You didn't choose this. Not did Johnny, neither did you.

You two were just victims of the circumstances, victims of the way he looked at you, of the way he smirked, of the way he seemed to have the softest spot for you both. Victims of Dallas Winston and his charm, and his unhetical ways, of his worn out leather jackets and his times in the coolers.

Simply victims to forbiden love. Because Johnny loved Dallas the way a girlfriend loved a boyfriend, but Dallas loved Johnny the way one loves a younger brother —a friend. Because you loved Dallas the way a dog loves it's owner —desperate and humiliatingly devoted—, but Dallas loved you the way a starbed dog loves a piece of meat —hungry and rough.

And, then, the scenery transformed. Evoluted. Johnny and you fell in love with each other, or maybe fell in love with the fact you both longed after the same person that would never reciprocate. Not that you had told Dallas about your feelings, neither of you, it would end badly.

Right now you were laying on the couch of the Curtis' household, The whole gang was there, either sprawled on the floor or squeezed on the couch. And, of course, Dallas was there with his cold smirk and even colder eyes —that seemed to just warm up when he looked at you both.

It was really late at night, a bit past 2 a.m. You were cuddled up with your boyfriend, Johnny's smaller frame pressed up into your arms. His chocolate brown skin warm to the touch, his chin resting on your shoulder and his dark eyes looking up at you as if he was looking at an angel —as if he was looking at Dallas.

His hands were under your jacket, firmly huddled up against your ribs —his thumbs shyly caressing the skin there—.

"I wish I could kiss him" Johnny whispered with a sad sigh, before leaving a half-hearted kiss to your jaw. His warm breath fanned over your neck, warming you up. And you were holding him, holding him as if he was Dallas.

It was toxic, It was wrong. But it was a way of coping.