Chapter Text
“You’re… well,” Dutch claps Arthur on the shoulder after beating him back to camp from a race on horseback. They just finished dealing with some ‘shiners in the woods, the reason Dutch dragged Arthur to the sheriff’s office in Lemoyne and stuck a badge on his chest. Arthur was sure he was going to win the race home, but Parsley wasn’t having it, refusing to keep going just a couple hundred feet short of camp. Damn horse. “I was gonna say you’re like a son to me…but you’re more than that.”
And that hurts.
Even if it ain’t supposed to. Even if it’s supposed to be some kind of honor. A son of Dutch and his right hand man. A promotion he never wanted.
Arthur watches him walk away. The sun kisses the horizon, casting dewdrops of gold across camp. It’s achingly beautiful and comforting and he feels about one more ridiculous stunt away from collapsing into the grass and falling asleep for a long, long time.
He settles for the next best thing, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from a crate outside of Pearson’s tent and taking a healthy swig. Arthur wouldn’t ever consider himself an alcoholic. His father was an alcoholic. A drunk, vexed and vicious, through and through. No, see, Arthur drinks to feel something good. He drinks to laugh and to smile and to love and to sing. He ain’t no alcoholic, not even when–well…he ain’t.
“English!” Sean calls from the campfire, grinning. “Come join us!” Us being him, Uncle, Javier, and Karen. An odd bunch of folk, but who isn’t when they’re a part of the Van der Linde clan? Arthur sits next to Karen, who nudges a bottle of beer his way while nursing her own. It’s clear she’s drunk too with how willing she is to let a delighted Sean put his arm around her waist.
“How’ve y’all been?” Arthur asks, running a hand through his hair. He needs it cut. Badly. “Feels like I’ve hardly seen you lately, Javier.”
Javier shrugs, plucking at the strings of his guitar. “I’ve been out fishing mostly. There’s some good spots out in the forest. Good weather out here.”
Arthur always liked Javier. He works hard, minds his business, and plays the guitar better than anyone else out there. He’s angry too, always sharpening his knife with a scowl like he’s contemplating revenge. There’s anger in everyone though. Everyone in camp, they all got shit to be angry about. Death, money, family. It’s all in their eyes, it ain’t hard to spot.
Arthur was never good at hiding his anger. He’d shoot cans in the woods and yell into the trees until his throat was sore and he’d throw a punch for nothing. Gave thirteen year old John a shiner for sneaking into his tent in the middle of the night because he was afraid of something or other. Arthur felt awful. Especially after John ran off and the next morning Hosea shouted at him in the middle of camp for making the boy go off and disappear like that. Arthur tried to apologize, but the words never came out. He wouldn’t let them. He just stood in front of John and jammed his own hat onto the boy’s head mumbling something like keep it, kid. John hardly tried to sneak into Arthur’s tent again, even if Arthur kept the cover open and slept to one side of his bedroll for weeks after.
***
Everything went blurry about ten minutes ago and Arthur sways on the log he’s sitting on, a grin splitting his face. He can hardly think straight, everything all loopy and mushy in his head.
“Remember when you got stuck in your jeans and paid a working girl to get you outta them?” Sean howls with laughter, wiping tears from his eyes at Arthur’s expense. “Then, she asked if you wanted to fuck her and you said no thank you, ma’am. ”
Karen smacks Sean on the arm through drunken giggles. “Don’t tease Arthur for being a gentleman.”
“Aw, I ain’t a gentleman, Karen.” Arthur slurs, beer dribbling down his chin as he takes another sip. “Jus’ a normal feller.” He almost falls off of the log, grabbing Sean’s leg to keep himself from sprawling across the dirt before bursting into a fit of laughter. He hasn’t been this drunk in a long time. Not since that night he spent with Lenny in Valentine. It’s always the fatigue that makes him give in first. Never the anger or the pain, always the tiredness. And Dutch’s orders.
