Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The TV blared, bright and obnoxious. Flint scowled and leaned closer, propped up on the motel bed and trying to catch the words again because he was sure he'd heard wrong.

“...yes, John Silver, a relative newcomer to the sport, is setting out to prove himself against James Flint III, grandson of the one and only, the original James Flint. They'll meet up for the first time tonight and go head-to-head in the kickoff event of the bull riding season here in beautiful Tulsa, Oklahoma. Could Silver go all the way this season? Does this young cowboy have what it takes to defeat seasoned pro James Flint? Only time will tell! Stay with us here on ESPN 5 and--”

Flint shut the TV off with the remote, sighing in disgust. Who the fuck was John Silver, anyway? He was such an unknown they were describing him as a ‘relative newcomer’ on TV, which meant they knew jack shit about him. He was a flash in the pan like so many before him, Flint thought as he got up from the bed and walked stiffly to the bathroom to shower and dress. He had an event to get ready for.

Later that night, in the locker room at the arena, he got his first look at this John Silver. He arrived early like usual, intending to be the first in the locker room and secure himself some time alone, but when he strolled in there was already this-- kid, really. Barely even an adult and certainly not acting like one, strutting around with his shirt off, making himself right at home.

Flint cleared his throat and slung his stuff into a locker, already annoyed at having to share his space. “I've never seen you around before, so I'm gonna guess you're John Silver.”

The kid glanced up, and not that Flint noticed, but his eyes were very, very blue. “That's me. You're James Flint, huh?” he asked. No trace of a Southern accent to him, which probably meant he was from Arizona or Nevada, maybe Montana or Wyoming. Maybe even Hawaii, they had cowboys there, so he'd been told. Flint himself was from Savannah, Georgia, and his syrupy accent marked him as a Southerner whether he liked it or not.

“That's me,” Flint said as he changed into his rodeo attire, all business. Jeans, checked shirt with the mother-of-pearl snaps, padded vest, black fringed leather chaps, boots. He had his trusty old black hat with him, of course, but it was tradition for him not to put it on until he was just about to ride, so he set it carefully on the bench next to him when he sat down to put on his boots.

“No helmet?” the kid asked, apparently too curious for his own good, and he still didn't have a shirt on, what the fuck.

“Helmets are for pussies,” Flint ground out, and spat on the locker room floor.

“I think so, too,” the kid said.

Before Flint could reply, they suddenly found themselves surrounded by a flurry of activity as the other riders arrived and began making their own preparations. Some of them were new to Flint, like Silver, but most of them he'd seen plenty before and could almost call his friends. The older he got, though, the fewer riders he knew every season - he was 44, and by his age most men had either retired from the sport by choice or been forced to quit due to injury. Hell, most of them were done one way or another by 30. He had been gently encouraged to quit (by his manager), strongly persuaded to quit (by his best friend), and outright told he was being stupid for not quitting (that'd be his mama), but he just kept coming back. The money was a big draw, of course, but that wasn't really why Flint couldn't seem to settle down and give up this life. It was in his blood, he craved it, and during those eight seconds on a bull’s back, nothing but him and the beast and the rope connecting them, he felt true freedom.

“Who’d you draw tonight?” There was that irritating kid’s voice again, snapping Flint from his reverie to ask him a stupid question - which bull he'd been assigned to ride for that evening’s event.

“Molokai Slide. You?” Flint asked to be polite, taking his hat in hand and rising from the bench. It was January so the weather outside was shit, and despite the heated locker room Flint could feel the chill deep in his bones, making old injuries ache. He'd been patched up and put back together more times than he could count. He'd had his first concussion before he was even old enough to drive, and it wasn't like bull riding at his age was easy on the body.

“Biggie Smalls,” Silver said, and Flint snorted.

“He's rank,” Flint said, meaning the bull was considered especially difficult to ride, even by seasoned pros like him. “Good fucking luck with that one, kid. See you around,” he said, walking stiffly out of the locker room toward the arena. Flint was eager to ride his bull - he'd been on Molokai Slide before and gotten a decent ride from him. Not an easy ride, mind, but a good score. Silver’s draw Biggie Smalls, though, that was just shit luck. There was only one worse ride in Flint’s vast field of experience. That was Walrus, a monstrous bull who was so mean and so savage he'd broken Flint’s nose on their last outing together. It wasn't the bull’s fault, though, not really. He'd brought his massive head up at the same time Flint had pitched forward over his withers and bang, blood everywhere. He'd almost blacked out, the pain was so intense.

Flint had finished the ride anyway, and received a score of 92 out of a possible 100 - not bad for a ride that could've smashed his face all to pieces.

Fortunately Flint’s ride on Molokai Slide that dreary January night in Tulsa went a little better. He hung in there for the requisite eight seconds, which stretched into a lifetime for him. His world narrowed to just the heaving bull between his strong thighs and the jarring back-and-forth of his hips as together he and the beast left the earth and fell back to it, over and over until the buzzer rang out and Flint dismounted as gracefully as possible under the circumstances, flung from Molokai Slide’s back to land in the dirt and scramble to the fence. He escaped the arena before the bull could rush at him, which he counted as the cherry on top of a near-perfect ride.

He hung around after to watch the others and told himself it had nothing - absolutely nothing - to do with John Silver. Then it was Silver’s turn and Flint honestly expected to see him get bucked off early and wind up with a no-score, Biggie Smalls being the ornery beast he was. He even idly wondered if he might see a truly bad wreck, especially when Silver and Biggie came out of the chute at odds, the bull bucking hard and turning tight, angry circles in the opposite direction of the hand Silver had on the rope.

“Spinner,” Flint remarked to the rider next to him as they watched from a safe distance outside the arena.

“Away from his hand, too,” drawled Charles in agreement. Charles was a serious, gravelly-voiced rider Flint had hung around with before, who Flint liked because he didn't talk too much. Flint appreciated that in a person.

“Sucks,” Flint said succinctly, and Charles nodded.

To Flint’s great surprise, Silver not only stayed on for eight whole seconds but managed a pretty decent ride on Biggie. Silver was smaller than Flint but he looked strong, and he kept himself glued to the bull such that there was no daylight between them, his hips moving with such fluidity it was almost hypnotic. After his eight seconds were up, he tugged his hand free and tumbled off Biggie into the dirt, landing face down and hustling to get to his feet.

