♧
Many suns had fallen and risen again during their time at Chief Rains Fall's Reservation. He had come to appreciate the simplicity that life in their tribe offered, complex and troublesome at times, but they didn't go searching for problems or dangerous stakes. Not like back home, not like Dutch seemed to blatantly go out of his way for.
A month of slow mornings, steady hands and borrowed peace had showed him what it felt like being out of the line of fire for the first time since Arthur could recall from memory. Being welcomed amongst his people and protected as one of their own taught Arthur what living without fear felt like again— that this way of living was an option, if they truly wanted it.
For the first time in a long while, Arthur felt as though he was seeing through a clear lens. His thoughts were less confused and jumbled, and his morals seemed more clear in comparison to when he spent too much time alongside Dutch.
He forced himself from spiralling down the newly discovered rabbit hole, instead concerning himself with focusing on the heavy, measured weight above him, pleasantly crushing him into the bedroll below— suckling and nipping at him with intent and how blissful it all felt, washing over him.
“Charles…” Arthur huffed and panted while the hulking, broad Hunter rolled and angled his hips until the Outlaw was seeing stars in his vision.”You're so– Ah! Fuck, can't feel ‘m’ legs…” He jerked, twitching and fluttering until a long, drawn out groan was pulled from the pit of Charles’ chest in response.
“Good,” Charles growled against the shell of Arthur's ear, leaving goosebumps in the wake of hot breath fanning against his lobe. Calloused, gun-worn fingers sank into the thick strands of his lover's oilspill hair to tug and pull, encouraging Charles to thrust deeper inside of him with each movement Arthur seemed to make. “Fuck Arthur, you sound so pretty like this.”
The Outlaw's face burned and tingled with heat in a combination of embarrassment and yearning. A strained, guttural, half-moan escaped him, eyes alight. “Don't…say that!” He huffed, if anything, Arthur's ruddy, flushed complexion and sudden, avoidance only served to spur Charles on; a man on a mission.
“Charles! Ah–” Arthur muffled his own rising volume as he buried his stubbled, shorn face against the meat of Charles’ neck. The Hunter hummed his approval, thick arms roped with muscle shifted until they were firmly placed underneath his ass, without any preemptive ceremony, he hauled Arthur up into his arms, shifting the outlaw until he was seated in his lap.
“Oh. Charles, that's —oh! Fuck!” Arthur groaned out, unable to stop the volume of his pitch or how unlike himself he sounded. Their newfound position prompted Arthur's hips to move and roll on their own accord, causing his lover to grasp and squeeze his waist encouragingly. “I know, I know.” Charles sounded euphoric, his hands wandered along Arthur's body like a man starved— as though he couldn't stop himself despite his best efforts, cock speared deep inside of the outlaw.
“Arthur, Arthur,” The Hunter panted and moaned his name in his husky, thick brogue that made Dutch's best kept weapon twitch and keen, untouched cock bumping and drooling against their stomachs generously. The Bowman knocked their sweat slicked foreheads together, free hand drifting downwards between them to wrap around Arthur's weeping length.
“I love you, Cowboy.” Like a man under a spell, Arthur was unable to stop himself from coming undone at Charles’ words. He bucked and writhed on top of his lover, sliding against his soft palm, head tilting backwards until he was a moaning mess, spilling into the bowl of Charles' warm hand. He stroked and nursed him through his shattering climax, strong nose brushing against Arthur's and plush lips teasing him with presses of Charles' mouth that were far too short for his liking.
Instead of fucking Arthur deeper like he hoped, Charles’ thrusts slowed until they were nothing more than shallow, languid thrusts that frustrated Arthur more than anything else. Finally, through his half-lidded, annoyed expression, Arthur met his lover's determined gaze. “Say it back.” The Hunter demanded softly, while Arthur's stomach knotted and his heart lodged itself in the back of his throat.
Suddenly, without warning, Charles stopped fucking him entirely; hips slowing until they were doing nothing more but rutting and sliding against one another. Flustered and partly frustrated from the loss of friction, Arthur's expression jumped. “Say it back,” His lover repeated after being faced with Arthur's confusion, nuzzling against him. “Tell me you love me too, Arthur Morgan.” He didn't know what prompted him to comply with Charles’ demands— whether it was his own selfish desires, or the silent, devestating plea wrapped around Charles words like he needed to hear him say it he didn't know, only that he was a man damned either way.
“I love you, Charles.” He finally exhaled, words ragged and wet with emotion. He felt Charles' cock flex and twitch in response and without direction or intent, Arthur's hips rolled and moved, amateurly fucking himself on The Hunter's cock. “Course I love you—ah–I can't stop! Even if I wanted to quit you ‘m too selfish to let you go.”
This apparently, was the best answer Arthur could've possibly given, Charles cried out in pleasure and started driving his cock up into Arthur, moving at a punishable, brutal pace that stole the breath from his lungs and made it difficult to stay upright. Before he could piece it together, a pair of powerful, mighty hands were gripping his hips until it hurt, fucking him in deep, earth-shattering strokes that made his limbs tremble and his mind go blank.
Lost in the throes of ecstasy, Arthur babbled incoherently, a litany of praise and devotion spilling from his lips. His back bowed off the bedroll, every muscle drawn taut as he rode out the waves of his intense climax. Charles joined him in his efforts, crying out as he seated his pelvic bone against his ass, riding out the peak of his release against him until the aftershocks subsided.
Arthur breathed and panted in tandem with his lover, arms tightening around his waist as his body jumped and jerked with sensitivity. Charles buried his face in the side of Arthur's neck, bending down closer to him to manage such a feat with his height. He petted the back of long, raven black hair, normally braided and fastened out of the way— Arthur liked it loose like this.
He liked Charles like this.
“There, there…” Arthur soothed, practically cooing with his efforts, sounding wonderfully unlike the big, bad rapport he'd built around him after all this time. He melted into Charles; into the nuzzling of stubble against his jaw and lips and teeth suckling and biting at his skin, marking him without giving care or thought to who might see it and ask questions.
Maybe that's what he wanted. After all, speaking with Mato had been enough to rile him up, Arthur wasn't entirely against rousing the reaction from him again but he saved that thought for another time. “That was…” The Hunter trailed off, grinning from ear to ear like an idiot as he peppered open-mouthed, wet kisses across his heated skin.
A deep, hearty chuckle rolled from his mouth, cheeks ruddy and red and eyes fluttering from bliss. “I know.” He hummed and tilted his head on instinct to allow his lover further access to the column of his throat. They settled into a comfortable, intimate quiet of tender kissing and wandering hands in the privacy of their lean-to, basking in their shared peace for as long as time would let them.
Before long, Charles withdrew from him, careful and intentional with each movement or press of weight. Arthur thought it humorous that Charles treated him so tenderly when he had just rearranged Arthur's guts only minutes ago. Still, Arthur allowed his lover to take care of him by cleaning him up afterwards and guiding his limbs as Charles dutifully redressed him like it was his god given right to put his hands on Arthur's body.
His undershirt was still ruffled, the chords still undone and loosely strewn about before Charles got distracted and connected their lips together in a deep, fluttery kiss that left Arthur panting and chasing after him when he pulled away just as quickly. Arthur pinned him with a look of exasperation, but Charles only appeared amused by his own teasing.
“Hey, I ain't sure teasin’ is good for either one of us.” Arthur mused, causing Charles’ expression to jump, impatiently. “Oh yeah, why's that? Because you can't handle a little playfulness? Does it hurt your feelings?” Arthur narrowed his eyes and his expression thinned momentarily, his mouth parted to retort but Charles was faster— pressing his lips against Arthur's to shut him up.
It did the trick.
They parted from one another after some time, prolonging the morning wrapped in each other's embrace while the smell of low burning coals wafted through camp for as long as they reasonably could. Arthur was itching to get back home, but he was hesitant to leave the reservation at all in the first place. He had never felt torn up about leaving anywhere before, not even his own homes when they tore down their camps— this was new and it felt horrible.
