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Arthur may not be the best at reading people, if he’s even able to read them at all, but over the past few months he’s picked up on a lot of the behavioral quirks of one Charles Smith. The little twitch of the corner of his mouth when he finds something funny but doesn’t want to admit it, the way he worries his fingers over the lightning bolt scar on his chin as he thinks over a particularly difficult problem, the way he leans forward and lets his hair fall around his face when he wants to hide a true smile, just a slight upturn of his lips and crows feet at the corner of his eyes. The tension in his shoulders and the flexing of his hands when he’s mad. The fire burning in his gaze when he’s well and truly angry in a way Arthur has only seen once, hand wrapped tightly around the handle of his sawed-off to disguise the trembling.
Arthur refuses to admit to anyone but himself why he’s been watching Charles so closely as of recent. It ain’t important to anyone else, sure as hell can’t be important to Charles, so Arthur stays silent and watches. Wakes up in the morning, eats breakfast, drinks coffee, and if he’s not working a job (which most often he is), fills his day with various chores, sneaking glances at Charles all the while. He’s not sure if Charles has ever noticed the weight of his gaze throughout the day, but if he has, it mustn’t have been notable enough to bring up in conversation, so Arthur keeps watching.
What he doesn’t expect is to feel Charles watching him back one day.
He had just left Dutch’s tent, their conversation playing over and over again in his mind as he rubbed at his chest, trying to soothe his cough.
“Dutch?” he had said quietly, approaching the man's tent with trepidation. He coughed slightly, his breath rattling in his chest. The man in front of him sighed and put his book down, squeezing the bridge of his nose with a finger and thumb.
“What do you want, Arthur? Can’t you see I’m a little busy?” Arthur nodded, taking his hat off and worrying the brim gently in between his hands.
“I–I know, this shouldn’ take up too much of yer time. I just–” He cut himself off with a coughing fit, lungs burning as he doubled over and gasped for breath, catching a small splatter of blood in his palm and wiping it on his pants.
“You should get that cough checked out,” Dutch said dismissively, arms crossing in front of his chest. “I can’t have my best gun out of commission right now, we need you.” Guilt burned through every inch of Arthur, and he felt lightheaded with the force of it.
“That’s, uh, that’s what I came to talk to ya about, actually. Went to a doctor in Saint Denis and, well… gotta be honest, it ain’t lookin’ good for me,” Arthur said, his throat feeling tight, nearly clogged with the next words. “‘M dying, Dutch. ‘M dying and there ain’t no cure.” The only person he had told up to this point was Charles, and it wasn’t any easier this time ‘round. It felt harder, seeing the indifference on Dutch’s face.
“And? Can you still ride? Shoot? Fight?” Dutch asked, still reclining in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest as if Arthur just told him he was going out for a job, nothing more. Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. “Then it don’t matter much, does it? You always knew you were gonna die for this gang, this doesn’t change anything.” Arthur was sure he had never felt worse than he did in that moment, hearing how little the man who raised him, his father, cared about the fact that he was dying.
“The doctor recommended rest,” Arthur said shakily, turning his gaze to the ground. “Somewhere warm and dry, he said.” He couldn’t stand to look Dutch in the eyes, especially not as the man barked out a harsh laugh.
“Rest? Ain’t no time for rest, Arthur! God, I hadn’t realized you’d become so selfish these days. I certainly didn’t raise you to be like that.” The words cut through him like nothing else had before, his breath catching in his throat and triggering another coughing fit. His eyes were watering, and he was sure it wasn’t just from the coughing. “Ain’t nobody in this camp has time to rest, least of all you. If anything, I need you working harder than ever before.” Arthur nodded, placing his hat snugly back on his head, keeping the brim tipped down to hide his reddening eyes.
“You can count on me, Dutch,” Arthur said, voice raspy and uneven.
“Good man, Arthur,” Dutch said and, by the sound of it, turned back to his table to pick up his book once more as if everything was okay, as if his own son didn’t just tell him he was dying. “We’ve got people out there, good people that need protecting. And there ain’t no one I trust more to protect them than you. You understand that, don’t ya?” Arthur nodded, hooking his thumbs into his gun belt, tracing over the texture of the leather with his fingers. “So you must understand why I need you more than ever right now. We both know it’s for the best, don’t we?” Arthur nodded again, forcing his tense shoulders to drop.
“I’ll do anything to keep ‘em all safe, you know that,” Arthur said, earning a quiet hum from Dutch and nothing else. It was obvious he wanted the conversation to be over, so Arthur dipped his head in goodbye and turned to leave the tent.
Now he’s sitting in front of the fire, a cup of coffee in hand as he plays over the conversation in his mind. Ultimately, as much as it hurts to think, Dutch must be right. Arthur is often seen as the most competent member of the gang, other than Dutch himself. No one goes on as many jobs as he does or brings in as much money and resources as he does, no one does as good of a job protecting the others as he does. He’s the guard dog, the workhorse, the protector, and he can’t take time to rest now, not when the gang is in so much trouble and needs more protection than ever. Can’t afford to let himself be that selfish.
