Title: All Too Common

Author: De Orakle

Archive: You want it, you got it, just let me know where

Disclaimer: I forget who they belong to, but I'm pretty sure it's not me

Fandom: Magnificent Seven

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: Slight reference for the episode where the travelling dime-novel author comes to town (forgot the name.) Familiarity with the show really helps

Warnings: Some racial issues, hopefully in context with the time period. Also, English is not my first language, so please excuse stupid mistakes and Canadian spelling ;)

Feedback: Help out a feedback junkie, donate a fix

ALL TO COMMON

By De Orakle

He blamed it entirely on the heat, all too common for this time of year, but ungodly all the same. It set him on edge to the teeth, sparking in him an almost languid restlessness, if such a thing were possible. His body itched against his clothing; sweat soaked into the fine fabric, even here in the sunset shade of the saloon. Why must the most fashionable apparel be so incompatible with heat?

A bead of sweat trickled down a ticklish path from his matted hairline, horizontally along his hatband, before tracing its way down his cheek. It felt disconcertingly like blood, but the gambler was loath to call attention to the perspiration by brushing it away. Even in this heat, deeply instilled lessons warned him against showing a single weakness, lest his current companions mistake his discomfort for doubt in the five cards he held.

A stiff breeze whispered suddenly over Ezra’s sweat-cooled skin, raising gooseflesh. He stiffened instinctively, letting his eyes casually shift towards the source of the draft: the swinging saloon doors. He shivered, his hands shaking almost imperceptibly. Outlined in a stunning orange glow from the setting sun, there stood him. Even cast in shadow, he was unmistakable: tall, solid, moving with quiet certainty. Ezra held his breath.

One, two, three.

He dimly heard the rest of the table placing bets. His throat flared, and he took a sip from his glass.

Four, five, six.

The man inclined his head toward Ezra as his eyes scanned the room. He sauntered toward Josiah and Chris, seated across the room, with Ezra’s eyes glued to his back and backside, every tempting, swaying step of the way.

"Well?" The impatient Easterner sitting across from Standish prompted gratingly.

Ezra very deliberately returned his attention to the poker table, regarding the portly, sunburned dandy with a gaze so cool it all but steamed in the heated air. He hesitated, glancing back at the table seating his drinking teammates. Seated profile, the object of the gambler’s focus was leaning uncomfortably close, at least in Ezra’s opinion, to Josiah. Ezra’s gaze lingered, as a good-natured grin split the lush mouth that so captivated his attention.

Beautiful.

Heartbreakingly, unattainably, beautiful.

Heat-addled, lust-addled, Ezra Standish did something wholly unknown to a man holding a Royal Flush:

"Fold. I do believe I’ll call it a night, Gentleman. It’s been a pleasure." He collected his winnings, meager considering he’d played for less than an hour, amidst incredulous stares. The folded bills disappeared in the blink of an eye as he straightened his cuff.

He eyed the empty chairs at his teammates’ table, and glanced to the occupied ones to see Josiah’s eyes steadily tracked on him. With a hidden movement, the big man nudged a chair back from the table in silent invitation. Ezra swept his eyes over the other two men. Chris bestowed upon he gambler a friendly nod and a quirk of the mouth. The third seated man did not even deign to look his way.

With a polite tip of his hat and a sinking heart, Ezra inclined his head to the negative, excusing himself to retire to his room. He turned his back just in time to miss the preacher’s knowing blue eyes shift meaningfully between the retreating gambler, and the oblivious healer sitting at his right.

It was blessedly cooler in his darkened room, though that was pretty much like saying the third circle of Hell was much balmier than the eighth. He lit no lamp, heading directly instead for his washstand, filling it with the precious water contained in a tin bucket at the stand’s base. He dipped a flannel washcloth into the lukewarm liquid, and removing his hat, let the wonderfully refreshing water dilute the sticky sweat that plastered his hair to his brow. In the slanted shadows, Ezra’s eyes met those of his double’s in the looking glass. His image scowled back at him, eyebrows drawn together in displeasure at what he saw. The heat had tightened his limp curls, while his sun kissed, dusty skin shaded darker than Nathan’s in the falling light. With his lips puffy and swollen from the whiskey he’d nursed during the brief poker game, he realized with a start that he looked just like his father. He allowed himself a small self-deprecating smile. ‘Now that’s certainly a topic that would interest dear Mr. Jackson.’

Ezra would have laughed had it not been so tragic.

Shrugging off his jacket, he hung it up neatly, followed by his cravat, vest, and shirt. The sheen of sweat on his skin now met the warm air unencumbered, and he sighed contentedly at the cool rush that teased that which a few moments ago had been plastered with heavy linens. He allowed his mind to wander as he performed the perfunctory tasks of separating his cash into the various hidden pockets of his jacket, tucking a roll of bills into his boots as he removed his footwear, winding his pocket watch as he assured himself he had five hours remaining until his leg of the nightly patrol. He replayed the last few minutes in the saloon as his hands moved mindlessly.

