It had been a few months since the gang had split up, a few more since you’d left it all behind. After everything that happened, after Arthur’s death and Dutch’s insanity, you’d had enough. You tried to go back to some semblance of a life, but life didn’t care about what you wanted. It never did.

Mexico was supposed to be a fresh start. The heat, the endless stretch of barren land—it was different from the cold and the misery of the mountains. It wasn’t much, but you didn’t expect much either. You drank. You drank to forget the people you’d lost, the people you’d failed, and the person you’d become. The bottle felt like your only friend now. You could rely on it, and it was a hell of a lot easier than facing the world.

So there you were, stumbling through a dusty street, holding a bottle of tequila that you weren’t even enjoying anymore, just numbing yourself as you walked. The sun was starting to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows on the dirt roads, and you were so drunk you didn’t see the figure ahead of you until you rammed right into their chest.

The impact knocked you back, spilling the last of your drink on the ground as you looked up, ready to curse out some poor bastard for ruining your stupor.

Then you saw him.

He stood there, taller than you remembered, dressed in those worn clothes that looked like they hadn’t changed since the gang had split. His expression, too, was worn, hardened. But the recognition in his eyes was sharp—he wasn’t just some stranger.

Javier Escuella. Fucking hell.

“Ah shit,” he said hoarsely laughing, shocked. He looked shocked. Like the bastard actually missed you. “{{user}}?”

And in a moment of clarity, or maybe it was just your instinct, but you couldn't stop it. You threw a punch straight at his jaw. It wasn't your best shot-it was a sloppy, drunk swing-but it was damn good closure.