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The stranger was well-dressed – not too fancy, but clearly a man of some means, in his emerald green vest and leather boot protectors – definitely a city slicker. And a decent amount of cash always rattled out of them when you gave them a good shake. The contraption beside him did look fancy, and therefore worth something.
Most importantly, the man was clearly drunk as a skunk.
John pulled Old Boy up, glanced at Sean, who gave him a wicked grin and a nod. The homestead had been a bust – which, really, they should have seen coming, because no one with any sense, and therefore money, would live all the way up here in the mountains. Picturesque views be damned; they may have still been below the snow line, but it was damn cold – and John has had enough of cold mountainsides, thank you very much sir. So here they were, cold, disappointed, and with much lighter satchels than had been promised.
And here was a perfect opportunity to make up a little bit of their shortfall.
John dismounted, slowly approached the stranger. Could see Sean out of the corner of his eye, taking a wider route – ready to cut the man off if he tried to make a run for it. But John didn’t think that’d be necessary – the man didn’t seem to have even noticed them yet, was barely upright, and giggling inanely to himself.
“Ooh, but aren’t you a beautiful, beautiful little flutterby! No, not that, my apologies miss. Flutter, butter... butter... toast?”
John smirked. This would be easy.
Or, it would have been, if Arthur hadn’t caught up to them at that moment.
“Mason?!” he exclaimed. The stranger spun around, his arms swinging wildly at his sides, before he raised them both out wide with a delighted expression.
“Mr. Morgan! What a pleasure it is to see you again!”
“Yeah, yeah, good to see you too, but what’re you doin’ all the way out here? I thought you was going back to New York?” Arthur had dismounted and was briskly making his way over to ‘Mason’, brushing past John without so much as a glance, leaving him baffled – and not least because this stranger apparently knew Arthur’s real name. He looked over to Sean, but he seemed just as confused.
“Ah yes, well you see I was, but then the train that was due to run through these parts was robbed a few weeks back, can you believe it?! Threw them completely off skedool!” Mason clapped both hands heavily on Arthur’s shoulders when he got near, and John could only stare in disbelief. Because Arthur hated people getting all up in his personal space (well, most of the time. Catch him in a soft moment and he was surprisingly clingy, but those moments came ‘round once in a blue moon these days). But he allowed this Mason man to clutch at him, laying a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Mason have you been drinking?”
“What? Nooooo, not while I’m working! What kind of layaboot do you take me for sir?!”
Mr. Mason waved an accusing finger, but the effect was ruined by his slightly slurred words, and the fact he only seemed to have partial control of the arm attached to said finger.
“That so? Well, what kind of work are you doing all the way up in these foothills, hmm?”
And John could only keep staring, because Arthur’s tone was warm, indulgent even – like he used to speak to John back when he was just a kid and thought he’d done something real impressive. Just who was this fella?
“Why, photogriffy o’ course! I’m after the beautiful Painted Lady, Vanessa cardui. These alpine meadows are the perfect spot!”
“Well, that sounds real nice. But why don’t you just sit down here a minute, I’m gonna go get you something to drink. Stay there.”
Arthur deposited Mr. Mason on a nearby boulder, before walking over to his horse to fetch his canteen – ignoring John’s questioning look. Meanwhile, Sean sauntered over to Mr. Mason.
“So, where’s this Vanessa lass? She pretty?”
Mr. Mason’s face immediately lit up again.
“Oh yes! Simply gorgeous! Come, I’ll show you!” Mr. Mason sprung from his rock, grabbed Sean’s hand (on the second attempt) and dragged him only a few feet away to a patch of flowers.
“There!” he beamed “isn’t she beautiful?! Or he. Oh dear, I shouldn’t have presumed, I don’t want to upset them...”
“...I don’t geddit. What am I lookin’ at here?”
“Right there look! See? Aren’t they just the most enchantingest creatures you’ve ever laid your eyes on? Look at those markings!”
“...The butterflies?”
“BUTTERFLIES! That’s the word!” Mr. Mason exclaimed so loudly the horses startled, stamping their hooves. “They’re terribly endangered you know. Farmers keep bringing their livestock up into these meadows to graze, and they’re destroying the butterflies’ habitat. It’s really quite... quite sad...!”
Good Lord, John thought the man might actually be about to cry.
"Hey, I told ya to stay put! Here, drink this."
"Oh, why, thank you! You truly are a gentleman!"
Mr. Mason took a swig from Arthur's canteen and smacked his lips loudly.
"Ambrosia. Tell me, what is this deelishous beverage?"
