Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Oi, English! Get yer’ arse over ‘ere!”

Arthur tips his hat up with a single finger, hand refusing to leave his bottle. Taking a straight shot without breaking eye-contact with the inebriated Irishman struggling to stand a few feet away, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and slaps the bottle on the ground.

“An’ what would you do ‘bout it!?” Arthur calls, right from the pits of his chest, booming over the group gathered by the campfire. A crystal clear night above them, a whiskey-soaked mind stumbles up, attempting to gently acquaint his fist with Sean’s face.

Only he trips on a well-placed leg. 

Sean’s cackles are faintly registered as large hands grab his waist. Practically horizontal, Arthur stares at the grass, arms limp under him, hat now fallen. 

Hosea, Lenny and Karen laugh at him, all well under the influence themselves. Arthur shoots a glare at Hosea. The old man smiles and holds his hands up in surrender, eyes glinting with a frustrating amount of amusement.

“Let go ‘o me, Charles,” Arthur says, gruff and pointed.

He does.

Arthur face-plants the grass, the hyenas around him now crowing.

“The hell was that!?” Arthur says to Charles once he’s leaning up on an elbow, spitting out grass.

“You wanted me to let go,” Charles says in that deep voice of his, hands lax on his hips.

Sean is about to double over on himself, holding his stomach with a high flush on his face, blue eyes ready to bark.

“The high and mighty Arthur Morgan!” Sean yells, drawing a scowl on Arthur’s face. “The gruff and tough outlaw movin’ on from stuffin’ his purse with lady’s jewels to his mouth with Mother Nature’s!”

Arthur scrambles up, pointing at Sean, ready to spit-

Charles grabs his shoulder, pulling him into his broad chest.

“You don’t need to do all this,” Charles murmurs, breath ghosting along his ear.

Goosebumps trail down Arthur’s neck. “You know I have to,” He whispers back. 

“You-” Charles is cut off by the image of Sean securing a knife out of absolutely fucking nowhere.

“Sean!” Everyone cries simultaneously.

Sean waves the knife as if in a fencing match; a fencing match against a swarm of uncoordinated wasps. Slashing this way and that, a chuckle escaping his burping mouth.

“Nobody bests me with the blade! Not even our good Javier!”

Next to the campfire, Javier rolls over in his bedroll, flipping a rude gesture before falling back asleep.

“Never mind.” Charles pushes Arthur forward, the drunk catching his feet on rocks, pebbles, the log right in front of him and, eventually, his own boot.

Securing his landing by grabbing Sean’s weaponed arm, Arthur twists the limb so Sean will not be found of reckless endangerment.

Unfortunately, Sean doesn’t know any other words. 

He cackles, taunting Arthur’s clumsy steps, playing a one-sided game as they near Arthur’s tent flaps.

Grimshaw had one of her rare ‘nice days.’ Left the girls alone, used a friendly tone even to that O’Driscoll. And above it all, gifted Arthur with tent flaps for privacy in his otherwise open lean-to.

He made sure to show his immense gratitude, and kept the flaps in perfect condition, unlike every single one of his other possessions. Always making sure they block out the sun right, no scratches, no loose seams.

And now Sean’s knife is stuck in the fabric.

The world pauses its orbit. Arthur slowly turns to his head to Sean, who has the humility to appear sheepish.

“I- I didn’t mean it, English. You know this! Ol’ MacGuire would never want to hurt anythin’ of yours-”

In Sean’s desperate escape of the knife, he slices it down, cleaving a large gash through the centre, fraying seams crying as the guts of Arthur's space is revealed.

In the beginning Arthur only wanted to have a gentle introduction, now he is going to punch Sean.

Yet in that moment the knife glints off the campfire, and then glints off an object placed on Arthur’s bedside table.

The two pause, Arthur’s fist ready to strike.

A bundle of arrows lay in the dark, waiting with feathered beauty, the arrowheads aglow.

“Oh?” Sean gasps, Arthur fisting his shirt collar into his neck. 

Arthur makes a short sound of confusion. There’s no possibility of him owning something as nice as those arrows. So how?

Caught between teaching a lesson and finding out the mysteries of the universe, Charles ends up grabbing both of their collars. Arthur’s world turns upside down and inside out, and he passes out with the fading feeling of a firm pillow under his head.

.↣.

Arthur is awoken by a door being slammed shut, repeatedly.

If that door lived in his brain, and regularly pounded against his skull.

He groans a long groan, holding his head as he fumbles for grip on the wagon’s wall. About to hold onto a free nail, a stray god-ray slices right through the wound bleeding into his space.

Sean will pay, and he will pay with blood.

As Arthur manages to sit up, ready to enact his great plan, a forgotten glint hits his eyes.

Blinded, he blinks through the shock.

White fades into a bundle of arrows, and the smell of steaming coffee, bitter and fresh in the faint wind of the overlook, his hat alongside them.

Arthur can only grunt, confused beyond meaning. Is God teaching a lesson of humility? Or modesty? Or trying to be nice before sending another flood?

Good thing he’s not religious.

Standing with great effort, Arthur downs the coffee and his throat in scolding heat. He can hardly care though, and slowly his brain comes back, piece by piece.

Now conscious, Arthur puts the empty cup out of the way, and picks up an arrow.

The wood is handmade with precision, adorned in feathers of red and blue, speckled with an attractive brown, tickling the palm they lay in, soft and clean. How..?

This must be some mistake… not a single one of his belongings are of this quality.

Arthur glances outside, most people mingle in the afternoon - whoops - sun, thinking someone must’ve left these here by accident. His bed is attached to the weapons wagon…

These folk have been living alongside him for years, and not a single person has ever invaded his space with their belongings, but that only leaves the impossible possibility that these are a gift…

And if that’s the case, who in their right mind would do something so kind for him?

The coffee too. Only Hosea ever brings him coffee when he wakes, but… his father does so with a greeting alongside it.

No matter the case, these deserve Arthur’s upmost respect, they’re too beautiful to even consider using as actual arrows.

Foregoing putting them in his quiver (people never leave their items, but they have no issue taking Arthur’s) he leans the bundle up against his table, warning that they are for him and him alone.

Standing back, he can appreciate the colour they give his unsaturated space, almost painted into the scene with a graceful hand.

A hand that must’ve slipped. Cause nothing he’s done deserves this.

He places his hat on his head, taking it’s familiar position. Dumping his crinkled jacket and drooled on neckerchief in the clothes barrel, he stands there, letting air flitter down his shirt, cooling the night away.

