Chapter Text
“Kieran! Hey, after your done with feeding the horses, fetch me that one big crate of canned food right behind Arthur’s tent, will ya? It’s the least you could do.”
John Marston’s head jolted up when Mr. Pearson practically shouted in his ear, the gang’s cook only standing a foot to his left as, for once, he was helping prepare dinner after losing in Five Finger Fillet against Sean. “Damn, Pearson, the hell did I do to you? ‘Bout cut my hand off!” John barked through a smug smile, gaining a chuckle from the man before proceeding to slide the wet, glistening butcher’s knife through a thick chunk of seasoned meat.
Looking up, Kieran looked ten times as spooked, those big sacks of horse feed only putting more weight on his shoulders than he needed. It was clear that he didn’t want to, and that became even more evident when his lips parted, “oh, um, I’m sorry, Mr. Pearson and Mr. Marston, but it’s going to be a while until I can, I just started and-”
Just when Mr. Pearson was about to interrupt the poor guy, John blurted, “I can do it.”
The two opposing men blinked, their puzzled gazes shifting straight onto Marston who simply swapped stares in between the two. Only several seconds passed before Kieran tore the silence with a quick, “Thank you, John,” parting off without the mere chance of being stopped by either of them.
Pearson’s gaze honed sharp, looking Marston up and down before returning attention back on his work.
“Why do I have a feeling that you’re tryna get out of doing this chore, Mr. Marston?” The cook questioned, his voice stern but his face giving it away that he didn’t care.
“Because that’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Mr. Pearson.”
The man gave a hearty laugh before going back to preparing dinner, swatting John off as if he were a nagging fly in his ear. Gladly, Marston buzzed off.
To be frankly honest with himself, not only did he want to get away from listening to the cook’s blabbering advice on how to perfectly formulate a stew better than a king’s while constantly telling him that he did something wrong, John was curious to know what Arthur was up to. Sometimes a little talk with Arthur helped brighten his mood and assisted him to stick it through the remainder of the day.
Nearing Arthur’s area in a soft saunter, John keenly scratched the scruff embedded around the gnarled scars marking up the right side of his cheek, wondering what Arthur would say to him time. He hoped it’d be more than a fellow hello, but he couldn’t deny to himself that there was a swelling jumble of eagerness nested deep in his stomach that wanted more than a plain hello.
Without realizing he had been smirking, the tension in his lips quickly faded when the man he had been looking for was nowhere in sight around the comforts of his tent.
John muttered something inaudible deep beneath a tired exhale, a spread of disappointment washing through his body before he picked his feet back up. Usually, Arthur would be sat on his cot, sketching away, but this time he and his journal were nowhere to be found.
Rounding the corner of the camp member’s tent to retrieve the crate that Mr. Pearson requested, it felt as if a flaming dart struck the bullseye of his chest.
There against the damned wooden crate was Arthur planted on the earth’s plush, green surface, head dipped, hanging soft. The elder was still, one leg sprawled to the side and the other loosely crunched up to his chest, his weathered hands folded sloppily in his lap. Not a peep creaked from the being, not even the slightest of a snore. He was as silent as the grave.
John’s mouth hung open lightly, struck still in time from realizing how peaceful, warm, and soft the scene splayed out before him. From the soft rustle of leaves brushing up against one another from the towering forests’ trees hugging the camp to the dim shadows cast over the man’s body, it was all so-..so mesmerizing? It looked like a painting in his eyes, a professional painting that could be seen in a rich gallery.
Arthur’s chest heavily rose as he breathed in, stirring his hat to tip up slightly before falling back down on the bridge of his nose, a repeating cycle that had Marston staring like a hawk. He couldn’t move his eyes away even if he wanted to, they were glued transfixed.
Shaking his head swiftly, John pressed the tips of his fingers against the creases in his own eyes, rubbing them hard as he pondered.
“Why am I staring so hard..? What’s gotten over me? What are you doing, Marston? Just staring at Arthur having a nap, you’re a goddamn creep. What if you woke up and found him just watching you? How would you like th-,” John thought in his silence of his head, coming to a realization that he wouldn’t mind that…
He wouldn’t mind that at all.
He’d definitely make it out to seem like he did in fact mind, but deep down he would know that he didn’t.
Maybe.. Arthur wouldn’t mind either.
Slinking close, but staying cautious, John stepped alongside the older one. He contained his breathing to faint, short huffs, not wanting to make a sound too loud that could possibly agitate the other. Bending down, John plopped in the silky blanket of grass that surrounded themselves, arms resting at his side with legs bent loose before himself.
He had to sit and rest for just a moment, even if it was a minute. This was peaceful, tranquil, and pacifying.
Why did he have to sit right next to the sleeping fool? He wasn’t sure. It just.. Felt right, he guessed.
He couldn’t lie, he was liking this a lot. It was a lot different than the bickering and joking that usually tied the camp together, that was for sure. For once, he found a sliver of peace sat perfectly hidden right within the camp’s confines.
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get this again.
While sitting alongside Arthur Morgan, John still couldn’t help but stare only at his face, analyzing everything. Being so close to the sleeping man, he couldn’t help but pick up on the smallest of things. Small things like the way Arthur breathed thickly into the black bandana that covered half of his face, or the way his skin twitched in response to a pestering bug. Although, there was something that wasn’t so small that he promptly caught onto the second he was set in the grass.
The smell.
Taking a deep breath, John’s throat caught onto the thick, rich presence of whiskey and the faint, nipping scent of graphite. He kind of liked that mixture, it was a pleasant twist of smells that matched Arthur oh so perfectly.
