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The first thing Arthur noticed when he finally drifted into consciousness was an aching feeling in his rear. It wasn’t a pain he had ever experienced before - sure, he had suffered almost fatal gunshot wounds, stabbing wounds and hard blows to the face, but the dull and uncomfortable feeling he had when he sat back in his saddle had him half-gagging and wincing. Arthur only had a blurry recollection of what happened in that god-damned cabin but the moments he could remember he desperately wanted to forget.
One particularly vivid memory showed the wretched man crouched over him, mumbling what he could only distinguish as “you struggled,” and something else along the lines of friendship. If this is what that man considered friendship he could only be grateful he made it out in the form he did. Apart from the dull aches while sitting down and a bruise to the side of his head, he had seemingly made it out without any other injuries. But Arthur considered preferring even one of the worst physical injuries compared to the feeling he now had fogging up his mind and body. A sense of dirtiness, nullity, and stinging confusion as to how he had been used as nothing more than a filthy prop by the man in the cabin. It had him wondering whether the urge to gag whenever he felt the pain was from the actual discomfort or the thoughts it brought to his mind.
Embarrassingly, and unwilling as he was to admit it, he felt as though he could not bathe or strip down. He couldn’t have his hands run over the same areas the man did with his disgusting hands. Even to have his hands rest on his belt buckle and so near his groin felt too much for him, and he was painfully reminded of this as he went into camp that following evening. It was humid and hot. The Leymone air felt warm and sticky which didn’t help Arthur who was already feeling dirty from the horrors he had experienced that day. As he trotted in on his thoroughbred he acknowledged Charles ending his guard duty for the evening, and after he dismounted and hitched his horse, Charles approached him. “You alright, Arthur?”
At this point, Arthur genuinely did not know how to respond. Charles was usually the first man to hear about anything from Arthur - be it little plans, discoveries, or more personal matters. Arthur worried that this matter was perhaps too personal to share. He could feel Charles’ structured gaze boring into him when he eventually replied; “Yeah. Fine,”
Whether it was from his awkward disposition or the strain in his voice, Charles figured there was something wrong. Arthur was now looking at Charles expectantly. “You… busy this evening?” Charles asked him.
Arthur stumbled over his syllables as he tried to find the right response; “I’m, um, m’yeah, well - what is it you wanna do?” If you could consider rotting in your tent and feeling worthless ‘busy’ then Arthur certainly would be busy that evening - but a large part of him felt guilty turning down anything requested by Charles, because he knew Charles wouldn’t offer anything to anybody else.
“I was thinking of taking a dip in the lake - the air’s been beating at me all while I’ve been on guard duty. Wanna cool off. Would you like to join me?”
Arthur froze at that moment, as accepting that request would only set in stone all of the insecurities he’d gained that day. He didn’t want to strip down - in fact, he was thinking of just sleeping in his day-wear. He also didn’t want to strip down in front of Charles, despite the two of them having done this before and him being close and comfortable with Charles, the proposition now seemed incredibly intimidating. Once again, he stood uncomfortably for a few short moments, feeling Charles analysing his demeanour and wanting more and more to sink into the ground. “Sure,” Arthur finally said, immediately regretting his decision. Not only was he now agreeing to everything he wasn’t comfortable with, he knew he was opening an opportunity for Charles to ask questions. That uncomfortable urge to gag rose in his throat once again.
“Cool. I’ll see you by the shore in, say, fifteen?” Charles said, taking a few backwards steps before turning around to wander to his own tent.
Arthur didn’t reply, but instead briskly nodded his head despite the fact that Charles obviously wouldn’t have seen him. Now, he felt incredibly and indisputably stuck. When he made it back to his own tent he lowered the flaps and tied them tightly, and after shakily lowering himself onto his cot, he began to breathe at a laboured pace, catching the occasional whimper on a hitched breath. It was beginning to settle in now - the feeling of having been used so indecently, being seen by a stranger in such a morbid and nonconsensual manner. Arthur covered his mouth as he began to let out quiet, breathless sobs. He cupped his face in his hands in an effort to not be heard crying dryly by any of his fellow gang members. He felt foolish for the way he cried so silently, alone in his tent. The last times he’d cried were when he lost Boadicea and cradled her head in his lap, when he visited Eliza and his son to see two crosses before the front porch, and when he had to part ways with Mary. Despite knowing fully how much he was hurting, his reason for crying this time felt invalid.
