Archive of Our Own

The sand under the hooves rustled dully. Johnny suddenly noticed—their horses were moving in perfect sync, like they were one. They’d never ridden like that before. He was looking at everything at once: the road ahead, Gyro’s back. And out of the corner of his eye he caught it again—Gyro turning around, for the hundredth time. Same exact angle. Same empty stare.

It was starting to get on his nerves. That mechanical glance back. The rigid line of his shoulders. And worst of all—the dead silence between them. Like two complete strangers who just happened to be headed the same way. Except they weren’t strangers. One of them belonged here, by birth and blood—even if he’d spat on that blood. The other was an outsider from the opposite shore, the kind who’d get his bones broken in these parts without a guide.

But they weren’t outsiders to each other anymore. And this game of silence and aimless drifting had become unbearable.

“Cut it out,” Johnny said, the vowels ringing sharp in his voice—because without them Gyro wouldn’t even twitch an ear. “Just tell me where the hell we’re going. You’ve got the map.”

Gyro suddenly yanked the reins. Valkyrie stopped dead, like she’d hit a wall. He sat motionless for a second, then, with an exaggerated, almost theatrical effort, pulled the folded, dog-eared map from his saddlebag—the one he’d never once bothered to open in front of Johnny the whole damn trip.

But he did it now. Unfolded it right in Johnny’s face, blocking the horizon.

“We’re here,” Gyro said low, no color in his voice, and stabbed a finger at a dot somewhere in Lazio. Then the same dry, thick-knuckled finger traced a winding line south, across the regional border, and stopped at a point by the sea. “And we’re going here.”

Johnny squinted at the paper so close it hurt and read the name aloud—or tried.

“Sent-Agata-dey… what the hell is this shit?” He grimaced. His tongue was used to the smooth glide of English; that cluster of consonants scraped like gravel. “They got a human name for this hole?”

“It’s not ‘Sent,’ it’s ‘San-ta,’” Gyro said, syllable by syllable, like he was talking to a child. “Sant'Agata-dei-Due. Saint Agatha of the Two Rivers. Agatha of Sicily. Martyr. They cut off her…” He faltered for a heartbeat, eyes flicking to empty air above the map. “…breasts. Patron saint of the broken. Protects women from the evil eye. Everyone else from fire, earthquakes, and eruptions.”

Johnny stared at him, a lump in his throat. Brows drawn together. Gyro had just recited a line from a martyrology—plain facts, black on white. Creepy facts. Random scraps of knowledge. Question was whether that knowledge would ever be useful to Johnny.

“And that tell you anything?” Gyro asked, flat.

Johnny shrugged—he was honest with Gyro. With himself, too. Maybe a little less.

Just another weird name in a language that was still alien.

“Not really,” he admitted. “Shouldn't have asked.”

“Then don’t ask.”

Gyro snapped the map shut, folded it with a crack, and stuffed it inside his shirt. Without looking at Johnny, he spurred Valkyrie. She lunged forward, from a lazy trot straight into a gallop, like she’d been dying for any kind of order.

Johnny dug his heels into Slow Dancer’s sides. The mare tossed her head at the sudden jolt but didn’t fight—she felt the herd instinct kick in and threw herself after Valkyrie, powerful hindquarters launching them into the same rhythm.

Leaning into her mane, Johnny tried to close the gap, but it was hopeless. Gyro was fused to the saddle, an extension of the horse, riding with focused, blind fury. Johnny stayed stuck two, three lengths behind, lungs burning—not from effort, but from rage and helplessness. Gyro never slowed, never once glanced back over his left shoulder. Like he was doing it to spite Johnny. Or like he’d finally given up.

Something old woke in Johnny then, the racer’s reflex—counting breaths, measuring distance, hunting the moment to surge. His body remembered: lower, shift weight, pick the line.

On the track there were rules, tactics, and the sweet chaos in a rival’s head when he realized he was fucked. Johnny figured he was the one fucked now.

But reason screamed—this wasn’t a track. No surge coming. No logic to this chase. Just running. A merciless, meaningless sprint.

Johnny opened his mouth to yell “Easy!” or “Goddamn it, Gyro, slow down!”—but the words stuck.

First, because trying to outshout the wind screaming in your ears is a losing game. Second: this had never been a race. Gyro wasn’t playing—he was running away. Straight, clean, completely out of Johnny’s control. All Johnny could do was swallow it and follow.

He wasn’t chasing the body. He was chasing the mind flickering inside it.

Still, if this had been a real race, with a real finish line and real prizes, it would’ve trashed Johnny’s record. Stats are stats. People believe the paper, not the sulking kid with wet eyes.

The official report of his defeat rang in his head:

Never in my life has anyone bent me over like this. If this were a track, that bastard would’ve smoked me in two seconds flat.

He didn’t have to yell after him, though.

Half a mile later, when the mixed reek of smoke and manure hit his nose and the first tiled roofs flickered between olive trees, Gyro suddenly reined Valkyrie in hard, dropping from gallop to a sweeping trot. Just as abrupt as the start—like he’d only now noticed where he was. Finally found the brakes.

They rode into the rutted street of Sant'Agata-dei-Due. A handful of old men on a bench stopped gesturing and stared.

Valkyrie was heaving, sides bellows. Slow Dancer pulled up and snorted, pissed. Johnny was right there with her.

His hands shook a little from tension. He let go of the reins completely.

“We’re here,” Gyro said. His voice wasn’t the grave-deep bass from the road anymore—clearer, higher, a normal baritone.

The adrenaline had done its job: cleared his head, burned off the apathy. Probably not for long. Night wasn’t over yet.

Gyro dismounted smooth, practiced, pressed his forehead to Valkyrie’s sweaty flank, palm in her mane. Whispered, “It’s over, girl. It’s over.”

