Chapter Text
Arthur returns about half of his take for each job he works to the camp coffers. He knows he doesn’t have to. No one forces his hand. That’s not what it’s about.
While Dutch encourages donations to keep the gang afloat through these hard times, he’s not the type of man to judge those who want to keep coins in their own pockets. These are lean times for all of them. The pickings in the vicinity of Valentine are thin, and too many locals already know their faces.
And maybe that’s part of why Arthur keeps so little for himself. Then again, there’s not awful much at all he wants for. It’s the camp that provides his meals, keeps his cart repaired, feeds his horse and shelters him from the sun.
Besides, he often finds himself with more money than he rightly knows what to do with. Though it’s been...years, since he’s lost Isaac, Arthur still hasn’t quite adjusted to not sending most of his money to help Eliza.
He can’t recall another time in his life that he was so flush with cash. Makes him feel almost guilty. What, with the way Dutch talks about desperate times, coming together for the greater good and keeping the gang on its feet until they can get back to Blackwater.
Arthur considers dropping the remaining money he has into the box, though he’s given up most of it already. He almost does it too, reaching into his bag to pull out the clip he uses to keep the bills neatly bunched together. In the end, though, he’s more selfish than he ought to be, pulling out a dollar note and shoving it into the slot before returning the clip to his bag.
He seeks out Charles to ease the tension in his gut. Asks the other man if he feels much like going into Valentine?
Most of the others have already paid the town a visit. Some of them, more than one. Was a fool’s errand, trying to keep Javier and Bill away for too long. And the girls wanted to go in to look at the new catalogues, though Tilly told Arthur none of them bought nothing. At least not yet. Before too long Hosea showed his face around the watering holes as well, unassuming and always watching, looking for a new opportunity or a concealed threat against them. Either way, he’d always have the gang’s best interests at heart.
Arthur, though, Arthur hasn’t gone. Feels like too much, too crowded, too damn civilized. He’d stand out like a sore thumb. Always does. Arthur doesn’t like how people look at him when he passes them. Doesn’t like the racket of the bars at night and the work horses in the day. He doesn’t like the expectations that come from associating with men who aren’t like him. Not if he can avoid it.
Charles smiles back at him, asking with a teasing lilt what the occasion is? Before Arthur interrupted him, Charles was busy tending to his horse, brushing out Tamia’s mane and coat, inspecting where he could for ticks. That’s meant to be a job for the O’Driscoll boy now, but Arthur thinks it wise that Charles doesn’t trust Kieran’s work.
“No occasion,” Arthur admits, scuffing his boot against the ground. “Just thought to make an evening of it.” Only about an hour now before Pearson will have dinner ready for those in camp. Heading into town means Arthur spending his own money on food. But that’s the point of it, after all.
Charles gives him a beaming smile, shaking his head lazily and averting his eyes. His gaze is focused on something that isn’t Arthur. “Why not?” He rubs his hands across the front of his pants before dropping a hand to Arthur’s shoulder. “Let me grab my pack and we can ride out.”
Arthur pushes down the tense fluttering in his stomach. Silly, childish, and unnecessary. He and Charles are what they are. And Arthur is grateful for that. Told himself, and Charles told him too, to enjoy what they have for as long as they have it. No need to let himself get flustered like a girl might. No reason to be bashful.
Charles has been into a Valentine before, running errands for Miss Grimshaw, he says.
“Don’t know why I’ve been putting it off,” Arthur says, once they’re on the road.
From atop his horse, Charles counters, “Yes you do.”
Shrugging, Arthur doesn’t bother answering directly. There’s no need. “I’m not a hermit, Charles.”
“I never said you were,” and it’s true. He didn’t. “All the same, I’m glad you asked me along.”
They continue on at a comfortable clip. Arthur might even be hungry by the time they arrive, though there’s still that strange knot that forms in the pit of his stomach when he’s forcing himself to do something he doesn’t strictly want. Not spending time with Charles, no. Charles is right on that account, and Arthur is grateful too that he has the time to ride along. Truthfully, Arthur may have called the whole expedition off, had Charles been busy.