"It's water. You just keep sippin' that. Slowly! Christ..."
Arthur finally deigned to grace John and Sean with his attention.
"You two head on back, I gotta get him back to wherever he’s staying before he falls off another damn cliff, or gets himself eaten by a grizzly."
"The hell, Arthur? Just who is this guy?" John demanded, the same time as Mr. Mason exclaimed "Grizzly bears? Oooh how spectacular! Maybe I can lure one out with-"
"You ain't lurin' anything, drink your water. He's a... friend." Arthur turned back to John, "I've helped him out a few times with his photography."
John scoffed.
"Since when do you have friends? And since when did we go 'round helpin' random strangers with their art projects?"
And yeah okay, he's kind of being an ass, but it's unnerving to see Arthur being so chummy with someone that the rest of the gang, as far as John knows, has never met.
"Well Marston, some of us like to care 'bout folks other than ourselves once in a while, strange as that may seem to you," Arthur sneered. "Now get. Our... pa will be wonderin' where we've got to. Just tell him I had some business in town to take care of. Mason, c'mere."
John and Sean stayed where they were, watching in bemusement as Arthur tried to get the photographer onto his horse. But the Tennessee walker - rented, judging by the marks on her saddle - didn't take too kindly to Mr. Mason's attempt to mount up, skittering away with a snort.
"Oooh nooo, come back!" Mr. Mason bewailed, "she's got my tonic in her saddlebags!"
"'Tonic'?" Sean guffawed, "that a fancy city slicker word fer whiskey?"
"No, no, my tonic! From the doctir! Hurt my back, you see... It’s splendid stuff. Actually I doo believe I’m doo for another dose. Come back, Delilah!"
He made towards his horse, only for Arthur to catch him by the shoulder and force him back onto his rock.
“Ah-ah, no you don’t, I’ll get it. Which saddlebag?”
“The left one! ...Oh, no, the other left!”
Sure enough, Arthur retrieved a small green-tinted bottle from the right-hand saddlebag and wandered back over with it – only to stop dead as he read over the label.
“Mason this has morphine in it!”
“Splendid stuff.” Mr. Mason repeated, with a dazed smile.
“Heh! No wonder he’s high as a kite!” Sean chortled. Arthur glowered at him.
“I thought I told you two to get goin’.”
“But English, watchin’ you play babysitter is so much more fun!” He had to duck as Arthur tried to cuff him. “Awright awright, we’re goin’...”
They headed back for Ennis and Old Boy, while Arthur fiddled about with Mason’s contraption – a camera, John guessed – and got it back into its case and attached to Delilah’s saddle. But they couldn’t help but pause to watch when Arthur whistled for his horse.
Atlas was... well, less of a bastard of a horse since Arthur brought him back to camp (free of charge, according to Hosea – the Valentine stable owner had literally given the Ardennes to Arthur as long as he promised to ‘never bring that hellbeast back around here again’). But he was still a bastard of a horse, prone to trying to bite your fingers off even if you were offering him peppermints. Most of the time, he hated everyone except Arthur and sometimes Charles and the O’Driscoll boy. And now it looked like Arthur was going to try and get his giggling, flailing, inebriated ‘friend’ onto the back of his bastard horse.
“Okay, you put your hands up there on the saddle, and I’m gonna boost you up, a’right? On three. One, two, three!”
Hosea had owned an accordion once. Apparently he and Dutch had scoped out the lair of a gang of thieves that had been working a road between two major towns for years. So, they’d split up, one to each town, and spread rumours of a rich trading caravan, laden with jewels and expensive goods. Then, on the appointed date, they’d met outside the lair, dispatched the few thieves left behind to guard the place, and had loaded their horses up with money, jewellery, and all other sorts of strange treasures – Dutch had claimed a gramophone that sat in his tent to this day, and Hosea had taken the accordion. He was actually pretty good with it; said he’d learned a little back in his ‘show biz days’. John had been given a single lesson on how to play the thing as a kid – half an hour and some very upset horses later, they’d both decided it wasn’t for him. But was a shame it’d been burned up in that fire a while back - he’d loved watching Hosea play it, cheery melodies somehow coaxed out of the instrument as it expanded then concertinaed back into itself, folding neatly to become so much smaller.
John was reminded of that accordion now. Mr. Mason was a pretty tall man. And Atlas was a very tall horse.
True to his word, Arthur pushed Mason up into the saddle, and up he went – and continued to go, headfirst, straight over the other side, long limbs and spine folding neatly into a pile in the dirt.
