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It takes them six days to leave San Juan.
Or, no. They take six days to leave. There isn’t much rush, Cougar says, wiping the blood from his split lip, and besides, it gives Roque time to get his affairs in order. He leaves the bar to Michel, who asks no questions—neither of Roque’s reasons for leaving nor of Roque and Cougar’s bloodied fists and mouths—and Cougar climbs into the passenger seat of Roque’s shitty truck and accompanies him back to the small piece of land he’s carved out for himself.
It’s simple, a house and the little bit of land around it. A chicken coop to the side. The most complex thing about the house is its plumbing; his nearest neighbor is some five hundred feet away, and even as hyper-vigilant as he is, Roque has never seen need to replace the half-door and curtain that separates the inside of the house from the rest of the world.
Roque wants to believe that he’ll come back, when everything is said and done. He even wants to believe that maybe Cougar will come back with him.
He throws his things into his duffel, clothes and knives and ammo, and by the time he’s finished, there’s hardly anything left but bare shelves and sun-warmed sheets. He’s been a ghost, haunting the land but never settling.
Cougar stands in the doorway, silent and watchful.
“Where are they?” Roque asks, just to break the quiet.
“Roque,” Cougar says, instead of answering. The wooden floors creak beneath his weight as he takes a step forward, places his warm hand gentle on the curve Roque’s shoulder.
Roque wants to shake him off, push him away. It’s what he would do if it were Clay. But it’s not Clay, it’s Cougar. Cougar, who came back for him. Cougar, who kept his promise. Roque clenches his jaw, biting hard into the soft flesh of his cheek, and exhales roughly. He lets his shoulders fall in, loose and rounded, and Cougar’s hand falls away all the same.
That is day one.
They sleep in the bed—a king size mattress that takes up most of the room, with heavy cotton sheets and an exorbitant number of pillows—back to back, two mountains separated by the river of empty space between them. Cougar leaves his hat on the night stand, and Roque takes the side furthest from the window.
Day two, and Cougar sits by Roque’s side at the cheap folding table on the front porch, hat shading his eyes from the sun. There are chickens clucking and warbling, scavenging for scraps. Roque watches them, face tilted, and the sunlight turns the ripples of his brown skin golden and burnished.
“Roque.” Cougar tries again.
“Why not leave me dead?” Roque asks, voice a low rumble. He leans back in the cheap plastic folding chair until it creaks, turning to look at Cougar down the line of his nose.
Cougar stretches his legs out beneath the table, and one of the chickens squawks in alarm before hopping on top of his right boot with a loud rustle of feathers.
“I promised.” He says eventually, bringing a hand up to tip his hat back and meet Roque’s eyes. “I promised you.”
I wanted to, he doesn’t say, but Roque knows that most of what Cougar means is in what he doesn’t say.
That night, they crawl into the bed and lie down, again back to back. But Cougar presses back further, or maybe Roque does, until they line up, until Roque can feel the knobs of Cougar’s spine against his own.
Day three unfolds and Cougar makes coffee. He warms the milk in the tiniest pot Roque owns and tosses Roque a banana without looking when he comes out of the bedroom.
“It would be better, with you.” Cougar tells him, which is just as much an answer to Roque’s question from before as it is an almost casual observation.
“Is it bad?” Roque asks mildly. Without me, he means. He grabs a dish towel off the counter to pick up the little stovetop cafetera and pours out two cups. Cougar watches him and then accepts the towel to pick up the pan of milk. Roque still takes his coffee with more milk than anything, and Cougar still takes his with an obscene amount of sugar.
They sit out on the porch again, and the chickens cluck and peck at the ground near their feet. They watch the sunlight bounce off the trees, off the slopes of the mountains.
“No.” Cougar takes a sip of his coffee, holding the mug with both hands. “But it’s incomplete.”
“Bullshit.” Roque says, brusque and in English. The word is strange in his mouth, the language almost unfamiliar, he’s gone so long without it.
