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Taking a trip up to the mountains was supposed to be something peaceful. A thing that drew Arthur away from the problems pooling in the gang and gave a sort of calm.
However, the weather seemed to have different ideas on how the trip would go.
The wind bit through his jacket as he rode through the snow. He knew about a cabin not too far ahead from where he was — or, where he assumed he was. It wasn't a big one, he knew that much, but it would shield him from the harsh storm rolling over the mountains.
He'd heard rumors of a bad storm set to roll in when he was getting supplies in a quaint town nearby, but of course he hadn't believed it. People would claim storms were coming every day, and yet they wouldn't get more than a few drops of rain.
He cursed himself now for not believing what the people said.
The harsh winds dug deeper, and thankfully he could make out a dark shape among the wall of white in front of him. It was a small cabin, nested between a few trees and an outhouse a few feet from it. He settled his American Paint, which he had stolen off of some fella sleeping, to a trot as he neared the cabin.
He moved and put her in what was supposed to be a chicken coop, tying her to the fence. He tried his best to lay a blanket over her so as to not have her freeze.
He trudged through the snow, making his way to the cabin and opening the door. It was cold inside, and nearly pitch black. He stumbled around in the dark, grabbing the logs from where he set them when he was last here, throwing them in the fireplace. He struck a match, lit it and watched as the fire grew.
Arthur blew out a breath, feeling the heat warm his skin and body. He knew he'd have to get out of his snow covered clothes, though the thought of pulling away from the warmth it provided was a harsh one. So, he let himself stay as close to the fire as he could, pulling the bed roll he grabbed from his horse in front of the fire and laid on it.
The warmth against his skin felt nice, and the protection of the cabin allowed him to become calm once again.
However, it also let his mind wander to other problems that seemed to claw at the back of his mind. The thought of the moments before he left, drunken laughter, shoulders pressed together before the press of lips.
The memories themselves made Arthur's throat clench and heat pool to his face. He couldn't remember much after that, just that he'd gotten to his horse as quickly as he could and rode out of there. Rode away from the moment — away from Charles.
He didn't know why he kissed the man, why he'd let himself get drunk enough to breathe in the others sent. Why did he let himself get close enough to Charles to cling to him in that drunken mistake?
He swallowed the foul words his father had called two men they met one time pulled itself from the back of his mind.
“Look at them, Arthur.” He'd spoken, nodding to two men who were leaning on one another in front of a bar, they seemed close — drinking in each other's laughter along with the beer in their hands. The look they shared was a fond one, one that couldn't be mistaken for anything other than affection. “It's disgusting. I ain't the best man but those, those freaks are the worst of it all.”
“What's the problem with it? They just look like friends.” Arthur spoke in a hushed tone as his father looked at him, glare present in his face.
“It's sickening. I'm no saint but them — their type is the worst sin. No man should look at another man like that. Only a woman.” He spoke, turning to glare at the two men once again. “If you ever turn out like that, I'll make sure you get it beat out of ya.”
He spoke the words as if it was the simplest thing in the word, like it was disgusting. Horrid.
Arthur never saw it as disgusting however, he didn't mind who liked who. It would be wrong to call a thing like that a sin when he had done much worse than fancying a man. Though the threat his father had made had pulled at him.
Every time he looked at a man and felt a pull of something in his gut the words brought themselves forth. He couldn't be like that, it'd be wrong for him to be like that. He'd be known as a disgrace, a horrible person — to even think about sharing a close moment with another man.
It was an odd sort of thing. How he found it didn't matter how others carried themselves and who they loved, but for him it did.
It was confusing, annoying, horrible, and drove him into a spiral at times.
This only got worse when Charles came into the gang. The days following he found himself thinking of the man frequently, the way he held himself, the way he stood and moved. When he got his hands on a new journal he found many of the pages had sketches or comments of Charles. But when his fathers voice came back the pages were burnt and he kept his eyes pulled away from the man.
In the months that passed though, he found himself in the others ' presence a lot. Small conversions bubbling between them — if that was when getting a bowl of stew or while out on guard duty. It was odd, how the longer he talked to Charles, the quieter the voice in the back of his head became. This continued on till it was just a dull hum as he laughed with the man he'd grown close with.
