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Chapter Text

The first time Thomas ventures into the woods, it’s because he’s worried about John. The woods might be full of dangerous animals, after all, and John is all by himself and has been out there a long time. Thomas knows he isn’t very good with his gun, but he’s probably better than nothing, right?

Turns out the woods are full of dangerous animals, and Thomas is even worse at woodscraft than he thought. The first he knows of the annoyed bear is the long, low, terrifying growl behind him. He whirls around and drops his gun and thinks, in a moment of panicky clarity, that he is about to die.

Then someone steps from the woods between him and the bear, and Thomas didn’t even know he was there, where the hell did he come from, he thinks, and blushes for the swear word. The stranger whaps the bear across the nose with an unstrung bowstave, and the bear makes an unhappy confused whuffling sound and lumbers away into the bushes again. Thomas’s rescuer turns and looks at him with unfathomable black eyes, and grunts, and points in the direction of the Virginia Company camp. Then he vanishes back into the woods.

Thomas picks up his gun and goes back to camp – he’s not that naïve, and clearly he is really not cut out to be a woodsman. But that night he can’t help thinking about his rescuer, about his very…broad…chest and his very black eyes and the evident strength in his brawny arms. Thomas rolls over and buries his face in his pillow and whimpers, very quietly, because he knows he should not be thinking this way about any man, much less a complete stranger who saved his life and then vanished.

But over the next few days Thomas can’t stop thinking about the unknown man. While he chops wood he thinks about the stranger’s strong arms, and while he carries water he thinks about the stranger’s broad chest, and while he digs – futilely – for gold he thinks about the way the stranger’s eyes were black and fathomless. At night while he tries to sleep on his hard pallet he can’t help wondering if the stranger’s long hair is soft and silky.

It’s a week later before Thomas really has any free time, and he goes into the woods again. Not far, no – just barely out of sight of camp, and he doesn’t bring his gun because by this time everyone knows he’s pretty much useless with it. He goes into the woods for…privacy, because among the many things he does not want to do is…do things to himself while thinking about a man, in the middle of camp, in the middle of the day. But the woods are cool and green, and this close to camp surely all the wildlife has been scared away, and no one expects him back for an hour or so, so this is a perfect time and place to kneel down and shove his breeches down and think – guiltily – about the black-eyed stranger.

Who is right in front of him.

Thomas makes a really embarrassing noise and can’t stop in time, can’t stop himself from coming on the mossy ground in front of his fantasy come to life, can’t help blushing at the image he must make, here on his knees in front of another man, this man, and if he hadn’t just come that might be enough to get him hard again. The stranger looks at him impassively for a long moment, and Thomas wonders madly if this counts as sacrilege or something – who knows what natives to this land might worship – and if he’s about to be killed for his presumption.

Then the stranger smiles, just a little, a tiny crack in that stone mask. Thomas catches his breath and stares up, memorizing that smile. The stranger gestures for Thomas to rise, and he does, awkwardly, trying to tuck himself back into his breeches and not fall over. The stranger’s smile widens just a little more, and he reaches out and touches Thomas’s hair, curiously, as if he’s never seen red hair before. Thomas shivers and holds still, and the stranger runs his hand through his hair and nods, once, and then is gone again, silent as ever. Thomas sits down hard and grins idiotically to himself for long minutes before he tidies himself and heads back to camp.

The next time he has a free hour, Thomas doesn’t even hesitate, just heads right back out into the woods, as close to the same spot as he can manage. It’s a little tiny clearing, barely worthy of the name, and it’s out of sight of the camp walls, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, about whether the stranger might be there again, about whether…something…might happen. Maybe. If Thomas is luckier than he has any right to be.

He is. The stranger steps out of the woods just as Thomas gets there, as if he was waiting too, and Thomas can’t help the grin that spreads over his face when he sees him. The stranger grants Thomas that tiny, cracked-stone smile, and looks him over. Thomas returns the favor. The stranger’s a lot taller than he is; broader, too, and so dark he’s almost the shade of the bark on the trees around them. After a moment the stranger leans back against a tree, and crosses his arms over his chest – Thomas’s breath catches – and raises one eyebrow, clearly waiting for something.

It takes Thomas a moment to get it, and then he blushes redder than a cherry – he can feel his cheeks heat – because oh God, this impossibly good-looking, competent man cannot possibly be waiting for Thomas to…to…he gulps, and the stranger, who seems fascinated by his blush, allows his smile to widen just a touch more. Thomas takes a deep breath, and unfastens his breeches. It’s actually rather gratifying, to see the other man’s eyes drawn to his…bits…like a magnet to iron. Thomas can’t tell if the stranger is getting off on this, or just liking the way Thomas turns bright red, or what, but if this isn’t the hottest thing that’s ever happened to Thomas then he doesn’t know what is, and he comes, hard, within a bare minute, because oh God the stranger is looking at him.

And the stranger watches him come, and straightens from his pose against the tree, crosses the clearing in two long strides, laces one hand through Thomas’s hair, and kisses him fiercely. Thomas closes his eyes and goes with it, whimpering at little at the unexpectedness and the goodness and yes, this is probably against all the laws of God and man but the stranger is kissing him, and it’s the best thing ever.

And then he’s gone.

