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The first time Arthur sees true fear in John’s eyes is when the younger is freshly nineteen and Arthur’s had to track him down through the back alleys of an unfamiliar town.
John had fought with Dutch the other night, gone before dawn the next morning.
Arthur had been the one tasked with finding John.
Two days of a chase had Arthur chomping at the bit to knock some sense into John.
He spots the younger passing through a small crowd into an alley Arthur knows is a dead-end, only because he accidentally turned down it over an hour ago.
John’s muttering curses and trying to fit the toe of his boot into the iron fence at the shadowed end of the alley when Arthur stops behind him.
He sees John tense and knows the younger is aware of him.
He grabs John by the back of his coat before the younger can react and flips him around, shoving John up against the brick of one of the buildings.
John struggles and hits with the heels of his palms at Arthur’s sternum and face.
But Arthur’s the one who taught him this shit.
Arthur shoves both of John’s hands away and traps the younger’s slender wrists in the grip of his fist, his other hand’s fingers tucking under John’s jaw and wrapping around John’s throat.
John immediately stills.
“You lil’ shit,” Arthur growls, “I taught you too damn well, you were hell to track.”
He feels John swallow under his palm, watches the younger finally look up and meet his eyes.
Sees John register who’s got him pinned in this dark alley, almost midnight.
And then he sees fear.
Arthur feels his brows furrow just a little in confusion.
He knows he must look pissed if John’s truly scared of him.
His fingers flex around John’s throat and he sees John’s chest hitch slightly.
John’s staring at him, wide-eyed, nearly expressionless, the only telling feature for his feelings are the dark brown eyes.
Glassy with terror, and brimming tears.
“Dutch is furious,” Arthur murmurs as he shifts, habitually letting his gaze move from limb to limb on John, looking for injuries, “Took a straight two hours of convincin’ to agree you could come back.”
Arthur feels John’s wrists flex in his hand and looks back up to John’s eyes, only to find John looking down now.
“You fool,” Arthur says lowly, “You’re lucky I found you, not Dutch.”
John tenses against the wall and feebly struggles, rasping words against Arthur’s hand on his throat.
Arthur shifts his hold and presses John back against the wall, carefully applying pressure.
He knows if he lets go now John’ll scream or try to run.
John struggles for another few seconds then slumps against the brick.
Breaths coming thin and quick through the restricting feeling.
“You gon’ behave?” Arthur asks quietly, pressing his fingertips in against the corded muscle in John’s neck.
John nods weakly.
Arthur slowly pulls back his hand, moving it to hold John’s shoulder instead, keeping the younger pinned to the wall with his body-weight.
John gasps for air and ducks his head sharply, turning his face away from Arthur.
Arthur can see, even in the dim light, the way the scar stands out white against the reddened skin on John’s neck.
It burrows into his heart with an ache he knows is guilt.
“You went east, after Fork River, where’d you go right after that?” Arthur asks, shoving down the bubbling apology.
“... Went up-” John’s voice cracks sharply and the younger winces, making Arthur bite back his concern.
He gives John a moment to recover.
“Up the cliff,” John says hoarsely.
Arthur huffs in annoyance, shuffling his feet to stand up straighter.
John, in response, shrinks in on himself.
Arthur studies the younger for a moment then lightly presses under John’s collarbone through the layers of leather and cotton with his thumb.
“Why’d you run?” Arthur asks quietly.
John’s wrists flex in his hold and the younger tilts his head to peer up at Arthur cautiously.
“He didn’t tell you?” John whispers.
“Who? Dutch?”
John stares up at him then looks down.
“That fella that was with Dutch the other night,” John says hoarsely, “He knew. Dutch told him.”
Arthur frowns down at him, fighting the urge to defend their leader.
“He… Dutch was teasin’, stupid shit, just raggin’ on me,” John mutters, “It weren’t serious. Then that man piped up, said somethin’ about me bein’ of more use if Dutch had people payin’ to get under my skirts.”
John’s barely even whispering at the end of it.
“Dutch didn’t say nothin’?” Arthur asks flatly, head spinning with carefully contained anger on John’s behalf.
