Chapter Text
A FEW MONTHS LATER. CALIFORNIA.
The only light in the backroom filtered in through slits in the wood, low and yellow as the sun sank deeper over the horizon. The tallow candles, flickering and stinking, barely gave off enough light to be worth calling it that. Francis took care not to brush too close to them as he drew the fabric over Fitzjames’s head, the stuffy air and the rustle of the dress an intimate symphony. Fitzjames sighed when Francis drew the laces closed—one-handed, inelegantly, and with the help of Fitzjames’s deft fingers.
“I always wondered what that felt like.”
Francis ran his remaining hand over Fitzjames’s newly covered back. He knew what Fitzjames’s skin looked like underneath, had followed a delicate path over it with his mouth and fingers many times. Still, to see it clothed always felt like a promise of the future unveiling.
“Have you thought about this a lot?”
Fitzjames didn’t quite turn, but he cast a glance over his shoulder. His smile was bashful. “Perhaps.”
Francis filed that information away for later investigation. They were on a tight schedule.
“You’re certain you can do this?”
They had pursued their bounty through the Arizona territory all the way to a sleepy California town on the edge of the Pacific. The man was hiding somewhere in this town, but their attempts to draw him out had been futile. They decided to lay the only bait that might hold some attraction, something that was in short supply in a town such as this—a show.
Fitzjames’s smile turned into a broad grin. “You’ll have to trust me, Francis.”
Francis patted the side of his duster that obscured the gun—on his left side now, which still took some getting used to. He stepped back, focussed his eyes on Fitzjames who looked vulnerable, less for the dress he was wearing and more for the fact that he would step out in front of a crowd without any weapons. It wasn’t sensible.
“Will I do for a can-can dancer?” Fitzjames poised his hands on his hips, cocked his head to the side. His hair—freshly washed and brushed for the occasion—fell in easy waves just past his chin. The shadow of rouge on his cheeks reminded Francis of the times they spent racing each other across the plains, the elation and easy laughter of Fitzjames he’d never thought he could find pleasing. The dress completed the illusion of femininity, though Francis supposed they wouldn’t have to try very hard in this faded gold rush town—most men here likely hadn’t seen a woman in months, maybe years. It was all about the fantasy.
“You will,” he said, and suddenly realised how affected he sounded. Fitzjames looked—pretty was the wrong word for it, perhaps; he looked like something plucked out of a deep dream, something unremembered that came to the surface. Francis swallowed. Fitzjames, evidently not satisfied, stepped up to the mirror and fussed with his hair.
“You know that the can-can has evolved from the quadrille?” He adjusted his neck band and feather-piece. “Quite a way to go for a dance of polite society.”
Francis stuck his hand and stump into his duster pockets. He was afraid of doing something rash, like reaching out and pulling Fitzjames close; like rucking up his skirts and taking him on the dusty floor of the saloon backroom.
“Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Fitzjames turned again. “I do say, I might even manage a high kick.”
Francis snorted. “Try not to kick the ceiling.”
He stepped out the back door while Fitzjames went through the door leading into the saloon. Francis walked the short way around the building, squinting into the evening sun and wishing for the same things he always wished for—easier marks, a full pocket and a clear shot. The room was already half full when he re-entered the building through the swinging doors, though the half-light made it hard for Francis to see any faces. He stuck to the back, where a suitable corner table was still unoccupied. A close-faced girl brought him a whiskey. He tipped her generously.
He leaned back in his seat, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. For a while, he watched the room fill up with patrons, dusty men come from their makeshift homes looking for a little bit of fun to fill their dreary, monotonous lives. No one he recognised so far.
A twang from the piano had him look up. The artist was a young man in his twenties who had no great skill at the instrument but could read sheet music well enough to play here twice a week. Francis had gritted his teeth, but Fitzjames had shrugged and insisted it would work. After all, no one came to a vaudeville show for the music. Francis had, begrudgingly, agreed.
Other heads turned at the sound of the piano, but the ruckus of conversation was high enough that a few notes didn’t silence it immediately, even as the mood of the room shifted—there was anticipation on the air now, and one by one, the conversations died away.
There was movement at the back of the stage.
As poor and desolate as the town was, in its heyday, it had seen its share of investors hoping to make it big. The stage was nothing short of magnificent, with a background of deep blue and golden stars, and heavy brocade curtains, moth-eaten though they were. They were dark blue, and gold trimmed.
The piano picked up again—a few notes to silence the crowd, and then the boy launched into a jaunty tune that Francis felt he should recognise. A cheer broke out that died away quickly: the sound of a crowd holding its breath in apprehension. There was a break in the music. The sound of a boot hitting the stage-wood floor. And then Fitzjames walked out.
Walking was, perhaps, not quite the way to describe it—he hopped out from stage left in a queer, jaunty way, grinning wildly until he hit the middle of the stage where he struck a pose, one arm raised into the air. The crowd cheered again, heartened by the sight of a tall, slender woman in voluminous skirts. Francis felt his throat go dry.