“Shit!”
Arthur darted around Atlas – who surprisingly hadn’t kicked Mr. Mason in the head yet – and helped the dazed photographer to his feet.
“Good heavens, Mr. Morgan, you’re so strong! I mean, I should have guessed so, look at you, you have the physique of-”
“Let’s just... try that again,” Arthur interrupted, “and actually hold on to the saddle this time!”
If John didn’t know better, he’d say Arthur was blushing.
Atlas continued to remain remarkably calm as, after several unsuccessful attempts – and by now Arthur was laughing, actual honest-to-God laughter, which John hadn’t heard in a long time – he finally managed to get Mr. Mason up into the saddle. The man started listing to the side almost immediately, so Arthur swung himself up behind him, arms reaching around his waist to keep him secure and grab the reins.
“You boys still here?” he raised an eyebrow at them even as he turned Atlas about. John raised his hands in mock surrender before mounting up, Sean following suit. But he only nudged Old Boy into a walk, tossing looks back over his shoulder as Arthur snagged Delilah’s reins and headed off in the opposite direction. The winds were strong up here, already snatching away whatever words they were saying – all he could make out were Mr. Mason’s delighted exclamations and Arthur’s exasperated tone.
“Yanno Marston,” Sean mused from beside him on Ennis, “I’m startin’ to think I might have taken some suspect painkillers too.”
“Yeah?”
“Aye. Think I’m hallucinatin’, y’see. ‘Cause I swear I just saw Arthur ‘Grumpy Old Bastard’ Morgan looking happy.”
Arthur was going to find the doctor in Strawberry, and he was going to strangle the man with his own stethoscope.
The hell was he thinking, doling out morphine?! He glanced worriedly at the back of Albert’s head – wasn’t treating back pain how Reverend Swanson had gotten hooked on the stuff? What if the same thing happened to Albert? He couldn’t bear the thought of bright, animated, ever-curious Albert becoming such a pathetic, hollow version of his old self. What if he ended up as one of those wretches that haunted opium dens, living only for their next fix? What would have happened if they hadn’t found him when they did? What if he had gotten lost? What if he really did get eaten by a bear, or get hurt in some other way, too out of it to save himself? What if Arthur spent the rest of his life thinking Albert was swanning about in galleries in New York, when really he’d died in a ditch somewhere?
And when had he started thinking of him as Albert, not Mr. Mason?
He had to save his introspection for later as they pulled up to the hotel. He made sure Albert’s hands were gripping the saddle horn before swinging down, throwing Atlas’ and Delilah’s reins over the hitching post. He turned to help Albert down – and barely managed to catch him as he toppled right out of the saddle, ending up with him hoisted over his shoulder.
“Jesus – you all right, Mason?”
“Oh, absolutely. You know Mr. Morgan,” Albert giggled, “I have a marvellous view of your derrière from here!”
Sweet Lord, have mercy.
Albert had clearly lost his mind completely, so Arthur decided the best thing to do was to just let him sleep it off and pray to anyone who was listening that he wouldn’t be suffering from withdrawal when he woke up. Leaving Atlas with a pat, he shifted Albert into a better position on his shoulder, ignoring the way his tired muscles panged in protest, and managed to get up the steps and through the door to the hotel without incident.
“Welcome to Strawberry, finest town in- oh! Uh, the Sheriff’s office is that way, Sir, um-”
“This fella says he has a room here?” Arthur interrupted the bewildered clerk, spinning around so he could get a look at Albert’s face (and earning himself a ‘wheee!’ from Albert).
“Ah, Mr. Mason! Yes, room 2A. Head to the top of the stairs, turn right, it’s dead ahead. Um, is he all right...?”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine. I need to talk to your Doctor ‘bout his prescription methods though.”
“Oh, Dr. Mayhew is away all week, attending a cousin’s wedding in Blackwater.”
“Lucky for him,” Arthur muttered. “Can you get someone to bring his things, on the Tennessee walker out front?”
“Certainly Sir, I’ll have one of the girls bring them up. Um, are you sure he’s all right...?”
Given that Albert was trying to converse with the stuffed grizzly bear, Arthur couldn’t really blame the clerk for looking at them both dubiously.
“He’s just had a long day, sure he’ll be right come mornin'. Thanks, mister.” And with that, Arthur proceeded with hefting Albert up the stairs, not even trying to parse his mumblings about the benefits of fishing with your face. Sure enough, he spotted Albert’s valise opened on the bed in the room the clerk directed him to, so he nudged it out of the way before depositing Albert on the mattress.
