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December Drabble Marathon 28/31: The World After

AU: Post-Apocalyptic Future (kind of Mad Max AU)

Word Count: 10.6К

Summary: The world had unraveled. Climate change had thrown the weather into violent chaos, making agriculture unstable and unpredictable. Crops failed, livestock dwindled, and soon, entire populations began to starve. The once-reliable rhythm of planting and harvesting became a gamble with no winners. With food and water growing scarce, wars erupted—not over borders or ideologies, but over survival itself. The planet’s population thinned out drastically, yet even after the bloodshed, the number of survivors still far exceeded the amount of fertile land and drinkable water. What little remained changed hands constantly, fought over by warring clans, each battle leaving the earth more scarred and lifeless. Those who lost these wars—or had never been part of them—were cast out into the wastelands, left to fend for themselves in a world where every day was a battle for food, water, and survival. Among them were John and Gale—two men from vastly different pasts, now bound together, fighting to carve out a future in the ruthless, unforgiving desert of the dead world.

Gale stood at the makeshift market, where traders had set up shop in the backs of their rusted-out trucks. The air shimmered with heat, and the sun was merciless, beating down on his already exhausted eyes. He tried not to look at the people too much—contemptuous glances, smirks, crude jokes passed between them like currency.

Traders were a common sight here. These rocks, where a handful of scattered families, drifters, and he and John had settled, made for a decent stop. But each time, the merchants grew bolder, more insolent. Gale knew better than to make a scene—keep quiet, take what was necessary, and leave.

His gaze flicked over the contents of the truck beds: a length of frayed rope, a few old tools, a small tin containing something crumbly. He pried the lid open, took a cautious sniff, and nearly sneezed—black pepper.

Black. Fucking. Pepper.

The last time he had smelled that, he had been a teenager. A rare find.

“No water?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“What do you think?” one of the traders sneered, a wiry man with a weathered face and grime-caked hands.

“How much for all of it?”

The second trader, noticing Gale’s particular interest in the tin, smirked.

“Ten bullets.”

Money no longer existed. The only things of value in this world were food, water, and ammunition. Bullets were the preferred currency—they didn’t spoil, and they could protect what you had.

Gale tensed. He had six bullets on him—not counting the ones in the gun at his hip, but he wasn’t about to make the mistake of showing weakness by unloading rounds from his own weapon.

He let out a short chuckle.

“Not worth it. I’ll give you five.”

“What’s the matter? Short on payment?” The first trader grinned, eyes gleaming with something ugly. “A guy with lips like those could pay another way. Half in bullets, half with that sweet little mouth of yours.”

Laughter erupted.

Gale tugged his scarf higher over his face, his hand lowering—seemingly absentmindedly—until it rested near his gun. Maybe it was just nasty talk, but it was best to be prepared. No need to draw too soon, but no point in letting them think he was easy prey either.

“I could hand over five bullets as payment,” Gale said, voice calm, eyes narrowed, “and I could put five more into that fat gut of yours. How’s that for a deal?”

Silence.

The traders hesitated, looking at each other.

Then, from somewhere off to the side, a voice rang out, amused, “Looks like you just got turned down, bro.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, casual jabs of "Better luck next time" and "Not your day, huh?" exchanged among them.

The first trader scowled but backed off. Another man stepped forward, took five bullets from Gale’s outstretched hand, and passed him his goods.

“See you around, pretty boy,” the first man muttered. “We’ll meet again.”

Gale didn’t respond. He just took his things and walked away, only realizing then how hard his fingers had clenched around the tin of pepper. His hands were shaking. He forced himself to take a breath, steadying the adrenaline before it swallowed him whole.

Three days.

John had been gone for three damn days.

Gale sat on the threshold of their hut, staring at the horizon, unease burrowing deeper into his ribs. He turned the tin in his hands, the find he had wanted to show John, a stupid little treasure from the old world. The coin on its worn cord—John’s talisman, the one he always left with Gale as a promise to return—hung heavy around Gale’s neck, its weight pressing against his skin like an unspoken vow.

“Just come back,” he murmured. "Please come back."

_____⋆༺ ☣⚛⚠🗺 ⚠ ⚛ ☣ ༻⋆_____

The sun was sliding lazily down the horizon, painting the dead land in a molten copper glow. The heat still lingered, rising in shimmering waves from the cracked earth, but the approaching night would bring a different kind of cruelty—cold, silent, and watchful.

John moved slowly across the sand, his steps heavy, dragging the carcass of an animal that had, just hours ago, fought to tear the last scraps of life from the desert. Now it was nothing but limp flesh and bone, swinging from his shoulder as he walked. Their meal. Their breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next few days.

Gale stood at the entrance to their shelter—a crude assemblage of scavenged metal sheets, the broken remains of wrecked cars, and whatever fragments of the old world they had managed to salvage and haul back. It clung awkwardly to the mouth of a narrow cave carved into the rock—a home of sorts. His fingers tightened slightly around the handle of a battered tin bucket, its contents sloshing—cloudy, muddy water, the best they could get.

John heaved the carcass onto the dry ground with a dull, final thud.

“Caught it,” he said, exhaling, his voice hoarse from thirst. “Not much, but enough.”

Gale studied the animal with his usual quiet expression, biting the inside of his cheek. His gaze was always like that—calculating, assessing, as if measuring the weight of survival in every moment. Only the small twitch of his fingers on the bucket’s handle betrayed the tension that never truly left him.

“It’s enough,” he said, though his voice was softer than usual. His eyes flicked to John as he reached up, slipping the worn cord over his head. Carefully, he placed the talisman back around John’s neck, letting his fingers linger as he adjusted it.

But as his touch brushed against John's skin, he froze, his brows drawing together.

“You’ve got blood on your neck.”

John instinctively ran a rough palm over his skin, smearing the red streak further. He chuckled.

“Teeth. Too sharp for something so small.”

Gale said nothing. He was used to John coming back scratched, bruised, sometimes wearing that heavy, wordless expression that meant he’d seen something—or someone—better left unspoken.

Inside, the air was cooler but stale, thick with the smell of rust and dust. Gale crouched near their makeshift counter, pulling out a knife and beginning to carve the meat with the efficiency of someone who had done this too many times. His hands moved with a surety that came from necessity—each cut precise, nothing wasted. Some of the meat would be cooked tonight, some salted and stored away. At least they had no shortage of salt.

“I saw tire tracks,” John muttered, rolling his shoulder as he sat down on an overturned crate. “West.”

Gale didn’t look up, but John noticed the way he hesitated for just a fraction of a second before continuing his work.

“There were traders here,” Gale said after a moment.

John gave him a long, careful look, his eyes silently asking, Problems with them again?

Gale’s expression remained neutral, carefully unreadable. Without a word, he shifted his focus back to butchering the carcass, his steady hands and sharp blade answering for him—Everything’s fine.

