Chapter Text
24th of October, 1897
Sunday
8:37 PM
1x1
The night had deepened by the time they settled proper at their table. The saloon had thinned to a low, hazy lull—the kind of hour when laughter turned soft and smoke drifted slower. The light hung gold over the room, flickering against scuffed walls and glass bottles, glinting off the brass trim of the bar.
1x1 slouched against the back of his chair, his elbow placed lazily on the table’s edge. His shirt—John’s shirt technically—hung open at the collar, now properly tucked in at his belt after buying it earlier. The tiny hairs too small to be woven into his braid fell into his eyes in uneven strands, and his cheeks glowed warm with drink, that telltale whiskey flush creeping down his neck.
Across from him, John was nursing what had to be his sixth or seventh glass—slowly, responsibly, the way he did everything. He wasn’t that drunk, not the way 1x1 was, but there was a soft unfocused look about him now, something slack in his posture that only came when he’d had just enough to loosen his guard. He sat a little back, one arm slung casually over the chair beside him.
And for a while, 1x1 just watched him.
Watched the way John’s thumb swept along the side of his glass when he wasn't drinking anything, how his gaze wandered across the room—towards behind the bar, the crooked picture frame beside the door, the wayward couple murmuring near the back wall. Watched how the shadows of the lamp played along the edge of his jaw, how the faintest smile touched his lips every now and again when some stray thought seemed to have drifted through his whiskey-hazed mind.
There was something frustrating about how at ease he looked. Calm. Still. Like he didn’t even notice the way 1x1’s attention had fixed on him and refused to move.
1x1 shifted in his seat, resting his chin on one hand. “You look bored,” he slurred softly, but John didn’t glance over. The man only hummed, still looking elsewhere, as though he hadn’t quite heard or was pretending not to.
That wouldn’t do.
So 1x1 stretched one leg out beneath the table, slow, his boot brushing against the side of John’s. Just a faint touch.
That got him.
John turned his head, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion, his brows knitting. “What was that?”
1x1 blinked up at him, feigning innocence. “What was what?”
“You just—” John began, frowning faintly, “—kicked me.”
“Didn’t kick,” 1x1 murmured, voice quiet, almost lazy with amusement. “Just touched.”
John watched him for a long second, uncertain, then gave a small shake of his head, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re drunk,” he said simply, and turned back to his own glass.
1x1 tilted his head, grin widening. “Maybe.”
He did it again. This time slower, dragging the edge of his boot along the side of John’s under the table. Just enough to make contact—just enough to be unmistakable.
John’s gaze snapped back to him, that flicker of surprise clear even through his tipsiness. “What’re you—”
But 1x1 only smiled at him, eyes hazy but gleaming, the kind of smile that said I know exactly what I’m doing. He leaned back in his chair, half-lidded eyes fixed on John with something between challenge and play. “Somethin’ wrong?”
John stared a beat longer, exhaled, and set his glass down with a quiet clink that sounded a touch sharper this time. “You’re tryin’ to start somethin’,” he said, though the faint hitch of laughter in his tone undercut it.
1x1 leaned forward a little, resting both elbows on the table now, his grin all mischief and whiskey heat. “And what if I am?”
That earned him a proper look from John that was unreadable. His voice dropped lower. “You don’t know what you’re playin’ at, 1x.”
1x1’s smirk curved further, his eyes narrowing in amusement. “Maybe you just don’t like losin’.”
“Losin’ what?”
Before John could answer, 1x1 reached out and snatched up the man’s glass. John barely had time to react before 1x1 tipped it back, downing the rest of it in a single long swallow. The burn hit sharp and fast, sliding down his throat, and he hissed slightly through his teeth before setting the glass down with an audible thunk.
Then he grinned. That crooked, dangerous grin that always meant trouble. “Guess that’s mine now,” he said, his voice roughened from the burn.
John’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again as if searching for the right words. His eyes had gone a shade darker—not angry, exactly, but something else.
“You,” John began slowly, “are gonna regret that in about five minutes.”
“Maybe,” 1x1 said, leaning in on one elbow, his chin resting on his hand as he looked at him. “But that’s five minutes I still got.”
John blinked once, straightened, and glanced away. “You oughta get some air soon,” he muttered, voice quieter now. “Before that whiskey catches up to you.”
“Why?” 1x1 asked, tilting his head. “You worried?”
John didn’t answer right away. He took the empty glass from 1x1’s side and turned it in his hand, thumb brushing the rim, the movement oddly slow. “Maybe,” he said finally.
That quiet honesty caught 1x1 off guard. It tugged at something under his ribs he didn’t want to name.
He looked down at the table, the smirk faltering just a hair. “…Then maybe stay a little longer,” he muttered, voice low. “So I don’t do somethin’ stupid.”
John looked up again, and for a moment, the man’s smile returned—small, barely-there, but warm in a way that reached his eyes.
“Alright,” John said. “A little longer.”
John lifted his hand to signal the barmaid, a small motion—steady, calm, practiced. He didn’t even have to speak. The woman saw the gesture and came over, tired but polite, her apron already damp with the night’s labor.
“Another bottle,” John said simply, his voice low, drawling just enough to sound worn rather than drunk. He reached into his pocket and thumbed a few coins onto the tray. They clattered softly, rolling to a stop.
1x1 watched all of it—the way John’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, the tendons in his wrist flexing beneath the cuff of his shirt. He didn’t know why he watched like that.
The woman brought a bottle, a deep amber one, and set it down with two fresh glasses. “You boys sure you need more?” she teased—mainly in John’s direction, though it carried the tired fondness of someone used to men’s bad decisions.
John smiled faintly, just polite enough to disarm her concern. “We’ll be fine, ma’am.”
When she left with a drag of her nails along the wood, John pulled the cork out with a soft pop, the smell of it rising sharp between them. 1x1 breathed it in, the sweet sting of the whiskey cutting through the haze of the room.
John poured himself first—half a glass, careful not to spill—and set the bottle back down. He didn’t pour for 1x1, he just left the bottle sitting there. A quiet invitation or quiet refusal, it was hard to tell.
1x1 tilted his head at him. “You forgettin’ someone?”
John glanced up, brow faintly lifted. “You’ve had plenty already.”
“Not enough.” 1x1 said, his grin lazy, drawl softened by drink.
That earned him a small laugh—barely a sound, just a breath that warmed the space between them. “Reckon you're not the one who needs another.”
“You ain’t the boss of me.”
“Feels like I might be tonight.”
1x1 leaned forward, eyes half-lidded, smile turning a touch too sweet. “Then you’d better pour proper, boss.”
John stared at him for a beat—long enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch before he sighed, reaching for the bottle. The glass in front of 1x1 filled with a smooth, golden pour, the sound of it soft and satisfying.
“Happy now?” he asked.
1x1 reached for the glass, brushing his fingers against John’s briefly—just a ghost of touch, but enough to make John’s eyes flick up. “Almost.”
He took a long sip, savoring the burn, then leaned back again in his chair, gaze fixed on John as he drank. John looked away first, focusing on his own glass, though his jaw had tightened slightly—as if he was aware of being watched and didn’t quite know what to do with it.
