to the end of the day to go out with John, to hang out with his boyfriend and not worry about his classes for a while. He had felt tired all morning and he barely caught what his teachers were sprouting anyway, so this distraction was very welcomed.
They’ve skipped class to make out in the bathrooms so many times now, it’s surprising they were never caught. He thinks maybe the janitor, who sometimes walks around in the halls and catches glimpses of them walking into the restrooms hand in hand while no one else’s around, might be a little suspicious about their activities, but he turned out to be no snitch.
He almost felt sure they would get caught soon enough and maybe get a couple slaps on the wrist, and probably not get permission for piss breaks as easily afterwards, but making out with John at any given moment was kind of worth the risk. Even if the risk was to not be able to make out with John at any given time.
He’s a smitten man so in love, can you blame him? He’s listened to his teachers whine about their significant others often enough, he has his own romance waiting for him in dirty school stalls. It already sucks that they don’t share classes.
The bathroom door comes into view, the hallway eerily empty. He hurries in and carefully shuts the door behind him. He can barely get a word out before he’s jumped straight away, his back getting slammed into the door roughly as a set of lips engulf his own.
He melts into the kiss with fluttering eyes, arms reaching up to wrap around John’s shoulders, his neck, smiling against his chapped lips and his prickly mustache and pulling him closer. He nearly feels light-headed from the force of it. The urge to melt into his lover and merge into one being is as strong as the fierce adoration the kiss delivers him.
“I missed you,” John mumbles against Smitty’s lips, pressing pecks on his skin between the words. “I had to listen to cunts bitch and moan all day. It was my purgatory, my eternal limbo, in which I got dragged down more than six feet under, even if I fell lower for you.”
It pulls a laugh out of him. “Same,” he replies, “but at least I got you, now, my pretty poet. Thanks for saving me from all that.”
John simply hums and melts back into his arms, embracing him with all his affection and love that need not be spoken into words. He doesn’t need to hear it to know how much he means to the other, and he doesn’t need to voice the emotional storm brewing within him for John to know how much he loves him. It’s a quiet language, one they built together, that they can speak with their eyes and their bodies.
“How long,” John drawls with his lips stretched into a wide grin, their lips ghosting on each other, “do you think we can drag this out? Perhaps, maybe, possibly all day?”
“A welcome idea,” Smitty hums back, “but I think both our teachers would get quite suspicious of us taking so long in the restroom.”
“You think they’d assume we’re jerking off?”
“Like, ourselves or each other?”
“Idiot, they don’t even know we’re in here together.”
Smitty laughs. “Right. Actually, I think the janitor does.”
“I don’t care,” John sighs, “he may think whatever.” He leans forward again, dropping nearly his full weight on Smitty’s shoulders. He gazes down on him, with his eyes half-lidden. The look that he knows drives Smitty insane. “As long as I get to kiss pretty boys.”
He feels dazed. “Plural?”
“I do get quite the bitches, yeah.”
He huffs, playful. “If I could get pregnant, I’d make you pay child support.”
“Didn’t know you were into breeding.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
Smitty grins. “Baby factory is open for business, or something.”
“Deadpool?” John makes a face. “In our doomed yaoi?”
He shrugs, resting his back on the door he’s still pressed against. “Well, I mean, technically, he is a homosexual.”
“Mm,” John hums again, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth, and trailing down from his jaw to the side of his neck. “We should watch Deadpool again and make out whenever Ryan Reynold is on the screen.”
“Binge all three movies and make out for five hours and forty-three minutes?”
“Oh, you’re on, bitch.”
As much as Smitty loves it when they take their sweet time and treat each other with the gentleness of the morning sun and dew on grass, something about rushing with limited time just gets him. John gets that type of desperation and daze in his eyes that make him look batshit insane and it does things to Smitty that he wouldn’t admit out loud if he was waterboarded for it.
They’re both panting when they part from each other, grasping for air like desperate divers breaching the surface. A thin line of spit breaks from between them and splatters on their tops. Smitty wipes the drool spilling down his chin with a loving smile.
“We should do this more often,” he comments, “especially if you’re going to look so handsome every time.”
“So you mean twenty-four seven?”
“Preferably.”
