Chapter Text
John threw his fits, he'd pout and cross his arms, storm and stomp around camp; like the world was ending because he didn't get his way. Dutch would laugh, brush it off and say "he'll grow out of it, he's a teenager." Hosea would not-so-kindly remind him that Arthur would never act out like that, and John needs to be taught how to act like a reasonable human if he wanted to make it in the world - outlaw or not.
Usually, it was over something small - "Arthur got to leave on his own, why can't I?" - and it was no different this time. Hosea told him to stay back on this job; John's hot temper and light trigger finger would clash harshly with the sitting and waiting this would require. He listened, he wouldn't want to be to blame for one of his family members death, or leave the camp unguarded. Still, he threw his fit, nobody around to scoff or laugh at his behavior, which left his ears burning. Why? Was it the lack of any reaction? He couldn’t say, but his fists swung more, and his boots stomped louder as he plotted. John new it was a terrible idea, aside from his grand exit, he didn't know where else to go, what else to do.
Still, he pursued, grabbing his share of the savings stashed under Dutch and Hosea's mattress, in the process feeling like either of the two would jump out and catch him red handed. More paths burned into the small camp, John thought to pack some food into the saddle bags of his colt, as well as a warmer change of clothes. Arthur's taunting of his lack of skills in hunting - and planning - burned and echoed in his head, spitting words of venom towards the tree where the older always sat, as if he was caught up in another of their petty arguments.
Dusk came, as well as the steady beating of hooves on the dirt, signaling the return of the men. Suddenly, John found himself standing square, heart in his throat, hoping it didn’t show on his face.
"John, my boy, all is well, I presume?" Dutch, his eyes shining with the victory of another successful job. Hosea rode tall, pride seeping from him, oozing from his shoulders to the heels of his boots. Arthur even, his usual scowl wiped from his face, a sack hanging from the side of his saddle that wasn't there when they rode off.
John was frozen, his mouth glued shut. It was easy to be mad and make a great plan with a fool proof script when he wasn't staring into the faces of the only people who have ever been there for him.
"Yeah, our stuff's still here, ain't it?" With a fresh breath, the fire of rage reignited, reminding him that they treated him like he wasn’t enough.
"John, please." Hosea looked tired, like dismounting has taken years off his life.
"Yeah, Johnny, calm down." Arthur passed by, purposely bumping shoulders only to glare back at John as he made his way to the bigger tent, bag slung over his shoulder.
"We already went through this, your temper's too hot for this job, besides, camp is important too."
"But Arthur never has to stay back!" John clenched his fists at his sides, stomping his foot down like a stubborn colt.
"Because, son, Arthur won't shoot up a whole town cause someone looked at him funny." Dutch, arms crossed, high of a job done well long faded, snarled at the teen, pulling his shoulders back, like he would pounce on John at any second.
"At least I could take out a whole town." John eyes locked on his horse, ready to made a beeline for the saddle at any given moment, grand exit or not.
"That's not the kind of fight we needed fo-" Hosea moved his hand form the bridge of his nose, placing it on Dutch's shoulder.
"It's never the kind of fight you need. Maybe, since that's the case, I'll go find my own jobs! I'll leave and be out of your way and you'll never have to see me again!" With that, John shoved between them, shrugging Hosea's arm from where it tried to loop around his chest.
"The boy thinks he can make it on his own, let him." Dutch's harsh words rang in his ears, there was no fight to keep John there, no hurt or even regret in his voice. Just strong and all-knowing Dutch, telling Hosea to let their son ride off with the fading day.
He wasn't sure where he was going, all he knew was camp was behind him, and the moon was in front of him. With pistols at his hips, money in his satchel, and a fast horse beneath him, it didn't matter what Hosea wanted, or what Dutch thought, he was unstoppable.
East. East, and further East yet, the paths twisted and turned through trees and around hills, but John carried on, spurring on his horse when he'd slow, being a little too harsh on the reins when he'd try to veer off the path. He was being foolish, and taking it out on the warmblood, he knew it wasn't fair, either. Arthur would curse him out and make them stop until John would act he knew what he was doing around the animal, but Arthur wasn't here, so occasionally they would slow to a trot, and John would give the colt a pat on the neck, but his mind would wander back to the interaction at camp, and his blood would burn once again and the wind in his face was the only cure.
Eventually, the dirt path turned to stone, and brick buildings came into view, a few lanterns hung outside doors and windows seemed to chase away the light from the full moon, and John became hyper-aware of the cash in his satchel once again. The streets grew busier the further into the city they got - despite the late hour - and the still nameless colt started to toss his head and whine in frustration, and for a moment John wondered if he missed Boadicea already.
The song of a saloon grew louder, and John figured he could rest for the night, or half night, at least. He hitched his colt, cursing himself out for not thinking to bring more treats for his companion as he fed the last oatcake.
Inside, it seemed that he stumbled upon a city wide celebration. Of what, he wasn't sure, perhaps just that the old buildings stood another day, or that the moon was still around to light up the night. John really didn't care, either. The bartender eyed him suspiciously, squinting in the slightest as John ordered - whiskey. The harsh smell was like a hand to hold, the burn in this throat like a slap to the face, the warmth in the pit of his stomach like the eye contact he held with a working girl who'd just come down the stairs. Her dress a little too tight, her hair tried back into an almost fully curly pony tail. She smiled, cheeks a little red, and John ordered another round.
