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It was not strange for Arthur to take a dip in the river, after all the shit he goes through he stinks even to himself. But the disappointment was new, he never expected Downes to turn a pistol on himself to avoid paying his debt. Arthur can still feel some specks of blood on his face, luckily he didn’t ingest any, and cold river water became a welcoming shock.
He quickly dipped into lower parts of the river, he knows he ain’t no pretty man, and a hit with an ugly stick couldn’t make him uglier than he is, despite the thing that’s trailing after him. The one who, no matter if it rains or if sun is beating down with celestial wrath, wears all black. The one who to most doesn’t even have a face. He noticed the entity, the shape, whatever- behind him after Downes popped the cork, turning his white horse and trailing away out of Arthurs’ sight.
As he dipped his head into the river to wash out the sweat and grime, he failed to notice someone joining him, sitting calmly on the shore, watching him unerringly. As Arthurs’ head rose above the water with a gasp, droplets of water running down his sparse beard and barren neck, he turned to fetch the soap, and stop dead in his tracks. The entity- did it come for him, after all? It wasn’t just after the head confetti that was Downes that he saw the shape, it came before, probably around Blackwater or even earlier, after which Micah started becoming more and more…
Scared.
Dutch never told what’s up, but Hosea whispered to his boy Arthur that someone kept mailing Micah ominous threats, small boxed filled with animal guts and vague letters which no one but Micah- and Dutch- read. Arthur put some numbers together and reckoned Micah got himself a hunter, one that finally flared his scent at – as far Arthur is concerned- 8 mile, and is now gaining up on old rat, and fast. Nowadays, Micah barely sleeps, and more oft than not, awakens all the came with his nightmares, hollering and even on an occasion, shooting. The Marstons have taken to the edge of the camp, far away from Micah, with Abigail afraid of the rat shooting one of them, namely her boy Jack, or John shooting the rotten sod. In the end, to keep peace, Dutch had Micah move some distance from the camp, and it suited just fine for the paranoid man, who feared that one of them will slit his throat in his light, fitful sleep.
But now the entity sits on the shore, calm cool and collected, in his hands a hefty bar of pale soap, with small fragments of orange peel peaking in places. The entity calmly stood up, which spooked Arthur in flopping into the water, and when he got back up, the entity was sitting in the same place, the hefty soap now closer to Arthur than blackened being. Now, the more nude of the two found it rather inconvenient that he was caught with his metaphorical pants metaphorically down to his ankles, but he also really likes how that bar of soap looked, and it was hefty- twice as thick as regular soap and so smooth to touch. With one covering the family- or rather the gangs’- jewels, his other quickly snatched the soap and with haste waddled into the deeper waters, giving the entity an ample view of his hind quarters. When Arthur turned, he stood in shock as the entities shoulders twitched up-n-down, jiggling with silent laughter. Arthurs cheeks, the ones on his face, bloomed a pinked hue, his eyebrows stormed closed to his eyes and each other, before turning his whole front to the downstream, the supple waves cresting over his behind and dissipating upon reaching the small of his back.
The fragrant soap smelled of oranges, and while Arthur would’ve preferred scentless soap, he couldn’t deny the fact that the smooth soap which was more akin to a brick than a normal bar, glided seamlessly over his skin and frothed finely on his hairier bits, kind of like a shaving cream- if a shaving cream was orange scented and was actually pleasant.
Not that Arthur would even confess that. You just don’t insult the man who has a razor to your throat.
Debating for a moment, after soaping most of the body and his beard- because it needed a cleanse, not because Arthur wanted to smell oranges for as long as possible- he shrugged his shoulders and calmly soaped his hair, one hand half-assedly massaging the soap into his scalp while other made sure the soap wouldn’t float away. Wasn’t his soap after.
Sensing the debate, the entity rose slowly, and sauntered over to the naked man, until he was shin deep into the water, the threads on his worn-down coat soaking waters with greed. The chaps with well-oiled boots held out some of the water, but Arthur knew that this man- and he is a man, with shoulders as broad as Arthurs’, would catch water on his pants in some modicum, and his socks might go to waste too. Arthur Morgan knew he ain nothing to look at, but the way the man seemingly fed his gaze with his body, had him blushing something awful, and quickly tried to hide his reddened cheeks into his shoulder length hair…that was now a birds’ nest with his half-assed wash and suds coating every stranding sevenfold. He wasn’t going to deny that the man, despite not knowing a damn thing about him, was attractive, like in those smutty novels that Sadie and Mary-Beth read, that he used to too, before Dutch caught him one night over decade ago. He has not touched or read anything other than the bounties and occasionally the Bible after that. He would’ve twitched if he could, cock swelling with blood and arousal, but the cold water just above freezing, and he still has to clean up all the suds.
