Parts 1-3

Posted: June 2004
Title: Poker Face
Author: Haleth Haladin
Type: FCS
Characters: Frank Hopkins/Joe Byrne (Joe Byrne/Ned Kelly)
Fandom: Crossover – Hidalgo/Joe Kelly – AU
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based very loosely on both real and fictional accounts of the lives and lies of Frank Hopkins and Joe Byrne. It is no way related to the movies ‘ Hidalgo' and ‘Ned Kelly', other than the fact that is uses characters featured in those films and that the reader is free and even encouraged to imagine Viggo Mortensen and Orlando Bloom in the lead roles. There is no money made from this endeavor.
Beta: Lemur
Summary: Cowboys and bushrangers don't die, they just tell stories to each other.

*****

Part 1: Jacks Over Nines

July 10th, 1899
Carson City

Frank T. Hopkins stood by the window of the small hotel room and watched the rain pour over the parched landscape. It must have been a miracle. He knew it was what everyone had been praying for. The land had been drying up, water holes disappearing, people getting desperate. Two months with nary a drop, but today the sky had opened. And no one was going anywhere with the roads washed out like that.

He turned to look at the man lying on the bed. Lord, he was beautiful – long and lean and dark, reserved and graceful. A hard-earned grace, if what the man said was true. Frank could never tell. People invent all kinds of stories to make themselves look more interesting. Sometimes they're exaggerations, a few harmless embellishments on the facts. Sometimes they're outright lies. Frank had long given up sorting out truth from fiction. He listened to the stories as just that. Worthwhile if they were entertaining or made a good point or had enough of a grain of truth to seem real, stories were not to be taken too seriously. Sometimes he told them that way, too.

The only thing you could know for sure was what you'd seen with your own eyes. Frank had seen this man sitting at the poker table, still and mysterious. The others were drinking and talking, animated in some way. Even when they were trying to bluff, you could see them moving inside their skins. But this man didn't twitch or move a muscle, nothing showed. The consummate poker face.

It was striking to see all that serenity in the middle of a saloon. Carson City wasn't nearly as wild as it used to be, but the saloons were close to being lawless zones. Fights weren't punished, although you might be asked to take it outside if too much of the furnishings were put at risk. You gambled at your own peril, because there were no rules to stop cheating and nothing to stop the cheated from exacting a painful revenge if the culprit was caught. This saloon didn't house the most serious card game in town - that would be in the back room of the one down the street where the stage stopped - but this was serious enough, and this stranger stood out at the table as more than just a foreigner. He was different in a fundamental way.

No one was up much, and no one else was down to any great extent. Frank didn't have enough cash to want to join. But he watched. He watched this man play hand after hand, even and methodical, letting the others control the flow of the game, until the drink had flowed sufficiently for the kitty to grow to an enticing size. Then he watched him call.

"Jacks over nines," he said with that queer accent. He scooped the cash across the table and shoved it into the inside pocket of his coat. "And with that gentlemen, I wish yous all a good night."

There was a fair bit of commotion over that particular bit of bad timing, and Frank feared this man might be in serious trouble. It's poor manners to leave a game right after winning a pot that big, without givi the losers any chance to recoup. But this man turned to his chief accuser and said something so quiet and low no one else could hear, and that was the end of it. Impressive, Frank thought, and figured that really was the end of it.

Later, when he went out to check on his horse, he spotted this man lingering by the wash hut. He was leaning against the wall, relaxed and lanky, chatting with the laundry man. Frank couldn't tell what they were talking about, because it wasn't like any language he understood, other than to recognize it as Chinese. Frank stood by the stable door watching the two of them share stories and smoke in the heavy air.

Lanky didn't do him justice. His hips were lean, his limbs long, and the way he curved against the wall of the hut made Frank think of a snake in the desert, stretching out across a rock to soak up some heat. He still had his jacket on, even though it was stifling hot. Maybe he was protecting his winnings. Maybe he was cold-blooded.

He had long hair, longer than Frank's, and wavy, too. If it was shorter, if it wasn't so heavy, Frank could imagine it would curl up against his scalp. As it was, it hung to his shoulders, rippling like a dark whiskey, shot with grey streaks. He was clean-shaven, and his skin was smooth as if he didn't spend all that much time in the sun. Frank could tell this man was older than he was, but couldn't tell by how much. The smoothness of his skin and the elegant shape of his face made him look young, almost boyish. He was betrayed only by the lines around his eyes and the worry lines on his forehead. He held himself, too, with a sort of confidence that only comes with age and experience.