Yet as he leans both hands on the barrel and stares into the pile of clothes, Arthur still can’t figure out who left those arrows.

It wouldn’t be either of his fathers. Dutch because… he’s Dutch, and not even Hosea can make something like that.

None of the girls either… or Javier or Lenny or, well, definitely not fucking Sean.

Arthur could laugh to death considering Micah or Bill, Swanson too. Grimshaw exhausted her hospitality with the tent. Which Arthur will need to repay her for…with Sean’s head.

“You ok?”

Arthur looks up in surprise, finding Charles’ concerned face on him, sitting in the grass and leaning against a tree, a piece of wood being whittled at in his hand.

Arthur’s hands are clenched around the barrel rim, and he lets go with a huff of laughter.

“Peachy, jus’ real peachy…”

Charles shuffles over by a fraction, an unspoken invitation, and Arthur sits next to him.

The tree they’re leaning on is wide enough that one shoulder of each man is against it, arms brushing between them. Warmth spreading at the contact and into Arthur’s chest.

“Anything you wanna talk about?” Charles asks, focusing on his whittling.

Arthur sighs, tension leaving to the air, shadowed by the gentle rustling of leaves overtop, dappled patterns falling over the two.

“The hole in the tent… don’t matter too much now I think ‘bout it, but jus’ annoys me. Susan don’t give out those sort of things regularly…”

“So you want to kill Sean.”

Arthur sighs again. “You get me.”

He accidentally leans closer, touching Charles’ shoulder with his own. The man’s hand juts, and a scrape cleaves the wood piece right in half.

They both watch it slide oh so slow into the grass, lost in the green.

“Are you ok?” Arthur asks, readjusting his shoulder away.

Charles curses, searching for the piece. Arthur goes to help him, and they both find it at the same time, the touch of their hands zapping something up Arthur’s arm.

Despite the shock, he can’t draw his grip away, and as Charles brings the piece in Arthur’s hand follows. Leaving them stalled close to Charles’ chest.

Charles side-eyes him, an amused look in his eye with a questioning gape of his mouth. That gets Arthur to jump into action, and he pulls his hand away, resting the both of them in his lap. Casually.

In the corner of his eye, Arthur swears he sees Charles’ Adam’s apple bob, and a quick tuck of dark hair over his ear.

Searching for words, Arthur spills out, “What’chu makin’?”

Charles recovers as well, swiping the knife carefully, searching for a hidden figure in the wood. 

“Not sure yet.”

Arthur nods. “I used to make some things.”

“What sort?”

“Ah jus’… animals, mostly. Made Copper once, etched all the bits of fur too. Probably ain’t look nothin’ like him.” Arthur laughs.

Charles smiles. “I’m sure it did.”

The conversation drifts, Arthur content to watch Charles at his work. Something is so soothing about the way the man works; weaving arrows or whittling wood whenever he can, expert hands always working without hesitation. Strong and warm. Scars dusted atop with a flair Arthur could stare at for hours.

A click sounds in Arthur’s mind. The conclusion falling so well in place he could kick himself.

“Ya’ know,” Arthur begins, Charles hums an acknowledgement. “Someone left these beautiful arrows on my table. Like real good lookin’. An’ coffee. Thought I was dreamin’.”

He says it all in his best prose, ready to laugh - play off a misplaced assumption. Yet the tactic dies on his tongue when Charles stares at him with that amused look he seems to reserve only for Arthur. Like he’s told a joke while being the joke.

Arthur takes his hat off, scratches his head with the brim and puts it back on. “It was… you, right?” 

Charles glances away, and if Arthur wasn’t so close to him, he wouldn’t see the red dusting his deep, brown skin.

“Could be,” Charles says, grinning.

Even if he figured it out himself, all sense leaves him, a giddy feeling replacing it. “Charles…”

To say Arthur is at a loss for words is an understatement. A Great Big Understatement. What do you say to that?

“Thank you.” Is what Arthur eventually settles on, despite the complete ineptitude of the statement.

Charles is still looking away, but he nudges Arthur’s arm with his elbow. “You deserve it.”

Arthur’s brows furrow. “You knock your head?”

Charles laughs, breathy and deep. Arthur’s stomach flips. “No,” Charles says. “You just deserve it. You’re a good friend to me, Arthur. Just wanted to give something back.”

Something back? Something back?! Charles already exists, how could he think he isn’t giving something back.

Arthur’s mind settles on a plan that doesn’t involve violence. In fact, it’s probably the most tender plan he’s ever created.

“Alright,” Charles looks at him. “Than that jus’ means I gotta get you somethin’.”

Charles flounders when Arthur stands, determined as he heads to the horse paddock.

“You don’t gotta do that, Arthur!” Charles desperately calls.

Arthur whistles for Percival. Taking his satchel hanging off the saddle, the straps nearly fall off then and there, and he has to be careful when pulling it over his shoulder. It’s been with him for some years, and it’s really starting to show.

The pink andalusian shoves his muzzle into Arthur’s stomach as he pets his head. He tests the tack, mounts, and waves at a bewildered Charles. Leaving the camp for the open wilderness. 

.↣.

Down the hill, along the flowing river, under the canopy of woods, against the dirt path.

Arthur has no idea.

He stopped them in a tucked away spot of river sitting on the bank, protected by trees. Percival’s hooves crunch the wet rocks underneath, while Arthur stares at the shining water, light rippling through, reeds and herbs dancing in the wind, and discovers, once more, how much of an idiot he is. 

It’s futile to try and top Charles’ gift, so he won’t, he just needs something. Something that shows his appreciation - for the gift, and everything Charles is.

But what?

Charles isn’t a materialistic person, barely uses his share of the profits. The most money Arthur sees him spend is on bullets. The one thing he doesn’t make himself. Not for lack of skill, but because it takes him a while.

The man said it himself, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Arthur could wish, but all of Hosea’s attempts to teach him resulted in property damage.

Arthur would think with all the time they spend with each other; hunting, talking or sitting in long silences - no words needed spoken, just each other’s company - he could think of something immediately. The perfect gift. Exactly what Charles would love.

Arthur groans, holding his face in his hands. There’s no reason to lose his mind over this, but Charles is just so…Charles. His name alone lighting something in Arthur. He can’t name what it is, but there’s no other person he wants to spend his time with like he does with Charles. Gallivanting as Hosea likes to put it, out in the wilds alone has been overtaken with someone by his side.

So why can’t he think of anything!?

Tree leaves rustle behind him. Boots and hooves clop against the dirt and then rocky shore.

“Woah!”

