Work Text:
It came on slowly, it did. The realisation hadn't really dawned on him suddenly like how he imagined it would like he’s heard in them romance books Mary-Beth so likes.
By the time he realised Charles had taken up most of the space in his journal, he was already sentenced to death by the cruel fate of illness. The coughing fits never came easy, neither the blood he hacked up. And each breath itself felt like it could’ve been his last, like death was taking pleasure in his suffering.
Even on the small off-chance that Charles loved him back, no way in hell could he have done that to this man. He deserved better and more.
Even as he lay on the cot, wheezing desperately, hoping for something to ease at least a bit of the pain, he felt eyes on him.
He heard a pair footsteps approach, barely in the quiet chatter of camp, but he heard. “I brought you some food, Arthur,” Charles had said, softly, quietly, almost as if knowing his own bones were betraying him, hurting with a deep ache that all did nothing but make him want to wail.
Arthur raised his hand dismissively, waving Charles off. Even if he did eat, he’d just throw it up again, making a mess of what could be a perfectly good meal for anyone else.
He hadn’t told anyone in camp yet what was wrong. All they knew was that he was sick, but with what, they’d remain oblivious by.
Arthur turned his head to the side, away from Charles to cough even with his mouth closed because he could not risk infecting what was left of the gang, because someone still had to keep this thing alive.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you eat in days.”
And perhaps that was the truth. Arthur hadn’t eaten a thing in days, besides a few spoonfuls of baked beans that had thankfully gone down with relative ease. The can still sat on the side table, opened and now probably spoiled with the spoon resting on the edge.
Something wailed in the distance; an elk, perhaps. Arthur had seen many elk up close, and killed a couple, too.
“I’ve eaten,” he said, though it’s only really half the truth.
Charles didn’t push any further than that. He placed the bowl of stew down on Arthur’s side table, gently pushing the can of barely eaten, spoiled baked beans out of the way. And he took a seat at the end of Arthur’s cot, careful to not sit on his feet or legs.
Arthur gave an attempted dismissive wave again, but his hand fell heavy against his chest. “Go eat with the others.”
But Charles stayed sat where he was. “You’re not well.”
“I’ll be jus’ fine.”
He didn’t know if he was going to be fine. Maybe he just told himself he would be fine over and over until he believed it because sometimes beautiful lies are far better than any ugly truths. Arthur’s been met with far too many ugly truths lately, a beautiful lie is just what he needed to feel better.
He turned his head to the side again, lifting a hand to his mouth to cough into. With every cough, his body shook violently, offering no relief to the aches and pains his body delivered to him daily now. If anything, it caused more pain.
“I think I–” Arthur had started, hesitating with his voice raised a bit louder than he wanted, and Charles paused his eating. If Arthur were to actually say it, what’s happening to him, it just makes it all the more real. And that’s a terrifying thought for him. To die, because he beat a man practically to death. “I think I’m dyin’, Charles,” he finally said after a few beats of silence, but this was quieter, like even saying those cursed four words would rain down upon him what they meant, and he would finally take his last breath and be relieved of the pain after so long of suffering now.
But alas, he was still breathing.
Charles didn’t quite drop his spoon and bowl, but his hands dropped and he lifted his dimly lit face to look at Arthur. It was probably out of shock, Arthur had guessed. “I’ll make sure to bury you someplace nice, then. A mountain, probably. Facing the sunset.”
“I don’t wanna die, Charles.”
Charles dropped his spoon into his bowl, then his hand gently landed on Arthur’s knee. “I know.”
But there was something else. Even as he hacked up a lung, blood splattering onto his fist, he thought it would finally bring him to peace to die. It would alleviate his suffering. “I’ll be with Sean, Lenny, Kieran and Hosea. And–” He paused a moment, thinking about the two people who had meant the most to him all of those years ago. He never spoke much of them, and when he did, it was in an ill attempt to show empathy. “–And Eliza and Isaac.”
“Eliza and Isaac?”