They drank in a companionable quiet for a while. The lamps shifted as their flames guttered, and the faint sounds of the night drifted through—the wind at the door, a horse snorting somewhere outside, boots scuffing against the floorboards from some late stranger heading for the exit.
1x1 took another sip, eyes drifting lazily toward John again. “You always this serious when you drink?” he asked, the words half-slurred, half-sincere.
John huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back in his chair. “You always this much trouble?”
“Only when I’m with you,” 1x1 said before he could think better of it.
The words hung there, heavier than they should’ve been. John blinked, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then John smiled faintly, looking down at his glass. “That right?”
“Guess so,” 1x1 murmured, swirling the whiskey in his own. “You make it too easy.”
“I’ll take that as… somethin’,” John said, still smiling, still not looking up.
1x1 studied him—the curve of that smile, the faint color in his cheeks, the quiet steadiness of him even now. He wondered if John could feel the warmth of his boot too. He wondered if he was imagining that slight shift—the almost imperceptible way John’s foot seemed to press back, just barely, as if to acknowledge their contact without naming it.
The thought made 1x1 grin faintly into his drink.
1x1 leaned forward after finishing his glass, and reached for the bottle. He tipped the bottle, refilling his glass with a steady pour. When he set the bottle back down, he could feel John’s eyes on him. Not full-on, not a glare—just that sideways glance, that silent kind of disapproval John specialized in.
1x1 caught it immediately and met it with a grin. “What?” he asked, half-amused, half-challenging. “You gonna tell me I’ve had enough again?”
John didn’t say anything at first—just gave him that look, steady and unreadable, eyes flicking from the glass to 1x1’s face. “You’re gettin’ there,” he finally said. “And I don’t fancy haulin’ you halfway back to our bed.”
1x1 smirked again into his glass before taking another sip. He leaned back in his chair, stretching an arm lazily over the backrest, the motion careless and unguarded. “You just like pretendin’ you’re above it all,” he teased. “All that responsibility, all that patience. Someone’s gotta keep you from rustin’ solid.”
John shot him a sidelong glance. “You sure that’s what you’re doin’?”
1x1 shrugged, still smiling. “Somethin’ like that.”
He took another sip, slower this time, his boot still resting quietly against John’s under the table. It wasn’t even teasing anymore—it was just comfortable. Like the touch belonged there now.
The last few patrons murmured at the bar, voices muffled. The night outside pressed softly at the windows, cool and dark.
1x1 swirled his drink idly and glanced down, the motion pulling his braid over his shoulder. The loose end brushed against his arm, and he caught it absently between his fingers, tugging it forward. The braid was starting to come undone in places—strands slipping free, curling against his neck.
He turned it in his hand, studying it with a faint, hazy fondness. “Y’know,” he murmured after a long pause, “I’m grateful you did this earlier.”
John looked up, blinking once. “Did what?”
“This,” 1x1 said, tugging the braid lightly for emphasis. “My hair—Back by the river.”
John blinked again, his expression softening. “Oh.” He smiled a little. “That? Wasn’t nothin’.”
“Still.” 1x1 looked down, twisting the braid again between his fingers. “Don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before.”
John’s smile faltered slightly, just enough to look thoughtful. “You’re serious?”
1x1 nodded, his tone easy but his gaze lowered. “Don’t really… let people close like that, I guess.” He gave a small shrug, like trying to shake the weight of the words off. “But you did good. Looks nice. Or…” he paused, glancing at a few stray strands, “...looked nice, before we walked halfway across town.”
John’s eyes softened, the faintest laugh leaving him. “I don’t think it looks bad,” he said quietly. “A little messy suits you.”
That made 1x1’s mouth twitch upward, though he didn’t quite meet John’s eyes. He rubbed the braid between his fingers, his voice dropping softer. “Maybe. Still—” he hesitated a beat, feeling the warmth creep up his neck. “—I was thinkin’… if it’s not too much trouble, maybe you could… do it again sometime?”
John blinked, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Do your hair?”
1x1 nodded quickly, his tone suddenly too defensive, too quick. “It’s just easier, that’s all. Keeps it outta the way, and I can’t do it myself worth a damn. Gets all tangled up otherwise.”
John leaned back slightly, studying him. The man didn’t say anything right away—just looked at him in that slow, searching way of his, like he was trying to figure out what was really being asked beneath the words.
1x1 shifted, his hand still holding the braid, his thumb brushing over the rough texture of it. The silence stretched, warm and strange.
Then John smiled like sunlight breaking through cloud. “Sure,” he said softly. “I can do that.”
1x1 looked up, and for a heartbeat, his grin was genuine, bright even in the low light. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Guess that settles it,” 1x1 murmured, leaning back again, trying to hide the way that small, simple answer did something to his chest. He took another sip from his glass, half to distract himself, half to keep from saying more.
Across from him, John leaned an elbow on the table, watching him quietly. The light flickered between them, catching in the loose strands of 1x1’s hair, glinting a rich color against his cheekbones and the curve of his mouth. There was something unspoken in the air—something tender and dangerous all at once, the kind of quiet that felt heavier than noise.
John finally looked away, his voice a low murmur. “You really do talk more when you’re drinkin’.”
“Maybe,” 1x1 said, smiling faintly into his glass. “Maybe I just talk more when I’m around you.”
“You sure got a way of sayin’ things,” John said.
1x1 tilted his head, eyes glimmering. “You mean that as a compliment?”
John’s smile curved slow. “Reckon I do.”
The silence that followed had weight to it, but not the kind that pressed down—it lingered light and taut, like a line strung between them. 1x1 sat now with his glass cupped loosely in both hands.
He could see John’s eyes on him again.
Not in that cautious, sidelong way from before—this was different. A steady look, softer around the edges, lingering in the way people stare when they think no one’s noticing.
1x1 tilted his head just slightly, pretending not to notice at first. He brushed a few loose strands of hair from his face, running his fingers down the braid to where it began to fray. His movements were slow—half for himself, half for John. He didn’t have to glance up to confirm it; he could feel the attention like heat.
When he finally did look up, John was mid-motion, as if caught halfway between thought and restraint. His eyes flicked from the braid in 1x1’s hand back to his face, and he looked away almost immediately, clearing his throat as he reached for the bottle.
1x1’s mouth curved.
“You starin’ at my hair again?” he asked, his tone teasing but soft, almost sing-song.
John hesitated, mid-pour. “Wasn’t starin’.”
“Mm.” 1x1 leaned an elbow on the table, resting his chin lazily in his hand. “Sure looked like it.”
The glass filled beneath John’s hand—he poured as if pretending to be preoccupied with the task. “You’re imaginin’ things.”
1x1 smiled faintly, eyes gleaming in the lamplight. “Maybe. But you’re pourin’ that drink awful carefully for someone not imaginin’ nothin’.”
John set the bottle down with a dull thunk. “You always this awful after seven drinks?”
“Seven?” 1x1 looked down at his own glass, the liquid nearly gone. “Who’s countin’?”
John’s lips twitched. He shook his head slightly, but there was a warmth behind it this time—a flicker of amusement he couldn’t quite hide.