Flint only watched long enough to make sure Biggie wasn't going to come after Silver and hook him. Then he left, some part of him not wanting Silver to see him watching. It didn't matter, anyway. He was good, but not good enough to best Flint. That much was clear.

---

“It ain't like that, Randi. He's just a thorn in my side, that's all,” Flint found himself saying into his phone a few months later, in another motel, this time in Arlington, Texas. He was wealthy enough that he could've stayed in decent hotels, but cheap motels just felt right. The ugly scratchy bedspreads, the gritty soap, the bad porn on the pay-per-view channels - it all reminded him of when he'd gotten his start as a professional in this hellish, intoxicating sport. When he was barely an adult, younger than John Silver, even.

John Silver, who he was telling his best friend all about, for some god forsaken reason.

“You sure that's all he is? You sure you ain't, you know, interested in him?” Her sweet, teasing voice floated into his ear from hundreds of miles away, making him homesick as anything. They'd grown up together, and she'd been a barrel racer, a rodeo queen. But she was smart and had retired years earlier, to a little ranch not far from where they'd grown up in Savannah. “You been ranting and raving about him a lot lately. I know you, Jimmy. The more you bitch about somebody--”

“Miranda Dolores Barlow,” he barked into the phone, then held it away from his ear as she laughed so loud it almost hurt to listen to. He sighed, missing her, the sound of her laughter making him ache like worrying a bad tooth. He cradled the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he sat down on the bed to put on his shoes. “Listen here, ma'am. First of all, even if I were interested, which I am decidedly not, he is at least twenty years younger’n me. That's a bad idea. Second, I got a bull to ride tonight and I can't be distracted thinking about you laughing at me all the way from Georgia or I'll wreck for sure.”

“Who'd you draw?” she asked, and he could hear her pouring herself a glass of wine. Miranda lived alone, had never married, didn't have any children. Just like Flint. When they were little, when he was pulling her pigtails and she was pinching him hard enough he'd run crying to his mama, people just sort of assumed they'd get married when they grew up. They both laughed about that sometimes now, for their own reasons. They were thick as thieves, lived in each other's pockets when they could, but they'd never once entertained the idea of marriage. He loved her, but he couldn't be her husband. She loved him, too, but couldn't be his wife.

“Parson’s Farewell,” Flint said with another little sigh, thinking about Miranda and missing home.

“Ooh, a rank one. At least it's not Walrus,” she said.

“Amen to that, darlin’,” Flint muttered. “Last thing this grizzled old face needs is another broken nose.”

“Stop that, you know you still look good. I'm telling you, go out for a drink with Silver tonight, see how you feel. Text me after. Tell me how right I was,” Miranda said, and he grinned despite himself. She could get under his skin like nobody else because she knew him so well.

“I gotta go over to the arena and get ready. I'll text you later. I love you, Randi. Think good thoughts for me tonight,” he said, standing up from the bed.

“Love you too, Jimmy. Remember to hold on tight and enjoy the ride, and stretch first so you aren't too sore after,” she said.

“I've been riding bulls all my life, I think I know what to do by now,” he said, amused.

“I meant with Silver,” she said, and he hung up on her as she giggled, muttering under his breath.

When he got to the arena, there was Silver already in the locker room, like every other time they'd encountered each other. He was shirtless, which also seemed familiar.

“Silver,” Flint greeted him as cordially as he could, slinging his stuff into a locker and pulling his t-shirt off over his head. There, now they were on equal footing, at least.

“Flint,” Silver replied, and if Flint’s eyes weren't deceiving him, Silver was checking him out. Strange. “You hear that you and I apparently have some kind of deadly, hot-blooded rivalry going on?” Silver asked.

Flint took his time putting on his western shirt, giving Silver a taste of his own bare-chested medicine. “Do we, now.”

“Mm. Evidently you and I hate eachother's guts and every time we get together at an event we're this close to killing one another,” Silver said, holding up his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart. “You know what I was thinking? We should pretend to be really friendly instead, like we're good buddies. Take the wind right out of their sails. You want to get a beer later tonight?”

Flint paused in doing up the snaps on his shirt, looking at Silver for a long moment. It was in his nature to be suspicious of an offer like that coming from a person like Silver, but he didn't have a good reason to say no. It had nothing to do, he told himself resolutely, with that nonsense Miranda had been spouting. “Sure,” he finally said, and looked away when Silver grinned.

“It's a date, then. Who'd you draw for tonight?” Silver asked, shrugging into his shirt and buttoning it up, then fighting with his loud, fringed blue leather chaps to get them on right. He looked so young when he did that - coltish, almost.

“Parson’s Farewell,” he said as he put on his vest, and Silver grimaced in sympathy, which made sense. Everyone knew that bull was tough. “You?”

“Calico Jack,” Silver said, doing up his hair in a knot at the base of his skull and plonking his white hat on his head.

“Should be a nice ride. Good luck, Silver. I'll catch up with you later,” Flint said, then strode out of the locker room before he could look at Silver too much more, his black hat in his hand.

Flint’s ride that night was hard, in a word. He felt like he just couldn't get his rhythm right with the bull, and by the end of the eight seconds, when he dismounted (well, when he let go and fell to the dirt), his right forearm was aching like he was working up to another stress fracture.

He watched Silver’s ride after, which had become something of a habit for him, one he didn't want to examine too closely. Silver’s bull was supposed to be one of the easier ones, but his ride looked difficult, too. He got a decent score, but Flint could tell they would both really benefit from a beer or two later on.

A few hours later found them both cleaned up, dressed in street clothes (a t-shirt and worn, soft jeans for Flint; the same but flashier for Silver), and sitting together in a booth at a dive bar near the motel they were both staying in.

“Rough ride tonight,” Silver said, and Flint nodded his agreement, idly rubbing his right arm with his left hand.

“Yours, too. You toughed it out, though,” Flint said, thanking the waitress when she brought over their beers. She smiled at him, real big, and he got that uncomfortably tight feeling in his chest the way he always did when women showed interest in him.

“You should get her number,” Silver said, eyeing Flint like he was testing him.

“Nah. Too young for me, she's more your speed,” Flint said, and took a long drink of his beer to avoid having to say anything else.

“She's blonde. I like redheads better,” Silver said offhandedly, and Flint nearly choked.

He didn't want the conversation to get steered in a direction he wasn't ready for, so he changed the subject. “Where you from?” he asked.

