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It is in the lulls of blood-taste in his mouth, knuckles breaking his ribs, his own shattering cheekbones, that he thinks of blue eyes, twin-twinkling like pebbles beneath the clearest of water in the green-grass meadows. Looking at him, staring at him, with all the depth in the world that he so shyly denied having. Thought so little of himself, thought the only use for his existence was to maim and maul and obey orders.
Charles had known Arthur better than that. Better than the people the stag had called family for years before the huntsman had stepped foot in their camp, lured in by Dutch's silver-tongued charms and spouted moral code.
Talk, talk, talk-
It was all everyone in camp did, but Arthur-
Arthur listened. Listened to him, a lone wolf, a "taciturn dimwit", as he'd been called more than once. The man with the broadest shoulders Charles' had ever seen, face marred by years of the life of an outlaw, looked to him every night over the fire and seemed to soften. Seemed to relax after a day's work- lord knows Arthur was one of very few who kept the entire gang from falling apart at the seams. All of his work, done day after day, he did without complaint. Without denial. It was just what needed to be done. The hunting, the skinning, the fishing, the foraging, the robbing, the stealing, the intimidating, it all had to be done and Arthur... Arthur always seemed to be the one doing it.
For as much as they were a gang, a family, they sure as shit didn't share the workload, not to Charles' eyes.
And yet, even after spending day and night pouring energy and time into making sure the gang was well cared for, Arthur always found time to settle by the fire when the evening had blanketed whatever campsite they'd found themselves in, nursing a well-deserved whiskey and sighing into the fire's spits. Contented, in some way. And he listened. To the stories that Bill reminisced from his days in the army. To the regaling tales from Hosea, ones that he already knew and yet seemed so happy to hear them again, good or bad. To the passioned singing of Javier, soulfully strumming his guitar strings and breathing a little life and cheer back into them. Good feelings seemed to come about by the fire's side in the lulling nights, when they'd all exhausted their worries and anxieties.
Charles was never much of a storyteller. Preferred to be quiet. Preferred to be alone. Preferred not to have to listen to others. But the way in which Arthur, no matter how tired and dirty and ornery he was, still took the time to settle for even just a moment and hear what happened in the daily lives of his family... well, it meant something to the man who'd always been on the run- made him consider otherwise. He was someone who'd never truly had someone to listen to him. To hear his stories, however few and far between they were. To listen to his memories of his childhood, his culture, and genuinely respect it.
Not even Dutch van der Linde himself did that kind of work- mingling with the peasants. He much preferred his soap box and his opera phonograph.
No one in camp was like Arthur. Not to Charles. And maybe that's why he was so drawn to the older man, someone who always seemed to shuffle off his own existence. Who balked at compliments, dismissed how much of a good man he was, waved away anything that posed him as someone worthy. How curious in that, in doing so, he showed how good he was? Humbled, perhaps not always in a subduing way. Charles had a clear memory of the man and just how many times he seemed to prostrate himself as less-
a bow? i've never quite gotten the hang of it...
sad old fool...
i'm not worth it...
you should've taken the money...
The huntsman knew what it felt like to feel undeserving. But his own fears and tidal waves of sticky-black anxieties were nothing compared to the yawning voids torn straight through Arthur's heart, leaving him a shredded mess in the mirror. And yet he continued, despite his drawls of heartlessness, to show that he was someone more than a simple outlaw, a crook, a criminal. Those were adjectives, sure. To describe them all. Was the nature of the business. But that wasn't all of him. Somehow, the stag had become so wrapped up in all of his parts that he perceived bad, that he didn't see any of his own good-
don't worry about it...
if you ever need me, i'm here...
you call, i'll come...
be careful...
Arthur was good. A good a man as any of them could be. Maybe that... that was why Charles, despite everything, had gotten so attached. So interested, in a way he'd never felt before. Not for anyone or anything. But the burly cowboy and his rare smiles and the ruggedness of his chin and the blue of his eyes and his teasing drawls and constant wrap-up with charcoal-and-paper made him intrigued in what went on in that blonde head, one so frequently called stupid and blockheaded and dumb.
Charles knew better.
Saw it in the time they spent together on the snowy mountaintops, patiently coaxing the cowboy into drawing a bow comfortably despite his reservations- and oh, how the huntsman found pride settled in the base of his own chest at how the older man seemed to break through some of the iced wall around him full of insecurities and anxieties to listen to his teachings. Enough they bagged two does with hardly a sweat- and the constant care and soft murmurs of concern for Charles' hand did not go unnoticed nor underappreciated.
He'd never had someone to care for him like that before, to even ask if he was okay to sling a deer over his shoulder with a burnt hand. He'd never had anyone who seemed so attune to him, the way he was, the way he wanted to be. Quiet, contented in being alone. And yet, how often, he had longed for Arthur's presence near to him. It was part of what made him turn mid-step to ask-
you want to come with me? show you how we hunt one.
Even better, even better, a white man who so aptly listened to what scraps and shreds of memories and stories and distant tales Charles could conjure in his head from his mother and his past. What he could remember of his culture. And, for some reason, he knew the cowboy was going to listen. Had felt it deep, deep in his bones, that the man would not scoff or scorn at the importance of the bison to his people, to the history of who he'd come to be, and the respect they should be shown. To anyone else, they were simply animals but to Arthur? The twinkle of wonderment and indulgence to his eye like the gleam of a fine woman's jewelry made his heart shiver, made him want- Want to tell Arthur all the ways he was important. All the ways he was a good man, a beautiful man, just by being himself. In all of his rugged scars and intimidating drawls, his sweet words of praise to his steads and attempted soothing of the worries awry in camp.
A good man.
Charles eventually told him such, one night, when they were caught in the boggy swamps and crocodile-infested waters of Shady Belle, bodies casting humid shadows in the glow of their cigarette that they shared on the staircase in the throughs of midnight. Pressed close enough to touch, every breath prompting the soft flesh of their forearms to yield to one another's where they balanced on worn-worn knees. Quiet, quiet. Taking a simple moment to exist, amongst all the chaos and the sensation of slavering breath panting down their necks- the threat of the Pinkertons coming for them all a very-real, constant fear. The huntsman had found the stag at the top of the peeling rafting, leaned against the rotten walls and nursing a whiskey. Well deserved, considering all the shit the man had been putting up with in recent events. Jack was gone, still. Even though their wrath had burned the Braithwate's manor to the ground, it had done nothing to satiate them. And the cowboy had been on pins-and-needles of anxieties and worries and suffering to do everything in his power to get him back. He'd had to charge through the swamps to rescue Tilly, play dress-up at the Mayor's house to find some semblance of information.