The first few measures consisted of nothing more than Fitzjames, hands on his hips, hopping to and fro on the stage in a way that made his skirts bounce in the most enticing manner. There was an equal amount of laughter and cheer, and quite a few whistles whenever one of the men caught sight of a bit of skin. The feather-piece on Fitzjames head made him seem even taller. Francis couldn’t help but notice how elegant he looked, how at home in the outfit. He shimmied his body backwards and forwards a little bit, pushing out a chest they had padded with excess fabric earlier. The crowd didn’t notice. They roared. Fitzjames grinned, and on the next move back took a hold of his skirts and pulled them upwards, flashing lace drawers and long, muscular legs. His black boots were shining.
Francis shifted in his seat, swallowed.
Fitzjames began waving his skirts to the left and right while hopping in place, smiling and cocking his head. He looked like the very picture of feminine innocence, like someone so lost in their art they didn’t even consider the implications of their performance. Francis shifted again—he was here on a job; he wasn’t even supposed to be watching Fitzjames—but he couldn’t look away.
Fitzjames spun in place, then went back to flashing glimpses of his drawers while kicking out his legs and Francis had to concede that it was a losing battle—his prick was hardening traitorously in his pants, the sight of Fitzjames before him too much to bear.
He cleared his throat and tore his eyes away, looking around. The crowd was a roiling mass of cheering, red-faced men and Francis felt a wave of jealousy overcome him as intensely as he felt his arousal. They had no right to look at Fitzjames that way.
No sign of their mark as of yet. Francis turned back to the stage when he heard the crowd gasp, just in time to see Fitzjames had turned around, bent over, and revealed his arse—blessedly covered by his drawers—to the roaring crowd. Francis felt faint.
Fitzjames turned again, and Francis caught his eye. He cocked his head to the side in time with the music, and Francis thought nothing of it until Fitzjames did it again, still maintaining eye contact. He followed his line of sight.
The man was sitting close to the stage, a hat drawn into his face. He was watching with rapt attention, and Francis recognised him immediately.
He swallowed, took a moment to compose himself. Then he abandoned his seat.
From the corner of his eye, he could still see Fitzjames moving. His colourful skirts were distracting flashes at the edge of his vision, the glimpses he got of Fitzjames’s skin tantalising in a way that was dangerous now. He was lying flat on his back, his legs up in the air, kicking them forwards and backwards. The crowd cheered, gasped, roared and cheered again, a cacophony of sound that provided the safety Francis needed. Under his duster, he pulled out his Smith & Wesson model 3 and cocked it. The poster had said alive, but Francis knew by now how to explain his way out of a revolver discharging accidentally. Such things happened, after all.
He made sure the revolver pointed squarely at the man’s back before he put a hand on his shoulder. “Solomon Tozer,” he said, his grip a vice that kept the ex-sheriff pressed to his seat. “If I were you, I would remain very still right now.”
They met back up after Francis delivered Tozer to a holding cell at the sheriff’s office and paid the sheriff enough to keep him there. Fitzjames had removed the dress, though a spot of colour still sat on his cheeks—from rouge or exertion, Francis couldn’t tell.
“Did you see my split?” Fitzjames asked as they led their horses the dusty road out of town, to the little camp they had set up by the water. Francis shook his head. “I did not.”
“My high kick, then,” Fitzjames pressed. Again, Francis negated. “I was a little preoccupied with our mark.”
Fitzjames huffed. “Preoccupied. I saw how preoccupied you were.”
Francis felt his face grow hot. He remained silent as they rode out of town, the short winding path that led down to the beach. Finally, he gathered the courage to say, “I wanted you.”
A delighted smile bloomed on Fitzjames’s face. He turned in the saddle to face Francis, fix him with a stare that was unmistakeable in its heat. “I wanted you to want me.”
They didn’t stop to get a fire going. Their tent was already set up, sheltered between the rocks. Fitzjames gasped when Francis bore him down, tearing at his clothes.
“All I could think about,” Francis rasped, a hand on Fitzjames’s wrist that felt both proprietary and comforting as he kissed his way down Fitzjames’s throat. “Was pulling up your skirts and sliding into you right there, in front of all these men who wanted you.”
Fitzjames groaned, pushing his hips up insistently against Francis’s prick. Francis could feel his excitement and gave it a considering squeeze.
“Would have let you,” Fitzjames mumbled, “Wanted you to claim me.”
Francis swore. Fitzjames had a way of disarming him. Propped up on his right arm, he made short work of Fitzjames’s pants with his good hand, then swore again. “You kept them,” he said, running a careful hand over the drawers that he’d admired on Fitzjames earlier. The fabric was soft, though the look of them was somewhat ruined by the hard line of Fitzjames’s prick. Francis squeezed it again and Fitzjames’s legs fell open. “For you,” he panted.
Francis kept working him with slow, measured strokes, considering the vision of a man before him—tall and muscular, the face of a statue with the blush of a man. He would have said he didn’t deserve Fitzjames and would have been right but didn’t dare curse the stroke of luck that had brought him Fitzjames in spite of his worthlessness.
“Francis—” Fitzjames warned.
Francis shushed him. “It’s alright.”
