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The desert was a mercurial biome.
Blistering on, the days were long and drawn out, and the two horse riders were sweating their energy out. With Johnny's hat long discarded into his bags, the wisps of pale blond that curled around his head were now plastered to his forehead, his neck, and the sandy swathes of Gyro's own hair were no better. Beads of sweat rolled down each man's bodies, Gyro shirtless, Johnny's t-shirt sleeves rolled up and bunched, drenched dark around his armpits.
“Joe-knee,” The older man trilled, the glint of the gold from between his lips catching in Johnny's eyes as the Italian turned over his shoulder to speak. “We've got to find a place to camp soon or I'm going to sweat out my fucking blood.”
The pastier boy, skin reddened and burnt from the sun, just nodded numbly, eyes half-lidded, fluttering in the glare of the heat, the air around him wavy with lazy, hazy warmth. The horses were drenched as well, and Gyro's legs pressed stickily against the sinewy muscles of the animal he was riding. He groaned, feeling the discomfort of peeling himself off of the animal to adjust his position.
Every so often, they passed by a puddle big enough for the horses to sip from or a shrub for their mounts to nibble, but the heat still sweltered down until the American boy couldn't take it anymore, grinding his teeth until the crunch of his jaw sent him mad.
“Fuck! Fuck!! Gyro, isn't there anywhere we can camp!? I'm going to die!” He scowled, gripping the reigns of his horse and feeling the sweat against the blisters on his palm. “I want to rest! I can barely feel my ass.”
Gyro ignored the last bit, and was thankful he was ahead as he tried to cover an embarrassed smile. He nodded though, the wide-brimmed hat casting the barest amount of shade across his face. “Hoy, Johnny. I think I see an outcrop a couple kilometres ahead. We'll stop there for the day, so don't worry anymore.”
The Kentucky boy turned to his left slightly, peering at the blank, textured expanse of the cliffside wall they were following. He hoped to God that the Italian was correct, lest his fury bubble over.
The rocky outcrop Gyro had spotted against the blank face of the cliffside wall had turned out to be the mouth of a shallow cave that was more like a worn-down groove. Little spurts of trees and dry bush thumbed out of the rocks above the gaping black maw of the cave, and the riders were able to tie the horses to the rocks tight enough that they would not meander away. At the very lip of the cave, probably saved by the shade of it's own expanse, was a small pool of still water that went to Gyro's ankle when he waded through it to slap down his bags at the far end of their shelter. It was here that the horses lapped from and here that the boys, stripped down, tried to scrub off the sweat stuck to their bodies until the pool was muddled and cloudy from the sand they had stirred up, scraping their skin until it was raw and red from more than just the sun.
There was one thing about the desert that Johnny hadn't expected, though- blistering on, the days were long and drawn out, but the nights were frigid, cold and uncaring.
Johnny's teeth chattered and he curled up into a ball underneath the thin wool blanket on his bedroll. The cave was pitch black, but at the mouth of the cave the moon danced in the (now) shallow pool and the stars twinkled in the opening of their shelter, handsome and romantic. However, his thoughts were only on warming himself up, cracked lips desperately trying to warm his hands with his breath. Gyro rolled over, brown, muscled body trembling just as bad as Johnny was himself.
“Hey... I've got an idea.” The Italian managed to chatter out between shivers. “Let's push our bedrolls together and layer our blankets.” Johnny nodded numbly, doing as he said until his body was pressed against the bare chest of racing partner, feeling every movement Gyro took to get comfortable.
He hated to admit it, but it was working. The body heat radiating off of Gyro was slowly imbuing into the younger, paler boy to the point he no longer had to shiver, and it was almost subconscious when he started gently rubbing Gyro's chest.
“Hey... Hey. Johnny, what are you doing?”
It was a deep voice, tremoring against his hands. Johnny snapped back into reality, looking up into barely illuminated, dark brown eyes- with the sparkle of the stars at the mouth of the cave, Gyro's eyes looked black and nebulous. The younger blond turned hot in the cheeks, shaking his head.
“S-sorry. I didn't mean-” He was cut off by a sultry laugh.
“It's cute, mio principe. Kneading like a cat.” Gyro grinned, that glint of gold catching Johnny's eyes again. “Do you mewl, too?”
“N-no-- what the fuck?”
His cheeks heated further and he instinctively buried his face into the toned form of Gyro's collar and chest. When he inhaled, he smelled sweat and the stagnant, earthy smell that of the water sitting still at the entrance of their shelter, and he found himself breathing in against him a few times before looking up once more. Gyro's eyes were complex storms, but his lips tugged the shadow of a playful smile, and Johnny kissed Gyro and Gyro kissed back, and Johnny started to rub Gyro's chest again.
Gyro's mouth tasted like grass and dirt and mint and earthy things, but wasn't unpleasant. His grill was smooth and indented and Johnny ran his tongue along it to memorize the words he already read upon them every time the Italian smiled that infuriatingly handsome smile. Gyro's strong arms wound against wrapped against the chubby hips of the American boy, and Johnny's eyes fluttered closed and his cheeks warmed up again.
In turn, Johnny's mouth tasted like sweet, sugary water, pleasant and dainty.