1x1 watched him take a sip. The muscles in John’s throat shifted as he swallowed, the faint clink of the glass on the table cutting through the silence. When 1x1 finally spoke again, it came out lighter, smoother. “Hey, since you’re so damn interested…”
John raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “Interested in what?”
“My hair.” 1x1 smirked, reaching back to tug at the braid, letting a few strands fall loose around his neck. “What kinda style you think suits me, huh?”
John blinked, thrown off for a moment. “What?”
“You heard me.” 1x1 grinned, leaning forward on his elbow, his voice turning playful. “You did such a good job at the river, figured you might’ve given it some thought. I’m curious.”
John huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re askin’ the wrong guy. I don’t know a damn thing about hairstyles.”
“Sure you do,” 1x1 pressed, tone lilting. “You knew enough to braid it. Could’ve just told me to deal with it myself, but you didn’t.”
“That’s ‘cause you wouldn’t quit complainin’.”
1x1’s grin widened. “Maybe I just wanted your hands in my hair.”
That earned him a look.
John opened his mouth, then shut it again, his expression caught somewhere between a scoff and a blush.
1x1 didn’t push the silence. He let it stretch, leaning back in his chair, his boot nudging lightly against John’s once more beneath the table. Just a quiet, teasing brush that lingered long enough to be noticed.
John’s eyes flicked down instinctively, then back up to 1x1’s face.
“What’re you doin’?” he asked quietly.
1x1 tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Makin’ conversation.”
“By playin’ footsie?”
That drew a real laugh out of him. “That what they call it?”
John met his gaze for a beat, the silence humming between them again. For the briefest moment, his eyes softened in that quiet way that made something twist low in 1x1’s chest.
1x1 toyed with his braid again. “Anyway, you never answered.”
“Answered what?”
“What style you think’d suit me.”
John sighed again, a faint smile ghosting across his lips despite himself. “I dunno,” he said slowly. “I liked it like this.” He gestured vaguely to the braid. “Pulled back, keeps your face clear. You look… put together.”
“‘Put together,’ huh?” 1x1 echoed, smiling crookedly. “That your way of sayin’ I look good?”
John didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted, his thumb tapping idly against his glass. The silence stretched long enough that 1x1 thought maybe he’d dodged the question entirely—then, softly, John said, “Yeah. Guess it is.”
Something about the way he said it—low, careful, unguarded—hit harder than it should’ve.
1x1’s smile faltered for half a second before he masked it with another smirk, leaning forward slightly. “Careful, cowboy. Say things like that, I’ll start thinkin’ you mean it.”
John’s eyes lifted to his again. “Maybe I do.”
1x1 swallowed, his voice a little rougher when he said, “You ever realize how damn hard you are to read, John?”
John’s mouth curved faintly. “That’s ‘cause you never stop talkin’ long enough to listen.”
That made 1x1 laugh, the sound easing some of the tension but not all of it. He tilted his head, eyes warm and bright. “Guess I’ll have to start payin’ more attention, then.”
John’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before he finally looked away, reaching for the bottle again. “Reckon that’d be a first.”
1x1 grinned, leaning back once more, watching as John poured himself another drink. 1x1 couldn’t help but think—if the night stretched long enough, if the lamp burned just a little longer—maybe he’d find the courage to reach across the table and let his hand brush John’s instead.
For now, though, he just sat there with his messy braid and his half-empty glass, teasing the man across from him with a smile that was too soft to be just playful, and too lingering to be anything else.
As some time passed slowly, John had been talking about something—some story that didn't really matter much—but his voice had slowed down, slurring faintly on certain words. He was drunker now. Not fully gone, just loosened, like a knot untied. His shoulders had slumped forward, his tone was unguarded, and every once in a while, he’d laugh under his breath in that rough, gravelly way that made 1x1 want to keep him talking forever.
1x1 was drunk too, though in a different way. His thoughts felt too clear and too fuzzy all at once—like he could see straight through the haze but couldn’t hold onto anything that wasn’t John. The way the man’s shirt collar hung open slightly at his throat. The way his lashes caught the light when he blinked slow, tired. The small, instinctive movements of his hands as he gestured between sips.
It was all unbearable.
“We should call it a night,” 1x1 stated lazily, resting his chin in his palm. “I’m about ready to get to bed, and you’re startin’ to sound like one of those fellas who talks to their horse when no one else’ll listen.”
John grinned, faintly crooked. “Maybe my horse just listens better than you.”
“Oh, he probably does.”
John chuckled, a low, rough sound. He took another long sip, the glass tilting at his lips, his throat working as he swallowed. 1x1’s eyes lingered there—longer than they should’ve.
John leaned back a little, resting his arm along the back of his chair, watching the room through half-lidded eyes. He looked peaceful like that—content, even.
1x1 couldn’t look away.
The thought slipped up on him quiet, uninvited, like it had been waiting all along at the edge of his mind. He wanted John to look at him again. He wanted that same soft, weightless gaze from before—the one that made his stomach twist up and his pulse beat faster.
He wanted to feel seen by him again.
The words came out before he even knew he was saying them, voice low, quiet enough that they almost disappeared beneath the hum of the saloon.
“Y’know… I like it when you look at me.”
The sound was barely more than a breath, but it cut through the haze all the same.
For a moment, John didn’t seem to register it—his eyes still unfocused, his glass halfway to his lips. Then it hit him mid-sip. He choked, coughed once, setting the glass down hard enough that it clinked against the table.
“What—” He wiped at his mouth, blinking at 1x1 as though trying to decide if he’d heard right. “What’d you just say?”
1x1 froze. His heart kicked up, thudding in his chest like it was trying to run.
He hadn’t really meant to say it.
He gave a half-smile, the kind that was meant to look careless but didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothin’.”
John stared at him a second longer, brow furrowed. “Sounded like somethin’.”
“Must’ve been the whiskey talkin’.”
“Then the whiskey’s got good ears,” John said softly, still watching him.
1x1 shrugged, looking away, pretending to study the lamps instead. His fingers traced the rim of his glass, slow and idle. He could feel the heat climbing up his neck, one that had nothing to do with drink.
John didn’t push further, but his gaze lingered. The kind of look that said he was thinking too much, trying to piece something together.
1x1 kept his eyes fixed on his glass.
1x1 took another sip to fill the silence, though the whiskey burned sharper this time, cutting through the haze. “You’re drinking faster than I’ve ever done myself,” he muttered, trying for levity. “Gonna make yourself sick.”
John exhaled through his nose, half amused, half distracted. “You worried about me now?”
“Yeah.” 1x1’s voice came out softer than he meant.
John looked like he wanted to say something to that, but didn’t. His fingers drummed quietly against the table instead, the movement slow and thoughtful.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the faint scrape of wood, the crackle of the lantern, the distant murmur of other voices.
And beneath it all, 1x1 could feel John’s eyes on him again—careful, steady, and unbearably gentle.
He didn’t look up this time. Didn’t dare.
1x1 sat half-slouched in his chair, fingers loose around his glass, his vision hazy. John was quiet again, gaze slowly lowering toward the wood grain beneath his hands. There was a strange heaviness in the air between them—not uncomfortable, not exactly. More like something waiting to happen, hanging there and swaying slightly with every breath either of them took.
