Work Text:
“Have you seen Javier?”
John looks up from where he’s bent over his bowl of food at one of the rickety old tables, gripping it with firm fingers as if someone might just snatch it out of his hands. He swallows down the mouthful he’s got, and Arthur, standing there with his hands on his gun belt, impatiently blinks at the younger man. John nastily wipes off his mouth on his wrist and gestures vaguely in a random direction.
“Yeah, went off to watch the perimeter. ‘Bout an hour ago. Why?”
Turning, Arthur squints beyond the tents, the chuck wagon, and the towering trees they’ve found themselves camped within in the greener parts of San Antonio. There lies the main path out of the camp, and he reckons that’s where he’ll start.
Arthur walks off without another word for Marston, making for the big pot of food that’d been put out not long ago; it’s chicken soup today, with fresh bread the ladies had picked up from the bakery in town. Arthur had already eaten so he ain’t hungry, but he had been seated nearby, smoking and playin’ cards with himself, watching the gang come collect bowls one by one. Except… well, he couldn’t help but notice Javier’s absence.
He’s grown to like the kid. Tries real hard to pitch in. To learn. Near about every time he ain’t on the job, he’s seen him either practicing English with another person or buried in that Spanish-to-English book—seems like he hates the lack of communication. To be misunderstood. Arthur can’t really blame him, neither. Trying to get by in a foreign country must be tough when you don’t speak a lick of its language.
Anyway. He also saw what Javier looked like when he first came into camp atop The Count. Skin and bones. Frail. Tired—all the time. Arthur felt bad for him.
So the thought of letting him stand at watch, possibly hungry, while the others sat around with full bellies…? Nah. Not in him to let a brother go hungry. He can keep watch for ten minutes if he has to. Ain’t no problem if it means the gang’s fed.
He takes a bowl with some bread, covers it with a light cloth to keep bugs out, and then paces from the camp along the path worn into the ground by wooden wheels—grass and wildflowers grow everywhere else. Feels like he’s been placed in a scenery painting, swallowed by green as he is.
He ducks past tall plants and small trees through the foliage until he’s about two minutes out from camp, and then he hears the nearby creek. He’s close.
Just in order to avoid spooking Javier, he lightens his footsteps and walks more carefully until he’s breaking through the line of trees where he knows there’s a great vantage point for keeping watch. There, among the trees, he stops in his steps and scans his surroundings, looking for the man.
He sees him there, leaning against a boulder about fifteen paces from him.
He’s—oh.
Arthur realizes very quickly that Javier’s pants are pulled down to his knees, his union suit open enough he can see the dark hair on his belly, trailing down to his groin. With horror creeping up on Arthur, heat building in his face, he discovers Javier’s touching himself.
Hold up—Arthur was about to turn and leave, but he squints, realizing the man ain’t handling a shaft. Not at all. No, he, well, he’s—he’s got—lady parts?
Arthur feels like a child peeking through a keyhole, unable to look away as it dawns on him Javier’s got three fingers in himself, his other hand joining in on the fun, his arm moving in a way that—well, it’s clear he’s definitely doing somethin’ down there. Javier’s face is softened with pleasure, pinkened in a way Arthur’s only ever seen when the man was drunk.
He starts to moan softly, head tipped back, and that’s what has Arthur finally realizing that he should not be witnessing this.
Arthur turns his head away, absolutely red, and moves back carefully, quietly, in an attempt to keep his presence unannounced.
But, naturally, one particularly loud stick had been waiting under his heel. It snaps, echoing in the quietness of an empty woodland. Arthur’s heart sinks into his belly. He hangs his head, eyes clenched shut, and only when he hears complete silence does he reluctantly lift his gaze back towards Javier.
Like a rabbit caught in a trap, Javier’s gone totally still. He’s clutching his union suit shut with one hand, wide-eyed and crimson-cheeked, his eyes lain right on him.
In a split second of thought, Arthur decides running off like a frightened deer would be worse than owning up to what he’s done.
“Er.” Arthur falters for a second, averting his eyes again. “Sorry. Uh. Here’s. Uh. Food. Sorry.”
He makes sure the cloth’s tucked around the bowl when he sets it down on a nearby rock. Then, turning, he high-tails it out of there before he makes a greater fool of both himself and Javier.
When Javier comes back to camp four hours later, Arthur tries not to be so transparent he’s staring at him from within his open tent. He’d been bent over his table, fashioning traps for the hunting he plans to do in the morning, but upon seeing the scrawny little guy hurrying back into camp, his head low, Arthur couldn't help but peer beyond the canvas.
Javier does not glance his way.
He notices Sean walks by the kid with a hearty hello and a loud joke about passing over the torch or something stupid like that, but Javier only nods. To be fair, what could he say? He don’t speak English real well. Sean looks back at him with a scratch to his head, but then he keeps on walking towards the post Javier had just left, repeater in his hands.
Arthur watches Javier drop into his lean-to, toss away his gun, kick off his shoes, and wrap himself up in his blankets. Arthur frowns, guilt plucking at the tender parts of his heart like an especially cruel musician touching a harp with worn strings.
Two days later, Arthur comes back to camp after a long, long day dealin’ with debt calls and runnin’ odd jobs for odd folks. He meanders back into camp atop his big mare, slumped over, eyes half-lidded, tired as time. He drops to his feet, untacks her with exhaustion pressing down on every one of his limbs, brushes her, feeds her, and gives her a loving pat on the nose before turning his feet to his tent.
But then he’s passing a table of the late-night drinkers—one of which is Javier. They meet eyes beyond the glow of a lantern placed in the center, and then Karen’s bellowing his name drunkenly.
“Arthuuur, sit! Sit! Join us!”
Sean turns in his seat to regard Arthur with a stupid grin. “Arthur, oh, aren’t you a sight for me sore eyes?! Come, have a drink or two!”
“Aw, I dunno…” He’s so damn tired, and he doesn’t really want to… but Javier’s presence is doin’ something to his self-control.
“Nonsense!” Karen slurs, gesturing with a bottle of whisky. “You been—you been runnin’ around doin’ this’ an’ that! Kick up your feet! Pull up a barrel!”
“In that order? Should I do the barrel-pullin’ first, or can I do the feet-kicking?”
Unable to help himself, Arthur’s eyes flick from Karen and Sean to find Javier again. The quiet feller’s staring at him with a stoic frown, idly spinning a beer bottle around in his scarred hands, elbows upon the table. Flashes of his softened features and apple-red cheeks come to Arthur’s tired mind like forbidden fruit plucked from a tree branch. He knows better, he does, but even so, temptation lays at his feet as it always does for a man as lonely as him.
Sighing, Arthur relents as Sean and Karen continue verbally tugging at his sleeves like children. He drops into the seat to Javier’s right while the other two cheer. Javier shifts a little, but besides that, he does not respond.
Arthur’s passed a beer, which he promptly twists open with a rough hand. He lazily nods while Sean crows, “Drink up, Morgan! We all know our days are numbered, so why not knock off a couple by garglin’ wit’ us?!”
“My days are definitely shortenin’ the longer I’m around you, that’s for sure,” Arthur mutters.
“Aw, you love me, Morgan, I know it! C’monnnn, I know you could hardly stand to be away from me charm a second longer, now, eh? Came racin’ home for your favorite Irishman!”
“Should’a camped out with the raccoons and the possums,” Arthur grunts, eying him beyond the brim of his hat. “Least they leave me alone.”
Karen snorts drunkenly and taps the mouth of her whisky bottle to his. Arthur chuckles, shaking his head. He does the same with Sean, the Irishman grinning like a crescent moon, and then he holds his bottle towards Javier. Javier peers at him beyond his loose, black hair and after a moment of hesitation, he lazily angles his bottle to touch Arthur’s with a soft tap.
In that moment, Javier stares into his eyes intently, hard, like he’s sizing him up, and Arthur don’t get what it means.
Arthur searches Javier’s scarred face, taking a pull on his beer, and then asks gruffly, “So, how’s yer English comin’ along, Javier?”
Javier blinks. He expels a long breath, turning his gaze away from Arthur’s, and rolls the beer bottle back and forth between his fingers.
“Good.” Javier clears his throat. “Uh. It is hard.”
“Right. I ain’t envious of you, that’s for sure.” Arthur chuckles. Javier peeks at him. He can tell the man has no idea what he just said. Arthur leans into his elbows, searching Javier’s face.
“You sick of us yet?” He nudges him on the shoulder with his wrist.
“Si–sick?” Javier looks a little flustered, put on the spot like this.
