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John absentmindedly traced his thumb along the handle of his mug, feeling the warmth seep through the steel from his freshly brewed coffee. He stood by the campfire, warming his legs to take away the bite of the cold from the early morning. Pearson sat on the log across from him, hunched over as he fiddled with tobacco leaves and rolling paper. John silently watched on, entranced by the movements of Pearson’s fingers as he fashioned a cigarette.
John appreciated the more leisurely pace of activity that came with the earlier hours of the day. It was early enough that most of the gang were still tossing and turning in their bedrolls. Those awake kept to themselves quietly, deliberately keeping the noise down to avoid disturbing those still lost in slumber.
He blinked away from Pearson, scanning the camp to see who was up and about. From across the campfire, he exchanged a nod of acknowledgment with Sadie as she strolled past with a repeater in hand, likely heading for guard duty. Nearby, he caught sight of Miss Grimshaw over the large steel basin, her sleeves rolled up as she scrubbed the dishes from the night before. In the distance, Kieran tended to the horses, meticulously running a brush over one’s coat.
“Mornin’.”
John flinched, twisting his head to find Arthur approaching with his own mug of coffee in hand. He must have missed Arthur emerging from his tent. With a drawn-out groan, Arthur settled on a crate between him and Pearson. The wood creaked slightly under his weight.
“Mornin’,” John greeted, his voice cracking slightly from disuse.
Pearson kept his eyes fixated on his task of cigarette rolling. “Hello, Arthur.”
The fire's popping and crackling filled the gap of silence between them. After Pearson had twisted the ends of his cigarette and tucked it into his front pocket, he glanced up at Arthur. Arthur, who sat cradling his mug with both hands, had his eyes unfocused and his mind seemingly miles away.
“Our supplies are running a bit thin, Arthur,” Pearson abruptly mentioned, clasping his hands together as he awaited Arthur’s attention.
Arthur's expression soured immediately upon the words reaching his ears. John sensed the quick shift in his mood, like a sudden bout of thunder on an otherwise clear day. If there were anything that truly dug deep under Arthur’s skin, it would be the suggestion that he wasn’t providing enough. Especially as for the past week, he’d been running around like a rooster with its head cut off, scrambling to meet Dutch’s demands over this whole Gray and Braithwaite business. It made sense that his patience ran drier than usual.
John bit his lip.
“Christ, Pearson,” Arthur sneered. “It ain’t even seven in the mornin’ yet, and you’re already hecklin’ me.”
John drew his mug to his lips, looking away into the horizon to distance himself from the brewing scuffle, an attempt to stay out of the crosshairs.
“Oh, I don’t mean to heckle you, Arthur. I’m just sayin’,” Pearson responded defensively, surprised at Arthur’s sudden outburst. He added, “Folk need to eat.”
“Sure, they do. But, for goddamned once, try askin’ the one that lazes about all day.” John saw Arthur’s elbow sharply gesture towards him out of the corner of his eye. So much for staying out of the line of fire; he’d been forced to look straight into the eyes of the barrel.
Heat rolled over John’s skin, his own emotions beginning to simmer just under the surface. His grip tightened around the handle of the mug. “Leave me out of it, Morgan,” His gruff voice warned.
It was far too early. John deliberately rolled out of his cot just as the sun rolled over the horizon to avoid this sort of thing. It was an effort to allot time to where he could enjoy some daylight in peace. Going after another’s throat was best reserved for after breakfast had settled. John thought it was an unspoken law.
“Oh, you’re left outta most things, Marston. Reckon you oughta do some real work ‘round here.”
“I pull my weight where it counts,” John replied, his voice straining with great effort as he grappled to maintain his composure. He stewed momentarily before adding, “I ain’t need to explain myself to you.”
“We must have different ideas on what ‘pullin’ weight’ means.” Arthur’s lips curled into a dismissive smirk, shaking his head before looking at Pearson. “Marston here thinks he's earnin’ his keep by standin' around all day and lookin' pretty,” He remarked, words laced with sarcasm.
John lowered his coffee onto the chair beside him, no longer in the mood. He turned to meet Arthur’s eyes, shooting him a bewildered look. “What has gotten into you?” His tone was equal parts puzzled and downright angry.
He thought things had improved between them, believing Arthur's cold shoulder was finally warming up over John's year-long disappearance. John couldn’t grasp why it got under Arthur's skin so deeply. But it had been a while since they had butted heads, and he figured Arthur had come to his senses about not getting so worked up about how John lived his life. But John was wrong, and he could see Arthur's feelings resurfacing, practically thrumming off his skin.
Arthur rose to his feet, placing his own mug down on the crate where he’d been sat, narrowing his eyes as he stepped forward, infiltrating John’s personal space. The corners of his lips had the hint of a smile as he spat, “Nothin’, maybe it's just time someone reminded you we ain’t runnin’ a charity here.”