Camp is in the strange limbo between sleep and restlessness. Hosea is in bed, of course, and has been for the last hour after hollering at the drunks by the fire to pipe down. It was a futile attempt though, with the lot of them just growing increasingly drunker and more rowdy as the night dragged on. John has joined them now, chiming in on occasion to offer his own embarrassing stories about the folks in camp. Dutch retired to his tent long ago, faint opera leaking through the canvas and filling the night.
“Charles!” Sean calls, waving his arms wildly to Charles who is emerging from the woods, all stoic and serious, presumably from his turn at watch duty. “Come join the band of misfits!”
Arthur grins wider. He likes Charles. Charles is nice and smart and mighty handsome. Charles is kind to him in ways others usually aren’t. “Charles, come sit.” He clumsily pats the empty patch of log next to him, handing him his half empty bottle. “Mr–” He laughs at himself, he’s funny. “Mr. Serious. That’s what you are.” He pokes Charles in the chest with every word, still chuckling.
“You’ve been drinking, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is low, but not unkind.
“Sure have! You should–” Arthur takes the bottle back from Charles’ hand and finishes it off. “You should try it!” He almost pitches face first into Charles’ lap, grabbing his thighs to right himself. Strong. Firm. Big. “Woah. That woulda been funny.” He laughs again. He’s so funny. This is so funny. He likes Charles so much. Kind, strong, handsome Charles. Pretty hair. Pretty face.
Charles hums, a strange smile flitting across his face and Arthur scrunches his brow. “What?”
“Nothing, just you.”
“Me? I ain’t special.” Arthur’s vision is swimming. He turns his head and Charles is much closer than he expected, his profile gleaming in the firelight. He looks at him carefully, determined to memorize his face from this angle. “ You’re special. You’re–” He laughs, he can’t help it. He’s so damn drunk, what is he even saying? He doesn’t know. He reaches up and traces over the scar on Charles’ jaw because he wants to and because it’s pretty and he hardly has any control over his own appendages at this point he’s so far gone. “I think you’re mighty fine.”
“Alright, Arthur.” Charles says, his brown eyes softer than they’ve been before. He takes Arthur’s hand and gently puts it back into his lap. Arthur wants to draw him. But even in his addled brain he knows that if he tried all that he would be able to produce is a muddled mess of scribbles.
He likes Charles a lot. Lots and lots and lots. What? He can’t think. Mush. “You’re so nice to me, Charles. Why? I’m a bad–” Arthur swallows thickly, vaguely feeling fingers brushing against his thigh. “I’m a bad man.”
“I’m not much better than you.”
“That’s not true!” Arthur insists unsteadily, wobbling into Charles’ chest. The rest of the group around the fire are paying them no mind, too caught up in a ridiculous story from Uncle about a barn and a pig and some dynamite. “You’re a good man, Charles. You just gotta smile more, I like it when you smile.”
Charles doesn’t say anything, just huffs and looks into the fire. Arthur wants this to last forever. This feeling. It’s messy and it’s drunk and it’s strange, but it ain’t sad. It ain’t tired and it ain’t angry. It’s free. Which maybe is sad in itself, but there’s too much whiskey in his blood for him to care. He feels bold, feels like things could be okay for once.
He’s a strange kind of drunk. He used to cry. The first time he got drunk was with Hosea and Dutch in Pierre, South Dakota. They had landed there after they left all that bad business with the farm owning bank syndicate in Chicago. Dutch ordered him his first glass of whiskey and Arthur downed it in a second, copying the way his father used to drink when he was still around. According to Hosea, it didn’t take long before he broke down in his bar stool, blubbering about god knows what for a good hour, refusing to get up. They didn’t take Arthur out to drink with them for a while after that, but Arthur always found a way. He liked the way it made him feel, even if that meant tears. He stole cooking sherry from Ms. Grimshaw, scotch from Dutch’s tent, went to bars alone and tried everything they’d give him.