“You still like us?” Arthur chuckles a little to show he’s kiddin’ around.
“Like you?” Javier looks him up and down, nods. “Yes.”
Arthur nods slowly, smiling an easy, summertime smile. “That’s good. Plan on stayin’ for a while? ‘Cause we like havin’ you.”
Javier takes a drink of his beer, peers at him from the corner of his eye. He seems to process it for a second, what he said, ‘cause he gives him that look with a squint and a furrow of his brow that shows he’s working that brain of his.
“Stay? Ah, uh, uh…” He scratches at his head, then once it hits him, he wags a finger at Arthur, stuttering, "M-maybe.”
Sean laughs across from them, and it seems to thaw any lingering ice; Javier grins very slightly, hanging his head, his loose hair kissing his cheekbones. Arthur looks away, sucking on his beer.
“Well, you should stay!” Karen cries, then, gesturing towards Javier. “Yer a sweetheart, Javier!”
“Hey, hey, aren’t I sweetheart, too, Karen?” Sean starts nudging himself closer to her, and the woman just shoves him back by the sternum, scoffing a drunken laugh that has him laughing, too.
Arthur peeks over at Javier again.
Javier’s peeling the label off his beer, fidgeting his leg, bouncing it up and down. He seems restless. Uncomfortable. He’s frowning again, looking down at his hands. Arthur was never the type to force conversation, to get all chatty with others when he’s sober—especially not in front of other people. He wants Javier to relax, to feel as if he’s among friends. But how does he do that, he wonders, without forcing it?
Then, suddenly, Javier’s lifting the beer bottle to his mouth, downing the rest of it. He places it down with a firm tap. He rises, stretching with a sigh, and then he’s glancing among the trio, stating calmly, “Goodnight.”
It’s as he’s watching him leave that Arthur realizes this can’t just be swept under the rug. Javier’s comfort ‘round here, ‘round him, matters more to him than maintaining pride. He don’t want Javier to feel like he’s violated his privacy, even if it was an accident. All he knows now is he’s gotta do somethin’.
He finds Dutch the next morning reading by his tent with a steaming cup of coffee at his side. Arthur, in a song of spurs and creaks of leather, approaches the seated man and earns a look beyond the brim of a black gambler’s hat.
“Morning, Arthur.”
“Morning.” Arthur rubs a hand down his jaw, hooks his fingers into his gun belt. He clears his throat, looks side to side over his shoulder with a squint. He finds Hosea seated nearby with a newspaper, and, well, it’s just Hosea. S’fine.
“Say…” Arthur steps in close to Dutch, scratching at his temple, other hand on his thigh, booted foot propped up on the wooden flooring under Dutch’s tent. “How, uh… How do you say ‘sorry’ in Spanish?”
Dutch blinks at him, closing his book on his finger. He then strokes his fingernails down the spot of hair under his lip, squinting up into the morning light breaking beyond the trees. “Oh, I know this one, I do. It’s, uh, it’s…”
He holds up a gold-ringed finger. “I got it. Just on the tip of my tongue—”
“Lo siento, Arthur,” Hosea calls with a snap of his newspaper. Arthur glances over to find the man eyeballing Dutch disapprovingly. “It’s lo siento. Javier went to go fishin’ at the river down a ways. Reckon you’ll find him there.”
Arthur reaches up to adjust his hat with an open palm, sighing through his nose. Head slightly hung, he mutters, “Thanks.”
Walking off, he hears Dutch irritatedly defending himself, claiming that he had it. Hosea just barked a laugh and said somethin’ about Javier being stuck with America’s worst teachers—Arthur don’t hear the tail-end of it, and, well, those two always have somethin’ to bicker about, anyway.
“Lo siento,” Arthur mutters, trudging his way out of camp and down the incline leading towards the Guadalupe River. “Looo siento.”
Tall reeds and a thicket of annoying fuckin’ plants stand between him and the passageway Javier had shown him a few weeks back that leads right up to the river. Arthur shoves past it all, breaking through the line of defense to find a sprawl of rushing river water, dazzling morning sunlight kissing the current, and a canopy of trees.
As he suspected, he sees Javier at the end of the path, sitting cross-legged on a sun-bathed boulder. Beside him rests his rod against a fallen log, a bucket of fish, and a canteen.
Following the pathway makes for softer footfalls; Arthur don’t mean to sneak, but he hears Javier saying something softly, and, shit, he’s only ever been a curious man.
Creeping closer, Arthur realizes he’s speaking English. Slowly, without confidence. Peering past plantlife, Arthur sees him bent over a book, reading from a piece of paper—looks like something he’s written on.
“It is… sunny today. I like nice afternoons. I can go… fishing.” Javier sighs. “I want to…” He starts mumbling, and Arthur can’t hear him any longer. His voice sounds different wrapped around English, somehow. And he ain’t got a thick accent, like he’s trying his damndest to do it right. Arthur can appreciate how much effort he’s putting into it. He’s not sure he’d go through the trouble if he found himself in Mexico.
Javier continues, low and soft-spoken. “John is funny. He is twenty-two years old. Dutch is… very… charming. He is thirty-nine. Hosea is kind. Smart. He is old.”
Arthur snaps a hand up over his mouth to stop himself from snorting a laugh. Javier pauses, staring at his writing. Arthur waits patiently.
“Arthur… Arthur is handsome. He’s also… strong. I do… I do not know how old he is. Old—older… Older than me.”
Oh.
Well, alright. He wasn’t supposed to witness that, either, clearly.
Arthur rubs at his face and peers over to see Javier with the book closed now—like he’s trying to pull it from his memory and not from a page. He’s staring up at the sky.
Honestly, if Javier’s already using those kinda words—conjunctions, or adverbs, or whatever they’re called—consider Arthur impressed. He’d be expecting only simple statements at this point, but, shit, he supposes if there ain’t much to do besides fish and learn English, then you’re learnin’ English real quick.
But he shouldn’t be eavesdropping like this.
He walks out into the pathway with purpose, and the crunch of plants and sticks under his feet has Javier whipping around to look at him with surprise on his face. Arthur scratches at the back of his head as he walks up to the younger man, and Javier, meanwhile, gets this wary expression on his face like he don’t trust him. And, well, fair.
Javier puts his book to the side, turns to face him a bit more. “What?”
Arthur smiles a little sardonically, standing with plenty of space between them, hands on his gun belt.
He opens his mouth, closes it.
Shit, how does he start this?
Javier suddenly moves to stand. He fully turns to Arthur, crossing his arms.
“What?” He repeats. His eyes are hard, scrutinizing Arthur.
Arthur holds up his hands in a show of surrender and says while searching in his eyes, “I don’t want nothin’ from you. I just felt that, well, you know, I… uh, I’m sorry.”
Javier blinks at him. Arthur curses under his breath.
What was it Hosea said?
“Lo—” Arthur mumbles, heat rising into his face. “Lo sien… siento?”
God, he don’t know what the hell he’s doin’.
Javier recoils slightly like he hadn’t expected to hear him speak his language. He looks Arthur up and down for a second, as if he cannot believe what he heard, and then he’s opening his mouth, Spanish spilling from his lips like honey from a honey dipper. He seems to realize his mistake, because he shakes his head at himself, huffing a little laugh, and then his hand’s running down his face. He grips his own jaw, looking at Arthur with a helplessness that has Arthur laughing a little, too.
“About—about the thing,” Arthur says quietly, trying to speak mindfully and slowly for Javier’s sake. “Y’know. A few days ago.”
Javier’s eyes lower. He nods a little.
Javier sighs, pressing his hand to his forehead, muttering, “I–I am… ¿Cómo se dice…? I am…” He looks up at Arthur with a sudden uncomfortable quality to his eyes that makes him pause. Javier seems to give up on finding his words in a pool of few. He just nods again, lips pressed flat, gaze averting.
Arthur rubs at his brow with a scrape of his thumb, closing his eyes. This is painful. He wants to get outta here. He said his apologies. Dropping his hand to his belt, Arthur clears his throat and grunts, “We alright?”
Javier pauses. He blinks at him again.
Arthur smiles a little, exasperated.
He supposes the kid’s communicating better with statements rather than questions.
“We are good.” He gestures between them, gives a thumbs up. “We alright?”
Javier’s face lights up with realization, and then he’s nodding eagerly. He smiles weakly, awkwardly, like he’s nervous and not sure how to handle this. Arthur’s sure the language barrier is making this worse for him, too. Can’t even properly express himself.