Arthur recalled the last few weeks with a private tenderness and found himself thinking more and more about what the future held in store for them. Not just him and Charles, though thoughts of somewhere secluded for just the two of them didn't sound half bad— he was thinking about everyone he loved that was still alive. He had come to terms with his feelings towards Charles in the last month, and accepted that he loved a man, even if he wasn't supposed to, Arthur loved Charles Smith.
However, Arthur was painfully aware that Charles wanted more than a life of running from one crisis to the next— more than a life for dishonest men and thieves. Arthur found that he wanted nothing more than to make good on his word; to prove to his lover that his faith was well kept and that he spewed more than empty promises coated in sugar. He wanted to give Charles a life— and the idea of sharing it together excited him beyond compare.
They went their separate ways well into late morning, with Charles off to finish up the last of his work for Rains Fall, which left Arthur in charge of packing the rest of their belongings. He made slow work of the job, the only instance where he actually needed to apply himself was when Arthur was going over their food and water provisions. Otherwise, the task was simple and ritualistic enough.
Arthur worked at an unhurried pace, folding and stowing what little they’d brought with them back into their packs, as though taking his time might somehow slow the day down; stall the inevitable. Blankets were shaken out and fluffed, then rolled tight, and fastened off to be used by the next person that needed it.
He checked their ammunition stores and rechecked out of habit more than need. The outlaw lingered over small, pointless tasks just to give his hands something to do while his thoughts ran rampant ahead of him; occupied with all kinds of anxieties and worse case scenarios. It had been some time since Arthur was kidnapped and even longer since he felt anyone truly cared for him. It didn't help matters that nobody came looking— that not one single letter showed up in the mail, asking about him.
The camp felt different in the daylight, smaller or calmer maybe. Maybe it was only quieter now that he knew it wouldn’t be his for much longer. Voices carried softly between the lodges, someone laughed near the river, brief and bright while in conversation. Arthur paused at that, listening, committing the sound to memory like he wouldn’t get another chance to hear such joy.
By the time he finished packing, Charles still hadn’t returned from his work. Arthur took the opportunity to walk the edge of the camp, boots scuffing the ground as he traced paths he’d grown familiar with over the last several weeks. He stopped near the fire when he circled back, where Rains Fall stood alone, stirring embers back to life with a practiced, steady hand.
“Most men leave without looking back,” Rains Fall said, not turning from his task even as Arthur approached and stopped at his side.
He huffed quietly. “Never been much good at that myself.”
“You are leaving today.” Rains Fall said, without inflection— it wasn’t a question.
Arthur nodded his head, feeling weighed down by an invisible press. “Yeah, figure it’s about time. Been away for a long time now..” His fingers twitched against his thigh, he didn't have the best track record with returning to his loved ones. Isaac’s fat, round face flashed through his mind for a moment before Arthur quickly stamped it back down.
Rains Fall finally glanced over then, his expression calm but knowing. “You have healed well since first arriving,” he said, nodding to all of him. “Not just your body.”
Arthur shifted, uncomfortable with the observation, but silently grateful for all of Rains Fall's help nonetheless. “Reckon I had some help.” Rains Fall nodded once, satisfied with this, understanding crossed his features while he spoke. “The road may always pull at you, but just remember— leaving does not mean you are lost, or that you cannot return.” Arthur let that sit between them, he didn’t know yet what he was choosing, but he did know that he would be faced with a choice, soon.
Rains Fall studied him for a moment, the way he always did; like he was reading something beneath the surface Arthur hadn’t mastered how to hide yet. For a lapse of silence, Arthur and The Chief drank in the quiet— the calm, before the storm rolled in. After some time, he exhaled like he was frustrated or beside himself, then his hand disappeared into the inner lining of his coat.
“This was brought for you some days ago,” Rains Fall said, from the inner pocket of his coat he produced an envelope, making Arthur's heart falter as he extended it out towards him in offering. “I thought it best you receive it at a later time. Here.”
Arthur’s stomach tightened and swooped before he even felt the dry texture of the envelope against his fingertips. He recognized the handwriting scrawled on the front in fancy, swirling loops before he fully registered its sender.
Mary.
He accepted the letter like a bad omen; without opening or paying it any attention, fingers curling around the paper like it might do something to snuff out his frustrations if he held on tight enough. “Thank you,” he said tightly, frowning at the parchment before he crammed the letter away into his coat, planning to deal with it properly later once they settled back home. “For everything.”
Rains Fall inclined his head, accepting the thanks without ceremony. “You are welcome here,” he said simply, non-committed, no traces of judgement or conditions. “No matter where the road takes you.”
Arthur nodded with a tight throat and stepped away before the weight of it all pressed down any harder. He moved through camp at a slower pace than before, letter heavy in his coat pocket, leg aching something terrible. Mary's presence was impossible to ignore even as he told himself he would read it later and forget about it now, there was a time for it… Just not now, not yet.
The morning fires had burned down to soft, ashy beds, the smoke thin and blue as it curled into the treetops. A few people were already awake, moving quietly, respectful of the hour and of one another. Children chased each other and played near the edge of the clearing, laughter muffled by the trees, and somewhere pots cluttered and cutlery clinked as it was washed and set aside.
He stopped when he was called, offered nods where words weren’t needed. A hand on his shoulder from an older man who smelled faintly of sage, a shorter woman who pressed her forehead briefly to his chest and murmured something he didn’t fully catch, but understood anyway. Gratitude, maybe, or a blessing, or both. Arthur returned it all the only way he knew how—awkward, sincere, a little overwhelmed and flushed from all the attention.
It wasn’t avoidance so much as…stalling for time while he waited on Charles’ return. The outlaw was letting the morning settle into his bones before he disturbed it by parting for the last time, leaving him to wonder if he would ever have a morning as peaceful as these. Sure, maybe he was a masochist, observing The Reservation through a nostalgic glass, but he had never truly felt like he would miss anything he left behind.
Until now.
He shifted his weight, leg flaring in protest, and hissed softly through his teeth. Pain had a way of anchoring him back to reality when his thoughts started to drift too far ahead or too far back. He welcomed it, in a grim sort of way. It reminded him who he was supposed to be when all this quiet peeled back, leaving only him.
Arthur Morgan; outlaw, gunman, and a temporary guest in a place like this. Not someone who stayed, not someone who fought for good or moral reasons.
A few of the horses snorted nearby, one stamping impatiently. Arthur wandered closer, resting a hand against a familiar, grey flank. The animal leaned into the touch without hesitation, warm and solid beneath his palm. “Hey girl,” He stayed there a while, breathing in the smells of leather and hay and smoke, listening to the distant murmur of voices. “You feelin' nervous too?” Somewhere, someone laughed again, lighter and airy, and so genuine it twisted something low and guttural in his chest.
He wondered, not for the first time, what it would’ve been like to grow up somewhere like this. Not easy, maybe— not even all the way safe, but honest and rooted in love and devotion to one another. Here, people knew Arthur's name for reasons that had nothing to do with fear or violence. The letter shifted in his coat when he shifted, crisp edges of the envelope piercing his chest and Arthur stilled at the heavy reminder.
Last time Mary had requested his help, it nearly drove both of them apart for good. Charles’ reactions were based on their relationship at the time, so Arthur could only imagine how he might react now that they both were emotionally raw and fully committed to their relationship. For that reason alone he kept the knowledge of the letters existence to himself— all Rains Fall needed to do was let it lie.
Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose and pressed his forehead briefly to the horse’s neck, eyes closing as if he might borrow some of her steadiness. “Ain’t nothin’ we can’t handle, you know that.” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince while he counted the beats of her heart. The horse flicked an ear, unconcerned, accepting the reassurance without question. Arthur envied her for that.
