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ARTHUR
Black Lung.
Curse Micah Bell but he’s right. Arthur knew it weren’t good – course it weren’t good – but he hadn’t thought it would be quite this bad. Been twenty long days since a doctor looked down his throat and proclaimed him a goner. What he got ain't catching, but he ain't gonna survive it. These past three weeks he ain’t just been a dead man walking but a dead man riding. Dead man drinking. Dead man fucking. He ain’t going nowhere yet. Ain’t ready. Only just started turning his life around. Some cosmic joke. Now he knows what a man should do with his days, he ain’t got none left.
Arthur ain’t prone to dwelling, to sulking, but each sunset, every golden hour, could be his last. It’s not likely to be tonight, but one day—
He wants to be grateful. One of them men who lives out the remainder of their life to the full. Does something significant. Gives to the poor. Writes a great novel. Has a family. Leaves a legacy. But Arthur ain’t that kind of man. He's a pessimist, and a reckless man with nothing to live for. Only significant thing he'll ever do is shoot. His legacy, just the friends he buried and the widows he made.
So he drinks.
Alone or with friends, he doesn’t care. He just wants to drink.
This evening (this sunset) he’s drinking with Charles in Van Horn. Charles silhouetted, backlit in amber, his hair tied off his face, a bottle in his hand, easy laughter on his tongue. It’s Charles’ second, Arthur’s fourth, plus a steady supply of bourbon since waking but that hardly counts. Keeps him focused. Arthur can’t see the man’s face, his smile. Don’t matter. He knows every inch of it. Knows how them eyes will light up, how those soft lines will crease. How those lips will part. Ain’t anyone on earth Arthur knows better. No-one he’d rather look at. No-one he’d rather draw. And look Arthur does.
If Charles knows, he ain’t said nothing. Any other man would say something, do something. Ask Arthur out back to either fuck him or punch him. Arthur’s quite used to both, especially lately. But Charles. He likely wouldn’t do neither. He loves Arthur too much to hit him. Too decent to go with a man. Even a man he loves, Arthur reckons. So Charles knows. Charles don’t know. Both things are true at the same time. Arthur ain’t dying enough yet to ask. Don’t you see me looking at you, Charles? Don’t you know why? Maybe he’ll ask tomorrow. If there is such a thing as tomorrow.
“Another round?” Arthur asks.
Charles drops his gaze to his bottle. Ain’t had more than a couple of mouthfuls in the time it’s taken Arthur to empty his. Charles don’t say anything but all that lovely laughter, all that warmth is gone. Arthur imagines concern in the man’s eyes. He’s seen it before, of course, Charles is cautious, but only lately has all that concern been aimed at Arthur. Well fuck that! And fuck Charles! Arthur don’t need concern.
What he needs is another drink.
CHARLES
Arthur ain’t been himself for a long time. Can’t tell a man he’s dying and expect him to go on as usual, but this ain’t right. Not just grief or sadness, it’s recklessness. Drinking and duelling and fighting, racking up bounties in every damn state, running for his life. Gonna ride that poor Nakota of his to her limit. Gonna get himself killed.
Maybe that’s the point.
Charles stands, places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder that lingers a moment too long. He’s a tactile man, don’t always know how to use his words but knows how to use his hands. Wants to take Arthur into a hug that don’t end. But Arthur doesn’t seem to want to be touched. Not ever. Not by Charles at least. He don’t jerk away this time, but perhaps that’s because Charles hands him his half-drunk bottle and urges him to finish it, knowing as he does it, that he’s making a mistake. But they’re in Van Horn for a reason, and that reason ain’t drinking. Arthur’s just so damn persuasive. It’ll be easier, quicker, for him and Taima to head to the stable alone.
“Gonna go see to Taima’s shoes,” Charles says. “Be an hour or so.” You going to be okay? he doesn’t add, because Arthur’s a proud man and they ain’t alone, but it’s what he means and Arthur knows it.
“I’ll be here.”
“Don’t get into any trouble,” Charles laughs.
“How could I possibly?”
