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When Gyro regains consciousness, the first thing he sees is Johnny face down in the snow, and it scares him shitless.
It doesn’t take a terribly long time to put two and two together. A sketchy-looking man on horseback leaving with the corpse parts. In Johnny’s hand, an opened bottle of cheap wine. A trade has occurred here, because why else would Gyro be back and no longer a tree?
He falls to his knees next to Johnny’s crumpled form, scanning him for any sign of blood or injury and being relieved to find none. Gyro was relieved to hear that he was breathing, but concerned by how harsh and ragged it sounded.
“Johnny—” he whispers, gently prying him from the snow. Johnny unceremoniously drops the wine bottle. Unsurprisingly, his face is red—likely both from crying and having all that cold snow in his face, making his freckles stand out more. Gyro carefully wipes his face free of any remaining condensation. The boy is freezing and trembling all over. “Hey, it's just me. I’m here. I’ve got you,” Gyro reassures, rubbing gently at the nape of Johnny’s neck. He takes off his cape and wraps it around Johnny to try to warm him up further, holding him closely, hoping his own body heat would help as well.
Doctor instincts kick in and he presses his fingers to Johnny’s neck to check his pulse. It’s fast, but not dangerously so. The pieces click together in Gyro’s head—Johnny’s having a panic attack. Whether it's from losing the corpse, temporarily losing Gyro, or both, Gyro can’t be sure.
“Gy… Gyro?” Johnny’s voice is weak. His reddened eyes look at Gyro’s face and fill with tears—he probably feared he would never see Gyro again. Gyro feels some level of guilt, even if he did nothing.
“Mmhm. You’re okay,” he murmurs. “We’re both safe. It’s a panic attack, nothing more, okay? We’re okay.” He tries to make eye contact, but Johnny’s gaze seems to be far away, like his mind isn’t all there. Has Johnny had panic attacks before? Does he know what they are? Mental health knowledge is not so common. Gyro at least has his medical experience to thank—there had been instances of people coming into the clinic thinking they were having a heart attack only for it to just be a panic attack, plain and simple. It really isn’t a well-understood phenomenon in the 19th century, so he can’t blame Johnny if he doesn’t know what’s happening to him.
This was probably a long time coming and exacerbated by multiple things happening. It was really quite concerning the amount of danger they’d been thrust into recently, and it’s no shock that Johnny would break. Any normal person would, but compound that with plenty of pre-existing trauma, as Gyro knew Johnny had, and it was only a matter of time.
Johnny grips the front of Gyro’s shirt and closes his eyes tightly, his breathing showing no sign of improvement.
"Breathe, Johnny. Real deep and slow, okay?” Gyro says, exaggerating his own breathing to hopefully make it easier to follow. “Try to match my breath.” He takes one of Johnny’s shaky hands to try to further demonstrate, squeeze—inhale, loosen—exhale. Again and again.
Johnny tries, but breaks into a coughing fit. “Can’t,” he chokes.
“It feels hard right now, I know. But you can. Patience. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”
After a while, Johnny finally gets the hang of it, visibly relaxing, his head slumping against Gyro’s chest. Gyro rubs circles into his back. “That’s it. You did good, Johnny.”
Slow Dancer draws closer, seeming to notice there was something wrong with her handler. She gives a snort and then a sloppy kiss to Johnny’s face, which makes Gyro chuckle. The mare had seemed to bond with him over the short time she’d been his. Gyro pats her nose. “I know. Don’t worry, girl, he’s okay.”
“Hey, Johnny.” Gyro pats his cheek gently, trying to get his attention. Johnny groans and peers up at Gyro, exhaustion evident in his eyes. “I know you’re tired, but we need to find an inn for the night. It’s cold. C’mon, dormiglione.”
“Wha…?”
“Called you a sleepyhead.” Given time, Johnny may as well become an Italian speaker with all the little Italian words Gyro throws in now and then.
