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A storm was brewing over Saint Denis. The clouds, still hazy silver and not the deep almost-black of an impending downpour, were actually making the morning more pleasant. They blotted out the full heat of the Lemoyne sun, making the temperature much more bearable. The air still clung humid and sticky to Charles as he and Arthur left the stables at the edge of the city and made their way towards the docks.
Arthur must've been able to sense his anxiety around leaving Taima in the hands of strangers, because he gently nudged Charles with his elbow and drawled, "She'll be fine. I've used them stables a few times now. Currant's always real happy to let the stablehands give him some lovin' before we leave, so I know they're real good to him." Amusement crept into his tone as he added, "And you preemptively tippin' the feller is a good enough nudge for him to treat Taima right. Betcha we come back to her brushed down and bathed with ribbons in her hair." Arthur's eyes flicked to the leather band loosely gathering Charles' hair away from his neck and face. He smiled, "So, quit your worryin' and let me treat my lady nice today, alright?"
Charles huffed, feigning indignation, even as he couldn't help the additional heat rising to his face, nor the little smile fighting to make itself known. "I thought we had a job to do."
"We do, but it's just scoutin'. So, there ain't no reason for us to hurry or act like anythin' other than a couple more tourists enjoyin' a day in the city together."
'Enjoying' and 'the city' were two phrases Charles wouldn’t normally string together. He had never been fond of Saint Denis. The city was too loud. There weren't enough trees and there were too many people. It wasn't comfortable to ride Taima through the streets, so he didn't even have her company as reassurance, nor the promise of a speedy escape if things went south. Regardless of what the mock majesty of the city would have one believe, it was still smack dab in the middle of the humid, racist hell that was Lemoyne. The likelihood for disaster was high for someone like him and he found himself itching for the comfort of the saddle.
But at least he had Arthur at his side. The cowboy's presence made it a bit easier to relax...though perhaps 'cowboy' wasn't the right descriptor for Arthur today. He'd forgone his spurs and his signature hat, opting instead for a less rugged, less distinct appearance. He only wore a single holster on his right hip, and he had put on his cleanest, least ragged pair of pants. His shirt was perhaps unbuttoned a bit too far to be considered proper, but Charles wasn't going to complain about the little peak of pale skin and rough hair it offered. Besides, he was in much the same boat himself. Even with the cloud cover, the Lemoyne heat was no joke. His maroon shirt was unbuttoned to the clavicle, his vest resting open over his shoulders.
They went straight to the train station to fulfill their single errand for the gang. Bronte had promised a heavy score and limited security, but the gang had agreed a feller like Angelo Bronte wasn't exactly the pinnacle of trustworthiness, and so Arthur had decided to take a closer look for himself.
He approached the clerk, asking after an important package for his 'uncle Tacitus'. From where Charles stood, pretending to examine the train schedule, he could plainly see the safe tucked on the counter in the back corner. It seemed too small to contain the riches Bronte had promised. To Charles, it looked more like a harder-to-steal alternative to a simple lockbox, which was a smart thing to have in a place like a city station, with its high volume of patrons and folks passing through.
Arthur must have had similar suspicions. The clerk looked over the mail slots and told him there were no letters for anyone with the last name 'Kilgore'. In a dramatic display of insistent concern, Arthur used the opportunity to lean through the clerk's window. Craning his neck, he gestured toward a collection of brown wrapped packages and pressed, "Mister, you sure it ain't over there?"
As the clerk sighed and busied himself with taking a closer look, clearly hoping to satisfy Arthur and send him on his way, Arthur practically doubled over on the counter. He peered beneath it and used the new perspective to better survey the clerk's booth.
When the clerk turned around and saw Arthur draped over his counter like a cat in a sunbeam, he began, "Sir, I must insist you—"
"Hang on, Mister," Arthur interrupted, straightening back up. He readjusted the tuck of his shirt where it had ridden up. "You said this was the Saint Denis station, right? The only one in town?"
"Yes, sir," the clerk replied with forced patience.
Arthur clicked his tongue, thoughtful, then said, "Maybe he said Strawberry. That sounds a little like Saint Denis, don't you think?"
"I suppose so, sir."
"Uncle Tacitus's memory's goin' a bit, I'm afraid, and—"
"Will someone get this moron out of here?"
