Chapter Text
An outlaw was shot dead in the dying light of the evening, his last words dispersing with the wind that carried the news across the plains.
He had been wanted for years, rumor has it that he officially became an outlaw only at age sixteen, and died at age thirty-seven. Known for his almost transcendent ability to shoot with two guns at the same time with impeccable aim, he robbed more trains than there were tracks in the transcontinental railroad, becoming one of the richest people in all of the west. He wasn’t selfish, and often shared a lot of the wealth with his small hometown and those less fortunate.
The ever grinding rumor mill even suggested that he had buried a majority of the gold, jewels, and other precious metals somewhere in the west, somewhere only he and those close to him would know. Many wrote the rumor off as nothing but, a myth, a fable meant to draw other outlaws out of hiding.
Even so, Victor Hugo was no more, and the location of his treasure, if he had any, went with him to the grave.
Verlaine didn’t truly care for the treasure hunt, even though that’s all his hometown was buzzing about. The newspaper had printed a story about it, along with the announcement of Hugo’s death, and from it a whole new set of rumors were born.
He had pistols made of gold. His horse was faster than sound. He could fight forever without getting tired.
All false. Verlaine had the pleasure of knowing Hugo, even growing up with him. Hugo was not the legend people have twisted him out to be. In Verlaine’s opinion, he was even a mediocre fighter. Yet he had the charisma that could swoon anyone, and he was truly an amazing marksman.
Verlaine was certain that Hugo buried something, however, he never expressed that fact, but he knew. Before he had died, before it happened, Hugo had given him and another a piece of paper, each with clues on where to retrieve whatever he buried. Both clues were a part of a riddle, meant to be put together along with another to solve, and hopefully reveal the location.
Nevertheless, life continues. He thinks of Hugo occasionally, but not of the treasure. He stopped being an outlaw on that fateful night, and while Verlaine missed it occasionally, he’d rather not be sent to the gallows for a treasure that may or may not exist.
Verlaine sighs as he climbed up the rickety wooden ladder, his tool bag clutched safely underneath his arm. Chuuya held the ladder down from below, squinting up against the glare of the sun which hung high in the sky.
“You good?” He called up as he saw his brother stop three-fourths of the way up.
Verlaine stared out onto the plains, a cool breeze drifting through his hair, bringing the promise of rain. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon, the far away peaks of the Rockies seemingly holding up the electrified mass.
The winds blew against Verlaine’s favor, causing the weather bane just above his head to shift and creak as it moved, pointing towards town. Cracks of electricity lit up the bruised clouds, rumbling across the grass and wildflowers like a coal train. The flowers swayed in the breeze as the sounds around them fell silent, the pops of color sticking out of the tall sideoat grama grasses, a stark highlight to the storm clouds.
The calm before the storm was one of Verlaine’s favorite times, where the normal sounds fell silent, the rumbling of thunder getting closer and closer until the lightning struck right outside his window, leaving a burn scar in its wake.
Of course, he’s lived on the plains all his life, and he could tell that those could bring destruction, the kind that decimated crops, kicked up dust, ripped wood from walls, tore posts from the ground. He guessed they had thirty minutes until the storm struck their small town, and once that occurred, there was nothing they could do about it except ride it out.
“Yes,” he called back down to Chuuya, finally tearing his eyes away from the horizon and hoisting himself up onto the roof.
He was attempting to fix the decking as the envious storm had completely torn a hole into the gable, causing all sorts of birds to take roost within and water and wind to find their way in.
Verlaine ground his foot against the brick of the chimney so he doesn’t fall, rummaging around the toolbag for his hammer and nails. Once he started upon the repair, it took him no longer twenty minutes to complete, at least according to the cracked pocketwatch gifted to him from a bygone era, full of swearing and misplacing the nails. He was normally more concentrated on the task at hand, but all he could see was the churning mass in his peripheral vision.
Call it wonderstruck or horror, the seemingly endless stretch of storm entranced him.
After he completed the repair, the storm clouds had quickly gathered overhead, moving faster than Verlaine had anticipated. Light but sharp droplets fell upon his skin, feeling like tiny pinpricks. Any longer out there and they’d surely catch a cold, if the lightning and wind didn’t get to them first.
“Hurry up! I’m cold!” Chuuya shouted up, just as Verlaine finished packing up his tool bag.