“Good,” Javier agrees, scratching at his temple, grimacing. “Yes, good. It is okay. Vete, por favor. Uh. Uh, goodbye.”
Arthur can’t help but grin. Nicest way to tell someone to fuck off, he reckons.
He turns, nodding, and waves a lazy hand. “Adiós, Javier.”
Behind him, Javier snorts. “Adiós, menso.”
As he gives Javier his privacy back and walks on back to camp, Arthur catches himself muttering menso, menso, menso under his breath. He has to ask what that means later.
It becomes clear to him that the apology really meant somethin’ to the kid, ‘cause now Javier’s giving him nods and faint smiles in passing. When he’s drinking with John late at night, a typical development after the sun goes down, he seems to always catch his eyes and beckon him over with a tilt of his head.
While it’s sweet, the invitation, Arthur, a busy, busy man, has yet to give in and walk his ass over. Plus, he’s never been a fan of spending his night with a messy drunk like John, and he’s sure that hasn’t changed. He opts to just give the man a nod of his head and tip of his hat, but keeps walking every time. Javier, even when rejected, seems to always have the tiniest smile on his face—or that could just be the drink putting in work.
About a week after the awkward exchange with Javier, he spots the young man seated at the table near the cluster of primroses Mary-Beth pointed out when they first settled here about a month ago. He’s turned to face the spill of woodlands before his eyes with his guitar in his lap. He’s lazily playing a soft melody that reminds Arthur of wind chimes and warm, lazy sunshine on a Sunday afternoon. A gentle song, up and down, up and down. The sun’s begun to set; stark oranges and darkened shadows fall across him real prettily like paint thrown on a canvas.
Arthur finds himself staring at this image before him, squinting past the brim of his hat. For the first time in a while, his artistic side itches after weeks of a mental blockade keepin’ him from picking up a pencil. Been too busy with work, too mentally occupied, but now… He wants to sketch. He’d drawn the kid when he first came into the camp—weary and skinny from where he sat, slumped, atop The Count, clinging to Dutch’s back. But now… Maybe he deserves a more dignified portrait.
Another time, though. Arthur was told to meet up with Hosea down at Burlington for some kinda scheme of his, so he reckons he won’t even see Javier until tomorrow morning.
After checking his ammunition for both his revolver and his repeater, Arthur, donning his canvas coat, throws his repeater onto his back and makes his way towards the hitches. It’s as he’s hoisting himself up onto his mare’s back does he allow himself one last glance towards Javier, though he don’t really know why his eyes are drawn that way. He’s mildly surprised to find the man watching him across the length of the camp.
Javier looks away real quick, hiding behind those few loose locks of dark hair. In a soft, distant sound of carrying guitar notes, Javier resumes playing. Arthur, with a faint smile on his face, takes his mare by the reins and gently turns her towards the dusty old trail, music following him in a kind goodbye.
It was a big score, robbing a train heading into the heart of San Antonio. With a tip from one train operator, paid off by Dutch, they’d been informed it would be transporting gold and large sums of money to Wells Fargo bank.
Well, as it turns out, the timing of the bombing didn’t go according to plan; instead of destroying the cab in an effort to stop the train, they’d broken off two of the rail cars which had rolled off the tracks and into a nearby woodland. Searching the cars while cops were fended off by Arthur, Javier, and John resulted in exceptional profit.
They managed to get outta dodge atop horseback, trailing bills all the way back to camp.
Now the stars are out in the sky, shining gossamer knots in a black mantle, and Arthur’s there, laying in the hammock he had strung up with Hosea’s help at the edge of camp. He’s got his journal in his hands, his heavy, tired eyes repeatedly straying over to the figures of his family dancing and celebrating at a glowing fire, hollering and laughing and singing.
And there’s Javier. Their newest addition, once withdrawn and quiet, now standing before everyone, strumming excitedly at a guitar he’d lifted from a house they robbed together back in Houston. He’s dancing, too, playing, rocking with it, kicking his heels. It’s infectious, his joy. He’s crying out Spanish lyrics to a song none of them know, but it doesn’t matter. Arthur finds himself grinning, watching him.
It’s probably the drink, but still, it’s nice to see the kid feelin’ at home.
Arthur, searching for a muse, realizes he found one: he begins to sketch.
“Arthur.”
Jerking to consciousness in the swaddling embrace of the hammock, Arthur near about spills to the ground. Grunting an undignified snort, Arthur throws his arms out to clutch at the edges of the hammock, dangerously swaying.
Feeling particularly haggard and crusty, Arthur looks up through squinting eyes to see Javier standing there. The young feller’s looking at him with stars in his eyes, like he’d stolen a couple from the night sky and pressed them into his pupils. The fire’s still roaring on behind his small, lean frame, and people are still laughing, celebrating. Arthur wonders what time it is.
“Hurh?” Arthur grunts, rubbing a fist into his eye. “What’s goin’ on, Javier?”
“Here.” Javier holds out a piece of folded paper. The stars in his eyes suddenly became flames, touched by the licking red hue of the distant fire, lighting them up like rubies. Arthur blinks, his tired brain slow, processing at the speed of a three-wheeled wagon. He reaches out to hesitatingly take the folded piece of paper. Javier turns and walks away.
Confused, Arthur opens up the paper, squinting through the dim light.
Javier’s writing is surprisingly neat.
‘Meet me at the barn across from the cemetery. Don’t tell anyone.’
Well, damn. If he can write English like this, won’t take him much longer to perfect the language.
Arthur lifts his head to scan for Javier, but the other man’s already disappeared somewhere in the darkness.
Javier wanting to meet at a barn a near-half mile away from camp just to supposedly talk about somethin’ is, well, it’s a little concerning. He don’t want him to tell no one, neither? Is it that serious? Why the hell couldn’t he just talk to him over in the woods nearby? They really gotta go that far?
Although, he ain’t even know if it’s just for the sake of talkin’. Who knows what he needs him there for.
Whatever. Arthur’s secretly glad that Javier trusts him enough to involve him at all, in whatever this is, so he swallows his annoyance real quick.
Struggling to get out of the hammock for a second, grunting, Arthur’s booted feet find the ground. His journal spills out of his lap, open on the sketch he’d done of Javier’s silhouette dancing in front of flames. He snatches up his journal and trudges over to his tent.
He tucks away the journal in his satchel, rights his hat on his head, and then decides he’s gonna take a leak before he heads over to the barn to hear what Javier’s got to say.
Crickets are loud out here; there ain’t no humans or animals around to spook ‘em into silence—until Arthur walks on by, and then they go real quiet.
Rustling through the overgrown grass, Arthur breaks off from the dirt road and heads towards the abandoned barn that’d been standing there on its own since they settled in these parts. Only he, Javier, and John know about it, supposedly, ‘cause they had to hide out in it during a less successful robbery. The place is charred, burnt, licked by a fire that hadn’t been put out.
He sees the softest glow of a low-light lamp through the cracks of blackened wood planks. Clearing his throat, Arthur approaches the huge barn doors and with little reservations, pushes it open slightly with a creak and steps inside.
Raising his head, he’s mildly surprised to see a sprawl of blankets, a couple of pillows. There’s a lone lantern by the wall, a soft glow in a world of darkness.
Javier’s seated in the center of the blankets, smoking a cigarette, a tiny red beacon streaming with a thin line of smoke. He puffs on it just as Arthur brings their eyes together, expels the smoke in a plume. His face is serious. Arthur can’t read his eyes real well, but he seems to go tense upon Arthur’s arrival. For some reason, his hair’s down. Arthur don’t see that often.
Arthur notices his gun belt is off, placed near the lantern, the light of it glinting off his revolver. Strange.
Amused by this cozy little set up, Arthur chuckles, lazily stepping deeper into the barn, hands on his belt. “Nice little place you set up here, amigo.”
He glances around like there’s much to look at before settling his eyes on Javier, eyebrow cocked. “So, what’s goin’ on? Why you bring me out here?”
“Sit.”
Arthur pauses. He looks at Javier, and Javier simply stares back.
He gestures towards the cushioning of the blankets in front of him with his cigarette-wielding fingers.
A bit strange, but Arthur has no reason to refuse.
He carefully lowers himself down with a grunt, crossing his legs with a pop of his knees. His spurs catch on the blankets; he takes a second to undo it, looking up at Javier past his brow.
“I’m listenin’,” Arthur says, scratching at his itchy jaw, peering at him beyond his hat. He feels this is a little unnecessary, the theatrics of whatever Javier needs, but if anything, he’s always been a patient feller. Some people just got a way about ‘em, and who’s he to fault them?
