Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ Seems Like It’s Been Forever... ( Chapter 16 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence...Just be prepared for the amount of violence and utter chaos.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark.


I'm Alive: Well, I hope you did well on your finals...and thanks for your wonderful comments. ^_^ I hope you always know that I appreciate it. As for their troubles...read on....


Chapter Sixteen:
Seems Like It’s Been Forever...


Hotstreak was at a loss for where to go, what to do. Charger was pawing at the snow underneath, and Hotstreak scanned the landscape around him, the glare of the snow irritating his eyes. He was really trying to ignore the persistent throb of failure, of intense remorse; knowledge of the area and his own knowledge of the elements and conditions had him sick with fact that they couldn’t have made it. He couldn’t have made it. Hotstreak hadn’t seen any riders in this area for days–the lack of tracks and activity in these parts made it impossible for any human to survive without knowing what to do, without proper supplies. He knew the kid had none.

He didn’t want that thought swirling around, so he struggled to push it aside. The air was cold, and he was also worrying on what he was doing to his horse. He’d gone in a more north direction–aiming to head back and search again.

It was fruitless, he imagined–he just knew Junior didn’t have the supplies, and the last he’d seen, both of them weren’t wearing any coats, any warm clothing.

He felt terribly low at that point; really, he didn’t know why. He didn’t even know the guy! And what he did know, that aspect was fucked up, anyway. Why was he putting himself through all this shit when the kid was just a stranger? When all he spoke to him were words of violence, of doubt; when the only touches he’d administered were those of medical care and–

Really, it was unfair to think that the kid was the only one hurt. After all, Hotstreak didn’t remember himself consenting that night.

He scowled, feeling the burn on his face from the sun reflecting off the snow. He thought of that night as he pushed Charger into a walk, the stallion exhausted from the activity. He remembered nothing, really, of what had happened–just that something did. No man could forget the feelings and aftereffects of an orgasm. But what had happened? He had started to feel violated in that his body was under someone else’s control, in that a stranger had taken over his body without his knowledge or consent. Someone had taken off his clothes, someone had played with his dick. Someone had touched him and he remembered nothing. It was a sick feeling, and it left him more than apprehensive about it.

While he did feel distracted by the kid–and those damn eyes–he just hated that he remembered nothing. Having his control taken away, being pleasured, being forced into an act he didn’t consent to was just as bad as taking the kid the other night. He hadn’t thought of it as payback–just that he’d had a ton of feelings that needed more than just his own hand to relieve, and it was justified in that sense.

Even though he didn’t plan it.

Even though–

He trailed off in his thoughts, looking around once more. Kangorr must hate him. This was his third time running off, and–he squinted, realizing that there were riders on the ridge a distance away. Once he caught sight of the hides, the obvious lack of cloth and metal, he quickly tried to identify the tribe that ran this territory. He knew there were hostiles this way–but he also knew many came up this way for their winter camp.

He hoped that it was friendlies he was looking at, and not hostile; he wasn’t interested in a battle against prideful young warriors after all the shit he’d just left behind. Charger’s head lifted, ears shifting–before he could shush the horse, the stallion let out a loud whinny that caught the Indians’ attention. He swatted the horse above the head, and Charger bucked with a frothy snarl.

The Indians were now coming this way, and Hotstreak sighed, rolling the kinks out of his neck and shoulder, making sure his weapons were ready for quick use. As the group neared, yipping in discovery and excitement, he grew to realize that he recognized a couple. This was very relieving–maybe he could rest for a couple of days before resuming his search.

010101010110

That next day, Richie looked up from the muddied dirt in which he was drawing out the alphabet for several warriors that were interested in learning English. He saw people hurrying toward the east section of the camp, talking quietly amongst each other, children being herded into tents. The elderly were being informed of something by a man whose horse was heaving tiredly–Richie understood that he was a scout from the group that was patrolling the east section of their land. He couldn’t see the hand gestures and signs that accompanied their words, but it was obvious that something was found. The men looked around each other, then everyone seemed to focus in on him with deliberate precision.

He flushed, looking away, and finished the last letter of the alphabet. The warriors weren’t panicked, but they were curious as to where people were going. Questions were demanded over his lecture, but he continued on to those that were listening intently. When the warriors returned their full attention to his lecture, he had them following his example with trying out the letters with sound. Over their repetitive sounds, the returning scout hurried over, gruffly commanding his attention. Words were exchanged over his head, and he understood that the scout wanted him to go with him, and the warriors were reluctant, for they hadn’t finished learning, yet.