Maybe, thinks Thomas that night, the kiss was a reward? He did something right, and the stranger approves? Certainly they haven’t any other language in common. Thomas wonders what he could do to earn more than a kiss, and then he buries his face in his pillow and tries very hard not to think of anything at all, because the things he wants the stranger to do to him are…well…are. And he can’t think about that right now.

Three days later he’s back in that clearing again, with a little bitty jar in one pocket (he can’t even think about it without blushing, which was…awkward when the man at the gate asked him how long he’d be gone), hoping against hope that the kiss wasn’t really more in the way of “you’ll never see me again.” It wasn’t. The stranger is there, as soon as Thomas is, tall and dark and looming and impassive, and if Thomas hadn’t been hard before, he would be now. But there’s one thing he’s decided, and that is, that if he’s going to sin against God and man, and declare himself an invert and an effeminate forever, he is by-God going to know the name of the other man, so when the stranger leans back against his tree and raises that eyebrow, Thomas puts one hand on his own chest and says, “Thomas,” and points at the other man.

The stranger raises his eyebrow higher, and then his smile appears, and he says, voice low and dangerous and everything Thomas hoped it might be, “Kocoum.”

“Kocoum,” Thomas repeats, and then he takes his shirt and breeches all the way off, and digs out the little jar, and opens it, and shows the man what’s inside. It’s liniment, made for sore muscles, and all the men use it after a long day’s digging, but it’s not meant for this – what is? – and Kocoum looks a little confused for a moment, just a touch, like a shadow on that impassive stone face. Thomas takes a deep breath, and digs his fingers into the liniment, and transfers it to…where it needs to go. For a long moment, Kocoum doesn’t move, and Thomas wonders if this is too much, too wrong, if even savages from across the world know how demeaning and ugly this is, and then there is a strong hand in his hair and strong lips pressed against his, and he is being backed up against a tree.

That’s probably a ‘yes,’ then.

Kocoum is absurdly strong, strong enough to lift Thomas completely off his feet and hoist Thomas’s legs into the air, pinning Thomas against the tree, and Thomas puts his head back and braces his hands on Kocoum’s shoulders and goes with it. He’s not even sure when Kocoum got his loincloth off, but clearly he did, because there’s a particular hot, hard, strong part of Kocoum pressing up against Thomas, and Thomas has the sudden thought this will probably hurt and then Kocoum is easing into him, slowly, clearly trying to be gentle, and Thomas grins and relaxes, because Kocoum is trying to be gentle, which means this is more than just a fuck. He hopes.

It is, however, a really good fuck, because Kocoum is strong and coordinated and, when he realizes that Thomas is really enjoying this, lets himself go a bit – thrusts harder, pushes Thomas more firmly against the tree – blessed tree – and Thomas bites down on his own fist to muffle his cries and comes, untouched, between them, and Kocoum thrusts once, twice, three more times and stills, shivering, and Thomas hears a very, very low moan. Which is incredibly hot, actually, that he actually made Kocoum moan.

Kocoum kisses him again, almost gently, and puts Thomas’s feet back on the ground, and helps him clean off – Thomas brought a handkerchief – and watches as Thomas gets dressed again. This time, for the first time, Thomas leaves first.

***

Kocoum isn’t sure why he follows the white man into the woods. Perhaps it is the red hair, so strange, so different. Perhaps it is because he wishes to learn more about the pale people. Perhaps it is simply because he can tell immediately that the white man has no woodscraft whatsoever, and he’s feeling…generous, perhaps.

And it’s just as well he follows the pale man, or the bear would have taken a sizeable chunk out of him. She’s not really angry, just a little annoyed, but still, the pale man is small and gangly and awkward, and wouldn’t be able to run away or fight. So Kocoum drives the bear away, and shoos the man towards his own people, who surely are able to look after him.

That night Kocoum thinks, idly, about the pale skin and astonishing red hair of the man whose life he’s saved, and wonders a little if he’ll see him again – and not at the other end of an arrow – but he’s tired from watching the pale people and worrying about Pocahontas, who is off communing with nature again, so he doesn’t give the redhead much thought before he goes to sleep.

But he watches to see if the redhead comes out again – just out of idle curiosity – and when he does, Kocoum follows him. The redhead goes to a clearing, near the walls (Kocoum’s estimate of his intelligence goes up a bit; at least he’s not wandering aimlessly again) and pushes down the odd leggings he wears, and Kocoum steps closer, drawn by the surprisingly erotic sight of the pale man on his knees, eyes half closed with pleasure, hand moving swiftly upon himself. Kocoum actually forgets himself enough to step out of the tree cover without noticing; but that turns out to be a very good mistake, because the pale man comes hard on the ground between them and looks up at Kocoum with something like awed hunger. After a moment, Kocoum grants him a smile.

When the pale man stands up at his gesture, Kocoum decides to settle his own curiosity and see if the red hair feels like normal hair. The pale man actually leans into his touch, which is…interesting. Kocoum satisfies himself that the red hair is just hair, and steps away again, and watches the pale man sit and quiver like an aspen in a high wind. Interesting.

After that, Kocoum tries to watch the pale man – he already thinks of him as his pale man – as often as possible, peering over the palisade or through the trees to see what he’s doing, how he acts around the other pale men, what makes him smile or frown. His pale man is younger than the others, he thinks, and less experienced. And definitely more interesting.