1x1 blinked slow, the room wobbling faintly around the edges. Then, he tipped back the rest of his drink, swallowing the last of it in one smooth pull. He set the glass down a little too hard, the sound short and dull.
His braid was half-undone about now—strands falling loose over his shoulder, catching in his collar. He reached up and tugged at it absently, pulling at the sea-grass tie until it came free. His hair tumbled down unevenly. He ran his fingers through it, trying to shake it loose, but it just fell forward into his face again.
He laughed softly under his breath. It wasn’t even at anything in particular—just that quiet, fuzzy warmth of the moment, the kind that dulled every sharp edge inside him.
John’s hand moved slow, reaching for the bottle. He didn’t bother with a glass this time. He just lifted it straight to his mouth and drank deep. The motion was unhurried but heavy somehow, his throat working as he swallowed. 1x1’s gaze followed it again without meaning to, tracing the line of John’s jaw, the way his stubble caught in the light.
He chuckled, low and hoarse. “You really gonna drink like that?”
John lowered the bottle and gave him a look, somewhere between amused and exhausted. “What’s it matter? You probably already drank half of it.”
“I was bein’ civilized,” 1x1 said, smirking faintly, rubbing his face with one hand. His skin felt hot to the touch, his head pleasantly heavy. He leaned back a little, running a hand through his hair again before sighing out slow. “Damn, I’m drunk.”
“You don’t say.”
1x1 grinned, that lazy, lopsided kind of grin that came easier when the world stopped spinning so fast. He let his eyes linger on John again—how the man’s shoulders had loosened, how he sat a little lower now in his chair. There was something about the sight that made his pulse hum faintly in his throat, though he couldn’t have said why if pressed.
He tilted his head toward John, voice dropping softer now. “Hey,” he said, dragging the word out slightly, the corner of his mouth still curved.
John’s eyes lifted, meeting his.
“Let’s get outta here.”
John didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him for a long, quiet moment, eyes flicking over his face like he was trying to read something there. The lamplight caught both of them unevenly—half in gold, half in shadow. 1x1 could feel his own pulse in his ears.
Finally, John spoke, voice rough from the whiskey. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” 1x1 murmured, leaning his cheek into his hand. “Place’s gone quiet anyway.” He smiled faintly, a lazy, teasing thing. “Unless you like sittin’ around watchin’ me by the minute.”
That earned him a small laugh—soft, incredulous, but warm. John shook his head, looking down briefly before reaching for the bottle again.
He lifted it, tipped it back, and drank until there was nothing left. 1x1 watched his throat move, the tilt of his jaw, the little glint of liquid left at the rim before it disappeared.
When John finally set the empty bottle down, it landed with a dull thud that echoed faintly across the table.
“Alright,” he said quietly, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Let’s go.”
1x1 nodded, pushing himself up from the chair. The room tilted slightly, enough to make him laugh again under his breath. He steadied himself with a hand on the table, then looked back at John, who was still sitting there for a second longer, watching him with that look again that was still unreadable, but somehow gentler now.
“C’mon,” 1x1 said, voice light, coaxing. “Don’t fall asleep on me now.”
John stood, one hand bracing against the chair before he straightened to his full height. His hat shadowed his eyes, but the line of his mouth was faintly curved.
He stepped around the table, close enough that 1x1 could smell the faint warmth of whiskey on his breath. For a heartbeat, the space between them shrank to nothing—just the soft creak of the floorboards beneath their boots and the low flicker of the lamp above them.
Then John nodded toward the door. “After you.”
1x1 gave him that half-grin again and started walking, his boots echoing softly as they made their way toward the exit. The saloon doors creaked open, spilling the dim golden light out into the cool night beyond.
Behind him, John followed—quiet, steady, close enough that 1x1 could almost feel his warmth at his back.
The night air hit them the moment they stepped out of the saloon—cool, sharp, and edged faintly with the scent of wet earth and the smoke that still hung over the town from distant chimneys. The streetlamps were burning low now, a deep amber glow spilling onto the sidewalk. Most of the noise from the street had quieted; what laughter remained came from behind shut doors, the kind muffled by whiskey and wood.
Their boots thudded softly against the ground as they walked side by side, the silence settling thick between them but not unpleasant. The kind of silence that came at the tail end of a long night—the kind full of warmth, liquor, and something that wasn’t quite said yet.
1x1 had his hands shoved into his pant pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the faint breeze. His hair was hanging messily around his face, catching the light of the lamps every few steps.
John walked just to his right, hat tipped low, his gait a little uneven from drink but still carrying that same grounded ease. He didn’t stumble like most men did when they were drunk—he just moved slower, steadier, his hands occasionally brushing against his belt as though out of habit.
They didn’t speak for a while. The night didn’t ask them to.
Then, out of nowhere, 1x1’s voice slipped into the quiet, low and slurred around the edges. “I really needed that drink.”
John glanced over, one brow lifting faintly beneath the shadow of his hat. His eyes caught the lamplight, flickering for an instant before softening again. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Reckon we both did.”
That was all, and then the quiet came again.
A gust of wind drifted through, carrying the odd smell of distant rain and smoke. 1x1 tilted his head slightly, his hair catching against his cheek, and for a second he looked over at John. The man’s profile was calm, steady, jaw tight from the cold or maybe from thought.
Then John spoke again, voice quieter this time, slower. “Can’t wait to sleep on an actual bed.”
It came out almost like a sigh, soft and honest.
1x1 laughed under his breath. “You sound like an old man sayin’ that.”
“Feels like I am one.”
“I dunno,” 1x1 said, his smile faint but lasting. “Don’t look it.”
John turned his head then, meeting his eyes. It wasn’t a long look—just a second, maybe two—but in that second, it felt like the rest of the street dimmed out around them. The lanterns blurred, the wind fell still, and all that was left was the look John gave him—half amused, half something else entirely.
1x1 held it.
He didn’t know why, didn’t even think about it. He just couldn’t look away. The amber light brushed across John’s face, across the faint roughness of stubble, the soft crease beside his mouth. There was something almost tender in the way he looked back—like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or say something.
1x1’s breath caught faintly, his heart giving a slow, heavy thump that felt far too loud for how quiet the street was.
And then John looked away.
He scoffed softly, as though at himself, shaking his head. “You got a funny way of lookin’ at folks, you know that?”
1x1 blinked once, smiling lazily. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” John said, eyes fixed ahead again. He chuckled, but it came out low, uncertain. He kept his gaze straight ahead, though his mouth twitched faintly—like he was fighting between another laugh and something else.
They kept walking. The sound of their boots filled the space where words might’ve gone. Every few steps, the lamplight caught them both in its faint glow, and the air between them seemed to hum with something that neither of them wanted to break too soon.
Then, almost absently, John looked back at him again. Just a glance at first—quick, sidelong—but it lingered longer than it should’ve. Long enough for 1x1 to feel it like a touch, long enough for him to tilt his head slightly, catching John’s eyes again in that pale amber light.