One of the elders made a gruff noise, silencing them all–the warriors reluctantly left it alone, casting scowls at the scout, who shrugged sheepishly. Listlessly, Richie rose, understanding the hand signals that told him they had a visitor he had to meet. For the short time he’d stayed here, he’d caught onto the hand signals that were used to accompany words–while the language took him awhile, the signals were actually pretty easy for him. It was the only line of communication he had with them.

He started to hear their words for ‘white man’, and it was said in such a playful manner that he felt non-threatened as they felt. He fiddled with his drawing stick, remembering that Kills-Many-White-People had said a man was coming for him.

Spotted Deer ran to him, excitedly gesturing at him to follow her. He went with her as the scout found himself busy with his wife and children, waylaid by the family that was excited over his return. Richie was wondering if Junior had found him–and on a far hope, his father–but as he reached the others, he realized that he didn’t know this man. Dressed in Hound clothing, horse heaving tiredly, the man was already laughing with Kills-Many-White-People and the others. It was obvious they were friendly with each other–there was such a relaxed air around everyone that it was as if people were greeting a long-lost acquaintance. Spotted Deer ran from him to greet the man, and Richie hesitated near the tents, wishing he could blend in to be less noticeable.

Several men were grumbling, obviously hating the interaction the rest of their relatives and friends had with the single white man. Richie listened to their alien words, recognizing their hate and frustration. It wasn’t as if the entire camp was greeting the man–many of the warriors were armed, and the women were keeping their distance, children safely tucked away while wariness was cast in this direction. But it was the fact that the small group of people greeted this white man with friendliness that had many irritated.

The warriors looked at him, angrily gesturing that he leave immediately. Richie really didn’t want to–despite the tension he felt from the majority that disliked him for his race, and distrusting him for obvious reasons, he truly felt comfortable and relaxed. He hadn’t felt that way since he’d arrived here in the West.

Tentatively, he ventured forward, awkwardly brushing off his buckskin pants, straightening the long sleeved shirt. Turtle Moon had spent time on his mocassin boots, which were beautifully beaded with green, gold and white triangles. She’d even loaned him one of her buffalo hide jackets. Still, he felt out of place and awkward in these clothes, especially with the wide barrier the Indians gave him.

Since his gunshot wound had healed quite well, it was nothing more than a bad memory and gave him a slight limp. Still, the cold weather happened to make it sore, and his limp was more pronounced, so he walked more slowly.

He waited for the man to see him, staring anxiously at the tired stallion, realizing that he recognized it. He remembered seeing it–just couldn’t place the owner.

The man removed his hat, and Richie froze upon seeing the matted tangle of red, the roughened features of a man he knew. The beard was thicker, the mustache heavier–but he did know this man. Was this some sort of cruel joke? Is this what the others were laughing about? They worked out some deal? This was part of some ‘grand scheme’?

Sullenly, he turned away, moving back to Turtle Moon’s tent. Pushing pelts aside, he said immediately, “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to go with him!”

Turtle Moon looked over upon hearing him, watching his agitated movements as he sat down near the fire. She set down her beadwork, looking at him with a gentle expression. She clucked to get his attention, then rapidly signed a question. He responded quickly, gesturing that he knew their visitor, that he didn’t want to go with him.

Turtle Moon asked why–Richie sullenly replied that he was a bad man. Everyone outside the camp was. They all wanted to hurt him–he wanted to stay here.
Turtle Moon clucked again, shaking her head in sympathy. She studied his expression–recognized the pain on his face and eyes. She began to sign that many were familiar with the man waiting outside–he was friendly, harmless. Maybe a bit dim.

Richie refuted that with a shake of his head. Turtle Moon asked why he’d say that. Richie didn’t want to say, and Turtle Moon frowned. She pressed for an answer, throwing in some words to get his attention when he turned away, and Richie refused to say, shaking his head with a shamed look on his face.

Running Elk peered in at this moment, gesturing at Richie to come with him. Richie shot Turtle Moon a reluctant expression, and she made gestures in that Hotstreak couldn’t hurt him here. Not with so many people about.

Richie was not liking that, Running Elk demanding to know what was going on. Richie left the tent with very troubled heaviness, not wanting to imagine what Hotstreak would do to him once they left. But he saw Hotstreak using him again; using indifference and coldness; wanting repayment for the theft of his money that night so long ago.

It hurt to know that Hotstreak was incapable of everything Richie had hoped for. It hurt to know that Hotstreak was just like the others.