He’s so in love with this man, it’s actually insane. His heart swells every time he looks in those pretty green eyes of his and his dumb sheepish smile. It never fails to amaze him, the fact that he can have this angel of a man all for himself, to kiss senseless and hold him close, call him his and no one else’s.
They eventually have to part. He opens his mouth, then, to announce that it’s probably best if they go back now, when he’s promptly cut off with a loud bang booming from the hallway outside.
Every damn blood cell in his veins halts. The sound echoes off the walls of his own skull. A wave of fear drags him down into an endlessly stretching sea of murky water.
“What the fuck,” he breathes with a tremor to his voice. It had made him jump out of his skin with his heart surging along, fast and loud like a racecar. When his gaze returns to his lover, he finds the same shock and fear he feels written on his face and in his eyes. “What the fuck,” he repeats, “was that?”
John stares. “I don’t know,” he whispers. Smitty turns to the door, feeling antsy by the stretching quiet. “Maybe something fell?”
He snaps his gaze up to his eyes. “Like what, the fucking roof?”
“I don’t know either, okay,” John bites back. “I’m as clueless as you here.”
His tensed shoulders deflate with guilt. “I know,” he murmurs, pulling the other close to dig his face into his shoulderblade. “I’m sorry. I’m just… scared. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
John deflates, squeezing his arms as a show of comfort. “Don’t apologise.” He presses a kiss on the top of his head. Smitty already feels a surge of warmth relaxing him. “I’m sure it was nothing, don’t worry about it. Though, we should probably go back to class just in case.”
With an affirming nod, he pushes himself upright, hand held in John’s. John was likely right. He was just overthinking it. But then the banging intensified, one rapidly after another and he could pick up faint screaming coming from the other side of the door.
It clicked, then, and all his limbs downright froze on the spot.
His grip on John’s hand tightens and he tugs. “That’s a gun, John,” he forces out in shaky inhales. Turning his gaze to John, he sees his eyes just as wide, the fear just as prominent. “There’s a shooting going on.”
John rakes his gaze frantically over his, and mutters a quiet curse as he drags a palm exasperatedly down the side of his face. Smitty feels a distant buzz beneath his skin and his heart already racing as a million fearful thoughts and scenarios rush through his mind.
The ground, it shakes, and the silence breaks.
A loud alarm rings from the speakers in the hallways, and all the lights turn off. The building is on lockdown.
“Talk about doomed yaoi,” mutters John.
“John.”
The older lets out a heavy exhale, resting his palms on Smitty’s shoulders to catch his attention. “We can’t stay in here,” he presses slowly. Smitty has never seen John so serious before. It’s off-putting. “It’s dangerous. We need to go back. I can go first to scout out the area and come back for you.”
He freezes.
He can’t be serious, right?
Anger mixed with fear erupts from him in bright and loud explosions. “Are you out of your mind?!” A step forward, pushing into John’s space. “It’s dangerous out there! We can lock ourselves in a stall!”
“There’ll be better shelter in the classrooms,” John argues. “They could break the door down, it’s not safe.”
“You don’t know that,” he deadpans.
John glares at him, almost challenging. “Would you rather we find out the hard way?”
“You are not going out there when there’s a motherfucking shooting going on, John!” he yells. “I can’t let you! You could get shot! Are you insane? Do I look like I want to lose you?”
“No?”
He crosses his arms. “It was rhetorical, asshole.”
“You are not going to lose me,” dismisses John with a huff.
He can still hear the gunshots loud and clear. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”
“Smitty,” John calls, reaching to hold Smitty’s hands to rub soothing circles with his thumbs. Smitty gazes away bitterly. “I promise that I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. I don’t want to lose you, either, which is why we need to go back. It will be safer.”
“Okay, fine,” he grits his teeth, “but then I want to come along.”
John furrows his brows. “Absolutely not.”
Smitty yanks his hands back. “Oh, so now it’s not okay?”
“We won’t be stealthy enough if we go together.”
“Now you’re calling me fat?”
“Smitty!” John snaps. “I’m being serious.”
“You really expect me to wait here while you go out and possibly get shot,” he snaps back, “while I wouldn’t even be aware?”
“I’m not going to get shot,” he repeats. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
When John steps back, he reaches out in blind panic and yanks him back by his wrists. “John, please,” he pleads, even if he knows it’s futile. John has set his mind on it, he knows he can’t change his mind. “I’m sure the cops are on the way. We could wait. Maybe whoever is out there won’t even come this way. You could be risking your life for nothing. Please, reconsider this. For me.”