And it hadn't helped that Mary had, once more, requested for him to wait on her again. Something he'd mentioned only in passing to Charles, when his brows were furrowed in a dark way the huntsman didn't usually see from him, looking exhausted and heartsick.
Part of the lone wolf's heart tremored at the thought, but the look Arthur sent him when the creaking announced his presence swept away any anger else he could've felt at the time. Not when the man looked so similar to a father without money to feed his family, a mother realizing she had to turn to prostitution for a few coins, a child realizing the very-real possibility they wouldn't make it to their 12th birthday, a dog beaten day after day and chained to a post, no longer strong enough to stand.
So tired, and Charles could only manage to want to soothe. To try to wipe away some of the black-smudged bags beneath Arthur's eyes, the bloodshot of those pretty, pretty eyes, to thumb away days worth of sweat and grime because he'd been spending every waking moment overworking himself that he hardly had the time to clean up after himself. To fill in the hint of ribs one could only feel when fingertips trailed down the familiar blue shirt along the body underneath- when was the last time Arthur had a proper meal? Had properly slept?
Months, at this point.
... you're a good man, arthur. one of the best i've ever met. this gang wouldn't be here right now without you. no matter what happens, i just want you to know... that you did enough for us. all of us.
Arthur's smile was just a touch drunk and miles-worth pained, self-deprecating laughter a sickening slither from his lips at the notion of himself being anything but exposable and dispensable. He'd looked so, so sad in that moment, cigarette he'd pulled from Charles' lips hanging from his own, embers glowing red-hot at the end- had opened his mouth to say something- and Charles damn-well knew it was going to be something broken. And in the moment, all he wanted was to take that away for him-
Had plucked the waning cigarette from Arthur's tongue, took a quiet drag, and pressed their lips together in a whiskey-shot, smoke-crisp kiss.
And even though the weight of what he'd done burst in his chest like he'd taken a gunshot, he didn't regret it. Didn't regret it when Arthur's hands fumbled up, unsure and confused and scared, before they took tentative grasp of the soft-cloth of the huntsman's shirt. It's sweet and gentle and everything neither one thought it would be- things they thought they weren't capable of. But it happened, and Charles wasn't taking it back now, or ever. And even with an apology on his tongue when he pulled back, all he'd seen was the shining glare to Arthur's eyes, glazed and wanting- and was promptly pulled back in again. They had to spring apart when snuffling Uncle came prowling beneath their sanctuary, but the string connecting them pulled taunt and steady. Whatever they'd forged on that staircase was something more, something neither one could ignore.
Something neither one wanted to ignore.
They shared a few lingering kisses in the coming days, when Charles could wrangle him into sitting and finishing a whole meal together, when he could convince Arthur up the stairs into his cot and to stay there. Passionate ones, sweet ones, lost ones, wanting ones, everything in-between and the huntsman had never been more aware of one of the many, many reasons why he liked the other man so much. Neither one was good with words- everything they did came with action. It felt... good. Felt nice. Trapped in the chaos of the gang and their situation and yet managing to find some moments of peace and quiet. Of togetherness. The calm before the storm, as it was-
Kieran was killed and the rest were damn near shot to hell.
Arthur didn't talk much in the hours after that, listless and restless and tired again, but in a different way. His fingers twitched with energy, seemed to itch with the need, the want, to reach for the silver-flash pistols strapped to his hipbones. Simultaneously hair-triggered and sluggish, like he was trapped in what he wanted to do, what he needed to do, and what he didn't- and it was all mixed up, blended and bled together. There was something, wandering and desperate, in the beautiful blue when they came searching for Charles in the dead of night, intertwining their fingers and tugging. Down, down to the horses, setting off in the thick-black towards Saint Denis- as rotten and smoke-choked and stupidly-bright as it was, it offered namelessness for two lone men on the cobbled road.
The teller didn't ask any questions when they rented a room in the darker side of town, quiet and unassuming. It had been a while since either one of them had wiped the grime and sweat off their skin- a bath was sorely welcomed, stripped-bare and pressed together in the cracked, old bath, relaxing as well as they could. Strong hands kneading flesh, carefully rasping over bruises and dried blood, a thumb over a bulletwound wrought in the left shoulder, a gentle press of fingertips to glass-shard crackles up the side of the face. Exploring, in the dim light, so beaten and broken it made them both vulnerable, capable of doing this without flinching. Without fears or anxieties or insecurities. The tug intensified in skin-against-skin and it took an embarrassingly short amount of time for their sweeter kisses to turn heady and hot, soap droplets becoming perspiration and want.
Barely managed to stumble into the other room without collapsing when they decided the water was far too cold to continue what they really wanted. Kisses turned into bites, tongues lapping at one another's skin, fanning the flames growing between them into a crazed wildfire when they tumbled into bed, Arthur falling open so Charles could settle against him. Nails scratching, lips teasing purple and blue into muscles and sensitive bone, wringing gasps and moans in equal amounts. They were different then, with no one to care about but each other- nothing else mattering but them. And the way that the cowboy had stared up at him, those glistening eyes begging as his teeth worked into a dark collarbone-
damnit, charles, please.
It made something in his heart click, click, click, like the cocking of a gun-
Charles fucked him so hard they almost broke the headboard, slamming against the wall in every wild movement that might've seemed vicious to a bystander- or at least to the other patrons and the receptionist downstairs, who could no-doubt hear Arthur's roars and Charles' deep-moaning growls- but to them, it was nothing but what they both wanted. Were desperate for, whispering gasps and whimpers until tears filled the huntsman's eyes and he had to press his visage tight to the stag's jaw to quell the burning-
i love you, arthur, i do-
It choked him, the words, welling a terrible ache in his jaws that swells of emotion often did, but there was nothing but truth in the statement. The man was no liar, he was nothing but honest and sincere in every way, and he had no qualms about loving Arthur enough for the both of them. Felt the cowboy shiver under his body, covered in sweat and hickeys and flushed right down his chest, looking utterly debauched and alluring in every way, and felt calloused hands curve around the thick of his waist. Was pulled down, down, until they were pressed together from thigh to chest, and words were murmured into a press of lips at his ear-
fuck- i love you too, charles-
It turns into a mindless chant, echoed back and forth between them, garbled and almost nothing but noises as Charles wrapped a hand around the man's leaking, throbbing cock and pulled, moving hard and fast and delighting in the way Arthur's back arched and he muttered a broken moan of Charles' name as he came over their stomachs. Dragged into a heartwarming kiss and the huntsman barely had enough time to pull out before he was spilling with a whine over a pale stomach, mixing their cum together in an opaque paint with Arthur as the canvas, said man murmuring heady praise and fondness at the sensation of his lover's pleasure branding into his skin.
