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Bullets.
The sound and smell of bullets was something John Marston was used to.
The pain of a shoulder shot
Or a leg grazed..
It was all familiar to him. To the point he could tell what gun it came from just from the sound of it.
Living the life he has bullets, blood, guns and men wanting him dead was just apart of being a cowboy.
What wasn’t familiar to him was the feeling of a slow filling weight in his chest that never used to belong there.. But for the past few months he’s become all to acquainted with.
The choking need to breathe in the middle of the day but he can’t.. The want was there but it was almost like it wasn’t possible-
Unless, Arthur was around.
Oh, He noticed. It took him three whole months but he noticed..
How the ache in his chest eased when the older man was around. How he could breathe just fine and his heart wasn’t weak in his rib cage..
Hell, If anything.
His heart beat ten times harder with the other nearby.
It took three months to notice.. But it was eight months that he never talked about it.
It was three realising and five denying it all.
Denying the flutters and skips and aches.
Denying the want to see him all the time.
To be around him.
To hear him.
Five months of agony.. And all he knew how to do was push it down and keep on moving. John didn’t want anyone to know.. Certainly not Dutch or Abigail or Micah. But definitely not Arthur Morgan himself.
He’d die first is what he told himself..
... Ironic now, As he sat slowly bleeding out in the middle of another snow capped mountain, Blood gushing out of one to many wounds.
Every beat further pushing precious life out of him.. But it was, soothing at the same time. The only kind of soothing he’s had that wasn’t him trying to not so desperately be in Morgan’s presence.
Was he losing his mind?
Probably.
But he didn’t care.. If death was the only balm he could have, He... was willing to take it.
Maybe that’s why his blood looked like Roses.
.. Roses?
... Roses reminded him of Arthur.