Work Text:
It's a game he plays in his head when he's idle, like running odds or counting imaginary cards: What would it take for him to stop meeting with Josiah Sanchez behind closed doors?
The first time he played, it was one hundred dollars. Ten crisp new bills curled into a cozy roll in his pocket. They'd only stumbled in together a handful of times then, fueled by sloe gin and a hard winter. By spring, the price had doubled, and eventually nothing short of enough to buy back his saloon would do it.
Comforting as it is to put a price on what they do, however, money's too easy, so he changes the rules.
On Good Friday, he decides that yes, he'd put an amicable end to things in exchange for a full pardon for everything he's done, even the things no one knows about. He doesn't feel guilty about it, as he's fairly certain Josiah would do the same.
After a spectacular faro streak and the subsequent celebration in late May, he decides he can wait out the hangover without doing anything drastic.
And on a hot afternoon in high summer, he lies sweating on top of his bed with the windows papered over, wondering if another illicit tumble is really worth more than a big bowl of ice cream. Strawberry ice cream, like the kind Purdy's used to crank out for the Savannah socials. Sweet with a hint of tartness, the cold spoon nearly sticking to his tongue. The taste of summer, and childhood, and home.
He's still thinking about it when Josiah comes knocking. There's no ice cream, but there are two tall glasses of lemonade, and Ezra knocks back his share in five hard swallows because he knows the glass will no longer be chilled by the time they're finished. He pulls Josiah down onto the bed, and his mind stops asking questions for the next half-hour.
Afterward, he dozes, lightly skimming over the surface of sleep. His mouth still tastes of sour and sweet and bitter and salt. Distantly, he registers the unbearably hot flicker of a tongue licking a drop of sweat from the crook of his neck. Ice cream would be perfect right now, he thinks—but this is a very close second. And in that sleepy, sated moment, the game seems foolish.
He wasn't raised for either-or. He'll have his ice cream and eat it too.