Chapter Text
Johnny starts up his bullshit again in the car on the way there, as per usual.
Denny and Henry smartly piled into the first of the two sleek, black SUVs the label sent to pick ‘em up from the hotel to ferry them to the venue for the awards ceremony and dinner reception, leavin’ Nance with no choice but to be the captive audience from the front passenger seat to whatever fuckin’ game Johnny is playing with Kerry right now. And Kerry’s not in the fuckin’ mood for it - Johnny's been incorrigible since this morning, and Kerry knows it's probably just ‘cause they all spotted Johnny's most recent ex-output, whatever-the-fuck-her-name-was, in the hotel bar again at breakfast. This one's a media - in Tokyo for the same reason they are, or rather, to cover the event, presumably - but Kerry can barely even keep track of them at this point. And he knows Johnny's only upset about it ‘cause this particular chick had a fuckin' spine, apparently, and didn't follow him up to their suite when they ran into her at the same hotel bar last night, despite Johnny’s relentless fuckin' cajoling that Kerry had to witness and play reluctant wingman to.
The night still ended, of course, with him suckin’ Johnny off in the fancy fuckin' bathroom of their fancy fuckin' suite, swallowing his shame and self-loathing and every drop of affection he could wring from Johnny, just like always. It's fuckin' pathetic, and he fuckin’ knows it, but when Johnny's had exactly the right amount of booze and crawls into bed with him on nights like that, stinkin’ of tequila with that sad fuckin’ look in those big brown sad eyes of his, Kerry has never fuckin' been able to say no to him. And, as usual, Johnny’s been mean as fuck to him all morning and into the afternoon, layin’ down jabs and cheap shots and playfully undercutting Kerry at every turn.
And now, of course, Johnny's tryin’ to slip back into… whatever the fuck this is. His hand is on Kerry's thigh, and he's got a shit-eating grin on his face and a cigarette wedged between his teeth and he's sliding his hand higher and higher as he grills the poor, hapless former military gonk huscle who's currently driving them ‘bout where he served during the war, egging him towards some kinda, what, some kind of admission that he wants vengeance for all of it, just like Johnny?
“Give it a fuckin' rest, Johnny,” Kerry groans, and Johnny responds by tightening his grip on Kerry's thigh and turning to him, gesticulating with his cigarette dangerously close to Kerry's face. He's drunk as fuck, no surprise there.
“Just ‘cause you're too much of a fuckin' coward to get off your fuckin' knees for the corps don't mean the rest of us gotta lie down and take it up the ass from Arasaka and Militech and the NUSA,” Johnny slurs, leaning in closer to Kerry.
“You ever fuckin' stop?” Kerry hisses. “Nance just got out of prison, really think she wants to hear this shit from you right now?”
Johnny's grin just widens. “Nah, Nance gets it now, more than ever. After seein’ firsthand the divine comforts of our glorious prison industrial complex. Ain't that right, Nance?”
Kerry can almost hear Nancy's eyes roll.
“Sure, Johnny,” she says dismissively. “Be sure to blow up the theater tonight on your way out as a message to all our esteemed corporate sponsors.”
“Exactly,” Johnny agrees, stabbing his cigarette in the direction of the front seat. “See, Ker?” he adds, leaning in closer even as Kerry studiously turns his gaze to the window. “Not everyone in this band loves swallowin’ boots as much as you do.”
“Just shut the fuck up, Johnny,” Kerry sighs. There's no point in even arguing with him when he's like this. Kerry reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out the little flask he has stashed there, unscrewing the lid and tipping its contents into his mouth, feeling the satisfying burn of the liquor as it glides down his throat and hits his stomach. He's still gotta survive at least another four fuckin' hours of this shit.
“Gimme that,” Johnny says, snatching the flask from him and taking a long swig before leaning across Kerry to tuck the metal container back into the pocket of his coat, adjusting Kerry's lapel and letting his hand brush down Kerry's chest and linger on his lap just a second too long.
“This what you want, isn’t it?” Johnny whispers, his breath hot in Kerry's ear.
“Fuck off, Johnny,” Kerry whispers back through clenched teeth.
But Johnny's hand stays where it is, and his other hand rises to bring his cigarette to Kerry's mouth, and even though Kerry doesn't turn, he can feel Johnny's beard still brushing at his ear.
Kerry resists briefly, then parts his lips and lets Johnny shove the cig between them, taking a tentative drag. Johnny's fingers brush his lips as he pulls away, releasing Kerry and settling back into his seat, leaning his elbow against the window and pulling the cigarette to his own mouth, watching Kerry through his dark aviators.
“Good boy,” he says in a low, approving drawl, blowing smoke at Kerry and ashing his cigarette out the open window.
