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After losing everything (including those damn corpse parts) and nearly dying, Gyro had longed for a normal day of riding. Just him, his beloved Valkyrie, and Johnny. But, of course, those were rare during this hellish race.
Maybe hellish wasn’t the right word. He had come to appreciate the race. He relished in the crowd’s cheering at every checkpoint, and traveling across America wasn’t half bad. The scenery was vast, diverse, and man, was it beautiful. Though his Neapolitan pride would never let him admit it out loud, he liked it here.
And having a companion like Johnny by his side was nice. Johnny was a hard man to describe, and it was even harder to get any scrap of information out of him. He lost faith quickly, but still managed to be incredibly resilient. He could be selfish at times, but the lengths he took to save Gyro proved otherwise. After tearing down that wall Johnny had built up around himself, he found it difficult not to like the guy.
Today wasn’t too bad, he thought, aside from the cold. They had recently reached the seventh stage and began traversing Michigan. The scenery wasn’t anything special compared to the mountains in the west, but it had a slow, easy feeling attached to it. Snow had lightly dusted each tree-lined path they crossed, making the area look like something out of a fairytale.
“Gyro,” Johnny calls out, “Look! There’s a little crick right here,” He points to a body of water nestled behind snow-covered shrubbery. Pulling Slow Dancer’s reins to the right and slowing her down, Johnny looks over his shoulder to Gyro, encouraging him to follow.
“A what?” Gyro grins, poking fun at Johnny’s seemingly unwavering accent, earning an eye roll in response. He scopes out the site for a moment. The creek was partially frozen over and relatively wide, but there were spots where the ice had melted. “You think we could take a dip in here?”
Johnny shrugs, “Probably. Lord knows you need a bath,” He murmurs that last part under his breath as he dismounts his horse, tying her reins to the base of a tree.
Slightly lifting up his hat, Gyro runs his hands through his, rather greasy, hair. He couldn’t fight Johnny on that one. Defeated, he pats Valkyrie’s nose and carefully dismounts her.
Before he could finish securing Valkyrie’s reigns, Johnny had already undressed and made his way into the creek, kneeling on some rock beneath the water. Gyro found his eyes absentmindedly analyzing the movement of built arms stretching high above Johnny‘s head. His gaze moved downward, following the path of a lightly chiseled abdomen, later a taunting thin strip of hair below his navel. The rest of his view became obscured by the water. Damn it.
Just as Gyro had realized exactly what he was staring at, Johnny spoke into the chilling silence, “Y’gonna get in? Or do you need more time to assess the surroundings or whatever?”
Gyro wasn’t a very religious man, but he prayed that Johnny didn’t feel his lingering gaze. They had seen eachother naked plenty of times before, and this wasn’t any different. Maybe it was the way Johnny had looked at him, for just a moment, drunken under the stars. With relief, with care, and, not that he wanted to assume anything, with love. How his hands deliberately brushed Gyro’s as they swapped the only remainder of sanity they had— the wine Johnny had sacrificed the corpse parts for. The wine that saved his life.
Maybe it was desperation clawing at him. Two men, spending every hour together, there’s bound to be something pent up, but Gyro didn’t want to think about that right now. Instead, he waves away every unwanted thought, quickly discarding his shirt and unbuckling his pants, trying to ignore the cold nipping at his bare skin.
A sharp hiss slips from gritted teeth the moment his leg touches the water, “Merda, it’s freezing! How the hell did you do this, Johnny?”
Johnny glances over for a moment, “Not like I can feel it anyway,” he attempts to deadpan, smirking at his partner’s pensive reaction.
“I’m fuckin’ with you! Yeah, it’s pretty damn cold, just get in real quick,” He reassures, watching Gyro in amusement.
Gyro rushes into the water, trying to adjust to the cold. He sways in the waist-deep water in an attempt to keep the blood flowing. Once he’s content, he plunges beneath it, wetting his hair.
A beat of silence passes between them, Gyro breaking it as soon as he notices, “Johnny?”
“Huh?” Johnny looks over expectantly, hands busy scrubbing his scalp.
Gyro pauses, mindfully choosing his words. He couldn’t describe just how grateful he truly was for Johnny. Not only for saving him, but for a myriad of other things he didn’t have the time to name. “I don’t know if I ever got to thank you for saving me. You know, with the Sugar Mountain thing,” dumbing down every sappy thought that comes to his mind.
