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1. Javier
Javier has been watching Arthur steadily inhale bottle after bottle since the sun set.
If he didn’t have a bottle in his hand then he was heading back to the campfire with a freshly acquired one.
It isn't Javier’s business, he himself has been known to drink just as much on any given day.
Javier sits at the main campfire strumming away on his guitar, keeping a grin under his sombrero at Arthur softly bobbing his head completely off beat. He knows Arthur loves listening to him play. Neither ever bring it up.
Javier enjoys playing for the girls, they offer peace and comfort the rowdy men of camp don’t. But Arthur always managing to find his way to the fire whenever Javier picks up his guitar? He just can’t help but find it a little endearing.
He isn’t playing any particular song, and has to hold back a laugh when Arthur mumbles in garbled English, “this is my favourite…”
Now, a few more people have joined them. Hosea sits on the crate beside him, Karen dances joyfully in the near distance and Charles holds a bottle on the log right next to the ever faithful Arthur.
Who…has a faint dribble of spit leaking out of his mouth.
Arthur’s eyes speak of nothing as he stares right at a particular stick on the ground, probably the most fascinating thing the man has ever seen. Javier can only be thankful Arthur is in a catatonic state of drunkness tonight (the bottle he’s holding threatening to slip out of his grip), instead of his usual ‘the whole gang has to hide them and their possessions’ state.
Arthur’s gaze flicks up at Charles when he accidentally knocks his bottle against Arthur’s knee. Charles murmurs a wordless apology, not breaking his eyes from the fire.
Arthur however just..keeps…staring. At Charles. Hazy blue eyes uninterrupted and wide.
Javier subtlety double glances him, unsure if Arthur is actually looking off into the distance Charles’ head just happens to be in front of and, nope. Arthur is looking directly at Charles.
Javier falters in his playing but picks up without anyone noticing.
Surely Charles is aware of Arthur’s blatant staring? Javier can’t imagine the most obvious damn thing Arthur's ever done in his life would slip past someone like Charles.
But the man just keeps admiring the fire while absentmindedly twisting his hands around the empty bottle.
Javier looks up at Hosea but he slumbers with his head tucked into his chest, arms crossed.
So he peeks over at Karen, though he’s pretty sure nothing will be able to stop her misplaced dance steps that has Bill jumping out of the way with a scowl.
Well.
Javier has to duck his head even more-so, feeling his neck prickle hot. Arthur’s gaze is very..open.
Why isn’t he looking away?!
Javier feels like he’s interrupting a damn moment, even if Arthur’s the only participant.
Both Arthur and Javier startle when Charles stands with a faint farewell.
Arthur watches Charles leave to pick up a repeater and head out to the woods, all while Javier watches Arthur with his mouth slightly open.
And at that Arthur’s body decides to flop over, his legs draping over the log while the rest of his body is nowhere to be seen on the other side.
Javier exhales and puts down his guitar.
2. Mary-Beth
Mary-Beth doesn’t think the camp has ever been in such high spirits.
Sean’s return sent the whole gang into a flurry of laughter and drunkness. Mary-Beth revels in the sounds stories at the campfire, Sean and Karen half-flirting-half-arguing with each other and Dutch and Molly dancing and giggling in a way that makes Mary-Beth believe Dutch actually loves her.
She stands near the corner of Dutch’s tent, wistfully watching the two twirl and dip when Arthur stomps past. Somehow already sloshed.
Mary-Beth reaches out to him before he can march to the box of drink on the table. “Arthur! Will you dance with me?”
He snaps his head around, but his entire person softens when he meets her eyes. “Sure.”
Arthur takes her hands and the two begin an out-of-rhythm dance, on account of Arthur not being in entire control of his body.
“How on earth have you drunk this much already, Arthur?” Mary-Beth teases.
Arthur grunts. “You know me. Can’t help myself.” He dips her with an automatic hand on her waist.