It's the first time they sleep in the same bed together, limbs entangled and comforting, Arthur's breath puffing against his forehead where he'd pressed into the dark hair, Charles tucked under his chin and wrapped around the bare chest under his cheek. Quiet now, gentle. As they trade some lazy kisses, sweetness in the afterglow, as they faded into the best sleep they'd had for months.
Things don't stay sweet- not with the gang, at least.
Not when they were hunched down, sweating and panting and fear-riddled in the rain, barely hidden from the view of the police officers patrolling the streets. Stupid, stupid idea, to rob the goddamn bank of Saint Denis! All talk, that's all it'd been, and they'd been caught up in the thrill and high of the score that they lost their edge, their distrust. Now Hosea and Lenny were dead and John was arrested, and all Charles can think about is getting Arthur out of there. But there is no way out, no way out, not like this. There isn't an end where they all can make it out together, not like this, and every cadence of Dutch's voice frays his nerves into flames and he takes it into his own hands-
i'll deal with them.
Even as the others try to fight it, try to talk him through it, the huntsman only has eyes for the cowboy pressed up against him, rain-slicked and wide-eyed, staring at him like Charles was dying right in front of him. They couldn't kiss but they could manage the next-best-thing, with the long-haired man turning to press the heaviness of his hand against the other's heart buried in his suit, feeling for the rapid beat beat of it-
stay safe. please. come back soon.
The last thing he sees is Arthur's brows furrowing in pain and yet, understanding. Because he was just that good of a man. Knew that there was no way out but this and this alone, and despite his personal feelings, there was nothing to be done about it. They share the look that lasts a lifetime before Charles is gone, muscles coiled like the most high-bred racehorse as he trailed close, close, just enough for attention to be on him before he was running. Sprinting for his life through the cobblestone streets, a shadow ducking beneath the oily lamplight dotting the roads, dipping into slums and alleyways until the voices behind him faded away and there was nothing but him and the hope that Arthur would be okay.
He dreamt of blue eyes and a warm, familiar smile, and every morning woke up with pain replacing his heart that ached for its other half.
The next time he saw Arthur, he looked much frailer than he remembered the man, bloodshot-eyed and sunburnt, hair a mess and covered in sand and ocean grime. But his smile, he knew the smile, and it is those lips that he meets with his own just beyond the ridge of the swamp's thick array of tree trunks separating them from the measly shack they'd managed. It's a desperate kiss and regardless of how terrible they both taste, how exhausted they both are, neither one could ask for anything else. And then everything blended together, paints bleeding together until the pictures simply became a mass of colors. Arthur, something was wrong, wrong with him, but he wouldn't say no matter how many times Charles questioned him. The gang was in shambles, broken-down and anxious, and the family they once were was no longer, and the huntsman finds himself mourning it like a death. Because, in every sense, that's what it was.
They all stank of it, the rot and decay of the people they used to be.
They brought it everywhere they went- Dutch single-handedly dug the rest of the grave for the Natives at the Wapiti Reservation, perched on the back of their very-real lack of supplies and medications, being forced off the last of their land, the threat of soldiers swarming them at any moment. Used them, and that is the moment that Charles decided that the black-winged savior was nothing but a fucking vulture. It was what he'd always been and always would be and he so desperately wanted to get Arthur out and yet- he knew. Knew the cowboy would never agree, even as they ran through the trees behind Dutch's back to aid the tribe in every way they could. Knew the stag would stay behind to look after the last of his people, to make sure everyone else was out but him-
Because Arthur Morgan had tuberculosis and he didn't have plans to last beyond the end of the family he'd been apart of for more than twenty years. Had told Charles on their way to breaking into the cavalry army fort, soft-spoken and halting, and the huntsman has to close his eyes for a moment against the agonizing swell of emotion that swept over him at the realization that he was running out of time with his love. It was just the reality of the blood-soaked sleeve, the ragged coughs, the insomnia and fatigue, the ribs pressing against the stag's skin and shirt falling much looser than a man of his size, the sunk-purple of his face spiderwebbed with bleeding blood vessels, once-lively eyes darkened and sick-pink and hazy. Everything about Arthur seemed to dull except for his spirit, still bright-burning in his fragile bones, visible in the glare of his blue-green gaze that scoffed and spit at the sky and didn't ask for more time- merely cursed what he had to work with, and continued on.
They hadn't been able to kiss for a while, not with Arthur so terrified that he would get Charles sick. But when they stood there, standing face-to-face in the thick of night at the tribe's encampment, Eagle Flies bled out in his father's tent and mourning ghosts around them, Charles couldn't care less. Pulled him in, together, and he is so struck that this very-well was their last made his eyes prickle with tears he couldn't fight- not when he opened his eyes and saw Arthur's, spreading over his worn cheeks like twin waterfalls, so pained.
i love you, charles smith. don't you ever forget that.
How could he?
never. as long as you remember how much i love you, fool.
It wrings a wet laugh from them both and Charles had never felt his heart rip in two like it did when Arthur turned away, trailing unsteady and ginger like a man much older than he was, back to his stead. Scrambled up with his fading strength and looked back, and the world slowed to just them for the few seconds they had. Just enough time for them to etch the vision of each other into their heads, to brand the pictures into their skulls, so they would never, ever forget, for however long they lived, what the other looked like. And then the cowboy, the love of his life, Arthur Morgan, was gone in body and spirit and Charles felt like a little boy again, hiding in the woods to avoid his father's drunken wrath- except this time, there was no cover, no protection, and he was already ripped open and bleeding.
He lived perpetually suspended in waiting and knowing.
Word reached him about the slaughter of Dutch's reign at Beaver Hollow and he pressed Taima- now old and brittle but still, he just couldn't make this particular journey without her and she seemed to understand- down from the North and into the West again. The wild, untamed land. Went searching, desperate, but only came upon the abandoned remains of their caravans and memories, Arthur's lean-to still upright like a ghost, nothing but skeletal remains and a few pictures. One he picked up, a vision of younger Arthur, Hosea, and Dutch and pocketed it with all the care in the world, a precious vision of his love. But as for other remains? He only came upon Ms. Grimshaw, shot through the stomach and already beginning to rot, but he knew who she was and felt nothing but pity and remorse for the woman, no matter how coarse and rough, who had kept them afloat for so long.
Buried her and spent weeks scouring the mountainside for signs, anything, of Arthur Morgan.