He straightened at last, fingers lingering in her mane before he stepped away after one last promise to return with treats. The letter felt heavier now that he’d acknowledged it, like it had shifted from a forgotten weight into something watchful and patient, waiting for him to make the wrong move.
Arthur told himself again that it didn’t matter and tried to look ahead. Still, the past had sharp edges, and it knew where to press.
When he finally found a quiet spot near the edge of camp again, away from the sounds of horses and laughter, Arthur rested a hand against his ribs and shifted the letter deeper into the pocket of his coat, as if burying it might dull its presence. He wasn’t ready to open it, but part of him wanted nothing more than to shred it open just to see what she wanted.
No matter how much time passed, Mary called and like a good, loyal dog, Arthur always obeyed, even if she didn't deserve his loyalty some unspoken pact kept him tethered to her.
That thought simmered and festered low in his gut, sharp with resentment he didn’t quite know what to do with or handle. He didn’t like the version of himself that surfaced around her name; obedient, hopeful, endlessly forgiving in ways that cost him more than he ever admitted. Then again, she was still part of him and he hadn't learned how to let her go all the way, yet. Arthur dragged a hand down his face and let out a quiet, humorless huff. He wasn’t that man anymore. At least, he was trying damn hard not to be.
He rolled his shoulders, grounding himself in the ache of his leg and the familiar pull of muscle and bone throughout his back and spine. This was real; the camp, the people, the peace he’d earned in small, hard-won milestones. Charles’ steady presence threaded through all of it and as always, he was on the front lines everything, grounding him in ways Arthur hadn’t known he’d been missing—needing.
Whatever Mary had written, it couldn’t erase what they shared, she didn’t get to take anything away from him, even if he felt like he was missing something each time they said their goodbyes. With a harrowing breath, Arthur took in his surroundings one last time before he fished the hefty parchment from his inner pocket, wishing Rains Fall had never given it to him in the first place.
More than anything he wanted Charles to come back and make him forget, he would ride back into camp and Arthur would be so happy to see him the letter would slip his mind altogether. He hoped.
Arthur stared at the envelope for a long time before decidingly breaking the seal, though every part somehow felt like a betrayal against Charles. He unfolded the letter carefully, smoothing the crease with his thumb out of habit more than reverence, and with a weighted hesitance, began to read.
My Dear Arthur,
I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to thank you for your help with Jamie. He and Daddy are still arguing but I understand that Jamie is thinking about going back to college. Whatever happens, I believe you saved his life and we are all truly grateful.
Oh Arthur, I have made such a mess of my life, time and again. Why can I not change and be the woman I want to be? Why couldn't you change and be a man and put down all those fantasies that shroud your judgement?
Life is very confusing and I see now that I am not very good at it.
I'm afraid we've got ourselves into another mess. It's not my fault but I need your help. I'm staying at the Hotel Grand in Saint Denis. Oh Arthur, I know it is wrong to ask you, but I have nobody else and for what we once had together, I beg of you, even though I am ashamed to do so.
Yours,
—Mary
He stared at the words and waited. It was obvious Mary needed his help again, plainly laid out in her fanciful handwriting that danced across the page. Much nicer and softer than his poor, barely legible chicken scratches. Saint Denis wasn't a far ride from Rhodes, if Mary could offer him pay this time— even privately, for his help it was still something that he could put towards a place for him and Charles if it panned out.
The thought crept in before he could stop it. Work was work and money was money, the means didn't matter as long as they had each other. He could justify it a dozen ways if he tried hard enough—tell himself it was temporary, that it was for something good this time, for him. Arthur swallowed, jaw tightening as he folded the letter back along its creases. He didn’t like how easily his mind reached for reasons, how natural it felt to start bargaining with himself.
Why couldn’t you change?
The question lingered long after he’d finished reading, sharp and bitter on the back of his tongue. It made him feel wrong somehow, like all the years he’d spent surviving, bleeding, burying the dead had been for nothing. As if Arthur was the same man that loved her at all.
Arthur pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and stared out at the tree line, letter folded tight in his hand, while he stiffly crumpled it up and deposited it back in his inner pocket, making a mental note to himself to throw it out later. Helping her wouldn’t fix that. It never had. And knowing that didn’t make the pull any weaker—it just made it harder to swallow.
A familiar voice drifted through camp then, low and warm, Arthur’s head snapped up before he could help himself. His chest eased at the sight of Charles heading toward him at last, dust on his boots, expression beaming and glowing with affection as soon as his coppery, golden brown hues found Arthur's.
Whatever waited down the road for them— letters, old promises, choices he couldn’t keep outrunning or consequences, none of it mattered at the moment. Not yet. Arthur straightened, shoulders squaring as he turned toward Charles, the past tucked away and the present right where he could hold it. Charles closed the distance between them with an easy stride, opening his arms as he approached.
“There you are,”’ The deep, smooth velvet of Charles’ tone wrapped around him, accompanied by two arms, roped with thick muscle from a life hard lived. “You weren't in the tent when I got back, I wondered where you went… You ready to go?” Arthur leaned into him, head resting against his shoulder, melting into his embrace as if Charles was the only thing keeping him upright at all.
Arthur pulled back enough to meet his eyes and nodded, the decision to inform Charles about the letter and Mary's request not made but postponed, set carefully aside for later— for now. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough and strained sounding. “Reckon I am.”
Charles studied him for a second longer than necessary, eyes soft but perceptive, like he could feel the places Arthur had started putting up walls between them. If he noticed the strain in Arthur’s voice, he didn’t call it out, not yet. Instead, his hand slid up Arthur’s back, warm and steady, the pads of his fingers pressing between his shoulder blades in quiet reassurance. “I'm gonna miss this place, Arthur.” He confessed quietly, sounding haunted by an expertly hidden sadness.
When he thought about it, Charles wasn't the type to divulge how he was feeling, other than feelings of love and jealousy, Arthur hadn't uncovered much. Maybe that was why he wanted to trigger more reactions out of him; so he could finally see that they existed, that Arthur wasn't just a mess for feeling so many things at once.
Arthur nodded in silent agreement, willing the emotion threatening to explode from the pressure in the middle of his to disappear before it consumed him completely. “Me too,” He exhaled when he regained his composure, convinced he wasn't about to fall apart if they carried on. “I don't regret comin' here with you, I'd do it all over again an’ if we didn't have to leave…”
“I know,” Charles hummed his response, absent of any signs of resentment or upset, just understanding. His hand traveled up his back then down again, until he stepped away completely to meet his gaze. “I don't blame you for wanting to go back, Arthur. Your brother is back there with Jack— I'm surprised you stayed away this long.”
Arthur eyed him warily, he wasn't stupid enough to believe that this didn't affect Charles in any shape, putting on a brave face didn't assuage his suspicion, it made him think there was more to the story than his lover was letting on.Arthur’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking away before he could stop himself. “Ain’t that simple,” he said, low and mildly defensive. “Never is.”
The moment stretched, fragile and honest, vulnerable in an uncomfortable manner before Charles broke it with a small huff of a laugh. “C’mon,” he said, stepping back and gesturing toward the horses. “If we stand here any longer, Rains Fall’s gonna think we’re havin’ second thoughts.”
They moved through camp shoulder to shoulder, exchanging final words and nods with those they passed. A few hands clapped Arthur on the arm, a few quiet goodbyes murmured low and sincere, others took Charles aside and decorated him in hand woven gifts. Rains Fall watched them go from near the fire, expression unreadable but not unkind, and Arthur dipped his head in respect before looking away.
He didn’t trust himself to linger.
At the edge of camp, their horses waited, tack already set for them. Arthur took a moment longer than necessary fastening his saddle, fingers working familiar knots by muscle memory alone. The normalcy of it steadied his thundering heart; leather creaking, metal clicking, the animal chuffing and shifting beneath his touch.
