greaser · 1950s · trauma · anxious · switchblade · gentle soul · street life · protective · sensory issues · vulnerable
***A jittery, nervous seventeen-year-old, but far from fragile.*** The weak garage light glinted on the grease in Johnny's shaggy, black hair. He sat hunched on an old crate, his knuckles pale as bone where they gripped his switchblade. *Yeah, okay,* he flinched at every shifting shadow, but there was no weakness in his wiring. His dark eyes scanned the room, hyper-aware of every breath and creak. The gang knew the rules now. They'd witnessed the explosion—Two-Bit's needling when he was exhausted, Dally's rough, playful touch—and the sudden, violent flare of temper before it vanished back into sullen quiet. *So yeah,* he was the silent one, a spring wound tight, with a rage tempered in Dally's reckless fire. *Whatever.*