Chapter Text
“Let me tell you the story about the greatest cowboy that ever lived,” Yuri begins.
He pauses to take a swig of his whiskey, glinting amber in the firelight like rusty nails.
“Except for me, of course.”
“That’s an awful way to start a story,” a girl pipes up from across the way. New blood— her jeans are all scuffed at the knees, but the hems are clean, too clean. That’s how you can tell.
Yuri sneers. “Shut up, dipshit. It’s my story. You want to learn from the best? Sit down and zip it.”
New jeans spits on the ground. “Not really. Didn’t come here for a lesson.”
Yuri takes in the faces around his fire. All relatively young, save for another man maybe his age. Fresh faces, smooth faces, not yet cracked with dust like the desert floor.
“Doesn’t matter. This is my fire and none of you are paying to be here,” he says. “Y’all can leave any time you want.”
The girl takes a sip of her ale but stays quiet.
“We’re all staying then? Good.” Yuri flicks his own hat back, knowing he’s won— he could never resist a story as a young one, either.
“Well then, it all started on one dark and stormy night…”
—
It never fucking rained in the desert. That’s why it was called the goddamn desert.
He probably brought the storm with him, the bastard. Yuri didn’t know it at the time, but there was a tornado about to tear through his life, dropped in like a bolt of lightning and gone quicker than a thunderclap. Nevermind it was Yuri who actually did the leaving.
But maybe that’s getting ahead of things.
The first time Yuri actually saw him, though, it was in the middle of a shootout. Otabek wasn’t one of the shooters, his horse just kinda wandered into the middle of the duel and he, like a dumbass, just let it. But that was Otabek, you know? He had that kind of presence, those hard earned airs that demanded respect— not necessarily deference, but respect, the kind that made Yuri and the other outlaw lower their weapons because they’d forgotten what they were fighting about and it really all seemed stupid at that point.
And then Otabek turned his horse and trotted away, and Yuri forgot about him.
Then came the storm, one of those “once in a lifetime” storms that got all the town elders talking. Yuri heard about it the minute he rode into Driftwood and didn’t stop hearing about it for three days straight. They could feel it in their bones, they told him, the ache of it, pressing closer.
Against better judgement, Yuri decided to hightail it out of there before the storm hit. Too many people peeking out of their doors, buying out the local supplies— the shelves were nearly barren when Yuri tried to snag something extra for the road. All that was left was a bag of peanuts and a can of crushed tomatoes, which he pocketed since no one was manning the counter.
By the time he left it was a ghost town, and there were honest to god tumbleweeds hustling their way down the street with the breeze. Yuri didn’t believe the puff up— he’d heard it before. You’d buy up all the canned food and water you could afford, hunker down in your basement, then come morning you’d emerge to find the sun shining, all of the previous night’s spittle already sucked up by the dry, packed dirt.
But then it did rain that night. Buckets of it, gallons of it. Peals of thunder spooked Yuri’s horse Marianne to the point of disobedience, even after he dug his spurs deep into her flank.
The rain came in droves, and the hair plastered against his face didn’t help his eyesight either. The townspeople said the storm was coming from the west, Yuri turned towards it, praying his internal compass would hold true.
Half an hour of fighting his horse later, he spotted a cave. He was pretty much up on it by that point and could see a small fire inside— someone else was taking shelter from the storm too. Yuri hoped it was an ordinary townsperson, but just in case it wasn't, he unstrapped the knife from his thigh as he approached on foot.
He peeked around the cave entrance, trusting the downpour would keep him hidden. Inside there was one man, sitting with his back towards the cave’s mouth.
Fucking idiot. Yuri smirked on approach. He just walked right in, right up to the man’s fire, ready to knife him or knock him out, maybe steal a bite while he’s out cold on the floor.
Instead, he came face to face with the business end of a revolver, pointed calmly in front of the man.
Yuri’s own gun was outside the cave, waterlogged in one of his packs, so he dropped the knife and raised his hands in surrender.
—
“How come he didn’t shoot you right there? You said he was the best that ever lived,” someone else pipes up— not jeans this time, still young and rolling his own cigarettes, probably because he thought he was something special.
Yuri itches to pluck the joint from his hands.
“If you think the key to life is violence, you’re gonna get yourself killed before you hit puberty,” Yuri says. He digs in his vest for his own cigarette and motions for a light.
The younger man lights Yuri’s cigarette with his own between his teeth.
“I’m 18, asshole,” he grumbles, sitting back down.
“And you still need a stepladder to mount your horse,” Yuri says.
“Look who’s talking,” cigarette replies. “I’ve hooked fish taller than you.”
