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Johnny was the first to wake up this morning. An extremely rare occurrence compared to when Gyro woke up, if not the first time this has happened. There was nothing to wake him. It was early dawn, and the sun hadn’t forced him up. It was the dusty gray-pink of a cloudy early morning. There wasn’t an animal peering through their tent. It didn’t sound like the songbirds or other accompanying animals were stirring. It was the eerie silence of just breathing, accompanied by the sound of water lapping against the sandy shore. A rare moment where Gyro wasn’t snoring.
It was just a morning where you woke with nothing to prompt you. It was as simple as that. Johnny would always prefer sleeping in, but it wasn’t awful to wake up early like this. Johnny didn’t feel forced to start his day or feel like he had a deadline to chase. Or have his fight of the week against some other rider or a lackey of Funny Valentine’s. He felt like he was the only thing awake in the world.
Though the best thing about waking up early like this was the man sleeping beside him. Johnny sat upright and tilted his head to watch the other sleep. He was able to see his face in the pale light. How he slept with his raggedy teddy bear clutched between his biceps and forearms. Somehow, the little thing always found herself where Johnny wanted to be. If the American could ever distract the Italian long enough to mend her, he would’ve. But Gyro had made it obvious that it would never happen. His gorgeous, soft, dirty-blonde hair billowed over his face and pillow. It made its presence known as it draped over Johnny’s face while he was half-asleep and tickled his nose and choked him. His long eyelashes, big nose, pouting lip, and all the other little things that Johnny wanted to gaze at and compliment during the day. And while sleeping, he was quiet. Nothing grumbly while going to bed or during the night. Johnny knew that he was a sleep talker himself. Gyro would mock him in the mornings afterwards.
The two didn’t face each other when they slept. They both turned to their side with their backs facing each other. At the beginning of the race, they slept on opposite sides of camp. As it got colder, the opposite sides of the tent. But winter has been creeping on their necks for the past few weeks. One would mention that it was cold, and the other would grunt in agreement. They would lie their cots together and uncomfortably try to sleep with someone so close to them. The next night, the other would grumble about it being cold. Eventually, the topic bored itself out, and they kept their cots beside each other every night. Even when they angled their bodies away from each other, they’d eventually huddle close in the night. Gyro would be the first to sleep. He breathed rather deeply while asleep. This was always the go-ahead for Johnny to shuffle around. He found it a struggle to lie in the same position for too long. It seemed like Gyro was the same, but only when he was unconscious. Johnny was a rather restless sleeper. He’d wake up in the night just to fall asleep a few moments later. But when his eyes would peep open, he’d be close to Gyro’s chest. It wasn’t uncommon for the two to nearly spoon each other. It was a frequent occurrence to either meet Gyro’s back or for Johnny’s back to be pressed against Gyro’s chest. Then they’d detangle and move away from each other.
Some nights Johnny was lucky. Gyro would flip over to Johnny’s side. The blonde would watch his face as he slept. Watch the muscles in his face twitch as he dreamt. Feel his powerful lungs heave and breathe onto his face. It was a side Johnny never got to see. This wasn’t Gyro that Johnny knew, but it also was Gyro. Buried underneath Gyro’s guarded mind was this pretty man dreaming and cuddling with a teddy bear. Though his breath never smelled good against Johnny’s face.
Johnny wondered if Gyro did the same while Johnny slept in the mornings.
Gyro shifted in his sleep and rolled onto his back. A raucous snore filled the quiet air, and Johnny took this as a sign to roll out of bed. He was silent as he crawled out of the tent. He didn’t want to disturb his riding partner, though Johnny knew that he would be awake soon enough.
There was still some dry firewood they had prepared from the night before. Johnny started a small fire with the logs, but it was a weak flame. Johnny threw some twigs from the surrounding area onto the flame. The flame crackled angrily as smoke filled the air. Johnny made a mental apology. He knew how to start a fire. He knew how to maintain a fire. He knew what a fire needed. And Johnny knew that tiny little campfires didn’t like twigs that were green and damp. Johnny let out an annoyed sigh. He probably should’ve thought about this last night or gone out of his way to find better tinder. But he started the fire now, so that was just something he had to deal with.