“Nowhere,” Silver said with a little shrug, sitting back in the booth and holding his beer in both hands. “Nobody, from nowhere. What about you? You're from Georgia, right?”

“Yeah, Savannah. How'd you know?” Flint asked, surprised.

“You mean aside from all the ESPN coverage about you and the constant barrage of clickbait articles about how you're a bull rider from a family of bull riders that got its start in Savannah? Your accent gives you away,” Silver said. “It’s not twangy and it's not a drawl, it's...refined. Slow, in a good way. Like you know how good you sound when you talk and you want to give people time to appreciate it.”

Flint felt his cheeks warm and stared down into his beer. He didn't exactly have a ton of experience with men - he'd always been attracted to them but rarely had the time or the opportunity - but he knew when he was being hit on. Silver was not being particularly subtle, and he didn't know what to do with that.

“How long you been doing this? Riding bulls, I mean,” he said, glancing up to meet Silver’s eyes. They were wide and blue, and a little mischievous.

“Since I was 14,” Silver said. He took a long sip of his beer, his head tipped back, and Flint watched his throat work.

“What? No. You best be lying or I'm gonna be mad as hell that not only are you almost as good as me, not only are you two whole decades younger’n me, you've only been doing this...what, ten years?” Flint asked, agape.

Silver laughed. “Nine years,” he corrected with a playful little smirk. “I'm 23.”

“Fuck me,” Flint muttered, and Silver laughed again. “It ain't funny! I've been doing this my whole goddamn life and you waltz in here and get this good at it in nine fuckin’ years, fuck.” He slammed the rest of his beer and shivered, staring Silver down. “You're getting the next round.”

“Yessir,” Silver said, and Flint would be lying to himself if he said that didn't do anything for him.

He didn't intend to stay out so late, but suddenly it was closing time and they were the only two still left in the dive bar. Flint got to his feet and stretched his arms over his head with a low groan. He felt good, a little buzzed but nothing that would give him a hangover in the morning.

Silver didn't seem as drunk as Flint might've expected for someone of his stature after that many beers, but he was definitely further gone than Flint. As they walked out of the bar together, one of Silver’s hands came to rest on Flint’s shoulder. He didn't mind.

“I'll walk you to your room. Can't have you ending up face down in a ditch somewhere,” Flint joked as they crossed the street.

“What a gentleman,” Silver said, and laughed again, louder and brighter than before.

Silver was on the second floor and Flint, the third. He walked Silver to his door and paused, making sure he had his key and got the door open before Flint turned to walk away to his own room.

“Wait,” Silver said from behind him, and he slowly turned back around, his heart leaping into his throat.

“What is it?” Flint asked, looking down into Silver’s wide, slightly glassy eyes. Flint’s pulse was racing and his old soft jeans felt a little tighter; all he could think was boy you look like trouble.

Silver took him gently by the wrist and led him a few paces into the motel room, then leaned around to shut the door behind him.

“What--” Flint started to ask, and then Silver’s mouth was on his. His lips were soft and warm, his stubble catching on Flint’s a little as Flint’s hands found their way to his narrow hips. He intended to push Silver away but it didn't happen - instead somehow he drew him closer, pressing up against him and making a low, helpless noise that was downright embarrassing.

A moment later he realized what he was doing and stepped back from Silver, wrenching his mouth away and letting his hands drop to his sides. This was a bad idea. One of the worst ideas ever, actually.

“What's wrong?” Silver asked, running his pink tongue over his plush lower lip. “Don't you want me? I've seen how you look at me, I know I'm not wrong about you. I want you, too, and I--”

“Stop,” Flint gritted out. “I can't. We can't. This was a bad idea from start to finish. Goodnight, Silver,” he said, then turned and left Silver’s motel room, stalking stiffly to his own.

He thought about calling Miranda but didn't want to wake her. Instead he sat on the bed with his phone in his hand, trying to figure out what to do, and eventually just fell asleep that way. He woke up the next morning disoriented, still in his clothes, the scent of Silver lingering on him.

Chapter Text

Flint just had to make it through this last series, then the first half of the season would be over and it would be time for their summer break. Conveniently enough, the last series was at a rodeo in Savannah, so Flint wouldn't even have that far to go when it was over. He'd promised his mama that he'd come stay with her for a couple nights before he moved back into his own house for the summer, and a part of him was really looking forward to being in his childhood home again. He worried about his mama, Margaret (called Maggie), when he was away from home. She was a spry little older lady and still in excellent health, but she lived in that big farmhouse all on her own - Flint’s father was long dead and his only sibling, a younger brother, had gotten out of the South years before and only occasionally visited on major holidays.

Flint had just barely had time to drop his things off at his mama’s house and say hello to her before he had to go over to the arena for the first night’s events. He found Silver alone in the locker room as usual and did his best to avoid him. In the time since what he'd come to think of as the Arlington Incident, he'd distanced himself from Silver as much as possible. No more watching him ride or going out for a drink after. No more chatting in the locker room. Hell, no more talking to him at all unless absolutely necessary.

But then Silver came up to him, all soulful blue eyes and distractingly bare chest, looking a bit panicked. “Where are you staying? Here in town somewhere?” he asked.

“At my mama’s house...why?” Flint asked warily, tugging his shirt off over his head and reminding himself that Silver was way too young for him and firmly off limits for a variety of reasons. Flint was pretty sure he literally had Bad Idea branded on his ass.

“The place I was staying, the arrangement has...fallen through, you could say. I called around to the hotels and stuff, and they're all booked because of the rodeo. I hate to put you on the spot but is there any way I could stay with you?” he asked.

“Stay with me? At my mama’s house?” Flint asked. He exhaled hard through his nose and rubbed one hand over his scruffy beard, thinking. His mama loved company and never turned down a houseguest. If he said no and she found out, he'd never hear the end of it. Besides, he'd been in tough spots himself before; he could remember what it was like being young and almost broke, worrying about having a soft place to land if it all came crashing down around him. Silver was a bad idea for Flint personally but he wasn't a bad person. He was housebroken, and he had decent manners (although he'd need to watch his foul mouth around Maggie, but Flint would, too). He wouldn't be an imposition, no more than Flint himself was. He might even be helpful around the house for the short time he'd be there. “Alright, fine,” Flint finally said after he'd considered everything. He glanced around and leaned in close, speaking in hushed tones. “But you're staying in a guest room and you and I will have as little to do with one another as possible. Clear?”