***Nathan leaning close to Josiah, his whole body relaxed, grinning in a rare unreserved laugh***

He sincerely doubted the preacher appreciated the closeness, the scent of the other man: sharp and musky in the heat, with a strong underlying smell of medicinal liniment. Ezra shivered again despite the warmth as he placed himself in Mr. Sanchez’s place, Nathan’s bigger body leaning over him, temptingly close. Ezra’s Herculean imagination automatically provided a thousand details: hot breath against his cheek, crinkling in the corners of the good doctor’s sleepy-looking eyes, the aura of their mutual body heat meeting, merging, wondrously welcome even in this ungodly heat.

Ezra’s body reacted accordingly.

Shaking himself from his reverie, a chiding note of disgust escaping from his throat. He sighed. It was becoming an all too common activity for him, out here where even a brief business transaction with a lady of the evening could be common enough knowledge to tarnish his gentlemanly reputation. Still, to have to give in to the body’s baser instinct by himself was distasteful to the southerner, perhaps a holdover from the numerous tongue-lashings he’d received from his aunt when caught almost daily during a stay with her in his 13th year.

A wheedling, persuasive, familiar voice piped up in his head. ‘If you’re planning to partake in the hotel ablutions later, you may as well make it worth your while…It’ll relax you enough to catch some sleep in this cursed heat…Perhaps you’ll awaken refreshed enough for a quick game of cards before patrol…It’s not as though the object of your affection is too likely to lend you assistance in relieving yourself of your tension…’

He had to laugh as his mind conjured up a disturbingly clear picture of that last one. ‘Yes Mr. Jackson, I seem to have a bit of a swelling that just won’t go down…No, it doesn’t exactly hurt when you touch there… ’ His chuckle deepened into a frustrated groan as his groin tightened at the thought of the healer’s large hand tracing over the afflicted area.

He sighed, walking over to remove a thin towel from his wardrobe. If he were going to surrender to this gap in his self-control, he would at least relieve himself in a tidier way than rutting against his mattress like a beast in heat. He removed his pants and drawers, taking time to crease his pants before hanging them up.

The feather mattress gave easily beneath him as he sat on the bed. He spread the towel lengthwise over his stomach and upper abdomen, and then lay back with his hands folded under his head. His eyes fluttered closed. Trying to summon a little encouragement, his mind conjured the sweetly smiling face of Li Pong. Her body had been lithe, her touch wonderfully uncertain but earnest…not like the strong, sure touch of a healer’s hands…No. He would not think of Nathan; it seemed vaguely unfair to the man, knowing he was sitting just downstairs. Just downstairs…

That definitely had an effect. Well…It’s not like the other man would ever know…

Absurd as the scenario was, Ezra’s mind drifted back to little dialogue he’d imagined involving his "medical condition." Feeling faintly ridiculous, the impromptu fantasy unfolded like a play on the insides of his eyelids. ‘Now, would that be a comedy or a tragedy?’

He imagined himself lying in the clinic, the lights low, the heat of his actual surroundings conveying itself into his fantasy. *** Nathan’s hand trailed over his chest, detachedly at first, clinically. His fingers probed lightly at the gambler’s sides, as if seeking out a gunshot wound. The large hand stopped to lay over the left side of his breast, feeling the steadily beating heart beneath his palm. ***

Ezra’s hand drifted down over his body, mimicking his imaginary partner’s actions, feeling the thrum of blood rushing from the pumping muscle within his chest. ‘Getting romantic in your old age’ he chided himself. His cock fairly slapped against his stomach as he pictured Nathan’s cocoa powder-coloured hand resting against the swiftly darkening flesh of his erection.

*** "Does this hurt?" the healer asked in his comforting bedside tones.

Here, there were no needs for ambiguous polysyllabic responses, and Ezra merely shook his head. "No, actually it feels better."

"How about this?" He rubbed the palm of his hand against the underside of the prone man’s cock, up, down, up, down... The heavy vein just under Ezra’s sensitized skin was traced with delicious delicacy, eliciting a brutal whimper from the southerner’s throat.

"Better still," Ezra whispered desperately, his hips arching up into the tightly controlled touch. ***

The heat in his room was palpable, tangible, as Ezra’s body temperature rose. It was all too easy to imagine Nathan positioned over him, leaning close with whispering breath and silently domineering presence. It was all too easy to imagine that it was the other’s hand wrapped around his aching arousal.

*** A sly glint entered the chocolate brown eyes, a playful laugh tingeing Nathan’s voice as he whispered, "I know just how to make you feel better." And with that, the dark head ducked down to engulf his patient’s bobbing penis. ***

Ezra gasped as he pulled his foreskin back and forth over the head of his cock. The warm, wet, slipperiness combined with the heavy heat in almost perfect emulation of a smooth, hot mouth. Almost.