Saw nothing but a pooling of blood around the side of the cliffs, like someone had been dragged around, and sprayed like there'd been a fight- but no body. No bones. No cloth scraps. Nothing.
But to Charles, anything realistically could've happened to a corpse left up here for a long time. To him... Arthur was gone. And as wild for physical proof as he was, he had to content with that he wouldn't get that. He only had the memories, the sensations, the feelings, of the blue eyes and warm smile and drawling voice and soft skin and a beating heart. Decided that instead, that last vision of Arthur, and all the others he had, was what he preferred to think of when he thought of the golden stag instead of a rotten corpse.
He didn't remember much of the later years.
Charles had no home again. Frankly, he wasn't interested in another one, not when he was broke and tired and feeling as hopeless as a deadman- wondered if that was how Arthur had felt in those ending months. Found himself wrapped up in pain and swirling colors, the world moving by in a blur... blurred out... Found himself in the dirtied, stinking streets of Saint Denis again, as disgusting as the pretty city lights were. Fighting, fighting, that's all he knew how to do. There was nothing else he had the strength for, not then. Everything seemed to leave him- he no longer had the light of his life, anyway, so what did it matter what happened to him? He spent so many nights curled up in dingy hotel rooms, curled up alone and exhausted, bruised and beaten and bleeding from some place or another, wishing he could waste away to join Arthur and yet, finding himself forever standing.
Began to realize that his angel would never have wanted for him to simmer like this. Would want him to continue on and live the life they'd always wanted and could never have.
Charles tried. Decided to get out, out, even booked a steamer upriver, desperate to leave it all, all, behind.
they don't know the half of it.
John.
A piece of Arthur he'd thought lost to the winds and mountains, another corpse he'd looked for yet never found.
" Whatchu up to, Charles? "
Things changed since then.
" Not much. "
The rasping chuckle in response is familiar, soothing, and Charles has never felt more grateful to be blessed with hearing it. He'd spent so long mourning ghosts that to see one now- two, counting Uncle, who he felt such affection for despite their... lack of seeing eye-to-eye- resurrected in front of him was like a dream. A good dream, one he never wanted to wake up from. But no matter how kind John's dark eyes were, peering at him from over the side of the fence of the barn they'd built, on the homestead they created together, it wouldn't replace the blue ones he thought about every day. No matter how relaxing the growl, the comfort of familiar ragged-scar across the face, the smokey presence and swaggering hips- Charles couldn't help but wish for someone else.
As much as he missed what had been- that's just what it was. What had been. And nothing was going to bring it back, the feeling, the spirit, that had once lit them all up like candlelights and fireworks. Nothing would bring back his Arthur. And Charles just didn't have the strength, the core power of the man he'd been, to stay like this.
It was John's life he was sapping, leeched on like a lifeline, and he just couldn't have that. Couldn't, not with all the ghosts that haunted them both, similar and different.
But, for now... Charles welcomed the ease.
It had been a month or so at Beecher's Hope, having built it from the ground up between the three of them, and the hell they'd been through to get it all together damn well made it worth it to see it now. Proof that somehow, someway, changes were possible. And John was that proof, that things could be different, and Charles knew deep in his heart that if Arthur could see his brother now, toiling over making the house as clean as an outlaw like him knew how to, musing over letter after letter until he was surrounded by papers trying to find a satisfying way to win Abigail back- the cowboy would've been proud. And, perhaps, proud of the huntsman for staying so long, renewed in some parts of his determination to see out Arthur's last wish for John to live.
Charles could do that much for him.
" Been a long time since we could do not much. 'M goin' into town, seein' Sadie for some... work. Watch the place for me? "
They both knew he didn't need to ask.
" 'Course. "
When John spun with a gruff growl to make Uncle work, Charles was left alone with himself again. Again.
He didn't think he'd ever miss the raucous voices of the gang- Dutch's speeches, Sean's spinning stories, Javier's singing, Karen's morning grumbles, Lenny and Uncle's prodding to get him into a conversation, the fights and the laughs. How he'd always wished for lonesome.
Now that he was, empty and alone, he found the silence hurt more than any noise ever could.
Hurt.
So he kept himself busy, desperate to fill the spaces in his head with something else. Did every job he could manage to find on their little patch, everything from sweeping their desolate and furniture-less interior to fixing up every single board of the barn a hundred times over despite the having only built the thing a week before. Always looking for anything out of place, looking for anything broken, like it was a habit. Something he'd pulled from Arthur, he supposed, when he took the time to realize he'd been hammering the same nail for ten minutes in aimless determination that something was wrong with it. Wandered aimless about the plains, calloused hands carefully brushing stirred dust off Falmouth's flanks- a beautiful horse, one he loved just as much as he had Taima. The girl who'd stayed at his side for most of her life until he'd decided to leave her in her seniority with the Wapiti tribe after they'd relocated to the North.
Busied himself, always busy.
Until the sky was painted pretty-pink and delicate like cotton candy, peach-fluffy and cream-covered, just fiery at the tips of the gold-lamented clouds and in the burn of the sun slowly peeling down the edge of the horizon. And he thought of how much Arthur loved sunsets- they suited the man, turned his blonde hair to flames, struck emeralds and sapphires into his eyes. Sunrises, too, sweetly patting his sun-kissed cheeks with blush, making him look soft and open, in ways he so rarely was in practice. The memories it conjured forced Charles to rest his head against the wood of the barn, hammer twisted in his hands, swinging limp back-and-forth as he tried to breathe. Collect himself, in the only ways he knew how-
i take real deep breaths and just... feel all my worries jus'... floatin' away. feels good.
Bang, bang, bang, went the hammer, slow and plodding like the steady beat of his own heart, only half of one in his chest-
" Always the busiest man in camp. "
Stopped.
Charles hadn't been drinking since they'd finished the barn and Uncle had been taken from them- avoided the bottle when he could, unless he was feeling particularly pained. Knew he wasn't drunk, he wasn't, and in as much as he missed his blue-eyed love, he'd never hallucinated the ghost that wandered his head.
Hearing things, he was hearing things-
No.
Not when he turned, feeling his heart beating and dead at the same time, and he saw him. Not a spectre. Not a ghost. Not a forgotten memory made to wander the earth. Flesh-and-blood, breathing right in front of him. Blue eyes he knew, blonde hair he knew, smile he knew, body and heart and mind he knew. And Charles could barely spit it out, managed to choke it just as his hammer slipped and fell with a distant, dull thump to the ground-
" Arthur. "
The man standing before him huffed a laugh then, something soft and short and pained and in the gentle glows of the setting sun, there were tears welling amongst the jewels and hands were up, up, and held in front of him like he was placating the Gods with his meagre existence-
" Charles. "
The huntsman isn't quite sure he's ever felt so full of emotion before the moment Arthur collapsed into his arms, entangling limbs and shaking breaths and fidgeting hearts, both swiftly caught-up in tears. Charles barely has the strength left in his legs to keep them both upright, the solid weight of his love pushing down, imprinting into his heart again like they'd had all those years ago, ridin' together for their lives. Their hands are flying, desperate, pulling at one another's bodies until they're pressed painfully together, white-knuckled into each other's shirt folds, holding on like their very existences depended on it.