John gave a small, crooked smile before turning his gaze forward once more, clearing his throat. “Bed’s gonna feel damn good tonight,” he muttered, more to himself this time.
“Yeah,” 1x1 said softly, still looking at him. “Yeah, it will.”
The whiskey still worked its way through 1x1’s bloodstream—warm, pleasant, and a little dizzying. It softened the edges of things, made the town look gentler, the glow of the windows kinder, and John—now walking just ahead of him with that steady posture—more magnetic somehow.
1x1 found himself watching him too much. The way John’s shoulders shifted with every slow step. The faint tilt of his hat brim. The flick of his hand when he adjusted his sleeves.
At one point, 1x1 snorted softly—no reason at all, just the kind of laugh that slips out when one’s too drunk to keep quiet thoughts inside. John turned halfway at the sound, raising a brow with that half-smile that looked like it didn’t know whether to be amused or concerned.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, voice low and rough, rasping just enough to make it sound almost fond.
“Nothin’,” 1x1 said, smiling crookedly. His voice came out slurred at the edges. “Just—don’t think I ever seen you walk this slow before.”
John huffed, glancing ahead again. “Keep talkin’, and I’ll start runnin’.”
1x1 chuckled, stepping closer to him as they reached the corner. “You wouldn’t.”
“I might.”
“No,” 1x1 said, softer this time, voice losing its laughter and turning almost intimate. “You wouldn’t.”
They crossed the last stretch of sidewalk leading up to the hotel, the dull yellow lamps glowing through the windows like pockets of fire.
As they reached the door, 1x1 stumbled slightly, catching himself against a wall and laughing under his breath. John caught his arm out of instinct, steadying him with one firm hand.
“Easy,” John muttered.
1x1 looked up at him and smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded from the whiskey. “You always catch me,” he murmured.
John froze for just a second before clearing his throat, letting go, and pushing the door open with the other hand. “You’re lucky I ain’t lettin’ you hit the dirt,” he said, trying for gruffness.
“Lucky,” 1x1 echoed, still grinning as he followed him inside.
The lobby was quiet. Only a single light burned at the clerk’s desk, its flare falling across the polished floorboards and the stair rail. The wallpaper looked faded, the corners peeling just enough to show age. It smelled faintly of whiskey, cigar smoke, and something floral—cheap perfume, maybe.
John nodded once at the sleeping clerk behind the counter, then started up the stairs that were off to the side with that slow gait that looked steadier than it probably was. 1x1 followed close behind, the steps creaking under their boots.
The hall upstairs was long and dim, the lamps on the walls barely working. When they reached their room, John stopped in front of the door, exhaling softly. His hand hovered at his pant pockets for a moment before he asked, “You got the key?”
1x1 blinked. “No,” he said. “You grabbed it and never turned it back into the front.”
John frowned, patting at his pockets. “No, you took it. You said you’d keep it so you didn’t have to keep talkin’ to the front.”
“That was the last key,” 1x1 said, amused. “You been carryin’ this one for the past few days.”
John gave him a flat look. “You sure?”
1x1 tilted his head. “Pretty damn sure.”
There was a pause. Then John huffed, muttering something under his breath as he started digging through his pockets—vest first, then pants. The movement wasn’t exactly graceful; the whiskey had caught up with him, making his coordination off. Coins clinked around before finally, the small metal key slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a sharp ping.
1x1 scoffed, folding his arms with mock disbelief. “Real smooth, cowboy.”
John bent down, a little too quickly, catching himself with one hand against the doorframe before grabbing the key. “You wanna do it, then?” he grumbled.
“Nah,” 1x1 said, leaning against the wall beside the door. “I like watchin’ you struggle.”
That earned him a glare. But there was no real heat in it—only the kind of half-drunken annoyance that teetered on the edge of laughter.
John stood there with the key in hand, staring at the door. But he didn’t unlock it right away. His thumb brushed absently over the metal, and his gaze flicked up toward 1x1 again.
1x1 was still leaning against the wall, his shoulder pressed to the peeling wallpaper, hair falling loosely over one side of his face, soft strands clinging to his collar. His eyes were half-lidded, the whiskey giving them a heavy-lashed, lazy gleam.
John’s jaw tensed slightly. The faint flush of drink was visible even under the dim glow. His thumb traced another slow circle against the key, like he’d forgotten what it was for.
1x1 tilted his head, smiling just a little. “You gonna open it, or are we campin’ in the hallway?”
John blinked once, breaking from whatever spell had caught him, and huffed. “You talk too damn much,” he muttered, but his voice came out softer than before.
1x1 grinned, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, close enough that their boots nearly brushed again.
The key turned with a faint click, and the door creaked open, spilling the hallway light into the room beyond. John stepped inside first, holding the door wide for 1x1 with that slow, deliberate motion that always made him look impossibly in control, even when he was drunk. His hat had slipped slightly back on his head, shadowing the top of his face.
1x1 stepped forward, boots brushing the worn rug in the entryway, the room smelling faintly of old wood. He let the door swing shut behind him, followed by the sound of John’s boots shifting. Before 1x1 could even register the motion, John had stepped closer, pressing the door shut fully behind them, and in one sudden, fluid movement—
—pinned 1x1 against the door.
1x1 froze, heart jumping, a startled laugh escaping his lips as his hat slid off his head and fell to the floor. “John—what the hell are you doing?!”
John’s hands moved instinctively, fumbling slightly at the lock before he finally turned his attention back to 1x1. He pressed his palms flat against the door before one hand found 1x1’s waist, holding him there with a firm grip. The other creeped up and cupped his face, tilting it slightly, brushing a thumb softly along his jaw. The motion was slow, deliberate, intimate in a way that made 1x1’s chest tighten with a mix of nervousness.
Then John leaned in, pressing the side of his head to 1x1’s shoulder, brushing against the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. His lips hovered near the edge, warm and teasing, the faint scent of whiskey clinging to him. He murmured softly, voice low and rough, words that tickled against 1x1’s ear.
“Knew what you were doin’ all night,” he whispered. “All that… acting like nothin’ bothered you… like you were just playin’. You knew exactly what you were doin’, didn’t you?”
1x1’s fingers twitched as they slowly found their way against John’s hair, the warmth of his palms brushing through the strands as he tugged lightly, anchoring him in place. His breath hitched, lips parting slightly as he bit down softly on the inside of his mouth. “John… what are you…?” His voice came out shaky, uncertain, barely above a whisper.
John’s lips trailed slowly along the sensitive skin of 1x1’s neck, pressing teasing, feather-light kisses that made him shiver involuntarily. His hand rubbed small, slow circles into 1x1’s waist, the motions almost languid, deliberate, meant to draw a reaction. The warmth of his body pressed against him, close enough that 1x1 could feel every subtle movement, every inhale, every beat of his heart.
“You—” John murmured, still brushing lips and words against him. “You think you can get away with that all night? Teasin’ me, actin’ like you’re just drunk and playful? You knew better, didn’t you?”
1x1’s pulse hammered in his ears, the heat of the room mixing with the heat of whatever this was. He grasped John’s hair more firmly, holding him close. “John… I…” His voice was breathless now, uneven as he trailed off.