Then he stepped back and was someone else—shoulders squared, brows drawn. Scanning.

He swept the place: the facade of the nearest house, the narrow shadow under the eaves, the old men’s faces—cataloguing threats and openings, reading foreign ground.

Then he walked straight to the geezers staring like they’d never seen strangers before.

Johnny suddenly felt naked. Not the brave kind—naked like bones and nerve endings on display.

Gyro spoke, of course, not in Johnny’s language. Not in “human,” which for Johnny would always be English, no matter where the wind blew him. Now Johnny was naked and mute, the stream of clipped, rapid sounds just background noise. No meaning, no shape.

All he could read was body language: the way Gyro’s jaw moved, cheekbones tensing and relaxing; how he stood a little ahead, sideways, back to no one; weight on one leg, fist clenching and unclenching at his thigh, finger pointing the likely way.

When the exchange ended, the old men glanced at each other and nodded. Gyro nodded back—once, sharp, chin only. Deal made.

He turned and walked back to the horses. To Johnny. Came right up close, already reaching to help him down, but Johnny leaned in first, bracing on the saddle horn.

“What’d they say?” He flicked a glance at one particularly sharp-eyed old coot still drilling holes in his back. “And why’s that geezer staring at me like I stole his teeth?”

“I told them you’re my cousin,” Gyro said quietly but clear, fingers already under Johnny’s ribs. “Grew up across the ocean, don’t speak a lick of the local tongue. I vouched for you with my head because you’re not exactly mobile. And that geezer, as you called him, said someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Turn my back and you’ll pull some stunt.”

Gyro lifted him. Johnny automatically grabbed his neck for balance—he didn’t really need it, but it was ritual: Gyro’s arms always held him, kept him from falling. Guarded the abyss even when there’d never been any obligation.

Johnny swallowed the irritation rising in him. Not the time or place to start a dignity lecture.

Gyro had spun them a crooked, clumsy, humiliating little story out of whatever scraps he had. A kick in the ass. But if that was enough to cover their backs, Johnny would bite his tongue. Survival trumped pride right now. Always had—he just hadn’t had the right occasion to remember.

“And what do you think?” Johnny asked straight, staring Gyro dead in the eye—their current position forced brutal closeness. “Will I pull a stunt? Get out of hand?”

“Don’t know,” Gyro said. “That’s the problem. I only vouched for you with words. They get that. That’s why they’re side-eyeing.”

There was no distrust in those words—just cold, almost cruel assessment: they were both variables now in an equation constantly rewriting itself. Gyro was nobody now, nameless. Johnny was just some cripple trailing after him by default. No guarantees, no references.

All Gyro had was the word he’d given. No aces up the sleeve, no transcontinental race cred, no family clout. Just a story. Their new skin.

And the fact that Johnny let Gyro fuck him at night didn’t buy them survival points. That’s what they needed—survival. Before they could even think about living.

He asked hoarsely, cheek pressed to Gyro’s chest—everything else made his head buzz:

“Where’re we crashing now?”

“With an old lady. She’s got a spare room. Takes in pilgrims from the city. But we’re not pilgrims. Can’t pay with pretty eyes. So we pay cash.”

“How much?” Johnny asked, already feeling control—and their meager funds—slipping away. “We still gotta sail to Japan. Don’t wanna end up broke and barefoot after the first stop.”

“That’s not your worry,” Gyro’s voice hardened again, that commanding edge from their first days together. “First we stable the horses, then we settle in. Money doesn’t run. The lady’s goodwill does.”

He lowered Johnny to the ground gently but awkwardly—making sure he could hold his weight first. The earth took him.

Johnny felt its unyielding presence, but that was the limit of his abilities right now. Coordination near zero. Legs like wet noodles, not ready for real work. Signals slid down them, blood pumped, but found no outlet—no real strength.

Gyro had once said he needed a decent physiotherapist. Someone who knew their shit and got their hands dirty, not just talked. So hope wouldn’t just be in words but something to believe in.

Then a few days later he flipped. Over dinner he tore into the idea with a fury Johnny hadn’t expected. Turned out all physiotherapists were quacks and hacks. Crooked hands, shallow methods, shifty eyes—just out to bleed you dry. No way he’d let some stranger near Johnny, even at arm’s length. Especially not that close. Funny thing—there wasn’t even a physiotherapist in sight. The bright idea died stillborn.

In the end Gyro just waved it off and said quietly: “I’ll do it myself.” His responsibility. His cross. His decision. Even though he kept repeating doctor’s ethics, losing objectivity with family. But there was no choice. Just the two of them.

“I’d rather die,” Gyro had said, eyes wild, squeezing Johnny’s hand so hard it hurt, Johnny’s pulse hammering in his ears, “than share the right to touch you with some halfwit in a white coat. Even for the best reasons.”

“No one’s asking you to share,” Johnny had lifted their joined hands to his lips, brushed a kiss over rough knuckles. The fire in Gyro’s eyes settled a little. “I trust you. You already gave me hope once. That’s enough. It’s enough for me.”

Now one of Gyro’s hands steadied Johnny’s shoulder while Johnny clung to his belt, to the folds of his sweaty shirt. A grip tested by time and falls. With the other hand Gyro led both horses behind them—a procession of two exhausted animals and two worn-out men.

Passing a narrow, unassuming chapel of dark stone, Gyro nodded toward it:

“That’s probably where all their cultural events happen. Community hub.”

“They’ll have enough gossip to last till next Easter,” Johnny muttered, feeling his boot soles scrape the dusty ground; he saw two curious, frightened pairs of eyes peeking from behind shutters next door. “The way you tore in here like a bat out of hell. Like devils were jabbing pitchforks up your ass. Locals won’t shut up about you till Christmas. I’ve never seen you that feral.”