It wasn't the first time something like this had happened- a kiss by a hearth at camp, a handjob in the dimly lit gloom of a motel in a city with a name nobody remembered. Gyro never seemed to mind but Johnny's mind was always a tug-of-war between his sexual awakening and his own upbringing to treat people like Gyro- people like Johnny himself- as lesser beings. He usually forgot it by the time Gyro's kisses had spiralled the pale blonde boy into a stupor.
Gyro's brow hands slid down to a place Johnny couldn't feel, gripping and squeezing his plump ass- he knew where the Italian's hands were simply by the feel of his forearms shifting against his sides.
“Hey...” Came the breathy response to the heated kiss after they had pulled apart for air. “Hey, Joe-knee, let's fool around. We've got lots of nighttime left.” His voice hid laughter behind it, good natured.
A shy nod was his reply, his eyes half-lidding.
His hand was shoved down Johnny's trousers and Johnny's were shoved down Gyro's- it was too cold in the frigid desert air to do anything with no clothes on, or even outside of the woolen blankets tugged hastily over their forms. Johnny didn't really mind, though; under the murky ink of the blanket's womb he knew Gyro couldn't see the blush dusting across the planes of his cheeks.
They necked gently, quietly, though they weren't sure who exactly they were keeping silent for. Panty breaths and little quips and keens echoed around the their shelter and made the both of them embarrassed in the slight, though a cocky grin coasted over Gyro's brown face that was too dark to view. Gyro gently, ever so gently, began to thumb the drooling tip of Johnny's dick.
This went on for a few minutes before the paler blond was sent into a frenzy, voice raspy and low.
“Gyro.”
“Mmm?”
“Stop teasing, or I'll kick your ass.”
The Italian responded with a low chuckle, sliding his rough palm down the length of the younger, and Johnny's shakily, slowly exhaled breath on Gyro's chest caused goosebumps to rise against his brown skin. “If you say so, mio principe.”
His other hand slides to grab the doughy expanse of Johnny's ass, and they begin to pump each other, Johnny doing his best to match up rhythms with the man he was sitting on. However, soon enough the hand is removed from its grip on his ass, sliding up, feeling it's way to his mouth. Gyro thumbs the pad of a digit against Johnny's lips, parting them.
A zip of electricity is sent tingling through Gyro's spine when Johnny begins to gently begin licking and nipping at his fingers, running a pink tongue along them. A little bit of saliva seeps out of the corner of his lips, and Gyro can feel it pooling against his other finger, blushing heatedly.
The fingers are removed and shift once more to Johnny's ass, and the first one pushes in. With a choked-down keen, Johnny's hand on Gyro's cock ceases its movements and he buries his face into the heated skin of Gyro's browned collar. The second finger enters, and Johnny moans out, low and drawn out; when Gyro begins to stretch him out gently, his thoughts turn slightly muddled.
The sounds of the American boy reacting to Gyro's ministrations caused a quick buck of Gyro's hips, keeling up and rubbing his crotch steadily against Johnny's own, hand still pumping him diligently. However, one buck wasn't where Gyro wanted to stop. With a sleazy grin across painted lips, the Italian man began to rub his hips up against Johnny's with a steady rhythm.
“G-”
“Mmm?”
“Ple-please--”
“C'mon, Johnny. Use your words.” A grin in the heat of the dark.
“K- I want t-to kiss, y-you fucking a-a-ahhh, mn- asshole!”
The Italian was happy to oblige, peppering Johnny's face in a million little kisses before gently planting an uncharacteristically sweet smooch onto the younger's thin lips. The sound of Johnny's thrumming and humming moans in Gyro's throat caused the bucking of his hips to grow rougher, more powerful. The younger Kentucky boy was rendered into nothing but putty in Gyro's hands as the older man steadily rubbed his fingers against Johnny's prostate, hips grinding against Johnny's crotch, hand pumping the length of his cock and rubbing gently at the drooling tip.
Gyro's kisses were sweet, though. Loving. Gentle. His other movements weren't.
When Johnny came, his form trembled and quivered and he moaned deep and low into the back of Gyro's throat, his chest arching and pressing against the older man beneath him. He came into Gyro's hand but Gyro didn't mind none too much, and the thrum of the younger boy's guttural keens into his mouth and the feeling of his ass squeezing down around Gyro's fingers sent the brown-skinned man's thoughts into spirals and he came with a grunted call of, “Fuck, Johnny, fuck-” after parting their lips not too long after.
Johnny collapsed on him once Gyro removed his hands from the inside of his partner's pants, snuggling into the warmth of the olive body beneath him. With several adoring kisses pressed against the soft, fluffy blond ocean of Johnny's head, Gyro buried his nose into the sweet smelling younger boy, smiling smugly and satisfied. After a few minutes, or maybe hours- Gyro never really could tell when he spent such close quality time with the beautiful American- the slow rattles of Johnny's chest melted into rhythmic, drawn out inhales and exhales of sleep.
Gyro removed his face from cuddling into the crown of Johnny's head to poke his head out of the blanket, testing the air; a frigid chill sent down him as his whole body shivered at the frosty desert air, and immediately he pulled back under the blanket into the warm womb of their snuggled cocoon.
The wet stains on their pants, Gyro decided, could be dealt with in the morning heat, when the cool night air didn't rise goosebumps at contact, and, of course, when the sweetness of the younger boy curled up on him like a cat wasn't overwhelming, and when Gyro's heart wasn't rattling in it's cage, and when the rhythm of his breath wasn't a hypnotizing spell calling Gyro to sleep.