They didn’t have a lot of ingredients. They were hard to transport while on the road. There was a good amount of canned goods, but none seemed all that appetizing in the morning. Johnny did not fucking want beans for breakfast. He could deal with them for any other meal (it was unavoidable to eat them every day). He was in charge of breakfast today. He was not going to have beans.
What could he make? They had cornmeal. He could make johnny cakes. This amused Johnny. But this didn’t feel particularly appetizing to cook or eat. They also didn’t have a lot of game. Johnny would’ve used Tusk, but there was nothing pointing him to any wildlife. Well, they had dried jerky. They also had a fair amount of flour. They had snagged a loaf of bread as a treat the last time they stopped by a town. Time for the delicacy known as shit on a shingle.
Johnny prepared the food as best he could. He wasn’t necessarily a bad cook. He just didn’t like to. It took too much time to think about and do. Some people had a stronger love of food than Johnny did. Maybe it was for those who had well-cooked meals around the table with their family. Johnny didn’t have that luxury. But it couldn’t be helped. Even if he didn’t find comfort in a meal, he would be happy to provide and receive that experience with someone else.
Johnny was shit at making coffee, though. He left that to Gyro.
The air smelled partially of ozone. No storm was coming or leaving. It was the smell of petrichor as the cold air met the lake. The fog was dense enough to watch water droplets condense on the hair of your arms. The sun was still too weak to burn the morning dew off of the grass. In a few weeks’ time, this morning dew, formed in the night, would transition to frost and wither away the grass. There was no wind to disturb anything. No tree branch was shaking, nothing was rustling his hair, and there was nothing to provoke the lake’s surface. It was gorgeous. A silver mirror reflecting just how beautiful the frontier was. There was a peninsula that sprouted a species of coniferous trees. A particularly strong storm must’ve ravaged here, as a different turf had trees careening into the lake water, only with their roots gripping onto the dark soil. Finally, the mountains that loomed on the horizon. After they had traveled the Arizona desert, these mountains served as a daunting goalpost. A constant reminder that this is a cross-country race. There were physical barriers that could not be avoided. They had to go onwards. It wasn’t any inspirational shit, but it was something they had to strive for. And now they had passed the mountains. It was as simple as that. It left something inside you. They were leaving the mountains behind. You’d only see them if you turned your back and stared. There were so many stages and states away from the finish line in New York, but it did feel like a finality. The shadow that loomed ahead of them was in Johnny and Gyro’s shadows. Johnny couldn’t describe it perfectly to himself, but it felt a little sentimental.
Maybe it was the idea that this would end, eventually. The ocean met the desert, the desert would turn to mountains, to plains, to snow drifts, to cityscapes, and then the ocean again. How long was the race supposed to last? A few months, right? How long did Johnny have to know Gyro? He’d move back to Italy. Johnny would find his own life. He would be able to walk by the end. If not, why would he join the race? Why would he follow Gyro around? Maybe he’d follow Gyro across that ocean. He didn’t have much of a life here, anyway.
That was a silly thought, wasn’t it? A few days after the race, Gyro would go home with the money. Gyro would be first, Johnny second. They’d chat and chat about how good it was for the race to be done. How happy they were to have made it in one piece, to not have to worry about breaking their horses’ legs, to not need to huddle for warmth each night, and to not have to eat fucking canned beans again. They’d tell stories until they retold the same story. The conversation would lull. And Gyro would say that it’d be best if he got going. Johnny would agree. They’d stare at each other for a while, and Johnny would watch him leave. They’d send letters for a few months, then they’d dwindle and dwindle until they stopped writing. Perhaps they were too distracted by their present, or perhaps they did not want to linger on the past any longer than they should have. Gyro would be able to pay for the boy’s bond. And the Italian would live his little Italian life. He proved himself to his father. He’d get a nice little house, a nice little wife, and some nice little boys. Maybe Gyro would open himself up to her. Maybe he’d have the same conversations that he had with Johnny. Or maybe he’d make his father proud and be a Zeppeli.
