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They are still somewhere near Hutchinson, god knows where exactly, soft grass beneath them and clear skies above. It’s near midnight, that much he can tell; Gyro thinks he could figure out their precise time and location if he tried, but his brain has been reduced to a pile of mulch today. His whole body is tense, every muscle and every tendon, dull pain coming from still half-healed wounds.
Across from him, Johnny sleeps. Six hours ago they had been trapped in Ringo’s cabin, blood-splattered and nerve-wracked, an encounter that his partner had thoroughly missed on account of being unconscious on the floor. Gyro recoils at the mere memory. Shame would be easier, but he can’t pretend. His throat is sore from all the yelling, and Ringo’s blood is still under his fingernails.
“Johnny?” he calls, helpless.
To his disappointment, Johnny does not stir. Seemingly unbothered by any quandaries, he remains belly-up and sound asleep, as if death had not nearly claimed him today. Gyro can’t stand to look at him for too long, so he turns to the bonfire instead. Thoroughly dead, it offers no warmth. Their kettle still rests near it, and in its surface he catches a glimpse of his reflection: his eyes, usually a dull hazel, look golden and fiery now, contrasting with the dark circles under them. It surely is a trick of the light. Regardless, he can’t help but recall a dead man’s words and wonder if the change holds meaning still.
“Hey, Johnny,” he calls again, a little louder this time, leaning on his side so he can’t look away. “Wake up.”
Johnny shifts under the covers. Drowsiness has brought an uncharacteristic softness to his expression, and his mussed hair has framed his face like a halo. Gyro contemplates the way his chest rises and falls, slowing his own breathing by reflex until their rhythm is the same. Something stirs in him as he does. He grabs at the thin fabric of his undershirt, overwhelmed, as if the blooming in his chest were tangible enough to be extricated by hand.
If this is the sentimentality his father had so often denounced, Gyro can see how it could send reasonable men astray. The tension on his shoulders eases at the thought.
“Gyro?” Johnny mutters as his eyes finally open, blinking blearily at the dim light. “You’re wearing your hat.”
“Oh,” he mumbles, reaching over to take it off. “Yeah.”
There is a moment of silence before Johnny seems to truly wake up, any softness on his features vanishing as his usual wariness kicks in. “Is something wrong?” he asks in a rough voice, propping himself up to look towards their horses.
Slow Dancer doesn’t even glance at him.
“I can’t sleep,” Gyro admits.
Johnny glares at him, stunned, before laying down again and burying his face on the pillow. “And how is that my fault?”
“It’s not.”
“Alright, then.”
“Can I sleep with you?”
“What?”
“Can I sleep with you.”
“We’re already sleeping. We’re in the same place.”
“You were sleeping. I was awake. That is kind of the problem.”
“Lord almighty,” Johnny says, going for disdain and missing by a mile. “Get over here.”
He always makes such a fuss about everything. Gyro would smile if he were any less wound up.
He sets his hat aside and walks around the dead bonfire, dragging his blanket behind. As it turns out, the dirt under Johnny’s bedding is not any more comfortable than it was under his own, but it would be silly to pretend that matters to him at all. Gyro isn’t exactly small, so he can’t help it when he shoves himself against Johnny, tangling their legs together and ruining the cocoon of blankets his friend had managed to build. He tries his best to fix it in a way that covers them both, a haphazard job he does with more eagerness than is warranted. By the time they’re all set, Johnny’s back is pressed flush against his chest, and his left arm is pinned under his friend’s body.
God, Johnny is fucking freezing. Careful, Gyro places an arm around his waist and snuggles up to him.
“You should’ve told me you were cold,” he murmurs, honestly heartbroken.
“I didn’t want to wake you up,” Johnny mumbles, leaning away. “You’ve done enough for me today already.”
There’s real shame in his voice when he says it. Gyro snakes his pinned arm under Johnny’s body and pulls him into a proper, tight hug. For the first time in days, Gyro feels his muscles relax.
“You’re like a goddamn furnace,” Johnny whispers, stern.
He frowns as he says it, as if bothered by the fact. Still, he relaxes into his friend’s arms, his trembling subsiding as the warmth spreads. He must be tired, too. Cuddled up like this, Johnny’s head slots perfectly under Gyro’s chin, and he can feel his heart thumping away, defiant, gloating about being alive. It's a balm on his messed up nerves. There’s so little distance between them, the air he inhales is hot and heavy with his partner’s scent, smoke and sweat and whatever it is that makes him lose the few screws he has left. Johnny is such a precious thing, it feels almost filthy to want him this bad, but Gyro figures there is no other way for a rogue like himself to behave in the face of such blessings.
