Chapter Text
The dress is satin. It tears too easily to be silk.
Hosea won’t dwell on how or why he knows silk is harder to tear. There’s a memory somewhere at the back of his mind. Dutch, a party, stolen scotch, too much fabric between his teeth. Something he has absolutely no business thinking about while running for his life.
God, but wouldn’t that be a beautiful last thought...
The trees flash by, thick foliage slaps his face, scratching his arms as he swats it away. Behind him, the echo of gunfire rips through the night. Bullets whip past him, chipping off bark, blowing up dirt. Too close.
And ahead of him, a man who’s been chased before.
Trelawny has some explaining to do, he runs like he knows what a noose feels like.
But that will have to wait.
Stomping boots behind them, too frantic to count how many men. A shotgun barks through the trees. Somewhere in the chaos, a voice shouts—
"Over here!"
It’s too loud.
Hosea grits his teeth, panic spiking, boots slipping over muddy leaves. He can feel the sharp digging of the corset into his lungs, riding so high it could strangle him. The skirts, tattered, tangle in his legs, pull treacherously at his knees. A bullet at the edge of his ear, whistling death.
“Trelawny, move!” he snaps, more a warning than a command.
He doesn’t know if he can hear him over the sound of their own pounding feet, but there’s a brief, fleeting glance thrown over Trelawny’s shoulder, then back to the path.
They run. And run some more. And keep running even when there’s nothing left in them, even when their legs turn to sand, and their bodies beg to stop. Quick. Faster. More. Until the earth shifts.
They burst through the trees, nearly tumbling down an incline.
Suddenly, open sky.
The shore of a lake.
They reach it side by side, gasping, boots squelching into the mushy dirt by the water. No more trees out here, no more cover. But the only pounding Hosea hears is his heart.
“Stop!” He calls. Then, with a gasp, “Stop.”
They come to a skidding halt, heads whipping back. The treeline looms, dark and foreboding, dangerous as forests ought to be at night. But around them it's justsilence.
They’ve outrun them for now.
Hosea braces his hands on his knees, sucking in breath after breath. The lake stretches before him, black as ink, silver where the moon catches it. The earthy scent of lakewater, cool air wafting over his damp skin.
The dress is ruined, torn all over and caked in mud, all the finery dampened with grime and sweat. The wig, poor old thing, was the first thing to fly off his head. The paint on his face is likely looking like some circus act gone wrong. At least his old sturdy boots survived. Good things the skirt was long enough to hide them.
The corset digs sharp in his ribs, in his lungs, fighting against his breathing. It’s worse than being stabbed. He needs to get it off, fast, or that contraption will be what kills him.
There’s a sharp cough beside him, his eyes flick there.
Trelawny looks like he’s been dragged through hell.
Flushed and sweaty. His collar’s torn open, cravat gone, lost somewhere or yanked off to breathe better, his coat slumps askew off one shoulder. His hair a disaster. Some of it stuck to his forehead, the rest untucked from the neat combing, flopping down his face in disarray. It’s longer than Hosea thought, falling way past his eyes.
Trelawny looks back at him, and Hosea feels it sudden in his chest.
Fists clenched to kill the impulse, to keep the heat down, to ignore the instinct that wants to grab Trelawny by the lapels and slam him against the closest surface at hand.
This shouldn’t be happening. Hosea is too old for this. But there's something about seeing a man so controlled, so polished, undone.
There’s no pretense in Trelawny’s eyes, no self-indulgence, no charm. Just blue. Wide and unblinking like prey. Something lingers in the way they dart around, something vulnerable and feral, but not fear. Hosea knows what the panic of the chase looks like. This isn’t it.
His pulse should be slowing. It isn’t.
His skin should be cooling. It’s burning.
Trelawny sways where he stands, chest still heaving, and Hosea wants to be the reason his chest heaves. Hosea wants—
Hosea can’t breathe.
“Get me out of here,” he gasps.
Trelawny blinks. Stupidly. “What?”
Hosea whirls around, yanking the dress down his shoulders. His arms flail behind him, desperate.