How could he indeed? Trust Arthur goddamn Morgan to find a way.
Charles ain’t been gone a whole hour. Taima’s got two new shoes in front, and she’s flirted a pear out of the stable boy. She walks happily into town but her ears prick at some commotion, shouting and shots fired down the way. Taima understands before Charles does, her pace picking up to a canter, Charles taking a moment to cotton on. That yelling. That’s Arthur. Taima ain’t even at a stop before Charles leaps from her back, runs to Arthur. He’s face down in the dirt, ain’t moving. Charles throws himself to his knees, taking a fistful of Arthur’s coat. From inside the saloon, another man yells profanities, slurs, aspersions, and Arthur groans as Charles turns him to face the sky. He spits blood from between split lips, and then he’s laughing, has the look of a maniac with his teeth painted red. A hand, fingers covered in small fresh cuts, cuts and cuts and cuts, covers Arthur’s mouth as he coughs.
“You been shot?”
“No.”
“Can you stand?” Charles encourages him to his feet.
“Course I can stand. He ain’t hardly touched me,” Arthur says, grinning with a wince. “More’s the pity.”
Gotta hurt him to smile. Good. Charles gives him the once over. Other than a cut lip, his left eye’s swollen closed. It’ll be black by morning. Such a shame. Got nice eyes. Beyond that, Arthur’s okay, been lucky. Probably been punched in the gut with the way he’s clutching himself, but he’s walking, cognisant enough to find his horse, strong enough to mount her.
“Ready when you are.”
“Hell! Are you?” Fear makes way for irritation. Charles ain’t able to keep it out his voice. He sighs, gruff and loud as one of the horses. “Come on.”
The man inside, a white man made pink with rage, young and handsome somewhere beneath his anger, held back by two others, points an accusatory finger Arthur’s way.
“If I ever see you again—” He don’t need to finish that sentence.
“We’re going!” Charles calls.
And Arthur. He’s still laughing.
ARTHUR
The silence between them is thick and charged on the ride to Annesburg. Even November, his fussy blue Nakota, don’t have nothing to say. She, like Charles is upset with him. And she, like Charles, has every right to be. But only November gets an apology. She’s a good girl, if finnicky and stubborn, and he’d prefer she wasn’t shot at. Especially not by angry, self-hating queers.
Was all going lovely, Arthur had a nice handful in the feller’s pants, hands that were sore from losing at five finger fillet. Ain’t as easy when you’re six bottles deep, turns out. His sliced-up fingers wrapped around a thick cock, eyes closed, pretending it was someone else, someone he loved. To endure pain to give pleasure. Was gonna be the best two minutes of his life.
But they was walked in on.
That usually goes one of two ways. You run. Or you plead ignorance. Turns out there’s a third way. The man, Arthur didn’t bother to learn his name, chose to push Arthur away, hands curling into fists. Red hot shame turned into red hot fury easy enough. Calling Arthur a great many things, most of which were true. Queer! Filthy! Bastard! Yes, yes, yes. All correct. But for him to act like he didn’t want it. Like Arthur had forced him— Course Arthur had taken a swing at him. Only meant it as a threat. Didn’t expect to get chased through the saloon, bullets whipping past him, knocking over tables, bottles smashing, laughing, laughing…
And now Charles ain’t talking to him.
But Arthur felt alive. Feels alive. He can’t apologise for it even if he should. Been forever since he felt this way.
The breeze is cool on his face, stings his lips. His legs swinging in November’s stirrups. The ocean laps the shore at his side. The sky to the west is endless, navy blue, scattered with stars. To the east, hazy silver clouds and half a lazy moon. Arthur’s alive, he’s alive. How wonderful. How terrible.
“Should we—” Charles voice cracks with disuse. Tries again. “Should we keep heading up to camp or do you want to stop in Annesburg for the night?”
“I don’t want to go back to camp.” They’ll only fawn over him. Or worse. They won’t say nothing at all. Used to far worse. So what you got shot at and cursed out and punched in the stomach? Wake us up when the Pinkerton’s set the place on fire again. “The gunsmith has rooms. He’s a nice enough feller.”
