Work Text:
The forest caws until a flock of crows rises against the white mountains.
Silence shakes his large brown head with a tension that Arthur feels through the reins. He halts the horse and scans the area. The trees are sparse and the bushes wiry, but a large mound of snow makes for a good cover, almost hiding the three guns pointed at him. Two men rise from it. Another man leans out from a tree.
"Not so quick there, cowboy! State your name and business."
They have dandy fur coats and young shaved faces too exposed to belong to outlaws, but their clouded breaths are quick enough to show they know the danger of their pursuit. Young bounty hunters, most likely, seeking their fortune when all they'll find is death.
"Are you a mute? Or just a dimwit?"
"Wait," says the other one behind the mound of snow. "Is that ..."
Arthur lowers his black bandana and gnaws a piece off a plug of chewing tobacco, while his other hand rests above his Mauser C96.
"That's Black Lung!"
He spits the tobacco out into the snow while cursing that rat bastard's knack for nicknames.
"…Who?"
"Arthur Morgan, moron! I've seen his face on the bounty posters, he's worth ten grand! Start shoot –"
The two men behind the mound of snow barely have the time to pull back their hammers before life leaves them, escaping from the holes Arthur put in their skulls.
"I surrender!" yells the man behind the tree as he runs forward with his gun held above his head. "I was never caught out for this business. Please don't kill me!"
Arthur doesn't holster his gun but uses it to gesture towards the forest.
"How many of your sort are out there?"
"I don't know, sir. But there's a whole gang hiding in the forests around Snow Hill."
"Micah's Gang?" Arthur asks, the name tasting like ashes in his mouth.
"No, the outlaws we are ... I was after. But rumors say he's here, too."
Arthur has been counting on those rumors. They also said that the outlaws were just some poor miners who had lost their jobs and were treated worse than killers for having revolutionary ideas. The actual killers are far more crooked despite operating under the guise of the law. Some of them deserve worse than a bullet to the skull. Others, however ...
"Will you let me go?" the man asks, arms still in the air.
Arthur nods. And then he shoots the man's thumbs off. Silence doesn't flinch.
Caws erupt around the scream as more crows rise from further away in the forest. Maybe their wings can be a representation for black souls leaving this icy place, though the only soul leaving the man was the one of a gunman.
"What the fuck, I was surrendering!" he cries, grabbing his revolver from where it fell and switching it from mangled hand to mangled hand, unable to pull the hammer back. "I'll ... He'll get you in the end."
"Not if I get him first," Arthur says quietly, before raising his voice. "Try to make it to town before sunset. Many predators around here. You'd know, I guess, from trying and failing to be one of them."
Pulling his bandana back up, he rides past the man and into the forest.
Some places the snow is so deep it's like swimming, but Arthur talks Silence through the endeavor, breathing in time with him as if they are one creature. They're used to being careful due to Silence being full of scars and Arthur having a collapsed lung. The mass of dark trees shudder around them.
The absence of cawing, along with the winds, warn of a coming storm.
Snow Hill looks like it's been dumped in twenty-six tons of shaving cream.
In the middle of the town is a large saloon that also houses a general store, a whorehouse and a bank. The light gives the surroundings a hue like buttermilk, rippling from the figures inside the saloon.
The stable is darker but just as crowded. Arthur gets Silence some hay and water, but doesn't remove his saddle, just in case. Silence's ears remain flat, showing a wariness that Arthur encourages, evidence of his past with the Murphy Brood. Among the wounds that are now scars, the horse's vocal cords were cut. Arthur spent a long time working with him on the ground, learning to read his mannerisms, playing with him and building his confidence, before riding him across the country for a hospital that offered a new and experimental surgery against TB. Silence never bucked Arthur, not even when he coughed until he screamed. He's unwaveringly loyal.
On the way out of the stable Arthur stops and stares.
Tigrero stares back. Even in the dark the rare bluish tint to his horsehairs is visible. Silence walks over to him and greets him, maybe remembering him from the camp in Beaver Hollow. They do not bear their owners' resentment. Strange creatures. Strange, like Arthur feels, knowing that Micah is nearby.
He takes a swig from a flask of potent bitters before heading inside the saloon.
None of the talking, laughing and upbeat piano music reach Arthur's dark corner of the bar counter. He's eaten a bowl of chewy elk stew with unbuttered flatbread, the cheapest thing on the menu. He pays for his whiskey shots in bullets. An old, short man touches of back of the bounty hunter next to Arthur and takes his place. The man is wearing heavy coal-gray furs, a thick beaver hat and large round glasses. He smells like musty paper.
"Rosetta," he says, nodding at the saloon girl. "Get this man a whiskey coffee."
"Trying to bribe me, Strauss?" Arthur asks.
"In a way."
Accepting the drink, Arthur studies Strauss. He's more wrinkled and ... wider, but that is because Arthur is thin like he was when he was twenty, and as tired and bruised as he was after picking fights or encouraging moneylenders, with Strauss patching him up afterwards. The atmosphere between them is just as clinical as it was at the back of the medicine wagon. There was never any love between them, but there was loyalty, back in the day.
"You look better," Strauss offers, drinking plain black coffee like always. "I take it the Italian treatment worked?"
"I'm still here, ain't I?"
"That's more than one could say for some of us." Strauss raises his cup. "To old friends."
Mac, Jenny, Davey, Sean, Hosea and Lenny are dead. The rest are spread across the continent. Some, like John and Tilly, made it out. Others, like Bill and Javier, did not. Dutch died at the bottom of the mountain near Beaver Hollow, having stared down Micah's barrel before stepping backwards from the top.
It happened while Arthur was off getting treated. Recovering in a private hospital room, he read about it, the morning paper fluttering like a mad crow. Micah Bell the Third was hailed as a great bounty hunter, underground informant for the Pinkerton Detective Agency, pardoned from all his own bounties in return for destroying the Van der Linde Gang and for going after others' for the rest of his days.