Gyro spots Johnny’s wheelchair nearby, rearranging his hands to firmly hold Johnny behind his back and thighs and lifting him up effortlessly. Johnny, preferring in most cases to not be carried since it embarrasses him, groans weakly in protest. “Yeah, yeah,” Gyro says. “Don’t worry, we’re getting your chair.”
After gently depositing Johnny in the wheelchair, he plants his hands on his hips and stares at the horses, his brain stalling on how to transport them. He snaps his fingers. Gyro grabs the rope from Valkyrie’s saddle bag along with his knife, cuts some rope to attach to Valkyrie’s bridle to lead her with, then some to connect her bridle to Slow Dancer’s. He ties it all together with some shoddy knots, then observes his handiwork with a grin. It looks like the work of a toddler, not a respectable jockey, but he’s not doing this to win any awards. He’s doing this to get his tired boyfriend to somewhere warm—wait, did he just call Johnny his boyfriend in his head?
Gyro does his best to not entertain the thoughts, packing up everything into his bag. He wraps the rope around one hand, grips the wheelchair handles, then tugs the rope for the horses to follow, and they’re off.
Johnny’s awareness is patchy at best. He knows that Gyro had him, that he was in his arms and that he was safe, so he allows himself to drift a bit. That’s not an easy feat, getting him to let his guard down. Not since he was shot and woke up in a hospital with bastards that didn’t help him, stealing his blood and making him anemic on top of the paraplegia. People can’t be trusted, especially not during the Steel Ball Run. Well, not unless that person was Gyro.
It feels like Johnny blinked one second while he was in the snow, then suddenly appeared sitting up in a warm bed while Gyro shrugs off his own snow-covered clothes. Johnny quickly averts his eyes and blushes furiously. Johnny’s clothes are nasty as well, so they’ll also eventually need to come off. They’ve previously stripped down in front of each other to bathe themselves in rivers and lakes, but this somehow feels way more intimate.
Gyro glances back at Johnny, unfazed by his flustered expression. “Oh, you awake? Feeling better? Drink this.” It’s a command, practically, as Gyro offers him the canteen. “Better be getting some fluids in you that do not contain alcohol, don’t ya think?”
“Sure,” Johnny says, and takes a few sips, if only to shut him up. After a beat, he asks, “So what the fuck happened?”
“Oh, you had a panic attack,” Gyro says without further explanation, but Johnny’s brain is still trying to figure out what that means. Gyro, still half-naked, draws closer, and Johnny feels his face heating up again. He gives Johnny’s shirt a tug, saying, “Here, lemme take this off.”
“Jeez, man, take me out to dinner first. But okay.” Johnny tries to play off his blushing, but it’s a lost cause.
Gyro scoffs, rolling his eyes but smiling all the same. “Asshole, you’re covered in melted snow. You’re tired. Lemme do this for you.” Gyro snatches Johnny’s hat, then his shirt as Johnny lifts his arms obediently. Gyro then grabs the waistband of Johnny’s pants, looking to him for permission, and Johnny grants it with a nod.
Johnny is stripped down to his boxers. Although he’s still nervous, he can’t deny this is more comfortable. And having Gyro take care of him like this, it makes him feel something.
“Better, yeah?” Gyro makes himself comfortable next to Johnny, sitting up against the headboard of the bed. He covers both of their laps with the blanket, and it makes Johnny feel warm even if he can’t feel the literal warmth. He’s just close enough that they are touching slightly. Johnny feels his heart rate pick up.
“Yeah. But umm… can we go back to talkin’ about the… panic attack thing? I don’t really know what that means, to be honest.”
“Oh. Hmm… How do I explain...” Gyro taps his fingers on his chin in thought. Johnny cannot help but think he looks cute like that. “Well, at my dad’s clinic sometimes people would come in thinking they were having a heart attack, cuz their chest was hurting, their heart was pounding, and they felt like they couldn’t breathe. But they weren’t actually having a heart attack. Sometimes my dad would be a dick and try to shoo them off when he made that call, but when it was just me there I’d usually sit with them for a bit and try to help them breathe and talk to them gently, kinda like I did with you earlier. I don’t mind helping with that kinda stuff.”
