Long chapter, I just love seeing them having fun together, it writes itself. Thank you so much for the love and the suggestions, Shadow, why do you live in my brain? We're constantly on the same wavelength, it's getting a little crowded in my head with John and Alex already taking up residence! You guys are the bomb dot com and I love reviews like Alex loves cheap rum.

"Okay, what museum do you want to do first?" John set his notebook on the counter of the diner we sat in.

"Well it sounds like the World War II one is pretty good, but I think it's an all day sort of affair. Definitely want to check out the pharmacy museum, and I mean, we're in New Orleans, so we have to go on a Voodoo tour and a cemetery tour. Swamp tour could be fun, I'd know you'd really like that. There's the Louisiana museum, which seems pretty neat as well."

"But what should we do today?"

"Um, hold on, let me see the map."

He handed me the crumpled map from the hotel lobby. I worked to find the cross streets of the museums we were interested in and plotted them all with my pen, I circled the closest ones.

"What are you doing?" He leaned on the heel of his hand and chewed at a piece of toast.

"Okay, these are what's closest to each other. We've got Voodoo and Pharmacy, the state museum's right here, too. So we could knock those three out in a day, that's all super close to the French Quarter, so we can do a cemetery tour that day, too, then over here the Civil War Museum, the art museum, and the World War II museum are in this little cluster."

"God, I love the way your brain works."

I took a glug of coffee and looked at him, "it's just good logic, so what do you want to do today? Swamp and beach are separate since those will be more like day trips."

"I guess we do the World War II one first since it's the biggest."

"That's my John, always wanting the biggest." I winked at him.

"You're ridiculous, are you done with breakfast?"

"Yeah, I'm ready to get rolling. Let's go."

We paid the bill and found the streetcar, John looked confused and timid as I watched the map on my phone change as we crossed through the city.

"You sure you know where we're going?" John asked.

"I make public transit my bitch, I got this. If I can navigate New York, I think I can handle New Orleans."

He nodded slowly, looking at my phone, trying to make sense of the information, "you're better at the subway than me."

"I've got like fifteen years of living in the city on you."

I easily navigated us to the connecting bus and we got off near the museum, walking a few blocks to the domineering, multi building museum. We bought our tickets and started wandering the exhibits, parting to look at the different artifacts and inscriptions and sneaking up on one another with a hand on a hip, chin rest on a shoulder, kiss on the cheek. We wandered deeper into the museum.

"Whoa. That's a damned fine looking cannon." I read the inscription.

"I didn't know you liked cannons so much."

"Absolutely, artillery is definitely the way to go. I would so be an artillery guy if I was ever in the military. Most bang for your buck with this bigger firepower."

John snickered at the thought of me in the military, but lifted his camera from where it hung around his neck and snapped a picture of the cannon before he moseyed away to look at something he found interesting, I followed him, getting sidetracked along the way. When I caught up to him he was staring at a wall of text pulling a face, hands on the straps of his camera.

"What'd you find?" I snaked my hands around his waist and read over his shoulder.

"This is some serious bullshit. They wanted all hands on deck for the war, but they barely let blacks fight in it, making them cooks and shit, not even giving them honourable roles. What bullshit is that? Come away from your family to defend a country that hates you and then still won't even let you properly fight for it. Bullshit."

"You're so heated."

"It's just not fair! Our country marginalizes people at every turn."

"It is kind of what we do."

We made our way through the impressive size of the museum, there were letters from soldiers that I enjoyed reading. John liked watching the videos set up playing interviews with soldiers, I watched him lineup several shots, fiddling with knobs and buttons on his camera, never growing tired of watching him doing what he loved.

"Some pretty neat stuff." John sighed as we spilled back onto the humid New Orleans street.

"Definitely. Want to do the Civil War museum or the art museum next?" I found his hand as we crossed the street.

"I heard that the art museum was kind of lame. We have the MoMA in our backyard, let's see stuff we can't see anywhere else."

"Fair points."

The Civil War museum was across from our last stop, an old building one long room that wrapped around a staircase. John shook his head and made disgruntled faces at the flags on display.

"My poor social justice warrior. How did you survive living in South Carolina?" I leaned my head on his shoulder while I read.

"Lots of drugs and getting shot."

"Makes so much more sense now."

We got to a case of field doctors' tools and John stared in, the first thing he'd taken pictures of in here.

"Blegh, can you imagine getting a leg lopped off with that?" I pointed to a bone saw.

"Super cool, right?"

"You are one sick puppy sometimes."

"No, it's just, I really like medicine. I told you I was going to be a doctor for a while right?"

"Well, I like medicine a lot, too. But I generally don't think of horrifying bone saws as, 'super cool.'"