The laundry man said something and Frank watched, fascinated, as a broad grin spread across the poker face. This man had a beautiful smile. His entire face smiled, and even his dark, cautious eyes seemed to lighten, the corners creasing deeply. His mouth opened wide when he laughed. This was how he looked when he was unprotected, not like when he was shielding himself in the barroom.

The poker face returned soon enough and his whole body stiffened. He'd spotted the loser from the card table before Frank did, even though his back was to the door and Frank was facing it. Maybe he'd sensed the danger. He said something sharp and nasal to the laundry man, who scurried inside and bolted the door behind him.

Frank found that admirable. Not on the part of the laundry man, even though Frank didn't think him dishonorable. It was none of his business, and there was no obligation to risk your life for someone you'd only just met and had a smoke with. He found it admirable that this man would send his companion from danger, and not expect or demand aid.

The loser was drunk, angry, and sloppy. Not much of a challenge, but he had two friends behind him. Frank had stepped in to take care of the taller, wilder one, with the big, meaty fists that sailed far too close to Frank's head for comfort. Frank ducked and caught him with an uppercut to the jaw that made him stagger enough for Frank be able to finish him with a knee to the gut. Frank was done just in time to see the last man crumple to the ground from a well-placed, bony elbow to his throat, and to watch the poker face descend once more.

What Frank had seen in that brief few seconds before the very end of the fight, was raw. Pure and animalistic violence flashing in the brown eyes, and granite set of the jaw that brooked no opposition. Then the bland expression was back, the eyes reticent and wary.

They'd stood in the space between the stable and the wash hut, with the three slumped-over bodies at their feet, staring each other in the eye. It was cold in there, Frank thought. Cold and inhospitable, shining black in the night, and there was a little twitch at the corner of one as if he wasn't entirely convinced that Frank wasn't a threat as well.

"Thank you. I owe you." Other than a slight shortness of his breath, no one would guess this man had just been in a fight. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his shoulders were relaxed, his manner casual for all its guardedness. Frank wondered what it would be like to be able to change back and forth like that with such ease.

Frank shook his fists to unclench them and wiped his sweating forehead with his sleeve. "Best be getting away from here. They'll have more friends, and we didn't hit any of them hard enough to keep them down for long."

The only answer was a blunt nod. Frank watched him pick up his saddlebag and sling it over his shoulder.

"I'm heading to Carson City," Frank said. "Know the way in the dark, too." He watched the lanky limbs settle under the weight of the bags. He wondered what a man like that carried with him. Where he got the contents of them. He wondered whether it would be possible to see those cold eyes warm up again. "Don't see much in this town worth staying the night for, if you'd care for some company."

This man gave him a small smile. He held out his hand. Frank did the same, and felt the long fingers curl around his in an intimate fashion. The eyes weren't cold anymore. They weren't heated with emotion, though. It was something else, something seductive. The two men introduced themselves and headed for the stable.

When they were heading out the back gate, the laundry man rushed out of his hut and pressed a small package toward the stranger. He spoke a few words, which brought out another smile, and a handful of money. "Thank you," this man had said once more in his warm, sonorous tones. He drawled, but he didn't sound like any cowboy or Southerner Frank had ever heard.

They mounted up and left.

So Frank had company for the two-day ride to Carson City. Or rather, two-night ride. And they'd made it just as the rains came. And now they were stuck in this room until travel was practical.

Frank studied the stretched-out legs on the bed, muscle and sinew with a nasty scar on one thigh, pale and hard like they were carved out of rock. The arms, built the same, were resting on the bed, one flat at his side, palm up, the other bent. Long fingers splayed over his flat stomach, shockingly white against the dark hair, but stained at the tips, yellowish from tobacco, or whatever it was he'd smoked in that odd-looking pipe.

They'd slept for a long time once they got the room, worn out from the ride and the nights without sleep, the fight behind the saloon, everything else. They had talked while they rode. It wasn't a hard, fast ride – it was too hot and dry for the horses to risk that. They took a leisurely pace, meandering along an almost dry riverbed away from the road. Frank knew the area, knew the land. They'd stopped at a stand of trees and rested, talking some more. Frank had watched him roll something between his fingers and heat it with a burning twig and go through all sorts of trouble until he got the pipe going. After that they'd slept in the shade of the trees a spell, and it hadn't been easy to wake him at dusk. They'd traveled the rest of the way by moonlight without talking much.

Frank had watched him ride, legs draped over the sides of the horse so casually, one hand on the rein, the other fisted in the grey mane. The horse stepped, her back shifted, and his hips surged with the motion. Sometimes his eyes were closed, as if he was riding in his sleep, but the hand was always curled tight in the mane. He never slipped out of the saddle or had to shake himself awake. Everything was smooth. Every movement made Frank want to see those hips surge when there was no horse.