“Jus’ laughed, agreed,” John says hoarsely, then looks up, frantic, “Arthur, I don’t- I can’t-”
“Hush,” Arthur says and John flinches, dropping his gaze quickly, like a scolded puppy, “Where’s your horse?”
“Sold her,” John mutters.
Arthur huffs quietly then steps back.
“Gonna let go of you, John,” Arthur says slowly, “And you ain’t gon’ run, right?”
“No, Sir,” John says weakly.
Arthur frowns down at the younger for a few seconds then lets go.
John immediately lifts his hand to cradle his throat and Arthur wonders if he actually hurt the younger.
“You’re gon’ ride with me,” Arthur says slowly, “Out the alley, to the left, in front of the barber, Bo’ is there. You’re walkin’ in front of me, understand?”
“Yessir.”
“Good, go.”
--
Arthur knows John thinks they’re heading straight back to the gang, but Arthur honestly hasn’t decided yet.
He needs some time to think.
They reach the barber, Arthur swings up into the saddle, settling before offering a hand to John.
John climbs up behind him and tightly clings to Arthur’s back, fists curled in Arthur’s jacket.
Arthur glances back over his shoulder but John’s head is bowed, and he can’t gauge the younger’s expression.
He faces forward and maneuvers them through the packed nightlife of the city, and out, away from the lights, into the hillside.
--
The moon is bright enough that they don’t need to light the lantern as Arthur takes them further and further from civilization until they’re skirting the edge of a dense forest.
“When’s the last time you ate?” Arthur asks quietly as they cross a shallow stream.
“I… I ain’t sure,” John whispers.
“Slept?”
John makes a weak sound of uncertainty.
Arthur sighs quietly and switches direction, heading up an adjacent hill with a cluster of cottonwoods up top.
--
He brings Bo’ to a halt next to one of the wide-trunked trees.
“C’mon, John,” Arthur murmurs, “Get off.”
He feels John shift behind the saddle then the grips on his jacket ease and the younger stumbles off to the side.
Not even taking three steps before stilling, waiting for further instruction.
Arthur squints at him then dismounts, hooking Bo’s reins on the thickest limb of the closest tree.
He grabs his bedroll and canteen then walks past John to the middle of the small clearing.
He sets up his, or rather for tonight, their bed, then turns towards the younger, who hasn’t moved.
“Come over here.”
John’s head lifts slightly and the younger slowly approaches, stopping a few feet away.
“Come lay down,” Arthur says more pointedly and John shrinks in on himself, ducking around Arthur and sitting at the foot of the bedroll to pry off his boots.
John lays down on the edge of the bedroll, spine a rigid, uncomfortable line.
Arthur sighs quietly and retrieves his satchel before joining John, sitting to take his boots and holster off, then laying on his back.
He digs through his satchel for a bag of dried fruit and jerky, nudging John’s back with his elbow.
“Turn ‘round, eat some of this.”
John slowly turns over, pillowing his head with his arm and looking up at Arthur.
Arthur grabs a bit of dried apple and holds it out to the younger.
John tentatively reaches it for it, like it’s going to be snatched away, like this is a cruel trick.
Arthur pushes the apple into the younger’s hand.
John’s gaze flicks between the apple and Arthur’s face.
“Thanks,” John mumbles and bites off a chunk, chewing slowly.
“Where were you gonna go?” Arthur asks quietly.
John stops chewing.
“Did you even have a plan?”
“At first I was just tryin’ to get as far away as fast as I could,” John mutters, “Then I… Then I just wanted to get out of that city. Find somewhere… Quiet, and pretty.”
Arthur blinks down at the younger, dread bubbling in his stomach.
“Why?” Arthur asks, but he knows the answer and isn’t surprised when John ducks his head further and returns to chewing.
“You’d rather off yourself than stand up to Dutch?” Arthur asks, frustration bleeding into his voice.
“Stand up to him?” John asks hoarsely, looking up through exhausted eyes, “What ground do I have to stand on against him, Arthur?”
“I owe him everythin’,” John whispers, “He could sell my ass if he wants to, and it’d just be me payin’ back what I’ve cost over the years.”
“John,” Arthur protests quietly.
