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So, they’ve been arrested.
“Comes with the job” was a meager consolation, drunken blabber that he overheard once or twice from Trelawny, over a swayed bottle of moonshine. And it wasn’t that bad, if only it didn’t happen in Rhodes of all places, leaving them rotting in a cramped cell that smelt like crusted blood, pungent rust, stale piss, and dog shit; the air alone pregnant with that goddamned crimson dust that made breathing anguishing, amber sand and prickly grains turning the fresher bread inedible and refreshing water choking.
“Yer angry”.
John, the idiot, was obliviously dangling his leg from the wooden bench, mindlessly biting around his thumb, pulling the calloused skin, and trying to bite and pull his cuticles, nails now shorter than usual and as useless as a dull knife.
“Ya don’t say”.
Their day started off on the worst premises.
Feeding the camp was a duty John avoided far too often, rabbits and turkeys something that seemed far from a stimulating target for Dutch’s Golden Boy. A pile of steaming bullshit the young man hid behind just so he didn’t have to admit he couldn’t hold his aim still when shooting a bow and arrow, even when his prey was something as easy as a clumsy and fat bird.
It felt like the man never grew, an eternal child that went from depending on Hosea and Dutch for feeding, to the entire camp; that ran away in face of the adversity and never got to pay or learn the consequences of his own actions. Arthur would have been just fine with leaving him behind when he went hunting. Silence didn’t come cheaply, and the more industrialized and civilized the West turned, the more peace seemed a rarity only bourgeoises could buy.
John was an adult, and a father, although according to Abigail and the camp, he was doing a pretty poor job at being both. Didn’t mean he needed nannying.
Yet Dutch had been naggin’ him for weeks, imploring him to bring the man along with him just once and teach him something he could pass onto his son. Except teaching John to stand still and wait for an animal to eat the bait was harder than training a mule to do a somersault, and by the time the idiot embraced the carbine and finally took a shot at the deer, his aim faltered and from there to hit a passerby in the knee was less than a second.
And, of fucking course, there was always a witness around— didn’t matter where Arthur ran or hid, they always spawned like ants, feeding his paranoia that perhaps, even when he committed the least heinous crime or snuck his hand below the belt at the end of a long day, conjuring John’s minute chest and his ragged voice begging and imploring his touches, someone was already there watching, crawling in the bushes and ready to sprint to the nearest sheriff’s office. Half a minute later, they already had the law on their asses, tight and stiff rope slitting and burning on wrists and ankles, the stench of horse ass slapping their faces and violating their nostrils for what felt like forever as they both swung and tilted with every trot and gallop— ten minutes, or maybe twenty, of endless torture that threw them in a sleazy and cramped cell for attempted murder.
For a goddamn arrow to the knee.
“Can’t believe ya ain’t even got ten dollars to pay our bounties and get us outta here, Morgan. I thought you was always prepared”.
Yet, it seemed like none of this fazed John.
Maybe the wolves really ate his brains, or maybe his lack of self-preservation skills really compromised his thinking capabilities if all he could worry about was why Arthur had to pay for both. As if he wasn’t an adult himself and therefore expected to contribute and provide for the gang just as well.
“Marston, I swear to God, if ya open yer mouth another goddamn time, I’m gonna rip off this rope and choke you with my bare hands—”
“How ‘bout you two just shut up?”, soiled boots knocked against the wooden desk, the Sheriff’s coarse voice patient but heaved with the fumes of his cigar, as he took a drag and let the smoke rest in his lungs for a bit, “Yer a nuisance”.
Arthur moistened his lips, chapped and dry with the dust and ash lingering in the air, but he didn’t spare him a generous roll of eyes: “Tell me ‘bout it. ‘ve been dealin’ with him for more than a decade”.
“If you just kept some money in yer satchel, instead of squanderin’ it all over apples and carrots for your stupid horse, we wouldn’t be rotting here”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Marston, but that’s big words coming from someone who, according to the camp’s ledger, so far contributed with–”, Arthur snatched his journal from his back pocket, and pulled out the first page, where he registered the camp’s countability up to date, “A dead and rotting squirrel tail, and a pair of silver earrings. Needless to say, the same Abigail claimed to have stolen a week ago”.
“Stop bein’ so nitpicky. I’m earnin’ my keep just fine”.
