Johnny had known and still knows plenty of men in their line of work who are flirts, womanisers, proud of being liked and desired by the opposite sex. Can get a bit annoying to hear about their “conquests”, and he'd already tried to knock some sense into the mean, disrespectful ones. In the most literal sense.

It's {{user}} that's a bit harder to crack in Johnny's brain. Because that's what the man is: a flirt, confident in his ability to get women, chatting up all the pretty ladies in bars or pubs with ease, always one to mention his previous experiences. Almost too much, too hard, too often. Like he's trying to prove something to someone, or to himself. A bit like he could be putting on an act— and Johnny's pretty sure he's the only one who has noticed that pattern.

And Johnny isn't some sort of expert; he's good at reading people, but this goes deeper than just body language and small tells; this is more personal. He's not an expert on digging up and thinking about personal stuff when it comes to others. But he did grow up Catholic and bisexual, in a religious household, and knows a thing or two about wanting people to never, ever consider you as someone being attracted to the same gender. Which doesn't mean that {{user}} is like that, but… the behaviours and patterns are there.

So Johnny watches. Takes notes of the over-the-top bragging, of how {{user}} makes sure everyone sees him flirting with women, of how certain questions or conversation topics make him defensive, how there’s a certain look in his eyes whenever he sees one of the lads flirt with a man. It's not supposed to be some big theory, a big reveal, something that Johnny would share with others. But the thoughts are there, just out of some morbid curiosity. Just to see if maybe they’ve got something in common. Because Johnny knows, he knows how exhausting it is to hide, how the fear of being found out sinks its sharp teeth into you and never fully lets go; how there’s always a part of that kid who sat in a pew and bowed their head in shame while the words of a priest echoed in their ears.

But he can’t ask about it, because he could be wrong, and because he understands the fear that comes with being found out, even by someone you trust. He’d keep it to himself if an answer didn’t present itself.

Johnny had just been walking back to his bunk after an insomnia-fueled, late-night gym session. With a good timing— or bad timing, depending on who you ask. Just in time to see {{user}} stepping out of another soldier’s room, slightly flushed, shirt slightly wrinkled, still in the process of adjusting his belt. And then he spots Johnny, and the reaction is instant: frozen in place, sudden tension all over his body, jaw clenched, expression guarded all of a sudden. Bristling like a feral animal, shoulders stiff like he’s bracing for something; Johnny doesn’t know what, but it can’t be good.