Chapter Text
Arthur Morgan wasn’t the kind of man who sat still easily.
The house felt smaller now that he had nothing to do, the creak of the kitchen faucet and the hum of the fridge were starting to feel like taunts, and the silence was beginning to chew holes in his patience. He’d been laid off from his trucking job three days ago over “budget cuts,” they’d said, like that meant anything. No warning, no backup plan, just a pat on the back and a final check.
He’d already applied to a handful of places, but it wasn’t like there was a shortage of men who knew how to drive a rig. He hated this, sitting around, waiting.
John noticed.
Arthur hadn’t said anything about it, but John had a way of picking up on the tension. It was probably the way Arthur had been scowling harder than usual and hadn’t even bothered to fake enthusiasm when Abigail dropped off Jack last weekend.
So when John showed up on Thursday with two beers and some takeout, Arthur figured he was in for a pity dinner.
“You ever think about pickin’ up your sketchbook again?” John asked halfway through the meal, chicken grease on his fingers and a smirk on his face like he already knew Arthur was gonna say no.
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just sayin’,” John said, wiping his hands on a napkin. “You used to draw all the time. People, horses, enviroments-hell, you even sketched that waitress you had a crush on for three months and never talked to.”
Arthur groaned. “That was ages ago.”
“Exactly. Might be time to get back into it.”
Arthur took a sip of his beer. “I need a job, John. Not a damn hobby.”
John leaned back on the couch, throwing one arm over the backrest. “Sure, but you got nothin’ lined up yet. And you’re drivin’ yourself-and me-nuts just sittin around mopin’. My buddy says the arts center’s got this free figure drawing thing goin’ on every Saturday. It’s open to the public.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “What? Like, nude people?”
“Yeah,” John grinned. “Y’know. For art.”
Arthur gave him a long, flat look. “This sounds like the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard.”
John laughed. “Yeah, maybe. But you ain’t doin’ anything else. C’mon, just go once. Bring a sketchpad. Worst case, you hate it and never go again. Best case, you loosen up a little before you start wrappin’ your whole identity around bein’ unemployed.”
Arthur sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “...Fine. One class.”
“Atta boy,” John said, clinking their beer bottles together. “Maybe you’ll even get inspired or somethin’. Or at least see a nice ass.”
Arthur muttered something under his breath and took another drink, already regretting the decision.
Arthur didn’t know what he expected, exactly.
He'd followed John’s half-assed directions through the sprawling college campus, passed a few smoking undergrads and a guy on a unicycle, and eventually found the arts building tucked behind a courtyard full of sculptures that looked like melted playground equipment.
The room was easy to find-big north-facing windows, some scattered easels, a couple of benches, the faint scent of charcoal and linseed oil clinging to the walls.
But it was empty.
Arthur stood in the doorway for a moment, brow furrowed. No one else was setting up. No chatter, no instructor. He walked in anyway, boots heavy on the wooden floor, he looked around. Maybe he’d gotten the time wrong…?
He’d just started thumbing through his phone to double-check the message John had sent him, full of typos and missing punctuation, when the door creaked open behind him.
In walked a man wearing a loose-fitting shirt, dark jeans, and an oversized canvas bag slung over one shoulder. Long hair, tied back. Jewelry, tasteful and just noticeable. Confidence, unhurried but not lazy.
He paused when he saw Arthur. His eyebrows lifted. “Oh.”
Arthur looked up. “Howdy.”
“I didn’t think anyone would come today,” the man said, setting his bag down.
“Why’s that?”
“There’s a figure drawing event down by the biology sector. Same time slot. They’ve got... women models,” he added with a wry smile. “So, you know.”
Arthur blinked. “Great. Marston didn’t tell me that at all.”
“ John Marston?” the man asked, suddenly more interested.
“Yeah. You know him?”
“Sure. We’re friends.” He walked closer and held out a hand. “I’m Javier Escuella.”
Arthur shook it. Firm grip. Warm. “Arthur Morgan.”
“Well, Arthur Morgan,” Javier said, smile curling at the corners, “if you came all the way out here, I’d feel bad letting you leave empty-handed.”
Arthur scratched at the back of his neck. “Look, if this was your day off or somethin’, I’ll go. Lord knows I don’t want to take that from you.”
Javier shook his head. “No, no. It’s okay. If you want to do the workshop, I’ll stay.”
There was a pause. Arthur looked him over, Javier was already pulling out a stool and setting his canvas bag down on a nearby chair.