He sighs, shifting his position to start going back down the ladder. Before he did, however, he took one last glance outwards, this time towards the town. He saw everyone pack up in precaution of the incoming storm, bringing in animals, porch furniture, really anything that wasn’t nailed down. Anyone with common sense was already inside, praying that their houses and barns remained standing by the end of the night.
All that made the sight of someone winding up the beaten dirt road, hat tipped in front of their eyes to keep the dust out, all the more strange.
The person was clearly a stranger to the town, but no stranger to Verlaine.
He recognized the horse the man was riding first, its unique coat burned perpetually in his memory, especially after it kicked him so hard in the chest that some of his ribs dislodged.
Verlaine couldn’t help but scowl as he saw the other man turn off the path, heading directly up to his porch. It was quite strange seeing a dead man up and walking, especially after years of bitterly mourning, though Verlaine supposes he never truly saw Rimbaud die in that desert, only fall.
He climbed down the ladder rather quickly, skipping every two rungs in his haste. As soon as both feet touched the dry clay of the ground, he reached behind him for his shotgun out of habit, only to grab the air. He hadn’t religiously carried around his shotgun for years, leaving him defenseless to the dual sixguns he knew Rimbaud brandished. He had a feeble hunting knife in a sheath at his hip, but he sincerely doubted he could rush the other man before he was gunned down.
He stepped in front of his brother, holding the hilt of the knife regardless.
“Go inside,” he ordered, glancing over his shoulder, meeting Chuuya’s eye, who seemed very confused at Verlaine’s sudden change in demeanor.
“Why?!”
“Just-!”
”Paul?” Rimbaud asked as he dismounted Lumière, holding the reins so the horse wouldn’t run off, his voice serene as ever. He tilted his hat up to properly see Verlaine, his expression soft, a direct difference to the last time Verlaine saw his partner.
“Arthur,” Verlaine says back, curtly. He tried to remain detached, but how could he detach the best memories of his life from the man who helped create them? “What business do you have here?”
Rimbaud stayed silent for a few moments, taking in everything. The quaint but cozy house, Guivre sleeping in her stable, the rain falling harder and harder, Verlaine’s lack of a shotgun, Chuuya standing behind him, torn on what to do. It was so safe, a far cry from the life they lived a mere seven years ago.
“I came to see you,” he says simply, keeping his hands clasped in front of him so he’s not deemed a threat. Verlaine noticed that Rimbaud’s left hand, the same one he had shot in an attempt to disarm him, had a slight tremor. Verlaine frowned at that realization, though he didn’t know what else he was expecting, as tremors were the best case scenario after a bullet completely ripped through his flesh.
“Well, you saw me. You may go now,”
Rimbaud frowned, his ring finger twitching, a tell that he was about to, or at least wanted to grab his gun, something Verlaine had long since committed to memory.
“I also wish to discuss something with you,” Rimbaud replied rather curtly, meeting Verlaine’s tone, nodding towards the house. The rain started to soak their clothes, though the chill had yet to set in. “Shall we head inside?”
Verlaine furrowed, drumming his fingers against his upper arm. He was about to decline, insisting they talk it out outside, before an intense bolt of lighting struck the ground mere yards from where the three of them stood. The crackle of energy scared away the shrubbery, leaving a small burn mark in the ground. Small flames licked up towards the sucky, though were quickly suffocated by the pouring rain.
The boom that nearly instantly followed was almost deafening, causing Verlaine’s ears to ring with a piercing wail. Both Rimbaud and Chuuya covered their ears, flinching away from the lightning.
Not wanting to wait outside any longer, Verlaine guided them both inside, bolting the oak door behind them, lest the wind blow the door open and douse the foyer with water.
Rimbaud collapsed on one of the dining room chairs, pinching the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. Verlaine echoed the sentiment, leaning against the table as Chuuya ran up to his bedroom to shut his window.
The two men sat in silence as they waited for their hearing to return, and even though there was nothing threatening about Rimbaud’s actions, Verlaine still felt unsettled. Even though it had been years since he carried it around, he found himself missing the concrete feeling of his shotgun slung over his back. It was one of the two consistent things in nearly every single fight Verlaine had ever been in, the other being the man right across from him.
His partner.
