#🎫 // javier escuella

[fabricated-misslieness]

pairing: javier escuella (rdr2) x male reader

req: no | wc: 1.08k

summary: Javier’s sweet on you, you’re sweet on him. Home doesn’t feel so far anymore.

a/n: reader has lived in Panamá long enough to be emotionally attached and have its accent, also speaks spanish like a native. if i had it my way the whole fic’s dialogue would be in spanish but eh gringos

Javier’s used to shouting out lyrics for the gang, thankfully in his native language. Though singing out “Canta y no llores!” high and loud with that strong pair o’ lungs o’ his is nice and all, he has no objection in singing them lower.

“...porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones.”

His cielito lindo this particular evening is you, o’ course, and you’re actually able to appreciate the lyrics on a level the gang can’t.

Your humming along to in rhythm fades to silence at the same time its counterpart, his singing, does.

Javier relaxes for a bit, as best he can with the heaving up and down of your chest moving him along. His ear is to it, actually, right between your pecs. He can hear the beatin’ of your heart and finds it calming; in fact, it’s the reason for his slower tempo.

It's hard to sing in one tempo when another is right at your ear.

Or at least, that’s what he’d say to everyone else. Music, he’s so good at it, comes subconsciously now, as did that song. His main focus was your heart, and knowing you’re there.

He needed that to ground him after that heist you’d pulled off earlier that day. He feels as though he’s still recovering from the high of adrenaline as bullets pierce the wood of the table he’s hiding behind, just nearly hittin’ him, and the feeling of a bullet grazing his hair right at the moment he begins to peek his head a mere centimeter above the table.

“You saved my life back there.” You say.

“You always say that.” He says.

“And it’s always true.”

Your heart much contrasts his own. Yours is calm, beatin’ as fast as it needs to. His, on the other hand, is much quicker; both with the adrenaline and without. He’s still not quite used to this, the pure, tender, shameless lovin’ you share with him each day.

“Javi.”

The silence is broken. He doesn’t mind.

He turns his head up to you, chin restin’ against your chest causing it to jut out slightly, and hums in response, “Hm?”

You’re about to speak when he interrupts you, seemingly forgetting you were calling his attention instead of the other way round.

“Why do you always call me Javi?”

“An apodo for mi amor.” (A nickname for my love.)

He’s about to “aww” when you continue.

“Partly, anyway. The other reason is ‘cause of this puta, Carrizo, vecino mío del mismo nombre tuyo. Bastardo, era… Anyway,” You clear your throat, and Javier laughs at how quick you are to change the subject, “this relates to what I was going to say—si no me hubieras interrumpido.” (bitch, Carrizo, neighbor of mine with the same name as you. Bastard, he was. / if you hadn't interrupted me.)

And he laughs again.

The humor of the conversation makes him expect something just as light, perhaps poking fun at Sean or something, not whatever comes next.

“¿Extrañas a casa?” (Do you miss home?)

He’s quick to reply, anyway. The answer is obvious.

“Claro…¿y tú?” (Obviously... and you?)

“Clarísimo. Panamá… Panamá prácticamente está en ruinas, de un tirano a otro. El canal ni siquiera está en nuestras propias manos. Es mierda.” (Obviously [to higher degree] Panama is practically in ruins, from one tyrant to another. The canal isn't even in our own hands. It's shit.)

“I feel you.” Javier turns his head back to the side, back to nature; the dark green of the trees and grass and brown of the squirrels and red of the raspberries… It soothes him for a bit, though it doesn’t drive his thoughts away from his dear Mexico. He can’t even be there to lead the revolution against ese maldito gobierno. He’s wanted more dead than alive, even, in that mess of a land.

Home was so far, more for you than him, really, but who cares; it was equally as hard for the both of you to even think about it without sorrow.

“Pero…¿Sabes algo, Javi? Lo extraño menos y menos estos días.” (Although... You know something, Javi? I miss it less and less these days.)

His head snaps up to you, “¿De verdad?” He can’t stop the spitting out of words to even register if they’re rude in his disbelief. (Really / Truly?)

“¿Montón de ‘bogus’, aha?” (Buncha bogus, huh?)

“No, no, yo también.” (No, no, me too.)

“Ah.” So you weren’t alone in this. To say it’s a relief is an understatement. “It’s just that, I feel like I’ve found a new home.”

“¿En los Van der Lin’s?” (In the Van der Lin's?)

“Ehh,” You shift up to lean on your elbows, bringing him up with you, “not exactly.” The gang… they were your home, yeah, but that wasn’t what you were thinking about right now; not when you had Mr. Escuella layin’ over you.

“Then where?”

He can barely register the hand you use to cup his cheek –though instincts take over and he leans on it anyway– too attentive awaiting your answer to really realize.

“You.”

Oh. It shouldn’t’ve been a shock, thinking logically. Your love for each other wasn’t new, and while he wasn’t expecting for you to say he was home right now, he was hoping for it. The words after that come out naturally, “Yo también.” (Me too.)

“Then I’m the happiest man this side of the Earth.”

“What about the other side?” He asks as he begins his ‘climb’ up to you.

“I’m sure the king of England is a happy man.”

Javier allows himself to chuckle just for a moment. Why he wouldn’t in the first place, though, is because he wanted to kiss you. His hands find refuge between your body and your elbow, and he uses them to prop himself up as he presses his lips tenderly against yours.

When your lips meet, he actually thinks about it again. You could say the kiss brings him back to reality.

You considered him your home, and he considered you his home.

Mieeerda. (Shiiit)

He falls onto you; quite literally, on your chest, nearly flooring you against the log you’ve been laying on. Javi doesn’t seem to mind that, though, or maybe he doesn’t register it, as he wraps his arms around your neck and becomes utterly absorbed in the tender kiss.

“Dios mio.” He gasps when he comes out for air, “If I hadn’t known you…” (My God.)

“No estarías ‘draped’ sobre alguien ‘pre-ca-riós-ly’ en el medio de un bosque como un joven rebelde. Además, no serías tan liviano como un joven para vivir sin preocuparse por el hombre debajo de ti.” (You would'nt be draped over someone precariously in the middle of the forest like a young rebel. Also, you wouldn't be as light as a teenager to be living without a care for the man below you.)

He takes the hint and holds himself up again, even if he feels weak from the revelation and kiss. He clears his throat awkwardly, little embarrassed at how you pointed his weakness out to him so frankly. In an attempt to hide it, he says, “Creo que la parte fuerte de esa palabra estaría en 'ca' pero supongo que solo conozco tu acento panameño.” (I think the strong part of that word [precariously] would be in 'ca' but I suppose I only know your Panamanian accent)

“Sure.”

fun fact: that Javier I talked about exists, although he's not an asshole and the z in his last name replaces two letters. carrizo means straw, by the way.