“You sure?” Arthur asked.
Javier’s smile widened just a little. “Positive.”
Arthur nodded slowly, glancing around the room. “Ain’t used to this kind of thing. But I got a sketchbook in my bag, and… hell. Might as well make the most of it.”
Javier leaned back on the stool, crossing one leg over the other. “Good. I think you’ll like it. Just… relax. No pressure.”
Arthur cleared his throat and moved to set up. He didn’t notice the way Javier watched him-curious, half amused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
He had just set his sketchbook down on the closest easel and was rummaging for a decent pencil when he heard the distinct sound of fabric rustling behind him. He turned, ready to ask Javier if there were any model references lying around-
And immediately forgot how to speak.
Javier had taken off his shirt.
He stood casually at the center of the room, unbothered, his skin catching the pale afternoon light filtering through the windows. Smooth lines, dark hair on his chest, the kind of lean muscle tone Arthur hadn’t expected but absolutely noticed.
Arthur’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.
“Oh,” Javier said, halfway through unbuttoning his jeans, “right. I’m the model. Thought you might’ve figured that out.”
Arthur’s voice came out hoarse. “You’re-? I mean-right. Okay.”
Javier grinned at him over his shoulder, cocking a brow. “Would you mind closing the curtains for me?”
Arthur turned so fast he nearly knocked over his easel. “Y-yeah, sure.”
He strode to the tall windows, tugging the thick curtains shut one by one, trying very hard not to think about the sounds of clothing dropping to the floor behind him. He hated how warm his ears were getting. Goddammit, Morgan, get it together.
By the time he returned to his spot, Javier was-
Well.
Naked. Completely.
He sat on the edge of the little dais in the center of the room, a folded towel beneath him, one leg bent, the other relaxed and trailing off the side. His posture was graceful but unposed, effortless. Comfortable in his skin in a way that made Arthur’s pulse thump at his temple.
“Since it’s just you,” Javier said, calm as anything, “you tell me what pose you want me in.”
Arthur swallowed hard and gripped his pencil like it might anchor him to the floor. “A-alright.”
God. He sounded like a goddamn teenager.
He immediately hated himself for it. At thirty-six years old, he’d wrestled wild dogs, delivered calves, and once fixed a leaking septic line in a thunderstorm. And now one very pretty, very naked man was apparently enough to turn his spine to jelly.
Javier tilted his head slightly, waiting, eyes curious and calm.
Arthur cleared his throat again, louder this time, and forced himself to look at the paper instead. “Just-stay like that. That’s fine.”
“Alright,” Javier said easily, settling into the position with a small smile. “Just tell me if you want me to shift.”
Arthur didn’t trust himself to say anything more, so he just started drawing.
And tried very, very hard not to look too long at the way Javier’s lips curved, or the delicate hollows of his collarbone, or the absolute fact that there was not a single stitch of clothing left between them.
The first fifteen minutes were rough.
Arthur kept his eyes locked on the page like it might save his life, sketching the slope of Javier’s shoulder, the curve of his spine, the shape of his thigh with stiff, nervous lines. His pencil moved with hesitance, like even his hand was embarrassed.
But slowly-grudgingly-his breathing evened out, his shoulders relaxed, the charcoal stopped catching awkwardly on the paper. The room, still quiet except for the faint rustle of leaves outside, settled into something easier.
Javier moved every once in a while, switching positions every 10 minutes or so. He always stayed exactly as Arthur asked-legs crossed in a way that was both poised and lazy, torso angled with soft tension, chin tilted down just a bit like he wasn’t trying to be dramatic but somehow still was.
He looked like art.
And Arthur, for a moment, forgot to be flustered.
His lines smoothed out and he began sketching more confidently, mapping Javier’s form like it was something familiar, like this wasn’t the first time he’d held a pencil in years.
Still, the quiet started to wear on him. He wasn’t used to silence like this, even the long nights on the road in his truck had always come with a radio, or his own voice grumbling at traffic, and back home John always made sure to blast the most fuckass garbage music he’d ever heard in his entire life pretty much 24/7. He’d grown unfamiliar with it.
“So,” Arthur said after a while, not looking up, “how’d you get into, uh… this?”
He gestured vaguely, pencil in hand.
Javier chuckled low in his throat. “Nothing complicated, really. The arts section was paying for a nude model, and I could use the extra cash.”
Arthur glanced up. “That so?”