But as it is they ride on. Charles drops into their conversation that he’s rather fond of Saint Denis, all things considered. “One day, I’ll show you the sights,” Charles promises, “you won’t have to talk to a soul if you don’t want to. Leave everything to me. Just enjoy yourself.”
At the tip of his tongue is Arthur’s correction, that he doesn’t have to be taken care of like that. Though, truth be told, that sounds sort of nice. Nicer than trying to navigate on his own.
They reach Valentine during the early evening lull. Those with families to tend to have returned home for a meal, those who don’t have hustled into the drinking establishments to find themselves a table or a stool. A couple hours more and the rowdiest among them will start spilling out onto the streets, shouting challenges and threats and affirmations at one another. A different night and Arthur would be tempted to count himself among them. Little bit of whiskey in his blood makes socializing more palatable. Not today, though.
After securing both their horses, Arthur and Charles make their way to Smithfield’s. Everyone in the gang reports back that the food is better there. Arthur holds his hat against his chest as they enter the saloon.
Once inside the knot in Arthur’s gut twists again. While the floor is far from packed tight, there’s still enough folks around that Arthur feels like he needs to...behave. Maybe that’s the right word for it. That he needs to put on a performance of being a good, decent man. Though he’s anything but.
Some small part of Arthur, okay, more like a sizable chunk, knows that there are plenty of other wretched men around him. Spaces like this are where the decent people and the scoundrels like him cohabitate. Still, knowing that he’s allowed here doesn’t mean that Arthur feels like belongs.
Before he can object, Charles has already approached the bar. His smile back at the kid pouring drinks is bright enough that Arthur can at least focus on the white glint of his teeth in the lamps. The kid, probably on either side of twenty if Arthur had to guess, laughs at something Charles says before pushing his hair back behind one ear. It’s a sort of cherrywood red color, and just long enough to get into his face. Arthur wonders if Charles knows him.
Arthur thinks about stepping in closer so that he can hear their discussion, but Charles is already turned around, a glass in either hand. He passes one over to Arthur before remarking, “I thought you would have found us a table by now.”
There’s not much at all available in terms of seating, though they eventually find space up on the balcony. Charles took the liberty of ordering some plates of food for them both. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes wait.
Arthur drinks his whiskey and watches the patrons down below talk and laugh and dance, once the man behind the piano starts tapping out a cheery tune. It’s just one glass of liquor but already Arthur feels warm and flush. He’s content to watch other people being happy. He’s happy himself because Charles sits across from him, peering over the railing as well.
The girl helping in the kitchen brings up their dinners, a serving of beef in gravy taking up most of the plate. Charles starts cutting into the meat without waiting on Arthur. There’s something terribly comforting about that. The beef is tougher on Arthur’s teeth than he would like, but it’s a meal made tender, in sharing this with Charles.
There was the start of a plan in Arthur’s mind, when he invited Charles here. That they might be able to take some time, order baths for both of them. Rent a room. Some time alone, together, away from the camp. Arthur had this wild idea that such accommodations might make him bolder, more confident in himself. Maybe he’d be able to ask Charles some of the questions that have been stuck at the back of his throat for weeks now. Ask for the things he thinks he wants.
Arthur realizes now that, at least on the count of courage, this has been a fool’s errand. Because while he feels relaxed on his second glass of whiskey, this time paying for the round, that comfort won’t translate into action. The minutes tick by in happy revelry. Smithfield’s fills up as the moon grows bright. And Arthur knows he’ll fret over the possibility of someone hearing them together. Despite the private rooms.
Before they resolve to leave, Arthur buys a final round, insisting that because Charles paid for their dinner, they’re still not even yet.
With a sly smile, Charles suggests, “there are other ways to make up the difference.” And Arthur replies with a grin of his own. His composure is at least loose enough he can concede to Charles that he’s been thinking the same.
All and all, Arthur still buys the round.
Making their way back out of the saloon is rougher going than their arrival. Neither are small men and they end up having to clumsily push their way through the crowd of bodies that have started to choke the main floor. Even though they both know well enough where the door is, Charles grabs ahold of Arthur’s sleeve to pull him along towards the back exit.
