Chapter Text
If Hosea truly hated Josiah Trelawny, the man wouldn’t be anywhere near them.
At least, that’s what Hosea tells himself. It’s the pipedream that he still has a say in their life, or in the people he and Dutch let drift into it.
But Hosea and Dutch haven’t been Hosea and Dutch for a long time now.
First, Arthur. Then Susan. Then Hosea was gone before he was back—then John. And suddenly, he and Bessie were outlaws again, living with what was starting to shape up like a proper gang. Pearson had been the latest addition. A good man. Steady, principled, though sometimes sulky and not much for merry conversation. But a man Hosea trusted with a pot and his game more than he’d ever trust Dutch with a butter knife.
He figured that was it. If they grew any more, they’d start catching unwanted attention. It was best to keep it small, make do with what they had, and live off the land.
But, of course, Dutch has to do what he always does.
He falls in love with smoke and mirrors.
Hosea still doesn’t know what exactly went wrong when he and Trelawny were introduced.
Like dogs sniffing each other from a distance, it was clear from the very first moment, this wasn’t going to work.
It’s the accent, Hosea tells himself. The clothes, too fine for men like them, too much like some pompous dandy. It’s the self-appointed title of ‘gentleman’. It’s that he disappears for weeks or months and comes back with no explanation needed. It’s the way he speaks to Hosea as if they are equals.
They aren’t.
Hosea knows a city boy when he sees one.
But Arthur and John like Trelawny, the way children like clowns, and the others seem to believe he makes for good company. Even Bessie has told Hosea he is being too harsh, that the man is a fine feller, all in all. Dutch had nearly begged him to make it work. He keeps insisting Josiah is an asset, Josiah has a knack for conning, Josiah has fresh leads—Josiah—why the hell does he have to say the man’s name so much?
Hosea has never been afraid to speak his mind, but he knows when a war is lost.
So when Dutch approaches him with that dumb, hopeful smile of his, saying Josiah—damn him—has a very promising lead, one right up Hosea’s alley, Hosea has to swallow his honesty, and duly agrees to ride with the man.
Dutch doesn't notice the way the smile never quite reaches his eyes when he says it.
But then, Dutch can be dull as rocks when it serves him.
“Sure you know what you’re doin’, man?” Hosea gasps, too breathless to sound angry.
“Quite positive, Mr. Matthews,” Trelawny lilts.
And then, he gives another sharp tug at the corset’s laces.
Leaning over the vanity, Hosea has already swallowed a fair amount of pride just by asking for help. Trelawny better not push his luck, he’s one step away from having those mustaches knocked clean off his face.
Corsetry or its plights are something Hosea grew accustomed to in his youth. A skill picked up from the stage, later refined for jobs and cons. He’d fairly quickly outlived the apparent shame and hilarity of slipping into a gown and painting his face. The results were better than he could’ve ever expected. Men truly turned into dupes once an unmarried woman so much as fluttered her lashes their way. It’s been a while since he last had to do this, but he remembers well enough, comfort was never part of it. That said, even Dutch had never tugged this hard, and that was the one time Hosea had asked him to.
Another vicious pull. Breath punched clean from his lungs.
Hosea just heard something crack, and that sure as hell wasn’t whalebone.
“I need to be able to breathe in this damn thing,” he grits out.
Trelawny simply hums, like he’s agreeing with him. He gives one last harsh pull, and steps away. Through the vanity mirror, Hosea catches the man’s reflection. He looks far too pleased with himself.
He grunts as he sinks onto the stool, testing the stiffness in his middle. The bit of fat he’s gathered over the last decade is working in his favor, pushed up by the corset enough to plumpen his chest. Not enough to pass as a woman’s, but it’ll do. At least he won’t have to stuff his clothes with rags. Last time was mighty uncomfortable.
The past ten years have left their mark in other ways, too. His face isn’t what it used to be. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are no longer from smiling; they’ve settled in deep, leaving grooves along his temples and cheeks. And the sad pull of his mouth—well, that only got worse. Painted up like this, Hosea sees it clearly.
“I look like an old hag.” he grumbles.
Trelawny adjusts his cuffs, barely stifling a snort.
“Nonsense, my dear,” he says smoothly. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”
Hosea sulks. “Do we need to start the act now?” he snaps. “Bad enough we have an entire evening of this.”