“He saw,” John says bitterly, “How scared I was, how betrayed I felt, and he just fuckin’ smiled. Not that easy kinda ‘bide your time’ smile, neither.”
Arthur silently passes over a piece of jerky.
“It was cruel,” John murmurs, “He was bein’ cruel.”
“Maybe he was just savin’ face with that man,” Arthur offers.
But even to his own ears, it sounds like a stretch.
"Maybe," John whispers, almost desperately and tears off a piece of meat with his teeth.
Arthur frowns and nudges John's chin up with his curled finger, ghosting his fingertips over the darkening mark on John's neck.
John watches him tiredly, chewing slowly.
"Sorry," Arthur says gruffly, "Weren't tryin' to bruise you up like this."
"S'fine," John murmurs, closing his eyes.
"Why were you so scared, when you recognized me?"
John frowns without opening his eyes.
"I… I thought you'd believe me, that you'd be the only one who sided with me," John says quietly, "Was worried Dutch had… Convinced you I was lyin' or somethin'."
"I believe you," Arthur sighs, tapping one finger on the underside of John's chin.
John looks at him, then, and chews on the last of the jerky as he reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small, paper envelope.
"Open it," John says through chewing and shoves the envelope into Arthur's hand.
Arthur narrows his eyes at the younger but pops open the envelope, shaking out the contents into his hand.
It's a small, metal bookmark.
Oval shaped with a U shaped cut-out to slide it onto the page, flowers engraved in the silver.
"Where'd you get this?" Arthur whispers, rubbing his thumb over the engravings.
"Bought it," John says, a bit self-deprecating, "When I was sellin' my things, I saw it and I kept tryin' to will myself to leave it."
John looks down at the envelope and taps it.
"Unfold it," John mutters.
Arthur holds the bookmark in his palm and unfolds the envelope delicately, seeing John's wobbly writing covering the inside.
"I figured you'd find me… Regardless."
Arthur swallows thickly and smooths the paper.
'Mr Morgan AR Art,
I ain't never thanked you out loud for helping me. I might never.
But it's clearer lately, more than ever, that I owe you… My life.
Dutch... He saved me, but it was you who had patience with me, for as loud and confusing of a child as I was.
And for as loud and confusing of an adult I am, you were still… soft with me.
And I apre appree
Thank you'
Arthur's chest feels simultaneously like it's being crushed under a loaded wagon and blown wide-open, scattered about in a twister.
John's watching him cautiously when Arthur looks up from the note.
Arthur's eyes burn and he quickly lifts a hand, presses harshly into his eyes to stop the wetness spilling over.
He folds the note around the bookmark and twists around to put it in his satchel before turning back and slinging an arm over John's side, startling the younger as he tugs John in close.
Arthur hides his face in John's neck and breathes quietly as he squeezes the younger against himself.
Pulling back to cup either side of John's face in his hands.
John's staring at him, doe-eyed.
"You ain't gonna be forced into nothin', alright?" Arthur says firmly, "I'll figure somethin' out."
"You know I trust you… And I wanna believe you," John mutters.
"I get it," Arthur says and draws John in, against his chest, "I get it."
--
They do go back to camp, riding in a few hours before dawn.
Arthur ushers John into the older man's tent then disappears to talk to Dutch.
John sits cross-legged on the older man's bed, rubbing absently at the bruise that had formed on his neck.
His eyes grow tired and he finds himself struggling to keep them open.
--
"John?" Arthur whispers as he leans over the younger.
John opens his eyes blearily from where he's slumped over on Arthur's bed.
"C'mon, need you awake, we need to talk."
"Uh-oh," John mutters, half-asleep and Arthur huffs a small laugh before helping John sit up.
"Seriously John. Cleared some things up with Dutch but… I had to fib a bit."
John slowly focuses on him, squinting.
"Fib?"
"He…" Arthur sighs and rubs his chin, "He wasn't truly serious, the other night, but now he's mad with you for runnin' away. He was considerin' havin' you…"
Arthur clears his throat quietly and clenches one hand around the other.
"I told him it wasn't wise, and that I didn't want you doin' that kinda thing, so he asked me why I was so involved," Arthur mutters, "And I… Lied."
"How?"
"I said… I said I didn't want you sellin' yourself 'cause I don't wanna share," Arthur says hesitantly.