“Corset—” His breath stutters.
Trelawny’s hands rush to his back, moving along whalebones and laces, tugging, untying. Hosea hasn’t taken a decent lungful of air in minutes now, his vision is fraying at the edges. It’s too slow.
“Faster,” he grits out.
Trelawny bristles. “I’m doing what I can.”
When he blinks, the world takes a beat too long to snap back into focus. The shore blurs, the speckle of stars smudges along the black sky. His chest locks up tight.
“God’s sake—” Hosea chokes. “Tear it open, man!”
Trelawny hisses under his breath, lets out a frustrated growl.
Laces snap.
Fabric rips.
And then—air.
Hosea sucks in a breath, a drowning man breaching the surface.
His lungs unfurl, it burns like a bitch. But hell, better than suffocating. He braces his hands on his thighs, head hanging as he gulps down the thick lake air.
The corset, ruined and useless, slumps around his waist. Hosea yanks it off and tosses it aside. As his brain catches up, the embarrassing realization that the damn thing had clasps in the front hits him. He says nothing. Trelawny, apparently, hadn’t thought of it either. No need to bruise both their egos.
Trelawny’s hands stay on him, against the heaving plains of his back, as if he expects Hosea to crumple. He won’t. He’s not that old. But for an indulgent second he lets himself lean into it. Not long, just enough to catch his breath, to let his senses catch up with the fact he looks like the scene of a crime. Face smeared with colors, mussed hair, torn clothes, dirt everywhere. Oh, the tale this will make around the campfire.
Hosea drags a hand down his face and straightens, turning toward Trelawny.
The man is staring at his hands now. He frowns at them as if they don’t quite belong to him, fingers curling, still reeling from what he just did. Hosea shares the sentiment for a beat, until his gaze drifts, locking onto the column of Trelawny’s throat, damp with sweat, bobbing as he swallows.
Freed from the pressure crushing his ribs, his body remembers what else has been coiled tight all night.
Hosea keeps staring.
Trelawny swallows again. “Not how I imagined the night going,” he mumbles.
Hosea steps closer. “How the hell did you think a high-stakes house robbery was gonna go?”
Trelawny’s lips twitch. The ghost of a smirk, the barest hint of smugness. His mouth opens to speak.
Whatever he has to to say catches in his throat as Hosea reaches for him.
Smooth coat lapels, fine fabric under his fingers. Hosea yanks him forward, slamming their bodies flush. Lips crash together in a firm kiss. Reckless and thoughtless, entirely too dangerous given the circumstances.
Hosea doesn’t care.
Trelawny’s breath hitches and Hosea swallows it. He presses closer, one hand slipping under the lapel, gripping too tight in the man’s shirt. The other slides low, over the small of his back, feeling the slick heat through damp cotton.
Trelawny exhales into the kiss, mouth parting. He tilts his head enough to let Hosea deepen it. His hands scramble to find purchase, one curling into Hosea’s hair, the other settling at his waist, gripping, dragging him in.
Tongues brush each other, searching deep, hands roaming in their own quiet, selfish exploration.
There’s no pretense this time. No danger close enough to justify it.
Trelawny knows how to touch a man. There’s no hesitation or uncertain fumbling, no trace of the feather-light courtesy he may reserve to a woman. His hands find all the right places, firm and demanding, and Hosea files that away as yet another question for later.
Right now, he only wants to feel him.
The planes of his chest. Soft beneath his fingers, not too much muscle, not a man of labor, but Hosea doesn’t mind the tenderness. It's all the more for him to grab onto. The dress shirt clings damp to his skin, and he pushes it up, over the ridge of his ribs, feeling the coarse curl of chest hair through the fabric. Then lower, lower, dragging it over his stomach.
Trelawny practically melts, a sound dripping out of his mouth, right into Hosea’s. It tastes so sweet he could get drunk on it.