It hurts, God does it hurt, but needs must when the devil drives.
As he’s finishing up his coffee, heart heavy but head clear, he swears he can feel the heaviness of someone’s gaze on the side of his face. He tries to ignore it, sit with it, let it pass, but he gets too curious and decides he has to look. Turning slightly, he happens to catch Charles’ eyes from across the camp and is shocked to see the incredible anger burning there.
Charles Smith is spittin’ mad. His shoulders are tense, both hands flexing at his sides where he sits on a tree stump a little ways away, leg bouncing restlessly in a way that is typically uncharacteristic of him. There’s a deep furrow in his brows and his expression is hard and impassive with a hot, angry fire burning away in his eyes. He looks like he’s smoldering with righteous fury, and Arthur feels his mouth go dry at the sight. Charles is beautiful, forever and always, but Arthur especially likes it when he can see raw emotion on his face. It’s a rare sight to see, but one that seems to crop up more when Arthur is around.
He decidedly doesn’t let himself think about the way that little fact makes him feel.
The feeling of Charles’ hot, heavy gaze on him makes him feel a little warm under the collar despite the anger blazing there. Now that he’s met the man's eyes, he feels captivated, unable to look away. Charles, holding Arthur’s gaze for a few seconds more, stands abruptly from the stump and storms into the woods. Arthur sits there aimlessly for a few seconds, blinking owlishly, unsure as to what just happened. He ain’t sure if Charles wants him to follow, ain’t sure if he wants company, ain’t even sure why Charles was looking at him with such anger, but eventually Arthur throws back the rest of his coffee, stashes his mug in his satchel, and goes to follow Charles.
It takes him a few minutes to find the man he’s looking for. He’s farther back in the woods than Arthur expected, the only trace of him the trampled path of weeds he left behind. When he finally finds Charles, he’s leaned up against a tree with his gaze turned towards camp, same furious expression on his face. His arms are folded tightly across his chest, hand clenched tightly around his bicep.
Arthur slows to a stop in front of him, heart suddenly rabbiting away in his chest, palms sweaty. He isn’t sure what to say, doesn’t know how to make things better, so he just rubs a hand over the back of his neck and asks, “Everythin’ alright, Charles?” The man glances at him for just a second before turning his gaze back towards camp, still glaring through the trees for reasons unknown to Arthur.
“No,” he says, sharp and flat. His voice is even, too even, and Arthur knows he’s going through great lengths to control himself right now. He’s incredibly tightly wound, and Arthur’s heart sinks in his chest.
“I’m, uh, ’m sorry to hear that,” Arthur mumbles, turning his gaze to the side and kicking at the weeds there. He feels so completely out of his depth, filled with the urge to help Charles but entirely unsure of how to go about it. “I can leave, if y’want, give ya some space an’–”
“I heard your conversation with Dutch,” Charles says suddenly, cutting Arthur off. His gaze snaps back up to Charles, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
“I ain’t sure ‘m following,” Arthur admits, combing back over the conversation with a fine-toothed comb. He can’t think of anything he said that Charles hadn’t known already, can’t think of anything he said that would inspire such an angry reaction from the man in front of him. “You already knew I was… sick,” he says, voice catching roughly on the last word. “Hell, yer the first person I told. Didn’ think hearin’ it again would matter that much.” Charles turns to him, some of the anger on his face replaced with disbelief, arms falling to rest by his side.
“What?” Charles says, eyes dancing over Arthur’s face. He shrugs one shoulder, hooking his thumbs into the gunbelt.
“I just–I’on know what I said to make you so mad, but whatever it was, I’m real sorry,” Arthur says, his voice so soft it can barely be heard over the rustling of the forest around them. He’s already on his second apology of the day, and this time he doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. He feels pathetic, already broken down and wilted from the heavy gaze of Dutch, even more so now from Charles’. All he seems to be doing recently is messing up, and suddenly it’s even more clear why Dutch acted the way he did earlier. Arthur was meant to be the protector, but he’s been making so many mistakes recently it’s no wonder Dutch feels the need to push him so hard despite his health. He needs to get his act together.
“You don’t–you don’t know why I’m angry?” Charles asks quietly, a sharp edge to his voice. Arthur feels as though he’s said something wrong again, but he doesn’t know how to fix it, so he just shrugs again, digging the toe of his boot into the soft earth beneath him as he shakes his head no. Charles pushes off the tree and takes a couple steps towards Arthur, his arms crossing over his chest again. “You don’t know?” Arthur shrinks under his gaze, shoulders collapsing in towards his chest. It makes it hard to breathe, but Arthur can’t bring himself to care.
“I really don’t,” Arthur says, heart aching. He knew he was having bouts of brain fog recently, but with this kind of a reaction, he's sure he said nothing good. Glancing up at Charles’ face, Arthur can see that his expression has fallen into something softer as his eyes track all over Arthur’s face.
“I ain’t mad at you, Arthur, not by a longshot,” Charles huffs out, backing up a little bit to give Arthur some space again, running a hand roughly through his hair. A flood of relief pours through Arthur and he lets out a long sigh, triggering a few rough coughs with the action. Charles is back to leaning against the tree, looking at Arthur with a strange expression on his face. “So you actually don’t know?”