“Alright.”
They don’t speak again until they arrive, hitching up their horses, Arthur giving November a currant and throwing one to Taima behind Charles’ back.
“Can I trust you to get us a room without starting a fight?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, but pauses. Considers. Has he pissed off anyone here? Mrs Downes and her boy. And that foreman up at the mine. Otherwise he ain’t done anything too terrible to anyone he don’t think.
“Yes. Think you can.” Arthur returns with a key and a fresh bottle of bourbon. “Got us a little something.”
“Ain’t you had enough?”
Charles don’t normally judge. Irritation prickles Arthur’s skin, and then something else, something worse. Regret. Because Charles is looking at him in a way he ain’t never before. Them lovely brown eyes sad. Haunted. Looking and looking. Christ. Like he sees inside him. To where there should be a man, with hopes and dreams, and the will to fight and the want to live, but there ain’t nothing. Not a thing. Arthur is hollow.
And Charles knows.
CHARLES
“You can take the bed.” Charles says, his voice unintentionally soft, as he reaches for the bottle. Arthur snatches his hand back. Charles hadn’t expected anything less. “Arthur. You should sleep.”
He just flicks open the bottle and gulps the liquid down so hard it sounds painful, looks painful, the glass rim on his lips, already bruised and puffy, and split right down the centre.
“I’m not tired,” he snips, then, “Jesus.” Must hear how he sounds like a boy. Petulant. “I mean, I ain’t able. I’m too wound up.”
That Charles understands. But what he don’t understand is— “What happened back there?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
Arthur takes a seat at the edge of the bed, sighing, like Charles is an idiot. Maybe Charles is an idiot. Because he can’t wrap his head around what he walked in on. Arthur bloodied and laughing, some feller yelling about fucking? About trying it on? Trying to fuck? Calling him queer. Arthur? Queer?
Arthur’s struggling with his neckerchief, damn fingers cut to ribbons. Can’t get a grip on anything. Charles goes to him, pushes his stubborn hands aside, lets him shrink from his touch – he always shrinks from Charles’ touch, breaks his damn heart – and unfastens the knot with a flick of his thumb.
“What happened?” Charles asks, hardly louder than a breath. Whatever it is, whatever Arthur’s done, it demands quiet. Feels like a secret. Charles will keep it.
“Thought they were pretty clear,” Arthur says, voice dropped. He feels it too.
“You propositioned someone?”
Arthur lets out a breathy laugh. “Something like that.”
“And he wasn’t… interested?”
“We was interrupted.”
“You didn’t try force—”
“No,” Arthur snaps, offended.
“No.” Charles shakes his head. “I didn’t think you would.”
Arthur snatches his eyes from Charles and takes another swig of bourbon. He’s done that a lot lately. Not the drinking. Well— he’s done a hell of a lot of that too. But the looking. Charles only ever notices when Arthur stops looking. Feels the absence of it more than the thing itself. And Arthur can hardly look at him now. Eyes anywhere but at Charles, even as they talk. Charles ain’t ever considered why Arthur looks at him, just accepts it as something he does. One of his quirks. Like sketching every pretty rock he sees, and never finishing a cigarette.
But what if—? No. No Arthur don’t like him to so much as touch him. Arthur doesn’t want him. That would be absurd.
Unless? Unless.
Charles shakes off the thought and starts to undress to sleep. It’s warm enough to strip down, to take off a few layers at least, undo a few buckles. He wouldn’t so much as untie a shoe by himself, but with a locked door and with Arthur here, Charles can relax. Even drunk and on some suicide mission, Arthur makes him feel… ain’t no other word for it but safe. Arthur might be out to kill himself, but he wouldn’t let anything happen to Charles. Charles knows that the same way he knows grass is green and what goes up must come down. It just is. A law of the universe. Arthur would die for him. And Charles would die for Arthur. He don’t understand it. Doesn’t have to.
It just is.