Arthur turns, hand at his holster. A short man leads a horse, wearing a wicker hat and a baffled expression. Upon his funny little vest a pocket watch adorned in gems sits. Upon closer inspection it appears they’re actually seeds. The bay horse carries an abundance of saddlebags filled with flowers, purple and blue, yellow and green, vibrant and leaking out.

The man stays stunned, a hand on his hat. He lets out a nervous laugh, glancing around. “Didn’t expect to see anyone here.”

The nasally lisp of a townie relaxes Arthur, but not enough to dismount. Arthur tips his hat. “What’chu doin’, friend?”

That makes the man brighten, almost blindingly. He throws a hand to the rocky ranges in the distance, as well as the trees surrounding them with a fond look.

“Exploring! Using Earth’s creation to better our own. No greater gift than that.”

Arthur nods. While agreeing, there’s only so much time until this man sees a wanted poster in front of him.

“I’m actually just here to grab some of those poor herbs your horse is stepping on - a beautiful horse you have, might I add,” The herbalist steps closer, wary as he points at the plants Percival is indeed demolishing.

Arthur mumbles a mix of ‘sorry’ and ‘thanks’, turning Percival to the side and facing away from the river.

The purple herbs pop back up, unhindered. The man crouches to dig them from the soil.

“What are they?” Arthur asks. He really should’ve galloped off by now, but Dutch has always said he has the curiosity of a cat - and the luck of the underside of a ladder.

“Burdock root. Fantastic for horses, gives them a light step and healthy eyes. I always make sure to treat Penelope every now and then, keep her young and with me.”

The little morgan does look quite healthy, shiny coat and easy breaths. Arthur can always appreciate someone who takes good care of their horse, too few bother to tend to the intricacies.

“An’ these are all over the place?” Arthur asks, gesturing at the plant.

The herbalist holds the burdock up, roots and all, dirt crumbling. “Mostly by waterways, but there’s an abundance of medicinal plants with the same properties as these! Alfalfa and aster also work, and if you’re looking to treat a human friend, yarrow does the trick more than well. There’s some right over there.”

Arthur follows the man’s gaze to a patch of red flowers amongst green, looking like simple roses.

Arthur asks, “What do those do?”

“Everything! Makes sure a man with your sorta life stays upright. If you’re injured or ailing, yarrow is your best friend.”

Arthur tenses, wondering what ‘sorta life’ this man thinks he has, but there’s no fear in his eyes, just plain friendliness. Arthur almost pities him.

Yarrow could be a good gift… not that Charles finds himself injured often - he’s too smart for that. But someone as crafty as him, sometimes working at his mortar and pestle, he could find a use for them.

“Even if they don’t serve you that way, I’m sure their looks would be quite nice in your home, or a pretty lady’s hair.”

The image of Charles with flowers in his long, wavy hair, flowing like a river behind him… Arthur shakes his head, metaphorically, deciding that an outdoorsman like Charles would appreciate healing herbs. Yes. That will do. Pretty and strong, just like him.

Arthur thanks the man, of who smiles and waves him goodbye, continuing to extract the rest of the burdock root around the area. Arthur picks the yarrow, cuts the stems short, and spends the ride back tying them in a thin rope that frayed off his hat. He’s really got to stop picking at it.

Percival ambles his own way home, sunset coat shifting colours in the mix of shadows and light. Arthur turns the little bouquet in his hands, a sharp scent of pine needles shimmering over it. It’s cute, if he’s being honest. Precious, if he’s being really honest.

Arthur frowns. Is this a weird gesture? Getting flowers for his friend? Surely not. He’s seen Mary-Beth give Tilly flowers simply because they were pretty. It shouldn’t make any difference for Arthur, right?

Giving flowers isn’t inherently romantic, so it shouldn’t matter. No matter how fast his heart is beating.

The flowers being held in his rough grip, dirt-bitten nails next to the softness of the petals. Been a long time since he’s given someone flowers, under any context. Guess there’s the reason.

Arthur straightens in the saddle, putting the bundle in a compartment of the satchel, making sure his journal doesn’t squash them. If he overthinks it he may crumble into a fine powder. Besides, they’re herbs with useful properties, that just so happen to be pretty. And if Charles were to give him flowers he’d accept them in a heartbeat.

His chest hitches with that idea, and he pushes Percival faster to camp.

.❀.

Arthur peers over Percival, chin height. Half-heartedly brushing while keeping a firm eye on Charles’ back at the poker table. 

Last night he placed the yarrow on Charles’ crate, next to the portrait of his family. The idea of walking up to Charles and handing them over was too nerve-wracking to consider, so he took the coward’s way out. 

A fool idea, now that he thinks about it. How is Charles supposed to know they’re from him? A sixth sense? 

Every time he decides to go and talk to his closest friend, the one person he always wants to see, someone he can share anything to - his hands get sweaty and he thinks his heart will give out. 

What is wrong with him? It’s only herbs, and Arthur told him straight up he’ll get something for him. 

No, he’s being an idiot (again). Arthur will go talk to him. 

Putting the brush in the equipment bucket, he makes his way to Charles, but he pauses when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. 

Sean.

The bastard saunters up to Charles, neither noticing Arthur’s presence, a shit-eating grin staining his face. Like he’s caught the cream of the crop. Whatever the fuck that means.

Arthur ducks behind the chuckwagon, half facing the stew pot. Sean and Charles never talk, why would the red-head want to risk his neck like this? Charles can break it with a snap of his fingers or glare of his eyes.

“Hey, Charlie boy!” Sean says with overdramatic flair, taking a seat at the table and leaning an elbow to block Charles’ view of the overlook.

Charles faces away, taking his mug with him. “Don’t call me that.”

“No problem, no problem.” Sean taps his hands on the table, Charles resolutely looking to the distance. “Can I ask a small question?” Sean pipes out, resembling Jack asking for a treat.

Charles hums dismissively, standing and preparing to walk away, but Sean’s question even makes Arthur freeze.

“You weren’t the one responsible for those arrows, were ya’?”

Charles shoots a glare, hair whipping as he turns to Sean. Nearly falling off the barrel seat with the force, Sean nervously laughs, adjusting his hat.

“Just wanted to know! Ya’ know… I only wanted to compliment you - mighty fine arrows. Seemed important-”

“What’re you tryin’ to get at here?” Charles says. And maybe Arthur should think through the things his voice makes him feel.

Sean stands, like a weed next to a tree the way he approaches Charles. Poking a finger to his chest as a stick does to a bear.

“Always admired how the big man is so nice to you. What’s ya’ secret, Charles? Cause if I didn’t know any be-”

“Sean!” Arthur barks, worried at how Charles tenses, like he's both about to fight and run.