"Whatever." He nudged me with a hip.

We quickly made it through that museum and decided it was time for food. I led him toward the French Quarter, only a mile walk, nothing for two New York transplants. I had a pretty good idea of where we at from looking at the map over breakfast.

"Alright, what's for lunch?"

He stared at the frenzy of people on the streets, not sure where to go, "I don't, um…"

I spotted a restaurant in one of the prettier buildings down the street and took charge, placing my hand on the small of John's back, guiding him there. We were seated and looked at the menu.

"Can you eat anything here?" I asked him in a hushed voice.

"I'll figure it out."

"Can you eat anywhere in this city?" I smirked at him.

"I mean… maybe? I'm not worried about it."

We ordered and had our drinks delivered, John's came decorated with fruit, much fancier than my rum and coke.

"Want a strawberry?" He held the berry out.

"Sure." I took it and ate a bite of the ripe drunken fruit, not realizing how hungry I was.

"Have you ever had crawfish?" He asked me.

"Nope, not a lot of fresh water in PR."

"It's really good. Me and Martha used to go down to a creek on our property and catch them in the summer, then our nanny would boil them up for us. Or when we got older we'd do it over a fire outside with friends and then you turn the pot out over newspaper and it's just a free for all." He smiled at the memory.

"You know, you could probably have some while we're here. I won't tell PETA."

He grinned at me, "promise?"

"Promise."

Our food came out, I tucked into my gumbo and watched John enjoy his salad and a side of mashed potatoes. Industrious guy.

"How's your gumbo?" He asked.

"Really good. I actually remember mi abuela making something like this, but the meat was different."

"That's neat." John smiled.

"So what do you want to do tomorrow?"

"Figured we could go to the beach if you don't mind? Get it out of the way."

I smiled at him, "beach sounds great."

"Okay, if you're sure. I'll schedule the rental car."

"Rental car? Where are we going?"

"Little beach a couple of hours away. I get to take you on a road trip."

I grinned at him, remembering how much he likes to drive, no matter how terrifying it might be.

We finished our dinner and paid the bill.

"Want to go get stupid drunk with me?" I offered, relaxed by the two drinks I'd had with our meal.

"It's still early." He protested.

I checked the time, "it's already almost six, we did museums all day, and they all close at five."

"Alright, let's go get drunk. That's what you're supposed to do when you're in New Orleans."

We went deeper into the quarter, I lagged behind, staring up at the gorgeous buildings, like me, they were a little bit French, a little bit Spanish in a way that was all American, weathered and battered from storms, from hurricanes. Beautiful ironworks on the second story balconies, decorated with flower baskets. Ornate shutters lined the plentiful windows on each building.

"You coming?" John asked, our arms pulled straight from my lagging, still connected by our hands.

"Yeah, sorry, just look at how beautiful all of these buildings are."

He backpedaled a few steps to me and could see what I saw, he lifted his camera and backed across the street without looking, eyes fixed to his viewfinder, I smirked at the recklessness that still bubbled below his surface.

He tucked the camera in his bag and joined me again.

"It's really beautiful down here." He smiled.

"It is, the French influence is crazy to see." I agreed.

"We should send a picture to Laf." He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture, sending it to the Frenchman.

We entered a bar, loud and grungy, stickers and posters adorned the wall, the bartender looked like he was missing from an '80s punk band from New Jersey, hair spiked into a mohawk, band shirt, bottle opener tucked into a sweatband on his forearm. We sidled up the bar and John ordered a beer, I stuck with my rum and coke.

"Got two for one hurricanes." The bartender suggested.

"The one I had with dinner was pretty good." John shrugged.

We ordered the brightly coloured drinks and paid. John sipped his.

"This one's a lot more koolaid-y." He commented.

"Well, it's also two for one and came out of a gatorade barrel." I remarked, taking a drink.

Oh, shit, these were easy to drink, enough rum to be effective, but John was right, it was like drinking koolaid. We were in three a piece before we realized, just talking about the day and the things that we'd seen. Outside the bar grew louder than inside. We tabbed out and left the bar, the streets were filled with people, a jazz band played in the middle of the road, either end of the block was blocked off by police, people danced and beads were flung.

"It's Sunday night!" John yelled over the band.

"But it's New Orleans."

He swayed in time to the music, leaning into me, I gripped his hip, jerking him back against me.

"So fucking sexy." I growled right into his ear.

He shivered against me and rolled his hips back. I closed my eyes and took his hair in my fist, kissing along the nape of his neck, salty and damp with sweat. I grazed my teeth along his shoulder. We kept swaying, dancing, in the street to the brassy zydeco band. The noise and the hordes of people, just as drunk as us gave us anonymity. He turned in my arms and thrust his leg between my own, pressing his thigh against my crotch, giving me blessed friction to rut against as he leaned down to kiss me. The world felt black and heavy, the noise of the street drowned out by the taste of rum on John's mouth.