It wasn't easy to find lodgings. The rain had started by the time they got to the hotel, and everyone was hunkering down. Old men sat out in front on the porch and talked about how this happened every fifty years, a storm like this. It would rain for a week, they said, and it was about time, too. It took a handful of money from the inner pocket of the jacket, and some carefully spoken words Frank couldn't quite make out, to secure this little room with its narrow window and single bed, pot belly stove and one slim candle allotted per night. Frank didn't have to understand the words, though. He'd heard the tone. Seductive. The girl winked when she handed over the key. She'd received a smile in return, not as nice to look at as when this man really laughed, but she'd leaned forward over the counter, pushing her bosom out at him, all the same.

They'd told more stories. Frank told him about living between two cultures. About not belonging. Blue Child he was called by his Sioux kindred, yet he'd been the one to deliver the order for the slaughter at Wounded Knee. He could not go home ever again. He tried to honour his people, but he could not be one of them. There was too much shame.

Frank listened to stories about living rough, running from the law, times spent in jail, times spent hiding. His gang, the gang he belonged to, was notorious, he'd said. But Frank wouldn't have heard of it. Still, Frank thought he could understand. He'd never been wanted, but he'd been chased. He knew how that felt. And he knew how it felt to not belong anywhere.

Images from the stories flitted through Frank's mind. An opium den in Shanghai where rows of bunks held drowsing men, one white man conspicuous on the bunk at the end of a line. A line of desert warriors on the finest horses imaginable, one white man standing out on his painted mount. The dark horror of a jail cell. The sheer terror of the sharp knife moving toward Frank's balls. The agony of a sadistic jail guard squeezing so tight a pair of balls would be bruised black. Barricaded windows and homemade armour, the stench of terror. What it's like to be so parched from thirst that death would be a welcome change. What a body will do for a drink when it's that parched.

These are the sorts of stories men share when trying to impress upon another that they've endured. They are tough. They will not be broken.

He leaned back against the windowpane, cool against his shoulders from the rain, and looked. The edge of a blanket hid the man's groin, but Frank knew what lay under it. Long and lean like the rest of him, and just as graceful. Languid.

The first time had been hard and fast with Frank on his hands and knees, panting and grunting for more. The hand on his cock was rough, jerking him without mercy until he sprayed all over the bedcovers. But the second time had been leisurely. Slow, careful, savoring every moment. Hands soft and coaxing, flowing over him like water. Lying back to front, then face to face on their sides, then with Frank on his back with his legs spread wide. Frank knew exactly how those chest muscles strained when this man held his upper body still, with his head turned to one side, eyes shut, thrusting with practiced restraint, stretching and probing and filling Frank to perfection. The way he swiveled his hips was breathtaking. Snake-like. That second time he'd seemed to want to give Frank as much pleasure as he possibly could, and Frank had taken it willingly. Just looking at him, lying naked on the bed like that, made Frank want it again.

It was his face that really made Frank want him. When he wasn't making his eyes look cold and hard, they looked sad. His mouth curled into something that was not a smile or a frown, but there was contour to it, contour that made Frank want to lick across it, trace it with the tip of his tongue and slither inside. His hollowed cheeks would have made anyone else look gaunt, but on him the effect was almost too beautiful, almost painful to behold. The way his dark lashes spread over them was delicate, and accentuated the sharp curve of the bone. Frank would have called him pretty, but it wouldn't really do to be fucked by someone pretty, would it?

Heavy lids shifted up and Frank found himself looking into the soft, sad eyes the man who'd called himself Joe Kelly.

---

Part 2: Bird Bones

Joe Byrne slid his eyes opened and looked at the man standing by the window. Naked, and not ashamed of it, he had his back to the fading light outside. Not much came through the clouds, but it was enough to make Frank look like a shadow, only the feathery tips of his hair and the curve of his shoulder catching enough light to give them any colour. It still rained.

Joe could see the shape of his arm where it crossed the window, the line of his forearm and the taper at the wrist. The shoulders were broad, but not meaty. You could still see the collarbone, not as prominent as Joe's, but still visible. Nice expanse of lightly furred chest, Joe remembered the golden hairs as comforting and arousing, and all this narrowed at the waist to hips not as lean as Joe's, again, but trim and the perfect compliment to a firm, round arse.

The legs were long, as long as Joe's but a bit thicker. Strong legs, and when Frank had them wrapped around Joe's skinny waist, it was like finding home. Joe hadn't enjoyed fucking a man that much in a long time.

"Hungry?"

