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For a horrible moment on that greyhound bus on the way to Miami, Florida, Joe had thought that maybe it was all too late. He'd looked at Rico and, perhaps through a trick of the light, believed that he wasn’t breathing.
But then, as if on cue, Rico had taken a terrible, trembling breath, and curled up under his blankets and whispered, half delirious, to no one in particular: "Hey, Joe. Hey Joe, what the hell are you starin’ at?"
"Nothing", he'd said. A few more minutes, he'd said in his head, repeating it over and over until minutes had turned into moments and finally, they had stood there on the streets of Miami, Florida. It had been no less lonely than New York, at first, but the sky had been the most enticing blue he'd ever seen that day.
"Look at this here, Rico", he’d coaxed, almost pleading with his unresponsive friend, feeling something in his voice unravel, something that wanted to make him cry. For Rico’s sake, he hadn't let it. "Come on now, open up your eyes, boy."
And Rico, hanging onto Joe with no more strength in his twisted body, had done just that, eyes wet and red and aching, and he’d seen the street and the houses along it and the palm trees from his magazines, and he’d laughed. And it had been from that laugh alone that Joe had known that they had made it.
Now, in Miami, maybe for the first time in his life, Rico had some color in his face and arms and looked like he was probably supposed to. His once pale-greyish skin was suntanned, and even the tangle of gelled hair on his sweaty head had finally been tamed. That cowering runt from the Bronx was gone, and a man had come in his place, a man who held his head up high and had a life to speak of, finally. Truthfully, a man that still needed assistance walking more than a few steps; one that could get cranky all the same and often couldn’t sleep at night until Joe told him frankly to stop wrigglin’ around so much, but he was a man now all the same.
“Mornin’ Rico”, Joe said as he got back inside from their porch. He liked to watch the sun rise in the morning, letting Rico sleep in while he got dressed for work. He’d found a job at a real Miami beach bar, mixing drinks for tourists, and he only started his shift around mid-morning, when the sun was just warming up the sand. They only ever wore light shirts here to combat the midday heat.
As always, Rico was wrapped up to the nose in his blankets. “Hmm”, he made, to show that he was awake.
Joe had made good on their agreement that his friend was called Rico here. He didn’t even slip up out of habit anymore. Even when he did, Rico never held it against him, as they had almost nothing to argue about here. Joe, who had never taken Rico for a particularly polite person, had been surprised when after a few weeks of thawing, he had gradually, very carefully, come into acquaintance with a new version of Rico, an easier one that wasn’t quite as mean, and in turn, he could feel himself become more gentle with his friend. He could no longer stand the idea of pushing him around, not when he’d come so close to not having him at all.
After their moment of relief out on the street next to the greyhound bus, he'd taken Rico to a clinic first, betraying their agreement of no doctors and no cops on account of the severity of Rico’s illness. He’d sat at reception while they'd rolled Rico away for treatment, shivering almost as bad as Rico had. The doctors had told him that it was alright now and to sit down a while and handed him a glass of water with some sort of medicine in it to calm his nerves. Joe had found all that very nice, but hadn't cared so much about himself as long as they were focusing on fixing Rico. He hadn't minded being scolded by the doctors for bringing Rico in so late, when they'd clearly known how sick he'd been. He'd cared so much already, he'd been all out of care. He'd stayed strong only for Rico.
It had taken Rico some time to gain back his strength, even after coming home with Joe. Their new apartment was simple, rented by Joe, more out of necessity than taste, but functional: One bedroom, one bathroom, no stairs for Rico’s sake. They’d worked through his matted hair in the shower. When Rico had finally regained his strength to speak, he’d asked Joe to take him to a barber for a proper haircut, and Joe had decided that this must be the first moment of the rest of their new lives.
Florida was unlike any place they had ever been. The absence of street noise, the sirens and the pitiful howling of the wind through uninsulated windows took getting used to. Even Joe, who was the more experienced traveller between the two, found himself having to adjust.
Most of the warmer nights they slept with the ceiling fan on, which at first Rico had found hysterical.
“Ha-ha-ha”, he’d said. “Keep a man from freezing to death long enough, and he’ll be needin’ a ceiling fan.” And he'd laughed until he couldn't breathe, and there'd been a desperation soaking out of him with it. Joe hadn’t known what was so funny, anyway. He’d just been grateful that Rico was laughing.
“It’s real chilly outside, Rico”, Joe said now. “But we’re coming into quite a lot of sunshine, by the looks of it.”
Rico, who had been so restless in New York, always up and limping around the apartment before dusk, had come to liking these slow mornings. He liked to wake up to the sound of another person, and he always wanted Joe to say good-bye before heading to work.
"Joe, come ‘ere a minute, will ya?" came his nasally New York drawl from the bed. Joe had to admit that he quite liked the sound of it, this little fraction of a remnant from where they had come from. It was a great comfort to him to not be alone in this place, and to have Rico here and talking, too, even if he still sounded like he’d just been picked fresh off the street and would always sound it, even if they never went another place but here.