Gyro said nothing. Only the muscle in his shoulder tensed under Johnny’s palm for a second—like he’d forced himself to swallow a reflex laugh. Then relaxed again, just support. They walked on.

They stopped at a gate—leaning, paint peeling blue. Gyro let go of the reins; the horses nosed each other and froze.

His hands reached for the latch but the motion was stiff, lacking his usual precision. Fingers touched iron, stopped. He stood there staring at his own hand like he didn’t recognize it or know what came next.

Wind ruffled his sweat-matted hair. All that remained of the mad gallop was the trembling tension in his fingertips.

“Gyro?” Johnny asked softly; his strength was drawing a line.

“Wait,” Gyro muttered through clenched teeth, almost soundless. “I’m thinking.”

At that word “thinking,” they all sighed—first Johnny, then the horses like a chain reaction—heavy, relieved. Even the air in the courtyard seemed to shift.

“About what?” Johnny asked, tired, almost indifferent. “Just yank the damn latch. Granny’s not gonna kill you—bite maybe, scratch your face, whack you with an umbrella. You’ll live.”

“Shut up,” Gyro groaned, running fingers through his hair and throwing his head back like begging the heavens for extra patience. “Just shut your trap, Johnny, for the love of God!”

Johnny couldn’t anymore. He was picky about orders: “Johnny, shut up”—ignored; “Johnny, stay out”—treated as an invitation. Plus he was bone-tired.

Their packing had dragged all morning and half the day because Gyro couldn’t tear himself from his younger siblings. Johnny hadn’t minded—he was saying goodbye. Preparing to turn and walk away forever, no hope of return. Johnny had given him that time. And now the nagging thought that maybe it hadn’t been enough.

But the road didn’t care about their opinions. Didn’t wait either.

Stay longer and Johnny would’ve lost his head—literally. Because the Zeppeli patriarch had looked at him like he was holding back from sentencing the seducer of his heir to every torment imaginable. Defiler of the family tree. The marital bed. The thought made Johnny want to puke.

So they had to bolt.

But now Gyro was stalling at a stranger’s gate and Johnny was boiling. Tired. Hungry. Wants sleep. And Gyro’s mysterious anguish was only prolonging the torment.

“Hey,” Johnny edged closer, careful but determined, finding something to grab because his legs were useless. “Open the fucking latch already. I wanna sleep.”

“Then lie down right here and sleep,” Gyro tossed back flat, not turning. “What’re you waiting for?”

“You got a conscience at all?” Johnny hissed. “Some cousin you are, ready to ditch your own flesh and blood on the street.”

“You’re one to talk about conscience—” Gyro spun around, jabbing a finger into Johnny’s chest hard enough to stagger him.

And finally Gyro’s eyes blazed—not apathy, anger. Something. Better.

“I vouched for you, you ungrateful little shit. And you’ll obey, got it, fratellino scemo?”

Johnny grimaced, but a smirk tugged the corner of his mouth.

“What’d you just call me?” he asked—because it mattered; those alien syllables were aimed straight at subplot him.

“Ungrateful shit. You heard.”

“No,” Johnny shook his head sharp. “The other one. In your language.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gyro snapped, exhaling; anger ebbed as fast as it came, leaving only exhaustion. “I don’t need you to understand. I need everyone else to buy it. Cover story. You just need to know you’re an ungrateful shit. Now shut up and let me talk to the landlady or we’ll camp right here.”

Johnny opened his mouth to fight back, but the creak of the door opening didn’t give a damn about his plans.

Authoritative footsteps gave way to a new figure: a stooped old woman in a dark dress, face a map of wrinkles. Bird-like eyes stared unblinking at the two of them—disheveled, flushed, a second from starting a brawl. Like two naughty schoolboys caught red-handed.

Gyro jerked away from Johnny like he’d been shocked. Johnny’s jaw nearly dropped.

He straightened, smoothed his shirt, and—to Johnny’s horror—stepped forward, sank gracefully to one knee on the stone courtyard, took the old woman’s withered hand, bowed his head, and kissed the back of it. Absolute respect.

And Gyro spoke again. Johnny didn’t understand a word.

Gyro’s voice flowed like warm honey, soft, melodic, that gentlemanly charm that made Johnny’s jaw clench.

Even without a translator, Johnny got the gist: introducing them, apologizing for the disturbance, the late hour, their disgraceful appearance. Okay, the appearance part might’ve been guesswork.

Johnny stood clutching the doorframe, feeling like a complete idiot. Desperately wanted the earth to swallow him. Or at least bury his head ostrich-style.

There he was again—the Gyro who could charm anyone, be anyone. A chameleon. And it was both mesmerizing and terrifying. Because it meant one thing: Gyro could still pretend. Right now that’s exactly what he was doing.

Finally the flood of eloquence stopped. Gyro rose with a faint, almost imperceptible sigh, brushed dust from his trousers, and stepped back to Johnny. His face still wore a polite half-smile, but his eyes were exhausted. He silently extended a hand—not support, a gesture: go ahead.

“Don’t just stand there,” he hissed through his teeth, keeping the smile for Signora Chiara. “She’s agreed to put us up.”

Johnny sighed but took a tentative step forward.

His legs were still relearning the ground. Hands instinctively sought support, but he stubbornly clenched them into fists. He could do it without help. At least make it to the porch on his own two feet. If he ever wanted to be a better version of himself, he had to force the current one across this threshold—right now. No outside intervention.

Gyro didn’t follow immediately. He took the horses deeper into the yard, to a low shed that served as a stable. Talked to them. In Italian again. On autopilot. His movements precise, bringing a little order to the external chaos.

