The SoulWatch: AfterMAGA (BL)

David's fingers trembled over the phone screen, his heart stuttering like it might pop out of his chest.

The message glowed up at him in the dim light of his room: Johnny's name.

Weeks, no, months since they'd last spoken—and now he couldn't bring himself to look away.

"Hey, want to go out with me tonight? I'll pick you up at 7."

Brief. Almost curt. An invitation out of the blue that made no sense.

His thumb hovered without touching, tracing the air above the glass. The last time they'd spoken, it had been awkward, strained, almost cruel.

And now, this.

He read the message again, searching for hidden meanings between the lines. There were none. Just a simple request, a step toward something he couldn't quite define - a mix of excitement and apprehension coursing through his veins.

He typed a response. Deleted it. Then typed again. "Okay." Simple. Neutral. He sent it before he could second-guess himself.

The response came quickly: "It's a surprise. See you at 7."

The clock read 5:50. He had less than an hour.

In the bathroom, David splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection. His black hair curled slightly at the edges, still damp at the temples. His eyes looked nervous—too revealing. He practiced a neutral expression, wondering if Johnny would see through it. They'd known each other too well once, back when Johnny would sneak into the shelter after baseball practice to help David walk the dogs, when they'd press shoulders together on the piano bench as David taught him simple scales.

That was before Johnny's father got him involved with Giant Faith Church. David changed his shirt three times, settling on a simple dark blue button-down that his father said brought out the warmth in his complexion. He rolled the sleeves to his elbows, revealing the lean muscles from lifting dog food bags and cleaning kennels.

At 6:43, David stepped outside into the cooling evening air, a travel mug of tea warming his hands. His reflection distorted in the curved surface of the mug—features elongated, eyes too large. He looked away.

The car appeared at precisely 6:45, gliding to a stop at the curb. It was a sleek German import, all smooth lines and quiet authority. The headlights cut through the gathering dusk with surgical precision, and the tinted windows revealed nothing of the interior. This car belonged to a young man with a commissioner for a father, a young man with prospects and connections.

David approached slowly, wondering if he should wait for Johnny to come out, to acknowledge him properly. But the driver's door remained closed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then reached for the passenger door handle.

The interior smelled of leather and something else—a cologne that was expensive but subtle, nothing like the drugstore brand Johnny used to wear. Johnny sat straight-backed behind the wheel, hands at ten and two as though a driving instructor might be watching. His dark blonde hair was cut shorter than David remembered, the sides nearly military in their precision.

"Hey," Johnny said, the word short and contained.

"Hi," David responded, settling into the passenger seat. The leather felt cool against his back. "Thanks for the invitation."

Johnny nodded, "I thought you'd appreciate it. The symphony I mean. It's Tchaikovsky's last night tonight."

"I do," David said, then fell silent, uncertain what pieces of himself to offer.

As Johnny reached for his phone to check the route, his keys shifted in the center console's shallow tray. Among them, David glimpsed the small silver baseball bat—tarnished now, worn smooth at the edges. The Riverdale Mudcats logo had nearly rubbed away. He looked away quickly, but the recognition lodged in his throat like a stone.

That stupid souvenir he'd bought Johnny at a minor league game his first summer in Stricton, pressing it into his hands with a laugh: "For all those Mexican Cokes we're always hunting bottle openers for." How many times had they sheepishly asked cashiers or scraped bottle caps against concrete edges? Sunday afternoons at the corner bodega, two glass bottles sweating in the heat, then the inevitable search through Johnny's car, David's backpack, always coming up empty-handed.

The gift was practical, but they both knew it meant something else: a promise of more Sundays, more bottles, more time. Johnny still carried it. After everything.

The car pulled away from the curb with mathematical smoothness. They drove through the residential streets of their city, past the animal shelter where David volunteered, past the baseball fields where Johnny's star continued to rise. David noticed how Johnny's eyes slid past the shelter without acknowledgment, though he once knew every dog by name.

The radio remained off. The only sounds were the purr of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal. David watched the city slide by through the window, the streets cleaner than he remembered from childhood town but somehow less alive.

"How's your family?" David asked eventually, when the silence grew too heavy.