He became a stupid drunk at twenty-one. After Mary left him he’d go to the bar and he’d start fights or get with the working girls who simpered by his side. He met a couple men too. He’d drop to his knees in the mud just to get a taste of them even if they were rough and mean.
Now, he doesn’t know what he is. Stupid, sentimental, strange, kind of drunk.
He feels everything.
***
The group around the campfire dispersed a while ago, retiring to their tents, bidding everyone goodnight. Sean tried his best to get Karen into his bed with him, but she smacked him around the head and left him scrubbing at his cheek muttering something along the lines of wow, what a woman. It would be pitch black if the fire weren’t still chugging along by the tiny scraps of wood left.
During the evening Arthur somehow slumped himself onto the ground, dirt under his ass, fingers sifting through dust. He’s still undeniably drunk, but it’s less blurry now, less muddled inside his head. More just comfortable. Sticky, slow. Molasses.
Charles is still perched on the log, looking into the fire. He hasn’t said anything in a while, just lets the flames reflect in his eyes. His hands are resting on his knees and his breathing is content, calm. There’s a kind of peace on his face that Arthur doesn’t see often.
“I really do think you’re good.” Arthur mumbles, tilting his head back to look at him. Blue meets brown. Again. Like they always do. “An honest man.”
“I know you do.” Charles replies. He brushes his fingers over Arthur’s shoulder, squeezes gently, doesn’t let go, lingers. It’s intimate. This moment in time. If Arthur were thinking straight he’d think about running. Running from what this will bring to the both of them. Running from the inevitable. Maybe that’s cruel because he blames John for doing the exact same thing those few years ago. Maybe it’s cruel to dismiss things before they’ve even happened. But maybe it’s fate.
“I’m no good.”
“Shh, don’t say that anymore.” Charles lifts his hand to touch the back of his neck. “Not now.”
Arthur leans back against the man’s calf, closing his eyes.
He falls asleep like that. Not angry, not tired, not sad.
Safe.
***
When Arthur wakes up, it feels like someone’s hammering nails inside his head. There’s a crick in his neck and his back twinges from his position in the dirt next to the burned out campfire.
“Christ,” he mutters. His mouth tastes like shit. His head hurts like hell. “Sonuvabitch. ”
“Sleep well, Arthur?” Hosea calls out from his tent, sounding amused. Of course he’s already wide awake, reading a book with his hair combed and his tin cup of coffee steaming in his hand.
“Shuddup, Hosea.” Arthur responds, wincing as he does, pushing his fingers against his pounding temple. He can hardly remember anything from last night. Vague faces swim into his vision. Sean, Karen, John maybe, Charles. There’s a reason why lately he’s tried not to drink so much like that. He hates forgetting. He never drinks to forget.
The sun is far too bright for Arthur’s state right now, shining into his eyes, penetrating his aching skull. He staggers to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup, shielding his eyes from the sun which insists on punishing him. The devil in his chest cowers behind his heart, too tired and hungover to come out just yet. Arthur doesn’t mourn its absence, just sips his coffee and rubs at his sore back.
Damn drunk decisions. Falling asleep at the fire like a slob.
“Morgan!” Sean smacks him on the shoulder, practically shouting into his ear. The way the man is able to recover so quick from a heavy night of drinking, Arthur will never understand. “How you feeling, big feller?”
“Get away from me, Macguire.” Arthur groans. “Too early for your shit.”
“You’re just cranky ‘cause you hit the bottle a bit too hard last night.” Sean grins, stealing Arthur’s coffee and taking a sip for himself. “Anyways, it’s already half past twelve, you should be out greeting the day! Tell old Sean what your big plans are!”
Arthur furrows his brows suspiciously. “What are you up to, boy?”
Sean scoffs, placing an offended hand on his chest. “I don’t appreciate the implication there, Morgan! Is it a crime to have a conversation?”
“Sean! ” A voice rings out from the other side of camp. Sean’s face goes even paler than usual, running behind Arthur and practically cowering behind him.