“Yessir,” Silver breathed, and Flint had to turn away from him before he did something stupid. Like, you know, kiss him right there in the locker room.

Flint had an excellent ride that night on a bull called Ranger, and Silver came in just one point behind him with his outing on a bull by the name of Warship. Not that Flint watched him, because he didn't do that anymore. If he caught a few seconds of the ride and admired how easy Silver made it look to stay aboard a beast of that caliber, well, that was purely by coincidence and not by design.

After the night’s events had concluded, Flint changed back into his street clothes and waited outside the locker room for Silver to be ready. When he finally strolled out, Flint just barely chanced a look at him and immediately felt a little weak. He was a vision in a tight-fitting white t-shirt and soft-looking Wrangler jeans, his long dark curls loose around his shoulders and tucked behind his comically little ears. He'd been growing his facial hair out lately, probably in an effort to look older, and fortunately he'd mostly gotten past the awkward stage and actually had the makings of a decent beard. He slung a duffle bag over his shoulder and gave Flint a big, wide grin.

“You ready? I'm ready. Let's go,” Silver said, strutting off toward the parking lot. Flint followed him, sighing under his breath.

Flint hated airplanes, so drove to every event he could, only flying when it was absolutely necessary. He led Silver over to where he'd parked his gorgeous pickup truck, bought the previous year, one of the few indulgences he'd allowed himself to spend a little (okay, a lot) of his hard-won money on.

“I've seen your truck before but never up close like this. She's a beauty,” Silver said, climbing up into the shotgun seat when Flint unlocked the doors.

“Thanks,” he said, then crossed around to the other side, pulling himself up into the driver's seat. “My mama's house isn't too far from here. She'll probably be sleeping when we get there, so keep your mouth shut and try not to be too loud.”

“Okay,” Silver said, and he was still grinning, practically bouncing up and down in his seat as Flint started the truck. “Thanks again for letting me crash with you. I really appreciate it.”

“Ain't nothing,” Flint murmured as he drove away from the fairgrounds where the rodeo was being held, out into the night toward his childhood home.

“Ain't nothing,” Silver echoed in a surprisingly good imitation of what Flint recognized as his own molasses-sounding accent. “Anyone ever tell you that you really live up to the cowboy stereotypes?” Flint didn't answer, but that didn't stop Silver talking. Lord, he had a mouth on him. “What's your mother’s name?”

“Margaret, called Maggie,” Flint said, then shot him a Look, quickly so he could keep his eyes on the dark road. “But you are to call her ma'am unless she says otherwise.”

“Yessir,” Silver said with a little smirk, then leaned forward to fiddle with the radio.

“Don't you touch that,” Flint said, blindly reaching out to smack Silver’s arm, connecting hard enough to make him yelp. “I have it set to the station I want. Fuckin’ leave it there.”

“Country music, really? I mean, I like the old stuff as much as anyone but I'd think you'd get enough of it at work,” Silver said.

“They play that modern dudebro ‘girl in a pickup truck’ shit at work, it ain't the same,” Flint said, rolling his window down to let the sweet night air in.

“...did you just say ‘dudebro’?” Silver asked, sounding incredulous.

“Yeah.” Flint glanced over at him, then turned his eyes resolutely back to the road. Wouldn't do to get distracted by the sight of irritatingly attractive Silver in his pristine truck and drive them off into a ditch. “What? I know slang. I'm not that old.”

Silver just laughed, and Flint grinned a little in spite of himself. At long last, he turned into the winding dirt driveway of the ranch he'd grown up on, feeling himself relax just at the sight of the farmhouse in the distance. He followed the curves of the road that he knew like the back of his hand, easing to a stop outside the house.

“Quiet,” he reminded Silver as he slid out of the truck, walking with him to the front door. He eased it open and was nearly bowled over by his mama, who had apparently been waiting just inside, ready to pounce. He'd told her not to wait up, of course, but there was no telling her if she didn't want to be told.

“I didn't get to hug you good before, you left so fast,” she explained as he dropped his bag of work clothes to the floor and embraced her.

“Hi, Mama,” he said, then stepped back and to one side to let Silver in. “I hope you don't mind, ma'am, I brought a guest with me. He didn't have nowhere else to stay and I couldn't just turn him loose on Savannah all alone. This is John Silver,” he said, gesturing. “John, my mother, Mrs. Margaret Flint.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma'am,” Silver said, taking her hand gently in his own. “I see now where your son got his good looks from,” he said, and if the expression on her face was anything to go by, Maggie was already being charmed by the blue-eyed devil.

“Of course I don't mind, Jimmy. The more the merrier,” Maggie said, smiling up at Silver, who smiled buoyantly back. “It is a pleasure to meet you too, John. I've heard quite a lot about you.”

“Anyway,” Flint said pointedly, avoiding Silver’s curious gaze. “We should get to bed, it's late. I'll show you to your room,” he said to Silver.

“I expect to see you both downstairs for breakfast bright and early tomorrow,” Maggie said, hugging Flint again.

“Yes ma'am,” he said with affection, then they both bid her goodnight and Flint led Silver up the stairs. “Now, I'm gonna be staying in my old room, and you'll be in what used to be my brother’s room til he moved out,” Flint said as they arrived at the top of the staircase. “That's you. That's me,” he said, pointing at the rooms. “Bathroom is at the end of the hall. I'll see you in the morning,” he said, turning toward his room.

“Your mom called you Jimmy,” Silver said, and when Flint turned back to look at him, he had a shit-eating grin on his face. Punk.

“She's allowed. My daddy was called Jim and his dad was Jamie, so she had to call me something else or we would've got confused, since we all had the same given name,” he said.

“Can I call you Jimmy?” Silver asked, and it sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

“Fuck no. Go to bed,” Flint said flatly, then went into his room and pointedly closed the door.

That first night, mercifully, passed uneventfully. Flint slept soundly in his childhood room and didn't hear a peep from Silver until the next morning. He woke to the smell of bacon frying and the sound of an acoustic guitar being gently strummed downstairs. He frowned, putting on a t-shirt and some cotton pajama pants he'd left the last time he stayed there, following the sound of the guitar downstairs.

He found his mama and Silver in the kitchen, Maggie making breakfast while Silver sat at the table in sweatpants and a white undershirt, picking out a familiar Waylon Jennings tune on the old guitar.