Johnny hums thoughtfully. Gyro could definitely be a stubborn bonehead at times, but at other times he could be really kind, like tonight. Johnny tentatively puts his head on Gyro’s shoulder, hoping he’ll respond positively. Gyro seems to jump at first, taken off guard, but after a few heartbeats he puts his arm around Johnny, gently rubbing his shoulder, and the skin-on-skin contact is so nice and so long overdue that Johnny feels like he might cry again.
“There’s nothing shameful about it, by the way,” Gyro continues. “It’s just kind of the way the brain reacts to really bad stress sometimes.” He pauses briefly. “Has that… happened to you before?”
Johnny closes his eyes. “Mmm. Not since my brother died, I think.”
Gyro’s hand stills. Craving comfort, Johnny snuggles into him further, wrapping an arm around him so that their bare chests are pressed together. Gyro doesn’t seem to have a response, not that Johnny would expect him to in that position. He’s heard enough empty platitudes regarding his brother’s death to last a lifetime. Gyro simply presses a kiss to Johnny’s forehead, making Johnny’s heartbeat quicken again. He doesn’t know what they’re doing—what this delicate, unspoken thing between them was—but he doesn’t want it to end.
“Johnny, you okay? I can feel your heart beating pretty fast. Like a little hummingbird. Piccolo colibrì. Not about to have another panic attack on me, are you?”
Johnny hides his face in Gyro’s collarbone, steeling his resolve before answering. His southern accent jumps out a bit more in his anxious state. “No, I’m okay. I’m doin’ better from earlier! You just… make me really flustered. In a good way, I promise. I like what we’re doin’ right now… being close to you. I kinda thought I lost you back there, so that’s why I was freakin’ out so bad.” He feels tears gather just speaking it aloud.
“You traded the corpse parts for me, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” he whispers, closing his eyes again. It’s blessedly quiet in the room, save for the sound of their soft breathing. The snow’s probably still coming down outside, drenching the town in an eerie silence. Johnny feels glad to be here, all warm and safe with Gyro. Corpse of Jesus Christ be damned, he knows that Gyro was worth that and plenty more. He would trade the moon and all the stars in the sky for Gyro.
He wonders how much longer he can continue like this, fearing that he’d lose Gyro all the damn time. Johnny allows his tears to fall, and for once doesn’t feel ashamed to cry. He’s not with his family. He’s safe here, and he won’t be reprimanded for feeling the way he does. Gyro doesn’t speak on it, just wipes Johnny’s tears and rubs his back.
“Gyro… I’m really scared,” Johnny finally says, powerless to stop the shaking wracking his small frame. He tightens his grip around Gyro, and it still doesn’t feel close enough. He wants, needs more, but he will not ask Gyro for sex, not tonight. Sex with Johnny is a complicated thing, with his disability. Emotionally he’s not ready to talk about that. Sex is nice but Gyro means much more to him than just physicality anyways. For now he can still hold Gyro close as if he might not be able to tomorrow. Because the way things have been, maybe he won’t.
“I’m scared too,” Gyro says, and it’s not the response Johnny expects in the slightest. “You think it didn’t scare the fuck outta me when that Ringo guy shot you in the head?” He squeezes Johnny. “But you make me braver, I think. I feel safe with you.” He smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. His eyes glisten like he might cry, but he doesn’t. “I feel like if you’re by my side, shit’s not always so bad. I’m capable of doing more. This race has put us through hell, but at the same time I’m really, really happy. Just hanging out with you, shooting the shit, coming up with stupid gags. It’s nice.”
“Yeah. I’m really happy too. Because of you,” Johnny says. He laughs tearfully. “It’s ironic—this race has been so scary—but I’ve felt more alive in the past few months than I have in years. I just… really don’t want… us to end. Whether it’s through death or somethin’ else. I never want us to be apart.”