Fitzjames’s face was screwed tight in search of his release, his hips twitching desperately, searching to aid the movement on Francis’s hand on his prick. “Please,” he whispered hoarsely, then again— “Please.”
Francis slipped his hand inside the drawers, marvelling at the obscene picture. As often the case, the obscuring of the act seemed lewder than the act itself, and Francis watched with fascination the movement of his hand on Fitzjames’s prick under the fabric. Fitzjames’s mouth fell open in a groan that sounded like surrender when Francis’s thumb brushed the sensitive spot under the head, Fitzjames’s head lifting up and then thumping back against the bedroll. “Yes, yes—”
He seized up, eyes flying open and finding Francis. A wordless cry hung on his lips before Francis felt warmth covering his hands, wet and plentiful. He continued stroking Fitzjames slowly, deliberately, hoping to draw him to the place where the pleasure became too much to bear. Fitzjames simply sighed—his body relaxed against the bedroll.
Fitzjames’s prick was softening in his hand now but still Fitzjames did not ask him to move his hand. Francis—finally giving in to his urge to see—carefully pulled down the drawers. When Francis put his thumb against Fitzjames entrance, delicately begging entry, Fitzjames sighed again. “Yes.”
He had to let go of him to find the oil, and then to slick up a finger. He wished for another hand to keep Fitzjames’s soft prick nestled safe and close; made do with his mouth instead. Fitzjames’s made a startled noise but seized the back of Francis’s head before Francis could pull away. “Want,” he said, wetting his lips, “Want this. Want you.”
Francis nodded, once.
The breath was leaving Fitzjames in little gasps when Francis slipped a finger inside of him. His prick rested softly on Francis’s tongue, tasting faintly of Fitzjames’s spend. Francis was painfully hard but drawing his pleasure out he felt like he was dream-walking—the edges were softened, his own limbs seemed to belong to someone else, all the while Fitzjames encouraged him with quiet whispers.
Francis let Fitzjames’s prick fall from his mouth—it had started to fill out again, Fitzjames ever eager—and turned him over.
Fitzjames gasped, his mind perhaps seizing on the tableau Francis had painted earlier—it was certainly on Francis’s mind as he rucked up Fitzjames’s shirt instead of skirts, pulling out his own prick and surrendering it, bit by aching bit, to the tight heat of Fitzjames’s arse.
“Don’t think they would have even been shocked,” Francis whispered, a careful consideration of a fantasy. He did not want to hurt Fitzjames. He’d done his share of that. But he’d also learned there could be pleasure in debasing oneself, and Fitzjames, vain as he was, certainly knew that. “Exposing yourself like a dirty whore. Hoping someone might be man enough to come and claim you.”
Fitzjames cried out, a wordless agreement. There was tension in Fitzjames’s limbs again, the signs of his pleasure that Francis could read as well as any track.
“You won’t be parading around like that when I’m done with you,” Francis hissed. Under him, Fitzjames convulsed. “Oh yes, Francis, mark me—”
Francis bit his shoulder and screwed his eyes shut. He knew what pleased Fitzjames, but Fitzjames also knew how to please him and he used it shamelessly, grinding his hips back against Francis, allowing his prick to slip deeper into Fitzjames’s arse. Francis seized a handful of his hair, twisting Fitzjames’s head to the side.
“Mine,” he said, placing a brutal, possessive kiss to the side of his neck. Fitzjames wailed and shuddered, the muscles of his arse tightening around Francis’s prick. Francis never wanted it to end—the feeling of filling Fitzjames, of having him deeply in a way no one else could have him. Fitzjames spurred him on with filthy encouragements. Francis, seized by a sudden need to kiss him, pulled out and rolled Fitzjames over, then slammed back into him hastily as Fitzjames’s legs locked around his hips. Francis leaned forward and kissed him, Fitzjames pulling Francis’s prick into his body and his tongue into his mouth and Francis sobbed, once—he felt empty, overwhelmed, overcome—and then his hips were jerking forward erratically until, at last, he felt the pulse and throb of his release deep inside Fitzjames.
The night sky and the sea were an unbroken blanket of deep dark blue by the time they made their way down to the beach. The ocean was something one felt rather than saw, Francis always thought—the roar and smell of it were always easier to parse than the view of the endless expanse of water before them.
“Well,” Fitzjames said, “Here we are.”
“Are where?” Francis said. Their desire sated, they had fallen into a drowsy mood, tending to the campfire, preparing their food, until Francis suggested a walk to the water.
“The end of expansion. The other side of the continent. The culmination of all mystery.”
Fitzjames picked a spot in the sand and plopped down, taking a handful of the stuff and letting it run through his fingers. Francis sat down next to him carefully—his joints weren’t quite so forgiving.
“That’s a comfort,” he said.
“You think so?” Fitzjames seemed surprised.
Francis turned to him. In the poor light of a moonless night, Fitzjames was barely visible, and yet Francis could fill in every detail of his face by memory. What a strange gift, to have someone he knew so completely.
“I think so,” Francis said.
Art by lenkagabriela.