ARTHUR
Arthur kicks off his boots, his gun belt. Charles does the same but in silence. Arthur don’t watch, but doesn’t not watch, as Charles strips down to his pants, pulls off his shirt. Been a while since Arthur’s seen him without one. He’s got new marks, new scars on his chest. Arthur wants to map them with his fingers. Wants to ask about them. Maybe in that bed, under the covers, legs twined. Tell me about yours and I’ll tell you about mine.
Charles yawns. “Gonna get some sleep.”
“Gonna drink some more,” Arthur says with a smile and another swig.
Charles takes the seat in the corner of the room. Couldn’t be farther away from Arthur if he sat outside. That laughter curls up like a woodlouse in Arthur’s stomach, and dies. He don’t want to be near me, Arthur thinks.
“Night.”
With a deep breath, Charles closes his eyes. But Arthur’s wide awake and itching— to do what, he don’t quite know. To fight? To talk? He just wants Charles awake with him. Arthur’s racking his brain for an excuse, when a thud outside tugs Charles from his chair. A high pitched scream has him crossing the room, squinting out the window.
“Pass me your gun.”
Arthur tosses his revolver, without thinking, and Charles makes for the door. Charles pulls back the safety and the metallic clink triggers a thought, a memory— Fifty dollars on the table. One bullet in the cylinder.
Fuck. Fuck! Arthur has to say something. Charles pulls the door open.
“Wait, that’s no good to you,” Arthur says evenly, just as the screams become women’s laughter and a squeal of, “Sorry, Mrs. Evans! We’ll keep it down.”
Charles’ face is blank as he shuts the door with a click that echoes in the deathly quiet. “What do you mean it’s no good to me?”
A man sitting opposite with less to lose than even Arthur. Spinning the cylinder, clicking it into place with an arched eyebrow. Arthur placing the muzzle to his temple. The man flashing a toothless grin, urging him on. Arthur smiling back.
“Arthur?”
He can’t say nothing but— “Charles.”
Charles studies the revolver. Takes him seconds to open up the cylinder, to figure out that it ain’t a problem with the gun but the damn fool who owns it.
“You trying to die, Arthur?”
“I am dying.”
“Not now. Not today!”
“I’m— I—” Arthur can’t find the words. I was having fun, Charles. I felt alive.
Charles’ voice softens. “You ain’t got nothing to live for?”
“It ain’t like that.”
“What is it like?”
He’s really asking, really wants to know. Charles steps forward, falters a moment, then decides yes, and sits at Arthur’s side, the bed sinking beneath his weight. He’s too close, their thighs flush.
Charles ain’t shy about touching him, loves being near. It’s cruel, Arthur thinks. Their friendship has been a lesson in restraint. Hands that stayed too long. Knees that touched. Fingers that laced. Whispers just for Arthur, breath on Arthur’s ear. All that and it never led to anything, never meant anything. Charles ain’t so free with his affections now, thinks Arthur don’t like it. Doesn’t know he wants it. That it makes Arthur crazy.
What he could do with a man like Charles. A man who would touch and touch and never tire of touching.
That, fuck! That, would make him feel alive. Wouldn’t be out starting fights and staying up ‘til dawn and fucking anyone who’d have him, just to feel alive. If he could just have Charles—
If he could have Charles, he’d what? stop putting his life on the damn line? What a terrible thing to think. What a terrible and true thing to think.
Charles must read something on Arthur’s face because he sits up straighter. “What is it? Tell me. I want to understand.”
“You can’t understand.”
“Let me try.”
“There ain’t—” Arthur sighs. “Ain’t nothing like your heart pounding to remind you that it’s still in there, still beating.”
Charles tucks a stray strand of his hair behind his ear and sits forward, leaning in towards Arthur, so close, so fucking painfully close, that Arthur can smell the citrussy scent of his soap. It’s in his hair, on his skin. All that lovely, silky skin. Arthur fleetingly thinks he could kiss him. If not tonight then one day. Just once. A last request.
“Your heart is beating right now.”
“Mm.”