“Can’t say that I do,” Arthur replies, and the words seem to do nothing but bring back some of Charles’ anger. He turns his gaze back towards camp, and Arthur can see the muscles in his clenched jaw twitching.
“It’s Dutch I’ve got a problem with,” Charles says angrily, and Arthur’s thoughts grind to a complete stop, a sharp pang of something he can’t name running through him.
“Dutch?” Arthur asks quietly, suddenly feeling like his stomach is tied up in knots, twisting and squeezing his insides uncomfortably. Charles’ eyes snap to him, narrow and full of that bright anger that Arthur can’t help but feel impossibly drawn to.
“Yes, Dutch,” Charles spits, and Arthur isn’t sure he’s ever heard the man’s voice laced with quite so much vitriol, save for that day they killed the poachers. “Like I said, I heard the conversation. You don’t need to try to pretend that he didn’t say what I heard.” Arthur just stares at him for a while, and his confusion must be evident on his face, as the longer he looks, the more his confusion is reflected in Charles’ expression. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I guess I jus’ ain’t sure what’s got you mad at Dutch, s’all,” Arthur says awkwardly. Charles just looks at him, the muscles in his jaw ticking in frustration.
“So I’m just supposed to ignore the fact that he told you he doesn’t care that you’re dying?” Charles asks, his voice intentionally flat in an attempt to mask the swell of emotions running through him.
“C’mon now, that ain’t exactly fair, is it?” Arthur asks, his tendency to defend Dutch bubbling up immediately. Hell, Arthur knew the man wasn’t perfect, far from it in fact, but he had raised Arthur into the man he was today. He might not even be here today were it not for Dutch saving his sorry hide all those years ago when he was just a kid living on the street. Sure, Dutch has made a few mistakes over the years, but so has Arthur, so has everyone else. The man does what he has to in the name of ensuring everyone's survival.
“Oh, it’s not fair?” Charles seethes, stalking towards Arthur once more. “Yeah, well, I don’t much think it’s fair for Dutch to act like your life is less important than ours, so forgive me if I’m not exactly thrilled about the fact he is.”
“Jus’ let it go, Charles. S’nothing you need to concern yerself with,” Arthur says, holding up a placating hand towards the man in front of him. He’s sure that Charles is wrong, that Dutch wouldn’t just throw his life away like that for absolutely no reason, but he’s suddenly feeling like a wrung-out washcloth and just wants this conversation to end so he can go lay down for a spell.
“Well, you don’t seem too concerned about it, figured one of us should be caring about your well-being. If it ain’t gonna be you, it might as well be me,” Charles says, crossing his arms over his chest and leveling a look at Arthur. Charles is a stubborn bastard, and Arthur is familiar with the look on his face. He isn’t going to let Arthur change his mind, at least not easily.
Luckily for Arthur, he’s far more stubborn and much more of a bastard than Charles could ever dream of being.
“You ain’t my keeper, Mister Smith, and I don’t much care for you actin’ as though I need one in the first place,” Arthur says, crossing his own arms in an unconscious mirror of Charles. “I been runnin’ with this gang for longer than I lived without ‘em, I know how to take care of myself. Dutch ‘n Hosea saw to that.”
“I’m not saying that you can’t take care of yourself,” Charles says, and Arthur can hear the frustration bleeding into his voice, unable to be kept at bay for any longer. “You’ve proved time and time again that you’re more than capable of that.” He pauses and looks up as if he’s trying to decide what to say next and the best way to say it. “I just… don’t necessarily trust you to make good decisions when Dutch is involved.”
The words send a bolt of anger through Arthur and he immediately takes a few steps closer to Charles, stifling a small cough in his fist. “An’ what's that supposed to mean?” He asks, anger evident in his voice, fists tightening at his side. “That man is my father in every way that counts, I suggest you tread carefully with what you're ‘boutta say.”
“I meant exactly what I said,” Charles replied hotly, shoving Arthur back by his shoulder. “And I’m done pretending that the way Dutch treats you is okay.” Pushing off the tree, Charles stalks past Arthur, running a hand roughly through his hair. “It ain’t right, Arthur, but you don’t seem to realize it.”
“Dutch ain’t treatin’ me unfairly, and I don't appreciate you suggestin’ that he is,” Arthur seethes, following after Charles and grabbing him roughly around the wrist, forcing him to stop. “He built this gang from the ground up and if you think that there’s anyone in that camp that Dutch wouldn’ lay down his life for, you must not know him very well. He’s sacrificed more’n enough to earn all of our respect.” Charles scoffs and roughly pulls his wrist out of Arthur’s tight grip, turning back to look at him. The bright, angry fire is still burning away in his eyes, and despite their growing argument, Arthur still feels drawn to it like a moth to flame.
