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He pushed his way in with a growl, dark eyes set deep as they swept over the dimly light interior. The smell of dust, of a faint woodsy tint saturated the air, dulling out the mud and shit just beyond the door. Above him, the clang of a bell announced their arrival, and Arthur stared pointedly at it, as though offended by the mere existence of the thing.
Hosea seemed less bothered; if anything, the man seemed thrilled to be here. He pushed his way in, past Arthur, damn near knocking him to one side as he careened down an aisle, pawing over the shelves. Arthur watched as the man pulled down one item after another, gazing at them longingly, as though sharing some secret with himself. Then he glanced back, as though Hosea suddenly remembered he was still standing there.
“There's no need to sulk by the door, Arthur—take a look around, see if anything catches your fancy.”
He crossed his arms, scowling. “Catches my fancy? Hell would anything do that? Ain't even see why I gotta be here; nothin' here but books anyhow.”
He'd spit it out as bitter as he could possibly manage. Arthur had wanted it to hurt, had wanted it to get under the man's skin, if only to show just how much he didn't want to be here. What with all these books staring him down, mocking him, as though to remind him he could barely read more than a handful of fucking words.
They'd found out that surprising tidbit about him a few weeks back, mostly by incident, and since then neither Dutch nor Hosea had let it slide. It'd changed everything, and how he hated it . Rather than drinking and telling tales by the fire, he found himself squinting over passages in the faint glow of a lantern. Instead of riding and shooting, his time was now spent scratching lines of whatever scraps of paper Hosea had shoved his way. Part of his chores, they would say. Something that was expected of him, had he expected to become somewhat civilized.
“Thought you hated civilization.”
Arthur had spat out once. Only to be greeted with the retort that he wasn't some buffoon, and that if he was going to stay, he was going to learn.
He was half tempted to threaten to leave at that, but Arthur could never bring himself to say it, on account of the fear they'd actually take him up on that gamble. So he kept his mouth shut, had dealt with the infuriating lessons, no matter how goddamned stupid they made him feel.
“Well, I hope there's books here, seeing as it is a bookstore,” Hosea didn't seem to be the least bit bothered by his retort. It only seemed to annoy Arthur all the more. The man already had an armload, balancing a precarious stack as he wandered back towards him. Hosea held one out expectantly, leveling him with a stern gaze when he didn't move.
Arthur let out a sigh, relenting under the pressure. He could swear the man was grinning at his triumph under the brim of his hat as the book was pressed into his hands. The cover wasn't much to look at, and he could scarcely read the words on the front, the leather thick underneath his fingers.
“Tom Sawyer,” Hosea explained, tapping on the cover, “about a young kid like you, growing up, getting into all sorts of trouble.”
“I ain't a kid,” Arthur said dismissively, flipping through the pages. Nothing but words. Words upon words—how in the hell did anybody write this much? Damn fool must have done nothing but eat, breathe and write his entire life. “N why in the hell would I care 'bout what some kid got up to anyhow?”
Hosea plopped another book atop that one. “How about this one, then? The Three Musketeers? Tells about three fellas in France who fight injustices; kind of like us, I reckon.”
“Where in the hell is France?” Arthur frowned, looking up at him.
“Across the sea—”
“Then why does it concern me?”
“Not everything has to have a reason,” Hosea damn near pleaded with him, “just—look; how about this? The White King of the Pawnees.”
He held up the last book which sported an odd yellow and beige coloring. The cover was unlike the others, adorned with pictures of this and that, ones that were quite similar to what they'd had him reading out before.
“Ain't I read that already?” He puffed out his chest. It was a bold claim, seeing as he hadn't managed more than a handful of sentences on his own.
“It's similar, yes,” Hosea nodded, spinning the book to face him and flipping through the pages. “Buntline has quite a way with words, and this one here is about a man named Texas Jack. You might find a lot in common with us in this, if I'm not mistaken.”
Arthur let out a crooked grin, “Then why I gotta read it, if I'm already living it?”