"To old friends," Arthur says roughly.
As he clinks his glass to the cup, Strauss uses the proximity to whisper.
"He's upstairs, Mister Morgan. If you leave this instant there is a chance you might live."
"I'm already a ghost. And I'm here to make sure he becomes one too."
"You don't understand. In about fifteen minutes, this place will be a massacre."
Arthur frowns. He assumed the people in the saloon were bounty hunters, but when he looks them over, there's a distinct look of poverty to most of the men, women and children. Arthur doesn't look much better himself, with his coat tattered and faded, dark gray rather than the original blue and brown. The men who do look better off sit along the sides of the saloon, watching the others like malicious sheepherders.
"The new sheriff recently signed a proclamation that these outlaws were welcome back to Snow Hill," Strauss explains. "He captured Mister Bell and took him to another county to be tried for manslaughter, dismemberment and gross misconduct ... And on the way, he wanted to take a refreshing ice bath, according to the now returned Mister Bell. No matter what really did transpire out there, the sheriff is gone and the proclamation is nowhere to be found, and therefore, no longer valid. These people do not know this yet. But I function as the bank of Snow Hill, and I will, by the order of the law, pay Mister Bell and his crew for each bounty they collect."
The whiskey coffee has started to taste rotten. "So you're in on it? Killing men and women in front of their kids?"
"I am simply doing my job. There's no business in hunting bounty hunters."
"Do I look like I'm in this for the business?"
"No. You look like a ghost. But you are not one yet. Look here, Mister Morgan. I know we rarely saw eye to eye, but while I do not care for these people, I do respect what once was."
"Yeah, I respect it too. Our old code is why I ain't shooting you. You're too old and weak."
"Does that make you young and strong?" Strauss asks, then sighs, and at first Arthur thinks he is frustrated with him and then realizes he is frustrated with himself. "I am sorry that the dealings with the Downes family had the consequences that it did. I wish I had a chance to ..."
He trails off as spurred boots walk across the open part of the second floor, heading for the round stairs. Arthur could recognize that gait in his sleep, heavy and confident but with a flair to the steps like that of a young man who sees everything as a game. Despite the food and drink, the taste of the bitters wells up in his throat.
"Ain't no second chances to the likes of us," Arthur says, unable to tear his eyes away from the footsteps upstairs in the same way people watch phonographs. "Leave me to it."
"Very well. Farewell, Mister Morgan. And good luck."
Strauss slides off the stool, nearly toppling it. He's afraid of one of them, or both. He should be.
The rounded stairs show Micah from all angles. How he has changed. And how he hasn't.
The spurs are silver, the boots furred, the brown leather coat with matching fur details gauche like a city lady's. The white hat is wider than the old one. The green scarf is a threadbare relic from his years doing odd jobs for Colm O'Driscoll, a secret that Arthur regrets keeping from Dutch. The hair is shorter and the beard, longer, no longer the peach fuzz that he had until his late twenties, but a full beard with white among the blonde. His aura is one of barely contained wildness. If he had fangs, they would've dripped seeing the bounties gathered and ripe.
When he jumps over the last step and onto the floor, Strauss greets him. Micah cups a hand around his ear and leans sideways. Something about the move makes Arthur's skin crawl. While listening to Strauss' words, that pale and deadly hand falls. His careless flair vanishes as his gaze slides along the bar desk like a knife and meets Arthur's.
One of his eyes widens and the other one cannot, ruined by the scar running across his face. Arthur has only seen the wound when oozing blood. He's the one who put it there, after all, the only time he'd caught up to Micah after Dutch's death. The knife fight left them both full of cuts and near dead. The sunrise had been beautiful but hollow. The look in Micah's eye as he walks closer is ugly but loaded.
Taking the seat Strauss' left empty, Micah pointedly ignores Arthur at first.
The barmaid puts a few shots in front of him without demanding payment. Only when he has swirled one of the glasses, smelled the whiskey and thrown it back, does he turn his head ever so slightly.
"You come here often, sweetheart?"
Arthur gags at the ludicrous question. The frayed collar of his jacket digs into his chin, a point of physical discomfort in the larger mental one, sitting beside Micah without killing him. His fingers twitch above his Mauser, but he's unable to use it when the whole saloon would follow because of Micah's men sitting among the crowd.
"...Not interested in gentlemen callers, then? Tsk. Why are you here, Black Lung?"
"You already know why," Arthur mumbles.
"Hm? Cat's got your tongue? Speak louder."
"I'm here to kill you," Arthur says, their gazes like blue flames meeting, growing. "After I've had my drink."
"That so? Hey," Micah snaps his fingers at the saloon girl, "another drink for my friend here."
She puts the glass down faster for him than she'd done for Strauss. Arthur downs the glass of whiskey coffee, then sends it sliding towards the empty one, toppling it. Micah looks at him, then at the glasses, and then back up at him. A slimy chuckle escapes his throat.
"Thirsty little thing, ain't you? And you really have grown rather little. You used to be all big and frightening. Not frightening me of course, considering the times I spent inside that big ass of yours." He smacks his lips as if recalling a nice meal. "Mm-mmm."
Arthur tries his best not to give him any reaction, but his stomach flips and his jaw tightens. Micah is always like this. Manipulative. Trying to get into his head. Weaponizing their past, both their forced partnership and the more willing and secret one, which Arthur tries to think of as an arrangement of purely frustration-driven fucking.
"But I guess that was a while ago. Last time I saw you, I didn't think you'd pull through! All skin and bones now, but better than all blood and coughs, I suppose. Hey. Hey, is it true that they cut out one of your lungs? Well, leave it up to a creature like you to beat a thing that kills most men. Better men, some would say. Not me."