Javier starts to fidget with his cigarette, looking down at it, his loose hair falling to shroud his face further.
“I… trust you,” he says, a slow-speaking way about him like he’s trying real hard to get it just right. He peeks up at him. “I want to trust you.”
Arthur watches him patiently, waiting for him to get to the point.
“I am not angry.” He continues, puts his cigarette out on the burnt wood at the edge of the blankets. “I am…” He gestures vaguely with his hands. Looks away again. “Hopeful.”
Arthur grunts. He doesn’t get it. “‘Kay.”
Javier plants his forearm on a raised knee, looks at Arthur with one of the more open expressions he’s seen on his face yet. “I like you. And I hope you like me… Continue to.”
Squinting, Arthur digs a pinky in his ear. “Is this ‘cause you, uh, you… You different?”
Javier nods. He says nothing, continues to stare at him.
Arthur gestures lazily with his hands, asking, “So, what? You thought I’d hate you, realizin’ that?”
Javier takes a second to process what he said, then he nods again. He starts crushing his spent cigarette into the boards of the barn, thumb grinding the paper and tobacco into the beams, his eyes downcast to it. “Al principio, sí. But I know you are kind. You—you don’t care.”
Javier peeks up at him past his hair again. “You like people. You don’t care.”
Arthur thinks he’s understanding. He gazes upon Javier with gentler eyes, finding his reservations, his sense of maintaining an arms-length distance with his fellow Dutch Boys, fading as this conversation continues. Javier really is trusting him.
“People often do? Give you shit fer it, I mean?”
Javier nods. “If they know. No respeto… Uh, respect. But it was worse… Cuando era mujer…” He looks at him helplessly.
Arthur grunts an acknowledgment. He doesn’t understand that part, but he hears him. He wants to ask why he has the parts he’s got, but he reckons it don’t matter much. It’s not like he asks the same of Susan, or Hosea, or his damn self. Everybody is born the way they is born. Not like Javier could help it.
For a moment, they sit in silence. The crickets chirp outside. The barn is thick with dust and settled ash. His ass hurts, sittin’ on some blankets and the hard wooden floor like this. But, all things considered, Arthur feels… kinda at ease. It’s a different kind of company, Javier’s.
Scratching under his curling hair at the nape of his neck, Arthur clears his throat. “Well, if you ever need anythin’, uh, you can come to me. Y’know. Fetchin’ stuff from town when the ladies ask me to.”
Javier tilts his head slightly. “Fetching?”
“Uh, getting stuff. Buying things.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. Thank you.” Javier smiles faintly, but it’s gone shortly after.
Arthur wonders what else there is to say here—but then Javier’s getting up, quietly moving to sit beside him, near shoulder to shoulder.
A gentleness lays in the dark, dark brown of Javier’s eyes under the dim glow of a lantern when he carefully takes Arthur’s hat from his head. He places it aside with a reverence Arthur would not expect from the man. Arthur understands this means something to Javier, whatever it is he’s doin’, and he ain’t the type to disrupt the natural order of things.
Javier finds his eyes again. He reaches out to lay his hand across Arthur’s, lazily resting on his thigh as it’s been since he first sat down.
Arthur freezes, locked in place like a deer standing before an oncoming train. He’s not sure what Javier intends, but even so, he doesn’t move away like he might’ve with any other man. He keeps himself very still, watching Javier, face carefully stoic.
He don’t know why Javier’s touchin’ him all intimate like this, like they’re about to lay together, but the way Javier’s lookin’ at him, stroking his thumb against the edge of his finger—shit, Arthur has to stop himself from pulling away and asking him what the hell he’s doing.
Why isn’t he, he wonders?
Javier leans in closer to him, close enough he can smell the hint of liquor on his breath. His eyes are swimming with something Arthur knows real well. In a quiet whisper, the man says, “I… like you. I want—I want to tell you. It is okay if you do not want me, but I-I want you.”
His voice is trembling slightly. Fear flashes in his eyes.
Arthur’s mouth goes dry. Words leave him like a soul from a body. He can’t think straight, can’t process this real well, ‘cause like a damn idiot, he blurts, “U-uh, what? You what?”
Javier drops his forehead to his shoulder, sighing. Arthur can’t help but laugh a sharp, amused snort that has Javier whipping his head up again, looking at him with a sense of offense on his face. But Arthur, horrified at the thought of embarrassing him, waves a hand and hangs his head.
“Sorry, shit, sorry, I ain’t laughin’ at’chu.” Chuckling, Arthur lifts his gaze to Javier’s again and smiles a little, a touch bitterly. “I’m a damn moron, I swear it, Javier. I—you sure ‘bout that?”
“Ah, slower,” Javier mumbles, embarrassment and frustration in his eyes. “No entiendo.”
“N-nothing. I just…” His tongue twists into a knot.
Goddamnit. When was the last time he had to deal with something like this beyond politely turning down prostitutes? And with a goddamn language barrier to boot.
Absolutely red from head to toe, Arthur awkwardly coughs into his fist and shifts slightly away from Javier. Javier notices, and seems to deflate. He sits back, looks away, rubs at his jaw. Aw, shit. That makes Arthur weaken a bit.
Reaching out, he places a hand on Javier’s back. Javier peeks at him past his dark hair.
Arthur looks at him, really looks at him, and sees the youth in his face. His eyes, kissed by the lamplight, especially betray his age. Javier, young and handsome as he is, has so much potential, so many options—and involving himself with Arthur? That’s a fast track to nowhere good. Why set his sights on a man that cannot treat him the way he deserves to be treated? He can do better, and he should. He’s still so young.
Exhaling long and deep, Arthur gives him a regretful little smile and turns his eyes away, sliding his hand from Javier’s back. “I’m too—well, I’m too old for you, Javier. Too old an’ worn, like a used up an’ old pair’a boots. No one wants that. An’ I’m certain you don’t.”
“You don’t choose for me,” Javier snaps, then, his eyebrows coming together in a furrow. “I know I want you. You don’t—” He devolves into a spill of Spanish that ends with a frustrated groan and a rub of his hands over his face. Arthur watches him patiently, frowning.
“You did not say no,” Javier decides to say, reaching out to place his hand on Arthur’s thigh, squeezing. He looks into his eyes boldly, and Arthur, well, he’s just a man, and the courage is admirable. The touch is even nicer. Something sparks to life deep in his gut, and his face gets warm.
Jesus, he’s pathetic. All it takes is interest from another Dutch Boy and a hand on his thigh, and he’s near about cracking. He’s gotta put his foot down, damn it. He ain’t here to lead this kid astray.
Impatiently, Javier continues. “You like men? You like me? You can say yes.”
Arthur huffs a dry, airless laugh, rubbing at his face with a heavy hand.
“To what, exactly?” Keeping his eyes down, he stares at Javier’s broad, scarred-up hand on his thigh. “What do you want, Javier? You don’t know what you’re askin’ for, do you?”
“I want to fuck you,” Javier answers simply, and Arthur can’t help but bark a laugh and look at the younger man with a cocked brow.
“Who the hell taught you that?”
Wait, no, he knows.
“John,” they both say in unison, and Javier laughs. His face lights up, and Arthur sees his yellowed teeth from how broadly he grins. His crow’s feet also appear. Cute.
“That’s nice’a you,” Arthur rumbles, patting him on the wrist, speakin' real slow just so he understands. “But you got options, Javier. Like I said, I’m too old for you. John’s always moanin’ about not bein’ able to get his pecker wet, so why not just talk to him?”
The thought makes him cringe, but it’s true. He and John seem like good friends, anyway, so…
“I don’t want John.” Javier looks frustrated again. “He does not know me. You do.”
Arthur scratches at his brow. He sighs, a silent expelling of breath with an exasperated closing of his eyes. Javier goes on.
“I trust you. I do not trust him.”
Arthur sits there in silence for a moment. He stares into the dark stretch of the barn where old straw and charred gear lay.
He supposes he understands. John ain’t really… Uh, he ain’t a real catch. And, well, Javier clearly got somethin’ goin’ on, somethin’ that ain’t easy to address, Arthur reckons. But, the issue lies in the fact Arthur ain’t the type to jump in the hay, so to speak, jus’ cause a pretty little thing is asking for it. As much as he likes the idea of it. How much he likes looking at him…
Arthur slyly peeks over at Javier. Javier is staring at him in the low, warm glow of the lantern, his eyes a golden brown. A real pretty brown. Against his better judgment, regardless of his self-control, his mind reproduces images that he saw: Javier with his pants down, touching himself. The soft look on his face. He remembers his sweet moans, and, Christ—Morgan, you better stop this shit—
Javier must’ve been able to tell he was considering it, because the hand on his thigh slides in to squeeze much closer to his groin—Arthur flinches back, hands bracing against the blankets. Arthur finds himself hypnotized, eyes locked on Javier’s, his jaw uselessly flapping like linen on a clothesline.