John wasn't sure if the smirk on his face or his cutting words brought his frustration boiling over, but the anger consumed him whole. Without a second thought, John’s knuckles connected solidly to Arthur’s cheekbone. The impact shot a searing pain through John's hand. Still, it was barely registerable over John's satisfaction of hearing Arthur hiss in pain as he staggered back. The sudden blow caught Arthur off guard, his hand reaching instinctively to where he’d been struck.
As roughly as John had rocked him, it seemed it wasn’t enough to shake the smile off Arthur’s lips. He looked amused, as if riling John up was just a source of entertainment, simply a means to do something other than follow orders for a change.
“Knock it off!” Miss Grimshaw squawked, her voice cutting through the moment like a record scratching to a halt.
John’s shoulders sagged as she hurriedly wobbled up to them. She was visibly exasperated, erratically waving her hands as she spoke in a scolding tone, “I’ve had enough of the fightin’ ‘round here! The two of you ain’t welcome back in camp till y’all fetch us some real food.”
Goddammit.
Arthur had managed to ruin not only his morning but a significant chunk of his day. Sure, He could hunt, but he wasn't particularly good at it. Could he take down animals? Yes, with the expense of obliterating the better part of the meat. Hunting was more Arthur’s gig. So much so that his posture weakened at the thought of spending his day with Arthur’s nonconstructive critiques nipping at his ears.
John huffed, his chest heaving as he caught his breath, the adrenaline slowly dissipating from his veins. He exchanged an uneasy look with Arthur, who’d been softly padding at the angry, reddened spot on his cheek with two fingers. When he winced, it drew out the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.
It took a moment, but they eventually complied with her orders, each reluctantly giving her a curt nod. She blinked at them, waiting for them to spring to action, and when they didn’t, she snapped her fingers at them, “Now!”
Arthur grumbled something bitter under his breath, ambling off toward the hitching posts wearing an awfully bothered look. John shadowed his footsteps, clenching and unclenching his right hand as he became increasingly aware of the ache settling in his knuckles. He could still feel the ghosting of Arthur’s cheekbone.
When he approached his horse, Old Boy, he ran a greeting hand alongside his neck. John’s fingers undid the quick-release knot that anchored Old Boy in place, taking hold of the reins before hoisting himself up into the saddle. By the time he had nudged Old Boy to turn toward the camp’s outbound trail, Arthur had been several paces ahead.
John rolled his eyes, urging Old Boy into a quick trot to catch up.
John maintained a gap between them, keeping his horse far from Arthur’s. He couldn’t be bothered to ask about the plan, so he followed behind without a hint as to where they were headed. He was undeniably irritated; he stared at the back of Arthur’s head, which only worsened his mood. Angry thoughts about his unfinished coffee lingered in his mind, how it sat in its lonesome, abandoned at camp. He also thought about how Arthur had robbed him of his opportunity to eat a proper breakfast. He bitterly dug into his saddlebag, retrieving a bit of cured meat to quiet the rumble in his stomach.
As they crossed the plains, the sky's light dimmed slightly as dense clouds rolled overhead. Not a single word was exchanged between them as time pressed onward. A dull ache had started to gnaw at John’s back when he noticed the large body of water they were aiming toward. He glanced at his pocket watch to confirm it was almost eight in the morning. They’d been traveling for over an hour. He scanned his surroundings, taking note of a couple cabins and an abandoned barn along the shoreline, structures unfamiliar to him. “We’re fishin’? This far out? These fish better be made of gold, Arthur,” he commented dryly.
“Well, the trout here are real big,” Arthur said, his words carrying certainty. “I reckon we’ll only need a few.”
They rode up to the empty barn, dismounting and hitching their horses to the post outside the building's double doors. John retrieved the fishing rod from his saddlebag and extended it as they strolled to the shoreline. The lake’s edges were sparsely decorated with white oak trees, a couple of large boulders peeked out from the middle of the water, and a stream fed into it from the opposite side. Admittedly, curiosity prodded at him about how Arthur came to know of this place, but not enough to prompt him to ask. John could sense the tautness that lingered in the air; it was persistent, like a stubborn odor.
He felt the heels of his boots sink into the softer dirt when they approached the water. From the corner of his eye, John noticed Arthur waving a hand at him. When he’d turned, he registered Arthur was offering him a live worm that he held pinched between two fingers.
“Oh, thank you,” John said, taking the worm and threading it onto the hook of his rod.
He cast his line out into the water with a short wrist flick. When the hook splashed and sunk beneath the surface, he noticed that the reflections on the ripples visibly dulled. John’s eyes trailed up, his nose scrunching at the dark clouds suffocating the sunlight. He silently hoped to himself that they would just pass through. Beside him, Arthur cast his own line into the lake, his eyes focused on the water, seemingly oblivious to the threat looming overhead.