John’s gaze softens. “This is for you, baby,” he whispers. “All for you.”
John cups his face, a kiss pressed on his forehead, and then one on his lips. “Get this,” he starts, his voice soft and gentle. “When—not if but when—we make it out of this, we’re going to watch all of Deadpool together, and I’ll treat you to your favorite restaurant for a nice date, or a cafe, whichever you want. You can hold me down on your couch, we can skip school for a while, have sleepovers, anything you want.”
“Anything I want?” Smitty whispers.
John presses a kiss on his lips, and pours all of his love into it. “Anything.”
He laughs, a sob wrenching up from his throat. “I want to marry you.”
John sucks in a breath. “Okay,” he whispers against his lips. “I’ll marry you.”
“Okay,” he replies. John pulls away again. He bites back a fearful cry. “I’m scared.”
“So am I,” John admits.
Smitty watches him press an ear to the door and listen. The shots were fewer and farther in between than first. It made Smitty feel like the culprit was searching for something, or someone, or anyone. He guessed the halls must be empty, and the doors of the classes—
“Oh my god,” he blurts out, “the doors of the classes are locked.”
“Shit,” the other mutters, his brows furrowing, “you’re right.” John straightens up, presses his fist to his chin as he thinks. “Maybe if anyone sees us through the window they’ll let us in?”
He shakes his head. “The doors are locked automatically, remember? They can’t do shit. Now you have to stay here.”
John stares down, his gaze flipping back and forth. “The janitor’s closet,” he says, then.
“What?”
John turns to him again. “The janitor’s closet. There’s three on each floor. There’s a chance at least one isn’t locked. They have sturdier doors than a shitty bathroom stall. We’ll be safe there.”
“They could―they could all be locked, though.”
“The janitor must’ve ran to one of them. Or maybe into a classroom. He wouldn’t have had time to lock the one he was using.”
“But I didn’t see him up here. He could’ve been on a different floor, and locked it behind him. The chances of any of them being unlocked is so fucking slim, John.”
“We need to try.”
Smitty stares into his lover’s eyes intensely. “You’re not going to listen to me, are you?”
“I’m sorry.”
He sighs. It’s a lost battle. “Be safe.”
John pulls out his phone. “Always.”
Smitty watches him. “What are you doing?”
“Putting my phone on silent so I don’t get heard,” he explains.
“What if I need to reach you?”
“I’ll be back in no time, Smit, I promise. You won’t even miss me.”
John presses his ear to the door again. It’s quiet, but the occasional gunshot sounds far away. He stretches his back and pops his knuckles. “Time to put our Counter Strike skills up to good use.”
He pulls the door open as slowly as humanly possible, so good the hinges don’t even squeak at all. Smitty feels on edge, more than he’s ever felt in his life, pushing up to his tip-toes. John peeks his head out.
“Clear,” he mumbles in a tone barely audible. “I’m going now.”
Smitty can’t find his voice, so he simply nods when John sends him one last glance. And then his lover is out and the door shuts behind him, and it’s just him there. He suppresses the urge to bite on his nails and decides to put his energy into aimlessly pacing on the dirty floors.
A million thoughts shoot through his mind at lightspeed, racing along his pounding heart. The fear has him in a chokehold and it makes his head throb. Anything could happen to his lover out there. He could get caught and shot and killed in cold blood, and he’d bleed to death while Smitty was hidden in here, and it would be the fault of his stubbornness and stupidity. But worst of all, it would be Smitty’s fault for not pushing enough, for not trying harder to change his mind, to keep him here with him.
If John died today, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. He would never be able to recover, for John is his whole world and entire universe and if John was gone, he would die with him. There’s no one without the other, it’s always been them. If Smitty loses a part of himself, his heart, today, all of himself will perish along.
Come or go, they belonged together.