John shook his head. “No. Traders don’t go west.” He exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “And the vehicle was big. Not one of theirs.”

Gale froze, bloodied knife hovering mid-cut.

The Snatchers, the ones who built their armies from the unlucky and the lost.

To fall into their hands meant a slow, merciless death—either from starvation, exhaustion, or the kind of brutal beatings that broke not just bones, but will. Eventually, your body gave in, too weak to fight, too desperate to do anything but obey. To them, humans were nothing more than expendable resources, easily replaced by another unfortunate soul wandering the wasteland.

And if, by some cruel twist of fate, you survived, it only meant living long enough to die in their endless wars—battles fought over scraps of land barely habitable, patches of dirt and dust that weren’t worth the blood spilled over them. But victory wasn’t freedom. It was just another push forward, another battle, another slaughter, another march toward an inevitable end. There was no escaping. Only a longer road to death.

A fate worse than dying in the sand.

John knew that firsthand. He had been caught once, dragged into one of those roving armies. He had lived that nightmare, carried its scars—not just on his mind, but on his skin. Gale had seen them before, the ugly ridges that marred John's forearms and neck—the only parts of him visible now. But Gale knew better. John’s whole body was covered in them.

But luck, rare and fleeting, had found him. He and a few others had slipped away, escaping into the wasteland before their captors could hunt them down. And he wasn’t going to get caught again.

But the problem with Snatchers was that they were never just a threat to an individual—they were a threat to entire settlements. They took what they wanted, when they wanted it. And the fact that they were this close to home? Not a good sign.

Gale gritted his teeth. The people needed to be warned.

“You think it’s worth checking?”

John’s answer was immediate, sharp. “No. Cars like that don’t bring anything good.”

That was the end of it. No more words needed.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was just how they worked. Gale continued slicing, then cooking. A simple porridge with meat, something he had mastered into something actually good.

As it simmered, Gale busied himself around the shelter, fixing the sagging netting, tightening the ropes that held up the roof, sweeping away the fine sand that always found a way inside.

John leaned against the wall, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, watching him with tired eyes.

In the dim light, Gale looked lean, delicate—but John knew better. He had seen firsthand how much strength lived in that body, in those steady hands. He had seen those arms haul him out of danger more times than he cared to count, had watched Gale endure exhaustion, hunger, and pain without breaking. Beneath that exterior was resilience forged by survival, a strength not just of body, but of will.

“You know,” John mused, stretching his legs out, “I swear you could make even a goddamn hole feel cozy.”

Gale glanced at him—warm, but exhausted—then looked away just as quickly.

“If it were up to you, we would be living in a hole,” he said with a faint smirk.

John laughed—deep, loud, and real. The sound was foreign in a world like this, something that had no place in all this dust and decay. But it cut through the heaviness that had settled over their little shelter, chasing away something neither of them spoke about—the fear of not coming back, the fear of waiting for someone who never would.

When the food was finally ready, they sat down side by side.

Before eating, John performed the same small ritual he always did when water was available—dipping his fingers into a cup and snapping them sharply, sending droplets scattering onto his medallion. A quick, practiced motion, as if sealing some unspoken vow.

Then he devoured his meal like a starving man—loud, careless, shoveling food into his mouth without hesitation. Gale, long past the point of being annoyed by it, barely spared him a glance.

“God damn,” John muttered around a mouthful. “This is good. Like, ridiculously good. What the hell did you put in this?”

Gale popped open the pepper can and handed it to John, who peered inside before taking a deep sniff.

Big mistake.

His face turned bright red as he immediately lurched back, half-sneezing, half-choking, his body jolting like he’d just been hit.

“Holy shit, that’s poison!” he gasped, blinking rapidly as he wiped at the tears now spilling from his eyes.

Gale chuckled, completely unfazed, “It’s a spice, Bucky. In small amounts, it makes food better.”

John shot him a deeply suspicious look, “A little poison in food makes it better?” His gaze dropped to his plate, then flicked back to Gale, then back to his plate again. His expression was pure accusation. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Maybe,” Gale said, looking far too smug for John’s liking.

John took another bite, chewing slowly, thinking it over. Finally, he grunted, grudgingly conceding, “Alright… I’ll admit, with this stuff in it, it actually tastes pretty good.” He stabbed another bite, shaking his head. “You’re a goddamn wizard.”

Gale ducked his head, eyes dropping to his plate, the compliment catching him off guard. For a moment, he looked almost shy.

“You eat like you’re still out in the wasteland,” John said, nudging another helping toward him. “Come on. Eat.”

There had always been an order to things in the wasteland. Hunters ate first, and they ate their fill. Everyone else took what was left. The ones who brought the food had to be strong enough to keep doing it, to keep the rest alive.

In their little family—fuck, when had Gale started thinking of it like that?—John was the hunter, and Gale was the one who made the home worth returning to.

Gale looked down at John's hands—weathered, scarred, calloused. It was strange, how John never followed the usual rules with him.

John knew that Gale was smart. Too smart.

It was because of him that they never had to worry too much about water—not a lot of it, but enough to survive. He had built water traps that pulled moisture from the air, a system so clever and efficient that it kept almost their entire settlement from dying of thirst. He knew how to filter it, how to make the undrinkable drinkable, how to stretch a single drop into something useful.

His mind—his ingenuity—kept them alive in ways brute strength never could.

And sure, Gale could hunt. He could track, kill, and bring back food just as well as John if he needed to. But John preferred that he didn’t. Not because Gale was incapable. Because he was too important. The truth was, John saw more value in him than he did in himself.

John? He was just a sack of meat and bones, something that could be replaced. If he went down, no one would care. No one would mourn him. The world had plenty of men like him—fighters, scavengers, bodies to be used up and discarded.

But Gale?

People like Gale were the ones who built things. Who changed things.

Their broken world didn’t need more men like John. It needed men like Gale.

And John would be damned if he let this place swallow Gale the way it had swallowed everything else. His parents. His sisters. Everyone who hadn’t been strong enough, smart enough, lucky enough to survive. The wasteland had taken them all, one by one, without mercy, without hesitation.

After everything he’d lost, Gale was the one thing anchoring him to the present—the reason he kept moving, kept waking up every morning and dragging air into his lungs, no matter how thick with dust and heat it was.

Because as long as Gale was alive, there was still something in this world worth holding on to.

Gale hesitated, still not used to how easily John ignored the unspoken rules of the wasteland. But after a moment, he took the offered food, murmuring, “Thanks.”

For a moment in this tiny shelter built on the bones of a dead world, surrounded by sand and silence, it was almost peaceful.