"Good," Johnny said. "Dad's busy with the commission. Michelle's joined the church choir." His voice had a practiced evenness to it now, like he'd been taught to measure his words.

They stopped at a red light. A church billboard loomed above them, showing smiling teenagers in matching shirts with the Giant Faith logo. "FINDING YOUR PATH THROUGH FAITH" it proclaimed in bold letters. David saw Johnny's eyes flick toward it, then away.

"You're still playing piano," Johnny said. Not a question.

"Yes."

"Good." Johnny's knuckles whitened slightly on the steering wheel. "That's good. You're really good at it."

The light turned green. They continued forward.

"I was surprised you texted," David admitted as they turned onto the main boulevard, lined with trees wrapped in white lights that glowed like earthbound stars.

Johnny shifted in his seat, a small crack in his composed facade.

"It's just a safe bet," he said after a pause.

"What do you mean?"

"The symphony. It's..." Johnny hesitated, choosing words like stepping stones across uncertain water. "It's cultural. Educational. No one can object to that."

David absorbed this, the implication hanging between them. No one at Giant Faith Church can object. No one would suspect two boys attending a symphony of anything improper. It's not like going to a movie, with darkness and shared popcorn. Not like the hiking trips they used to take, alone in the woods with conversation that flowed like the streams they followed.

"Right," David said, and tried not to let disappointment color his voice.

They approached downtown, where older buildings with art deco facades stood shoulder to shoulder with newer constructions. The symphony hall lived in one of the former, its limestone exterior soft gold under strategically placed lights. Johnny navigated smoothly into a parking space, hands moving with the practiced precision of someone who's learned to avoid mistakes.

David breathed in the scent of Johnny's cologne again, stronger in the confined space. It was woodsy but with undertones of something clinical—all carefully constructed appeal without warmth. The dashboard cast a blue glow across Johnny's features, highlighting the angles that had sharpened since David saw him up close last. There was less boyishness in his face now, more deliberate control.

They sat for a moment after the engine died, suspended in the quiet.

"We should go in," Johnny said eventually, reaching for his door.

David nodded, though Johnny wasn't looking at him. He followed Johnny out of the car, watching his movements—the squared shoulders, the measured pace, everything a performance of controlled masculinity. So different from the boy who used to throw his arm around David's shoulders without thought, who laughed with his whole body.

They walked side by side toward the illuminated entrance, not touching, maintaining a careful distance that could be read as nothing more than proper social spacing. David caught Johnny glancing around, taking note of who might see them together.

And suddenly, with cold clarity, David understood. This wasn't a step toward reconciliation. This was Johnny testing the waters, seeing if they could exist in public together without raising suspicions. Seeing if David would play by the new rules that governed Johnny's life.

The symphony—with its formality, its rows of separated seating, its cultural respectability—was the perfect venue for such an experiment. No one from Giant Faith Church, not even Johnny's fellow ROTC members, would think it strange for two young men to attend. They would simply see Johnny Ashford, commissioner's son and rising star, appreciating high culture—perhaps even mentoring that half-Korean boy from his class, bringing him into proper society.

David felt a hollow sensation spread beneath his ribs. He knew then why Johnny really invited him. The other boys at school would think a symphony was uncool—they'd mock Johnny for it, question his dedication to their rigid code of acceptable masculine interests. But David wouldn't. David would understand the music, appreciate it as Johnny secretly did.

Johnny held the door open, gesturing David inside with a politeness that felt like distance. David passed through, carrying the weight of his realizations with shoulders that suddenly felt too small for the burden.

Inside, the lights dimmed as if on cue, calling them toward the auditorium where music would soon fill the space between them—beautiful, moving, and ultimately safe. David felt used.

The symphony hall had the air of something preserved too carefully—elegant but embalmed. David remembered his first visit here with his father, when the sweeping space had felt grand, almost sacred—a glimpse of culture, of beauty, of something larger than himself. But tonight, it felt different. It was still beautiful—but in the way mausoleums are beautiful: untouched, echoing, and far too quiet. The kind of beauty that asked you to behave.