“I was young and dumb. She was younger and… well she wasn’ no dumb lady. I was the one who made the dumb choices. Got ‘er pregnant and she had a little boy. We called ‘im Isaac. I had ‘em live away from the gang. No way in hell could I do that to my sweet lady and m’boy. I would visit ‘em every couple of months for a few days, with money and food. I went one day, and they was robbed. Killed. All for ten dollars.”
“Oh, Arthur.”
“At least someone had the decency to bury ‘em and put crosses top o’ their graves.”
“I’ll do the same for you,” Charles said, but it was so quiet, Arthur could barely hear it over the chatter of the camp.
It was a foolish thing to do; to have hope that maybe he’d make it out okay in the end. To hope that Charles would be optimistic rather than realistic. Maybe– no– it was utterly stupid to even have a slither of hope that Charles would ever love him back.
Christ, look at him.
An outlaw since he was 14. Sure, he had Eliza, and Mary, and a few other gals try to be sweet on him, but a man? Oh no, heinous that is. He was never a good man, and that would only go on to prove a point to others.
Maybe in another life, one where he ain’t sick, they could’ve run away together. Gone out somewhere far from civilization, built a shack for the both of them and farmed ‘til their bones ached from standing, ‘til their skin was all wrinkles, and their hair was all gray.
In another life, perhaps.
Just not this one.
He was a pathetic man, sure. Wishing for a simple life he knew unobtainable.
Arthur took in all of Charles; his face, his clothes, his hair. All of it illuminated a soft orange by the fire that spat out smoke and ash into the cool evening air. If he was going to go– not like how he imagined he would– sick, and suffering, sucking in air that only meant his last breath was approaching faster than any horse could outrun, he would make sure that up until that very last moment, he could remember Charles. He wanted him as his last dying thoughts. He wanted to be tenderly held as he lost consciousness and the darkness overtook him, the last thing he sees is Charles.
Maybe the only time he’d be held tenderly by Charles is when he was already dead, and he’s carrying him to his grave.
“D’you have a spot picked out for me?” Arthur asked after coughing and spluttering, spitting out a big glob of blood onto the floor.
“We can ride out tomorrow and see it, if you wish.”
Riding with Charles one last time before Arthur died sounded like a dream. But, “I dunno if I’m gon’ wake up in the mornin’.”
The reality of the seriousness of his sickness hit both Arthur himself and Charles in the face like a blind horse. Who knew when the last time he would wake up was? He could’ve died tonight.
Charles remained calm, and stoic, as is his usual demeanor. “We’ll see. If you do wake up tomorrow, we’ll ride out. If not… I’ll ride out there with you on the back of my horse.”
“You better ride gentle,” Arthur said, mostly as a joke to keep the air light hearted between the two, but all it did was put a pit in his stomach, because now, he was expecting to not wake up in the morning. Tonight was surely going to be the last time he closed his eyes.
It’d be peaceful, dying in his sleep.
Charles was almost hesitant leaving Arthur’s side. Maybe the thought of potentially waking up to Arthur dead in his cot wasn’t something he wanted to think about. It certainly was not something Arthur wanted to think about either. He didn’t want to think about Charles nor anyone else waking up and realising Arthur wasn’t going to wake up with them.
As the evening quieted down, and everyone returned to their respective tents, and bedrolls to sleep, the tension in the camp from everyone being at each other's necks was still there. The fire died down, slowly crackling quieter and quieter until eventually all that was left was the embers of what was, the wood now charcoal and still barely glowing orange betwixt the cracks.
By the time morning had arrived, Arthur’s breath had slowed, and turned into a sort of wheezing. When his eyes opened, he was met with both the relief that he wasn’t dead yet, but also with the pain that came with existing as of late.
He used his elbow to prop himself up, looking out into the camp where very little stirred. The tree leaves swaying gently in the air, and the birds above, maybe, and rodents scurrying quickly across the ground and up trees might’ve been the only movement.
Sitting up, Arthur took in a breath, the cool morning air spreading nicely through his chest. And when he exhaled, he saw his breath quickly dissipate. It was almost mesmerising.