“I'm a long way from home, and so all alone,” Silver sang, and before this Flint had no idea he could so much as carry a tune, much less sing like that and play the guitar at the same time. “Someone please watch over me,” he sang to finish the song, then looked right at Flint, blue eyes bright, messy curls a halo around his head.

Flint had to look away. “Morning,” he said, pouring himself a cup of strong black coffee and sitting at the table with Silver. “Didn't know you could sing. Didn't know that old guitar was still in tune, either.”

“It wasn't. I couldn't sleep last night and I found it in the closet of your brother’s room. Thought it could use a little attention,” Silver said, gently setting the guitar aside.

Maggie served them both breakfast, and Silver entertained her with stories of rodeos that Flint knew were at best half-true because he'd been there for a lot of them. They had two events to do that day, to close things out - one in the afternoon and the other in the evening. It was going to be a busy weekend for them both, as the first half of the bull riding season hurtled to a stop. Flint realized with a start that he didn't know who was currently ahead in the standings, him or Silver. They'd been neck and neck since the start of the season, trading first place back and forth. Of course it wouldn't all really come to a head until the second half of the season, but it'd be nice to go out in the lead, on a high note.

“I’m going to invite Randi over for an early supper before you boys have to go back tonight,” Maggie said. Flint would've said no, because he couldn't see how Miranda and Silver getting acquainted would end well at all for him, but he couldn't just tell his mama not to invite his best friend to her house. Besides, he did want to see her, regardless of Silver. So he kept quiet.

“Randi?” Silver asked, looking up from his plate to stare inquisitively at Flint.

“Miranda Barlow. She's a good friend of mine, we grew up together,” Flint said, glancing at Silver and quickly looking away.

“So she's got all the embarrassing stories about you as a little boy, huh? I'm excited to meet her,” he said, grinning in a way that made Flint’s heart squeeze.

“Like hell you’re gonna get any of those from her, not if I have something to say about it,” Flint snapped, then realized he'd slipped up and sworn in front of Maggie. “Sorry, ma'am.”

After breakfast, he and Silver took turns getting ready in the upstairs bathroom, and were at the fairgrounds with plenty of time to spare. Their first rides of the day went well for them both, with Silver out-scoring Flint by three measly points. He was mad about it, but grudgingly impressed, too. Silver had seemed at first like one of those cowboys who was all flash and no substance, but more and more it would seem Flint had underestimated him.

They retreated to the farmhouse after, and Flint waited alone on the front porch, smoking a cigarette (he rarely smoked anymore and kept telling himself to just stop buying the damn things, not that it did any good) and keeping an eye out for Miranda’s truck. When he saw it in the distance, raising a cloud of dust, he stood up and stubbed out his cigarette, feeling his heart speed up at the thought of seeing his best friend again after months apart. Finally.

As soon as she'd parked her truck and climbed out, he was racing down the front steps to her, gathering her in his arms and hugging her so fiercely he briefly lifted her off the ground.

“Jimmy, cut it out!” she said, delighted, as he held her. He set her gently back on her feet and took a small step back, looking her up and down. She was wearing that shell pink blouse he liked so much, and even though summer was just getting started, she already looked tan. She had a few strands of gray in her long dark hair, and some smile lines around her eyes, but when he looked at her, all he saw was his best friend.

“Beautiful as ever, my sweet,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

“You too, you old charmer,” she said. She linked her arm through his own and he escorted her up the front steps to the house. “I hear we have another guest coming to dine tonight,” she said.

He sighed, looking sideways at her. “Mama tell you?”

“Mmhm. I'm pretty excited to get to meet this John Silver you keep going on and on about. I've seen pictures of him, he's cute,” she said, and he had to bite back a groan of frustration.

She meant well, he knew - she kept trying to fix him up with men she knew because she wanted him to be happy. She had been encouraging him to go after Silver for the same reason. But Silver was way too young, and besides, the professional bull riding world was a small, gossipy, fairly conservative one. If they took up together and it got out, well, Flint didn't want to think about what that could mean. His own career was just about over; it was Silver’s he was concerned with. He didn't want to be the cause of a young man’s ruin right at the top of his game. On top of all that, Flint was a lifelong bachelor who'd never lived with a partner, had never called anyone his boyfriend, had never even been with the same man more than a handful of times. He wasn't a virgin (far from it), but when it came to so-called romantic relationships he was a complete novice. Silver, he could just tell, was looking for more than merely a one-night stand with a cranky old cowboy. Moreover, he deserved better than that.

Almost as if Silver knew Flint was thinking about him, he appeared as soon as they entered the house. He and Miranda sized each other up, then she offered her hand and he took it, gallantly kissing the back of it.

“You must be Miranda Barlow. You're even more beautiful than Flint said,” Silver said, and winked at Flint. Actually winked. Lord have mercy.

“I like this one, Jimmy, you can keep him,” Miranda said, grinning at Silver.

“She gets to call you Jimmy, too? Not fair,” Silver said with an exaggerated pout, which made Miranda laugh.

Fortunately Flint got through supper without Miranda telling Silver too many embarrassing stories, although why she just had to tell him the one about the leeches in the swimming hole where they skinny dipped as little kids was anybody's guess. Flint did not need to be reminded of the time he got a leech on his ‘you know what,’ as Miranda put it (she would've used stronger language had Maggie not been present, Flint knew her), nor did he need that image to be in Silver’s head. The image of the leech, or of the...you know what.

After supper, he and Silver left for the fairgrounds, bidding a fond farewell to both Maggie and Miranda.

“Who’d you draw tonight?” Flint asked as they changed clothes in the locker room, momentarily forgetting his self-imposed ‘don't talk to him unless absolutely necessary’ rule. He even risked a glance at Silver despite how hazardous it was to his health to get an eyeful of the half-naked young cowboy.

“Walrus,” Silver said grimly.

“Shit,” Flint said in sympathy. “You know, I rode him once and he--”

“Broke your nose, yeah, I've heard. I'm hoping he won't bloody me up too bad, I like this shirt,” Silver joked as he shrugged into it.

“I drew All Saints. Should be a cakewalk compared to Walrus. Good fucking luck, Silver, I mean it,” Flint said. He left the locker room, feeling decidedly uneasy at the prospect of Silver having to ride Walrus as his final bull before the summer break. It felt like a bad omen, somehow.

Flint went before Silver and scored a magnificent 94 out of a possible 100 on All Saints, walking away with his head held high and nary a scratch on him. He stuck around to watch Silver’s ride on Walrus, telling himself it was more to do with the bull than the man. He and Walrus had a history.