The connection, the waves upon waves of relief at the solidity of the bodyweight.
It takes a long time for either one of them to convince their tongues into working into saying anything other than the other's name- or soft sobs.
" I'm, I- I thought you were dead, Arthur. "
The possibility seemed to make the stag laugh through the tears Charles had never seen before, not ever-
" I... thought I was too. I think I was- "
" -How? How is this possible?- "
Hands managed to crackle open, leaning back so their foreheads could press intimately together beneath the bough of Arthur's hat- a new one. Charles distinctly remembered John wearing the older man's characteristic one around the ranch, the only keepsake he'd been allowed in memory of the brother thought fallen. Did John know? He almost asked, almost got the words out of his lodged throat, but when he met those blue, blue eyes that he'd dreamt of every single night for years- everything in his maw tapered shut.
Arthur looked older, as expected- they both did. There were deeper lines ingrained around his eyes, permanent bags sewn beneath the pretty jewels and tinged with blue-veins, remnants of the tuberculosis' jaundice making the edges of his gaze just a little too yellow-red to be normal. His skin was covered in more sunfreckles than Charles remembered, color filled in around his cheeks- darker skin, having been sunburnt so many times over. But the scars were the same. The stubble was the same. The life, brought back twinkling like a fire renewed, in his eyes a pleasant surprise. Those lips were the same-
When they met in a kiss, wrapped up in one another, it had never felt so much like coming home.
They're laughing, smiling, between peppered kisses as Arthur attempts to struggle the words out-
" I... was left on the mountain. Managed to get down. A good friend, my friend, Charlotte- found me... got me medicine. Charles, Charles, the tuberculosis- it's gone... It left, when I- well, when I stopped runnin' around after false hopes and dreams and trains to rob! "
Oh, the memories that welled in their eyes at the thoughts, the visions along their tongues, and Charles has to dig his fingers into the meat of Arthur's shoulders to keep himself from collapsing to the dusted ground. It was so much, too much-
" Oh, Arthur. Does John know? "
The name seems to soothe something in the blonde's stiffened and energy-strung body, a softness only reserved from a brother to another-
" Yeah. Met 'em in town, with Sadie. Brought me back... said I would make a good present for ya'. "
The idea makes the huntsman huff out a laugh against the stag's mouth, meeting in the middle once more in coils of sticky-honey, holds tender and ginger- loving. Because it's been years, years, and neither one of them are quite able to get all the words out that they want to, that they need to. But Charles knows... knows Arthur will listen, no matter what it is he says, so he manages to whisper words against the chapped lips,
" I never should have let you go. Shoulda' taken you with me. "
Those blue eyes glisten in the painted sunset, calloused thumbs gentle and familiar in the stubble along his jaw, tracing the crackle of the scar etched into the side of his face-
" Ain't your fault. You had to get 'em out, and I had to get everyone at camp out. I'll admit, I'm as damn stubborn as a mule, but so are you. We did what we had to do, nothin' more... But I'm here now, right now, and I... "
Fingers curve into the back of his skull, siphon through the velvet-black strands of his hair to press their faces affectionately together once more, words purred so sweetly, so full, against him-
" I love you, Charles. I've missed you so, so much, an' I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner- "
Beat, beat, their hearts-
" Don't even finish that sentence, goddamn fool. I love you too, more than anyone alive or dead. I've missed you too, you're all I've thought about, dreamed about, for years. Every night. Every morning. Just you. "
Arthur's laugh is wet at the steady stream of adoration that Charles can't even think to get his tongue to stop producing, wouldn't stop for the world, not when those pretty, pretty blue eyes were staring at him like he was worth more than a lifetime of treasure. Like he was treasure, and the man had never felt so precious than in the moments when the stag had him captured in his sights, all-encompassing and connected.
It's everything they've ever wanted and when they entangled together again, its miles stronger and hotter-
The huntsman's fingers trailing down the broad chest under his palms, nestling into hipbones and holding tight, pressing deep against the fabric and into skin beneath- a thicker body than he'd last felt, last seen, and the thought almost has him in tears again. To thumb beneath the tucked-in shirt, blue as the eyes staring half-lidded at him when they part with saliva strung between them, and feel hot skin pliant and supple again, no longer the thin, fragile dullness of tissue paper and ribs. A healthy body, not a walking corpse like Arthur had been the last they'd been together. It's beautiful, in so many ways, and Charles has no qualms about whispering such against the cowboy's lips. Just to watch him blush, fluster, beneath the brim of his hat and attempt to hide beneath it-
It's a habit the man remembers, fondness settling beneath his breastbone at the gesture-
Winds his fingers against the small of Arthur's back and pulls, pressing them flush together again from collarbone to knee, and there is a moment of stillness. Hesitation, hovering in space and time, and when their gazes meet, it is with all the emotion in the world. A beat, two-
" ... Missed you in a lotta different ways. "
It's all Arthur offers, quiet and rasping in the air between them, and Charles latches on to the in like his life depends on it. Finds purchase in the divot of the spine beneath his fingertips and drags, shoving the both of them into the barn, stumbling over one another. Lucky-lucky- that they had yet to get the cattle and the horses yet. It's all empty now, just them, and the cowboy only has a moment to admire the handiwork his love had put so much care into before he was backed into the planks to the side of the door. Gasping into the kisses lavished hot and heady against his lips, head thumping back against the wood and losing his hat when Charles' hands shuffled into his hair, sinking deep and holding.
Every nerve is on fire, fire, in Arthur body, and it's painful in all the best, best ways.
It's almost choking, the burning pangs in his chest with every throb of his heart alongside every kiss they share, every breath Charles whispers against him. It feels like home, home.
He's missed the feeling so terribly.
How many years he'd spent alone, wandering by himself again, scarred and a shattered doll just barely held back together by hasty glue and bandages. Charlotte had done her damn best, half-dragging his ass across the mountain until he'd been conscious enough to at least try to stumble after her guidance. Days, weeks, he'd spent ridden in bed, festering with sickness and bruises and broken bones, delirious and barely aware of where he was in the rare moments he managed to be awake. She'd managed to convince a doctor to come out to see him, all the way in their little forested corner, and he was under 24-hour watch for a month. A month, one that passed by in blurs and blacks and Arthur still couldn't remember a damn thing from that time- frankly, not even much after that, either.
