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“You know what’s funny?” The Sheriff sighs, whisky induced giggles escaping his smile. He sets his glass- was it his fourth? Maybe the fifth one of the evening, down on the bar table, sinking down at his elbows.
The Pastor takes a sip of his wine. “No, I don't”, he smirks. “Enlighten me.”
The Saloon is uncharacteristically empty. Not that the population of Pity is one to brag about, yet on a friday evening like this one, the establishment would be relatively busy. The regulars chatting by the bar, maybe paired with lively tones strung from the banjo of a traveling musician, or sung by the mayor, one of the days he wasn’t absent.
For now though, not a single soul is occupying any of the tables, save for the two gentlemen. It’s quiet. Ren prefers it this way. He wouldn’t call himself a regular at the local saloon, given he wasn’t much of a drinker, yet the few times he visited, the loud chatter was quick to annoy him.
He had accepted Scott’s invite more out of politeness than anything else. And the man did keep good company.
He was pleasantly surprised by the quiet atmosphere. Sharing the company of a good friend, warm, tired, and slightly tipsy. He hadn't had as much as Scott, yet he could feel the alcohol tugging at his lips, making his smile a little wider and his laugh a little louder.
The man in front of him smiles fondly. “You know I'm usually a bit weary around newcomers”.
The pastor snorts. “Thats one way to put it.”
“Oh shut up.” The sheriff gives him a shove, giggles betraying his gesture. He looks awfully handsome as he grins, leaning back on the barstool to regain his composure. The light must be in his favour, Ren concludes.
“As I was saying. I usually tend to distrust new folks, you know. However, I remember when you arrived here in Pity. I didn't seem to find that distrust in you.” He smiles, expression softening. “You were different.”
“Because of my occupation”, Ren is quick to supply.
“Noo… not because of that.” Scott drags out the “no”, seeming annoyed, almost frustrated at the assumption. “I would have all the reasons to be suspicious of you. You just showed up, claiming to be a pastor, just in time as our previous pastor passed away-” Scott makes a short pause, giggling under his breath, “haha pastor passed, pas tor pass ed, hehe. Anyways”
Ren snorts at the weird detour.
“For some reason, you just felt safe.” Scott’s expression turns somewhat serious.“You just. I don't know, Pastor. I’ve never second guessed your place here in Pity. You just felt right.” His hand is resting on Ren’s leg. Ren isn’t really sure when that happened, but he doesn't make a move to remove it. It feels strangely comforting.
“Maybe it was the Lords doing”, Ren supplements, not really sure what he’s trying to get across. His mind is still fixated on Scott's hand, firmly rested on his knee.
“Maybe… I guess the lord works in mysterious ways…” Scott trails off. His gaze is distant, his mind probably miles away. Ren is about to offer him a penny for his thoughts, when the man suddenly snaps out of it, retracting his hand and shaking his head in frustration.
Ren’s impulse is to grab ahold of his hand as it leaves, still drunk on the physical touch. He’s luckily sober enough to brush away the urge. Mind you, just barely.
The sheriff groans, flopping his hands down at the table. “No”, he grumbles. “No it wasn’t the Lord’s doing. It was something about you.” Scott reaches for his glass and sighs when he finds it empty. “You’re so calming. You’re the perfect mix of welcoming enough to not seem standoffish, yet quiet enough to not seem superficial.” He leans back. “Thats hard to manage.”
Ren hums, thinking back. “I do remember myself as a bit reserved.”
“I think I liked that about you.”
Oh. Ren… doesn’t really know how to respond to that. He feels his heartbeat pick up the pace ever so slightly. The Sheriff is smiling at him, that same handsome grin as before.
Somewhere distant, locked away and hidden, sounds a crack.
He quietly meets the Sheriff's gaze. Should he thank him? Compliment him back? Scott’s expression is unreadable. Waiting, maybe. Urging him to say something. Giving him space to talk.
To talk about what, exactly? There’s nothing to talk about. This isn’t supposed to be so complicated. He must have drank more than he first anticipated. Ren ends up giving him a smile. Now it's up to the sheriff to decipher whatever that meant.
He seemingly takes the hint, or whatever signal Ren was trying to throw out, because he drops his gaze, smiling back, less grinning this time, more reserved. “I need something more to drink”, he sighs and saunters off behind the bar.
The barmaid had hit the hay about an hour ago. Apparently she had something important in the morning and had to close off early. Since it was only the two of them, she’d made an exception, letting them stay and close off themselves when they left. The perks of being the most trusted residents in Pity. She’d winked at Scott, saying something about drinking responsibly, before she’d thrown him the keys to the liquor cabinet and headed out.