“You know, in all the time I spent with the gang, I don’t think I’ve seen Dutch sacrifice half as much as you have,” Charles says, crowding Arthur’s personal space. “It’s always you going out on jobs, rescuing people from prison or bounty hunters, getting hunted, getting hurt. Hell, you’ve been tortured. You’ve gone through far more than you deserve and now you’re…” He trails off, as if the words are stuck in his throat. “You just told him you’re dying and he doesn’t care, and you’re okay with that?” Charles is yelling now, pushing steadily into Arthur’s space until he backs into a tree. This kind of closeness was something he usually hoped for when it came to Charles, but in this situation he couldn’t stop to appreciate it.
“It don’t matter!” Arthur snarls, the loud volume grating on his sore throat, voice cracking slightly. He feels distantly guilty that this whole conversation turned into an argument, but calling Dutch’s judgement into questions isn’t something Arthur can abide by. “It ain’t like ‘m gonna be around for much longer, so why should it matter if I get to rest or not? There are people out there, good people that need protectin’, an’ I don’t have time to sit on my ass while they’re in danger. Whether I die now or the sickness gets me, it’s all the same, ain’t it?”
“Of course it ain’t the same, you fool,” Charles snaps, cornering Arthur against the tree. “We both know you ain’t–ain’t got a lotta time left, but the time you do have could be spent away from the stress of this life. All Dutch is doing is running you into the ground, killing you faster. Don’t you want to live?” Arthur huffs out a self-deprecating laugh, turning his head in an attempt to get some distance between him and Charles’ burning gaze.
“It don’t much matter what I want,” he says resolutely, crossing his arms tightly in the space between them. “‘M a dead man walkin’, there ain’t anythin’ left for me anymore.” Arthur can feel his resolve begin to waver; he trusts Dutch, truly trusts him, but he can’t deny that he’s had all the same thoughts that Charles is voicing. Guilt courses through him like a wildfire.
“Oh, you ain’t got nothing left? Bullshit,” Charles seethes, jaw muscles clenching tightly. “You got a whole family out there, a family that loves you.”
“Ain’t much of a family at this point, is it?” Arthur replies, a stream of grief joining the anger flowing through his body. “We lost Mac ‘n Davey, we lost Jenny. Sean’s gone, so’s Lenny. Hell, we ain’t… we ain’t even got Hosea no more.” Arthur feels like he’s drowning, like he can’t breathe properly anymore, feels far too trapped under the weight of Charles’ anger. Another coughing fit pushes its way out of his throat, and try as he might, he can’t angle himself away fast enough. A few splatters of blood land on Charles’ shirt, though he seems unbothered.
Charles takes a deep breath and points back towards camp, and Arthur can just barely see his arm quivering before he pulls it back against his body. “What about John? Jack? The girls? Do they mean nothing to you anymore?” It looks like there’s something else he wants to say on the tip of his tongue, his jaw clenched tightly around the words, but he says nothing else.
He doesn’t name himself in that list of people Arthur should consider family, which fills Arthur with a quiet sadness that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
“They mean th’world to me,” Arthur says with an unsteady voice, staring out over Charles’ shoulder towards camp. “An’ that’s why I need to protect them with everythin’ I got. I can’t let ‘em die, not if I can help it.” Charles shakes his head, crowding into Arthur’s personal space ever-so-slightly and forcing him to meet his gaze.
“They want you around, Arthur. They want you to live as long as this sickness will allow. None of them want you running yourself into the ground for their sake,” Charles says firmly, eyes searching Arthur’s face for something. He takes a deep breath and continues, “Hosea would hate to see you doing this to yourself.” All of the anger that had been slowly draining out of Arthur rushes back into him in an instant.
“Fuck you,” Arthur spits, pushing Charles away from him by the shoulders. “That man was more of a father to me than my pa ever was, don’… don’ use him against me to win yer argument!” Charles grabs at Arthur’s wrist but he shakes him off, hands clenching tightly into fists. “You ain’t allowed to disrespect him or me like that.” He’s breathing quickly now, his lungs feeling tight and too small, and he doubles over, muscles spasming as he coughs roughly into his fist.
“That ain’t what I’m trying to do, just listen to me please–”
“I’m done listenin’ to you,” Arthur says hotly, voice gruff and strained, stumbling past Charles to pace back and forth across the forest floor. “‘M not havin’ this conversation anymore.”
“Arthur–”
“Leave me alone,” Arthur hisses, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the muscles in Charles’ jaw twitching, his hands clenched in tight fists at his side.
“You know what? Fine. If you want to stay here and sulk by yourself, be my guest. Come find me when you’ve calmed down and you’re willing to listen to someone with some sense,” Charles says, leveling one last harsh look at Arthur before stalking away, further into the woods. Arthur watches him as he leaves, anger still bubbling up under his skin.
As soon as Charles is out of sight, however, a wave of exhaustion hits Arthur and he collapses onto a log like a puppet with its strings cut. He rests his head in his hands, massaging his now-throbbing temples in an attempt to gain any amount of relief possible. He’s not sure how long he sits there, bogged down by his anger, his grief, his overwhelming exhaustion. The soft rustle of leaves behind him breaks him out of whatever stupor he had fallen into, and he sighs harshly when he recognizes the gait approaching him.