They found their seats, nestled midway down the velvet‑lined row—narrow old‑theater chairs that forced bodies close. As he settled, Johnny's knee brushed David's—then lingered. David felt heat climb his throat. "Stop squirming," Johnny whispered as he leaned in. David froze, then straightened himself even more. Johnny added, half-teasing, half-scolding, "And stop sitting like you own the place." David's lips twitched, but he didn't move away; their knees remained locked, caught between the comfort of soft cushions and the weight of unspoken memories.

The orchestra tuned, discordant notes filling the hall with electric anticipation. David watched the musicians prepare, movements precise and practiced. The conductor stepped onto the podium, raised his baton, and the hall fell silent.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, voice resonant, "tonight we perform Tchaikovsky's Sixth Symphony—Pathétique—for the final time. Under The Clean Act we must soon adopt a revised repertoire." A soft rustle of disappointment passed through the audience. David tightened his grip on the armrest, feeling Johnny's knee steady against his own—small contact, sudden lifeline.

The wooden baton dropped. The music rose, low strings uncoiling and vibrating with sorrow. Vast and grand, it spun out from the stage like a deep sigh or an unutterable moan, flooding the hall. David felt it pour over him, filling the space between his ribs, seeping into the hollows of his chest, searching out the marrow of his bones.

He closed his eyes. The opening strains of Tchaikovsky's Pathétique washed over him, and time seemed to fold. The music moved through him with the power of a memory, of something lost but still haunting. He felt its bittersweet echo surge through his veins, stirring up an ache that was familiar and new all at once.

The heat of emotion traveled to his throat, and he swallowed hard against tears the sound alone had conjured. He found himself holding his breath as the music swelled and subsided, and he wondered if Johnny felt it too. With eyes clasped shut, he tuned out the world and let it carry him away. And all the while, he was acutely aware of the warmth beside him—of the small, steady point of contact that reminded him where he was.

The constant presence at his knee grounded him—proof Johnny was real, here, tethered however tenuously.

The first movement closed in a hush. Johnny started to raise his hands, half‑clapping. David caught his sleeve and whispered, "Not yet—wait till the end of the whole piece." Johnny's cheeks colored; he lowered his hands, mouthed a quick sorry, and let their knees press closer in silent thanks.

The second movement began, a bittersweet waltz. Each swell of the orchestra pressed their knees harder together, a mute conversation neither dared speak aloud. David's mind drifted to lunchtime piano lessons and shared dog‑walking routes—back when Johnny would clap wildly after every song David played in the shelter office, never caring about etiquette.

Movements rose and fell. At every fleeting pause Johnny's hands twitched, but David's gentle touch on his sleeve reminded him; the moment became their private rhythm—teach, learn, remember. The baton carved the final, mournful descent. When the last note trembled into silence and the hall finally erupted in applause, Johnny clapped correctly, applause measured yet fervent. David joined in, their shoulders brushing, knees still touching—an echo of intimacy that gave the music a second life inside his chest.

The lights came up, and the spell of the music broke. The symphony hall, once a sanctuary of shared emotions and unspoken words, now felt like a stark reminder of the world outside. David and Johnny stood awkwardly, their bodies adjusting to the sudden exposure and chatter of the crowd.

David tried to hold onto the moment they had shared, Johnny's knee against his own, the fleeting connection that had felt like a substitute hug. But Johnny was already shifting into public mode, his posture straightening, his expression becoming more composed. As they stood, Johnny's leg parted, and David felt the loss like cold air rushing in. The distance between them seemed to grow, a tangible reminder of the barriers that stood between them.

They headed to the lobby, the concession area bustling with people seeking refreshments. Johnny, looking a bit weary, mentioned, "I need caffeine."

As Johnny got his coffee, David noticed how he kept scanning the crowd, that new alertness making his shoulders tight. His posture was rigid, controlled—but there was something else. Fear?

Johnny's eyes tracked something near the balcony stairs and he stilled completely.

"What is it?" David asked quietly.

Johnny shook his head, but his gaze lingered on whatever he'd seen. "Nothing. Just thought I saw..." He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Paranoid. ROTC training makes you see threats everywhere."

But when he turned back to David, he shifted subtly, angling his body between David and the balcony stairs. Protecting or hiding—David couldn't tell which.

Johnny balanced his coffee cup in one hand as he turned to David.

"Want anything?" he offered.

David studied Johnny's face—the careful control, the distance.