“So,” Rimbaud started, bringing his hands down from his face. “Victor,”
Verlaine couldn’t help but scoff. The shrill ringing in his ears had subsided slightly, enough to hear Rimbaud without shouting.
“What about him? Afraid there isn’t going to be a memorial, if you were curious,”
He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Hugo was still an open wound, one Verlaine barely got the chance to nurse.
Hugo was a good friend, a constant, “friendly” face on the Great Plains, one Verlaine and Rimbaud would constantly race their horses against, Guivre, Lumiere, and Valjean respectively. They would often dig themselves farther into trouble over stupid bets, such as who could rob the most off a train on the Santa Fe line, or who had the best marksmanship. Verlaine had no doubt that Rimbaud was also hurting over the loss, but it didn’t seem like him to seek Verlaine out after so many years to be sentimental.
“His treasure,”
Verlaine blinked. That again, it’s all anyone could talk about.
”You believe in that?”
“You don’t?” Rimbaud countered, standing up and beginning to pace. Verlaine’s eyes followed his actions, but didn’t move himself.
“I think he buried a bunch of bullet casings to get the last laugh on the nobodies dumb enough to follow his wild goose chase”
”But the people who he gave the hints to weren’t nobodies, at least to Victor. Two were us, his best friends, and two were others I’m sure meant just as much to him as he did to us,” Rimbaud said, pulling out a yellowing piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. “Here’s mine, and I’m sure you kept yours as well,”
Of course Verlaine did. It burned a hole in the pocket he carried it in, like he was failing his friend from the opposite side of the line by his unwillingness to finish what was essentially his last wish.
”What about it,” he asked again, though his words were nearly drowned out by another clap of thunder joining the howling wind in a beautiful, yet deafening symphony.
The walls of the house shook with strain against the wind, but nothing broke yet.
“I want your help with finding it,”
”If I were to agree, how do I know you’re not going to shoot me when my back is turned?”
”Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Verlaine narrowed his eyes at him, though the snark in Rimbaud’s tone was a familiar one.
“Depends. Are you going to try and convince me to leave someone for dead again?”
Rimbaud sighs, stopping his pacing.
“We’re going to get nowhere if we keep talking in circles. I doubt an identical or near identical situation would ever arise again,”
”Why are you even interested in the treasure,” Verlaine cut in, ignoring Rimbaud’s previous statement.
“It’s a huge amount of money, Paul! We’d both be set for life!”
”You’d split it with me?” Verlaine asked, near incredulous.
“Of course. You’re my partner, after all. I don’t just want your hint,”
You’re my partner, after all.
Oh, that title fit like a worn leather glove, akin to a second skin, familiar and comforting. For as long as Verlaine could remember, they were partners…but they hadn’t been for a very long time.
Their wanted posters had long since been covered up by newer outlaws, the bounties climbing higher than the storm clouds in the sky. Verlaine could go into a bar without their faces plastered on the back walls, the legend of the two of them fading into simply that, a legend.
“Partners,” Verlaine repeats, staring right at him. Rimbaud’s gaze was unwavering, full of confidence.
The rain saw no sign of stopping anytime soon, and he wasn’t about to kick Rimbaud out in these conditions.
“Even if I were to agree, we don’t know who the other two people are, and who knows if they’re also after the ‘treasure’”
“I think that one of them is Johann, and surely he’ll know who the other is,” Rimbaud explained, pulling out a notebook from the inner pocket of his jacket, opposite of the one where he kept the paper from Hugo.
He shivered a little, and Verlaine noticed that although unlikely, it looked near identical to the one Rimbaud carried around years ago, in which he detailed all their adventures, and even some drawings of Verlaine, as Rimbaud has so bashfully admitted to him once.
He flipped through the pages before he came across a specific one, every niche converted in the hasty scribbles of a dying inkwell. Rimbaud normally wrote in neat script, careful to never stray away from the lines. However, this particular page was far from that, almost seemingly written in a drunken stupor.
Rimbaud didn't acknowledge the change before sliding the notebook across the table. Verlaine held the pages down so as not to lose his spot, glancing over what scribbles he could make out.
“This is all the details of where the treasure could be, what it is, and who has the other hints,”
Verlaine could see a list of names, though it was rather short, which wasn’t too surprising. Hugo was a social man, but his potential pool of friends was quite sparse, as very few wanted to even be close to such an outlaw.