For the first four seconds of the ride, Silver looked pretty good. Then, in the fifth second, things suddenly went haywire - Silver went airborne and landed hard on his back in the dirt, and Walrus, seeming to sense weakness, wheeled around and charged. He hooked Silver in his left side with one wicked horn before Silver could scramble out of the way, and Flint would've sworn his heart stopped in his chest.

But it looked like it was Silver’s lucky day; he wasn't even bleeding that Flint could see. He got to his feet and ran, full tilt, leaping over the arena fence like his life depended on it.

Flint caught up with Silver in the locker room, distantly feeling glad they were alone because he just had to get his hands on him, reassure himself that Silver was still in one piece after a scare like that.

“You good?” Flint asked, taking Silver’s hat off his head and rapidly unfastening the snaps of his shirt. “Shit, that looked bad. You okay? You good? Talk to me, Silver, fuck,” he commanded, pushing the shirt off his shoulders and forcibly turning Silver around so he could examine his left side.

“I’m fine,” Silver said as together they examined the angry welt on his side. Walrus had done that. Flint was suddenly, inexplicably furious with the animal, who'd only been doing what he was bred for. “See? Didn't even draw blood. Just knocked the wind out of me and apparently scared the hell out of you. I'm fine,” he said again, looking up into Flint’s eyes. “I'm more mad about the no-score than anything.”

“Fuck,” Flint breathed, looking down into Silver’s bright blue eyes. “He could've killed you.”

“Could've killed you, too, when he broke your nose. But he didn't. We're both still here, we're tougher than he is,” Silver said.

“Yeah,” Flint agreed, forcing himself to let go of Silver and step back. “I'm...I'm glad you're okay. I'll meet you by my truck when you're ready to leave,” he said. He turned and walked away, hearing Silver call his name from behind him, pretending he hadn't heard.

On the ride home, Silver did all the talking. He'd been evaluated by the medics, he said. He was fine, just an abrasion and maybe a bruised rib or two. He might be in some minor pain for a little while but he'd be good as new in no time. His no-score meant Flint was officially finishing the first half of the season as #1 in their league.

Flint barely heard any of it. He kept replaying the scene in his mind: Silver flying off the bull. Silver landing hard. Silver narrowly missing being gored.

He parked his truck in front of the house and went inside with Silver, being quiet because Maggie was asleep. He paused at the top of the stairs, outside his bedroom.

“Well. Goodnight then. I'm sorry your last ride before the break was so rotten,” Flint said, looking at the floor to avoid looking at Silver.

“Flint--” Silver began, and there was something in his tone that made Flint feel nervous.

“Goodnight,” he said firmly, and disappeared into his room before Silver could get any more words out.

He made himself get undressed and get into bed, when all he really wanted to do - if he was being honest with himself - was go to Silver and take him in his arms.

He was just barely dozing off, hadn't been in bed more than fifteen or twenty minutes, when he heard a soft knock at the door and someone very quietly calling his name. Then the door creaked open, and then there was Silver, closing the door behind him.

“Listen,” Silver began, holding up one hand as though to preemptively halt Flint’s protests. “Just listen to me, okay? You're attracted to me. I'm attracted to you. You care about me - which you definitely shouldn't even try to deny after how you acted today - and I care about you. I don't understand why you keep shoving all that down into some deep, dark part of yourself, but I'm here to see if I can't illuminate that darkness just a little.” He approached Flint, who had stood up from the bed during his speech, wary like he thought Flint might charge at him. He reached up to tuck Flint’s hair behind his ear and Flint could feel his own body trembling, overwhelmed by the sight of Silver in the moonlight in just his underpants.

Flint tried to think of something eloquent to say in response. “I don't know how to do this,” is what came out instead.

A look of confusion flickered across Silver’s beautiful moonlit face. “You're a virgin?”

“No, no. I didn't mean it like that. I just...I've never cared about somebody like that before,” Flint said. “Never, uh. Never been...with...somebody I really looked forward to seeing the next morning, you know?”

Silver’s expression softened. “I'll take good care of you,” he said quietly, then tipped his head to one side and leaned in, and then they were kissing. Flint felt heat pooling in the pit of his stomach and he wrapped his arms around Silver, drawing him in close and pressing their hips together. He didn't know when he'd gotten hard but he was, achingly so, and could feel that Silver was too. He pulled back from Silver's mouth to kiss along his jaw and down his neck, nipping here and there, loving the sound of his breathless moans.

“We shouldn't be doing this here,” Flint mumbled against his skin, moving Silver's hair aside to suck a hickey into the soft vulnerable skin behind his ear. He'd been wanting to do that for ages. “My mama's asleep downstairs.”

“We'll just be quiet. We don't have to - ahh - rush into anything big tonight,” Silver said, but the way he was grinding against Flint’s thigh was giving him all kinds of big ideas. “Fuck, Flint.”

“Call me James,” he said, gripping Silver by the hips. He wanted to touch and kiss him all over; he felt like he'd been dying of thirst and had finally been given water.

“Only if you call me John,” Silver replied, and then he was kissing Flint again, one clever hand finding its way inside Flint’s underwear.

Flint cursed under his breath at the first touch of Silver's hand on his cock. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, biting back a moan as Silver's fist closed around him.

“God, you're so fucking hot. Has anyone ever told you that? Has anyone ever tried as hard to seduce you as I have? I've wanted you for months,” Silver whispered, his breath hot on Flint's skin, as he drew his cock out and started stroking. “Ever since I first saw you, fuck. I want you so bad,” he said, and Flint shuddered in pleasure, fighting the urge to buck into Silver's hand.

“Can we sit down or something? Feeling a little weak at the knees,” Flint said, grinning crookedly at Silver. They shuffled over to Flint’s bed, and he found himself feeling very grateful that it had been upgraded from a twin to a full when he hit his growth spurt as a teenager. It still wasn't quite big enough for two grown men to be comfortable on, but it would do.

He settled on his back, Silver sitting up next to him, one hand still working his cock. “Talk to me,” Silver urged him quietly, twisting his fist such that Flint had to grit his teeth to keep from moaning too loud.

“Wanna touch you,” Flint said, arching his back and pushing up into Silver's fist. “C’mon, get over here. Let me get my hands on you,” he panted.

“Yessir,” Silver said, then grinned and slung one leg over Flint’s thighs, straddling him. Flint reached out to him and tugged his underwear down and out of the way, finally getting to touch him like he'd been wanting to for months.