The man quietly grabs the bar, wraps it in the thick paper, and hides it in his- now that Arthur has a closer look- rather shitty coat, and then breaches the delicate distance between them, one hand enveloping the entire back of his head with a smoothing ease, and his other on his chest, Arthurs’ hands wrapped round his wrist like a vice, before he was one with the rivers’ flow. Seconds pass like eons and he’s back above, his lungs spewing ragged gasps at the near drowning and the man-handling his once young eyes feasted on in those dirty novels. His body is warming up to the man, and now he can even see a glimpse of his skin, roughened and scarred- likely from shackles of some sort- and some whisper of hair peeking through, stuck to skin due to the waters.
He never thought himself one of the righteous, but now, held delicately by a man whom he knows neither name nor face, waist deep in cold river, and nude as the day he was born, he felt that this was some weird parody of a baptism, but not in the way that it feels wrong, quite the opposite, it feels like the ones performed by the priests’ were off, like they were missing the blackened ones’ presence or essence or something, Arthur isn’t quite sure, he knows he somehow feels lighter, brighter, his soul matching more to the blue hues of his eyes and the golden of his hair, and the freckles on his face and shoulders. He simple feels…
Better. More natural. More human.
In any case, he ought to thank the man for his soap and whatnot, but at this point it has been the better part of 2 hours and he so far hasn’t uttered a word, blush settling solid on his cheeks, and in his unease he started to curl into himself in shame, only to be intercepted by the man once more, whose hand in hair maneuvered his skull it rested on the crook of the neck and shoulder, musk and warm spice filling his nose softly. The rest of Arthur followed, until he was molded, naked chest to clothed one, hands petting the shitty wet coat, his sight filled only by the soft dark cloth and back filling with chill-induced goosebumps.
Stepping out of the only when Arthurs’ fingers and toes started to look funny, he was quick to wipe down and wear clean under-stuff, shirt and trousers, socks and boots, his hair damp and darkened for all the water still in it. The fire wasn’t even on by the time he wobbled naked to his tent, and by the time he came out of it, the fire was well stoked and bustling with life.
The man, however, was nowhere to be seen.
About a week after, Arthur returned to the main camp with loot, mostly fish and dear meat he hunted, and some small coin he earned selling pelts of said deer, to a surprise of mainly the Marstons, whose face was stormy with fear. “What’s happening”, whispered Arthur to Abigail so as not to disturb the heavy quiet in the air, “why is everyone so quiet?”
“Whoever targeted Micah, got real bold”, said Abigail in equally hushed tone, “couple of nights ago, while we were all asleep but Micah who kept watch, someone crept in, stole all that was there to steal, money, ammo, valuables. Apparently, whatever else was in there got Micah enraged, wanting the whole gang to hunt this… mystery person down, Miss Grimshaw was for the idea until John told her to grab a gun and go off into the woods alone. As expected, she went to complain to Dutch, who just does nothing. He keeps telling ‘everything is fine’ but I don’t believe it. Whoever they are, they better come soon and finish the job.”
Arthur stood by her, head forming some plans, warming her by the heat he naturally exuded, until in hushed tone he uttered “Pack up and post camp elsewhere, I’ll deal with Dutch, alright?”, and then he butted in with a small grin, “and take that half-brain boah John with ya, alright?” Abigail looked at him funny, but did not utter a word as she held Jacks’ hand and went off to collect John.
Now all that was left, was the await the shadow of the man. The one who knew the edge of the inside, the kind that hurts.
Night came at a crawling pace, all but Arthur fell into fitful sleep, and Marstons are all long gone, much to the chagrin of Dutch and Grimshaw, but a harsh glare silenced all their ruckus quickly enough. It took a long damn time for Micah to stop yelling about the man, what tortures he planned and whatnot, and while Arthur daydreamed about the black dressed soul from the river, others were forced to suffer Micah and his temper tantrum.
Until all fell asleep, Arthur saw nothing, but then he saw a black boot, then a black shin, thigh, crotch, and rotten threaded coat, cloth then hat. The man returned, and in the mans’ hands were papers, grimy and sooty, with scrawls written like worlds’ shittiest chicken scratch. The man sauntered over to Arthur, his thumb leaving a trail of fire over Arthurs’ full bottom lip, and then handed those papers over. With that, the man tipped the hat, and sauntered into the dark behind Arthur, not that the latter noticed, because all he saw, was Micah dead, and his shit for handwriting, and his shit for wording, telling the Pinkertons of all, sensitive information about the Van Der Linde gang. Dark fell over Arthurs’ eyes with one thought in mind.
You just can’t trust a rat.