It took him longer than what it would’ve a couple of months ago to get dressed and ready to ride out. By the time he was up and clothed, Charles was up and getting the horses ready. Arthur approached and Charles jumped up onto Taima. Arthur did the same with his horse.
As they left the camp, barely saying a word to each other, and none to the others, the sun filtered through the trees, through the early morning fog.
Once far enough so they wouldn’t be ambushed by any of the Murfree boys, Charles broke the silence, “you woke up.”
To that, Arthur just nodded, glancing towards Charles before focusing again on the road. He dropped his right arm to the side. “I did.”
“I was worried that I would’ve had to take you there before you could see it. It won’t take us long to get there. Only a couple of hours.”
Again, Arthur nodded, his eyes drawn to Charles and his form, how he seemed to flow so effortlessly with Taima, his whole body gently bouncing up and down. And especially with how the rising sun hit his skin, creating a golden hue to his entire being. He looked almost angelic.
And sure, maybe Arthur’s thoughts wandered into dangerous territory that could very easily get him shot or imprisoned if he spoke them to the wrong person. Arthur didn’t know if Charles was the wrong person.
Distracted by Charles meant he wasn’t looking where his horse was going, and in turn, that meant that a low hanging branch thwacked Arthur right in the face. It didn’t really hurt; moreso when Charles had turned his head moments before and watched it happen.
Oh, how Arthur loved hearing Charles laugh. It was a rare, but pleasant occasion. One that sent Arthur’s chest aflutter.
“You were staring at me,” Charles pointed out, quickly looking Arthur up and down in his entirety before turning back to focus on the road so as to not succumb to the same fate as Arthur.
He was called out. “Was not. I… saw a… bird is all. One I never seen before.”
Charles gave a quiet, breathy chuckle. “Sure.” There was a few seconds where the only sounds were the horses hooves trotting along the road, and the birds singing their morning songs. “What did it look like? This bird?”
“Well, I…” Arthur scrambled to think of something. Anything that could be feasible. But Arthur’s eyes landed on Charles’ shirt. “Well it was blue. With little white spots.”
“Sounds like quite the bird.”
Yes. Yes it was. Charles was quite the man. Strong.
Arthur was large, and Charles a little smaller, but he had no doubt that Charles would be able to manhandle him like nothing. Especially now, considering how much weight he had lost.
“Yeah, ‘spose it was.”
The rest of the ride was ridden in silence, besides Arthur’s coughing and occasional need to spit out blood. They rode past Fort Wallace, and up past the left of Bacchus station.
The view was already gorgeous, and even as Charles slowed down, turning the corner off to some small path, Arthur watched. He watched the clouds as they peacefully drifted by. When Charles got off his horse, Arthur did the same and followed him close behind.
Charles got to a spot and sat on the ground before gesturing towards the spot by the rocks. “There. That’s where I’ll bury you.”
It was a gorgeous spot. Arthur’d be thrilled to bury here, even when he’s dead. Arthur sat down besides Charles, to the left of him.
“It’s good,” he said, admiring the view before switching to looking over at Charles.
“I’m just glad I didn’t have to carry you here on horseback.” And Charles looked back at him.
Arthur quickly glanced down at his lips– a dangerous thing to do in this case– before looking back up at his eyes. His eyes reminded Arthur of the mud, or even the brown coat of a wild horse. Maybe they’re not the most romantic, but Arthur was by no means a romantic guy, but he thought the comparison was okay. Mud was from nature, and nature was beautiful.
Then he remembered something that Sister Calderón had said.
Take a gamble that love exists.
And even if it did go awry here, what did it matter? Arthur was dying anyway. But, oh the thought of actually doing something made Arthur feel sick to the stomach.
Because if it did go right; if Charles could reciprocate the feelings that ran so deep in Arthur’s veins, it’d be cruel.
It’d be cruel to do that to him. To die so soon after all is said done. Hell– the fact alone physical touch would mean Charles would have to carry out the same death sentence made bile rise in Arthur’s throat.