Mary-Beth giggles. “Sure you can, Arthur.”
He grumbles a laugh and spins her.
The idea of dancing with Arthur has always been a tempting prospect. Mary-Beth knows damn well he’s a massive softy at heart, and so far that theory has been proven correct at every turn. He holds her with such an uncharacteristic gentleness in his hands even if he used them to kill mere hours ago. For a good cause of course, if Sean’s cackling from the fire has anything to say about it.
But his eyes are distant as he scours the far horizon, she isn’t entirely sure what he’s trying to locate and is especially confused when he turns her so he can face the woods, twisting his gaze through the brackets of trees.
“Arthur, are you alright?”
He flicks back to Mary-Beth, eyes like a dog caught with the dinner’s turkey in his mouth.
“Sorry, jus'…” His head bobs carelessly as he sinks into himself.
“Arthur, it’s ok,” She brings their hands close in between them. “If you wanna talk about it we can go over there.” She nods her head at the girls’ wagon.
Mary-Beth almost jumps back as his face fills with red, eyes darting.
His eyes don’t settle but he does seem to consider. He breaks his hands from her.
His voice is gruff and sharp as he backs away. “Thank you, Mary-Beth, but… it’s ok.”
Mary-Beth can only sigh, bringing her shawl closer as Arthur stumbles to the box and takes out two bottles. He squints into the forest again, face brightening as he locates whatever he's been looking for and sets off. She can’t even fathom what trouble he’s going to get himself into.
Mary-Beth heads to the campfire to watch the festivities. Arthur’s attitude has been tense ever since he got that letter from Mary, and it’s clear it’s still bothering him. She doesn’t think he’s gone to see her yet but she knows he will. It’s inevitable.
—
The night draws longer and Mary-Beth settles in her bed. Everyone is either passed out on the ground or is apart of the campfire circle sharing some dastardly story of their past. Or in Karen’s case, grumbling with a vengeance as she sleeps next to her.
Mary-Beth frowns as she slaps the blanket into a bunch to act as a pillow, the wooden slab as a foundation does nothing for comfort.
Just before she lies down footsteps from the forest carry over. She would’ve assumed it was a disgruntled horse if Arthur and Charles didn’t emerge instead.
Charles has an arm wrapped around Arthur’s shoulder, his entire weight being supported. Arthur keeps trying to stomp away from him, just to be brought back with a hand on his stomach when his entire body goes to fall.
Their faces come into view as they reach Arthur’s wagon. Arthur has his classic dumb-drunk grin plastered all over.
Charles positions him to lean against the side of the wagon so Charles can catch his breath, eyes slightly hazy as well.
Mary-Beth is fairly certain they don’t know she’s awake as Arthur murmurs,
“You’re a strong man, Charles.”
Charles’ mouth quirks up in a slight movement. “Thankfully, or you would’ve spent the night in the dirt.”
Mary-Beth has to stop herself from gaping as Arthur giggles, head tilting dangerously to the side.
“Such a gentleman.”
“Come on, Arthur.” Charles takes Arthur’s arms and brings him into the wagon.
Mary-Beth hears the sound of sheets being collapsed on and instantaneous snoring.
Charles walks out with his eyes trained on Arthur, a faint smile crossing his face.
Mary-Beth’s head follows Charles until he’s out of view, hopefully going to his bedroll instead of resuming night watch. She’s sure it’s close to 4am.
She finally lays on her makeshift pillow. Karen’s back is all she sees as she rolls over in her mind that moment.
It seems a silly thought to entertain but, she doesn’t believe it’s Mary Arthur’s been pining over.
3. John
John figures getting shooed out of a saloon doesn’t require a firm kick to the balls, but that’s just his opinion.
Of fucking course Arthur had been riding past as it happened. He had laughed, loud and ear grating, while his riding partner; Charles, just looked on at the scene solemnly.