Let that silver tongue talk. Let him stall the bloodbath. Let him put fuel to Arthur's rage.
"My boys tell campfire stories about you. They say you take the shape of some kinda big black dog shadowing us, waiting for the scent of blood. Good nose. Me and my boys are planning to do some hunting soon. They're getting real good at it, too, cause you keep picking off the ones who ain't worthy of following me, like a loyal pooch – "
"Worthy of killing woman and children?" Arthur interrupts Micah before he can stop himself.
"Eh, most of them are of age. Besides ... You can save them, you know."
Micah throws an arm around him, while putting his other hand on Arthur's knee. Arthur tries to shake him off, but he squeezes the tense muscles of his arm while the nails of his other hand dig into his thigh. Arthur's clothes are so worn he feels the touches acutely. He can't remember the last time someone got this close to him.
(But he can. Although it is winter, and it may be influenced by the smell of beer and cigarettes, and the heat and the particular star anise odor that belongs to Micah's skin, Arthur is reminded of spring, and their first time together, after he had gone a similar amount of time without being touched).
While it might be to unnerve him, Micah as he is now rarely does things a singular reason.
"You really are thinner," he says, splaying his hands across Arthur's hip and arm. "Think you could still handle my cock?"
In a second, Arthur has drawn his Mauser and holds it up to Micah's bearded chin. They're already sitting close and in the dark, and if some of Micah's men notice them, only a few rise from their chairs. But Micah holds up a discreet hand, lowering it, making them sit back down. Arthur should put a bullet through the bastard's working eye, and then welcome the bullets his subordinates would put in him. But then the poor outlaws would follow, more families ripped apart because of the two of them, and he can't stand the thought of it.
"Oh, Arthur. You don't really wanna die, do you?" Micah asks as if the outlaws don't matter.
"I want to," Arthur says hoarsely, pushing the barrel towards Micah's mouth, a source of endless rot. "The only thing I want more is to see you go first."
"Such a shame you also want other things."
Micah hisses the last syllable until it's an exhaled "ah," freeing his tongue to slide along the barrel of the Mauser. The sight of his tongue – clever with more things than words – makes Arthur shove Micah away and holster the gun like it's burning as hot as his face. He chews on his lip, and refuses to look at the man sniggering next to him.
"Lemme guess," he mumbles. "All I gotta do to save them is to join your crew?"
"Weeell, I was thinking of a joining of another sort." Micah's hiss ghosts Arthur's ear as he leans in, "I haven't had you in years, Arthur. And by how feral you act, no one else has either." He leans back. "Or you can watch these fools die. Your choice."
"Choice." The word is foreign to Arthur. "What, so we'll go upstairs? Find a room, put on some music, pretend we're young again? While your men sit all nice and pretty down here?"
"No. No saloon rooms and flowers and red wine for the likes of us, I remember that from our agreement. How about I live up to my title, hm? How about," he draws out each of the words, "we'll have ourselves a wild hunt. I'll give you all a ten-minute head-start. The catch is that you'll be my priced stag. I know how weaklings like these," he gestures around them, "think. They'll go back towards the forest. The two of us, however ... Why, we'll ride towards the heights."
Arthur has seen the map, and had never thought he'd reach that area beyond Snow Hill, known as a white desert where no human beings live. That's where Micah is suggesting the two of them go, as if they truly are mythological creatures unable to freeze to death out in there.
"And what'll you do if you catch up to me?"
There's the wet pop of Micah's lips sliding over his teeth. "Wait for me and find out."
"Fifteen minutes," Arthur barters.
"Ten."
"Twelve."
"Ten minutes and not a second longer. Try to wiggle one more time and I'll lower it to five." Cracking his shoulders, Micah extends a hand. "Do we have a deal or not?"
Arthur hesitates before exhaling hard. When he reaches out, Micah yanks him closer. He holds him too tightly, dirty thumbnail rubbing into the weblike skin between his thumb and index finger. Micah is wearing fingerless leather gloves, brown like his coat. There are no rings. As a boss he's a mix of Colm and Dutch, which Arthur shouldn't feel nostalgic about.
Maybe the strange, long handshake is intended to reference how Arthur incapacitates lesser bounty hunters than those in Micah's Gang, but it feels like a throwback to another thing entirely, when Micah would massage the soreness from his fingers and whisper what a fine killer he was, how pretty he looked when covered in blood, how lucky he was to have someone who appreciated that side of him.
"When do we start?" Arthur growls, refusing to be the first to let go, not wanting to show his discomfort.
"Right now."
Micah lets go of his hand, jumps off the stool, and throws his arms wide.
"Ladies and gentle," a pause, "men, I have a small announcement to make!"
The noise dies out and heads turn.
Arthur is reminded that this is not the same man who he spent time with during his twenties. Micah carries himself like a vindictive lawman, putting his hands on his hips and swaying them, the awkwardness having solidified into creepiness, and the petty maliciousness, into a purer sadism.
"The sheriff has gone ahead and disappeared. As such, that little piece of paper that, you know, made you part of the law instead of outside of it, it won't help you anymore. Whoops! But I," Micah touches the places where his heart should be, "honorable man that I am, am giving you ten whole minutes to get the fuck away from this town, before me and my boys start shooting. Ain't that nice of me?"
The people stand and start talking amongst themselves. Some grow pale. Others, aggressive.
("You can't do this!" "Darling, we need to go." "Ten minutes? Some of us can barely walk, much less ride!" "This has to be some sort of mistake! Everything was gonna be fine!" "Mommy, why is everyone shouting?").
"Boys," Micah calls, and an unnerving number of men rise to their feet. "Escort them out."
Escorting, for the members of Micah's Gang, means to push people until they filter out the saloon through the swinging doors.
Arthur stands up to join the queue out, but Micah grabs his arm. He flinches, but Micah touches him like he has a right to his body, like they aren't sworn enemies but old lovers.