The man standing in line behind Arthur had been huffing to himself from the moment Arthur approached the counter. Now, Arthur turned to him and put a hand down on his shoulder with such force that the stranger sagged a little. Arthur squeezed and said cheerfully, "Now, friend, there ain't no need to be rude."
"Some of us have proper business to attend to," the man replied, looking as though having Arthur touch him was akin to being tossed into a pig sty.
"Proper business," Arthur replied with a snort. "Right." He removed his hand and turned back to the clerk. He made to tip his hat, which he wasn't wearing, and instead turned the gesture into an awkward little wave. "Thank you for your help, mister. Sorry to have been a bother."
"No bother," the clerk muttered, already turning gratefully away from Arthur and towards his next patron.
Charles waited a few moments longer, letting Arthur walk several paces up the sidewalk, before he abandoned his examination of the train schedule and joined him. As they fell into stride together, Arthur led them away from the docks and back into the city proper.
"What do you think?" Charles asked.
"I think Bronte's trying to play us for a bunch of fools. No guards, just the one safe, and the clerk didn't even have a gun behind the counter."
"With such a heavy police force on standby, maybe he has a false sense of security?" Charles suggested. He didn't believe there was much of a score at the station either, but it was worth examining every angle, especially given Dutch's apparent eagerness to form a relationship with Bronte, regardless of the trouble it'd bring them.
"The heavy police force is exactly why it ain't worth it," Arthur replied, and Charles was inclined to agree. The only problem now would be convincing Dutch.
He followed Arthur along a narrow alley and up the nearest street. He could tell the other man had a destination in mind. He kept pausing at street-crossings to get his bearings.
"Where we goin' now?" Charles asked.
"The girls visited the city a couple days ago. Mentioned somethin' about a little place that's got some fancy coffee, and I ain't had breakfast. You?"
"You know I haven't," Charles replied with a smile. Arthur returned it with a smirk.
They’d joyfully wasted the earliest hours of the morning tangled together in Arthur’s bed. Shady Belle was surely on its way towards sinking right into the swamp, but, until it succumbed to the sucking mud around it, it was nice to enjoy a little privacy. Arthur having his own room was a luxury they were taking advantage of, especially now that he'd found a bolt latch to actually keep the rest of the gang out.
By the time they'd bothered getting dressed, all that had remained in the camp percolator were soggy, burned grounds. They'd decided to head on into the city, rather than taking the time to brew another pot—
"Hell," Arthur had said, "I didn't even get any. Someone else can clean the damn thing."
—but Charles knew morning coffee was a ritual Arthur rarely skipped. Even if midday was creeping up on them now, he supposed it was better late than never.
"I think that's it up there," Arthur said, nodding up the street.
A green-and-white striped canopy jutted out from a brick building on the corner of the next intersection. Tables and chairs were clustered beneath it and a line of patrons were tucked alongside the brick.
Charles could smell coffee already, along with the sweet, warm scent of cooked dough. They joined the line, which moved quickly, and were then met with a very simple menu. Regardless of how good the coffee was going to be, hearing Arthur fumble through the words 'cafe au lait' and 'beignet' had already made this diversion more than worth it. The employee actually winced at his pronunciation, but took their money all the same, and soon they were settling at a table with their mugs and the little plate of fried dough between them.
The coffee was good. It wasn't brewed nearly as strong as the black-as-tar swill they drank back in camp, and the addition of milk worked nicely to temper the acid and bitterness of the coffee itself. Arthur was sipping his own with a look bordering on skepticism.
"You don't like it?" Charles asked.
He reached for one of the beignets, breaking it in half with his fingers and watching a bit of steam curl out and into the air. Powdered sugar rained lightly down onto the plate. He offered one half to Arthur, who accepted, and popped the other half into his own mouth. The dough itself wasn't overly sweet, the addition of the sugar doing just enough to make it an indulgence but not some absurd decadence.
Arthur hummed, feigning distaste, even as Charles could see the surprised pleasure sparking in his eyes as he chewed. "It ain't exactly what I'm used to."
"You mean it's actually good," Charles pressed.
Arthur failed to hide his answering smile behind his mug. "It just don't feel like it'd wake you up in the mornin' quite like the coffee in camp does."
"Not everything has to be practical to be worthwhile."
"Well, now, Mr. Smith," Arthur replied, fully smirking now as he reached for a second beignet, "that leads very nicely to our last stop for this fine morning."
"Which is?" Charles asked, curious.
"You'll see."