“Jesus, what have you done now, boy?”
“It’s Lenny.” Sean moans dramatically. “I’ve been avoiding our reading lessons and now he’s gonna kill me over it.”
Arthur laughs at the absurdity of it all. “That’s it?”
“Don’t laugh at me, English! Hide me!”
“From Lenny? ”
“You don’t know him like I do! He’s damn scary when he wants to be.” Sean grips Arthur’s shoulders, peeking around him like a child after stealing a piece of candy. “He’ll slit my throat he will. I ain’t even been practicing.”
“Aww, little Sean ain’t practicing his ABCs.” Arthur drawls sarcastically before shoving Sean out from behind him. “Lenny!” he shouts.
“What? No–” Sean squawks indignantly before Arthur hauls him around the shoulders and steers him towards Lenny who appears with a book in his hand, clearly out of breath from running around camp for the man.
“Here he is, Lenny. Told me you was looking for him.”
“Thank you, Arthur.” Lenny grabs Sean by the arm and smacks the book against the side of his head before dragging him towards the campfire.
“You’re a snake, Morgan!” Sean shouts helplessly as Lenny manhandles him. “A damn traitor!”
Arthur just chuckles, finishing off his coffee.
He decides to walk to the shore and write for a while, crossing his fingers and holding his breath that no one comes to send him on some wild goose chase with the sheriff now that he’s a damn deputy or make him go collect some debts from innocent folk.
Writing in his journal again is like coming home to an old friend. The feeling of writing is unparalleled, unlike anything else in this screwed up world. As long as he guards it with his life, Arthur can write whatever he damn well pleases in the thing, making sense of the messy feelings that swirl around his gut like a hurricane. Don’t get him on about drawing neither, he ain’t sure where he’d be if he weren’t allowed some kind of outlet to let him feel.
Hosea’s words. All those years ago. Arthur’s first Christmas ever. Fifteen years old. Holding a wrapped package in his trembling hands, afraid he’d rip the pretty paper. He’d never gotten a present before, not until then. That first journal was a pretty thing. Expensive, leather bound, thick pages with that pine smell. Arthur hardly even knew how to write back then. But he learned in that journal. Scribbled his name over and over again until it was pretty. Wrote simple sentences about Hosea and Dutch. About life on the run. Learned how to draw too. Sketching folks he met, folks he saw every day, the deer in the woods, the rough shape of the mountains.
No one else has ever even gotten a glimpse into any of his journals before. Not once. It’s out of shame mostly. The rest of it fear. He’s afraid of folks knowing him too well. Seeing the way he sees, thinking about the way he thinks.
All of that is far too terrifying to imagine.
A shadow crosses across Arthur’s field of view. Someone sits down next to him in the sand with a grunt, holding a book in one shaking hand.
“Hosea,” Arthur nods, setting his journal face down in the sand.
“How are you, Arthur?” Hosea coughs into his fist and Arthur swears he can hear his lungs rattling about in his chest. The man looks worse than usual, skin pale and sunken against his cheeks. But he has good days and bad days. Or, that’s what he insists when anyone brings up his poor health.
“I’m alright.” Arthur shrugs, bringing his knees close to his body. “It’s nice here. Weather’s good.”
“This weather’s horse shit, Arthur.” Hosea says dryly. “Don’t lie to me.”
“It’s better than Colter.”
Hosea wheezes out a laugh. “Well, anything’s better than Colter.” He stretches his legs out in front of him, leaning back with his palms in the sand. “Froze my ass off out in that cabin.”
The lake laps against the shore. Blue meets brown.
“How are you doing?” Arthur asks, looking over at Hosea who sighs and shakes his head.
“I’ve been better. Damn cough’s been getting worse. Humidity’s been screwing with my lungs, but…” He shrugs. “This is a bad day.”
“You tried seeing someone else about it?”
