A/N: I finished writing this fic yesterday, and it's ended up at 6 chapters and over 10k words so. basically there's quite a bit more of this coming.
The letter he writes Philippe is full of euphemisms. I have become acquainted with a gentleman named Martin Cuvier, might read as a perfectly honest thing to write, if acquainted meant lovers. We and several others are joining a geological survey heading West is a nice way of dressing-up, Martin is a bone hunter and I think it's ridiculous but my heart can't bear being away from him. And we stay up late discussing biology and botany is a polite way to put he raves about creatures that lived long before mankind and I try not to think about religion as I wonder when I can kiss him again.
And, at the end, he thanks his brother for coming up with the idea that brought him here. And those simple words of thanks cannot begin to encapsulate all it is that he truly means by them.
He is still sceptical about the dinosaurs, about the possibility of them. Giant creatures who roamed the earth millions of years before man? It's nonsense. Did God send them down? He might almost give the idea some credence, if it were not for all that he's learned, all that he's been taught, by his brother, by society, by the church. God made mankind in His image. He built this world and locked mankind out of paradise because of an act of betrayal, and all the animals hold this secret within them but they cannot be understood because of that ancient betrayal. The framework is simple.
If dinosaurs existed, how could they fit into that? Where are they now? Why are they no longer living? What could have happened to destroy them? How could God have let one of His creatures be utterly destroyed? Be turned into nothing more than bones hidden in the ground? Did they commit a terrible act of betrayal too?
It's more than Raoul can get his head around, more than he can begin to fathom. He keeps these things to himself, dares not breathe them to Martin for fear that he might be laughed at (though he doubts if Martin would laugh at him, but the ideas are enough to make his heart uncomfortable and he cannot begin to explain them so they are best kept to himself).
It is late, and he is only half-awake, Martin's face tucked into his neck, when he decides that perhaps the dinosaurs were lost in the flood, were too big for Noah to save on his ark. And he drops off to sleep content in that.
It is weeks later, and they have recently ridden out from Cheyenne, when he revises his answer.
God planted the bones to lead beautiful men like Martin on glorious adventures.
And that answer sets his heart at ease.
But first there is them, this. Raoul has never woken up before to being kissed on his lips, or his forehead, or his cheeks, or, ah, elsewhere. He never imagined it as ever coming to be part of his existence, but now it is here. Now he gets kissed all the time, he gets to kiss someone whenever he wants. Just reach over, and brush his lips, or take his hand and press the lightest of kisses to his knuckles. It is a whole world of experience, of touch and taste and intimacy, that he never dreamt was possible.
He is coming to realise that there are many things he never dreamt possible.
And after three weeks of intense practice, at any hour of the day or night, and with Martin in any position (sprawled dozing half-nude or fully nude on the bed, arm slung over his head, or curled up on his side, or lying back against the pillows smoking, clothes in disarray after a particularly arduous session, or sipping tea while studying his maps, or smiling softly over the top of his newspaper, or standing at the window after one of his coughing fits, hips rocked forward, arm over his head to brace himself, or doing anything, really, at all) it is much less of a challenge to sketch curls.
He glances up, now, from his latest effort, and feels a little thrill in his heart at the sight of his lover, sprawled asleep, fingers curled loosely at his side. Then he sets the portrait down, and sighs, and crawls into bed beside him.
They engage a photographer to join them on their travels, a Southerner named McKey. And his Georgian accent presents more of a challenge for Raoul to understand than sketching curls ever did. He prides himself on his English. He had a tutor in his youth, and the few weeks he has been in America have done wonders for him. But McKey's drawl is an exhaustion to make sense of if he is any way tired or distracted at all.
And with Martin beside him, he spends a greater amount of his time distracted than not.
Martin's own ability with English is better than his own, is passed off with a simple, "There were always Englishmen around the bonefields when I was growing up." And the fact of it makes their preparations a great deal easier than they might have been, though they speak exclusively French with each other, unless it is late at night, and even then the English is sparing, and is intended less to communicate than it is to gain other results.
It is only after they meet McKey that they push on, from Boston to Chicago. McKey makes his own arrangements, travels in the same cabin on the train as his camera and chemicals, but Raoul and Martin share a cabin, share a bunk. It is narrow, truly designed to only fit one man, but they make it work, and the few nights they have are more than memorable.
Raoul is almost sad to leave the train.