He couldn’t do it.
“You’re staring again,” Charles said, not even turning his head to look at Arthur. “Or did you see another bird?”
Arthur didn’t really know how to respond. The fact was, he was indeed staring. And Charles had caught that twice already, but who knew how many times before he had seen Arthur staring from across camp, even before Arthur himself knew the reasoning as to why.
He couldn’t help but wonder.
Did Charles know as well just how many pages in Arthur’s journal he took up? Did he know that sometimes at night, and especially while away from camp, he would dream of being held tight?
“I apologise. I’s zonin’ out.”
They sat in silence, watching the sky, the birds, the ground below. Arthur occasionally glanced towards Charles every now and then, swallowing thickly a few times and gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Charles’ hand rested next to him.
It was tempting to reach out and even link a few of their fingers together. But it’d be a very bold move. Riddled with anxiety, Arthur decided that he would do it. When his nerves calmed down.
“It’s beautiful up here,” Charles said.
Arthur couldn’t do nothing except take a brief glimpse at Charles and nod in agreement. It was beautiful.
Arthur guessed it was now or never with this, and he very tentatively inched his hand towards Charles’, carefully extending out his pinky finger to gingerly nudge Charles’ own with a shaking hand. Charles didn’t react; or he didn’t notice.
Instead of a gentle nudge, this time, Arthur sort of linked their pinky fingers together. He took in a sharp inhale when Charles shifted– not away, but just in general. He couldn’t bear looking at Charles.
“Arthur…”
“Shit… I–” He pulled his hand away immediately, the guilt hanging over him like a cloud darkening the sky. How could he even think to be so fucking selfish? “I’m sorry, Charles.” He placed a hand on his forehead, letting it rest there for a moment before dropping his hand back down. “I don’t know why I did that.”
“It’s fine.” Then Charles’ hand was on top of Arthur’s. His hand. On top of Arthur’s hand. Like God had heard his silent pleas and prayers, and in some of his darkest times, granted at least him this. “I know how you look at me, Arthur. Like how John does Abigail, or how Lenny did Jenny.” Oh.
“I don’t– I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about there, Charles,” he deflected, keeping his eyes low and to the ground.
A small exhale came from Charles’ nose. “I’m a hunter. I’m observant. I notice the small things.”
“Well, maybe you been noticin’, wrong,” Arthur huffed out, pulling his hand away quickly. Charles made no effort to reach for it again.
If he denied it– ever loving Charles– he wouldn’t have to go through the pain of knowing he’s either making the clock start ticking for him, or the pain of knowing that he'd be leaving Charles alone, so soon after.
He had hoped for a miracle cure, or just to recover well. But with how far progressed it had become, Arthur didn’t think it was at all possible.
“I don’t think I have, Arthur.”
“I ain’t–” The words teetered on the edge of his tongue. He wanted to yell, to cuss, to deny, all in the hopes that it’d make the whole dying process easier. “I ain’t like that,” he says quieter.
“Arthur.”
But Arthur sighed, dropped his head and looked anywhere but Charles. “I can’t do this t’you Charles. I’m goin’ t’ die. It would… would be cruel t’you.”
“It's fine if you are, Arthur. But—" Charles took a short breath, almost hissing as he inhaled. "I'm… not."
"I know." Arthur kept his head down, his eyes trailing an ant crawling in the dirt. "I'm sorry I put this on you."
"It's—" he just sighed, patting Arthur's bicep twice. "You wanna head back to camp?"
Arthur waved him off, not wanting in the slightest to ride back with him after that little shit show. "Nah. You go. I'll— I'll stay out a while longer."
Charles hesitated, though, staying seated next to Arthur before resting a hand on his shoulder. "Okay." He stood up, hand slipping from Arthur's shoulder. "I'll— I'll see you back at camp, then."
"Yeah. See you."
Arthur listened to Charles hop onto Taima, then trot off.
He didn't tear up, because he knew it was coming.