update: By Faith and By Fire (part 4 of 4)

[jae_w]

By Faith and By Fire.
Justin Timberlake in Deadwood. No law can make it respectable. [Chris/Justin]


iv. dirt

Chris is whistling as they finish up the day's work. They're almost finished; it's been going quicker the second time, partly because this time Justin knows what he's doing. Knows what he's doing more, he admits to himself, because there are still times when he watches Chris' hands intently not for the pleasure of looking at them but to figure out what the hell he's supposed to be doing. Still, they're almost finished, and Chris is whistling. Chris is happy.

For the first few days Justin thought maybe Chris wouldn't want to rebuild, that Justin would have to find some way to convince him. But Chris didn't say a word about the fire once they started again, didn't mention the possibility that it might happen again. Justin asked him once, carefully, if he thought there was a chance it might burn again.

"Of course there's a chance, Justin," Chris had snapped. "Jesus Christ, do you think I'm stupid? They'll probably burn the fucking thing right to the ground this time, but what the fuck do you expect me to do, lay myself down on the ashes and wait for sweet death to take me? I'll start again until I can't anymore, and what any other fucker does is his own damn business."

The anger in Chris' voice had soothed him. He hadn't been sure if Chris had maybe figured out how things had been taken care of. He hadn't been sure if Chris would keep his mouth shut about something like that. He hadn't known Chris as well then.

Chris' voice had soothed Justin for another reason as well. Lately Justin found himself content whether Chris was pissed, or happy, or drunk off his fucking ass, or just being a pain in the ass like came to him naturally, so long as he was loud with it. It hadn't taken Justin long to realize just how unlikely it was for Chris to be quiet, and it had taken him even less time to realize he didn't like it. The next time Chris subsided into silence, this time over a ledger book where he'd been figuring the same numbers over and over for hours, Justin set out to fix things a second time.

"Here," Justin had said. He handed Chris all the money he'd saved, which was just about all Chris had paid him, in the same folded scrap of paper Chris had given it to him in. Chris looked at him blankly.

"What the fuck is this?"

"It's costing," Justin said, "I know it's costing more than you thought, and I'm not fucking using it, so ..."

Chris let it fall onto the floor between them. "Now who's throwing their money away?" Justin mumbled as he bent to pick it up. "Take it," he said, holding it out to Chris again. "Take it, I want you to take it."

"Leave it the fuck alone," Chris said, his nose back in his ledger book.

"No," Justin said. He slammed Chris' book shut. "No, I want you to take it, I want to give it to you."

"Why?" Chris said, studying Justin with the same suspicion he had in his eyes when he studied the accounts.

"I want to, all right?"

"No," Chris said.

"Why?"

"Why do you want to?" Justin looked down and Chris said, his voice hard, "Yeah, I thought so. Go on out of here, Justin. You got work to do."

"Because I want to make something new," Justin said, low, his eyes still on the floor. "It's all a man can fucking do, and because I -- I want to. With you, I want to."

Chris didn't say anything and Justin didn't look at him. He wasn't easy in Chris' silence, but he was determined to weather it. Suddenly Chris jumped up and grabbed Justin's sleeve, pulling him through the door. When they got out to the street Justin yanked away from Chris' grasp, but Chris didn't slow down. He almost had to run to keep up with Chris, his money still held loosely in his hand.

At the hardware store Chris grabbed Justin's arm again and pulled him inside. One of the owners, the sheriff, said, "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"You can watch me sign this and watch him sign this and then sign it your own self, and first before that you can tell him what it says so he hears it from someone else and not only myself." Chris near threw a piece of paper at the sheriff, who looked it over, frowning. "Well, what's the fucking holdup? Explain it to him."

The sheriff said, "This is a blank sheet of paper."

"Oh, for the love of fuck," Chris said. He snatched the paper back and helped himself to pen from the counter, scribbling with one hand while he held onto Justin with the other. "Here, here, fucking here."

The sheriff read over what Chris had written and then looked at Justin. "This says that in exchange for the money you're paying Mr. Kirkpatrick, you own part of his -- Palladium?" Chris nodded. "You're an investor in his company, with a stake in the property."

"I don't want it," Justin said promptly, and the sheriff looked like he had some sympathy with him.