“There’s nothing any doctor can do for me, Arthur.” Hosea reaches over and puts a hand on Arthur’s knee, like how he did when he was a teenager. His knuckles are scarred, skin pulled taut over the bone. There’s so much experience baked into his skin, so many wrinkles and lines. “Tell me really, how are you?”
Arthur sucks in his teeth, clicking his tongue. “I’m worried.”
“About what?” His tone isn’t demanding, just curious, kind.
“Everything, I don’t know. I’m worried we lost sight of the future. I’m worried we don’t know where we’re going no more.”
“Do you trust Dutch?” The question catches Arthur off guard and he looks into Hosea’s eyes for what he means, but all he sees is the man’s face as it always has been. Kind, but hardened by the world.
“Of course I do.” It ain’t a lie. Not really. It's never been about trust.
Hosea nods like he already knew the answer Arthur would give him and pats him on the knee once before pulling his hand away. “Well, then, he’ll find a way, won’t he?” His voice is oddly hollow, sad.
They sit on the shore for a little bit longer. Father and son. Watching the lake and the sun as they sit on the sandy shore. Arthur wishes he felt comforted. Wishes he felt at ease. But the way Hosea looked like he was resigned to something he didn’t want sits heavy in his chest. He feels more worry festering in his head. Or maybe that’s just the lingering hangover.
“Ah, Mr. Smith.” Hosea says happily, looking up at Charles who seems to have appeared on the shore, standing a ways away from them, like he’s afraid of stepping too close. “I was just leaving.”
“I don’t mean to intrude.” Charles says, casting his gaze towards the lake. Arthur feels a tug in his chest at the sight of him, one that makes him want to smack himself upside his own head for acting like a damn schoolgirl.
Hosea shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet, brushing off Arthur’s offer to help him up. “Please, intrude all you like, dear boy. Lord knows Arthur needs some finer company than his old man.”
He gives them both a kind wink before ambling back to camp with his book in his hand.
Charles hovers above Arthur for a moment, looking like he’s unsure of what to say. Arthur gestures to the patch of sand Hosea was just sitting in and Charles accepts, sitting down gingerly. He holds one knee to his chest, letting his other leg stretch out across the sand. He’s wearing his blue shirt with the polka-dots, the one Arthur thinks about often–thinks about smoothing down the wrinkles and feeling padded muscle underneath the fabric. Christ.
There’s tension in Charle’s brow, curling up into the hair that spills messily across his forehead.
“I say anything stupid last night?” Arthur asks in a lighthearted manner, taking a stick and dragging it through the sand like he’s seen Jack do a million times.
Charles looks up at him, surprised, but he regains his composure and shakes his head. “Nothing stupid…” He hesitates for a moment. “Just truthful, maybe.”
Truthful. Arthur flushes, wondering what he said. Wondering if any secrets were spilled into the open air, hanging loose and low above their heads. Wondering what Charles thinks of him. Drunken words speak sober thoughts, or however the saying goes. But Charles isn’t looking at him any different. His eyes are as brown as always, his mouth still a line, straight and full.
“You always seem to find me, Charles.” Arthur huffs. “No matter where I go.”
“Do I?”
“You do.”
“I’m sorry. Should I stop?”
“No, please. I like seeing you.”
“Maybe it’s you who’s finding me.”
“Maybe we find each other.” Arthur says. Blue meets brown. The sun shines across Charles’ face. He’s glowing.
“You’re starting to sound drunk again, Arthur.” Charles sighs, tilting his head back against the sky and closing his eyes. Arthur has a vague memory of the feeling of the lightning scar on his jaw. How it feels under his fingers. Must have been a dream. A fantasy. Charles cracks an eye open and sets it on Arthur, squinting in the sun. “You should come camping with me tonight.”
“I should?”
“If you’d like to.”