He doesn’t keep track of the time, but it couldn’t have been longer than five long anxiety-filled minutes when his phone pings in his pocket. He immediately yanks it out with trembling fingers and his heart nearly leaps out through his throat when he sees it’s a text from John.
dick for brain
im gon be the superman to ur canada
Another Deadpool reference. He scoffs, but it does put a smile on his face, he’ll give him that, which in turn calms his nerves down a notch. Which he’s immensely grateful for. He types back feverously.
cumbag
u shut ur goddam trash mouth
js cuz im canadian huh
shouldv said sth useful
now ur last words r gonna be a deadpool reference
dick for brain
2nd best way to go imo
1st being from an orgasm prolly
aint you literally save me up as a dp ref?
u like m js cuz hes canadian
cumbag
besides the point
dick for brain
ok 2008 ryan reynolds 🙄
The bubbles appear on John’s end before disappearing, and Smitty is left in the quiet again. The not-knowing is killing him. It sucks being left in the dark like this. He hates it. He really hates it.
The unknown brings fear to a man, and Smitty has never been one to face his.
His hands itch to call him, to hear his voice and make sure he’s all right, even if they texted just now. It hasn’t put him entirely at ease yet. Regardless of the amount of times he tells himself that everything is all right and well, there’s still that little voice in the back of his head that brings all his worst fears into words.
He’s pacing, and he’s pacing, and he’s pacing until he’s dizzy and the world spins in front of him, around him. It doesn’t help, just serves to make his head pound, and the bubbling anxiety in his stomach makes him nauseous.
This sucks. This sucks. He’s going to throw up. This sucks.
He walks to the sink, leaning over to stare at his reflection in the mirror. A coward stares back at him. A couple more gunshots blare outside, and it makes him wince. He washes his hands and splashes cold water on his face.
He feels like a fucking baby, and it fucking sucks. Especially when John’s out there on his own.
He decides to man the fuck up and find his lover.
Was this a good idea? Oh man… John would kill him, most likely. But he’d rather be safe than sorry if he finds him bleeding out on the cold floors of the school halls.
He notices that his hand trembles when he reaches for the doorknob. His heart is racing. He starts to break a sweat and it makes his shirt stick to his clammy skin. He stares at his palm and the thought of staying here flashes through his mind promptly.
“You got this,” he whispers to himself, “for John. Come on.”
Shaking his head and his hands, he reaches for the handle once more and pushes it open with care. It creaks this time, and his heart rate surges up, but fortunately there’s no immediate gunshots. He assumes the culprit must be somewhere else.
He tip-toes out into the dark hallway, his back and palms flat to the wall as he moves sideways. There’s not a single soul out there, everyone was safely tucked under desks behind locked doors. He hopes the cops are on the way.
He has no clue where John’s gone, which direction to take. Does he…bruteforce it? Go in a random direction and pray he stumbles upon John before the shooter? Knowing his luck he’d probably run into the latter before he even sees a sign of his lover, but even if that were the case, there’s no going back now. He’s out to find his lover, make sure he’s alright, and if John’s dead, he’ll die with him.
He inches off the wall slowly and carefully, his legs beginning to ache from the strain, but mama raised no goddamn quitter. He pushes even if his muscles start to burn. Good god does he need to exercise some more.
There’s a janitor’s closet not too far ahead of him, and one further down to his right, but since there’s no sign of John anywhere, he crosses them off his mental list. His eyes dart around as his mind races for him to move. The third closet was around the corner further ahead of the stairwell, but if John went there, he would’ve been back by now. Unless…
The thought makes him shiver. He decides to check it anyway, just in case.
Slowly, he makes his way over, checking behind him every few seconds. The soles of his shoes make soft, squeaky sounds with every step in the empty hallways, the noise bouncing off the walls in a low echo. The few classrooms that he passes by have thick blinds blocking out the halls.
He continues on, until he reaches the corner, and his shoulders deflate in relief, only to be met with an empty, dead end, and a shut door. He tries the handle, anyway, and quietly calls for John. The metal of it rattles loudly and he lets go of it, lest he alerts the shooter. He receives no answer.
He can’t stay calm, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He can’t even think rationally, he could almost cry. The door is heavy when he pushes it open and enters it. It shrieks into a halt behind him, assaulting his ears and making his heart leap. “John?” He whisper-shouts, his voice wet, looking both up and down the well-hole in the center. “John? Are you there?”
Unsurprisingly, there’s yet again no answer. He bites his lip.