“I want you,” Javier reiterates. “I want you to fuck me. Okay?”
“Yeah, I got that, buddy,” Arthur mutters, huffing a breathless laugh, though the part of him that can pick him up by his spine and have him put his foot down seems to have disappeared—shit, he knows now that he ain’t gonna say no. He thought Javier meant he was sweet on him… but if he just wants to fuck? That's different.
He falls silent, flattered and embarrassed and, well... It's Javier.
“You don’t want me?” Javier asks this with a slight edge to his voice, a vulnerable look in his eyes. It slams into Arthur’s chest like a horse kick.
At that moment, Arthur realizes it’s not just about sexual gratification. Javier’s lonely. He’d been on his own for who knows how long, traveling across the desert, starving, sleeping where he could… And, well, considering how God must’ve switched up the wrong body parts, Arthur reckons it’s hard for Javier to feel comfortable enough for intimacy with just anyone. He supposes that’s why he was pressing so hard about the trust aspect.
Getting a little hot under the collar, he thinks about having him underneath him, about making him moan all nicely like he did before. Putting his hands on him… Feelin’ the heat of him…
He shakes his head slightly, expelling a deep, exasperated breath because he realizes he wants it, too, that intimacy. A part of him recoils at the thought of embarrassing himself, of mishandling Javier, but, shit, he thinks rejecting him would be much worse if this kicked-puppy look he’s giving him is any indication.
“I do,” Arthur admits in a low mutter, keeping his eyes down. “But are you—are you sure? You ain’t wanna—you know, go fer someone more your age? Shit, Javier, there’s workin’ gals at every town from here to Houston…”
Javier looks annoyed, and Arthur nearly snorts at the expression on his face. “Shut up. You’re tiring.”
Arthur really does laugh, then. A bark of a laugh fills the barn, and Javier, despite his frustration, smiles a little. Chuckling, Arthur flicks his fingers against his nose in a nervous fidget while he carefully, very lightly places his hand on Javier’s waist. He squeezes. Javier must’ve been a dog kept on a tearing leash, ‘cause that touch alone has him pushing into his lap, straddling him with an air of confidence that’s really doing away with the rest of Arthur’s hesitation.
“I ain’t—” Arthur begins, blushing, clearing his throat. “I ain’t been with a man much. Don’t, uh, don’t be ‘fraid to tell me what to do, alright?”
“Okay,” Javier says again, gazing at him with a straight face, his long, dark hair curtaining his scarred-up features—God, he’s somethin'. He's this captivating combination of handsome, masculine, yet inexplicably pretty. Arthur stares at him, a strange sense of disbelief and buried desire clawing at him. How the hell is this his life right now? Arthur’s seen a bunch’a weird shit, met a lotta strange, eccentric folk, but this? It’s making his head spin.
With callused hands, Javier cups his face, fingers sprawling over his bearded jaw, and Arthur, frozen under such a tender touch he hasn’t felt in a long while, takes in a slow, stilted breath, both hands coming to his waist now.
Javier has a coy quality to his eyes, shining and delicate like moonlight-struck lake water, and Arthur can see all the way to the bottom. “You kiss?”
Arthur nods, a warmth sitting in his face as if he’d been baking in the sun all day. “Yeah. Sure.”
Javier drapes his forearms around his shoulders, hands sliding further back into his long, wavy hair, grasping it in his fingers. Glancing between his eyes, Javier smiles very slightly and murmurs something in Spanish, a curling spill of vowels Arthur will never understand, and it makes his spine shiver. Arthur flicks his tongue between his lips, closing his eyes in resignation just as Javier leans in to kiss him softly.
First thing he registers is how warm he is. In his lap like this, with his lips smothered to his own, nose to his cheek—he’s warm. And he smells good—it’s that spicy cologne, the first thing he bought for himself after makin’ some money with the gang. Arthur had been there at the store when he saw him staring at the bottle.
Javier hums. He cradles his head with both hands, and, shit, Arthur knows he’s in it now. Ain’t no goin’ back, not when Javier’s this… involved. Eager. It’s not like the act of a working woman, or the awkwardness of a sweet lover who’s never been touched by a man before. It’s a warm confidence to share intimacy, and Arthur likes it. Already, he can tell it ain’t gonna be a matter of him sitting up and taking control, of making Javier feel comfortable. Javier is plenty comfortable.
In a display of that confidence, he then shifts on Arthur’s lap, pushing at his calves as he murmurs, “Relax, relax. Open.”
Arthur grunts. Spurs jingling softly, he uncrosses his legs, awkwardly shifting under Javier who pulls back just enough to look into his eyes with this cute, mischievous glint in his eyes. Arthur must look a little shy, pulling Javier into his lap a bit better, ‘cause Javier chuckles and says, “You a virgen?”
Arthur snorts. He pushes Javier on the hip, and Javier cackles. “Shaddup. Asshole.”
Javier tightens his hands into fists within Arthur’s hair, and Arthur grunts just as his mouth is claimed again, and this time, it’s not a soft press of lips. Javier kisses him with a savage hunger expected of a man who’s been denied what he may have needed for a long time. Arthur, weakened by instinct and the haze of lust, simply lays the broad spill of his hands along Javier’s slimmer waist and lets the man take what he wants.
Their mouths crush together in a back and forth overlapping, until Arthur’s tasting the inner seam of his lips, his teeth, the alcohol on his tongue. Javier’s rocking forward into him, clutching at his hair, angling his head to deepen it, kissing into him, and he’s not sure he’s ever been kissed like this. Feels like the man’s trying to eat him alive. Arthur’s head starts to spin.
Panting, Javier suddenly withdraws and looks at him. Glancing between Arthur’s eyes, he murmurs, “Eres tan guapo... Y ahora el mío. Arthur. Touch me.”
Arthur, swallowing thickly, asks in a hoarser whisper than he intended for, “How d’you want me to touch you?”
“My body,” Javier says, his eyes gleaming expectantly in a way that makes Arthur’s heart swell. Javier sits back, reaches for his worn, brown vest lent to him by John. Arthur’s eyes are drawn to his hands like light to a mirror.
Javier’s fingers are slim, scarred. Calmly, they slip the buttons through the holes, revealing the white shirt underneath. Arthur reaches in to help him.
They meet in the middle.
Arthur lets his gaze follow his touch. He carefully spreads Javier’s shirt with both hands, pushes both articles of clothing off his shoulders and down his arms. Arthur gazes upon him with a quiet stoicism even when confusion dawns and he realizes Javier ain’t like other men.
His chest is wrapped with cloth, tight enough Arthur notices he’s not even taking in full breaths. Tight enough it’s compressing his sides, his skin slightly bulging out over the top and bottom.
Questions rise, as they always do for him, but the answers don’t matter now, he knows. This is trust, more than anything. And the last thing he’s gonna do is question that trust.
Javier’s shifting, tossing aside his clothing before he reaches behind himself. He seems to struggle for a second, his head hung, long hair shrouding his face, and then he’s giving up with a huff—he turns his torso a bit, says to Arthur, “Ayúdame. Uh, uh—help.”
There’s a knot at the back. Arthur wonders how long he normally spends struggling to get this off himself. Reaching over with a grunt, Arthur plucks at the knot until it unravels. Javier pulls the fabric free from his chest with a sigh.
Arthur blinks widely when Javier turns to face him fully in his lap. He has small breasts. Not what he expected.
So, is he a woman…? Now why would he be hiding that? And how does he have facial hair, then? Or is it fake? He almost wants to tug a little on his mustache to find out. But he's seen him shaving, now that he thinks about it…
Arthur wonders if he’s hiding his identity from the law. Changing up his appearance for the sake of keeping his freedom. And, well, it fooled him, now, didn’t it?
Red lines from the fabric had been pressed into his skin like a stamp—clearly, he’d been wearing that cloth real tight. Arthur notices there’s an irritated rash the cloth had caused, wrapping around his sides. It’s not real bad, not real ugly, but it’s clearly a result of his efforts. Some bruising, too… Goddamn.