Joe blinked in the dim light. He couldn't think of why Frank would ask such a thing. Then Frank moved to one side and Joe could see that his face looked concerned. Joe looked down. He hadn't been naked like that for a while. He'd changed clothes and washed and that sort of thing, but lying on a bed, naked, on display – that he hadn't done in a long long time. And all the times he had been naked, he hadn't paid much attention. Now that he did pay attention, he could understand why Frank looked so concerned. He was worse than skinny; he was scrawny. He was emaciated.

His eyes flicked from the graceful line of Frank's collarbone to his own body. He couldn't see his collarbone, but he imagined what it might look like, judging by the way he could count his ribs, if he cared to, and from the way his hipbones were sticking out. He imagined it looked frail. Bird-like.

He looked back up, and Frank had moved again. Now the weak light highlighted the curve of his arse, and the silhouette of his cock, not quite soft, was visible. Nice cock, Joe thought. Thick and sturdy, and beautiful enough to make Joe think about taking it inside him. Think about, not do. He didn't want a cock up his arse. There had been a time, but that particular cock was no longer available.

"I could get some food," Frank said as he pulled on his clothes.

"Let me give you some money." Joe got up, didn't care when the blanket fell from his lap. His cock was semi-hard, too. It got that way from watching Frank at the window. It started to get hard from thinking about feeling Frank's muscles move under him and hearing the gasp Frank made when Joe pushed inside, and from knowing the sound Frank made when he reached his peak. It was a groan, but it was made when Frank was breathing in, not out, and it shuddered somewhere in his throat.

Joe didn't think there was anything more intimate to know about a man than the sound he made at that moment in time. He always tried to not make any noise. A habit, he supposed, from having to keep things private in close quarters. He knew that when he spent in Frank's arse he'd not succeeded - either time - and that he'd let out hoarse grunts like some kind of animal. He also knew, or at least remembered from a long time ago, that when a cock was in his arse he made an entirely different sound, one that he wouldn't likely ever hear it again.

He handed some money to Frank, and it felt awkward, but only for a second. He told himself he wasn't paying for the sex; he was just giving some money to a mate so he could go and fetch them both some dinner. But Frank stared at the money for a second too long, which made Joe clear his throat.

Frank looked up. "I didn't ask before, but did you cheat at that poker game?"

Joe gave him the smallest of smiles. "I didn't ask before, but did you help me out back there because you knew I had the money to pay for things like hotels and meals?"

Frank grinned. "I'll see what they've got for dinner. Maybe get us a bottle."

Joe nodded. "Beer would be nice." And he lay back down on the bed, suddenly tired.

Frank returned with two plates of stew, a bucket with four bottles of beer in cold water, and some corn bread. Joe had put on his trousers by then, faded black that hugged his slim hips and made his legs look even longer. Joe could feel Frank watching him as he picked at the stew. He took a big bite and chewed the soft meat. Ned used to watch him eat, tell him to eat more. He'd always been skinny, never did fill out when he got older. He was 42 now and he knew he still looked like a kid, but he also knew he didn't act like he did when he was a kid. He didn't talk like a kid. He sure as hell didn't fuck like a kid.

He smirked a little as he pushed some potato around the plate. Frank had already finished his stew and was chewing on some corn bread. Joe reached for a bottle. Frank pulled a knife from his pack and deftly popped the cork, opened one for himself as well. They clinked the bottles together.

"So here's to new friends, eh?" Joe said, and he felt himself smile before he could stop it.

Frank's eyes crinkled at the corners and he had a crooked grin that made Joe want to kiss him. Perhaps it was a bit too late in the game to be toasting new friends. Frank didn't say anything; he just drank from the bottle and licked his lips. That tongue had felt so good in Joe's mouth, those lips on his lips, on his throat, on his collarbone. Joe raised his hand and ran a finger along the sharp ridge.

Frank watched Joe touch himself, and Joe could see the gleam in his blue eyes get brighter. He could see that Frank liked it. He liked the bird bones. Frank leaned forward and licked across the collarbone. His tongue was cool from the beer. Joe shivered.

Frank sat back up again and offered him some of the corn bread. Joe took a small piece and was surprised to find that it tasted quite good, and that he was hungry after all. He swallowed the last of the bread and stood up, stretching his arms up over his head.

Frank grabbed his waist, rein-roughened, tanned hands sliding down to his hips, where the top of his trousers rested, just above jutting hipbones. Frank leaned forward, pulled Joe closer, rested his face against the soft hair on the lower part of Joe's belly. Joe's stomach muscles rippled enough for Frank to notice. He gave him a little kiss.

Joe lowered his hands to Frank's shoulders to urge him to continue. He was rested, he was fed, he'd had some beer - he could go again. "Let me light the candle, I want to see you," he said softly. He moved to the dresser and lit the candle.

