Chapter Text
It was so breathtaking, the pink and orange light against a deep and luxurious turquoise. An impossible beauty.
They were riding together in a field of white clover and creeping bellflower, and the odd black eyed Susan, stretched out to every horizon. Dewy and sweet smelling grass pressed under the hooves of the horses, long blades reaching high enough to tickle at his legs. He swore in that moment, he could feel them, that he could press his feet against the holsters and lift himself from the saddle. It was a miracle he did not question.
Gyro was laughing and smiling, though he couldn’t hear him. The golden glint of his teeth and the orange sunlight shining off his long eyelashes warmed the palette of pink, blue and green.
In his hair, a woven strand of wild pansies and chamomile dotted his crown with white and purple. He turned his head to look back at Johnny, and silently mouthed three words.
Unmistakably, I love you.
His arm reached out, palm and fingers pointed to the sky, and Johnny leaned forward to take it. He tried to say something, anything, but only breath moved past his lips, he couldn’t even whisper.
When his fingers touched Gyro’s, he felt warm tears on his cheeks. Not falling, but already present in an instant.
The crown of flowers tucked into Gyro’s hair burst into a dozen pairs of fluttering white wings, making no sound, and as they parted, it became clear that they were butterflies.
They swarmed his face, soft wingtips and antennae tickling at his eyelashes and cheeks. His eyes closed, and when they opened again, he was elsewhere.
Horizontal, nose cold, his star clad blanket wrapped around him. A few feet away, Gyro was tucked under his, clung to his bear and fast asleep.
It was nearing dawn when he awoke, and the colors of reality quickly washed away the ones from his dream. Cooler and duller. His eyes stung and stuck together slightly. Raising his hand from his blanket to wipe them, he discovered his tears were very much real.
Contemplating the dream, more fell. His stomach ached.
Thank God Gyro is still asleep.
He imagined how Gyro would try to console him, asking if he had a bad dream, how he would claim it weren’t real and he was safe now, back in reality.
But it was reality that devastated him.
These things would never happen in reality.
His feelings settled in harshly.
His legs were numb and his heart ached for someone who would never love him. Not like that.
It wasn’t the first time he had considered his feelings for Gyro, but it was the first time he felt pained over the thought of them leading to nothing. Or worse, to rejection. To him losing his best and only friend.
He wanted to lay in his bedroll for hours and cry like he did when he was a teenager, but the urge to eat something nagged him to lift his blanket. Quietly, he crawled away from his bedroll, and placed a handful of dry wood over the smouldering remains of the previous night’s fire.
“Johnny. Are you alright?”
“...”
Gyro’s voice startled him, enough for a sharp gasp to escape him and for his eyes to dart up from the bubbling pot of grits he was so focused on.
Focusing on thinking about anything else.
“You’ve been crying, haven’t you?”
“Ain’t nobody been cryin’.”
“...Why won’t you talk to me?”
He dropped the spoon into the pot, swearing.
“I ain’t got nothin’ to talk about, you hear?” He rummaged around the campfire for a stick to fish the spoon back out from the pot, huffing and cursing, blowing on his fingers as he lifted the handle out.
“Listen. Something is up with you. I see it on your face, I hear it in your voice. If we’re gonna work together, I wanna know what’s on your mind.”
Johnny shakily forced out the breath he’d been holding subconsciously, face red with frustration, and took the pot off the fire.
“We got ground to cover. Never mind me, eat up.”
A shadow cast over him and moved beside him. Gyro sat cross-legged next to him on his bed roll. Quietly, he took the bowl offered to him.
A warm hand covered the back of Johnny’s forearm. He turned, terrified, to see Gyro looking at him with a pout. The face of a concerned friend.
“Johnny, I’m worried about you.”
He pulled his arm away and took a bite of his grits. Too hot and too bland. Probably what he deserved.
“Did I make you mad?”
Johnny looked back at him.
His brows furrowed, squinting like he was trying to see into him.
There was sadness in his eyes.
To Johnny, it looked like pity.
Gyro, his hand cast away, rubbed his fingers together, feeling as if he were filthy.
Perhaps he’d overstepped a boundary.
“I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry. Can you tell me? At least, so I don’t end up doing it again?”
“... You ain’t did nothin’, Gyro. Forget it.” He stared into his bowl and took another bite.