"There's a back door on the other side of the counter. You better run there."
Arthur does not run.
"Over here!" he shouts.
Although he makes sure to be the first one exiting the saloon through the back of it, the people coming after him get out faster than they would if there were only one known exit. It's the last thing he can do for them before they're on their own. He always liked helping folks more than he did killing them. Too bad he's so bad at the former and so good at the latter. Except when it comes to Micah, that is.
The stable is pure chaos. The winds whipping around them do not help. Arthur has to whistle with all his might, to the point where he swears his dead lung hurts along with the living one.
Silence darts out like an arrow. People throw themselves to the sides not to get stomped down. Arthur is glad he didn't loosen the saddle, and he climbs on top of the horse before it's slowed down, a feat he's good at. What is harder, and remains hard, is seeing – feeling – how tired Silence still is. He can't have gotten more than an hour of rest. Arthur has a few stimulants ready, but he doesn't want to risk the health of the animal.
He pulls up his bandana as he rides towards the open fields.
While steering the horse forward, he uses his binoculars to see Snow Hill one last time.
Most of the outlaws are heading for the forest on horses and on foot. Some of them seem to have stolen their horse to get away, or they are too scared to ride well, one of them falling to the ground. A few fools took their kids with them. An even larger number of fools seems to try to hide in the town itself.
Micah is standing on the porch of the saloon. He is eyeing his pocket watch, ignoring the children pleading with him. A child who gets too close is swatted away like a fly, before one of his men drag her off and dump her into the snow. Micah whistles, and a moment after, Tigrero comes running out of the stable just like Silence did.
After mounting, Micah uses his own binoculars so that they're staring at each other, close despite the distance.
It might be imagined, but Arthur swears the man licks his lips.
He spurs Silence to go faster.
They ride through the flat gray landscape surrounded by sharp black mountains. The winds are seeping into Arthur's bones. They're stronger out here, and the night seems to warn them for a blizzard, flocks of birds flying from the same direction.
Arthur uses his anger as fuel. He's angry at Micah for ... everything. He's angry at Strauss for not caring about their code, and moving on. He's angry at himself for failing to realize how the code could be used against him. Everyone has died or moved on. The two of them remain locked in their struggle as if in a purgatory of their own make. He has no one but Micah, and it makes him feel all wrong inside, gut churning from being chased instead of chasing.
He also feels strangely warm despite the cold. It might be hypothermia. The thought doesn't scare him as much as it should've, and that may be another sign of the lethal condition. Silence is breathing so hard he sounds like he can collapse any moment. Arthur changes their course towards the mountainside to look for a cave.
In the black mouth of the mountain, he feels it: this is where it will end.
Silence doesn't lay down as much as he collapses halfway inside the small cave. He breathes like he's about to birth, but there will be no new life here if there'll be much life at all. With numb fingers, Arthur covers him in a wool blanket.
At the deepest point of the cave, not that far from the horse, Arthur puts down the saddlebags and bedroll, taking off the soaked-through clothes and swaddling himself in all the clothes he owns. Peering out from his makeshift nest, he makes a fire. The light will make the cave more visible as there are no natural formations to hide it behind, but they need the heat.
Underneath his palms, the fire cackles like his heart at hearing Silence falling into a fitful sleep.
He drinks whiskey, spilling due to how much he's shaking. It isn't wise to drink alcohol in such a state, but he needs it to feel calmer. He doesn't know how much of it is the cold and how much of it is fear. The fear itself is similarly hard to understand. Is he afraid of being caught by Micah? Or is he afraid what'll happen if he isn't? Is the fire secretly meant as a beacon for the man?
The blizzard is growing mightier, howling at Arthur where he sits in the cave, like the white eye of a vengeful god. Arthur swears he sees a pupil in it, dilating, until it takes the shape of a shadowed rider coming towards the opening of the cave.
Arthur closes his eyes tightly, like if he just thinks it hard enough, the entirely of the last years will disappear.
"I win."
The drawled statement echoes in the cave, together with the sound of hooves and then boots hitting the rocky ground.
In the background is a whistling sound like the storm is trying to lure them out.
Arthur bends to the side to spit. But there isn't enough moisture in his mouth, and the wad of spit is so thick it hangs from his lips until he wipes it off with his sleeve. Micah's laughter fills the space as he leads Tigrero over to Silence. While plucking some ice off his eyelashes, he pushes the tip of his boot towards the horse underneath the wool blanket.
"Poor thing," he says in a baby voice.
"He'll m-make it."
"I was talking about you. Can always get a new horse."
Micah draws one of his revolvers and aims it at Silence's head.
"Don't!" Arthur says, his Mauser drawn and pointed at Micah in a second. He wishes he knew which one of them is the fastest shot. They'd frequently competed and bickered about it, but there had never been a conclusion.
"Then drop the weapon, cowpoke. And the rest of them, too. Throw them to the side."
Arthur doesn't hesitate. Not when Silence's life is at stake. The clatter of the gun is loud against the stone. And then, the knife from his holster. And then the second one from his boots. And the third one, and the fourth one ...
His body feels too stiff, and each movement outside of the clothes he's swaddled in costs him heat and energy.
When he manages to loosen his gun belt and throw it away, he's breathing as hard as Silence.
Micah is still aiming his revolver at him as he walks closer. The heat from the fire makes him appear blurry like a fever dream. He leans down on his hinges and lays one hand on the ground, looking like he'll crawl through the flames like a demon.
Maybe Arthur is dying and Micah is his punishment. Maybe they're both dead.
"Is it the cold, or am I really that scary?"
Arthur tries to blow up his chest even as he pushes his back against the cave wall behind him. With a fascinated expression like he got his question answered, Micah crawls closer. He holsters his gun as he shoves Arthur's gun belt and weapons further out of reach. He studies the Mauser for a second, squinting at it and nodding, before dismantling it.
