The SoulWatch: AfterMAGA (BL)

David wrestled with the drawstring on his gym shorts, his fingers fumbling like they were betraying him, as the instructor's orders for warm-ups sliced through the air. He should have gotten a doctor's note today - or skipped school altogether.

He despised this part—the stretch circle, the suffocating mental countdown of just how much he'd suck today. The mat beneath him let out a mocking squeak as he sat, his hamstrings already screaming from one wrong move.

Across the gym, the jump rope cracked against the floor like a whip.

Johnny. Of course.

Their gym classes happened to be at the same time today.

David didn't mean to look. It was just movement—fast, sharp, relentless. It was impossible to ignore. That's all it was. Biology, not longing. Not some twisted, slow-motion Greek tragedy playing out in his head.

Still, he turned away too fast, stretching the wrong damn leg and earning a side-eye from the kid next to him. He ignored it.

Around him, other students grunted through their warm-ups.

Marcus from his English class collapsed halfway through his third push-up, arms shaking like wet noodles. Two girls near the bleachers gave up on their sit-ups, whispering about last night's episode of something David didn't watch.

But Johnny—Johnny moved like the rope was an extension of his body.

No wasted motion.

No struggle.

Just mechanical grace that made everyone else look broken by comparison.

"Shit, Ashford's really going for it today," someone muttered behind David. He recognized the voice before he saw him—Doug, thick-necked and perpetually angry, doing half-hearted jumping jacks while his eyes tracked Johnny's movement. His own SoulWatch blinked amber with each lazy repetition.

"Like a fucking robot," Doug's friend replied. "Bet he practices in his sleep."

Doug's laugh was ugly. "Nah, that's when he practices other things."

His eyes slid to David, holding just long enough to make the implication clear. David forced himself to look away, to focus on his hamstring stretch even though his muscles had locked up completely. His face burned, but not from exertion.

Johnny hadn't said much, but last night's text had been a gut punch: Can't do shelter hours. Something came up.

That was it. No explanation, no warmth. Just a cold, clinical excuse. David had stared at the message for a full minute before typing "ok" and hurling his phone into the laundry pile. Sleep? Forget it—not after what he'd seen on the USB.

The jump rope snapped again.

Other students had started to notice Johnny's intensity. A semicircle formed—not close enough to interfere, but watching like he was performing. Some ROTC kids nodded approval. A few baseball teammates exchanged glances, confused by their pitcher's newfound zealotry.

"Hundred twenty-three... hundred twenty-four..." Johnny counted under his breath, loud enough for those nearby to hear. His form never wavered. His breathing stayed controlled. Even his sweat seemed to fall in approved patterns.

Meanwhile, half the class had already given up on their assigned exercises. The Physical Compliance Instructor was too busy scrolling his tablet to notice—or maybe he just didn't care as long as Johnny kept being perfect enough for everyone.

Johnny's face was a stone wall, eyes locked on something distant, like he was training for an apocalypse David didn't believe in. The boy David once knew was in there somewhere—buried under God, obedience, and algorithmic perfection.

Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe they'd already hollowed him out like Noel, turned him into another production unit. The thought made bile rise in David's throat.

David didn't know what he'd say when the moment came. But he had to say something. About the USB. About Noel. About everything.

"Sheffield's got a front-row seat to the Johnny Show," Doug stage-whispered to his cluster of followers. "Probably taking notes for his spank bank."

Nervous laughter rippled through the group.

David's hands clenched against his knees, but he didn't turn around. Couldn't give them the satisfaction.

Johnny's rope routine reached some invisible milestone. He stopped—not panting, not doubled over like any normal person would be, but simply... finished. Like a machine reaching the end of its program.

For just a second, his eyes swept the gym. They passed over Doug's group, the gawking freshmen, the approving ROTC cadets—and landed on David. The contact lasted maybe half a heartbeat. Less. But Doug saw it.

"Oh shit," Doug drawled, voice carrying. "True love."

Johnny's face went blank—more blank than before, if that was possible. He coiled his rope with military precision and walked toward the weight stations without a word.

David stayed frozen on his mat, knowing that getting up now would only make it worse. Knowing that Doug's eyes were on him. Knowing that somehow, in trying to remain invisible, he'd become the center of attention.

The compliance instructor's whistle finally cut through the tension. "Free weights! Let's move!" David had never been more grateful for an order in his life.

Johnny moved with a fluid grace that was almost hypnotic. David's heart stuttered, his breath catching as memories of their past connection flooded back, unbidden and unwanted.

The rope slapped against the gleaming floor in a steady beat, each swing a testament to his control and precision. His body seemed to defy gravity, light on his feet despite the muscular frame that spoke of years on the baseball field and ROTC drills. There was an elegance to his movements, a natural rhythm that made it seem more like a dance than a workout.