The moon is high enough that the light bounces out the densely packed buildings that make up Valentine. Arthur breathes in the cool night air before reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes and matchbook. He has just about enough time to get one lit before one of Charles’ hands drops to his hip and squeezes. It’s a brief affection for sure. They shouldn’t hazard more than that. But the sensation of it is nearly enough to make Arthur drop his cigarette.
They walk the streets of Valentine while Arthur finishes smoking. Around the bend and out of the alley, past the general store, the post office, the bank, the butcher. All the places that Arthur has heard about from the other members of the gang, but hasn’t yet seen for himself. It’s easier now to get the lay of the land, without the bustle of daytime business going about. For all the congestion of Smithfield’s, the rest of the town is quiet now. Probably because the population that’s still out and about have confined themselves to the saloons for the time being.
As they reach their horses, Arthur is at least brave enough to breathe out, “I’m not ready for the night to end.” Because a cloudy sort of romanticism is still floating around his head. All his aborted plans still feel vividly real, like Arthur could reach out and grab his desires in both hands, even if they’ll slip through his fingers like smoke.
“Doesn’t have to,” Charles replies, getting up onto Tamia, “there’s enough light to ride a bit yet.”
By silent agreement they diverge from the path that would lead them back to camp, instead veering off towards the riverbank. The moonlight glistens off the water, a soothing, bubbling sound barely audible where the flow passes swiftly between and over and around stones worn down by time.
In no hurry to a destination, Arthur at least is able to suggest they dismount to let their horses enjoy a drink before they circle back around in the direction of Horseshoe Overlook. He’s got no sense of the hour, though it must be late. And he’s got even less desire to think of how little time they must actually have.
Not a soul around, Charles puts one hand to Arthur’s cheek, holding him steady and sure as their lips softly meet. Arthur hadn’t realized how tightly he held his shoulders until they finally relax under the affection Charles offers. His own hands find a resting place at Charles’ hips as he opens his mouth enough to invite Charles to stay awhile longer with him.
There’s not much in terms of suitable ground along the riverbed, all damp, uneven gravel under their feet. But when they finally allow their mouths to part, Arthur pulls at Charles’ shoulder to head further up the bank, where clay and stone give way to grass and small, lace-like white flowers. Beautiful, really.
The horses aren’t quite out of sight, and Arthur trusts they have enough sense about them to run if threatened and come if called.
Charles’ hands are in his hair as he kisses Arthur again, the satisfying bulk of his body starting to press against Arthur’s chest.
Laughing, Arthur drops his forehead to Charles’ shoulder, kissing hard enough against Charles’ shirt that he’s sure that the other man can feel it.
“What’s so funny?” Charles asks, amusement apparent in his tone. One arm comes to wrap around Arthur’s back to hold him in place. It’s warm and sure.
It’s easier for Arthur to speak with the bit of alcohol in his system and the warm smell of Charles in his nose. Easier too to keep his eyes averted, buried against Charles’ sleeve. “The things I want. They’re funny, I suppose.”
“What do you want?” Charles gently sways, rocking Arthur’s pliant body with his own. They couldn’t dance like this at the saloon. And here there is no music. But there’s the sound of a distant owl and the rhythm of the river and the heavy breathing of the horses. It’s enough to make them both sway.
“To be a good man,” Arthur admits. Though that doesn’t have much at all to do with Charles, “and I want to feel you. Though some would say that wouldn’t make me a very good man at all.”
They end up riding back to camp not long after. Though not before Arthur has spent in Charles’ hand, his back pressed firmly to Charles’ chest as he shakes apart. He spits Charles come into the grass after taking him in his mouth, his knees now slightly damp from the dew clinging to the long blades.
Lenny is on look-out, but otherwise camp is quiet, everyone in their tents, if not yet asleep. Charles and Arthur must part ways in front of the firepit, before heading to their own cots. In the final moments of their expedition together, Charles brushes his fingers against the back of Arthur’s hand once more.
“One day,” Charles says, his voice just above a whisper, “we’ll do all the things you’re not ready to ask for, yet.”
Arthur huffs as a meager response, “you’re a good man, Charles.”
With a laugh, Charles leaves him with, “As good as you are. So consider that.”