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Arthur reaches out and touches, just a brush of his fingertips across the back of John's hand, and the quiet moment breaks apart like ripples on a still pond .
"You just don't get it," John says plainly and pained. "How could you ever?"
"Shut it," Arthur warns him. John's already rising from his seat, probably eager to storm off and act the victim, like he's not the one planning to leave in the fucking morning. Arthur catches his wrist, considers for a second just yanking John into his lap and holding him there until his stupid urge to run is gone, but instead he just stops John from stomping away.
"You think you're the first, eh? First man ever done wrong by a woman? You ain't even sure she did nothing. Kid's pro'ly yours, you know."
John bristles again, yanks his arm, but Arthur doesn't give.
"I'm leaving," John says. "Ain't nothing else for me here."
"You ignorant ass," Arthur says, and gives up, letting him go. What else can he say? There's no way to tell him anything, no talking sense to him, nothing Arthur can say now that John's made his half-a-mind up. Stubborn ass.
John comes slinking back to Arthur's tent late that night. Arthur's sitting on the edge of his cot, about to turn in, when John lets himself in without asking and stands there, half-hunched and awkward.
"Look," he says finally, holding his hands up in surrender. "I don't know why you're so pissed, you barely even like having me around half the time."
"Three quarters," Arthur corrects automatically, though he knows that's probably not the best way to convince John of his sincerity.
John sits down next to him, crowding into his space, and then Arthur's mad all over again. Mad-angry and mad-mad, driven well crazy by John being this close, the scent of his skin, the warmth of him radiating into Arthur's side.
"You can't -- you shouldn't go. Not fair to Abigail. Not fair to the kid. Kid needs a dad. Trust me," Arthur says ruefully.
"I'm goin'," John says. "Ain't got no reason to stay."
"And nothing's gonna convince you that you're wrong? That.. maybe there is a reason? Right in front of you?"
Arthur hates how forlorn he sounds when he says it, but it's the best he can do without chaining John to something heavy and forcing him to stay.
John sighs, then sighs again, louder.
It's only happened twice before, and once, they were both blind-drunk and could barely string a sentence together between them, so it comes as a bit of a shock when John bunches his fists in Arthur's shirt and kisses him.
It's hard and hungry, bruising and brutal, and Arthur finds he has to grab at the back of John's neck to steady them both, shaky and desperate as they are.
"Arthur," John chokes out, and Arthur kisses him again to shut him up.
There's far too many scrabbling hands and another needy sound from John that feels like a gut punch, but Arthur gets John on his back where he wants him. They kiss until they're breathless; John's panting into Arthur's mouth like he's just run a mile and Arthur's getting right dizzy on it.
When Arthur gets enough brainpower together to get a hand between them, he finds they're on the same page. He presses the heel of his hand against John's erection and earns himself a very pretty sound in reply. John's pawing uselessly at Arthur's back, whining like a dog and trying to get Arthur to read his mind, presumably.
"What?" Arthur asks.
"Wanna feel you," John grits out.
Arthur pulls away, to make enough space to divest himself of his clothes, and John starts to complain only to fall silent and watch as Arthur's skin is bared to him.
"So goddamn pretty," he says.
"Shut up," Arthur says, not in the mood for more teasing.
John glares and tries to shift, like he wants Arthur flat on his back instead, but Arthur's not giving in so easy. John, and God only knows how he figured it out, latches onto the soft spot at the join of Arthur's neck and shoulder and bites down, using Arthur's moment of pure, mindless arousal to flip him.
He's quick -- whereas Arthur'd rather take all night -- to get his hands on Arthur's cock, tugging and palming, making sure Arthur's at full attention. He doesn't whisper sweet nothings like the first time, doesn't beg, doesn't press little kisses to Arthur's jaw, he just pinpoints what he wants and takes it.
After freeing his own cock from his union suit, he spits into his palm and wraps his hand around both their erections. It's too tight by half, but Arthur won't complain. John's got his other arm braced against Arthur's chest, pinning him down and putting just enough pressure that Arthur can't take a full breath in. He doubts it's on purpose -- John doesn't know about that little foible -- but it's giving him a little extra buzz of pleasure. Arthur tries pushing his hips up to get John to move a little faster, but John growls something at him, a cuss or just a noise and Arthur relents and lets him do it his way.
John jerks their cocks together, still biting at Arthur's bare shoulder and grunting a little every time Arthur dares to move. It's just this side of too much, with Arthur's breath hitching and mind spinning. John must sense it because he lightens his grip and licks at the bite marks on Arthur's skin to soothe them.
"Goddamn," Arthur murmurs, when the low lantern light catches the shimmering sweat on John's forehead. Arthur's struck with the urge to preserve this moment, dumb as it is.
"Shush," John says, still focused on getting them off.
Arthur knows his voice is wavering. "You know what?"
"Shut up," John says again.
"Fuck you, Marston."
"Another time, maybe," John shoots back. He releases his own cock, shifts all his attention to Arthur and that's when things really kick off. He's got Arthur damn near purring after a moment.
John sucks another red mark into Arthur's collarbone and Arthur can feel his cock leaking onto John's hand, making everything slick.
"Come," John says, makes it sound halfway between a command and a polite suggestion.
Arthur obliges, come dripping from John's hand onto Arthur's stomach.
John groans and swipes his hand through the mess, smearing it around before taking his own dick in hand. He chases his own orgasm hard and shoots onto Arthur's hot skin, mixing their spend together.
Arthur casts his arm over John's back and hauls him down, not particularly mindful of the mess. John either doesn't have the energy left in him to argue, or he genuinely means to stay, because he's snoring softly in a moment or two.
It's… nice. Sticky, but nice. They've shared space with each other a hundred, a thousand, times, but Arthur can't recall it being this… nice. John moves against him, stretching out, and Arthur lets his eyes drift closed.
In the morning, John's gone, Abigail's in tears, and Arthur's never felt more betrayed or unsurprised in his life.