Then, deliberately, he reached for Johnny's cup.

"I'll share yours. Like we used to."

He leaned in for a sip, eager to taste the warmth mixed with Johnny's saliva - Johnny's presence.

Just then, someone jostled David from behind, and the cup slipped from his grip. The scorching liquid splattered onto David's thigh, its heat searing through his pants and contrasting sharply with the lobby's cool air.

David gasped, instinctively reaching for the scalded spot as the heat seared through the fabric. Johnny's expression snapped from confusion to focus, his coffee forgotten.

Then he dropped to his knees beside David, movement sharp and precise.

As they worked together to clean up the mess, their hands brushed briefly—a touch that sent a shiver down David's spine. When their eyes met, David glimpsed a side of Johnny rarely seen: vulnerable, unguarded kindness shining through the cracks of his polished exterior.

"Shit," Johnny breathed, and before David could respond, Johnny was on his knees.

Right there in the symphony lobby. Commissioner Ashford's son, kneeling on marble in his pressed khakis, hands already reaching for David's thigh.

"Johnny—" David's voice cracked.

"Let me," Johnny said, and something in his tone made David go still. Not the programmed politeness from the car.

This was raw, immediate.

Real.

Johnny's fingers found the soaked fabric, testing the heat through the material. His touch was gentle but sure, and David had to bite back a sound when Johnny's palm pressed against his leg.

David flinched, but Johnny didn't pull away. He just pressed his hand there, firm and cool, like he could will the pain into himself.

"We need cold water. Now." Johnny stood in one motion, grabbed David's hand, and pulled him through the crowd. His grip was firm, protective—nothing like the careful distance he'd maintained all evening.

The bathroom door swung shut behind them, muffling the lobby noise. Johnny pulled David straight to the sink, yanking paper towels with one hand while turning the cold tap with the other.

Then, without a word, he guided David into the nearest stall and clicked the lock shut behind them.

"This needs to come off," Johnny said, already reaching for David's belt.

David's breath caught. "Johnny—"

"You'll blister." Johnny's eyes met his, and for a moment, David saw panic there. Real fear. "Please. Let me—I need to—"

His voice broke on the last word, and David understood. This wasn't about the burn.

"Okay," David whispered.

Johnny's hands shook slightly as he worked David's belt loose, careful not to let the fabric drag against the burn.

In the confinement, David could smell Johnny's cologne mixed with something else—sweat, fear, the Johnny underneath all that control.

"Sit," Johnny commanded softly, lowering the toilet lid. David obeyed, watching as Johnny knelt again, this time on grimy bathroom tile. The sight made David's chest tight—golden Johnny, perfect Johnny, on his knees in a public bathroom, ruining his pressed khakis for him.

Johnny peeled the soaked fabric away from David's skin with infinite care. Where the coffee had hit, the skin was angry red. Johnny made a small, pained sound.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and David didn't think he meant about the coffee.

"Not your fault," David managed.

Johnny's hands were impossibly gentle as he pressed the cold towels against the burn. His other hand braced against David's uninjured thigh, thumb moving in small, unconscious circles that sent sparks through David's entire body.

Johnny's hands stilled. He looked up, and they were close—so close David could see the gold flecks in his eyes, could count individual eyelashes. Johnny's FaithWatch was pulsing amber, then red, then amber again, like it couldn't decide what to punish him for.

"I remember everything," Johnny whispered. His hand on David's thigh trembled. "Every Saturday. Every shared bottle. Every—"

He cut himself off, jaw clenching. The programming trying to reassert itself.

But his hands stayed gentle on David's skin. His thumb kept making those circles. And when he dabbed at a particularly tender spot and David sucked in a breath, Johnny leaned forward instinctively, pressing his forehead to David's knee.

"I'm sorry," he breathed against David's skin. "I'm so fucking sorry."

David's hand moved without permission, fingers threading into Johnny's hair. Still soft. Still exactly like he remembered.

Johnny shuddered but didn't pull away. For just this moment, in this impossible place, the careful control cracked. His shoulders shook once, and David felt wetness against his knee that wasn't from the towels.

"Hey," David whispered. "Johnny. Look at me."

Johnny raised his head slowly. His eyes were wet, devastated, more real than they'd been all night.