Johnny stood on the low porch and watched. Gyro unloading saddlebags, the dim light behind the curtained window. Their journey wasn’t over. Hadn’t ended even after that last desperate race in America, after they’d traded everything for the chance to be together. They were still on the road. Just forced to make these stops—not to rest, but to catch their breath, lick wounds, and run again from whatever was always on their tail.

The thought dragged him back. He’d made it to San Diego that September, hitching rides and clinging to obsession—money still held out, no point letting it rot. Because the newspaper headline about the cross-country race—Steel Ball Run—had yanked every sleeping nerve. He’d sat in his chair, letters forming words, words turning into something incredible, tantalizing. Something new. One of a kind. If he didn’t at least glimpse it, he’d die. That’s what he thought then. Ordinary death from boredom and despair.

Back then Johnny had no idea death wasn’t the end. That you could die and still rise—body and spirit, against all odds. And that the man who’d helped him rise was now ten steps away, unsaddling a tired horse, and that man was broken no less—maybe more—than Johnny had ever been.

Footsteps made him turn.

Gyro had finished with the horses and was walking to the porch, face hard to read in the dusk, but exhaustion in every line. He stopped beside Johnny, eyes on the same door. Both waiting.

“You’re stalling again,” Gyro said low, lifeless.

Johnny glanced at him, then stared at his own feet—still holding him, somehow. Shook his head. Either they didn’t understand him or pretended not to. Gyro still hadn’t given a straight answer to a straight question.

Gyro didn’t seem to expect a reaction. He just slid an arm under Johnny’s ribs, making him lean in. Not support—possession. Firm, purposeful. Maybe anchoring Johnny less than himself against growing dizziness.

“I’m starving too,” Gyro mumbled soon, brushing his nose against Johnny’s temple—less affection, more a man losing bearings. “Hard to think. Need food.”

On the road they’d taken stale bread, cheese, cured ham wrapped tight, and water.

Flasks had run dry before the village came into view. Thirst had tortured them all—Johnny, but especially Slow Dancer. At her tender age hydration was critical. Gyro had downed one gulp of wine straight from the bottle leaving his chambers—“for the kick,” he’d said defiantly, staring down his father. “For red cheeks.” Now those cheeks were wax-pale under tan and dust.

“Eat,” Johnny said simply, evenly, feeling the heat and tension in Gyro’s muscles under his palm.

Gyro just grunted and stepped forward, almost pushing Johnny through the door. They crossed the threshold together—like they’d once agreed, just not under the circumstances they’d hoped.

Dinner was hearty and silent. Johnny ate thick, creamy soup—more like porridge. Or snot. But the snot tasted rich, buttery, almost decadent after road rations. He looked up at Gyro for confirmation or just contact.

“What is this?” he asked, poking it with his spoon.

“Soup,” Gyro muttered without looking.

“I can see it’s soup,” Johnny snapped. “What kind of soup?”

“Zuppa di formaggio,” Gyro said, face buried in his own bowl. “Cheese soup. Ta-da.”

“Cheese soup,” Johnny whispered, eyes nearly popping. He stared into the bowl with fresh suspicion. “Wait. Soup made of… cheese?”

“What’s so shocking?” Gyro finally met his eyes.

“Didn’t have that in America,” Johnny said, feeling stupid. “Doubt they even heard of it.”

“Of course not,” Gyro said, chewing bread. “Remember how you reacted to gorgonzola like it was a scientific breakthrough? It’s just cheese. And you lot—” he jabbed the bread at Johnny, nearly in his nose—“still have a long way to go before you catch up to civilization. You might have a different regime and a fancy constitution, but real culture? You haven’t tasted it. Haven’t breathed it.”

He said it without real venom, almost automatic, like a memorized line, then buried his face in the bowl again. Talking had drained him.

Later, in the tiny attic room smelling of incense and old wood, Johnny stared at the icon: a young woman with a sorrowful face holding two plates with neatly arranged breasts.

“That her?” he asked quietly.

Gyro, back to him, violently pulling off his filthy shirt, froze.

“Who?” His voice was hoarse from effort.

“Agatha,” Johnny clarified. “The poor girl they left titless.”

Gyro glanced over his shoulder, eyes struggling to focus on the icon. He let out a dry, hollow chuckle.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Like I said. Big deal around here. It's her sacred duty to guard women’s honor… and all that stuff.”

He didn’t finish. Turned away, hurled the shirt into the corner, and leaned his forehead against a wooden beam. His scarred back glistened with cold sweat, trembling with tension. He hung there, drained, barely breathing.

Johnny didn’t like this one bit. Yeah, exhaustion—he got it. Wasn’t arguing. He felt like he’d been run over by a train twice himself.

But they weren’t done. They had a wagonload of shit still ahead.

They had a whole world ahead, bought at monstrous cost. Johnny wasn’t letting Gyro fold at the starting line. And yeah, for Johnny this was still the start—he hadn’t seen the finish and could barely imagine it. But he believed in it with the same fire as before.

He walked up behind Gyro, slow, bare feet on rough planks. Pressed against his sweaty back, nose tracing the spine. Hands settled on clenched shoulders, fingers digging into knotted muscle. He ground the right spot against the right spot—insistent, deliberate. The crude, primal language that always worked between them.

Johnny didn’t ask permission. He offered release. Rough, direct, the only kind he knew here.

“Fuck me?” he whispered hot against the skin between Gyro’s shoulder blades.

Gyro shuddered—not desire, like he’d been shocked. Slowly, neck creaking like rusty hinges, he turned his head. Eyes huge, burned out, but a spark flickered—wild, almost animal confusion.

“You serious?” he hissed, voice cracking. “Now? Here?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Johnny didn’t pull away—instead pressed closer, feeling Gyro’s heart hammer under his palms. “When else are we gonna get a bed and warmth? Who knows how long we’ll be stuck at the border. Let’s at least milk it for all it’s worth. While we can.”