*** Nathan steadied his partner’s blind thrusts with strong hands pinning down the flexing thighs he settled between. His talented mouth continued its moist movements, the suction light enough to keep Ezra on razor’s edge. ***

The still-functional, if slightly fuzzy analytical component of Ezra’s mind started guiltily at the seemingly subservient position in which he’d cast the former slave. Not guilty enough to stop his steady stroking though. ‘Besides Ezra, old boy, it’s not as if you wouldn’t drop to your hands and knees and service the man any way he wanted should he give you the slightest notice.’

*** All thoughts of being the one dominating the healer fled from Ezra’s mind as Nathan began to roughly stroke Ezra’s now-purple cock, his tight-fisted pumping lubricated by saliva and steadily leaking pre-ejaculate. ***

Bucking brutally into his double-fisted grip, Ezra’s legs trembled, kicked, digging his heels into his mattress for more leveraged thrusts. His chest heaved with uncontrollable sobs; he licked his lips, again, again, biting his lip as he teetered frenziedly on the abyssal edge of orgasm. His feverish mind conjured the burning image of Nathan’s regal features post-fellatio, the wide, sugar-sweet mouth dripping white come –

This sent him over the edge, a choked shout echoing through the room as his hands clutched around his spasmodically jerking cock. Shot after shot of pearly white ejaculate spurted onto the towel the fastidious man had spread for that very purpose, as he groaned a long, low groan.

Ezra laid there, the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Eyes closed, he held on to the brief fragment in reality that almost convinced his recovering mind that the dense heat radiating from his flushed flesh was the warm pressure of a cuddling, sated lover. He shivered. Raising his right hand to his mouth, Ezra lazily licked away the few bittersweet drops of sticky come that had splattered on his skin. His breathing regulated. He yawned. He shivered once more. The room had darkened to near-impenetrable, solid shadow; the coolness of a desert night was rapidly descending.

Groaning wearily, he sat up, and cleaned off his still-sensitive spent cock with his towel before balling it up and tossing it in the vague direction of his washtub. Standing, he redressed in his hung clothes, changing only his shirt; a clean one should remain unscathed in the voyage from here to the hotel baths. He carefully washed his hands in the washstand, scrubbing until the soap burned his skin, hoping to be rid of the smell of sex that seemed to linger on his fingers.

Dressed, and clean enough to bathe, Ezra sat heavily at the edge of his bed. He was satisfied now, physically, and thinking clearly enough to be disgusted with himself. But, like a man enslaved to the smoke of sweet opium, he knew his mind would soon return to his handsome teammate. It figured, the one man that he was nearly unable to hold a civil tongue with, was the one who captivated his heart, and the areas southward. The odds were not in the gambler’s favour, considering the dear doctor most likely would always regard him as just another silver spoon-fed confederate bigot.

‘If only he knew.’

Reaching under his bed, Ezra removed a small metal box, unlocked. From it’s various paper contents, he removed two from the bottom, examining each carefully. The first was a photograph, taken only a few months prior when that talented dime-novel author had been in town. He’d managed to snag this particular snapshot in return for an "exclusive interview." Pictured in gritty grey, yet unmistakable tones, were Ezra and Nathan. They were outside the saloon in Purgatory, arguing about what, he couldn’t remember. Nathan’s left arm was outstretched in some emphatic exclamation, and Ezra was leaning toward him. While Nathan’s head was angled downward, Ezra’s was tilted upward; their faces were deceptively close together. Were it not for the angrily tense body language, it would seem like the two were about to kiss. He brushed the photo gently with his thumb before replacing the paper beneath a nest of receipts, IOUs, and hastily scribbled addresses.

The second rectangle of paper, he held delicately in the palm of his hand. It was a grey-scale print of a painting commissioned by his mother in Ezra’s childhood. The print was heavily creased, smudged, after more than a quarter century of hidden travel, yet Ezra knew its every secret detail by heart. Sitting, in an ornate Louis XIV highback chair, in the foreground, was a very young Maude Standish, not much more than a girl, dressed to the nines in the latest New Orleans fashions. Beside her, in a perfectly fitted little three-piece suit, hands folded politely behind him, was Ezra Standish, aged five years. His hair was curled even tighter back then from the humidity of the city, his skin a permanent tan, but Ezra smiled to see the obvious resemblance between himself and the little child so obviously straining to look solemn. The artist, though faded now into obscurity, had really been quite talented to capture that look of pure childhood. Ezra’s eyes were then drawn to the background of the picture, to the two Mulatto figures standing against the townhouse wall. Marietta and Benjamin Carter, elder sister and younger brother, his mother’s handmaid and his own "manservant" respectively, were flanking mother and son a few paces back. It really was a shame that the original painting had been disposed of all those years ago. Marietta’s broad half-African features, so prettily portrayed in oil, were mere gritty outlines in the yellowed print. And most regrettably of all, in the charcoal lines, there was no commemoration of how Benjamin and little Ezra’s eyes had sparkled in identical mischievous emerald green.

Shaking his head, Ezra returned his prized possession and burden to the box, and then made ready to head to the hotel.

He needed to wash the dirt from himself.

=30=