"You want to smoke some more of that stuff?" Frank asked.

Joe shook his head. " Naw, don't need it, mate. Not unless you want to try it." He watched Frank shake his head no. " S'alright, you know. I don't do it that often, not like I used to. But it helps to pass the time, you know ?." He settled on the bed next to Frank.

Frank shook his head again. He said he didn't know. He'd seen people smoke a lot of different things, but he'd never seen eyes roll back quite like that before. And he didn't think he'd ever seen anyone who was still alive lie quite that still before. Joe's arms and legs had folded neatly when he lay back under the tree, and his whole body had settled into the state Joe called "my resting way". Still.

"Actually, it makes the time go slow, but you don't care."

Now the moment was lost, and the two of them sat side by side, wondering how to continue. It had been easy at first, Joe thought. That first time was like the storm outside. They'd stabled the horses and got drenched running to the porch. The negotiations for the room had taken a bit of doing. Joe hoped the girl didn't expect him to come creeping into her room in the night. He much preferred Frank's company. After that, they'd hauled their wet bags and coats upstairs to the dim room. There was a flimsy curtain that did nothing to keep out the light, but by then the storm was so strong there was no sun anyway.

There was a brief awkwardness that lasted only until Frank had stowed the bags beside the washstand and Joe had hung the wet coats on pegs on the wall. He'd slipped the money out of his jacket and dropped it in his boot, which he put beside the bed. Then he'd sat down and watched the water dripping from Frank's blond hair as Frank peeled off his damp shirt.

Joe had stood up again and placed his hands on Frank's chest. They'd looked right into each other's eyes for about five seconds before their mouths were on each other. Frank had seemed close to desperate to get Joe's shirt off, and Joe had dropped to his knees a little too easily, but Frank was so hard he didn't notice. Joe tried to be clumsy, tried to make it seem as if he was inexperienced. That didn't work, because when Frank moaned and sank his hands into Joe's hair, Joe took him all the way in to the back of his mouth, into his throat.

There was no argument at all about who would do what to whom. Joe had simply pushed Frank onto the bed and draped his long limbs over him and Frank made a needy sound and let Joe in. Joe knew he'd been a bit frantic. He reckoned he'd made it up to Frank the second time. It had been easy to sleep after all that activity, and they did, all day long.

Now Frank was looking at him, really looking at him, with keen bright eyes. He'd done this sort of thing before, Joe could tell. But maybe he'd never gone quite this far. Maybe he'd never stuck around long enough to sleep and wake up and eat and be expected to carry on some sort of conversation. Maybe he was feeling as lost as Joe, as if he was floundering in the flood waters outside instead of holed up in a hotel room with a stranger he'd had sex with twice already, and wanted to have sex with again, but was unsure of how to go about it.

"I checked on the horses," Frank said. "The stable's on high ground; they're fine."

Joe nodded. Frank would have checked on the horses. He cared a lot about horses.

Frank's hand was on Joe's shoulder. "Did I tell you my first horse was named Joe? Not the first horse I ever rode, but the first one I rode in a distance race."

This was comfortable. Joe could do this. He could listen to Frank's voice as he told a story about a race. He liked the sound of Frank's voice. It was low and gravelly, but soft at the same time. Joe's voice tended to be soft and low as well, but it wasn't gravelly, in spite of all the smoking. It was smooth. He hoped Frank liked it. They lay back on the bed and Frank told him about his first race, which he won, of course, and Joe put his head on Frank's chest so he could hear the voice rumble inside.

When Frank grew quiet again, Joe stretched up and licked along his collarbone.

"Tell me about Ned." Frank said.

Joe stopped licking. His tongue went dry. His eyes hurt. Frank knew about Ned.

Except Frank didn't really know about Ned, he just knew the name Ned. Joe rolled it over in his mind. Under the trees, while he was preparing the opium, he'd said that Ned had never approved, used to try to get him to quit. Then later, when they were almost to town, Joe had mentioned something about Ned again, about how Ned used to get tense when they came up to a new town, the way he used to fidget with the rein or bounce on his heels when he was walking. And then, in between one and two, when they were just playing around and Joe had run his fingers gently over Frank's balls, Frank had told him that story about the Arab sheik threatening to cut off them off. Joe thought it sounded a bit far-fetched, but Frank described the tool kit in vivid detail. And then Joe had responded with a story about Ned when he was in jail and what the guard did to his balls. They were just swapping stories.

Except now, Frank wanted to really know about Ned. Joe shrugged and tried to make it sound like no big deal. "He was a mate, but he's gone now. Hanged." Joe shut his eyes. Watching Ned swing had been the hardest thing he'd ever done. He didn't even know why he'd done it, why he'd stayed around that bloody long, sneaking in shadows, living under an assumed identity. He didn't know why he'd taken so many risks when he knew all along that it was all going to end with Ned on the wrong end of a rope.