Charles covers it with his hand, fingers fluttering on Arthur’s chest, warm on his skin. Tugging gently at invisible strings. He takes Arthur’s hand, places it inside his, rests them above Arthur’s idiot heart. “See,” Charles says. “It’s beating and you ain’t doing anything stupid.”
I’m thinking about kissing you, Arthur thinks. “Yeah. Guess,” he says instead.
“It’s fast.”
Charles’ brow furrows, and Arthur tugs his hand loose, heart hammering. Do you feel alive now, Morgan, you fool?
“Why’s your heart beating so damn fast?”
“Charles,” Arthur breathes in apology, as understanding dawns on Charles’ face.
CHARLES
Arthur’s heart skips beneath Charles’ fingers.
“Charles,” he says, all breath, his eyebrows drawn, eyes fearful. “Charles, I—”
“I don’t understand.”
Arthur sighs a heavy sigh. “I think you do.”
“No.” No, he damn well doesn’t. The more that seems to fall into place, the less Charles understands. “You just want to feel alive?”
“Yes,” Arthur says. A whisper.
“Just to feel this?” This thumping heart in Charles’ hand.
“Yes.”
“Almost killed yourself trying to feel something you could have had all along? I’ve been right here all this time.”
Arthur don’t look at him, just says, “Charles.”
Charles drops his hand, prods gently at Arthur’s sternum. “You pull away every time I touch you.”
“Can’t stand it.”
“Why?”
“I want more. It ain’t enough.”
“Damn it!” Charles huffs out a breath and stands, scrubs his face with his hands. “You’ve never let it be more.”
Arthur still ain’t looking at him. Charles stands before Arthur who’s perched at the end of the bed, takes Arthur’s chin, fingers at his jaw, and tilts his face upward, urging him to look. It takes a little squeeze of Charles’ thumb to force his eyes open. Them eyes search Charles’ face, drop to Charles’ chest, just a second, and look back up.
He really does have nice eyes, Charles thinks. The blue-green of lake water. Like Owanjila. Or Cattail pond, where he found Taima. Feels like home somehow. Ain’t the kind of thought he’d have about anyone else, but he thinks it of Arthur. Likes the lines around his eyes, the furrows in his brow. Likes the sandy brown of his hair, the length of it, likes it when Arthur leaves it long enough to wave, to flick pleasantly at the ends, to curl content as a cat around his ears. He likes the way Arthur smells, peppermint and cigarette smoke and gun oil, not all at once, but some combination.
It occurs to him only now that he doesn’t think this way about no-one else. As a boy he went with local girls, as an adult he’s had his share of women. Some went with him eagerly, some for a fee. He’s always enjoyed it but never thought about them. Not like he thinks about Arthur. About his nimble fingers, and the scar on his thumb. About the hole in his pants. About the photos on his dresser. Ain’t never wanted to read no-one’s letters before. Ain’t wanted to bring no-one a quiver of arrows like a goddamn bouquet of roses.
Arthur reaches for Charles tentatively, pulling him down so they’re face to face, eye to eye. Yes, those are nice eyes. Arthur scrutinises him.
“Didn’t know I could have more,” he says, bringing Charles to on his knees, parting his legs for Charles to move closer.
I want to touch you, Charles thinks. Begs. Want to draw you near. Lets his gaze fall to Arthur’s chest, lets his mind wander…
Charles thinks absently, that he likes Arthur’s body. He’s seen it enough times, Arthur has no shame, loves being in his altogether. Charles has watched that body shrink. Watched it pale. Still strong, still handsome. Charles still wants to hold it to his own. To bury his face into the crook of Arthur’s neck.
He knows never to speak these feelings out loud. It should have occurred to him before now. Perhaps he’s known all along that it weren’t normal to think about a friend as much as Charles thinks of Arthur. Ain’t normal to follow him town to town like a pet dog. Sure ain’t normal to want to touch him so much. To feel his rejection keen as a bee sting.
Charles knows he loves Arthur. Arthur knows he loves him. Always known it was more than love, in fact.