Charles mounted first, waiting patiently without comment or expectations, watching the tree line like he was already mapping the road ahead. Arthur mumbled hushed comforts to Athena, wedged his foot in her stirrup and hauled himself up into the saddle, settling with a soft grunt and an ache shooting up his knee.
For a beat, neither of them moved. They listened to camp sounds carried faintly on the breeze, low voices, the crackle of fire, and the distant yelling between campers somewhere behind them. Arthur glanced sideways and Charles met his ocean hues without hesitation, dark eyes intense, open, asking nothing and promising everything all at once.
“You good?” Charles asked quietly. Arthur nodded again, more for himself than for Charles. He rolled his shoulders, and released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding onto. He was still holding onto a lot of things.
“Yeah,” he said, firmer this time as he clicked his tongue. “Let’s go.” Athena obeyed his command, falling into a rhythmic pace against the ground. Taima settled next to them a few moments later, eager but steady and as spirited as ever. Other than the occasional hunting trip, it had been some time since Taima had gotten any real miles in.
The trees closed in around them, branches whispering overhead as light fractured through the leaves and left a dappled effect. The sounds of camp faded completely, replaced by hoofbeats, birdsong, the quiet breath of two horses moving as one. Arthur felt the tension ease from between his shoulders, not gone, but quieter like something that knew it had lost the moment.
Whatever he was still holding onto stayed with him, tucked close and heavy but the road was open now, and Charles was here, close enough that Arthur could feel his presence without the need for looking. That mattered, just as much as the secret resting inside his breast pocket.
—
The ride back south worked its way into Arthur’s bones before long. His knee ached with a merciless thrum by nightfall, his hands stiff and locked up by morning, the familiar discomfort settling back in like an old companion he hadn’t missed.
Charles noticed, he always did, but he wouldn't slow down their progress unless Arthur specifically asked him to. Knowing Arthur would never bring himself to ask, he wordlessly adjusted their pace, chose gentler ground, made camp earlier than necessary and insisted that the horses needed their rest too.
The first night was quiet, quieter than the last several weeks filled with campfire and storytelling. At least it was cool, and the clear sky gave way to stars needling through the dark. Once they were a few hours into the trip, Arthur suggested they make camp for the night just off the road near a stand of low pines, for no other reason than it being a good time. The ground beneath the trees was dry enough to spare Arthur’s joints a little mercy, and would provide them with enough shelter that they wouldn't need to go through the trouble of setting up the tent.
Charles took care of the fire while Arthur handled the horses, movements practiced and generous, even as his joints protested and screamed at him for every bend and shift of weight or wrong step.
He hid it the way he always did—jaw set, breaths counted, pride stitched too deep into his ribs to pick apart now. Athena flicked an ear back at him when he lingered too long brushing her down, nudging at his shoulder with a soft huff like she knew better than to let him spiral. Arthur muttered to her under his breath, more gratitude than comfort, before forcing himself upright again.
They ate in companionable silence, tin plates warmed by the firelight. Charles watched him over the rim of his cup, not openly, but with that steady awareness that made Arthur feel seen even when nothing was said. It was easier to pretend not to notice, at least while they seemed to be at odds for one reason or another.
“You want me to take first watch?” Arthur offered, mostly out of habit but Charles shook his head. “I’ll take it. You need the rest.”
Arthur bristled, instinctive and defensive. “I’m fine.”
“I know,” Charles said evenly. Then, softer, tender. “Just humor me, okay?”
Arthur hesitated, then nodded once. He hated how much relief washed through him at the thought of lying down and he hated even more that Charles knew what he needed without asking. It was just more proof that he was kind and patient, while Arthur was everything opposite.
In the last month Charles had grown more observant and caring, stepping in when he thought Arthur needed him, to silently growing used to his routines so he could be there for him. It started with surrendering his pillow — plush and firm, to considerate, small, everyday actions like tacking up Arthur's horse for him.
Sleep came in shallow stretches. His knee throbbed hot and relentless, pain blooming and washing over him like a tide he couldn’t quite escape. At some point, Charles settled beside him, solid and warm at his back, an arm draped loose but sure around his waist. Arthur pretended not to lean into it, pretended that he didn't need it.
Morning broke damp and gray, the air thick with moisture that clung to his skin and clothes alike. Arthur woke stiff, hands slow to unclench, his knee barking sharp protests when he shifted his legs. Despite the knowledge that he hadn't woken Arthur to switch off, Charles still knew best how to ease some of the pain. Without meaning to or fully realizing it, this had become part of their routine and he allowed his lover to massage the area around his knee— ripping groans and pleased noises from his lips that Charles otherwise may not have had the pleasure of hearing.
Arthur sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth when Charles’ hands found the familiar tension, thumbs working slow, careful circles just above the joint. The pain dulled under the steady pressure, replaced by something warmer—hotter. He leaned back against him, eyes squeezed shut as he exhaled sounds he didn't mean to make. The outlaw didn't let the situation devolve further, guilt still tugged and weighed him down from the letter in his coat and they still had some decent mileage to cover.
The moment passed as quickly as it had come, Charles shifted back, hands lingering only long enough to ease Arthur upright again before he stood himself offering no comment or soft expressions. Arthur cleared his throat and busied himself with rolling up their bedrolls like he had something to prove with heat prickling beneath his collar.
They rode out not long after, the morning still heavy and gray, mist clinging low to the ground as the sun struggled to burn through it. Arthur kept his eyes forward, posture stiff in the saddle, working through the ache in his knee with every careful rise and fall. Once he settled into the rhythm of it, the pain dulled to something manageable in the background —never gone, just quieter.
The land before them stretched out and changed as they crossed plains and travelled through dense forest. The road eventually softened underneath them, dirt giving way to mud that suctioned at the horses’ hooves as they thundered against the musty ground.
By the time the atmosphere grew thick and wet, balmy air sticking to his skin and clothes becoming damp with humidity, Arthur knew they were home. The land flattened into ooey, swampy mess, crawling with oversized reptiles that could remove their limbs with one swipe and Arthur had never thought he would ever get excited to see this place again.
After some time, both men decided to stop by a creek sometime after midday, just shortly into the afternoon Charles watered the horses while Arthur sat on a fallen log, rolling his shoulders and flexing his hands around his pack of cigarettes, watching the slow current carry leaves and debris downstream.
“You want to push on a bit more, or call it early?” Charles asked, wiping clammy hands on his trousers. Arthur glanced at the sky, the clouds hung low and swollen, threatening of eventual rain. His knee gave a quiet protest when he shifted his weight, throbbing with a dull, persistent hurt. “Let’s keep goin’,” he said, despite his limitations. “Not keen on settin’ up camp in a storm.. or gettin’ caught in one.”
Charles studied him for a moment, looked like he might want to say something, then nodded, firm and resolute as ever. “Alright, lead the way.”
They carried on, crossing through Rhodes on their way. Arthur felt warmth at the prospect of coming home, of being welcomed back with open arms and Dutch being overjoyed with the discovery of his survival. Maybe, not unlike his self-proclaimed father, they were pipe dreams— they were just Arthur's version.
They rode on in a heavy, terse quiet that only arrived after spending days on the trail. The steady cadence of hooves never failed to drown out his thoughts, Arthur focused on that rhythm; rise, settle, breathe—allowed it to pull him forward mile by mile. The road asked things of him, demanded endurance, and he gave it what he could without complaint. Pushing on was easier than thinking too hard about what waited at the end of the ride, or the tension forming between him and Charles.
Charles positioned himself ahead and to the left, close enough that Arthur could see the easy roll of his shoulders, the way he scanned the treeline without breaking stride, the movement of his hair while it billowed in the wind. He looked like he belonged out here, Arthur had never seen him look so at ease as he was on the trail. He found himself matching Charles’ pace without meaning to, falling beside him, the unspoken understanding quietly settling back between them.