They finished their late breakfast and moved deeper into the city. Arthur still refused to say where they were headed and Charles, usually not one for surprises, found himself content to follow along. They paused in their route only briefly, to listen for a few moments to a busker playing a trumpet. Both Charles and Arthur dropped a full dollar into the man’s case. The gesture of easy generosity surprised the poor feller so much that his next note came out as a startled honk. With a guffaw from Arthur and a snort of amusement from Charles, they continued on.
Arthur led him up the steps of the big building at Harris Square. He held open the door for him at the tailor’s and Charles frowned, “What are we doin’ here?”
Arthur raised his eyebrows, looking incredibly pleased with himself, and replied, “Gonna buy my lady a scarf.”
Charles didn't need to ask for clarification. Heat instantly rushed to his face and, as he forced his feet to convey him past Arthur and into the shop, he muttered, "You're an awful man, Arthur Morgan."
Arthur laughed, "What do you mean? I'm bein’ nice."
"Oh, I know what you're doing. And it ain't nice," Charles muttered.
Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but the man behind the counter cut him off with a cheerful, "What can I do for you gentlemen?"
They had talked about this before, of course, but Charles had assumed that's all it was — just silly bedroom talk.
"Need to getchya something that won't pull your hair, princess," Arthur had murmured, maybe a week ago now. He'd been wincing in sympathy as he carefully worked free the tangles in Charles' hair caused by the friction between the bed, the blindfold, and the back of Charles' head. They had always used Arthur's bandana for this purpose, but the fabric was rough enough to muss Charles' hair and irritate the skin around his eyes, especially if he happened to cry, as he so often did when blindfolded.
"I don't much mind," he'd hummed, voice sleepy and sated. His mind had still been drifting in that hazy, pleasant place Arthur could get him to, the place he found easier to find if the rest of the world was visually blotted out.
Arthur had been cupping his cheek. His thumb had gently brushed away the moisture collected there. Because he was Arthur — strange, wonderful Arthur — he then pressed his thumb over his tongue and licked the tears away as though he were preparing to turn the page of a book. Charles supposed the tears were his due, the same as the stripes of cum Arthur had cleaned from his stomach and chest. He'd wrung them out of him. It was his right to do with them as he wished.
With the tears gone, Arthur's thumb had returned to stroke gently over the reddened skin by Charles' eye. "I know, but you deserve better. Might be we oughta get you one of them fancy scarfs like the ladies wear in Saint Denis.”
Charles had been too exhausted to do more than huff softly in an attempt at derision. “Don’t need to spend money on somethin’ silly like that.”
“Ain’t silly if it’s for you.” Arthur had settled like a warm blanket over Charles’ bare body. The weight of him was heavy and perfect. He’d pressed a kiss to Charles’ neck and murmured, “I’d rob every bank from here to New York, sweetheart, if it’d make you happy.”
“Don’t need nothin’ to make me happy but you, Arthur,” he’d sighed. He’d run his fingers through the sweat-damp strands of Arthur’s hair. “You old fool.”
They’d been holed up together in an abandoned hunter’s cabin up north. Even with his own room and a door that locked, it was good to escape the heat of Lemoyne, and it was even better to have long hours just to themselves. It was on ‘hunting trips’ like these that they’d been given the time and freedom to discover more about one another. Charles’ penchant for being bound and blindfolded had been something they’d explored in such moments. Arthur, they’d found, didn’t much care for being on the receiving end of such a gesture — it reminded him a bit too much of the period he’d spent held captive by Colm O’Driscoll — but he did like seeing his man completely helpless beneath him.
Now, Arthur looked to the salesman with a smirk emphasizing his handsome features. “I’m lookin’ for a nice scarf to buy my lady. Normally I don’t spend too much money on clothes, mind you—” There was something of a warning in his tone, as if suggesting the salesman best not waste his time with anything too extravagant. Charles was a bit relieved to hear it. He was flattered, of course, to be spoiled by Arthur, but it was a silly thing to spend money on. “—but she don’t have too many nice things and I’d really like to get her somethin’ special. She deserves it.”
Charles was pretending to be very interested in a display of vests that were neatly buttoned up on a row of countertop mannequins. The heat that had risen to his face when he understood Arthur’s plans was only spreading, becoming more intense. He could feel his ears warming now, too, and he tried hard to focus on his surroundings, and not let his mind wander towards any memories or new imaginings.