“You could just jerk off if it itches so bad,” Gyro said—quiet, muffling his voice like he was afraid to shatter their fragile safety. “Not some hard science, you know.”

They spoke English—Johnny mentally thanked God. The old lady downstairs wouldn’t catch a word. Right now that was a blessing. Tomorrow it would be torture—for however long they were stuck here.

“Not the same without you,” Johnny dug his fingers in hard enough to hurt. “Without you it… withers and rots. I need you. Right now.”

Johnny just looked at him. This wasn’t about Gyro helping him get off. It was a different addiction. Like a chronic pain sufferer begging his only doctor for morphine—not for the high, just to have strength to open his eyes tomorrow.

Sex used to be pointless energy release, pure physiology. Now, after everything, after the miracle that put feeling back in his legs, it had become a miracle of it's own. Reminder he was alive. That his broken, reborn body could still feel, crave, belong to someone else. And that someone—his personal savior and executioner—was still here.

The icon watched with meek, all-seeing eyes. Saint Agatha with her severed breasts on a plate. Patron of the broken. Witness to another kind of human desperation. Cruel, perfect irony.

Then Gyro exhaled. Long, resigned, like releasing his last resistance.

“We’re gonna burn for this,” he whispered, prophetic. “In hellfire. For all of it.”

Gyro’s hands finally moved. They seized Johnny not gently but with the same clinical precision he’d once used to set splints on the road. Unfastening, stripping, pushing fabric aside. No foreplay—just necessary medical procedure. He spun Johnny around, pressed his face to the cool wall beside the icon.

“Quiet,” his lips brushed Johnny’s ear, hot and dry. “Or I’ll smother you with the pillow. Or throw you out the window.”

The threat was ritual, empty. But rules were set. This wouldn’t be making love.

Johnny hummed agreement, forehead against rough wood. Closed his eyes, but the image of Saint Agatha and her plates stayed burned on the inside of his lids.

She knows everything, he thought. She knows what it’s like to give up a part of yourself to survive. Or to let someone else survive.

Then there was no room for thought.

Because Gyro took him rough, from behind. Entered in one thrust, no warning, no prep—dry, brutal, almost punishment. Pain lanced white-hot; Johnny choked back a scream. Gyro didn’t hold back.

It hurt. Bad. But the pain pinned him to reality.

“Gyro,” Johnny rasped.

“What?” Gyro froze inside him, breathing hard, his thick cock pulsing, drowning every thought but the fullness, the pain bordering relief.

“Remember I said—” Johnny swallowed groans, squeezing his eyes till sparks danced.

Gyro didn’t answer. Just exhaled raggedly and started moving again—desperate, relentless rhythm.

“Gyro,” Johnny tried again, losing the thread, words melting as everything inside clenched and dissolved.

“Silenzio,” Gyro hissed in Italian—Johnny didn’t need translation; he knew every vowel and consonant by heart. Gyro bent lower, lips grazing the sweaty nape of Johnny’s neck. “Silenzio, JoJo.”

Johnny had no choice—he let go. Let his body answer every thrust. Focused on the wordless dialogue of flesh, where words were useless—only shared pulse and friction mattered.

Gyro lasted a few more savage strokes, then shuddered in final spasm and collapsed onto Johnny. His cock slipped out soft, leaving a warm, sticky trail.

They lay stuck together with sweat and seed under the saint’s silent gaze.

Gyro drifted off fast. Johnny listened to his breathing. Then carefully extricated himself, rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling. He’d done what he had to. Held on. Pulled him back. Even like this.

Sleep tight, he thought, watching Gyro’s peaceful form. His own body cooling, stiffening. Tomorrow’s another day.

He reached for the blanket, covered Gyro first, then himself. Didn’t blow out the lamp—let it burn. Let the light keep the shadows away. Agatha never took her eyes off them till dawn.

★

And so it spun. First day, then second, third. On the fourth Johnny finally realized he’d been right that night in his awful guess: they had no time left for each other. Not hours or minutes—but that space where they could just be themselves.

Their cover story, meanwhile, took root. Grew flesh and blood inside these walls.

Johnny reluctantly slipped into the role of fratellino scemo and it stuck with him. Gyro’s helpless, simple-minded little brother, raised across the sea. Barely left their room. Sometimes he moved—between bed and yard where the horses were kept. To the villagers he was just a shadow. A heavy but holy burden on his noble “cousin’s” shoulders.

The said noble cousin had it worse: the mask started eating him alive with an appetite any disease would envy.

The landlady, seeing in him the only able-bodied man in the house, piled every chore on his already bent back: fetch water, split firewood, fix the creaking gate, herd the chickens. Gyro didn’t argue. Nodded silently and did it. If rage or resentment boiled inside, he never showed it to her. Polite and quiet.

Johnny just watched. Watched Gyro come back at dusk, hands scraped raw, clothes reeking of sweat and soil, eyes vacant, looking anywhere but where he was. With him like that there was no point hoping for closeness—Gyro could barely string two words together. Especially when he collapsed into bed and passed out till dawn, only to rise and break himself again. Maybe it was good in a way—no time for backward glances.

Johnny’s only solace was the horses. He’d drag himself to the shed, lean on the wall, stand there listening to them breathe, barely breathing himself. Slow Dancer would nuzzle his palm; Valkyrie licked his face, and he didn’t dodge.

He didn’t talk to the old lady. Pointless. The language wall was a cliff. She’d just nod sometimes when she spotted him through the window, her wrinkled face splitting into a toothless smile that meant God-knows-what. Especially when she caught him gritting his teeth on crutches, lowering himself from the ground to wheelchair just to sit in the sun. Her smile wasn’t for him—it was for the fight with his own body that still only half obeyed him.