As always, Trelawny politely nods and saunters off, refusing to rise to the fight. He never does. He thinks himself magnanimous, the fop. Or maybe he’s just a coward. Given their situation, the thought does not inspire confidence.
They are to infiltrate a private party. Some high-class affair with an illicit poker game somewhere on the upper floors. High stakes, plenty of money stacking up quickly. The perfect opportunity to slip in and take it. How Trelawny got the invitations, Hosea doesn’t know. Dutch doesn’t either. But as long as ‘Josiah’ assures him all is well, Dutch doesn’t care.
The invitation was for a couple, which meant Hosea had to step up.
Dutch wouldn’t work in a dress, he was built like a workhorse, and Arthur had grown to be the same. John was too young, and Pearson couldn’t act if his life depended on it. Susan was out of the question, too. Her scar made sure of that. High-society folk were fixated on it, always asking prying, weary questions. She drew too much attention too quickly. As for Bessie, she wouldn’t be caught dead near any of this. Sometimes, Hosea’s glad his girl has no interest in robberies and cons. It makes his heart lighter.
He turns back to the vanity, exhaling slowly through his nose as he adjusts the wig. It’s nothing fancy, an old stage piece, the same shade of his hair before the grey started taking over. It’s a little duller than he remembers, the curls less full, but it’ll do well enough.
The gown, though...
Hosea has to admit, whether Dutch stole it or borrowed it or traded it, it’s a beautiful piece. Cerulean blue, silk or satin—he’s not sure, but it feels expensive. Drapes flowing down the skirt like rapids. Frills twirled into flowers, delicate lace embellishing the trims, framing his collarbone. Way too long in the back, he's already worrying about how he’ll run in it. But if all goes to plan, he won’t have to. The way it moves when he shifts, the way it pools at his feet—he could almost forget how much of a fool he should feel while wearing it.
“Would you look at that,” Trelawny chirps, appearing beside him in the mirror. “We match.”
He gestures from his eyes to the dress. The same deep shade of blue. That insufferable tilt of his brows, reveling in the fact they complement each other.
Hosea nose wrinkles.
He hates that damn rag.
High society isn’t quite how Hosea remembers it.
All those years ago, when he first started slipping through the back doors of fancy soirees, wealth had felt puzzling.
Families who’d owned land for far too long. Rich half wits who’d never worked a day in their lives. Women drifting through the room like birds of prey, scouting for a suitable candidate. Back then, it had all been about pedigree.
Now, the men who bow their heads at him and offer their greetings are swollen with pride, pumped so full of it he wouldn’t be surprised if one of them flared out his tail like a peacock. Rail barons, steel magnates, oil kings. People who know the worth of a dollar because they worked for it. People with no patience for old aristocracy and even less for its supposed prestige. Harder men to swindle, that’s for sure. The women, with their narrow waists and long trains, parade through the room draped in expensive fabrics, as if meant to be watched.
And people do watch.
That’s the problem.
Behind a column, far enough from anyone’s prying eyes, Hosea chances a look at their surroundings. The main hall is packed, the staircase heavily guarded. The upper floors, too, if the men leaning along the balcony railings are any indication.
“Ain’t never getting up there,” Hosea mutters to himself. “They’re gonna pick us apart.”
Of course, Trelawny can’t resist opening his big mouth.
“Well, then we shall find a way to sneak in that lets us be seen,” he comments.
Hosea tosses him a glare. “You suggest we waltz up there and hope nobody asks questions?”
“I suggest—”
Trelawny starts, but then twirls around when a passing waiter catches his eye, a silver tray of champagne flutes in his hand. With an insufferable smile, he plucks one. His third of the night. Hosea isn’t a fan of how much the man’s drinking.
Trelawny takes a sip, then offers his free arm. Hosea begrudgingly links his hand around it.
“I suggest we let them see precisely what they expect—” another sip, “—a wealthy couple, charmed by the remarkable evening, just tipsy enough to be careless.”
Hosea scoffs. “I ain’t drinking.”
“No need to, my dear.” Trelawny laughs, pointedly drinking again. “Dutch tells me you’re a phenomenal actor.”
“Does he now?”
Uninterested, Hosea clasps his own hands together, stretching the gloves between his fingers. A gesture that, he realizes too late, is entirely unfeminine.
Damn it. He’s lost his touch.