_____⋆༺ ☣⚛⚠🗺 ⚠ ⚛ ☣ ༻⋆_____

Evening draped their rocky settlement in shadows, stretching long fingers of darkness across the sand. The desert exhaled, releasing the heat it had hoarded throughout the day, but even as the air cooled, it remained dry, oppressive. Dust clung to their skin, settled in the creases of their clothes, coated the back of their throats like something living.

After dinner, silence wrapped around them.

John sat by the fire, his fingers moving with slow precision over the pieces of his gun. The metallic clicks of dismantling, the whisper of cloth against steel—it was a familiar rhythm, a ritual. The gun was more than a weapon. It was survival. A loaded chamber meant waking up tomorrow.

Across from him, Gale took a seat on a flat rock, his posture deceptively relaxed, but John knew better. The firelight flickered over his face, throwing sharp edges into the hollows of his cheeks, his eyes distant, unreadable.

Their world felt impossibly small. Just the two of them, the ember-glow of the fire, the occasional hiss of the cooling sand beneath them. As if the entire universe had shrunk to the sound of their breath and the slow, deliberate crackling of burning embers.

John glanced up again and caught it—the shift in Gale’s expression, the way he withdrew into himself, slipping behind that quiet stillness. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

He set the gun aside and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice low.

He wanted to reach out. His fingers twitched with the impulse—to trace along the line of Gale’s cheekbone, to let his touch linger over his lips, to feel their warmth, their softness.

Instead, he held still.

Gale met his eyes, his own gaze steady but guarded. He hesitated, as if weighing whether to say it at all.

Then he did.

“We’re almost out of water,” he said, voice even but quiet. “And ammunition.”

John tensed.

The easy, satisfied feeling of being full, of being safe, vanished like smoke in the wind.

“What about your water traps?”

Gale exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the fire.

“The weather’s changed. The nights barely bring in any moisture now. It used to be a few full buckets. Now…” He hesitated. “Barely half of one. From all of them combined.”

John ran a hand down his face, muttering a curse under his breath.

“And the bullets?”

“There are none left,” Gale said simply. “We’ve used everything.”

The silence that followed was sharp, almost tangible.

“We have nothing left to trade for food,” Gale continued, driving the final nail into the coffin. “And nothing to cook with, even if we did.”

John chewed the inside of his cheek, jaw tight. He thought for a moment, then spoke.

“The military base. The one on the far rocks.”

Gale’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

“There’s ammo there,” John continued. “Medicine. Supplies we need. I’ll take whatever I can carry, and then we’ll trade it for what we don’t have.”

Gale’s stomach twisted.

“That place is guarded, John,” he said, his voice sharp now. “Even if they aren’t there, the traps alone—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “We barely made it out last time.”

John shrugged. A slow, indifferent movement that made Gale’s blood run cold.

“I know,” he said simply. “That’s why I’ll go alone.”

Gale shot to his feet so fast the motion sent sand scattering.

“Absolutely not,” he snapped. His voice had an edge now—something rare, something almost angry. “If it’s too dangerous for me, then it’s too dangerous for you.” His hands clenched at his sides. “I won’t let you go.”

John blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Gale rarely told him what to do. He argued, sure, but this—this was different. This wasn’t an argument.

It was a demand.

John studied him for a long moment. Then, arms crossed over his chest, he said, “Then what’s the alternative?”

Gale’s jaw tightened. He bit at a fingernail, irritated.

“We go together,” he said at last.

It was reluctant. Begrudging. He didn’t like it, but he wasn’t letting John go alone either.

John exhaled. Didn’t like that answer.

“Not like we have a lot of choices, do we?” he muttered. “Either we get what we need, or we die. If we sit here waiting, we definitely die.”

He paused, studying Gale’s face. He could see it—how badly Gale wanted to argue, wanted to fight this, because fuck, it was dangerous. And maybe a slow death was worse than a fast one, but it wasn’t the point.

The point was—John accepted it. And Gale hated how easily he did.

“…And water?” John added after a moment. “We’ve got a little for now. After the raid on the base, we’ll figure it out. We could go to that spring I told you about earlier, but it’s well-guarded, and I’d rather not jump into the hardest job first. Maybe we get some ammo, trade with the merchants, and buy ourselves some time. If we’re out of luck, I’ll head to the spring at night for water.”

“You? At night?” Gale’s head snapped toward him, his whole body tensing like a wire pulled too tight. “No. That’s suicide.”

“You said it yourself—we can’t go during the day.”

“Because it’s dangerous, John.”

John let out a slow breath. “And sitting here, dying of thirst, isn’t?”

Gale opened his mouth—to argue, to snap back, to stop him.

Before Gale could respond, John was already moving. He stepped forward and pulled him into a firm, unyielding embrace. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t hesitant. It was solid—an anchor, something heavy and immovable. Something that wouldn’t break.

John’s voice was low, steady, murmured against his hair.

“Don't worry. I’ll come back.” His arms tightened, no space left between them. “I always come back.”

Gale closed his eyes. John meant it. He always meant it.

But in their world, promises didn’t mean a damn thing.

_____⋆༺ ☣⚛⚠🗺 ⚠ ⚛ ☣ ༻⋆_____

By the time they reached the old military base, the sun had already begun its slow descent, casting long, fractured shadows over the rocky terrain. It had taken them a day and a half of relentless driving across the wasteland, their path swallowed by endless dunes and jagged ridges. The engine had groaned under the weight of heat and dust, but it had carried them here.

At the base of the cliffs, they concealed the car in the deep shadows cast by the rock face. John hated leaving it behind—anyone could steal it. The thought made his skin crawl. That car was more than just transportation, it was an extension of him, as vital as a limb, as necessary as breath. But the cliffs were unforgiving, impossible to navigate on wheels. Like it or not, they had to leave the car behind.

With their packs slung over their shoulders and weapons secured, they began the climb on foot. Half a day of careful, silent trekking brought them to the remains of the base—a decayed fragment of the old world, hidden within the embrace of the cliffs.

It was a treasure, locked away in crumbling walls and rusted steel. Weapons. Ammunition. Medicine. Canned food. And sometimes, other things. Relics. Scraps of a world that had once been alive.

Gale always looked for the other things.

Once, he had found books—stacked carelessly in the corner of a looted office, pages yellowed and brittle with time. He had wanted to take them. Had ached to take them. But food and bullets were too precious to waste space on luxuries, and so he had left them behind, only allowing himself to trace their spines with his fingertips, as if in quiet apology.

Leaving them had felt like abandoning orphaned kittens.

This time, John headed straight for the armory, his sharp eyes scanning for the most valuable haul. He grabbed cartridges of various calibers—primarily the ones they could use for handguns, but also the large-caliber rounds for machine guns. Those were gold on the market. Traders would exchange them for serious goods, things that rarely made it to their settlement.

On one of the shelves, John found a small tin box. Inside, a handful of faded banknotes and rusted coins lay untouched—dead money from a dead world. Worthless now.

