Provided he doesn't freeze to death first, that is. "Wouldya quite that stupid shivering and get over here?" A slurred voice calls out from the other bed, and Ratso curses himself for waking Joe up. Joe needs his sleep. If he ain't healthy, then neither of them have a chance. "I'm fine, I'm --" "Don't make me come over there." That was the deal with Joe – he'd do it. Just climb outta bed and pluck him up like he weighed nothing and carry him to the bed. Stubborn Texans, all alike (not that Ratso's met any other Texans, but he lives with one, and he's seen TV and movies, so he figures he's somewhat of an expert and yeah, Joe fits the bill to a motherfucking tee, all mile-long legs and an obstinate nature to rival a bull's.) "Okay, man, I was just..." A fit of coughing stops Ratso in mid-sentence, and he gives up the fight. He shuffles across the dingy room, dragging his threadbare blanket and pillow with him. Joe pulls his blanket up in invitation and Ratso slides in, grateful for the warmth. His joints feel like they're frozen. "Maybe we could – damn, feels good – sell you out as a furnace." Joe's soft laughter is affectionate against the back of his neck. "Got a hard enough time selling my body." "Yeah, but this isn't –" Ratso plucks at the threads of his blanket, scoots closer to the heat of Joe's body. Too cold for much else, but he just, well, he'd kill anyone for saying it out loud, but he likes this, this whole cuddling in the dark with their voices all disconnected. In the dark, Ratso could look like anyone, he could be Omar Sharif or Robert Redford or anybody. Joe, of course, is always Joe, beautiful and dumb and incandescent. "Y'know, when we get to Florida –" "Would you quit with that?" When Joe gets annoyed, he stretches his words into seventeen syllables of pique. "What the hell's in Florida anyways? Besides coconuts?" "Well, it's warm, for one thing." Ratso huffs out a breath, and, even in the dark, they can both clearly see the white wisps. "Won't argue with that one," Joe replies, and Ratso almost yelps when a cold nose is pressed against the side of his neck. "Cain't feel my damn toes." "See, that's what I'm talking about," Ratso says, trying (and failing, he knows) to keep the fervor out of his voice, "you're just not made for this kinda weather, Joe. You need to be someplace...colorful." "Colorful?" "Yeah...white beaches, blue sky, azure ocean..." "What's azure mean?" Ratso pats Joe's hand, awkward and apologetic. "It's like blue-green. It's a...really pretty color." "Okay." "Could buy you one of those snazzy pair of short swim trunks," Ratso adds, because the idea's been haunting him for weeks. Thighs like Joe's were made for the shortest shorts possible, or maybe immortalized like the statue of David or something. "What would I want those for?" "Dunno. Just thinking maybe –" "Y'just wanna see me in 'em, doncha?" Joe asks, amusement rich in his voice, and tightens his arm around Ratso's waist. "Well, I..." "Just admit it." "Yeah. Maybe." "Thought so." The kiss to Ratso's unkempt hair is soft, a testament to the late night and the pervasive darkness that hides and keeps secrets that would wither away in the harsh light of the sun. "I'm wise to you now." "Think so, do ya?" The grin falls flat as another coughing fits wracks Ratso's thin frame. He thinks he might kill someone just for one day with a healthy set of lungs. Hell, these days, he thinks he might kill someone for a variety of reasons (not that he'd ever go through with it, he's a thinker, not an action man, not like Joe, who always acts first, damn the consequences, and wouldn't know how to think his way out of an elevator, which, if he's honest, is just one of the reasons why Ratso likes him so much). "Stay still, wouldya?" Ratso can hear the concern overlaid with the gruffness of Joe's tone, and the thought brings an inward, poignant smile to his face. Not that he plans on dying anytime soon, but he does fear for Joe after he's gone, fears for what'll happen to him without someone there to think for him. Joe's not the type to make it on his own. "I'm alright." It comes out as a rasp. "Just need some rest." "So get it already and stop yer yammerin'." "Yeah, okay." Ratso's fingers tighten over Buck's as his eyes close. Talk of Florida, of plans, could wait. Not like either of them's going anywhere. Not until they get some damn money, and Ratso has plans about that, too. "Nite, Joe." The reply is a garbled twang of peace and belonging. "Nite, Rico."
|