Cougar clicks his tongue, derisive, and sticks to Spanish. “Your absence shines.”
“They don’t need me,” Roque argues. You don’t need me, he wants to spit, but the words sit heavy on his tongue, unspoken. He doesn’t want give them the chance to be true.
“They do. I can see it.” Cougar says it with conviction, and Roque is helpless to do anything but believe him. Cougar knows the team, sometimes in ways the team doesn’t even know itself. But even so—
“And,” Cougar continues, cutting Roque away from his own thoughts, “I want you. There.”
He says it just like that, with a pause that is teasing, would be coy on anyone else, and suddenly, Roque just—can’t—
The folding chair drags harsh against the concrete, startling the chickens into a frenzy, but by then, Roque has already slipped away from the table, away from Cougar, and into the house. Cougar doesn’t follow him. He stays outside and finishes his coffee, throws a handful of bread crumbs and seed to the chickens and then goes to wash the coffee mugs.
Roque is already curled up in the bed by the time the sun sets, and Cougar crawls into the space left. From outside, the chirp of insects and the soft echo of the wind. Cougar turns until he can stare at the skew of Roque’s shoulder blades, the rise and fall of his ribs, the cant of his hips, half-cast in shadow by the faint moonlight.
“I don’t lie,” He tells the tense lines of Roque’s body, voice resounding in the stillness of the room. “Not to you.”
Day four, Cougar takes Roque’s hand in his own, runs his fingers over the ridges and dips of the burns that he finds there. “Come back with me.”
Roque doesn’t answer.
They sleep face to face, fingers tangled, Cougar’s eyes gleaming and luminescent.
Day five, Roque is gone when Cougar wakes up. Cougar… panics. The chickens are gone, not sleeping or foraging, and the small plot of land is eerily quiet without them. The sky is overcast, thick mists hiding the mountain peaks from sight. The duffel bag is still in the corner of the bedroom, but Roque wouldn’t need it if he wanted to leave. Roque wouldn’t need anything at all, and that's what Cougar fears the most.
When Roque comes back, Cougar is on the front porch, sitting on the cold cement with his head buried in the valley of his folded legs. He looks up when he hears the rustle of Roque’s movement. His eyes are red.
Roque shifts, uncomfortable, knowing. He’s carrying a paper bag full of food. Breakfast.
They go into the house without speaking, without acknowledging the tender red skin beneath Cougar’s eyes, without drawing attention to Roque’s nervous energy. Breakfast is simple, good. A baguette, still warm from the baker’s oven and smoked chorizo picante. There’s a jar of honey and they take turns drizzling it over the bread, sticky and sweet.
Roque hands Cougar the spoon to scoop out more honey and tells him: “I wouldn’t leave you behind.”
That night, they sleep face to face again, but closer, palms pressed to palms and knees bumping.
Dawn of day six comes and goes, and neither of them move. The sun shines bright through the thin curtains of the bedroom window, warming the sheets. Cougar fingers are warm against Roque’s wrist.
They eventually get up to eat, picking at fruit and bread and Roque puts on the cafetera, but after, they find themselves back in bed. The sheets smell like sunshine. This time, Roque reaches out, lets his fingers trace the light edges of Cougar’s hand, his arm, the sweep of his forehead.
“I told you to forget me,” He whispers. His voice trembles. Closer, closer. Soon.
Cougar’s eyes are warm, as deep brown as Roque’s own. He blinks when Roque’s fingers pass over his brow, long lashes sweeping down and up again.
“You’re too important to forget,” Cougar whispers back. Closer still.
Roque’s fingers fall away, and he rolls over onto his back. Cougar takes his hand.
Roque stares up at the ceiling and demands: “Ask me again.”
A pause.
“Carlos.” Roque pleads, and that’s what it is; a softly-spoken plea, an ocean of meaning packed into a single word. Into a single name.
Cougar swallows, thick, and asks again, without asking: “Come back with me.”
And Roque looks at their hands, fingers still tangled, and says yes.