Javier tosses aside the cloth and then looks at him with a blank stare, sitting with poor posture in a way that has his belly rolls accentuating, shoulders curled in as if he’s closing in on himself. He must become self-aware of it, because he straightens his back, looking at him head-on.
Gazing into his eyes with a wordless beckoning, Javier lays his hands on Arthur’s forearms, a gesture of consent.
Swallowing his reservations, Arthur reaches for him. He touches at the red lines carved into his sides along his rib cage, stroking his fingertips lightly along the tender parts.
“Looks painful,” he mutters. Javier nods again.
“You wear that all the time?” He can’t stop himself from asking. He’s too curious.
Javier nods slightly, eyes hidden behind his hair.
With a familiar warmth curling in his groin like a flame charring a matchstick, Arthur slowly slides his big hands around Javier’s sides. He’s real warm and soft, negating his expectations.
Leaning in, Arthur lightly skirts his nose against Javier’s sharp cheekbone, and the younger man turns to him shakily, his breath warm and stilted against Arthur’s mouth just before Arthur leans in to kiss him.
He tastes sweet, the wet touch of his lips tender and soft like a ripe peach. Arthur feels himself sinking, ever sinking, into the clutches of arousal, of lust, like submerging himself in a hot bath and letting his mind go. He languidly circles his thumbs around Javier’s nipples while their mouths slowly mash together, and Javier starts to moan softly into him.
“Clothes off,” Javier mutters a second later, turning out of the kiss with a wet disconnection of their mouths. Breathing hard, he presses his brow into Arthur’s cheek, almost as if he doesn’t want Arthur to see his face as he murmurs, “I need you.”
“Alright,” Arthur whispers, his belly plucking with another strum of hot arousal. He’s so… endearing. So honest.
He clicks his tongue while nudging Javier on the hip, and so Javier gets off, scootin’ back on his knees. Arthur watches the man shakily get his pants open, popping the button. Arthur only manages to slip off his suspenders and get his shirt open before he’s freezing, hypnotized by the lovely sight unfolding before him: Javier lays back into the pillows, shimmying his pants down and off his legs. He ain’t wearing a union suit; Arthur gets an eyeful of a whole lotta skin.
Javier’s legs are lean, strong—Arthur reaches out to card one heavy, broad hand along his shin, stroking across skin and a layer of fine, dark hair. He absentmindedly pulls off his own button-up with one hand while touching lightly across Javier’s thigh, looking into his eyes.
Javier’s face—he’s a picture of hazy arousal, suppressed excitement brewing in the dark chasms of his eyes. His mouth is slack, his brow furrowed, but his eyes—they’re callin’ for him.
Arthur finds himself staring, made breathless by what he’s seeing. Javier nudges him with his foot impatiently.
Grinning a little, Arthur gets out of his work pants, too, after pulling off his boots and tossing them aside with a song of spurs. Then he’s opening up his union suit, and it ain’t like it’s all new to Javier; living near on top of each other, he’s seen him changing, seen him bathing. But this situation Javier’s put him in—it’s different.
He works the whole thing off, and then he’s just as naked as Javier. Javier, who had been leant back on an elbow, sits up a little more and looks at him with transparent desire in his eyes. He scrapes his long hair out of his face to get an unobstructed view, and then he’s smiling.
“Beautiful,” he says simply. “You are beautiful man.”
Arthur goes redder than a popped tomato. He grunts. “Says you. You're prettier than springtime.”
Javier laughs. He says a bunch’a things in Spanish, and then Arthur hears gringo tacked on the end. Grinning, Arthur, shaking his head, crawls over to Javier, grabs him by the ankles, tugs him closer in a sharp pull that has Javier barking a laugh.
“Yeah? Well, you're about to lay with this gringo, so how about you show some respect?”
Javier grins broadly, and it makes his face light up like a torch in the blackness of a winter night. Warm, inviting, comforting.
Arthur gently nudges his way in-between his legs, and Javier lets them fall open.
A trail of dark hair runs down from his belly button, crossing his soft stomach, to the bush of straight, dark hair covering every bit of him that Arthur’s been curious to see again.
“Yes,” Javier agrees a bit belatedly, breathlessly. “Yes, you are going to fuck me. Touch me more?”
Arthur nods, grunting distractedly. He shifts just a little closer on his knees, nudging Javier’s thighs further apart, and brings his hand to himself.
Stroking slowly at his cock, Arthur, meanwhile, reaches in to place a heavy hand over Javier’s hip, squeezing him there. So big is his hand on his smaller body, he can easily bring his thumb in to push his hair out of the way, eager to see the tender parts of him, the glistening fluid dripping out of him.
Javier squirms a little, muttering something in Spanish. Arthur stops staring and instead leans down to kiss him on the knee, eyes closed. He smells good—like soap. Did he clean up before he approached him, he wonders? Slowly, Arthur turns his hand and begins touching lightly along his very inner thighs, where that strong tendon lays, leading into his most intimate place.
Javier squirms a little again, and then he’s speaking English.
“Arthur. Arthur, sorry. Espera.”
Glancing up, Arthur sees the look of embarrassment on his face.
“There,” Javier says, pointing. Arthur follows his finger to see a basin of soapy water and a rag tucked in the corner, just barely visible within the glow of the lantern. Totally missed that, then, comin’ in here.
Finding Javier’s eyes again, he grunts, “What? I stink or somethin’?”
Javier shakes his head. “Hands. Dirty hands not good.”
He gestures vaguely down towards himself. Arthur pauses, confused. Javier sighs.
“Do it. Wash. And your…” This time, he gestures towards Arthur’s lower half. Javier’s staring at him with a stern, insistent expression on his face, and Arthur wonders if he’s joking. They were gettin’ somewhere good, and now he’s wanting him to wash up?
Arthur gets a nudge on his leg from an impatient foot, and so he goes with a grunted alright, alright…
With his back to Javier, Arthur scrubs his hands with soap, as well as his pecker. He rinses off all the soap, shakes off as much water as he can, and then turns back to Javier.
Javier’s now laid back in the pillows, propped up on his elbow. His long, loose hair is curtaining his face real nicely, a pleased smile on his face, and, shit, Arthur near about races back over to him like a dog on all fours.
“Thank you,” Javier says quietly—Arthur’s mild frustration is immediately forgotten. Arthur nods.
Reaching out, he lays his hands, roughed up and ugly as they are, along Javier’s lean thighs. It feels unreal, being able to touch him like this, but… the man clearly wants it, ‘cause when he starts squeezing along the slender muscle there, Javier looks up at him with an unusually submissive gleam in his eyes, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. The touch to his thighs has the man opening his legs for Arthur, a blatant invitation.
He grabs tight at Arthur’s wrists, gently guides his hands down his hips, sliding the broad stretch of his palms and fingers along his inner thighs. He's looking up at him ravenously. "Arthur. Feel… how—how… excited I am?”
Arthur’s mouth goes dry. Obliging, he turns his hand to slide his fingers over him. Javier sinks back into the pillows, peering at him beyond his hair. Very delicately, he touches at the nectar of him, feels how slick he is. Javier hums encouragingly.
He presses a bit firmer, slides his fingers between the warm parts of him to feel all over. Javier, grabbing at his wrist again, takes in a slow, deep breath, stares up at him with fire. “In. Come on.”
Arthur anticipates the wet, burning hot grip of his body just before he pushes two fingers inside. It's an exciting feeling, knowing how the inside of Javier feels. Javier’s legs squeeze around his sides. He drops his head back into the pillow, sighing.
Shifting closer, Arthur pins him with his weight, ducks down to start kissing and sucking sweet marks over his chest. Javier’s hand finds his back, splayed across the center of his shoulder blades, nails digging into him. Arthur finds himself distracted, so eager to enter the man below him and feel the heat of his body.
Above all else, it's strange, this moment shared with the other man. Only a week or so ago, he was only Javier to him, a loyal, hard-working man with the spirit to do well, to impress the ones with opinions that mattered.
Javier's suddenly grabbing a fistful of his hair, gaining his undivided attention. Arthur finds his volcanic eyes in the darkness.
He doesn’t have to say a word.
Removing his fingers, Arthur braces his hand against the blankets so he can shift up and kiss Javier, just because it feels right to. It's a press of his lips that Javier wholeheartedly returns, clutching at him with both hands. Arthur sneaks a hand down between them to grasp himself, stroking at himself to full hardness with the slickness of Javier’s body on his fingers.
“In,” Javier murmurs against his mouth, breathy and warm. “In, in, in.”