John’s lips found the curve of his shoulder, dragging teasingly along it, a slow, calculated brush that sent shivers down 1x1’s spine. 1x1’s head tilted slightly back, exposing more of his neck to John’s teasing touch. John’s hand at his waist shifted slightly, fingers brushing along the curve of his hip, thumb still tracing lazily. He pressed just enough to elicit a reaction but kept teasing, playful, testing the edges of his patience and control.
“You’re trouble…” John murmured, voice low and teasing, lips just grazing the sensitive skin beneath his ear. “The kind of trouble I can’t walk away from.”
1x1’s eyes fluttered open, meeting John’s briefly before he bit his lip again. “John… you’re insane,” he whispered, though the words were more breathless invitation than admonition.
John chuckled again, the vibration against his neck sending another shiver down 1x1’s spine. He pressed slightly closer, hips brushing subtly, hands keeping him pinned just enough to claim him without overstepping, lips ghosting teasingly along his neck.
1x1 shivered against him, tilting his head to grant John better access as John nipped gently at the curve of 1x1’s shoulder, just enough to make him gasp. The closeness, the warmth, the whispered words—they all tangled together, drawing 1x1 into a dizzy, sweet haze.
John’s lips found the curve of his neck again, warm and rough from the whiskey, pressing kisses along the sensitive skin there. Light, teasing at first, dragging down slowly, lingering on spots that made 1x1 shiver, breath hitching audibly. Without thinking, 1x1’s hands tugged sharply, roughly, almost demanding, and John groaned—a low, guttural sound that vibrated against the base of 1x1’s throat. That sound alone made the skin along his jaw and chest tingle, sending heat spilling into the spaces he hadn’t realized were waiting for it.
John’s lips lifted from his neck and began a new trail—first grazing his jawline, then pressing soft, hot kisses along his cheeks, lingering just long enough to make him tilt his head slightly to catch more. His mouth moved deliberately over the skin, teasing, leaving warmth in every place it brushed. His lips found the corner of 1x1’s mouth, brushing it softly in a playful motion, before darting back to his jaw, back to his cheek, back to the hollow beneath his ear.
1x1’s fingers clenched in his hair tighter, tugging him closer, pressing against him as if he could fuse them together. The soft, teasing groans John was occasionally making against him only drew him in more, chasing the sound as much as the touch, letting the warmth spread across his chest and down to his gut.
He pulled back just slightly, lips hovering a hair above his jaw, blinking slow, a dazed, flushed smile on his face. “John… how drunk do you think we are for this to be happening…?” His voice was low, though edged with that faint tremble the whiskey had left behind.
John chuckled softly, voice rough and warm, muffled slightly against the skin of 1x1’s neck. “Not… drunk enough to stop…” he murmured between soft kisses, dragging the tip of his tongue over a sensitive spot just beneath the jaw. “Not nearly drunk enough…”
1x1’s breath hitched, and he tilted his head more, offering his neck, teasing, taunting—letting himself feel every second of it. John leaned back in just slightly, enough to meet his gaze for a second, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips before he dove back to the task at hand.
This time, John’s lips returned to 1x1’s neck, teeth grazing lightly, playful but firm, leaving tiny nips along the sensitive skin. 1x1’s fingers tightened in his hair instinctively, tugging, pressing, feeling the warmth of his breath, the soft groans vibrating against him.
“John… don’t,” 1x1 breathed suddenly, voice shaky, thumb brushing along the side of his face. “You’ll leave a mark.”
John grumbled, that low, soft sound vibrating in his chest. He pressed his forehead briefly against 1x1’s shoulder, jaw rubbing against the skin there, lips brushing along it softly, his own warm breath fanning over him. “Hm.” he murmured.
1x1 shivered, leaning slightly into him, trying to keep a half-playful tone despite the heat running through him. “You grumble too much,” he murmured, pressing his cheek against John’s, brushing against him, feeling that constant presence.
John made a soft, contented noise, head resting lightly on 1x1’s shoulder, warm and heavy in the best possible way. “I can see you like it…” he whispered, voice rough, teasing, close enough to tickle the sensitive skin along 1x1’s neck.
1x1’s fingers lingered in his hair, pressing him closer, chest pressed to chest, warmth mingling. “Maybe I do…” he admitted softly, half-breathless, half-teasing, the words barely above a whisper.
John tilted his head, brushing his lips lightly along the hollow beneath 1x1’s ear, leaving faint pressure there that made 1x1’s eyes flutter closed. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured, soft, teasing, low, and warm against him.
The room seemed to shrink around them, every soft groan, every feather-light kiss, every pull of hair was a slow, intoxicating rhythm, and 1x1 felt it in every inch of his body.
Even as John rested his head back lightly on his shoulder, there was a promise in the way he lingered, in the subtle press of hands against him.
“I missed you,” John whispered, low, his lips brushing the side of 1x1’s neck, his breath warm against the skin there. “So damn much… since you ran. All those years… I missed you every day.”
1x1’s heart twisted, a sudden ache and relief flooding together. He pressed into John instinctively, hands gripping at his shoulders, leaning into the warmth. “I missed you too,” he breathed, voice soft, almost trembling.
John tilted his head, lifting it slowly until his forehead rested against 1x1’s, eyes half-lidded but burning with something raw, something unspoken but impossible to ignore. 1x1 mirrored him without thinking, their bodies swaying slightly as if drawn by some silent, magnetic pull, inching away from the door subconsciously, drifting into the center of the room.
Their breaths mingled, ragged and warm, hearts thudding against each other in a shared rhythm. The space between them shrank until it didn’t exist anymore, and finally, drawn by the inevitability of it, John’s lips captured 1x1’s in a heated, searing kiss. It started slow, almost tentative, then deepened immediately, teeth and tongues brushing in a rough, desperate dance.
1x1 gasped against him, hands instinctively weaving back into John’s hair, tugging lightly as the intensity of the kiss made his knees weak. John groaned into him, hand sliding to the small of 1x1’s back, pressing him flush against his chest, their bodies moving as one, hungry, needy.
1x1’s foot caught on the edge of the rug, and before he could steady himself, he stumbled backward—right into the bed. John followed without hesitation, his hat flying to the ground as he kept him pinned while they collapsed together in a tangle of limbs. The mattress sank beneath their combined weight, the springs creaking faintly under the sudden movement, but neither seemed to care.
They landed with a soft thud, John on top but half-leaning into 1x1, who adjusted so that his chest pressed warmly against him. The kiss didn’t pause—it became rougher, more urgent, teeth occasionally nipping, lips pulling, tongues tangling. 1x1 could feel the heat radiating from John, every brush of skin against his own sending shivers down his spine.
Hands were everywhere—1x1’s tangled in John’s hair, thumb brushing over the nape of his neck, fingers tightening and releasing in rhythm with the kiss. John’s hands mirrored the motion, brushing over 1x1’s shoulders, down his back, keeping him pressed close, trailing along the side of his face, thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles into his cheek as if grounding them both in the moment.