“Of course, sir!” The salesman chirped. He guided Arthur blessedly away from Charles, to a different set of displays across the room. “Does she have a favorite color?”
“Maybe,” Arthur drawled, contemplative. When Charles peeked over his shoulder at him, Arthur was watching him. Their eyes met and Arthur’s were bright with mischief. “I like her in emerald green, or maroon. She’s got a dark complexion, see? And those colors look real nice on her.”
Charles was wearing his maroon shirt today. He knew it was Arthur’s favorite, and he was always hopeless to attempt buttoning it up all the way. The cowboy had a way of punishing his attempts at modesty. Namely, by finding a surface to shove Charles up against, undoing the buttons himself, and leaving a mark or two over the upper swell of Charles’ breast. He’d then button the shirt up just enough to cover it and hum, “There, now, ain’t that better?”
Arthur’s eyes flicked now to the open collar of his shirt, then slid away to look with so much mock-innocence towards the salesman. He added, “That tends to be what she wears when we’re able to get dressed up. Makes sense to get somethin’ that’ll match what she’s already got.”
“How very sensible of you, sir.”
The way the other men were standing, side-by-side and facing one another at the counter, allowed Charles to see clearly as they began examining the scarves. The salesman pulled them from the drawers beneath the countertop. In turn, he held them out to Arthur by draping them over his spread palms like he was a fishmonger with an impressively large salmon.
Charles could see each scarf as it was presented for Arthur’s examination. He was standing behind and a little to the right of the salesman’s back, putting him in Arthur’s line of sight, but not the other man’s. It made it so that Arthur could gauge Charles’ reaction without making it terribly obvious what he was doing.
They worked through three different scarves in quick succession — an emerald green one that looked thin and flimsy, a ruby red that appeared to be wool and therefore much too hot, and, finally, a garish floral pattern that earned an arched eyebrow from Charles which he hoped correctly conveyed absolutely not.
“She’s sort of got delicate skin,” Arthur said, as the salesman once again rummaged through his stock. “You got somethin’ that’s—I dunno, soft but durable?”
Charles huffed out a breath and ran his hand over his face, but the salesman didn’t seem to think it was an odd question. He merely hummed, “Silk, perhaps?”
He removed a maroon slip of fabric that flowed from the drawer and into his hands like the spilled blood of a slit throat. The color was rich, and caught the light in such a way as to draw the eye but not demand attention. It struck a more delicate balance than some of the more glaring options Arthur had observed already. He took the scarf from the salesman’s hands and into his own. He rubbed the fabric gently between thumb and forefinger and Charles found himself longing to feel it too, to feel it as Arthur pressed it tight over his eyes.
“This is durable?” Arthur asked.
“Oh, yes, sir, silk is quite durable if treated properly.”
“And what’s proper treatment look like to a bit of fabric?” Arthur drawled. Charles edged a bit closer, figuring if this was the option they chose, it was best he know how to make it last too.
“Well, most of the worry lies with the dye, you see. The fabric itself is quite durable and should last years, sir. Yes, years!” He emphasized, when Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. “But silk doesn’t hold dye as well as other fabrics. Perfumes or alcohol can damage it, as can too much direct sunlight—”
“Don’t reckon we gotta worry about that…” Arthur murmured. Charles coughed to hide the tiny indignant sound that had threatened to spill from his mouth. Arthur’s eyes met his and he added, “Why don’t you come take a look at this? Tell me if you think it’s worthy of my girl.”
With his face surely trying to go as red as his shirt, as red as that scarf, Charles joined the other men. Arthur passed the scarf into his hands. It flowed from Arthur’s fingers and into his palm like a liquid, smooth and cool to the touch. It was making his mouth water, regardless of how stubbornly he was forcing his thoughts away from locked doors and borrowed beds. He had to swallow hard and concentrate on making his mouth do more than just drool and ache to press against Arthur's, "Seems nice enough to me."
"Probably look good on you, too," Arthur replied. To the salesman, it surely came off as a joke, but Charles, who knew Arthur better than he knew anyone, could hear the edge of strain in his voice. He was getting just as flustered as Charles was. "Reckon I'll take it."
"Excellent choice, sir." The salesman took the scarf from Charles' hands and bustled off back behind the counter. He looked to Charles as he removed a nice little box and some tissue to wrap the scarf in. "And, you, sir, is there anything you're after today?"
