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It began with a hand on John’s shoulder and an over-enthusiastic, “Let’s go fishing!” just as he whipped his head around. He caught sight of a toothy-grinned Javier, clutching a small lavender pouch—its fabric shifting with the unmistakable wriggle of something alive. He couldn’t find it in him to turn down such an invitation; Javier’s eyes had sparkled so bright when he asked John to accompany him.
Now, as if borne on a strong wind, he found himself astride Old Boy’s back, trotting just behind Javier’s shorter Boaz.
“The sun’s about to dip,” John remarked, his gaze tracing the golden shimmer spilling across the horizon. “It’s going to be dark soon.”
"That's the best part." Javier kept his eyes on the road, but John could hear the grin in his voice. "Fish are most active in the late evening and early morning—when the insects come out to play."
John tightened his hold on Old Boy's strap, his eyes fixed on the back of Javier's head. "You sure wolves won't be lurking around by then?"
"Hey, we'll be back before then. 'Sides, there ain't a blizzard to annoy you this time around," Javier said, turning his head just enough to send the message without fully meeting John's eyes. "And don't forget, ya got me too."
John felt himself grin in tandem. “I can handle myself just fine.”
The journey unfolded in an ebb and flow of small talk as the orange sky gradually deepened into crimson. Their horses descended a gentle slope, and amid the quiet, John discerned the rumbling of running water drawing them closer to their destination.
"Here we are," Javier declared as he dismounted Boaz, and John followed suit.
The crisp scent of freshwater enveloped John as he carefully descended the steeper slope, each step measured against the slippery patches of earth. Javier, however, navigated the path with practiced ease, as though he was accustomed to the route from many visits.
“How often do you go here?” John asked, his voice soft as he absorbed the day's dying light. The final golden rays filtered through the trees, setting the water aglow with… glaring sparks.
Javier halted mid-stride and spun on his heels to face John, who had stepped back with his arms outstretched. "Here? This is my first time," he admitted. “Feller I met showed me a couple of spots, and this was one of ‘em.”
“Oh, huh.”
“Such a pretty place, right?”
But John couldn't help noticing Javier’s lush, black hair shimmering beneath the caress of sunlight. He couldn’t do otherwise—“Yeah,” was all he could muster.
“C’mon, you take this spot.” Javier stands on a flat boulder by the river. “I'm going to cast from over to the right there, so we're not in each other's way.”
They settled into their spots. John watched the river, its current lurching wildly in a dance that evoked a long-ago memory. He shook his head at the thought and edged cautiously toward the shore, determined to keep his shoes dry. Then, he pulled out whatever he had in his bag for bait: bits of cheese.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
With the bait secured, he finally cast his reel. Minutes stretched on like hours—while John's bait barely earned a nibble, Javier had already hooked two or three. He began to regret turning down many of Hosea and Arthur’s invitations; his irrational fear of large bodies of water ended up stymieing his abilities. His grip on the pole started to hurt, most likely due to his frustration gradually clouding his mind. Just as he made the motion to throw his rod in anger, Javier’s voice made its way across the river: "You okay there, John?"
Frozen mid-motion, John fired back, “Javier, there ain't no fish coming my way. They like you, not me.”
Truth be told, he’d dreaded this moment all along. Sure, he could cast a reel with ease, but beyond that, he was utterly lost—a feeling that had always driven him to prefer the thrill of hunting over the stationary art of fishing.
“That ain't true. Fish don't discriminate.” Javier gave his rod a small reel. “It's your bait, I think.”
“Do these bastards not like my cheese?”
"They might prefer insects down here. Come use some of mine," Javier offered. From a short distance away, he retrieved the small, lavender pouch from his bag and sent it soaring toward John in one graceful, beautiful arc. John barely managed to catch it—the last thing he wanted to do was embarrass himself before Javier—and of accidentally releasing whatever lively creature… creatures lurked within. God knows what Javier would do if he ended up giving the fish a free buffet.
“Crickets,” Javier filled in. “This’d reel you in some beautiful smallmouths.”
He retrieved said insect from the bag and studied it between his fingers—nearly the size of his index finger, its legs waggling as if in protest. With the live bait swaying at the end of the string, John cast his fly line once more.
As if by clockwork, John felt a fish nibble at his lure almost instantly, stirring within him a mix of thrill and dread.
“You got one!” Javier exclaimed.
John dug his feet in deeper on the solid ground, hoping to steady his erratic reeling. His fish, however, had other ideas—thrashing wildly in the water. Undeterred, John persisted in his frantic struggle, feeling as if he were locked in a brawl with a drunken stranger. And suddenly, the tension in his grip melted away, leaving him with a familiar void.
John hisses in a breath through his teeth. "The fish got away.”
He stared blankly into the water, as if it might entice a fish to swim up to his heels, all the while feeling Javier's gaze boring upon him. It was what John had felt anyway; Javier had been awfully silent for a moment too long. So John looked up, and to his astonishment, his hunch was proven right—Javier’s eyes, filled with bewilderment, met his own.