He headed reluctantly up to the horse, everyone quieting, watching with playful expectation. Once Hotstreak saw him, it was like a strong shot of recognition–of relief. But he was aware of the silence, the strong attention on the pair of them. He looked around with a flush easily noticeable despite his tan. Richie was looking at him as if Hotstreak were going to eat him, and the Indians were waiting with familiar mirth at some joke he didn’t get.

Hotstreak looked down at Richie, at the healthy flush and obvious weight gain. He was still so young-looking, still roundish in the face with those big amber eyes; still needing to grow into those limbs. Hotstreak thought that Richie was incredibly beautiful at that moment–whether it was just the length of time he’d last seen him, or that Richie really was beautiful to him–whichever, it was a punch that had him speechless.

This was what he’d left Kangorr for. This was who drove him. Yet...he couldn’t express that aloud. He looked down at him, not hearing Kills-Many-White-People talk. He was just so focused on Richie that nothing else mattered. Richie continued staring at him with that scared expression, and Hotstreak knew why–but he felt angry for it. Because of this, Hotstreak was able to use his anger to function. He didn’t have anything nice to say at that moment, so he said nothing to Richie. He just asked Kills-Many-White-People for a couple of days rest.

Everyone looked disappointed, and Richie stood quietly, recognizing that Hotstreak was going to stay. He swallowed tightly, watching as the stallion was led away as Hotstreak left with the others. He stood alone, attention then diverted by the kids that were openly staring at him. One poked his arm with a stick, and he rubbed at it briefly as they hurried away, giggling.

That night, Richie was once again teaching the group of men simple words, the light of the main camp fire allowing this when he realized he was being watched. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, for goosepimples to rise on his flesh. He faltered in his words, looking behind him for the source, and saw that man–what was his name?–turning away, disappearing into the group of tents nearby. He felt a little troubled at being the focus of his attention, but at the same time...why did he care so much?

He returned his lecturing to the others, sounding out words and writing them out in the dirt. The warriors were starting to catch on, and the three women that had joined them were giving their input.

Later that night, Richie was helping Turtle Moon repair a pair of moccasins for Punches-With-Many-Fists when Hotstreak entered the tent, startling them both.

Richie stilled for a moment, dropping the buckskin that he’d held as he stared at Hotstreak with a mute expression. Turtle Moon looked at Hotstreak, studying him as he glanced over their work. She looked at Richie, who was fumbling with the peice of buckskin, avoiding Hotstreak’s quick gaze. The tension was incredibly smothering for her–it was all a clash of emotions that made her feel suffocated.

She rose, Richie looking at her with panic. She nodded at Hotstreak in greeting, then signaled to Richie that she was taking a bathroom break. She then signaled for him to express his feelings, now: she’d be back. He shook his head rigidly, reaching for her, missing her by inches as she walked past. He then pulled back, looking at Hotstreak with some terror, hating to be alone with him.

Hotstreak frowned at him, bewildered by his behavior. But he took it in stride, realizing that they were being left alone for a reason. He looked around, having never been inside a tent, before. It was smaller than he expected–warm, cozy, a little cramped. It smelled rich of human musk, smoke and hide. He looked back at Richie, at the bowed head–he felt an uncomfortable drop in his gut just being close to him. Not looking away from him, he sat nearby, watching the way Richie fiddled with the piece of buckskin–the way he looked everywhere but at him.

There was something about the way his lips tightened that made Hotstreak want to reach out, to smooth them loose; to kiss and touch him until they curved with a smile. He was just so relieved that Richie was alive, that he was obviously healthy and well; that knowing Richie was scared of him didn’t bother him as much. As long as he was nearby–Hotstreak was rather satisfied with that.

He made a mistake that night–but he wasn’t the only one.

He finally looked away, to study the tip of his worn boots as he had his legs stretched out, the fire just a couple of feet away from his feet.

Richie had warmed under Hotstreak’s gaze–being so close to him made him feel wary and scared of being attacked, but there was comfort in that Hotstreak wouldn’t try anything here. He could smell the man–of body smells, of horse, of mud and snow; he started to think of the way Hotstreak had smelled that night at Alva’s; that sweat, musk and man smell that had made him feel hot and wanting of more. That sudden diversion surprised him, growing steadily more confused as he wondered why he thought of that.

He was scared of this man; he had his rights to be. Before the Indians, he hadn’t come across anybody nice–well, except maybe for that Virgil character and the others, but after being with Junior and his cronies–

He wanted to move, but he was scared. Scared that Hotstreak would reach out and grab him, pull him back. From there, the options were endless. He didn’t want him to touch him. But this silence, this togetherness–it was maddening.