Sean’s head zips to Arthur, that grin spreading across his features. Arthur prepares his fist. “You still ain’t paid me back for what’chu did to Grimshaw’s tent!”

Sean backs away as Arthur nears, chuckling with his hands up. “I will, I will!” He says, continuing to inch away. “Sean MacGuire always pays his rent, don’t have’ta worry about a thing.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Arthur says, voice deep. He stands next to Charles, the two glaring down at the kicked dog. Sean scampers away.

“You alright?” Arthur says as they take a seat.

Charles stares wide-eyed at him, veins still tense in his arms. It takes a few moments until he regains his voice, sounding as casual as he usually is.

“I’m fine, Arthur. Sean isn’t exactly a put together opponent.” 

Arthur snorts. “Terrifyin’ as a toothpick.”

Charles laughs, fiddling with his empty mug. They sit in silence, feeling the wind drift in from the overlook, into the leaves of the trees, against the lean-tos, and watching as it plays with Charles’ hair. Strands falling around his face, framing his round features, touching the striking scar across his cheek.

Arthur swallows, bouncing his leg. Wishing he had Charles’ mug so he can do something with his hands. Is it weird to bring up the gift out of nowhere? No. It’s not even out of nowhere. But for some reason the subject feels taboo. A faux pas - even though it’s all that’s been on Arthur’s mind the past two days.

Before Arthur can worry himself into a corner, Charles says, “Thank you for the yarrow.”

Arthur freezes, then relief settles over like a balm. “Aw, it’s alright. Don’t think I could beat your gift though. Figured maybe you’d find use or I don’t know, I gu-”

“Arthur, I love them,” Charles stops Arthur’s useless rambling, a smile lighting his face. Arthur’s chest flickers. “I’ve always loved yarrow, surprised you knew.”

“I didn’t, actually. Jus’… took a guess.”

Charles smirks, playful and boyish. “You know me well.” 

He shakes the cup and gestures at the chuckwagon. “I gotta go hunting. I’ll see you later.”

Charles holds his shoulder before heading off. Arthur left to weakly wave goodbye, that giddy lightning in his chest reverberating throughout his body. The imprint of Charles’ hand on his shirt seeping warmth. Muddling and confusing him in waves.

Well, seems Charles likes the gift.

 .❀.

Late in the night, when a chorus of snores echo through camp, Arthur looks through the hole in his tent, wondering how he’s supposed to fix this.

Grimshaw won’t - it’s his problem. He would tell Sean to do it, but it’d end up worse under his care.

Arthur sticks his head through the hole, frowning at how large it is. It’s the entire wall at this point; the week’s weight pulling it further down. Arthur’s had to mend his clothes before, it shouldn’t be a huge fight. But this sort of fabric is a labyrinth of stitching, Arthur’s clumsy hands would only strain the sewing.

Arthur groans quietly, feeling along the edge, looking down at-

Something new sits on his table, waiting in the darkness.

Arthur hurries to the other side, picking the object up with a shaking hand.

A satchel; made of strong leather, strips falling from the lid that are knotted precisely at the top. A line of red beads trail along the edge of the lid, and on the body is an array of red, white and turquoise beads, the same kind he’s seen on Charles’ knife sheath. They’re threaded intricately, the turquoise in triangles while the red and whites weave throughout, all in harmony with one another.

Charles is a goddamn wonder.

He was under no obligation to get another gift. He just did. Because he’s Charles. Arthur shouldn’t be surprised at this point. Everything the man does is heaped in talent, wonderment, beauty-

Arthur coughs, heart thumping as he continues to take in the satchel, he hugs it in haste when that giddy feeling returns. He almost wants to giggle - Jesus

It’s too kind. Why would Charles do this for him? What could he possibly get out of spending his time - a commodity they all fight for these days - making such beautiful gifts for him? Of all people?

Arthur sits on his bed. He grabs his old satchel and exchanges everything within.

Percival’s treats, cigarette cards, an old batch of herbs he probably shouldn’t leave exposed, a box of candy he’s been meaning to give Jack. And his journal. So overflowed with his thoughts from the past five years. The pages are thick with sketches, pressed flowers scattered throughout, the stubby pencil shoved somewhere.

Arthur places the new satchel on his bedside, eyes on it until he falls asleep. 

.✥. 

A hay bale on his shoulder, Arthur heads to the horse paddock, absently thinking of the satchel at his hip.

A few people have given him compliments, all with a weird grin on their faces. Weird enough that he doesn’t know what to say in return, instead retreating while shaking his head.

Charles has been out, hunting as usual. So now Arthur waits like a lost puppy. Heart set on Charles’ reaction to seeing the gift.

All the while Arthur has been concocting a plan for his next gift. He has to step up his game, no more little bouquets of herbs. It has to be better than himself - good enough for Charles.

But what? 

Getting presents for others in the gang was never a past time he stressed over. Anything they receive is to be treasured beyond measure, no matter what it is. You’re thankful to get it in the first place.

But now there’s an anxiety - that what he gives Charles will never live up to what he wants to say. Whatever that is.

“Jesus!” A squeaky voice chimes.

A blue coat is amongst the horses, sun torn face staring wide-eyed at the hay bale. 

Arthur scowls. “What’chu want, O’Driscoll?”

Kieran scratches his scraggly beard, a few hairs falling off. “I ain’t no O’Driscoll,” He mumbles.

Arthur drops the hay, Kieran watching in perplexment as he simply dumps it without a sweat. Maggie and Percival are the first ones to wander up, sifting past grass, lit by the clear midday sun, to the dry hay.

Arthur groans as he straightens up. “Yeah, I know, jus’ needlin’ ya’.”

“Real funny…”

Arthur chuckles to himself, sort of feeling bad for the kid (he’s definitely no kid, but he sure fooled Arthur at first glance while he was tied up in the snow).

Before he heads back to camp he pauses, tilting his head up when he catches Kieran gazing at his satchel.

“What?”

Kieran jumps, hand on his hat, words stumbling out, “I’m only lookin’! I ain’t never seen a satchel that looks like that, it’s made real well.”

For some reason Arthur flusters, he didn’t make it, why are his cheeks heating? “Yeah? Well, thanks.”

Placated, Kieran continues to babble while brushing down Nell, “Mr Smith is sure good at craftin’. You twos gifts got so much thought, but when Mary-Beth gives me somethin’ all I do is freeze up,” He frowns, not seeing Arthur’s spine go rigid. “I want to give her somethin’ back, but what am I supposed to give her that’ll tell her I…you know?

