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Javier Escuella sits by the window and worries.
Outside, the blizzard rages on, icy fangs and wind-borne claws that tear at the loose assembly of boards and shingles they call a temporary home. Watching the glass go dull with blooming frost, Javier can't suppress a shudder shaking him down to his very toes, it feels like.
Heat, dust storms, fucking... deserts and salt plains, that's what he's made for – it's no coincidence things went from bad to worse once rain turned into this white bullshit.
Then, of course, Marston had to go and disappear on them. Again, a little voice at the back of his head whispers. Just John doing what he does best.
The dense flurry in front of him blurs to an indistinct wall of grey. Javier pulls his poncho tighter around his shoulders, knocking his temple against the wooden frame of the window. Thud, thud.
The fault is his, really. Daring enough that he got attached to a married man; downright foolish to water that seed until it grew hopeful roots and tiny leaves, gradually following the path of the sun across the sky.
A hope like a flickering bulb, burned filament and all: glowing stubbornly when night starts to fall.
*
That snow storm becomes a second shadow to his thoughts in the weeks to come. Always there, always weighing him down with invisible hands.
They had fought, John and him, the day before he disappeared: their usual bickering turned as sharp and biting as the cold around them and–
“Que dios me ayude... You know what? Have it your fucking way!”
–Javier had left him there, stomping away in the snow and breathing in angry puffs of smoke and muttered curses.
“Yeah? Fuck you, Javier!”
A kick of his heels and Boaz had carried him away, the pitiful camp by the river in their back. Javier hadn't seen the point in replying – until hours later, when those curses were likely to be the last thing he said to him.
Taking a deep drag of his cigarillo, Javier exhales the smoke in one measured breath. He shakes his head. John fucking Marston will be the one to drive him insane, one way or another.
At least the man is alive and in one piece – somewhat. Those wounds had looked grim back at the summit; stitched and starting to heal, they will remain as jagged reminders of... what exactly, Javier doesn't dare to guess.
And at least New Hanover isn't threatening to freeze his balls to his saddle. Small mercies.
Perhaps he should start lighting candles like his mother used to do: point a host of saints towards the shit life throws at him and those he cares about and hope it's enough to turn the tides – never seemed to do Mamá much good but what does Javier know about that? He stopped believing in candles and signs when he left behind the ruins of his old life, his life-before-Dutch.
Horseshoe Overlook is... something, at least, something green and alive – if not a full recovery then the potential for it, if they play their cards right, and Dutch knows how to play. Javier has seen him do it, time and time again.
Soon enough, Blackwater, too, will be but a distant memory.
One last drag from his cigarillo then he flicks the butt to the ground, rubbing out its embers like he's extinguishing the doubts in his heart. God knows those have never changed anything either.
John should be in his tent but he isn't; Javier can't help the sting of concern he feels, his teeth worrying at his goatee before he's even aware of it. Thankfully camp is nearly empty – Dutch told 'em to work, and work they do – so there's nary a witness to his pathetic circling around the wagons and lean-tos except for the O'Driscoll, and he has other problems, tied to a tree and starving as he is.
That's a whole other can of worms, as the gringos tend to say. Javier tries not to think about it too much.
It's at the periphery that he finally finds him: all by his lonesome and scowling down at some maps spread on his lap, sprawling down to the crate he's misusing as a chair.
There's a joke on his lips – about John being Dutch's boy alright, buried to his nose in maps and plans – but Javier swallows it down. He knocks his boot against a wayward bucket, watches John's head snap up, winces as the motion visibly pulls the stitches on his cheek taught.
Lines of red and dots of black and all Javier can think of is endless white.
“I'm sorry.”
Two words, spoken quick and precise like the draw of a gun before the other even gets past a mutter of “Javier...?” that sounds more like surprise than the annoyance Javier imagined. John blinks, “For what?”, rights himself, maps forgotten as realization dawns.
“Wait, is this about–”
“I thought you left when...” Javier sighs, glances down, a brief moment of uncertainty. What a fool he's been, to let the world spin away under his feet and out of control. “You were gone and I was pissed so the thought crossed my mind. I should've realized sooner.”
Unexpectedly, John laughs, that quiet cackle of his sounding oddly fond. “That's what's got you in a huff lately? Shit, Javi, I thought– I don't know, I'd gotten blood on your favorite shirt or something.”
Javier almost stares at him in disbelief. Almost. Instead he groans and rubs at his forehead, his face growing hot behind his hand. “John, you were dying. Who cares about a fucking shirt– You know what, just... forget it.”
“No, no, wait now just a second–”
There's fingers around Javier's wrist, pulling his hand down and after all that's happened, he can't find it in himself to shake him off. John is still smiling, damn him: his eyes damn near twinkle with it, and Javier wants to kiss and slap him in same measures.
“I wanted t'apologize too, you know. Blackwater had me all kinds'a tense but yellin' ain't gonna make it better so... yeah. 'm sorry too.”
Maybe it's the earnestness shining in his gaze or how close their faces are, Javier can't really tell and he doesn't really care – the thing that matters is that John's expression softens when Javier fails to answer immediately.
“Javi, I...”
He's interrupted again, one final time as Javier catches the words hanging at the tip of his tongue with his lips. The softness of John's mouth, the scratchy rasp of his beard against his own – he wants it all but it's only when John hums a pleased note under his breath and kisses him back that Javier lets himself have it, pushing John against the wagon at his back and getting a knee on the crate to follow his lips there.
It's John who pulls him fully into his lap, hands ghosting over Javier's hips and lower back before settling over the blades of his shoulders. “John”, Javier sighs, too quiet to be heard beyond the two of 'em; yet there's a tinge of copper to their kiss, the subtlest trace of blood that reminds him of what was lost, what could've been lost–
Javier cups John's jaw with careful hands, rests his palms even gentler on his cheeks, one smooth, one tender and hot to the touch. “You could've died”, he mumbles against John's lips and John repeats, “I'm sorry”, voice but a low rasp.
Javier shakes his head, nips at the corner of John's mouth. “'s what I get for letting you out of my sight, cowboy.”
Again that laugh, huskier than before. “This how it's gonna be, then? Fine by me.”
John's smile, so addictive up close. Javier just huffs, “Fine by me too”, and kisses him again.
(Art by PPitteArt, posted with permission.)