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Dutch and Hosea arguing wasn’t anything out of the ordinary — they were just like any other couple arguing. Sometimes they fought over silly little things, other times it got a bit more heated. But no matter what, they always made up. Hosea could be loud, spitting out sharp, biting words, while Dutch, in a fit of anger, might kick a chair or slam his fist on the table, which only fired Hosea up even more. But once the heat of the moment passed, they’d come back to each other, talk everything out, and make things right again. By the end of the day, they’d be sitting by the river at the edge of camp, laughing like nothing had happened.
Arthur knew there was only ever going to be one outcome, and he shouldn’t let it bother him so much. But every time his adoptive parents’ faces twisted with anger, voices rising and tensions boiling over, the same memory played out in his mind. He desperately wished he didn’t have to witness their arguments — Dutch and Hosea had asked him more than once to go for a walk whenever things got heated — but Arthur never wandered out of earshot. He couldn’t. Couldn’t let it happen again.
Arthur was fifteen. Not quite a child anymore, but still far from grown. He couldn’t even say what had started the argument — by now, Dutch and Hosea were clearly bickering about something entirely unrelated to the initial cause. Sitting on a tree stump, Arthur cleaned his revoulver, pretending not to pay attention. In reality, though, he tracked every move, ready to leap up any moment.
Dutch looked angrier than usual, his fists clenching and unclenching as he paced in front of Hosea like a caged tiger. Hosea stood with his arms crossed, drilling Dutch with a disapproving glare and throwing sharp, venomous comments in his direction.
Arthur couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened, the instant when everything shifted from before to after. He saw Dutch whirl around and raise his hand. Maybe he only meant to poke Hosea, that stubborn bastard, — but that wasn’t what Arthur saw. Arthur saw his father, Lyle Morgan, striking his mother across the face, hard enough to send blood streaming down her temple. He saw his father kicking her, again and again, long after she stopped breathing. Back then, Arthur had huddled into the corner of the room, silently sobbing, terrified that he’d be next.
But not now. Not this time. He wouldn’t let it happen again, even if it meant he would be next.
"Don’t you dare touch him!" Arthur springs to his feet, desperate courage burning in his eyes as he points a revolver at Dutch. The man’s hand freezes mid-air, never making it to Hosea’s chest.
Arthur’s voice breaks, and tears are already pooling in his eyes. His grip tightens around the handle of the weapon, and he knows — there’s no turning back now.
Dutch slowly turns his head toward the boy. Hosea’s gaze follows, filled with pure confusion and concern. He wants to step closer, to reach out, but not while Arthur is keeping Dutch at gunpoint. Tears begin streaming down the boy’s young face, his entire body shakes under the weight of emotions and memories he can’t push away. They choke him, like barbed wire wrapped tightly around his neck.
“Arthur…” Dutch begins cautiously, though there’s a steel restraint in his voice. “Put the gun down.”
Arthur’s panicked eyes dart from Dutch to Hosea, and back again. He hiccups a sob, betraying his resolve. Maybe it’s for the best.
"Arthur, my boy, it's okay..." Hosea extends his hands in a gesture of surrender, as if Arthur were a wild animal that needed to be calmed.
Arthur can't hold it in anymore. He drops the gun, choking on his own tears. His legs give out, and he collapses to the ground, wiping his face with a dirty sleeve. That was a mistake. It's all his fault. Now they hate him.
“S-sorry, Dutch, I... Hosea, sorry, I... I just... I'm s-so sorry… I…”
Dutch stands still, not entirely sure what he should do. The kid had just been about to shoot him, and he's not sure if approaching Arthur right now is a good idea. But Hosea is almost immediately by the weeping boy’s side, pulling him into an embrace. A sharp ache stirs in Dutch’s chest, but he tries to ignore the growing feeling of sorrow. Dutch wasn’t a fool; he knew that the kid was more attached to Hosea, that he loved him more too. Hosea had always been so compassionate, soft-hearted, kind, and caring. Damn it, Arthur had been seriously ready to put a bullet in the younger "parent's" head, but thankfully it hadn't come to that.
“Don’t apologize, Arthur, it’s alright, you’re alright. Dutch wasn’t gonna do anything... like that”, Hosea gently strokes the boy’s hair as he hides his tear-streaked face against the man’s chest. He whispers comforting words, and Arthur presses closer, like a stray kitten to a passerby, clutching the fabric of Hosea’s jacket in his fingers. Dutch hesitantly takes a step toward them, but upon receiving a nod from Hosea, he moves faster and sits beside them, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Soon, Arthur’s sobs and frantic breaths quiet down, and he pulls away, wiping his face once more. He can’t bring himself to look at the two men; fear and shame lodge in his throat.
"Dutch, I..." Arthur breathes quickly and brokenly, feeling like he's about to cry again.
He doesn't cry, but still can't say a single logical sentence. Dutch also feels like all the words he usually picks so skillfully in the right moment are slipping from his mind. Hosea, the only one who hasn't lost his ability to speak, exchanges a look with Dutch:
"Arthur, you... you were scared that Dutch was going to hit me?"
Arthur stays silent for about a minute, biting his lip, then shyly nods. Dutch sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. The dark, heavy shadow of the argument that had hung over their camp just moments ago now disappears without a trace, leaving behind only a faint memory in the form of loud shouts and the huddled, frightened boy.
"I would never do that, son. I would never hit Hosea. And I would never hurt you, either.”
Both Dutch and Hosea understand that this is related to Arthur's past. Dutch still feels awkward, regretting that his impulsive behavior pushed the boy to think such things. If only they had known more about Arthur's life before they met him...
"If I ever raise a hand to you or Hosea, just shoot me right then, Arthur."
Hosea doesn’t seem to agree with such a radical stance, but Dutch isn’t looking at him now. Arthur shifts his tear-brightened eyes to the man and swallows nervously.
"You’re not mad?"
"Only at myself."
Finally, Arthur calms down, sitting with a hollow stare fixed on the ground beneath his feet. He disentangles himself from Hosea’s arms, quietly sniffling as he wipes his wet face with sleeves already soaked through. A wave of shame washes over him — shame for his own weakness, his helplessness, and his fear. The boy wonders why these people still put up with him. He’s nothing but trouble. Part of him wants them to finally send him away like a lousy dog, to end this torturous waiting with phantom hope. But another part hopes — desperately, achingly — that he’s wrong, that Hosea and Dutch are not like every other adult in his life. And Arthur feels that his scarred, battered child’s heart is leaning toward the last one, trembling at the realization that someone might truly love him. Someone who’s willing to understand him — or at least to try.
Arthur lets out one last sniffle, standing up and adjusting his hat.
Maybe, just maybe, he has nothing and no one to fear here after all.