John rubs his eyes tiredly and shifts on the cot to look at the older man more clearly.
"Like we was together?"
"Yeah," Arthur sighs and runs a hand down his face, "I'll figure somethin' else out eventually. But just trust me, for now, alright?"
"I trust you," John says quietly, "Can I lay back down?"
Arthur huffs another, more relieved laugh and nods, shifting to the edge of the mattress.
"You stayin'?" John whispers.
"You want that?"
John nods slowly, laying back down and scooting back to make room.
He's too tired to keep his eyes open as Arthur gets ready for bed so he closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of rustling fabric, leather, metal.
The mattress shifts and dips and Arthur's arms wind around him tightly.
John makes an unconscious noise of contentment and snuggles close to the older man.
--
"Just how long were you two planning on keeping this from me?" Dutch asks, standing across the fire from them.
Arthur and John look up simultaneously from Arthur's journal.
John drops his gaze almost immediately, fear prickling the hairs on his nape.
Arthur glances between him and Dutch, slowly closing his journal, the silver bookmark glinting in the firelight.
"Weren't sure how you'd react…" Arthur says slowly.
"So, you'd've just kept up this lie for as long as you could?"
"Well… No," Arthur says mildly, "Just until it felt like we had a good way to announce it. S'not like you have a requirement for everyone to announce who they're beddin' at any given time."
Dutch narrows his eyes at Arthur, slowly crossing his arms.
"A novel idea," Dutch says dryly.
"Sorry," Arthur says, and it's good enough to fool near anyone, but John can tell it's insincere, "Really, Dutch, we weren't tryin' to make it some big secret. Just… Weren't sure if it'd last, at first."
"But it has."
"Yeah," Arthur says gently, settling his hand on John's thigh and looking at the younger, studying him carefully.
John lifts his leg slowly into the touch, tentatively wrapping his thin fingers around Arthur's wrist to keep the older man's touch on him.
"I can see that," Dutch says quietly.
John glances up at him, silent, searching.
"You two better not let this affect you pairing for jobs."
"No, sir, we won't," John says, voice hoarse.
--
John feels uneasy in camp, so he sticks close to Arthur.
Practically a shadow, and once Arthur notices the trend he starts to divy each chore’s work between them.
--
Arthur’s never minded peeling vegetables, easily falling into the mindless work, but John’s hands shake without a gun in them.
They set up so they can sit, buckets in front of them, a board to cut on over John’s lap.
John washes, Arthur peels, John chops, and then slides the chunks of potato into a deep cast iron.
John zones out for a moment after finishing one potato and having to wait for Arthur to finish peeling.
He’s brought back when droplets of cold water hit his face.
John leans away, face twisting up in displeasure, frowning at Arthur who’s leaning over into his space, studying John.
“You alright?” Arthur asks quietly.
“Dutch has been watchin’ us,” John murmurs, looking down at the empty cutting board.
“Really?” Arthur hums, “I didn’t notice.”
“S’not constant,” John lifts his eyes to look at Arthur, “He looks suspicious.”
“Hm.”
“Arthur, I know… I know you’re helpin’ but if you don’t want Dutch to get mad at you, I’m fine with u-”
Arthur leans in and presses his lips to John’s briefly, making the younger tense.
The older man’s hand comes up and cups his cheek, thumb brushing over John’s wind-chilled cheek, tender.
John makes a small, unintended sound of want and his faces pinks from more than the cold.
Arthur’s mouth gently works over his for a moment and John doesn’t know what to do so he lets Arthur control everything, clenching one hand tightly in the older man’s shirt.
There’s a loud whistle from across the camp and John jerks away, ducking his head.
Arthur’s hand slides down to cup the side of his neck, covering the bruise and scar with his warm hand.
“Sorry,” Arthur whispers.
“I… Is Dutch- Did he see?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says gently and rubs his thumb over John’s throat, feeling the younger swallow, “You alright?”
John looks up at him tentatively, then nods.
--
“Dutch cornered me and interrogated me for a good half-hour, this mornin’,” Arthur says, sounding amused.
“Sorry,” John says weakly, sitting cross-legged on Arthur’s cot, wrapped tightly in a bear-skin.