Some names were crossed out with short explanations as to why, some were simply crossed out. Only two names remained on the list besides Rimbaud’s own, that being Verlaine’s and Goethe’s.
“This is only three,”
“That’s why I said surely Johann would know who the other is. He was closer to Victor than us,”
Everything stated was true, and Rimbaud had clearly put a lot of thought into the whole ordeal. The idea of the treasure, potentially being worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, enough for them to live in comfort for the rest of their lives was certainly appealing, though Verlaine wasn’t sure if the adrenaline of being on the plains would ever truly wear off.
However, he didn’t completely trust Rimbaud. Even though he was correct in his statement, where it was unlikely for an identical situation that caused their separation to occur again, Verlaine wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive the other man for trying to leave Chuuya for dead.
Yet again, hundreds of thousands of dollars split between the two of them, and they’ll never have to see each other ever again.
“Deal,” Verlaine says as he shuts the notebook, the gas lamps flickering in death as another crack of thunder shakes the house. The rain eased up slightly, but that meant nothing in terms of the unpredictable weather of the plains.
Rimbaud grins, the coy smile Verlaine was very familiar with, putting his notebook back in his jacket pocket.
“We leave when the weather eases up,” Verlaine says, his tone leaving no room for debate. “You can stay for the night. There’s a guest room next to my bedroom. I can lead you there. Dinner will be in an hour”
“Thank you, Paul,”
Verlaine didn’t respond, simply turning on his heels, leading Rimbaud up the stairs.
—————
Dinner went by without anything happening of note, simply awkward small talk that fell rather flat. Even so, Rimbaud volunteered to clean up the kitchen, claiming it to be polite since Verlaine had cooked. Verlaine didn’t complain, as it gave him more time to pack and prepare himself, both physically and mentally.
The night also went by without any incident, though Verlaine didn’t get much sleep due to a combination of the weather and his nerves. When he finally fell asleep, it felt as if no more than ten minutes passed before the sun was shining directly into his eyes, dragging him away from unconsciousness.
He could hear Rimbaud head downstairs, and he knew that he had a few moments to fully pack his bag.
Verlaine was slightly afraid to see what condition his shotgun was in, as he didn’t as he didn’t exactly keep it in proper conditions for longevity. He kept everything from that time in his life in a trunk at the base of his bed, locked up tight.
He had long since lost the key to the truck, figuring the ghosts would remain locked away until some unfortunate soul cracked it open upon his death. However, life had other plans, and he simply had to pry it open with a crowbar he had laying around.
As soon as the trunk was open, dust flew into the air at the disturbance, causing Verlaine to cough, his eyes watering. Pushing through the tears, he reached in, grabbing the memories within, pulling them out one by one.
His own journal, the charcoal writing smudging into something nearly unreadable, his hat, which had been gifted to him from his partner, and his shotgun, which by some miracle was in a good condition.
The trunk also held more shotgun shells, a cleaning kit, various articles of clothing, and an old portrait of himself and Rimbaud within a silver locket. He had found the locket on the ground turning one of his many stints, and put the portrait within. He used to wear it around his neck daily, but hadn’t in years.
Even though it was more sentimental than useful, he still took it with him, though only put it in his breast pocket, right over his heart.
He moved almost mechanically as he packed his knapsack, the old routine coming back to him with ease. A spare set of clothes, matches, his shotgun cleaning kit, as many shotgun shells as he could carry, and his journal and a pencil.
He had already spoken to Chuuya last night, informing his brother that he would be absent for quite a while, and asked if he would be alright with that.
His brother had been quite neutral, simply asking how long he’d be out, and if he could stay with some friends in town. Verlaine had no problem with him staying with others, and in fact would prefer it even if Chuuya was nearly eighteen. As for the time frame, he had no idea. He didn’t even know if the treasure was real, much less where it was. He didn’t even know where Goethe was to point them in the right direction.
All he could do was shrug.
Chuuya wasn’t very happy with the answer, or lack thereof, but he also understood. He wished Verlaine luck before bidding him adieu, returning to his room to pack an overnight bag of his own.
Lots of things went through Verlaine’s head as he climbed down the stairs, tilting his hat up so he didn’t tumble down the stairs.
Rimbaud was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, anxiously looking at a bronze pocket watch, which he must’ve gotten after they split as Verlaine didn’t recognize it at all.