"It's the only way we do this," Chris said.

"I don't want you to give me --" Justin stopped when he saw the look in Chris' eyes. "It's yours," Justin said. "I don't want you to give any of it up."

"I'm giving nothing up," Chris said.

"Technically, you -- " the sheriff said, and shut his mouth when Chris glared at him. He took a few steps toward the door.

"I'm giving nothing up," Chris said again, and when Justin opened his mouth Chris looked at him hard until he shut it. "How I feel," Chris said, low, so even in the quiet store only Justin could hear him, "how I feel, I'm giving nothing up."

Chris waited for Justin to nod, then turned back to the counter, his fist still clenched around a piece of Justin's sleeve. He signed his name with a flourish. He stood still until Justin signed his name, then bounced impatiently on his feet as the sheriff signed his own name and gave the paper to Justin.

"Thank you," Justin said. He wasn't looking at the sheriff.

"Don't be too grateful," Chris said. "Half of fucking nothing's still nothing."

Justin laughed, and Chris said, just as low as before, "Won't be nothing when we're fucking done with it."

Chris dragged Justin back out to the street, refusing to let go of Justin's sleeve until Justin protested that he was crumpling the paper. Then he released Justin's arm and let him walk at his own pace, whistling under his breath the whole time. At the yard Justin had paused before he turned in from the street. He folded up his paper carefully and put it in his pocket, keeping his hand closed over it. He'd never owned anything in his whole life before.

"You thinking the place could use a fucking coat of paint, now that you got a stake in it?" Chris said, laughing.

"I'm thinking that I got a stake," Justin said, and Chris stopped laughing. For the first time Justin felt easy in his silence.

Now Chris is whistling, and Chris is happy, and maybe in a minute he'll fall quiet but he'll still be happy. If ever he isn't Justin will be the first to know. Justin knows him now.

"I'm thinking it's time we start planning for the opening," Chris says, walking close to Justin so their sleeves whisper against each other. "I'm waiting on a letter from that singer I told you about, the French one -- I saw a piece about him in a paper from out East. A few months old, but people are starting to hear about him."

"Why the fuck would he come to Deadwood, then?" Justin asks, and Chris punches his shoulder.

"Because there's riches untold and fame beyond your wildest fucking dreams to be found among the new class of wealthy, culture-starved ladies and gents now flocking to Deadwood, Jewel of the West." Chris grins. "Or at least that's what I wrote in my ad. Here's hoping there's at least one other man in the world believes what he reads in the papers." Justin laughs and Chris bumps up against him again.

At the door to the lean-to Chris pauses. "I was thinking we could use some local talent, too."

"I hear there's a whore over at the Bella Union can sing. Kind of." When Chris doesn't laugh, Justin stops washing his hands and looks up at him. Then he stands up. "No," Justin says.

"J," Chris says, and Justin bites his lip. Chris only calls him that when Justin's said something that makes him very happy or very sad, and Chris doesn't look very happy right now.

"I don't do that anymore," Justin says.

"I hear you singing all the time."

"That's different. That's -- that's private. It's just for me."

"And me," Chris says softly. "Like I said, I hear you all the time."

"That's the same thing," Justin says, and Chris looks away quickly. From the side Justin can see his jaw work. "I just -- I did that before and I don't want to do it again."

"All right," Chris says. "I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do."

"I just -- there has to be something that's just for me, you know? I just want there to be something that's just for me." Chris looks at him hard, and Justin says, low, "And you. Just for us."

"All right," Chris says slowly. "I only -- I thought you'd like it."

"No," Justin says, and Chris says,

"It's all right, J," and Justin bites his lip.

Three days later Chris comes rushing in from the street and almost knocks a can of paint over. "Goddammit," Justin says. He's spent half the morning working on the sign and he's still far from done. He wants it to look even better than the first one.

"I got a letter from that singer," Chris says. "At least, I think it's from him. It's from New York, and I don't know who else would be writing me from New York. I suppose it could be a letter gone astray, but here's my fucking name, right on the front, although it's a common enough name, I suppose, though I think I'm the only one in Deadwood, which is written right below my name, so I think it's safe to say --"

"Oh my God," Justin says. "Did you not open the fucking thing?"

"I was waiting so we could read it together," Chris says.