However, the heavy water droplet that smacked down onto his bare forearm indicated it was no longer just a threat. “Looks like there’s a mean storm cloud above us, Arthur,” he warned.
“Worried you might drown?” Arthur quipped, chuckling through his words. He raised his palm with cupped fingers to catch a few sparse droplets.
Before John could bite back at him, his fishing rod suddenly tugged, its wood bowing under the weight of a catch. His body was pulled forward by the unexpected force of it, his foot fumbling in front of him to catch himself from a fall. With determined grit, he jerked the rod back, pushing through the residual pain in his fingers as he worked the resistant reel.
What had begun as a measly drizzle quickly intensified into an unforgiving downpour.
Thick, ice-cold raindrops hammered at John’s head, shoulders, and arms as he continued to fight to draw the line in. He was making progress, albeit slow—probably too slow for Arthur’s liking—as he complained beside him, “C’mon now, slowpoke.”
John briefly glanced over to find a wet Arthur hurriedly collapsing his rod. After a few more tugs, John ripped a massive trout out of the water, his eyes widening at its size. It angrily thrashed in the air, tail-fin curling as it swung closer. When John realized he wore a stupidly proud grin, he pressed his lips into a thin line to stifle it.
The triumph was short-lived, overshadowed by his discomfort as he leaned down to free the fish's mouth from the hook. The cold, wet fabric of his clothes tugged uncomfortably with every little movement.
“The barn,” Arthur instructed, swiping the lashing trout from John’s hold.
John followed Arthur's half-jog up the grassy slope to the weathered barn, where he hucked John's catch over his horse's back. They mirrored each other as they untethered and led their horses through the wooden double doors, the hinges creaking as they breached the building.
Dust danced within the slivers of light that filtered through the busted windows and holes in the siding. As John urged Old Boy to a stall, a water droplet pelted him on the nose. He looked up, gathering that it originated from one of the rotting gaps in the roof.
Suppose it’s better than nothing, John thought.
After settling his horse with an oatcake and an apologetic nose rub, John noticed Arthur frantically peeling his soggy clothing off in the stall beside him. He slung his sopping overshirt, vest, trousers, and union suit over the partition to dry. He turned away, the muscles in his broad, freckled shoulders flexing as he rummaged through his horse’s saddlebags.
John shook his head away, focusing on unhooking his bedroll from the saddle instead. He figured, since the barn was barren, he’d need somewhere to sit and wait for the storm to pass. John crossed his fingers that it’d hit the road as quickly as it came on.
Arthur dressed, wiggling his arms through the sleeves of a dry union suit, and it hit John like a wagonload of weight. A violent chill had begun to settle deeply into his bones, the discomfort growing unbearable, as it dawned on him that, unlike Arthur, he didn’t have an extra set of clothing. As he closed the stall door behind him, a gust of wind weaseled through the cracks in the walls. It wrapped around him with an unforgiving, icy grip.
“Goddamn, it’s cold!” He rasped.
It was suffocating how his clothes clung to him like a second skin, sagging from the weight of the water. He frantically peeled his flannel off as if his life depended on it. It was useless, only revealing a soaked union suit underneath. He groaned in frustration; his senses were overloaded. Droplets of water rolled from his weighted hair strands, chilling as they trickled down his neck. A seizing shiver went through his spine.
John heard Arthur chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” John snapped as he draped his flannel beside Arthur’s.
Arthur wore a sneer as he exited his horse’s stall, wearing a dry set of trousers over a fresh union suit. The brim of his hat had protected his head, hair entirely untouched from the rain’s torment. He was practically unscathed, and John found that incredibly infuriating. The corners of Arthur’s lips tugged into an amused smile. “Sorry, s’just you look miserable.” He chuckled before continuing, “Like a rat dunked in a pail of water.”
John’s arms felt cold and heavy at his sides; he didn’t have it in him to fight back this time. He instead shot him a bitter glare before rolling his eyes away and unraveling his bedroll onto the dirt floor.
“You’re soppin’ wet, Marston,” Arthur pointed out needlessly.
“I know,” John spoke dryly.
“You oughta take them clothes off ‘fore you freeze to death.”
“I ain’t got a backup.”
“So?” Arthur raised a brow in disbelief.
John shook his head.
“Stubborn bastard,” Arthur muttered under his breath as if he was talking to himself.
John looked down at his splayed-out bedroll. It invitingly looked back at him, practically beckoning him to bury his shivering body within it. Still, he was actively dripping onto the ground below. Annoyed, he sank to the ground instead. In a fruitless effort to conserve his warmth, he folded his knees up towards his chest and hugged his legs close.
The distant rumbling of thunder felt like a slap in the face, a harsh confirmation that they’d be cooped up for quite a while longer.
