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“Arthur! Need you to run an errand for me!”
Arthur scowls, looking up from where he’d been writing in his journal to see Dutch standing at the entryway of his tent. He looks rather expectant, as if purposely forgetting that Arthur had just gotten back from reconnaissance in Blackwater. With a sigh, he pushes himself off his cot and follows the older man out into camp. “Whatchu need, Dutch?”
“Now, son, I know you just got back but this is surely an easy task. There’s a fence up in Strawberry,” he says, beckoning a waiting Charles into the conversation. “A trustworthy one. Arthur, you and Mr. Smith here will take a wagon up to her store and get some supplies.”
Arthur rocks back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest. “You sure about this, Dutch? Listen, I still got a bad feelin’ about this ferry job. I don’t think we should be gettin’ even more people involved.”
And if it’s so easy, he doesn’t say, then why can’t someone else do it?
“Oh, my boy, you worry too much!” Dutch responds with a laugh. “I told you, she’s loyal – she won’t sell us out.”
Arthur shares a look with Charles – that hadn’t been what he meant and they both know it – but nods. “All right. What are we pickin’ up?”
“Hosea! You got that list?”
He cranes his head back to see where Hosea’s sitting, who’s finishing his writing before standing and joining the group. Surreptitiously, Arthur checks him over, looking for any visible signs of illness. He’d hoped Hosea’s cough would ease as winter turns to spring, but it’s only abated slightly in the weeks they’ve spent in West Elizabeth.
“I’ve written up a list here,” the older man says, handing a sheet of paper to Arthur. He glances at it briefly before folding it up and placing it in his pocket. “Tell her that Dutch and I sent you.”
“I will,” he promises. At that note of confirmation, he excuses himself to begin getting ready for the trip, Charles following along behind him. “Charles, you mind gettin’ the wagon hitched up? I’ll join ya in a few minutes.”
“Of course,” he nods.
“And could ya grab one of the camp horses instead of Boadicea? She needs her rest.”
“Got it.”
Arthur watches him go for a few seconds, then ducks back into his tent. He doesn’t know much about Charles, hasn’t done much with him other than a few jobs with a large group. He’s quiet, that’s for sure, but he’ll take silence over an hour with Sean any day – at this point, Arthur probably knows more about Sean’s da than he does the kid himself.
Since they’ll likely only be gone for about a night, he grabs the bare minimum needed for the journey. A few provisions, his journal, treats for the horses. Anything they run out of on the way can be grabbed in Strawberry. Though he doubts he’ll need too much firepower, he takes both his pistols, just in case.
He leaves his tent and heads over to where Charles has gotten the wagon ready. Together, the two of them finish their preparations just as the sun reaches the highest point in the sky. If they make good time, they could get to Strawberry before it’s too dark; the thought of sleeping in a real bed tonight is enough to spur him into movement. Almost immediately after they’ve prepped everything, the two men are out of the camp without delay.
A little way into the journey, Arthur clears his throat to speak. “So, Charles. You ain’t been here long but you seem like a reasonable man. Whatchu think ‘bout the Blackwater job?”
“Dutch seems like he has a plan,” Charles replies after a thoughtful beat. “And if everything works out, then we’ll have more money than we’ve had in a while. But. . .”
He pauses, letting the silence stretch on; Arthur finishes it for him, “But it don’t feel right?”
Charles hums in affirmation.
“I just got a bad feeling,” Arthur adds, keeping his eyes on the road and whistling for the horses to pick up the pace. “Don’t know why. And if things go to hell, Dutch an’ Hosea will get us outta it, they always do, just. . .ah, here I go again, ramblin’ on like an old fool. You probably don’t wanna hear any of this.”
“You aren’t a fool, Arthur,” Charles frowns. “You’ve been with this gang a long time – I trust that you’d know when something isn’t right.”
“You’re one of the few that does,” Arthur mutters, focusing his attention on the reins and ducking his head to hide his genuine reaction at Charles' words. It is, at the very least, nice to have his feelings acknowledged by someone other than Hosea.