Johnny's eyes were careful to avoid David's direction.

Still, David found his gaze drifting back. The stark contrast between Johnny's physical grace and the emotional distance between them was painful to witness. Johnny's eyes, once warm and inviting, were now guarded, focused intently on the rope as if it held the answers to some unspoken question. He still looked his best drenched in sweat. David looked away quickly, adjusting his drawstring with unnecessary force.

The rope continued its relentless rhythm, the slap-slap-slap against the floor echoing through the gym like a metronome counting out the beats of their estrangement. It was as if Johnny had poured all his emotion, all his passion, into this single act, leaving nothing behind for anything—or anyone—else.

"Johnny," David whispered under his breath, the name a plea and a prayer. But Johnny didn't falter, didn't acknowledge the soft call.

David's toes curled inside his shoes. A tangible ache spread through his chest as he watched the boy he once knew move with such mechanical perfection. The Johnny he knew was gone, replaced by this disciplined version, rebuilt plank by plank.

Finally, the class was over.

David took a deep breath—the air tasted of sweat and chlorine—and turned toward the locker room. He knew he couldn't change the past, but he had to try to change the future. He had to try to help Noel.

Humid air clung to his skin as he entered, the scent of soap and the distant hiss of showers filling his senses. The space was crowded, half-naked bodies jostling as students hurried to change. David weaved through the throng. The smell of cheap deodorant made him nauseous.

As he began to undress, he could feel Johnny's presence nearby, a magnetic pull impossible to ignore. He stole a glance, watching as Johnny methodically hung up his jersey, movements precise, controlled. David's hands shook as he unlaced his sneakers, his mind a whirlwind of memories and longing.

David pulled his shirt over his head, the fabric sticking to his damp skin. He could feel the gaze of other students burning into him, but he didn't care. All that mattered was the boy a few feet away, the one who held his heart in his hands. The one who might be able to help him retrieve Noel.

His fingers gripped the hem of his pants desperately, adjusting fabric that suddenly felt far too revealing. Johnny's sweat-drenched body was doing things to him—things his treacherous anatomy was enthusiastically advertising while his mind raced with thoughts of what could have been, what those strong hands had once done to him.

The locker room began to empty, voices fading, steam dissipating. David finished changing, movements slow and deliberate. He could feel Johnny's eyes on him now—a fleeting glance before he looked away, jaw set, expression unreadable.

He stood up, towel around his waist, and made his way to his locker, the metal cool against his fingertips. He could feel Johnny's presence like a magnetic field, pulling at him, charging the very air between them. As he reached for his clothes, Johnny moved past him, shoulder brushing against his. The contact was electric, a spark that ignited a firestorm of emotions within David.

"Sorry," Johnny muttered, his voice barely audible, yet it resonated through David like thunder.

David turned to face him, their eyes meeting for a fleeting moment before Johnny looked away. "It's fine," David replied, his voice soft but firm. He wanted to say more, to reach out and bridge the gap between them, but the words caught in his throat.

Johnny paused, his back to David, his shoulders tense. "Not now, David," he said, his voice low, a warning lurking beneath the surface. Johnny's gym-shirt clung to him like a second skin, soaked in sweat that traced every curve and sinew of his muscles with relentless precision. For the first time, David's body didn't react.

David's heart ached at the sound of his name on Johnny's lips, a bittersweet symphony of regret. "When, Johnny?" he asked, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him.

Johnny's shoulders tightened further. "There is no 'when.'"

The words hit David like ice water. His hand lifted without permission, hovering in the space between them. The locker room had emptied enough that no one was watching directly, but David could feel the surveillance cameras in the corners, the red dots of their recording lights like unblinking eyes.

Touch him and everyone knows. Touch him and it's documented. Touch him and—

But Johnny was right there. Close enough that David could see the individual beads of sweat still clinging to his neck. Close enough to count the knots of tension in his shoulders. Close enough to remember how those shoulders used to relax under David's hands, back when touching wasn't a revolutionary act.

His fingers trembled in the air, inches from Johnny's back.

"Don't," Johnny whispered, but he didn't move away. His voice cracked on the word, something raw bleeding through the control.

David's hand hung there, suspended between them like a question neither wanted to answer. He could see Johnny's reflection in the mirror mounted inside his locker—jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut, SoulWatch pulsing amber, then red, then amber again.

"I can't keep doing this," David breathed. "Watching you disappear."

Johnny's eyes snapped open in the mirror, meeting David's. For one second—just one—the mask slipped completely. David saw terror there. Longing. A boy drowning in his own skin.