“Fuck off, Marston. I ain’t in the mood,” Arthur says gruffly, shooting a glare over his shoulder as John disregards him and drops down onto the same log right beside him.
“Well that’s too bad, ain’t it? ‘Cause I ain’t leaving until you get your head outta your ass.” Arthur sighs again, a dry, self-deprecating sound, and rubs his hands harshly over his face, stifling a cough in his palm.
“Can’t a man have a conversation wit’ someone without the whole world hearin’ anymore?”
“He can, if he ain’t shoutin’ so loud that every goddamn person within two miles’a here can hear him,” John says matter-of-factly. “Which you were, by the way. Can’t say it ain’t my business if it ain’t my fault I heard it in the first place. Couldn’t’a ignored it even if I wanted to.” Arthur lifts his head, heavy and still throbbing, out of his hands to turn and level another glare at John.
“Well, if yer here to tell me to be quiet, it’s a bit too late for that.”
“I’m here to tell you you’re bein’ a dumbass,” John shoots back at him, “and an asshole. And a fuckin’ idiot.”
Arthur clenches his teeth together and lets his head fall heavily back into his hands. “I tol’ you, I really ain’t in the mood for this,” he grinds out, once again massaging his temples.
“An’ I already told you that I ain’t leavin’ until you get some sense knocked into that thick skull’a yours,” John says, sliding off the log to rest his lower back against it. “Start with takin’ off your hat if your head hurts so much.” With that, John reaches back to smack Arthur’s hat off his head, the hat falling to the ground with a soft thump.
He wants to be angry, wants to yell at John and tell him to leave or Arthur will make him leave, but there’s some small part of him that is reminded of when they were younger and still growing up together; back when Marston was nothing but an annoying teenager, when Arthur would yell and scream at him but would still put himself in harms way for John because they were family in every way that mattered.
Some deeply hidden part of himself misses those days, feels a deep grief over the fact that they’re long gone. Things were simpler back then, when it was just Dutch, Hosea, him, and John. He misses squabbling with John like he did back then, when they didn’t have the weight of their mistakes pulling them down, making them mean and bitter.
Sighing, he runs his fingers through his hair to massage the back of his head and sits up, forearms braced against his thighs.
“Fine. ‘M listenin’.” John whips his head back to look at Arthur, a baffled expression on his face as if he didn’t quite expect to get this far. He shakes it off quickly, turning his gaze back to the trees in front of him.
“I heard everythin’ Charles said, and I can’t say I disagree with anythin’ he’s sayin’,” John says, his words quiet but firm. “Me, Jack, Abigail, the other women, we all started noticin’ that Dutch is runnin’ you harder than he needs to. You ain’t been yourself recently. Ain’t seen you sit with your journal as often.”
As much as Arthur hates to admit it, John is right. He’s been working job after job, and when he’s not doing that he’s helping with camp chores, and when he’s not doing that he’s too exhausted to do much else other than collapse into bed.
“Yeah, well… Dutch ain’t got much of a choice, does he?” Arthur says, exhaustions finally seeping into his voice.
“He does have a choice,” John says, picking up a twig and stripping the bark off of it as he speaks. “I ain’t tryin’ to say I’m nearly as competent as you, but I’m sure I could handle at least half’a the jobs he’s givin’ you. Hell, he could send Charles or Javier, they’re plenty smart. We also got Bill, and the women are clever enough to figure things out.” He pauses for a second, letting the words sink into Arthur’s mind. “An’ I know you, I know you’d rather take the jobs yerself t’keep everyone else safe, but it ain’t right for Dutch to put all this on you when he’s got plenty’a people to send. ‘Specially not with–with you bein’ sick an’ all.”
Arthur sighs, turning his head away from John. He had been hoping that keep that away from the rest of camp for as long as he could, but the information must be out now, considering his conversation with Dutch and his shouting match with Charles.
“So you heard, then,” Arthur says quietly, wringing his hands together.
“Like I said, it was kinda hard not to hear yer yellin’,” John says, voice tight. “Everyone in camp heard. Yer gonna have a lot of angry people to apologize to.” Arthur huffs out a small laugh at that, turning to look at the ground between his feet.
“‘M sure I will.”
They’re both quiet for a few minutes, sitting in the discomfort of the thick silence. John is the first to break it.
“Why didn’ you tell us you’re dyin’?” The question is sudden and blunt, and Arthur feels guilty at the sadness in John’s voice.
“I’on know, really. Guess I just didn’ want to tell folks until I knew we were outta the fire and safe for a spell. Didn’ want people thinkin’ I couldn’t handle myself, neither. I can’t be weak, not right now.” Arthur pauses, debates on how honest he truly wants to be with John, and decides that he might as well take the plunge and tell him. “Didn’ want…” he trails off, unsure of how to finish his sentence.
“Didn’ want their pity,” John finishes for him, and Arthur hums in affirmation, digging the heel of his boot into the ground.
“I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about the looks on folks’ faces if I tol’ them,” Arthur admits, hands still wringing tightly together. “You, Jack, all the women. Dutch.” The name catches uncomfortably in his throat, and he rattles out a cough before continuing. “Didn’ think I could stand it.” John sighs, and out of the corner of his eye Arthur sees him nodding.