“You stay there, I’m gonna get you some more water.” Trusting that Albert couldn’t get himself into trouble in a hotel room, Arthur ducked back downstairs to grab a pitcher and glass. Wrinkled his nose when he saw mint leaves in it. Weird fancy folk with their weird fancy water...
He walked back into the room and nearly dropped the pitcher.
“Mason, what’re you doin’?! Get back in here!”
Albert was halfway out the window.
“The view from here is so lovely, Mr. Morgan! Look at those mountains! Aren’t they majestic?! This truly is God’s own- oh!”
Several things happened at once. Albert lost his balance, pitching headlong through the window. Arthur did drop the water, dove forwards, managed to snag Albert’s belt. With no proper leverage to pull him back in, Arthur simply threw his own weight backwards, hoping that Albert’s belt was made of sturdy stuff. The bed hit the back of his knees and he went down, taking Albert with him, and could only let out a grunt as he landed on top of him. He lay there a moment, winded, vaguely aware of Albert shifting above him.
“Oh, heavens, Mr. Morgan! You just- I nearly- It’s like the blasted cliff all over again!”
“I’m gonna... have to get you a leash,” Arthur groaned, still trying to catch his breath.
“Mr. Mason, I have your- oh my!”
Arthur tilted his head back and could see (upside down) one of the chambermaids holding Albert’s camera. And he was suddenly acutely aware of being breathless, red in the face, and of Albert’s weight straddling him.
“Uh, this ain’t... what it looks like...” he tried, frantically pushing at Albert’s hip, though he didn’t seem to be getting the message.
“Oh don’t worry honey! We get all sorts through here,” she chattered, setting the camera on the dresser and whipping out a cloth to mop up the water. “Why, just the other week we had a couple of lovely older gentlemen come through, told me they was taking a trip celebrating fifty years together! Ain’t that sweet?! I’ll tell the other staff you ain’t to be disturbed. You fellas have a pleasant evening now!” She scooped up the water pitcher and a couple of mint leaves, and swept out of the room, closing the door with a wink.
Arthur let his head thump into the mattress with a groan.
And then, after several long moments, realized Albert was still on top of him. He opened his eyes to find the photographer peering down at him.
“Um...”
“Heterochromia.” He murmured, leaning even closer to Arthur’s face. Arthur swallowed, throat suddenly feeling very dry.
“Whuh?” he managed.
“Your eyes. They’re blue and green. I’ve read about it, but I’d never seen it before, until I met you. They really are... quite lovely, Mr. Morgan.”
Arthur could only swallow again, painfully aware of how close they were, of every inch of contact between them. It wasn’t what it looked like... was it? He tamped down on that rebellious thought, only to grunt again as Albert suddenly leapt off him and headed for his camera. Then he was painfully aware of how much he missed that contact.
None of that, Morgan, he scolded himself, it don’t ever end well for you.
“I... simply... must get a picture!” Albert declared as he wrestled with the housing on his camera.
“Your photographs are all black n’ white, Albert.” Arthur reminded him wearily as he finally pushed himself upright, even though part of him (lots of him) wanted to just lie there for a week until his limbs stopped feeling like they were made of old rubber.
“Blast, you’re right... Oh, when are they going to invent a proper camera that can take colour photos?!” he wailed, “I’m a photographer, I’m supposed to be capturing the beauty of this world, and the best I can managed is a dull, washed out imitation!” Albert threw himself back onto the bed dramatically. “But a poor workman always blames his tools...” he groaned into the mattress, “I’m a fraud, Arthur. A conman who peddles cheap look-a-likes of the real thing!”
Arthur ignored the funny feeling in his stomach at hearing Albert calling him by his name, instead patted the man on the shoulder with a chuckle.
“There you go again. I really wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself like that, Mr. Mason. ‘Sides, I’ve met plenty of conmen in my life, and you definitely ain’t one of ‘em. You’re too” honest, kind, charming, Good “genuine for that.”
Albert twisted his head to peer up at Arthur.
“You’re too kind, Arthur. And please, call me Albert. You did before,” he pointed out before Arthur could protest.
Arthur blinked, thought backwards a moment. Scolded himself again inwardly. What right did he have, getting all familiar-like with Al- Mr. Mason? He shook his head, rubbing at his face. It’d been a long week, that’s all.
“You should get some rest. I’ll be around town for a day or so, you just send for me if you need anything-” he’d reached out to grab his hat that had tumbled across the mattress earlier, but Alb- Mr. Mason! caught his arm.