And Johnny would continue being Johnny. He couldn’t think of a future for himself. He didn’t know how he was here. He shouldn’t be here. How do you live your life without ever having one? Would he continue racing? Would he fall in love again? Ha, maybe he’d die of a cold after the race ended. But whatever happened to Johnny in the future, Gyro would be something heavy residing in him. Like the ache he felt in his injured back. It would hurt, but Johnny wouldn’t think about it until it made him think of it. In the morning, day, and night, he’d be constantly reminded of what he once had. It’d rip him apart a little more every day. Maybe growing up was not just putting yourself back together but stopping yourself from breaking in the first place. Johnny was terrified of the thought of Gyro forgetting him, but Johnny knew that he’d have to forget Gyro. If Johnny wanted to be truthful to himself, he didn’t have much of a life until Gyro entered it.
A pop from the fire cleared Johnny’s thoughts. He got too involved with them on a daily basis. Usually Gyro would be the one to distract him—Jesus, get a hold of yourself.
The lake. The pretty lake. There was no reason to camp here. They were both too exhausted to find another spot. Sure, it was pretty, but sleeping on damp ground was something they tried to avoid. Oh well, it was soothing to listen to as they fell asleep, and it made for nice scenery. They wouldn’t stay the night, but Johnny wished he could’ve seen the stars reflect on the surface.
The lake. Johnny hadn’t had a proper bath in an embarrassingly long time. What was the last town they stopped in? Did Gyro want to pay for the bath? Ugh, probably not. Johnny hated the feeling of sweat and dirt accumulating on his skin. Hated the feeling of knowing he stank. He wore a hat to hide how greasy his head was after about two days of not bathing. If Gyro had brought a frying pan, they could’ve made some good grub. They hadn’t seen a good enough water source to even consider bathing without contracting some parasite or disease. No, he shouldn’t consider it. It was starting to get too cold to consider submerging yourself in water. Well, today might be the last day that Johnny could wash up. No, it was too out in the open. Nobody should see him naked. A rough snore from Gyro was the deciding factor.
Johnny dug through his things. Gyro sure as hell didn’t have soap. A bar of soap had too much weight to it. A toothbrush and toilet paper had too much weight. Johnny couldn’t brush his teeth most days, but it was one of the first things he threw in his bag. The trample of grass and the annoyed snort of air was Slow Dancer’s way of greeting himself. Johnny glared back at him. Slow Dancer’s temperament was a Russian roulette similar to Johnny’s. The old horse glared back at him. But his ears weren’t in the ‘I wish you weren’t so stubborn and gave up when I bucked you off for hours’ position. Johnny was fine with that. He offered two cubes of sugar that he snuck from a stage’s finish line. They usually had cups of water, coffee, and champagne for important stages off to the side for the racers. The Appaloosa gave a satisfied flick of his tail and went to rejoin Valkyrie to graze.
Soap and an old flour bag. They were the only luxuries Johnny needed. He didn’t feel like using the cloth they used for everything from washing dishes to blood. The sand, which was more dirt than actual sand, underneath had too many rocks to feel comfortable for long. There wasn’t any plant life besides grass that Johnny could see on the banks or in the water. He rather preferred seeing the cattails like in Kentucky. He didn’t miss Kentucky or the memories that resided there, but he missed the idea of home. George had the family travel a lot. Hopping from place to place across the Atlantic Ocean. He didn’t think much of the assorted towns in America or England, but he did think about where he was born. You couldn’t help relating yourself to your hometown and longing for a connection to it. Johnny had no intention of going back or reconnecting. It was just another fantasy of wanting to belong.
The boots and socks were taken off first. He hated the feeling of them getting waterlogged. Not like he could feel them much, anyway. But damp, cold feet led to gangrene. Gyro had chastised him enough about that. He’d give unprompted stories about how he’s had to amputate a few of them. Johnny knew that he’d get lectured about frostbite when the weather truly took a turn. Johnny’s legs were always a concern of his. If his mind wasn’t hellbent on being self-destructive, he always wanted to tend to them as much as they could. He would gain the ability to walk again. But you can’t do that if you had to get them chopped off because of disease. His fabric cuffs came off. Slipping a thumb underneath and turning it inside out and off was the easiest method. Or it was just theatrical. With the cuffs off, his fingers immediately found their way to the inside of his wrists. His scars always got itchy at this time of year. Cold? Dry? Hell if he knew. The sleeves helped to create a physical barrier. Helped, but didn’t solve. He really only wore them to not alarm others.