Now he wished the voice had driven him away, had made him put a walk between the two of them. The memories of the previous night bit at him, pulled him into his own mind and drowned him.
The gang was celebrating something small, a score that was enough to get them on their way to something big — something important. There was drinking and laughter. Though Arthur had noticed quickly that someone's laughter was missing from the group, Charles. He swallowed down his bottle of beer, before grabbing two more, stumbling slightly out of camp.
Charles never really celebrated with them, always being found on guard duty as the camp would yell and sing. And that was exactly where Arthur had found him.
Charles was leant against a rock, gun pressed to his hands as his eyes scanned in front of him. He seemed to hear Arthur, as he turned to meet the eyes of the other in the darkness. Nothing was said as Arthur placed himself next to the other, handing over a bottle that the other accepted.
Arthur took a long sip from his, finding peace in the other standing next to him. There was a shared silence as the two sipped from their respective bottles, though it was broken by the voice of Charles.
“The party got too loud for you?” He spoke, glancing at Arthur who held the others' eyes.
Arthur gave a small inhale, taking another swig before he responded. ”No, jus’ couldn't handle some of their horrible singing.” He said, which drew a small laugh from Charles. He leaned close, pressing themselves together as he followed Charles' laugh.
“Yeah, it gets pretty bad sometimes, doesn't it?” He asked, turning to face Arthur. “I don't think some of them could hold a tune if their life depended on it.” He hummed out, which drew a sharper laugh from Arthur, leaning father into Charles. He felt the heat radiating from his body, as he looked at the other in the dark.
Even here he could make out the features of the other, given the dull shine of the moonlight. He could see the other smiling at him, see the tiny glint in his eyes and the crinkle beside them.
Arthur gave a small inhale of breath, simply watching how the other looked, drinking in his beauty and wanting nothing more than to watch him all day.
Charles was saying something, but Arthur couldn't focus on the words, only him. He swallowed shakily — before leaning forward and kissing him.
Very quickly though, he realized his mistake. A hand pressed to his chest and he pulled away, being greeted by furrowed brows and words that didn't meet his ears. He fell back, pulling himself into a standing position. Words tumbled out of his mouth, loose apologies as he moved back. Foul words pulled at the back of his mind.
Why had he thought this was a good idea? Why had he kissed Charles, why had he let himself feel comfortable enough to do that? Charles must have felt disgusted by him, or at least uncomfortable with his actions.
He stumbled back, turning on his heels and making his way to the horses, saddling up as quickly as he could and riding his horse out of there — ignoring calls of his name.
The memories of what had happened made Arthur nauseous. Why couldn't he have just pulled away, why'd he have to seek out Charles. Why'd he have to have kissed him?
He knew Charles wouldn't tell a soul, but he also knew Charles wouldn't want anything to do with him once he got back. That felt horrible to Arthur, twisting something deep in his gut. Charles was one of if not the closest person to him in that camp, they understood each other — why'd he have to go and ruin that?
He let out a soft breath, limbs feeling heavy and sluggish as he shifted, laying down. He let his thoughts swarm his head as his eyes shut. He was tired, and maybe sleep overtaking him would mean the thoughts would be put at bay.
---
Arthur was awoken by sunlight drifting in through the windows. It was no longer snowing, and looking outside the window showed a thick layer of snow coating everything. The fire was now just embers, a chill settling over the cabin that made Arthur wonder how cold it was outside if it felt like this in here.
He felt horrible, his throat hurt and his nose was running. He pushed himself up with weak arms, and noticed his clothes were damp. Much to his dismay he realized he'd forgotten to strip off the clothing the night before. He let out a groan, rubbing a hand over his face and stumbled up.
Glancing at where the wood should be, he was met by nothing. Arthur let out a groan, knowing he'd have to get out and get more wood for the fire, maybe chop branches from a tree. It'd have to be enough to last a few stays up here, so that he wouldn't have to go out every time he was back.