Hosea’s grip shifts, sliding lower, hand skimming over belt leather, over the swell of his ass. Grabbing, yanking him closer. Hip to hip. Trelawny is taller, but it doesn’t matter, their bodies are pressed flush, no room for hiding the way Hosea grinds down against him, hips rolling. The thick, aching heat under layers of skirts dragging over another just as hard, just as eager.
Trelawny’s breath hiccups. He pulls back, breaking the kiss with a ruinous sigh.
He looks broken. Worse than before. Better than Hosea could ever ask for.
Sweat to his brow, flush in his neck. The curl of his mustaches is as uneven as his breaths. Hair somehow wilder, strands hanging over his face, half-shadowing his eyes.
Eyes dark. Not a trace of blue left in them. They shine with the same steadiness he had after punching that guard in the mouth. The image flickers in Hosea’s mind, his cock stirring at the memory. Another thing to keep for later.
It’s been a long time since a man looked at Hosea like that.
Before he can say a word, Trelawny is gone.
Down.
On his knees.
Under what’s left of his skirts.
A startled laugh punches out Hosea’s throat, almost hysterical.
The skirt might be tattered, but the fabric is still plenty. Bunching around his waist as the bulk of Trelawny’s body pushes it upwards. Below him, the sound of rustling and tearing. He staggers as a hard pull at the fabric nearly sends him face down. Another shove, he laughs again.
“I’d appreciate—” Trelawny’s voice cracks, muffled, from somewhere down below, “if you could restrain yourself from laughing.”
That only makes Hosea want to laugh more.
“Don’t talk to me about restraint, man.” he drags in a breath. “Look at ya.”
Hosea’s stance widens, hands finding his hips to brace on them. He needs the extra grounding, he can barely keep his balance when the man’s searching through his skirts like he’s digging for gold.
“Hush.” Trelawny’s tone snaps. “It’s dark in here. I need to focus.”
Oh. he’s got a temper, then.
Hosea exhales sharply through his nose, grin widening. “Damn,” he drawls, “forgot my lantern.”
The barest graze of fingers against his shin, then all the way up, finding their mark. A hand grabs his dick, groping through the fabric. Hosea jumps.
Trelawny clicks his tongue. “Mighty helpful,” he says, a smile in his voice. “And here I was, thinking about your comfort.”
Hosea snorts. “Comfort?”
A chuckle, but it dies quickly. Trelawny's face slides hot against him, breath fanning through the fabric of his drawers.
“Isn’t this what it is?” The slow drag of a palm, tracing the outer curve of Hosea’s thigh. “Only polite to think of it, given the circumstances.”
Fingers hook between skin and fabric, undoing, untucking, pulling. Rough cotton drags down Hosea’s hip, over his thighs. Hosea’s shoulders hike up, breath stuttering as the chilly air hits his burning flesh.
Trelawny hums, shifting beneath the fabric, fingers tapping lightly along Hosea’s hip, teasing, like he’s got all the time in the goddamn world.
“You planning on actually doing something?” Hosea asks, voice rough at the edges. “Or just making conver—”
Heat.
Hosea's breath catches, hands flying out to grasp at something, anything. But there’s nothing to hold onto except the bulk of fabric below him.
The heat retreats. Cool air again, his flesh raw, spit-slicked, the chill makes him shiver. A tongue, soft and wet, traces a long strip under his cock, resting on the tip. Then he’s enveloped into that heat again. He groans, knees threatening to buckle.
Trelawny hums approvingly. The sound vibrates through him, treacherous and no doubt premeditated.
And Hosea starts unraveling.
There’s no chance he’s gonna last long. His body is wrung out, his cock has been hard for as long as he can remember, maybe even before they started running through the woods. His legs are weak, thighs shaking from the effort. Trelawny’s hands are there, smoothing up and down, wanting to help and doing nothing but making the shakes worse.
Hosea’s hips thrusts minutely, desperately. It’s all he can do without toppling over and making an absolute fool of himself. He should’ve laid down, should’ve found a tree or a rock or anything to rest against.
He huffs. He’s so close.