"Come now, the fire's not enough. How can I enjoy my price if the meat's frozen solid?"
"Damn you."
"We're already damned," Micah says as he breaches the distance.
"We are," Arthur replies as he reveals his seventh knife – hidden in a holster near his wrist – and holds it out towards Micah.
At another time, it might've been an open palm, pulling each other closer as they cursed and laughed.
He's too slow. Micah isn't only quick, he's strong and heavy. He pins Arthur down with his weight. He grabs his wrist and slams it down into the ground again and again until the knife slips out from his grip. It slides away.
"No!"
"Yes," Micah hisses, only to retrieve a fist to the cheek.
Arthur struggles even harder against him, as if some part of him is relieved by the loss of the weapon that could've ended this faster than fists. He tries to give Micah a matching bruise on his other cheek, but his wrist is grabbed and pinned again.
"Get – off me – !"
Blood trails from the side of Micah's smile; maybe he cut the inner flesh of his cheek on his molars.
"Oh, you wanna fight a little? I like a good fight. Wear yourself out."
Arthur tries to kick at him, but Micah plants himself firmly between his legs. He tries to punch him, but Micah swats away his blows. He snaps his teeth in his direction but Micah does the same thing back. Has he taken cocaine? What's going on?
"Are you really this weak?"
Arthur stills. A kind of constant between them is ripped away from him. Usually Arthur could easily overpower Micah if he got too rough. Maybe it's due to frost damage or exhaustion, and just some kind of mind game, but he's still scared.
"Oh, sweetheart," Micah says. "You make my wildest dreams come true."
"Shut up! Just, shut up!"
Desperate to prove the claim wrong, Arthur does not give up. When he cannot twist, he wiggles. When he cannot wiggle, he squirms. The heat between them is immense. Only then does he notice that Micah is rutting against him. Groaning and grunting not due to the struggle, but from grinding himself down. Muttering filthy nothings.
"Ah. Fuck yeah. That's nice."
While Arthur can't seem to kill the man, he doesn't want this, either. All of that should remain in the past. But Micah only ever lives in the moment, as judging by him taking Arthur's hand and pressing it towards himself. To make sure he's aware of how hard this makes him. To pretend Arthur couldn't hear the arousal in his grunts and groans. To be a sadist. And then, even worse, Micah presses Arthur's hand in the opposite direction and makes the awareness of his own hardness slam into him.
No.
"You too, huh? You just pretending you don't want this? You like being a damn tease?"
No. No. No.
Some part of him knows arousal can be purely physiological, but the shame cuts his mind apart and leaves an animal panic. Like he truly is the big black dog from the campfire stories told by Micah's men. Arthur twists around, trying to bolt out from underneath Micah only for the larger man to hike him back by gripping his waist. There's an unneeded flair to the movement so he ends up bouncing Arthur's ass off his hips a few times too many.
"Hey now, I'm not judging. I like it." He looms over him. Then he presses his front to Arthur's back. Some part of his mind reminds him that Micah always did like doing it like dogs during their heat. "Hey, hey, it's fine."
But it isn't fine, and Arthur slams his skull backwards and hopes it breaks Micah's nose. From the feel of it, he hits his jaw instead. The other swallows his sounds of pain. Arthur doesn't, not bothering to hold back his frustration.
"You wanna act like an animal?" Micah shoves Arthur's face to the ground. The bedroll takes most of the blow, but it's still painful, especially the fist pushed against the back of his head like a tension headache. "I'll treat you like a damn animal."
Some kind of thin leather ropes are shoved in front of Arthur's face.
He thinks Micah aims to hang or choke him with them, but after some jostling about a metal rod settles into his mouth and leather presses against the back of his skull as well as the front, with small buckles snapping shut, in an intricate - customized? - pattern. He realizes that Micah is bridling him. This had to have been planned. Micah attaches something to the sides of the bridle: reins, which he uses to shake Arthur's head back and forth until he grows disoriented.
"Settle down, boy."
"Shut up!" Arthur says, voice slurred against the bit, elbowing and kicking at Micah as the other man attempts to force his pants to his ankles. It's painful, the belt digging into his hips, "Nghh – should've left you to hang –"
"Animals don't talk."
Twisting the reins, Micah forces his head back all the way it can go, staring up at the black rock of the ceiling. For a second he just catches his breath, until he feels his belt being loosened, pants at his ankles in one slick motion, union suit – "Damn, this has holes in it!" – torn open enough to expose him. And then he feels Micah's clothed groin press against his naked ass. Scratchy wool on bare skin. He hasn't felt that particular sensation in years. Nor heard Micah sigh quite so happily.
He immediately tries to buck Micah.
"Whoa!" Laughter echoes around in the cave.
With his ankles tied and his pants around his ankles, Arthur is severely restricted. He's more like a maggot than a horse, or a dog. When he tries to worm away, Micah drags him back and bounces him off his hips again. He's as confident as ever despite the act being more like dry humping than any experienced rider breaking a wild animal. He never can resist a mindfuck.
"Where are you going? You need this."
The onslaught of words makes him feel nostalgic again, but Arthur doesn't know why. He does not long for Micah speaking. No one can feel at home near a shifty mind like that.
"Come on. Steady there. Yeah, I know, so fierce. So bad. I'll take care of you."
Micah continues chiding him while slapping his ass for each failed escape attempt. The skin stings, and then it begins to burn. Micah's hands are horribly callused. He's using considerable force to spank him with his fingers rather than his palm.
The last attempt ends with Arthur's arms stretched out above his head, clawing at the ground, making wounded noises. Micah gives him a last smack. And then there's a sound like a rustling snake; Micah removing his belt through the loops of his pants.