He’s getting too old for this. Playing a role when the job calls for it is no trouble, he enjoys it quite a bit, but the dressing up? That’s started feeling too risky. Strange, he never seemed to mind as much when he was playing the gullible yokel with Arthur, or when the arm he was draped around was Dutch’s.
Trelawny guides them deeper into the fray, effortlessly, at home in the role. The man doesn’t really have to try to look like a pompous asshole. Hosea, on the other hand, is starting to feel a little lightheaded from how feeble and high he needs to push his voice. It used to be easier. It’s probably all the cigarettes.
They move closer to the staircase, and Hosea glances up. Guards posted upstairs, just as he thought. Their best bet is cause enough of a commotion to distract at least the one near the stairs.
They should set fire to one of those tall curtains, that’s sure to cause a panic. Or he could faint right in the middle of the hall, like he did with Dutch that one time near Indianapolis. Though that would leave Trelawney in charge of retrieving the money. Hosea would more easily trust a snake.
The curtain is the better option. Now to find a match.
Before Hosea can move, a hand slides around his waist, yanking him against an unfortunately familiar frame.
“Follow my lead,” Trelawny murmurs in his ear.
Hosea barely flinches, too stunned to react before he’s being steered toward the staircase.
Trelawny starts sauntering then, staggering just enough to sell the act of a drunk, wealthy gentleman indulging in one too many flutes of champagne. Wouldn’t even be much of a lie, Hosea saw him pick up a fourth one on the way over.
The guard eyes them as they approach. Broad. Tired. He looks like Arthur, probably around his age too.
“Stairs are off-limits,” he says firmly.
“Ohhh, my dear boy,” Trelawny drawls, his words a touch looser than usual. He leans in conspiratorially. “I was hoping to find some privacy up there.”
The guard’s expression doesn’t shift. “Upper rooms are for the players.”
“Precisely.” Trelawny sways slightly, giving a sheepish, wine-drunk chuckle. “Me and my dear wife like to play too.”
The guard blinks, ears coloring furiously as the meaning slowly sinks. Hosea, who’s heard better smut from a catholic priest on a bad Sunday, clenches his teeth, holding back from rolling his eyes.
“And I do so hate leaving her alone,” he continues.
The guard’s attention shifts to Hosea, glancing up and down, assessing.
Trelawny drops his hand, sliding it down Hosea’s spine, letting his fingers rest against the base of his back, right below the edge of the corset.
Hosea resists the urge to flinch. Resists the even stronger urge to pummel Trelawny into the floor. He schools his expression into something appropriately demure. His lashes flutter once, and he leans into Trelawny’s side, letting out a quiet sigh.
“It does get awfully dull without him,” he murmurs, voice softer and breathier.
The guard’s gaze flickers. Neck coloring, throat bobbing, looking ten years younger. Then, he clears his throat.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Don’t cause trouble.”
Trelawny grins with a wobbly bow before steering them past.
The other guards, seeing them being allowed access, don’t question them. They simply glare, eyes trailing behind them until they disappear around a corner, into an empty corridor.
The moment they’re out of sight, Hosea shoves hard, knocking Trelawny’s hand off him.
“You touch me like that again,” he hisses, “you’re losing a hand. Understand?”
Trelawny straightens, smoothing out his jacket with a nervous chuckle.
“My dear—”
“Enough with the ‘my dear’.” Hosea snaps.
He steps in, getting all up under Trelawny's nose.
For the first time since he met him, Trelawny actually looks taken aback, a little startled, even nervous.
There was a time Hosea could make a man back down with a single word. Back when his voice had the weight it was meant to carry. Now he’s softened, doesn’t use that voice as often. It’s the years piling on, the band on his finger. Or maybe he’s finally found a way of life that lets him keep his gun holstered. Regardless, it’s nice to tap back into it sometimes.
Trelawny drops his eyes to the floor, fussing with the front of his coat as if it could get any smoother on his chest. It takes him more than a moment to gain back his composure, and Hosea finds himself exceptionally pleased by that.
For some god-awful reason, he can’t stop thinking that the bastard’s handsome when he’s put in his place.
“Noted.” Trelawny lifts his hands in surrender, ever the showman. “I shall keep my hands to myself from now on.”
Hosea scoffs, and marches past him.