“Yes, ” Arthur says, without hesitating. “I’d like that.” He would. More than anything. He doesn’t want to run, not now. Not when what he wants is right in front of him, looking at him, seeing him. He’s too selfish to run. He wants this too much. Even if he’ll hardly let himself have it.
“There’s a spot just out of Lemoyne, in the Heartlands. If we leave now, we’ll make it before nightfall. I’ve been meaning to do some foraging, but…” Charles trails off, looking out at the lake. “You know how things are.”
Lemoyne is an unkind place to most. Full of degenerate scum Arthur can never truly understand. He touches Charles lightly on the back of his shoulder. “Well, then, we should get going. Get outta this damn swamp.”
***
The sun is only just beginning to set as they arrive in a large clearing somewhere north of Clemens Point. It’s beautiful, really. Tall grass, pale blue sky tinged with pink, a stream rushing somewhere in the distance. It fills Arthur with a feeling he can’t quite place. Nostalgia, yearning, dreaming, hoping, praying, wishing.
“We can set up camp here.” Charles says. The first words he uttered on the whole ride over, although Arthur didn’t mind the silence. It was comfortable. Easy. “I came here sometimes, during those weeks we were staying near Valentine. I hardly ever saw anyone pass through.”
They hitch their horses to a big tree in the middle of the clearing, laying out their bedrolls in a patch of shorter grass. Arthur shucks off his satchel and lays down, stretching his limbs as he stares up at the sky. Him and John used to watch clouds back when they were in South Dakota. Arthur liked to tease the boy, making up the most ridiculous shapes that had John squinting his eyes and complaining that he doesn’t see anything. The sky is a real strange and beautiful thing. The same no matter where you go. Still bright and blue and littered with stars even if you can’t see them.
Charles glances down at him from above, a small smile flitting across his lips.
“There’s some creeping thyme I want to harvest down by the stream. You’re welcome to come with me. You could go hunting if you wanted, there’s plenty of deer around here.”
Arthur shakes his head. “I’ve had enough killing for a while now, Mr. Smith. But I’ll happily accompany you down to the stream. Who knows what could be lurking.”
“Ah, so you would kill to protect me?”
“A’course I would.” Arthur says, sitting up. Charles offers him his hand and he takes it, feeling the way their palms fit together. The roughness of Charles’ calluses against his own. “I’ve taken down a few bears in my time. With just my fists!”
“Sure, Arthur.” He’s smiling.
“Hey, I’m serious!”
“So am I.”
They leave their things with their horses, following the sound of rushing water. Arthur brings his knife and slings his bow over his shoulder. Just in case. He almost takes his boots off just to feel the grass underneath his feet. Like he did so often when he was young. But it seems like a childish idea now. Even though he’s sure Charles would hardly mind.
The stream is large and full of fish. There’s plants growing all along the side, some of which Arthur recognizes from his years of picking things off the ground out of curiosity. The sun hides itself behind the craggy cliff wall to one side of the water, casting pink and orange and red hues across the sky. It's achingly beautiful.
“Wish I brought my damn journal.” Arthur complains, dumping his things onto a rock before deciding might as well and shucking off his boots.
“What do you write about in there anyway?” Charles asks, voice raised over the sound of the water. He’s crouched over a patch of plants, carefully examining their leaves.
“Everything.” Arthur shrugs, hiking his jeans up to his knees and wading into the stream. “Anything and everything mostly.” It’s true. Everything and anything. “Keeping a journal saved my life, I think. When I was younger.”
When he was eighteen, Arthur fell very ill. No one knew what it was or where he got it. They just knew he would surely die. He remembers shivering in Hosea and Dutch’s bed, wrapped in pelts, knowing that he was mere inches from death's grip. The curtains were drawn and Susan Grimshaw was sitting in the corner of the room, her hands clasped in her lap like she knew it too. There was nothing to do, laying in that bed. He was trapped. On the brink of nothingness.