He sneaked a glance his way, doing it too fast for him to see what the redhead was doing. It was just so quiet–it unnerved him.

This man was friendly and loud with others–why so quiet around him? Why didn’t he speak?

It was growing frustrating and maddening the more his feelings confused him.

The more time passed with their silence, the more he grew steadily agitated by it. Thoughts of being safe, of being surrounded by people and just knowing that people came in and out of the tent randomly–giving him the impression of constant activity on the crowded streets of New York–started to make him feel brave. This man couldn’t do anything to him–perhaps he could convince him to leave him when he left.

He cleared his throat, but that lump just stayed there, irritating him until he coughed. As he did so, Hotstreak looked at him, looking as if he were going to say something, too. But he stalled as Richie cleared his throat again, and both of them just looked at each other.

Richie quickly flushed and looked away, fiddling with the piece of buckskin, while Hotstreak quickly looked in the other direction, just astounded at how he felt being near the kid. He thought of the books, and shifted, shrugging off his coat.

Richie looked at him with stark terror, taking back all the niceties that he was going to say when he realized Hotstreak was taking off a small, leather pack from his back. Not saying anything, he watched him maneuver the pack onto his lap, opening the leather ties–as he did so, Richie noticed the thickness of his arms, the broadness of his shoulders. He fleetingly hoped that he grew into that shape and size, really not liking his five foot one frame. It really wasn’t manly, and–

“My books!” he exclaimed, out of surprise and shocked delight as Hotstreak passed them over. Almost greedily, Richie snatched them from his hands, shocked and amazed that they were indeed his books. He flipped through them, pausing on a few folded pages that held his favorite passages and picked up the slim red volume, flipping through that to find a picture of his parents.

He held it gently, just in stunned awe that he was holding things very precious to him–studying the solemn expressions of his parents’ faces in the picture.

Hotstreak was just in awe himself, taking in Richie’s shifting expressions, the light smile on his face as he studied the small print. His reaction, his obvious thankfulness for the precious items were definitely worth the trouble of lugging those things around. He was holding his breath, unaware that he’d even caught it; just frantically trying to take in that slight smile, the lightness in Richie’s eyes. It was worth it–all of it.

He wanted to see more–it was insane how much he wanted.

Richie looked away from the picture, looking at him, still fuzzy with incredible joy of the return of things he’d thought he’d lost. Truth to tell, he hadn’t even thought of them, but now that he had them–how precious they were. Looking up at Hotstreak’s face, he was suddenly struck dumb and senseless at the light expression on his face; his joy at witnessing his own.

A fleeting thought–he’d made a mistake–anchored him with a sense of heaviness; more confused than ever by his feelings. He lowered the picture, forcing himself to look down to escape that intense gaze. He didn’t know what it meant–what it all meant!

Turtle Moon walked in, startling them both–she looked at them, then at the books, turning her nose up at them. She began talking with obvious disdain, gesturing that she didn’t want them touching her things. Fussy with obvious irritation, she walked about as Richie gathered the books, Hotstreak passing over the pack he’d held them in–Richie took it, looking at him. He was so confused by the action, the gesture.

The redhead then stood, picking up his coat–then laughingly boomed how happy he was to seeing that Turtle Moon was looking more and more woman every day.

He emphasized this by gesturing to his chest, mimicking the action of groping breasts and pointing at her. The woman turned, and slapped him, startling him as Richie grew bewildered. What did that mean?

Hotstreak grumbled, rubbing his face while Turtle Moon threw whatever she could find at him, huffing indignantly. She chased him out, smoothing her braids out, fussily checking over her shell earrings and ropes of necklaces. She caught Richie looking at her, and she flushed, waving at him to mind his own business while she quickly picked things up.

That next morning, Richie woke up, pushing Punches-With-Many-Fists away from him so that he could breathe. Turtle Moon herself was laying next to him, and he wiggled his arm out from under her. He was wondering how he was going to sleep without all these human bodies around him–it was rather comforting, and it meant that he didn’t have to wrestle with a blanket. But the woman’s snoring...he rose from his bed spot, yawning–the tent was filled with a few more people, and he stepped carefully around them all, heading outside.

Those dreams were back–his fingers were itching for some ink and paper. He needed to write all this down! Diagrams, detailed anatomy–words leapt at him, pictures fluttered around him. He needed things to write it all down, or it was just going to make him go crazy. He accomplished his bathroom routine, yawning again as he headed back to the camp, frowning at the cold and at the dimming of stars overhead. There were wolves barking and yowling in the distance, the dogs letting out warning barks of their own–the herd of horses were nervous, looking out into the lighting darkness with prancing of hooves and tossing heads.