His fingers drifted to the coin hanging from a worn cord around his neck, the cool metal pressing against his skin. He hadn’t thought about it in a long time, but now that ache stirred in his chest again. A gift from his mother, passed down to her by her mother—John’s grandmother. A talisman.

She had grown up in one of the last oases of normal life, a settlement by the ocean where remnants of the old world still clung on. But war came, as it always did. A stronger group took it by force, leaving bodies in the streets and driving out the survivors. The lucky ones died quickly. The rest—his grandmother’s family included—were cast out into the desert, forced to start over in a place where life was never meant to exist.

Back then, they had a belief: to return to the place you love, you must throw a coin into the water—a river, a lake, or the endless stretch of the ocean. His mother had given him the coin as a blessing, a wish that one day he would find his own oasis, escape the unrelenting fight for survival, live in safety, in abundance.

To toss his coin into the ocean and finally, finally, find a home.

But neither she nor anyone he had ever known had lived long enough to see the ocean again.

Meanwhile, Gale worked his way through what had once been a storage room, now littered with the remnants of ration packs and torn supply crates. His fingers traced over the faded labels of the white plastic bottles, the print barely legible beneath years of dust and time. Nearby, a row of clear glass vials caught the dim light, their liquid contents still intact despite the ages that had passed. He reached out, running his fingertips over them, reading the labels carefully—each one a relic of a world that had once known medicine as an abundance, not a luxury.

Most of it was long past its expiration date. But it didn’t matter.

He grabbed a handful of antibiotics—expired but still invaluable—along with painkillers and antiseptics, stuffing them into his pack without hesitation. Next came a small supply of bandages, a few tourniquets for stopping limb hemorrhages, and a couple of syringes. His fingers lingered for a moment over the clear glass vials labeled Codeine, but not in hesitation—in reverence.

This was the kind of thing that could silence real pain, the kind that made men scream and break. He didn’t think twice before snatching them up.

These medicines were stronger than any herb they could scavenge from the wasteland. And wounds—wounds were inevitable. Infection was a death sentence out here, and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

They moved quickly, efficiently, speaking in hushed tones, their footsteps muffled by layers of dust and time. Every sound—every shift in the wind, every creak of metal—set Gale’s nerves on edge. He didn’t like being here. The last time had nearly been a disaster, and he hated how easily John acted like none of it mattered.

Across the room, John yanked open a rusted drawer and pulled out a small tin box. He cracked it open, revealing colorful, worn cards. Uninterested, he scoffed and tossed the box to the floor. Its contents spilled out, scattering with a faint metallic rattle.

The sound caught Gale’s attention. He turned his head, eyes flicking to the floor, and something in his chest twisted.

Postcards.

The old world had sent these to each other once—to celebrate birthdays, holidays, milestones. Markers of lives that no longer existed.

Gale crouched, his fingers ghosting over the edges of the cards, tracing the faded ink of forgotten words. He didn’t know why, but the sight of them made something tighten in his throat. Someone had sent these. Someone had received them. And now they lay here, abandoned, as meaningless as the dust covering them.

Without a word, he gathered them up and tucked the small box into his jacket. It was light, barely taking up any space.

John didn’t comment.

By the time they left, their packs were heavy with supplies—ammunition, medicine, and what looked like canned food, though the labels were too faded to tell what it had once been.

They slipped out of the base as quietly as they had come, retracing their path toward their car. The further they got, the more the weight in Gale’s chest began to ease.

The expedition had been a success, even if his nerves still hummed with unease.

John, of course, was grinning.

Gale just clutched the postcards a little tighter and kept walking.

_____⋆༺ ☣⚛⚠🗺 ⚠ ⚛ ☣ ༻⋆_____

For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of survival wasn’t pressing down on them quite as heavily.

They had food from John’s last hunt. Medicine and ammunition from the raid on the military base. Enough supplies to keep them going, at least for a little while. Water was still scarce, but for now, they had just enough to get by. Soon, though, they—or rather, John—would have to do something about that.

For now, they could breathe.

For now, they could rest.

Gale sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through the postcards he had taken. The kerosene lamp flickered beside him, casting shifting shadows over the faded images. Most of them were New Year’s greetings—cheerful, brightly colored, adorned with strange, alien landscapes.

John wandered over, then quietly sat beside him. Gale didn’t protest. If anything, he welcomed the closeness.

“Why did you take them?” John asked, nodding toward the postcards.

Gale hesitated for a moment before answering.

“Probably because… it’s the season when people used to send cards like these.”

He still kept a calendar.

John had tried once, too. Tried to mark the days, to hold onto time. But keeping track of something as fragile as days required waking up every morning and remembering to count them. His life—filled with fights, injuries, sickness, and alcohol that could leave him unconscious for days—had never allowed for that kind of consistency.

John leaned in slightly, his eyes scanning the glossy images. After a moment, he pointed at one.

“These trees…” He hesitated, brow furrowing. “Are they real?”

Gale glanced at the postcard. A dense forest sprawled across it, its towering trees draped in a shimmering veil of white. Nestled among them sat a small wooden cabin, its roof buried beneath a thick, untouched layer of snow.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “They were real.”

John traced a finger over the image, thoughtful.

“I’ve never seen sand this white,” he murmured. His expression was almost skeptical as he ran a calloused thumb over the snow-covered landscape. “And I’ve definitely never seen it stick to things like this.”

Gale’s lips twitched into a faint smile.

“That’s not sand,” he said. “It’s snow.”

John looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

Gale turned toward him, amused. “It’s what happens when clouds turn to rain, but the air is cold—really cold. Instead of falling as water, it freezes and turns into snow. It’s soft. And light.”

John blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to something close to awe.

“If you think about it, that’s an enormous amount of water just lying on the ground. Unbelievable.”

Gale chuckled. “Yeah.”

John’s eyes flicked back to the postcard, his fingers lingering on the white-coated trees.

“You ever seen it?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Gale hesitated. Then, a little sheepishly, he shook his head.

“No,” he admitted. “Not with my own eyes.” He exhaled, lowering his gaze to the postcard in his hands. “But my great-grandmother did. When she was a child. Back when the world still had trees like these… and when life was easy enough for people to have holidays. To celebrate things. To decorate trees just for the sake of it.”

He brushed his fingers lightly over the surface of the card, almost reverent, as if mourning something he had never known. Something that had been lost long before he ever had the chance to miss it.

John watched him for a long moment but said nothing.

Instead, he just leaned back, gaze lingering on the image of the snow-covered world—trying to imagine a sky that didn’t burn, a ground that wasn’t cracked and dead, a life where people had the luxury of giving gifts instead of just surviving.

Neither of them spoke.

John picked up the card, tilting it slightly under the dim light. The image showed a Christmas tree, its branches draped in shimmering tinsel, standing tall in a cozy house near a crackling fireplace. He frowned, turning it between his fingers before glancing at Gale.