The rest of the ride is uneventful, spent mostly in companionable quiet until they make it to Strawberry. As expected, the sun is just starting to set when they enter the town. Figuring that it would be best to wait until the next morning, Arthur steers the horses in the direction of the hotel.
“Mind staying the night?”
“And give up the opportunity to sleep in a real bed for once?” Charles smiles, shaking his head. “Like you even have to ask.”
At the other's enthusiasm, Arthur can't help but grin back. Stopping the wagon in front of the hotel, Arthur jumps down and waits for the other to do the same. “I’ll get us a room. Could ya take the horses ‘round the stable while I do?”
“‘Course.”
Whistling under his breath, Arthur enters the hotel and books a room. After a minute’s thought, he adds a hot meal and two baths to his check. Might as well take advantage of Strawberry’s hospitality while they’re here.
The room is big enough for two but with only one bed As he stands in the doorway, he curses under his breath and rubs the back of his neck nervously. While Arthur doesn’t mind sleeping in close quarters with someone he trusted, the last thing he wants is to make Charles uncomfortable. There’s a difference between laying next to someone in a tent and sharing the same blanket.
But it’s easy enough to come to a decision – he’ll take the floor and let Charles have the bed; it’s only fair considering Arthur has his own tent and cot back at camp. With that in mind, he sets his things next to the bed and goes about getting a bath prepared for himself. It isn’t too long of a wait and it’s only a few minutes later that he’s shooing away the bath girls and insisting he can take care of everything himself.
A low groan erupts from his lips as he sinks down into the hot water, letting it penetrate deep in his bones for a few seconds. He’s not one to relax, not when there’s work to be done, but it won’t harm anyone if he sits in peace for a little, right? Still, he doesn’t think he’s made to be idle; he starts scrubbing ferociously, making sure that he gets every last bit of dirt off his body and pays extra attention to cleanliness.
Once he’s out of the tub, he wrinkles his nose at his dirty clothes as he puts them back on, making a note to wash them once he’s back at camp. As he leaves the bathroom, he surreptitiously raises one of his arms to sniff at his armpit (does clean skin make sweaty clothes smell better?) – only to turn the corner and nearly run into his traveling companion.
“Ah, shi– Charles!” The tips of his ears redden when the other man reaches out a hand to Arthur’s arm to steady him, the touch burning like electricity in his veins. “M’sorry, didn’t see ya comin’ ‘round there.”
That damned smile continues to grace Charles’ lips. “No harm done.”
“I got us a room,” Arthur continues. “Thing is, there’s only one bed. Since you was so excited ‘bout not sleepin’ on the ground, I was thinkin’ that it would be no hardship for me to take the floor.”
Charles’ brow furrows, frowning slightly. “It’s no problem, Arthur. I could take the floor, or we could share. I don’t mind.”
“Aw, ya don’t have to – ”
“Really,” Charles stresses. “I don’t mind. Both of us need could use a good sleep so why don’t we just share?”
"So long as it ain't a problem with you, it's fine by me," Arthur says honestly. "Now go take a bath, cowboy. You don't exactly smell pleasant."
Charles chuckles, shaking his head. As he walks away, he calls over his shoulder, "You're one to talk, Arthur."
He huffs out a breath, chuckling slightly as he shakes his head. God, he’s in trouble with this one.
A few days later, Arthur rides into Horseshoe Outlook on the O’Driscoll horse, nearly falling out of his saddle because of his exhaustion. Deep lines are etched into his face, dark purple bruises underneath his eyes that almost seem a permanent part of his features these days. He can’t remember the last time he’d gotten a good night’s sleep – before Blackwater? Heh, he’d gotten shot a couple of months ago and spent a whole damn night unconscious, but he doubts that counts.
As he approaches camp, he sags considerably in his saddle, posture relaxing in the relative safety of the clearing. He steers the horse towards where the others are grazing. Charles stands next to Taima so Arthur pulls up next to him; upon closer inspection, he notes that the other man is packing to leave, his bow and other provisions already packed on his mare.
