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Seans dead, and Arthur’s mad. Mad at Micah, mad at Bill, mad at himself. Hell, he’s even mad at Sean for dying in the first place. It doesn’t make much sense, but nothing seems to make sense when feelings are involved.
Arthur wasn’t one to bottle up his feelings, or so he thought. Sure, he would rather shoot his own hand off before crying in front of someone, but that was completely normal, right? Ever since he was little, he couldn’t remember ever seeing a man cry. Not a man he respected, at least. John had cried a few times back when he was still just a boy, and Arthur could still remember the tears that fell from his father’s face the moment before the floor disappeared underneath him and his neck snapped with a sickening crack.
It seemed only logical that feelings and all that was for little boys and cowards. A real man dealt with his feelings by drinking himself stupid, or punching someone in the face. Such was the nature of things. If the feelings didn’t entail anger, well, they would soon enough. Arthur wasn’t a man that got sad, he was a man that mourned. He didn’t get scared, he got worried. A man like him had been in hundreds of gun fights, he wasn’t a coward. Even after he was kidnapped and tortured by Colm and his men, strung upside down until he couldn’t feel his legs and his head was swimming with blood, even then did he not cry. Anyone who said differently could shove it.
He tried not to let his own ideas of what ‘manliness’ was spill out over everyone else, especially those times he saw little John Marston sobbing and heaving after a particularly harsh ‘talking to’ by Dutch, but it always made him feel a strange sense of discomfort. No doubt it spilled out over Marston, even though Arthur did not intend for it to. He was sure he could see a small tear spilling from his eye as he pressed his face into Javier’s back when they rescued him from those mountains, but no one ever mentioned it. Even now, no one’s said as much as a peep about the incident, or the aftermath of it.
Arthur didn’t cry when Sean died, and he wasn’t going to. Unfortunately for him, the hot pressure in his chest was steadily rising, and he felt as though he was about to explode into a million pieces if he didn’t do anything about it. As he sat on his cot, leg shaking furiously and eyebrows thoroughly knit, who would come walking by but John Marston himself. Arthur quickly looked up, tongue nearly knotting itself with how fast the words came out;
“There he is, John Marston, father of the year.” Arthur spit the words out with a venom he didn’t even know he had in him. He felt sort of bad for bullying John, but a part of him was telling him that John was the only one he could bully. As much as he wanted to give Micah, or even Bill, a good beating, he knew that Dutch wouldn’t allow it. He wasn’t scared of Dutch, hell he was much bigger than him and could easily overpower him if it came down to it, but something about Dutch’s disapproval… It settled in his stomach like a brick. Marston was his brother, it only made sense for them to jab at each other, and John was smaller than him anyway. Arthur found himself almost hoping their encounter would break into a fight, if only so he could slam his fist into the crook of John’s nose, for no other reason than that he could.
John shot him an irritated look, eyes narrowed slightly as he stopped to take in what Arthur had said.
“I could say the same about you,” he answered, a joke almost noticeable in his voice, but Arthur couldn’t hear it from the blood that suddenly rushed past his ears.
Maybe Arthur had started it, maybe he deserved the comment, maybe he really shouldn’t be clenching his hands into fists right now, but in his defense: Everything was going to hell, his own inner world being burned to the ground like a plundered village, and the mention of Isaac had pushed him over the edge.
His fist tore into John’s jaw, forcing his head to the side in a way that was sure to leave his neck and face sore for days. The skin on Arthur’s knuckles split, and the blood mended with that oozing from John’s split lip. John reached a hand up, cradling his face, before giving Arthur one last hateful look. He swung his arm towards Arthur, and it connected with Arthur’s nose in a blow that made Arthur’s eyes water. The copper taste spread throughout his mouth as the blood from his nose traveled downwards. The first hit had been something of pure, animalistic instinct, an attempt to let something out of him that he feared would otherwise claw its way out from his ribcage. The second hit… The second hit was full of genuine hate for the man.
Arthur was bigger than John, was bigger than most people, and he sometimes felt that that was all he had. With no brains to speak of, no looks to mooch off of, and no money or status to his name, he figured his size could be one of those reasons that he was useful. Wanted, in a way. Mary hadn’t wanted him, Eliza and Isaac had left him before he could really find out, and Dutch was slowly but surely turning his back to him. Charles and Sadie, the two people he would often call real friends, were too tense and on edge to really pay him any mind, and John… John had run out on him. Ran out on the whole gang, and why? Because he got a kid, all that Arthur had ever really wanted? He ran from the thing Arthur was desperately wishing to have, and for that Arthur just couldn’t forgive him. He wanted to love him, wanted to have his brother back, see him and his family grow together and thrive, but that bitter feeling just wouldn’t leave him. No matter his confusing feelings regarding John, at that moment he hated him. Hated him for everything he hated about himself, but never came to terms with.
