DEAD MEN PAY THEIR DEBTS.

SHINING AND BOLD.

Jesse still says nothing. His eyes skip over Casey's body - his bruised lips, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the dark freckle on Casey's hip that he had made sure to pay extra attention to last night.

Casey swallows as he stands up. "I...I reckon that you hate me right now, and I just wanna say, that's...that's fair. So I s'pose -"

"July twenty-fourth, eighteen fifty-nine," Jesse interrupts. He flicks a speck of dust off the blankets and sits up.

"W-what?"

"July twenty-fourth, eighteen fifty-nine," he repeats, leaning forward. "It was a blazin' hot day. We'd known each other for what, two years then? We was runnin' from the sheriff after robbing this man and his lil' wife in their stagecoach. They couldn't give us much, but it was enough." He chuckles darkly. "Course they called the sheriff. We hid in this muddy stream under a bridge. I was nineteen, you was seventeen."

Casey's hands are shaking. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He closes it again.

"We listened to the hoofbeats above our head as the sheriff and his men rode out on the bridge, and then...and then..." Jesse's voice fails him. He licks his lips and tries again. "And then you told me you loved me." He shakes his head and lets out a soft laugh. "You were so bleedin' afraid. Your hands were shaking and your mouth was so dry...I thought it was the funniest thing, the way you could watch a man die at your feet no problem but the thought of talkin' bout your feelings set your knees knockin'."

"Jesse?" Casey whispers, and Jesse isn't quite sure whether he means Jesse Jordan or Jesse Foster. He sits down heavily on the bed, grey eyes trained on Jesse.

"August thirtieth, eighteen sixty one," Jesse recites. "Three years ago. You surprised me in my room at midnight. I was playin' my violin, and I didn't want no one to hear, but you did. Then it was you who found the whole situation hilarious - Jesse Jordan, most notorious criminal in America - plays the violin? But then...but then you told me to play you something. You sat down on my bed and asked me to play something. So I did. And then you told me I'd never looked more beautiful." A suspicious wetness prickles at his eyes, and Jesse looks away.

Casey's knuckles are white as he grips the blanket. His gaze is fixed on Jesse as he leans forward slightly, but Jesse isn't finished yet.

"March third, eighteen sixty-four."

"Jesse."

"I woke up 'round eleven or so, and I turned to find you, but you wasn't in bed anymore. I wasn't worried, I assumed you went down to eat breakfast. You wasn't. Then I thought you were readin' something somewhere else in the house. You weren't." His voice loses some of its softness. "I looked for you everywhere, Casey. I looked in every bleedin' place I could. I didn't find you anywhere. Anywhere. So then I asked Thomas if he knew. And you know what he said?"

"Jesse," Casey says again. His voice is thick and his eyes are shiny, but Jesse doesn't acknowledge him.
"I'll tell you what he said. He said that you left. You an' Sierra. I didn't believe him until I looked around and I realized that there was nothing in the house that belonged to you. Even in our room. You had taken everything, and you left the gang. You left me."

"It wasn't my fault!" Casey's voice comes out choked, and he drops his head as he begins to cry softly into his hands. A wave of pain washes over Jesse, but he pushes it down. He watches Casey, jaw set.

"It wasn't your fault? Somethin' else made you leave, huh? You didn't even say anything to me! Was it me? You didn't love me anymore?" Jesse hadn't meant to say this much, but he realizes every word that spills out of him is what he fears, what he's locked away for these last six months. "Damn it, Casey! You could've just told me the truth! I ain't so special, I ain't so fragile that you need to keep secrets from me for my own good!"