“With my money, we bought a goddamn boat!”, Arthur’s tone didn’t falter, heavy with indignation, the more his brother in arms stubbornly insisted on his own point, “All the money from the—”, his voice suddenly turned to a feeble whisper, mindful of the Sheriff overhearing their bickering, “the bank job in Valentine?, and the house robbing?, and the stagecoaches? I spent all that money to buy the same goddamn boat Dutch and Hosea are using for their escapades. Someday they’re gonna fuck a hole in it, and it’ll be the worst investment I ever made in my entire life”.
John snickered, scratching his stubble as he tried his best to hide his smile: “What did’ya buy, partner?”.
“A boaht, you goddamn idiot”. Teeth gritting and grumpy brows furrowing, Arthur was cut off by another snicker, this time awfully concealed, the younger man’s mirth now covered by his tapered fingers as he just pretended to smooth his short mustache, retiring under the cast shadow of his tattered hat. “What’s so funny”.
John was undeniably smiling, squinting and snorting like a pig as his mouth twisted in a spreading grin, scarred cheeks flushing in a choked carnation as he almost tried to regain his composure.
“You man!”.
“The hell are ya talkin’ about?”
“When ya say that thing in that way”.
Arthur shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose: “Boah?”.
Unexpectedly so, came John’s crass laughter, something he never actually heard so vivid and lively, tears prickling his eyes as he hunched over, split in two, and loudly wheezed, air drained from his lungs and feeble tone failing to formulate a sentence, dusty palms wiping his tears when Arthur gave him his broad back, burning carmine tingling the tip of his ears in a gruff and silent embarrassment, blood rushing to his already flushed face as he realized all these years, he had never ever heard John laugh like that.
It was a raucous and hoarse laugh, just like his grating voice, braying but yet very hearty and affectionate. Chaotic, an indomitable stallion kicking in the pen and rebelling to the reins holding him back.
Abigail often amused him when they weren’t at each other’s throats for trifles, and in the crackling flames of the deserted campfire, when the grasshoppers’ incessant crepitation and Uncle’s intoxicated and loud snoring mingled in an ominous call of nature, Marston was always the one narrating funny tales about the heists Hosea and Dutch used to pull off in the spring of their lives, stories of simpler times, when he was nothing but a child trailing behind Arthur’s back and holding onto his suspenders, weeping about his frightening nightmares and walking in his spurred boots, wishing someday he’d grow just as tall as him.
Even in his inebriated state though, even when John’s singing melted into an incomprehensible turmoil of drowned and dragged words, and his tipsy and unsteady steps stammered, and he fell face-flat on someone’s shit, manure or directly tumbled into the horses’ trough, soaked in water and hay from head to toe, Arthur had never found him laughing like a boiling tea kettle.
Suddenly, there was no anger or disappointment in knowing that the gunslinger had been wheezing at his pronunciation for God knew how many years behind his back. He would have still addressed that in a second moment, and there’d be time to remind him who was in charge, even though he suspected John wouldn’t have considered that much of a punishment. If nothing, he would have loved the discipline, always far too eager to clamber on his lap and rut his thigh with every administered spank, greedy slap, and possessive grope that landed on his smooth ass, cheeks pulled open, showing his gaping hole, and teasing him on the edge of his own orgasm.
How ironic that he’d heard John’s moans so many times, and yet he’d been living ages deprived of his laugh.
A thought that titillated his senses and whetted his desire, unquenchable thirst for relief that he was obliged to defer to a second moment, but that it was too late to shove in the back of his mind. Raging, impure thoughts were now sweating halos around his tight and tensed muscles, a tender warmth spreading from his constricted chest, as the echoes of his frantic heartbeats drummed against the ringing ears, tips of a pretty ruby with every idiotic snicker he was committing to his memory, resenting his journal for not being enough to describe what John Marston’s laughter sounded like.
Least than expected came John’s silence, wet and nimble fingers, bitten and sucked on until minutes ago, now reaching for his palm, delicate hold brushing and so-tenderly closing around his coarse knuckles, in a veiled worry that made Arthur wonder how long he’s been inhabiting his own thoughts, absent to the world, lost in his mind and rapt by the urge of hearing that laughter one million times more, sceneries overlapping of situations where John would crackle and smile again, ’cause only now it hit him how rarely the man ever did that.