Now he rides behind the two under the stars, wincing every time Old Boy’s wonky trot has him sitting.
Arthur’s andalusian shines in the moonlight, a pink iridescence passing across with every movement. John can’t help but be a little jealous, recalling Arthur’s tall tale about how he had just been wandering up near Roanoke and had coincidently ‘come across’ the beast. It was a load of horseshit but nobody could pry the exact origin story from Arthur, only ever getting a vague shrug and a change of subject.
John offhandedly wonders if Charles knows, the two seem to tell each other everything.
They reach the road trailing along Caliga Hall. “What were you two doin' in Rhodes?” John says.
“Just passin’ through,” Arthur says, looking over his shoulder.
“Can’t exactly go to the saloon,” Charles murmurs.
John rubs the back of his neck. “Right yeah…now what’chu doin'?”
Arthur waves a dismissive hand. “Campin’, huntin’. Why do you care?”
John balks, arms outstretched, just to have them jerked back in by Old Boy. “'Cause it seems I got no choice but to follow you! Jesus Arthur, jus' tell me where you’re goin’.” He won’t mention the clear lack of game on the back of their horses but, whatever.
Arthur scoffs. “No one asked you to come, it’s an hour back if ridin' with us is such a nuisance.”
“Two hours now,” John mumbles as they turn off across the train tracks, trailing deeper into Lemoyne.
John flicks to Charles, not surprised the man remains quiet but he still can’t help but feel a little cheated. When they were both tasked with repairing the wagons John realised Charles does speak, and whatever he has to say is actually interesting, instead of mindless dribble for the sake of it. He figures that’s why Arthur and Charles warmed so quickly to each other, though John can hardly call Arthur’s conversations awe-inspiring.
They reach a thicket of bushes a little ways off the main road, Charles leads the group to a small opening in the middle. John follows the twos' lead when they dismount and begin grabbing their camping gear.
With a grimace John realises he actually doesn’t have anything on him. Going to the saloon with the intention of staying the night doesn’t exactly account for the possibility of getting a firm boot to the-
“You idiot, Marston,” Arthur drawls, shoving a bundle of camping gear into his arms.
John drops the tight grip on his stirrup to catch the mass, staggering back with the force.
“The hell you gonna use then?” John says bitterly as he unfolds the tent, it lands on the ground with a solid thump.
Arthur snickers. “I’ll be fine, ain't know you cared so much."
John can’t even give him the dignity of a response, so he gets to work pitching the tent.
As he unravels the bedroll an odd sensation creeps along his neck, he turns to find Charles looking at him with a furrow in his brow and a slight frown, though when he’s caught his face turns passive and he promptly resumes adjusting the logs around the eventual fire pit.
John falters. Is Charles upset? Or is he one of those people whose facial expressions doesn't exactly match their actual emotion? Or maybe John is bad at reading people.
John feels a little stupid thinking this but, does Charles want him to leave?
He can’t imagine why. Well, hah, John figures his presence annoys people time to time, but Charles has never given any indication he himself feels the same. In fact, John thinks with a hint of pride, Charles actually enjoys his company.
The fire flickers around the trees, warming them in the frustratingly cold nights of Lemoyne. Look, if a state is going to be hot, humid and ball-sweatingly sticky than it may as well commit.
The horses nibble on the grass just aways off from the tents. Percival nips at Taima’s bridle and snorts, offended, when she shakes her head and bites his own.
Arthur takes a swig of his drink. “They’re always goin' at it,” He mumbles from the other side of the fire.
Charles huffs next to Arthur, glancing at John with that same expression as before.
Ok, now it’s really starting to confuse him.
He can never properly catch Charles in the act, his eyes always manage to look somewhere else a spilt second after John notices.
Arthur is oblivious to all of this, steadily downing his drink and then picking up another. Where he’s grabbing them from, John doesn’t want to know.