“Mmhmm.” Javier shifted his weight just slightly, enough to settle deeper into the pose without breaking it. “From here, it’s straight to the bar to waste all this…” He threw one hand up, lounging back on the towel with mock flair.“…hard-earned money,” he finished dryly.
Arthur huffed a laugh, caught off guard. “Hard-earned, huh?”
“Posing is work, I’ll have you know,” Javier said, half-smiling, not opening his eyes. “Holding still for up to forty-five minutes at a time? My ass goes numb, people stare, sometimes someone asks me if I can ‘do a sexy one,’ like I’m a damn pin-up calendar. It’s real dignified.”
Arthur chuckled again, softer this time. “Yeah, I bet.”
He dipped his head, kept sketching, Javier’s next pose hadn’t changed much, but Arthur found himself adjusting lines, softening angles. The curve of his smile, the line of his waist-he was getting it down. Not perfectly, but enough.
“Don’t tell Marston,” Arthur muttered, “but I’m actually kinda enjoyin’ this.”
Javier opened one eye, watching him. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
The timer on the wall buzzed faintly, barely audible, but enough to pull Arthur out of his focused haze.
He blinked, pencil still in hand, and glanced down at his sketchpad. The first few pages were… rough, to put it nicely. Heavy lines, uneven proportions, hesitation in every stroke. But then, further in, something shifted. The tension eased, the lines got cleaner, more confident, there was rhythm to it.
He exhaled through his nose, half-proud, half-embarrassed.
Behind him, there was a rustle of cloth. Javier, finally moving, pulled his shirt over his head, loose strands of hair falling out of his tie as he did. He stretched his arms over his head, long and languid like a cat, spine popping faintly in the quiet room.
Arthur kept his eyes firmly on the page.
He didn’t notice Javier stepping closer, now dressed again but still barefoot, padding across the studio floor with practiced silence.
“Aaaw,” Javier drawled near his shoulder, voice playful and just a touch wicked. “You didn’t draw my face on some of them. I feel objectified~ .”
Arthur flinched so hard his pencil rolled right out of his hand and onto the floor. “Shit!”
Javier burst out laughing. “You’re easy to sneak up on. I’ll remember that.”
Arthur groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “You shouldn’t be sneakin’ up on a man who’s holdin’ graphite.”
Javier smiled at the sketchbook, still looking. “They’re good, though. Better than I expected for a guy who acted like he’d never held a pencil before.”
Arthur cleared his throat, ducking his head to hide how warm his face felt. “You’re flatterin’ me.”
“I wouldn’t lie. Especially not to a man with the power to erase my hips.”
Arthur couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his mouth. “Guess you got a point.”
Javier took a half step back, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Well, I look forward to seein’ you next time. Though I guess it’ll be a lot less intimate with a full room.”
He turned to the door, then paused, glancing back with that same teasing light in his eyes.
“Unless,” he added casually, “you wanna hire me for personal sessions?”
Arthur stared at him, jaw half-open.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. It shook out of him like a short bark, surprised and genuine.
“You’re dangerous , boy,” he said, shaking his head.
Javier only winked. “You have no idea.”
And with that, he stepped out of the room-still barefoot, hair loose, like he hadn’t just completely scrambled Arthur Morgan’s brain.
Arthur sat down heavily on the stool, stared at the sketchpad again, and muttered to himself:
“…Goddamn Marston.”
He’d walked back into the house with the kind of dazed, half-stunned expression of a man who’d just been hit by something-not hard, exactly, but fast, unexpected, and probably smiling the whole damn time.
He shut the door behind him with a quiet click and found John exactly where he expected him: lying across the couch like he owned it, socked feet up on the armrest, TV playing some rerun of a show neither of them had ever admitted to watching.
John glanced over with all the energy of a housecat. “Well? How’d it go?”
Arthur didn’t answer at first. He took off his boots slowly, like his limbs were still waking up. “It would’ve been nice to know the model was someone you knew.”
John sat up a little straighter. “What, Javier?”
Arthur turned his head slowly. “Yes, Javier .”
John raised both hands. “Hey, I didn’t think that was relevant.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “He was naked. ”
John grinned. “Yeah, that’s kinda the point, Arthur.”
Arthur groaned and ran a hand down his face. “You’re the worst.”
“Did you like it at least?” John asked, already lounging back again. “You sound a lot less miserable than usual.”