Chicago puts an end to the quiet intimacy they have known so far. Martin has contacts, acquaintances from the bonefields in France and Germany, and links through those acquaintances. They guide him where to source supplies, where to find four more good men to join them (and Raoul will never forget the way his eyes lit up when he met one of them, Taylor, and shook his hand as if he might jar it loose, and exclaimed, "Is it true you worked with Cope?" An hours-long interrogation ensued, in which Raoul sketched and half-listened, and thought about how, for a man who is always beautiful, Martin could look even more beautiful when engaged in spirited conversation about his greatest passion. He wondered, distantly, if he ought to be jealous, and settled for trying to capture the precise sparkle in his eye), and where to hire a guide. The guide turns out to be an ex-Army scout, known only as Charlie, and his eyes flickered on their first meeting, from Martin to Raoul and back, and his eyebrow quirked, ever so slightly.
He is the first person they meet who suspects what might lie between them.
When he doesn't say anything about it, Raoul concludes he must have pinned it to the fact of their being French.
They do not stay long in Chicago, though Raoul sees enough of the city to know that he much prefers Boston (and his heart aches, even now, for Paris). And then it is on to Topeka, Kansas on another train, and this, too, is less enjoyable than the one that brought them to Chicago, though Martin and Raoul make the best of what they can. They lay over a night to recover, and then it is the stagecoach on to Denver, and the stagecoach feels as if it will jar Raoul's own bones loose from his body, and Martin could content himself collecting those instead of his hunt for dinosaurs. He might almost joke about it, only the constant jarring and dust makes Martin's cough worse, and he sips whiskey and coughs into a handkerchief, and, after a small nip of laudanum, dozes with his head on Raoul's shoulder.
It is a relief to say goodbye the stage.
And Denver has pretences of grandeur, but to Raoul's eyes it borders on rustic. Still, after the stagecoach and the train, it is a relief to be able to stay somewhere, for however short a time.
They check into the first pleasant-looking hotel they lay eyes on, and Raoul and Martin double-up, "for the sake of cutting expense." For the first two days, they barely leave the room to get a breath of air. And Raoul might almost be concerned about the persistence of Martin's cough, if Martin did not smile and tell him about being prone to mild bouts of bronchitis. "It'll ease again in a few days," and then he is nuzzling back into Raoul's throat, and all worries are dispelled.
It is late May, and it is Martin's own suggestion that they ride from Denver instead of taking the stage or train any further. "To get a better sense of the terrain," he insists, and by now Raoul is so used to his ludicrous ideas that he does not protest, though the others mutter amongst themselves. Raoul is just content to be going, to be getting somewhere at last, and more than a little relieved that Martin is a better colour now than he was after the stage.
So it is agreed. They will ride from Denver north to Cheyenne, where they will re-provision, and then set out again. Martin has no desire to confine himself to any one site of study, and wants to take in at least three or four, or more, if possible. Anywhere that he thinks there could be bones (and he insists he'll know from studying the landscape, though how he can be so certain Raoul cannot understand) he wants to stop and examine, if only for a day or two. And his adamancy is such that it is pointless arguing with him.
In Denver they acquire a wagon, and two mules which McKey will manage, partially to carry his camera equipment, partially for the packing crates that Martin insists they bring. Each of them gains a mount, and there are two pack horses. Raoul and Martin both set aside their suits and other things (and Raoul buries his first sketchbook of precious drawings of Martin deep in his valise), put them into storage at the bank for their return once summer has passed. Martin already has a working wardrobe, but he advises Raoul on purchasing more practical clothes: cotton shirts and soft neckties and a broad-brimmed hat, and canvas trousers and sturdy boots, and they get good deals on a buckskin jacket each, and heavy overcoats in case of the rain. Raoul writes Philippe to tell him to send any letters to Denver, where they will be held for him until he gets back.
It is Martin's own insistence that they each write wills, and the suggestion catches Raoul so off-guard that he jumps.
"Not that anything is likely to happen," Martin assures him, stubbing out his cigar and patting him lightly on the back. "But we will be gone for several months, and one never knows. It is prudent just to be certain, if the worst should come to the worst. Every man should have a will drawn up even in the normal course of affairs."
So it is with his skin prickling that Raoul seeks out a lawyer, and draws up the necessary document and arrangements. Then he returns to Martin and takes him to bed, and resolves to put the whole thing from his mind.
A/N: I'll probably update again on Wednesday, so in the meantime please review!