The roar of the engine mixes with the howling of the wind and the rush of adrenaline in Dismas' veins. It is an intoxicating concoction, underlined by the smell of dust and diesel fuel.
The night is young, and perfect for a ride –warm and clear, with all the stars out to guide their way.
For the longest time the bike was Dismas' one pride and joy. He had bought it from a fence, but whoever its previous owners had been, they had not taken good care of it. He'd taken it apart and built it anew, and now it is a thing of power and beauty. Much like the man on the back seat, holding onto his hips.
Dismas smirks at the thought. Reynauld would not appreciate the comparison.
It had been a year ago now that they had taken down the notorious crime boss El Abuelo. Fourteen months to the day since he had decided to chat up one lonely off-duty officer in Jubert's taphouse, and had ended up arrested for his effort, and was forced into working with the law enforcement.
Asphalt gives way to gravel as they reach their destination, and then they roll down the final meters of the grassy slope before coming to a halt. Dismas kills the engine and climbs from the motorcycle. He watches Reynauld do the same and pull off the helmet. Out of habit, Reynauld runs his fingers through his light brown hair, the action messing it up even more.
It's actually Dismas' helmet, but unlike him, Reynauld has something in his noggin' worth protecting, so he had given it to the other man.
Dismas clears his throat. He ain't the most self-conscious person, but every now and then he has his moments.
"You stay here, luv."
A raised eyebrow is the only reaction he gets, but Dismas doesn't answer Reynauld's silent question. He'll see soon enough.
The ex-highwayman ducks under the low-hanging branches of a nearby copse of trees, coming out on a small clearing on the other side. It's cooler here, and more humid. In the reeds of the nearby river, crickets stop their chirping as he passed. Overhead, fireflies flicker and dance in courtship, desire flashing through their tiny bodies.
It's a lovely place.
He'd found peace here, before, whenever he had needed a break from the city. A life of crime and being on the run take their toll even on a professional like him. Water laps gently at the shore, and one of those wooden camping benches stands on a solitary watch. It is slowly being overgrown by tall grasses, but today there is a basket resting on top.
Dismas digs around the breast pocket of his leather jacket, and fishes out two objects. The pack of cigarettes goes right back in. The lighter he uses to light the candles. They flicker, the orange flame instantly gnawing away at the darkness.
It's not much, and Dismas feels stupid for coming here, for wanting to share this place – but he wanted something nice for them, for today. They almost hadn't lived to have anything more than hastily whispered confessions of love when neither believed they would see another sunrise, and Reynauld was bleeding out from a punctured lung.
"Shut up," Dismas huffs, when he can feel Reynauld's amusement at seeing the scene. Unlike Reynauld, he likes romance. He just ain't no good at it. So he holds out his hand, linking their fingers.
"C'mon, soldier. Will ya do me the honor?"
He doesn't know how to dance, but Reynauld sure does. And therefore, it's easy. Dismas just responds to the tug and push, steps back when Reynauld steps forward, and just like that, their bodies moving to their own rhythm, speaking a language that does not require words.
Eventually they stop, and if they never go back to the city, Dismas thinks that'd be fine too. Nothing matters besides that intense look in Reynauld's eyes as he reaches up and tugs the scarf from Dismas' face.
Reynauld's warm palms are hard and rough, but he knows how to be gentle as well as to do harm. His lips are soft as he bends down to kiss Dismas breathless.
One year.
Dismas sure as hell is looking forward to the second.