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He blames it on the rain.
Arthur and Josiah were heading back from town laughing and joking, still high on the last heist. It had been beyond successful, a perfect con handled with decorum and sleight of hand that had Arthur's head spinning and heart jumping. It was happening more than he'd care to admit, but at that moment he hadn't cared. The two were still laughing, deciding on what to do with their shares, when a storm suddenly burst out above their heads. His mare startled, tossing her white head high, even sleepy Gwydion pricked his ears at the clap of thunder. With a shared look they'd run to a small shelter on a hill, which turned out to be a small hay storage.
And now here they are, hidden underneath a barely waterproof building, their horses standing inside, munching happily on the impromptu feed. Everything smells like wet horse and hay, and Arthur is grateful for that.
They are currently at the mouth of the wooden structure, watching as the rain pours and pours. It's like the sky has been torn open, the sheets of water almost too thick to see through.
“It looks to be a long one,” Trelawny says, running a quick hand through his sopping hair. Arthur’s throat contracts, his eyes inadvertently trailing a water drop that slide into the man’s collar.
He looks away out into the open fields, “Yeah.”
It’s been happening more of late with the man. Whenever they are together Arthur finds that his eyes will focus on his hands (so elegant), on his throat (so pale) or his eyes (so piercing). When they touch, he needs to hold back shudders, when he hears Trelawny's voice, he lights up with anticipation.
He knows what it means. He’s not an idiot; he’s clearly infatuated with the man. Silly as that is. But Trelawny is a man of such life, mystery and honesty it pulls in everyone around him. Like some sort of magnet with more power than the moon's gravitational pull. And Arthur can barely think when the man is around. His mind turning into mush when he starts talking, about his escapades, his life, his time at the circus. It's like being spell bound. Even when he's being honest to a fault.
Arthur quietly loves that, often finding himself biting his cheek to keep from laughing when that sarcasm snipes over the camp with a sharp tongue. It’s no surprise he fell for the man, headfirst if he were honest. But he also knows he can’t really do much about it. Trelawny, although divorced for a good few years now, is a man of fierce independence. That and he clearly likes women. Which stings more than Arthur cares to admit.
Still, Arthur savours the friendship he’s allowed. At the very least he can have this closeness and he does have excellent self-control in regard to his infatuation.
But this time Trelawny is sopping wet, his immaculate suit clinging to him in all the places it really shouldn’t. Everything feels focus, like the man stepped under a magnifying glass, bringing every single delicious detail to life. He can, even over the smell of horse and hay and ran, catch the scent of Josiah Trelawny, and now he’s removing his jacket.
“I’ll just leave this out to dry,” he says, as he hangs it up on a peg and continues to shrug off his vest and then starts on the buttons of his shirt –
Arthur turns to the landscape, arms crossed and nails digging into his skin. His heart is ramming like a drum in his chest, his whole body tight as a string. He focuses on his breathing. Don't make a damn fool of yourself, Arthur Morgan.
“You should at least remove your shirt, dear boy.” Trelawny says, oblivious to Arthur's turmoil. “You might catch your death.”
“I’m fine…”
“We both know that’s not true,” he cuts him off, voice suddenly falling soft and kind. “Your bad spout of pneumonia damaged your lungs. Please –“ a light hand brushes his arm, and Arthur feels his whole body jolt from the contact. He looks at Trelawny who is scrutinizing him with those dark green eyes. Like liquid emeralds.
They’re too close, suddenly too close. Trelawny’s body is hot, it's radiating heat, his eyes sparkling, and warm making Arthur fall into their depths. The hand holding onto him feels like a brand pressed into his skin, burning straight through layers of cloth. Another stray drop of water slides out from under mussed hair and suddenly Arthur can’t help himself. His arms unfurl, his hands reach out and fingers grip the pale shoulders, pulling him closer and –
He kisses him.
His whole body rushes with heat, his breath hitching tight in his throat as his hands encircle the man and pull him close to his chest. His hands glide over soft skin, his iced fingers burning against the warmth, it sends a thrill down his spine and responds by gliding his lips against his mouth, enjoying the prickle of the mustache. Trelawny tastes like rain, if he wasn’t so wet and delicious, he would never have –
His brain catches up with his actions and he instantly lets him go.
“Shit,” Arthur pulls back and hits the wall, his eyes wide, terror and shame clawing up his throat making his hands shake. “Sorry, shit, I … shit.”
But Trelawny’s expression is far from disgust, it’s a difficult expression to place, but it does nothing for Arthur’s fear. The conman tilts his head, “Why did you kiss me?”
Arthur flushes bright red, too embarrassed to be grateful that Trelawny is not yelling at him. Idiot, idiot, idiot! “I, didn’t mean to? It’s just you were wet, and you look like absolute sin like that and fuck… it’s coming out wrong.”
Trelawny chuckles, knocking some of Arthur's terror down. “You kissed me because I was wet?”
Another wave rushes up and his eyes snap shut. He wishes, desperately prays for the Pinkertons to turn up and shoot him dead where he stands. His whole body is curling up with embarrassment by this stage, he might just die from that, if he’s lucky. What an utter fucking idiot you are, Arthur Morgan.
Arthur is desperately trying to think of something to say, when Trelawny chuckles again, making him look up.
“Well then,” Trelawny says, taking a step closer, pressing himself up against Arthur’s chest. All blood rushes south, and Arthur hears himself swallow as nimble fingers begin to loosen his buttons. “Let's get you out of this shirt.”
And he’s swept up into another kiss, tasting less of the rain and more of Trelawny.