Perhaps it hadn't been all that dangerous. It wasn't as if he was wanted. As far as the law was concerned, he was dead. They weren't looking for Joe Byrne. They'd already had Joe Byrne hanging from the door of the police station. Dead. The pictures of it were very popular.

It was no wonder that no one had claimed the body. One look at the pictures and you could tell. No one who really knew him could have looked at that corpse and said it was Joe. He didn't even know how the police had been able to look at it and think it was him. Maybe they didn't want to know. Maybe it was safer for everyone if they just kept pretending that it was Joe Byrne they'd displayed and flayed open and dumped in a hole in the ground. Maybe they wanted to Ned to believe he was dead.

Joe'd scratched it out in the bush for a while, but that couldn't last forever. He needed money for passage away, and the only place to get money was in town. So, he'd lurked around until Ned was gone, and after the hanging there was no reason to risk it anymore. Someone would recognize him sooner or later, and what was the point of staying around when the only person he wanted to be recognized by was gone? He'd eventually wound up here, in Carson City of all places, with Frank in the bed with him wanting to know about Ned.

What could Joe say? Could he tell him all they'd been through together? What they meant to each other? The distraught look on Ned's face when he realized that Joe was shot? Or worse, the sickened look on Ned's face when they put Joe's armor on the dead hostage, shot a hole in the corpse and squeezed his leg so blood would come out? How determined Ned had looked when he tied the strips tight around Joe's thigh and told him to go? How gentle Ned had looked when he shaved the last of the hair off Joe's face, and how he laughed when they'd finished dressing Joe in that ridiculous outfit with the pinstriped skirt and the rags stuffed inside to give him breasts, and about how there wasn't any plan at all, it was just a way for one of them to survive and Joe was the only one that a hostage resembled enough to pull it off?

Joe didn't know why he'd said his name was Kelly. He usually used a name that was far from his own or Ned's. There was something about the way Frank had been looking at him that made him slip up.

"Good mate," he said, grabbing a beer bottle from the bedside table. "Here's to him."

---

Part 3: Wound

The third time was like nothing Frank had ever experienced. If the first was a storm and the second was luxurious summer breeze, the third was an earthquake.

Frank and Joe drank to Joe's dead friend, and then Joe took Frank's face in his hands and kissed him gently, but with hunger. Still hungry. He pulled off Frank's shirt and rubbed his hands over Frank's chest and stomach and pushed Frank down on the bed. He took his time, pulling the trousers down with infinite care, and actually kissed his way back up the long legs. Frank then pushed Joe down and did the same to him, hoping to make Joe's eyes less sad, but he stopped at the thigh, because there was the scar.

Joe's whole body went stiff when Frank started to trace around the scar with his tongue and kiss it gently. That's what Ned would have done, if he'd lived to see it healed. Frank rubbed his cheek over the faded pink scar and his stubble rasped across the tender areas, made the whole scar tingle, even in the parts where there wasn't any feeling left.

Joe had to squeeze his eyes shut to stop the tears, and the next thing he knew Frank's strong arms were around him and Frank was hushing him. But Joe didn't hush; he talked. He talked and talked until he was hoarse. He told Frank everything.

Frank had heard a lot of stories in his life. He'd heard about dangerous feats and amazing escapes and heroic deeds. He'd heard about improbable accomplishments and impossible odds. But never had he heard a man tell about what had degraded him.

He listened to a jumbled tale of dressing like a woman, and going on his knees in alleyways for a few coins, and what he'd had to do to the jailer for the privilege of getting close enough to see Ned. And how he'd not been able to get near enough to see Ned after all, because you can never trust a jailer. He couldn't find any friends to help. When the law was that determined to kill a man, his friends vanished into thin air. There was no way to break Ned out of jail, there was no way to stop the hanging. The court case dragged on forever and Joe tortured himself through the whole ordeal, didn't eat, didn't sleep, but he kept having to degrade himself like that to survive. By the time Ned swung, Joe felt dead inside.

Ned died not even knowing that Joe was still alive.

Frank listened to how Joe offered himself to the captain of a ship to pay his passage to Hong Kong. And then to America after that. He listened to how all that didn't matter because Ned died not knowing Joe was even alive. He listened to Joe's tears fall on Frank's chest. Then he felt Joe's wet face resting on him and realized Joe wasn't talking anymore. He stroked his hand down Joe's back, fingertips rippling over ribcage.