The third time his pale man comes into the forest, Kocoum is pretty sure this is meant to be a rendezvous, so he meets his pale man in the same clearing. And watching the pale man bring himself off was pretty hot last time, so Kocoum decides to see if he can watch that again.

His pale man turns red as his hair when he figures out what Kocoum wants – pretty quickly, though, which means he’s smart, which is good – but he pushes his leggings down eagerly enough, and comes even faster than the first time, which might mean he hasn’t done this while he’s with the other pale men, or it might mean he likes being watched. Either of which is fairly promising, really. Kocoum has never liked to share.

He’s pleased, and he wants to show his pale man how pleased he is, so he kisses him, hard, and his pale man shakes and goes pliant in his arms, which is definitely a very good sign. Kocoum leaves him there – he has to report to Powhaten, and he wants to figure out what in the world Pocahontas is up to with that corn-haired fellow, but he’ll be back. His pale man is too pretty to leave alone for long.

The next time his pale man comes to the clearing, he’s already blushing before he gets there. Kocoum rather wonders what that means. The pale man also looks very determined, and he greets Kocoum with a hand on his chest and the strange word, “Thomas.”

Kocoum figures that’s probably his pale man’s name, and tucks it away to think about later. Maybe it means something in the pale people’s language. He says, “Kocoum” – the first time he’s spoken to his pale man – and the pale man gets even redder and repeats it in a breathy, incredibly erotic tone, and then takes off all of his clothing.

Kocoum eyes the bare body appreciatively, and then the pale man holds out a little jar. Perhaps it is something to eat or drink? wonders Kocoum, and then his pale man puts his fingers in the jar and brings them out all greasy, and puts them down and behind and in. Oh. Well. Kocoum’s estimate of the pale man’s intelligence and bravery rises again: he knows what he wants, and he planned for it. No, not ‘the pale man.’ Thomas.

Thomas, who is looking a little nervous now, as though worried Kocoum will refuse; so Kocoum crosses the clearing in two long strides, tearing off his loincloth as he goes – much easier to get off than those silly leggings – and pins his Thomas up against a tree. Thomas goes willingly enough, wrapping his legs around Kocoum’s hips and clinging to Kocoum’s shoulders, and Kocoum makes a concerted effort to be gentle, because Thomas is smaller than he is, and young, and very beautiful when caught up in passion.

Thomas is very pleasant to fuck, all hot and tight and whimpering, pinned up against a tree and loving it. Kocoum lets go a little, thrusts a little harder, and Thomas bites his fist and comes, hard, which pushes Kocoum over the edge. Kocoum kisses his pale man, knowing that now they both know that Thomas belongs to him, and helps him put himself back together, and watches him go back to the other pale people, knowing very well he will be back.

Chapter Text

Many things happen in swift succession, and the upshot is that Pocahontas is going with the corn-haired man to the pale people’s land, (and the evil pale man with them, tied up like a parcel), and some of the pale people are remaining with Kocoum’s tribe to learn their language and how to live in this land. Kocoum is deeply pleased to find that his Thomas has chosen to stay – to stay specifically with Kocoum, to sleep beside him and work beside him.

There’s a lot of work to do, of course. Thomas needs to learn to walk silently in the woods, to pay attention to his surroundings, to hunt and fish and tell good plants from bad. And Thomas follows Kocoum obediently, if not skillfully, through these lessons, and clearly tries his hardest (and does get better, slowly, though he is clumsier than the youngest warrior). Kocoum orders him to speak only the Powhaten tongue – how will he learn it if he does not speak it? – and Thomas obeys that, too, with his native cheerfulness, and falls back on eloquent hand gestures and funny faces when he cannot find the proper words.

But all of that is for the daytime, or for evenings beside the fire, listening to stories and laughing at the stumbling attempts of the pale men to communicate. At night, on their shared pallet – the separate beds lasted all of a night – Kocoum has a different goal. Thomas is a stubborn man (and a brave one, or Kocoum would not keep company with him) and Kocoum takes a deep and private pleasure in being able to render Thomas unable to concentrate. It is easy to tell when he has brought Thomas to the very edge of his control: when Thomas is only a little aroused, he speaks (as best he can) in Kocoum’s tongue, urging Kocoum on with soft whispers and broken phrases.

But when Kocoum has broken Thomas’s control, when hands and mouth and cock conspire to bring Thomas indescribable pleasure, Thomas’s concentration breaks, and he cries out in the pale men’s tongue, words Kocoum does not know and does not need to know except that they mean that he has won again, has brought his Thomas pleasure too great to be expressed in faltering words, that must be shouted in Thomas’s native tongue.

The Chief and the shaman are learning the pale men’s tongue, and some of the other warriors, and of course Pocahontas, far away in the pale men’s land, but Kocoum does not care to learn it. He knows everything he needs to know: that when Thomas cries out these sounds, he belongs entirely to Kocoum. Kocoum has always been a possessive man, and Thomas is precious to him – pale and redhaired and clumsy as he is, foreign as he is – because he is beautiful, and because he yields himself up to Kocoum sweetly and without reservation, and because – though he would deny it to any who asked – Kocoum loves the strange, pale man who walked so bravely and so foolishly into the woods, not so long ago.

When Thomas cries out in his own tongue, Kocoum knows what he is saying: he is crying out his love for Kocoum.