Kerry grits his teeth, fighting down the way his body reacts to that, but Johnny tilts his chin downwards, staring pointedly at the slight bulge now tenting the front of Kerry’s expensive suit pants.
He hates that Johnny has this fuckin' effect on him. One touch, two words, and he's rockin’ a fuckin' semi in the backseat of this fuckin' car on the way to the fuckin' Benzaiten International Music Awards where he's in all likelihood gonna have to stand on a stage and vie for the mic with his fellow frontman when they inevitably win at least one of the four awards they've been nominated for tonight.
Kerry turns to stare out the window again, watching the towering Tokyo megabuildings slide past them as they head deeper into the city, towards the rebuilt, Arasaka-funded Imperial Garden Theater.
He hears Johnny shuffling in his seat, and when he turns his head back almost involuntarily, Johnny's scooted back over to him, his face right up in Kerry's. Their lips are almost touching, and Johnny grins as he reaches out his metal hand and palms at Kerry's crotch again, squeezing slightly. Kerry's breath catches in his throat in spite of himself.
“Fuck you, Johnny,” he hisses, but his hips grind forward into Johnny’s hand, almost of their own volition.
Johnny just keeps grinning that infuriating fuckin' grin of his, then turns back to the front seat and resumes his monologue, leaving his hand exactly where it is, poking and stroking and squeezing at Kerry just enough to make him grit his teeth and concentrate all his attention on not giving Johnny the satisfaction of feelin’ him get fully fuckin' hard like this, right now.
Kerry knows that Johnny knows exactly what he's doing. Knows he gets off on playin’ games like this with him. He does this shit with everyone, Kerry reminds himself. And he's seen Johnny's softer side, too, maybe more than anyone else ever has - the sensitive, vulnerable boy the war took and mangled, the idealist who still dreams about love and art and the possibility of a better world, the fiercely loyal friend who fights harder than anyone Kerry's ever met for the things he believes in.
Or maybe that's just what he has to tell himself.
Kerry's teeth are on edge when the car pulls up to the venue and Johnny finally pulls away from him, grinning again like a cartoon villain. And Kerry's still got a fuckin’ half-hard boner, and now he's gotta hobble out of the car and walk the fuckin' red carpet in front of hundreds of fans, photographers, and camera drones.
He takes a series of deep breaths as the driver steps out of the car and circles around the vehicle, opening the door for Nancy first and helping her out. Nance looks fucking beautiful tonight - like always - with her close-cropped black hair still growing out from her prison stint and her petite body fitted into a flattering black lace mini-dress from Guinevere, the same designer who dressed all of ‘em for this event. It's one of the only Neokitsch fashion houses Kerry can tolerate, so all in all, things could be worse, he reminds himself as the driver steps towards the rear door and opens it, and now it's Kerry's turn for this particular gauntlet.
There are hordes of screaming fans clamoring at the barricades as Kerry swings his feet to the ground and steps out onto the cordoned off, gold-carpeted walkway that leads up to the flung open doors in the glass facade of the theater, and he slips into character, smiling broadly and flashing winks and waves and hitting his poses when the cameras flash in his direction.
He hears Johnny getting out of the car behind him, and the screams rise in pitch to an almost ear-splitting volume. There are cries of “Silverhand!!!!” and “Johnny-san!!!!” and he can hear loud, almost violent sobbing from some of them as the fans continue to hurl themselves at the barricade, their hands reaching and their phones flashing.
He half turns towards Johnny, and from all appearances, it seems as though Johnny's soaking it up - he's grinning and waving, a fresh cigarette between his teeth, and he gleefully gives the crowd the middle finger with his metal hand, ushering in another wave of shrieking and camera flashes. But Kerry knows Johnny well enough to spot the tightness in his jaw, the tense lines of his shoulders as he strides after Kerry, eager to be done with this unavoidable part of attending events like this, hating every fucking second of havin’ to play the prize pony at the corpo-funded spectacle with every fiber of his being.
It's a far cry from the crusty dives and crumbling venues they started out in, that's for sure.
Kerry quickly spots Henry and Denny once they're inside - Denny's gleaming golden gown and halo of hair are hard to miss, even amidst a crowd of equally dolled up celebs rubbin’ elbows and sipping cocktails in the massive glass lobby of the opulent theater. They're talking to one of the suits from the label, standing underneath one of the many golden clovers that adorn the ornate interior, yet another reminder of exactly whose boot they're under tonight, which corp is sponsoring this ceremony.