He threw another fist, this one knocking John to the ground, and once he was down Arthur didn’t stop. He threw punch after punch, blood staining his shirt. He couldn’t see the state of John’s face, his arms were covering it defensively, but he couldn’t distantly hear the demands and pleas for Arthur to stop, stop goddamnit. He found himself unable to stop the motion of his fist connecting with John’s face, not until someone came and grabbed him. He made to turn around, to swing yet another fist at John’s supposed savior, but he was quickly halted by a strong hand on his forearm.
Charles was staring into his eyes, mouth twisted into a frown and face scrunched into something that could only be described as sheer disappointment. The look sent another hot flash through Arthur’s body, something he distantly recognized as shame. He ripped his arm away from Charles, as if his touch was burning his skin. The feeling was so unbearable that he felt like the only escape, because he had to escape, was to simply die right there and then. No such luck, however, because Arthur was still there and everyone was staring him down with that same look that Charles wore, only Charles’ eyes bore into him much deeper than the rest did. Actually, he didn’t dare look at the others, because he wasn’t sure what he was going to see. He didn’t even look in Jack or Abigail’s direction. He figured he’d apologize, some day, at least. Now, though, he settled for bowing his head in shame and dragging his feet towards the horses, an aura of anger still surrounding him but no longer as heated. In the distance he could hear John shouting after him, cursing his name, and Arthur figured he deserved it.
The saloon in Valentine was familiar, and far enough away from Rhodes that Arthur didn’t feel like he could hear Sean’s voice. He sat at the bar, head still bowed with his hat covering his expression. It was rather crowded at this time of day, but Arthur still found that he had a sizable bubble of personal space as the other patrons steered clear of him, clearly sensing that something was off. Arthur took a swig of his whiskey, then another, and then another. The alcohol burned down his tight throat, and settled uneasily in his stomach, yet he still felt that it wasn’t enough.
“It’s gotta be moonshine, it’s much stronger.”
He could hear Charles’ voice in his head, chastising him for thinking that whiskey was enough to satisfy a man like him. Arthur almost scoffed at the memory. Whiskey was plenty, as long as you had enough of it, and Arthur was well on his way there. He waved at the bartender for another drink, and shot him a scowling look when the worker looked a little annoyed. Regardless, Arthur soon had another bottle of whiskey in his hand, and he could feel the room start to sway ever so slightly.
“You’re a hard man to find, Arthur Morgan.”
The voice behind him made him jump, his anger almost forgotten under the cloud of alcohol, and he turned around so fast he thought he might have gotten whiplash. Before him stood Charles, dressed in that blue hoodie of his, still looking disappointed but now a little less so. Arthur’s face sank, and he mumbled a harsh ‘go away, Charles,’ as he turned back towards the bar. Charles sighed in return, laying a large hand on Arthur’s shoulder. He’d never been one for touch, it was something he found he had in common with Charles, and something that drew him to him. Their shared understanding for their mutual boundaries was something that was hard to come by in their line of work, and it had always comforted Arthur to know that Charles wasn’t going to force him to do something he didn’t want. Sometimes, though, like this time, Charles seemed to think it necessary to touch Arthur.
Charles helped him up on his feet, with Arthur’s balance essentially nonexistent at this point, and led him out of the bar. Arthur tried to protest, but a muttered ‘we’re just getting some air,’ from Charles eased his mind a bit. Arthur was no talker, and Charles spoke even less than he, so he was fairly confident Charles wasn’t going to sit him down to have a talk.
He was wrong, of course, which was just his luck.
Charles sat him down in the grass some ways outside of town, a place where the quiet was undisturbed by peoples chatter, and the stars shone brightly without the town’s light pollution. Charles always preferred the open night sky, and Arthur could really not complain about the view.
“That was kind of childish, y’know,” Charles muttered quietly. Arthur pointedly refused to meet his eyes.
“Yeah, I know,” Arthur finally relented, dragging his hand across his neck as he tilted his head to look up at the stars, “could’ve handled that better.”
Charles hummed in agreement, and for a short while the conversation dropped off. The silence was never really heavy between the two, but a welcome sort of comfort. There was an understanding between them of sorts, and acknowledgment that they didn’t have to pretend to be two completely normal people around each other. An openness of sorts, a space of safety.
“I do it too,” Charles said, seemingly out of nowhere. Arthur had nearly forgotten what they were talking about. He didn’t need to ask, though, because Charles elaborated; “fighting, I mean. Drinking, too. I don’t really know why, and I don’t know what I would do if I stopped.”
“Seems like every man does it,” Arthur said, still keeping his gaze on the sky above. “Maybe it’s in our nature to brawl instead of talk.” Charles chuckled a little at that.