Below the skirts, Trelawny can feel it too. He shifts, hands gripping his hips, thumbs digging where hip meets thigh. The pace quickens, unbidden. The man knows what the hell he’s doing and Hosea couldn’t be more grateful of that.
His hands scramble, claw at the skirts to reach below, to find slick hair and sink his fingers into it. To ground himself as his mind floats further away with every exhale. He doesn’t find Trelawny’s hair, makes it to the curve of his head underneath the petticoat, grabs it firmly through the fabric, digs his fingers in to keep himself steady. To keep the man still.
Trelawny moans, sweet as honey, it turns wet and choked when Hosea thrusts deeper into his mouth. Once, and then his gaze darts down, searching for something he can’t see. There’s only fabric in sighs, ruffles and drapes and remnants of frills.
Cerulean.
No time for warnings.
Hosea bites down on a groan as the muscles in his abdomen lock tight, calves shaking as his balance tips. He rises onto his toes instinctively, trying to counter it, but it’s a losing battle. He doubles over, bracing his hands wherever he can. On his hip, on his thigh, on the man still on his knees beneath his skirts.
His breath comes too fast, too shallow, chest heaving like it’s the first real air he’s had all night. His head feels light enough that if he let go, he might just take flight.
Trelawny mumbles something, a muffled protest.
Hosea leans back, letting Trelawny shuffle free of him, of the tangled mess of fabric. As soon as the man’s clear, Hosea lets himself go, dropping unceremoniously onto the soft dirt without so much as a grunt. His legs give one last jolt of relief, stretching out in front of him, spent.
Somewhere in the distance, the lake laps lazily at the shore. Wind shifting through the trees, cool against the sweat clinging to his skin. It clears his mind enough to conjure the words.
Stupid. Dangerous. Reckless.
Plenty for what just happened. Plenty more he could think of, if he wasn’t so utterly drained. But hell, he got ruined beneath an open sky. Hosea really can’t muster to regret a damn second of it.
Trelawny shifts, sitting down in front of him, the joints in his knees popping in a way that sounds quite painful. He looks about as disheveled as he did before. Only a deeper flush coloring his skin, rising up his neck, giving his face an unfairly youthful appearance.
Hosea catches his eyes and tilts his head, indulgent. “Do you want—”
“I’m quite content.”
Hosea stares. He hears the words just fine, but his brain’s refusing to make sense of them. Trelawny sighs, nodding once before giving a vague, self-conscious gesture toward his own crotch.
“Yes,” he clarifies, flatly.
Hosea watches him, a flicker in his chest. Pride, maybe, or something close to it. Grey in his hair, wrinkle around his eyes, looking like hell, and he can still do that to a man.
He groans, rubbing a hand over his face. Despite the satisfaction, and the remnant of arousal, he’s relieved. He’s in no state to do much of anything except breathe and remember how to be a person again.
As they sit, catching their breaths, his lips start tugging in a smirk. He could never stay quiet much in the aftermath of it, like his mouth needed something to do that wasn’t panting and leave him looking like a fish.
“That why you call yourself a magician?” Hosea drawls, catching Trelawny’s gaze.“Disappearing under skirts?”
Trelawny deadpans, doesn’t even give him the courtesy of polite laughter. “Is that your best attempt at pillow talk?”
“You like it?”
“Not remotely.”
“Oh, well…”
Hosea exhales, letting himself fall back. Cool earth pressing against bare skin, eyes slipping toward the stars.
“That’s Dutch’s thing anyway,” he adds, grinning wide. “I’m only the dumb idiot with a skirt.”
That’s when Trelawny chuckles.
“I told you,” Bessie quips, fingers twirling in the thin hair at his temple. “I knew you two would get along.”
It’s the morning after he and Trelawny returned to camp.
After climbing down from Silver Dollar and hitching him to a tree, Hosea had little energy left for anything but walking. He ignored whatever Dutch was saying, shoved the bag of money into his chest, and shuffled past him, heading straight for his tent. Face down on his cot, he was out cold for the rest of the day and the night.