He takes a deep breath. He could go up, he could go down. Would he waste time if he went to the wrong floor? Would it matter? What if John’s already dead? What if he died trying to play the hero for Smitty? He feels too dizzy to think logically, the fear latched onto his brain, paralyzing him stuck in place. His body itches to move, to do something, anything, but he can’t get himself to. He feels so incredibly useless.
And then he hears one of the doors to the stairwell forced open, and footsteps, ones he can’t tell whether they’re ascending or descending, stepping on the steps of the stairs, and his heart stops beating. Then it surges back alive and starts to race like a deer caught in headlights. He can’t breathe, his lungs not taking in any air, and it serves him a headache as he awaits a final gunshot.
God, is he about to die?
The footsteps halt and he counts down in his head, his eyes scrunched shut…
“Smitty?”
His eyes shoot open.
“John.” His shoulders sag, leaning on his back against the wall when his knees give out on carrying his weight. The sudden relief makes his world spin temporarily, while John hurries down the last steps and embraces him tightly in his arms.
“You fucking idiot,” he hisses, “I told you to stay put and wait for me.”
He faceplants into his shoulder, beyond happy to be held. He could bawl like a fucking baby right now. A meek apology is all he can muster out. “I was so worried, I’m sorry. I couldn’t—I could not—”
John hushes him, his palm swiping over Smitty’s head comfortingly, and presses a kiss on top of it. He falls quiet, swallowing down the million synonyms of worry he wanted to express. “It’s okay, I’m not mad. Promise. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“Well,” John starts as he lets go of him, “I was just about to come and fetch you, ‘cause I found an unlocked closet upstairs. I am certain the police are on the way, they have to be. We just have to make it up there and wait inside, and everything will be fine.”
His limbs itch with the urge to move, to go, to get there and get this over with, so that the wave of adrenaline can pass and his heart can beat like normal again. He wants his brain to stop racing uselessly, unfocused and dazed and clouding his better judgement. It only serves to make him feel weak and vulnerable in the face of danger.
“Hold my hand?” He asks, a weak man in his shoes, smiles sheepishly, and holds it out.
John snorts, smiles, and grips him firmly. He gets dragged up the stairs by his lover, their tread echoing on each step through the empty stairwell. Once up, John once again scans the hallway by peeking his head through the dooropening, and pulls him along.
The hallway seems empty, every door ahead of them shut close, and it’s unnervingly quiet. Lockers are lined against the walls, and the hall cuts to the right up ahead, where their destination lies. They just need to make their way to it.
“Whoever it is, they just went upstairs,” John whispers as they sneak, pressed to the wall, hand in hand. “I doubt they’ll return so soon. We can make it easily.”
“I trust you,” he whispers back, and he means it. John shoots him a smile, one that screams a thousand unsaid emotions that’ll find their way into words once this whole ordeal is done and over with.
Every few lockers, there’s a gap that can fit the two of them and hide them from sight, and John pulls the both of them in and presses Smitty close against the wall every time they hear a suspicious creak or a gunshot too close for comfort. The closer they get, the worse the feeling of anxiety in Smitty chest gets.
Something feels wrong, and it’s making his guts feel heavy, and he might throw up. The skin on the back of his neck feels irritably prickled and it makes his stomach churn. He squeezes John’s hand.
“Almost,” John answers with a squeeze of his own.
They’re pressed between two lockers, facing the corner of the hall, and his chest swells.
“I’m going to run to the other side,” John whispers, his brows pulled in a serious expression, but Smitty can read the mirrored fear in his eyes when his lover looks at him. “And then you. That way we won’t make too much noise and alert them. You got this.”
Everything feels so overwhelming, it’s making him dizzy. When he blinks, John’s already running with long strides and skids to a halt. He turns around and beckons him over.
Smitty swallows. His palms feel cold and clammy with sweat. God, he is going to be sick. They’re almost there. Please.
He doesn’t permit himself the hesitation and runs. John watches him. And then, like a taunt from the universe, a sick joke, he sways, his vision swims, and he trips, falling painfully right on his knees on the dirty floor.
“Fuck,” he swears under his breath as he wills his vision to clear and his head to stop feeling like static.
“Smitty!” John whisper-shouts, his voice cracking with fear and worry and a plethora of other similar emotions that he can’t name. His eyes are wide, his stance tense. “Hurry up!”
He pulls himself onto his feet, blinking rapidly, and he only sways for a second more before he’s good to go. John opens his arms for him.