Frank didn't know what to do or say. Those didn't sound like stories. They didn't sound as if they'd been told so many times the words were starting to wear out. They hadn't been crafted to take out the parts that might make Joe look bad. Joe didn't look bad in them so much as helpless and a little pitiable. Frank may not have known everything, but he knew damn well that if your intention was to impress someone, you didn't admit to doing things like that. Or having things like that done to you.

Joe was sleeping then. Sleeping, his head resting on Frank's chest, with slow, even breathing, like someone so tired they might rather be dead. And maybe he would, because what was the point of going through all that if all you would only end up wandering alone through the world?

While Joe slept, Frank played with his hair, and touched the paper-thin skin stretched across his back, around the edges of shoulder blade and the wiry arms. So very strong, he thought to himself. So very durable. So very fragile at the same time.

He had never taken anything this far. He'd had rough tumbles with men. He'd had lovemaking that was more like a fistfight. He'd even had an ongoing situation with another Pony Express rider. They were both long distance racers, and Frank would race past the rendezvous point while the other fella would pelt across the plains far too fast, but you could do that with the right horse, and then they'd have a few hours they didn't have to account for, and they'd kept it up every week for months. Then he got switched to a different route and he didn't know what happened to the other man. But he'd never held someone in his arms after something this personal.

Joe was dead asleep. Maybe he hadn't allowed himself to fall that far asleep since the first time he had ever been arrested. Even with the dead weight of the sleep, Frank could have picked him up easily. He was that light. He was that.

Frank eventually slid out from under Joe and started tracing him where he lay on his side with one leg forward not quite hiding his cock. Long lean thighs, curved calves, bony ankles. Sinewy forearms with blood flowing turquoise under pale skin. The scribble of a vein stretched over a wiry bicep. Ribs and hips and collarbones. Joe didn't move under his hands at first, but then, when Frank played his fingers over the pink discs of his nipples, Joe started moving his mouth a little.

Frank took it as a hint and shimmied down the bed. He licked circles around the wrinkled little bump first, and then sucked it into his mouth. The skin across Joe's chest was smooth and taut. He couldn't get much of the nipple between his lips, but he was able to set Joe's hips to writhing. Frank kept one hand on a narrow flank, so he could feel the undulations. Every roll of his hips made Frank recall how good it had felt to have that cock inside him.

The hands on his shoulders were hard, long fingers gripping him like steel. They appeared suddenly, violently. And when Frank let the nipple go, he looked up into seductive eyes.

Frank wondered if Joe was like a wind-up toy. He had a top when he was a kid. You wound the string around it and pulled and it spun out across the dirt. Sometimes it would spin in one spot, perfectly balanced, for minutes at a time. Sometimes it skittered and bumped and came to a rocking rest in the dust. The toy was perfectly still and inert, until you wound that string around it. But winding the string wasn't enough, you had to pull – and pull hard – to get it to move right.

Frank had wound the string around Joe a few times, but didn't think he'd ever be able to get him to spin just right.

Joe climbed onto Frank and pressed his whole body against him. His hips rocked into Frank and Frank had to spread his legs. It was the only possible response to something like that. Joe nodded and shifted down to where Frank couldn't see him anymore, because Frank was flat on his back staring up at the ceiling while he felt that mouth burn a path down his skin. His knees were pushed up to his chest and he held his breath while Joe lapped at him, soothed him, coaxed him more open. And when he felt Joe slide into him, it felt inevitable.

Joe was still above him, with his eyes shut to the world. He stayed still, holding himself up on tense arms, until Frank wanted to scream at him to move. But Frank stayed still too, with his legs slung over Joe's shoulders and his arse full of Joe, for the longest time.

When Joe finally moved, Frank felt it so deep inside it made him close his eyes, too. Deep and rumbling within, brushing over his core at a slowly building tempo that made the bed shake, the room tilt, the building threaten to tumble to the ground. Frank rocked with it, took it for as long as he could, and when he came it was without being touched anywhere but deep inside, and it was the most gutwrenching, longest lasting thing he'd ever experienced. He was still enduring it when Joe pumped into him one last time and bit his lip until it bled, trying to stop the noise. Pointless to try and stop it, Frank thought. You can't stop nature.

After the candle had long burned out, Frank figured he didn't want to see Joe right then anyway; it might hurt. But he did want to see Joe again. He wanted to look at Joe for the rest of his life, because Joe was just that beautiful and Frank was tired of things that weren't beautiful.

They slept through most of the day, and in the evening the rains began to taper. This wasn't the fabled fifty-year storm after all.

Joe stood at the window now, and Frank lay on the bed looking at Joe's hip curved against the wall and the way his hair fell over his cold eyes and his hands shook if they weren't holding onto something.