Today the sun had already set. Johnny, who’d spent most of the day moping, decided to take himself for a walk. First time all day. Hadn’t even visited the horses—though if he showed up now Slow Dancer would ignore him or trample him for neglect.

Crutches were just extensions of his arms now; he barely felt them. As soon as he stepped into the yard his eyes found Gyro, hunched.

He was squatting by the low firepit where dinner coals glowed, peeling potatoes for tomorrow with dull, mechanical stubbornness. The knife slipped again and again, threatening fingers.

Johnny came up behind him, trying not to crunch gravel under crutches. Stopped a step away, not crossing the border Gyro’s back drew.

“You almost done?” he asked cautiously, unsure if he’d even be heard over the crackle.

“Yeah,” Gyro answered instantly, like on cue—he’d heard. “Give me a minute.”

“Take two,” Johnny said louder. “As long as I'm sure you’re not gonna collapse right here. And I’m not sure you won’t.”

The knife froze. Then Gyro himself. He turned slowly, like a rusted machine. Stood, vertebrae cracking. Lifted eyes to Johnny—sunken, almost sucked into the skull. Johnny had never seen him like this—not even in their worst moments in Philadelphia.

He stood rooted, mouth opening and closing. What to say?

“What do you want from me, JoJo?” Gyro set the knife down, brushed off useless soot—shirt was headed for the wash anyway.

“Plenty, actually,” Johnny said, looking down at him, brows knit, trying to catch that fleeing gaze. “But right now I want you to just rest. Like a fucking human being. Go wash and sleep. I’ll finish the potatoes. Sharpen the knife. Split more wood if we need it.”

Gyro blinked slow, like his eyelids were lead.

“Don’t strain yourself,” was all he said.

“Then what should I strain? My gut? I’m already getting fat off the feeding program this week,” Johnny stepped forward, crossing the line—it wasn’t dangerous anymore. “I’m sick of being mute and lame, Gyro. Sick of watching you kill yourself and not even letting me be near you. I’m not a dog that just eats, sleeps, and waits for its master to play with it. And you’re not even my master, goddamn it!”

Johnny yelled the last word and immediately glanced toward the house—hoping the kind old lady hadn’t come running. But the windows were dark and quiet. She was asleep.

He exhaled; anger ebbed, leaving bitter helplessness he’d fought so hard against. He lowered himself to a squat beside Gyro—knees immediately protested.

“We agreed to be equals,” he said quietly but firm. “What good is my body if I do nothing with it? I’m supposed to fight for this miracle, tear throats, and you won’t even let me peel potatoes. I’ve had enough of that kind of care—shoved right up my—”

Gyro just looked at him. Really looked. His sunken eyes slowly focused, taking in Johnny’s face, flared nostrils, tight lips. Johnny felt a wild, unbearable urge to touch. Smear the dirt from his cheek with a rough thumb. Lick it off, find the familiar skin under layers.

But he bit his tongue till it hurt. Let the urge die.

“Still waters run deep, huh,” Johnny hissed into the silence broken only by crackling coals, talking more to himself.

“So what do you suggest, then?”

“Uh. Maybe something like this would work,” Johnny suddenly snatched the knife from Gyro’s hand; the blade was dull and sticky with potato juice. “At least let me finish the damn potatoes. If I wanna break even, get to the zero, I gotta be useful. At least to myself. Got it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Grabbed the next potato and started peeling. Caught up in sudden enthusiasm—or rather, stubbornness—sliced too thick, leaving a pitiful core. Johnny actually knew how to peel potatoes—the old housekeeper at the Joestar estate had taught him so he wouldn’t loiter. But his fingers shook, and perfection didn’t happen.

“Finish it,” Gyro muttered near his ear, not moving. “Doesn’t matter. It’s going into mash tomorrow anyway. No one’ll notice.”

Johnny snorted, sliced a piece off the cleaned lump and popped it in his mouth. Chewed like it was a ripe apple, not raw potato. He’d always liked the taste—earthy, slightly sweet, crunchy. Some called it weird. Someone smarter once said Johnny lacked starch, that after twenty years he still hadn’t stocked up enough. Simpler answer—he just liked it.

He never liked raisins in buns—always picked them out and tossed them. Only ate the bun once he was sure nothing foreign lurked inside. Even knowing “foreign” was just dried grape. He ate fresh grapes by the bunch, sneaking them to his room—especially the Egyptian imports. But raisins? Nope. He didn’t pry into other people’s plates to judge tastes, neither.

“Want some?” Having chewed, Johnny held out another, neater slice to Gyro’s face.

“Eat it yourself,” and for the first time in these long, heavy days, Gyro did something close to a miracle: the corner of his mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile.

“Don’t come crying later that I didn’t offer,” Johnny said, popping the slice in his own mouth and staring into the fire. “Back home the cook would go out on the balcony to smoke, and I’d swipe one or two peeled potatoes from the tub. Once dad caught me and smacked me upside the head. Said it wasn’t fitting for the heir to rummage like a rat. I never went near the kitchen unsupervised again.”

Johnny wasn’t looking for pity. Wasn’t even nostalgia—nothing pulled him back to Kentucky. He just shared a scrap of memory. Not a complaint.

Gyro listened, gaze finally on Johnny instead of the void. Silently reached for another potato and started peeling, resuming his own work.

Then quietly, almost inaudible:

“I can’t stand olives.”

Johnny turned his head. Gyro was staring into the dark corner where an empty rabbit cage stood. With no actual rabbits in sight.

“We had trees—all olives. Out of ten, only one apple tree, and it barely gave fruit. Could leave us without apples entirely. So we didn’t count on it—went to market, me and my siblings, and learned bartering art there. And I hate olives, JoJo. If I’d ever said it aloud to my father… that would’ve been treason. Against the whole culture. So I’d spit them out whole when no one looked. Hide them in a napkin, throw them away. Silently. Like a criminal.”

