Chapter Text
Arthur always prefered scenery over people. As lonely as that sounded, he didn’t think much of it. Pine trees and mountains kept still, for one, unlike the antsy outlaws that roamed around camp like ghosts. Plus, he could always count on the nature as a constant, something that he could rely on to always be there. At least in his lifetime, anyway. Living as a wanted man, life is always changing; drastically. Arthur learned many years ago that while the gang greatly resembles a family, you are expected to keep your demons to yourself.
“No one can fight the battles for you, my boy.”
The words had slipped off Dutch’s tongue so easily, that Arthur had felt compelled to believe that they were the truth.
Whiskey serves as a remedy for the monsters, probably why saloons never seem to close. Some smoke their monsters away, some sorry souls give into theirs and go insane. Arthur hasn’t quite reached his limit yet, but he might soon enough. He’d prefer a noose over anything else, really.
Skimming through the thick pages of his journal, Arthur glared at his drawings with a critical eye. He never felt as though he could capture the moment right. He thinks it might just be one of those odd things that the brain seems to always do. It doubts itself, insults itself, and never seems satisfied with it’s own efforts.
Amidst his thoughts, Arthur stumbled upon foreign writing etched into the page roughly. He paused and furrowed his brow, trying to place the handwriting. Each letter was slightly larger than the last and the cursive seemed more like an attempt at connecting the letters without care.
It was John’s without a doubt.
Arthur wanted to feel frustration and anger in the pit of his stomach, he wanted to groan and pout at the thought of John messing with his things, but he didn’t. Instead, warmth bloomed in his chest and his heart adopted an irregular beat. A mental image of John’s childish smile clouded Arthur’s thoughts as he read the sloppy note.
not bad morgan, not bad at all. why didnya show me these before? heres to hopin you aint too mad at me for stealin your journal.
John hadn’t capitalized single word, not even Arthur’s name, let alone add apostrophes where they were needed. And Arthur couldn’t get enough of it.
“What a damn fool, that boy,” Arthur murmured to himself quietly. A grin pulled at his lips as he closed the journal and tucked it safely into his satchel.
He lazily struck a match against his boot and then heaved himself up. A thin flame danced atop the match. Arthur took a cigarette in his hand, held it between his pointer and middle finger, then brought the flame to the end of his cigarette. It glowed to life as Arthur brought it up to his lips. He inhaled the smoke, letting it burn in his lungs for a few moments, and then exhaled. The end of the cigarette glowed a deep sunset orange.
He trudged out into the main room of the cabin without much commitment, then paused. Surveying the silent room, his gaze fell on Dutch and Hosea who were staring into the blazing flames of the fireplace. They sat in sturdy wood chairs and the two looked strangely pleased. Only when Arthur focused his gaze did he notice their hands were interwoven. He felt a certain level of comfort in seeing them relaxing with one another for once in a long while. Arthur would go as far as to say he was glad they were together. Dutch had been batting one-hundred since the burning down of Sadie Adler’s estate and Hosea seemed to bring him back down to a calm ten. Figuring they should be left alone, Arthur slipped quickly out of the cabin without much fuss from the creaky door.
The bone-chilling wind hit him like a wall as he brought his worn out hat over his face. The worst thing about the cold was the way it nipped at your skin, making your cheeks and hands burn with dissatisfaction. Arthur hadn’t really taken much of a liking to cold weather, especially when it interfered with Spring.
He supposed he should speak with John, seeing as it would lighten his mood before he went anywhere in the vicinity of Micah and the others. Arthur despised that shell of a man, especially after how he treated Mrs. Adler just a day or two prior. He never understood what Dutch saw in the slug and why Hosea didn’t convince Dutch to give him the boot. ‘Lord knows everyone hates the son of a bitch.
Arthur took another draw from his cigarette. He inhaled the smoke, it whirled around in his lungs, and he blew it out into the cold air. He neared Javier, who was standing guard outside of one of the cabins and clearly not enjoying it. A scowl was plastered on his tired face and he shivered at the passing breeze.
“You alright, Javier?” Arthur asked gruffly, but with honest concern in his voice. Javier looked over at Arthur halfheartedly and sighed, a white cloud escaping his chapped lips.
“To be honest with you, hell no. I’m freezing my culo off,” he replied bitterly. Arthur let out a deep chuckle and gave his friend an apologetic pat on the back.
“I’d take over for ya’, but I need to have a word with Johnny Boy.” Javier laughed at the nickname, seemingly distracting him from the cold for a few moments.
“You seen him?” Arthur asked.
“No, surprisingly, I haven’t seen him in camp. Check in with Abigail, she follows him like a bloodhound,” he offered. The cowboy’s lips thinned into a flat expression. That bastard sure is hard to find when he wants to be. Javier gave Arthur a weak smile and a small shrug. Arthur thanked him and turned his heel.
He walked across the camp, the chilling winds playfully grabbing for his hat along the way. Once reaching the cabin, Arthur pushed open the heavy door and let it fall behind him with a bang. The women looked up at him with mixed curiosity and what looked to be fear until they realized it was only Arthur. He didn’t pay too much attention to them and beelined straight for Abigail, who was on the floor. She held Jack in her arms as he started to slip into a light sleep.
“Abigail,” Arthur greeted, tipping his hat over his eyes. She looked up at him and smiled faintly.