Then, because he could hardly stand the idea of dying without some kind of peace, he reached for his journal on the side table–fingers trembling and cold. And he wrote. He wrote and he wrote and he wrote. He wrote about his life so far, about his family, about the things he did, the people he loved. Arthur wrote the story of his life when he was eighteen and dying in bed. And when he fell asleep with his journal in his hands, everyone else in the cabin convinced he was dead, he dreamed about writing.
It kept him alive.
“I’m glad you keep one then.” Charles says.
“Me too.”
They stay for a little while longer, with Arthur wading through the stream, examining the fish that flit between his legs and Charles foraging for plants, gently plucking leaves-placing them into a small cloth bag on his hip. It's strangely domestic. Strangely familiar.
They head back to their horses before it gets so dark they won’t be able to see two feet in front of their faces, Charles’ bag full of herbs and Arthur’s feet decidedly too numb to stay in the water any longer. They walk in silence again. The only sounds are the melancholy cricket song, their breathing–in out in out in out, and the sound of their muffled footsteps in the grass.
Arthur manages to start a fire to the side of their bedrolls and the two of them sit facing it, next to each other. Their sides pressed against each other. Their shoulders, their thighs. Arthur hugs one of his knees to his chest. The fire dances in Charles’ eyes. Lord, this feeling. It’s too much.
He can’t run from it now. It’s already there. It’s already developed. Already settled itself in Arthur’s head, in his heart, deep in his chest. You can't outrun something already a part of you.
“The things you said to me last night....” Charles murmurs into the dark after a few more minutes of quiet. Arthur shivers at the feeling of his breath against his neck, so close Charles could press his mouth to his skin. “You were very drunk.”
Arthur swallows, chewing on his cheek. “What… what things did I say?”
“Good things. Kind things.” Charles tucks his hair behind his ear. Arthur almost reaches up to touch. Wonders how it would feel. “Things I hardly deserve to hear.”
“I’m sure…” Arthur trails off, suddenly sensing how close they are. Too much. “I’m sure that ain’t true.”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you alright, Charles?”
Charles clicks his tongue, sighs. “I feel very stuck.” His fingers brush Arthur’s thigh. Gentle. Lingering. Arthur jolts, then stills, settles. “Lemoyne is stifling. This is the first time I’ve left camp in days. It’s all just so damning. All of it. But—“ He suddenly looks like he’s aware of where he is and what he’s saying. He clears his throat. His eyes go dim. “I’m sorry to complain.”
“No! ” Arthur exclaims, shaking his head. He blinks, reeling himself in. “No. Please, you—you’ve got every right to.”
“It’s just…” Charles runs his thumb over the seam in Arthur’s jeans. It’s absentminded, calming. “It’s just so…”
He doesn’t finish, as if the words die on his tongue, unable to pass his lips. Arthur wants to… well, he wants a lot of things right about now.
“Listen, Charles,” He decides to say. The moon hangs low in the sky, big and bright. The goddamn moon, always spying on the two of them. “You’re about the best man I know.”
He wants to hold him in his arms. Wants to cradle the man to his chest and never let him go.
Silly, stupid.
“Well, that doesn’t say much about you, Arthur.” Charles brushes their fingers together, turns his face so Arthur can sense the end of his nose half an inch from his neck. Is this flirting? The dancing flames, the subtle touches, the feeling of their bodies–so close to one another. Is this romance? Arthur wishes he deserved this. It would feel so much kinder then. So much less cruel.
“Maybe not, but don’t be so hard on yourself.” Arthur mutters quietly. “You deserve more than being stuck in camp. You deserve this. ” He spreads his arms towards the horizon. “The skies and the moon. You— you’re just— I—”
He can’t finish. He doesn’t let himself. He sighs. “I’m sorry, Charles.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know. Everything.”
“Don’t be.” Charles says, before he leans his cheek against Arthur’s shoulder and stares into the fire. There’s tension in his body, like he’s afraid, like he’s anticipating something. Arthur rests his arm around his shoulders and he settles.
All is quiet. All is still.