"Well, you'll have to wait a little longer," Justin says, and Chris gasps theatrically. "I can't stop in the middle of this, or you'll always be able to tell where the paint dried different."

"I won't be able to tell."

"Well, I will," Justin says. "I want it to be perfect," and when he looks up Chris smiles at him and stuffs the letter back into his pocket. He leans over Justin's shoulder to provide what he calls constructive criticism and Justin calls pointless yammering, and together they've almost finished the sign when the half-wit from Swearengen's shows up in the yard.

"Justin," he says, and Justin nearly drops the paintbrush. It's not like it's the first time Swearengen's sent for him. But the other times he's sent Trixie or Dan, both of whom make sure Justin's alone before they call for him, Trixie out of consideration, he thinks, and Dan because he doesn't like to be seen talking to Justin out in public. Whatever the reason Justin's thankful for it. As long as he's alone it's easy for him to slip away. Once or twice he started to explain but Chris brushed him off, saying, "You're allowed a night to yourself, Justin." Now he just says that he has something he has to do and he doesn't even think he should feel bad about it, because it's not even like it's a lie.

"Hey, Johnny," Justin says. "Did you come to see me about the thing?" and even this ruse is too obscure for the poor idiot, because he says,

"No, Al just sent me to tell you he needs you tonight."

"Swearengen?" Chris says.

"Yeah," Johnny says as Justin says desperately,

"Right, about the -- the business I was asking him about."

"No," Johnny says, "no, it's because Miller's in on the stage and Al says he's got a taste for --"

"Fuck," Justin says, and it would almost be funny except for the stiff way Chris is standing over him. "Fuck, all right, thanks, Johnny."

"Yes, thanks, Johnny," Chris says as he walks away from Justin. "I think we've got the message."

"So you're coming --"

"Yes," Justin says, and then lowers his voice. It's not like Johnny can help himself. "You go ahead back. I'm gonna change my shirt and then I'll be right there."

Inside the lean-to Chris is waiting for him. Justin pushes past him, looking for his clean shirt, but Chris grabs his arm and yanks him around. "So," Chris says, and his voice is much calmer than his hand on Justin's arm, "exactly what business do you have with Al Swearengen?"

"Nothing," Justin says, but Chris won't let go.

"It doesn't sound like nothing."

"Nothing you want to know about," Justin says, and he knows it's a mistake as soon as he says it but there's no taking it back.

"What the fuck, Justin," Chris says, snatching his hand away from Justin's arm, "don't I pay you enough?"

"I don't do it for the fucking money," Justin snaps before he can help himself.

"Then why the fuck -- "

"To pay our fucking rent," Justin says, because he knows Chris in this mood, knows there's no way Chris will let go, knows there's no way out but to barrel straight through.

Chris is quiet a minute and Justin can see him think it through. "Oh," Chris says. "Oh, I see. But you don't mean rent, Justin. You mean insurance. I was thinking we'd had quite a run of good luck lately. I should have known better. I've never been fucking lucky."

"What the fuck did you expect to do? Did you think he was going to burn it down the once and then say, oh, well, if you're serious about it, I guess we'll just have to find a way to live and let live? It sounds really nice and pure to say oh, I'll build it again and again if I have to but how nice do you think it'll sound when you're building it again for the tenth time? How fucking nice will it be when you're in it the next time it goes up in flames?"

"You didn't have to do this," Chris says. "I never asked you to. You did it on your own."

"Yeah, I did," Justin says.

"There are other ways --"

"Not ways that work."

"It's not worth it," Chris says, low, and Justin says,

"Fuck you." He gives up on a new shirt and tries to push past Chris.

"Justin --"

"He'll burn the fucking thing down again," Justin says. "At the bare fucking minimum. You know he will."

"Maybe so, but I don't think --"

"Are you telling me not to do it?" Justin says. Chris looks away, but Justin doesn't budge.

Finally Chris says, "Do whatever the fuck you want. I don't tell you what to do."

"Yeah," Justin says. "That's what I thought."