Arthur's clawing grows desperate, trying to get through the rock to get away from him.
He can only watch as Micah uses his belt to tie his wrists together. The belt is far fancier than his own, soft and conditioned, and he doesn't tie it too tightly. He values Arthur's gun skills as much as his compliance. He wants to dominate, not maim.
"See, that wasn't so bad, was it? It's gotta be done, boy."
It hits him like a brick that Micah has been parodying the equine knowledge that Arthur had shared with him.
The two of them, back-to-back in a clearing, Arthur laughing as he lunged Boedecia and Loco in a circle around them and tried to teach Micah how to do it, despite the other seemingly being busy playing with the waistline of Arthur's jeans, his little and ring fingers slipping into his pants on each side of the waistline, like a gentle sign of ownership.
If it hadn't been for everything that passed later, it would have been one of the nicest memories in his life.
As his head sinks to the floor, giving in for just a moment, there's the sound of a cap – of a bottle? – falling to the stone floor. He wonders if the bastard is pouring himself a celebratory drink.
No, he realizes a second later, it's some sort of lubricant.
He's already inhaled in surprise, so the two greasy fingers being shoved into him hurt his lung as it attempts to get more air when already full. The hurt from his hole comes a moment later, sending fire up his spine, fanning the fire on the flesh of his ass. He instinctually raises his head back up as he shouts against the bit, only for it to fall back down as Micah begins pistoling his fingers in and out. He's careful not to tear him but rough enough for it to sting.
"Open up, Black Lung."
He's almost thankful for the metal between his teeth, because if not for it he'd ground them so hard against each other they might've become dust. Every word that comes out of Micah's mouth sends hot and cold air through him. They've done so since the very beginning, but now he has no more shields left, feeling it acutely.
"Damn, you're wound tight. Let me iiin."
Against his will, he does as he's told, his flesh giving in to the fingers drilling into him. Despite knowing what's coming he still shivers as Micah angles his fingers correctly, slipping past the spot. Arthur has to wrap his lips around the bit not to let out a sound other than a broken hum. Thick spit drips down on the bedroll and old clothes.
"That good, huh? You're drooling on both ends. No, don't clench up. Bad animal."
Arthur shakes his head like one, the leather digging in, a stomach-deep groan escaping him. The stimulation is too much, especially with his own movements causing the fingers to slide up into all the wrong angles, stretching him more than if he'd stayed still. Micah tuts at him until he calms down somewhat, then targets the spot again, rubbing it until Arthur feels crazy.
"Usually I'd like spending some more time play-fighting, but remember, we gotta get you all nice and warm inside."
Pulling at the skin around his hole, the man's thumbs are rough as sandpaper. Arthur has always hated it when Micah studied him like the contents of a lockbox. He pushes more lubricant into him from where it's drooling out. He makes tsk tsk noises, and Arthur's stomach drops as if he's guilty about something he can't help, just like he felt guilty about getting sick.
"Can't keep it in? Want something bigger and harder to fill you up?"
Yeah, something in Arthur wants to respond, something small and vulnerable and hidden deep within him.
Like a deer seen in an early morning fog, black eyes staring, before running off.
"Look at me."
Arthur turns his head. Micah doesn't even have to pull at the reins.
He only looks at him for a moment, but somehow, it's too much: the man still looming over him, fully clothed except his cock hanging out of his pants, getting thoroughly lubed up. Drops of grease land on Arthur's ass, red and sensitive from being spanked earlier. When he tries to look away, Micah grabs one of the reins, forcing him back while making a small kissing noise. It ensures that Arthur sees the exact moment Micah begins pushing inside of him.
He's slow about it.
Someone who didn't know him could mistake it for tenderness, but this is about Micah knowing he's won and relishing every moment of his victory.
It was the same way he'd fucked Arthur after their knife fight, descending upon him as he tried to crawl away, using his ass and forcing him to come, and then stroking his back as he laid face down in the mud and bled from multiple holes in his body.
"There now. Shh. It's been a lot of fun."
It's always a game for him.And Arthur is just game to him, a wild animal to be caught time and time again, just to hone his hunting skills. To consider anything else would be caving in to Micah's false words of comfort.
"Still so goddamn tight, shit. Just for me, isn't it? You're something else. So pretty. So good."
Arthur tries not to respond, and he tries to stay still instead of swaying back and forth, even if his jaw is open like he's getting taken in both ends. And Micah is inside his head, manipulating him by the means of memory. He knows the rhythm Arthur likes, beginning slow and working it up. He's always on the line between overwhelming and painful, but makes sure he can take it before pushing deeper, holding back the roughness that Arthur knows will come, which he both dreads and longs for.
Is the reason he can't kill Micah because he knows he'll never feel like this with anyone else?
"I hate you," he gasps, and after that he can't seem to hold back his moans, tumbling out one after the other.
"Keep lying to yourself."
Micah pushes against the spot, simply keeping himself there, until Arthur's voice breaks. Satisfied with it, he fucks him deeper, often swaying his hips when buried inside Arthur, just so he'll feel extra filled.
He takes a brief break, seeming like he's struggling with something. Arthur looks behind his shoulder.
Micah has shrugged off his fur coat and is removing the vest. He is on his knees behind him, his back bent forward. His beer belly hides his groin and is slightly smaller than before, and Arthur realizes the rest of him is too, even if he feels like a giant peering own at him. The scarred eye making it look like he's permanently winking.
Arthur can't see his cock because it's still buried inside him. He feels it shift as Micah bends lower, pushing him down with his stomach. One of his hands sneak around to Arthur's chest, kneading him. The other hand comes to rest at his ass, fingertips digging into the bruised cheeks. Breath tickles the back of his neck. So heavy, so hot. And still not moving.
Staying inside him, relishing it, like this is how they're meant to be. Bastard.