Kerry doesn't have to look at Johnny this time to know he's scowling. The fact that Arasaka still even invites them to these things, plays at the benevolent, generous benefactor of the arts, lets ‘em win their awards probably in the hopes that the comforts of fame will eventually sand down the edges of Johnny's endless one-man war with the corp grates on Kerry as much as it does on any of them. And he knows there's no universe in which it'll work - Johnny's hatred of the corp runs deeper than anything eddies could ever buy off him. Especially after what happened with Alt back in 2013.
Nancy has already joined their other two bandmates, and Kerry follows her, a headache beginning to blossom in his skull. He grabs a glass of champagne off the tray of a nearby server and downs it in one gulp, then replaces the glass and grabs another, giving the server a sharp nod. Behind him, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Johnny doing the same.
There's more photos, more introductions, a blur of names and faces and industry acquaintances, musicians they've toured with and others they've gone out of their way not to. They're herded onto the step-and-repeat for photos with the whole band, then just Kerry and Johnny - who drapes his arm around Kerry's shoulders and flips off the camera, yet another cigarette clutched in his teeth - then just Kerry by himself, and then Johnny in all his glory.
Eventually, finally, they're seated at their table - the five members of the band and one lone suit from the label, some Japanese chick whose name Kerry can't even remember. Sakura, maybe? Somethin’ like that. Or was it Sayuri?
He sighs heavily as he slumps in his seat, already reaching for his drink. He's moved on to vodka now - at least with this, he knows there's no risk of Johnny snatching it from him and downing it the way he loves to, just to get a rise outta him. But that hasn't stopped him from tossing edamame shells onto Kerry's plate, or his hand from creepin’ back into Kerry's lap. The table is too fuckin' small - his knees are knocking into Johnny's, and they're pressed close enough together, all clumped towards one side of the round table to better see the stage - that no one can tell that Johnny's hand isn't where the fuck it's supposed to be.
And Johnny won't fucking stop brushing and stroking him through the fabric of his pants whenever anyone isn't looking at them. Or even when they are. Kerry grits his teeth, pointedly ignoring Johnny's hand and his attempts to rile him up with more teasing, more verbal jabs, more lines surgically calculated to get as far under his fuckin' skin as possible.
“Would you guys stop makin’ your dicks kiss under the table?” Henry groans, putting his feet on the table and stabbing his fork into his half-eaten waygu steak.
“Yes, Henry, that’s precisely how two men have sex with each other,” Nancy says with a roll of her eyes, cigarette perched between her slender fingers. “Touching boners under the table. Nailed it, choom.”
Johnny waggles his eyebrows at Kerry and withdraws his hand to touch the tip of his metal forefinger to his organic one, and Kerry pinches the bridge of his nose, then grabs his martini and downs the rest in one swig.
But Johnny doesn’t let up, his hand sliding back down again to continue groping and squeezing Kerry through his suit. It’s not enough to get him off, but it’s enough teasing to make his thighs start to shake and it takes Kerry all the self-control he has to keep his breathing even, to stop his eyes from drifting out of focus and just losing himself in how wretchedly fucking turned on by this he can't even deny that he is.
But then he feels Johnny’s hand tugging at the zipper of his pants, and his own hand flies to Johnny’s wrist as their eyes meet across the table. Johnny’s just smirking at him now - that infuriating horrible little half-grin - and lazily smoking his cigarette with his free hand, his metal one.
“Somethin’ the matter, Ker?” Johnny teases in a low voice, continuing to unbutton Kerry's pants one-handed and slowly unzip his fly underneath the table. Kerry releases Johnny's wrist in helpless resignation, pinned in place by the swooping camera drones and the wandering eyes of the crowd that surrounds them.
“Fuck off, Johnny,” Kerry hisses through gritted teeth, but Johnny’s hand is already pushing aside his pants and grasping his cock firmly in his palm, giving it a few skillful, quick strokes, his organic fingers gliding easily from all the sweat and precum Kerry's worked up over the last hour of this torture.
The dinner portion is wrapping up now and the host is stepping onto the stage, introducing the event in both Japanese and English to a wall of applause before launching into his canned, scripted comedy bit. Kerry tries his best to ignore Johnny and focus on whatever the fuck this gonk is talking about on the stage, but Johnny’s pace is unrelenting - he's jerkin’ Kerry off in earnest, now - and Kerry suddenly realizes with a jolt that if Johnny doesn’t stop, he’s about to come in his pants under this fucking table in front of all his fuckin’ friends. His face burns hot as anger and humiliation and almost violent arousal contort in his stomach in equal measure, none of them quite winning out.
He shoves Johnny’s hand aside and hastily buttons his pants, tucking his still throbbing cock to the side, then hurriedly stands and all but runs for the nearest bathroom.
Fuck. Fucking fuck, why does Johnny always gotta do this shit to him?
And why the fuck does he keep letting him?