Now Ren is closely watching Scott as he skims through the bottles, pausing to smell some of them, before settling on a sea green glass flask. Ren watches as his callused hands unscrew the bottle, how his muscles tense, how he holds the glass between his fingers, how such rough hands can be so delicate.
“See something you like, hm?”
There's that damn grin again. Ren shifts in his seat, disguising how he flinches at the man’s words. “Just checking to see that you’re paying.”
Scott laughs. “You really think so low of me, pastor?” He takes a sip of the mysterious liquid, before leaning across the bar bench. “Want a sip?” Ren raises his own glass, downing the rest of its contents. “Im good for now.”
They fall into comfortable chatter. Scott complains about the Mayor, sharing his suspicions about the man’s unknown private life, while Ren finds it increasingly hard to keep his knowledge from the confession booth behind lock and key. Everything’s calm and cozy for the time being.The tension from before easing away like morning dew. But nothing lasts forever, as eventually, the conversation circles back to a previous topic.
“You know, I'm curious. Since we were on the subject earlier, what was your first impression of me?” The Sheriff asks, intrigue glistening in his eyes.
His first impression of Scott. Hm.
He remembers his first day in Pity in vague detail. A heatwave had just struck the town, and he distinctly remembers the mayor’s sweaty hands welcoming him “home” as he had put it. Despite how little he does remember, that sweaty handprint made an impact apparently. It gave him a pretty accurate first impression, warm, energetic and slightly uncomfortable.
The pair were standing by the edge of town, just about to check out the church building, when Scott made an appearance.
And man, what a first impression.
He came trotting into town, large gallons of water hanging from either side of his horse. His shirt was ripped halfway open, formality discarded with the burning heat. The two lower buttons were doing heavy labour keeping the thing together. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing robust arms, complementing the rest of his frame.
One of his hands came up to remove his hat, lazily waving it towards his face before discarding it, letting it hang down his back. He then went to run his hand through his fringe, attempting to tame it, but leaving it worse than before. A sigh escaped his lips as he threw his head backwards in exasperation.
And Ren… Ren was sweating like a sinner at church. Ironically.
He doesn't remember listening to the mayor, but he must have said something, because Scott had suddenly turned his attention towards the newcomer. The cowboy smiled, charming, with a glint in his eye as he tipped his hat in salute.
Oh those damn eyes. So kind, warm. Piercing his skin, poking at his soul, watching him, all of him , sins and everything.
Ren’s following nights were restless. They were filled with tossing and turning and prayers and guilt. His sparse amount of dreams were haunted by the sheriff. His shame was unbearable. By the sixth night, he swore to forsake his feelings. The restless nights were as clear a sign as anything.
Although back in the present, as he locks eyes with the man, he comes to realize, maybe for the fifth time this evening, that those feelings never went away.
“You good there, partner?” Scott’s voice is low, drawn out and dripping with that smugness from before. He is so close, all Ren has to do is lean in and-
He needs some air. Fuck, he needs to get out of here.
“I, uh”, the man staggers to his feet, “I’ll be back in a minute”. Scott opens his mouth to say something, but the pastor’s already halfway out the saloon doors.
It is chillier than he anticipated. The wind has picked up, not enough to really bother him, but enough to make the door of the neighbouring house creak, and the dust wind up in tiny whirlwinds. The whole thing is eerie. The Pity in front of him seems empty, abandoned.
The pastor finds himself hunched over, hand planted to the wall to steady himself. A bypasser would be safe to assume the man was drunk out of his mind. He does feel nauseous, but he can’t really blame the wine.
Ren takes a deep breath. It only comes out a bit shaky, which he takes as a win.
Behind him sounds the creak of the saloon doors. Ren doesn't have to turn around to see the man looking at him. It’s clear that he tries to be subtle, but he can feel Scott’s worry tearing through his back.
“Dont trouble yourself. I'm doing fine. ”
The cowboy scoffs, caught off guard from being noticed. “Well, you don't look like it, sugar.” He chuckles, but his tone is soft. Ren smiles at his tenderness.
He can hear Scott awkwardly shift, the planks beneath the entrance creaking as he shuffles around. He’s unsure whether to approach the preacher or not. Ren decides for him, flopping down at the terrace, patting the spot beside him, signaling Scott to come over. The sheriff is quick to oblige.