At Arthur’s 6th round his hand flexes involuntarily and the bottle drops. With a scowl he goes to reach for it… by leaning backwards into Charles’ shoulder.
At the touch Arthur collapses, hat falling tilted over his face. Charles just continues his musing of the campfire to the utter fucking bafflement of John.
Arthur’s just… laying there, his arms drooped on his sides, legs lax like a dead squid - on Charles. Arthur; infamous for his lack of physical affection of any kind is having a nice little nap on a living being.
John takes a loud sip, he winces as the sound reverberates around the camp.
John has to catch his bottle when a throat-bruising snore pierces the air. Charles' eye slightly twitches, but otherwise he allows Arthur to do his thing.
“Uhhh, he asleep?” John asks, cringing.
“Mmhm.”
“Right. I’m jus'- I’m jus' gonna…” John gestures at his tent. Everything about this situation is screaming at him to leave. Remove himself from whatever moment he has inadvertently disrupted with his presence, like the smushed in middle pea of a pod.
John gets up with a customary dip of his head, Charles ‘hmms’ and Arthur snorts as he goes to lay in his tent, taking his hat off to lay on his back. He closes his eyes but when no sleep comes he lays there in blackness. He tries shifting on his side, usually it works.
He cracks open one eye slightly when soft murmuring comes from the campfire, he’s just close enough that the whisperings aren’t unintelligible.
“Are you alright, Arthur?”
“Dandy.”
“You fell asleep on me when John was here.”
“Eh, what’ver, let ‘im look..”
Charles pauses. “Arthur, you’re drunk.”
“Am I, Charles? Didn’t notice."
There’s soft rustling before Charles whispers, “Do you want to go to bed?”
John can’t believe his ears when Arthur chuckles, a hearty sound from his chest full of fondness.
“Depends on what you mean by that."
WHAT.
“Arthur, I mean going to sleep.”
“Damn.”
“You’re drunk.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“Come on.”
“Well you gotta let go o’ me first.”
Sticks and leaves crack when, John presumes, Charles lets Arthur out of an embrace.
He feels the need to hold his breath when Charles heads to his tent, Arthur stumbling after him.
He hears the two lay down before Arthur restarts his rumbling snore.
If John’s being honest, and that ain’t something he’s willing to be to himself more often than not, this actually explains quite a few things.
He’s always figured the two to be close - close in a way Arthur isn’t with anyone else. Not to mention how all of John's conversations with Charles lead back to Arthur at some point before drifting off again, and he's always seen that small little grin from the man during those.
But… John really didn’t need to find out like this.
The next day John packs up his tent before the two can wake up, so it’s before the sun has even been given a chance to rise.
He places it in a rumpled bundle at Arthur’s feet as the man snuggles into Charles’ arm. John can't help a faint smile at the scene, ducking away to leave with Old Boy.
John supposes Charles will be relieved his hints got through.
4. Dutch
Dutch has seen many peculiar things in his life.
In fact, Arthur slumped, saddled and drunk behind Charles while Percival trails a bit ways back barely even makes the list.
Yet when he tips out of the half-assed grip he has on Mr Smith’s waist and plummets to the earth with an excited wheeee! And his only attempt to save himself is a hand grabbing onto an exasperated Charles’ leg, damning him to the same fate. It changes a man.
They're just outside of camp. Dutch was riding to Rhodes for some dealings with the sheriff, but noticing those two play out whatever Greek tragedy just occurred along the road near the cobblestone fence, well... the sheriff can wait.
Dutch pulls The Count up to the fallen heroes, chuckling. “You alright, boys?”
Charles, somehow not seeing him approach, throws himself up from the ground - ground being the subjective word here, if a person were to count Arthur as the ground, than Charles did in fact land on the ground.
Charles’ eyes are wide and unfocused. “All good, Dutch just… uhh.” He whips his head to Arthur when the boy snatches his leg again with a laugh.
“Where are YOU goin'?” Arthur demands with a smirk.