Arthur shifted in the saddle, jaw tightening as his knee flared up sharp and sudden. He rode it out, fingers flexing against the reins, teeth gnashing against teeth until it eased back into that familiar, dull burn. Charles glanced over his shoulder at him and Arthur straightened instinctively, shame burning pitifully in the pit of his stomach. He had done worse, survived plenty of rides before this one— the notion that he couldn't do it, that he needed to accommodate for his disability now was something he denied altogether.
They crossed shallow water more than once, creeks bubbling with algae and sludge, the horses splashed through with practiced care and little hesitance. Arthur welcomed the brief coolness when it soaked through his boots, even if it meant his joints would pay for it later. On sweltering, Lemoyne nights, he would take the relief where he could get it.
By the time the sun had started to set at the end of the day, the land ahead opened up into natural landmarks and signs that he was close. The trees thinned, the ground firmed just enough to stop trying to swallow them whole, and the river revealed itself in quiet glimpses through the brush. Arthur felt that subtle shift in his chest, the way his shoulders eased and the corners of his mouth twitched despite himself.
Clemens Point announced itself slowly; the curve of the water along the shoreline, wide and patiently flowing as they rode past. The smell of smoke carried faintly on the breeze, and he heard voices, distant but unmistakable, drifting through the leafy tops in uneven bursts of laughter and argument and life. Arthur slowed without realizing it, Athena’s steps shortening as if she felt it too.
Athena made her way down the last gentle slope, hooves crunching softly over packed dirt and scattered leaves and other dried forage scattered around. Arthur felt every step of it, the ache in his knee sharpening as anticipation set his nerves humming. The closer they got, the quieter he became, words drying up somewhere behind his teeth.
Charles reined in beside him this time, close enough that their knees nearly brushed. He didn’t say anything, just tipped his head toward the clearing ahead. Arthur swallowed against the sandpaper on his tongue, heat blooming low in his chest, hope and dread tangled so tightly he couldn’t tell them apart. He rolled his shoulders once, squared himself in the saddle, and nudged Athena forward.
The camp came into view in pieces; a firepit first, cold and choked with ash, the stones blackened and split from old heat, rain having long since turned the remnants inside to gray sludge. No embers clung to life, the absence of curling smoke betrayed the idea of recent use. The land was dead and cold, like it had never been inhabited by anything other than ghosts.
The rough outline of old tents carved out in dried, dead squares. Darker, smaller ovals pressed into the grass where canvas and bedrolls had once lain, the earth compacted and worn thin. Nature had begun the slow work of reclaiming it, blades of green pushing up through the scars, stubborn and uneven, as if the land itself were trying to forget their transgressions as much as the next person.
Arthur knew better. He could map the camp from memory alone; where Dutch liked his tent, where Hosea used to sit in the evenings, where he himself had slept with his back to the river. Old oil spots greased the ground where Pearson's workstation used to be from cooking. Every absence rang as loud as any gunshot and hurt four times as much.
He slowed to a stop without realizing it, reins going slack in his hands as Athena hesitated, sensing the shift in him. Arthur’s breath caught shallow in his chest, like he’d ridden straight into a wall he hadn’t seen coming. His eyes swept the clearing again, frantic now—searching for anything out of place. A forgotten crate, a half-buried tin cup or tracks in the mud near the water’s edge to give him the slightest clue.
There was nothing here.
Arthur swallowed hard, jaw tightening as something sharp twisted low in his gut. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, they were meant to ride in dusty and sore, maybe arguing, maybe laughing but meant to be seen. Arthur had expected little Jack to greet him and John's stupid, ugly grin waiting for him when he returned. Instead, Dutch had decided to move the camp for one reason or another and his mind was already conjuring up ideas of what could've happened.
His fingers curled around the reins, knuckles whitening as he forced himself to breathe and stay upright in the saddle through his terror. He didn’t look at Charles yet, he didn't trust his voice not to give him away if he tried to speak. Without warning, his lover reined Taima beside him and Arthur could feel his prying expression, searching for him.
When Arthur couldn't meet his gaze, he listened to the sound of Charles shifting, before it turned to a grunt and the sound of boots hitting the ground. Torn and confused, the outlaw watched him with fearful scrutiny. Charles lowered himself into a squat, giving Arthur a wonderful view if he wasn't wholly distracted as he inspected the firepit.
“This ain't recent.” He announced decidedly, rolling campfire sludge between his fingers.“Ash’s been soaked through more than once, the grass has grown back too much… No tracks, I'd say it's been a few weeks, at least.” He stood again, looking toward where the tents had once been with a quiet bitterness.
Weeks.
Arthur swallowed, throat tight. His chest felt hollowed out, like something vital had been scooped clean from him and left behind without warning. He wanted to dismount and walk the grounds of his family's last known whereabouts, but the fear of not having enough strength to hoist himself back into his saddle again stopped him. “They wouldn’t just leave,” Arthur muttered, more to himself than to Charles. “Not without sayin’ somethin’. Dutch would’ve—” He cut himself off and shook his head, jaw flexing hard.
Charles approached him from the ground, cupping his open palm over Arthur's knee and squeezing, taking some of the pressure from his joints as he did so. “It probably had nothing to do with you Arthur… Picking up and moving camp is a common event, they probably just ran into some trouble— you know how it goes.”
Arthur still couldn't bring himself to meet Charles’ eyes, too much unspoken, unbridled resentment had started festering for him to chance looking in his direction at all. Still, he was only human, and he couldn't always help himself— not when Arthur was privy to the muscular, strong, scarred physique that existed beneath Charles’ clothing, waiting for him to explore.
The outlaw's gaze flicked to the river, then back to the trees, scanning again like if he looked hard enough the camp might somehow appear how they left it. He felt foolish, like a small child wandering around lost. A heat began to creep up his spine, not anger yet, but the slow burn of panic dressed up and hidden as restraint.
Charles’ hand left him and Arthur listened as he mounted up again. “We can track ‘em,” he offered. “Maybe find signs headin’ east, maybe—”
“No,” Arthur said, too fast again, too huffy. He rubbed a hand down his face, scrubbing at his eyes like that might clear the fog pressing in behind them. “Tracks’ll be gone, you said so yourself.” He did his best to keep his resentment at bay, to refrain from letting his rage swallow him whole and take over like he normally did in times of panic.
“Arthur…”
“We shouldn't have left,” Arthur said, keeping his head forward and his voice carefully neutral though the unmistakable waver of anger underneath couldn't be diminished, “we wouldn’t be standin’ here guessin’ at all if we didn't leave in the first place.”
The tension between the two men thickened, Arthur didn’t look at Charles—didn't need to look to know that hurt would be there, pain that he caused him and he didn’t want to acknowledge or admit how unfair the treatment was. He knew better, he was better than this, Charles had saved him and none of this was his fault and yet, somehow his grief found a way.
“We’ll figure it out,” Charles said eventually, voice steady but more guarded now. “Ain’t the end of the road.”
Arthur nodded once, stiff. He tried to rein in his thoughts and focus, filing through all the places they could've gone. He needed familiar ground to stand on and recuperate, to gather his thoughts and information. “Saint Denis,” he said without thinking, the rectangle of the envelope pressing into his chest like a warning. “If they moved, they might’ve passed word through there, or someone mighta seen ‘em—” He stopped himself, throat tightening around the rest of what he wanted to say.
Charles eyed him with an emotion Arthur was too frazzled to discern. Before he was given a moment to recollect himself, his lover nodded his head once, decidedly. “Sure.”
Together, they turned away from the clearing, but the movement felt akin to abandoning something, like they might burst through the treeline and claim they were joking. Arthur glanced back once despite himself, eyes snagging on the riverbank, on the place where he used to sit and clean his guns, where Hosea had once scolded him for tracking mud too close to the fire and where Charles had kissed him before everything went downhill.