“You needn’t go anywhere,” he insisted, looking up at him with eyes that were still slightly glassy, but earnest. Arthur swallowed. Tried not to focus on the warmth of Albert’s fingertips on the inside of his wrist.
“I-” he started.
“Truly. Besides, you look tired.” Albert said gently. Arthur glanced across at himself in the mirror on the wall, and swallowed back a bitter laugh. Albert was right – he did look tired, and old, and shabby, and like the no-good lowlife he was.
“I’m as ugly as I always am, Mr. Mason,” he asserted, making for the door, hat in hand. But the way Albert’s face scrunched up, you’d think he’d taken it as a personal affront.
“Noooo! No not at all, you are very handsome!” he declared, “but you do look like you could use the rest too! In fact, I insist!” And with that, he launched himself off the bed towards Arthur – to what end God only knew. What, was he gonna drag Arthur back to bed?
But Arthur’s brain didn’t have time to run away with that rogue thought, or to process the idea that Albert thought he was handsome, because Albert had failed to get his feet under himself properly. And, as a result just sorta- dropped.
It was like watching a tree fall down.
“Shit!” Arthur exclaimed for the second time, crouching down to where Albert had nose-dived into the carpet.
“Owwwww...” he whined, muffled by the rug.
“You all right?!” Arthur helped him up, tipped him back into a sitting position, cupping his face in his hands – fully expecting the man’s nose to be broken. Miraculously it wasn’t, and once again he found himself gazing into Albert’s eyes. There were flecks of gold, amongst the warm brown. He’d never noticed that before.
It was all he could manage to not actually physically shake himself.
“C’mon, you deranged lunatic, to bed with ya.”
But he didn’t manage to keep the fondness out of his voice.
“Only if you stay too,” Albert insisted stubbornly, even as he let Arthur shepherd him back onto the bed.
“Don’t be daft, Albert...”
“What? Why not?”
“Because... Because all sortsa reasons!” But, that little voice in his head asked, really, why not?
Arthur could feel the blush creeping up his neck.
“You stay here, get some rest. I’m gonna head over to the saloon and-”
“Well, then I’m coming with you,” Albert declared, trying to wrestle his way out from under the blankets.
“Hey, will you quit- you’re gonna hurt yourself again, will you just stay-!”
After a brief tussle, Arthur found himself practically pinning Albert to the bed. Good Lord, he really hoped that chambermaid didn’t walk in again...
“You stay.” Albert pouted. Arthur shut his eyes for a moment. He really didn’t have the energy for this – for fighting with Albert, who was surprisingly strong, or for fighting with the little voice that said it sure would be nice to curl up on this nice comfy mattress a while, Albert beside him...
“Fine.” He relented, “but if I do, you’ll go to sleep, yeah? No more tryna climb out windows?”
Albert beamed at him.
Once he’d tugged his boots and jacket off and got under the covers – at Albert’s insistence, and Arthur humoured him, just for now – he had to fling an arm across Albert’s chest to stop him from getting up to ‘check the lighting on the mountains, I’m sure they look lovely in the sunset!’
“Stay put, will ya? Jesus, my damn pup was less wriggly than you! I thought morphine was supposed to make people sleepy...”
“Ooh, you have a dog?!” Albert’s eyes lit up. Arthur couldn’t help but smile.
“Had. He died a while back – just got old,” he quickly reassured when Albert’s face fell.
“What sort of dog was he?”
So Arthur relented, telling Albert about Copper, amusing him with stories, like when the dumb pup, all big paws and no brains, tried to pick a fight with a bemused bull moose and ended up halfway up a tree. Albert’s laughter somehow acted like a balm on the ache that had been forming behind his eyes these past few days.
He’d stay until Albert went to sleep, then he’d slip out and head over to the saloon, see if he couldn’t scope out any leads.
He would. Really.
Albert woke slowly, not bothering to open his eyes properly – when he cracked them open, he could tell it was still very early, pale dawn light making the room silvery. He recognised his hotel room in Strawberry, had vague recollections of coming down from the mountain slopes – had Delilah got taller? He seemed to remember the ground being a lot further away than it usually was.
He struggled to remember what had happened after he got back to the hotel – hadn’t he been talking to someone? – but it was too early, and the warmth he could feel along his side and across his middle was lulling him back to-
Wait.
He blinked his eyes open, shifted slightly – wincing as his back twinged, but at least it was nowhere near as bad as it had been a day ago (or was it two days ago?) – and came face to face with Arthur Morgan.