Walking around in the cold made him shiver, pulling the robe around himself tightly. He could see that some people were up and about, doing their own morning activities. It was still dark, but the lights of the morning were starting to decorate the night sky. He thought of his books; that old picture of his parents, taken when they were first married. He was startled at receiving this from that man–startled and bewildered how the man had thought of him, had thought to–he just didn’t understand.

Wandering away from the camp, he headed toward the small correl were wild horses were kept, various men trying their luck in breaking these animals for use. The horses were wary of anyone that approached, watching him closely as he ventured toward the sturdy wooden posts. He leant against the railing, looking at the horses that stared at him wary regard, snorting visible exhalations in the morning air.

How did that man think of those books? How did he find them? He vaguely remembered shoving his leather bag near the single wooden shelf near the window, never again thinking of them during the invasion.

He must have went back–but...why? Why?

Richie was so very confused, staring at the horses as he tried to seek out the answer in his head. He flicked at the cold wooden post, smearing frost from the scarred wood. For someone to go to his room, to rifle through his belongings–while it should have made him feel uncomfortable, he couldn’t feel that way. Just having those items, just having them in his hands to touch and feel after he’d lost them kept him from feeling violated.

He didn’t know what to think of the man, now. He knew he hated what had happened–the person that used him so heartlessly, because ‘he was a whore’ was enough to instill abhorrence in his heart for that person. But then...to have these books back...and he’d appreciated the man’s physical attributes that night–took his time to study and marvel; he’d wanted to believe, back then, that this man was incapable of everything else Jr. and his cronies had done.

Despite Hotstreak’s righteous anger over being robbed, the drug–Richie had to accept that Hotstreak had a right to be angry at him for that. No man wanted to wake up, to realize that he’d been violated in that sense. He flushed, feeling uncomfortable at the thought; he’d done his share of penetrating, but he couldn’t do that with this man–which was why he’d done what he had, that night. Allowed him to penetrate him–still, the fact of the matter was, he’d taken the man without his consent. But still–! His reasoning for that was obvious! Junior wanted his money, and Richie didn’t want a beating. He had to do it–! Why couldn’t that man understand?

His face flamed, and he leant against the post, unsure of what to think.

One of the horses turned away from him, nipping at another, then looking at him cautiously. They hadn’t moved much, too focused on him to wander within the small area. He pulled the robe tightly around him, frowning. The morning was starting to peer over the snow covered mountains, and he watched it, hearing various prayers around him from those that greeted the sun. Turning away from the correl, he headed back to the camp, side stepping a small dog fight that had a couple of men cursing at them.

He didn’t want to leave–but he knew he couldn’t stay. Not knowing what the man wanted with him, how he knew he was even here–!

Frankly, Richie was mystified at the lengths this man was going for him. It sent a mixture of unidentifiable feelings through him, and he was absolutely torn at what to say, or do. He couldn’t be scared his entire life–he just couldn’t. If he talked to him within the safety of the camp, maybe...maybe things weren’t as bad as he thought.

But anxiety pounded at him, making him question that line of thinking. Could he–could he approach him, talk to him? In a way, he wanted to–he wanted to know what the hell was going on with his motives. He wanted to know what the man was thinking when it came to him. It made him nervous, wary of the unknown–but these things, they were too much to ignore. To pretend that it wasn’t happening.

In a way, did the good overshadow the bad?

He walked into the tent, seeing that people were still asleep. He felt comfortable with Turtle Moon–enough to entrust her with his secrets and short feelings, and she had a presence about her that made him feel comforted. He didn’t feel like going back to sleep–but he didn’t want to meet with the man just now. He sat where he’d lain earlier, chewing nervously at his nails, then making a face as he wiped his hands on his pants. He felt ridiculous wearing clothing that didn’t fit him, image-wise; he heard the Indians laughing at him, mocking him for wearing their traditional clothing. But his own had been so wet, and Turtle Moon had done something to them...while some people wore cloth, they didn’t have very much of it.

He picked at his boots, trying not to react to the sound of flatulence from someone laying nearby. But a man noticed, and groaned, muttering something that made another laugh. These people confused him, too, but he wasn’t going to dwell on it. He’d rather not question them, for he had too many other things on his mind. He laid down, comfortably snuggling up against Punches-With-Many-Fists, who snored upon movement. He figured he may as well as try for some more sleep, and maybe figure out what to do, later.