It didn’t take long for Arthur's restless energy to pent up and boil over. It drove him in circles around where John sat. He peeked into crates and rummaged behind old hay bales, which John rendered useless. He gathered by the state of the building alone that passersby had already picked it apart.
“Quit pacing,” John grumbled.
When Arthur pulled back a rotting piece of plywood, he froze as if he stumbled upon something worthwhile. Not until Arthur turned did John register the stack of firewood he juggled in his arms. He dumped it on the ground, the wood tumbling into a heap before John’s boots.
At the thought of Arthur looking for wood to burn at his expense, he felt something swell beneath his ribs. He swallowed dryly, shoving the feeling down.
As he typically did, he struggled to voice his gratitude; the words seemed to lodge in his throat. Instead, he produced his flint and steel from his satchel. Arthur picked it from his shaky grasp when he held it up and offered it to him.
The scraping of flint and steel sounded throughout the barn as Arthur kneeled, throwing sparks into the wood pile. It was risky, but it went without saying that the gaping holes in the roof would likely provide enough ventilation. That and the packed dirt floor surely wouldn’t be a breeding ground for the flame to grow unruly.
Without any kindling, it took him longer than usual to provoke a flame that stuck. John couldn’t stifle his trembling as he impatiently watched, his head tipping back in relief when the wood smoked into a small fire. Arthur dropped back into a sitting position; they both sat silently as they observed it gradually manifest into a crackling campfire.
It radiated a hint of warmth to John’s shins, tellingly not enough as his digits stiffened. His brows furrowed as he failed to flex them.
“John,” Arthur said with urgency, his words cutting through John’s hypnotized state.
“Yeah? What?” John’s voice came out hoarse.
“Your teeth are chatterin’.”
John blinked at the realization, the muscle under his scars tensing as his jaw tightened as he tried to suppress his shivers. At some point, the full-body chill had grown more into an aching numbness so intense that his senses had dulled.
“You’re gon’ get sick,” Arthur told him, his expression suggesting genuine concern.
“M’fine.”
"I ain't draggin' a body back to camp," Arthur shook his head, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "I suggest you undress," he continued firmly, "Now before I rip 'em off you."
Even when Arthur's intentions were good toward him, his words always had a bite.
Still, that particular comment sent an unforgiving flush of color erupting under the frigid surface of his cheeks. Instinctively, he craned his neck away to conceal it, hoping it would go unnoticed.
John begrudgingly complied only when the flush subsided, unfolding his knees from his chest and slowly pushing himself to his feet. No longer curled into a ball, the chill in his midsection was impossible to ignore. He cursed to himself as he tossed his satchel onto his bedroll. He wrestled his gun belt off his hips, kicked his boots off, and tugged his trousers down. He grimaced when he pulled his union suit off his limbs, it was like peeling the skin off a banana.
John frowned at the water his clothes produced when he rang them. He carefully laid them out before the fire, hoping its heat would expedite the drying process.
Buck-naked, he felt far more uncomfortable than he had before, the incessant current of wind far more perceptible on his bare, clammy skin. One particularly hearty gust carried a chill that pierced him down to his core. He failed to see how this would do any favors in bringing his temperature back up.
Arthur spared him the embarrassment, turning his head away as John stood naked in the center of the barn. Moving toward his bedroll, John hoped to alleviate the trembling and the vulnerability of being unclothed. However, he stilled when he saw Arthur sitting within the bedroll, legs splayed out in a V-shape as if it were his own. As if it were his initials embroidered on those leather straps. John sniped, “Get your own, Morgan. Was just about to lay in that.”
John flinched, his naked body reflexively shrinking when Arthur’s eyes met his.
Arthur patted the space between his legs. “Siddown.”
“You pullin’ my leg?” John’s face screwed up in bewilderment. He had remembered Arthur’s rude, unwarranted remarks from earlier. The thought of Arthur attempting to humiliate him for his enjoyment didn't seem far-fetched.
“No, you're shakin’ like a damn leaf,” Arthur persisted, gesturing for John to take a seat. “Only ‘till your temps up.”
John felt like he’d been caught in a web, suddenly restricted and unable to move. His mouth opened, words of protest on the tip of his tongue, until another breeze swept through the barn. It wracked through him hard enough to quell any shame that came with the idea of borrowing Arthur’s body heat. His shoulders visibly seized up as he fought the shudder that rolled through him.
A resigned sigh fell from his lips. “Goddammit, fine,” he grumbled, sheepishly stepping over a leg and slotting himself between Arthur’s limbs.
The forearms that hooked under his arms and locked around his body felt searing against his skin, reminiscent of the burn that came with standing too close to a wood stove. It took him a moment to settle, to fully allow the weight of his body to rest back onto Arthur’s chest.