The hallways are blessedly empty, dimly lit and sparsely decorated, no one is really supposed to be here. Plush carpets muffle their footsteps, but that only means they’d muffle anyone else’s too, so Hosea treads carefully. The house owner’s study sits at the end of the corridor, past a stretch of locked doors. Hosea had held onto the man’s name just long enough for idle conversation downstairs, then let it slip from his mind. He has more pressing concerns.
Namely, how to get inside and relieve the man of tonight’s poker winnings.
Beside him, Trelawny tilts his head, surveying the door. Then—the idiot— grabs the handle. Predictably, it doesn’t budge.
Hosea isn’t surprised. He’s also not discouraged. He kneels in front of the door, hiking up his skirts to pull the picks stashed along his shin. The lock isn’t much. Built to look expensive, not to keep the wrong people out. Shouldn’t take him more than a minute.
“Keep watch,” he mutters without looking.
His ear presses to the door. The quiet clicking of tumblers, the grind and screech of shifting metal. The work is methodical, well-trained, the weight of the tools shifting expertly in his hands. It’s almost comforting in its familiarity. Or it would be, if not for the presence still looming behind him.
Trelawny hasn’t moved to his spot like he’d told him. And here Hosea thought the man couldn’t get any more insufferable.
He lifts his ear to toss a glare over his shoulder. “I told you to keep watch.”
“I thought perhaps—” Trelawny steps forward, then abruptly stops. “You'd need a hand.”
And now the dandy is teaching him how to do his damn job, the one he’s been doing for over twenty years now. Hosea rolls his eyes, ear back to the door.
“Ain’t some clueless sap,” he mutters, “I know what I’m doin’”
Footsteps inch closer. “Oh, I didn’t mean to—”
Silence.
Hosea would be glad for it if it weren’t for the shadow. Trelawny, still standing there, still doing nothing useful.
“Is it something I’ve said?”
That gives Hosea pause.
Trelawny’s voice, always so poised and smooth, is different now. Sour. Simmering with frustration, with resentment. It’s the most genuine the man has sounded since he’d met him.
Hosea plays coy, just to hear that tone again. “What?”
“This.” A vague gesture. “Your general distaste for me.”
Hosea’s mouth quirks. This is fun. “Maybe I simply find you distasteful.”
Striped pants step into view as Trelawny leans against the wall, letting out a dry chuckle, sounding as sour as the rest of him.
“I’m a magician, Mr. Matthews. I know what distaste looks like.” His voice dips lower. “You despise me.”
Hosea scoffs. “You really think you warrant that much of my time?”
There it is. He'd answered him. Could’ve said anything else, it would’ve sounded like confirmation regardless. His tone was pure vitriol.
The first tumbler finally clicks. Small victories. But Trelawny’s still there.
“Why?”
Why do you despise me? Should be the full question. Hosea’s poised between being pedantic and pretending not to understand again. Maybe, for once, the magician will get wise. But then the second tumbler clicks into place, leaving only one more. He has time.
Time to see what Trelawny’s face looks like when he isn’t pretending not to be insulted.
Hosea sneers, looking up. “Does it matter?”
Trelawny watches him a moment, gaze unreadable. There’s no trace of the pitiful sourness Hosea had hoped for. Whatever this is, it sits quieter on his face, in his eyes looking a bit less bright.
Then, he sighs. “I suppose it does to me.”
Something in that bothers Hosea.
It makes sense, the man isn’t used to animosity. Trelawny gets along with everyone. Dutch, Bessie, Arthur. Even Susan, who’s got about as much patience as a wild horse. The man can talk circles around a lawman and leave him in his breeches. He can swindle half a room blind, and still leave everyone grateful for the experience.
Hosea used to be that way.
A long time ago.
Dutch had once said he’d grown idle after marrying Bessie. Hosea hadn’t found it in himself to argue.
—
Footsteps echo down the hall.
Hosea springs upright. Beside him, Trelawny stiffens. The fool should’ve been watching instead of running his mouth. But no time for that now. Hosea’s instincts are screaming. Hide. Now.
The voices grow clearer. A pair of guards, maybe three. He glances over his shoulder. No open doors, no alcoves, nowhere to run.
Beside him, Trelawny.
Hosea’s stomach tightens.
Damn it.
He grabs the man by the cravat and shoves him back against the wall. Hard.
A grunt, a confused splutter. For a fraction of a second, Trelawny’s blue eyes flicker wide with outrage, ready to protest. But before he can open his damn mouth, Hosea closes the distance.