A tiny, trivial confession. Nothing to do with renouncing titles, running away, the weight of the past. Just a boy who hated olives in a house where they were sacred. The only rebellion he could manage then.

Johnny was quiet too, tracing meaningless loops and spirals in the dirt with his finger—a map with no start or end. Then barely moving his lips:

“Thanks.”

“For what?” Gyro turned, genuine tired confusion in his eyes.

“For talking to me,” Johnny shrugged like it was obvious. “The old lady doesn’t speak English, and the silence is driving me up the wall. Plus you’re always gone. Like I don’t even exist.”

Gyro sagged, like the weight he’d just shaken off doubled and landed back on his shoulders. Johnny couldn’t stand it—he pinched Gyro’s side, right above the ribs where skin was thin.

“Fuck,” Gyro hissed, jerking.

“Not blaming you,” Johnny hurried, but scooted closer instead of backing off. “You’re breaking your back to carve us a place, and I appreciate it. A lot. But wouldn’t it be twice as good if we teamed up? Like old times.”

He didn’t pinch anymore. His hand settled on the same spot—palm flat. Lightly squeezing warm, firm flesh under rough, sweaty, smoky cloth. Gyro’s stomach fluttered under the touch, but he didn’t pull away.

“I’ll wash your shirt tomorrow,” Johnny said to defuse, grimacing theatrically at the sorry fabric. “Can’t look at this crap anymore.”

Gyro opened his mouth to answer, but Johnny kept going like it was planned:

“And you stink. Bad.”

“You’re not exactly a rose garden yourself,” Gyro pretended to pout, arms crossed, and in that almost childish sulk flashed the old Gyro Johnny had raced into hell for.

Johnny stood, brushed ash off his pants, and casually dropped:

“Enough firewood for the bathhouse? So we can heat it for two?”

“No way, JoJo, I’m not falling for your bullshit this time,” Gyro protested, but it wasn’t a wall anymore; he clearly remembered their sex in the Zeppeli palace' thermae that ended with Augustus catching them heading to Gyro’s rooms. “You’ll rape me in there out of joy after a week of straight celibacy. Just give you an excuse to get in my pants.”

Johnny had missed sex, sure. But saying it outright would doom him to no dessert at all. Still, something human remained—the desire to help. Not do a favor, but help. Wash the crust of exhaustion and grief off the man he loved. Besides, why complicate things when they both stank of smoke and sweat so bad sleeping in the same room would be suicide?

“I’ll wash your hair,” Johnny said simply, knowing how Gyro melted when someone touched his mane—but let almost no one do it. “Scrub your back. I know it’s a pain to reach when your shoulders ache.”

“There’s a mirror,” Gyro countered, already half-surrendering but clinging to formalities. “And my hands work. I’ll manage.”

“But I have eyes,” Johnny said quietly, firmly. “And hands. I see you wincing and struggling every night. Don’t want me touching anything else—fine. But let me at least do this. Just wash. Like two normal guys wrecked by the road. It happens.”

Gyro squinted at him, tired distrust in the depths of his dead green eyes. Definitely expecting a trick.

Then Johnny knew words weren’t enough. Needed collateral.

He drew himself up as tall as crutches allowed and looked Gyro dead in the eye. No usual cockiness or playfulness. Serious, almost stern.

“I give you my word,” he said, each word minted. “I won’t go for your pants. Not with hands or anything else. Just bath. Water and soap.”

Gyro didn’t blink.

“For real?” he asked—not whining, testing.

Johnny nodded slowly. Raised his free hand and pressed it over his heart—oddly solemn gesture for a filthy yard by dying coals.

“For real,” he repeated. “Joestar’s word.”

But in the end Joestar’s word turned out to be the dirtiest lie.

Because now he loomed over Gyro stretched belly-down on the wide bench in the little bathhouse, palms pressing into his steaming, damp back, listening to him grumble—first into empty air, then straight at Johnny, voice muffled by the wood his face was buried in.

“Little brat,” he hissed, but Johnny had no intention of letting go of Gyro’s cock; his sure fist slid slow and precise, drawing completely different sounds.

“I knew it, I fucking knew…”

“Quit whining,” Johnny rumbled with revived arrogance, hips instinctively pushing forward seeking friction—though they weren’t actually fucking. “Hey,” something clicked in his head, absurdly inappropriate, “is this what that old bastard meant when he said I’d get out of hand if you turned away?”

He pressed his thumb into the sensitive spot under the head with such devoted expertise that Gyro jerked, and soon all finesse threatened to give way to rougher stuff.

Gyro exhaled a long, choked moan into the rough wood:

“Don’t even joke about that.”

Johnny paused. Then eased his grip but didn’t let go. Leaned lower, lips brushing the skin between Gyro’s shoulder blades.

“I’m not joking,” his voice sounded more serious in the thick steam. “I really don’t get what they expect from me. Maybe he took one look and figured if left unsupervised I’d go burn churches. Their precious chapel, say.”

“There’s something to that, JoJo, think about it,” Gyro grumbled; the familiar sharp thread in his voice now wrapped in weary surrender. “There’s something fundamentally heretical about you. From birth.”

“Like what?” Johnny traced nails lightly down Gyro’s spine, gathering flakes of dead skin and soap foam—practical as cleaning a horseshoe.

“What do you mean 'like what'?” Gyro asked, irritated but not angry. “Don’t have to look far. You promised we’d just wash. Gave your word. And what happened?”

Johnny thought a second, hand still moving slow, lazy. Steam erased reality.

“I’ve got your dick in my hand,” he said finally, perfectly deadpan.