It crawled under his skin and made its home there; deep in the marrow of his bones the wrongness of it all festered and eroded something ugly within him.
They headed south again, the light thinning as the sun slipped lower behind the trees, soon it would disappear, swallowed by the mountains. The air grew heavier by the minute, humidity wrapping around them like wet, weighed down cloth. Arthur’s knee screamed in protest with every mile now, the ache deep and insistent, but he welcomed the distraction. Pain was simple, pain was something he could manage.
Frogs croaked near the water, and something large slid through the reeds with a lazy splash that made Arthur’s spine prickle. Lemoyne had a way of reminding you just how small you were and how easily you could be swallowed whole and forgotten. They rode on in silence, broken only by the wet pull of hooves from the mud and the constant chorus of insects that seemed to rise with the heat. Cicadas buzzed loud and relentless, a rattling pulse that drilled straight into Arthur’s skull and irritated him to no end.
Time and time again he thought of telling Charles about the letter tucked away in his pocket, after countless nights, he waited impatiently for the right opportunity to present itself, but the timing never seemed right. No matter how hard he tried to rip it up or throw it out, he couldn't bring himself to actually do it. What his plans were regarding the faded scrap of parchment? Hell if he knew.
The road stretched on, bending and narrowing as it wound through the swamp, every mile pressing heavier against Arthur’s chest. The humidity turned the air thick enough to chew, sweat slicking his palms around the reins, his shirt clinging stubbornly against his back. The horses moved with careful, practiced steps, ears twitching at every splash and rustle hidden in the brush.
Arthur’s thoughts wouldn’t quiet, try as he might to suppress them.
They circled and doubled back on themselves, worry gnawed without mercy at the edges of his mind until it felt like his skull was packed full of wasps. Every creak of leather, every wet pull of mud from the horses’ hooves, seemed to echo too loudly in the space between him and Charles.
He kept stealing glances at him at the straight lines along his back, the easy confidence with which he guided Taima through the swamp as though he had no issue with it. Charles kept his focus ahead, unbothered by the weight Arthur carried like a second saddle. That somehow made it worse; Arthur wanted him to notice, wanted him to care and ask what was wrong so he could have an excuse not to answer.
The swamp pressed in tighter around them as the daylight faded, cypress mountains rising like crooked fingers from the water, moss sagging heavy and low. Somewhere off to their right, something large shifted through the river, the water breaking with a slow, deliberate splash. Arthur’s grip tightened on the reins, senses prickling, though he kept his posture steady. Fear, like pain, was something he knew how to ride through and manage.
The letter burned where it rested inside his coat, a phantom heat that spread whenever his thoughts strayed too close to Mary. Saint Denis loomed ahead in his mind like a flame in the darkness, he told himself he was going there for information, for leads on the gang, and for answers. He convinced himself he wasn’t chasing a ghost or old obligations he’d never really escaped from at all. Everything felt like a lie or a sick, cruel joke.
Saint Denis wasn’t far now, another few hours at most. He could feel it in the air before he saw any sign of it; the way the swamp began to thin and dry up around them, trees giving way to wider paths, the mud packed flatter by heavier traffic. The insects changed their tune, cicadas fading beneath the distant echo of human noise carried on the breeze. Somewhere in the world, Arthur's family was waiting on him to find them again.
They chose a secluded piece of land by the treeline, sloped upwards into a small incline, perfect to avoid the swampy, wet ground to set up camp for the night. They didn’t speak, words felt dangerous now, like they might spill out wrong if given the chance. Arthur focused instead on dismounting Athena and moving forward, but Charles was there to take the work from him before he had a chance to decline.
Once he was finished tying off their horses he went to work pitching the tent, Arthur had long since shucked his coat— preferring to have it draped over the back of Athena's saddle instead of having it stuck to his skin. Gone were the cooler, timid nights at the Reservation, like they never happened at all to begin with.
“I'm gonna find somethin’ to start a fire with.” Arthur all but grumbled, he felt the burn of Charles’ eyes on him but his own pride and emotional disarray kept him from meeting his lover's gaze. He moved with purpose, shoulders squared and steps heavy while he gathered the lesser of the wet bark from the ground around their makeshift camp. In the pit of his stomach, accusation and the ugly twisting of resentment burned and stewed.
He let him go without much of a fight or anything at all in the way of stopping or checking in with him. Somewhere underneath his own emotional discourse, Arthur understood that he was being unreasonable, that the blame he placed on Charles was uncalled for and hurtful— he just couldn't bring himself to admit it.
Gathering sticks and combustible materials was a mindless task, any brawny idiot could've done it. Still, Arthur was fortunate to get away even if it was only for a brief time, he needed space and time to be alone, to think about what he was going to do now. He didn't have any other plan aside from travelling to Saint Denis, and that was solely because Mary was there with money. Hopefully, with enough heart strings pulled, Mary would agree to aid them in finding the rest of The Gang before they moved on somewhere farther away.
It wasn't much of a plan at all, just a direction, a gut feeling pulling him one way or the other. But, Arthur didn't have anything else and accepting it was a dead end was out of the question completely. He rolled the idea around in his head like water over a jagged stone, he convinced himself it was practical, that his only clue or memorable landmark as to where he should go next was Mary.
Eventually with enough time, his arms were full of sticks and there was nowhere left to wander without getting lost in the swamp on purpose. He turned back to their small, makeshift camp, pushing through hanging moss and low brush, where Charles was waiting for him, squatted by a recently dug-out pit.
Arthur's eyes wandered over the familiar, hard planes of muscle shifting beneath the clingy fabric of Charles’ shirt. He hadn't heard or noticed his return yet, or if he did, he showed no signs of acknowledgement. His shoulders were squared, tight with worry and folded inwards with unspoken weight.
Arthur adjusted his grip on the bundle of wood, swallowing the hard mass in the back of his throat. “Found some,” he said, keeping his voice even as he rounded the side of his lover to deposit the wood. “It’s wet, but it’ll catch.”
The silence hit harder than if he had snapped back, making emotion collect in the middle of his face. Arthur straightened slowly, the hair along the back of his neck prickling as a cold, gnawing feeling slithered into his gut. He spared a glance at him and stopped short, breath hitched.
Charles’ head was bowed, gaze fixed on something in his hands. His jaw was set tight, lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line Arthur knew too well, expression furrowed and pinched. “Charles?” Arthur finally addressed his lover, stepping towards him only to stop short when The Hunter flinched away from his contact. When he finally spared the bowman his full attention, did he realize far too late that Charles’ focus was elsewhere— particularly on the slip of paper he’d spent the last several days antagonizing over, clenched in his hands.
Dread crept up his spine and made his skin crawl, Arthur’s mouth dried as realization slowly washed over him, pulse becoming loud and thready in his ears. His head stayed bowed, long, pieces of raven hair falling against his jaw, hiding the side of his face from view while Arthur desperately grasped at straws. He’d imagined this a dozen different ways and none of them prepared him for how devastatingly hurt Charles would be.
“How long?” He demanded quietly, sounding unlike the caring, loving man Arthur fell in love with. What was worse, was he knew that he deserved the rough, sharpened edge that Charles spoke with.
Finding his bearings, Arthur swallowed around his own guilt and shame. “Charles—“
”How long have you been keeping this from me?” Charles cut to the chase, sharp features narrowed and accusatory without ever meeting his gaze. Arthur’s breath stalled in his chest, making his lungs constrict and twist with a sharp burn. He glared at the letter between his lover’s fingers, cursing himself for not throwing it in the flames earlier. “How long have you been lying to me?”
Arthur’s face darkened and he rushed to defend himself, “I haven’t been lyin’ to you, I didn’t know how to— I wanted to tell you when the time was right, I was gonna tell you.” His words tumbled out fast and jumbled, panic bleeding through his composure. “I just- I didn’t wanna hurt you, last time I got a letter from Mary you nearly left me!”