And with a roar that would put all of animal kingdom to shame, he confronted Micah, all of the paper read by the gang members by the time Dutch separated Arthur from a bruised and bleeding Micah. Blows were traded back and forth, and it was a miracle no one reached for a pistol or some other weaponry. Commotion lasted long into the night and by the start of a cold dawn, just like that, the gang fell apart into two factions, the one led by Hosea with Arthur as his second-in-command. And the other faction made of just Dutch and Micah, which quickly dissolved into just Dutch and just Micah. And when the rat drew his gun, his rotten rage all focused on Arthur, a shot rang out of the woods, Micah dying in the muck just like Thomas Downes, down to the blood splattering on Arthurs’ face.
He wouldn’t see the man again, nor would be speak much, until the next time they set camp, having trailed after the Marstons towards their home at Beecher’s Hope.
Upon arriving, Hosea took to delivering the news, John looked at Arthur for a moment and quickly swept his gaze to look for a good place to building something to house his fellow men and women. Time has lost all meaning after that for Arthur, neither seconds nor centuries. He was sitting by the fire, blood gone but he still felt it, every time he managed to forget it he feels it splattering his cheek, and he goes to wipe it, only to find nothing but calluses on his fingers. Hosea sometimes got antsy, Arthurs’ quips and vague answers all pointed to the latter knowing more, but not telling anything, and then sometimes he remembers that whomever Arthur is protecting, saved all their hides from dying by the hands of the Pinkertons of all evils. Sometimes, he tried pleading with his boy, only for Arthur to shrug, his gaze and his ruby cheeks covered by his hat. And sometimes, Arthur whispers so quietly, Hosea can barely string the words he’s hearing, sometimes it is as simple as, “Every time I saw him, he was wearing all black”. After long, Hosea simply accepted all as it is, and continued to saw the wood for the new establishment.
Time had passed slowly, and with the winter fast approaching, the moderate wooden structure called a ‘house’ meant to be a home to them was finished, everyone got a room with a stove to warm them, and all worked on the Marston property as much as they are able, as much as it is possible, for Christmas was fast approaching and after all the shit, everyone has made at least one comment on how they deserve some cheer. All but silent Arthur, whose hand is more oft than not in his journal drawing and writing away, whose eyes on occasion look on to see if he can spot the soul who ousted the rat in their gang, but he never finds him.
Snow has fallen through the night, covering all in a nice thick layer of chill and white, even one shadows’ footsteps. With ease did the door unlock and close, softly, entering the abode with no one the wiser. The man slowly came to each room and looked through the key hole, quite frankly he was indifferent to them, but Arthur was not. Finding the room, he slipped in, his bag’o’goods at the doorframe his coat on the back of the chair, before taking said seat near to stove and watching Arthur slumber. The way his back rises and falls, the way his arms curled around a pillow, the way his long lashes rest on his full cheeks and the way his long legs look laid to mattress and slightly spread, his feet dangling over the edge of his bed, and the soft long hair making for a funny bed hair. His rust colored unionsuit is rife with wrinkles, and one pant-leg hiked up over his defined calf, and all that the blue-ish blanket now covers is his plush and plump behind and parts of his defined back.
Arthur awakens with a small groan, his sock covered feet finding warm refuge in the blanket as he curls on his side. His heaven colored eyes squinting at the man in his room, as though he hadn’t been haunting his dreams since the river, as though his journal isn’t filled with small doodles, like the wrist he once saw, or the shin poking from the dark.
Arthur still remains silent even now, a good year of not speaking to the man and a little less of barely speaking to anyone, and now to utter a word is just all sorts of anti-climactic, so all he does is sit up in his bed, his blanket wrapping all but the legs, and look to the man, who removed his coat, the hat and the cloth hiding his head, his hair frazzled from the cloth, the scars around (e/c) prominent in the light coming from the stove, face barren of all emotion but for a single notched eyebrow. The cowpoke rose from his bed, and hastily waddled to the now smiling man and plopped his juicy behind right into the mans’ lap, his blanket covered head nuzzling into the black shirt, inhaling the scent of musk and warm spice, his eyes closed and unaware of the mans’ actions, who slipped his hands under Arthurs’ legs and hoisted him upwards, much to Arthurs’ shock, wrapping his limbs around the man, and slowly walked towards the bed nestled into the corner.
He quietly deposited Arthur before taking a seat to remove his shoes, before crawling over to Arthur who wrapped his arms around the mans’ broad shoulders, coating them both in the blue-more so-grey blanket. Slotting their lips together for the first time, it was timid, shy before the man delved his tongue to trace the cowpokes’ lips, to which Arthur opened up with passion. Sleep tugged at Arthur, despite his enthusiasm to give a not-so-proper welcome to the man, and in warmth with ease, did Arthur fall sleep, leaving the man to arrange them in a way that won’t cause anyone an unwanted pain.