Frustrated, Gyro scooped up a spoonful of grits and tapped it loudly against the edge of the tin bowl, blowing on it a couple of times.
The wet noise and hot splatter up his arm let Johnny know what had happened. Looking down at his shirt, the granular sludge was dripping down to his waist.
“Gyro, what the he-”
“Now I have done something. Will you finally talk to me, for Christ sake? Be a fucking man!”
The next thing he knew, Johnny’s fist came flying at him, twice.
One clipped his cheek, the other hit him in the side of the head.
That was all it took.
Gyro, throwing his bowl down, kicked Johnny’s out of his hands. He pushed him down by his shoulders, pinned him and punched him. Johnny did nothing, just stared.
“Is this what you want?!” Gyro shouted, slamming his shoulders down again, swatting at his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Fucking say something!”
“...What have I done?” his lips finally parted, a weak voice escaping them. Unable to hold back the hot tears that rolled down his cheeks, mocking his insecurity with their presence.
Gyro lowered his arms, climbing off to Johnny’s side. He held out his hand and pulled him back up.
“You’re telling me what’s up. Now.”
Johnny shook his head in his hands, sobbing.
“I can’t, Gyro. I just can’t.”
You’ve ruined everything.
Gyro, frustrated but patient, stood slowly and clapped the dust off his chaps.
“Come on. Let’s go get washed up before we hit the road.”
Hesitating for a moment, Gyro rested his hand on Johnny’s back.
“It’s okay, Johnny.”
Their camp was, conveniently, only about 20 yards away from a small creek. Barely a trickle, and only shin deep, ankle deep in other parts- but the water was clear and cool. Good enough to clean.
Eager to have a drink, Slow Dancer carried Johnny over to it without any complaints. Gyro, who’d packed up the bedrolls, chose to walk behind.
Johnny was sat in the shallow water, nude, scrubbing the drying grits off his shirt and pants. It had smeared around and pressed into the fabric in their tussle. For that, he was grateful to have not had any butter or bacon grease to add.
Stepping up to the water’s edge, Gyro crouched to splash some water on his face. He cupped some in his hands to swish in his mouth, spitting out a rusty red after. Blood, from the inside of his cheek.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice was quiet, only a whisper louder than the hiss of wind between the bulrushes.
“For what?” Gyro cupped another mouthful of water and spat once more.
“For that. I lost my temper.”
Gyro shook his head and shrugged.
“I was being immature. It’s alright. Your private matters are none of my business. I was just... concerned.”
Johnny bit onto his lip, choosing not to feed into his curiosity.
He nodded in the direction of Gyro’s midsection, where some grits had smeared into his purple shirt.
“Y’aint gonna clean that off?” He said, wringing out his own scrubbed clothes.
Gyro picked at it with his fingernail.
“Nah. It’ll dry up and flake off. I don’t care.”
Johnny furrowed his brow, and tossed his wrung out clothes over a hanging root sticking out of the shoreline.
“I thought you said we needed to go wash up?”
“You needed to cool your head. And I might take a dip. I just don’t wanna wait for my clothes to dry, they take forever.”
Johnny shrugged.
“We’re in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere. I ain’t even seen the balloons in two days. You afraid some aristocrat’s gonna see your hairy ass?”
Gyro smirked, loosening his belt and letting his chaps fall to his ankles.
“Once they get a glimpse, we’ll never be rid of the blimps.... Nyo-ho!” He wiggled his hips, something that always got Johnny to giggle, or at least smile.
Johnny rolled his eyes, but a grin pushed up the corner of his mouth.
A thump of clothing on the sandy shore and the splashing of footsteps approached him, clouding the water with silt, and Gyro slowly sat in the shallows beside him.
“You aren’t angry with me?”
“I ain’t.”
Johnny’s gaze remained fixated on a spot of blue dangling from a reed.
A pair of damselflies, mating, forming an awkward heart.
Charming, to him.
Gyro sighed, splashing his body with the water. Bird baths like these were the only option the two had for a number of weeks, and the sliver of soap that Johnny had packed with him was long since dissolved and used up.
Still, it was better than nothing.
“I’d like it if you opened up to me, one day.”
Johnny said nothing, choosing to silently lean back and lay down in the shallow water.
“Will you tell me, one day, when you’re ready?”
Johnny wanted to tell him to fuck off, but instead folded his arms over his chest and let out a sigh.
“One day, maybe.”
It was a start.