The eve his fever broke was a cause for celebration- he'd escaped with his life by the bare skin of his teeth, and not without significant damage. It took him months more to heal, to take his medication and try to recuperate, to try to let his swollen body recuperate from its ordeal. And damn, was Charlotte an angel that he didn't deserve, would never deserve. Did absolutely everything she could to keep him alive, safe, and so many nights she'd settled in the wooden chair by his bed and held his hand in the oily lamplight, keeping him grounded and present. Kept him from falling down the depressing spiral of memories and realizations that his family was gone.
In-between Charles' devouring kisses, teeth sinking into lips, and palms deftly popping buttons out of place against his shirt, Arthur thinks of some of those late-night conversations-
you kept calling for charles. over and over. you mentioned a dutch, and a john, abigail and sadie sometimes. but charles, you spoke of every night.
Arthur's fingers clench into the striped button-up of his love beneath his fingers, letting his hands sink beneath so he could rasp his callouses down the small of the man's back, just to feel him shiver against him. Just to coax him into pressing harder, a thick and solid thigh sliding between his in the same moment his own shirt was tugged down to catch in the creases of his elbows-
you love him. i may be from the city, but i don't have an interest in discriminating. i understand. you love him, and he loves you, i'm sure.
Stutters a gasp his lungs were now healthy enough to produce without falling prey to an episode of hacking coughs, airways clean and clear, enough he could gulp in taste after taste of Charles' scent into his maw when his head dropped to a broad shoulder, shivering in the way the muscle between his legs flexed, again and again, until they were both rutting in a very familiar fashion. A position he remembered, had missed, almost as much as just the huntsman himself.
Felt good, so good, when Arthur's throat was coaxed into baring and familiar lips trailed the cartilage and muscle of his throat, tongue lapping into the divots and the stubble-cover, wringing soft noises from his lips. Prompts him to dig nails into the meat of the huntsman's back, delighting in the groan mumbled into the corner of his jaw where teeth prickled, dragging them up the silken back. Hot, hot, and his shirt is thrown to the floor in the same instance Charles pulls back just long enough to shed his own vest and shirt, casting them in an uncaring heap to the side before meeting together again-
you've been through so much, arthur. i wish there was more i could do for you. but all i can suggest is that you work on getting yourself righted first. healthy, as best you can be, the best of you that you can be. and then go after him. find him. i'm sure he's out there somewhere.
It had sounded impossible, at the time. Trying to wade through the swamps of his memories and anxieties and insecurities, even for the man he loved with all his heart. Months, months, until Arthur looked in the mirror and saw a better him. Saw the real him, Arthur Morgan, without a ploy or an alias to have to hide behind- just himself. And he figured that this was what Charles had seen all those years ago on the staircase- just him. And the huntsman still wanted him, then and now, and the thought made his heart swell deep in his chest.
Lets himself fall pliant to Charles' hands rubbing across his skin, lips biting into his collarbones with a feverish intensity, as they both grasped and grappled like there was a time limit to how long they could be together. There wasn't, never again, but it didn't stop them from devouring one another-
Arthur was filled with sickly-sweet heat when hands squeezed at his ass, muscle pressing hard into the outline of his cock for a moment, the huntsman's own thickened and solid against his thigh- and then he was moved-
Spun around in the spot and pressed into the wood of the barn, hands flying up to keep his own face from slamming into the planks and solid splinters. Managed to hold on to a shelf just above his head, pretty-pretty blue eyes thrown over a broad shoulder, maw opened to say something, anything. Couldn't manage anything, not with the entirety of Charles' chest pressing against his back, skin meeting skin and its such an erotic sensation that his voice dies in his throat. Can't manage a thing when kisses lavished into the sensitivity of the back of his neck, coaxing and prompting moans and whimpers he could only remember a handful of times he'd been so loose-tongued to produce.
Just another way Charles was so, so ingrained in his skin, in his heart, his soul.
Especially when those kisses dropped lower, lower still, until tongue was drawing circles into the dimples just above the edge of his jeans-
Calloused hands slipping in, under the worn denim, and pulling down before Arthur could get his mouth to work-
" Ah, Charles, wait- I- it's been so long, I ain't super clean, I- "
A lifetime of nerves, of insecurities, welled in his chest in reflex at the way Charles was crouched against the ground, knees in the dirt and staring up at him like he was everything, everything. It soothed, sure, but it'd been years and Arthur has a hard time keeping still and patient when his jeans were pulled to rest in the crease of his knees, leaving him open and bare and vulnerable. Made his muscles dance in place, regardless of how hard he was and the caring gentle of the fingers tracing sweetly at the sensitive skin beneath his ass. The stag tried, tried to move away, something, but in the next instant, the huntsman had surged up from the ground and wound a hand around his throat and pulled his head to place them face-to-face, the other pressing in between his legs to stroke the underside of his length.
Tongue lapped at his open lips, kisses savage and wet, rendered him silent as words whispered hot and heavy against him, desperate in a way Arthur rarely heard from the large man,
" I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. "
Oh, the look in Charles' eyes left him breathless- loving, adoring, everything he used to think he didn't deserve. That he shouldn't be allowed to have, and yet, here it was. Given freely, without remorse, without a second thought. And Arthur could only gasp, mindlessly nodding, before the huntsman trailed slow down his body again. Teeth impressions in his tailbone, sucking down the crease, until he had to pillow his head on his forearms braced against one another on the wall when the sensation turned hard. Too hot. When slick tongue traced circles around his asshole, one hand keeping him open while the other delicately fondled his balls in a way Charles knew he liked.
Surprised him, that the man could still remember it.