Before Charles could reply, Arthur snorted and said, "Naw, his lady wouldn't know finery if it jumped up and bit her on the ass. Don't reckon she's got an elegant bone in her body."
"Got at least one in her, when I'm around," Charles muttered, low enough that the salesman couldn't hear him.
Arthur barked a laugh so loud it startled the man behind the register. He jumped, knocking the lid to the gift box into the floor. As he bent to pick it up, Arthur reached back to give Charles a good-natured pat, still chuckling, “Oh, that’s certainly true, big man.”
It would’ve been a friendly enough gesture had Arthur’s hand been fondly patting anywhere other than Charles’ crotch. He swatted Arthur’s hand away and tried to ignore the way the touch had made him twitch in his trousers. Arthur was still smirking, but it fell away in an instant as the register chimed, the drawer opened, and the cashier said, “Twenty-four-fifty, sir.”
Arthur’s hand came down on the counter, his weight sagging into his arm with such dumbfounded force that it made the glass display case rattle. Incredulously, he asked, “Dollars?”
“Um, yes, sir—”
“You got enough, cowboy?” Charles asked, fighting a smile as Arthur dug around in his satchel.
“Yes, I’ve got enough,” he muttered. He began counting the money out on the counter.
“Real lucky lady you got,” Charles mused.
“Well, I’m a lucky man.”
He still sounded a bit cranky, his voice more of a growl than usual, but he offered Charles a smile as he placed a couple quarters down on top of the bills. He slid them across the counter and received the scarf in exchange. It was now tucked away inside the little box, which was secured closed with a length of ribbon. With a parting nod and a “thanks, mister,” they left the shop and made their way back towards the stables.
Taima had no new bows or ribbons of her own, but both her and Currant had been brushed and offered fresh feed. The animals seemed perfectly content in their stalls, but were equally happy to have their riders returned to them.
As they rode out towards Shady Belle, a peal of thunder rolled over them, so loud that Taima pinned back her ears and Currant let out a nervous whicker. The sky had gone properly black now. It wouldn’t be long before the rain started.
Arthur frowned up at the clouds and said, “Ain’t too late to bring the horses back and hunker down until this passes.”
“It’ll be alright. A little rain never hurt nothin’.”
It turned out to be much more than a little rain. They’d made it past Caliga Hall, just far enough that it was equally inconvenient to turn and go back, when the bottom fell out. They were both drenched in seconds and the rain only felt colder as they spurred the horses faster, eager to get out of the downpour.
They untacked Taima and Currant as quickly as possible, both cursing and laughing at the rain in equal measure. With their saddlebags in tow, they rushed towards the manor, only to have Miss Grimshaw stop them at the front door.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Morgan. You’re not tracking all that water through this house. You go take the side door. You too, Mr. Smith.”
“But—” Arthur protested.
“Go on, before the good Lord finally decides to smite you.” She at least let them deposit their saddlebags on the porch. As they took a deep breath and prepared to plunge back into the storm, she called to their retreating backs, “And take those muddy boots off at the door!”
“Damn woman,” Arthur muttered once they were inside. Charles sat at the foot of the stairs to remove his boots. Arthur, the fool, was dancing on one foot to try to yank his off.
“You hush, you know you wouldn’t have cleaned up after yourself if she let us come in the front.”
“I would have,” Arthur protested. He pitched sideways into the wall with a grunt. His left boot hit the floor and, smiling and shaking his head, Charles offered a hand to steady him as he tugged off the right.
“If she’d made you,” Charles agreed.
Arthur didn’t bother to respond. Instead, he retreated past Charles and up the stairs. Charles collected their boots from their haphazard pile and lined them up more neatly by the door. He followed the wet prints Arthur had left on the stairs and around the banister to his room. Arthur was already out of his socks, gun belt, and shirt. His satchel, Charles noted, had been tossed onto his trunk near the bed.
Charles closed the door behind him and then huffed as Arthur pressed him up against it. The latch clicked somewhere near Charles’ ear. Arthur's mouth went to his neck, his hands beginning work on his wet shirt.
"Best get you out of them wet clothes, darlin'. Got somethin' else for you to put on."
"Here?" Charles asked. They never usually used the blindfold or the ropes in camp but, Charles supposed, the sound of the rain and thunder outside would help disguise what they were doing.
"Sure," Arthur hummed. His hands had made quick work of Charles' buttons and now slid beneath the fabric to hold the soft swell of fat between his ribs and his hips.