There’s half-a-foot of snow packed on the ground, and John had come to him shivering just past dusk.
“It’s fine, John,” Arthur says seriously, “I’m not lettin’ anythin’ happen to you, whatever that takes, alright?”
John nods slowly.
“Good, now scoot.”
John shuffles back and lays down to make room for the older man.
Arthur’s arm settles easily on his waist and John stares at the top-most button on Arthur’s union suit.
“Should we do that more?”
“What?”
“What we… Kissin’,” John explains quietly, “In front of ‘em all?”
“I don’t think we should have to, too much,” Arthur shrugs, “I mean, you comin’ to my tent past dark’s pretty good for appearances here.”
“If we was serious, like Hosea used t’be with his wife,” John reaches out to worry the loose thread behind the button he’s been staring at, “Would we?”
“Suppose, yeah, at least when the occasion calls.”
“Sorry I’m not good at it,” John mutters.
“... You were fine,” Arthur says, confusion furrowing his brows.
“I don’t know how… How to-“ John shrugs roughly, twisting the thread.
Arthur’s hand slowly retracts from his waist to cover his.
John meets the older man’s eyes.
“What are you on about?” Arthur asks gently.
“Kissin’ n’ shit,” John says, looking down at Arthur’s mouth, then back up to the older man’s eyes, “I ain’t done it… Well, before…”
“... Oh,” Arthur whispers, then sighs and tilts his head back slightly, “Shit.”
“... What?”
“Went and just stole your first kiss like that,” Arthur mutters.
John’s fingers flex nervously in Arthur’s hold.
He lowers his gaze back to the older man’s chest.
“Damn,” Arthur sighs, “Johnny, ‘M sorry, that pro’ly wasn’t what you wanted.”
John gives a half-hearted shrug.
“It was… Good?”
“‘Good’?”
“I liked it,” John says weakly.
“... Oh.”
“Just… Warn me next time?” John requests quietly, closing his eyes.
“Yeah, can do.”
--
Arthur goes on an errand for Hosea and John tries to stay out sight the whole time the older man is gone.
He wakes up early to do his chores, skips meals so he doesn’t have to face Dutch without Arthur there.
He hears a commotion in the afternoon of the fourth day, then a chuckle, smooth and clear and Arthur’s.
He jolts off of the older man’s cot and peeks out of the canvas, seeing Arthur settling Bo’, chatting with some of the gang as they greet him.
John makes his way over, stopping a few yards away.
Arthur sees him and smiles, glancing around subtly then walking close to John, sliding his hand around the younger’s waist.
John’s breath hitches and he looks at Arthur curiously.
“Gon’ kiss you,” Arthur murmurs, eyes searching for permission.
John tilts his head up and closes his eyes.
Arthur’s other hand joins in holding his waist and the older man’s lips press against his, firmer than their first kiss.
Arthur’s mouth parts slightly against his and John hesitates, then follows suit.
The older man’s tongue runs over his bottom lip and John makes a small, whiny sound, feeling heat pulse in his gut.
Arthur pulls back slightly and John opens his eyes, regretting he didn’t hold back the noise.
“Alright, alright,” Hosea says from nearby, waving the roll of paper he’s holding, “I’m sure you missed your sweetheart but we gotta go over this, and you need that wound re-dressed.”
John flushes violently and ducks his head.
Arthur huffs quietly, amused, and presses his lips to John’s crown, squeezing the younger’s waist firmly before pulling back.
--
“So, I was told you were sleepin’ in my tent while I was gone,” Arthur says from the entrance to John’s tent, fidgeting with the bandage around his arm.
“I… Yeah.”
“Really playin’ up missin’ me, huh?”
“I did miss you,” John says quietly.
Arthur blinks at him in surprise.
“Ah…” Arthur clears his throat, “Well, you wanna tonight?”
John nods readily.
--
“Was… Was today alright?” Arthur asks quietly, John’s back against his chest as they’re laying in the older man’s cot.
John’s head feels fuzzy and warm at the memory.
He nods.
“I mean, it was enough warnin’?” Arthur’s hand flexes on his stomach, “I just thought… It would make sense, if we was together, after not seein’ you for a while.”