Hosea let out a sigh, snapping the book shut. “Fine—I'm not going to force you; and seeing as you're clearly not interested, you can wait outside.”
It wasn't the worst he'd ever heard, but damn if it didn't sting any less. He stood there, rigid and tense, watching as Hosea left him there, his mind whirling. It wasn't often that Hosea grew short with him, but it was about as much as he deserved, he supposed, seeing how he'd carried on, trying to pick a fight. Arthur wasn't sure what he'd expected to get out of it. Whatever it was, the strange, uncomfortable burn in his chest surely wasn't it.
He looked down at the books still in his arms, his eyes skimming the words, the letters blurring together in one long string of nonsense, seemingly mocking him. Reminding him of his failures, of his ineptitude, of his idiocy. They'd been teaching him for weeks, reciting lessons, forcing him to write letters till his damn hand near felt ready to fall off, and still he'd made no progress.
He just couldn't get it. And maybe he never would.
That was fine by him. At least it was what he tried to tell himself. He'd done well enough this far, gotten by on his own without having to know. He could shoot straight, and ride fast, and beat up any fool that dared to stand in his way. He didn't need to know how to read, didn't need to know how to write. What use was it to him if he knew how to scratch his name down on something, and it wasn't like he needed to read the paper. He could get any information well enough on the streets with a sharp tone and a well placed blow. That was all he needed. He didn't need to know any of that other stuff.
But god he wanted to.
If not for himself, than for them.
For Dutch. For Hosea. For them to be proud of him, for once. Rather than exasperated, as they so often were as of late. Annoyed by his shenanigans, touting his unruliness and inclination towards causing trouble. He'd faced an awful lot of lectures as of late, chiding him about his antics and cautioning him against causing a ruckus that so often came about when he indulged in too much drink.
It wasn't his fault. Or so Arthur liked to tell himself. Those things just sort of happened, and somehow it always involved him. It'd be nice, he mused, to be involved in something good for once. Though he was quickly burning the candle at both ends for that to happen.
Of course, it was never too late to turn things around.
Arthur closed the books, setting them haphazardly on a shelf as he wandered, his fingers skimming over the bindings. There were so many, he couldn't even hope to begin to choose. But he had to find something. Anything. Anything to appease him; Arthur could grin and bear it well enough to pretend to be interested, if only it could gain back a little favor.
Arthur grasped the largest one he could find. It was thick, bound in a heavy leather, and it sat awkwardly in his hold as he thumbed through it. Nothing but pages upon pages of words. It'd take him years to read through this shit—chances were he was going to die before he finished, but damn it all, it was a chance he was gonna take.
Satisfied, he slammed the cover closed, and wove his way through the aisles until he caught up with the other. Hosea had a few new books in his arms, but still was caught up in perusing the shelves for yet another find. Arthur shuffled up to him, not quite able to look him in the eye as he cleared his throat.
Hosea shot him a curious glance, pausing in his motions. “You still here? Thought you'd be long gone by now.”
“Reckon I got a bit hasty there,” he mumbled; it was about as close to an apology as he was going to get. “Looked 'round like you suggested, and thinkin' I found one I wanna try out.”
He held the book out as though in offering, a way to garner peace between them. Arthur stood with baited breath, hoping his choice would impress the other. Several, long and agonizing seconds passed, before Hosea raised an eyebrow.
“You really want to read that?”
“Sure,” Arthur lifted his chin, meeting his gaze with a confident look. “I know it's a bit long, but I figure it seems interesting 'nough. Sides, by the time I get to the end, I'll be a professional.”
Or dead. Most likely dead—though Arthur kept that last thought to himself.
Hosea let out a sigh, pulling the book from his hold. “Arthur—this is a dictionary.”
“Sounds fascinating,” he chirped, forcing a smile to keep up the act.
The man blinked, watching him as if trying to judge if he was being serious or not. Arthur kept that grin, though he could feel a burn in his cheeks, his resolve crumbling as the man shook his head.