Now for the fun part! Johnny didn’t want to think much when he took his shirt, pants, and underwear off. It’d be best to not purposefully make himself feel more awful. This was probably the best thing about not bathing on the road. No glass or water to force you to look at yourself. He folded his belongings on top of the flour bag and tucked them next to a fallen tree trunk. A rough hand braced himself for the frigid water. It could be the hottest day in summer, and lake water would always feel too damn cold. An early morning in November was still scrotum-shrinking, but not that different from what Johnny had felt before. The blonde clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyelids tight as he pulled himself into the water, as if the lack of stimuli would make this more tolerable.
“Jesus,”
Johnny hissed. He pulled himself just below his diaphragm. Water against his forearms and legs was nothing, but it felt like he lost his breath as his core submerged. Maybe he didn’t want that bath all that much. He’d get stinky and dirty again in the future!
The water did feel good for his legs. The pair had tried to help his legs move. He didn’t have a lot of sensation, only specific areas had feeling, while others were completely shot. His pussy worked well enough. He wasn’t completely sure what his outlook would be like if he couldn’t get that easy dopamine rush. He could probably rise to his knees with the water supporting him. That required too much mental energy. He rubbed his arms with the bar of soap. It always left a strange-feeling film on his body afterwards, but it felt much better than the grime he had. It was a bad decision, but he spent extra for it to smell good. It smelled faintly like lavender. It wasn’t his favorite scent. He would’ve preferred something less floral, but he didn’t know if anything was available. There was a waterbird letting out a high-pitched, woeful cry out in the distance. Johnny knew a kid that could imitate it with a blade of grass. He could never do it. The rest of the birds were starting to chatter. Was it finally morning for them too?
The blonde didn’t want to submerge his whole head. He didn’t want to think about how long he’d be shivering as his hair tried to dry. He’d find some way to wash his hair. An arm crooked upwards as he carded a hand through his messy hair to brush away a few strands that had tickled his cheek. The other hand was clutching the bar of soap. The sound of footsteps against grass made Johnny’s torso swivel. Even before the soft clink of spurs and steel brushing against cloth, Johnny knew him from the pattern of his footsteps.
Gyro just stared at him from underneath the brim of his hat. Johnny stared back. Gyro’s body language didn’t read like he was uncomfortable. He didn’t look like he walked into something he wasn’t supposed to see. There was no tension in his legs or his arms. One knee was crooked out a bit more to the side than the other. The hand opposite of that leg was resting comfortably on his hip next to his holster. As simple as it was, it did just look like Gyro was seeing him. Not looking, but seeing. His face was different from his body. It was mostly neutral, but it didn’t have that typical hardened expression Gyro had when he was around people. It also wasn’t the look when he was about to tell Johnny a story or joke. A little contemplative, but not the same as when he was trying to figure out the best card to play to get a run. It was the look he gave when he was thinking hard about a riddle that was starting to make sense to him.
Johnny didn’t stare at him for too long. He grumbled out a ‘mornin’’ before facing forward and washing the rest of his body. He hadn’t been truly topless or naked in front of Gyro before. They would dress back-to-back most days, but Johnny made sure that Gyro’s back was turned whenever he slipped his shirt on and off. Johnny only changed his pants and underwear when Gyro was off doing something else. Gyro didn’t want a woman on his horse. He probably didn’t want a woman’s body sharing a tent with him. Despite all this, Johnny didn’t feel nervous. Even more confusingly, Johnny didn’t feel surprised that he didn’t feel nervous about Gyro watching him bathe. Johnny was so self-antagonizing, but he felt almost nothing. The two partners just acknowledged each other while waking up like any other day. There was nothing to be uncomfortable about. This was their routine. Even if Gyro woke up before him, he’d cook breakfast, make the coffee, wait for Johnny to wake, chat while they ate, and then pack up to ride again.
...This wasn’t routine. The sound of a belt buckle clinking as he shimmied his pants off his hips. Johnny’s attention was immediately back to Gyro, nearly dumbfounded to watch the other derobe himself. Gyro balanced on one leg as he slid his boots and socks off. His shirt came off, and he left it in a slump with the rest of his clothes. His thumbs tucked underneath his underwear, and Johnny shot his head away to not see.
