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Summary
How could he cheer up? His teeth had glinted in the moonlight when he'd rounded on the shorter man, spitting the question like a petulant child.
He'd been confronted with Javier's face, far closer than he'd remembered him being. The man had cocked his head like a coyote seizing up a particularly energetic rabbit, the dark of his eyes far more encompassing, far more feeling, than John had last seen them by the campfire. It was as though even out here, with only the two of them beside the blue-soaked shore, the flames had remained in the musician's gaze and he'd captured them, held them like the burning tip of a match. Except the stick didn't seem to be burning out in Javier, no. Instead, it seemed to flare at John's reaction, his smile far too sharp to be truly kind, as he held up four bottles of whiskey captured in the gaps of his fingers. A promise. A question.