“I felt the same way when you rescued me from the mountains. Almost wanted to ask you to leave me out there for the wolves to finish me off. Couldn’ stand the thought of folks at camp seeing me like that. Didn' mean I wanted to die, but I didn' want to be seen as weak ” The sudden honesty from John has Arthur reeling, and he picks up his head to look at John. He’s still looking out into the forest ahead of him, stripping the bark off of another stick. “But everyone helped me through it. They’ll help ya through this too, if you let ‘em, even though the ending ain’t gonna be too pretty.”
Arthur considers it, for just a second. Heading back to camp, admitting to the worried faces of his family that he’s well and truly exhausted and that he’s not sure he can keep going for much longer. They tell him not to worry about it, usher him to bed, have someone sit with him so he doesn’t get too lonely while everyone else conjures up some sort of miracle plan to get everyone to safety after making just enough money to buy a nice homestead. They settle down, and Arthur hangs on just long enough to see everyone finally, truly happy and free.
He shakes his head, dislodging the thought from the front of his mind. It’s a pretty thought, but that’s all it can ever be. “Can’t let ‘em take care of me, not when ‘m supposed to be takin’ care of all’a them. I’d be lettin’ ‘em all down.”
“And that’s where you bein’ a fuckin’ idiot comes in,” John says, elbowing Arthur’s shin. “Ain’t nobody in their right mind would feel let down by this. Ain’t your fault, is it?” Thinking back to his conversation with Dutch, he curls in on himself.
“Dutch ain’t too happy about it,” Arthur says quietly, and for a stretch of time, there’s no response from John.
After a few minutes, he finally speaks up. “I heard Charles sayin’ that he don’t think Dutch is treatin’ you right anymore, and I think he’s right. I ain’t sure Dutch’s in his right mind these days. ‘Specially not after Hosea died.” The words feel heavy in the air around them. Months ago, it would’ve seemed unthinkable to say such a thing about Dutch, but Arthur can’t deny that he's changed from the man he once knew, different from the man who raised him like a son.
“I know,” Arthur admits quietly, “I been seein’ it coming for a bit now. Ain’t wanted to admit it but… seems like other people are noticin’ too.” John hums and nods, throwing little bits of tree bark at the ground.
“An’ speakin’ of Hosea…” John starts, voice soft and hesitant, “Charles was right about that, too. He would hate to see you exhaustin’ yourself like this, ‘specially when you should be restin’. And I know you know that.” Arthur sighs, rubbing his hands roughly over his face, taking extra care to massage his tense jaw.
“Yeah…” He trails off, letting his head fall into his hands once more. “I know.”
His breath wheezes softly in the silence, his throat and lungs feeling impossibly tight. Arthur can’t remember the last time he talked about his inner thoughts so candidly, especially for this length of time. He’s exhausted, wrung out, and all he wants to do is sleep.
John, however, continues the conversation. “If you knew,” he starts, turning slightly to look back at Arthur, “why were you such an asshole to Charles about it?” With that he punches Arthur’s shoulder, jostling him hard enough that he lifts his head to glare at John.
“What the fuck was that for?” Arthur asks gruffly, rubbing his tender shoulder.
“Because you deserved it,” John says flippantly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now, again, why were you an asshole to Charles? You nearly bit his head clean off for mentionin’ Hosea, but not mine. God knows he ain’t deservin’ of your wrath, ‘specially not when he’s just tryin’ to show concern just the same as I am.” Arthur brushes a hand through the plants around his feet, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
“I guess I just ain’t over his death yet,” Arthur says, bracing his elbows back against his knees. “I get so angry, I ain’t always thinkin’ straight when it comes to him.”
“Seems like you ain’t thinkin’ the straightest when it comes to Charles, either,” John mutters under his breath, quiet, but definitely loud enough that Arthur knows he wants to be heard. Arthur’s heart jumps in his chest, a quick spike of panic that causes him to cough, blood splattering on the plants in front of him.
“What’s that supposed t’mean?” Arthur asks, his words quick and on edge. John raises his hands in surrender before pushing himself off the ground and brushing the dirt off of his pants.
“It don’ need to mean nothin’,” John says, putting his hands on his hips. “Jus’… go talk to him. Apologize. And just keep in mind that you may not be as alone in how yer thinkin’ and feelin’ as you might assume.” He rests a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, an uncharacteristically gentle touch, and smiles down at him, eyes sad. “We’re here for you, brother.”
Arthur returns his smile and places his hand over John’s for just a second. “Thanks, kid.” The word slips out without Arthur meaning it to, but John just barks out a laugh, pulling his hand out from under Arthur’s and punching him softly in the shoulder.
“Ain’t much of a kid anymore, Morgan!”
“Get a lil’ bigger an’ people might actually start believin’ you when you say that!” Arthur calls back, which earns him a rude gesture thrown over John’s shoulder as he saunters away. He can see his shoulders shaking in laughter though, and feels a strange ache somewhere in his chest as he pushes himself up off the log with a grunt, grabbing his hat off the ground and carrying it at his side.