He was on edge, admittedly. Lately, Arthur’s interactions with him had only swung between apathy and annoyance. John hadn’t seen this side of him in years, back when their bond wasn’t so frayed at the edges. The nostalgia brought a strange comfort, urging him to lean into Arthur’s hold. John wasn’t small, and he felt Arthur shift behind him to accommodate the added weight, their bodies fitting together like two halves of a whole.
As John pulled the cover of the bedroll to his chest, he couldn’t help but nervously imagine what they’d looked like from an outsider’s perspective. It was an odd sight, no doubt, with Arthur leaning in, his large arms enveloping John's nude body. But it didn’t feel as awkward as it looked. Instead, it didn’t take long for his violent shivers to lessen under Arthur’s warm embrace. The drum of the rain against the roof and the rhythmic rise and fall of Arthur’s chest were dangerously calming. It rendered him drowsy, a weight threatening his eyelids, head bobbing as he fought to stay conscious.
“You dosin’ off?” Arthur asked him, his voice low and close, his breath tickling John’s ear. When John shuddered, he was grateful for the context, as he could blame the cold.
“Didn’t mean to.”
“S’okay,” Arthur said in a whisper. John gathered from his unusually soft tone and demeanor that he’d grown tired, too. “Ain’t nothin’ better to do anyways.”
They shuffled deeper into the bedroll, the fabric rustling as John rolled away from Arthur onto his side.
“You still cold?”
“Not as terribly.”
Behind him, Arthur’s wiggles tugged at the cover as he settled in; their large frames left little space between them. Arthur stole the space that was there as he draped himself against John's back, throwing an arm over his waist. John stilled at the sensation of Arthur being completely flush along the length of his backside, more particularly at Arthur’s hips pressed against his bare ass. Instantaneously, heat relentlessly pooled in his groin. He didn’t feel so cold anymore.
Arthur’s hot breaths brushing against his neck shattered any sense of drowsiness, leaving him painfully aware of their closeness. Something in how they were slotted together seemed to cross a line; it was almost intimate, and John found it suffocating. However, Arthur's casual demeanor suggested he didn't view the situation in the same light. As John’s head swam, Arthur’s breathing slowed. Soft snores confirmed John’s suspicion that he’d fallen asleep.
The embrace had been so comforting that John strained not to become engrossed. His body was rigid like a cut of lumber as he fought to will away his growing hard-on. He focused on the campfire embers that popped into the air and watched them roll away until their light gave out. From the hole in the roof, he observed the steady droplets of rainwater dive into the forming puddle below, rippling with each drip. He shut his eyes, hoping sleep would overtake him on prayer alone.
But, the efforts to calm himself were unsuccessful. The final nail had been hammered in the coffin when John registered Arthur’s own arousal prodding at his backside.
John shifted reflexively, his jumpy and startled movement jostling Arthur’s hold around him. Still unconscious, Arthur compensated, rolling his hips in closer, consequently taking the air out of John’s lungs.
Then, Arthur properly bucked his hips against the crease of his ass.
The panicked noise from his lips was ripped from him; he’d failed to stifle it. John’s face went hot as Arthur suddenly snaked away from him, the sound jolting him out of slumber.
“Oh, uh, sorry, didn’t mean to–” Arthur’s slurred words trailed off. He cleared his throat before adding, “Forgive me. S’been awhile.”
When John rolled onto his back to shoot daggers with his eyes, he hadn’t expected Arthur to loom over him, propped up in a half-sitting position. He followed Arthur’s line of sight down to where the bedroll’s cover must’ve shuffled off from the commotion. Arthur was eyeing his half-staff erection.
John thought he could die from embarrassment alone.
“Well, guess I ain’t gotta apologize,” Arthur remarked under an amused laugh. “Seems to me you didn’t mind it.”
John was mortified; he rolled away, back onto his side, hiding his face in his hands. “You was the one humpin’ on me like a dog,” he retorted.
John’s ears were already burning an angry red, but Arthur’s sharp laugh stung them something painful. “Wasn’t thinkin’ ‘bout you, John. What’s your excuse?” He teased, “Were you picturin’ a lady too?”
“Oh, screw you, Arthur.”
“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” A pause, “Now it makes sense why you won’t touch Abigail with a ten-foot pole.”
“Enough, Morgan,” he hissed, his gruff voice laden with a venomous bite. When he craned his neck at him with a glint of exasperation in his eye, a look that conveyed he was being stretched to his limit, Arthur’s mocking smile melted away like snow in the sun. In its place was an expression of understanding reminiscent of when they were younger. It mirrored the moments when their fights escalated too far, and John would cast him a pleading glare, silently urging him to stop.
“Okay.” Arthur swallowed thickly as if his mouth were dry. His tone was soft and hardly discernible when he spoke, adding, "No harm done. If it puts you at ease, I’ve always been curious to know what it’s like."