“Hello, Arthur. What can I do you for?”
“Have you seen John ‘round camp? I’ve been lookin’ for him.” His question warranted a confused expression to wash over Abigail’s face. Arthur raised his brow expectantly until she came to a realization.
“Didn’t he tell you?” Arthur stayed silent, showing he didn’t understand what she was talking about. Abigail continued on, “He went huntin’. Left about an hour or so ago.” She looked back down at her son, who started to stir and wiggle in her lap.
“I’m afraid that ain’t possible, ma’am. Charles went out a few hours ago alone. Told John and me himself,” Lenny chirped from the far corner of the cabin. Arthur hadn’t noticed him after he walked through the cabin door but, then again, he had gone straight towards Abigail in an attempt to find the man in question.
It seemed to dawn on Arthur first what had actually happened to John. His teeth began to grind together viciously as he balled up his fist. He had run away. Again. Arthur emitted a low grumble and told Lenny to notify Dutch he was leaving, immediately.
Lenny nodded quickly and sharply, avoiding Arthur’s look of pure rage. He stumbled out of the man’s path and looked over at Abigail knowingly. She sighed quietly to herself and shook her head lightly at Lenny. John was in for some hell.
Arthur launched like hungry wolf after a fawn. He stomped out of the cabin, slamming the door with a bone-rattling growl. He didn’t give a damn if he startled the whole camp.
(Though, he may feel a little pang of guilt if he ended up waking Jack from his slumber.)
Anger twisted his stomach in knots, just the feeling he had wanted a few minutes before had now been coursing through his veins like snake venom.
“That son of a bitch!” Arthur yelled with fury, lava bubbling in his belly while he roared. He threw the cigarette into the snow, unhitched his horse, and slid onto the saddle with ease. Arthur spotted prints of horse hooves in the snow, leading towards a mountain and hoped they belonged to John’s mare. With a click of his tongue and a kick of his heel, the horse galloped through the snow at a hasty speed.
Arthur could have sworn he heard Dutch calling after him with a worrisome tone, but it could have been is overworked mind. Maybe his mind also instilled an image of Hosea, a hand resting on his hip and a hand over his face in dismay over Arthur’s rash actions.
Maybe.
Almería had been fostering long, steady gallops for God knows how long and there were still no real signs of John. His horse’s tracks faded the farther Arthur travelled up the mountain, so he began to rely on his own intuition. Arthur may have still been seething with anger, but a small sliver of his conscious reminded him of something he wished he had forgotten.
It nagged at the back of his skull, like a fly buzzing anxiously into his ear. That miniscule part of his brain ached and had good reason to. See, there were 3 facts his memory had stored in that sliver. Saved for later. For reminiscing.
Fact one: Arthur’s face would flush violently whenever John teased him. It didn’t matter if the boy’s anecdote was clever or dumbfounding; Arthur always seemed to react the same way. Every damn time.
Fact two: Arthur’s skin would physically burn whenever their hands touched. The first time this occurred, Pearson had announced that his venison stew was done cooking. One by one, each outlaw reached for their own respective bowl. Shockingly, John and Arthur had reached for the same bowl. The boy’s fingers lingered over the back of Arthur’s hand. At first, Arthur thought he had burned himself until his body ignited his fire-kissed skin at John’s apology.
Fact three: John’s ludicrous laugh made Arthur’s spine tingle. Somedays, the faintest giggle escaped John’s lips, others he would guffaw loudly. On both occasions, Arthur always felt his legs turn to jelly and a spark in his back.
He wanted desperately to forget these well-known laws that he hated so, but nothing was ever that easy. It never was with John.
His horse, Almería, huffed and came to a slower pace as she noticed the sun falling quickly behind the horizon. Arthur was drawn from out of his thoughts and grumbled at Almería’s sighting.
“Come on, girl. Just a little further,” he whispered softly to the mare, stroking her mane gently. She whimpered tiredly, but obliged.
Relief fell onto Arthur’s expression as he spotted a small nook in the mountain, resembling a cave. He kicked lightly at his horse as it trotted into their new campgrounds. Arthur hitched Almería farther back into the cave-like space so she would keep warm. He quickly began to unpack all he had on his horse, which wasn’t much.
Thankfully, Arthur had packed his bedroll by some miracle and laid it out on the uneven stone floor. Dry sticks littered the ground of the nook and Arthur gathered every last one, struck a match on the wall, and lit the fire.
Before the sun had completely set, he had put together a mediocre camp himself. Arthur’s pride over his little spread quickly morphed into exhaustion as he slumped against the nook’s wall. The temperature had dropped rapidly as expected and the wind howled outside of the enclosure.
Arthur reached into his satchel and pulled out a small sum of hardened jerky. He gnawed on the stale piece as an attempt to trick his growling stomach. As he worked on the jerky, Arthur pulled out his journal and it fell open to the page.
John’s page.
The outlaw couldn’t stop himself from tracing a weary finger over the messy cursive. His gut knotted together tightly and Arthur felt a sudden longing for John’s calm voice to be there alongside him, rambling joyfully. The glow from the fire casted a shadow from Arthur’s finger and it loomed over the words mad at me.
He swallowed thickly and closed his journal. Sleep haunted Arthur’s eyelids, threatening them to close. He slid cautiously onto his bedroll and fell into a light doze, dreaming of venison stew and John Marston’s burning fingers.