“What the hell is a tree doing inside a house?” he asked, his brow furrowing deeper. “And what’s all that stuff hanging off it?”

Gale blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. He looked at John—really looked at him. A man who had spent his entire life in a wasteland where trees were nothing more than half-forgotten myths, where survival was a battle fought every day, leaving no room for rituals that had once been taken for granted.

How was he supposed to explain this?

Still, he tried.

“It’s a Christmas tree,” Gale said, his voice slow, careful. He ran a finger over the faded image as if tracing the past itself. “People used to bring them into their homes in winter. They’d decorate them with lights, tinsel, ornaments… it was part of a celebration.”

John shot him a skeptical look. “Celebrating what? Having more trees than they knew what to do with?”

Gale huffed a quiet laugh. “No. It was… a holiday. A time for people to be together, exchange gifts, forget about the hard parts of life for a little while.” He hesitated before adding, “It wasn’t about survival—it was about joy.”

John scoffed, shaking his head. “Hell of a thing to waste energy on.”

Still, he studied the card again, eyes narrowing at the delicate details—the soft glow of the fireplace, the twinkling lights on the tree, the warmth captured in ink and color. “People actually did this?”

“Yeah,” Gale said. “Every year. Almost everyone.” His voice softened. “Back when the world felt… safe.”

John was quiet for a long moment, rubbing his thumb along the rough edges of the card. Then, his eyes flicked back to Gale.

“What happened to the trees afterward?”

Gale shifted. “…They got thrown away.”

John’s fingers stilled.

“…So you’re telling me people would cut down thousands—millions—of trees every year, just to dress them up for a few days, then toss them out like garbage?”

Gale hesitated, then gave a small shrug.

John exhaled, shaking his head again—this time more in disbelief than anything else. His grip on the map slackened, and it slipped from his fingers, falling back onto the pile.

“It’s… sad. I don’t see the joy in it,” he muttered.

For a moment, there was only silence.

And then—just the soft, lingering touch of Gale’s fingers, tracing the edges of something that would never be real again.

_____⋆༺ ☣⚛⚠🗺 ⚠ ⚛ ☣ ༻⋆_____

At night, wrapped in a thin, tattered blanket against the desert’s biting cold, Gale feels John pressed against his back. His breath is warm against the nape of his neck, his face buried in tangled hair. Strong hands slide down Gale’s waist, tracing over the sharp lines of his hips before dipping beneath his pants. Rough fingers follow the soft trail of hair leading down to his cock, teasing along the sensitive skin before wrapping around it with a slow, deliberate squeeze.

Behind him, John is already hard. His cock nudges insistently between Gale’s ass cheeks, seeking friction, seeking him.

He wants sex.

Gale, however, after a tense and exhausting raid on a military base, isn't exactly in the mood. He’s drained. The adrenaline that had kept him wired has crashed, leaving only bone-deep fatigue in its wake. He just wants to sleep. He could push John away—just say no. It wouldn’t be an issue.

But then John shifts against him, pressing in closer, the thick weight of him curling around Gale like he’s seeking warmth, like he needs this. There’s something achingly vulnerable about the way he grinds against him, something almost desperate in the way his cock twitches against Gale’s skin, in the barely-there whimper caught in his throat.

And Gale… he feels sorry for him.

He knows how John’s body works—how danger, adrenaline, and the thrill of survival wire him differently. It doesn’t wear him down, it hypes him up, makes him crave contact, pleasure, release.

So instead of pushing him away, Gale reaches back, curling his fingers around John’s cock.

John gasps sharply, his entire body jolting like he’s just been struck by lightning.

"Please," he whispers into Gale’s hair, voice wrecked. "Please, Buck…"

His hand trembles as he pulls Gale’s pants down just enough, enough to touch, enough to have him. Then he pulls his own hand back, licks his palm thoroughly—wet and warm—and reaches down again, wrapping slick fingers around the head of Gale’s cock.

And fuck—Gale wasn’t ready for that. His hips jolt forward, pushing into John’s hand, a quiet moan slipping past his lips before he can swallow it.

John whimpers behind him, rutting against his ass with little control, his entire body so full of need it borders on painful.

"Yes. Yes. Okay. But not like… not like usual," Gale mutters, voice hoarse.

John’s breath stutters out like a sob.

"Whatever you want. Just—please."

Gale shifts, turning to face him, pushing his pants down his thighs, just enough. He grips John’s cock, guides it down, presses it snug between his own legs, squeezing it tightly with his thighs.

John thrusts forward immediately, and—shit—his cock slides right under Gale’s balls, rubbing against that sensitive, heated space while Gale’s own cock grinds against his stomach.

And it feels good.

John lets out a broken moan, grabbing Gale’s waist for leverage, hips stuttering into the tight heat of his thighs. His fingers flex against Gale’s skin, desperate, grounding.

Gale shudders, tightening his hold around John’s arm just above the elbow, anchoring himself as he gives in to it—the heat, the friction, the slick glide of his own precum smearing across John’s stomach.

What was supposed to be just a way to calm John down, to give him something, turns into something else entirely.

It feels so fucking good.

John’s cock slides against his balls, against his crotch, with just the right amount of friction—hot and slick, dragging across sensitive skin until Gale’s mind starts to slip into something raw and desperate. It feels good. Too good.

And suddenly, he wants more.

He wants to bury his face into the shabby fabric of their makeshift bed, fists gripping the sheets, lifting his ass as high as he can—offering himself up without hesitation. He wants to feel John behind him, wants to hear the ragged hitch in his breath when he finally pushes inside, stretching him open. He wants John to take him as deep and fast as he likes, to fill him, to fuck him, and he’ll take it all—every inch—with a soft, needy whimper, shivering at the overwhelming heat, the intoxicating stretch, the sheer pleasure of being claimed.

Or maybe he wants to lie on his back—open, shameless—sprawled beneath John in the dim light of their hideout like a desperate whore, the kind willing to do anything for a bowl of food or a handful of bullets. Letting him see everything. *Take* everything. Watching through heavy-lidded, blue-grey eyes as John’s cock pushed into him—slow, deep—stretching him apart until his thighs locked around John’s hips, instinctively clinging to the intrusion, *pulling* him in, as if his own body refused to let him go.

He wants all of it. Every filthy, intoxicating second.

But fuck—all they have now is this. A crude, frustrating substitute for everything they both really want to do to each other.

And they cling to each other like desperate teens starved for touch—rubbing, grinding, rutting with frantic urgency. Their bodies move in sync, chasing friction, chasing something more, their mouths parting with gasping moans and half-formed curses. Hands roam feverishly, gripping too tight, pulling too close, as if trying to merge into one another, as if it’s still not enough.

It’s never enough.