“That’s…” Javier stammered something the moment their eyes locked, but John was far too distant to be able to catch the words. Eventually, Javier simply said, "Give it another try, John." His tone, though encouraging, carried an undercurrent of challenge—as if he wanted to prove something.
John felt a defiant retort boiling on his tongue, but he swallowed it and resolved to give it another whirl. “Third time’s the charm, right?” With the live cricket secured, he cast his line hastily—a misstep Javier had undoubtedly noticed. "Damn it, he's watching, he's watching,” he muttered under his breath.
His eyes fixed on the sunken fly, tracing over it as it slowly ascended toward the surface. He felt his palms grow damp around the grip, with beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. Time stretched out like eternity until a harsh tug yanked him downward.
“There we go, John!”
In an instant, he became hyper-aware of his stance, each shallow and deep breath underscoring the delicate balance he was struggling to maintain. He once again wrestled with a wild beast, its erratic flailing bending the rod into grotesque shapes far beyond anything he considered proper.
“Stop reeling when the fish is fighting against you!”
He swore, he swore he had tried to steer his entire body to stop as Javier had advised, yet his vision had completely tunneled on the tiny splash of water at the end of the fly line, far in the distance.
Then, silence settled.
John blinked, and with a weary sigh muttered, "Lost it again.”
Moments were left quiet save for the thrumming of the river.
“John, I think you…”
“You don't need to sugarcoat it, Javier—I suck at this.”
"No, no." Javier bolted from his spot, scurrying toward John. "I think you need some pointers."
As soon as he drew near, he reached out and cupped John's hand around the pole.
Huh?
The unexpected gesture sent John's heart racing, and he could feel Javier's damp, calloused palms tightening around his hand. John felt a surge of warmth racing to the tips of his fingers, as if his heart had dissolved and its pulse now flowed from his hands.
Huh…?
“You’re holding the rod wrong.” Javier lifted John’s left hand off the grip with his scarred, slender fingers. ”Your left hand should always be in front of the reel when holding your rod, regardless of whether you are reeling or waiting for a bite.”
All John could say was, “Oh, okay.” He pleaded with Mother Earth to engulf him whole.
"You're gonna need to channel your strength through your entire arm—not just your wrist." Javier released his grip, and John hated how the sudden emptiness sent a slight sting through his heart. "Without the right tension, you'll likely suffer a backlash if you don't keep it straight."
The touch left a lingering static on John’s hands.
“John? You following along?”
“Oh, uh, yes.”
“Great, now show me how you hook the bait,” Javier prompted.
“Um…” John hesitated, then retrieved another cricket from the bag. With a steady hand, he plunged the hook through its neck.
Javier observed and shook his head. “Ah, that ain't good. They won't hold on well that way.”
“What’s the best way, then?” John asked.
“Here.” Javier lifted the hook to his side, making sure John could see it clearly. “Hooking them through the thick middle of the body works best,” he explained, demonstrating as he spoke.
John could only nod, speechless.
"Alright," Javier said as he stepped back, giving John a few encouraging pats on the back. "Go and try again."
John gathered his remaining composure, drawing in a deep, generous breath before exhaling slowly to steady his nerves.
Inhale.
Like a ritual.
Exhale.
With renewed focus, he angled his fishing pole backward.
“Don’t rush,” Javier advised. “Pause for a moment. Feel the weight of your rod.”
John cast his fly forward, following Javier’s instructions. After a few careful tugs on the reel, he was met with a sudden pull—an award from beneath the water.
“There we go! Don’t reel just yet. Trick is to let him tire himself out.”
John steered his rod opposite to the fish's path, feeling significantly more confident with the grip Javier had taught him. It felt strange—spinning the rod had always been his go-to move—but there was a distinct satisfaction in finally fighting a battle that no longer seemed hopeless.
The fish then stopped moving.
“Now,” Javier instructed. “Reel in steadily.”
John obeyed. Midway through, the fish began struggling again. "This one’s a fighter!" he grunted.
"Relax, John. Remember what I told you. Don’t rely on your wrists, use your shoulders.”
Was that what Javier had told him earlier?
No time to ponder—the brawl resumed, a rhythmic dance of steering and reeling. Eventually, as the prized fish drew near, John was enveloped by a profound sense of victory. The pure joy of catching his very own scaly prize filled him.
“You got it!” Javier cheered.
John examined the fish, a smallmouth bass, before him—Javier hadn't been lying. It was stunning, its individual scales catching the low light reflected off the water like finely polished metal. Amidst the high, John bubbled a laugh. “You, sir, are a fish!”
“That’s one alright,” Javier chimed along. “See, you got it in you!”
John's laughter subsided as he hastily shoved the fish into his bag, its emptiness stirring a hint of embarrassment. "Uh," he mumbled, glancing at Javier before returning his gaze to his arms, still pleasantly tired—as if he'd been chopping wood all day. "Thank you."
“Of course,” Javier said, settling onto a boulder. "Ah, it’s getting close to nightfall. Fish will stop feeding soon."
John looked up, watching as white specks slowly emerged against the deepening purple sky.
“I'm gonna head back, you wanna join me or, uh...”