He hummed as Arthur's mouth wandered down to his chest. He placed a kiss to the mark he'd left there that morning and set about making it a twin. These days, Charles didn't mind too much if Arthur left his mark a bit higher. The gang knew about them and it was no secret the sort of things they got up to, but he did seem to receive a lot less teasing when the bruises remained hidden beneath his shirt. His chest, however, was fair game. It was a fact that Arthur took advantage of frequently and with great enthusiasm.
"You ain't gotta wear it the whole time,” Arthur murmured against his skin, “not if you don't want to, but I'd like to see it on you."
“Especially seein’ as it cost twenty dollars?”
“Twenty-five,” Arthur corrected. Charles wedged his hands between them to unbutton his pants. Arthur eagerly took over. He carefully unbuckled and lowered Charles’ gun belt to the floor, then tugged Charles forward to push away his shirt and vest. “But you know I’d spend a hundred on you, if you really wanted. I’d make myself destitute if it’d please you, darlin’.”
Charles huffed, part laugh, part brain-stuttering arousal as Arthur palmed him through his underwear. “That’d mean a lot more if we weren’t sharing a house with fifteen other people, or if that house weren’t half-rotted and full of holes.”
“Well, the sentiment still stands,” Arthur murmured. He pressed his smile into Charles’ neck, then stepped backwards and tugged him along. Their sodden pants hit the floor with a wet slap and Arthur made certain their underwear quickly followed.
Wearing nothing but his necklace and a fine sheen of rainwater, Charles was guided onto the bed. It should’ve been much too narrow for two grown men, but they’d make it work, as they had on several occasions already. He lay back against the thin pillow. It smelled of the soap Arthur washed with and of the oil Charles put in his own hair. It was comforting — their scents combined in a place of shared rest and pleasure.
Arthur retrieved the little box from his satchel, then straddled Charles’ hips. He sat back on his thighs and extended the box to him with a soft, “Mr. Smith.”
He took it from Arthur and untied the ribbon. He let it drop to the floor and opened the lid. From this angle, with his head resting against the pillow, it was difficult to see into the box without tilting it towards him. So, rather than lift the scarf out, he just upturned the box and let it fall over his chest. He set the box and its lid aside, too, and, before he could take the scarf in his own hands, Arthur was gathering it up.
Charles smiled, “I thought this was a gift for me?”
“It is. I’m helping,” Arthur insisted. He shook the fabric out to reveal the full silken square, which he spread out across Charles’ chest with a lopsided grin. “Really does look gorgeous against your skin, sweetheart.”
It already felt a whole lot better than any bandana ever had. The square was large enough to just cover his nipples, and the chill of the cool fabric already had them perking up into little peaks beneath the shroud of maroon.
Arthur lifted the bottom corners of the scarf up and folded it in half towards Charles’ chin once, then twice, then a third time. He was left with a strip of fabric maybe three inches wide — just enough to cover Charles’ eyes.
“Ready?” Arthur asked.
“Mhm,” Charles hummed.
Arthur took the fabric in hand and leaned forward. Charles lifted his head to accommodate him. Once the scarf was secured with a knot, he let his head fall back against the pillow and experimentally rolled it side to side. The blindfold remained in place and the knot felt less obtrusive than it did when they’d used a bandana instead.
“Good?”
“Good,” Charles agreed.
Arthur waited, same as he always did during this particular game of theirs. Charles liked having a moment to reorient himself, to let his body adjust to the shift in his perception. Normally, on a borrowed bed, they’d have more room and Charles would spread out a bit. He couldn’t do that here, so he let his hands rest over his own stomach, feeling his own slow breaths. He could also feel the cool breeze that the storm was pushing through the drafty house, and the comparatively hot weight of Arthur’s thighs over his own, and the press of Arthur’s knees tucked against his hips.
With the thunder roaring, the lightening cracking, and the wind and rain battering the sides of the house, there was an extra degree of sensory deprivation than he usually experienced. His ears felt overly sensitive, straining to hear Arthur over the outside noise, so that, when Arthur did speak, it seemed too loud.
“Whatchya think?” Arthur asked. The words, simple and light in his familiar drawl, made Charles shudder. Arthur noticed and ran his hands down Charles’ sides with warm, firm pressure, like he was rubbing the neck of a spooked horse. “Still alright?”
“I’m fine.” His own voice seemed louder too, resonating in his skull beneath the soft folds of the fabric. “Storm’s awful loud.”