When Justin comes back the night is pitch dark and cold with it. He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks as quickly as can, but once he's back at the lean-to he doesn't go in. Instead he slides down the side of the wall and sits down in the dirt. There was nothing hard about the night, really. Al and Dan had accidentally on purpose walked in on him with the poor bastard, and Al was so tickled at the look on the man's face and the copious amounts of information he was willing to part with to ensure Al's silence that he was in a rare fine mood, even offering Justin a drink on the house. All things considered, Justin thinks as he rubs his hands together against the cold, it was a good night.

"Come inside," Chris says. He's leaning in the doorway with a blanket draped around his shoulders.

"I'm all right," Justin says. "I'll come in after a while."

Chris pulls his blanket closer and sits down next to Justin. "He's coming on the coach," he says. Justin looks at him blankly. "The singer. The letter," Chris says. "He'll be here in a month or so -- less, maybe. It's hard to tell with the mail. I think he already left."

"Oh," Justin says. "Oh, that's -- that's good."

"Yeah," Chris says. Then he sighs. "Look, J --" he says, and then he stops.

"Don't make such a fucking fuss about it," Justin says. "It's not even the tenth worst thing I've done in my life. Hell, it's not even the fiftieth worst thing."

"Yeah," Chris says, and sighs again. "But it's the worst thing you've done for me."

"Fuck you," Justin says. He pushes his hands into the dirt like he's going to get up, but he doesn't go anywhere, just digs his hands down farther. The top layer is hard and crisp with cold, but down deep his fingers sink into it easily. "You didn't ask me to do it. I didn't do it for you."

"I know," Chris says, and Justin hates the careful sound of his voice, hates the careful pressure of Chris' arm against his.

"You don't have to be fucking nice with me," Justin says.

"I know," Chris says. "I don't owe you anything."

When Chris kisses him, Justin tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, lets Chris' mouth move slow and hot over his throat, the side of his shoulder, catching his breath when Chris bites gently on his lower lip. He won't let Chris lead him back inside, though, shaking his head against the wall with his eyes still closed.

Justin opens his eyes when Chris doesn't say anything else. From the serious way Chris is studying him, Justin is afraid that Chris will be careful with him, coaxing him inside where Chris will lay him out on the bed and soothe him into sleep, his hands and lips careful over Justin's body. But instead Chris swears softly, under his breath, and pushes Justin back into the wall.

Chris fucks him like that, on his knees with his face pressed against the wood, one hand held tight behind his back and the other still clawing in the dirt. He bites his lip against any sound but Chris is relentless, his hand moving mercilessly over Justin's cock until Justin cries out and bangs his head against the wall. Chris slumps against him and buries his face in Justin's shoulder. "J," he says, his lips raw on Justin's skin, and Justin doesn't answer, just kneels in the dirt with his face against the rough wood.

Eventually Chris sits back against the wall and Justin follows. Chris doesn't say anything when Justin rubs his wrist where Chris held it, or when Justin slides down so he can rest his head on the wall right near Chris' shoulder. From where they're sitting they can see Kirkpatrick's Palladium, lit up by the lights and fires of a wild night in Deadwood.

"A man told me once," Justin says, "the most pathetic thing in the world is a whore in love."

"J, you're not --" Chris says, and stops. He's quiet for a moment, then he says, "I don't think there's anything pathetic about love." He takes in a breath and Justin thinks he's going to say something else, but he doesn't.

"It looks nice in the moonlight," Justin says after they've been quiet for a long time. "We should get some candles, maybe, string them up outside at night." Chris doesn't say anything. "Don't you think it looks nice?"

"Yeah," Chris says. "I just wish ..." He lets his words die off in the darkness, and Justin thinks he should just let them fade away.

"What?" Justin asks.

"I don't know," Chris says. "I just wish ..." He sighs. "I just wish I could've built it a better way, somehow. A cleaner way."

"There's no way to do it clean," Justin says. "Not and get it done."

"No," Chris says. "No, maybe not in Deadwood."

Maybe not anywhere, Justin thinks, but for once he manages to keep his mouth shut. Maybe Chris is happier believing that somewhere out there things are done better, cleaner. It's a pretty story, Justin thinks. Maybe he'd be happier believing it, too.

Chris pulls himself to his feet, groaning. "Come inside," he says, reaching a hand down to Justin, and this time Justin lets him pull him up and lead him inside. Just before he walks in the door Chris looks over his shoulder and then up at Justin.

"It's worth it, though," he says, and Justin follows him inside to their bed.