He distantly wonders, not for the first time, if he’ll be able to miss people after he’s gone.
Wandering through the woods in the vague directions he remembers Charles storming off in, walking slowly in an attempt to have all of his thoughts gathered before he finds him, though he’s unsure as to how well that plan is currently working out. His thoughts are scattered, his mind running a mile a minute. He takes the time to stop and appreciate little wildflowers and the pattern and texture of the bark on the trees, things he hasn’t had time for recently with all his running around.
By the time he reaches the small clearing where Charles is sitting against a tree, he feels more like himself than he has in weeks. “Hi, Charles,” he breathes out, bringing his hand up in a small wave.
“Arthur,” Charles says with a sharp nod, not quite meeting his eyes yet. Arthur stifles a cough into his fist, breath wheezing.
“Mind if I, uh, join ya?” Arthur asks, awkward and uncertain of himself. He still hasn’t completely ironed out what he wants to say to Charles, but he’s hoping he manages not to dig himself deeper into the hole he’s in.
“Long as you ain’t planning on shouting at me,” Charles says conversationally, earning him a small wince from Arthur.
He certainly deserved that one.
“Ain’t plannin’ on doin’ anythin’ like that,” Arthur says firmly, moving to sit shoulder to shoulder with Charles against the tree, placing his hat beside him. “Jus’… wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. Real sorry. I shouldn’t’a yelled at you like that, ‘sepcially not when you was just tryin’ to help. I was bein’ an asshole.” Charles hums, still not turning to face Arthur yet. Arthur sighs, pulling his right knee to his chest, his other leg stretched out in front of him. “I ain’t been havin’ such an easy time recently, and I know that ain’t no reason to treat you like that, but it’s the truth.”
“Will you talk to me about it?” Charles asks as if he’s nearly pleading with Arthur. His breath catches in his throat at such a candid question, triggering a long coughing fit. He’s exhausted by the end of it, forehead resting on his knee as he gasps and wheezes.
“M’not sure where to start, if ‘m bein’ honest,” he rasps out, lungs still feeling tight.
“Start anywhere. Just… talk to me, please,” Charles says, and Arthur takes a deep breath, his heart stuttering in his chest. God, if only Charles knew what he did to him.
“I ain’t been feeling good recently,” Arthur admits, starting with the easiest thing to get off his chest. “I been sick before, I been injured, but I ain’t never felt this bad for long before. Obviously m’dealing with the cough, but it seems like I never stop bein’ exhausted. Feel like my body is startin’ to give out on me, I ain’t quite so strong as I used to be, and it’s hard for me t’stay awake when I’m not doin’ somethin’. But once I do get to sleep, it ain't ever restful. Feel the same when I wake up as I did before sleepin’.” He sees Charles nod through the curtain of hair currently obscuring his face. Arthur takes that as his sign to continue, so he pulls in as deep a breath as he can and plugs along.
“I ain’t been feelin’ much like myself, either. Haven’t been writin’ or drawin’ much anymore. An’ I get real angry out of nowhere these days, like my short fuse has been cut shorter.”
“I noticed,” Charles says wryly, tucking his hair behind his ear as he finally turns to meet Arthur’s gaze. His eyes that had been filled with burning, righteous anger earlier are now filled with concern and sincerity, and it sends a bolt of something through Arthur’s heart. “You also haven’t been standing up for yourself much anymore.” He sounds hesitant to bring it up as if he’s worried Arthur is going to freak out again, and Arthur swears that he’s never going to let his temper get the best of himself like that with Charles ever again. “You–you shrunk away from me earlier, when you thought I was angry with you. You didn’t try to defend yourself, not to me, and not to Dutch either.”
Arthur sighs and stretches his right leg out in front of him to join the left, resting a hand on each thigh. “You’re right,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “It just feels like it ain’t worth much defendin’ myself anymore. M’not gonna be around for much longer, it seems silly standing up for myself when all this won’t matter in a couple’a weeks.”
“Then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought,” Charles says, voice soft and tinged with a sort of sadness. Arthur chuckles, tipping his head back to rest it against the tree.
“You ain’t the first person to tell me that today, but you were a helluva lot nicer about it than John was,” Arthur jokes, earning him a small, dry laugh from Charles. His heart starts rabbiting away in his chest and he smiles, happy that he can still make Charles laugh despite being an absolute ass earlier.
“No, I don’t imagine John has much tact with things,” Charles says, getting another small laugh out of Arthur. “What else have you been strugglin’ with?” Arthur sighs as he’s brought back to their original topic, starting to wring his hands together gently in his lap.
“I been… missin’ people a lot recently, and it ain’t even when I been away from camp. I’ll be standin’ in front of someone and I’ll jus’ start to wonder if I’ll be able to miss ‘em when I’m gone, and then I can’t stop m’self from startin’ to miss them now, even if they’re right in front’a me. Hell, I was just talkin’ to John and I miss him, I’m talkin’ to you an’ I–I–” He can’t bring himself to finish his sentence, the words catching uncomfortably in his throat. He’s getting choked up, and try as he might, he can’t push his emotions down anymore.