“We’re talking now, aren’t we?” Charles questioned, sliding closer to Arthur to the point where their hands almost met. The slight space between them was still comforting, but Arthur still wished that Charles would touch him. He settled for enjoying the peaceful silence that settled between them once more.
“Is he okay, then? Marston, I mean.” Arthur shifted, still refusing to meet Charles’ gaze. He didn’t like interrupting their peace, but he felt he had to get a message across. What, exactly, that message was, he wasn’t so sure. Thankfully, Charles didn’t challenge him much further.
“He’s okay. Pissed, but okay.”
Arthur let out a sheepish little laugh, gripping the front of his hat to pull it further down over his eyes. “I would apologize to ‘im, but I honestly don’t think it’d make a difference.”
Charles seemed thoughtful for a second, before ultimately replying: “I think it would. I think he cares more than you realize. I know I do, at least.”
Arthur finally turned to him, a little stunned at his choice of words.
“Listen, Charles, I-”
“No, you listen to me, for once,” Charles interrupted, sighing when Arthur shut his mouth like a fish. “I don’t why you think you owe everyone everything, I don’t understand why just you is never enough.” Charles took a deep breath, exhaling sharply before continuing: “You think you’re this horrible, awful man and then- well, then you go and prove it.” Charles was the one looking away now, but Arthur could still see a hint of dejection in his face. Arthur swallowed around the lump now building in his throat, leaning his body slightly away from Charles.
“Charles, I…” Arthur hesitated for a minute, fiddling with the grass in between his fingers. “I’m not a good person, Charles. You know that.”
Charles pulled his knees closer to his chest, crossing his legs as he looked down towards the ground solemnly.
“Why do you do this to yourself, Arthur?”
Arthur’s eyes widened, staring dumbfounded at the man in front of him. His brown eyes were filled with a genuine sorrow and his usually intimidatingly large figure was obscured by the sag in his posture. He looked almost like a kid sitting like that, but his question was anything but childish. Arthur could feel the lump in his throat growing again, to the point where he could barely respond.
“Good things don’t come to bad people.”
Charles' face changed almost in an instance, the pure sadness being replaced with a strange sort of rage. He straightened up again, this time facing Arthur properly.
“Are you even trying to be better, Arthur?!” Charles half shouted, and the words made Arthur shrink in on himself. “You could leave. You could have a house, a family, settle down somewhere nice and live the rest of your life in peace like you clearly want.” Charles’ nose scrunched up a bit, and he closed his eyes. The next line seemed almost difficult for him to say, with how his voice strained when he finally admitted:
“I could come with you.”
Arthur couldn’t bear to look Charles in the eyes, yet he couldn’t seem to look anywhere but there. The guilt was nearly pulling him completely into it’s massive maw, the confusion spun his head in circles and the world was suddenly very overwhelming. He felt tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes, but it wasn’t not enough to spill over.
“You know I can’t leave this life, Charles. I- Dutch, he would-”
“Forget about Dutch!” In a moment, Charles lunged towards Arthur, bringing him into a tight hug that Arthur was too shocked to meet. He felt his airflow almost cut off with how tight Charles was gripping him, but it seemed he wasn’t really using it before. His lungs felt like they were made of cement, but it had nothing to do with Charles.
“I know what he did for you, Arthur, I do. He did it for me too, but you have to realize that you don’t need to tear yourself apart because Dutch says that’s what you need to do.” Charles let go, but he kept his hands firmly on Arthur’s shoulders. His face was stern.
“Don’t lay your life down for him, Arthur.”
Arthur’s lip quivered slightly, and he looked down before a sob could break it’s way out of his throat.
“He gave me everything I have, Charles, he made me who I am.”
Charles looked at him again, that way he did before that bled with grief.
“I don’t like who you are right now, Arthur, and neither do you.”
Those words are what did Arthur in. Those words, spoken with such a soft and smooth voice, dripping with a sort of care and worry that Arthur hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Arthur slumped in on himself, finally letting the tears run free. Charles couldn’t see him, but he was sure he could feel the slight tremble in his body as Arthur leaned his head in Charles' chest.
He was warm.
“Promise me you’ll be there when I die, yeah?” Arthur said through a snivel. Charles was smiling at him, but it was one laced with melancholy.
“I’ll try, Arthur, I’ll try.”
He fell further into Charles' embrace, and Charles found himself holding on tight to that warmth, fearing the day it would slip away from him.
The wind blew from the west that night, sweeping them in a blanket of simpler times, back when Arthur’s heart hadn’t been so thoroughly pinned to Dutch’s words. Back when things still had a chance to end differently.
Charles dreaded to find out exactly how that end would look.