All it took was one look though for John to realize that the blond’s embarrassment had very little to do with shame.
Arthur was just a victim of his unconscious seduction, as he buried his yearning desire deep within himself, with that vulnerable, untainted love the man refused to confess under the scorching and blinding sun when the world required he was strong and tough in face of adversities, responsible and unbreakable, but yet always professed in the sacred and inexpugnable fortress of their tents when the lonely stars always watched upon them.
The world was savage, untamed, and far from civilized, but John’s legs always closed him in their oasis of peace and safety, nervous arms incapable of shooting an arrow without hitting someone in the knee, but yet so certain and fierce whenever they grasped and held onto his shoulder blades, soft nails marking, claiming, and scratching greased tanned skin, and voracious lips greedy for the kisses that they were forbidden under the sunlight.
“Not a word, Marston”, Arthur mumbled, uncomfortably adjusting on the bench, claiming the spot John cleared for him. His azure gaze was evasive as it rarely was, thumbs pressing against each other as he stole a glance at his partner.
He craved a kiss, or a hundred, for all it was worth.
But kissing now would have cost them a death sentence, so he just let his palm linger in the meager space between them, in the blind spot where the Sheriff couldn’t see his timid longing for his touch, a silent offering for John, a game of courtship of slender fingers bashfully waltzing around, thumbs caressing and brushing each other’s knuckles and hands finally meeting in a chaste union, sinfully entwining, sweaty and dusty like their bodies after a hard day of work.
John seemed lost in his thoughts, mulling over something, fidgety as he rubbed his nails around the blond’s sinewy knuckles, tracing the knots, the bruises, and scratches, the coarse and hardened skin, and everything that made his guts squirm with irrational wanton whenever his thoughts drifted to the way those mighty hands manhandled him.
Scooting closer, he slightly leaned his head against Arthur’s shoulder, snuggling and chasing the warmth of his dusty blue shirt, and licking his lips in anticipating delight, he hummed something in a breathed murmur to his ear.
“See? I can be a good boah, Morgan”.
If Arthur’s pants were a little tighter, he pretended not to notice.
Turned out a benefactor had paid their bounties.
Arthur wished it was Hosea’s doing, ‘cause knowing Dutch, he would have never heard the end of it. He would have boasted about his good-hearted deed for years to come, and Arthur would have still felt indebted even on his deathbed, bearing the shameful weight of not escaping the law in time, and putting John into danger as well, despite that had always been far from his intentions.
As the Sheriff’s office door closed behind them, they were once again out in the shithole Rhodes was, eating red dust under the setting sun, in the revolting turmoil of fuming horseshit, and sweating or coughing folks.
Arthur adjusted the restituted satchel around his shoulders, and nervously fished for a cigarette, itching for the sweet relief of tobacco, but coarse palms stroked his shoulders, and a suave whisper grazed his ear, fleeting words murmured in an intimate secret, away from anyone that could hear them.
“Looking forward to christenin’ the boaht, Mr. Morgan”.
A silent promise that had Arthur already on his toes, faltering under the sunset in rushing anticipation.
Marston, foolish Marston, was already grinning from ear to ear, and as Arthur lowered his hat, until the shadow covered the embarrassment burning his face like flaring coals, John was already clambering onto Boadicea, the glimpse on his gaze earnest and urging the gunslinger on the back of his horse, just like they rode in the old times, Arthur holding onto the reins and John’s sly and deft fingers working their way closer to his belt with every trot, seldom entwining over his stomach as his greedy kisses lapped his nape and the golden and rebel tufts caressing his nape.
“Don’t get into any more trouble, boys”, the Sheriff’s wary glare followed them, but Arthur smoothly chuckled, nodding in the responsible and persuasive aura that made him Dutch’s right-hand man.
“He’s a fool, Sheriff, but he’s a good man. I’ll just make sure he doesn’t get in any more trouble”.
A half-truth, perhaps. But as he climbed onto his horse, and they rode out Rhodes, handsy palms already finding their way to his waist and crooked nose rubbing against his spine, sniffing his sweat and nudging his blond and mussed locks apart to smatter his nape with loud smooches, he resolved he wasn’t that different himself.
“Good boah. You’ll get your reward very soon”
Because truly, to love someone like Marston, he had to be a fool himself.