And kisses him.
It’s rough. No slow build-up, no hesitation. Their lips crash together, one hand yanking at the fabric of Trelawny’s lapels, the other grabbing his hand and shoving it low, right where it needs to be. The curve of Hosea’s waist, the hollow of his back. Hell, he may grope his ass if he needs to.
If he really is that good of a magician he better sell the illusion.
Trelawny makes a muffled, startled sound that dies between their lips. Then, blessedly, he gets the picture. He exhales, warm breath fanning against Hosea’s skin, and his fingers, finally catching on, spread against the corset’s ridges. His other hand rises, settling at the back of Hosea’s neck, tilting his head. His lips part just so.
Oh, he’s good at this.
Trelawny leans into it, turning what was meant to be a messy, drunken display into something that feels dangerously intimate. The kiss deepens and slows down, like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like he means it. His lips are warm, softer than they have any right to be.
The scrape of mustache against his lips—Hosea would rather not think about that. Too close. Too long since that’d happened.
Hosea tilts his head, angling the kiss further. There’s a whiff of expensive cologne. Mint and citrus, something rich. Fancy bastard has enough money for all that. He can taste the faint bite of champagne, dry and sweet on the man’s breath.
The approaching footsteps falter.
Trelawny’s fingers tighten around the back of his neck, and for one delirious moment, Hosea almost forgets why he started this in the first place.
“Christ,” someone mutters. “Rich folk and their public indecency.”
A second voice, disgusted amd tired. “Leave ‘em. Ain’t paid enough to get in the middle of that.”
The footsteps retreat.
Hosea pulls back, shoving off Trelawny as if the man were on fire.
Trelawny's pupils are blown, breath a little too uneven. His fingers twitch slightly, like they haven’t quite decided whether to drop away or pull him back in. Hosea watches him blink, lips still parted, still kiss-bruised. Then, with a breathless, utterly bamboozled titter—
“What happened to not touching you like that?” he wheezes.
Hosea chuckles.
The sound bubbles up before he can stop it. That deep, rumbling amusement from the chest, the kind only something truly funny would deserve. Because hell, would you look at that.The bastard’s blushing.
Trelawny is speechless for the rest of it.
Which makes Hosea consider that maybe he should kiss him more often.
The third tumbler clicks. The lock gives way, and Hosea pushes open the door.
Inside, the safe is exactly where he expects it to be, tucked behind a gaudy, overly conspicuous painting. Rich folk never did have much imagination. Hosea has cracked open enough of these to make quick work of it. And the catch isn’t bad at all. Stacks of bills and a nice gold watch, probably worth a little extra for the right buyer.
He looks up, about to tell Trelawny just that.
His tongue tangles.
There’s a guard at the door. Gun drawn. The black hollow of a barrel staring him down.
“Don’t move,” the man mutters.
Not his first time held at gunpoint, but Hosea doesnt think the feeling will ever get old. That sharp, ice-cold panic trickling down his spine, same as the first time. His eyes lock on the muzzle, mind rushing for options, for ways out.
A shadow inconspicuously hugs the opposite wall, outside of the guard’s line of sight.
Trelawny moves.
His elbow slams into the guard’s wrist, knocking the gun loose. The man barely has time to grunt before Trelawny follows up with a nasty right hook. No dainty little slap, a solid, ugly, mouth-splitting hit.
The guard drops down, too stunned to even make a sound, blood spilling from his gums. Trelawny hisses, shaking out his hand.
It buys Hosea enough time.
Gun in his hand, the hammer goes down. Looking up from his knees, the man is smart enough to keep his trap shut.
It won’t help. Hosea knows the second he stops threatening him, he’ll call for help, and every single armed man in this place will be on them. He chances a look at Trelawny. The punch knocked some hair loose, strands falling over his face.
Trelawny looks back at him. His eyes are pale, like the wolves you see up in the mountains where the snow falls whiter. He nods, the same rushing thoughts in his mind. Wordless, he moves to peer through the door.
Not a completely helpless fop, then.
Hosea shifts. And immediately regrets it. The dress pulls at his legs. The corset digs into his ribs. The hair clings to his face, catching in his mouth. All of a sudden, everything on him feels like a shackle.
He sighs.
He’d really, really hoped he wouldn’t have to run in that dress.