That afternoon, he was busy lugging up water from a nearby stream, trying to ignore his embarrassment over the girls that handled the job easily. They were carrying two full buffalo bladders full of water while he was struggling with one. It sort of made him feel sick that water was being carried this way, in material that animals had used for their own bodily functions. The girls laughed loudly, then looked back at him–obviously talking about him. They were bigger than he was, something he wasn’t quite proud of. He couldn’t quite scowl at them, or say something–that was bad manners. One of them asked him a question, the other whacking her immediately. They hurried off, the first laughing as the other screamed at her.

Having no idea what that was about, Richie lugged the full bladder to the center of the camp, where the women were cooking both meals and boiling hides so that fur was easily scraped off. He handed the full bladder over, the woman in charge taking it easily, and gesturing at him to take the pile of innards in a metal bucket across camp. He was grossed out by the smell, the entrails that steamed, but he picked the bucket up and lugged that over as per her directions.

Finished with that, he was sent to do another chore by an elderly man that wanted his grandkids to play nearby, instead of racing around with other kids near the stream. Herding the kids back over to him, he was then sent across camp to help a couple of men groom their horses. Combing one with a wooden comb fashioned out of rough hair, he was thinking of how awkward he was with the animals when he felt that feeling of being watched, again. The hairs on his arm rose, and he stilled, just knowing that it was that man.

One of the men nearby signaled a question, wanting to know if he had family back home. Richie busied himself with answering, signaling a mother and father, trying to ignore that feeling of being watched. But he could feel the back of his neck warming, his cheeks flushing. It felt odd, being eyed this way–not knowing why, or what feelings were involved. The men carried a conversation with him, asking him why he was so smart; asking why he wanted to read. He answered carefully, unsure of some signals, but able to get by with their help.

The men grew tired of the conversation, and while he had questions, they disregarded them, ignoring him as they walked off.

He finished grooming the horse, feeling awkward as he was too short to reach certain places, and set the comb aside, walking off to find something more to do. His leg was starting to feel sore, but he didn’t want to sit around–sitting around meant sitting cooped up, and sitting reminded him of being back at the saloon. He didn’t want to be reminded of that place, and he strove to keep it out of his mind.

As he was walking back, he was aware that he was being followed. It made him feel weird, knowing that the man was following him. Watching him. All for what?
He hesitated, looking over his shoulder, spying him just a small distance away–why the attention? Why–?

He looked back fully, catching the man turning away quickly, as if he weren’t even heading in that direction at all. But Richie knew–and he felt embarrassed at catching him, as if he were seeing something that he wasn’t supposed to. He turned to continue on, mind racing–he veered off to Turtle Moon’s tent, and hurried inside, grateful to see her there, beading with a bunch of other older women.

The older women snubbed him, purposefully ignoring him, but Turtle Moon excused herself and rose to her feet, greeting him fondly. She reached out, ruffling her large hand through his hair and offered him some of the bread she’d made earlier. It was still warm, and he took it gratefully, while she held out some dried pieces of buffalo. She then shooed him back out with his hands full of food, and he reluctantly left the tent, chewing on the bread.

A couple of the small children racing about paused and looked at him, and he looked back at them awkwardly–a single child, he wasn’t sure how to interact with other children. Especially since he’d attended school so much, studying and learning rather than involving himself with playing and creating a general nuisance of himself like the others. He held out the dried pieces of meat, which they disregarded, pointing at the bread. But he liked it–he shook his head, eating it while they grew frustrated. One of them bent, picking up handfuls of mud and flung it at him. He skirted around the bombardment as a man’s sharp voice rang out, the children chastised immediately for their behavior. They ran off in tears, Richie feeling bad, wondering if he should have just given the bread up.

So lost in his own thoughts and occupations, he had no idea just how fascinating and interesting he was to Hotstreak, who followed him more discreetly, embarrassed at himself for finding Richie so enrapturing.

That night, Turtle Moon was teaching him how to speak general sentences, accompanied with hand signals when Hotstreak once again entered the tent. Richie was more calm with him, now–he had convinced himself that he wanted to know why the attention. Turtle Moon huffed, saying something that made no sense to the two white men, then rose. Hotstreak reached out to flick her chest, completely shocking Richie that he’d be so blatant with a woman, and Turtle Moon screeched, slapping him once more. Hotstreak was stunned at the action, and Richie winced, touching his own cheek, as if he felt that slap.

