Paul does remember. It's scrawled in the twist of his mouth and his crumpling eyes, the little, soundless hitch of his breathing. He composes himself swiftly, helpless, pointless irritation caught under his tongue like grit. He's slightly too quick and stilted when he goes to set the coffee cups on a bench before dragging over one of the crates they use for box jumps to set in front of Johnny, where he takes his own seat.

His first instinct is resistance - not to the conversation that waits between them, as tensely as he anticipates it, but to Johnny's admission of shortcoming. He knows that it's true. He was there for one of those fuck ups; he overheard the story about more of the others. But when he looks at Johnny, slumped and tired and vulnerable, and odd, slippery fear gnaws at his gut.

"I'm not angry with you," he says, even though it may be too soon to call, "It's only- I don't understand."

He wants to draw his knee up and tuck it against his chest, prop his chin overtop it. Put some kind of barrier between them, however slight and lacking in real protection, but he keeps his hands on his knees instead, posture rigid and stilled.

"I want you to explain it to me." There's fine tension etched into the words, but a rivulet of furtive, guarded hope that maybe if Johnny explains it, there will be something here that Paul can understand.