“It was fine,” John says then clears his throat awkwardly, “I mean, the… It was enough warnin’.”
“... Did you not like it?” Arthur whispers, “You can be honest with me, John, we don’t gotta do it like that.”
“No, it was… It was good.”
“Alright, just… If I do anythin’ that’s too much for you, you can stop me, y’know?” Arthur shifts behind him, “Just call me ‘Morgan’ and I’ll ease off.”
John nods tiredly, settling his hand over Arthur’s.
--
“I don’t wanna go out there,” John says quietly, staring down at his hands twisted in the fabric of his skirt.
“I… I get that, what I don’t get is why you’re wearin’ it in the first place, if you ain’t comfortable,” Arthur says slowly, leaning back against the main post of John’s tent.
“S’warm,” John says weakly, “Warmer than just trousers.”
“You can’t just stay in here ‘til spring.”
John sniffs quietly, smoothing his fingers over a small mend in the wool.
“You know I’ll keep everyone off your back, if you want to wear this kinda thing, right?” Arthur asks gently, “S’none their business, and I’ll remind them o’ that.”
John looks up at Arthur.
“C’mon,” Arthur steps closer and holds out his hand, “Come eat supper.”
--
John avoids everyone’s gaze as he settles on a log next to Arthur, wearing one of the older man’s long coats on top of his layers of shirts and skirts.
No one comments, no one talks to him, the meal passes uneventfully.
Arthur keeps his leg pressed to John’s throughout the whole thing.
--
There’s not enough room in the wagon.
John still doesn’t have a horse, Dutch wouldn’t let Arthur ride with his injury and Bo’s playing pack mule, following the wagon.
Arthur volunteers to ride with the furniture, and all eyes turn to John.
“I’ll go with Arthur.”
--
They clear out enough space they can sit between the crates and stacked benches.
John hugs his knees, trying to hold himself still as they go over the bumpy roads.
Hosea lets them know it’ll be awhile of these conditions, the particular route they’re taking.
Arthur sighs roughly after the dozenth time their shoulders knock together.
“Jesus,” Arthur mutters, “Just, lemme-“
Arthur lifts John up and turns the younger to sit square in his lap.
Arthur’s moves them to the middle of the space and sighs, obviously relieved to have more room, even with John’s buck-twenty on top of him.
“Art?” John whispers.
“Settle down,” Arthur murmurs, “Try n’ sleep, s’what I’m plannin’ on.”
John tries to get comfortable, leaning back against Arthur’s chest, his legs between the older man’s.
It becomes clear, after a few minutes, that there’s no way they’re sleeping through this.
It also becomes clear, that having John sit in his lap while driving over rhythmically bumpy roads, was not the best idea.
“Arthur,” John says hesitantly, “I’m fine sittin’ ov-“
“It’s fine,” Arthur says roughly.
John tenses, clenching his fingers together and staring at the patches in the knees of his pants.
They go over a rougher bump and John lifts up momentarily, coming down heavy.
Feeling the older man’s cock, harder and fuller than it was earlier.
“... Arthur,” John whispers.
The older man grunts quietly then hushes him, moving his hands to squeeze John’s hips, holding the younger still.
--
The road smooths out again and Arthur nudges John off of him, the younger curling back up immediately, hiding his burning face in his knees.
“Sorry,” Arthur mutters.
--
They have a bed, in this house.
One bed.
They’ve been sharing obviously enough that when rooms were dealt out Dutch made a wry comment about it being a waste to give John his own room.
“I can sleep in the sittin’ room,” John offers, standing in his nightshirt and nothing else.
“What?” Arthur looks at him in the reflection of the mirror over the dresser, “Why would you do that?”
“If you… If you’re tired of lettin’ me sleep in your bed.”
Arthur frowns at him and turns around.
“You might be cold at first but you warm up pretty quick,” Arthur jokes.
John presses his lips together, looking down.
“I mean… If you want to…” John swallows roughly and crosses his arms, “After what happened in the wagon, if you want to do… Somethin’.”
Arthur huffs a small laugh.
“John, I’m fine,” Arthur says, thoroughly amused, “Thank you for your concern, now get in. I hate sleepin ‘gainst the wall.”