That one gets a few laughs.
Yuri exhales. “And I could kick all of your asses under a table, I reckon.”
“You’re just making shit up, now. I thought violence wasn’t the answer.”
Still so young, they were.
“Well sometimes it is,” he says. “But you gotta be smart, and learning when it’s the time to draw and when it’s the time to retreat is a valuable skill you hotheads could stand to learn.”
—
“Look,” Yuri said, “I’m just looking for a place to wait out the storm. I’m not looking for trouble.”
The other man stared at him cooly. He had black hair peppered with early grey, cut close around his ears like a military man, but a little too long on top to be enlisted. His eyes were softer than Yuri expected, despite the grim lines around his eyes and mouth. Years of frowning, Yuri assumed.
“I’d believe you if you hadn’t approached me with your knife out,” he said with a cool voice that matched his eyes. He had the inklings of an accent Yuri couldn’t place.
Yuri shrugged. “Can’t be too careful,” he said. “But I’m unarmed now.”
He raised his arms higher, palms splayed and fingers wiggling. “I just want a place to wait out the storm. Honest.”
Yuri was pushing 30, but he looked young for his age and he knew it. He hoped he resembled a runaway teen playing outlaw for a day, and that this other man would take some pity on him, soaked to the bone as he was.
The man nodded, but his gun stayed up, resting on his knee.
“You gonna put that away?” Yuri chucked, trying to sound aloof, but it came out nervous.
“Can’t be too careful,” the other man said lightly, and Yuri’s chest tightened dangerously. He’d already been disarmed by this man once, and he sure as hell didn’t want it to happen again.
“Can I at least go get my ride? Bring her in from the rain?” Yuri asked.
“I’m not stopping you.”
Yuri could have argued, but he decided not to push any goodwill the stranger was allowing him. Marianne was right where he left her, faithful steed she was, and he hustled her into the cave. He tied her lead around one of the rocks that jutted out from the ground, then he made his way back to the fire.
If he was gonna be shot, he’d rather dry off a little before bleeding out.
The other man made no acknowledgement of Yuri as he sat down, just followed him with his eyes as Yuri peeled off his boots and socks and set them to dry. Next went his flannel and his jeans, until Yuri was sitting in damp drawers across from a stranger with his gun drawn and his finger on the trigger.
“I’m Jacob,” he offered. He pulled his knees to his chest, trying to look smaller. The teen runaway story wouldn’t hold anymore since he’d brought in his packs of supplies, but it couldn’t hurt to keep the act up a little longer.
“Micah,” the other man said, and Yuri would have bet all the bullets on him that his name was not fucking Micah. But he was also Jacob, so it didn’t really matter.
“You look dry,” Yuri said. Conversation with this guy was like chewing rocks, but Yuri would rather keep him talking, and maybe even distract himself from the gun too.
“Everyone knew a storm was coming,” not-Micah said. “Don’t know how you got caught in it.”
Yuri shrugged. “Chalk it up to bad timing,” he said. “I’ve always had bad luck.”
He peeked at the other man, hoping for a little sympathy, maybe a little disarming of his own. He’d get him talking, then fall for Yuri’s tragic backstory, and hopefully put that gun away, at least till the storm cleared. Hell, maybe this could have a happy ending, even— he was feeling optimistic.
The man was attractive enough, and Yuri was already mostly undressed. He wasn’t opposed to a one-night stand, especially if it kept him alive for another night.
But he just kept his gun in his hand, not offering a single word through the thunder and rain. He even got up to grab a can of beans, heat it up over the fire, but even then his revolver was at his hip, his hand hovered over it like a moth.
Eventually, the rain slowed to a drizzle and the cloud cover thinned enough to let in some of the sunrise, brightening the grey sky just a bit.
Maybe-but-probably-not-Micah startled him by saying, “You got a horse?” And it sounded like an ask but it was really more of a matter-of-fact statement, since Marianne was still standing patiently by the mouth of the cave.
“Sure do,” Yuri said, slowly.
“I could use a ride,” the other man said.
Yuri, dry and dressed, placed a hand on his cocked hip.
“Now why would I do that?” He asked.
Micah shrugged. “I shared my fire, didn’t I?” His arm hung loosely by his hip, but Yuri would bet his horse Micah still could have outdrawn him.
“And I didn’t kill you,” he added. He said “ you ” real proper, like he’d been working to make it less of an afterthought.
Fair point. Cowboy’s honor and all. Although Yuri didn’t really live and die by the creed the way some other ranchers did, there was something intriguing about the man with the sharp eyes and missing name.
Yuri grinned. “Where you headed?”