Then Joe turned from the window and said, "You ever seen a man's head cut off, Frank?"

Frank just shook his head.

"Cut clean off with a machete. Very sharp. Neck sliced through just like a melon. When the head hits the ground, the eyes are still open. But they don't see anything."

Frank shook his head again.

"Didn't see any heads lopped off when you were over there for that race of fire?"

Frank didn't answer.

"I hear they do that there, too. That's what they do to members of rival gangs in Shanghai," Joe said. "I was in the opium den when it happened. Every last man was killed. Every last one but me. They didn't kill me. That's why I came here, you know. Too dangerous in China. I never knew when they might decide that I deserved the same after all."

Frank reached down for the bucket of tepid water and scooped some up to splash over his face.

Joe looked back out the window. "There's no real way to hide, though, is there? No matter where you go, someone's going to find you."

Frank shrugged.

"Whether they're looking for you or not."

Frank wasn't sure what Joe was talking about.

"We're paid until morning. If you don't mind, I'd like to stay until then."

Frank nodded.

"I'd like you to stay, too."

Frank didn't know about that. If he stayed he might not want to leave. There was food on the table beside the bed. More stew and bread, four more bottles of beer in a new bucket. Joe must have gone out while Frank was sleeping, and then come back. He was naked, standing in the window, and the dull light of the setting sun made his pale skin glow. His hair was wet, and there was a soapy smell in the air. There must be a bathtub somewhere in this hotel.

Frank felt the urge to submerge himself in water, to end the thirst once and for all.

"Down the hall," Joe said, reading his mind. "It'll be your turn in about ten minutes. Why don't you eat something?"

"Why don't you?"

"Later."

Frank wolfed down some stew until it was his turn in the bath. He didn't want to leave the room, not with Joe still standing by the window naked like that. Joe told him he'd see him in a little while and Frank had no reason to disbelieve it, so he took a beer with him and went to the washroom. He sipped it as he settled back in the bathtub and soaked until the next guest pounded on the door.

When he returned, Joe was still there. He was draping his wet pants over the washstand to dry. The water made the black of them so dark they had no weave, no texture, just blackness. He had the sheet wrapped around his hips but it slipped down and a hip poked over the top of it, dark damp curls coiling over the edge of the white linen.

Frank pulled the sheet away and stared down at Joe's legs and cock.

Joe stood stock still, arms pushed out slightly, like he was on display and had resigned himself to the fact.

He was surprised when Frank sank down to his knees and opened his mouth over Joe's soft cock. Frank had shown no desire, no indication he would do something like that. He took the limp member into his mouth and swirled his tongue around it, gagging a little when it grew and poked the back of his mouth. Joe took that as an indication Frank had not, in fact, done something like that before. Joe threaded his fingers through damp, straight hair and had to make an effort not to fuck the hot mouth.

The hands on his arse gripped him tight. The rasp of beard on his inner thighs made his mouth water. Joe stumbled a bit and pulled Frank to his feet.

"I'm leaving in the morning," he said.

"I know," Frank replied. "I want the night, though."

Joe nodded. "It's yours."

By the time dawn broke, the roads were muddy but not flooded. Frank figured he could stick to the higher ground and make his way north easily enough. He dressed in the quiet, empty room. Chinese gangs lopping off heads. Notorious Australian gangs hiding out in the bush. Faking his death to escape the law. Dressing as a woman and being a prostitute. He shook his head. One story was as good as the next, that was for sure.

Joe was in the stable when Frank went down, saddling his horse and strapping his pack in place. In the bright sunlight there was more grey in his hair, more lines on his face. He was just as skinny, but he seemed more substantial than he did by moonlight or candlelight or in the pitch dark when he had Frank's legs wrapped around him and Frank's tongue in his mouth. His eyes were cold. The poker face was on.

"You're heading north, then?" Joe asked casually.

Frank nodded.

"I'll be going south."

Frank figured as much.

It was still early. No one was around. Joe's eyes shifted left to right, then he reached out and grabbed Frank by the collar, tugged him closer.

"It doesn't matter," he said, "whether you really did deliver the order for that massacre. If you are who you say you are, you have forsaken your people. It's too late to change the past. But it isn't too late for you to seek forgiveness."

Frank moved his mouth but no words came out.

"You have two choices, Frank. You can be brave and face up to who you are and what you've done. Or you can spend the rest of your days on the trail, moving from place to place, telling stories. It doesn't matter if the stories are true or false, you'll just tell them for the rest of your life."

Frank swallowed.

"Good bye, Frank."

Frank shook his head. "You don't have to go."

Joe smiled the seductive smile. "Oh, yes, I do."

*****

THE END

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