Chapter Text
It's strange, being in love.
Sometimes it begins with hate, and melts into understanding like a spring thaw. Other times, passion burns with the slightest spark, immediate and agonising. This time, however, it was slow. Chance meetings weeks apart, a cautious friendship that was slowly kindled, heat coaxed with gentle words, fed with the tinder of post-adrenaline. With every snap of some beast's jaws at his throat, he saw reflected in the pearly white his own affection for the one dragging him from death. Arthur Morgan.
Albert had no doubt when it came to his own sexuality; it was secret, it was shameful, but it was his. True, he'd never found the same comfort that many of his friends had, the loving touches of one that truly understood him, but every pat from that large, surly hand on his back gave him butterflies in a way he hadn't thought possible. For men like him, happiness was a dream. Especially in New York, where judgement for deviance like his was swift. Many nights he'd laid awake in his apartment, holed in the darkness of Saint Denis, the company of his own hand and the thoughts of the rugged cowboy churning him with a mix of emotions that made him sick. Love. Uncertainty. Guilt. But he knew those feelings had to be locked in his chest, deep inside, pushed into a tight diamond. Precious and concealed.
He tried to occupy his mind with his work, the rutting deer along the banks of the river, but in each antler point and every clash of heads, he saw his cowboy. He didn't know why, but the stags reminded him of Arthur. He'd tried to make it a fresh routine, with waders and old clothes he didn't mind getting dirty, but nothing helped. Sighing heavily, he leant on his tripod, staring at the raw display of nature. The shot was framed perfectly, the rushing river, the whispering pines, the mighty mountains behind the animals slicing the sunlight. It didn't stir awe in him like it usually did, which made his mind swim with anxiety. He didn't even notice the squelching footsteps in the river silt behind him, until a voice made him startle so much he nearly fell into the water.
"We really gotta stop meeting like this." Arthur chuckled, thumbs through his belt loops. "Looks like you've picked a safer subject this time. They won't cross the river to get at you."
Albert couldn't help smiling at Arthur, his chest fluttering as he saw his deep interest in the stags. "Fine afternoon, isn't it, Mr Morgan?"
Arthur hummed in agreement. "Sure is. Thought you were just focusing on predators for your project? Or have you had an attempted-eating from a deer before?"
"Well, I am, mostly. However, I simply adore the power inherent in mating battles." He gestured grandly, grinning. "You can almost smell the testosterone."
"Hey, it ain't been that long since I've had a bath." Arthur nudged him, and Albert leapt at the sudden touch. His boot sank into the silt, and he pinwheeled his arms as he squeaked, falling toward the deep, rushing river water. Visions of his bloated corpse washing up on the beach flashed through his mind, considering he couldn’t swim, but he found himself stopping just before he hit the water. Arthur hoisted him back onto the beach by the hem of his waders, his rough chuckle making the hair on his neck stand up. "You're real clumsy, ain't ya?"
Albert brushed himself down nervously. "Well, you know how much of an idiot I am." He thanked Arthur with a little bow, spotting his quick draw boots covered with mud. "Oh, you'll have to get them buffed." He laughed breathlessly. "So, aside from saving me, what plans do you have today?" He asked, taking another photo as two stags clashed.
"Just popping into Valentine with some friends. Got some business there." He shrugged. "What about you?"
"Well, I was just going to have a picnic." He gestured to his bag vaguely. "I would've invited you along, but now I know you're busy."
Arthur looked toward the bag, then back at Albert, in a way that made his stomach leap. "I am real hungry, but I'll take a raincheck. A picnic with you sometime might be good."
A wide smile spread across his face, and he nodded, rubbing his neck. "Good! Yes, good! That's… that's good." He tried to worm free under the slight narrow of Arthur's eyes. "Anyway, I'm very busy, so I'll see you later, Mr Morgan!"
"Stay safe, Mr Mason." And with the sound of hooves, he was off.
Albert gave himself a slap on the forehead, sighing heavily. He berated himself for being as stupid as he was, and began to pack away his camera. No matter how much he tried to not think about Arthur, his mind floated back to him. How he was hungry, doing whatever work he had in Valentine. How he said it would be good to eat with Albert. How nice the saloon food was in Valentine.
