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They're stretched out in the grass, surrounded by wildflowers and enjoying the sun. They're meant to be hunting - animals or people, depending on their luck - but the sky is too clear to have blood spilt beneath it, even for the sake for feeding or providing.
Charles is propped up on an elbow, studying Arthur's face, taking his time trying to count the freckles dusted across his nose. It's a thing he can't do in camp and it pains him, the distance they have to keep between them. There's no option for shared tents or even sitting too near to each other when everyone is gathered around the fire of an evening. There's no space of safety for anything other than fleeting glances, a hat tipped Charles' direction when Arthur finally stumbles into bed. Charles has to pretend to sleep while he listens for the sounds of Arthur riding back into camp, tossing whatever cash or items he's found into the box. The only upside to this is that Charles can tell just how tired Arthur is by how his footsteps sound. Light, quiet? He's doing alright, not too run down. Scuffing, toes of boots scraping against the soil? Exhausted and in need of a decent night's rest.
But with nothing around to see them except the birds and the occasional game animal that wanders too close before darting off, Charles has all the time in the world to stare. To run the tips of his fingers along the bridge of Arthur's nose, as he is doing now.
Arthur wrinkles his nose at the contact and the sight of it causes Charles' heart constrict in his chest. Charles moves on to mapping out the planes of Arthur's cheeks, the cut of his cheekbones, the scars. The touch is tender, so at odds with what's demanded of them both that it feels almost alien, even to Charles himself.
"What're ya doin'?" Arthur murmurs, voice rough with the near-sleep he's been woken from.
"Admiring," Charles says simply, tracing the shell of Arthur's ear with the pad of his thumb.
"Think you might be touched in the head, Mister Smith, ain't much about me worth admirin'" Arthur is trying to brush the intimacy off, but the pink flush that blooms across his face is all the permission that Charles needs to continue. He's learned by now that Arthur will say one thing, to preserve the image or role he has to play, but what he actually wants and needs is very often something completely different.
And Arthur wants and needs gentle touch, as much as Charles is willing or able to give. And Charles will give and give and give it means he gets to watch Arthur melt into the contact, wiggling closer and leaning into Charles' hand, as he does now. Probably not even aware he's doing it at all.
Charles just hums in reply before running his hand through Arthur's hair, scratching softly as he goes. His reward is a long, contented sigh, a shift as Arthur presses a foot against one of Charles', bare skin touching. They'd discarded their boots somewhere nearby to wash their feet in a nearby stream. The legs of their trousers are rolled up to let the damp skin dry and Charles can't help but steal a glance at Arthur's bare calves. Pale, but with well-defined muscle after years in the saddle with thick brown hair. More body hair than Charles himself has there, at any rate.
Turning his attention back to Arthur's face, Charles can't help but smile when he sees that Arthur has opened his eyes. The expression Charles sees is tender, warm and overflowing with adoration. It's vulnerability and openness, a rare gift given to no one else in Arthur's life.
"You're wrong, Mister Morgan, but it's not for the first time. There's plenty about you worth admiring. Some parts of you demand it, even." Charles whispers, his hand ghosting down Arthur's chest, over the soft expanse of his belly, just ghosting over the outline of his cock. Just enough pressure applied to draw out a gasp, a breathy sound, fine as goose down.
Charles brings his hand back to Arthur's face, cupping his cheek and holding Arthur's gaze with his own.
"Your eyes, for a start."
Arthur blinks at him, the warm glow of desire still there as he tries to adjust to the switch in direction. Arthur is far more clever than he pretends to be; his mind is often working away at multiple problems at once. He is capable of examining a situation and seeing all the potential ways it might succeed, or fail and to plan for each eventuality. His wit is dry, but as sharp as the knife he keeps well-honed in his belt. That being said, he can be awfully....single-minded when Charles even so much as looks lower than Arthur's belt. It's an endearing thing, but not the focus of Charles' attentions at this particular moment.
"My-my eyes?" Arthur asks, lips slightly parted.
"Mhm, all of the colors. They remind me of the Cotorra Springs, in the Grizzlies East. Do you know it?" Charles traces his thumb along Arthur's eyebrow, gazing into his eyes like he might fall headlong into them.
Arthur snorts beneath him, shifts and tries to pull his head away to hide it in the crook of his elbow. For a blooded, hardened criminal, Arthur Morgan is surprisingly shy. "I know 'em. I think you might be full of it, though. You been readin' Mary-Beth's novels?" It's another deflection and a poor one.
"Don't need them, not when I have you," Charles whispers, turning Arthur's face toward him with gentle fingers on the other man's chin. In addition to the things they cannot do in camp, there are even more things they cannot say. Words or promises that must be expressed without words, or through actions that could be easily brushed off as things done for a dear friend. But these moments, stolen as they are, they allow both men to say what they mean and exactly in the words they wish to express it. The outpouring is often like a dam bursting, sweet, adoring whispers or pet named gasped against heated, sweaty skin. Or, on days such as this one, simple statements that ring with truth.
"And I'm not full of it. You've got so many different shades of blue, deeper and richer toward the center. The outer rings are a blue-green, though, like the pools of the Springs. It almost looks like jade, that blue-green..."
"You...uh, you been studyin' me when I ain't lookin?" Arthur says, tripping over his words, arching upward against Charles ever so slightly. Sweet words and tender compliments get him as worked up as hot and heavy kisses do, Charles has learned.
"Not studying so much as thinking about you. I spend a considerable amount of time doing that," Charles admits, lowering himself to press a tender, chaste kiss on the corner of Arthur's mouth. In truth, he spends damn near every spare moment he has thinking about Arthur Morgan. It might be considered madness, if Charles had thrown himself headlong into this thing between them, overjoyed and heart split wide open.
"Seems like a waste," Arthur gasps, his hands reaching up to tangle in Charles' hair.
"Nothing is ever a waste when it concerns you," Charles whispers, pressing his forehead to Arthur's, breathing out a sigh of happiness.