Charles scoffed, entirely unconvinced by Arthur’s panicked efforts. “Last time you got a letter from Mary you ran off for a week, came home to tell me you kissed her and whatever else. Did you think I enjoyed hearing that the man I loved was unfaithful?”
The Outlaw felt something inside of him snap and boil over, be it guilt or shame, or whatever else he chose to stamp down and pretend to forget about. “I coulda lied to you- any other man woulda!” His skin tingled with heat, fear pricked each of his nerves, making him buzz with hurt and anger at the idea that he hadn’t sacrificed as much as Charles for their relationship. “You don’t love me, don’t look at me like that, it's the truth! You want me to change ‘n’ leave behind everything that makes me who I am, everything I ever—“
“Stop.” Charles’ eyes snapped towards him, flaming with fury and devastation, Arthur thought, even furious, that he looked ethereal. His heart surged in his chest and Arthur felt himself breaking in two, no matter which way he looked there didn’t seem to be any way back from this.
Arthur choked back his own emotion, shaking his head, refusing to believe that Charles was finished with him, but still unwilling to beg for him to stay, revolving into a hysterical mess. “You only love me when I’m underneath you, you’re just like everyone else that wants to use me and—”
“Shut up.” Before he registered what was happening Charles was in front of him, parchment crumpled into a ball in his fist, quickly disposed of with a flick of his wrist in the swampy, muddy earth beneath their boots. “You fucked up, this is on you. I'm done taking responsibility for your shitty decisions. If you want to live a double life, go ahead– just do me a favour and leave me out of it.”
He reeled and retreated back into himself as if the words had physically struck him, a struggled breath ripped from his lungs, tears jumping to his eyes without consent. “That ain't fair,” Unable to hold himself together, his voice cracked and stumbled, vision blurring with unshed emotion. “You don't get to decide to just leave without–”
“Like you decided to keep this from me? To lie to me time and time again? You should’ve told me but instead you decided I couldn't handle it and then…” Charles trailed off, jaw flexing around whatever thought died on his tongue. “I have never asked you to be anything but the man I know you are and I have loved you when you were less, so don't make false accusations because you made a stupid choice and got caught.”
The reality of where the conversation was headed hit Arthur like the barrel of a double action over the back of the head, he reached out without thinking and let his hand fall back to his sides again before they reached Charles. “Please,” He broke and begged, bowing his head in shameful agony. “Please don't leave me, Charles.”
His lover closed his eyes briefly, taking a shuddering breath before fixing Arthur with a gaze that burned with equal parts pain and upset. “Don't you dare beg,” Charles bit out, voice rough with barely restrained anguish, "You don't get to play the victim here, Arthur. Not when you're the one who betrayed my trust.”
Arthur's throat felt like sandpaper, each excuse or justification he conjured up died on his tongue once his gaze fell on Charles’, broken and humorless, utterly and completely betrayed. Knowing he was the cause of his lover's agony shattered something deep within him.
“Do you have any idea what it feels like to find out the person you love most in this world has been lying to you? Keeping secrets that could tear apart everything we've built?” Charles stepped closer, looming over Arthur's smaller form, his fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white with tension and restrained anger Arthur got the impression he planned to take out on him.
Arthur's breath caught in his throat, his heart thundered wildly as Charles advanced on him. He could feel the heat radiating off his lover's body, see the muscle twitching in his jaw as he ground out those accusing, painful words. Each one landed like a physical blow, stoking the fires of Arthur's own guilt and desperation.
“I-I know,” He confessed shakily, sounding so unlike himself Arthur almost believed it wasn't him at all sounding emotionally raw. “I shoulda told you, I'm so sorr–” Before the outlaw had the chance to apologize for his mistakes or make new promises to do better by him, Charles bowed his head and kissed him, hard.
Charles kissed him with a bruising, barely restrained force, swallowing every cry or whine pulled from him with each swipe of his tongue or pinch of teeth. His typical manner of gentle handling was absent and instead of the tender loving he was accustomed to, the hunter attacked Arthur's mouth with a fiery, primal need in his bones. “You're sorry that you did it, or you're sorry that you got caught?”
The tanned, scarred rider melted into the onslaught of heated attention from his lover, following the direction Charles’ backed them up until the broad valley of his back hit something solid. “Charles…” Arthur managed before he was silenced by Charles’ lips, moving against his fervently until he was a mess by his mouth alone.
“Don't say anything.” Charles demanded as he captured Arthur's wrists in an iron grip, pinning them above his head as he continued his relentless assault on the outlaw's senses. He nipped and sucked at the column of Arthur's throat, determined to mark him, to claim every inch of exposed skin as his own. Every grope or touch of his hands was greedy and rough, lacking any genuine warmth.
Arthur's legs trembled and shook as Charles made quick work of their belts and pants, tugging them halfway down their legs before he decided that was all the access he needed. His movements were unlike those loving, long nights spent in the safety of Rains Fall's camp. In truth, it lacked any of the syrupy, sweet affections Arthur longed for.
He resisted the urge to reach out, to mumble soft, comforting encouragement against the shell of Charles’ ear until he couldn't keep his climax at bay any longer. It was clear to Arthur that Charles wanted nothing more than to claim him, to possess and state clearly, that Arthur belonged to him. His lover's hand pulled his underwear down just enough to roughly handle his cock, making Arthur twitch and groan against him.
“Charles.” Arthur pleaded quietly, Charles squeezed his leaking cock and growled, abandoning the outlaw's erection in favour of roughly handling his hips with his large, calloused palms. He maneuvered Arthur with ease, hands urging him to turn and he obeyed without hesitance, bracing himself against the tree, ass presented up and out to the hungry man.
"Please..." Arthur whimpered, his voice thin and desperate. He rocked back against Charles, seeking more friction, more of that delicious pressure, mistaking the response of his body for confirmation that he was still loved. His own neglected cock throbbed almost painfully, leaking steadily onto the floor below, while emotion gathered in the middle of his face.
Strong hands from a life of hard work gripped the outlaw's hips in a possessive manner. He could feel the heat of Charles' body pressed against his back, the hard planes of muscle and the insistent prod of his lover's arousal nestling between his cheeks made him fall further and further under his spell.
Charles growled low in his throat, a sound of pure, feral hunger that made the cowboy shiver with anticipation and fear. He nipped at the nape of Arthur's neck, sucking hard enough to leave a vivid mark. “You're supposed to be mine,” He huffed, sounding breathy and frayed, like he wanted to admit it as much as he wanted to follow Arthur back home to Dutch. “Supposed to…Fuck, supposed to trust me, Arthur. Before anyone else.” He punctuated his words with a particularly rough thrust of his cock against the cleft of his ass, making Arthur groan.
The hunter reached around to stroke Arthur's dripping cock, his touch cruel and teasing. At the same time, he spat crudely into his palm, using the saliva as a pitiful lubricant. Without warning, he pushed two fingers inside Arthur's tight heat, scissoring him roughly, with barely contained rage while the outlaw writhed and moaned at his mercy.
“I do,” Arthur huffed, sounding incredulous as his expression fluttered and jumped with every one of Charles’ ministrations on his body. Voice breaking in different places, husky with yearning. “God… I trust you more than anyone, shit!” He groaned, feeling the head of Charles’ cock hitch against his entrance, hard and twitching, while he used his thick, powerful hand to squeeze Arthur's hard length until his hand was wet and slick. “I love you–”
Charles’ digits hit him deeper then, sharper as he growled out, “Don't.” His rejection made Arthur's head swim, a certain angle of his fingers hitting that spot inside of him made him cry out— a wrenched, broken, emotional sound that was followed by tears streaming down his face. “Don't say that to me, not now.” His warning was low and guttural, shattering something visceral deep within him.