Struggling to the door, he grabbed an axe that was sitting beside the door — opening the door and squinting against the light. The sun shone down on the snow in a nearly blinding manner. He moved outside, struggling against the snow that was up to his knees now. He first made his way to where his horse was sat the night before.
She looked fine, which Arthur was grateful for. She let out a huff when he approached, and seemed to approve as he gave her gentle pats. He reached into her saddle bag, digging out a few sugar cubes and handed them out — which she greatly accepted. He gave her a few more pats, before pulling away and heading toward the thicker forest.
He knew a good place he could get thicker logs from, where the coverage was good enough they shouldn't be too covered. Exhaling, he could see his breath in the air. He'd hoped he wouldn't have to stay up here too long, but seeing as the freezing temperature and thickness of the snow — it'd be a while before he'd go home.
A small misstep as he moved through the thick part of the wood led to Arthur hearing a rather loud cracking, before pain bloomed in his leg. He let out a shout, dropping the axe and moving hands to the source of the pain — which seemed to be an old bear trap clamped down on his leg. He let out a low hiss, blood already pouring out of the wound and staining the snow. His breaths were slow as he tried to think of the best way to get out of this situation. There was no way he could walk with this, and he couldn't sit here or else he'd become wolf bait.
The only solution he found was trying to pry the trap open. A long sigh slipped out of him, moving and removing his belt before pressing the leather strap between his teeth. Biting down as to not cause harm to himself, he clamped his hands on either side of the trap; he moved slowly as he pried the teeth apart. It was a slow and grueling thing — white spots dotting his vision as he neared the end of it. As soon as it was safe he dove himself away from the trap. He dug in his satchel for anything to help, and pulled out a half-open bottle of whiskey. He eyed it, before popping it open, taking a swig before dousing his leg with it. Holding back the urge to yell, he took the belt from his mouth and placed it above his wound, before using a tree to hoist himself up.
Pain shot up his leg, leaving his head feeling light as he moved through the snow. He needed to head back to the cabin, needed to get somewhere safe to sit off this wound and wait for it to heal.
He barely made it into the clearing past the trees — the house in his sights — before the ground met him. He tried to push himself upright, though no strength came to him. His head felt light, and while he felt alright moments ago, the sickness he felt when he woke up came back tenfolds. He let his eyes shut, pain blooming behind his eyes as he let out long, slow breaths.
He just needed a moment, just a moment to recollect himself.
He'd be fine.
---
Arthur Morgan was a hard man to find. And he'd be nearly impossible to find if Charles didn't know the small signs of him there. Bootprints in the dirt near a stream, a small patch of plants gone — probably collected and drawn in the book Arthur carried around with him. It was small things, little details that others would gloss over that he noticed.
It's what made him find his way to the mountains; and, while the tracks were gone, broken branches from someone hitting a tree to shield from snow gave way to a small cabin.
It also led to Charles finding Arthur — although he was worse for wear.
Arthur was laying in the snow, in obviously damp clothes, with a nasty wound on his leg. Red bloomed from the wound and dyed the snow red like the strawberries he'd see people sell in the high summer. The sight worried him first, as he quickly assumed the man was dead — though soft white billowing from his mouth and fading into the air was a sign this was not the case.
Slowing Taima to a trot, he slid from her and moved quickly to the side of his friend — if that was even the right term for what they were to each other. He tried to wake the other first, and when that failed he hoisted him up rather gently. Eyes set on the cabin, and not wanting to hurt Arthur by tossing him over the back of a horse, he made his way through the snow over to the cabin. Once there he opened the door, moving and setting him on the bed before rushing out to tie up Taima besides Arthur's own horse.
Once returning he got to get a better look at the wound. It wasn't as nasty as originally thought, though Charles assumed he had gotten it caught in something the way the skin looked shredded. He looked around, finding some bandages and medicine — grabbing them and moving to the bed. He gently cut away the pants near the wound, before douching the wound in the liquid medicine, before wrapping it tightly.
He shifted back, knowing the other shouldn't be in such damp clothing — though having nothing to help him change into — he decided it was easiest to slip off the other's jacket. Moving slowly, he peeled the jacket off and tossed it behind him before wrapping the other in the thin blanket on the bed.
