Chapter 1 – Shorter Odds
He didn't expect it to be like this. On any level. He had thought on Casey for a while, thought about shy, sweetly nervous exploration in the hayloft; tentative kisses and the fear of being discovered. But that stage had left town months ago, with a regretful but firm monologue on her part. He'd been unable to speak, confused and hurt and almost relieved in a way, convinced it should hurt more than it did. Then events had taken an unexpected and frightening turn when his dreams featured slowly but surely the increasing presence of a horribly familiar moustached face.
He'd come very close to a heart attack that night, sitting bolt up right in bed in fear of the name so perilously close to falling from his lips.
No, it wasn't supposed to be like this. It should have been some sweet young thing as shy and inexperienced as he, or maybe a working girl if he ever got up the courage. But fate had other ideas. An offer of a drink and company is all it takes to undo his efforts at secrecy, a drunken confession escaping from him before he has the wit to realise what he's saying.
He bites his lip and flushes bright red, humiliation and abject terror doing the job of a night's sleep and several pints of coffee. He would be lucky to merely be run out of town if his shameful secret were known. Later it occurs to him that he could have passed the whole thing off as a joke, but at that moment the little room above the saloon seems threatening and claustrophobic, and his immediate instinct is to run while he still can.
It's not the hand catching his arm that stops him - he could break free if he wanted to - but the calm green eyes that meet his, not the slightest trace of censure or revulsion evident anywhere in voice or eyes or posture. He sinks back down onto the bed again and the hand migrates up his arm and skims across his shoulder before coming to rest gently cupping his cheek. He spares a moment to wonder what the hell is happening to his life as incongruously soft lips press almost hesitantly against his own, but maybe he's drunker than he thought because he doesn't get up and walk away like he's certain he should. Instead he leans in closer, makes an encouraging noise which sounds embarrassingly like a whimper to his own ears, and opens his mouth to permit entrance by a devastatingly skilled tongue.
If feels a little bit like dying...in a good way.
He plucks up his courage and kisses back, mimicking the motion of the mouth locked onto his, and is surprised and gratified by the moan he receives in return. Somehow he's gone from sitting perched on the edge of the bed to sprawled across it, held firmly down by the solid, warm body pressed against him. He's almost ashamed of how hard he's gotten in such a short space of time until he recognises the matching hardness against his inner thigh. And it's such a rush to realise the effect he's having on someone normally so controlled.
Their shirts seem to have disappeared somewhere along the way, but damned if he can figure out how. It's the sudden feeling of skin on skin, though, that halts them in their tracks. For a long moment they stare at each other in the dim, flickering lamplight.
"I- I'm not- I didn't-" He stammers, uncertain and afraid again, with not the faintest idea of what he'd say even if he was capable of completing a coherent sentence. The eyes above him are stormy and troubled, and he is almost certain he knows what the older man is thinking: is this a mistake? Is he taking advantage of an inexperienced and painfully innocent young friend? Would it be better for everyone if they stopped right here and pretended the whole incident never occurred?
Probably. On all three counts. But mistakes can be corrected later, and he wants to be taken advantage of, damnit! He's sick of being treated like a boy who can't take care of himself. His voice still wavers, but his mind is made up.
"Please, don't- don't stop." He's shaking like a leaf. He knows he wants this, though, even if it's not what he's always expected, not even what he's been secretly dreaming of.
Then he's being touched again, but the intent is different now: soft caresses soothing away the trembling and urging him to relax. That honey-sweet southern drawl is low and calming in his ear, hot breath tickling his neck and butterfly kisses dropped on delicate skin: "Hush now, I'm not going to hurt you...just trust me and you'll be fine. It'll be good..." Like a spooked horse he lets himself be lulled by the murmured litany. Despite himself, he does trust.
The pace is slower now, and for the time being he resolves to simply lie back and let it happen. Carefully, almost reverently, he is divested of his clothing. Part of him insists he shouldn't be lying naked in someone else's bed, another man's no less, but that little voice is easy to ignore. He feels good.
A kiss is pressed against his bare shoulder, then another, and one at the hollow of his throat. A fourth teases the tip of his ear, accompanied by a whisper of; "Just tell me to stop and I will." He has no intention of saying anything of the sort, but he nods anyway.
A sudden bite at the junction of neck and shoulder takes him by surprise and he cries out as heat surges through him. The chuckle the drifts up from the region of his collarbone feels like it should be illegal in and of itself, no words he knows adequate to describe the bolts of lightning it sends shooting straight to his cock. That wicked mouth trails southward and closes over a nipple, and again he wails, whimpers, moans, mere human language unfit to communicate the pleasure he feels.
"Please!" he gasps; "Please, I don't think I can last much longer!" He's not sure precisely what he's pleading for, but whatever it is he's never wanted anything more. His dreams want to intrude on the moment. The face pressed against his neck is clean-shaven, though, and as their hips grind frantically together, there's no way in hell he could possibly forget who he's with. He's delirious with pleasure, so far gone he doesn't even notice the pitiful sounds and barely coherent pleas falling carelessly from his lips. Then the world shrinks and goes white and explodes into a million pieces of light, and he's being kissed with an intensity that's almost painful as they swallow each others' cries of ecstasy.
They stay like that for quite some time, clinging together as the world rebuilds itself from razor-bright shards and their breathing slows from harsh pants, returning to normal. Inevitably, reality begins to permeate the blissful post-orgasmic haze.
No words are spoken as he dresses and leaves, but the eyes watching him say it all. He doesn't see pity, only a sad understanding. It's worse somehow - pity he could have been offended by, taken umbrage at and thereby dismissed. It puzzles him at first...but then maybe the next day, paying more attention now, he notices green eyes lingering a little too long on their glorious leader, a wistful gaze swiftly masked by the gambler's usual composure. In a way that makes it easier, to know that someone else is hurting the same way he is.
Seems he isn't the only one who wants what he can't have...
That was months ago now. It was probably foolish of him to go back the next night...and the night after that...but he couldn't quite stop himself. It made sense in a twisted sort of way, two people who could never have what they truly wanted seeking comfort with each other. It seems almost absurd to him when he lets himself think about it: a not-so-inexperienced-any-more boy longing for a sworn and devoted womaniser, a canny gambler secretly hoping for the love of a bitter gunslinger despite the odds stacked overwhelmingly against him. But odds don't enter so much into real life and affairs of the heart: he knew Ezra would have folded long ago on a hand of cards with the same odds.
But every good conman knows when the game is up, and that morning JD was the only person not overwhelming curious as to why Chris Larabee was storming out of the jailhouse with a crumpled letter in his fist. He feigned interest and worry to match everyone else, but he knew the gist of the letter, if not the exact content. He and Ezra had said their goodbyes the previous night, falling into bed with the desperate urgency of lovers - if that was even the right word - who knew they would probably never see each other again.
He doesn't begrudge Ezra a fresh start, doesn't blame him for not being able to cope any more. The others would, of course, but none of them had been permitted to see how repressing his feelings had torn the southerner up inside.
He doesn't blame Ezra for not backing a hand with such seemingly impossibly long odds. But seeing the confusion - almost pain - as Chris stares at the letter, he wonders if Ezra might not have folded a bit too soon.