A few moments later, the sound of steps awkwardly splashing approached him. A reserved man would slide his feet through the water like how a crane would. Gyro was not a reasonable man. He sounded more like a little boy crashing through the water to dive in and attempt to catch a darting fish. Johnny glanced once more and saw Gyro standing in front of him. Johnny got a good look at his steel balls and audibly groaned and averted his eyes once more.
“Feelin’ cold?”
Johnny snarked. Gyro responded by pushing his head into the water before he sat down. So much for a peaceful morning. Johnny punched Gyro’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. He rustled his hair out of his eyes and glared at him. The Italian just had the same cheeky grin.
“Wanted to make sure you weren’t going to drown yourself.”
“‘Cuz you wanted to drown me first?”
Gyro didn’t answer. He just looked smug. Johnny subtly rolled his eyes and sudsed his hands. He might as well wash his hair now that it was wet. The grease was starting to make it smell. He carded his hands through his hair, occasionally glancing up at Gyro. His green eyes did the same. They would flick over Johnny’s form before looking forward and examining the environment. It still was gorgeous. The robin egg blue of the sky was finally settling itself against the sun just above the horizon. The fog was clearing up, and the signs of animal life were becoming more obvious. Their horses strolled up to the lake to drink. Johnny’s focus was on something else. The two were sitting shoulder to shoulder, bare. It was intimate in a way Johnny wasn’t expecting. It wasn’t necessarily sexual, but it was obviously not platonic. Johnny tried to ignore this a little. Not because he thought it was wrong. He desperately wanted to feel this way. To feel close to someone like this. And he wanted it to be Gyro. Johnny didn’t think it would be possible to not feel like this around him. Sure, they were dickheads to each other. Stress made you snap, bicker, and downright feel aggressive. That’s what fearing for your life meant. And it was only exacerbated by fearing for your love’s life.
It was childish to say. No, it was stupid. Here Johnny was, throwing the word ‘love’ around. Didn’t he know better? He should’ve learned by this point. And that’s why Johnny wanted to ignore how comfortable Johnny felt with Gyro. He’d leave. Nothing in Johnny’s life had that stability to even think about something lasting. Godammit, Johnny was selfish. He wanted nothing more than to have the same nights over and over with him. When would he ever experience something like this? Finding someone in your life that just made you feel right. And every day you would spend the mornings watching the sun rise. Down comes the night, and you would share stories of constellations and folktales. Share a fond memory you had in your youth, have a discussion about your family and philosophies, and then laugh about a different story that happened in adolescence. It would be quiet for a few moments, but neither would feel the need to break the silence.
On an uneventful day, it would be the same. They’d do assorted chores with the horses, and whatever mishap would annoy them. They’d ride nearly the entire day with similar chatter. Somehow they never ran out of things to talk about. Johnny didn’t find himself all that interesting. But somehow Gyro would tilt his head and implore him to elaborate. Johnny had a journal that he would jot in. It wasn’t something that he was attached to. Just something to record his thoughts and experiences. Though he did like to collect some things while traveling. Something as simple as a flower or a feather. He wasn’t that sentimental and would usually discard it after a second thought. But Gyro noticed him pausing to examine something. Gyro would then do the same, but he’d hand it off to Johnny to see if he found it interesting. The American would shrug and tuck it in between the pages. He didn’t throw those away.
And this was the extent of what they gave each other. They could never be emotionally exposed to each other, but right now they were physically exposed.
“Your soap smells gross.”
Once again, Gyro was incredible at distracting him from his thoughts.
“Smells better than you.”
Johnny didn’t like the smell of the soap either, but he always found joy in retorting.
“This is the stench of man,”
Gyro said proudly. He raised an arm to waft the stink. Jesus Christ, he should be killed. Johnny punched him in the ribs and glared at the other. Gyro’s proud smirk turned to a wince. He looked over Johnny’s form before clearing his throat and darting his eyes away.