Knew it was fondness. Knew it was devotion. Didn’t realise it was longing.
Never thought it might be... it. That unknown thing Charles has chased his whole life.
“Don’t go seeking danger anymore,” Charles says.
“I won’t.”
“Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”
Arthur’s lips fall lightly open, then part fully on a sigh from deep in his chest. “I don’t want you to give anything to me. I want you to want it.” Arthur lets his head loll back with exasperation but Charles, his hand still at Arthur’s chin, fingertips tracing the scruff of Arthur’s jaw, pulls him back, pulls him close. “Christ, Charles, I’m not the kind of feller—”
Charles can’t help but take his thumb and press Arthur’s mouth closed, silencing the argument.
“What do you want to do to me that you think I won’t like?” Charles moves in closer, surprises himself as he drops his voice. “You got a head full of filthy ideas?”
“Fucking hell,” Arthur groans. “I ain’t got no ideas. Ain’t got a single thought left in my head.”
ARTHUR
Arthur ain’t joking. He ain’t able to form a coherent thought.
Charles’ hand on his face and a glint in his eyes, he says, “You think I’d just offer myself up to you to keep you out of trouble?”
“That what you’re doing? Offering yourself to me?” Arthur don’t breathe waiting on an answer.
“I love you,” Charles says. “Love being near you, can’t get close enough to you. Love—” Charles grimaces, embarrassed. He needn’t be. Vulnerable like this, Arthur ain’t wanted him more. “Love to touch you. Any way I can. Haven’t you noticed?”
Course Arthur’s noticed. Makes him crazy.
“I don’t know what happens now but if it involves closeness, involves holding you… feeling you—”
Arthur don’t know why he ain’t opened his arms for Charles before now, but he does, finally, and Charles don’t think twice, just steps into the space between Arthur’s legs and he pulls him close, draws Arthur’s chest to his chest. Skin pressed to skin.
“This what you want Charles?”
“Yes.” His hands slide down Arthur’s back, pressing fingers into his hips. “Yes, absolutely. What do you want?” His lips find Arthur’s ear. “Anything, Arthur. I’ll give you anything.”
“A kiss then.”
“Just a kiss?” Charles laughs, fondly. “Ain’t a thing you couldn’t ask for, and all you want is a kiss?”
“Yes. Ain’t ever wanted anything more.”
That laughter again, too loud, too fond, so obviously in love, Arthur can’t believe he ain’t noticed it sooner. Charles don’t just love him, Charles fucking Loves him. Capital L.
Charles runs a hand through Arthur’s hair, tangles his fingers, smiling to himself. He burrows his head into the hollow of Arthur’s neck, nosing up his throat, to his ear. A single kiss on Arthur’s cheek and then a scatter across the bridge of his nose.
“You’re teasing,” Arthur huffs playfully.
And then— Oh. Arthur sighs as Charles drops a kiss just left of perfect.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Charles says, a finger stinging Arthur’s lower lip. Oh, of course. He’d forgotten.
“It’s okay. Kiss me.”
Charles is so gentle, it’s torture. Lips just grazing. Ain’t hardly a kiss. “Charles, fuck. Don’t make me beg.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Yes. Kiss me, anyway.”
And Charles, finally, captures Arthur’s mouth with his, presses his lips to Arthur’s. Arthur’s eyes fall close and he lets himself be kissed in earnest. Charles draws himself upright, taller on his knees, his hand wound in Arthur’s hair. Arthur likes to kiss, but he ain’t been kissed like this. Eager and lovely and unhurried, like they have all the time in the world for kisses. Like Arthur has time.
“Do you feel alive yet, Arthur?” I’ve been right here all this time.
Yes. “I’ve been a fool.”
Charles smiles. “Come to bed with me? Sleep beside me?”
“Ain’t slept with no-one for a long time. Weren’t very good at it.”
“Think you could try? For me?”
“Come here,” Arthur says, tugging Charles down with him into the sheets. “Come closer.”
CHARLES
“Come closer,” Arthur beckons.