“Nothin’ ‘bout me is particularly nice, I can’t jus’ be me. I need somethin’ she’ll actually appreciate, but I never have any good ideas…”

Half way through the spiel it became apparent he was talking to himself, but Arthur couldn’t walk away. How does he know the satchel is from Charles? Oh, well… maybe it’s a bit obvious, Arthur shouldn’t get pent up about it.

Kieran’s pity talk ends with him gazing wet-eyed at Nell’s flank. Arthur sighs, it’s hard to walk away from someone who’s a puppy dog in human form, and his words struck a cord. An awkward cord that has his heat thumping at the comparison of Kieran and Mary-Beth’s budding romance.

But alas, “Look, Kieran,” He startles, it’s the only time Arthur’s ever said his name. “You two are ‘round each other like bees on honey, jus’ figure out what she likes. You should know, don’t you?”

Kieran gapes, eyes drifting off in thought. “Well, I want to show I care ‘bout her writin'. An’ I actually do! But I barely understand anythin’ she shows me, even with her readin’ lessons. Can’t get her a book ‘cause I won’t know what it’s ‘bout. An’ she wants me to share more ‘bout my life. I don’t got nothin’ to share!”

“Well, she likes writin’, get her pen.”

“You already did…”

Oh yeah. “Write her a story?”

Kieran splutters, looking at Arthur as if he just asked him to jump off the overlook. “Jus’ cause I can’t read don’t mean you gotta patronise me.”

“That ain’t what I’m sayin’. She’s teachin’ you to read an’ write, show her what you’ve learnt. If she really is sweet on you she’ll like it no matter how bad it is.”

Kieran frowns at the undying support, but seems to be actually thinking about it. “I guess writin’ sounds kinda fun…”

“There you go!” Arthur slaps Kieran’s shoulder, nearly bowling him over. “If it don’t work jus’ ask ‘round ‘bout the book.”

He leaves Kieran stunned quiet at the horses, letting him sort through the rest of the hay bales.

Arthur’s near the entrance when Charles trots in, a deer on Taima’s back. Charles’ face brightens alongside Arthur’s chest when they spot each other. He hops off Taima, deer on his shoulder, eyes on the satchel.

“Looks good.”

Cheeks heating, Arthur splutters, “Y- you did good, makin’ it, I mean…”

Shoot him now.

Charles, bless him, smiles, and they walk together to the chuckwagon.

Charles slumps the deer on the table and looks at the satchel again, a little grin on his face. The man deserves to look that smug if Arthur has anything to say about it.

Yet his stomach squirms as Charles’ eyes linger, drifting over his hips before snapping up.

Charles coughs and nods at the entrance.

“Wanna ride with me? I found a bison herd out by the plains. Don’t have to hunt them or anything but-”

“Always.” What universe would he say no?

Charles’ smile grows. It’s a real good look on him, puts a cute crinkle around his eyes.

Arthur tacks up Percival and the two set out, side by side.

As they ride Arthur mulls over his next gift idea, sifting through everything he knows of Charles. What the man could possibly want.

That anxiety is still there. But maybe anxiety isn’t the right word, the fizzling in his chest is akin to excitement. The kind he hasn’t felt since first getting a horse. Since he raced against Dutch and won. Since he finally took Mary’s hand after weeks of nervousness…

Arthur shakes off a shiver in his spine. He still needs to figure out a gift.

Charles leads them past Twin Stack Pass, along the path until swerving to the rolling hillocks. Wind whispering in the blades.

They come up a hill, rising high before a sweeping valley, bordered by the dense pines of the mountains. Down in the valley, a bison herd larger than any he could imagine lumbers, grazing with sunlight touching their coats, ochre fur shimmering.

“Beautiful,” Arthur murmurs, awe spreading in his chest.

“They are.” The smile is clear in his voice.

The air is comfortable, cool against a warm sun, the bisons’ heavy footsteps carrying a depth in the earth. A breath out, and Arthur feels tension melt away in his spine.

He dismounts Percival, taking his bit out to let him graze on the tall grass, drifting up to his calves. It’s soft as he sits down, his horse to one side, Charles’ unwavering presence on his other. Gazing down on the herd with nothing short of reverence in his face.

The sun gleams down Charles’ hair, bright rivers in the strands, rippling along his waves, curling through his braids. His profile is strong, defined yet soft. He’s a real beautiful man.

Arthur’s hand is moving before he thinks, reaching into his new satchel to slide his journal on his lap. Flicking through the immense amount of sketches, it’s near the end when he finds space.

He starts off with the flecks of colour, flowers hidden in the stems, only appearing with each wisp of wind. It’s times like these when he wishes he had paints, so he could really replicate what he sees, instead of shallow sketches that barely hold a candle to the real thing.

He labels what he knows, and eventually he ends up with a page of flowers. Some by themselves, some as bundles, some as a single petal.

“You’re very talented.”

Arthur startles, Charles is tilting his head to look at his journal, admiring the pages with a glint in his eye.

If anyone else were to do this, catch Arthur when he’s dumb and openly draws on his lap, he’d slam the book shut and shout them away.

But a little flurry sets in his heart, the urge to show Charles what he’s made.

He moves his arm off the page, giving Charles a clear view. “It ain’t nothin’ much.”

“You got a real funny way of talking about yourself, Arthur.”

Arthur’s brows furrow. “What’chu mean?”

Charles chuckles with lilt of fondness that throws Arthur off. “Putting yourself down. Don’t know what you think you’ve done to earn it, but you don’t deserve half the things you say to yourself. ”

“I… well, you… you don’t gotta say things like that to me,” Arthur mumbles pathetically, quiet but knowing Charles can hear him.

“You can draw, you’re good with guns, you’re kind without meaning to be, you tilt your hat over your face when you get embarrassed… it’s endearing.”

Without thinking he ducks his head, hat tilting the sun out. It’s when Charles laughs that he realises what he’s done, a flush hotter than the New Austin desert burning his face.

Arthur waves dismissively up at Charles, while also pushing Percival’s muzzle away when he thinks it’s time for a treat.

“I don’t know what you’re seein’. I ain’t nothin’ next to you.”

Charles’ silence sends a shivering worry, but he speaks before Arthur crumbles.

“What do you mean?”

Arthur looks up, hand on his hat. Charles is frowning down at him, brows furrowed in concern.

“Jus’… Charles,” Arthur begins, wetting his dried lips. “You’re a damn wonder. I can’t name a single thing you ain’t good at. Everythin’ you do is jus’…you’re good without havin’ to think ‘bout it, it jus’ comes natural to you.”