Turtle Moon walked out, and Hotstreak rubbed his cheek, grinning in that foolish way he had. Looking at Richie, as if they were old friends, he said, “You know that’s a man in drag, huh?”

Richie was stunned–there was no way Turtle Moon was a man. She–he–was very womanly in her actions, her mannerisms. Hotstreak studied him for a few moments, then visibly relaxed. That side of his face was bright red, a hand print forming perfectly where the hair hadn’t reached. Richie stared at him for a few moments, trying to quell the nervous thumping of his heart and fear, swallowing hard as he forced himself to wait and relax.

Hotstreak looked away to sit nearby, where Turtle Moon’s stew was currently bubbling in a metal pot over the fire. Richie swallowed again, struggling to formulate all his questions regarding Hotstreak’s attention. His throat was dry–his tongue was heavy. But he just had to know–!

Hotstreak looked at him, then flicked at a couple of robes that were tied together–a present from Turtle Moon to a couple of her friends.

“How’s your leg?” he asked gruffly, not looking attention to him.

Richie realized he hadn’t thanked him for that, but how could he–? He nodded, speaking. His voice cracked, reminding him of his occasional tendency to squeak and crack throughout his conversations, and he cleared his throat once more. “Fine.”

He couldn’t say anything more.

“Everything heal up?”

Richie nodded once he realized he couldn’t speak again. He looked quickly away, looking at the fire. His palms were sweaty, and he flexed them quickly, wiping them on his pants–feeling his skin flush with nervousness and appropriate discomfort.

Hotstreak looked at him–felt the quiver in his stomach upon seeing how the light of the fire softened Richie’s face considerably, casting shadows that outlined his childish features. He wondered if he were one of those sick bastards that happened to prefer children to members of their own age–he just had to know if this kid was the age he claimed to be.

Still...even if he were lying...Hotstreak thought that he wouldn’t care.

Too much.

Richie spoke quickly, almost too loudly as he blurted, “Thank you for my books! I–I had thought I’d never see them again.”

Hotstreak nodded, saying nothing–sucking his bottom lip inward, feeling the hairs of his mustache scrape against the underside of his lip. He needed to trim the bastard–all of it. He was looking rather unruly–he hadn’t seen it, but he could feel it all. Still, the facial hair helped considerably, considering the cold outside.

Richie realized he was staring too hard at the man, shifting nervously as he realized he wanted to look into those eyes, again. He was reminded how captivated he was with them–sending a jolt of uncomfortable feeling throughout his entire being. He was horrified to realize that his hormones were having a battle with the man’s proximity, with smelling, hearing, and seeing him. Didn’t he just hate him a day ago?

He exhaled shortly, shifting–pulling a fur pelt over his lap to examine the neatly trimmed edges as he fought with his embarrassment and his hormones, hoping that the man wouldn’t notice.

The awkwardness between the two was palpable as each fought not to look at each other, but ended up doing it, anyway. It was obvious neither of them knew what to do with their feelings, both of them confused and bewildered by it all. Richie nervously wondered when Turtle Moon would be back, and cleared his throat.

“I–that man, um....Virgil...he said your name was...Francis?”

Hotstreak immediately reacted with disgust over it, shooting him an annoyed look. “Don’t call me that. Fuckin’ dumb-ass name–!”

“I’m sorry,” Richie said quickly, watching his hands carefully, looking to move to avoid any physical confrontation.

“Yeah, that’s my real name, though,” Hotstreak muttered. “But it’s Hotstreak...People haveta call me Hotstreak.”

Richie had a confused look on his face. “Did...did the Indians give you that name...?”

“No. It was...somethin’ I made up. Kinda dumb, but it’s better’n Francis.”

Richie wondered why–Francis sounded more agreeable, more civilized than Hotstreak. Hotstreak just...didn’t work. But he was curious to know why. “What does it mean?”

Both of them were rather surprised at the conversation.

“Nothin’. Just...I guess I have a temper.”

That made Richie’s stomach curl inwardly, with fretting anxiety. He thought of Junior, always unhappy with something, always having something mean to say, and a fist to dish out.

Hotstreak must have sensed his trepidation, looking at him–finding himself unable to look away from the troubled expression on his face. “I mean, I ain’t always dishin’ shit out. Just...I...get frustrated, a lot. Sorta like...I dunno. It’s not like I go around, wreckin’ things. Just people that deserve it, or talk shit. Yanno?”

Richie still wasn’t convinced of it, shooting him a cautious look.