They whimper, they groan, they beg without words—panting against each other's mouths, teeth grazing sweat-damp skin, fingers digging into flexing muscle. Every thrust, every squeeze of their thighs, every shuddering roll of their hips only winds the tension tighter, higher, unbearable—until it snaps all at once, sending them both spiraling.

Gale lets out a broken sound as his orgasm crashes over him, cock pulsing, spilling hot, sticky ropes of cum across their stomachs. John follows right after, a deep, strangled groan tearing from his throat as he shudders violently, his release smearing between Gale’s thighs, warm and slick, mixing with sweat and desperation.

It feels so good.

And still—not nearly enough.

After sex, John absentmindedly nuzzles against Gale’s cheek, almost shyly, pressing soft, fleeting kisses to his heated skin. It’s such an unguarded, quiet kind of affection that it makes warmth bloom deep in Gale’s chest, spreading like the embers of a dying fire stirred back to life.

He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of black hair from John’s forehead, his fingertips lingering there for just a second before he leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the very spot.

It’s a silent signal. Rest now. Everything’s okay.

John exhales, a deep, satisfied sound, and relaxes against him completely, melting into his arms like a massive machine finally shutting down—radiating heat, releasing tension, surrendering. His weight is heavy and grounding, his breath evening out against Gale’s shoulder as sleep overtakes him.

Gale reaches behind himself, fingers fumbling until they find a discarded piece of soft cloth. His movements are slow, deliberate—his body still thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Carefully, he brings the fabric to his stomach, where streaks of his warm, sticky release cling to his and John's skin.

He exhales softly as he wipes it away, the cloth gliding over the flushed heat of his abdomen, collecting the mess in lazy strokes. The sensation is oddly grounding, intimate in a different way. His fingers linger for a second, pressing into the slight dip of his navel before he shifts lower, parting his thighs slightly.

Between them, the skin is damp and sensitive, slick with the evidence of John's cum. He bites the inside of his cheek as he brings the cloth between his legs, dabbing gently at the tender skin where John had rutted against him so desperately. His touch is careful, reverent, as he cleans himself off, the remnants of heat still pulsing beneath his skin.

Satisfied, he tosses the cloth aside and exhales, sinking deeper into the bed.

He watches John, his fingers trailing absentmindedly along the curve of his neck, over the broad planes of his shoulders, down his arms, mapping out the shape of him with reverent care. And he still can’t quite believe it—how this body, all strength and power, all raw force and unstoppable will—becomes this under his hands.

Soft. Pliable. Completely undone by a touch as light as a whisper.

It feels like magic.

_____⋆༺ ☣⚛⚠🗺 ⚠ ⚛ ☣ ༻⋆_____

The morning sun had barely begun its slow ascent when the door to the hut burst open with a loud clatter.

John groaned, instinctively reaching for his gun, but before he could fully process the intrusion, two heavy metal buckets were shoved right in front of his face, sloshing dangerously close to spilling.

The unmistakable sound of water sloshing.

John cracked one eye open.

Gale squatted beside him, grinning like a lunatic, his fingers gripping the handles of the buckets as if they were trophies from some great hunt. His clothes were damp in places, dark patches where the water had splashed.

John exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.

“…What,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep. “What the hell is this?”

Gale beamed, giving the buckets a triumphant shake, making the water inside slosh again.

“Water,” he announced.

John blinked at him.

“…Yeah, I can see that. But why are you waving it in my face?”

Gale let out a breathless laugh, practically bouncing in place. “The weather changed! The traps pulled in almost two full buckets—just from five of them!”

At that, John finally pushed himself up onto his elbow, his sleep-dazed mind catching up to the words.

Two buckets. From only five traps.

That was more than they had gotten in weeks.

John sat up fully now, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “We need to store it,” he muttered, still half-processing. “No telling how long this will last. Could be dry again tomorrow.”

“Already doing it.” Gale nodded eagerly. “I’ve been filling every barrel we have. If it stays like this, we’ll have enough to last us weeks.”

John exhaled, watching as Gale practically buzzed with energy, the rare excitement making his features seem so soft.

It was good to see him like this.

John scrubbed a hand through his hair and let out a slow, tired grin.

“Alright,” he said, flopping back against the mattress. “You win. That’s a damn good reason to wake me up.”

Gale let out a snort, pushing himself up in one swift motion as he grabbed the buckets.

“And you’re helping,” he added, already turning toward the door. “I’m not carrying all of this alone.”

John groaned dramatically but pushed himself up, stretching.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Let me at least wake up before you start giving orders, Water King.”

Gale only grinned wider, already heading back outside to continue saving every last drop.

_____⋆༺ ☣⚛⚠🗺 ⚠ ⚛ ☣ ༻⋆_____

For the first time in a long time, things weren’t that bad.

It was the kind of day that almost felt... normal.

John and Gale had spent hours storing water, saving every last drop they could in barrels, bottles, and whatever else would hold liquid. It was slow, back-breaking, filthy work, but for once, neither of them was complaining. Not today.

The steady rhythm of their work, the quiet satisfaction of having enough, put them both in a better mood than they had been in weeks.

John, of course, found something to grumble about—mainly why Gale had set up his water traps in the most inconvenient, hard-to-reach places. Balancing on slick, uneven rocks, hauling full buckets up steep inclines, all while trying not to spill anything—he made sure Gale knew how annoying it was.

Gale, in response, casually dipped his fingers into a bucket and flicked cold water into John’s face.

John sputtered, jerking back, eyes wide with utter betrayal.

“You heathen! You reckless waster of precious moisture!”

Gale only grinned, a wicked, satisfied smirk playing at his lips. He wasn’t about to tell John that later tonight, he planned to waste even more of that precious moisture by finally washing himself properly—because after days of sweat, dirt, and work, he intended for them to finally have real, decent sex.

But that was a conversation for later.

Right now, there were still things to be done.

“I need to go down to the dry riverbed,” Gale said, shaking the excess water from his fingers. “We’ll need more clay to filter the water.”

Clay wasn’t just needed for filtering water—it was the foundation of most of their kitchenware. Cups, bowls, cooking pots—all made by hand, shaped from the earth itself. Finding decent metal utensils was nearly impossible, and plastic? That had long since turned brittle, crumbling under the weight of passing years.

Fortunately, Gale was skilled with clay. He could craft whatever they needed, molding the rough material into something sturdy, functional, lasting.

John had always been fascinated by the process.

Watching Gale work—his long, deft fingers moving effortlessly over the spinning clay, shaping it with precision—was mesmerizing. The way something so shapeless could be transformed into something essential… It was like watching creation itself.

But if there was one thing John didn’t enjoy, it was the trips to the dry riverbed to collect the clay.

The place was crawling with the wrong kind of people—the kind who watched too closely, who lurked just a little too long, who made John’s hand twitch toward his gun more often than he liked.