"Well, what is it, Rico?"
"Sit down already, c’mon.” Rico had kicked off his blankets and his left hand was patting the space next to him on the mattress. Joe sat next to him in that space that was just perfectly broad enough to fit them both. His shoulder was pressed against Rico’s, and Rico, satisfied, rested his head there and let his eyes fall shut for a while.
The weight of Rico's head was gentle, no longer heavy with fever and no longer quite as desperate for contact as he had been in his illness. Joe reached out his hand to Rico’s small one, and when Rico took it wordlessly and entwined their fingers, he was delighted to find that Rico’s body was warm, and he smelled clean and sort of exotic. There was no sound except for the rumble of that ceiling fan.
"Y'smell good", Joe informed him.
"That's coconut oil. Put some in my hair, makes it softer."
"Thought that was for cooking."
"Well, it ain't."
"Smells good, though."
"Hmm."
Joe liked the thought of Rico caring for himself because it made him feel good. He could relate to that enough. He knew that Rico had never seen such luxury in his life before, which made it all the more important that he had it now.
They were sitting closer here than they had ever sat in their other life, their bodies touching, very carefully, but without needing an excuse to. Touching Rico was the easiest thing in the world to Joe. Rico only ever touched him out of pure, innocent tenderness, always careful of what Joe was in the mood for doing. They paid attention to each other like that now, and they had learned what the other needed. Neither of them would ever be able to explain it, not to anybody else, and so it remained a silent agreement between them.
Rico leaned back against the headboard, his loose shirt revealing a bit of his chest. His skin was darker here, no longer sick and grey and caved in from hunger and infection, and when Joe reached out his fingertips to touch his skin, as if to check if it was really Rico's, his friend sighed softly. His eyes were open and aware, but they were clear and calm and there was no fever and no fear in them at all.
“Looks like y’got some meat on your bones there, finally."
Rico grimaced. “Well, we got real food here", he said. "And besides, we got a real kitchen now, so”, he said.
“We sure do.”
What they now had was a kitchen, and a bathroom, and two beds with mattresses, although most nights they used only the one. It reminded Joe a little of Sally Buck’s house in Albuquerque, with the quiet summer heat and the cowboys on TV. But his memories of New Mexico or Texas felt so old by now that they seemed almost unreal, and he was quite alright with that. Their home was small and wasn’t much to look at, but it meant everything to Rico, and Joe knew he was grateful every day to have it.
Joe squeezed Rico's hand a last time and made to get up.
"I’ll bring us something back from work. Something real good for you, Rico. Maybe some wine with dinner. And how ‘bout you make us some real good spaghetti while I’m gone, now how’s that sound, boy?"
"Alright, Joe. Yeah, I’ll do that."
Rico looked up at him and smiled, really smiled. He’d gotten into the habit in New York, mostly when he thought Joe wasn’t looking. It was a look that made Joe’s stomach clench, so shy and unashamed all the same that it should have made him turn away. But this was Florida, and this was Rico, and he knew there was no shame about neither. Rico still looked at him the same way, despite everything that had changed between them, as if he could hardly believe his luck. It made him feel like he was worth a million bucks, and he didn’t have to give him nothing in return.
They had to be careful the way they were living, there was no doubt about it. But Joe found that the isolation didn’t bother him so much, didn’t mind keeping a little mystery around where he lived or with whom he shared his space.
He never got into trouble with anybody here. To other people, he was handsome and friendly, and greeted everybody with a smile from his pearl-white teeth. Sometimes, when the women blushed, it was proof to him that he'd still got it, and it made him feel good knowing that.
Even if someone here looked at him and wondered about this strange Joe Buck who had blown in from some forgotten faraway place, they never dared come up to him and ask. He was a foreigner like many others, and they assumed that that was just what it was like in the Southwest.
He figured a nice smile ought to be enough to signal his attitude, and even if it wasn’t, hell, that had nothing in the world to do with him. He would smile, fix the person a drink, and dream of hurrying home to Rico. He wasn’t scared at all anymore, where before he had been terrified. Now, with Rico by his side, he knew they'd make it anywhere.
Joe thought all that while putting on his shoes at the door and felt Rico’s eyes on him.
"Don’t be gone too long, okay, Joe?", Rico said, like he had sometimes done in New York, always softer than he meant to.
For a moment, Joe felt the instinct to tip his hat to him, just like he’d done sometimes back in the x-flat before heading out to work the streets. But then he remembered that there was no need for tipping cowboy hats in Florida, no need for cowhide jackets and a pair of cowboy boots that did nothing but track dirt up the stairs, and there would never be again.
"Yeah", he said instead and smiled at Rico. "Be back before ya know it."