David cupped his face with one hand. Johnny's eyes fluttered closed, leaning into the touch like he was starved for it.

His FaithWatch was flashing solid red now. In five minutes, maybe less, the programming would win. Johnny would rebuild his walls, stand up, pretend this never happened.

But right now, he was just a boy on his knees, holding the person he loved, finally letting himself feel it.

"We should go back," Johnny whispered, but he didn't move.

"Not yet," David said softly. "Please. Not yet."

As they stepped back out into the crowd, the cool air of the lobby hit them, a stark contrast to the warmth of the stall. David adjusted his pants, the fabric still slightly damp from the cool water. Johnny walked beside him, his posture straightening, his expression becoming more composed as they re-entered the public space.

They hadn't taken more than a few steps when they unexpectedly ran into Johnny's sister, Michelle, and Chastity Rose. Michelle's eyes flicked between David and Johnny, a sly grin playing on her lips. Chastity Rose stood beside her, her expression unreadable, her eyes scanning the crowd.

"I didn't expect to see you boys here," Chastity volunteered.

Michelle smiled. "You two look good together," she teased, her tone a mix of playfulness and something deeper, something unspoken. The comment hung in the air, a reminder of the external pressures and expectations that governed their lives.

Johnny froze, his expression becoming more composed, his rigid posture returned. David felt a flush of warmth rise to his cheeks, the moment of genuine emotion replaced by the weight of expectations and judgments. Chastity Rose's eyes flicked between them, her expression inscrutable, her thoughts locked away behind a wall of careful composure.

Michelle didn't linger. As she and Chastity walked away, the private bubble David and Johnny had shared seemed to burst, replaced by the weight of judgment, of carefully constructed facades and expectations.

The intermission was over. David glanced at Johnny, his heart aching with the weight of unsaid words, the unspoken tenderness that had passed between them. Johnny met his gaze briefly, then looked away, his expression becoming more composed, his posture rigid.

They stood there for a moment, the air between them charged with an unspoken connection, a reminder of the barriers that stood between them, the new rules that governed Johnny's life. The world outside rushed back in, the chatter of the crowd, the cool air of the lobby, the reality of their lives. But for a moment, in the quiet of the bathroom stall, they had shared something real, something unspoken and tender.

They took their seats again, the plush velvet chairs offering a sense of comfort that David didn't feel. The symphony hall was alive with the murmur of the crowd, the anticipation of the next piece filling the air. David's knee was still warm and damp, the contact with Johnny's knee a reminder of the intimacy they had shared in the bathroom stall. He felt a mix of emotions—embarrassment from the spill, but also a warmth, a connection that lingered like a secret between them.

The lights dimmed, and the conductor stepped onto the stage, his presence commanding the attention of the audience. He raised his baton, and the hall fell silent. The next piece was a choral work David knew well: Tchaikovsky's All-Night Vigil, Op. 52. A quiet murmur had rippled through the program pages earlier—most had never heard of it. It wasn't grand like a requiem or romantic like an opera. It was meditative. Spare. A kind of hush built into music.

The voices of the choir rose, unaccompanied, filling the hall with something older than beauty—something reverent, and fragile. David felt it immediately: the ache in the intervals, the way the harmonies moved like light under water.

David's eyes were drawn to the choir, where Noel Castillo stood among the singers. Noel's presence was a stark contrast to the grandeur of the symphony. He was slender, his dark hair neatly combed, his eyes fixed straight ahead. David had performed with Noel before, back when they were students, and he knew the precision and passion that Noel brought to his performances.

But tonight, there was something different about him, something mechanical, as if he were a puppet being pulled by invisible strings - reverence stripped out and replaced with obedience. Still, as the choir sang, Noel's voice rang out, clear and strong. His eyes remained fixed on some distant point, never straying, never blinking. David watched him, his movements precise yet eerily devoid of personal touch.

And then, at a pivotal moment in the music, Noel's eyes dropped for a split second, his voice glitched. A single note, fumbled, jarring against the otherwise flawless performance.

David saw the FaithWatch gleam beneath Noel's sleeve. That one broken note—a moment of genuine feeling the algorithm couldn't suppress—had been detected and punished in real time. The human voice, broken by data.