To hell with celebrations and glory. That was Dutch’s thing. Hosea needed sleep.
And sleep he got, deep and dreamless, still heavy in his bones as he finishes recounting the night to Bessie. The story is a little fuzzy, not as polished as he would’ve liked to tell around a warm fire, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She enjoys it whether or not his voice sounds like the screech of a derailing train. She listens, she laughs, and, when she catches the pattern in his answers, she stops asking.
Because Bessie knows.
She has known since the first time they lay together, when she rested her head on his bare chest and, with that same bluntness he’s always loved, asked about Dutch. Not afraid of the truth, not afraid to look it straight in the eye. And even then, though scared, he told her. She didn’t recoil from him in disgust and anger, didn’t make claims like he’d feared. She listened, she understood. And in return, Hosea answered every question she had.
Almost—
‘Do you love him?’
That one, he still can’t bring himself to say.
He loves Bessie like a man ought to love the air he’s breathing. He loves men in that desperate way God frowns upon.
Whatever kind of affection he has for Dutch, he doesn’t have a name for it.
So, when his replies about the escape through the woods turn short and unenthusiastic, Bessie simply catches on. It’s not secrecy. He’s not trying to keep things from her, he never would. If she asked, he’d tell her. Sometimes, Hosea wonders if she stops herself from asking so that he doesn’t have to bare his heart too much.
As if she isn’t already holding it in her palms.
“See?” Bessie prods when his silence lingers too long. “You can still make friends.”
Hosea huffs. “I ain’t no friend of that city boy,”
Propped up on her elbows, Bessie shuffles closer, pressing hip to hip. He lies there like a corpse on his back, still sore from the run.
“You two ain’t that different, you realize that?” she muses.
That earns a frown. Hosea lifts his head. “Don’t you compare me to that cheap trickster.”
“Oh, right. ‘Cause you ain’t one.” Bessie leans in conspiratorially. “Shall I remind you how we met?”
He smirks. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
But Bessie’s already talking, because she knows Hosea didn’t mean it. He never tires of that story.
“There stood poor Bessie soon-to-be-Matthews, desperately running through the train station. Her precious mama’s ring tragically vanished from her finger. ‘Help, help,’ she cried, to no avail. The world deaf to her plights.”
Hosea chuckles, his hand drifting up to cradle her nape. She really should give the stage a try.
Bessie leans in, eyes sparkling. “Until one valiant, upstanding bachelor knelt beside her, and in his hand...the lost treasure, blessedly returned.” Her voice dips into that gravelly rasp, just like his. “‘There you are, my dear.’ The handsome man said. And that was the moment Bes—”
He kisses her.
And she returns it in the same lovely way she always does. Soft and sweet.
Aching. Hosea’s heart is always aching for the way she kisses him. Like a woman who would link their lips together until his last breath, who would never deny him a kiss, whether he was stumbling back after a long hunt or waking up from too many drinks.
The kiss ends as gently as it began. Bessie blinks her eyes open, lips still brushing his.
“Still wonder how you got it off my finger in the first place,” she murmurs.
“It was a nice ring.” He grins. “Had half a mind to keep it.”
She smacks his chest, playful. “Scoundrel.”
“But I decided I’d rather keep you.”
She basks in the words, pretends they don’t affect her. But Hosea knows her as well as she knows him. That quirk in her lips, that flush to her cheeks.
He kisses her again.
And the soreness in his muscles finally lifts.
It’s well past morning when Hosea finally steps out of his tent.
Susan and Bessie are quietly playing dominoes under the big oak tree sprawling beside the riverbank. Pearson has finished his meal, which means everyone else has already eaten. Arthur and John are nowhere to be seen, probably up to no good back in town. Hosea is only marginally concerned.God help him if Arthur got the kid drunk again.
He takes a sip of his coffee, more an afternoon indulgence than a morning ritual at this point, and hears footsteps approaching. Hosea doesn’t need to look to know who they belong to. He’d recognize that cadence till the day he dies.
“Satisfied?” Hosea asks.