--
There’s room enough for a whole nother person between them, and John shifts uncertainly.
What if Arthur wants the space? Is glad for the change?
John lays with his back flush to the wall, staring at the blanket covering the mattress.
Arthur eventually peeks one eye open, looking at him questioningly.
“You too warm?”
John shakes his head.
“Well, c’mere then.”
--
John wakes up with Arthur hard against him.
His face burns and he holds carefully still.
It’s a few hours before dawn, but he can tell Arthur’s on the verge of waking up by the way he’s shifting.
Rocking, grinding.
John closes his eyes tighter.
Arthur mumbles behind him, then pulls away slightly, hands loose on John’s hips.
“Ah, shit,” The older man mutters, turning onto his back.
John exhales silently, shakily and relaxes a little bit.
Then hears the shifting of fabric, behind him, a quiet rustling, rhythmic.
John turns over slowly.
Arthur’s eyes are closed, the older man gripping himself through his union suit, barely moving his hand.
“Arthur?”
The older man’s eyes startle open and he freezes.
“Damn, uh,” Arthur swallows thickly, “I thought you were asleep.”
“... You’re-“
“Not… Not really, just, uh, tryin’ to calm down a bit.”
“Oh,” John whispers studying Arthur’s face, “You can keep goin’.”
Arthur stares at him, eyes wide in the moonlit room.
“You sure?” The older man asks hoarsely.
John nods, settling down, head pillowed on his folded arm.
“Fuck,” Arthur whispers, so quiet John barely hears it, but it makes him clench around nothing, warmth building between his thighs.
The older man closes his eyes, leaning his head back, as his hand slowly resumes.
“S’alright if I watch?” John asks hesitantly.
“Yeah,” Arthur says roughly, “Jesus.”
The older man’s hips thrust up against his hand and Arthur groans quietly.
They’re the last room in this wing on the second floor, well isolated from the others.
John squeezes his legs together, biting hard on his lower lip as he watches Arthur’s hand rubbing firmly along his clothed length.
“Is it… Is it better skin-on-skin?” John asks.
Arthur’s eyes open to look at him, seeing the genuine curiosity in the younger’s eyes.
“Sometimes… Unless there’s something to ease the way, or the fabric ain’t rough,” Arthur shrugs, squeezes himself, hips lifting into the touch, “Then it’s ‘bout equal.”
“Ease the way?”
“Yeah,” Arthur clears his throat roughly, “Oil, salve.”
“Do you have any?”
“Nah,” Arthur murmurs and glances at his satchel, “Not now.”
John squirms, clenching his fists tightly as he looks up at Arthur.
Arthur’s breathing is a little labored, as his eyes travel from John’s eyes, down, and then back.
“... You can,” Arthur says quietly, “S’only fair.”
John ducks his head shyly, then pushes down the covers, one hand moving between his thighs.
Arthur watches, as John barely rubs himself, and yet they both hear the wet sound of his slick.
“Shit,” Arthur whispers, fingers wrapping around his base through his drawers.
“It- Ah-“ John licks his lips and gathers more slick, bringing it forward to coat his nub, “Feels good.”
“When’s the last time you…?”
“Been a couple years,” John whispers, squirms out of his nightshirt, shifts to lay on his back, glancing at Arthur before butterflying his legs open.
“Man, you’re…” Arthur exhales slowly, “God, you’re always surprisin’ me.”
“Can I see you?” John asks quietly, dipping his fingers into himself and barely rocking them, to make his slick squelch wetly.
Arthur undoes the lower buttons and pulls his cock out.
John watches, captivated by the size of Arthur, the way the older man’s cock looks hot and heavy in his hand.
John whimpers quietly, rubbing himself a little faster.
“You’ve never… You ain’t done anythin’, right?” Arthur asks as he strokes himself from base to tip, slow and firm.
John shakes his head weakly, hips twitching up against his hand.
“You ever seen a cock, ‘fore now?”
“Not… Not like this,” John whines.
“Like what?”
“Like… Good, um, big and…” John shifts, “Nice lookin’.”
Arthur snorts quietly and switches hands so his arm isn’t blocking John’s view.
