Sometimes it was nice not to care so much. And I didn't. I felt all cared out. I lead Johnny to my bed and lifted his shirt off of him, that soft faded T-shirt that had probably been washed a thousand times. No, I didn't care what anyone thought or what anyone would say. It was exhausting to care.

He was scratched and bruised, like he always was. I guessed as long as he lived with his folks his old man wouldn't stop beating him, and there was nothing any of us could do about it. He stayed away as much as he could, I supposed. I just gazed at the fresh bruises laid over the old ones. I gazed at the scar on his cheek, and in this light I could hardly see it, but I knew it was there. I'd traced it with the tip of my finger so many times.

He laid down on my bed, on top of the covers, kicked his sneakers off. I laid down next to him, felt his warmth. Johnny. He still made me crazy. I squinted at him, at his long dark hair and big eyes, and wondered exactly what it was he felt for me. But at that moment I didn't really care about that, either. I was feeling like I couldn't control anyone, least of all him. He'd think and feel whatever he wanted to.

"Johnny," I said softly, near his ear. He didn't say anything. That was okay. I liked his quietness. I liked dragging words out of him. I kissed his temple, felt him shiver, kissed his cheek near the scar, kissed his lips. I didn't have to force him to open his mouth now, he opened it slowly, letting me in.

I trailed my fingers down his chest and stomach, and felt him tense up. All the touches are the same to him, maybe. Every touch could hurt. This had hurt both of us. At the start of this he probably knew that, knew it more than I did. Being so damaged made you wise.

I closed my eyes and kept kissing him, feeling like I could devour him. I was only happy when I was with him alone, when I could try and kiss him and touch him all I wanted, until he stopped me.

I tugged on the button of his jeans until it came undone and he shifted his weight. I glanced at the door to my room. It was shut. Soda could burst in at any time. Any of them could. I didn't care, honestly. Whatever.

Whatever. And I didn't care about easy anymore, either. It would be easier to be in love with a girl. So what? I ran my hand through his slick hair, flicked my tongue against his. I ran one finger along the waistband of his jeans. If he was going to pull away it would be now, and I tried to detect signs of it. He shifted his weight from time to time but he kept kissing me and didn't move away, or pull into himself and shut me out. Johnny was good at shutting people out.

I knew he shut people out, and I knew he had to. All those years I had watched him, way before that beating by the socs, I'd watched him get that glazed look in his eyes and hunch his shoulders up and everything about him screamed, 'leave me alone'. I'd seen him hardly say two words to anybody for days, I'd seen all the bruises and black eyes from his old man. I'd seen him flinch away from us even though he knew none of us would ever hurt him.

I touched his shoulders and his collar bones and I knew I had hurt him. This overwhelming feeling that I had for him had hurt him. Hurt couldn't be helped, I supposed, kissing his shoulder. He was so skinny, almost frail. He never ate enough.

It couldn't be helped. I pushed his jeans down and kissed him and he rolled away from me, pulled the jeans back up and buttoned them again. I was rebuked. I stared at him with wide eyes. I knew this couldn't ever work.

But I would never know what he was thinking. He rolled back toward me and closed his eyes as he leaned in for another kiss. Maybe he wanted things to be slow. I'd be okay with that. I kissed him deep and put my hand on the back of his neck. I'd let him choose the pace. He was really the one who was in charge, because I thought my desire was greater than his, so that gave him the power over me.