“Damn you,” John muttered against his lips, voice low, husky, teasing in that way that made 1x1’s stomach twist. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night, you little—”
1x1 laughed roughly into his mouth, muffled, tugging harder at John’s hair, responding with equal heat. “Crazy? Me?” he shot back, voice strained and breathless, words coming out between ragged gasps, kisses, and groans.
John groaned against him, tilting his head to bite gently at 1x1’s jawline, then immediately pulling back just enough to trail his lips down the hollow beneath his ear. “I… I’ve wanted you,” he whispered, breaking the kiss for a heartbeat, words hot against his skin, teasing, almost flirty despite the tension. “Every day since you left… and now—now you’re here.”
1x1 pressed his forehead against John’s, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes half-lidded but sparkling with mischief and desire. He reached for John’s face, fingers brushing against stubble, the roughness grounding him even as heat shot through every nerve ending. “I’m here now,” he murmured. “You got me.”
John’s laugh was low, a rough vibration against 1x1’s neck and chest. “Damn right I do.” he said, voice husky, teeth grazing the curve of 1x1’s shoulder as he shifted, pressing him more firmly into the mattress.
1x1 gasped, tugging at his hair once more, leaning down to capture John’s mouth again, teeth clashing with his own, tongues tangling, the kiss rough and demanding. Their hands roamed over faces, hair, shoulders, backs—tangled, grasping, desperately holding onto each other as if afraid to let go.
Every movement, every touch, every groan between them had escalated slowly, but with a heady intensity that left 1x1 dizzy and breathless. John’s lips trailed across his jaw again, dragging teasing kisses down to the hollow of his neck, his hands moving with a reckless confidence that betrayed both his drunkenness and the fire simmering under it.
John’s hands moved over 1x1’s torso, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt in a hurried, messy rhythm, tugging at the fabric and slowly unbuttoning them one by one. Each tug of the cloth sent shivers down 1x1’s spine, and he gasped softly as John’s lips followed the path of his collarbone, lips brushing teasingly across exposed skin. The shirt was soon untucked, the fabric bunched and loose, exposing more of him to John’s wandering hands and lips.
1x1 moaned softly from John’s mouth, pressing into him until he eventually grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him up to meet his lips again. “Damnit… Kiss me again, John.” he murmured, breathless and slightly slurred from drink. The command was drunken, but John obliged immediately, diving back into the kiss with a renewed fervor, lips and tongue claiming him with heat and want.
Their movements were clumsy, messy, and beautifully uncoordinated, with limbs tangled and shifting, bodies pressing together too close to move gracefully. John’s hands roamed with less control than before, pressing against 1x1’s sides, tracing lines over his ribs, brushing over the edges of his stomach in lingering, teasing motions. 1x1 pressed into him, fingers clawing at John’s hair, letting himself revel in the intoxication of the closeness.
After a long, heated moment, John pulled back slightly, though not far, giving 1x1 one last feather-light kiss along the cheek. “God…” he murmured, half-grinning, half-huffing, still pressed against him.
Without missing a beat, John shifted his body slightly, sitting up from where he had been pressed atop 1x1. The movement was slow at first, then hastily, as if his whiskey-laden confidence collided with the awkwardness of actually trying to do more. His fingers fumbled with his belt, unbuckling it quickly, hands shaking faintly as he began to pull it free from the loops of his trousers. The movement was awkward and hurried, a reflection of both his drunkenness and the tension that had been simmering all night.
1x1’s chest rose and fell unevenly, breath catching as he watched, a soft flush warming his cheeks. Something inside him tightened—not from desire, but more from the dizzying realization and sudden discomfort of how far they were moving. He shifted slightly, fingers brushing against John’s arm, and spoke softly, almost hesitantly. “John… wait.”
John froze mid-motion of slipping his pants down, the belt slipping from his fingers, his eyes darting to 1x1 with a faint, sheepish flush creeping across his cheeks. “Hm?” His voice was low, rough, and slightly nervous.
1x1 swallowed, fumbling slightly with the hem of his own undone shirt as he shifted away, nervous and uncomfortable despite the haze of drink. “We… maybe we shouldn’t… not like this,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Especially while… drunk.”
John’s face fell after seemingly processing the worfs, the confident gleam in his eyes replaced by the faintest hint of embarrassment. He slowly shifted off of 1x1, hands coming up to run roughly through his own hair, fumbling slightly. “Damnit…” he muttered, voice low, brushing a hand across the back of his neck. “Yeah… you’re right… Yeah… Uhm, sorry… didn’t… I didn’t mean—”
1x1 exhaled softly, still flushed but easing slightly as he shifted back to a more comfortable position, brushing the errant strands of hair from his forehead. He laid there, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths, fingers curling loosely at the sheets. He felt the soft press of John’s arm near him, heard the faint rustle of clothing.
He stole a glance at John’s profile, jaw set, lips slightly parted, hair tousled. John’s hand twitched faintly as he eventually laid down next to 1x1, brushing against the pillow, fingers flexing as if holding himself in check.
John muttered another low, frustrated curse under his breath, his words barely audible, but sharp enough to slice through the stillness. Before 1x1 could respond or even process it fully, John shifted suddenly, almost clumsily from his drunk haze, and pulled 1x1 over so that he was lying atop him.
1x1 froze for a heartbeat, chest pressing against John’s as their bodies molded together awkwardly at first, the weight of John beneath him grounding yet warm. The tension in his shoulders melted slowly as John’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer with a firm, possessive strength that carried both comfort and something far more intimate. The heat radiating from John was immediate, enveloping him like a blanket heavier and warmer than any wool he’d ever slept under.
He allowed himself to settle, head resting lightly on John’s collarbone, listening to the faint rhythm of his heartbeat—a steady, grounding pulse in the midst of the haze of whiskey and lingering warmth from earlier passion. John’s hand moved over his hair with a slow, careful touch, fingers threading through the strands, tugging gently now and then, as though memorizing the feel of it.
John pressed his face into the top of 1x1’s hair, inhaling softly, and whispered in a low, rough voice that rumbled against the soft curve of his skull. “Damn… you smell like… summer rain and fire all at once… God, I’ve… I’ve missed you…” His words were jagged, broken by the softness of the moment, almost a lullaby, yet each syllable carried weight, a desperate longing and the tiniest trace.
1x1 exhaled softly, fingers loosening as he pressed closer, letting himself sink into John’s warmth. He could feel the faint scrape of his jaw against his hair, the faint, intoxicating mix of whiskey and earthy leather clinging to him, making his chest rise and fall unevenly.
“John…” he murmured, voice husky and low, almost breathless, “you’re warm.” It was a simple observation, but layered with something unspoken.
John hummed softly in response, voice vibrating against the strands of 1x1’s hair. “You’re… heavy,” he whispered, but the word was a gentle teasing, not a complaint, his hands threading through the hair at the nape of 1x1’s neck again. “But… good. Feels… right.”
1x1’s fingers twitched slightly, brushing against John’s arm, feeling the subtle strength beneath the fabric of his shirt. He shifted his head a little, nuzzling closer to John’s chest, letting the warmth of his body seep into his own bones.