Arthur must’ve had a bottle while drawing, and happened to knock out in such a strange and uncomfortable spot.
Suddenly, a small spark of eagerness ignited back into John Marston, causing him to scoot a little closer. Their shoulders bumping by accident. He winced, but nothing happened.
“This is so comfortable. No one is around to make fun of me, but god.. If he wakes up I’m in deep shit,” John thought to himself once more. Slow, his eyes drifted downwards to the other’s folded hands spewed in his lap, resting on top of something square, flat, and bound with old leather.
Marston’s inner thoughts electrocuted with curiosity, eyes flashing up to see if that pair of emerald green orbs were staring right back at him. They weren’t, of course. They were laid shut, long lashes still under the darkness and warmth of his signature hat. He gulped, gazing back down at the leather book Arthur had the heels of his palms resting on.
It was rare for Arthur to offer or allow anyone to have a gander at his artwork, that was unless you were Hosea who constantly wanted to know what was the next thing he drew. Unfortunately, but somewhat fortunately, John wasn’t Hosea. John was John, and John hadn’t seen a singular line drawn from the man. Not even a dot.
Before he knew it himself, Marston found his gross, bandaged hand gradually twisting close to the guarded journal, attentive to not touch the man directly as if he were made of fire. Slipping his index and middle finger on the cover and his thumb pinching on the back, he made sure to look back up at Arthur’s face, knowing full well not to test his limits. Yet then again, he really was testing his limits in the long run.
Marston gave a miniature tug at the book, pupils dilating fast when he heard a grunt muster out from the back of the other’s throat. He swallowed hard, pausing when he felt the journal dip back, Arthur’s rough, calloused hands pawing down on it sloppily. His heart was racing, eager but terribly anxious about waking him up. He hadn’t been this anxious ever since the first few weeks he spent in the Van der Linde gang.
He wasn’t just afraid of being caught and humiliated by Arthur (which was really out of Arthur’s character anyway) for being so nosey, but too afraid of ruining the peace. He was happily quiet and Arthur was happily quiet, nothing else but nature creating the serene ambiance around themselves.
Then, Marston flat out went for it, prying the journal completely out before dropping it onto his own lap, treating it as if it were freshly hot coals. All that was heard from Morgan though was a stifled sniff, his head gentling swaying back in forth for a short moment before easing back into the tender, calm peace.
A small grin formulated along John’s pale lips, eyes shuttering as he captured the moment forever in his head.
Returning back to being composed and unruffled by the hustle just to obtain the book, the younger of the two swiftly opened up to the first page. He then got comfy, positioning the journal’s leather outside to be propped against his knees while his chest being a support beam, holding it secure as John didn’t want to smudge even the finest of dot. He couldn’t afford getting caught at this point, he’s gone way too far. Even he understood that.
Minutes suddenly shot by like a whizzing bullet as John inspected every page, a smug grin staying on his face the whole damn time. Each sketch, even if it was barely understandable was mystical and enchanting, pulling John close with immense interest.
From deer to wolves, eagles to coyotes, beautiful ladies to drunken old men, Dutch’s face to Micah’s, each drawing or sketch had its own charm, even if it were a nasty picture of Micah. John was sure as hell Arthur caught his likeness though.
Nearing closer to the end of the journal, his breath hitched sharp at the most recent page. That familiar feeling of a dart panging into his chest hit once more.
He really couldn’t believe what he was looking at. He was flabbergasted out from thinking straight.
The page was filled with detailed, fully shaded and perfected drawings of John Marston, himself. Well, Arthur made him look good, contrary to his real-life beliefs of himself.
Confused on why someone would do this, especially Arthur, his eyes narrowed down to a piercing squint, scanning the whole page of it’s worth.
Some pictures were of John doing daily chores around the campsite, others were him having a smoke or lathering gun oil across his most treasured weapons. Majority of them though were mere studies of his slanted posture, his weight tipping more on one side than the other. Nevertheless though, what made John the most intrigued was a headshot of him in the center of the page, smiling, framed by dark circles that had been drawn multiple times.
Off to the other side of the page, his hawk eyes caught ahold of a small note Arthur had written. It read,
“Noticed John Marston a lot more today than I ever have at the camp. Maybe he’s slacking outside of camp, I don’t know. I also don’t know why drawing him feels so good. I guess I should talk to him more, he’s honestly someone I need right now in life.”
Overwhelmed by a pang of warmth rippling through John’s body, cold shivers suddenly trembled all down through his hands, eyes staring hard at the page. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand at all. He was really flushed with true, utter embarrassment.
He hadn’t been embarrassed for a long ass time and he sure as hell didn’t miss it.
Biting hard against his lower lip, Marston peered up to his side, noticing that Arthur was still resting placid. Nothing had changed, he was just in the same position as before, head still bobbing loose and his hat still casting a dim shadow over his handsome face.
Handsome..
John shook his head, hands tediously closing the journal and setting it aside in a soft patch a grass, knowing Arthur wouldn’t want it anywhere else, especially in John’s very own grubby clutch.
Knowing he’d have to brew some sort of lie to Pearson on not only why he doesn’t have the crate, but why it took him so damn long, John decided his time was up.
Releasing a hefty sigh from his core, he stood and looked down, a perfect bird’s eye view of Arthur. With a soft touch, his fingers grazed the man’s shoulder. “I’ll be sure to talk to you more, Arthur. Shoulda said something other than havin’ that nose of yours stuck in that journal. You really are dumb, but I guess so am I,” his rough voice spoke out. A pause of silence mingled in the air, Arthur not replying whatsoever as that was the way it should be.
If only he had a little more courage.