Arthur hummed, a sound that grew in volume as Arthur leaned closer to his ear. He practically whispered, “That’s good, though, ain’t it? Means no one but me gets to hear those pretty noises you make.”
He shuddered again, this time due to the pleasurable trail of goosebumps Arthur’s words sent rushing down his spine. The other man cupped his cheek and leaned in to kiss him, soft and slow. The kiss deepened gradually, Arthur sinking into Charles’ eager mouth the same way Charles’ mind sank into its pleasant, sightless haze —
He was snapped out of it as quickly as if he’d been shoved into icy water. A loud bang sounded from nearby. It wasn’t the roar of thunder or the smack of branches blown in the wind. It was the rattle of glass in its panes, followed by a quick succession of knocking.
“Arthur?” Charles asked, sharp and alarmed.
“It’s alright, darlin’, just some idiot—”
“Hey, Arthur!” John’s croak was unmistakable. So was Arthur’s answering groan of annoyance. “Open up! You ain’t got any bullets for my revolver out here.”
“I’ll kill him,” Arthur muttered into Charles’ neck.
“He’ll go away faster if you just give him what he wants,” Charles replied, smiling.
“You’re probably right.”
“Arthur!” John barked again.
“I’m comin’, Marston, goddamnit.”
Arthur eased off of Charles with an irritated sigh and made his way towards the balcony door. Charles worked the blindfold down so that the scarf rested around his neck.
Despite the latching door and their frequent need for privacy, Arthur’s room still acted as the gang’s armory. Ammunition was one thing a group of criminals simply couldn’t stand to run low on and Arthur was unfortunately the most likely to notice when stocks were low and keep everything replenished. Arthur also helped them avoid some trouble by refusing to hand over dynamite to anyone without good reason. He had, however, placed a wooden crate on the balcony outside his room where he kept a smaller arsenal of supplies. The balcony stretched across the whole front of the house, so it could be accessed without having to come through Arthur’s room. It was enough for folks to usually take what they needed and leave, even if Arthur was occupied.
“Marston, if you don’t fuck off real quick, I’m gonna throw you over that damn balcony.”
“Jesus, Arthur! I came as soon as I heard you were back. How the hell are you already naked?”
“Jealousy ain’t becoming, Marston,” Arthur muttered in reply. He’d gone to the balcony door still entirely devoid of clothing, though he had paused on the way to snag his hat, which he was now holding over his surely-deflating erection. From Charles’ vantage point on the bed, he had quite a lovely view of Arthur’s pale, hairy back and even paler, hairier ass.
He couldn’t see John from here, but he didn’t need to in order to understand how flustered the other man was. “Ain’t jealous— Jesus, you two are like a couple of rabbits— ”
“What do you want, Marston?” Arthur demanded.
“Revolver ammo—”
“It’s in the damn crate.”
“No, it isn’t—”
“Did you look?”
“Of course I looked— Damnit, Arthur!” He cut himself off as Arthur stepped out onto the balcony with him and turned to dig in the crate, baring his ass to John. “Couldn’t you have put on some pants?”
“Couldn’t this have waited? I know you ain’t riding out in this storm.”
“I told you, I came as soon as I saw you were back. Not my fault you two couldn’t wait a few minutes to get at each other. Didn’t figure either of you’d be leavin’ your room for the rest of the day but some of us have things to do in the morning.” Beneath the roar of the rain and John’s voice, Charles could hear the sounds of Arthur rummaging in the crate outside. “And I sure as hell didn’t want to wake you up. You’re worse’n a grizzly comin’ out of hibernation. Just as hungry and three times as cranky.”
“Throwin’ you out into the rain is gettin’ more appealing by the second,” Arthur muttered. “Here—”
John grunted. Arthur must’ve shoved the ammunition at him with some force. “Thanks—”
“I know you’ve got the object permanence of a blind newborn, but try to remember that sometimes things can be underneath other things—”
Before John could reply, Charles rolled his eyes and called, “Arthur!”
If he let them build up any more steam, they’d be out there for the rest of the day and someone probably would end up tossed over the balcony. Hell, there was a good chance Charles himself would go toss them both out into the storm.
“Comin’, darlin’,” Arthur replied. He heard John snort and Arthur cheerfully added, “Fuck off, Marston,” as he came back inside.
He tossed his hat onto his map table and grinned. “Now, then. Where were we?”