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He always hated his belly, ever since he got the fucking thing in his late twenties (he did nothing to change his diet, but the weight appeared regardless—now he thinks about it, the same thing happened to his father). Well, he didn’t hate it at first, more irritated that he needed to keep buying new shirts, and getting less comfortable with seeing himself shirtless. But after…
After what she did, he grew to despise his belly. How could he not, when she wouldn’t stop shaming him for his stomach when she was… When she…
During those two, horrific days, she kept commenting on his naked belly. And it was nine years ago, and she’s dead now, but… during his nightmares, or when he’s feeling particularly low, her words come back to him.
“You’d be perfect if you lost some weight.”
“You’re a handsome man, Micah, but this belly is disgusting. Why’d you let yourself go?”
But these days, he doesn’t hate it nearly so much. And that might be because of two very important people: Arthur Morgan, his lover, and George Bell, his… his son. Because he would never admit it, but those two are his favorite people in the world (and the only living things he cares about other than Baylock), and both have helped him learn to like himself more than he ever thought possible.
Conscious of his body and pathetically scared of sexual intimacy after what she did, it took a long, long time for Micah to even have sex with Arthur. And even then, he kept his shirt on. Arthur never pushed his boundaries, never asking why Micah would push his hands away if they lingered on his belly, reminded of her hands.
“I mean, just look at this,” she said, putting her palm on his belly and jiggling it, watching his soft tummy shift under her hand. “How much did you eat to make yourself look like this?”
And when he finally felt comfortable to show Arthur his stomach, he expected mockery or disgust. But Arthur just said, “It’s perfect, Micah.” He kissed Micah’s belly all over, and when they made love, Micah isn’t ashamed to admit that he cried, clutching Arthur and thanking him for his support.
And by this point, months after they got together, Micah feels comfortable for Arthur to touch him there in public. In the past, he would have panicked, reminded of her, but now Arthur can hug him from behind, hands touching Micah’s belly as he kisses Micah’s cheek (and if anyone in camp stares at them, Micah tells them to go fuck themselves, long past being ashamed of public displays of affection). Goddamn it, he loves Arthur freaking Morgan so much it hurts.
And George has helped too. His boy is always giving Micah the nicest compliments, the sweet little bastard (and ‘bastard’ isn’t even in insult, because Micah and George’s hateful mother definitely weren’t married). Well, he gives everyone compliments, always happy to cheer up everyone in camp, but George is especially friendly with his father. But whilst the compliments about Baylock being a good horse, and Micah’s guns being cool, and Micah being a good shooting teacher are all nice… it turns out that the nicest thing George ever says to him isn’t meant to be a big, fancy compliment at all.
During another of George’s shooting lessons, his son finally manages to shoot one of the bottles.
“I did it!” George says, staring at the broken bottle.
“Hell yeah, you did, kiddo!” Micah says as he ruffles the boy’s hair, so goddamn proud of his son for hitting the target. “Told ya you could do it!”
George spins around, a huge grin on his face. Carefully putting his gun down, George looks up at him and says, “Thank you, Papa! Can I give you a cuddle?”
“Uh… sure thing, Georgie-boy,” Micah says. The kid always asks permission to touch him, aware that Micah gets jumpy when people get into his personal space without asking.
George steps closer, hands grabbing fistfuls of Micah’s shirt, and he leans the side of his head against Micah’s belly, clinging to his Papa. And as George snuggles his head against Micah’s stomach, the boy says, “Your tummy’s really comfy, Papa.”
“C-Comfy…?” Micah says, taken aback by the comment.
“Yeah. Cuddles with Arthur are nice, but your cuddles are better. Your tummy makes such a nice pillow.”
Something squeezing in his chest, Micah places a hand on George’s head, stroking his boy’s short hair. He doesn’t reply, not sure what the hell to say, and when his bottom lip twitches, Micah bites it.