Before he even thought, he was riding toward the cattle town. He intended on changing in his hotel room, into something nicer. He'd get some money, then wait to see Arthur after he'd finished his business, and ask him for a meal.
As friends. Only as friends.
It took him a moment to choose his clothes. Of course, his emerald vest wouldn't do. That was his adventure outfit. The choice then was between a charcoal grey shirt with a brown waistcoat, or a blue shirt with a tan jacket. He chose the former, slicking his hair back, and made sure there was nothing in his teeth. He had to remind himself that Arthur might turn him down. But it was just a meal. As friends.
The bank was rather busy for the afternoon, three other people in there when Albert stepped inside to get some money. He supposed Arthur would probably eat a lot if he was treating him as he seemed like a man with a large appetite. He began floating off on a tangent of aprons and frying pans, sweaty clothes and muddy boots, tables and kitchenware and tired thanks with a full belly, a shared bed… He stood at the back of the line humming to himself as he looked out of the window with a dreamy smile on his face. He may have resigned himself to never speak his feelings, but domesticity was something he longed for, and he would allow himself a little indulgence.
Just as Dr Calloway reached the bank teller, an almighty crash from the doors sent Albert reeling backward with fright as three armed men burst in through the doors, yelling and aiming their guns. He didn't need telling as he dropped to his knees and hid his head in his hands, whimpering as he listened to the men shouting.
"Lenny, get that door open. John, make sure nobody moves." One man barked, making Albert freeze. Surely not. Surely this wasn't his business. But as he peeked through his fingers, he saw those plated quickdraw boots, the silt mud dried to a crust. Pressing his back to the wall, he hugged his knees, hiding his face as he shook. He couldn't believe it. Arthur was a nice man, a kind man. A beautiful man. There was no way in hell he could be an outlaw. It had to be his mind, always making everything about him. That was it. His lovelorn daydreams sabotaging him.
"Arthur, you nearly done with them safes? Pretty sure the cops will be here soon!" The man, apparently called John, shouted.
"Almost. They made 'em harder to crack since last time I was in here." That was definitely his voice. It was different. When he spoke to Albert, it was soft, full of sweetness and mild teasing. He was almost a different person now, behind that mask. "Shit, the stitching on my bag's gone. Tilly must'a not fixed it like I asked. John, swap places with me, they're all cracked now."
The men switched places almost immediately, this 'John' grabbing the money, while Arthur guarded the bystanders. Albert didn't want him to see him, he couldn't deal with it now. He needed time to think.
The door to the bank opened, and Arthur reached out to grab the man who walked through, finding it just so happened to be one of the bumbling deputies. Albert expected him to be thrown with the rest of them, but Arthur suddenly heard his own name spoken in recognition, and lifted his gun, clobbering his head harshly so he crumpled to the polished wood. "Sorry, pal. Ain't personal." He said as he stood on the deputy's neck, choking the life from the unconscious man. "Gotta get away clean."
Albert had to cram a fist into his mouth to stop himself from screaming, seeing those muddy boots, the ones that had carried Arthur through the dirt to save his life, taking it from another. As Arthur moved to the door, Albert peered up through his fingers, watching him leave with the money without a second glance at the lifeless man on the ground.
He felt as though he was cracked. His world was beautiful blown glass, and now it was shattered across the floor of that bank, sobs making his whole body shudder. It took two lawmen to help him to his feet, his legs not supporting his weight. His mind was a blur, vague shapes of Valentine in his periphery as he was taken toward the sheriff's office and seated by the desk. He heard snatches of conversation as he sat, as though in a dream, the hotel owner and the doctor both giving their versions of what happened. He didn't hear Arthur’s name, which relieved him endlessly.
"Poor Rick. Be hard to tell his wife and kids that he was murdered by outlaws on his day off."
"I heard he was getting money for an anniversary present."
"What a way to go…"
The warmth of the cup of tea that was given to Albert soothed him, and Sheriff Mallory put a hand on his shoulder. "We interviewed the rest of the bystanders, but we need something from you too. I know you're shaken up, but anything you can give us would be helpful."