There’s silence again, and Arthur’s prepared to run. Ready to take his pounding heart and weak words back to camp and forget this ever happened. The last thing he needs is Charles thinking him an idiot, a fool.

Arthur fidgets his hands, eyes stuck on the tendrils of grass in front of him. Boots hit grass, and a figure sits by him. A gentle hand guiding the brim of his hat to look at Charles’ face, so open and sweet as he looks upon him, comforting brown eyes searching his blue.

“Is that really what you think?”

Arthur’s breath catches in his lungs, his exhale forced. “Suppose so.”

Charles’ hand is still on his hat as he smiles with that look. “I’m not a Saint, Arthur. Life never handed me any offerings. I made good with what I managed to get.”

Charles slides his hand along the brim, twisting it lopsided. Arthur adjusts it back with a laugh as Charles smiles at him.

“And I got you.”

A bright burst lights Arthur’s chest, a sweetness curling its way into his heart, nuzzling against it.

Arthur’s cheeks heat beyond anything, sure he’s as red as a yarrow patch.

Charles grabs his journal, Arthur unaware it fell off his lap. Charles gives it back, but holds his gaze at the sketches.

“You know how to create, better than any artist I’ve seen. To me you do it without effort, it just comes naturally. I can put together a bow,” Charles turns to Taima, pointing at the bow tucked into his saddle. “But it’ll fall apart in a month,” He laughs jokingly. “It already is. I’ve burnt through so many bows and crafts it’s a little ridiculous.”

Arthur puts a hand on his satchel, palm feeling the bumps of beads. “I don’t know how somethin’ like this could break.”

Charles hums. “That shouldn’t. As long as you don’t throw it off a mountain.”

“Ruined tomorrow’s plans.”

Charles laughs, ducking his head. Arthur laughs with him, and when Charles lifts up a braid drifts over his eye. Arthur reaches a hand out, glances at Charles, and when he smiles Arthur tucks it behind his ear, fingers lingering before he pulls away.

“You’re a real good friend to me, Charles.”

Charles’ eyes flick away, mouth parting as his hand flinches in his lap. An odd movement, like he wanted to reach out, but he smiles lightly and grabs his shoulder, close to Arthur’s neck. As he rubs a thumb just under Arthur’s jaw, feeling the beard flecks, he says,

“I couldn’t ask for anyone better.”

Arthur’s heart flitters, blooms of giddiness in his chest. He feels he could drift far into the sky if the wind were to pick up.

Charles continues to smooth his thumb under Arthur’s jaw. Heat and nervousness fight within Arthur at the action, more-so when Charles stops at his beating pulse point.

Charles must go to say something, but Taima nudges his back. The warm hand is yanked back, and Charles stands, immediately petting Taima’s mane and leading her out so it’s easier to mount.

“Guess we should get back,” Charles says, looking up.

Purples and blues leak into each other, clouds darkening with the lowering sun. Arthur chuckles as he admires the scene.

“Guess so.”

They mount, riding side by side back to camp. Arthur still feeling the warmth around his neck. 

.✥.

Late that night, Arthur is open on the very last page of his journal, what was remaining scrunched in bundles by his bed.

He has been trying to recreate Charles atop Taima, looking down at the bison herd, his figure framed in the never-ending sky.

But it’s not fucking working.

Arthur has not been recreating that picture. No. He has been scratching his head, tearing out pages, burning his stump of a pencil into ash-

Arthur forces himself to breathe, the breath pulling out tension. Which will probably build up again.

He relights his dwindling lantern, presses the pencil to the paper, and draws.

Charles’ hair. Charles’ shirt. His strong figure underneath. Taima’s coat. The bison herd. The sky. The ranges.

Each scratch of the pencil reveals more of what he saw, what he remembers.

Arthur has never had the knack for drawing people. Something always looks wrong, off-putting, not quite right.

But this time… this time he sees Charles there, if but a rendition. There are his eyes, hooded and studious, never missing a single moment. Forever searching.

Arthur runs a nail along the line that leads out from Charles’ eyelids, a warmth washing through him.

He finishes with a final wavy line in Charles’ braid, then holds it to the lantern light one final time.

Firmly pressing the middle down, he rips out the page in a clean motion. A true final check, and he scurries to Charles’ tent, quietly placing it by his family portrait. 

. ✎ .

Arthur wakes groaning.

Each morning with that damn rip must be giving him a permanent headache. Or maybe he’s just growing senile. It was his thirty-sixth birthday two weeks ago. Jesus.

Charles has grown into the habit of leaving him a mug every morning, mornings that Arthur actually managed to make it to - instead of free roaming the countryside with no direction.

That familiar scent of oh so sweet bitterness hits his nose, he glides to the cup, ready to lift that nectar to his lips-

A new thing is on his table. He should get it covered in a fine sheet.

A book. A book with a blank cover. A shimmering black cover. A design of twisting vines and flowers pressed to the spine; also black but shining with each turn of the book - the journal.

Not only that, there’s a note beside it:

Thought you’d need this by now

                        - CS

Arthur’s hands are shaking, shaking so much he has to put the cup down. The cover is sleek, the pages tough, canvas, he thinks, if that’s possible.

As he sifts through each page, admiring the blank creams, he stumbles upon a section with a fresh pencil tucked into the middle.

Arthur falls back on his bed, unable to tear his eyes away. 

Once he used up the last of his journal it’s been real odd not being able to draw. Sad, sort of, if the empty drop in his chest when he comes by a pretty bird and can’t dot it down has anything to say.

He was going to get a new one, but he apparently doesn’t have to now.

God. Charles. What this man does for him. What this man does to him.

Each thump of his heart is both a slap to his face and a tender hug. The mess of confusion he’s been under is one only he could possibly be under.

Because of course he’s sweet on Charles.

Of course he’d fall for such a beautiful man and not fucking notice. Who else? Who the hell else would do that but him?

And this whole time, all the gifts, what Charles has been trying to say to him…

Even with their talk out on the plains, Arthur still can’t fathom why Charles cares so much.  Guess it doesn’t matter anymore, he has to control his breathing and not look over at Charles standing by the breakfast pot.

His effort was not enough.

Charles notices and waves.

Arthur waves the journal, mouthing a pitiful ‘thank you’.

Charles’ face broadens into a smile, like fresh petals in Spring, blooming early in the clearing dew. 

The giddiness is overwhelming, and he can do little but clutch the journal to his chest. Thinking of every time Charles smiled at him. How each time hit him with a surge of nerves he never took time to notice.