Some color had returned to Arthur's face though the way his brows knit together in his rest set Charles' stomach over. He shifted closer, pressing a hand to his forehead — quickly realizing Arthur was burning up.
He let out a long sigh, shifting before standing up. Glancing around he noticed that the dead embers in the fireplace, figuring the most important thing was to get firewood.
Triple checking the other was fine first, he stepped back out into the cold outdoors. He made his way towards the forest — keeping his eyes drawn away from the blood staining the snow. Moving deeper in, he grabbed what sticks and branches he could easily break off. Eventually, he had a fine stack of wood, enough to at least last the rest of the day. He made his way back as quickly as he could, small hums drawing out as he slipped inside.
He set the logs into the fireplace, and lit a new match — watching as the flames grew bright and warmed the area.
Charles let out a low breath, slipping to the floor and scooting over to sit beside the bed. He let his eyes lull shut, and quickly found himself asleep.
---
The dull crackle of fire and brightness behind his eyes is what drove Arthur from his rest. He still felt horrible, his body ached and there was a dull throb in one of his legs. He cracked his eyes open, the only light being given by the fire raging not far from him. Though this immediately drew the question of how the fire was there.
Quickly sitting up, he was met by a flash of pain in his leg as he put pressure on it. Letting out a rather loud shout, he fell back. The pain was like a fire in his calf, he leaned back onto the bed, trying to recollect himself and remember how he even got back here.
The ‘how’ seemed to show itself however, as there was a sudden weight next to him and a hand on his shoulder.
Arthur jumped, turning quickly and meeting the eyes of Charles. He stared for a moment, mouth opening and closing as if trying to find words and coming up with nothing. Just as he managed to pull his mind together enough away from how the other looked in the warm fires glow — Charles spoke first.
“Are you alright, Arthur?” He spoke, eyes darting over Arthur as if trying to analyze his features, lay them out and press them to his mind.
A moment passed before he responded, letting out a long breath. “ ‘m fine Charles.” He spoke, voice wavering more than he'd like at such a short sentence. He shifted back, wincing as he accidentally pressed against the bad leg. Attempting to glance down, a hand pressed to his chest and pushed him back.
“Don't. It's a nasty sight — it's better if you let it heal a bit first.” Charles spoke quickly, and Arthur tried to ignore how the simple words brought him some form of comfort.
Arthur swallowed, a simple nod following as he glanced away. Unspoken words hung in the air, words Arthur was currently trying to string together into a sentence to ask the man beside him. Arthur kept his eyes averted, pulled away from Charles and the closeness of the two of them. He let out a small hum, before the words found their way forward.
“ ‘m sorry, about what happened in camp. It was a mistake.” He spoke, the words feeling sour against his tongue. They made his gut turn over and his mind want to pull back and say he didn't mean it. What if the other still didn't like him? What if he was still disgusted at him?
“It’s alright, Arthur. I don't think it was a mistake.” Charles spoke, as if it were the easiest thing to him. It made Arthur's throat grow knots, as he shifted and turned his gaze farther from the other.
“Why are ya even here, Charles? Why don't you just leave.” He spoke, words tasting foul in his mouth as he stared at the fire. Arthur didn't want him to leave, he wanted him to stay, to close the gap between them and put themselves together. Even if it was wrong he wanted that.
“The cold is out there.” He heard the other speak simply, Charles shifted beside him, pressing their shoulders together. “And you're right here, I think I know where I want to stay.” He spoke as if it was the simplest thing in the world — and Arthur assumed for Charles it was.
Arthur didn't have many moments to turn the words over in his head, before a hand pressed to his cheek — and lips met lips. Warmth radiated off of Charles, and Arthur drunk it in along with the kiss. It took a few moments before they pulled apart, Arthur's cheeks were a deep red as he stared at the man opposite of him.
Words bit at the back of his tongue, and foul speech swarmed his head of things people in the towns would say if they found out what had just happened.
But that didn't matter. All that mattered now was the press of the other against him. The deep breaths the others shared — the way he felt whole here.
What others would think could wait, what his father would say could wait. This moment was all that mattered, Charles was all that mattered.