“Is everything alright?” Johnny asks, as if able to hear his restless, starved thoughts.
He nuzzles into Johnny's neck instead of answering right away, as if the contact will grant him the ability to speak. Holding his friend so close has brought a new wave of pain to Gyro's side, so he whines into the hug and sighs right against the other's skin. Johnny shivers. Something seems to pull inside Gyro's chest in response, as tense as a bowstring, threatening to snap if he dares go too far; it's a sharp reminder of the way he had fought, it's dirt in his mouth and shame on his name. Downright posessive, he keeps his arms wrapped tight around his partner, despite his aching body and his remaining reservations. He knows he should regret it, but he can't. God forgive him, but he can't.
"I just want to hold you, alright?" he finally manages to spit out, his voice so low and tense it barely registers as speech. "Just a little bit."
Johnny freezes. His right hand hovers over his friend’s before he gathers the courage to grab it.
Gyro welcomes the touch. Johnny’s hands are rough, but he still feels himself relax at the contact, letting a pleased growl escape him. Johnny’s thumb caresses his bruised knuckles, endorsing any transgressions commited today: he must know what had happened, he is not naive. Gyro's eyes focus on his friend’s eyelashes, on the freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose. Careful, he places a hand on Johnny’s side, over his ribcage, fingers splayed to measure as it expands. His partner’s breathing matches the movement, proving he’s too stubborn to be killed and too stupid to give up. Reaching up, Gyro brushes the crown of Johnny’s head with his fingers. He stalls as he reaches his forehead, ghosting over the tender spot where the bullet had hit him.
Impervious to his pious gaze, Johnny recoils from his touch.
“I'm sorry,” he hastily says.
“What do you mean?”
“I messed up." He looks down at Gyro's hands, staring at the spots where blood remains. There's a moment of hesitation, and Gyro nearly assumes he is being judged, but that fear quickly disappears as Johnny clarifies: "I should’ve shot quicker.”
There is a world, maybe, where they could walk through this with ease, one where words are easy and and their choices are always rightful. This is, however, the only version of themselves they have, with all of their softness beaten out of them long ago, and no trace of a sensible upbringing left. On a good day, Gyro believes he can be gentle if he tries. Today, however, there is no stopping the rough, baffled noise that escapes him.
“Christ, Johnny, are you making fun of me?"
"I'm being serious!"
“I don't care about any of that!”
He startles himself when he says it, feeling his cheeks grow hot in embarrassment. He knows the tone underlying his words, the unfiltered longing and shameless greed. He had heard it in Johnny's voice before, but it had been utterly arcane to him until now: it's the reckless, sharp focus of truly wanting for the first time. All of his tension, his self-doubt and fear, it could all be conquered if it were for the sake of this.
"It doesn't matter, Johnny," Gyro says, voice deeper and a little hoarse as he tries to keep it low. "I’m just glad you’re okay.”
It is what he prays for, that is just the truth.
Relief floods him like a current as the words slip from his mouth, clearing the fog in his brain and trampling the last of his doubt. There's no point in questioning if this is the rightful path when Johnny is splayed in front of him, warm and alive. Shaken, Gyro barks a laugh and buries his face in the crook of his friend’s neck, pressing into him to feel his steady pulse. Johnny ducks to hide the way his cheeks have turned bright pink, and he grumbles something incomprehensible into the thin fabric of the other man's nightshirt. The answer seems so obvious now. Feeling his courage rush back into him, Gyro tightens his grasp on Johnny’s waist and rolls over, sending them both tumbling towards the grassy field.
“Hey!” Johnny gasps as he falls flat on his back, stopping Gyro’s face with one hand just as he dives down to kiss him on the cheek. “What’s with you?”
“Good catch,” Gyro mumbles into his palm with a grin.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Oh, you wound me. I’m funnier than that,” He pauses, catching his breath. “Right?”
Despite himself, Johnny chuckles at it. His fingers spread and graze over his friend’s jaw, earning a happy growl from him. A warm glow emanates from the grass below them as he does, and Gyro startles at the sight: a garland of pretty little stars now decorates Johnny’s forearms, bathing them both in their honeyed shine. He stares at it, enraptured, through half-lidded eyes. The world has been so full of little miracles ever since they met.