“Dutch sendin’ ya out again?” Arthur questions, pulling his horse to a stop and scratching the back of his neck, ducking his head slightly.
It’s hard not to get flustered when he sees Charles, not with what happened a few nights ago. Then it had just been the two of them sitting around the main fire, legs stretched out and sipping whiskey. Whether it had been the alcohol’s influence or not, they had gotten closer and closer, thighs brushing and eyes closing, lips parting slightly and leaning in –
And then damn, drunk Bill Williamson had stumbled out of his tent, muttering about needing to piss. Just like that, they’d jumped apart and pretended the moment had never happened.
“I offered to go hunting,” Charles replies, seemingly unaffected while tightening the straps on Taima’s saddle. “We’re running low on supplies.”
The almost kiss had happened a few days ago but is Charles trying to run away from it now, to leave camp and get away for a while? Arthur squints slightly, trying to gauge whether or not that’s the case. He doesn’t think Charles is the type but Arthur has been burned before.
“Don’t I know it,” Arthur mutters in response, all too aware of their dwindling remains. Dutch has been in his ear about it for days and while Arthur’s been doing his best to bring stuff back to camp, it never seems like enough. Even though it’s been a few weeks since the ferry job, they’re still not back on their feet – though not for a lack of trying. “I’d offer to keep you company but we both know I ain’t any good with a bow. ‘Sides, I’m beat.”
“You did good with those deer up in the mountains,” Charles says, a slight frown tugging down his brows. “Don’t sell yourself short, Arthur.”
A faint blush spreads over his cheeks, the tips of his ears bright red. He normally gets flustered from such validation but Charles’s praising does something else to him. To distract himself from his feelings, he pulls out a cigarette and tries to light it with shaky fingers, exhaustion making him uncoordinated and clumsy. “Aw, I don’t know ‘bout that. . .”
Charles reaches over and helps him, steadying him with a light touch. Arthur lights the cigarette but his focus is zeroed in the spot on his hand where Charles had brushed his skin. “You work too hard,” the other man admonishes gently. “You do more for us than anyone else. Get some rest.”
“That’s the plan,” he mutters, trying to shake himself out of whatever stupor the other man has put him in. It feels strange to have someone care about his wellbeing – he isn’t used to it, especially not from Charles. “You gonna be gone long?”
“Maybe,” Charles shrugs, taking a step back from Arthur and hoisting himself up into Taima’s saddle. “I was thinking about heading south, down past Emerald Ranch.”
“All right,” Arthur nods. “You be safe, now.”
“I’ll be seeing you, Arthur,” Charles replies, turning Taima away from the other horses and heading out of camp.
Arthur watches him leave until he can’t see him anymore, letting out a heavy breath and shaking his head at his foolishness. First Mary, now this. Sooner or later, Charles will realize what kind of man Arthur really is and pull back from any sort of affections, leaving him behind.
(Has it started already?)
Wearily, he heads back to his tent, grunting out one-word greetings to the people milling about. When he sits on his cot, he tugs off his boots and tosses them to the ground. Before he forgets about it, he pulls out a letter that had come in for Tacitus Kilgore in Valentine and begins to read.
The next morning, Charles rides into camp with the fruits of his labor. There’s a large White-tail buck on the back of Taima and two rabbits hanging from the side of his saddle. It had been a successful hunting trip, with enough food to hopefully feed the gang properly for the rest of the week.
Though he’s been running with Dutch for about six months now, it’s often overwhelming to spend so much time with other people when he’s used to going at it alone. As great as it is not to have to sleep with one eye open every day, he needs his own space as well. Solo hunting trips provide the perfect opportunity for this – it’s just enough time for him to take a break away from the others and catch his breath.