God, well, if he’s gonna beg, Arthur sure as shit ain’t gonna hesitate. He shifts closer, crowding up on Javier, and Javier is ever receptive to it; he draws his arms and legs around him, looks down between their bodies with wide-eyes and an anticipatory grin.
Arthur freezes when a hand suddenly joins his around his pecker; Javier strokes at him firmly, slowly, tight enough it makes his foreskin bunch up around the head, drawing droplets of pre out of him. Arthur exhales a shaky breath, and Javier hums.
Hanging his head, Arthur watches Javier rub the head of his cock up and down against him and, Christ, the sound of how damn wet he is, the feeling of that heat—Arthur is suddenly struck with the force of how badly he wants to sink into that tight grip, to fuck away and forget the world.
Javier’s firmly pressing the tip of him to himself, murmuring, “In.”
Arthur don’t gotta be told again. First propping up on his elbows, hands coming up to cradle Javier’s head in the spill of his palms and fingers, Arthur gets comfortable atop him, and Javier, crushed under his body, moans a soft sound of pleasure, a vibration he can feel through his chest. Javier’s eyes are hooded, hazy like steam on glass.
Looking into them, Arthur slowly pushes inside his body, real careful, real gentle. Javier’s eyes roll up, and Arthur feels it, the reaction throughout his body. The clenching of his legs, his arms, an arch of his back.
The squeeze of him is amazing. Burning hot, like the man’s made up of the deepest coals found in an undying fire pit Arthur would gladly climb into.
Arthur closes his eyes, presses his face into Javier’s chest, sinking into his embrace as he pushes fully inside until they’re together as one and no part of them lacks touch. Javier’s digging the heels of his feet into his ass, gasping deep breaths like the cause of death is their connection, his hands on his lower back, clutching him close.
“Okay?” Arthur asks, stroking his thumbs against his skull. Grunting a stifled sound of acknowledgment, strained by Arthur’s weight upon him, Javier gasps, “Yes. Please, slow.”
Like that, intimately embracing as they are, Arthur does as he's told: he slides out and pushes back in, slow and easy. Javier's humming soft sounds of pleasure, his nails digging into the skin of his lower back.
“That good?” Arthur whispers, rocking into him at a faster pace that has his hips hurting real damn quick, but he’s always been one to push back his pain for the sake of others. Javier looks like he ain’t even here; his face is a perfect picture of pleasure, his eyes rolling shut and then opening again, finding his, before closing once more. His mouth is slack, in a silent moan, his cheeks and forehead redder than a setting sun.
“Sí, ahhh, sí, sí,” Javier gasps, and shit, Arthur knows that word. Hearing him moan it like that makes Arthur real damn hot. “Más… Más duro. Ah, Arthur—more.”
In return, Arthur rumbles a pleased sound, shifts just slightly so he can take Javier’s cheek into his hand and gently guide him into a slow, passionate kiss. Javier whimpers into it, God, does he whimper, and Arthur’s head spins like a quarter on a bar top.
Javier seems dazed when Arthur sits back, looking up at him like he’s drunk. Grinning, Arthur hoists Javier’s legs up, letting them fall into the crook of his elbows, hands sprawling over his thighs. He tugs him closer across the blankets, and Javier lets it happen with shock coming to his face. Then he laughs, hands pressing to Arthur’s wrists. Arthur kisses him on the ankle.
He hadn’t slipped out during the position shift; he starts out slow, working back up to where they were, and then he’s driving his hips forward into Javier, watching his face shift—he likes how expressive Javier is, how easily he shows his pleasure. Javier tenses up like he’d been electrocuted—his legs squeeze around Arthur’s arms, his face screwing up like it’s too much, clutching at the blankets. Arthur slows down and asks, “Alright?”
Javier nods shakily, looks up at him with a neediness about his face that sets Arthur aflame, stammering, “Yes! Yes, good, good, please. More.”
Arthur chuckles, pats him on the thighs, and gets another good hold on him before he begins fucking him again. The hard, deep snaps of his hips against Javier’s ass fills the barn with sound alongside the chirping of crickets outside. Javier starts to moan again, his scarred face becoming something of agony, of misery. He’s reaching out, clawing into Arthur’s thighs with both hands, digging his nails in, pulling him in like it’s never enough. Arthur tries to keep it going as long as he can, smacking forward into him over and over, focusing on his breathing, his grip on Javier, on makin' him feel good.
Javier’s moaning becomes all high-pitched and whimpery, like he’s gettin’ the screwing of his life, loud and ringing and breathless.
It’s real hot, real invigorating, but Arthur’s knees are hurtin’ somethin’ fierce, and he needs a goddamn breather.
Slowing to a stop, Arthur shifts on his aching knees, huffing for air, sweating heavily, regathering his grip by clutching the underside of Javier’s ass, his hips. Javier looks at him dazedly, mouth slack, his long hair clinging to his lips and cheek with sweat. He’s gorgeous—and impatient, seems like. He braces his hands against the floor and starts to roll his hips down into the seat of Arthur’s lap like he doesn’t want a second wasted.
“Goddamn,” Arthur breathes, heaving for air with a weak grin pulling across his face. For a moment, he supports Javier’s weight with his hands on his lower back, letting him slap down against him, and God, that’s fucking good. Arthur groans, wide-eyed, hypnotized by this image of Javier sprawled out before him, using the leverage of his upper body to fuck himself on Arthur.
But he ain’t gotta wait long.
Strength regained, Arthur begins tugging him into it with his hands around his waist, his hips clapping against Javier’s ass with such force it has their bodies rebounding off each other. Javier grins, eyes fluttering shut, and he breathes, “Y-yes, Arthur, good, good—!”
Christ. Arthur has to focus on stalling his orgasm, hearing that come out of his mouth. Suddenly, Javier’s hand flies in-between his quivering thighs—Arthur realizes he’s touching himself again.
Whatever he’s doing, it makes his entire body coil up, his eyes visibly rolling up into his head. The man cries out in a way Arthur’s never heard before, just as the inside of him clenches up tight like a fist—the muscles force Arthur out, his slick cock touched by warmed air. Arthur gasps a soft laugh, coming to a sudden stop while Javier dazedly lifts his head, looks at him like he’s trying to figure out what stopped the pleasure.
“Forced me out,” Arthur murmurs. Javier hums a drunken sound, reaches down to take his shaft in hand, presses the head to his soaking wet sex as he murmurs, “Okay... Inside. Hard again?”
Arthur, shaking, gasping for air, nods. “Yeah, Javier. Yeah, whatever you want. You want it hard?”
Javier bites his bottom lip, grinning, clearly pleased. He holds Arthur, lets his shaft slide through his fingers as Arthur pushes back in.
Looking up at him like Arthur’s given him the world, Javier strokes his hand up and down his hairy belly. His touch descends to rub around his inner thighs and the thick hair around his groin all while Arthur bottoms out in him. He hums in his throat like this is all he’s ever wanted, circling his thumb on Arthur’s hip, his head tipping back.
Dripping with sweat, Arthur hoists Javier closer again and starts rocking into him, slow and deep at first, workin’ him up to it, looking into his eyes. Javier stares back, slack-jacked and hazy-eyed.
Yet again Arthur begins snapping his hips into him fast and hard, watching his face, seeing the way his eyes roll up again, and—shit, that’s damn good. He likes seeing what he does to him, how he reduces him to an animal.
“Yes, yes, yesss, Arthur, yes!” Javier hisses, grinning, his body jerking alongside Arthur’s shaky, deep fucking, his hand busy between his legs. He’s stroking his fingers back and forth against himself, and well, it kinda looks like he’s jerking a tiny cock with that little bud trapped between those fingers. Arthur, hypnotized, watches, ‘cause he ain’t never seen Javier like this before, ain’t never seen a man like this before, and it’s blowing his damn mind.
Javier sags back into the blankets and pillows, his hair spilling around him like ink against parchment. He looks up at him with hooded eyes.
The image before his very eyes is enough.
“Shit,” Arthur curses, clawing into Javier’s thighs. Arthur snaps into him hard, and underneath him, Javier cries out. Lost to it all, Arthur grunts like a beast while pumping inside him, really teasing the edge of ecstasy for as long as he can.
He then rips out of Javier. Collapsing forward onto his hand, head hung, Arthur takes himself in hand and shakily strokes at himself until he’s shooting onto Javier’s heaving belly. Javier moans, clearly pleased.
“Goddamn,” Arthur hisses through grit teeth, the power of his orgasm wiping his own name from his brain like he’d been beaten silly. Shaking, Arthur works himself through it, wringing it all outta himself.