Charles shakes his leg out of Arthur’s death grip and faces Dutch again, flipping a piece of tangled hair over his shoulder.
Dutch can only raise a brow, turning to Arthur.
“You all good, son?”
“DUTCH!” Arthur attempts getting up, if a dead fish’s last hurrah could be called that. “Fancy seein' you here!”
“Had one too many, huh Arthur? What are you coddling Mr Smith for?”
“Well I’ll have you know-"
He’s silenced when Charles kicks his hip, not hard enough to hurt, but still enough to have Arthur pouting like a toddler.
“Now what did I-”
“Sorry, Dutch. I found Arthur drunk around Emerald Ranch. Just bringing him back.”
Charles' voice drowns out as Dutch focuses on a particular image.
What you need to know is that the first thing a drunk man does is try and find more drink, and when he can’t do that, he gets up and tries again.
And now Arthur has fallen on top of the fence. Ass up.
“Oh would you look at that,” Dutch remarks.
Charles follows Dutch’s eyes and panics. Speeding over to Arthur, he hauls him out of his undignified position.
So now he’s flopped on the ground. Back at square one.
Dutch lets out a ceremonial laugh, bringing The Count up to them. Arthur doesn’t take his gaze away from Charles.
“You got strong hands, Charles.”
“Arthur, not now!” Charles panic whispers.
“He alright?” Dutch asks.
“I’m doing fine, Dutch,” Arthur lifts his leg, planting a boot on Charles’ hip. Charles grabs the offender and tosses it back to the ground. “Got Charles to take care of me.”
“So it seems you do.”
Dutch will be the first to admit that he isn’t all that fluent on the subject of art, it’s a scene of which a swindler cannot manipulate his way backstage. As well the exact complexities of art have always eluded him.
But it could be said that Arthur collapsed on the ground with a dopey grin, his legs outstretched so that Charles stands in the middle of them, of who is sporting a ruddy and burning flush to his face as he switches awkwardly between reaching out for the drunk and explaining the situation to his boss.
It’s practically baroque.
“Well it seems you two have everything covered, I’ll leave you boys to it,” Dutch says with a wink.
Charles’ entire body freezes as he pieces together that Dutch has pieced together what’s going on here.
In truth Dutch has known about the two for months, Arthur is a brute - this is a fact. But the boy is stupidly obvious when it comes to love. What? He’s supposed to not notice Arthur staring unabashed at Charles when he’s chopping wood? Dutch wouldn’t have risen to be a gang leader if his powers of observation failed him noticing who his son’s lover is, especially since it’s someone in the gang.
And ok, maybe Hosea mentioned it first, that’s not important.
What’s important is Arthur desperately gripping onto the back of Charles’ pants while the man keeps his attention forward, making sure he doesn’t make an ass out of himself in front of Dutch. It is certainly amusing that Arthur can get their master hunter to have such a heavy set flush.
He gives them a two-finger salute as he pushes The Count towards Rhodes. Not before witnessing Arthur violently tug at Charles’ pants, sending the poor man crashing back down to earth.
Earth being the subjective word here.
5. Micah
“Those two sure are close, huh Dutch.”
Dutch lifts his head to where Micah is looking, a particularly pathetic scene.
Arthur drunk and bumbling around that Smith, looking like a real idiot as he trails after like a lost dog.
“Good observation, Micah,” Dutch says, curt.
Micah lifts his hands in surrender. “I don’t mean anythin' by it, boss. Like you said, jus' an observation.”
Smith heads behind the wagon. Arthur, predictably unable to keep his freakish self away, slouches against it, looking to wherever that man has gone.
“Be a real shame...” Micah falters when Dutch glares up at him, but he needs to get this out to the boss, this display is a disaster waiting to happen. “Jus' that your most trusted senior gun is... you know..”
“What, Micah? Do tell.”