Silver hissed quietly when Flint grabbed his cock, tipping his head forward so his chin was to his chest. He thrusted into Flint’s hand, the rhythm of his own hand on Flint’s cock faltering a little.

“Fucking beautiful,” Flint breathed, feeling himself blush a little. Had he actually said that out loud? Well, it was true, Silver really was beautiful. Naked and writhing in Flint’s lap in the moonlight, he looked like a vision out of a dream.

“I'm not gonna last too long,” Silver said, grinning almost shyly down at Flint as he rocked his hips, his thighs gripping Flint’s. He was so strong, so wiry and powerful - the way he was moving his hips made Flint feel like he was being ridden and he loved it.

“Me neither,” Flint said, feeling his body starting to draw tight as he pushed up into Silver's hand, his hips bucking almost of their own accord. “Ah, fuck, John.”

“I can't wait to fuck you,” Silver said in a rush, his thighs squeezing, his hips thrusting fast and hard. “Can't wait to feel you inside me--” he gasped, then came in a wet, warm rush over Flint’s hand, spilling on to his stomach and chest.

Flint pushed up into Silver’s hand twice more, then came imagining what it would be like to finally get inside him. He felt his orgasm like a bolt of lightning through his body, feeling powerless to it, overwhelmed by pleasure. It had been a while since he'd been with anyone, and all the pent-up arousal and frustration, the lust for Silver that had been building up for months, finally burst forth from him, leaving him exhausted and sated.

“Goddamn, that was good,” Flint said after he'd caught his breath, looking up at Silver, drinking in the sight of him. He looked faintly flushed in the moonlight, almost glowing with pleasure, and other than the welt marring his left side he was perfect.

“See? I knew you'd come around,” Silver joked. He slid off Flint and settled in next to him while Flint grabbed a t-shirt off the floor and did his best to clean them both up. “Can I stay here in your room tonight?” Silver asked him softly.

It was a bad idea for any number of reasons - the most pertinent being that they were in Flint’s mama's house and Silver was a guest who was supposed to just be Flint’s friend. “Sure,” Flint found himself saying anyway. He wrestled Silver onto his stomach, ignoring his noise of confusion, and yanked down the underwear he'd only just put back to rights.

“The fuck are you doing?” Silver asked, laughing a little.

“I kept thinkin’ you probably had Bad Idea branded here on your ass as a warning, but I don't see anything,” Flint said, running one hand over the perfect, smooth skin of Silver’s ass, feeling a sudden and inexplicable urge to sink his teeth into it. He ignored that urge for the time being and fixed Silver's underpants, curling up close to him in the too-small bed.

“Goodnight, James,” Silver said, chuckling, and Flint felt one of his hands come to rest on his stomach, almost possessive.

“Night, John.”

Chapter Text

Flint woke the next morning with someone's hair tickling his nose and a surprising but not unwelcome lightness in his chest.

He opened his eyes and looked down, unable to keep from smiling a little when he saw Silver, still asleep, his head on Flint’s shoulder and his hand on Flint’s stomach.

He may have been a Bad Idea, but he was the prettiest bad idea Flint had ever laid eyes on.

“Hey, John. Psst, time to get up,” Flint said, nudging him. In response, Silver whined and nuzzled closer, then went still, as though he'd suddenly become aware of where he was and who he was with.

“Hi, James,” he said muzzily, and sat up, looking almost shy. “How are you?” he asked, and when he reached one hand out to smooth Flint’s hair back from his face, Flint leaned into it.

“Good,” Flint said quietly. “Not thinking too much about any one thing in particular, just feeling good and enjoying it.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again to peer at Silver. “What about you? How's that welt doin’?” he asked, reaching out to gently touch the angry mark on his left side.

“Hurts, but it won't kill me,” Silver said, then climbed out of bed with a groan and stretched his arms over his head. Flint watched, drinking him in. He felt almost giddy - he couldn't quite believe his luck that someone so beautiful wanted him, and actually cared about him, too. They still had some things to figure out between them, of course, but he was feeling cautiously optimistic, like maybe this could actually work.

He got out of bed, coming up behind Silver and sliding his arms around his waist. “I get to move back into my house today, for the break. Are you...going home?” he asked, realizing he didn't actually know where ‘home’ was for Silver. Whenever anyone asked about his past or where he was from, he'd make a joke about being no one from nowhere and change the subject.

“Um. Well,” Silver said, suddenly tense in Flint's arms. “I actually didn't really plan anything. I don't, uh. I don't-- there's no home to go back to,” he finally said. “Could I crash at your place for a couple days? Just until I figure something else out.”

Silver coming to stay with him for an unknown length of time after they'd only had one night together and were just starting to sort out their feelings for each other - that also had Bad Idea written all over it, but the prospect excited Flint just the same. How could he say no?

“Sure,” Flint said quietly, nuzzling behind Silver's ear. “Take as long as you need,” he said, feeling gratified when Silver relaxed again.

They managed to pull away from each other long enough to get decent and go downstairs, where Maggie was already making them breakfast. Flint greeted her and got two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for Silver. He sat down at the table and flushed a little when he saw how Silver was grinning at him.

He cleared his throat, trying not to get too distracted by Silver and his good looks. “So I think I'm gonna go over to my place today, start moving back in. John is gonna help me, he's decided he likes it here in Savannah and asked if he could stay with me for a little while,” Flint told Maggie, though he was still looking at Silver.

“That's nice, dear,” Maggie said, and Flint smiled to himself.

After they'd finished breakfast and helped Maggie clean up, Flint took a minute while Silver was in the shower to text Miranda: ‘hooked up w/ s last nite - he is still bad idea but so worth it.’

He got a reply back almost instantly, just two words, all capital letters: ‘KNEW IT’

He chuckled, then put his phone away and scrounged up some cleanish clothes to put on after his shower. He almost literally ran into Silver in the hallway, pausing and stepping back to look him up and down. Now that he was finally letting himself really look at Silver the way he'd been wanting to for months, he couldn't get enough of him.

“What?” Silver asked as Flint stared, looking almost self-conscious, his ears poking out of his damp hair.

“Nothin’,” Flint said softly, then brushed past him to go into the bathroom and shower.

After they gathered their things and said goodbye, they left Maggie’s house, Flint driving and Silver riding shotgun. Silver seemed a little jittery and nervous, but Flint didn't try to drag it out of him, waiting for him to talk instead.