Once he’s taken off Taima’s saddle, he leaves her to graze with the other horses, letting Kieran know that he’ll be back later to groom her properly. With the deer across his shoulders, he heads towards the center of the camp, nodding in response to the whistles and comments of appreciation at the prospect of fresh meat. Despite the attention, his thoughts elsewhere. He searches the camp for Arthur, scanning faces as he unloads his kills at Pearson’s wagon. The two of them are long overdue for a conversation.
Their almost kiss a few days ago has been on a constant replay in his mind ever since it happened. For a brief second, he and Arthur had shared the same breath – and it would have turned into something more, if not for Bill in a drunken stupor clamoring out of his tent needing to piss. Charles has been with both men and women in his life but those instances have never felt as intimate as they had with Arthur.
But the other man hadn’t brought it up since, leaving Charles to wonder why. Arthur isn’t the type to discriminate based on skin color – nobody in the gang is (with the exception of Micah and occasionally Bill) – so that’s an easy possibility to eliminate. And while Charles considers other options, such as being uncomfortable with affection between two men, he ultimately comes to the conclusion that the most likely reason Arthur hasn’t said a word is because he doesn’t know what to say.
Arthur gets flustered easily, his brain seemingly short-circuiting when presented with something he doesn’t know how to answer. Charles has noticed the way that Arthur’s face reddens and how his head ducks around certain topics – especially sex and romance. This theory is only confirmed Charles purposely makes it so their hands or arms brush when they’re close by and watches Arthur’s wide-eyed reaction fondly.
Shaking his head as if to refocus his scattered thoughts, he spots Mary-Beth and Tilly sitting in the shade and mending clothes. While there’s no sign of Arthur, he figures that at least one of them would know where he is; he straightens his shoulders and heads in their direction.
“Miss Gaskill, Miss Jackson,” he says, dipping his head in greeting. “Mind if I ask for a favor?”
“If it’s more laundry,” Tilly mutters under her breath, “we’re done for the day.”
“Tilly!” Mary-Beth hisses, nudging the other woman in the ribs. She looks up at Charles with a slightly strained smile on her face. “If you do have laundry that needs doin’, we wouldn’t mind. Unlike others,” she scowls, shooting a look in Micah’s direction, who’s lazing around the camp like he owns the place, “you’re actually considerate.”
Tilly sighs, placing her sewing on her lap and looking up at him. “What can we do for you, Mr. Smith?”
Charles has always had the opinion that the talents of the women in camp are wasted on chores. They are capable of much more than mending and patching clothing (a skill that many of the men know themselves) and he thinks they should go out on jobs more often. Despite that, he’s never broached his thoughts to Dutch and Hosea. The two of them always make a point to listen to what he has to say, but he hasn’t been in the gang nearly long enough to suggest something like that.
“I won’t take up too much of your time,” he says, not wanting to bother them for too long. “I was just wondering if you had seen Arthur today.”
“He rode in about an hour ago,” Mary-Beth tells him, glancing over to where the horses are. Charles follows her gaze; he hadn’t even noticed Arthur’s mare when he’d arrived, but there she is, grazing near Taima. “Maybe try his tent?”
He nods in response, already turning on his heel in the direction of Arthur’s tent. “Thank you. I will.”
“So you don’t have laundry, then?”
He pauses, turning back to the women and speaking over his shoulder; that brings a half-smile to his face. “No laundry.”
As he strides away, he can just barely make out Tilly’s muttered, “Thank God.”
When he gets there, Charles pauses just out of sight near Arthur’s wagon. If Arthur’s resting or taking some time for himself, Charles is unwilling to disturb the other man. He sees just how hard Dutch works Arthur, a fact that even Arthur struggles to realize. After a beat, Charles pushes forward, knowing that he could always come back later if necessary.
“Arthur? You there?”
After a beat, Arthur tugs back the tent flap with narrowed eyes but visibly relaxes at the sight of the other man. “Thought I heard someone,” he says. “Whatchu need, Charles?”
