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He counts the days that come between them.
Boothill has never considered himself the type to get attached—not really in the traditional sense. He likes others plenty and just fine, but the life of a Galaxy Ranger is very specific: there isn’t time to get attached, and he has a rodeo of things to work through.
Lately, though, he finds himself aboard the Astral Express enough times that there’s a room set aside for him; that Pom Pom greets him with a smile, and Himeko gives him a curled, knowing grin as she watches from across the room with a tilted gaze.
Downright ridiculous. There’s no need to be gawking—but then he hears Argenti’s smooth voice, and then it's then it’s Boothill doing the gawking.
“We have got to stop meeting like this, my Silver Cowboy.”
It’s a stupid thing to say, and sounds even more ridiculous in that high-class inflection that frames Argenti’s tone. Argenti is relaxed, though, sitting there on one of the Express’s soft chairs, nursing a late-night cup of tea between his hands.
Boothill leans against the booth frame, an elbow resting on the back of it. “Like this?” He twists slightly and makes a salacious gesture, one that he tries to hide from any wayward eyes. “Or like this?”
Argenti laughs. “As one might say, what a wild thing you are.”
“Dastardly, I’d wager.” Boothill looks around the train car and finds it empty. It’s late enough that the others are asleep. All that he hears and feels is the hum of the engine, and its soft sway as it flies through space.
“Dastardly?” asks Argenti, his mouth curling into a smirk. “A rather crass word to call yourself, no?”
“Crass—” Boothill stills, considering the word. “Well, fudge it, I suppose that’s alright for me to say.”
“It’s not exactly a curse, depending on who you’re talking to. Still—”
The couch sags underneath his weight as Boothill leans closer. “You never answered my question, Red.”
Argenti’s expression is amused. “Oh?”
“Like this,” says Boothill, again, “or like this?”
It takes nothing to cross the space. There’s no one there to watch, to be concerned, just Argenti and that damnable cup of tea. Boothill plucks the cup from his hands and places it politely onto the saucer resting on the table. Then he turns back to Argenti, their faces close.
They do not immediately meet. Boothill knows that Argenti likes to look at him, likes to rake his gaze over his face and take his time soaking up the sight.
Argenti does just that, laughing softly as he reaches out and curls his fingers into Boothill’s vest. “I’ve missed you,” he mutters. “Everything is so dull when we’re separated.”
Dull, indeed. Not that Boothill thinks he’s a paragon of beauty, but Argenti certainly seems to think so, going on about Idrila and the Beauty of others—primarily Boothill. He’s handsome, he supposes, in a rugged, dilapidated sort of way, but Argenti makes it easy to forget that he’s a shell of a man with only revenge underneath his belt. It’s easy to fall into his praise, into his hands, even if he can only sort-of feel that touch.
But kisses—Boothill’s body might be more machine than man, but his mouth works just fine. Argenti laughs when he dips close, crossing that distance, pressing their mouths together sweetly.
This is new to him. He’s never really done this sort of philandering. Boothill’s trysts are fast and quick, one-and-done sorts of dealings. Even here, Argenti has to cup his cheek and slow him down, has to coax him into something soft and lingering.
“Handsome,” says Argenti against his lips. “Always a delight to see. You hold a beauty that…”
“Shirt.” The curse always sounds terrible, but it just makes Argenti laugh, thumbing over the rise of his cheekbone. “I mean— sonnuva—”
“That question you earlier asked,” cuts in Argenti. “This or this. The answer is obvious, and yet you’re the one wasting time worrying over your speech.”
“Screw a man for being worried about the way he comes off.” Boothill’s hand tightens against his thigh as he tries to ground himself. “Not everyone’s capable of all that fancy, highfalutin’ language—”
“And not everyone cares about that,” says Argenti. “Some of us just want to be kissed by the person we’ve missed desperately.” He sighs, his breath warm against Boothill’s mouth. He tastes, smells like tea, and those fancy hair oils that Boothill knows are tucked away in his room. “So, again I say, I’ve missed you. Everything is so very dull when you are not here.”
Boothill gets the point. He grunts, gruffly, but Aeons, he gets the damn point. “Darling,” he finally says, the endearment slipping from his tongue so easily. For others, it’s flirtatious, just part of that cowboy persona—but for Argenti it’s genuine, and he knows that, smiling against Boothill’s face. “I’ve missed you too. Why do you think I’m here?”
Truthfully, they could meet anywhere they want. It’s clear that the stars have aligned to make this a thing, but the Astral Express is easy, neutral ground. They have friends here who turn a blind eye, and for a small pocket, for a scant few moments, he doesn’t have to worry about the revenge the turns his blood—
“Red,” says Boothill, then, that thought becoming distracting, “you really know how to make a man forget himself.”
“Forget himself, as well as the request so graciously made. Are you going to kiss me or not? Shall I begin to take drastic measures?”
Boothill has an inkling as to what drastic measures might be, and it has his mouth twisting up at one end. “Well then, say no more.”
He kisses Argenti just as requested, and this is deeper, hotter, sloppy even. Nips of his sharp teeth against the swell of Argenti’s mouth. This time, when Argenti laughs, it’s to reel him back. “Alright, alright—”
Alright indeed. Boothill slows, licking into his mouth, and just like that, Argenti loses any other thoughts and words.
They’ll fall into a room later where the bed isn’t the best, but the sheets are soft, and Argenti is warm. For now, though, this is enough, this is what he wants. Boothill cups Argenti’s face and kisses him like he’s finally come home.