Closer. Spoken like a demand but given as an invitation. Charles knows that it’s for him. Permission. To curl up to Arthur, wrap arms around him, pull him near, Arthur’s back to Charles’ chest. Charles, slightly taller, slightly larger, encircles Arthur, settling soft kisses along his shoulder blades. He kisses up the column of his neck and Arthur, greedy, strains to kiss back.
“Don’t hurt yourself. I’ll come to you,” Charles says, shifting closer, tilting Arthur’s chin so he doesn’t have to strain. “See.” I will always come to you. “Now let’s sleep.”
“Or,” Arthur says.
“Or?”
Arthur slips a hand upward, behind him, to tangle his fingers in Charles’ hair.
“Yes,” Charles whispers, needling his own fingers into Arthur’s waist, holding him tight, holding him dear.
They swap kisses like stories, like secrets. Arthur taking almost as much as he gives, and he likes to give. Charles ain’t been one for kissing before, didn’t see what all the fuss was about.
It was this, the fuss was this. Sighing into each other, attending to each other, making each other feel good. And Charles feels good. Feels… Oh. He ain’t felt like this for so long. A knot in his chest. An ache in his groin. He flushes head to toe and his cock stands to attention. Charles wants to… move… in time to those needy kisses? Fuck. He wants to rut up against Arthur. And surely Arthur knows. Must be able to feel Charles’ desire flush to his back.
“Sorry,” Charles whispers with a soft, self-aware laugh, and Arthur tilts his head, treating Charles to another desperate kiss.
“I don’t want you to be sorry,” he breathes. “I want you to fuck me.”
Charles groans with aching pleasure. “Yes.” Then, “Do you have oil, or a salve?”
“Gun oil.”
Charles shakes his head. “Don’t know what’s in it these days.”
“Like this then,” Arthur says, and parts his thighs for Charles to push his cock between them.
Charles gasps as he thrusts into the space between Arthur’s legs. Didn’t know they could do it this way, fucking against rather than inside. Didn’t know it could feel good this way, and it does feel good. “So fucking good.” Certainly didn’t know Arthur might like it this way, grinding like teenagers. Making an experiment of each other’s pleasure. Charles has a smile on his lips, laughter in his chest as he fucks into Arthur’s thighs. It ain’t been like this for him before. He ain’t ever had fun.
He pets the air about Arthur’s cock but don’t touch. Christ, Charles wants to touch. “Arthur, can I?”
“Hell. Yes.”
Like this, from behind Arthur, it ain’t too different to getting himself off, the motions all the same. Only getting himself off don’t make his mouth water, don’t have him out his mind, near delirious. Arthur whimpers at Charles’ ear as Charles fucks him with his hand, trying, failing, not to fuck back into Charles’ fist.
“Don’t stop. Do what you want,” Charles says, breath catching with pleasure. Teach me, he doesn’t say. “Show me what you like.” Teach me and I’ll learn. I’ll be the best fuck of your life. You won’t look for pleasure no place else again. (I’ll make you feel alive.)
Charles slows his strokes and Arthur groans frustratedly, nips at his Charles’ jaw with his teeth, grip tightening in Charles’ hair. Charles gives Arthur what he wants, curling his fingers back into a fist to toss him fast and urgent. Arthur whispers praise (Yes, like that, just like that, you’re so good) and nonsense. (You’re damn lovely, Charles Smith, damn fine. And you’re mine.) Half of it’s true anyway.
“You are mine, ain’t you?”
Charles smirks. “Yeah, I’m yours.”
“Charles,” he says serious. Oh. Ain’t about possession, but reassurance. Arthur wants him to answer. “You mine?”
Charles drops a single kiss to Arthur’s temple, buries his head in his hair, breathes in peppermint, and a trace of stale cigarette smoke. “Yes.”
Been yours from the start.
ARTHUR
Yes. Most beautiful word in the English language.
“Good,” Arthur pants. “Good.”