Albert stared at the contents of his cup, the steam plumeing into his face in the cold. He knew who had done it. Who had killed that poor deputy. It should've been a harder decision whether or not he should tell the sheriff the name of the man in question.
"I didn't see. I don't know anything beyond what's already been said." He muttered, his tea tasting like acid and the lies he spoke. Falsehoods seldom crossed his lips, and it left an acrid flavour on his tongue. "I was so afraid, I didn't look. I'm sorry I can't give you more, Sheriff."
The man sighed deeply, nodding. "Well, thank you anyway, son. Will you need help back to the hotel?"
Albert shook his head. "I could use a walk." He mumbled, setting down his mug. "Thank you for the tea." He gave a slight bow, then stepped out into the light drizzle, the sky dark and foreboding. Clothes damp, hair slicked, mind clouded, he paid for a bath, hoping it would ease him a little.
Arthur was there when he woke up. Masked face, eyes bright, gun pointed. "You saw me." He growled, in a way Albert had never heard. "You told the sheriff my name."
His hands shook as he raised them, sitting up against his pillows. "I-I didn't! I promise, I didn't!" He tried to defend himself, tried to beg, to plead.
The cock of the gun made his bones turn to ice as Arthur pulled down his mask. Blood stained his lips, crimson and fresh, and he pulled them into a tight smile. "Whether you did or not, I don't care. At least this way I'll be rid of you, and any chance that you'll squeal."
Opening his mouth, Albert tried to scream, to implore his innocence. He couldn't get the words out as steel and blood burned his throat, his vision black as coal as he slumped backward onto soaked sheets.
Grasping at his throat, Albert coughed and heaved breaths, his bed wet with his sweat as he sat up. The first rays of morning filtered inside, revealing an empty room. Just a dream. Just a dream.
His anxiety lingered as he rode toward Strawberry, intending to catch the elk for their rutting season. Before, his thoughts of Arthur were either love or guilt. But now there was fear. Anger. Hatred was beyond him, he didn't hate anybody. But this was something so agonising that he almost rode directly into the Owanjila.
What would he do now? He couldn't simply forget about this, as the sound that the deputy's throat made as it was crushed still echoed in his skull. Perhaps he wouldn't see Arthur again. Perhaps he could go back to Saint Denis, open his gallery exhibition, and try not to flinch at the portrait of Arthur he had submitted.
Setting up on a ridge, he carefully wiped his camera lens, then levelled his tripod, checking his map once more before simply waiting for the elk to arrive. He hoped they'd be punctual.
After twenty minutes, he began to get restless. Normally, he'd focus his attention on the landscape, or the various other animals around him. But being alone with his thoughts was near painful, so he began to open his bag, wanting a little lunch to take his mind off things.
The sound of a horse snorting made him cringe, and he grit his teeth. Please not him. Please.
"You're like a bad penny, ain't ya?" The difference between his voice in the bank and his voice in the wild was like chalk and cheese. "Or are you one of triplets? That would explain why I see you so often."
Albert stared down at his hands, gouging a circle from the apple he was holding with his fingernail. His throat ached, but he swallowed it, hearing footsteps draw closer until they stopped directly behind him.
"That picnic invitation still open? I got some food if you wanna share, if you don't have enough for me here." Arthur waited for a response, but when he didn't get one, he crouched beside Albert. The photographer couldn't raise his eyes beyond those boots. He could've sworn he could see a smear of blood on them.
"Mr Mason? You okay?"
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Albert clenched his fists. "I want to be alone."
Arthur paused for a moment. "Oh. Oh, alright then." He didn't move from his crouched position. "Can I ask why? Yer usually so chipper. Somethin' happen?"
Albert grit his teeth, looking at the empty spot his camera was fixed on. "Yes, it did. Now, please--"
"You don't gotta talk about it, it's okay." He offered Albert a smile that he didn't see. Wouldn't see. "Still, nasty cougar around here. I'll linger about, but I won't interrupt." He stood, and Albert turned to watch him walk toward a large rock about a hundred feet away, climbing on top of it, then taking some jerky from his bag.
It was infuriating. How could Arthur be these two people he had in his mind? Kind, gentle, considerate. Murderous, vicious, bloodthirsty. Albert couldn't make the two converge into one man, they were separated into a good Arthur and a bad Arthur. But both were the real man. Both were him. It made him feel sick, his heart yelling at his brain, his brain screaming back, and his stomach doing what felt like the turkey trot.