“What?”
“Bein’ with a man as you would a woman.”
It took a second for John to fully digest his words, and when he did, he blinked at him with an incredulous look. “'Okay,” he responded simply, feeling like he was treading on thin ice. He was far too unknowing of its thickness, worried he might fall through. He questioned, “Why’re you tellin’ me that?”
"’Cause, now I’m inclined to believe you wouldn’t oppose lendin’ me a hand," he drawled in a deliberate slowness, his voice low and his light eyes intense enough to whack his heartbeat out of its rhythm.
John couldn’t find the words to respond, so he swallowed them. His body, however, responded by sending practically all of his blood flow to his cock. His sudden lightheadedness further proved that theory.
Arthur looked on expectantly, awaiting a response.
Once the cogs behind his forehead started up again, John shifted back, twisting his body further to face Arthur more directly. His pointy incisors flashed as an open-mouth smile grew on his face, the idea coming to life within his mind. He huffed a laugh, amused as Arthur’s words echoed in his ears. It was laughable because surely he didn’t hear that right. He needed clarification. He prodded with a teasing tone, “You fancy shovin’ your cock up my rear, Morgan?”
He was dead serious, John realized, as Arthur's fingers hurriedly traveled to his own waist, popping his trousers' buttons. As he shimmied the denim down his waist, he didn’t tear away his eyes from John.
That stare pulled John in like a magnet, sending him scrambling to hitch his bare leg over Arthur’s thighs, urgently pinning him down. They were close, noses almost brushing, and when Arthur tilted his chin at him, John could see each marking on his skin, from the heavy dusting of freckles and sunspots to the jagged scars that interrupted them. Most notable was the precursor of a bruise, an accumulation of red splotches dotted his cheekbone from the workings of John’s knuckles.
Arthur’s fingers threatened to give John’s bare hip bones the same appearance as he planted his hands and willfully squeezed.
John’s hand snaked between them to selectively undo a few buttons on Arthur’s union suit to help free his straining cock from the restrictive barrier of his clothing. The shaky breath John received from wrapping his fingers around his length felt like the warmth of liquor infiltrating his veins; a rewarding buzz.
A few strokes were all he could do; Arthur’s big eyes on him were too much. He looked up at him with equal parts disbelief and desperation. Arthur downplayed how bad he’d wanted it, wanted him, and with that, John made the executive decision to skip the preamble. He hurriedly felt around, blindly scooping up his satchel to dig out lubricant.
Once his unsteady hands managed to pop the cap off the petroleum jelly bottle, he generously lathered his fingers before reaching around his own back. His breath audibly hitched when he slid his middle digit inside himself; Arthur’s pupils were blown to the size of planets. John noticed he was blushing, his breathing labored as he watched John add his index finger.
“John,” Arthur said like a soft chant, rubbing gentle circles on John’s hips as he stretched himself.
John was jostled by a twitch of Arthur’s hips as he uselessly thrust up into the air out of desperation for contact. The older man straining all needy-like under his weight might have been the most exhilarating experience he ever had, including the likes of shoot-outs and bank heists.
The third was a tight fit, beckoning the ache in his knuckles to return, a distraction from the burn of working himself open. He felt the hand on his right hip disappear, the cool of Arthur’s fingers wrapping around his cock instead. It sent a jarring jolt of electricity up his spine.
“Shit,” he cursed low, stuttering in Arthur’s hold.
He grimaced when he slipped his digits out of himself, using the remnant slickness to coat Arthur’s angry erection. With his other hand, he swatted Arthur’s grip away and pushed at the man’s chest to usher him backward until he was flat on the bedroll.
Smirking at his obedience, John inched forward on his knees, aligning Arthur’s cock with himself until it prodded at his hole.
Arthur expectantly looked up at John between his long lashes, his chest heaving, practically thrumming with anticipation. John may have known Arthur for the past umpteen years, but seeing him in this new light felt like laying eyes on him for the first time. Living side-by-side dulled John's perception and made him grow indifferent. But now, his features felt more intense: eyes bluer, lashes darker, hair warmer. John appreciated everything down to his crow’s feet; they’d only drawn out when John sunk down, breaching Arthur’s cock through the tight ring of muscle.
It stung; John figured he probably could’ve spent more time stretching himself out if he weren’t so stubbornly impatient. His face contorted, eyes squeezing shut, as he slowly impaled himself around Arthur’s impossibly girthy cock.
“You’re so damned tight,” Arthur hissed, words pinched.
John couldn’t help his guffaw, as he was certain the struggle came from Arthur’s size. Not himself.
At around the halfway point, Arthur’s strong hips bucked up, burying himself to the hilt.
“Jesus!” John cried out; the suddenness of feeling full had sucked the air out of his lungs. He clambered forward, arm extending outward to grasp at the meat of Arthur’s shoulder for steadying leverage. He grumbled, “Patience would do you some good.”