“Don’t need anything,” he says, hating how Arthur’s first response upon seeing someone outside his tent is the assumption that they want him to do something for them. “I just wanted to talk. But if this is a bad time, I can come back later.”
“Naw, it’s fine,” Arthur replies, his slow Southern drawl dragging out the syllables and making the words sound longer than they are. “I ain’t doin’ anything important. Come on in.”
“All right,” Charles acquises quietly, ducking underneath canvas and entering the small space. With the tent flaps closed, it’s almost stifling in the midday heat, with only a tiny gap in the back to let in the fresh air; even then, it doesn’t provide much ventilation. Despite that small inconvenience, he is grateful for the privacy Arthur’s tent allows; he doesn’t need any prying eyes or eavesdroppers in what is supposed to be a private moment.
Instead of choosing to stand hunched over – the ceiling a bit too short for his tall stature – when Arthur makes room for him on the cot, Charles takes a seat next to him, perched on the end of the bed but facing the other man. Arthur leans his back up against the wagon but doesn’t look relaxed; his shoulders are stiffened slightly, his brow just barely furrowed. Charles suspects that Arthur has a similar idea of what’s currently happening and is preparing himself for a wide variety of outcomes.
Charles can only hope that he doesn’t disappoint the other man, that they share the same feelings Charles has been harboring for a while now. Even before Blackwater, there had been something that had pulled him to Arthur. Though they hadn’t spoken much – the trip up to Strawberry being one of the first opportunities – Charles secretly admired the other from a distance, his steadfast loyalty, his kindness.
And, of course, those irresistible piercing blue eyes.
He’s silent for a moment, thinking of what he wants to say and how he wants to say it, knowing that he has to choose his words carefully so as not to cause any undue harm. But the tension is palpable and Arthur clearly feels it; the other man clears his throat and starts before Charles has fully collected his thoughts.
“You wanted to. . .ah, talk?”
“Yes,” Charles says simply, deciding the best approach is to be blunt and lay everything out before Arthur to avoid misinformation. No point in beating around the bush or wasting time on small talk and formalities. “About what happened a few nights ago when we were sitting alone by the campfire.”
“Aw, hell,” Arthur mutters, closing his eyes briefly and rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks are flushed already. “Listen, it’s already forgotten. I know I ain’t. . .well, I ain’t much of anythin’ but I’m good on my word. Don’t worry about it no more.”
“That’s not what I want,” Charles says gently, having already expected this kind of response. If he knows one thing about Arthur, it’s that his self-hatred often overshadows most of Arthur’s thoughts. “What if I told you that I didn’t want to forget? Or that I want to do it again?”
Arthur forces an uncomfortable chuckle and avoids eye contact, staring at a random place on the ground. “Charles, why in hell would ya want an ugly fool like me when you’re – ”
“When I’m what?”
“You know,” Arthur gestures vaguely in his direction, turning redder by the second. “Like – like that.”
Charles raises an amused brow but doesn’t say anything else about it, not wanting to push the other man any farther. The clear desire in Arthur’s eyes is enough to spark desire low in Charles’s gut. His heart feels as if it’s threatening to break its way out of his chest; he had suspected, of course, that Arthur might feel the same way, but to practically have it confirmed. . .
(It’s what he’s always wanted but never found in anyone before.)
“You’re not ugly, Arthur,” he says lowly, leaning towards Arthur slightly. There’s room for him to back away, to leave if he so wants to, but Charles doesn’t think that he will, not when he can see the way Arthur’s eyes dart from his lips to back up his face. “Far from it.”
Arthur opens his mouth, likely to deny that, but Charles cuts him off. “You’re not ugly or old or whatever it is you think of yourself. You’re loyal, strong, hardworking. . .you are so much more than you think you are, Arthur.”
“Charles. . .”
“We can argue about it all you want later,” Charles murmurs. Their faces are a hairsbreadth apart, even closer than they’d gotten a few nights ago. “But right now, I just want to kiss you.”