“You've got my dick in your hand,” Gyro echoed. “Exactly. That’s the heresy. You give your word—and break it instantly. Not out of malice. You just can’t help it. It’s your nature—to take what you want when you want, damn the consequences. Original sin, Johnny. Pure. Only instead of an apple, it’s really my dick in your hand.”

He said it so calmly, so doomed, Johnny had no urge to argue. Except one point he found grossly unfair:

“Technically I only promised about your pants. That I wouldn’t go in them. You’re not wearing any. So I kept my word.”

“Doesn’t absolve you,” Gyro said—Johnny could kiss him for the lack of hysterics.

Johnny’s eyes kept sliding down to Gyro’s bare, tanned ass, tight muscle under smooth, wet skin. Not just any man’s ass—his man’s. The one who was everything to him.

Since there was nothing left to lose, he confessed what had been eating at him almost since their first meeting:

“I’d fuck you.”

His hand on Gyro’s cock froze. Gyro didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just lay there; Johnny saw the muscles in his back lock, neck stiffen.

“You’re not putting it in me,” Gyro said finally. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t. If you do, I’ll scream. And we’re both done for.”

Less a refusal than risk assessment.

“I’m not going to,” Johnny sat on the bench, finally releasing him—to the latter’s regret; Gyro's cock twitched painfully at the loss of the contact. “I’m just saying. That I could. Technically. But I won’t.”

Gyro sat up beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Their body heat mingled in the steam. Johnny tried not to look down at Gyro’s big, still-hard cock throbbing with unspent need. Stared at the fogged wall.

Then Gyro muttered one word:

“Later.”

Johnny whipped his head around, eyes wide.

“What?”

“Later,” Gyro repeated, rolling his shoulder; joints cracked. “Right now I suggest we finish what we started before we cool off. And before I change my mind.”

Johnny didn’t ask permission or wait for further instructions. Just dropped to his knees on the wet planks and took Gyro in his mouth. No strategy, no logic. Just response to invitation. And until Gyro came, neither spoke. They talked after.

Especially Gyro, holding Johnny back to his chest, fingers lazily massaging his scalp through wet hair. Exhaustion and satisfaction finally softened them for each other.

“If you think Signora Chiara works me like this out of spite or because she sees me as a servant, you’re wrong,” Gyro’s fingers found the star-shaped birthmark on Johnny’s back and traced slow circles. “Her son and his whole family were crushed by the king’s tax collectors over debts. No mercy. Took the house, land, livestock. Even the children for payment. Kicked her out with nothing. She came here with a bundle and that icon of Agatha. Begged the priest for this ruin. And she holds on.”

His fingers kept moving; Johnny closed his eyes, listening more to the voice and touch than the words.

“That’s why she glares when you fight your legs,” Gyro went on. “She doesn’t see a cripple. She sees a survivor. Still breathing, still fighting. And unlike her family, you still have someone who vouched for you. Me. She doesn’t pity you. At least because you haven’t lost yet.”

So the old woman was jealous of two stray travelers for their scrap of happiness. That against all logic Johnny still had his Gyro.

Johnny slowly raised his hand and covered Gyro’s on his shoulder, lacing their fingers—his thinner, tense ones with Gyro’s broad, rough-knuckled, still sticky with soap and sweat. Brought them to his lips, not kissing, just feeling Gyro’s pulse under the skin. Like back in fucking Philadelphia.

“Idiot,” he breathed into their joined hands—not insult, the tenderest thing he could manage right now. “Couldn’t you have told me sooner? Why drag it out?”

“What would it change, Johnny?” Gyro groaned as Johnny pressed his forehead to their hands but didn’t pull away. “You’d still be pissed I wasn’t with you. I’d still break my back. Plus she doesn’t take our money—so we won’t end up naked in port. Fair trade: I work, she gives us a roof even though we’re not pilgrims. That’s how informal economy works.”

“Still an idiot,” Johnny snorted, not letting go. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have made a scene. And now I’ve promised you all sorts of shit. Can’t back out.”

Gyro turned to him. His free hand lifted, thumb tilting Johnny’s chin up to meet his eyes.

“What exactly did you promise me, huh?” he asked.

“Your shirt, you holehead,” Johnny said, nuzzling his nose into Gyro’s chin. “And your hat’s just as holey.”

And only on their fourth day in Sant'Agata-dei-Due did something like peace finally visit. They washed, went to bed. And on the morning of the fifth no one exploited Gyro anymore. Signora Chiara silently set a bundle of provisions on the table—bread, cheese, cured meat, fruit—and saw them off with a sign of the cross at the gate. Payment accepted. Deal done. They were free to ride on.

When they were saddled and Johnny stopped Slow Dancer by the chapel, Gyro frowned.

“Changed your mind about leaving a mark? Don’t sweat it, JoJo. People say all kinds of crap in the heat of passion. You’re no heretic.”

“I’m not gonna do anything to it, though,” Johnny waved off, dismounting and catching his crutches with an ease that even surprised him—his legs, the traitors, were slowly remembering their job. “Not taking people’s last hope. I just… kind of wanna pray.”

“To who this time?” Gyro stayed in the saddle on Valkyrie.

Johnny paused at the low chapel door, staring into cool darkness.

“Agatha,” he said simply. “So while we ride, maybe the volcano doesn’t blow. Or the earth doesn’t split. She protects from that, right?”

He didn’t say the main thing out loud. So we finally get home. So they don’t have to keep looking over their left shoulder—just spit three times and live on. Like everyone else does.

The door creaked open under his palm, revealing cool darkness smelling of wax and dust.

Then behind him the soft thud of hooves, footsteps. A shadow fell beside his own.

“Wait,” Gyro said, dismounting and stepping close; his profile calm, resolute in the morning light. “Forget someone? I’m going with you.”

And neither of them lingered on the threshold anymore.