His annoyed sentiment dropped as soon he noticed the blissful look on Arthur’s face. Seeing Arthur’s full lips part, his eyes flutter shut, and his brows draw together had squeezed something fierce under his ribs. It spurred him on, jabbed at him at his sides, and urged him to move to see it all over again.
He lifted his hips slowly, up until he felt the threat of Athur’s cockhead around his hole, before sitting down fully again in his lap. Admittedly, it burned, but John savored it. He found the pain oddly comforting and the thought of being split open by Arthur’s cock even more so. When their hips met, only the faintest hint of a moan slipped past Arthur’s lips, as if he tried to hold it back, as if it indicated that there was more that John could coax out.
John's breath hitched when Arthur’s hand migrated posteriorly, thick fingers kneading into the flesh of John’s ass and pulling his cheeks apart. When John lifted again, Arthur’s short nails dug in, branding crescent-moon-shaped indents.
As John grew accustomed to Arthur's size, he gradually built up a languid rhythm, slow enough to feel every inch of Arthur’s length on the upstroke. And, each time their hips collided, it was punctuated by a breathy little noise from Arthur as he strained below him. John knew the pace was almost too slow, borderline teasing, but Arthur’s undisguised desperation fed a fire within him.
It wasn’t until John saw a flash of gritted teeth, a grimace painted on Arthur’s face, that he let up. He’d only stilled in his lap for a moment, where Arthur promptly seized the opportunity to reposition the both of them. He propped himself forward, hooking an arm around John’s waist until their fronts were flush.
With Arthur sitting upright, John’s heart leaped at how abrasively close they were now. He crossed his arms behind Arthur’s neck as he ground down.
“Finally found something you’re useful for,” Arthur huffed into his ear, stubble scraping against John’s cheek. “You take it so well.”
John shivered and shivered harder when Arthur thrust up into him. Finally, Arthur was angled to brush up against the sensitive spot within him that rendered his vision spotty. His fingers clambered at Arthur’s broad back, grabbing at the fabric to cling onto like a lifeline. The whiny noise pulled out of him must’ve humored Arthur; his laugh echoed in his ears like the reverberation of an empty canyon. Still, when he tilted his head up at John, the spark in his eye suggested he wanted more.
Arthur was moving again, pulling himself out and guiding John backward until he was the one on his back. Arthur must've noticed John's sour expression; as he hiked up the other's legs, he asked, "What's the look for?"
“It was just startin’ to feel nice,” John grumbled in disappointment while he hooked his legs behind Arthur’s waist.
“I know,” he replied simply.
John writhed when Arthur pried him open with his cock again.
“I’m gonna fuck you properly,” Arthur said, his voice hushed like a promise.
“I think I’d like to see you try.”
Now that John no longer held onto the reins, it was much more overwhelming; each movement from Arthur became unpredictably sudden. He started slowly, sheathing himself to the hilt, then drawing out entirely just to push through the resistance of John’s hole again. And, again. And, again. It drove John crazy as if Arthur's actions were solely driven by the desire for payback for the debilitatingly slow place John had set earlier.
Then, Arthur shifted his hips up, and John knew what his shallow thrusts were deliberately searching for. After a few missed attempts, he found the spot with a direct hit, pleasure radiating from his groin to his fingertips. His back bowed, neck strained, and a punchy shout flew past his lips.
Arthur’s movements faltered as he slowed to watch him, face adorned in pleasure as he focused on the reactions he elicited from the other.
Arthur’s hair was wild, strands jutting out in all directions. A few pieces caught to his forehead; the glisten of sweat had held them in place there. His union suit clung tightly to his arms, emphasizing their size as they boxed John in. When John swallowed, he pointedly ignored the lump in his throat as his eyes raked over Arthur. He was fearful of the feelings that came with doing so and even more fearful of how Arthur looked back at him.
As if he’d still had his spurs on, John’s heels dug into the small of Arthur’s back, urging him to pick up the pace. Arthur obliged, rolling his hips quicker, in time with John’s eager rocking. The pleasure in John’s abdomen became more and more taut as Arthur’s cock nudged against his prostate with each drilling thrust. Together, they became unfiltered; Arthur’s breathy grunts and John’s whimpers reverberated off the weak walls of the barn. When John felt familiar fingers wrap around his cock again, he bucked and clenched around Arthur unintentionally.
The spasm drew a sound out of Arthur that John didn’t know he could make. The combination of Arthur’s desperate, high-pitched noise and the fingers working his cock sent him over the edge; his orgasm boiling over within an instant. He yelped, violently convulsing as the lashes of pleasure ripped through him, shaking until his muscles were a useless mess. His fingernails dug into Arthur’s back so harshly that even behind the fabric, it wouldn’t be a shock if he broke through skin.