Legs shivering when Charles openly moaned into his skin, tongue prodding and coaxing Arthur into relaxing before it pressed in, had him up on his tiptoes in the instance the slickness entered him, thrusting soft and practiced back and forth, back and forth. Had him gasping when fingers dug into his cock, stroked him hard, fondled deeper into his skin, and the cowboy couldn't help but manage a huff of laugh against the bone of his arms-
" God, Charles, forgot how damn good... you are at this. "
Feels it, the smile the huntsman pressed into his skin, tongue curling up and tugging at his rim as fingers danced across him, keeping him still and hot and hard. Desperate, more and more. Torturous, almost, but it felt so damn good he was torn between it wanting to stop and wanting it to never end. The feeling of Charles' tongue slipping loose, lapping down and sinking into the sensitive skin of his balls had Arthur keening, quiet as he could wrangle himself to be. Hot, hot, hot-
" Damnit, Charles, please. "
The words ring clear between them, shuddering and weak, but the meaning is evident and it has them both moving, moving- Arthur manages to somewhat help in the endeavor of getting his jeans off his body, boots flying somewhere into the expanse of space behind them, who knows. It's not the first time he's been naked in a barn (not that he offers about what those other times were), but it certainly is the first time with Charles- not that either really minds. Not when they're so hot, twisting to grapple and pull at skin, teething and licking, as slicked fingers teased into Arthur the same second words were muttered brokenly into the back of his neck-
" Oh, Arthur, how I've missed you. Missed this... giving you this. Missed when you let me take care of you. "
Pads press and grind into his prostate, wringing moans from Arthur's lips as his hands clenched uselessly at the wooden planks in front of him, desperate and wanting. Caught up and tied up in everything that was Charles, Charles, Charles-
Relished in the quiet groan murmured into his skin when he fondled a flailing hand back, shoving into dark jeans for the huntsman's hardness to fill his palm, teasing over the slick, leaking head. Heat, heat everywhere, has the stag near dancing on his feet, unable to keep still as fingers thrust hard into him, again and again, and he can't breathe when they slowly slip out. A beat, two, before Charles was pressed to his spine again, kissing into the valley between his shoulder blades as hands trailed lovingly down his shivering flanks. Soft, soft, as they gently dig into his hips and coax him to bend forward, patiently waiting for the stag's elbows to find purchase on the shelving, to keep him steady.
Because they both know damn well how they want this to go- and having a handhold is pretty darn helpful.
Blue eyes notice the trembles in the huntsman's hand when one slid up the length of his spine, smoothing over a shoulder to stroke at one of his cheeks, brushing against his lips- fingers he kisses, sweet in the only way he could manage to be. Pleased in the hiccuping inhale Charles managed behind him, over him, as jean-clad legs press into the backs of his own. Feels the throbbing heat of the man's cock settling against him, head pressed and waiting at his rim, forever the patient one as Arthur squirmed beneath his hold. Wanting, wanting-
Throws some aimless gesture over his shoulder, something he hoped the man would understand-
The way the his breath caught and his cock slid slow into the pliant body beneath him, Arthur figured he did well enough.
It felt so damn good. To have Charles' thick cock in him again, coaxing him open, filling up every inch of him, until the stag was bursting with everything that was him. It was almost too much and yet, Arthur didn't want it to be any other way. The feel of gentle fingers over the cap of muscle of his shoulder, the other wound tight around his stomach, fingers teasing at the head of his length and spreading sticky noise into the air. Hot-
" C'mon, come on- fuck me. "
Just over his shoulder, Arthur caught a glimpse of the toothy smile sweltering behind him, somewhat sly and incredibly aroused, and the liquid-black of Charles' gaze was absolutely stunning in the golden-rays peeking through the shaft windows. Made them both painted portraits of love, pinks and rosettes bloomed across their skin, and his fingers itch to draw it. Memorialize it, in his private journal he never let anyone see. One that he had so many pictures of Charles in, it may as well have been a notebook dedicated to the man, every sketch trailed with loving pencil and thoughtful smudges. Pining and sweet, infused with all the emotions Arthur could never manage to fully express with words alone- and lucky, between the two, that the understanding between them lay in what went unsaid.
Like these desires.
Like when Charles cocked his hips back and drove forward, fingers tightening against a hipbone to leave bruises behind, keeping him steady at his shoulder as the huntsman rocked his body. Back and forth, back and forth, so hard it almost hurts and the wood beneath Arthur's forearms creaked with every short, hard slam. Every thrust wrung some slick noise that sounded absolutely filthy, had them both whimpering and moaning into the air at finally, finally being together again like this. Just like how they wanted, desperate and hard and devouring. Until every inch of Charles was Arthur's, and every inch of Arthur was Charles'.
Utterly maddening, every pulse dragging them both higher and higher, tides upon tides crashing with pleasure along their shivering skin and throbbing muscles. It's so hot, so hard, and Arthur couldn't want for anything else in the moment- not with Charles draped over his back, pressing trembling kisses into his shoulder blades that rivaled the deep, heavy shoves of his hips, breath unsteady in their pants against flushed skin. The sweetness of the thumb pressing a circling massage into Arthur's muscle was a contrast to the bruises being imprinted into his hipbone as Charles fucked him an inch from his life, dirty like they wanted. Everything they both wanted-
And the cowboy isn't prepared for the man to suddenly pull out, leaving him gasping and empty and scrambling for some kind of conscious, of solidity. Finds none within himself, but all of it in Charles, when the man grappled him into sitting up and turning, spinning back around so they were chest-to-chest. Pulled into a bruising kiss, Arthur can't help but rasp fingers through the black veil of hair, tugging gently at the roots of the strands just to hear the moan vibrate against his ribs. Push and pull, push and pull, and it's only a mere moment but it feels like hours, hours, of being together like this. Manages to work his maw into whispering sweet,
" Ha- I... love you, Charles. "
He might've felt somewhat shy of his own catching words, choppy and stuttering, if Charles hadn't murmured right back in a heated rush of breathless delight-
" Oh, love you too. "
Thick palms wrapped around the pale of his thighs, pulling up, and Arthur is struck dumb (-er than usual, though Charles would contest the idea he was ever dumb in the first place) with the way his love's muscles bunch in the act of lifting the cowboy's feet off the ground. Pushed back, against the steady wood, with his legs thrown up around the huntsman's hips, calloused fingers grabbing his ass and pulling apart. Desperate, desperate kisses, as Arthur fumbled his hand between them to grasp Charles' cock in his hand, rubbing along the wet heat as the other shivered against him at the touch, a muffled groan whimpered from somewhere in the back of the throat. Makes him smile, full of teeth, when he kisses Charles again in the same instance he guides the throbbing length forward, in, and all it takes is a gentle push of hips before they're connected again.
It is painfully intimate like this. Facing one another, just like the first time. Lost, lost in one another's eyes as evening fell around them, only the barest hints of bright-gold sunset dappling the far reaches of their figures and the barn. But even in the fading light, their passion isn't lost, not in the slightest. Not when Charles' gaze, pupils blown so wide there was nothing but an inky blackness to look into, plush and fogged-over and comforting, were looking at him. Not when Arthur's pretty-blue eyes were staring right back, seafoam-stormy and green like the ocean, red a tint 'round the very edges a reminder of his brush with death and yet, even so, dedicated all their energy into showing just how much love he had in his heart for the man fucking him.