What the hell is wrong with him? Why does his chest feel like this because George said something so stupid to him? Goddamn it, he’s pathetic. This kid is a living reminder of the worst time of Micah’s entire life, and Micah used to hate the boy. But… but a paternal side of him that he didn’t even know about came out when George kept trying to make friends with his Papa. And now, several months after they first met, Micah would die to protect this boy.
Perhaps… Perhaps he’s reacting this way because George is her child. The son of the woman who said those things about his belly (things that turned Micah’s self-consciousness into a full-on hatred of his body), the woman who left him traumatized and broken… the boy they, uh, made when she raped Micah… that boy is here, snuggled against him and telling Micah that George adores Micah’s pillowy tummy. She gave birth to this boy, but George is nothing like her. She said she loved Micah (if that terrifying obsession was love), but when she forced herself on him, she never stopped shaming his belly, telling Micah that he’d be perfect if he lost weight and other bullshit. But Micah never lost the weight, and now her child is here, telling Micah that he likes him the way he is.
She tried to change him. But she failed.
He was fat when she hurt him. And he’s still fat now.
And… and perhaps there’s nothing wrong with that.
Goddamn it, why does he feel like he’s going to cry? And why was a simple comment from his son what it took for Micah to realize this?
He must be silent for too long, because George tilts his head up to stare at Micah’s face. “Papa… did I say something wrong?”
Micah swallows hard, forcing a grin onto his face. “Nah, you didn’t do nothin’ wrong, boy. I, uh… thanks, kid.”
“For what?” George asks.
“Oh, uh… nothin’,” Micah mumbles, not wanting to get into all this bullshit with George. He clears his throat, patting George’s head. “Okay, that’s enough of this sappy nonsense right now. Wanna keep shootin’, George?”
“Okay!” George says, picking up his gun again.
And Micah crouches beside his son, helping George steady his arms and hold the gun properly, ready for George to shoot another bottle.
That night, when he lies in bed beside his lover, Micah tells Arthur what George said to him. The bed isn’t big enough for two grown men, but they’ve always managed, usually with Arthur snuggled against Micah’s back.
“…and I dunno why, but when he said that… it’s like somethin’ clicked in my brain, Morgan,” he says, keeping his voice down to make sure that George can’t hear him (the boy’s tent is pitched next to theirs, and George shouldn’t be able to hear unless he’s eavesdropping, but Micah feels far too embarrassed to say this with the boy in earshot). “It’s like… for the first time, when someone mentioned my belly… ‘stead of feelin’ disgusted… I kinda felt… okay about my gut.” He snorts, rolling his eyes, detesting how soft he is these days (he sometimes regrets letting his guard down around Arthur, because if Arthur ever hurts him or leaves him… Micah doesn’t know how he would cope). “Pathetic, ain’t it?”
“No, course it ain’t,” Arthur says. His hand was resting on Micah’s chest (presumably able to feel Micah’s pounding heart against his ribs), but it slides down Micah’s body. He places his hand on Micah’s belly, and Micah’s first thought isn’t something she said, but how George said his tummy is ‘comfy’, sighing contentedly as Arthur rubs gentle circles against his stomach. “I’m proud of you.”
“Shit, don’t be so sappy, Morgan,” Micah says, glad that Arthur can’t see his red cheeks.
Arthur chuckles. “I was only tryin’ to be nice, you asshole. And you can’t stop me bein’ proud of you, so deal with it,” he whispers, his tone soft and teasing, as he kisses Micah’s neck. “Learn to take a compliment, Bell.”
“Never.” Micah snorts again, grinning. He loves bickering with Arthur—it’s something they always did before they got together (even if it often became arguments, because Arthur hated him, and Micah deserved that hatred), and they still do it now, snapping like an old married couple over everything and nothing.
“Oh, fiiiiine,” he says, grabbing the hand touching his belly and clasping it, holding onto Arthur like he can’t let go.
And he would never say it aloud, but… Micah is rather proud of himself too.