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Marty supposes staying clean was never an option.
The hygiene in this time period was somewhat of an adjustment. It wasn’t as simple as not bathing, though the smells from that can be downright putrid. There’s hardly a night where swarms of insects aren’t prohibiting his rest. They bathe when they can, but water is scarce. They’re lucky if they’re able to wash the grime from their face at the end of the week.
There’s oral cleanliness, and his and Buford’s lack thereof. There isn’t a time they’ve kissed where Marty hasn’t had to relish in the taste of tobacco and Buford’s last three meals. That he can put aside however, because there are other things to think about in the moment.
But then there’s the clothes. Again, with the scarcity of water, it is left on the back burner. There are more important things, like not becoming dehydrated. But when they settle near a river for a few days, and after a long awaited bath within it, Marty takes the simple luxury of doing all of their laundry.
Knee deep in the mild flowing waters, he’s found the perfect spot surrounded by dry rocks. One by one he takes their shirts, pants, jackets, and vests, and viciously scrubs them in the stream. The water is just as ferociously wrung out, before the garments are dunked back in for another round. Once he’s satisfied, he slaps the clothing against the rocks, beating out the dirt and sand that has wormed its way into the fabrics.
Marty repeats this for everything they own, building up a pile of wet clothes taller than the remaining portion of his body sticking out of the river. Buford, returning from wherever he had been, gives him a confused look from where they set up camp. He doesn’t approach however, opting for a nap, and Marty’s work continues.
The last sock (which probably doesn’t have a match, but no matter) could not come quick enough, Marty’s hands are cramping beyond belief. With the little strength he has left, he wrings out the pants he’s wearing, and gathers the clothes in his arms to bring back to where they’re staying.
He had planned to put up clothesline between two trees and let their belongings dry in the most efficient place possible for the time of day he finished. But Marty is beat, and doesn’t feel like messing with knots when Buford is waiting for him to join him. Beyond their clearing is a cluster of trees, with branches far enough apart to drape everything over. He sets the heap in grass, swiftly hanging each garment. It isn’t in the most direct of sunlight, but Marty can’t find it in himself to care.
It doesn’t appear to be long after noon, but the repetitive motions of the task have taken their toll. The walk back to camp is an aching one.
Buford is starfished next to a smoking fire pit, and Marty positions himself under one of his arms. He takes care so that his still wet pants don’t touch Buford’s own, and places his hat over his face so that he doesn’t get too badly burned. After that, with his arms crossed over his chest, it doesn’t take him long to drift off.
He dreams of a waterfall, swears he can smell it.
Buford, though calmer when next to someone, is a restless sleeper. He’s out like a light at whatever point he needs to be, but his constant turning or snoring is enough to wake Marty up if he’s not near death with exhaustion himself.
It’s all right today, he’s in a good mood. When Buford’s arm wraps around him in a less than tolerable way and Marty blinks awake, he shimmies out of his grasp. A quick stretch, and he actually feels well adjusted.
He takes a few minutes to light a fire and set some water to boil. Though his body feels lighter, he still needs coffee to fully wake up. Only after feeding their horses does Marty remember the clothes drying on the opposite side of the clearing. His walk there is a quick one, his eyes locked on the trees he left them on.
Before he can get his hands on them Marty is already immensely proud of his work. They’re hardly wrinkled from the way he hung them up and he’s never seen the fabrics as washed out as the colors are. One touch to a flannel and he’s amazed. It’s a softness he hasn’t felt in a long time. Rolling the cloth between his fingers, it’s enough to distract from the task at hand for a few moments.
When Marty comes to he strips. He pulls on the first set of drawers and pants in reach, and shuffles to put on the flannel that had him in a trance. Not bothering to button it up, he gathers up the rest of the clothes and saunters back to camp. Against his bare chest they remind him of a time when he was younger. Before he ever went to school, with George gone all day at work it was only him and his mother. He would help her bring laundry to the living room and attempt to fold it while reruns of Sesame Street ran in the background.
He settles down a few feet from the fire, not wanting any sparks to drift over to what he’s doing. The surprisingly therapeutic task of folding them ensues, but if it ever gets boring, a glance over to Buford reminding him of who he’s doing this for brings Marty a small joy in the domesticity of it all.
Once he’s done he picks out an outfit for Buford and puts the rest in one of their horse’s satchels. Marty drops the small pile for his partner next to him. Only then does Buford begin to stir.
Marty sits next to him, and noticing the shirt is still undone, goes to button it. He really is trying not to burn. The buttons settle against his stomach, then his chest, then comfortably against his neck. Marty maneuvers his arms out of the sleeves, which seem a bit too long now that he’s noticing, and lifts the collar up and smells.
Oh does he miss detergent. This isn’t half bad though. The shirt has the scent of a fresh rain, but a little cleaner. He closes his eyes to take it in, looking a little silly in the process. Buford chuckles beside him.
“You enjoying coolin’ yer heels?” Marty nods, a warm smile on his face. He shuffles closer to a Buford freshly changed. Buford snakes his arms around his torso, peppering kisses at the back of his neck. “We can stay as long as you want sweetheart.” Marty laughs at the affection.
He starts to leave marks, and only then does Marty turn around and meet his lips, not needing to head to a deeper place before sunset.
“We slept half the day away and I’m sharp-set.” He admits to Buford.
“You want me to hunt us something?” He offers distractedly. His arms still around Marty’s torso, he pulls his chest closer and starts kissing down his jaw to his neck again. Marty catches his mouth with his hand, halting any kissing or talking and forcing eye contact.
“Let’s just get something in town.” Buford rolls his eyes, grabbing Marty’s hand off his mouth and pulling them both to stand. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.” Marty scolds, which gets a grin from Buford.
“Oh, I know.” He proceeds to go over to their horses, tightening the restraints on Marty’s and undoing his own.
“I meant both of us.” Marty wanders over to him, confused by Buford's actions.
“I know.” He repeats the sentiment with a bigger grin, and gestures towards the saddle. Marty hops on.
“Is this because you want to be behind me or ‘cause you don’t like Jolene?” Buford gives Marty’s horse a slightly annoyed glance.
“That thing is damn near buzzard bait anyway.” It’s a fair point, Marty mostly keeps her for sentimental purposes nowadays. She hasn’t given him too much trouble, and therefore no reason to be gotten rid of. “But yes.” He concedes begrudgingly, “I do want to be near you.”
Hand on his own mare’s back, Buford still makes no effort to join him.
“You coming?”
“You look real good in my shirt y’know?” Marty looks down, realizing his mistake.
“Shit, I knew it was big.” Marty starts to unbutton the first few, before Buford hops up behind him and stops him from undoing any more. Taking the hint he tries to button it back up but Buford stops that as well.
Chin on Marty’s shoulder, and though there’s no one around to overhear, he whispers in his ear.
“I like people knowing you’re mine.” Marty takes the reins in his hands. Buford’s presence is overwhelming behind him, his body engulfs his own while riding. Despite Marty thinking that signals the message Buford is trying to convey well enough, he’ll take the perfectly clean shirt that doesn’t fit him right any day.