A loud bang sounds. A gunshot. Way too close.
He doesn’t need to turn around to know where it was aimed.
Pain blooms in his abdomen, so sudden it makes him feel sick. He feels cold, freezing, and he only hears a distant shout of his name, all too familiar, before he’s out cold.
“…He seems stable enough though. He might wake up, if not for a brief coma. His head seems to be intact, however, so the possibility is less likely.”
“How soon will he get discharged?”
“Depends on when he wakes up. We’ll test if he’s truly alright, and worst case we’ll keep him here for another night to ensure he’s good, and then he may go home. He’d need utmost care.”
“That’s okay, I can take care of him.”
He blinks slowly, his eyes crusty and heavy, his vision blurry and his surroundings painfully white-bright. There’s beeping around him, sunlight filtering through a window, the faint smell of antiseptic alcohol, and a soreness in his lower stomach.
He takes a deep breath. It catches in his throat and he can’t hold in the coughing fit that rattles his body, and it only serves for pain to spike through his lower body.
“Smitty?” He hears his name be called, and then a warm hand engulfs his own, so he slowly turns his head and opens his eyes. He’s met with the green orbs he loves so much.
“John,” he croaks, his throat dry and scratchy, and immediately John fetches him a glass of water and helps him sit upright. Smitty winces when his skin pulls, but thanks him as he’s fed like a baby.
“You absolute piece of shit,” John whispers when he pulls back, taking Smitty’s hands in his own. “You had me scared shitless. I was actually going to piss myself, I’m deadass. Do not do that ever again.”
Smitty huffs a small laugh. “Sorry, the next time we’re locked out durin’ a school shootin’, I’ll make sure t’ wear a… a bulletproof vest, jus’ for you.”
John sighs, but he can see a smile pull on his lips.
“How’d I get here?” he asks curiously.
“Well, when you got shot, you passed out, like, immediately,” John explains, “so I pulled you behind the wall, and the guy was, like, coming towards us, so I thought: well shit, this is it. So the guy rounds the corner, but then I jump him, and then I tackle him, so he’s on the floor, and I punch him in the face, and he drops the gun like an absolute pussy. I held him down for a while until the cops arrived, and there was an ambulance, too, so they took you to ER to get the bullet out and stitch your wound, and now it’s the next day.”
“Damn,” he mumbles, “and I missed all that action?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
He scoffs. “Well, that’s just lazy writing.”
John blinks, then laughs, surprised. “Are you—are you seriously still on with the Deadpool references?”
“I love DP, bro. And to be fair, you started it.”
“You almost died.”
“I have plot armor, man. I’m like Marvel Jesus.”
“Stop.”
He grins. “Suck it, Fox, I’m going to Disneyland!”
“I hate you so much,” John complains, then perks up. “On the topic of hating―why the fuck did I find you at the stairs when I was going back for you? I strictly remember I told you to stay put.”
“I got worried, and anxious, mainly both. What if you were shot and bleeding out somewhere?”
“I’m not you, apparently,” John rolls his eyes.
Smitty sighs. He squeezes John’s hands. John averts his gaze.
“Hey,” Smitty calls softly, “this isn’t your fault, y’know? You couldn’t have prevented this. I guess I was meant to be shot once in my life. I left on my own validation, not to rebel against your wishes, so don’t beat yourself up for me.”
“I know,” John mutters, leaning over to press a kiss on his forehead. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Smitty smiles, grateful. They’ll have a more elaborated and serious talk about this later, because he knows it’ll be bugging John like the plague, but right now, he needs the normalcy. He asks, “Am I getting discharged soon?”
“Tonight, I’m pretty sure,” John answers. “I’ll get the nurse.”
“Good to see you awake,” the nurse says when they return, a clipboard in their hand. They pull the cover to observe his wound, and hums. “Your stitches look good, but I think it’ll be best if we keep you in sight overnight, and you can go home with your friend in the morning. Sound good?”
Smitty nods. “Yeah.” Then he turns to John. “You’d said tonight. Liar.”
John smiles. Smitty already knows what’s coming. “I didn’t lie, I made an educated wish.”
They laugh among themselves, the nurse watching them with a confused smile, and Smitty feels relieved that it’s over, and they’ve made it through together.