But all such dreams must end, and when they wake to find the first frost crisply silver on the grass, they know it is time to turn back. Back for Denver. Back to the east, and reality.

Back to France.

The realisation comes to him along the Bighorn river. They will return to Denver, and then to Chicago. And Martin will probably want to stay there, to study the bones. But he, Raoul, will have to return to France. Philippe will be expecting him back, is probably already making the arrangements. And tears spring to his eyes because it's so unfair, it's so wrong. Yes, he was reluctant to come to America in the first place. Heaven knows crossing the ocean was the last thing he wanted when he could have already been in the Navy but now—

Now he sees the error of his ways. If he had not come he would never have met Martin, would never have known any of those. Would never have been loved like this or get to love like this and now that he has it he wants to cling to it, to hold onto it forever and never let it go. How could he ever want to let this go?

He will have to write Philippe. Have to tell him that he has decided to stay, at least for another summer. To travel. To see the vast cattle herds that Roberts regales them with stories of by the campfire, the millions and millions of cattle as far as the eye can see. To visit the smoky towns and the silver mines and the poky little saloons that Jackson has seen. And the gambling halls! The bordellos! Philippe loves gambling halls and bordellos. Visiting those is something he would support, for the sake of experience, for the sake of having fun.

He could not tell him that he wants to stay so he can love Martin with all of his heart. So he can spend nights pressed close to him and kissing him and whispering in his ear. So he can sketch him in every light of day, in every month of every season of the year. He could never tell Philippe any of that because Philippe would never understand, could never even begin to grasp the way that Martin makes him feel complete. He never knew there was something missing from his life, never knew he was living as only half a man until his lips met Martin's. But he was. And now he is whole. And to have to give that up— the possibility of—of not getting to hold him and keep him forever—

He cannot bear to think of it.


The journey is slow out of necessity, for the sake of the bones. But without the excitement to keep him going, to distract him, Raoul can no longer be blind to how pale Martin is beneath his tan, can no longer be deaf to his coughing in the night, to the rattling of his breath in his throat. And his skin burns with fever when they are pressed close, sweat beading on his forehead.

And Raoul knows, deep down he knows, that it is so much more, so much worse, than occasional bouts of bronchitis.

Martin is only growing more ill. And they are still so very far away from Cheyenne, and the bottles of laudanum are running low though they still have some whiskey. And Martin shivers against him in the night, head resting on his chest, and his breathing is so rough that Raoul cannot sleep for listening to it, for fear that it might grow shallow and stop, so he stares up at the clouds half-covering the stars, and thinks of dinosaurs. Thinks of how, surely, God must have created them, have set them down, for they could not have sprung from the land fully formed. And if God created them, and then destroyed them, then are they living on in an afterlife of their own? Is there an afterlife for all of God's creatures who have breathed and had beating hearts that failed? A paradise of their own? And Martin coughs in his sleep, and even in the darkness Raoul can see the flecks of blood darkening his lips, and it seems so important to know, to know what happened to all these ancient creatures, as if knowing will provide answers, will solve it all, and Martin coughs again, and Raoul dabs the blood away and kisses his curls and holds him tighter, as tight as he dare.


It is pneumonia, in the end. Pneumonia that steals the breath from Martin's lungs. And the first sign of it is when he whimpers one day, when they are back where they found the first bones on the outskirts of the mountains, and Raoul looks to him just in time to see him slide off his horse, and crumple into the dirt.

The fear that seizes his heart almost takes his own breath away.

And then he is down beside Martin, is turning him over, and easing an arm under him to raise him, is wiping the blood from his mouth and pressing the flask of water that Roberts hands him to his lips, trickling a little inside. And Martin coughs, and gags, his eyes fluttering open, unfocused, as Raoul rolls him onto his side and he heaves up the beans they had for breakfast, and he's too weak, too ill, to do anything except lie there, wracked by shivers.

They feed him more water, and a little whiskey, enough that he whispers that they should push on. They help him onto his horse, and Raoul climbs up behind him, wraps an arm around his waist and takes the reins. And Martin's head is heavy on his shoulder, his forehead burning up against his neck, and it's all Raoul can do not to look down at the blood still staining the corner of his mouth.