A kiss, another, as Charles began to move again-
Thick slides together, muscles shivery and jerking, as their shared breathless groans stuttered into whimpers and whines of desperation. Wanting, needing, to feel the other be complete. To be the reason the other became that way. And Arthur almost misses it in the white noise static cotton filling his ears and the sharp moans he couldn't quite bite his tongue on- the way Charles' voice breaks, over and over, from where his lips are pressed into the meat of the juncture of the cowboy's throat-
" Arthur, Arthur- I love you so, so much. I've missed... you so much. My- my beautiful love. My heart. My everything. "
Fuck, in all his life, Arthur has never heard Charles quite like this. So wanting, aching, and it brings tears to well in his eyes, fingers coaxing the man's head out from its hiding cove to face him. When they meet eye-to-eye, blue and black, it's clear they're both crying and honestly, the cowboy can't imagine this being anything different. It feels right, when they kiss and kiss and he manages to choke out a laugh and words into the man's shoulder when the thrusts turn harder, stronger, and his abdomen began to clench-
" Fuck, Charles, I- I love you- too. Sweetheart, ugh- missed you too, missed you, love you- please- "
Can't stop the wave of words spilling from his lips, gasping, as Charles' hands tightened on his ass and his thrusts went hard, so hard, all of his strength and weight thrown into them. Into watching Arthur's head fall back against the wood, squirming, as one of the hands thrown around the huntsman's neck shifted down to take a hold of himself, fingertips rasping along the tip. Close, so close, and he can't help but beg for it-
It's been so long, too long-
" Please, please, sweetheart, Charles. I'm... so-o-o- "
God, Arthur sounds wrecked but he just can't bother to care, not when his lover's brows knit together and he gasped a broken moan at the look on the cowboy's face, the pleading. Sews their lips together, teeth and tongue, all sloppy but infused with all of the love they had, managing to push it into their joining. In the way Arthur's legs tightened around Charles' legs, shaking hard, and a large, darker hand brushed his away to stroke him in place. Moved him higher, higher, and his nails dig into the man's back, raking up and delighting in the shudders of Charles' arms at the gesture, moan high-pitched and keening.
Desperate, both desperate-
Just a few more thrusts and the cowboy was gone, in the instance Charles' lips commanded his head down to kiss him through his hot moans, groaning sweet and high, as Arthur's veins caught fire and everything burned, stomach jumping and twitching as every muscle in his body seized. Couldn't do anything but hold on for the ride and cry out as he came, cum splattering thick and hot between them, covering their chests with opaque paint. Drips down with every shift of Charles' hips as he shuddered hard in Arthur's hold-
" Arthur, fuck- feels good- my sunshine- "
-thrusts jerking unsteady and shivery before he broke, pressing as deep and hard as he could into the cowboy's body to come hard. Can feel it, can feel it- the heat, spreading inside him as the huntsman marked him, wrecked him in all the best ways, Charles rasping a weak, deep moan and whine into the other's collarbone.
Quiet. Sharing sweet kisses when they managed to regain some of their breath, entangled together in all-sweetness, all-love.
Felt good. Better than anything else.
Arthur's legs ached when Charles gently pulled out and let him down, steadying their wobbling legs by pressing them together against the sturdy side of the barn. Relaxing fingers pushing into one another's skin, soothing away the shivers and the twitches until they were nothing but phantom whispers in their muscles. Together, together again. It was all they ever wanted, ever needed, and Arthur can't help but draw the other into greedy kiss after kiss, unwilling to let go, even for a moment. Presses their foreheads together, sharing breath and dissolving into smiles as Charles lavished gentle kisses against his cheeks-
" Aw, ain't you the sweetest man someone like me could ask for. "
The bright grin the huntsman threw his way made his heart do a terrifying swoop in his chest, but a welcomed one and one he met with ardor when Charles murmured into his cheekbone, gaze curled fondly-
" ... I think I'm the lucky one here. "
It takes them a little while to finally untangled themselves long enough to get themselves sorted, longer still to tease Charles' cum out (which he seems damn pleased with himself about, much to Arthur's chagrin), but they eventually manage to get all their clothes tucked back in. Looking presentable as they can be, aside from the bites and hickeys lavished down both of their throats and the mess their hair was, no matter how much they tried to pat it down like nothing had happened.
A while for them to trail back to the house, fingers entangled and sharing kisses along the way- don't miss Abigail's knowing look passed over them when they slowly limped their way up the stairs, even in the darkness with nothing but the house's lamplight as difference. But her smile is kind, understanding, and she welcomes them both in with a proud voice and a kiss lavished to Arthur's cheek (he doesn't blush, of course not, never). John stares hard, for a long moment, at them when they shuffle into the barren living area, but he doesn't comment.
Maybe he didn't notice, maybe he did.
They have dinner together that night, politely swallowing the... food that Abigail managed to put together. And even after all these years, Arthur knew better than to say anything against the unpleasant odor and the highly questionable textures in his mouth. It felt... nice. The cowboy had never thought he'd ever get to have something like this- a family of sorts, no matter how strange. And, above all, to have Charles back. To be with him, fingers entangled boldly on top of the table when they all dissolved into chatter and reminisces of the past few years. No one said a damn thing aside from Uncle, who slyly commented that it was about damn time, you guys already play leap-frog?
He was asking for the smack on the head he got for the comment, but it was meant in warmth nonetheless.
And when they all went their separate ways- Arthur was allowed a door. A closed door. One he hadn't been allowed aside from the few times he'd stayed in hotels in his time as an outlaw with Dutch and the rest. And he is allowed Charles, entangling themselves together again with sweet kisses and soft noise. Stumbled into the bedroll on the floor, trapped together, as their adorations boiled over into their cocks dragging together once more, the huntsman hovering over Arthur, between his legs again, with pushes of his hips that the cowboy met with rolls of his own. Hands over one another's mouths as they finished- thankfully, into a bandana this time, lengths red-hot throbbing against one another, dissolving into praise and loving coos whispered into the space between them.
It's not the first time they sleep in the same place together, and it certainly wouldn't be the last- Arthur's head pillowed on Charles' broad chest, lulled by the beats of their hearts and steady breaths.
When they wake up, both seeing that the lover they thought lost was still there, it almost brought them to tears again as they stared in the peach-light, golden sunrise dappling across the length of their bodies. Charles doesn't get up early this time. Doesn't look to make himself busy. Not with Arthur in his arms, sharing warmth and being everything he's ever wanted. And in the pretty light, they share another kiss and whisper words that are the only things of truth that have remained the truth since they were first spoken between them-
" I love you. "