***

Thomas did not know what he expected when he declared his intent to stay with the red men – with Kocoum, specifically. To sleep beside him and work beside him, to learn his people’s ways and language, to give up England for this new land and new love. He knew his fellow countrymen would look on him with hatred – was he not going against the laws of God and man? – but he had no idea how the red men would treat him.

They treat him pretty well, actually. Apparently this sort of arrangement is neither unknown nor unconscionable among these people, and most of them are perfectly happy to talk to him and show him how to do things, to sit beside him and work beside him. And Kocoum is there. Kocoum, who is trying so hard to teach Thomas how to be a warrior – or at least a hunter. Thomas isn’t good at it, he knows, he’s never been good at this sort of thing, but he tries, because it makes Kocoum happy, and Kocoum is a pretty good teacher, really, and Thomas is – slowly – getting better.

He’s getting better at speaking the native tongue, too. Kocoum ordered him to speak nothing else, once Thomas had enough of the language to understand the order, and Thomas obeys as well as he can, acting things out if he has to. He’s not afraid of making himself a little ridiculous; he’s used to not being taken seriously, and if it means no one is going to knife him some dark night, all the better. So he tries, and he does grow fluent – not fast, but steadily – and while he’s not going to be discussing philosophy any time soon, he can at least make himself understood most of the time.

It takes a lot of concentration, though, translating all his words from English to this new language before he speaks, trying to find synonyms if he doesn’t know the exact word, trying so hard not to mess up and say something unforgivable. (Everyone is very patient with him, and he rather thinks some of them actually like him and aren’t just tolerating him for Kocoum’s sake.) Most of the time he can hold out, can speak the native tongue and make himself understood, but there’s one time, one place where he simply doesn’t have the brainpower.

Kocoum is damned good in bed. Thomas doesn’t like to think about how Kocoum must have gotten this good, because then he’ll have to be jealous of some nameless, faceless man who did this with Kocoum before Thomas; but the fact stands that Kocoum is damned good in bed. It helps, of course, that Thomas likes being pinned to the bed by the other man’s weight, likes being kissed half-senseless and limp and then thoroughly ravished; but even if Thomas had not had those inclinations, he rather thinks that the undeniable skill of Kocoum’s mouth and hands (and cock, oh God) would be enough to make him scream.

Kocoum likes to tease him, likes to bring him to the edge over and over and over again until Thomas can’t think of the words in the Powhaten tongue, can’t think at all, can only beg Please please pleaseplease fuck me, Kocoum, please, I love you over and over again until finally Kocoum does – bends Thomas in half and fucks him so hard it’s a good thing their pallet is on the ground, because a bed would break beneath them.

Kocoum never asks what Thomas is saying – and a good thing, too, because Thomas knows he would blush bright red and never be able to translate – but he seems to like it, and Thomas is just as glad, because there’s one thing he’s not sure he’s ever going to be brave enough to say to Kocoum in Kocoum’s own language, but he rather thinks that Kocoum has figured it out – that Kocoum knows that English is the only language Thomas is ever going to be able to use to beg to be fucked; that, unless Kocoum says it first (silent Kocoum), English is the only language Thomas will ever use to say I love you.

On the other hand, the whole leaving behind his country, his people, his language, and his hope of heaven, just for the privilege of being with Kocoum, might have made that point for him. So maybe Kocoum does know what Thomas is saying. Maybe the fact that he keeps making Thomas beg in English means that he feels the same way.

Chapter Text

Where are all the trees? Kocoum thinks, wildly, as Thomas leads him through the strange trails of this city. It’s cold here, so the odd, constricting clothing makes sense, and he supposes any people with this much stone might as well make houses out of it, but where, in the name of any god, are all the trees? He has never seen a place so bare of green.

They stop in front of a wall, and Thomas speaks to a man in shining red and black, swift words that Kocoum, though he has spent the days on shipboard trying to learn Thomas’s tongue, cannot understand. The man in red opens the gate; beyond is a house. Thomas says, “The King has invited us to stay in this house, since I haven’t any. Pocahontas and John should be here soon, too.” Kocoum follows him in.

The house is cold and dank; no wonder the white men are so pale. Thomas speaks to a woman in enveloping skirts, a man in shiny black shoes; they are led upstairs to a small room with a bed in it covered in white sheets. Thomas sits on the bed with a grin, and gestures Kocoum over. Kocoum goes to the little window instead, to stare out at the tiny garden and the high walls. “You lived like this?” he says, finally, in blank amazement.

“It’s not so bad when you get used to it,” says Thomas, in perfect Powhaten; and Kocoum realizes suddenly what a huge step Thomas took when he came to Kocoum, what an enormous change it must have been. To go from this grey stone world to the green trees, from these horrid clothes to the freedom of bare skin…to learn Kocoum’s tongue and customs, to walk by his side and, really, not do too badly at it. Something the medicine man said once comes back to him: is it better to be the reed that bends or the sycamore that breaks? Thomas is a reed, Kocoum thinks, to have been able to bend so well.

He turns and kisses Thomas, though the younger man has warned him that white men frown upon two men together, and Thomas makes a surprised noise and opens his mouth willingly, bending, as he always does. This, too, Kocoum thinks, is strange to him, he told me so; and yet he bends.