Idiot.

.✍︎.

Arthur thought that during this gift duel he would’ve gotten better at choosing presents.

He was wrong.

Back at that tucked away spot of river, empty holes of burdock root all around. Listening to the braying crows, thrashing river, shrill singing of wind in the trees.

Arthur is ready to shoot a fish.

This situation is no call for little bouquets of herbs, or sketchy drawings on used paper. It has to be substantial, has to be able to tell Charles hey, sorry for bein’ a fuckin’ moron and not takin’ a hint.

…maybe he shouldn’t be so cruel to himself. Charles wouldn’t like that.

Charles got him a beautiful set of arrows, a wonderfully handmade beaded satchel, a gorgeous new journal, and yet Arthur still can’t think of anything.

What on earth does Charles see in him?

He groans in wild exasperation, uncaring as he slumps his weight on Percival’s neck. The stallion does not appreciate this, and tips his head down, snorting as Arthur rolls off onto the crunchy rocks, foot stuck in a stirrup.

Yeah, he can really see what Charles fell for.

He leans up on his elbows, wincing at the impact on his head, though nothing too bad. Wiggling his foot out, spurs not helping, he tries reaching up to grab his saddle.

But his hand comes into contact with something he often forgets.

His bow, the one Charles gave him in Colter.

He doesn’t use it all that much, the lack of quick draw bothers him, and it’s much easier to use a rifle.

Charles on the other hand…

He has an idea.

.➳.

The grass is silent under his feet, the night drawn dark through scattered clouds, moonlight barely peeking through the wisps.

Arthur holds his next gift, the perfect gift, as best he can behind his back. It’s futile, of course, but it’s the thought that counts.

His mind is galloping off with the image of Charles waking up to this gift, his handsome face spreading into awe, maybe he’ll go right up to Arthur’s lean-to, shake him awake just to kiss him.

Ok, calm down. Gotta give it to him first.

Arthur weaves through the trees along the short walk to Charles’ crate, for some reason it’s on Javier’s side, but Charles always wakes up before everyone else, so it’s no issue.

He looks both ways. Everyone’s asleep.

Ducked behind the tree, he’s ready to make a bee-line for the crate.

But that plan is interrupted.

By Charles.

Sure, he checked his surroundings, but he forgot to check right in front of him.

And now the two are staring at each other, Arthur’s gift hidden behind the tree, Charles’ hidden with his hands behind his back.

They must look a sure sight.

Charles stares wide-eyed at him, it’d be funny if Arthur wasn’t panicking.

They both go to speak, then pause to let the other go first.

A few more attempts, and Charles stammers, “H-hey…”

“Hey… Charles,” Arthur says. Real casual like.

Arthur has never seen Charles at a loss for words like this. He isn’t one to talk often, but not because he hates it, but because he’ll only speak when he has something to say.

Both stand stock still in their awkward poses, very obvious to the other what they are doing.

“So…” Arthur begins, Charles lets out a sigh.

“So.”

“What… what’chu holdin’?” Arthur asks, the panic settling but not swaying.

Charles huffs a relieved laugh, eyes darting about. The moon breaks through the clouds then, casting everything in a soft purple as Charles holds out his hand.

He got him flowers.

Charles got him a little bouquet of flowers. 

Arthur’s knees melt, only remaining upright by leaning against the tree.

“Charles…”

Charles smiles sheepishly, tucking his chin to his chest like he couldn’t be more adorable. “I didn’t know what to get you.”

“You ain’t have to get me anythin’, but this is perfect.”

Arthur accepts the flowers, hands brushing as he grabs them.

Lilies. Seems he now has a favourite plant.

Charles twists a finger around his braid, glancing at Arthur’s hidden arm while the fool keeps smiling at the bouquet.

Once Arthur notices, he grins, panic and excitement crashing in waves.

“Hope this is good enough.”

Charles is about to say something; a reassurance, undue praise, take Arthur’s tiny heart and squeeze it with a smile.

But he does none of those, instead he goes silent as Arthur reveals the bow.

“Oh, Arthur,” He breathes, it comes out in a rush of air as tears start welling.

The bow was difficult to track down, but the hunt sent him to a crafter locked somewhere in the woods.

Once he bought the strong bow, Arthur sat himself down and engraved small bison, a herd running down the hickory, random designs he thought of on the fly alongside them. A few dots, some stars, a leaf too when he felt like it.

It come out well, all things considered. Arthur didn’t think he still had the skill in him.

But apparently he does, as Charles takes it with too gentle hands, a reverence softening his face as he looks over the details, a finger trailing over the dips of wood.

“Arthur… this,” Charles looks at him, brows knitted as if he may cry. “No one’s ever done something like this for me.”

Arthur wants nothing more than to slide his hand over Charles’ cheek, bring him in to hold him to his chest. He doesn’t do that, lest he break Charles completely, but he does take a step forward, reaching out to touch a trembling hand.

“Charles…” The man doesn’t break his eyes away from Arthur’s, even as they shake they hold him firm.

“I’m sorry for not gettin’ the hint sooner,” He says, Charles chokes on a laugh. “But… I think I’m sweet on you.”

Charles sucks in a breath, tilting his head up to the sky, waves of feathered hair drooping on his shoulders. He breaks into a stifled laugh, cut short by a sob that’s quickly gotten under control. As he tilts back down his eyes hold a brightness Arthur could never hope to capture with a pencil. But he sure wants to try.

“I think I’m sweet on you too.”

Arthur floats, he thinks, it sure damn feels like he’s floating up in the clouds, holding Charles’ hand as they gallop through the wind.

He settles on cupping his jaw, hovering a thumb over his lips.

Charles has put the bow against the tree, taken Arthur’s back and pulled him in. Chest to chest, nose brushing nose, they bask in each other’s eyes before Charles breaks the silence.

“Can I kiss you?”

Arthur's lips replace his thumb, brushing them chaste over Charles’. It’s short, saccharine, and only makes Arthur sure Charles’ lips are softer than any flower petal imaginable.

Charles sighs, cupping Arthur’s nape and pressing in. Lips sliding wet and perfect together. So warm. So beautiful and warm and safe. Warmer still as Charles’ hand slides down to hold his waist, holding him even tighter, pressing his lips even further. As if he can’t stand the thought of letting go, neither can Arthur.

They break for air once they realise they need it. Another kiss, and another, and they lean their foreheads together, giggling as if they just told each other a forbidden secret.