There’s a few beats of silence. Scott doesn't say anything, but the question still lingers like heavy smoke. “I just needed some air”, Ren tries. “It’s been a while since I've been out drinking. I’m not as sturdy as I used to be.” Scott knows he’s lying. At least partly, that much is Ren’s sure of. He barely finished a bottle, and Scott knows from experience that, contrary to popular beliefs, the pastor is far from lightweight.
Noticing his misstep, he tries for more honesty. “It just makes you think. I've been thinking a lot.”
Scott hums. “About what?”
“Nothing I can't manage.” The pastor snickers, turning to face the sheriff with a tired smile. Scott is looking far from convinced. He returns the smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There's worry visible in his entire posture, from the flickering in his eyes to tenseness in his shoulders.
“Did I do something wrong?” Ren didn’t expect him to be so direct. As a matter of fact, he didn’t expect any version of that question. How could Scott be in the wrong? He shakes his head. “No. No, not at all.”
Scott seems to loosen up at that, at least a tad. He leans back against the wall, not convinced, but content, for now. For once, Ren doesn't let himself think, he just slumps down beside him, letting himself lean against the sheriff.
It’s nice. It’s so nice . They sit there in silence, undisturbed and alone. If he wanted to, Ren could just lift his head to rest it in the crook of Scott’s neck, breathing him in like he always wished for. He doesn’t want that though. He is content with whatever this is. He is. He should be.
Scott’s hand comes to rest on Ren's lap again, but this time, he uses it to pull himself up, still close, but expanding the distance.“I’ll lock up for the night and follow you home. How’’s that sound? There’s no use in sitting out here, you’ll catch a cold.” He smiles, reserved, as he moves to stand up.
Scott’s eyes are so close, it's just now that he really notices the details. Different shades of blue, bordering on teal, like that of a racier snake, swirled together in his irises.
Maybe just once. Just so he doesn’t have to wonder.
“Scott?”
“Hm?” He’s still so close.
“Could I try something?”
“Yeah” It’s barely a whisper. “Anything.”
Scott’s lips are soft. He’d expected them to be chapped like his calloused hands, but Scott kisses nothing but gentle. Warm and soft and still all so tender as his hands come up to cup his face. Instinctively, Ren moves to part his lips as-
The sound of a door flings open.
Like burnt, the two bolt apart, hearts racing. Ren is up on his feet in mere seconds, frantically scanning their surroundings.
They’re alone. The front door of the building across from them is swaying in the wind. There must have been a draft, the house has been uninhabited for years. The realization does nothing to stop the intensity of his heartbeat.
He looks at Scott, who’s mirroring his own expression. “I uhm”, he stammered, his usual calmness long gone. “I’ll go lock up.” And with that, he scurries inside.
Ren waits for a beat, before following suit.
Scott has his back turned to him as he enters the saloon. They just stand there in what feels like minutes, but in reality borders more on seconds. Ren is about to say something, but then Scott turns around with his hand in his hair and all of a sudden he’s back in the heatwave of their first meeting, and in an instant their lips are connecting again.
This time, their kiss is more desperate. Scott doesn't linger before grasping at Ren, holding him like he might vanish. He kisses like a parched man, hungry, frantic and desperate .
Ren doesn't differ, though less coordinate in his moves. He kisses messily and all-consuming, all he needs is more. More friction, more tongue, more Scott .
Scott got him backed against the wall, one hand rested on his hips the other caressing his face, occasionally dipping down to craze his neck. Whatever he’s doing with his mouth, it's definitely working. The following is underlined when the sheriff goes to gently suck at his lower lip, making Ren involuntarily cry out.
“God” , he sighs.
Scott chuckles into the kiss, parting it shortly to ghost against the nape of his neck. “Blasphemous”, he murmurs into his skin.
Ren gasps, fingers coming up to jank at Scott’s hair in response. He’s rewarded with a sharp inhale, a smile forming at his lips. Hm. Interesting.
Ren gives him another experimental tug, this time a little harder and Scott has to stifle the outright moan that escapes his lips.
With this newly unlocked information, Ren goes in for a kiss again, but slower this time, letting them both take it all in. How their hands move, rests and tugs, how Scott’s breath hitches and sighs. Ren wants to treasure it all. For all he knows, this could be the last time he sees his friend like this.
By the time he opens his eyes, the sun has started to rise, bathing the sheriff in warm streams of light. He looks ethereal. With messed up hair, lidded eyes, panting and outright glowing .
“So. Still want me to help you home, sugar?” Scott manages out between breaths.
Ren pulls away, pretending to think it over. “Nah. "I'll manage.”