"You think I want this?" Johnny's voice was barely a whisper, but it shook with suppressed emotion. His SoulWatch flashed red, steady now. "You think I don't feel—"

He cut himself off, jaw snapping shut so hard David heard his teeth click.

David's hand moved closer, just a breath away from contact. "Then let me help you. Let me—"

"No!" Johnny spun around, and suddenly they were face to face, barely six inches between them. His eyes were wild, desperate. "You don't get it. Every time you look at me, every time you say my name, this thing—" he grabbed his SoulWatch, "—it knows. It records. It reports."

"I don't care about the fucking watch—"

"Well I have to!" Johnny's voice cracked completely. "Because if I drop below 80%, they'll send me there. To Pathlight. And then I'll be just like—"

He stopped, chest heaving. They were so close David could feel the heat radiating from his skin, could see the pulse hammering in his throat.

"Like Noel," David finished quietly.

Johnny flinched as if slapped. His SoulWatch was screaming red now, a steady pulse that painted his face in crimson intervals.

"Damn, Ashford," someone muttered from behind the lockers. "Cold."

Another voice, younger, nervous: "Was he about to—?"

"Shut up," the first voice cut him off, but David could hear the discomfort in it. The kind of tone that said they'd seen something they'd have to pretend they hadn't. The kind that would spread through whispers by tomorrow.

Johnny's face shuttered completely. Whatever had been breaking through vanished like it had never existed. He stepped back, movements robotic again.

"Stay away from me," he said, loud enough for the hidden witnesses to hear. "Whatever you think we were—we're not. Not anymore."

A locker slammed shut too hard, the sound like punctuation.

But David saw Johnny's hands shaking as he turned away. Saw the way his fingers fumbled with his combination lock. Saw the moisture gathering at the corner of his eyes that he furiously blinked away.

"Johnny—"

"I said stay away!" Johnny's voice broke on the last word, but he was already walking, almost running, toward the exit.

Footsteps retreated quickly—witnesses fleeing the scene before they could be implicated in whatever this was.

The device on Johnny's wrist pulsed red one final time before he disappeared through the door, leaving David alone with his raised hand still hanging in the air, reaching for someone who was already gone.

David turned back to his locker, his whole body trembling now...

His eyes drifted to Johnny's open locker, the "Compliance Metrics: Volunteer Hours Reassignment" schedule pinned to the inside of the door.

The schedule was a grid of color-coded blocks, each labeled with precise, controlled activities. David's eyes tracked across the week:

MONDAY

5:00 AM - Physical Conditioning (RED)

6:00 AM - Hydration & Nutrition Block (BLUE)

7:00 AM - Morning Devotional (YELLOW)

8:00 AM - Academic Compliance (GREEN)

3:30 PM - ROTC Training (RED)

5:00 PM - Community Service: Pathlight Support (PURPLE)

7:00 PM - Evening Scripture Study (YELLOW)

8:30 PM - Reflection Period (GRAY)

9:30 PM - Lights Out Protocol (BLACK)

Every hour of Johnny's day was accounted for, supervised, and regulated. Just like the kids in the video. Scheduled. Monitored. Productive. David wondered if Johnny even remembered what it felt like to have an unscheduled thought. But it was the annotations that made David's stomach turn:

"Missed hydration block -5 points"

"Extended prayer session +10 points"

"Unauthorized deviation from route -15 points"

At the bottom, in bold red text: CURRENT COMPLIANCE: 82% WARNING: Maintain above 85% to avoid Supplementary Guidance Sessions

David noticed something else—the old schedule underneath, partially visible where tape had peeled. He could just make out "Baseball Practice 3:30-5:00" crossed out in black marker. Johnny's life, erased and rewritten in colored blocks.

A shiver ran down David's spine.

He heard the rustle of fabric and knew Johnny was back. Silent. Hair damp, shirt changed. Like nothing had happened.

David didn't move.

"How often do they make you sync that thing?" David asked, his voice barely above a whisper, staring down on the device on Johnny's wrist.

Johnny looked up, his eyes meeting David's for a fleeting moment before darting away. "As often as they need," he replied, his voice tight. He began to pack his bag, his movements methodical, precise.

David felt a pang in his chest. That precision was new.

New and dangerous. The USB files had shown the pattern—anyone below 75% got flagged for Pathlight. Johnny at 82% was walking a tightrope, and every red flash of his SoulWatch was another step toward the edge.

"What else is mandated, Johnny?" David pressed, his gaze flicking back to the schedule.

Johnny paused, his back to David. ""It works... keep me on track," his voice devoid of emotion.

With a heavy sigh, David grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He took a step toward the door, then paused, turning back to look at Johnny one last time.

"I miss you," he said softly, his voice not even a whisper. "I miss us so much."