He bears Thomas to the bed – it is late, surely no one will expect them anywhere tonight – and pulls the strange stiff clothes from both of them, remembering to be quiet because of the white men’s strange customs, admiring Thomas’s pale skin and red hair and the delicious look of love and lust in his eyes, and covers him with his own body. They don’t have anything to use for more than just rubbing against each other, but that is enough for today – Thomas is endlessly kissable, endlessly touchable, and it is only with Thomas that Kocoum wants to touch, wants to taste, wants to spend hours making Thomas breathe delicious noises and arch beneath his hands.

Thomas finds cloths to clean them when they have finished, and falls asleep in Kocoum’s arms, mumbling, “Wake me in the morning.” Kocoum lies awake thinking about the things he has seen: rolling…things pulled by not-quite-deer, men in tight clothing that binds and constricts, women in skirts like billowing clouds and what Thomas tells him is whalebone around their waists. And Thomas, walking these odd trails as calmly as Kocoum walks the forest, steering them around dangers Kocoum cannot even predict, explaining the mysteries of this odd place with endless patience. This is where he fits, Kocoum thinks; this is where Thomas knows how to walk, how to talk, what to do and what not to do. And yet he lives with me, and I do not think he will leave me, even for this place which he so suits.

That is a good thought, and Kocoum closes his eyes at last; but before sleep takes him he thinks: Thomas is strong, stronger than I imagined. He pulls Thomas closer to him, breathing in the familiar musky scent of the pale man, and thinks, Thomas is a reed, bending before the storm, but I will never again think that he is weak to bend.

Chapter Text

Kocoum curses his cousin hourly, those first few days. He’s never been good at saying no to her, and when she looked at him all big eyes and good intentions and asked him, please, to take the white man Thomas with him on his trip west to see what was new – well. Kocoum had shrugged and grunted and wondered how much trouble it could be to take one young white man along. And Pocahontas was so happy when he agreed.

Turns out the white man Thomas is utterly useless. He doesn’t know how to build a fire without his strange little box of stone and metal. He walks so loudly Kocoum can hear him half a furlong away. He’s scared of every little sound and cannot use a bow, and after the first time Kocoum saw him raise his strange black metal weapon, Kocoum tossed the odd thing into a ravine and left it there, because Thomas is better off unarmed than using that thing. He doesn’t know which plants are edible, can neither cook nor skin a rabbit, and…well. Kocoum curses his cousin and skins the bloody rabbit himself, and cooks it, too.

The white man Thomas does clean up after them, though. He can scrub things well enough.

And Kocoum has to admit he is trying. Thomas watches every move Kocoum makes, and tries so hard to imitate him, even if his efforts to walk silently just result in his falling over, and his efforts to learn to use a bow lose five precious arrows in as many minutes, before Kocoum takes the bow away and glowers so hard that Thomas retreats to their little campsite and sits very quietly, staring at his hands, while Kocoum hunts for the arrows. He finds three, which is something.

When he gets back from hunting the next day, he finds that Thomas has started a fire. It’s a small and rather smoky fire – obviously a first effort, rather worse even than the ones the young women of Kocoum’s people make on their first tries – but it is a fire, and Thomas has gathered firewood (dry, Kocoum notes with faintly surprised approval) and is whittling sharp points on a pair of sticks so that they can cook the rabbit Kocoum has shot. Huh. Who knew the white man could whittle?

And, well, yes, the white man Thomas is trying. And really, what more could one ask of someone who came from a far land, where – if Kocoum is understanding Thomas correctly – the great forests that are Kocoum’s home are few and far between, and Thomas lived all his life in a place where tents of stone crowded together like trees, and people covered their skin from the sun and their hair from the rain and their feet from the stone-laid ground, and never looked around at the wonders of nature. (Kocoum is not as devoted to nature as his never-sufficiently-damned cousin, but then no one is.)

So it’s rather as if Thomas is a very young child all over again, learning to walk and talk and hunt and fish; but he is a grown man of twenty, so he says. Kocoum acknowledges – to himself, anyhow – that perhaps this is difficult. And the white man Thomas is trying.

So Kocoum teaches. It does not come easily to him, teaching. He is too silent, and too prone to glowering when his solitary student does something wrong. But he teaches Thomas to walk more silently (slowly, painfully, and by dint at last of kneeling at the young man’s feet and guiding them so that they came down properly, heel to toe and feeling for any obstruction. There is a strange look in Thomas’s eyes when Kocoum does this, but he does improve substantially, so Kocoum counts it a success).

He finally recognizes the look in Thomas’s eyes the day he tries to teach the younger man to use a bow – Kocoum’s hands over Thomas’s, Thomas’s back pressed up against Kocoum’s chest – and Thomas looks back and up over his shoulder and the look is part apprehension and part – dear spirits of nature – part…

Kocoum drops Thomas like a hot coal and goes off to sit and think for a while.

It is not that the idea of bedding a man is distasteful. One does such things, when one is off with the war-bands or hunting with a friend, and it is no shame to anyone, and a pleasant way to pass the time. There are even those, sometimes, who choose to make their beds permanently with the two-souled…Kocoum’s breath catches, and he wonders suddenly if he should be teaching Thomas basket-making and weaving. Certainly Thomas could not manage to lose a basket!

It is not even that Thomas is a white man. Kocoum hates the white men on principle, because they are an unknown quantity, but by this point he knows Thomas pretty well, and therefore he can judge Thomas on his own merits. Which are slim, perhaps, but the white man is willing to try to learn, and brave enough to go off into the wilderness with no one but Kocoum, and clever enough to pick up Kocoum’s tongue and learn even a little of the new things Kocoum is teaching him, and it is no bad thing to be brave and clever and willing to learn.