Hotstreak began babbling, only because he wanted to clarify things. “I mean, yeah, I threatened you, but you look like a damn kid! I don’t hit kids, or nothin’, just–sometimes, people just get ta pissin’ me off, an’ it’s like–I dunno, I just threatened you, I didn’t do anything to you.”

“You–!” Richie quickly cut himself off, looking away with a shamed expression.

Hotstreak immediately got what he was going to say, looking at him sharply. “I don’t ever remember sayin’ ‘yeah’ that night, either.”

Richie looked at him, startled–then turned bright red, feeling incredibly hot. His clothes felt as if they were melting on him, and he couldn’t swallow the lump that had forced its way into his throat. He tried to look away, but those accusing green eyes held him in place.

Hotstreak looked away, frowning. He pitched a rabbit pelt away from him. “I mean...not that you did anythin’, right? An’, anyway–it’s even.”

“That’s horrid,” Richie muttered, finally able to speak. “It’s atrocious to think that you think it’s all okay–!”

“Of course I don’t think it’s ‘okay’,” Hotstreak spat, looking at him. “But you are what you are!”

“That does not mean that I don’t have a choice! I didn’t have a choice, that night!”

“How can you say that? Everyone has choices ta make, an’ you made yours!”

“If I didn’t–! They would have beaten me, and I was tired of all of that! I just wanted to obey so they wouldn’t touch me, anymore!”

“You could have just taken the money, or pretended.”

“I tried that a few times! It never worked–! The customers always complained to Junior, and he was furious at me!”

“...You talk funny.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Richie repeated, ignoring that comment.

“How can they complain if they were–?”

“Men knew when they...er...are satisfied. And once they realized they feel nothing of it, they–” he lowered his voice, wondering if people were listening. Not that they would understand their conversation, as it was in English...but there were few that did. He didn’t want these people knowing what he was forced to do. “...they complained. Their money was taken from them, and they complained. So...so Junior was forced to give them their money back. That made him angry. I couldn’t....I couldn’t NOT do anything, after that. I had to.”

It was captivating the way Richie’s lips moved when he spoke. Hotstreak was distracted by them–too much. He had no idea what he’d just said, and forced himself to focus. He felt it was insane that he was having such an intense physical reaction being this close to the kid. He was already hot, jeans too tight where they shouldn’t have been. It was both frustrating and bewildering how this was.

“I’ve always regretted everything,” Richie was saying, not looking at him. “I’m sorry for what I had to do. But what you did was worse.”

“Yeah, I’ll admit that,” Hotstreak said, surprising them both. Awkwardly, he shifted, but he didn’t want the kid to know that he was hard just being close to him; hearing him. It was like being a teen all over again–randy over anything that moved. It was a little humiliating for him, considering that he had trouble with the entire thing.

Richie looked at him upon the admittance; flustered in that tension was entirely too thick all of a sudden. It was as if they were too focused on each other–too aware. What was this barrage? Where was it coming from?

“I’m sorry,” Hotstreak then apologized gruffly, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. Worn and faded, it was red–Richie vaguely remembered Virgil asking about it. “I am. I don’t know what I was thinkin’ back then. Just...some things are–hard ta control. I mean, y’know?”

Richie thought about it, but it still didn’t excuse it. He didn’t say anything, frowning at the ground underneath. It felt as if a weight was lifted from his chest–just talking to this man, it was–it was marvelous. He didn’t know this man–Hotstreak. He didn’t know Hotstreak at all, yet...yet all his admissions were making what had happened ‘okay’. Just a little.

He shrugged a shoulder–he could smell Hotstreak. It was making him dizzy. He looked up at him, immediately noticing the width of his shoulders, the thickness of his neck. He abruptly remembered how defined his chest was, covered with light hair. His mouth suddenly grew wet, and his stomach tightened, cheeks flushing with mortified color as hormones once again sang with attention over the images.

Thankfully, Turtle Moon came back in, followed by Kills-Many-White-People and a couple of others that were eager to talk to Hotstreak.

Before he could forget, though, the redhead turned and looked at him, hitting his knee lightly to get his attention. “What’s your name, man? I don’t even know it.”

Richie looked at him, considering his feelings for the moment–then told him.

Hotstreak snorted, frowning. “Yeah...guess it fits a pansy like you.”

Richie had no idea what that meant, but he had an idea that it was derogatory. He lifted an eyebrow, saying, “I guess it does, Francis.”

Hotstreak immediately scowled at him, but it quickly shifted into a smile that did flip-flops to Richie’s stomach. Hotstreak hit him again, companionably, in the shoulder, and turned to insult Kills-Many-White-People on his choice of women.