“Where are the horses?” Gyro asks, unable to stop himself from smiling like a fool.
“What? We tied them— why are you asking about the damn horses right now?”
“Are they looking?”
“Why do you care if the horses are looking?”
“Wouldn’t want to give them a bad example.”
Johnny glares at him. “Example for what?”
Gyro's lips part at the question and he stares, shameless, at the other man's mouth. Johnny lets his hand drop from where it holds his friend in place and tilts his head back, meeting his gaze as if daring him to say it. It is the closest to mellow he can be, and as honest as either of them can manage. Gyro swallows hard, so overcome with affection he can no longer think straight.
Hair cascading down his shoulder, he leans forward and, with all the reverence a scoundrel like him can muster, presses a kiss to Johnny’s lips.
The rush of sheer joy that fills him is nearly too much to bear. Johnny whines into the kiss, the contact doing catastrophic things to his senses; before long he’s ruining the sweetness of it, pulling Gyro by the collar and wrestling him to the ground. Pliant, Gyro rolls over and lets the other man climb onto his lap, hands diligently moving to guide him into position. Eager lips reward his compliance by making their way down his neck. They are, maybe, allowed to enjoy things just this once. Once it starts, it spills over like a river: Johnny kisses him with such desperate hunger, Gyro can't help but moan at the contact, pathetic little sounds he doesn't even know he's making. His partner’s weight is solid against his hips, and his hands are desperate in their roaming; it's a mess, and certainly improper, but he is not about to ruin the moment with someone else's sense of shame.
Such uncouth, tender displays are surely reserved only for the foolish and sentimental. It truly is lucky, then, that he has given up on being anything but that.
“God, Johnny—”
“Gyro, just please,” he mutters, voice nearly breaking. “Just shut your mouth for a moment.”
Even in the dim light, Gyro’s good eye can see the way Johnny’s eyes grow watery as he struggles to contain his temper in the face of his confession. It grows wilder by the second, desire and anger mixing and spurring him on. It is too much, yet he barrels through it. Gyro can't help but be awestruck.
“You don’t have to worry so much about me,” Johnny snarls, nipping at him. “Don’t be fucking ridiculous. They can't take me away from you.”
“Johnny—”
“Shut up.”
“Johnny,” he insists, his voice so heavy with fondness it makes his throat sore, “let me kiss you too, alright?”
Johnny nearly jolts with embarrassment, leaning his full body weight on top of his partner as he hides his face against his collarbone. Wispy, strawberry blond locks go all over Gyro’s face. It’s cute, even if it makes him want to sneeze.
He props himself up on one elbow, rests his other hand on the back of Johnny’s neck, and leans forward to press his lips against his partner’s shoulder. There’s a handful of freckles scattered there, crowned by a small birthmark— he had seen it before, briefly, but never up close. It’s a perfect little mirror of Lyra above, he notes, as his knowledge of astrometry finally manages to return. He presses a kiss to it, earning an indignant huff from the man in his arms.
“God, not that,” Johnny complains, flustered.
“Ah, now you shut your mouth,” Gyro says, kissing it again.
He prays the stars above them will, with their position, mark the existence of this moment. He won’t say it out loud, but the image strikes him as a sign. As far as Gyro is concerned, someone like Johnny should be covered in stars, just like planispheres and celestial maps. It’s a realm of exquisite things, carefully made to guide those who are lost; it only figures, then, that such a gift would be painted over this particular man. If permanent stormy skies were ever to befall him, Gyro thinks he could find his north here instead.
Truth is, he has felt the need to wax poetic about people like this before, but all those previous attempts feel woefully insincere right now.
Slow and deliberate, Gyro traces the curve of Johnny's side under his nightshirt, slowly pulling the buttons open and pressing a kiss to every mark and scar that appears as the fabric parts to reveal his marred skin. His movement becomes slower, fainter, coming to a stop before he reaches the large scar above Johnny's hipbone.
“Please,” Johnny begs, unable to withstand being an object of adoration for any longer. “Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing you,” he says in reply, looking at his companion with a smile. "I'm just happy you're here."
It might be too much to bear. Johnny lunges forward in response, using his weight to keep Gyro pinned to the ground, and his hands to guide his partner's movement.
"Grab the blanket," he says, voice heavy.
“I thought I was doing a good enough job of keeping you warm.”
"Not good enough."
“You are very mean sometimes.”
“I am. Now get us both covered, I don't want the horses looking.”
Gyro grabs him by the chin and starts kissing him again.