Charles' fingers curled inside Arthur, pressing ruthlessly against that sensitive bundle of nerves within him. The Outlaw clenched and shuddered around him, the broken sob that tore from his throat, only spurred the hunter on, his own control quickly fraying at the edges. “Shh, sh..” His lover coaxed him, not as gently as he expected, but softer than he had been so far.
The Huntsman leaned forward, pressing his chest flush against Arthur's back, cock slick between his ass. He brushed his lips over the shell of the outlaw's ear, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I want to hear you now, Arthur.” He hummed, throaty and rugged. “I want to hear how much you want me…Tell me how much you want me inside of you.”
“What?” Arthur bawked, eyes wide and cheeks ruddy with red, hot desire. Embarrassment gathered in his chest and burned low in his gut, tucking his chin inwards to hide his expression.
He nipped at Arthur's earlobe, sucking it between his teeth until he was an incoherent, muttering mess against him. His hips rolled forward, sinking another inch of his thick length inside the outlaw's tight heat, making Arthur groan out. “Come on,” Charles encouraged him, pressing open-mouthed, wet kisses against his jaw that made him grow weaker. “I want to hear how much you want me, Arthur.”
One of his hands drifted lower, wrapping around the outlaw's neglected cock again until he was brought to the edge and denied a finish. He stroked him slowly, teasingly, just enough to keep him hard and aching. “Do you love me?”
Arthur let out a strangled moan, his hips bucking involuntarily into Charles' teasing touch. He sputtered and trembled, feeling as though he was at Charles’ complete mercy. “Y-Yes! ‘Course, you know I do.” The slow, torturous strokes along his shaft were driving him mad with want, and he was beginning to lose his mind. "P-please," he whimpered, his voice strained and cracking with desperation, cock jumping in Charles’ hand. "Please, Charles... I need you. I need this.”
“Do you love me more than Mary?” Arthur felt his cock spasm and jerk, making his hips raise as he leaned his head back against Charles’ shoulder. “C'mon, answer me.” His lover growled and Arthur huffed, hard cock bobbing between his legs, hips twitching. “Yes,” He exhaled, a half broken sounding confession, but one nonetheless. “God yes, love you more than anyone, Charles."
Unexpectedly, Charles growled in satisfaction at Arthur's wanton pleas, his breathy confessions seemingly taking their toll as his cock throbbed inside the outlaw's clutching heat. With a single, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself inside of Arthur, burying his length to the hilt, making The Cowboy see stars in his vision while his ass stretched and burned around his length.
Arthur cried out sharply as Charles bottomed out inside him, the sudden fullness stealing the air from his lungs. His walls fluttered and clenched around the thick intrusion, trying desperately to adjust to the stretch until the discomfort subsided and was replaced by something else entirely.
The hunter set a brutal pace, pounding into Arthur with animalistic abandon. Each snap of his hips drove the outlaw forward, slamming his chest against the trunk of the tree. Charles' fingers dug into Arthur's hips hard enough to leave bruises, holding him in place to receive the full force of his thrusts. While it lacked their usual warm, syrupy notes, Arthur felt a different satisfaction from being claimed in such a way.
Every problem, every mistake and every mile this far faded to the back of his thoughts and Arthur's world narrowed to the two of them, connected in this moment. His heart swelled in his chest and with a few more strokes of Charles’ expert hand stroking along his length, he sprayed his release into his palm, writhing and crying out while he fucked him through his intense climax.
“Charles!” He screamed, his voice raw and strained as his orgasm crashed over him like a tidal wave, swallowing him whole. His hole clamped down viciously around the hunter's pistoning length, rippling and massaging, milking his cock until he felt as pleasured and loved as Arthur.
Charles roared out his impending finish, Arthur's climax having triggered his own, the outlaw's convulsing walls and trembling body did a number on his lover. With a few more erratic thrusts, he buried himself deep inside, and gripped his hips with a brutal force as he spilled his hot seed deep inside Arthur's spasming channel.
He collapsed against Arthur's back, pressing his weight down against him as he continued to roll his hips inside of him, slow and pleasant, mixing their juices together until the last of their pleasurable aftershocks faded. They breathed together, ragged and shallow, until their breaths evened out and Charles withdrew his softened cock from his entrance, pulling a wince from the Gunslinger.
Arthur went limp in Charles' embrace, his legs shaking with the effort of holding himself upright against the tree. He could feel the warm flood of Charles' release deep inside him, marking him, claiming him in the most primal way possible. A soft, sated sigh escaped his lips at the separation. Silence lapsed between them and spurred on by his own anxiety of losing Charles, he turned in his arms and pressed their lips together.
At first, Charles didn't kiss him back despite Arthur's mouth, moving against his, licking and nibbling, urging any reaction from the man that claimed to love him. Despite his own reservations, The Huntsman sighed, as though he couldn't help himself and he was disappointed for giving in, kissing Arthur back for a few, deep moments before it was over again.
Charles nudged his nose against his once more and exhaled, sounding more exhausted than furious, now. “I'm gonna get the fire started and take first watch,” He explained slowly, as he tugged his pants back up onto his hips and fastened his belt. “You should get some rest, you've been riding hard lately. You need to take it easy.”
This time when Charles parted with one last press of his mouth against his forehead, Arthur didn't argue. He watched in silent, stewing guilt as the man he loved continued caring for him despite being wronged by him over and over again. “Charles, wait. Hold on a sec, we should probably talk don't you think?” He tried, trailing off when his lover turned to face The Outlaw, expression wracked with raw, devastating pain that he had caused.
“I know and we will, but…” Charles’ gaze flickered away in a futile attempt to hide his agony. “I can't, not yet.” Arthur's heart splintered and even though they had just fucked, he felt more alone and worse off than ever. “I won't be in late, go get some rest, okay?” The Bowman sidestepped him in favour of quietly working on starting a small, low burning fire, back turned to Arthur again like he didn't just have his dick inside of him.
It was obvious that Charles was in no mood to talk and Arthur wasn't interested in pushing his luck anymore tonight. He spared him one last glance, awkwardly dressed himself and retreated to his bedroll, climbing into it with stiffened, achy muscles that groaned and protested with each movement.
Things felt uncertain and unpredictable between them right now and Arthur was left with spinning, nervous thoughts that wouldn't let him get any real quality of sleep. Arthur laid in the dim flicker of firelight, body heavy and raw, mind hammering with a chaos he couldn’t tame. Every creak of the tent, every snap from the fire, made him flinch and stir, like he expected Charles to come in at any moment and crawl in beside him.
He curled up tighter in the bedroll, coat draped across his chest like armor, but it offered little comfort other than a replacement for the missing weight at his back. Sleep felt impossible, a foreign, distant thing; every time he closed his eyes, he saw Charles’ jaw set, letter in his hands, eyes shimmering with unshed, repressed emotion.
Outside, Charles worked the fire, the soft crackle and hiss like a metronome to Arthur’s racing thoughts. The warmth of the flames barely touched him, and he realized how much he had come to rely on the steady presence of The Huntsman. Now that was fractured, leaving him exposed and hollow and alone.
On any normal night, Arthur would find himself outside with Charles, wrapped around him while he stoked the flames of the fire, keeping it burning bright and warm. Flecks of orange and yellow reflecting in his chocolate, rich eyes, stealing the breath from Arthur's lungs. Somewhere within him, he didn't feel allowed or like he deserved him at all, even if his intentions were never cruel.
Eventually, after enough mulling over things, exhaustion claimed him, though it offered little reprieve. He drifted in fits and starts, half-conscious dreams haunted by Mary’s letter and Charles’ voice, the words he didn’t want to hear and the touches he couldn’t stop craving. The night stretched long, uncertain, the fire flickering between warmth and shadow, and Arthur knew that when dawn broke, nothing would be fixed.
Nothing could be fixed, not tonight. Not until they faced the truth, until Arthur was able to explain himself and convince Charles of his innocence or not at all.