"Take me home." He whimpered into my ear.

"Done. Want a drink for the road?" I steadied him against me and he nodded.

We drank more fruity rum on the way to the bus stop, my arm around John, keeping us both steady and upright, he wedged his hand in my back pocket, squeezing my ass through the fabric. We rode the bus to the streetcar and found our hotel. We rode the elevator to our floor and found our room. I shoved him down on the bed and kissed him roughly. Clothing was torn off roughly, an act of desperation, both of our bodies were slick with sweat from the heat outside. I nipped at his jaw, inhaling his scent deeply, my cock twitched at the familiarity.

He was moaning beneath me, his eyes shut, head tipped back. I kissed along his throat where he exposed it.

"I want it." He cried.

"I know you do. So dirty for me." I tugged his hair.

"All for you, Alex."

I readied him, the alcohol loosening his tensity, making it easy work to relax him.

"You feeling good?" I asked him, three fingers seated inside him.

"So good. Can I ride you?"

"Oh, of course you can. You are dirty for me." I pulled my fingers free and scooted up the bed.

He straddled me, weight balanced on all fours, he sat up, one hand splayed on his chest, the other on my cock, guiding me home. Our groans mingled as he sat hard on me, our hips meeting. The sensation and the drinks made my head spin. Neither of us spoke, communicating only in facial expressions and guttural sounds. I squeezed his thighs as he rocked his hips, I watched his untouched cock bob with his movements, pre leaking from it. I raked my hands over his stomach and took him in hand. He bounced, up and down, fast, the dueling sensations rushing him to the cliffs. He bent over me and kissed me softly, complete contrast to the actions of the lower half of his body, perfectly John. He cupped my face and brushed my hair back. We came in tandem, he lie over me, both of us panting.

He lifted himself off of me and stood, the sound of his knee popping didn't escape me, I'd become hyper aware to it since he'd told me.

He noticed the face I made as he cleaned himself up with a baby wipe and flopped into bed next to me again.

"I'm fine." He reassured me.

"But that sound." I wrapped him up in my arms, neither of us caring how sticky and sweaty we still were, deciding it was just a part of being in the subtropical environment.

"It's just a sound, see, I can make it happen," He stuck his leg out straight in the air and turned his ankle from side to side, eliciting little clicks that become full fledged pops when he hinged the joint, "doesn't hurt, really. I mean it's a little stiff after walking all day, but I took Aleve earlier like the old man I am. Nothing down here can make it hurt as much as a New York winter."

"I, ugh, that sound, it just sounds so painful."

"I'm okay, babe, really." He snuggled against me.

I closed my eyes and felt him press a kiss to my lips and I breathed out long and slow, close to sleep, "...that ass put a man to sleep. Night, queri...do…."

Sun spilled through the open curtains like it was on a crusade to hurt me. John was stroking my hair. I blinked against the sun and looked at him. He had two cups waiting for me, one of water and one of shitty hotel room coffee. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and found a sense of gravity, my head pounded. I took the water that John handed me as well as the pills he'd had tucked up in his palm, I swallowed them, not sure of the quantity or contents. Sipped the rest of the water and took the cup of coffee, the aroma having the effect of smelling salts to an unconscious man, making me slightly more alert.

John was fine, bouncing around, t-shirt and shorts already on, must have showered, his damp hair pulled high in a messy bun, short little curls already falling from it around his face and the nape of his neck, water darkening the collar of his shirt.

"You seem fine." I said, almost resentfully.

"That's because I drink water… every single day."

I leaned farther forward, bracing my forehead in my hand, "always knew a fucking hurricane would kill me, just thought it wouldn't taste so damn good."

He sat beside me and rubbed my shoulders, "poor, baby. You can sleep the whole car ride, but we've gotta get going and pick up the car from the airport."

I took a deep breath and stretched, testing all of my limbs and slugged back the coffee in two gulps. I dressed in a t-shirt and shorts and grabbed my book and sunglasses.

"Alright," I cleared my throat, "let's go."

John gave me a sympathetic look and we were off. On the streetcar I leaned against him with my eyes shut, even with sunglasses the world was too fucking bright.

"I'm sorry you're so hungover, love. You usually fare so much better than me. It was fun to see you cut loose, though. I figure once we get closer, let you sleep for an hour or two we can stop at Target or Walmart or something and get you some trunks and towels and snacks and all that. Sound good."

I nodded against his chest and earned a sympathetic giggle from him as he rubbed his hand over my back.