Arthur didn’t dignify that with a response. He walked past the living room into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water, and leaned against the counter, trying not to replay every moment of that damn workshop in his head. Javier’s voice, his posture, his smug little ‘unless you wanna hire me’ -
He shook himself and reached for his jacket, hung over the back of one of the chairs. He’d stashed his pencils in the pocket earlier.
His fingers brushed paper.
Something folded. Not one of his sketch notes.
He tugged it free and stared at a torn scrap of notebook paper.
“Call me if you want another private session. Or just a drink. -J. ”
Beneath it, his phone number.
Arthur stared. Then blinked.
“Everything alright?” John called lazily from the couch.
Arthur cleared his throat, stuffing the paper quickly back in his pocket. “Fine.”
But his heart was hammering like he’d just stepped off a rollercoaster.
He had no idea when Javier had slipped it in there.
An embarrassing amount of time later, Arthur was still staring at the slip of paper.
It sat on the nightstand beside his bed, right where he’d placed it after taking it out of his pocket. Javier’s handwriting was neat, a little playful, like he’d written it with a grin.
Arthur hadn’t stopped thinking about it.
Or about him.
He told himself he was just debating the right way to go about it. That it didn’t matter if it took him a few hours. Or a whole damn day.
He picked up his phone at least five separate times, opened the messages app, typed something, deleted it, repeated. Each attempt more ridiculous than the last.
“Hi. This is Arthur Morgan. We met today.” Too formal.
“Hey. Enjoyed drawing you.” No.
“You were naked and I lived.” Absolutely not.
Eventually, he tossed the phone onto the bed and walked away, muttering to himself like the world’s most grumpy Victorian poet.
“You’re a grown-ass man,” he grumbled later that evening, standing in the kitchen and pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “You’ve fought off coyotes and installed drywall in a thunderstorm and lived with John for twenty goddamn years. Textin’ a man shouldn’t be harder than all that.”
He took a breath. Sat down. Opened the messages app again.
Typed:
Hello Javier, this is Arthur Morgan. I wanted to say thanks again for today. I wasn’t expectin’ it, but I had a good time. If you’re still offerin’ that drink sometime, I wouldn’t mind takin’ you up on it.
He stared at it for another thirty seconds then hit send.
It was done. Out of his hands. He sat back and stared at the screen like it might bite him.
The reply came barely a minute later.
omfg. you text so properly. cute
john would've gotten at least 7 of those words wrong.
Arthur snorted, half exasperated, half-he’d never admit it-relieved.
He sent back:
I like to be understood, that so strange?
A beat passed.
nope. it’s cute.
i’m free friday. you?
Arthur stared at that last message for a long second.
Then smiled, slow and a little stunned, before typing back:
Friday works. Just name the place.
The bar wasn’t fancy, but it was trying .
Dim amber lights strung across the ceiling, old wood tables worn to softness, a jukebox in the corner that alternated between sad country and late 2000s indie rock. It had personality, which Arthur could respect.
He stood outside for a full thirty seconds before walking in, tugging once at the hem of his best flannel like that might somehow make it less obvious how out of place he felt.
It was a nice shirt. Clean, soft, a dark green that brought out his eyes-at least that’s what Abigail used to say, back when they were still talking-and he’d even gone and combed his hair, which was not something he did for just anyone.
Inside, the crowd was light but warm. A few students, a couple of older locals. He scanned the room and saw him immediately.
Javier, sitting at a corner booth, already nursing a glass of something amber. Dressed casual but sharp-jeans, leather jacket, a shirt unbuttoned just enough to make Arthur’s stomach tense a little.
He was looking down at his phone, until he wasn’t-until he looked up and saw Arthur.
And grinned like the goddamn sun came up early.
Arthur felt the tips of his ears heat up.
“Look at you, ” Javier said as he slid into the booth across from him. “That flannel’s doing half the work for you.”
Arthur sat down stiffly, one hand smoothing his beard. “It’s just a shirt.”
“No,” Javier said, playful and direct. “It’s a look. And I appreciate the effort.”
Arthur cleared his throat, trying not to smile too much. “You said it was just a drink, not a fashion show.”
Javier leaned his chin on one hand, grinning lazily. “And yet, here you are. Lookin’ like a man who cares. ”
Arthur picked up the drink menu to hide his face. “You’re gonna keep sayin’ things like that?”
“Only if you keep gettin’ flustered every time I do.”
Arthur huffed, pretending to focus on the menu. “You’re relentless.”
“Dangerous, remember?”
That made Arthur laugh again-low and honest, surprised by how good it felt.
Javier smiled softer at that. “I’m glad you came.”