At the creak of the stairs, his head snaps up to meet Verlaine.
“You still have that hat?” Rimbaud asked in disbelief, blinking as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Of course. It suits my needs,”
If he glanced up slightly, he could still see Rimbaud’s name sewn into the brim, the golden thread fraying from age.
Rimbaud smiled softly, nodding.
“The rain stopped overnight,” he comments, glancing out the window.
The rain had indeed stopped, as well as the lightning. The majority of the clouds had dispersed or moved along, only some small remnants hanging in the sky. The weather was perfect for a trek with Guvire, as she wouldn’t be spooked, as the last thing he needed was her bucking and throwing him off. She had done that when he was first learning to ride, and nursing a broken collarbone as an outlaw was quite the annoyance, especially since it was on the right side, meaning he couldn’t use his shotgun without making the injury worse, having to rely on a revolver that worked on a coin flip.
Without Rimbaud, he would’ve been the one greeting Hugo on whatever lay beyond the frozen pines.
“Indeed,” Verlaine murmurs, looking around his home as he adjusts his shotgun which was slung over his back.
For the first time, he felt rather nervous about going out. He wasn’t the oldest, as he was in his late thirties, but he hadn’t been practicing his shot nor many physical skills he used to use daily. The last time he rode Guivre was simply into town to fix a window that had been leaking for the general store owner. She still got plenty of exercise, so he had complete faith in her that she’d make the journey, more so concerned that Guivre simply wouldn’t listen to him.
“Are you ready?” Rimbaud asked, adjusting one of his sixguns, six silver bullets in six slots.
Verlaine’s own gun was unloaded, due to his fear of a misfire while walking or riding and hurting himself or Guivre. It was an inconvenience when in a fight to load, especially since the gun only fit one shell at a time, but he was fast at reloading, at least he was at one point.
He supposes he’ll find out how well that particular skill stuck eventually.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,”
They stepped out of the house, blinking against the sun which cut through the sparse clouds like a blade. The dirt path had been torn up by the storm, rendering it a muddy mess. Shrubbery was strewn across the road, ripped up from the wind. Everything was not enough to hinder progress or to pose a health risk to Guivre or Lumière, just enough to be irritating to both the two and the residents of the town.
Earlier that morning, Verlaine had let Guivre out of her stable to graze and stretch, but he couldn’t see her anywhere, and neither could he see Lumiere.
He doubts that Guivre would run off, as she rarely strayed far from him. Walking around the house, he could faintly see both of their horses frolicking in the low brush, running around each other, huffing playfully.
“They seem to have missed each other,” Rimbaud comments, glancing at Verlaine out of the corner of his eye.
Verlaine didn’t comment on it, ever so slightly afraid to touch that wasp's nest .
“Well, they certainly have plenty of time together on the journey,” Verlaine mumbles before shouting for Guivre.
Upon hearing her name, Guivre held her head up, looking around until she spotted the two men. She dashed over to Verlaine, running in circles around them until she came to a stop after eight or so laps. She huffed at him, nudging him slightly with her head, curious.
“We’re going on a trip, just like hold times,” Verlaine explains to her, gently patting her back. “A week, at most,”
Rimbaud scoffed, climbing on Lumière, who was already ready to go.
“Awfully optimistic,”
”Let’s not drag it out,”
Rimbaud sighs, shaking his head.
“Very well. We’ll hurry,”
It took Verlaine a little while to get Guivre ready, careful not to startle her. Rimbaud and Lumière waited patiently, looking out towards the horizon. Nothing more was spoken between the two men as Verlaine worked, tension already high, waltzing with yearning.
When he was done, he nodded to Rimbaud before hoisting himself up, straddling the saddle, holding the reins rather loosely. Rimbaud brought Lumière around so they were side by side with the other two, smiling slightly.
In front of them, the open plains framed by the purple mountains seemed to stretch on forever.
Not quite a new horizon, but a journey born anew.
“To hell and back?” Rimbaud asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Both were apprehensive. Apprehensive of the journey, apprehensive of the trek, apprehensive of each other, apprehensive what feelings would be sparked anew, and most importantly apprehensive of what came after.
Verlaine shook his head, trying to dispel the worries. Whatever happens is going to happen, regardless if he worries or not.
All he could do was take the first step.
“To hell and back,”