But he don’t wanna stop. Javier’s drivin’ him crazy, he realizes now. Last thing he wants to do is stop.
So he drags his dry hand over his sensitive cockhead, wiping off any lingering spunk, before promptly realigning himself and pushing deep into Javier. Javier sighs in delight, arches his hips up to welcome it.
He resumes thrusting, shaky and shallow, huffing and grunting in his throat, clutching at Javier’s hips, white-knuckled. Grimacing in pleasure, Arthur mutters, "Christ, that's good..."
Javier’s moaning his name, sliding his hands up over his sweat-slicked sides lovingly. He murmurs something Arthur doesn't understand.
It feels intimate. Too intimate.
Reluctantly, Arthur withdraws, and Javier goes limp. Collapsing beside him, panting for air, Arthur sweeps back his sweat-damp hair and sighs.
It stinks like sex in here. And it’s real warm. He’s drippin’ with sweat. Looking down at himself, he realizes his pecker’s covered with Javier. Grabbing one of the blanket corners, Arthur wipes off his cock, and then promptly sinks back into the pillows again.
Beside him, Javier is unusually silent, even if he may be recovering, too. Arthur peeks over. Javier’s staring at him.
Arthur reaches out to stroke the back of his fingers against his side, searching in his eyes. Clearing his throat, Arthur, out of breath, asks, “You finish, too?”
Javier looks him up and down, confusion in his eyes. “Finish?”
“Yeah. You know. Did you… finish?” He gestures vaguely towards Javier’s lower half.
Javier blinks with realization. He shakes his head. “No.”
Oh. Well, shit.
Arthur scratches at his bearded cheek, clearing his throat. “Well. You wanna?”
Javier laughs. “Yes.”
“Okay. What should I do?” Arthur moves to sit up, scooting closer, passing a hand along Javier’s thigh.
With a new, fond gleam in Javier’s eyes, the man props up low on an elbow, flicking his hair back, and asks him boldly, “Have you… um, your mouth?”
Arthur squints in confusion. “What’chu mean?”
Impatiently, Javier opens his legs and points down at himself.
“Mouth. Have you?”
Oh.
Arthur scratches at the nape of his neck, blushing. “Er. No.”
Javier nods, closing his legs. “Okay.”
“Well, hold on, now. If that’s what’ll make you get there, then I’ll—I’ll give it a try.” Arthur shifts closer, placing his hands on Javier’s knees. Red-faced, he adds in a mutter, “I don’t know how to, though.”
Frankly, the prospect seems a bit… scandalous. Those kinda illicit acts—he’s heard only, uh, men with inclinations for men and prostitutes do that sorta thing. But it’s exciting, too, admittedly… He’s curious what's got them doin’ it at all. And, he just wants to help Javier get off.
“It’s okay,” Javier says, smiling a tiny bit, looking a touch coy despite knowing more than Arthur when it comes to this business. He lets his legs fall open, brings his hand to himself. He spreads himself, shows Arthur that spot that he'd been touching earlier. “Good here. But… soft. Very soft. Um, with your mouth.”
Arthur feels hot enough he could fry an egg on his face. “Alright. You wanna, y’know, do it like this…? You on yer back?”
Javier turns, grabs one of the pillows, shoves it under his hips—elevates ‘em. He rests back down, nods. He looks—well, pretty damn good like that: his legs open, waitin’ for him, hair a mess around his shoulders, back at a curve. It’s prodding at a part of Arthur that roars.
Shifting closer between his legs, Arthur realizes he’s gonna have to lay on his belly for this. A little embarrassed but not enough to tap out, Arthur shifts into position, lowering himself down on his elbows, and then cups his hands around Javier’s sides. He kisses him on the inner thigh, finding his eyes among the dim glow of the lantern, and Javier, the sweet thing, looks excited. Flustered. Arthur finds courage in that, his anticipation.
“If I, uh, if I need some guidance, lemme know,” he grunts. “Show me how.”
Javier nods shakily, eagerly.
Arthur takes in a breath, eyes swimming down Javier’s flat belly still sullied with his seed to settle on the wet center of him that calls for his mouth. He brings his hand in to tease him open with careful fingers, showing the flushed pink of him, the parts he’s never seen before. Not often he comes literally face to face with womanly parts.
Javier’s already shuddering, shaking underneath him, trembling like he can barely stand it. God, that’s makin’ him hot all over again. Arthur ain’t young. He ain’t a horny kid like he was for a long damn time. But Javier—this—it’s making his cock twitch back to life, and he only just got off a handful of minutes ago. Jesus.
Arthur finds himself in that haze again. The need to do Javier right. To make him feel good.
He kisses slowly over his thigh, feeling it quiver against his lips. He descends closer and closer to him, until he’s smelling him, the sex they’d had. Javier’s clearly all sensitive down here, ‘cause just lightly stroking his thumb up and down over the folds of him has Javier twitching and whimpering.
“So pent up,” Arthur mutters to himself. He remembers Javier touching himself last week, thinks that he probably hasn’t since then out of fear.
He leans in to kiss him there, against the warm crest of him, tickled by dark hair. Javier gasps so harshly, Arthur could almost swear he stole the air right out of his lungs.
Arthur feels a bit odd about this, ‘cause he ain’t never done this before, tasted someone like this, but—Javier’s shaking still, arching his hips up slightly in plea, and, well, he’s thinkin’ there ain’t nothin’ bad so far.
It’s almost instinctual, he realizes, when he begins shyly licking into him, parting him with his tongue. He tastes unique. Tastes like something Arthur ain’t ever eaten before.
Javier squirms, huffing a sound of pleasure above, and Arthur searches for his face, peering past the length of his body to find his expression of warm pleasure. It’s not twisting in the way Arthur wants, so he shifts a little closer, spilling his hands along Javier’s sides, and starts gently licking at him in a way that’s more encompassing, lapping into the deeper center that feels surprisingly soft against his tongue and lips.
Javier ain’t moaning, though, and stays mostly silent save for a few hitches of his breath, an occasional hum. It diminishes Arthur’s confidence, and so not even a minute later Arthur stops, laughing, pressing his face into Javier’s thigh. “You gotta tell me what to do here.”
Laughing a little, too, Javier moves to sit up, pressing a hand into his embarrassed face, and says, “It’s okay, Arthur.”
Arthur shakes his head. He ain’t giving up like that. “I wanna do it right. How?”
Javier exhales deeply, looks at him with a tired smile. “I do not know word. Uh… Give me your hand.”
Arthur rises up onto his hands, shifts closer to him so he can hold it out without question. Javier takes it, leans in to press his mouth to the soft hair at the back of his hand.
He starts sucking at the skin there, soft and with a swirling of his tongue. Arthur’s head fills with steam, and his belly pulls with heat. He stares dumbly, slack-jawed, and Javier looks up at him with a simple, small smile.
“That,” he says. “Here.”
Arthur sees him touch lightly at that little pink bud nestled in the folds of him, just barely peeking out. He looks at Arthur with a breathless hunger about him, his eyes burning like flames once again.
Arthur nods, mouth dry.
He clutches at his thighs, ducks his head to kiss at them, moving in towards the core of him again.
He puts his mouth around Javier, starts sucking and licking at the crest of him, feeling like a dog that’s found its dinner.
Twitching, Javier whimpers at him to be gentler, softer, and so Arthur obliges—only when Javier gasps like that, like that does Arthur find his confidence again. He gives it to him just right for a few good, long minutes until his jaw hurts—and then Javier’s clawing at the blankets, rocking up into his face, screaming in a way he hasn’t since this night began.
Arthur doesn’t shy away, doesn’t stop; arms locked around Javier’s trembling thighs, he keeps sucking, mouth nursing around the sensitive parts of him, brow furrowed in focus, until Javier goes completely limp, gasping for air.
“Arthur, Arthur,” he breathes, patting his shoulder. Arthur stops, lifts his head, panting, to find Javier’s eyes. He looks shocked, like he was blindsided by his own orgasm. He’s flushed from forehead to chest.
“Goddamn,” Arthur says, and then he laughs aloud, and Javier starts laughing, too.
Arthur wipes his face off on his wrist and arm, crawls up over Javier in-between his legs. A little giddy from making him finish, he looks down at him with a grin. “Shit, Javier... I ain’t—makes me wonder if I ever did make women, y’know… Do that.”
Javier snorts.
“No. No, you did not.”
Arthur huffs a dry laugh. He sits back, looks at him with a bold glance. "Well, suppose I should get more practice in with you, then, huh?"
And, well, Javier looks real pleased with that idea.