“I'm taking it you never heard of a dictionary, before,” Hosea set the book back on the shelf.
“Course I have,” that chipper tone fell into something of a growl. If his cheeks weren't burning before, they certainly were now. That pit in his stomach had returned, his gut churning as though he'd just swallowed rocks.
Lucky for him, Hosea didn't seem to notice. “It ain't a story, it's just a collection of words, and what they mean.”
He frowned at that. “That's it? That entire damn thing is just a bunch of words? Why the hell anybody need that for?”
“It has its uses,” Hosea explained vaguely. “What it doesn't explain is why you thought you needed to read that one. Surely you could have found something more inclined to your interests?”
Arthur felt his chin drop, desperate to find something to look at on the floor. Even when he tried, he couldn't do a damn thing right. Sometimes he wondered what use it even was, seeing as Hosea could just about damn well read him for the fool he was.
“How about this one?” the man pressed a different book into his hands. It was a fair bit smaller, and brown in color. “I haven't read it yet, but it's about a horse; thinking that might sit right with you. What do you say?”
There was so much hope in his voice that it hit Arthur like bullet to the gut. He felt it in the weight of the book, in the heaviness of the man's gaze, and he felt that burn in his chest flare with a vengeance. Over the pounding of his heart he could hear a whisper, a swarm of words mocking him, telling him it would end in disaster.
It always did.
It'd start off well enough, and he'd stumble through the words with help, until his head pounded and shoulders ached, and it would dissolve into yet another argument that would sour the night and they'd all go to bed in a foul mood. Arthur hated it all; hated that they could all read so easy and here he was, barely able to stumble through books meant for little kids.
It was almost too hard to focus, the letters blurring before his eyes. “I ain't—ain't sure...”
“We'll give it a try, all the same,” Hosea pulled the book out of his grasp when he failed to finish that thought. “I picked up a few easier ones as well, something other than Dutch's philosophy books. I think we've had enough of that, don't you?”
He hated those with a passion; but he hated the insinuation more. Arthur grit his teeth, raising his chin pointedly.
“I ain't stupid.”
He'd spat those words out with enough vehemence that it stalled Hosea in his movements. The man turned back to him, something akin to pity on his face. He reached out, settling a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“No one said you were; it's not your fault nobody ever taught you to read, Arthur. These things—they take time, and I know it seems hard right now, impossible even, but you'll get it. Smart kid like you? You'll be reading circles around the both of us in no time flat.”
He swallowed at that, the shame welling up in his throat. He wanted to believe it, but life had a funny way of proving him wrong at every chance it got. Arthur had learned at an early age to not expect much, if anything. It was a lesson he was still trying to unlearn, what with the kindness he'd been shown as of late.
So he allowed himself a breath, let his heart calm a moment, before he gave a nod. “If you say so.”
“You've been at this, what? Two weeks?” the man hummed, walking on up to the counter. Arthur trailed behind him, dragging his feet. “And you can write your name, my name—Dutch's. Plus read a handful of words on your own. I'd say you're doing a marvelous job so far.”
It felt like patronizing, something cheap and unearned, but Arthur still let the compliment soak into his skin like the sun on a cold day. There was truth behind that—he could recognize some words. Could write his own name, which he hastily scratched in the ledger anytime he donated a part of his earnings towards camp. It'd been a proud day, seeing those sloppy letters with a monetary amount next to it, the proof his contribution.
A month ago, he wouldn't have been able to do that. Maybe Hosea was onto something. He pulled nervously at his sleeves, feeling a bit ashamed at how he'd acted. Though he wasn't given much chance to dwell on it, as the books were pressed into his hands.
They'd left the store in the same way they'd come. In a hurry. The ride back to camp was long as it was quiet; not for the lack of trying. Hosea had tried to cajole him into conversation, but Arthur hadn't really been in the mood. He stewed in his own thoughts that were darkened by his petulant attitude, and Arthur was convinced all the more to try and make amends for all he'd done.