"Just finish already," Arthur says, not only slurred from the bit, but from his swollen lips too.
There's a pause.
And then he's flipped over onto his back, arms still bound over his head. (Is he really that light – ?)
Micah grabs his jeans where they're at his ankles, pulling them roughly down on one leg, struggling with the boot. Arthur tries to kick at him, but Micah won't have it, leaving his pants and boot on the other when he charges between his legs.
"I'm gonna take my sweet time with you. It's my right. I won."
He uses some roughly bundled up clothes under Arthur's ass to align himself near his hole. Micah seems intent on having him from every angle, including this one, like a lawfully wedded wife. The stretch is drier. Arthur hates it. Hates the way Micah sinks deep faster than before. Hates the sensation of Micah's balls slapping against him. Hates, most of all, how good it feels.
"Gotta remind you who you belong to, yeah? Don't matter how many of my boys you kill. Don't matter how far away you run."
The hands return to his chest and grow claws. They begin tearing at his shirt, loosening the few buttons that remain in it, rendering his union suit unrecognizable. Once close to his skin, Micah engulfs him, and scratching at his nipples until Arthur hisses. He kneads them, moving the flesh in circular motions, thumb worsening the initial scratches into cuts.
All this, while fucking into him, mean little thrusts that has him humming until it breaks into wet moans.
Twisting his head back and forth, Arthur clamps his teeth down on the bit not to scream in frustration. Micah's motions grow precise, digging into the nipples, before rolling them between the thumb and index finger. They are pulled to opposite sides while the fingers kept up the rolling motion. Flat as his chest is, all that muscled padding gone, it's torture.
"Stop," Arthur cries.
But that only turns Micah more on, going back to groping the freshly sensitized places. There's no rhythm to it. Arthur is being manhandled. It'd been comical hadn't it hurt so much, but there is an absurd level to how hard said hurt makes him.
"Holy shit, I've missed your tits. I don't mind how flat they are. But remember when I could fuck between them?"
He's making himself excited, showcasing the memory in both body and words. The harder squeezes are accompanied by deeper thrusts. Snarling, Micah leans down, biting at the nipple like at a ripe fruit. Arthur fights uselessly against the belt around his wrists. The bastard is chewing. Once satisfied with what is definitely bleeding, his tongue joins the game, lapping up the blood. Sometimes the lips closed around the nipple, sucking at it, other times the teeth simply hold it in place. He switches it up, resulting in a gust of cold air to the nipple he'd left, only to return to it when Arthur least expects it.
Only when he is hyperventilating does Micah pull back.
He just watches Arthur for a moment, not speaking, eye lit with glee.
While touching the bridle with one hand, he starts jerking Arthur off with the other, gripping him expertly. He's shamefully erect, throbbing in turn with the many marks left all over his chest. He hasn't come in weeks. Can't do it by himself or with a whore, because all he thinks about is Micah, as if the man's violence has been imprinted on Arthur's sexuality.
"Don't," he tries to say, but it comes out as a mess of consonants, hacked up by the metal in his mouth. "Please, Micah."
He doesn't want to come. He could endure this better if Micah wouldn't force this from him.
"Hm? What's that?"
Arthur tries to think of a way to get Micah to actually stop, as he doesn't listen to the word itself. They'd had another word back in the day. It was so ridiculous that Arthur rarely used it, not when he could've used the strength that is gone, now.
"Dutch," he breathes.
At first Micah frowns, looking pissed off - and ... jealous? - before the wrinkles on his forehead ease out as he realizes the connection. He's laughing, and he's not moving his hips, but he's still rubbing his thumb over the head of Arthur's cock.
"Oh, Black Lung. The old man's dead. So are the kids we were, and that old stupid word of theirs. It doesn't matter out here. It ceased to matter the moment you stabbed my eye out. All you can do right now is just to survive."
And then he fucks him and jacks him off at the same time, ignoring Arthur's sobs.
It's true, Micah had tried to get him to stop back during the knife fight, but Arthur couldn't tell if it was real or just a means to stab him in the back. And when Arthur hadn't stopped, neither had Micah. It resulted in one of their nastiest fucks they'd ever had, making this one pale in comparison, even when the cruelty here feels like fresh blows to bruised skin.
"I should show you to my boys. Show them what a beautiful bitch you make. Maybe pass you around a bit if they behave. But who am I kidding? I want you all to myself, Arthur. You're mine. No one else's. No one gets to see you like this."
And just like that, Arthur comes all over himself with a wretched sound.
It took less than a minute. There's a lot of cum, oozing into his shirt and the clothes spread around them.
Micah dries his hand on Arthur's shirt, and hips continue to move in stabbing motions, like he's seeking endless pleasure rather than an end. He begins biting and sucking on Arthur's neck and chest, grunting in pleasure while Arthur dry heaves.
And then he touches the medical scar at Arthur's side.
"Wait. What's that? That's not one of mine.”
Arthur flinches.
"Oh shiiit. They really cut your lung out, huh?"
No. They'd filled the lung with air. The treatment only had fifty percent chance of survival. Sometimes the tuberculosis still spread. It is like walking with a time bomb inside him. Sometimes Arthur hates the sickness more for not killing him.
He glares up at Micah, holding his tongue. Micah kisses the scar, not felt but heard, but he stays silent.
"It's not ugly," he says. "And I feel like I own in a little bit, since I was the one who suggested you do it."
"Shut up," Arthur says, wet and barely audible. He wants to ask why Micah suggested the treatment, but he fears the answer. To make him stay away while he killed Dutch? Because he knew Arthur would interfere with his plans? Or because he wanted Arthur alive and out of danger, because he loved – ? No, Micah is incapable of love. A joker at the back of his mind tells him, You sound a bit like Abigail describing Marston when they'd broken up for the umpteenth time.
And then Micah looks up at him, lips a fresher red than the scar under him.