They ride until sunset, and Charlie finds a place to camp by the river. They lay Martin out his blanket, and he's already delirious, mumbling in Latin and giggling, and when Raoul kneels down beside him to dab the sweat from his brow, he raises himself up on one elbow, and presses his hand to Raoul's cheek, and whispers, his eyes shining with fever, "you're beautiful," and he half-smiles, a faint version of the smile that Raoul has seen so many times now, that still makes his breath catch and he tries to raise himself higher, to get closer, but he's too weak and he sinks down, and pulls Raoul with him, and presses his lips to his cheek. "I love…you," he breathes, "you…beautiful boy. I love you." Then his eyes flutter shut again, and his grip sags and Raoul lays his head on his chest, and lets his tears trickle as they will.


He lingers for three days. Three days in which Raoul refuses to leave his side, in which the others stop suggesting that he take a break for even five minutes. And Raoul cradles him, and rocks him, and kisses him and doesn't care that the others can see, and whispers to him how much he loves him, and tries to answer his questions about dinosaurs as best as he can even though all his answers are made up off the top of his head because what does he know about dinosaurs only what Martin has taught him? And Martin whimpers, and whispers, and coughs, and gags on his own blood, and can't keep anything down, not even water, his skin burning up, paper thin, his lips cracked.

The last of the laudanum puts him into a drugged sleep, and Raoul sketches him, puts in each line with infinite care, tries to capture the way his curls stick to his forehead with sweat because he has to do him justice now, he has to, he owes him that much. And then he wakes again, and seeks out Raoul's fingers to brush them with his own, and his voice is painfully cracked as he whispers, "…best summer…my life…"

Raoul fights back the tears that spring to his eyes as he takes him in his arms again, because he will not let him see him cry dammit, he will not, not now, but his efforts fail and a tear trickles, and Martin's fingertips are light against his cheek, brushing it away.

It is a starry night, a few hours later, chilly with frost. Raoul's overcoat is draped over his shoulders, Martin's laid over him like a blanket, and the others are all sitting away, giving them space, when Martin gazes up at him, eyes oddly clear, and so blue, bluer than he has ever seen them.

His voice is faint, and Raoul has to lean closer to hear him, as he murmurs, "you'll get…bones back?"

Raoul nods, and kisses his forehead, and raises his hand to his lips to kiss those precious knuckles, voice thick with unshed tears. "Of course I will. And you will too." You have to, you have to.

A faint huff of air, as if Martin might laugh, and then he gasps, eyes wide with sudden pain and terror, his hand flopping towards his chest, and he gasps again as his eyes soften, flicker over Raoul's face before rolling to the stars, and Raoul barely has time to kiss his knuckles one more time before he takes one last faint gasp, and sighs in a low whine.

His head sags limp against Raoul's neck.

And Raoul knows. He knows even as he presses his fingers to the thin wrist, knows even as his heart pounds no no no and he pulls back the overcoat to search his throat for the pulse he cannot find, knows even as he shakes him, as he whispers his name and pleads with him and looks down into those blank staring eyes, those parted lips tinged blue, so still now, knows that he's gone.

His throat burns, and distantly he hears someone scream but it can't be from him it can't be from him he's never screamed in his life and why won't Martin just blink?


The dinosaurs must have lived independently of any God. It is all he can think, the thought oddly disconnected, as dawn breaks on the first morning of a world without Martin. And he looks at him, at the frost crisp and shining on his hair, and sketches in the curls as he has done so many times, the angle of his nose, the closed eyes and their lashes that are just slightly too long, the lines around his mouth that spoke of pain and dreams, the moustache that he trimmed for him last night, when he was still warm, after he stopped breathing. And he cannot feel anything, as he sketches those hands, those beautiful, talented, remarkable hands, with their long pale fingers, folded now over his chest, cannot feel anything, only gaping, hollow numbness.

If the dinosaurs did not live, if the God he grew up with might have planted those bones to give Martin something to cling to, then how could He steal him away on a frosty night beneath a sky of stars, surrounded by packing crates filled with the pieces of his dreams? It doesn't make sense, any of it. It is the most unnatural, most wrong, most terrible thing he's ever heard.

If God made the dinosaurs, how could He take them away?

If God planted the bones, how could He take Martin away after finding them?

If God made Martin, why would He take him away?


A/N: I'm sorry