So much so that he buried his head in the books the moment they'd gotten back.
Dutch had wanted to know how they'd gotten along, but Arthur was too embarrassed to explain. Hosea had taken up that mantle, though the man had left out some of the more sordid details of their endeavor. Arthur only paid scant attention, his shoulders hunched as he flipped through the pages, skimming over the words, trying to sound them out.
There were four books in all. The first was the one about the horse, like Hosea had mentioned. The second was some detective novel, if any indication by the picture on the cover. Arthur could pick out a few words from that one, the sentences shorter and the words printed large; a clear indication that it was geared for kids.
He let out a scowl, forcing that one to the side as he picked through the third.
Only to frown. There hadn't been anything on the front; just a simple and plain cover that was smooth to the touch. The cover had also been tied, which in itself was a strange thing, but the most peculiar was the fact the pages were all blank.
Arthur thumbed through it a few times, thinking that he might have missed something, somewhere. Thinking, for a moment, he might have gone blind from having strained his eyes far too many times trying to squint at all those words in the other books. Because surely there had to be something.
Hadn't there?
He frowned, craning his head over his shoulder. “Hosea, I think you done got cheated; you got an empty book. This thing ain't even been written.”
The man laughed, coming up alongside him. “That's because it ain't a book; it's a journal.”
“The hell's a journal?”
“Something you write in,” Hosea took a seat near him, dropping a pencil on the table. It clattered, and rolled against the edge of the journal, as though waiting for him. “Newspapers and such only go so far—figure this can help with your practice, without having to fight for a clean space to write on.”
Arthur stared at the journal. He was used to scribbling in the small swathes of space between articles, painstakingly copying letters and words he didn't quite know. In turn, the blank pages here seemed almost intimidating. He let out a frown, turning to the other man.
“Well...what am I supposed to write?”
“Whatever you want,” the man reassured him, “whatever comes to mind. You can write about what you did today day, or whatever thoughts are on your mind—you can draw too.”
“Draw?”
“Don't think I haven't noticed you sketching that horse of yours,” Hosea smiled at him. “Or that fawn you saw out in the field—least here you got a whole page to use, instead of the corner of yesterday's news.”
Arthur stared back at the journal. True, he did like to draw—it weren't often he had the time for it, or the means. Most those blank spaces were reserved for his writing, and well, he figured that drawing didn't have much use. He found it nice, still. Something that calmed him in times when little else seemed to do so.
Hosea clasped him on the shoulder, the man moving to his feet. “We're gonna get supper on the fire; why don't we forgo lessons for tonight? Been kind of a long day. We can worry about all that tomorrow.”
Arthur felt a twinge of guilt at that, yet he wasn't about to argue. A night without all that stress sounded perfect, far as he was concerned. Still, he stared at that blank page, his fingers itching, just mere inches away from that discarded pencil. It was as though a part of him was begging. Pleading to give in.
Just this once.
Arthur snatched the pencil, the lead pressing against the paper, letting broad strokes fill the entire thing as he sketched. The sound of his scribbling filled the air, drowned out only by the fire, the gentle hum of a song somewhere beyond the table he sat at. He didn't stop—not even for the plate of food left by his side.
He didn't stop, not until he was done. A thin smile at the accomplishment, Arthur staring down at the drawing, before flicking his eyes up to gaze over camp. It was almost a perfect likeness—the fire in the center, surrounded by their tents. Hosea and Dutch, their silhouettes sitting atop of logs, caught deep in a conversation punctuated by laughs. The thickness of the trees that stood tall, hiding them away from any prying eyes.
It was perfect.
Almost.
Because there was something missing. Something small, yet important.
Arthur pressed the pencil to the page once more, deftly making a few more scratches in order to round it off. He chewed on his bottom lip, as the last of the marks were made, and he stared down at it with a triumph grin.
At the sketch of their current camp, and the words that read beneath it.
'Home for now'