Charles tucks a strand of Arthur’s hair over his ear, leaning to whisper in his smooth, deep voice, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

It’s accompanied by his hand tightening on his waist, and Arthur has to give himself this, it’s impressive he’s still standing.

Arthur sneaks a last kiss on his cheek, loving how Charles blushes.

“See you, cowboy,” He says, leaving to his lean-to with the biggest, dumbest, stupidest grin ever. Placing the flowers in a spare jar, his eyes are on the arrows against his table, satchel beside them, the feel of the journal under his pillow, and Charles' silhouette leaning the bow on his crate until he falls asleep.

.➳.❀.

“It’s embarrassin’…”

“No, Kieran, it’s adorable. Why ain’t you never tell me you like to write?”

“‘Cause I can’t! There ain’t a hint of grammar in there.”

“So? You still wrote it. More than I can say most days. An’ the story is jus’ the cutest!”

“Don’t even think it’s coherent…”

“You’ll get better, we all gotta start somewhere. If you don’t start you’ll never get to see where you go.”

“Aw, gee, thanks Mary-Beth. Think I wanna stick to readin’ your stories though.”

A giggle. “That’s ok, I’ve actually got a new one right here.”

Arthur chuckles around his coffee mug. Those two think they’re being so quiet.

He has a twin mug waiting beside him at the campfire, ready for Charles when he wakes to the pale light of morning. Though he got a bit excited, and made it about half an hour ago. Hopefully Charles likes cold coffee.

Arthur vowed he’d get up before him, and now he gets to reap the rewards.

Charles stirs, rubbing at his eyes. He jumps when he sees Arthur.

Arthur grins into his cup, mouthing ‘good mornin.’

Charles glances at Javier, gets up and sits beside Arthur. He’s handed the coffee, and he presses his thigh on Arthur’s.

Arthur drinks the rest of his, smacking his lips as he says, “Gotta say, coffee is the easiest gift I could think of.”

“Same, Charles says, taking a sip.

“I’m gonna be honest with’chu, Charles. Thinkin’ of gifts was the most stressful thing I’ve ever done.”

Charles snorts, the exhale spilling coffee on his white union suit. He only laughs at that too, dabbing at it with a handkerchief Arthur gives him.

“You don’t understand the anguish I went through to think of those presents,” Charles says, given up on cleaning. “I’m surprised I don’t look like Uncle by now.”

Arthur huffs. “An’ here I was thinkin’ you a genius.”

Charles holds out his stained shirt. “Hope you realise I’m not.”

“Maybe, don’t stop me from thinkin’ you’re perfect.”

A deep blush fills Charles’ cheeks, a bashful turning of eyes before he looks all around. Arthur’s about to ask what he’s doing, but then Charles leans into his neck, a soft press of lips on the tendon, and he’s left a mess.

Every single one of his brain cells fries, and he doesn’t even register Charles leaving to get ready for the day.

.✺.

The day unfolds peacefully, Arthur wishes it stayed that way.

Sean is sitting beside him at the campfire, after straight up stealing the privacy fabric and promising he can get it fixed.

Arthur admits he shouldn’t be staring down Sean like he delivered the news of his family’s deaths, but it’s too fun to watch him squirm.

It gets a lot more fun when Charles joins.

“So that’s what I’m sayin’, English - Charles,” Sean adds, deepening his voice comically. Charles grunts. “You don’t gotta worry about a thing. Once Sean MacGuire’s onto somethin’, he won’t stop ‘till it’s done.”

“Noticed.”

“Hey now, don’t act like you don’t love me.”

“I don’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed, cause you love the big man here even more.”

Arthur freezes, cold panic firing down his spine. Next to him Charles tenses, both realising it’s past the time limit to throw the words off.

“The hell you talkin’ ‘bout?” Arthur says eventually, gruff in his chest.

Sean waves a hand, scoffing. “I got eyes, Arthur Morgan. Dead Eye MacGuire they call me. And these two babies saw you fellas havin’ a grand ol’ time last night.” 

Arthur scrambles for something to say, but Sean has already been proven right. Arthur quickly glances at Charles, who’s contemplating killing the Irishman. 

Sean grins a happy dog’s grin, hands on his knees as he bellows out a poorly hidden laugh.

“Which means!” He says between hiccups, Arthur glaring as Sean stands, throwing his arms out to the whole of camp.

“I WIN THE BET!”

“WHAT?!”

Arthur spins around at lightning speed, incredulousness slapped on his face. Sean bows as the gang throws “fuck you, MacGuire!” and “I thought they were already together!”

Charles does a full body slow turn seeped with murder. So many words and questions are being tossed in Arthur’s head that he doesn’t know what to do, but he settles with, “Jus’ what the hell is goin’ on?!”

Sean turns to them. “We had a bet goin’,” He says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You boys think you’re so subtle, givin’ each other gifts in the night and looks durin’ the day. T’was so exhaustin’ that I bet you two would get together within a month, but nobody believed me,” He says the next part to camp, “And yet I was right! Who would’ve thought Sean MacGuire would prove himself the wi…”

Arthur doesn’t stay to listen. No. He takes Charles’ hand before he grabs a knife and leads him out of camp - the back entrance.

Yet of course, on the way they run into Hosea.

The old man looks between the two, raises a brow, then nods when Arthur sighs.

He pats Arthur’s shoulder as they continue out, managing to get in a “you’re not subtle, son.”

Arthur groans, tightening his hold on Charles and hurrying up.

They make it to a heavily shaded copse of trees, oak leaves above, sun streaming in through the breaks.

The rays melt over Charles, punching the breath right out Arthur - even if the man still appears close to murder.

But then Charles looks at him, and any frustrations he would’ve harboured all day leaves in a gasp. Lifting a hand, he strokes Arthur’s cheek, looking right into his eyes, searching through them as if they’re the most important things in the world.

“You’re beautiful,” He whispers.

“Don’t gotta say that,” Arthur says, despite the way his heart leaps. “I’m already here.”

“And I wanna keep you here,” Charles grabs his waist, pulling him close, lips nearly touching. “Or a lot was for nothing.”

“Well you got me, cowboy. What’re you gonna do ‘bout it?”

Charles smiles, so much beauty contained in him Arthur doesn’t know what to do with himself, even though kissing him feels as natural as a growing flower.

All that time spent worrying over gifts. The stress, the panic, it’s worth it now. Makes him feel like an idiot for worrying so much.

Knowing someone deeper than yourself, and sharing that with them is more than Arthur could ever ask for, but here he finds it. The sweet press of Charles’ body and lips. Being here with him like this is a gift greater than any Arthur could ever think of.

.♡.