“You like my cock?” Arthur asks, somewhat jokingly.
John nods quickly.
Arthur blinks in surprise, slows his strokes down, glancing down at himself as he milks a bead of pre-cum out.
John inhales sharply, watching it drip down.
“S’that ease the way?” John whispers.
“Mm-hm,” Arthur rubs it down his shaft, twisting his grip around, “A little.”
“Would it… Would you…” John swallows thickly and cups his slit.
“What?”
“You could… Use mine,” John says shakily, “My slick.”
Arthur groans lowly at the thought.
“Yeah?” Arthur asks hoarsely, cock jerking in his hand.
John nods slowly, shifting and moving a little closer.
“Just… I guess, just… Get some on your hand?” John asks breathily.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Arthur moves his right hand to John’s upper thigh, watching the younger’s face carefully, but John’s watching Arthur’s hand.
The older man lowers his hand down between John’s thighs, feeling the warmth radiating.
John moves his own hand out of the way and butterflies his legs as wide as he can.
Arthur’s fingers press into his slit, dragging from just above his ass up to his nub.
John whimpers lightly, lifting his hips into the touch.
Arthur breathes shakily and lets his hand linger, rubbing gently, circling John’s nub and then dipping down to collect more slick.
He brings his hand back over and rubs his fingers together, looking at the sticky fluid dripping down towards his palm.
He curses under his breath and wraps his hand around his cock, groaning at the feeling, the tight, wet, warmth of his fist, closing his eyes and imagining it’s John clenched around him.
He huffs and growls lowly, squeezing himself to choke the quickly-rising urge to come.
“Good?” John whispers, sounding uncertain, insecure.
“Jesus, John,” Arthur says breathily, “So good.”
“You like my cunt, Arthur?” John asks, hesitantly joking.
“Fuck,” Arthur mutters, abandoning his hope of holding out, “Fuck, keep talkin’.”
“... Christ, Art, ‘m soakin’,” John says slowly, studying the older man’s pinched expression, “Think you’d like bein’ inside o’ me.”
Arthur groans weakly, hand moving faster.
“You want that?” John asks quietly, “Wanna be my first? Only had my fingers in me, bet I’d be tight for you, how big you are.”
“Shit, yeah,” Arthur gasps, “Stretch you real nice first, get you open for me.”
“Mm, I like…” John whispers, “I like a little pain. Never been able to feel full before.”
Arthur makes a small, strangled sound, digging his heels into the mattress and fucking up into his hand.
“Crap,” John whispers and shifts onto his knees, cupping his hand under his slit to save the sheets, slick overflowing, slowly dripping out with each needful clench.
“C’mere,” Arthur says roughly, eyes open now as he settles back down, scooting towards the middle of the bed, “Lemme do somethin’ for you.”
John lets Arthur maneuver them until he’s kneeling over Arthur’s shoulders.
“Art- I-“ John shifts feeling his slick pooling in his palm, “You don’t have to.”
“Want to,” Arthur says softly, “Wanna taste you, can I?”
John nods shakily and Arthur shifts him, holding the younger’s wrist and licking his hand clean.
John breathes unsteadily as Arthur’s tongue moves over his palm and fingers, before the older man looks up at him, letting go of John’s hand and reaching around to tug on John’s ass with the hand not around his cock.
He runs the flat of his tongue in a long line up John’s slit and John grabs the headboard tightly, clenching against the feeling, his slick smearing onto Arthur’s chin as the older man plays his tongue over John’s nub.
“Oh fuck,” John whimpers, “Arthur.”
Arthur sucks at his nub and kneads his ass, forcing John to grind down into the stimulation until John’s whining, high-pitched and thin, with every breath.
“A-Arthur,” John whimpers, “C-Clo-“
Arthur groans loudly against him and it sends John over, the older man sucking and flicking his tongue over John’s nub until the younger is trembling, begging senselessly.
Arthur moves him down to straddle the older man’s stomach as Arthur sits up, holding him close, fist moving fast over his cock behind John’s ass.
John leans down and presses his lips lightly to Arthur’s, emulating the way the older man had kissed him.
Arthur gasps against his mouth and John’s feels the older man’s come hitting his lower back and dripping down.