Arthur’s fist pumped John through his climax, painting his stomach with white ropes. Arthur’s hips rolled him through it as well, only coming to an abrupt halt when Arthur had reached his own end. His hips stuttered, sheathing himself deep as he emptied the contents of his orgasm into the man below him.
“Goddamn,” Arthur rasped in disbelief, body trembling. His breaths were hot against John’s chest as his damp forehead slumped into his shoulder.
John enjoyed the way his whole body ached. The blood coursing through his veins did so with a warm, pleasant buzz. He was filled with a serenity that he'd longed for since this morning before it was shot out of arm's distance. Arthur stole that moment from him, dragged him through the mud, and forced it into his grasp within a single breath.
And at this point in time, John would thank him for it.
Through the afterglow, a spike of anxiety erupted within his chest, remembering it was Arthur Morgan, who John still had his legs wrapped around. They both dove in headfirst without a second thought of repercussions.
But John couldn’t help but think the release he got was worth the imminent awkwardness that would surely follow them around camp. John figured that Arthur would agree. Arthur’s recent, unnecessary antagonizing to everyone in his path was a testament to how badly he needed a lay, too. John hoped they could convince themselves it was nothing more than a simple exchange of favors. But, he could hardly convince himself, a thought crossed his mind that knotted his stomach. He figured maybe there was a deeper reason behind Arthur’s anger over him trying to separate from the gang.
“Still cold?” Arthur asked lightheartedly into his chest, tearing John out of his thought cloud.
“Not particularly, no.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Arthur chuckled. He grimaced as he pushed himself up; John grimaced too when Arthur slid out, John’s legs unhooking and falling from behind Arthur’s back. “Reckon the storm’s passed.”
When John focused on it, he realized the drumming against the barn roof was absent.
Arthur casually tucked himself back into his clothes, sauntering over to the heap of charcoal that was once their campfire, suffocating it further with a nudge of his boot. After John had dried the mess off his belly from a handkerchief he’d dug out of his satchel, they worked quickly to put themselves back into working order. John was pleased to find that his union suit and trousers were drier, albeit not dry. The fire warmed them, though, pleasantly warm on his skin when he tugged them back on.
Arthur had bundled the bedroll back up. When John had made himself decent, he found Arthur fastening it to Old Boy’s saddle. They led their horses out of the stalls, the rotting barn, and into the damp outdoors, where the grass needles wore water beads like hats. The air was heavy, fog visible above the stretch of the lake, with a rainbow sprouting from the horizon.
John found amusement in the soreness of hitching a leg over Old Boy’s back. However, he hoped Arthur ahead didn't hear the hiss that accompanied the movement. They rode back to camp in a strangely comfortable silence with a single trout in tow. It was nice while it lasted; the loudness didn't come until they reached the camp’s clearing.
It came in the form of Miss Grimshaw’s voice.
“Where’s the rest of it?”
John tied Arthur’s horse up for him as he rounded her, plucking the fish off her back. He hooked two arms under its impressive size, tipped John a nod for hitching his mount, and aimed for Pearson’s wagon. He didn’t acknowledge Miss Grimshaw’s question, and didn’t acknowledge her shadowing him as he walked on.
After the trout landed with a heavy thud on the table, Arthur wiped his hands on his shirt.
“I’ll go out tomorrow, Miss Grimshaw” Arthur finally promised her, defeated from her persistence. “That storm cut things short but I reckon this’ll last us till then.”
John dug through his satchel for his pipe, quietly looping behind Miss Grimshaw’s turned back in hopes she wouldn’t harp on him. More than anything he wanted a moment in solitude, accompanied by the sounds of soft waves brushing against the sand. A peaceful setting to comb through his rat’s nest of thoughts.
“John,” Miss Grimshaw sharply called for his attention, preventing him from taking another step toward the shore. Stopping in his tracks, his shoulders bowed. Her judgy eyes scanned up and down his body momentarily as if something was wrong with how he looked. Her voice raised in angered suspicion, “Did y’all get in another fight?”
“No,” John responded gruffly, quirking a brow at her.
She rolled her eyes, seemingly unbelieving in his answer. Her reaction would’ve made sense if he was caught in a lie, but even with whatever occurred between him and Arthur, it sure as hell wasn’t a fight. He glanced down at the sleeves of his shirt and the legs of his pants, checking the fabric, wondering if she saw a stain or something he didn’t notice.
Nothing.
“Your limp, John,” she pointed out.
John could feel the color of his skin leave his body. Arthur's irritating grin was visible in the corner of his vision, the one that beckoned his fist to wipe it off again. Not that he would, considering the series of events that played out after last time. He shook his head at her. “I, uh, tripped and fell funny,” he quickly fibbed. “Nothin’ to do with Morgan.”