“You're really okay with me staying at your house?” Silver eventually asked. “You're not just doing it because you feel like you...pity me or something. Right?”

“Right,” Flint confirmed, glancing over at him. He took a deep breath, hoping he could find the right words to reassure Silver. “I've never been in a relationship before, not a-- serious one. I don't say that to put pressure on you or scare you, I just want you to know. You and I, we don't know that much about each other yet; we've only had the one night together after months of me being a jackass and avoiding you. But know this: I like you, and I want to be with you.” He cleared his throat, rolling his window down to feel the breeze in his hair. “That's all I got to say on the subject right now.”

When Flint glanced over again, Silver was beaming. He looked like Flint had just given him the best possible news. It was a good look on him, and as Flint turned up the radio and Silver sang along to the twangy old country tune that was playing, Flint found himself thinking he could get used to this.

---

That night after he made supper for both of them, Flint found himself wondering if he ought to make up the guest bed. He didn't want Silver to feel any pressure to sleep with him, either in the literal or figurative sense.

He got his answer when Silver stood from his chair, strolled around the table, and sat right down in Flint’s lap, facing him.

“Hi there, cowboy,” Silver murmured in Flint's ear, one hand snaking up under his shirt. His thighs were strong and warm pressed up against Flint’s own, and one of Flint’s hands found its way to Silver’s ass, giving it an eager squeeze.

“ ‘Lo,” he said by way of reply, tipping his head to the side as he felt Silver's teeth gently nibbling his neck.

“We should get out of this hot kitchen, it's bedtime,” Silver said, his fingernails digging into Flint’s chest.

“It's barely dark out,” Flint protested with a breathless noise halfway between a moan and a laugh. “And the dishes--”

“--can wait,” Silver said. He climbed out of Flint’s lap and took his hand to pull him to his feet, then paused. “You're gonna have to show me where your bedroom is. I forgot already.”

Flint snorted and led Silver to his bedroom, ushering him in with an affectionate pat on the rear. He was already obsessed with that ass - he had been for a while, but now he could let himself stare at it and even touch it, which made things a thousand times better.

Flint was a little caught up in his reverie, so he was taken by surprise when Silver playfully pushed him back toward the bed. He sat down with an ‘oof,’ feeling his pulse start to race as Silver dropped to his knees in front of him. He knew what that meant.

“You don't have to do that, if you don't wanna,” he said. Flint himself enjoyed that particular act very much - both the receiving and the giving - but he didn't want Silver to feel like he had to, like he owed Flint somehow.

“I wanna,” Silver said simply, then popped open the buttons on Flint’s jeans one by one, making a noise like a purr when he saw that Flint wasn't wearing any underwear. He drew him out slowly, and then he was right there, taking him in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Flint gritted out when he felt Silver’s hot, wet mouth on him. “Oh, John, yes. Baby, please,” he gasped, one hand cradling the back of his head, threading his weathered, rough fingers in those deliciously soft dark curls.

Silver was phenomenal at it, because of course he was, and Flint found he couldn't even get a coherent thought together once he felt the pure ecstasy of Silver’s tongue licking at him while one skilled hand worked Flint’s cock. Flint cursed under his breath, fingers tightening in Silver’s hair. He wanted to hold off, to last longer so he could feel more of that exquisite pleasure, but he was getting close already. Silver had that effect on him, it seemed.

“John, darlin’, please,” he said, not even sure what he was begging for. Then Silver braced both hands on his hips, leaned in, and took his cock right down his throat. It was all over. Flint’s vision whited out, and only Silver’s hands on his hips kept him from bucking up into his face. He came with a hoarse shout, then slumped over backwards on the bed, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Dimly he felt Silver crawl up into the bed with him as he recovered, and reached out for him. “I'm a lot older’n you and my knees are pretty much shot, but I'd very much like to return the favor,” he said once he could speak again, shifting around so he was lying the right way on the bed instead of across it. “C’mere,” he said, patting his chest.

Silver looked at him questioningly but then seemed to understand, wriggling out of his jeans and underpants. He shifted up the bed until he was near Flint’s head, then slung a leg over his torso and sat on his chest. “Is this okay? I'm not too heavy for you, am I?” he asked.

Flint just smirked up at him and put one hand on the small of Silver's back, wrapping his other hand around his cock. He leaned in and took him into his mouth, reveling in the taste of him, the weight of his cock on his tongue. He hadn't done this in a while, but he felt confident he was still just as good at it as ever. If Silver's reaction was anything to go by, he was correct. He threw his head back and swore, his thighs tightening on either side of Flint’s chest.

Flint pulled back a little to just lick and suck the head of Silver's cock, glancing up at him. Silver was flushed all over, his cock so hard it looked painful, his eyes half-shut as he looked down at Flint.

“Please,” Silver said, so Flint quit messing around and took him in his mouth again, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked fiercely. The hand on Silver's lower back drifted down, and then Flint started rubbing his hole with two fingers, teasing him.

“Oh, fuck,” Silver gasped, then began frantically rocking his hips back and forth like he couldn't decide whether he wanted Flint’s fingers or his mouth more. “Fucking hell, James, I-- I can't-- I'm coming,” he cried out, his voice breaking. Flint got his first taste of him then, salty and a little sweet with a bitter edge.

Flint swallowed and pulled back, licking Silver clean gently before settling back on the bed. He rested both hands on Silver’s thighs, kneading the impressive muscles.

Silver groaned softly, then slid off Flint to one side, wrapping an arm around him and nuzzling his neck. “You sure are talented. I wonder what else you're good at,” he said in his ear, pressing up against him like he was already thinking about going for another round.

Flint chuckled and kissed the top of his head. “Easy there, cowboy. We've got time,” he said, looking down into his bright blue eyes.

Silver looked back up at him, his expression open and trusting, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You know what I wonder?” he asked as they both shut their eyes and began drifting off.

“Mm?” Flint asked, half-asleep already.

“How come there's no gay country music? Like, I think it could be a huge genre and really successful, given the right audience. The problem with that dudebro country music is the heteronormativity,” he said.

Flint just snorted. “Go to sleep, John.”

As he fell asleep with Silver in his arms, those curls tickling his nose and the taste of Silver lingering on his tongue, he wondered why on earth he'd ever fought this so hard. Now that he had a hold on Silver, he didn't intend to ever let go.