The air still carried its familiar scent, yet its once-oppressive pressure had nearly vanished. John felt the urge to laugh again, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his chest.
“Yeah.”
The moment settled, with only the steady rhythm of trotting hooves and the chirping of crickets filling the quiet. The night sky had fully unfurled, a vast expanse of deep blue stretching endlessly over the land. The night was cold, its crisp air nipping at John’s skin as he rode beneath the boundless, starlit sky.
John sighed. “Sorry I made you spend half of your time making you... tutor me.”
"C'mon, John, it's fine,” Javier laughed. “There’re always other days.”
“No, it's…”
The darkness made it difficult to read Javier’s expression, yet John still basked in the man’s liveliness nevertheless. It was rare to see this man laughing so heartily. While fishing might seem mundane to John, to Javier it was much more—a cherished passion that went far beyond a simple hobby.
So John was curious. He had to know. “What got you into fishing, anyway?”
"Fishing?" Javier remarked, scratching his chin before laughing once more—though this instance, it was a laugh tinged with bittersweetness that plunged through John’s heart like a poisoned arrow. "Funny you asked.”
To John, it was far from humorous. He listened as Javier's voice, laden with melancholy, wove a tale that began long before he ever set foot in this country. Javier was a man of striking beauty, and his story—though tinged with sorrow—could never help but hold a certain grace.
Javier had a way of calling many things beautiful: the river just behind them, the breathtaking view from Horseshoe Overlook’s cliff, the myriad of fish he proudly showcased at camp, the vast lake cradling Clemens Point, even the music echoing through every saloon he visited. (There was even that one time at Colter—John was sure Javier muttered something with "beautiful" in it, whether in Spanish or as a fragment of his fevered imagination—though he dreaded learning the truth.)
He recounted how he began fishing as a small boy, the rod feeling as natural in his hands as if he were born with it. Alongside his uncle and brother-in-law, he would seize every opportunity to fish in the river near their hometown, feeding not just their bodies, but a shared legacy between his small family.
Throughout, Javier's voice never wavered from its underlying sadness. Listening to him was like hearing the soulful songs he sung in his mother tongue by the soft glow of the campfire—a constant, aching yearning that no strum of a guitar could ever fully ease.
As Javier's voice became strained from the weight of those memories, he fell silent. John longed to know more, but he knew some stories were too heavy to ask about. In the end, Javier remained a man of many mysteries and burdens—and that was simply how it was.
"Can I ask something?" Javier suddenly questioned, his voice still hoarse—his best attempt at hiding what lay buried deep within.
He'd only known Javier for a few years, yet aversion was never new to John. "Sure."
"I actually noticed how you try to stay as far from the water as possible," Javier said. "Like... it's like a single splash would burn through you. Like poison."
John scratched his neck. “Never knew it was that obvious.”
“It was hard to miss. You looked too tense even from a distance.” Javier looked John in the eyes. “Do you… dislike fishing?”
John’s own widened. “No, no, I wouldn’t say it like that exactly. It’s more of… how do I put it?”
Javier held John's gaze steadily, making it even harder for him to find the right words.
“Water,” John finally began. It felt ridiculous when he said it out loud. “Large bodies of ‘em. Never feels right to stand so close. I ain't like that part more.”
“Oh, you should’ve told me,” replied Javier. “You ain't obliged to go fishing with me.”
"Nah, it's about time I get over this stupid fear anyway. Plus, Clemens Point is right by a damn lake. I can't keep going around acting scared of water forever.
"Why invite me anyway?" John asked. "Why not Arthur?"
Javier hummed in thought. “Never quite saw you fishing, John.”
"I'm..." John hesitated for a moment. "Yeah, I ain't much of an angler like the rest. To be honest, my rod—dust’s been collecting on it like a new home on Old Boy’s back. Hosea sorta gave up and left me to be more of a huntsman. Arthur ain't let me live it down either—keeps saying, 'If you were stranded with no food in the middle of the Pacific, you'd starve to death on day one.'”
John didn’t miss Javier’s stifled chuckle. He frowned, lips tugging into a slight pout. “What?”
Javier cleared his throat, trying to compose himself. “Sorry, sorry.”
A familiar, lush scent of nature filled the air, mingling with the louder chirps of night insects. They were signs that John was nearing the small forest surrounding the camp.
Before they returned to their lives—constant fear, worry, and vigilance—John had to confess something. "Javier?"
“Hm?”
"I just wanted you to know that…” He absentmindedly scratched Old Boy’s neck, his gaze fixed somewhere distant, unwilling to meet Javier’s eyes. “I'm really glad you invited me out.”
Yet, deep down, he wanted to learn. To grow. Thus, he summoned his courage—he lifted his eyes to meet Javier's. "So, thank you."
He hesitated to assume—perhaps it was merely a trick of the light—but for a brief moment, John thought he saw a flicker of surprise cross Javier’s face before it softened into a smile. That rare smile that always warmed John's face and ears, and he never quite understood why.
"De nada, mi amigo," Javier replied. "Anytime."
At that moment, the crackling sound of the campfire grew louder, and John decided it didn’t matter—whatever came next, as long as Javier was with him, he’d be happy.