“One of those... inverts. Morgan an' Smith been gettin' pretty chummy, I jus' don’t want the gang to get into even more trouble on account of somethin' so…”
He doesn’t get the chance to continue when Dutch stands, towering over him with a cutting stare.
A hard pressure sinks into his back.
“What were you goin' to say, Micah?” Hosea demands, pushing the gun in deeper, age lines furrowed deep as he scowls.
Micah hunches and holds his hands up. “Nothin', old man.”
Dutch creeps closer, pressing a firm finger into his chest as the gun mirrors the action on his back.
“You best stay out of matters that don’t concern you, Micah. Both Arthur and Charles are vital members of this gang, no matter what happens away from the public.” His voice is ice.
“Of course, boss!” He shrivels his nose as Hosea backs away. “I jus' care 'bout this gang too much, don’t want any more attention on us.”
His vision sees punctured stars when the gun previously on his back smashes into his head.
He swears a heavy streak as Hosea flicks his gun accusingly at him.
“Go do somethin', Micah! You ain’t no better than Bill!”
Micah can’t even get a word out as Dutch and Hosea stare down at him, an impenetrable wall.
He glances at the wagon, Morgan has turned around - sober, with a raised brow. A hatred unlike any other that has boiled out of him appears when Smith takes his place right next to him.
“GO!” Hosea roars.
All eyes bite into his back, sides and front. He throws a final snarl at Morgan before cowering away to the bushes.
+1. Hosea
If a doctor tells you that warm weather will do right by your decaying lungs, you’d believe him right?
Would you still believe him if a mosquito making a home in your ear is a consequence of the supposedly medicinal weather?
Because Hosea might just go back and find that doctor, because he has a lot to answer for.
Hosea swats the bug away, grumbling as he shifts to his back. He closes his eyes again until-
buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
He gets up with the intention of violence, but when the bug is nowhere to be seen he goes to lay back down.
Though, he only makes it halfway before he notices the empty space beside him. Charles isn’t here?
Hosea doesn’t think he’s set for watch tonight, and he’s always punctual when it comes to his personal schedule.
He shrugs off the mystery - not really caring - and continues laying down, but then the campfire goes dim.
A figure is standing in front of it, slouching and off-foot.
Arthur sits leaning on a log, using the wolf pelts as a backing as he looks at Charles’ silhouette.
Charles flops down next to Arthur, face pained in a way only a drunk’s can be.
“You alright, Charles?”
Charles scoffs. “‘Course. No reason not to be…” He waves the near empty bottle of whiskey in the air, some drops falling out.
Arthur catches Charles’ shoulders when he tips into him. “Charles…”
“Yeah?”
Hosea ducks into a passable sleeping position when Arthur checks all around them. He can only just see them over Bill’s stomach.
Arthur trails a hand down the side of Charles' face, stopping to hold his jaw.
“When'd you start drinkin'?”
“Just… just a few hours ago. Why’s it matter?” Charles probably wanted to pull himself out of Arthur’s grip, but he only succeeds in sinking in further.
“Come here, Charles.”
Charles lets himself be cradle by Arthur’s arms, getting tugged into an embrace until his head is against Arthur’s chest.
“Was an accident...” Charles murmurs.
Arthur just pulls Charles in closer, running his hands softly through his hair as the other man’s head sinks to his lap. Charles’ eyes close instantly, letting out a deep breath into Arthur's thigh, bottle forgotten.
Hosea feels he shouldn’t be witnessing this, it’s a fragment of a relationship already more secret than most, for more reasons than one.
He turns to his other side, facing away from them.
Arthur’s gentleness is something that Hosea is fully aware is a part of him, but every time he sees it he can’t help the twinge of pride of Arthur just…being vulnerable. Allowing himself that comfort, and being able to extend it in return.
Hosea’s fully aware Charles has a direct hand in that. He can only thank whoever’s watching over them, or whoever they believe is watching them, that they found each other.