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Sweat beads along Keigo’s brow, plastering his hair to his forehead. Inside the Crimson Hawk Saloon, the air is thick with smoke and suffocating heat. His every breath drags, but he’s used to that. If it’s not smoke filling his lungs, then it’s dust, kicked up by hooves, boots, or a stiff breeze.
Keigo drums his fingers on the bar, eyeing a particularly crude carving with amusement. He spends a lot of time in the saloon, gambling mostly—for appearances. It’s good for the Sheriff to be sociable, and his charm has a way of sugar-coating his unbreakable winning streak. People are happy to lose their coin to him, and there are fewer bar fights when he’s around.
Still, as much as he loiters, he never spends much time at the counter. He doesn’t drink alone, even when he wants to. Company has a way of finding and following him: politicians, yes-men, girls. He offers them all his trademark smile, even throws in a wink for the lasses.
There’s only one person who gets to see the real Keigo, though, and he’s currently sleeping like a cat, tangled in the Sheriff's sheets.
“Your coffee, kiddo,” the barkeeper says, setting a full pot on the counter in front of him with a warm smile.
Keigo could brew his own, but living above the Crimson Hawk Saloon has its perks, one of which is being spoiled by Nemuri. She’s only a few years older than him, but she mothers him nonetheless. It’s nice, if he’s honest about it. He can’t remember his own mother, and he desperately needs a confidant, especially one that’s in love with tragic romance enough to keep her lips sealed about his career-ending secret.
“Thanks, ‘muri.” Keigo grins. “If anyone asks for me, tell ‘em I’ve got correspondences to deal with or something, yeah?” She rolls her eyes but nods, her lips quirking into a half-smile.
He climbs the backstairs to his room, pot in hand and whistling low. He doesn’t waste time knocking and isn’t bothered when the barrel of a revolver kisses his throat.
“Hey, babe,” Keigo coos. “Brought coffee.” He brushes Touya’s arm aside and hunts for mugs. It’s not gonna be that easy to get a reaction out of him. He didn’t start sleeping with the outlaw yesterday.
Touya snorts and tosses his gun on the mussed bed, rolling his neck. His piercings catch the light when he stoops to fish his belt out from under Keigo’s small wooden desk.
“You should know better than to sneak up on a sleeping man,” he drawls. “Someday, you’re gonna end up with a bullet in your pretty little neck.” He tugs his belt on, but his eyes, flickering like hungry flames, never leave Keigo.
“Doubt it,” Keigo replies, offering Touya a steaming mug. “You know I’m fast where it counts.” That gets a breathy half-chuckle out of the outlaw, and Keigo can’t help the smile that splits his face.
“So,” he says after a moment, his eyes fixated on the way Touya sips his coffee. “You leaving, then?”
Touya’s expression is unreadable, his face schooled into a perfect mask that doesn’t waver.
“You staying?” Touya asks instead of answering. When Keigo doesn’t respond, he smirks. “You know how this works.”
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Keigo scoffs, feigning indifference. “Was just askin’.”
“I’ve only got wrong ideas about you.” Touya leers, his eyes hooded and lips curling into the same snarl that had roped them into bed together the first time it had happened.
“Gang’ll be around,” he adds, changing the topic and pulling out a cigar.
Keigo hates smoking. The air is thick enough without the extra heat and ash. Touya has made him love the ritual of it, though. He’s made Keigo love a lot of things.
The way Touya presses his thumb against the blunt spine of his Barlow as he cuts the cigar’s cap off sends a shiver crawling up Keigo’s spine, and the curve of the outlaw’s lips as he holds the cigar in place and lights it, with one hand cupped around the flame the same way he cups Keigo’s neck when they kiss, sets the Sheriff’s soul on fire.
He’s so enraptured by Touya’s presence that he can’t be bothered to reprimand him for tapping ash onto the floor. If anything, Touya should mind. Even Keigo knows cigars aren’t meant to be ashed, but, maybe, Touya likes his smokes burnt.
“Around where, exactly?” Keigo asks.
“Just around, Little Bird,” Touya rasps.
“I’m not lookin’ for specifics.” Keigo rolls his eyes.
He keeps his expression unbothered, amused—entertained even. He doesn’t want Touya to know how much his habit of sidestepping the truth gets under his skin. He should know Keigo won’t rat out the Deadly Seven, not over anything small-time anyway. He’d only turn on them if they threatened the town, but he keeps that to himself the same way Touya covets the details of the gang’s movements.
“‘s not personal.” Touya flashes him a wicked grin, all teeth and stretching scars that strain against his gold piercings. “You know—keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
He purrs the insult like it’s a love confession, his voice breathy and low, dragging in his ruined throat.
“That so?” Keigo takes a swig of his coffee and lets his eyelids flutter closed for a moment, savoring Nemuri’s famous brew. When he opens them again, he finds Touya inches from his face.
“Can I help you?”
“Nah.” Touya shakes his head. He plucks the cigar from his lips and leans in closer. “Memories not too good these days, but, if I look at ya real hard, maybe I can save the stupid look on your face like one of those photographs. Save it for a long, cold night.”
Touya cocks an eyebrow and reaches out, pinching Keigo’s chin between his thumb and index finger. He tilts the blond’s head back a hair, his cornflower blue eyes meandering across Keigo’s tanned cheeks.
He doesn’t get to study his willing captive for long, though.
Gunshots and yelling ring out from the streets. With a weary groan, Keigo plants a hand against Touya’s chest and pushes him back.
“Gotta handle this. Don’t go anywhere. I’m not done with you.”
Keigo isn’t done with Touya, but Touya is done with Keigo. It’s unsurprising, really—the way he disappears while Keigo settles the squabble in the streets.
He leaves his cigar, though—the bastard.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Keigo plucks the still smoldering cigar up from where Touya left it and tucks it between his lips. His lungs burn, but he smokes the cigar anyway—because it tastes like Touya.
And if he closes his eyes, the way the smoke hugs him reminds him of Touya’s touch, the tar and resin on his lips like a kiss that lingers long into the day, reminding him of the outlaw that’s stolen more than his time.
“Tch,” Keigo snorts, ashing the cigar. He doesn’t love Touya, not like that. Not really. Not when his denial is smoother than Touya’s smoke.