John, still catching his breath, frowned. “You’re going there?”

Gale nodded, already turning toward their supplies. “Yeah. It’s the best spot nearby. I’ll grab my bag and—”

John waved a hand, cutting him off. “Forget it. I’ll go.”

Gale blinked. “What?”

“You’re busy with the water,” John said, stretching his arms over his head with an exaggerated groan. “And frankly, I’m too clumsy to hop around these damn rocks like a mountain goat while trying not to spill anything.”

Gale snorted, rolling his eyes. “Freeloader.”

John smirked. “I’ll take Curt with me—he said he needed to head to the riverbed too. Between the two of us, we’ll be done in no time.”

At that, Gale hesitated.

He didn’t like Curt. The short, wiry guy from their settlement was always just a little too friendly with John, always hovering, always acting like his interest in John was more than just friendly or practical.

Maybe Gale was just imagining things. Maybe it was just paranoia.

But maybe it wasn’t.

Still, he didn’t argue.

For once, everything in their life was almost normal. It wasn’t worth letting his own insecurities ruin that.

_____⋆༺ ☣⚛⚠🗺 ⚠ ⚛ ☣ ༻⋆_____

Curt raised a brow, watching as John, in addition to the bag of clay slung over his shoulder, struggled to drag along a dried-out, intricately branched bush. The thing was cumbersome, its brittle twigs catching on rocks and snagging at his pants with every step.

“What the hell do you need that for?” Curt asked, adjusting his own pack. “We’ve got more than enough brushwood for a fire.”

John, unfazed by the skepticism, grinned and carefully shifted the weight on his shoulder.

“I want to please Gale.”

Curt let out a low chuckle, smirking to himself as he scanned the endless stretch of desert ahead. The landscape was so damn monotonous, barely any landmarks to guide them, just dunes, dry ridges, and scattered rock formations.

“I don’t think that’s the way Gale likes to be pleased by you,” he muttered under his breath.

John froze mid-step.

“The fuck did you just say?” His tone was sharp, but laced with genuine shock.

Curt turned to him, expression cool, indifferent—like they were discussing the damn weather, like he hadn’t just implied something massive.

“What?” he said, blinking at him innocently.

John’s eyes narrowed. “What… what do you mean?”

Curt chuckled, the sound low and amused.

“You guys aren’t as quiet as you think.”

John’s mouth fell open slightly, his grip on the bush momentarily slipping. “No way. We live almost a kilometer from the nearest hut. It’s impossible to be that loud.”

Curt just shrugged, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Yeah, yeah… but you know how it is. Sometimes people get up at night… to take a piss.”

John’s expression shifted from shocked to suspicious in an instant.

His voice flattened. “Are you telling me you actually go piss near my hut? Out of the entire fucking desert, that’s the spot you pick?”

Curt snorted, barely holding back his laughter. “Not me. Other villagers. And maybe not to take a piss. People are, you know… curious. And suspicious.”

John groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, great. So it’s not just you who knows.”

Curt smirked. “Pfft, Bucky, everyone probably knows.”

John let out a pained noise, rubbing his temples like the information physically hurt him.

“Oh, don’t torture yourself over it,” Curt said, grinning. “No one actually cares. Gale’s done more for the village with his water traps and filters than anyone else, and you? With your fights against the raiders? You’ve kept us safe. Trust me, people are more than willing to overlook whatever… oddities you two have going on. Priority of usefulness, so to speak.”

John groaned again, louder this time. “Jesus fucking Christ…”

Curt’s grin widened, and then, just to twist the knife a little more, he added, “Honestly, I think most people are just waiting for your wedding, so everything’ll be official.”

John, completely thrown, nearly let go of the bush in pure disbelief.

Curt burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the empty desert, delighted at the sheer look of horror on John’s face.

In a way, it was almost a relief that the people in the settlement knew about them and yet had done nothing to harm them. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to uproot their lives and search for a new shelter in the middle of the endless, lifeless desert.

_____⋆༺ ☣⚛⚠🗺 ⚠ ⚛ ☣ ༻⋆_____

Gale stepped into the hut, a clay jug cradled in his hands, and froze.

Something stood in the far corner of their modest shelter—something that hadn’t been there when he left.

A skeletal, gnarled structure, its branches twisted and bare, strung with torn, dirt-streaked rags that fluttered slightly in the faint draft.

Gale stared at it, gripping the jug tighter, holding it against his chest as if it could somehow protect him from whatever the hell this was.

His first instinct was caution—in the wasteland, anything unfamiliar was a potential threat.

But then, John turned toward him, his expression way too pleased, a boyish grin stretched across his face.

Gale’s confusion deepened.

“…W-what is that?” he asked hesitantly, making no move to come closer.

John, completely unbothered, spread his arms proudly. “A tree.”

Gale blinked. “A tree?”

“Well… kind of,” John admitted. “You know, like those seasonal trees people used to put in their houses before. For… I don’t actually remember why. Just, like, as a symbol or something. To show everything was fine and they could afford to do dumb shit.”

Gale’s breath hitched.

“…A Christmas tree,” he whispered.

John snapped his fingers. “That’s it.”

Silence.

Gale didn’t move. His hand slowly rose to his mouth, covering it as he stared.

Seconds passed.

Then minutes.

His face was frozen in an expression of something between horror and utter disbelief.

John shifted awkwardly, suddenly very aware that Gale wasn’t saying anything.

“…So?” he prompted, voice edging toward uncertainty.

Gale swallowed.

“It’s so… ugly,” he finally breathed.

John froze. His grin vanished. He looked from Gale to the pathetic mess of branches and fabric, then back to Gale. His stomach twisted.

Shit. He ruined it. All of it.

“Fuck this,” John muttered abruptly, his voice clipped, his movements sharp as he grabbed the mangled excuse for a tree and dragged it toward the door.

Gale barely had time to step aside as John stormed past him, yanking the shaggy mess of brittle branches out of the hut and tossing it onto the brushwood pile outside.

“This was stupid,” he growled under his breath, wiping his hands on his pants as if to rid himself of the whole idea. “Just bullshit.”

What the hell had he even been thinking?

Trying to recreate something from a world long gone—something he didn’t even understand? That was beyond stupid.

He should’ve stuck to what he knew.

Hunt. Track. Keep them alive. They needed food.

That, at least, was something he understood.

_____⋆༺ ☣⚛⚠🗺 ⚠ ⚛ ☣ ༻⋆_____

John returned two days later, dragging himself back toward their hut under the weight of exhaustion and something heavier—something that sat in his chest like a stone.

To be honest, he hadn’t been in a hurry to come back.

The feeling of uselessness had clung to him like dust, whispering in his ear the entire time he was away. That his presence was unwanted. That he didn’t fit. That he was a fool, doing things he didn’t understand, grasping at meaning where there was none.