Johnny furrows his eyebrows, “Gyro, you really don’t gotta—“
He continues, interrupting, “No, Johnny, it was selfless of you. I really do appreciate that,” noticing Johnny’s increasingly upset expression, he decides to add, “Even if you traded the corpse for shitty wine.”
Johnny shares an embarrassed grin and splashes Gyro, “Fuck you, man! At least we got alcohol.” The cold water prickling Gyro’s skin as he returns the favor.
The pair continue splashing each other, both contorting their bodies differently in order to make their attack more powerful. A drenched Johnny raises his hands in surrender and laughs, “Alright, alright! You’re welcome, Gyro.”
“That’s more like it,” Gyro hums, planting his hands on his hips.
Johnny wipes the water out of his eyes and gathers himself. “While we’re on the topic— sorta, ‘member Wekapipo? The strait?”
“Yeah, what about it?” Gyro raises an eyebrow, slicking back stray hairs out of his face.
“It was totally frozen over, right? Like a snowy wasteland or somethin’. There was no way you could’ve found the ratio, but you did. How’d you do it? I asked, but you never answered.” Johnny stares at him, sending a shiver down his spine. Why would he be concerned about that now?
Finding the golden ratio in Johnny’s eyes was just another tactic, simple as that. Still, Gyro didn’t have the courage to tell him, but why? It’s like Johnny had stripped down every semblance of confidence he had, turning him into a wreck. That bastard.
“Don’t get all nervous on me now. You hidin’ somethin’? And I thought I could trust you,” Johnny feigns disappointment, shaking his head and clicking his tongue.
“Hiding? God— no, Johnny, it’s…” Gyro trails off, frustration rising within him. It wasn’t his fault that Johnny’s eyes are mathematically perfect. Clearing his throat, and his mind, he finally spits out, “Your eyes, Johnny. I found the golden ratio in them. It was a last resort— and I—“
Johnny bursts out into laughter as he crawls back to the shore. He stops to dress himself, the laughter decreasing into occasional snickers as he begins breaking off branches and gathering sticks.
Gyro is still with confusion, and slight irritation. “Hey, asshole! This isn’t funny! And where the hell are you going?” He shouts, beginning to follow, “Christ, Johnny, you’re such a little shit!” he mutters to himself as he shakes out his pant legs.
Johnny turns to look behind him, a stupidly smug grin across his face. “I’m makin’ a fire,” he shouts, bundling the wood together, “It’s so damn cold, I can feel my bones turnin’ to ice. Figured we might as well camp here.”
Gyro scoffs, putting his hat back on. He was still freezing, and his soaked hair had definitely made it worse. At least they’d have a fire.
Gyro pitched their tents and brought out a few spare blankets to shield them from the cold. Johnny was sat in front of the fire, warming his frigid hands.
“Here,” Gyro spoke into the evening, handing Johnny a blanket and watching him wrap it around his shoulders.
The fire crackled between the two, the smoke dissipating into the cold air around them. “So, my eyes,” Johnny said abruptly, his gaze fixed on the fire, “You looked into them and found the ratio.”
Gyro’s caught off guard, “Mhm,” he shifts uncomfortably, trying to read Johnny’s expression.
“And that’s what got you so tangled up, right? I would’ve done the same thing, and told you if you asked. Still don’t know why you got so defensive,” Johnny’s tone was dry. There wasn’t a hint of emotion beneath it, causing Gyro to spiral into the depths of worry.
“I’m not sure why I got like that either, Johnny. I wasn’t trying to hide any secret ability, I guess it seemed— I don’t know, romantic? Embarrassing?” He looks up at Johnny, who’s still focused on the fire, it’s light sculpting his delicate features.
Suddenly, they lock eyes, “Romantic?” Johnny raises an eyebrow, “Out of everything, you call it romantic?”
Gyro’s heart sinks. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know!” He blurts out, his voice sharp and cold, “I’ve been thinking about when we got drunk, after you saved me. I try not to, but I do anyway.”
His words flow like a rushing stream. He desperately tries to hold them down, but fails, “Fuck, Johnny! The way you looked at me like you wanted me, like you were glad to have me around, it did something!”
All Johnny can do is stare at him in disbelief, “Like I wanted you?” He spits venomously, eyebrows pinched together, “Gyro, I’m not like that.”