The rustling of trees drew his attention to the forest, and he saw a large, bull elk saunter into his camera's shot, shaking out his antlers as he began to graze. Albert didn't care. What did it matter? It didn't. He simply sighed, looking at his apple, the holes in it browning in the air. He scowled and hurled the apple as far as he could, watching it bounce off a tree and into the bushes. The elk spooked and galloped away, squealing with fright.
Arthur was looking at him. He averted his eyes, but the man was already walking toward him, his rifle propped on his shoulder. He stopped a few feet from him, frowning at him. "I don't want to pry, but I'm a little worried about you." He said, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Albert flinched, pulling away and staring at the treeline. "Albert?" It was the first time he'd called him by his first name, and it should've made him happy. Instead, it made him feel like he'd swallowed a rock. "Listen, you're my friend, and I understand if you're upset by something… but I've never seen you like this before. Even after you nearly died, you still kept being chatty." He waited for Albert to speak, but when he didn't, he sighed heavily. "Man, it must've been something serious."
Albert grit his teeth and whirled around to face Arthur, his eyes ringed with red. "Mr Morgan, what do you do for a living?" He asked, forcing his voice to be level.
Arthur's face turned from concern to unease, and he looked around at the landscape, scratching the side of his face. "Oh, ah… Some bounty hunting, I've broken horses before, and--"
"Murder." Albert choked out.
Startled, Arthur stared at him, eyes wide. "I'm… I'm sorry?"
"I was in the bank. I thought to myself 'oh, Mr Morgan might like some lunch, my treat' and I went to get some of my money out." His voice wavered, throat aching as he tried to keep his sobs under control. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Mouth opening and closing, Arthur's shoulders slumped slightly. "It's not something you tell. You never know who you can trust."
Albert laughed humourlessly. "Oh, isn't that just the truth? I thought you were some angel, some selfless man!" He clenched both of his fists as he stood his ground, despite every fibre of his being telling him to run. "Now I find you're a savage killer! What was it you wanted from me, hm? Get close to me so you could dip your bloody hands into my family's money?!"
The outlaw couldn't look at Albert, stepping back a pace to lean against a tree. "I told you that I wasn't a good man. I never wanted anything from you, Mr Mason. Well, aside from the company of a friend."
Without thinking, words spilled from his mouth with hot tears salting his lips. "No friend would keep something as huge as this to himself! No friendship is built on lies! You're just lucky I'm such a nice man, otherwise I'd have turned you in, after what you did to that deputy!"
Then, what he most feared. That rifle was aimed at him, and he froze, his face draining of colour. So, this was it. Arthur's true nature. He raised both of his hands, wincing as he turned his head to the side, a pathetic whimper in his throat. The gunshot rang clear, jolting him, and he realised after a moment that he wasn't in pain. Hesitantly, he peeled open his eyes, seeing Arthur shouldering his rifle. Confused, he glanced around, only to see the carcass of a cougar behind him, the creature stopped mid-hunt with a smoking hole in its head.
Albert looked back to Arthur, the man taking some money from his bag. "Dunno how much of what was in the bank was yours, but I hope this will cover it." Arthur offered Albert a hefty stack of bills, seeming like almost double what he'd lost. "I won't bother you again, Mr Mason."
Pausing, he stared at Arthur. He was going to leave him alone? Forever? A rush of regret washed over him like breaking storm waves, but he took the money with a shaking hand. He tried to will himself to speak, to call Arthur back as the man mounted his horse, but he couldn't make his mouth move. Before he knew it, he was alone, feeling as though his chest cavity was filled with fresh ash.
For the first time since he arrived, a photography trip ended with not a single shot taken, and he slunk back to his hotel room, relying on his horse to take him home. He knew he'd gone too far. Yes, he was angry at Arthur, but the expression on his face made him realise that shouting at him was not the answer. His thoughts clouded him, and he was almost dreamlike as he checked out of the hotel, dissociating. Nothing made sense to him. Words were like butterflies in a strong breeze, his actions melting into nothingness.