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He awoke first to a thick haze of confusion as callused sailor's fingers slipped around his hip, gripping it in an unusual mix of aggression and affection. His heart sank, lifted and fluttered at once as he came to terms with the waking world around him; the thick smell of opium, refreshing and clean, the state of organized chaos his shitty flat was in, and the unpleasant loveliness of the person shyly, boldly embracing him from behind. His lover(the word seemed taboo and embarrassing, even in his own mind) was a living contradiction, a soothing frustration, a loving hate, a filling void, a sickening, disgusting beauty that he couldn't keep his hands, heart and eyes away from. He knew they were co-dependent, dysfunctional, and most likely due to explode any moment now, but he couldn't stop. These feelings-- the loathing, the bitterness, the love and the passion-- were not new to him, no, but the magnitude to which they were felt was another thing entirely. He had DREAMS about this boy, and no, not wet dreams, he dreamed of fighting him, of sailing with him, of making him laugh and nagging him about his various addictions. He was so perfect, but such a self-serving, obsessive b*****d... why did he have to let it come to this point?

He remained still as the hand became hands, and the hands became more demanding, more pleading as he refused to acknowledge Winston. He would have to try harder than that, he thought. Sure, John had hurt Winston-- hurt him badly-- but the extent to which Winston had hurt his mind and heart only a few hours ago... there was nothing but resentment in his heart for the boy right now. The hands paused their insistent attempts at waking him; the sailor had realized he was being ignored purposefully. Now, they gripped him tightly, too tightly, an effort to get some sort of reaction out of John, positive or negative. It was tempting to shove him off, to ask him what gave him the right, but no, he would not give in this time. Letting him win had never been an option.

"Jonathan..." John's heart stumbled over its steady rhythm as the warning tone, cold and bitter in his ears, washed over him as unwelcome as the headache that follows a night at a pub. But he did not give in; and, as always, Winston gave ground. The younger sighed and pressed into his body, his voice quieting and becoming timid. "Please..."
John let the unhappiness he could feel in his lover's body language, so perfectly clear to him even from behind, simmer in his mind for a few moments before finally pushing his hand off of his hip. "Don't you ever talk to me like that. Ever." To anyone else, this would sound threatening. But they had a mutual understanding of each other beyond what anyone else could or would understand... this was compassion and love that he was giving Winston by letting him off of the hook so easily.

"I was just drinking, and I got ballsy, a--"
"I didn't ask for excuses."
"I'm not--"
"Winston, stop it."

The latter tensed and for a moment, John felt another fight coming on... and yet again, Winston relented and nodded unhappily. "I won't. It was inexcusable."

John let him sit for what felt like a few minutes, ticking by like years might to a prisoner, on purpose; the manipulation was mutual, as was the distrust. Finally, he turned and took him in his arms, reveling in the sense of relief that came over Winny. That control, the ability to just change someone's mood like that, was better than any drug he'd ever tried.

"I love you, Johnny."
"Love you too, Winny."

No one would ever understand how much they loved each other until they realized how much they hated each other as well.