Arthur sucks in a breath, eyes closing briefly. “I. . .” he starts, pauses. And, never one to adequately put his feelings into words, Arthur lurches forward to press his lips against Charles’s instead of speaking anymore.
It’s over before Charles can even process that Arthur’s kissed him, the other man pulling away quickly despite Charles barely having any time to react properly, panting softly and red-faced. It’s not like Charles is unaffected, though; with half-lidded eyes and body tight with desire, he thinks Arthur one of the most beautiful people he’s ever seen.
“M’sorry, I shouldn’t have – ”
“Don’t apologize,” Charles replies, shaking his head. Slowly enough that Arthur can pull away should he want to, Charles reaches forward and brushes a piece of hair off of the other man’s forehead oh so gently. His hand lingers, unwilling to pull away so soon; Arthur seems to lean into his touch unconsciously. “I wanted it. Can I. . .”
An almost imperceptible nod, hard to notice if Charles hadn’t been so close to him.
Taking that as a sign to move forward once again, Charles closes the gap between them, leaning down slightly to kiss Arthur properly, groaning softly as their lips meet. One hand cups the back of Arthur’s neck to support him better, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck. Arthur grips Charles’s so tightly it’s as if he’s holding on for dear life, trying to get closer and closer.
The cot creaks beneath them but neither pay it any mind. Charles nips at Arthur’s lower lip, desire sparking when it makes the other man moan into his mouth. All too soon they break apart, flushed and panting. Charles eyes Arthur appreciatively, all mussed and disheveled from their kiss, his cheeks red and lips swollen; he figures he must look the same, eyes wide and wanting to be drawn back into Arthur’s orbit.
“That was. . .” Arthur shakes his head. “I ain’t never been kissed quite like that.”
“Me either,” Charles agrees softly. He feels. . .well, he feels like a damn teenager again, bright and full of hope. Funny how something as small as a kiss could strike a chord so deeply within him; Charles has never been much of a romantic but he feels like one now, wants that with Arthur if he’ll have him. And as much as he wants to surge forward once again and capture Arthur’s lips once more, he doesn’t want to mess anything up by moving too quickly. “But I don’t want to rush this.”
“As much as I want to do that again,” Arthur starts, leaning back to resume how he’d been sitting earlier, “s’probably a good idea,”
Charles does the same, but his posture is more relaxed, more comfortable than it had been before. He can’t hide the way his eyes keep darting over to where Arthur’s sitting, fighting down a smile every time he does.
When their gazes meet – as they’re both not so subtly staring at each other – Charles ducks his head, huffing out a laugh. His chest feels fit to burst.
“Heard that you brought back a nice lookin’ deer this morning,” Arthur says, finally breaking the silence. “I take it you had good luck? The rest of us haven’t been gettin’ much lately.”
Remembering the story Hosea had told them about Arthur’s first time hunting with a shotgun, Charles can’t hide a smirk when he imagines the lead-filled rabbit. Despite their luck together in Colter, Arthur is by no means a master hunter. “They send you out?”
Arthur scowls, likely thinking the same thing. “Don’t know why ya bother askin’ when ya already know the answer.”
Arthur grunts in agreement.
Even though they’re only a few inches apart, Charles itches to close the distance. He’d meant it when he said he doesn’t want to rush things with Arthur but he can’t help in wanting that type of intimacy now that he knows his feelings are returned.
Silently, he holds out an arm and makes eye contact with him to express his nonverbal question. Arthur hesitates for a few seconds but shifts across the cot until Charles can drape his arm across the other man’s shoulders.
“I gotta – ” Arthur says after a beat, slightly nervous. “Well, Dutch’ll be on my case if I’m just sittin’ around in here all day but I reckon you could come around tonight, if ya wanted. Not to do anythin’ or – just t’ sit. Talk. I could write in my journal and you. . .well, you. . .”
With a small smile, Charles interrupts Arthur’s ramblings once he trails off into silence. Despite how closely they’re sitting and their past affections, it’s not enough to eliminate all of Arthur’s shyness; Charles finds it endearing. “I’ve got a watch shift this evening but after. . .I’d like that, Arthur.”