Arthur set the menu down. “Me too.”
And he meant it. More than he expected.
The first drink loosened Arthur’s shoulders. The second loosened his tongue.
Javier had a way of making it easy-sitting close without crowding, asking good questions, listening like it mattered. They talked about everything and nothing: music, food, old jobs, dumb things John had done in college. Javier told a story about catching John trying to iron a dress shirt with a hair straightener, and Arthur nearly choked on his beer.
It wasn’t until halfway through the third round that the air between them started to shift.
Javier’s voice had gone lower, slower. His elbow brushed Arthur’s on the table, not quite by accident. His fingers tapped the rim of his glass in a rhythm that had more to do with nerves than music.
Arthur noticed.
And-god help him-he started noticing on purpose.
“So,” Javier was saying, eyes half-lidded with warmth, “you drawin’ anything else these days, or just me?”
Arthur turned his head slightly, watching him. “You jealous?”
Javier blinked. “What?”
Arthur smiled slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting like it didn’t get to do that often. “You sound like you’re worried I’ve got a whole catalog of naked folks stashed in my sketchbook.”
Javier’s mouth opened-then closed-then opened again. “I-what?! No! I just-!”
Arthur leaned a little closer, enjoying it far more than he should’ve. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
Javier stared at him, flustered in the most delightful way-color rising in his cheeks, his drink forgotten, fingers twitching slightly against the glass.
“I didn’t expect it, that’s all!!” he blurted.
Arthur chuckled under his breath, pleased and almost proud. “What, didn’t think I had it in me?”
“I thought you were shy!” Javier exclaimed, pointing at him in accusation. “You couldn’t look me in the eye for the first half hour of class!”
Arthur shrugged, sipping his beer. “I was busy drawin’. ’Sides… you were naked.”
Javier put his head in his hands. “You’re unbelievable .”
“And you like it,” Arthur said, grin tugging at the edge of his voice now.
Javier looked up at him from between his fingers, eyes wide. Then he laughed, soft and breathless and stunned. “Maybe I do.”
Arthur wasn’t expecting that to hit him the way it did. Warm. Real. Something he wasn’t used to feeling on a first… whatever this was.
He cleared his throat. “Well… guess I’ll have to keep it up, then.”
Javier’s eyes glinted. “Please do.”
The bar had thinned out, the buzz of conversation now more of a murmur than a crowd. The jukebox had switched to something low and mournful, and their glasses were empty-though neither of them had noticed the last few sips going down.
Arthur had shifted in his seat, relaxed now, one arm draped lazily over the back of the booth. Javier sat turned toward him, knee brushing Arthur’s beneath the table and not moving away. They hadn’t said anything flirty in a while-just talked, about dumb high school jobs and art professors with bad breath-but the warmth had lingered between them like something gently simmering.
Eventually, Javier glanced at the time. “Should probably call it,” he said, not sounding like he wanted to.
Arthur hummed, sitting up a little straighter. “Yeah. Thinkin’ the same.”
They walked out together, past the bar, through the creaky front door and onto the sidewalk. The night was cool, the street quiet and mostly empty.
Javier shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, tilting his head back to look at the sky. “You’d think you could see more stars out here.”
Arthur looked too. “Too many lights. Still nice, though.”
A pause.
Neither of them moved.
Javier turned to him, that easy, slow smile returning. “You know,” he said, “I wasn’t expectin’ this to go well.”
Arthur raised a brow. “Gee. Thanks.”
Javier laughed. “No-I mean, I figured you’d be stiff and polite and maybe thank me for my service and then vanish.”
Arthur chuckled. “Guess I surprised you again.”
“You do that a lot,” Javier said, voice soft. He hesitated for just a second, then added, “I like that about you.”
Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked down for a moment-then back up at Javier, smile shy but honest. “Likewise.”
There was another beat. A lingering one.
For a second, Javier looked like he might step in closer-but instead, he gently tapped Arthur’s chest with two fingers. Right over the flannel.
“See ya at the workshop next week, cowboy.”
Arthur caught his wrist gently before Javier could pull away. Just held it for a second. Then, with a slightly crooked smile, said, “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Javier’s eyes flicked down to where their hands were touching. Then he smiled-slow and knowing. “Good.”
He turned and walked off down the sidewalk, loose-limbed and unhurried, tossing one last glance over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
Arthur stood there for a long moment, alone under the streetlight.
Then, quietly to himself, said, “...I’m in trouble.”