And fuck, John was ready to admit it.

If it weren’t for Gale, he probably would have disappeared into the wasteland altogether. Just let the heat, the wind, the hunger swallow him whole.

But every damn time, no matter how far he went, no matter how deep the self-loathing dug into his bones, there was always the same unbearable, undeniable truth.

He wanted to return.

To him.

If he had to drag himself back through the scorching desert on torn hands and bleeding knees, he would. If it weren’t for Gale, he would have let his shame carry him far away by now.

But he couldn’t.

By the time he reached their hut, the desert night had settled in, cold and quiet, the sky a black canvas dusted with stars. He stepped forward like a dog with its tail between its legs, a shamed mutt crawling back after being scolded by its master.

He let his latest hunt drop at the entrance with a dull thud, then moved to step inside.

And nearly got knocked off his feet.

Gale collided into him—a sharp, desperate whirlwind of limbs and warmth—wrapping his arms so tightly around him that John actually lost his breath for a second.

"Where were you?" Gale demanded, voice thick with frustration.

John, caught off guard by the force of it, blinked down at him. What the hell? He had half-expected to walk into indifference.

“Hunting,” he mumbled quietly.

Gale pulled back just enough to glare at him. “You didn’t say anything about hunting.”

John shrugged, still thrown by this welcome. “Didn’t think I needed to. We need food every day, don’t we?”

But before Gale could snap back, John’s gaze flicked around the hut, something catching his eye.

Something was… different.

His brow furrowed. Something was—

Oh. The tree.

The sad mess of branches he had dragged home in some misguided attempt to do something normal—the thing Gale had looked at with outright horror—was still here.

Only now it looked… different.

Gale had taken the brittle, dead thing and transformed it.

Little multi-colored scraps of fabric now hung from the branches, fluttering slightly in the faint air currents. They looked almost like ornaments. Like the ones on the old postcards they had seen.

John swallowed. It was… beautiful.

It was exactly what he had been trying to do. He should have asked Gale for help in the first place.

"You didn’t burn it," John murmured, nodding toward the tree.

Gale let out a laugh—or maybe it was a sob.

“No,” he whispered. “I didn’t. How could I?” He hesitated. “I’m sorry. I was… I was an ass about it. I shouldn’t have said it was ugly.”

John exhaled. “But you were right—it was ugly. You made it beautiful.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, shifting awkwardly. “I’m sorry for trying to do something I had no clue about.”

Gale moved before John could react, cupping his face with both hands, his touch gentle—deliberate.

“What?” Gale said, incredulously. “Bucky, I’m grateful that you even tried. I was the one who reacted like an idiot. I should be asking you to forgive me.”

John huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his thumb over Gale’s cheek, the warmth beneath it grounding.

“So we’re good?” he murmured. “No hard feelings?”

Gale smiled, small but genuine. “None.”

John let out a deep breath. “Good. I don’t like it when we fight. Or—” he waved a hand vaguely, “—when we don’t fight, but there’s still all this tension hanging around.”

Gale giggled, leaning in to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

“No tension, Bucky.” He hesitated for a second, then admitted softly, “And… thank you. For the tree. I’ve only ever seen them in drawings. I never thought I’d see anything like it in real life. I just—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry my expectations were stupid.”

John stared at him.

They weren’t stupid.

But before he could say it, Gale darted to the corner of the hut and returned with a small cup of water.

John tilted his head. “What are you doing?”

Gale didn’t answer at first. He stepped closer, reaching out carefully, his fingers brushing against John’s neck, searching beneath his shirt until they found the frayed cord tucked underneath. He pulled it free, revealing the small, worn coin charm hanging from the end.

A gift from John’s mother.

A symbol. A promise that one day, he would return to the ocean.

Neither of them had ever seen a river, let alone the ocean. But John’s mother had given it to him before the world collapsed, telling him that one day he would find his way back—to something quieter, softer, far from the endless desert.

Gale dipped the charm carefully into the water.

“I wish you’d go back to the ocean,” he whispered.

John swallowed. Then, in a voice quieter than before, he murmured, “We.” Gale blinked up at him. John met his gaze, unflinching. “I wish we would go back to the ocean.”

A slow smile spread across Gale’s lips, warm and genuine. He lifted the amulet again, still dripping, and adjusted his wish.

“I wish we would go back to the ocean.”

Something in John’s chest tightened.

Without thinking, he grabbed Gale’s hand. His own was rough, calloused, and Gale’s fingers were long, slender, their warmth soaking into his skin.

John shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmured suddenly.

Gale stilled. His brow furrowed. “…What?”

“The ocean,” John said, his voice quieter now. “All those stories, all those dreams I had as a kid, everything I thought I wanted…” He exhaled. “It doesn’t matter.”

Gale stared at him, lips parting slightly.

“…Why?”

John squeezed his hand, his grip firm and steady.

“Because they never got anyone in my family anywhere. And because I like your dreams too, Buck.” His voice didn’t waver. “No one in this world has ever given a damn about mine. If I’m going to follow someone’s dreams now… I don’t mind if they’re yours.”

He let out a small breath, glancing away for a moment before adding, “Maybe it’s time I stopped chasing an impossible future and focused on protecting what we have now. You always said I was looking too far ahead, not watching where I stepped—tripping, falling. Maybe it’s time I grew up.”

Gale froze.

Then his breath hitched.

He bit his lip, and despite every effort to stop it, tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over before he could even think to wipe them away.

He lunged forward, crashing into John, his lips meeting his in a kiss that was nothing soft, nothing patient—just raw hunger and desperation, like a last wish being granted.

“I care, Bucky,” he whispered against his lips.

John pulled back slightly, blinking, confused.

Gale sniffled, grabbing at his shirt as if trying to ground himself. “I care about your dreams, idiot.” His voice was rough, the words rushed. “I want them to come true. So don’t you ever say you’re alone again, or I swear I’ll get mad and spank you.”

John stared at him, stunned into silence.

Then, suddenly…

He laughed.

A real, genuine laugh, one that shook loose something heavy in his chest.

“I’m really grateful I met you, Buck,” John said, his voice softer now, steadier. “You always manage to guide me when I lose my way.” His lips curled into a teasing smirk. “I guess if anyone’s going to end up in some world with fresh water, green fields, food, and complete safety, it’ll be us.”

Gale smiled, shaking his head. “Don’t count on it.”

John smiled back, pulling him closer. “That’s all I’ll count on.”

===========================================

If you find it hard to picture this world, imagine something like Mad Max: Fury Road AU—a harsh, desolate desert where water is scarce, food is limited, vehicles are few, and violence is rampant.

It started as a drabble, but then I got carried away because I absolutely love post-apocalyptic AU. I was reminded of that interview where Callum and Austin were asked what survival skills they had, and Austin said he knows how to cook =)

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