Arthurs’ head was slow to wake properly, with haze from the deep restful sleep still gripping his eyes and the warm spices, musk and oranges muddling his mind even further, and he was willing to go back to sleep for five more minutes.
Until he heard the cocking of the gun.
Arthur suddenly was up and awake, with Hosea and John looking grim at the man below him, who is still asleep, nose now grazing the fabric where Arthurs’ crown of head was a minute ago. “Care to explain that one, boy?”, came from Hosea, who was just about to shoot a dead-to-the-world, canon-fire-might-not-awake-him, asleep man. Arthur rose from bed, his hair a bigger bird nest than Johns’, and with a quiet rusted murmur said:” Remember Micah? And all that paranoid shit that happened? That was him.” Hosea took a moment, before hanging a rifle on his shoulder and stumbling to a chair, sitting down heavily on it, his back bowed and the white wisps of his hair dangling in from of those old eyes. John vacated the room to return to his wife.
Hosea looked at his sweet boy, as though he was not a grown up man who looked at the barrel of a gun as many times as he pointed one too, but still a fierce little kid that he and Dutch picked from the streets, while thumbing the frayed threads of the strangers’ coat, before he raised his hands in a surrender, and shambled out of the room. Arthur recons he doesn’t have long, if any time left. At least he survived Christmas, as opposed to Dutch. While Arthur didn’t hear anything of Dutch since that night at the camp, when the Van Der Linde gang fell apart, he doubts he survived the Pinkertons all alone. If Arthur had to put his two cents to it, he’d simply utter:” No one survives alone.”, he read that somewhere, but can no longer remember which book it was, no matter.
He feels the hand on his back moving to and fro, tracing in his back in a mindless matter, the mans’ eyes opening with a groan, looking at Arthur with some glimmer in his eyes, that made the latter blush something fierce, burying his head into the crook where the scent of sweet oranges whiffed. The hand went from his back to his cheek, caressing the stubble on his cheek and sharp jaw, while another held two of Arthurs’ fingers, playing gently, before Arthur linked that hand with the mans’, fingers intertwined. So they laid, before Johns’ hollering called for a breakfast. Arthur didn’t have half a mind to put any proper clothing, all the more comfortable to walk downstairs with his unionsuit all wrinkled and a pant leg still hiked up over the calf, but the mans’ chortle had him turning around, until he saw that the mans’ black clothing is even more wrinkled, and had a suspicious wet mark where Arthurs’ mouth was suspiciously, so he reckons he might’ve suspiciously drooled on the poor man. So Arthurs’ rose hued bloom reappeared on his cheeks. He gave the still nameless man his darkest clothing, which he surprisingly had, though maybe it was one of the women who snuck it in, and wore some of his clean clothing himself. And with their outfits clean and complete, they sauntered over to celebrate Christmas, much to the surprise- or chagrin- of everybody but Hosea and the Marstons. They sat down with the gang, or was it family? Arthur reckons he don’t care much, he’s got warm whiskey in one hand, and an ample of a shoulder from his man, with little Jack running around like an overactive rabbit, and Abigail chasing the boy, while John laughed as silently as he could, lest Abigail decides he’s not that far away and shoots her shoe at him.
It was one of the rare Christmases, the ones in which Arthur was genuinely happy.
It took a while before the man spoke, after snow thawed completely into puddles but before heat started beating something awful, when Arthur learned his name, when he learned how his man came upon knowing of Van Der Linde, and the rotten tale of Micah Bell. Turns out, it was fates’ sleight of hand, a pure coincidence, place and time matching for one blackened bounty hunter to flare scent of a rat. Not that Arthur was displeased by Micah being gone, far from it, the best rats are dead ones in his humble opinion, and it allowed Arthur to meet one man who was picture perfect gentleman, until he starts aiming his rifle, but that ain’t none of his business. It’s a spring evening, snow is gone and wind is pleasant, he’s taking a nap on the porch, his head laid on his mans’ thick thigh covered by his brown cowboy hat, which has since Christmas sported a black brooch on the side of the hatband. And in his sleepy daze he can hear a lot, his man flipping pages of a book with a chortle here and there, Mary-Beth and Sadie bickering over the aforementioned book, which of course suspiciously went missing, Abigail yelling at John over…something, with Uncle laughing his ass off at the poor feller, Hosea bickering with Bill, and everything else. Dutch, the old one if there ever was old Dutch, would’ve fit right in, smiling, plotting how to haggle for the price of seeds and trading pelts for coin. Old Dutch is gone now, and so is Van Der Linde. If Arthur gave it more thought than it deserved, he’d say like nothing much has changed, same old people surround him, same old people bicker and fart in the same surface area of the camp. But it is no longer camp, it’s a home. And there he was, napping on another mans’ lap, home.
They were all home.