“I. . .all right.”
“What else do you have to do today?” Charles murmurs; after a beat, he tilts his head slightly to the side to press a soft kiss to the top of Arthur’s head, heartwarming considerably when Arthur nuzzles further into the crook of Charles’s neck. “You weren’t in camp when I rode back in this morning.”
“I was out fishin’ with Hosea,” Arthur responds just as softly, clearly distracted by the way Charles’s fingers run up and down his arms in a rhythmic motion, eyes closing under his ministrations. “An’ I was thinkin’. . .well, the wood needs choppin’ and I got some laundry that needs doin’.”
Charles frowns but knows better than to argue with him; despite Arthur continuously working himself to the bone for this gang, no one seems to ever let him have a breather. He supposes that he’s at least thankful Arthur isn’t doing anything too strenuous this afternoon and settles on hoping that the other man can take a few extra hours of rest before inevitably he’s sent out again.
“You need to make more time for yourself,” Charles chastises gently. Even though he knows better, he still has to try. “You do so much for the gang – no one would say anything if you took an afternoon off.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs after a few seconds. “But what I do ain’t enough. If we’re gonna get back on our feet, then we all gotta pitch in extra.”
Charles sighs, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. He has to trust that the other man knows what’s best for himself, even recent evidence speaks otherwise. “I. . .all right, Arthur.”
“Hey, I ain’t doin’ anythin’ right now ‘cept sittin’ here,” he points out.
Charles chuckles. “I suppose you’re right.”
“You’re a mighty fine pillow, Charles Smith.”
Charles’s face heats slightly at the praise. In response, he pulls Arthur closer, tightening his arm around his shoulders. He doesn’t say anything but hopes that his affection is clear in his actions; he’s never been a talkative man and there are times where it’s easier to express his feelings in what he does.
This is one of those times. How else is he supposed to communicate that his heart swells in his chest? That he’s almost overcome with the rush of happiness that Arthur’s touch brings? That he’s so incredibly grateful to be here sitting in Arthur’s tent, that he’s lucky enough to have gotten to this point?
Charles kisses the top of Arthur’s head and smiles.
“Hey, Charles.”
The other man looks up as Arthur approaches, laying down the arrow he’d been carving on his knee. A soft smile curls at the corner of his mouth, the genuine one that Charles seems to reserve solely for him; Arthur’s heart flips in his chest at the sight, tight with affection. “Arthur. It’s good to see you.”
“Heh.” He doesn’t really know how to respond to that, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck while the tips of his ears redden. “If ya ain’t too busy, I was wonderin’ if you wanted t’take a ride with me. Maybe get outta camp for a day or two.”
Charles’s smile widens, looking genuinely excited at the prospect. “I would like that. Supplies are getting low again too – I’ve been meaning to go out hunting.”
“All right, well – that’s good.” He’d stopped being a teenager decades ago and yet every interaction with the other man makes him feel like he’s never done this before, standing awkwardly with sweaty hands and hot cheeks. “We can leave whenever you’re ready.”
Charles stands, slipping the half-finished arrow into his satchel. “I’m good now.”
“You sure? Don’t wanna rush ya or anythin’. It ain’t like I got anywhere to be.”
He shrugs, dusting off his pants and moving to stand by Arthur. “I can always finish it later. Besides, I would much rather spend time with you than sit here alone.”
Arthur huffs out an embarrassed breath, scratching at his chin, trying and failing not to look pleased at that response. He’s still getting used to how Charles so openly wants to be around him these days – not that he’s complaining. As nice as it is, it’s just. . .new, unfamiliar. It certainly hadn’t been this way with Mary.
Amusement dances in Charles’s eyes at Arthur’s reaction, his smile softening. He tugs on Arthur’s hand gently, tugging him in the direction where the horses are grazing. “Come on, Arthur.”
And, like a lovestruck fool, he follows gladly.