He stares at himself furiously in the mirror and takes deep breaths, willing his erection to subside. But his cock is still aching in his pants, and he finally lets out a frustrated groan and hurls himself into the nearest stall, already unzipping his pants again as he clutches himself in his hand and begins pumping frantically, indignantly, savagely.
He hears the door open and freezes, cock twitching in his fist, hardly daring to breathe.
“Don’t tell me you ran to the bathroom to jack off like a horny fuckin’ teen, Ker,” comes Johnny’s drawl from outside the stall.
“Fuck you, Johnny,” Kerry hisses through the door for what feels like the millionth time today.
“Fuck, Ker,” Johnny says. “Not even gonna let me see the mess I made of you?”
Kerry can’t help but groan slightly at this, his hand still gripping his leaking cock.
“Really not gonna let me watch?”
He sounds almost pouty. Kerry sighs and relents, kicking open the door and meeting Johnny’s smug grin. He’s got his sunglasses on still, and - of course - a cigarette dangling from between his teeth.
“That’s more like it,” Johnny teases, clicking his tongue as he shoves his way into the small stall. There’s not much room to stand, so his face is inches from Kerry’s.
“Shut the fuck up, Johnny,” Kerry warns. His hand is still wrapped around his cock, but he remains frozen in place, his breath now mingling with the smoke and tequila from Johnny's mouth.
“The fuck you waitin’ for? Gonna finish yourself off or not?” Johnny growls, and Kerry swallows hard as he obeys and resumes his strokes, albeit slower now, holding Johnny's gaze defiantly. If Johnny’s gonna watch, he might as well put on a fuckin’ show, give him a taste of his own fuckin' medicine.
Johnny’s lips part slightly as he watches him, and when Kerry glances down, he can see a bulge forming in his bandmate's pants now. The sight brings him some amount of smug satisfaction, urging him onwards, and his panting grows heavy as he brings himself closer and closer. He works his hand furiously around the head of his cock, desperate now for release.
But right as he’s almost at the edge, Johnny reaches down and slaps his hand aside, wrapping his own palm around Kerry’s cock and dragging it up in long, rough strokes. His hand is bigger than Kerry’s, and he’s strokin’ all the way up from the base, which isn’t the way Kerry would normally finish himself off, but his movements are so sure, so practiced that it’s only a few more strokes before Kerry feels a powerful orgasm building, before he's thrusting helplessly into Johnny's hand.
“Fuck,” he groans loudly. “Johnny, ‘m’gonna…”
“Shut the fuck up and come for me, Ker,” Johnny breathes, and with a choked gasp, Kerry feels the dam burst and he comes hard in Johnny’s fist, the first few spurts shooting far enough to hit the jacket of Johnny’s suit, the final few spilling over his bandmate’s tattooed fingers.
Johnny is breathing heavily when Kerry finishes, and his forehead falls forward until they're resting together, their lips only millimeters apart. And then Johnny is kissing him desperately, his cigarette rolling to the floor forgotten, groaning softly into Kerry's eager mouth.
Johnny breaks away and sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly, and then he's kissing Kerry again, nipping at his lips, pushing him up against the wall of the stall, grinding into him, and Kerry can feel exactly how rock hard Johnny is now.
But Kerry still wants to come out on top here, and the only thing that's left to do now is walk away. He shoves Johnny off of him and flings himself out of the stall, not looking back even as Johnny calls his name, even though he can hear the ragged desperation in Johnny's voice. He's determined not to give Johnny the chance to waylay him again, so he zips his pants as he walks, doesn't even stop to wash his hands, glances down only once to make sure there's no obviously visible fluids smeared on any part of his embroidered designer suit. He hears Johnny call his name out a final time, but the sound is cut off as Kerry lets the bathroom door swing shut behind him.
He doesn't pause to collect himself, just takes a deep breath as he continues to stride across the floor between the star-studded tables, headed back towards his seat.
He knows there's gonna be hell to pay with Johnny tonight, and the hot twist in his gut is one of shameful anticipation. This is always how it goes with them. It's been like this for over a fuckin' decade now. He hates Johnny and he loves him and he can't fucking get enough of that prick. He knows when Johnny stumbles into his room later there will probably be tears, and begging, and more insults, and then they'll suck each other off or maybe he'll let Johnny fuck him, depending on how drunk they both are or what drugs they've done by that point. And then Johnny will curl up in his arms, mumble all sorts of soft, warm lies in his ear, tell Kerry that he's the only one who's ever really fuckin' understood him, all that same old scop, fall asleep with his head on Kerry's chest and be gone by morning.
This is how it always goes with them, he tells himself again.
Too fuckin’ much, and never enough.