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Jack’s welcome-back party is less raucous than Sean’s had been - they’re all weary, more relieved than exuberant like their last party had been. Rhodes had ended more sourly than Valentine, and it hangs like a heavy cloud above the camp, threatenin’ thunder.
But God, what singin’ there is - it’s loud and joyous, with only Javier getting the words right. They’re crowded around the fire, laughin’ along with the bright strummin’ of the guitar. With his voice surgin’ out his chest and his family around him, it feels right. It feels like home.
Afterwards, Arthur does his best to keep spirits high. It’s not difficult - he’s a cheerful drunk, stumblin’ around camp, clappin’ everyone on the shoulder, compliments spillin’ out his mouth. Swanson stays away, sayin’ he doesn’t want to ruin it, and Arthur tells him that’s ridiculous and pushes him towards the rest of the group. Micah’s broodin’, and he leaves him well enough alone. Dutch and Molly fight, and Arthur wonders where she’ll be sleepin’ tonight. Towards the end, there’s barely any singin’, and no more laughter - only shoutin’, like the raiders who’d been here before them. He keeps a smile plastered on his face through Dutch’s sermon, until the skies open up and a torrent of rain nearly drowns the campfire.
The storm comes on with no warning, and everyone retreats to their tents and inside the old plantation house - although Arthur doesn’t understand why there are still folks who sleep outside when the wooden walls would keep them much warmer and drier. Sure, he likes sleepin' outside, beneath the stars and the horizon, closer to the earth - but when he gets like this, all soft and mellow from whiskey, it’s warmth that he craves.
Cielito lindo - Javier had told him it meant lovely sky. It sure ain’t lovely no more, although Arthur still thinks there’s beauty in it.
He’s left sittin’ at the ashes of the fire with Pearson. His singin’ is mournful, voice all alone against the rain. It’s somethin’ sad and half-remembered about days gone by that Arthur knows some of the words to like he knows a story he heard as a kid. He’s hummin’ more often than not, content to just listen. It makes his tongue stick to his throat, like he’s on the edge of burstin’ into tears, and he suddenly feels deeply lonely.
The rain in the air fills his lungs, and he splutters and coughs. He pretends that it’s water sprayed in his hand rather than blood, tells himself it’s dark enough tonight to believe.
Then even Pearson wanders off to sleep, and Arthur goes inside. He walks up the stairs, trying not to make the steps creak too loudly for fear of wakin’ anyone, and eases the door to his room open.
There’s his lantern whose flame is valiantly endurin’ the wind that is howling in through the large, shattered window. He curses, standin’ and swayin’ in the doorway, considerin’ where to go. Sure, the rain ain’t gettin’ in, and he could hang up his blanket to keep out the wind - but then he’d be cold, and that sounds like too much work for his alcohol-drenched brain to figure out right now. He yearns for those bygone nights in towns where he, Dutch and Hosea would be for a score, with weather too poor to camp, and they’d have to share a room when it was all they could afford. That was when he’d felt the most cherished - pressed tightly between the two of them, safe and warm.
When Arthur finally convinces his body to move, it’s the longin’ for arms around him that wins out. He’d rather wake Dutch up than Hosea - he’s old and sick and needs all the rest he can get. And besides, him and Dutch have an… arrangement, made nearly ten years ago, when he’d learned about the kind of things Arthur had been headin’ into cities to find.
He still remembers the day clearly - he’d been soaked in blood after shootin’ someone point-blank, and waded into a stream to wash his shirt, peelin’ the fabric off himself. Dutch had come to check on him and was livid when he’d seen all the marks on his body, demandin’ to know who’d done it all to him, leavin’ Arthur to choose between the humiliatin’ truth and lyin’ to Dutch. It was hardly a choice, and he’d admitted that he’d been payin’ whores to hurt him. It was even more embarrassin’ when he’d confessed that it wasn’t even always about sex.
Dutch had looked angry, then concerned, then disappointed, the emotions washin’ across his face like a stone causin’ ripples in a pond. He’d told Arthur in no uncertain terms that he expected Arthur to come to him when he felt that pricklin’ beneath his skin. He did, and kept doin’ so.
So he turns, and walks across to Dutch’s room. He pushes open the door and steps inside.
He feels a jolt of guilt-steeped satisfaction at the sight of Dutch sleeping alone. He worries, briefly, about Molly - he sees the poem she wrote back at Horseshoe Overlook on the dresser, and wonders how much it plays on Dutch’s conscience.
“Dutch,” Arthur hisses. The man doesn’t stir, so he pads closer to the bed, until he can see the lines of Dutch’s eyelashes. He doesn’t need to ask for permission, but it’s routine at this point. He taps Dutch’s shoulder, and says his name again.
“Arthur?” comes Dutch’s voice, roughened by sleep, cuttin’ through the darkness. “Just what are you doin’ in here?”
“I, uh- my window’s broken,” Arthur says, painfully aware of how pathetic he sounds. “And I didn’t want to be cold and alone."
The storm outside rages. Dutch changes like the wind, and Arthur’s braced for rejection.
He lifts up the covers. “Come on, then.”
Arthur grins and takes his sodden hat off, placin’ it carefully on the nightstand. He strips down to his union suit, which is mostly dry, feelin’ too tired to make a show of it. He hastily lays his wet clothes on the floor before climbin’ in, Dutch movin’ back to make room. They’re both big men but there’s enough room with how spacious the bed is. He’s immediately warm, ice in his bones thawin’ like snow over fields of wildflowers in the north. He turns onto his left side, and Dutch slings an arm over his waist and pulls Arthur against his body, wrapping himself around him. His breath is hot on the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry for wakin’ you,” Arthur whispers, slightly slurred, starin’ at the wall. He’s hyper-aware of all the places they’re touchin’.
“Don’t worry, son - you didn’t. I ain’t been sleepin’ too well lately.”
Arthur knows. For days, Dutch has had mauve beneath his eyes, like a careless artist had smeared paint there, and he’s been more irritable and short-tempered too. How he wishes he could fix all of his problems.
Dutch shifts under the blanket, and then his stubble is scrapin’ as he presses warm, open-mouthed kisses to Arthur’s neck. He moans softly, tiltin’ his head back so that Dutch has more access. He can feel the man’s lazy smile against his skin and grazes his teeth over his pulse point, then sucks gently. Arthur hopes it bruises.
He thinks of the sky. Cielito lindo - Javier had said it also meant sweetheart. He wishes Dutch would call him sweetheart. They both know it sure as hell ain’t true, but… he thinks it’d be nice anyway.
Arthur tenses up and coughs, curling in on himself. Dutch’s palm against his stomach steadies him.
“Go to sleep, Arthur,” Dutch says quietly. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Arthur can feel the vibrations of his voice, and realizes it’s a lie. He don't care as much as he should - if he ain't Dutch's, then what is he?
As he gives in and lets his eyes close, he wants to pretend this heavy, comfortable feelin’ will last forever, but knows deep in his heart that tonight is the end of somethin’. It’s woven into the settin’ of the sun and the dyin' of the flame, the awareness of their time comin’ to an end.
He thinks of Pearson’s old navy song by the ashes of the fire, and like coffee with sugar, it tastes bittersweet, lying heavy on his tongue as he falls asleep.