Charles pulls him into his chest. Ain’t enough. Charles’ hand around Arthur’s cock, his breath at Arthur’s ear. All that man behind him and he’s staring at a damn wall. Charles is the one likes to touch, Arthur needs to look.
Arthur shifts out of Charles’ grip, his disappointment confessed with the gentlest huff. “I want to look at you,” Arthur says, turning in Charles’ arms. Charles don’t let go. “Now we’re face to face.” Chest to chest. Cock to— “Oh, fuck.”
Charles takes Arthur in hand again. But this time, he can watch.
“Yeah?” Charles asks.
“Yes.”
Charles lifts his chin, proud, a coy smile on his lips. This is why Arthur wants to see. Wants to bear witness to this moment. Arthur urging Charles’ prick into his own hand so he holds them both in one large fist. Charles puzzles just a second and Arthur revels in this sweet moment of inexperience. A thrust of Arthur’s hips and Charles gets it, sinking into the bed with pleased Oh oh ohs.
Charles’ brows knit together, Arthur studies the lovely scar in one, how it splits it in two. Charles’ eyes, warm chestnut brown eyes that Arthur knows and loves and dreams of, flutter closed and he bites his lip, in concentration? in pleasure? in some delightful combination of the two?
Ain’t nothing to do with a mouth so gorgeous, Arthur thinks, but kiss it.
And Charles kisses back, urgent and eager, in time with the rhythm of his hand.
“I’m close,” Arthur murmurs, and Charles’ face, his tomcat grin and his wildfire eyes, has Arthur half hysterical, greed flaring, and he ain’t being fucked no more so much as he’s fucking himself with Charles’ hand, his hips jutting.
He takes a fistful of Charles’ hair and buries his face in his chest. “I’m gonna spend—”
“You feel alive yet?” Charles says, voice ragged, and he laughs in delight, in pride, head thrown back like a madman as Arthur spills on his stomach.
“Christ. Christ!”
Chest heaving, Charles follows just a moment behind. “Christ,” he agrees, and sags into the mattress, a heavy arm anchoring Arthur to his chest.
Charles pushes sweat-slick hair from Arthur’s face, brushing cool kisses to burning cheeks. Arthur takes a breath, ready to make a fool of himself over Charles Smith, not for the first time and he suspects it won’t be the last.
“Ain’t gonna hold you to what you said, Lord knows I’ve said a great many pretty things in bed but… did you—?” I beg you. “Did you mean it?”
“I don’t say what I don’t mean. What you asking, Arthur?”
No, you don’t, Arthur thinks, and dares to hope. “You said you was mine. Said you love me.”
“I ain’t good with words.”
“Will you try?”
Charles nods, slow, thoughtful, and swallows. He finds Arthur’s hands beneath the sheets, fingers lacing, Charles gently thumbing one of those foolish cuts.
“What you’ve been looking for— Something to fill the void? Something to make you feel alive? That’s you for me.”
Arthur breaths out, Oh, on his lips.
“I ain’t had many good times to look back on fondly. But the ones I do have… You’re there. The centre of every memory. Ain’t had a friend like you.” His fingers tighten. “And then there’s this wanting I ain’t really understood ‘til now. Want to know every inch of you. Want to learn to make love to you.”
“Charles.”
“I ain’t just yours, but been yours, hopelessly, all along.” Charles looks up at him from behind pretty, overlong lashes. “And you? Are you mine?”
“Yes. Come hell or highwater, Charles Smith. Right ‘til the end.” The end. Arthur stutters. “But the end. It ain’t—”
“I know,” Charles says, just the faintest touch of sadness in the smile on them bow and arrow lips. “However long we have. Will that be enough for you?”
“I’ll never have long enough with you.”
“What I mean is… Will I be enough for you?”
Charles’ brown eyes are wide and sincere. Takes a moment to understand what he’s asking and another to understand why. Oh.
“Yes. You make me feel alive.” Arthur flickers kiss after kiss on Charles’ cheek, his jaw, his eyelids. “I feel alive, Charles.”
A kiss and a kiss.
“I feel alive.”
I feel alive.