When his breathing began to slow and his pulse returned to a steady rhythm, he was reminded once again of how Charles would be waiting for him by the lake soon. Arthur knew that Charles was by no means nosy but would likely question his intentions should he suddenly decide not to go out and meet him. And so he stood up, threw his hat onto his cot-side table, and began to unbutton his shirt. He usually saw the other men walk out to the lakeside wearing a union suit and pants before throwing off layers to wade into the water. He planned to do exactly that, but found that even undoing the buttons to his shirt came with difficulty. His hands were shaking involuntarily and, still, he couldn’t get the imagine of the man from the cabin taking off his shirt the same way he was doing so now. Eventually he had taken off his excess clothing and, to his expectation, found Charles standing expectantly at the shoreline, still wearing his black trousers but without the blue polka-dot shirt he was wearing earlier.
“You ready?” Charles asked, half not expecting an answer.
“Sure, yeah.” Arthur stalled temporarily as Charles began to unbutton and shake off his trousers and underwear, revealing his bare figure before trudging into the water slowly. Arthur knew it was indecent to stare but at that moment his mind was wandering to a worrisome elsewhere. He had regretted his decision earlier but now he wanted to start running away from the lakeside and never stop. He wanted to melt into a puddle in the intense evening heat and seep into the water, never to be seen again. The urge to gag came back, now feeling like an uncomfortable lump in his throat, and once again he wanted to start crying just as he had in his tent.
Charles was looking over from where he was waist deep in the water, a look of concern and confusion on his face. “Are you coming in?” He called over.
“I am, just… wait, please,” Arthur said back, not as loudly as he had hoped in fear of breaking down if he spoke to loudly. At last he began to remove layers, firstly his trousers, and then his red union suit. As he rolled them down his calves the choked-up feeling intensified when he noticed grimy fingermarks and blueing bruises on his thighs and lower torso. After a terrifying few frozen seconds, Immediately he hoisted them back up again, briskly putting his trousers on too.
Charles was still standing in the water expectantly, “Arthur, what-“
“I can’t do this, Charles. Sorry,” Arthur hollered, immediately breaking the seal to his emotions and beginning to feel hot tears well up in his eyes, blurring his vision as he attempted to buckle his belt. His fingers were failing him and eventually, after nipping his fingertip on the prong of his belt, he sunk to the ground, letting out turbulent, heaving breaths. He was consumed by overwhelming humiliation as he sat there, palms at his cheeks, when Charles suddenly placed a calloused hand on his shoulder. He had barely noticed that Charles had left the water and gotten fully clothed, and viciously flinched away from Charles’s gentle touch. “Charles, please-“
“What’s wrong, Arthur?” Charles asked, in a low voice that sounded firm yet somehow gentle.
“Charles, n-no, it’s- it ain’t important, okay?” Arthur sputtered, losing his words halfway through saying them in an effort to stabilise his breathing. He continued to sit there, hunched over, refusing to let Charles see the blotchy mess that was his face. “Charles-“ he said once again, trying to form a somewhat coherent sentence and being failed by his shaking breaths. He knew it was no use to try and explain his way out of this, and when he said “Charles,” for the third time, it was said in a strange sense of desperation. He’d hardly noticed that Charles’s hand had returned to his shoulder, and, despite his own reluctance, eventually cupped Arthur’s face to bring their gaze to one another’s.
“You don’t have to explain anything, Arthur, okay? I'm going to bring you to your tent." Charles said, taking Arthurs trembling hand in his and bringing him to his feet. Arthur followed Charles without question, still grasping the other mans hand desperately. By this point, the wall had been broken; it wasn't as if Arthur could play it off as nothing. He knew that Charles had likely seen his bruised lower half, and even if he hadn't, his unprovoked breakdown will have at least told Charles something. By the point Charles sat Arthur down in his tent, lowering the canvas once again, the sun had sunk well below the distant mountains, and the sky was beginning to fade from a muted pink to navy. Charles acknowledged this, lighting two gas lamps so that the two mens faces were illuminated by an orange glow.