Kocoum considers the problem from several angles – slowly, because he is not a man to make hasty decisions – and decides that he could do worse than to take the white man Thomas to bed. Thomas is not an unattractive man, and his skin is becoming a more normal color with the sun, and his red hair is an interesting feature – Kocoum has touched it once or twice, and it feels like normal hair, but it’s still odd. Yes, Kocoum decides.

It’s not that simple, apparently.

Thomas flinches when Kocoum lays a hand on his shoulder, as if expecting to be struck – though Kocoum has never struck him – or afraid. So Kocoum lets it go for the evening, and just gives Thomas the liver of that night’s hare, which is the best part. Thomas eats it and goes to bed, not appearing to notice.

Kocoum has brought a spare pair of moccasins along, and the next day he offers them to Thomas, because the strange once-shiny boots can’t be comfortable for this sort of walking. Thomas accepts, and puts them on, and wiggles his feet and grins, but he seems to make no more of the gesture than friendliness, and Kocoum shrugs and leads the way westward – he wants to make it to the next river that night, and thinks they should be able to do it if they keep a good pace. Thomas walks more quietly in moccasins, he notices. Thomas seems to notice too, because his grin does not go away all that day.

The next day Kocoum goes out of his way to find wild garlic, and spices their fish with it – fish makes a nice change from rabbit – and Thomas eats his fish and grins and thanks Kocoum profusely, but nothing more than that. Perhaps Kocoum is not getting through to him?

And Thomas still flinches when Kocoum touches him.

Finally, after a week or so of this – of finding herbs or roots to spice their dinners with, of showing Thomas plants or animals or views which are particularly interesting, of wondering why Thomas still flinches – Kocoum decides that this has been going on long enough.

He puts a hand on Thomas’s shoulder that night, holding on despite the flinch, and considers his words for a moment – though he’s been considering them all day – and says, “Would it please you to go to bed with me?” He is careful not to glower, and tries not to sound angry or threatening, because after all he is perfectly capable of breaking Thomas like a dry twig, and they both know it.

Thomas goes a peculiar bright red – he has never turned that shade before – and says, hesitantly, with a note in his voice that says he’s not far from panic, “Among my people, such things are…” he gropes for words, settles on, “wrong.”

Kocoum blinks. He had not expected that to be a problem. All of the white men who came on the ship were men, after all! He had assumed that they were like a hunting party, taking pleasure with each other to keep themselves content. It would explain the white men’s temper, if they were unwilling to do so. Huh.

But Thomas is still talking, and Kocoum concentrates, because this is important. Thomas is looking at the ground, now, and is still very red, and his voice is so low Kocoum has to strain to hear it. But he is leaning into Kocoum’s hand – just a little. He says, “I,” and stops, and shivers, and starts again. “I…want to, though,” he says, finally. “It’s wrong and dirty and I can never go back to England, but I want to.”

Kocoum thinks perhaps that is the bravest thing he ever heard, and who knew white men could be so brave? Who knew Thomas could be so brave – except that he came into the wilderness with Kocoum, far from his people and their protection, and has never spoken a word of complaint. So perhaps Thomas’s bravery is not a surprise.

Kocoum replies, slowly, “Among my people, it is not wrong. And…” suddenly something occurs to him, something that makes him start in surprise and stare at his companion. “You have never done this before?” That’s a thought that makes Kocoum…hungry. Yes, hungry. Because if that is true, he will be the first to touch Thomas. The first to have Thomas. Thomas will be his, all his, and Kocoum wants with a startling, terrifying intensity for that to be true, because suddenly – but it is not sudden, it has been building for all this odd journey – suddenly he wants, very badly, to have Thomas all for himself.

Thomas shakes his head, still staring down at his feet and shivering a little, and Kocoum, with unaccustomed tenderness and unexpected hunger, gathers Thomas into his arms and holds him tightly against his chest and presses his lips against that odd, red hair.

Thomas relaxes slowly. Eventually he sags against Kocoum’s chest and turns his face up and says, softly but clearly, “Yes. Please. I want this.”

Kocoum kisses him, hard and hungry, and Thomas opens for him, relaxes against him, wraps his arms around Kocoum’s shoulders and lets himself be borne to the ground – Kocoum has just the presence of mind to aim for the unrolled bedding – and kissed half-senseless. He lets himself be undressed, too, and Kocoum looks at the contrast of the pale skin beneath Thomas’s clothes and his own dark hue, and wraps himself around Thomas and kisses him some more. Thomas does not object in the least; instead, he wraps his legs around Kocoum’s hips and thrusts against him – just a little – and whimpers when Kocoum presses him flat on his back and ruts against him, too hungry to bother finding grease and preparing his companion, willing to settle – for now, for tonight – for just this, rubbing against each other and kissing until they both come, wet and sticky between them, and Thomas goes limp and pliant with pleasure, and Kocoum is sure, with a deep and wonderful certainty, that Thomas is his, all his, for as long as Kocoum cares to keep him.

Kocoum rather thinks it will be a long, long time.

Chapter Text

The Governor dies on the way over, stupid enough to go on deck in a storm and yell at the wind to stop blowing. His manservant mourns and droops and tries to suck up to Smith, but Smith isn’t having any of it. He’s the leader, now, they are all agreed: he has experience, charisma. He won’t leave anyone behind.