Johnny dunked his head underwater to rid the suds from his scalp. The bar of soap floated in the water and drifted gently with the soft waves. Gyro grabbed it and held it in his hands. He stared down at the ivory before dunking his head backwards. He began washing his hair, and Johnny was honestly a little surprised. He didn’t think the other never bathed, but it was something he wasn’t familiar with. Johnny let out an amused huff and relaxed his body a bit more as Gyro took his turn bathing himself.
“Stench of a man, eh?”
Gyro moved a messy tendril of hair away from his face. Once again, he tried pushing Johnny into the water. Johnny caught himself a bit better this time.
“You’re an asshole.”
“You’re the one that wanted to follow me around.”
“You’re the one teaching me.”
They were quiet a bit longer. Gyro was the one to break the silence. He reached over and lifted a chunk of Johnny’s hair.
“I didn’t know you had a birthmark.”
Johnny blinked at him. Oh, sometimes he forgot about that. He couldn’t see it all that often, and there wasn’t anyone to remind him of it.
“I don’t take my shirt off that much,”
Johnny said, a hint of bitterness staining his tone. He didn’t want to take his shirt off. It wasn’t like he was bothered by Gyro seeing him now, but he didn’t know if he wanted to undress in front of him. Maybe in the future. Maybe he’d feel less ashamed of himself. Or maybe he’d be too fucking annoyed to wait to change.
“Reminds me of a star.”
Johnny’s shoulders tensed as he felt Gyro’s finger trace the outline of it. He retracted his soft hand, and Johnny’s cold hair fell cold and limp against his skin again. Every so often, they made a bad decision and bought some whiskey. It wasn’t that smart to get drunk in an environment like this. The weather, animals, and too many people wanting to take advantage of your disorientedness made it risky. But they were only men. They’d sit around by their campfire and caterwaul to the moon like wolves. Johnny wasn’t so uptight while he drank and showed off how cheeky he was when he wasn’t acting so pissy. Gyro was drunk in the way anyone could expect. His boisterous personality somehow ballooned. And Johnny would drunkenly laugh at his antics, and that would only spur the other further. When he got very drunk, his arm would wrap around Johnny’s shoulder and sway. He’d get all touchy, just simple little things like poking him and roughing up his hair. Johnny wished he could trust himself to drink more. If he did, he’d have the courage to wrap his arm around him as well.
Johnny could see Gyro’s green eyes roam his body a bit more. Falling from the mark on his shoulder to the mark on his back. These pretty green eyes squinted for a moment. His head tilted to the side as he thought. He shook his head without a word.
Gyro finished up washing himself and went back to their camp. Johnny was soon to follow. He used his flour bag acting as a towel to dry his skin off. He slipped his clothes back on, save for his shoes. As he wrestled his shirt on, he watched Gyro staring at the cooking pot. There was a fair amount of distance between them, but Johnny could still read the utter confusion on his face clear as day.
“Johnny, what the fuck are you making?”
Johnny had forgotten about his breakfast. He shrugged in response. It looked like he wasn’t making breakfast. He was better at cooking game he caught, anyway. None of this fancy crap.
Johnny kept his towel resting around his neck. He dried his hair roughly. He didn’t pay much attention to his hair. As long as it dried and didn’t give him hypothermia, he could live with himself. He sat beside Gyro, lazily lounging about as the other toiled over the pot. Gyro had only bothered to put his pants back on. The rest of his clothes was lying in a rough heap over his bag of belongings.
“Your hair’s a wreck,”
Johnny grunted. Out of all of his personal hygiene, Gyro paid the most attention to his hair. Johnny didn’t know how he did it. It flowed just below his shoulder blades and was breathtakingly soft. His hair was nice and blonde, albeit dirtier than Johnny’s. It was straighter, too. The American had a bit of a disheveled, wavy look to it, but that might’ve been due to his apathy towards maintenance.
But Gyro’s hair was different when it was wet. The strands of hair collected to twist and wave into an entirely different texture. As it was beginning to dry, odd chunks were tangling themselves near the ends. Johnny scooted up behind Gyro and finger-combed the most obvious one. His eyes flicked to the back of Gyro’s head as if he could read his expression. The other didn’t make any obvious objections. Johnny waited for a second before he continued. He sat upwards and gently soothed the tangles that had formed. It felt nice to do. They would bandage each other up after a battle or an embarrassing tumble on the road, but that was all necessary things you did to a partner. Brushing the other’s hair was not.