“Neither am I,” he pauses, catching a glimpse of Johnny’s tense expression. He breathes out, calmly, “Sorry I got worked up but— Damn, you’re just different.”
Johnny was different. Usually, Gyro was open and prideful with his lovers. Not that they were lovers, but he couldn’t deny that, deep down, he thought they were. The quiet moments between them were tender, comfortable. The feeling sunk deep inside him. It was oddly nostalgic and hard to place. He hoped that Johnny recognized it, too.
It didn’t matter that Johnny was a man, even though it was frowned upon, and Gyro couldn’t begin to imagine what his father would think. His father. He began to wonder if all of Gregorio’s speeches about the horrors of sentimentality were right. It was dangerous, but unavoidable.
“Different, huh,” Johnny murmured into the fire, “You’re… you’re different too, Gyro,” He looks up at Gyro, his eyes soft and welcoming. His voice was raw, like he had to confess something.
Gyro furrows his eyebrows together, finding himself twirling a strand of hair between his fingers, “I am?” He wanted to slap Johnny over the head for making him feel this whirlwind of emotions, then backtracking. Who the hell does he think he is?
“Yeah,” his gaze returns to the fire as he breathes deeply, “I get what you mean, about all this. I ain’t a queer or nothin’, but I realized, after the bullshit with Soundman, actually, I couldn’t imagine going on without you. I thought it was just ‘cause of our battles, how you usually get me out of whatever mess I put myself in, but it wasn’t,” Gyro scoffed at that, shaking his head, “Can’t really explain it, I’m no good with words, but— I dunno. Like you said, I really do enjoy havin’ you around,” He sits silently, spinning his nails in the snow.
“That sounds pretty queer, Johnny,” He laughs while Johnny bashfully looks down. He had never been so glad to hear that his feelings were somewhat reciprocated. Although, watered down by what he assumed was Johnny’s guilt.
“You say my name an awful lot,” Johnny smirks, ignoring the accusation.
Johnny’s eyes follow Gyro as he stands up and kneels next to him. “Alright, Joe-Knee,” his Italian accent shining through, “it’s a nice name, you know.” He wasn’t lying. It was hard to imagine Johnny having any other name, or maybe it was his lack of imagination. It paired perfectly with his attitude, worn down by trauma, but still bright with youth.
“Is it? I always thought it was kinda stupid,” he focuses on the ground, avoiding eye contact with Gyro, who was mere inches away from his face. Gyro only nods, moving a hand up to brush his cheek. In response, Johnny’s eyebrows shoot up and recoil away from the other’s touch, “What the hell, Gyro?” He spits, defensively.
Frozen, hand still in midair, Gyro’s expression is laden with a mix of hurt and guilt. He retracts his hand, cementing it to the ground, “Sorry, I just—“
“No, it’s…” Johnny trails off, observing the quiet night. Rustling leaves, the soft rushing of the creek, and the crackling of the fire are the only sounds that fill the air. “It’s not like anyone can see us, anyway,” he mutters quietly, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Before Gyro can muster a response, he’s pulled into Johnny by the collar of his shirt. Their lips meet messily, mouths opening to breathe and drink in and savor each other. He pinches his eyes shut, focusing on how Johnny’s hands glide around his waist, his back, and, eventually, his face.
Gyro’s not sure what to do with his hands either, deciding to run his fingers through Johnny’s damp hair, slipping off his hat, and cradling his head, trying to pull the him closer.
Neither of them wanted to pull back, and when they did, their lips found each other again, sloppily smashing into one another. Johnny was his oxygen, he couldn’t live without him. His arrogance, his impulsiveness, every contradictory thing about him that Gyro hungered for.
They both part, Johnny still cupping his face. Neither of them say anything. Instead, they both study the other’s exhausted expression. Their heavy, exasperated breaths join the symphony of night.
They retire into a single tent, using the cold to justify it, though they both knew the real reason. The two exchange goodnights, shuffling beneath the blanket.
The silence is deafening. Gyro’s mind raced with questions. Would they mention it in the morning? He worried, holding onto a sliver of hope that this wouldn’t be the last time. He selfishly longed for more. To watch Johnny freely, intimately, and not just under the cover of night.
His worries wash away as Johnny’s eyes barely flutter open, slinging an arm around Gyro’s chest. They both drift off into the comfort of sleep, and Gyro swears all he sees is Johnny behind his eyelids.