“Hell, Charles, I’m–I’m scared. More scared than I’ve been about anythin’ in my life,” he says, breath starting to come out in short, shallow gasps. He’s wringing his hands together harder now, nails digging harshly into his skin. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about leavin’ folks behind, dyin’ when we still ain’t safe and I ain’t here to protect ‘em anymore. Keep thinkin’ ‘bout all the time I’ve wasted with people, all the time I spent bein’ mad at John, an’ now my time is runnin’ out and ‘m realizin’ just how much I wasted being angry at folks.”
Taking a deep, rattling breath, Arthur steels himself for what he’s about to do next. He swore he would never tell Charles, but he can’t carry that secret with him to the grave anymore.
His voice starts to waver, his hands shaking in his lap. “I ain’t ever had the chance to tell you that I’m… sweet on ya,” Arthur says in a whisper, voice trembling, tears gathering in his eyes. “An’ now I’m probably ruinin’ everythin’, but I couldn’t leave without you knowin’ and I’m sorry but–”
Charles’ hands are suddenly on his, prying them apart and soothing the half-moon marks left all over his skin from his nails. “You ain’t ruinin’ anything,” Charles says, sounding breathless and awestruck. “God, you fool, couldn’t you tell I’m sweet on you too?” Arthur’s gaze snaps to Charles’, eyes wide, tears starting to run down his face. Charles’ eyes seem as though they’re full of tears too, and Arthur just collapses against him, pressing his face roughly into Charles’ shoulder.
He waited too long to tell him. Charles feels the same way, and now they’re out of time and it’s all his fault. He’s dreamed of holding Charles’ hands, talking to him under the shade of a tree about everything he feels, but not like this.
Now he’s dying, they’re out of time, and it’s eating him up inside.
“Fuck,” he says roughly, curling in on himself, squeezing Charles’ hands tightly in between his own. “Should’a told you sooner. Should’a told you when I first found out. We ain’t got no time left anymore, we ain’t–”
“We still got time,” Charles says, his voice soothing but filled with desperation. Giving Arthur’s hand a quick squeeze, he brings his own up to cup Arthur’s face and bring his gaze up, wiping away tears with his thumb. “Long as we’re both livin’ and breathin’ we still got time, don’t we?” He brings his other hand up to Arthur’s other cheek, eyes roving over his face.
Arthur wraps a hand around Charles’ wrist and leans heavily into his hand, shaking his head slightly. “It ain’t never gonna be enough,” he says, voice gruff. “Even if I told you the day I started feelin’ this way, it still wouldn’t’a been enough time.” He was given a beautiful gift, complete with the knowledge that it would be ripped from his hands in a matter of weeks.
“We’ll figure things out,” Charles says with conviction, resting his forehead gently against Arthur’s. “Whatever time we have left, we’ll cherish it as much as we can. It’ll have to be enough.”
Arthur’s eyes track all over Charles’ face, his eyes, nose, lips, scar, taking in all of the details in hope that wherever he ends up he can still remember Charles’ face.
Charles brushes a thumb softly over Arthur’s cheek, and as he moves in closer, Arthur thinks back on how he got sick and pushes Charles away in a panic. “Charles, I–I can’t let you do that,” Arthur says quietly. It feels like someone stuck him in the heart with something sharp and he’s bleeding out, grief and sadness flowing out of him like blood. “I don’ know how this thing spreads, but I remember him coughin’ on my face and gettin’ somethin’ on me an’ I jus’–I can’t risk it with you.”
Charles sighs and nods, rubbing his hands roughly over his face before looking back up at Arthur. “Okay, nothin’ like that, I’ll keep that in mind. Will you at least come sit with me again?” Charles asks, arms outstretched towards Arthur. A blush rises on his cheeks, unused to Charles being so free with his offer of physical touch.
Wasting no time, Arthur moves himself closer to Charles where he can situate himself comfortably in the crook of his body, head tucked securely under Charles chin. Charles slings an arm over his shoulder and holds one of Arthur’s hands with his free one, rubbing a thumb soothingly over his knuckles.
Arthur melts into his side, the events of the day finally catching up with him. His muscles are sore and aching, and he’s starting to have trouble keeping his eyes open.
“Charles?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you,” Arthur whispers quietly, eyes fluttering closed. “‘M tired an’ ’m scared, but things don’ seem so scary when you’re around.”
“Rest, Arthur,” Charles says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Arthur’s head
Distantly, he can feel a hand running softly through his hair, and he wishes he had enough energy to return the favor. He hums, half asleep already, but with one thing still on his mind.
“I don’ think I wanna die for this gang anymore. An’… an’ ‘m not sure the gang is good for anyone anymore. We need to start gettin’ folk out of here.” Charles hums again, pulling Arthur impossibly closer to his side.
“I think you’re right,” he says, “but that’s something we can figure out later. For now, you need some rest.”
Arthur nods, tries to let go of his worries for the time being, and lets himself drift off to sleep in the arms of the man he trusts more than anyone else.