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The worst thing about insomnia, Ezra told himself, was that it led
to flights of fancy.
Normally he would fall into the arms of Morpheus with the same ease his body fell into the comfortable feather bed the hotel so unexpectedly provided, but not tonight. Tonight he was cursed to think, turn over, and then think some more. Tonight, for some reason, his agile mind refused to end its machinations, returning to the same point with a tenacity that he couldn't help but somewhat admire. He hadn't meant for it to happen. Heaven knows if he'd seen the possibility coming he would have saddled his horse and left town before letting such an event take place. But this time the stars hadn't smiled on Ezra Standish and Lady Luck was playing the jade. That very afternoon - was it only a matter of a mere few hours ago? - he'd placed his foot on a treacherous path, one he'd never expected to tread. He remembered telling Chris once, at the beginning of their acquaintance, that he left nothing to chance - that had patently been untrue. This time around, Ezra had been blindsided by fate, taken aback by the turn of a card. It was as simple as that. There was no shame in losing to a more skilled opponent and who could be more skilled at games of chance than destiny herself? That, at least, was something of a balm to Ezra's bruised and battered pride. It had to be destiny at work, some irony laid out in the stars, beyond the understanding of mere mortal man. What greater irony could there be, after all, than the futile love of one man for another? There was no way it could end well. Law and religion both forbade it, even if the barrier of race did not intercede as was the case with his own infatuation. Ezra flopped onto his back as he considered the word in question - infatuation, not love. How could it be love? Love implied some kind of equality, some kind of reciprocal feeling and he knew for certain there was and never could be such a thing. As the leopard could not change his spots, Ezra Standish could not change who he was, make himself less the very thing the object of his desire despised so utterly. He'd tried his best to fit in, knowing even as he did so that the good citizens of Four Corners accepted him on sufferance. Ezra was under no illusion that the debt the populace owed to himself and his six colleagues weighed heavy in the balance against the less acceptable aspects of his own behaviour. If gambling was a sin, then gambling successfully was a whole plethora of vices rolled into one. Ezra rolled onto his side and then sat up, swinging his legs out of the bed. He winced when his bare feet hit the cold floor, but ignored the sensation as he groped on the bedside table for the lucifers. Once located, it was the work of a moment to light the lamp again, then Ezra pulled his pillows up against the head of the bedstead and clambered back into the mattresses fond embrace. Sleep, elusive as it was, was less dangerous than this contemplation. The dark night of the soul, Ezra thought, smiling to himself a little as his feet returned to their former temperature. The others had often commented on how soundly he slept, on his inability to rise at some ungodly hour as they seemed to do, but they didn't see this side of matters. Somehow Ezra doubted that Buck Wilmington lay awake at night and contemplated the pointlessness of existence. "I am infatuated with Nathan Jackson," he said quietly. In the silence of his room it sounded over loud, and for a moment Ezra expected someone to hammer on his door and demand an explanation. There. He'd admitted it to himself and the universe, even if no-one else had been listening. The words were enough to make the notion seem even more ridiculous. It wasn't, after all, a case of love at first sight. Ezra had always derided that notion, considering it only suitable for lovestruck individuals who didn't know better, and that could never have been the case where he was concerned. He'd known Nathan for some time now, even though many of their encounters had left him with less than fond memories. This time, however, he'd been taken unawares. At least, Ezra reminded himself, he had the solace of recalling that it was purely a physical attraction. It had been a slow day, slower than usual with the otherwise ever-present wind dropping to a stillness that made the town seem even smaller than it was. The town's residents seemed to move slower than usual, as if the lethargy was infectious. His own reaction had been to wish for some form of entertainment, some distraction to pass the time since it was clear there would be little work for Ezra and his colleagues any time soon. It had been an innocent walk to the church, a trip he'd taken a hundred times before. Josiah was nowhere to be seen, but the sound of hammering was insistent, marking the presence of someone there. Curiosity