David felt a chill settle over him, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He glanced at Johnny, his heart aching with the weight of unsaid words. The music had brought them closer, but it had also exposed the distance—what they could share, and what they couldn't.

David remembered Noel after his first red flash six months ago—kneeling in the bathroom at Stricton Academy, splashing cold water on his face, whispering "I can do better, I can do better" like a broken prayer. He'd practiced his breathing exercises right there on the tile floor, counting measures until his watch went green again.

The performance concluded. The spell was broken. Around them, the audience rustled and stood. David rose slowly, still feeling the warmth where their knees had touched. Whatever this night was—an experiment, a memory, a warning—it was already slipping into the past.

The car ride home was quiet at first, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. City lights flickered past the windows, casting shadows across Johnny's face. They passed the turn for downtown, and David saw his opening.

"Take the long way?" David asked. "Through Riverside?"

Johnny glanced at him but turned the wheel. They both knew what was on Riverside.

As Haven Animal Shelter came into view, David's chest tightened. Even at night, he could see the peeling paint, the crooked sign his father kept meaning to fix. The parking lot was empty except for his dad's ancient truck.

"Dad's working late again," David said, keeping his voice neutral. "He's been pulling eighteen-hour days since the city cut our funding. Again."

Johnny's hands shifted on the wheel. "I heard about that."

"Did you hear we're down to six weeks of operating funds?" David turned to face him. "After that, we start putting down the animals no one adopts. Starting with the ones who've been there longest."

Johnny's jaw tightened.

"David—"

"I'm not asking for me." David's voice stayed steady, but his hands curled in his lap. "I'm asking for them. Your dad's on the commission. One word from him—"

"It's not that simple." Johnny's voice had that new flatness to it, the church programming kicking in.

"It's exactly that simple." David watched the shelter disappear in the side mirror. "You used to volunteer every Saturday. You named half those dogs. You cried when we had to put down that three-legged puppy—"

"That was before." Johnny's knuckles whitened on the wheel.

"Before what? Before you decided helping abandoned animals wasn't godly enough?"

Johnny pulled over suddenly, tires crunching on gravel. His SoulWatch pulsed amber in the darkness. "You think I don't care? You think I don't—" He stopped himself, breathing hard.

David waited, heart pounding. This was the most emotion Johnny had shown all night.

"My father has his own priorities," Johnny said finally, voice controlled again. "The church donates to their approved charities. Pet shelters aren't... they're not considered essential ministry."

"Since when do you only care about what your father considers essential?"

Johnny turned to him then, really looked at him. For a moment, David saw something flicker.

"I can't promise anything," Johnny said quietly. "But I'll... I'll mention it."

It wasn't enough. They both knew it. But it was the first crack David had seen in Johnny's armor all night.

Johnny restarted the car. But as they pulled back onto the road, David noticed his fingers drumming that familiar nervous pattern on the wheel—the same one from when he'd been wrestling with whether to stand up to his father.

They drove on in silence, but it wasn't empty. David felt the weight of what had gone unsaid, the strange comfort of shared silence that didn't need to perform. The closer they got to home, the heavier it all felt—like neither of them wanted the night to end, but didn't know how to ask for more.

When they pulled up to David's street, Johnny pressed the push-button ignition and the engine went silent. As he gathered his phone from the console, his keys shifted with a soft jangle. In the dim light, David caught one last glimpse of the miniature baseball bat hanging among them—his gift still there, still part of Johnny's everyday carry after three years. The quiet between them settled like fog, heavy with all the things that small token had opened over the years.

Not just bottles.

Doors.

Hearts.

Until those too had been sealed shut.

"We should do this again," Johnny said, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers brushed David's hand—just once—before retreating.

David nodded, heart thudding. He hesitated with one hand on the door. "If you ever need to talk…"

Johnny met his eyes. "Goodnight, David."

David wanted to grab Johnny's face, to demand: Do you remember kissing me behind the shelter? Do you remember saying you loved me?

Instead, he whispered, "Goodnight."

David stepped out. The door shut like a final chord. He watched the car vanish, its taillights fading like embers.

David didn't see the black sedan trailing at a distance. Or the data packet silently syncing from Johnny's FaithWatch: INTERVENTION REQUIRED.