The other man was curled against Albert’s side, arm draped across his waist, fast asleep. This close, he could see that Arthur’s eyelashes were blonde, fanned against his cheeks. The creases around his eyes were still there, but less pronounced. Albert desperately wanted to reach out and trace them with a finger. They made him look older, wiser, but also kinder – as kind as Albert knows him to be. He felt like he was witnessing something more rare and precious than any of the animals he had photographed thus far. Outside of his own silly, wishful daydreams, he’d never thought he’d get to see his many-times saviour, always so confident, always so alert and ready for anything, looking so... peaceful.
He had half a mind to fetch his camera, but couldn’t bear the thought of disturbing that serene look. Tentatively, he reached out to brush a few strands of hair away from Arthur’s eyes. Arthur murmured something unintelligible, tilting his head into the touch, but didn’t wake. And something in his chest squeezed with a rush of fondness. He dared to lean forward, brushing their lips together, ever so lightly. Arthur hummed and tightened the arm around his waist. Albert smiled, and, after a moment’s hesitation, gently put his arms around him, carefully pulling him closer. Arthur immediately nuzzled into his collarbone then settled, and Albert let a stupid grin cross his face, before shutting his eyes and letting Arthur’s warmth and slow, steady breaths send him back into a doze.
Arthur woke up to sunlight shining into his eyes. He blinked and squinted at the crack in the curtains where the light was coming through, unable to make sense of where he was for a long moment. Then it slowly started to come back to him.
The failed homestead robbery. Strawberry.
Butterflies. Grizzly bears. Mountains. Weird minty water. Morphine.
Albert.
He blinked slowly, wondering how much he must have had to drink that he doesn’t even remember going to the saloon, let along staggering back to the hotel. Yet, he didn’t feel like he had a god-awful hangover. In fact, he hasn’t felt this well rested in months, years even. He should probably figure it out, but he’s so warm, and comfortable, and surely another five minutes wouldn’t hurt. He sighed, nestling into his pillow a bit more. Then frowned.
His pillow was oddly... firm. And warm.
And now his ears had woken up too, he could hear it making a steady thudding noise.
He tried to push himself up, but there was a weight across his shoulder blades, another over his back – both pressed down when he started to move.
“Mmrgh... Go back to sleep, Arthur. It’s too early.”
Arthur felt as much as heard the mumbled words, humming through his head.
Albert. His pillow was Albert. It was his arms he could feel against his back – yet for some inexplicable reason, they’re pressing him closer, not shoving him away in horror. Arthur lay there, frozen, a million questions running through his head. How did they end up like this? Had he really fallen asleep telling dumb stories about Copper? What the hell was he thinking? Why were they cuddling? When was the last time he’d woken up with someone in his arms?
And most importantly, how come Albert seemed to be okay with all of this?
“...Albert?” he dared to whisper. Couldn’t quite put it into words, if someone had asked him, why that one word almost came out like a plea; faintly desperate, slightly afraid, and just the tiniest bit hopeful.
“Go back to sleep.” Albert murmured, one hand slipping up into Arthur’s hair, blunt nails scratching lightly over his scalp as he stroked his fingers through it. And Arthur couldn’t stop his eyes fluttering shut at the touch.
He was beyond bewildered by the whole situation. But, he was also warm, and comfy, and sleepy, and Albert’s heartbeat was like a lullaby. He felt himself relaxing despite himself, letting out a slow sigh.
All was quiet.
But then,
“Arthur?”
“Mmm?”
“...Did I have a close encounter with the ground, at some point?”
Arthur opened his eyes, frowning slightly.
“Uhh... yeah. Twice, s’matter o’fact. Why?”
“Do I have a bruise on my forehead? It hurts.”
Arthur did push himself up at that, alarmed, and winced at the sight.
“Oof. Uh, yeah. You’ve got a... that’s a real shiner you got there.”
“Ah. Oh well. I’ll just wear my hat low, like you do. It will make me look very mysterious and interesting, I’m sure.”
Arthur spluttered.
“That ain’t why I-!”
Albert laughed and pulled him close again, effectively putting an end to his protests. Arthur grumbled, out of habit, but let himself be tucked up against Albert’s sternum again. Dared to cuddle him closer with his arms – stomach doing something funny again when Albert let out a pleased hum.
There were all sorts of thoughts clamouring in the back of his head, that this wasn’t right, that he didn’t deserve this. But he could ignore them, let Albert’s gentle touches and steady heartbeat drown them out, and lull him back to sleep.