"I, there was-" Arthur began as Charles began raking out a pair of nightclothes for Arthur. While he was initially overwhelmed by the memories, bruises, marks and disgust from his assault, he now found a small part of him filling up and overflowing with gratitude for Charles and his unwavering selflessness. “There was a man, in the swamps. He-” Arthur found himself lost for words as he tried to confess. Whether it was embarrassment or revulsion or simply not knowing how to describe what he had suffered - he could not tell, and that scared him. “He did things to me, Charles, He… I-” Arthur could feel his eyes welling up with blurred tears again, but unlike earlier, what did not follow were the laboured breaths and a feeling of intense panic. Instead, now, he was simply weeping, woefully and freely - feeling nothing but shame. More and more shame, bubbling up from his insides and spilling over.
Charles lay the nightclothes he had gathered in a neat pile on Arthur’s pillow and sat down on the cot next to him. He took Arthur’s hand, having now realised that it helped calm Arthur significantly, “those bruises, Arthur,” Charles began softly, “were they… from him?”
Arthur nodded, still letting his tears run freely. “I don’t- he just let me in… knocked me out with a- I ain’t even sure what it was, Charles. And then he- I woke up, just for a moment, and my-” Arthur felt the strange gagging sensation once again, but now somewhat muted by Charles’s presence, “He’d had his cock, in- I- he…” he trailed off, his controlled crying now turning once again into wet sobs. His whole body rocked with each breath, and Charles wrapped his free arm around Arthur’s shoulders, rubbing his back with slow, circular motions.
“Bill had mentioned something, actually… recently after we got to Rhodes. But for now, that isn’t important. You need good rest, Arthur, okay? I’ll come see you in the morning - I’ll bring, uh, coffee. breakfast. Are you comfortable putting these on?” Charles said tenderly, gesturing to the nightclothes he had placed earlier. Arthur only stared, his brow furrowed and his breathing still slightly laboured, and Charles took that as a subtle hint; “I’ll help you out,” he said.
As Charles undid the buttons of Arthur’s trousers, he could feel Arthur’s gaze weighing heavily on him, and as he slid them off, Arthur suddenly took Charles’s hand. “Will you- stay?” he muttered, his breath hitching slightly.
Charles looked up, meeting eyes with Arthur for a restrained moment. As a man who usually read into everything - every human emotion - Charles found himself failing to read Arthur’s misty look. “Of course, always,” Charles said. there was a brief moment where he could suddenly see an emotion of significance in Arthur’s gaze, but it melted away in the abundance of tears that returned to his eyes again. “Let’s get you out of this union suit; have it washed tomorrow. Cmon,” Charles said as he began to unbutton and slide off Arthur’s union suit.
Silently, behind his cloudy expression, Arthur was fighting a battle of conflicted emotions - there was a strange feeling of retired lust overwhelming him, as the situation he found himself in, Charles removing his clothing garments and revealing his skin bit by bit, had Arthur feeling incredibly licentious. It was a situation that, had he been able to experience this any other night, would have set his feelings ablaze. However, at this moment, there was a deafening numbness at his core that put out any flickers of such a feeling.
When Charles slid off the trouser garment of Arthur’s union suit he averted his gaze from Arthur’s groin, but still found himself noticing the bruises he’d caught a glance of earlier. Up close they seemed a lot more severe. He could almost make out shadows of fingerprints imprinted into his thighs. Charles leaned over to reach the nightclothes and, with Arthur’s occasional help, lovingly clothed him. This was when Arthur suddenly wrapped his arms around Charles in a suffocating embrace, digging his face into the crook of the other man's neck. After the initial shock, Charles melted into the embrace. It felt like an age that they stayed in that caress before Charles felt Arthur’s body slack, and he managed to pivot the two into a lying position on Arthur's cot. He was silently thanking that Pearson had made a recent upgrade to Arthur’s sleeping quarters, offering considerable space for both of them on the cot. Arthur eventually loosened his arms and leaned back into the pillow to catch a look of Charles’s face. “I can talk to you,” Arthur whispered, his voice a husk of what it usually was.
“I know,” Charles replied, “I’m glad you can trust me,”
Those words ended up being the final ones spoken that night, as eventually Charles heard Arthur’s shallow breaths turn into deep, rolling snores. He watched Arthur’s sleeping face, and how his frown slacked into a relaxed expression as he fell deeper into sleep. Charles wanted so desperately to usher Arthur up with a hushed ‘I love you’, but decided that he’d be better sharing that when he knew Arthur was ready. Not now, as Arthur needed time to recover and heal from the horrors he had withstood that day.
Maybe eventually, one day, he would tell him.