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Arthur leaned against the balcony railing of Shady Belle. The sounds of crickets and frogs and god knows what other creatures of the swamp surrounding him, but he hardly noticed. Too enveloped in his head.
His eyes watched the camp, both seeing and unseeing. His thoughts make it hard to focus much.
Lightning bugs and embers from the campfires intermingled with the stars in the sky, lazily drifting in a twinkling dance. The rest of the gang had already turned in, except for Bill, who was standing guard by the tree line. It wasn’t often the entire gang would be asleep, but everyone had been so exhausted as of late. Especially after the events that took place earlier that evening.
The adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet and, quite frankly, Arthur couldn’t tell if the shock hadn’t either.
The look on Dutch’s face.
The anger.
It reminded him of his father. Of cold nights keeping his distance from the campfire, head kept low, lest the devil on his father’s shoulder, fueled by drink, decided the boy needed to be taught another “lesson.”
He forgot the last time he was able to look at Dutch and see the kind, charismatic man that had taken him in from the streets and shown him what a proper family was like, and not the shell of his dad who was slowly being molded into what his father once was.
Dutch never beat him though, he used his words. Took the trust and loyalty he gained from Arthur and twisted it, tying it into a leash to pull whenever he believed his loyal dog was starting to question the hand that fed him. Though lately, it seemed like Dutch was tying it into something more akin to a noose.
Sometimes Arthur wished Dutch would just hit him.
These thoughts made the presence beside him all the more unbearable.
Dutch was leaning against the railing the same way Arthur was, looking up at the sky.
Arthur stole a glance and noticed that he had rolled up the sleeves of his white striped button-up and discarded his vest.
The ends of his sleeves were still damp.
“So filth has got to be...disposed of-“
Arthur shook his head.
He looks at Dutch once more, letting his gaze linger a bit longer. He thinks, maybe if he focused hard enough, he could pretend they were back in Wyoming. Just him and Dutch, standing on the balcony of a house they’d been staying in for a few days. And when they went back in, it would be just him, Dutch, and Hosea. Where’d they sit by the fire and just talk, until eventually Arthur couldn’t hold his eyes open any longer, and he fell asleep between his Dad and Pa.
With a sigh, Arthur let the daydream go and followed Dutch’s gaze up to the sky.
He looks towards a familiar group of stars and recalls the first hunting trip Hosea ever dragged him along on. The hunt went terribly. Arthur missed the buck they had been tracking by a long shot, and scared off any other prey for miles. He remembers expecting punishment or at least disappointment but, instead, Hosea picked a spot to set up camp where they could see the sky and stayed up all night pointing out the shapes in the stars and the stories behind them. Though, looking back, Arthur’s pretty sure Hosea was making them all up.
Hosea.
The past few months had done a number on his lungs, and constantly yelling at Dutch wasn’t helping.
He tried to hide it, but Arthur could hear him struggling to breathe at night from up in his room. With each morning it seemed it was more of a struggle for the old man to walk across camp just to get a coffee.
Once upon a time, Arthur remembered Dutch and Hosea to be close. Close enough that even a young boy like Arthur could see that their relationship was a bit more than just friendly. But then Dutch started to change, slowly enough at first that Arthur didn’t even really realize. But Hosea did, he always did. He was always looking out for everyone, for his family.
But how much time until Hosea wasn’t around to do just that?
Which “one last score” would be his last? Their last?
How far was Dutch Van Der Linde willing to go to soothe his bruised ego?
The silence between them was anything but comfortable. Both men standing side by side, gazing at the stars like they had hundreds of times together over the years, but this time, it felt more like stargazing with a stranger.
“I don’t think you’re a good person,”
Arthur said softly. He didn’t say it harshly, but as casual as would one when mentioning the weather.
He waited for the flare of anxiety but he found himself too tired to care.
Silence followed, Arthur could tell Dutch was taken aback by his words.
Good.
“And you are?”
Arthur expected those words to sting, to a hold a bitterness Dutch had laced all of his words with as of late. But he had said it as softly and as casually as Arthur did.
Arthur didn’t believe he was a good person. He hurt people. Wherever he went, he left nothing but widows and orphans, pain and grief. But he didn’t do it needlessly, no. He was simply a loyal dog, allowing himself to be pulled along by his leash.
“No,” Arthur whispered towards the stars, “you made me far too much like yourself for that.”