"Howdy, mister." Her voice was like a nightingale, or a field of lavender. "Don't think I've seen you around before, you just passin' through?" She couldn't have been much older than John, maybe 20. His chest ached at what could have chased her down this path in life, he knew better than anyone how rough and unforgiving men could be. Both before and after getting liquored up.
Like the slow movement of the sun creeping across the sky, the night moved on. John was on top of the world, the pile of cash in his pocket buying him the good mood, making conversation with the men around him, occasionally with the girl on his lap too, but she was mainly just letting hot breaths out across John's neck and shoulder, whispering about a room and a bed. She insisted she couldn't be drinking - she was working - but John twisted her arm anyways, and the redness on her face started to be less from her last customer, and more from the liquor in her stomach.
Laughs echoed in John's head, flooding out the ache in his chest from Dutch's words. Did they miss him yet? Were they worried? Dutch probably wasn't - he was probably happy, throwing a party even, over the fact that John had finally up and left. Did Arthur care? Had he even been standing to see what happened? John couldn't remember, but the breasts in his face and arms looped around his neck made him not want to remember, either. He stood, and the floor tilted and turned under him, but hands holding his led him forward, away from… away from, who? Did they exchange names? Again, John couldn't remember, hell, he doubted he could even walk back and find the same people - he had a lot to drink.
Behind a door, the woman pulled at John's shirt, pinning him where he stood. Hot and delicate lips kissing at his jaw, down his neck, and dainty fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt made him realize, if he could do this every night, he didn't need a camp with his family. Dutch's words burned in his ears again, but a soft pillow behind his head was like being thrown into the lake, and suddenly the girl on his hips was enough to keep any thought that wasn't about her at bay.
Two days without John Marston.
It was nice, the boy wasn't whining about this or that. Camp was quiet, Arthur could hear Dutch and Hosea talking in their tent at night, instead of John stomping around or laughing obnoxiously when he had a little too much to drink - which was nearly every night. That unruly colt of his wasn't hitched nearly half in Bo's spot at the posts near the front of camp. Arthur found himself sleeping at night, at least the first night. Sitting at the low burning campfire, Arthur was about to pull out his journal when Hosea sat next to him.
"What are you doing up?" Concern laced his voice, but Arthur knew it wasn't over his lack of sleep. Hosea was always the one to worry the most when the boy ran off. Dutch never cared, or if he did, he did a good job of hiding it. Sometimes it left a sour taste in the back of Arthur's throat, seeing how Dutch reacted to John being gone, the way he'd brush off the worry of his partner, like that was one of their family, just gone.
"Could ask you the same thing." Arthur set the now empty beer bottle on the ground between his feet.
"But you won't, right? You know why." Hosea didn't look at Arthur, his tired eyes locked on the fire in front of them.
"I think so." Arthur looked at the flames, too. After a moment, his voice hardly a mumble, "Has Dutch said anything?"
"No, aside from telling me not to worry," He put his hands to his face, like he could hold in the emotions that rushed out with his words. "I really think he doesn't want him back."
Arthur just shook his head, looking over to the tent, like Dutch would come rushing out at any second, speech spewing into the night air. "That’s his son," He didn't know what else to add, didn't know how to fix the hurt. The tension in the air would always thicken when John took off, as if Dutch wasn't the one to scoop the pathetic boy off the ground in the first place. Sometimes he felt like cutting open John's chest, wanting to learn how much it really bothered him; Dutch - his savior - not wanting him around, not bothering to keep it a secret either.
"I don't want to ask…" Hosea trailed off, leaving the question open, like they could both act as if it was never asked if Arthur didn't want to.
"I know," Arthur sat for a moment longer, looking from the flame, back to the tent where Dutch was asleep, and then to Hosea. "I'll find him."
With that, Arthur stood, turning towards his tent. Maybe he had the best chance at finding a trail in the daylight, but Dutch would be up with the sun, and that meant he wouldn't be able to slip out of camp and drag John back home. In his tent for a moment, Arthur looked at the empty bedroll that John used, with the mission placed in front of him, he was glad it would be used again. Now, with his satchel at his side, he went to saddle Bo, only to find Hosea already had, and was petting her nose muttering something just under his breath.
"Thank you, Arthur." A heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him from mounting up just yet. "Don't worry about Dutch."
Maybe there was more, Arthur didn't want to know. "No, you don't worry about Dutch. You woke up and I was already gone." They held each other's gaze for a moment, an unspoken battle of who's going to be to blame for Dutch's anger when he wakes. Arthur turned, realizing he wasn't going to win, and mounted. Hosea handed up a lantern, the warm soft glow illuminating the slightest amount of relief on his face.
"Get some sleep, we'll be okay." Hosea nodded, and took a few steps back, watching his other boy walk into the night. Arthur leaned forward into the saddle, holding the lantern down, seeing the hoof marks veer left onto the main trail in front of camp. Knowing the amount of money he had, and the direction he went, Arthur had a feeling he knew exactly where John was heading.