“Here,”
Gyro mumbled. He rummaged through his own pack of supplies and pulled out a bowl and spoon. He filled up a portion for himself and Johnny. He had filled Johnny’s bowl equal to his. Johnny defaulted to giving Gyro the bigger share. He was bigger and taller. He just needed it more than him. Apparently Gyro didn’t think the same.
They had shifted again so they could face each other while eating. Johnny blew the steam away and stared at Gyro’s face. The other was a little more impatient than he was and took a nice steamy bite. He visibly grimaced as he burnt his tongue. Johnny kept his face still, but he couldn’t help but let out a stilted breath of amusement. He had his own smaller bite and nodded his head approvingly. Maybe he could survive another meal with beans. Just barely.
Gyro always had pretty good meals. Well, as good as they could be while on the road. Johnny wasn’t sure exactly what he made most of the time, but it was probably more hobbled up ingredients than any real Italian cooking. But there was a decent amount of care in it. Gyro had a tendency to flicker through emotions. He had his own boastful, snarky, loud personality that he showed to others and Johnny. There were brief moments where Gyro seemed to be at peace. How he acted fond towards something that meant something to him. In Johnny’s understanding, Gyro seemed to realize how his face and words had grown soft. His face would solidify, and he would resume his typical personality. And cooking seemed to be something he found comfort in. Or maybe it wasn’t as simple as a hobby, and it was one way to show that he cared about why and who he was cooking for.
Johnny was looking too hard into it.
And now they were quiet. The sound of metal dinging on metal as they ate. Johnny wasn’t thinking as much anymore. Well, not anything self-deprecating to make him upset. He was watching the horses graze with mild interest. He should brush Slow Dancer again soon. How far was the next stage? There were still a fair number of trees that Johnny could see in the distance. Stephen, or some other organizer, said something about the grassy plains and Kansas City. Hopefully, Diego dropped out or died in a ditch somewhere. As he mused, Johnny’s eyes inevitably trailed back to Gyro.
The look that was meeting him was a look he’d never received before. Never had he felt so revered before. When he was younger, he would win races and have a couple flings. Even while feeling accomplished, it felt like Johnny had to live up to their expectations. He could feel the eventual disappointment hide behind their gaze and lips. No, Gyro's green eyes in the morning sun made Johnny feel like he didn’t have to forcefully prove himself to make himself feel worth anything. He felt justified in himself. As if this was the reason he was driven to the San Diego beach. Not because of the nostalgia of horsehooves beating against turf, no, fate had driven him to finally feel like he had worth to someone. He couldn’t allow himself to trust fate. Eventually, everything would be ripped away from him. But something shifted in Gyro’s gaze that made Johnny feel like fate was finally on his side. After all those years of suffering, he would feel what it felt like to thrive. Johnny could never guess what was behind the Italian’s shield, but he knew that Gyro had felt the same.
Johnny’s face softened, and he kept the eye contact. It wasn’t a look that was as simple as ‘I want you’. It was a cluster of wanting to be the one you looked to for comfort, the one who watched you grow, to be the one you thought about while not thinking at all, and to be the one you wanted. To listen to the stories you’ve told a hundred times before, to be part of your daily ritual, to scratch your back that you couldn’t reach, to hold and touch you and kiss you and feel you, to finish your sentence with a word you had forgotten, to be consistently surprised by just how handsome, smart, and funny you were, and to know that you never had to worry about the other leaving. They couldn’t fool themselves for long. They knew it was a simple thing. They wanted to love and to be loved by the other. But they were sm
arter than that. It wasn’t as much that they didn’t want to say it, but they knew they shouldn’t say it. Johnny didn’t want to be vulnerable, and Gyro didn’t want to show that he was vulnerable. Recognition flickered over Gyro’s face. His eyes darted away, and his head turned to the side. That fond smile and warmth from his eyes dissipated like the sun setting over the mountains. And the side Johnny thought that he’d be able to see vanished alongside with it. Gyro stood up and mumbled something about packing up. Johnny watched as the other started to group his things together for their next ride. Johnny finished his meal and gathered up his own belongings.