"What, you don't want me to go soft? You want to punish yourself? That's fine."
Arthur becomes certain of a few things then, both that parts of this is a mind game, but also that even if he's not as weak as he feels right now, he truly is lighter. Because it takes Micah no effort at all to switch them around so that he's the one laying down, and Arthur is the one above him. He almost thinks he can smell spring again and hear a river clucking nearby, but it's just snow melting, the fire crackling beside them, the sight of Micah below him, smiling up at him almost fondly. Almost.
He'd been so weirded out at the time, Micah insisting that Arthur get on top and ride him as the first time they'd fucked – and the first time Arthur had slept with a man at all. And then he had wretched orgasm after orgasm from him, and only let him slide down onto his cock as he was overstimulated and sore. Not that different from now. He can't come as many times as he did when they were young, and Micah seems to realize that. Maybe he's planned it. A last throwback to what they had.
"You remember this?"
How could Arthur forget?
"Lower yourself down."
It's not as if he has a choice. Micah is gripping him too tightly, the other hand on his cock, smearing the slick around before shoving it up towards him. The stretch is different yet again. Too tight. They both curse, one more muffled and one more open, before Micah gets more slick. He shoves his fingers inside Arthur, getting as much as he can up there.
"Try again."
Arthur does, and this time Micah shoves himself upwards at the same time, bottoming out with an obscene noise.
"There we go," he says. "Look at you, taking it so well."
Arthur clenches around Micah at the encouragement, and his spent cock twitches involuntarily. He hates how well Micah knows him, how he'll weaponize anything he likes, especially things like encouragement. Even the noises of pleasure Micah makes make him feel light-headed. His wrinkles are more visible when he scowls in concentration. He's still attractive. Cruel, demanding and vengeful, but attractive. No one else has ever made Arthur feel so conflicted.
"Work your hips."
Despite his exhaustion, Arthur tries to do as ordered. Sweat breaks out all over him. Sliding himself up, and then down, legs so sore they're screaming at the strain. He doesn't manage to replicate the rhythm Micah prefers even if he knows it.
"What, you need me to put in all the work? You're useless without me. No goal, no drive, no nothing."
Micah's hands are like warm iron on his hips, jostling him up and down, before lifting his own hips up too.
Arthur jolts, trying for a moment to get off, but Micah won't let him. He doesn't tease him about the escape attempts, but he fucks Arthur harder for it. He keeps watching his face, delighted by whatever he finds there.
"Oh, sweetheart. Am I teasing you too much? Did I hurt your heart?"
You broke it, you bastard.
"Keep crying. Just like that. No one makes as pretty a face as you do, crying on my cock."
Arthur wasn't aware of doing it, his eyesight already having blurred out a couple of times throughout the night, but when he blinks, a few tears fall on Micah's face. Micah licks up a few of them, as though it was the drool from the first time Arthur saw his - perfect - cock, the one he took countless times after, mostly outside, but even in stables and alleyways and at camp.
And yet Micah always feels too big and too much, more so after an orgasm, a fight and a chase. It's still good. Especially the way Micah claws at him like he can't get enough. And the little grunts and sighs he makes, sounding like he's enjoying himself immensely, even if it drains him to keep shoving his hips up. The way he pulls at Arthur's bridle so they're close.
He opens his mouth to spew more bullshit and confuse Arthur even more, so Arthur catches his lips for a kiss.
It's more like teeth gnashing against each other, and yet the sudden softness is enough to make Micah come.
The heat of it shoots up in Arthur, warmth spreading deep inside him. He swallows Micah's groan, before breaking the kiss. And then he throws his head back, staring up at the rock above, like a dark sky falling on top of them.
This can't go on. This has to stop.
This will go on forever and cannot stop.
The white eye of the storm keeps watching them. It has darkened somewhat.
Tigrero has laid down close to Silence, maybe giving him some warmth or just leeching it off him. The bridle and belt have come off, curled up and pushed aside. Arthur is too tired to do much more than to lie there, with Micah's side pressed up against his back, both of them curled up on the bedroll underneath the heap of clothes. The fire crackles as Micah adds more wood to it, making sure it'll burn for hours. He's even put on a can of coffee. Maybe he's planning to stay awake.
"You ought to rest while you can," Micah says. "The storm's going strong. Won't last though."
"Maybe we shouldn't," Arthur mutters.
"Shouldn't what? Last?"
Arthur sighs, shifting so he can stare at the rock. But Micah is relentless, getting inside the nest of clothes, pulling Arthur closer until his head is on Micah's elbow. Arthur doesn't have it in him to pull away. He's so warm. Even his drawl has traces of it.
"You suggesting some kinda double suicide, Black Lung? You always had a dramatic streak."
"No. Why don't we just ... wait here for a while ... and see what happens."
"Sure." Micah is silent for about two seconds, before he runs a hand across Arthur's body, until his fingers touch the scar left after the treatment. "One last question though. You ever tell anyone that I helped pay for the surgery?"
Arthur startles at hearing Micah voice his greatest shame so casually. His heart beats so fast his head starts pounding, sounding a bit like a crow cawing, trying to escape his throat. An explosion goes off inside him, his heart shattering again and again, forced to confront what he already knows.
Micah didn't just help him out, didn't just suggest he'd try the new experimental Italian treatment; he paid all of it using his own - and not the gang's - money by tucking a red leather envelope into Arthur's saddlebag, before slapping Silence's rump to make him gallop away from Beaver Hollow before Arthur had a chance to respond.
"No," Arthur says eventually, quietly like a confession. "Not a goddamn soul."
"Good," Micah replies. He sounds blasé, a tone he only ever uses when whatever he's feeling is so intense he can't hide it behind a lesser emotion. He presses his cheek against Arthur's, and says, "Don't want anyone to think I've gone soft."