It’s as much as a love confession as he’s going to reach tonight, but it’s enough. Gyro seems to recognize it as such, because he leans forward and fervently kisses Johnny’s lips. Johnny makes a surprised noise into Gyro’s mouth but returns the kiss eagerly, crying more because he’s so full of love and so, so scared.
After Gyro pulls away, he gently bumps foreheads with Johnny and looks into his eyes, and somehow it’s not uncomfortable in the way most eye contact is for Johnny. Gyro smiles at him and he’s looking at him like he’s something so precious and divine and Johnny finds it in him to return the smile. He’s both so happy and so sad and he doesn’t know how it’s possible.
“You have so many freckles,” Gyro says, breaking Johnny out of his own thoughts. His thumb strokes the smattering of them under Johnny’s eyes, his hand sliding down his neck to meet the freckles on his shoulder, then squeezes it. He presses a kiss there for good measure.
“Yeah, I don’t like them.”
“Really? I think they're adorable. You love stars, and they remind me of little galaxies.”
“Gyrooo,” Johnny reprimands, hiding his face in his hands. “Stop bein’ so corny.” It drives him crazy in a good way, but he’ll never admit it.
“Never! You’re cute, and handsome, and pretty, and beautiful. And I’ll say it all I want to because you deserve to hear it.” He pouts, then follows it up with kissing Johnny’s face all over until Johnny giggles, running his hands through Gyro’s hair and kissing his head.
Gyro yawns loudly. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He breaks away to lean over the bed and grab something from his bag. Lo and behold, he hands Johnny his teddy bear. “It’s nice to hold and snuggle when you’re upset. You can borrow him tonight if you want.”
This sweet boy was going to be the death of him. Johnny smiles, squeezing the well-loved bear. “He smells like you. It’s nice, but it ain’t a substitute for the real thing, ya know?”
He nods, making a face as if he was pondering this deeply. “Hmm, yes, I see. I think I’m picking up what you’re putting down.”
Gyro moves to lie down on his back fully, patting his chest as if beckoning Johnny to lie on it. If Johnny wasn’t so tired, he would laugh or offer some kind of quip, but instead he’s content to just cuddle up. His eyes and head hurt from crying and he just wants to sleep it all off. He’s still unsure what this is between them or when they’ll have that conversation, but right now it doesn’t matter. That’s tomorrow’s problem. Because right now he’s warm and safe with Gyro. He wants to bottle up this feeling and save it forever.
Johnny tucks the bear on the other side of himself so he’s sandwiched by comfort on both sides. Once they’re both fully situated, Gyro turns off the oil lamp at the bedside table. A steel ball is strategically placed there, as well—in case they’re attacked, Johnny assumes. It aches a bit to see, but at least he knows they’re well-protected.
Johnny sees that Gyro has tangled their legs together and although he can’t feel it, he loves the gesture, them being so close to each other.
“G’night, Johnny.”
“G’night, Gyro.”
The sound of Gyro’s heartbeat under his ear lulls Johnny to sleep. He easily drifts off. He hasn’t felt this safe and content in a long time.
Johnny is on the precipice of sleep when he remembers something. Something urgent.
His eyes open wide and he jolts up. He gives Gyro a soft yet firm punch in the ribs, who groans in response. “Gyro! The fucking wine!”
“Huuuhhh?” he asks, half-asleep.
“We were supposed to drink that wine I got in exchange for the corpse parts! You’re going to turn into a fucking tree, dipshit!”
“Ohhhh,” Gyro says. “I took care of that.”
"What? You drank all of it?” But it’s too late, Gyro’s breathing indicates that he is fast asleep again. “Fucking dumbass,” Johnny grumbles to himself, returning his head to its rightful place on Gyro’s chest. Gyro didn’t seem very drunk, but he’s always had a stupidly high alcohol tolerance from what Johnny’s observed. And it wasn’t a full bottle, at least. Whatever. The sun has long since set, so they’ve gotta be in the safe zone.
Gyro’s just gonna have a killer headache in the morning—he can already see it. That man is such an idiot and Johnny thinks he couldn’t possibly love him more.