The Gentleness That Comes

Summary:

Jake is recovering from the gunshot wound, and Silva fears he will disappear and he'll never see him again once he does. Emotions overpower him, but despite everything, Jake is there to hold him.

Notes:

Hello dear reader!
Here I come with a new story of this Western short movie I absolutely loved.
This story is set after the movie, so BIG SPOILERS if you haven't been able to watch it.
ENJOY!

"We have not touched the stars,

nor are we forgiven, which brings us back

to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes,

not from the absence of violence, but despite

the abundance of it."

Richard Sikens

The gunshot wound was healing. Each day that passed Jake regained strength, he was now able to walk to the dining room table for meals and to use the outhouse without Silva's help.

Not that he wanted that anyway.

Silva walked to the porch and slumped into a bench. His eyes looked at his horses running around in the enclosure but they were not really seeing anything.

He'd blown it.

He'd taken a risk by shooting Jake. But he'd imagined, he'd hoped that by showing him his love and appreciation, by caring for him and tending to him － and not just his wound －, he'd win his heart. The heart that had been so easy to win twenty-five years ago, but now seemed as cold as ice.

He closed his eyes and swallowed around a lump in his throat. His eyes were burning and he clenched his hands in fists, his nails digging into the skin. He could hear Jake moving around inside the house but he had no strength to look back, to see him back on his feet and further and further away from him. The clock was ticking, and he was sure Jake would leave him any day now.

He tried to breathe and calm down his tremors, but it only sounded wheezing. His head was spinning and even if he closed his eyes, all he could feel and hear was a sour taste in his mouth and the dully thudding in his chest.

His ears caught the sound of Jake's boots behind him, and he opened his eyes. He had to blink several times, his gaze was blurry. His eyes fell onto the barn in front of him, unfocused and hazy. He clenched his jaw and took a ragged breath...

But then, a warm hand fell on his shoulder. The grip was strong but not threatening, and it made him gasp.

The old bench creaked when Jake sat beside him, with still slow and careful movements, his hand on his shoulder for support. And then, the hand moved down his arm, down his bicep and his forearm, until it reached his clenched fist.

The warm, callous fingers stroked the skin, slowly, until Silva relaxed his grip. As soon as he unclenched his fist, the fingers interlaced with his.

He dared to open his eyes and look to his left.

"Silva..." Jake rasped, and his voice was music to his ears.

How could Jake say so much in so few words? The warmth, the sorrow, the pain... that voice sent shivers down his spine, his gaze blurry again. His hand held onto Jake's for dear life, the only thing holding him to the present moment. The only thing keeping him on Earth.

One tremulous finger travelled to his wet cheek, tentative, scared. It stroked the skin, wiping away the traces of his pain, of his desolation, of his defeat. Jake was so damn close, his musky scent of leather and gunpowder surrounding him. He leaned forward, so close that Silva could feel his breath and the heat of his body.