had got the better of him, not for the first time in Ezra's life, and he'd looked for the source. It was a decision he'd later come to regret. Ezra turned the corner, stood unobserved as he watched. It was Nathan, not Josiah. Stripped to the waist, itself a relatively novel sight, back gleaming with sweat as he concentrated on hammering some loose boards back in place. Muscles slid beneath dark skin as Nathan worked, skin that was broken by faded lines, ridged scars that had never quite healed, tangible memories of the past they both tried to put behind them. He knew, they all knew, why Nathan rarely removed his shirt among them. He'd stood frozen, equal parts entranced by the sight before him and terrified that Nathan would turn, would discover him there. That moment had seemed an eternity, as he'd stared at Nathan's back, memorised each curve of muscle, each line of raised flesh. It was the scars, Ezra realised, as he thought back to that moment. He felt himself redden with a guilty flush as his cock gave a start at the memory of those marks. They were what made it all that much more real. He couldn't have imagined those scars, though he'd seen their like before. His fertile imagination was equal to the task of considering what Nathan would look like unclothed, and the reality was not so far removed from the fantasy his insomnia-driven mind had created, but he had not been equal to the rest. Ezra's hand slid beneath the bedclothes, slipping with ease into the loose cotton pants that were all he currently wore. He'd imagined each of his companions, a couple of them more than once, on those occasions when he sought the solace of release at the end of a hard day. There was, as far as Ezra could tell, no reason why the image of one was more potent than the image of another, though he had discovered that some held little power to produce the desired results. In his turn, he'd fantasised about Nathan Jackson, wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of quite a different kind of ministration from those broad and capable hands. His fingers slipped round his cock at the thought, as Ezra made himself think back to the images he'd used before to achieve completion. The clinic was where it began, the smells more familiar than he would like to think. He'd be lying on one of the beds, the rough blanket scratching his hands as he waited for Nathan. He wasn't injured, just unwell enough to tolerate the healer's mother hen behaviour and no more - there was nothing to fantasise about where being shot was concerned, after all. He'd be on the verge of drifting to sleep, the result of some noxious brew Nathan had forced on him earlier, his eyelids starting to droop, when he'd be conscious of movement beside him. That was how it always happened, Ezra reminded himself, as his fingers moved a little, finding the perfect place. Nathan would be there, then, asking him where it hurt. Ezra would mumble something, indistinct words which would make the other man frown, and he'd be forced to conduct an examination. Nathan's hands were warm and sure, smelling of carbolic acid. Their touch was deft and light but Ezra would react anyway, shifting uncomfortably as Nathan's fingers brushed over the bulge in his pants. Ezra's hand was moving now, the rhythm sure and steady. Nathan never spoke, but he always reacted the same way. His mouth quirked slightly, as if he was almost afraid to smile at this discovery, amused despite himself. Those same deft fingers would free Ezra's erection from his pants - he would stroke Ezra to completion, the familiar callouses scraping almost painfully on his arousal. He was close, so close. Ezra screwed his eyes shut, reached for the newer images that he knew would people his fantasy from now on, even as he rushed towards climax. Nathan's back shining with sweat, dark skin burnished. The play of strong muscles as he wielded the hammer. The serpentine ridges of scar tissue that wended their way across Nathan's back. Completion hit Ezra like a runaway stagecoach, bearing him with it as it plunged over into the abyss. He'd managed, somehow, to bite back on the cry that had threatened to erupt from his mouth as he came. For that small mercy Ezra was more than a little glad - he wasn't sure what it would have been. It took a little while for his breathing to return to normal, his heart from beating against his ribcage as if making a bid for freedom. It was utterly ridiculous, Ezra told himself, as he lay back against the pile of pillows, flexing his fingers. He was a grown man, not a dewy-eyed maiden. Such besotted behaviour was beyond him. Still, he couldn't help wondering, now that the memory of those scars had broken into the once-perfect fantasy image he'd had of Nathan, if there was any possibility of making any of the rest of his fantasy become a reality.
~ fin ~
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