Dutch hums, settling at his side. The mellow, spiced scent of cigar smoke curls around them. “Indeed. That was a great catch.” He exhales. “Told you Josiah had good leads.”
Hosea nods. “That you did.”
“Pity he had to leave so soon.” Dutch waves a hand, smoke trailing behind the gesture. “Had some other business back in Michigan.”
Hosea already knows. He’s known since he woke up. Dutch, however, still hasn’t caught on to the fact that Trelawny always disappears after a job. Some personal affair here or there, an appointment he really can’t miss. A funeral, or was it a wedding, of some distant relative. The man is a slippery bastard, whether or not Hosea’s opinion of him has somehow softened today.
Still, Dutch looks like a child who lost a toy to the river. It happens each time someone leaves. It’ll pass in a minute, but it’s long enough for Hosea to catch it. If Dutch had his way, no one would ever move an inch without his approval.
Hosea reaches out, gives his arm a light shake. “He’ll be back,” he says. “You know magicians. They like to disappear.”
Dutch chuckles, the shadow of doubt clearing as quickly as it came.
Hosea finally catches his eyes, and there it is—that familiar smile. Crow’s feet crinkling, the mole on his cheek shifting, mustache in sore need of a trim tilting over his lips. Hosea should really pull his hand back now.
He doesn’t.
His fingers drift lower, near the elbow, where the sleeve bunches slightly. Dutch’s gaze flickers down, his smile stiffens. He doesn’t say anything.
It’s been six years since Hosea married Bessie. Sometimes, he catches himself counting. Trying to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since Dutch stopped resting a hand on his back when they walked through narrow passageways. He doesn’t like how often the numbers match up.
Last night—satin and sweat, the heat of a gaze pinning him in place—that ought to give a man enough confidence to test a theory.
Hosea had always assumed Dutch stopped looking because there was nothing left to see. Dutch had always dispelled the notion he was a jealous man, after all.
But he isn’t above being a spiteful, self-centered fool who would die rather than make the first move.
Dutch averts his eyes, looking over the camp, suddenly engrossed by the sight of Pearson washing the dishes. If he could, he’d busy his mouth with that cigar, but Hosea is holding the sleeve of that hand. He can’t move it.
So he speaks instead. “How’d you two get along?”
Hosea lets the silence stretch. Long enough to see if Dutch will turn or prod for an answer. As he expected, he doesn’t.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Well enough.”
His fingers trace down the sleeve, pinching the cuff between his fingertips. Dutch doesn’t react, not immediately, but Hosea hasn’t stopped looking at him. He catches the twitch of his nose, the sharp inhale.
“He’s a fine man.”
Dutch’s voice is even, but his fingers fidget at his side, trying to spin that godawful ring around his pinky, forgetting, as always, that it’s too bulky to turn.
Smoke swirls around Hosea’s hand as he lets his forefinger skim the cuff, nail brushing against the skin of Dutch’s wrist.
“He is.”
A whisper of contact, the kind that raises goosebumps. Dutch doesn’t jerk away, but his jaw clenches tight, the tendons in his neck shifting. Hosea’s fingertips trail further, finding the tender spot above Dutch’s palm, where his pulse—
Oh. Would you look at that.
Dutch clears his throat, scratching at his temple, voice lower now. “Hosea—”
“Yes, Dutch?”
Dutch turns.
He looks like he did when he was twenty.
Just a boy, restless and aching for anything to give him purpose. To make sense of his own goddamn existence. Back then, it seemed like he could never stop giving meaning to everything in his life.
By sticking at his side, Hosea selfishly thought he was given meaning too.
Dutch’s lips part, but he hesitates. A flicker of brown eyes over Hosea’s face. Helpless. Yearning. Eyes of a man who has forgotten how to shape the words. The kind of look that speaks louder than his damn big mouth ever could—I remember.
Hosea’d always felt beautiful when Dutch looked at him.
And sure enough, here he is, his boy, speechless and blinking, knocked clean off his feet.
After all this time.
Well.
That ain’t a bad feeling.