Thomas adores Smith, of course; how not? The man saved him from a horrible death. But it’s a distant sort of adoration, since Smith is so obviously out of his reach. The man is too bright, larger than life, like a star adored and never touched. Thomas stays out of everyone’s way and tries not to fall overboard again.

When they reach the New World, Smith has them seek out the natives. Why bother searching and digging, he says, when the natives will tell us what we need to know? He makes friends with the Chief’s lovely daughter, Pocahontas, who is wild enough to keep up with him. The Chief sighs and shakes his head and does not object when the two go running off into the forest together. He knows better than to try to tame a star.

The other men stay to learn the native language. Thomas is unexpectedly good at it. The women seem to like him; they pet his red hair and call him something that he later learns is ‘Little Fox.’ He finds that he likes the rhythm of their lives, the planting and harvesting and hunting (he is very bad at hunting), the language so unlike English and the smiles the women give him when they think he cannot see. Sometimes he hears them whispering that he is twin-souled, but he does not know what that means.

Most of the Englishmen leave before the gale season. There is no gold here, save for the bright corn and the sunlight and the rich earth. Smith stays, to run in the woods with his wild princess and find new worlds. Thomas stays, because the natives are kind to him, and there is nothing for him in England.

He’s a little frightened of the warriors of the tribe: strong, aloof men, with knives and bows at their sides, who do not smile. The solemnest and strongest is called Kocoum. The women chatter and gossip about him, whispering that he would have tried for the hand of the Chief’s daughter, that he has killed a bear with his own hands, that he never smiled even as a child. He watches Thomas over the evening fires, expression flat and unreadable. Thomas hopes that he does not think Thomas is a threat. Thomas's gun went back to England with the other men; there is neither powder nor shot here, and he was never good with it anyhow. Without even a gun, he knows he could not hope to defend himself from Kocoum. He watches the larger man out of the corner of his eye, whenever Kocoum is in the village. A little warning might save his life.

For all his wariness, Kocoum still manages to surprise him. Thomas is out gathering berries in the spring, very proud that the women have declared him able to go out on his own without a watcher (though he does not go far from the village) when a large hand lands on his shoulder. Thomas jumps and squeaks and whirls to see Kocoum gazing expressionlessly at him, and for a moment all Thomas can think is, Well, this is it, I’m going to die.

But Kocoum does not kill him, just looks at him, and eventually Thomas finds his voice and says, shakily, “Did you want some berries?” He holds the little basket out hopefully. A corner of Kocoum’s mouth just barely twitches – Thomas would not have seen it if he had not been watching the other man so closely. It almost looks like the beginning of a smile.

“No,” says Kocoum solemnly. “Thank you. The berries will be better with dinner.” They stare at each other a while longer. Finally Kocoum continues, “The women say you are twin-souled.”

“I don’t know what that means,” says Thomas faintly. Kocoum has still not removed his hand from Thomas’s shoulder.

“Huh,” says Kocoum. “Your people do not have twin-souled ones?”

“I…don’t think so.” Thomas is beginning to relax. This is a strange conversation, but it does not appear to be heading towards violence.

Kocoum considers this. At last he says, “Twin-souled are those who are born in one body, but prefer to act as…opposites. Men who do women’s work.” He glances briefly at the basket. Thomas flushes. “Men who share their furs with men.”*

It takes Thomas a few minutes to process that. He’s not idiomatically fluent yet, but there are only so many things that ‘share furs’ can mean. He knows the natives are less hung up about sex than Englishmen are – the women speak freely about which warriors they have slept with, comparing notes and giggling, and as long as some man is willing to take responsibility for the child, children born out of wedlock seem normal and unproblematic to them.

Which means that, if he’s not going crazy (which he might well be), this might…just might…be a proposition. Thomas blushes even more deeply and looks away from Kocoum.

“My people do not have twin-souled ones,” he says. “Men of my people are not allowed to share furs with other men.”

“Huh,” says Kocoum again. Thomas thinks he may have cemented in Kocoum’s mind the idea that white men are stupid, strange, useless creatures. And then, just when Thomas thinks that this whole surreal conversation might be over and Kocoum will leave him alone to gather berries, Kocoum says, “You are not among your people anymore. Among our people, twin-souled are blessed. They understand both men and women. If a twin-souled chooses to share furs with a man, that man is honored.” A short pause, and then he drops his hand from Thomas’s shoulder. He turns as if to go, and then, looking back at Thomas, finishes, “I would be honored.”

He leaves. Thomas sits down hard in the leaf mould and shakes for a while, and then he puts his head in his hands and thinks harder than he ever has before in his life. He knows he’s looked at men before, but he was always too shy and too aware of the danger to say anything. And Kocoum is certainly a very handsome man, what with the broad shoulders and the impressive competence and the air of barely-contained danger; indeed, he is just the sort of man Thomas would admire in England. From a distance. Quietly.

But here – if Kocoum is telling the truth, and Thomas does not think that Kocoum would lie – here, Thomas could, if he wanted to, do more than admire from a distance. He could…touch. Taste. Learn what it is to…to…to share furs with a man. It’s not like Thomas is going to go back to England anyhow. The only white man here to disapprove is Smith, and Smith is almost never in the village anymore. He and Pocahontas are always out in the woods doing…whatever it is they do. Communing with nature.