John exhaled softly, a low, almost contented rumble, as his hand smoothed over 1x1’s hair, thumb brushing along the curve of his scalp. “Stay…” he murmured, voice muffled against the strands. “Stay close… Please…”
And 1x1 did. He shifted just enough to let his chest press fully against John’s, wrapping his arms loosely around him in a lazy, affectionate hold. The world outside the hotel room, the town, the late streets all faded to nothing. There was only warmth, only the faint scent of whiskey, only the quiet weight of John beneath him and the gentle, teasing intimacy of his whispered words and soft touches.
Minutes—or maybe hours—passed in that cocoon of warmth and hushed murmurs. John occasionally pressed soft kisses to the top of 1x1’s head or whispered low comments about him, calling him beautiful, calling him pretty, calling him his, all in whispers that made the skin along 1x1’s neck and shoulders prickle in the most delicious way.
“I… I don’t know why I stayed back then,” John whispered at one point, voice low and husky, “when… when you… feel right… Feel like home…”
1x1 pressed closer, fingers combing slowly through John’s hair, a soft, contented hum leaving him. “Then… don’t go,” he murmured, voice soft and slow. “Just… stay with me.”
John exhaled, deep and slow, letting his head rest fully against 1x1’s, small kisses pressing to the crown of his head, and murmured, “I’ll stay. As long as you want me.”
The two drifted slowly into a rhythm, bodies pressing gently together, hands brushing and resting intermittently, whispers low and hushed, full of quiet longing. 1x1 tilted his head so that his lips brushed against John’s collarbone in a small, sleepy kiss. John responded by letting his lips hover over the top of 1x1’s hairline, nuzzling, whispering soft, almost incoherent words of admiration, teasing murmurs, small declarations of possession and affection that made 1x1 press closer involuntarily.
The room grew quieter, the late-night hush of the hotel outside, the distant murmur of the streets far below, nothing mattered. There was only warmth, whispered confessions, gentle, teasing touches, and the intoxicating intimacy of bodies pressed together in soft, drunken closeness.
1x1 closed his eyes, letting the rhythmic press of John’s chest beneath him, the steady warmth, the soft brush of lips and fingers, lull him toward sleep. He felt safe, desired, and utterly at ease all at once.
And in the quiet, soft darkness, with John murmuring low, teasing things he could barely catch in words, 1x1 let himself drift—close, warm, held, and whispered into a space where desire, tenderness, and long-suppressed longing merged into a quiet, drowsy, intoxicating comfort.
…
Morning came in like punishment.
The sun clawed its way through the window, cutting bright strips of light across the unkempt bed, the rumpled clothes, and the muddled haze of memory that greeted 1x1 as he blinked awake. His head throbbed. A sharp, pounding ache sat square between his eyes, the kind that made him squint even against the dullest light. His tongue felt like sandpaper, his throat dry and sour with the ghost of whiskey.
He groaned lowly, pressing an arm across his face to block the light. The air in the room was warm and stale—smelled of alcohol, leather, dust, and something faintly human, the scent of sleep and shared space. For a brief, merciful moment, he tried to roll onto his side and will himself back to sleep.
But as soon as he began drifting again, he felt something shift behind him. A faint, slow exhale brushed across the back of his neck, followed by the unmistakable sensation of another body pressed close, an arm loosely looped around his waist.
The breath hit his skin again, warmer this time. Nuzzling.
His eyes snapped open.
For one long, stunned second, 1x1 froze, muscles stiffening, heart kicking hard beneath his ribs. His gaze darted to the arm at his middle: rough hand, tanned skin, faint scars at the knuckles. His own pulse pounded in his ears as his mind tried to piece together what the hell had happened last night.
Then he heard it: a quiet murmur, a half-asleep sigh from behind him.
John.
The realization landed heavy, knocking what little air he’d managed to take in straight out of his chest.
He moved quickly, twisting in the sheets, pulling himself from John’s hold with a rough motion that made the bed creak. The sudden shift made John stir, his brow furrowing as he tried to pull 1x1 back in with an instinctive, bleary sort of persistence—still half asleep, voice low and hoarse.
“Mm… what’re you doin’… come back here—”
“John.”
1x1’s voice cut through the drowsy quiet like a drawn knife.
John blinked awake, confusion flashing in his eyes as his hand faltered mid-reach. He looked around—first at 1x1 sitting upright, then at the room, at the chaos of half-undone clothes. His mouth opened slightly, then shut again.
They stared at each other for a moment.
The silence stretched—long, brittle, filled with the kind of awareness neither could stand to name.
John rubbed at his face, sitting up slowly, still bleary and unfocused. “Hell…” he muttered, voice raw. “My head’s splittin’ clean in half.”
“Good,” 1x1 muttered under his breath. He pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, then looked away, down at the sheets. His shirt hung open, and the sight made his stomach twist with something uncomfortably complicated. He exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Listen,” he began after a pause, voice quieter but edged with a strained steadiness. “Whatever that—” he waved a hand vaguely between them, “—was last night… it don't mean anything.”
John’s gaze flicked toward him, but 1x1 didn’t stop. He kept his eyes on the window instead, as if talking to the light rather than the man sitting across from him.
“I was out of it. You were too,” he went on. “Too drunk, too tired, too… stupid for our own good. It was just a slip-up. A mistake. Nothin’ more than two men not in their right minds for a few damn hours.”
John stayed quiet. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, knuckles whitening slightly.
1x1 swallowed hard, his throat dry as he kept going, tone caught between defensive and almost pleading. “Don’t go thinkin’ it was somethin’ it wasn’t. I ain’t…” He hesitated, jaw clenching. “I don’t hang like that with men. Ain’t one of them.”
The room went very still after that.
He let out a slow, shaky exhale. “You know damn well how fellas that… go that way get treated,” he muttered. “Ain’t worth the hell that comes with it.”
John’s throat worked as he swallowed. For a heartbeat, his eyes softened, something unreadable flickering in them—but then it vanished as quickly as it came. He nodded once, too briskly.
“Yeah,” he said. His voice was hoarse, roughened by sleep and something else entirely. “Same here. Wasn’t thinkin’ straight. Don’t… don’t mean nothin’.”
“Good,” 1x1 said, a little too quickly.
He reached for something that caught his gaze on the floor—John’s belt, twisted and half-looped —and tossed it toward the other man without looking up. The leather hit the bed with a dull thump.
John picked it up clumsily, fumbling for a moment before holding it beside him. The two didn’t speak as 1x1 began buttoning up his shirt again, fingers stiff, fumbling slightly on the third button. His chest felt tight. The air in the room seemed suddenly thinner.
Once he was done, he stood—the floorboards creaking faintly beneath his boots. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his tangled hair.
“I’m gonna head downstairs,” he said flatly, not meeting John’s eyes. “See if I can get a glass of water. Maybe some coffee if they’ve got any.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
As he stepped toward the door, the sunlight cut across his path, outlining him in the pale gold of morning. His movements were brisk, almost purposeful, but his mind churned with the kind of restless unease that came from trying too hard to forget something that couldn’t quite be forgotten.
Behind him, John sat in the bed, silent, eyes fixed on the floorboards, the quiet stretch of space between them heavy with everything neither of them wanted to say.