Eventually, Thomas gets up and brings his basket full of berries back to the village, and helps the women prepare dinner. They notice that he is strangely silent, and Nakoma pats him on the back and asks if he is ill, but he forces a smile and says he’s just thinking about something, and they all nod and leave him alone, smiling at him if he meets their eyes but not intruding on his silence. He is grateful.

He thinks about it all through dinner, barely tasting meat and cornbread and berries (Kocoum was right, they are better with dinner), barely listening to the storytelling after the meal. He helps clean up in a sort of daze, and Nakoma eventually takes him by the shoulders and says, “Go and think. We can clean up without you.” He retreats to the little house that he and Smith share (when Smith is in the village, anyway) and sits on the floor and thinks and thinks and thinks.

And when he has turned everything over five or six times and come to no conclusion at all, he finds himself rising without really choosing to and walking quietly through the twilit village to the hut that Kocoum shares with no one at all. Kocoum is sitting in the doorway, watching the rest of the village get ready for sleep, and he looks up when Thomas approaches, face impassive as ever. Thomas takes a deep breath.

“Among my people,” he says slowly, “men do not share furs with men. But I am here now. I will stay here until I die. I have left my people and will not return.” Kocoum is watching him intently now. “I would like to share furs with a man,” Thomas says, voice shaking a little, “but I do not know how. I would like to share furs with you,” he breaks off for a moment, takes another deep breath, and finishes, “if you are willing to teach me.”

Kocoum stands. He is very tall, Thomas realizes yet again, and broad-shouldered, and dangerous. If Thomas has just made a huge mistake (maybe it was a one-time offer? Maybe he misunderstood completely), then he is about to die. He stands very still, and Kocoum reaches out and gathers Thomas to his chest and stands there holding him, very gently, for a long time.

Thomas relaxes slowly. It’s a little hard to go from about-to-die to hugging, after all. But Kocoum’s arms are strong and warm and not hurting Thomas at all, and eventually Thomas stops shaking – only realizing then that he had started shaking – and dares to lace his own arms around Kocoum. This seems to be a cue, because as soon as he returns the embrace, Kocoum leans down to murmur in Thomas’s ear, “I am honored.”

He pulls Thomas into his hut and lets the doorflap fall shut, loosens his grip on Thomas just enough so there’s a little space between them, and leans down and kisses Thomas. Thomas stiffens for just a moment and then relaxes into it. Kocoum is a very good kisser, strong and gentle and tastes so good, and after a little while Thomas realizes that the person making the little pleading whimpering noises is himself. Kocoum doesn’t seem to mind.

Kocoum guides Thomas down onto the sleeping furs – Thomas takes a moment to grin; apparently even idiomatic Powhaten is pretty literal – and helps him out of his clothes. Thomas isn’t wearing much, just a pair of doeskin breeches and moccasins that Nakoma made for him (she is a good friend) – and Kocoum is only wearing a loincloth, which he has not taken off yet. Thomas thinks he is grateful. He has no idea what he’s doing, after all.

Kocoum, apparently, knows exactly what he is doing. He pins Thomas gently to the bed, holding him down with strong hands that do not hurt, and kisses Thomas until the only sound Thomas can make is a little whimpering whine in the back of his throat, because he is so hard he hurts and he does not know what to ask for, even if he knew the words. Then Kocoum lifts his head and says, softly but with the air of one who is used to being obeyed, “Stay still.”

Thomas stays still, fisting his hands in the furs and whimpering as Kocoum’s hands and mouth over his body, finding all sorts of places Thomas didn’t even know were sensitive.

Who knew that a tongue against his nipple made him shiver, that barely-gentle bites along his ribs made him bite his lips to muffle screams, that a huge warm hand could feel like that on his manhood? That Kocoum could bring him off with just that hand, watching with those impassive eyes as Thomas arches and shakes and moans, bone-deep? “Please,” says Thomas when he can speak again, though he has no idea what he’s asking for.

Kocoum smiles.

It is a small smile, thin and out-of-place on that solemn face, but Thomas memorizes it, clings to the image of it as Kocoum bends to kiss him again and lowers himself on top of Thomas. Kocoum is heavy, yes, but Thomas likes it, likes feeling Kocoum as a warm protective blanket between him and the world, all that strength still dangerous, but now Thomas is behind it, under it, protected and sheltered and safe.

Somewhere along the way, Kocoum lost his loincloth, and now he is hot and hard against Thomas’s stomach. Thomas cannot help bucking up into the feeling, just a little, and he is rewarded with gentle bites on his throat and a rumbling growl, and with the feeling of Kocoum thrusting hard against him and coming hot and wet between their bodies.

After a few minutes, Kocoum sits up and wipes them clean with a bit of rag, and then lies down again, slinging one arm over Thomas possessively. Thomas curls into the embrace, wondering again if this is a one-time thing, if Kocoum just wanted to see what a white man was like in bed. He is distracted from his worrying by teeth against the nape of his neck and then Kocoum’s soft rumble from behind him.

“Thank you,” he says. “I am honored.” And then, after a pause, “I would be honored also if you would stay with me this night, and as many nights as please you, Thomas.”

“Yes, please,” says Thomas into the darkness, and feels Kocoum smile against his shoulder, and sleeps.