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The camp wakes slowly, like a tired animal stretching its limbs. Smoke curls from the fireplace, thin and pale red against the morning sky. Close nearby, Pearson mutters to himself as he stirs a pot, the bitter scent of coffee drifting through the air. Kieran's tending to the horses with careful hands, murmuring soft apologies under his breath whenever one of the mares snorts at him.
The world feels hushed, suspended between night and day.
You sit on a log near the edge of the camp, boots firmly planted into the dirt, fingers wrapped around a tin cup that's gone lukewarm. You haven't been drinking it. Instead, you've been watching him.
Charles moves quietly near the fire, his broad shoulders tense, even as he's resting. He's sharpening his knife with slow, deliberate strokes, jaw set, his dark eyes on the blade. The morning light catches his hair, his waves blown like a leaf by the soft morning breeze, and for a moment, just a short moment, you let yourself forget where you are.
Forget the rules.
Forget the eyes.
Forget the danger of being seen.
You've loved him for a long time.
Long enough that it doesn't surprise you anymore. Long enough that it aches less sharply, replaced by something deeper, steadier. By something that lives in the space between night and day, in shared glances and words unspoken yet understood.
Still, some days are harder than others.
Charles looks up suddenly, like he can feel your gaze on him. His eyes meet yours across the camp, and a tangle of emotions flickers there, warmth, longing, and restraint all intertwined together. His mouth softens, just barely, before he looks away again.
That's all you get. That's all either of you can afford.
"Mornin'", Arthur calls out, voice rough as gravel as he approaches the fire. He yawns, covering his mouth with his arm, and stretches his back. "Hell of a chill out here."
Charles nods. "Winter ain't done with us yet."
Arthur grunts in agreement, pouring himself some coffee. His gaze drifts briefly between you and Charles, not suspicious or sharp, merely observant in that way you've come to know.
You look away first. You always do.
___
By midday, the camp's alive with noise. Dutch is giving one of his awfully inspirational speeches, well, half inspiration, half performance, while Hosea sits besides him in a wooden chair, listening with mild amusement. Lenny and Sean are arguing over something trivial, their voices overlapping until Mrs Grimshaw snaps at them to keep it down.
Abigail's sewing, Jack close by her side, playing in the grass.
You help wherever you can. A crate here. A chore there. Anything to keep your nimble hands busy, your thoughts from wandering back to the way Charles' arm brushed yours earlier when you passed him a can of beans.
It shouldn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.
And yet.
You catch him watching you when he thinks you're not looking, when he thinks you're busy. His eyes linger too long. His jaw tightens when someone claps you on the shoulder or laughs too closely. Charles isn't a jealous man by nature, but this love, hidden and unacknowledged, has a way of sharpening his feelings.
___
That night, the fire burns low. Laughter rings as old stories and bittersweet memories are shared, and bottles are passed.
You sit across from Charles, knees nearly touching, separated by inches that might as well be miles.
"Y'ever gonna tell us one of your stories, Charles?" Sean grins, already drunk as a sailor. "Bet you got a few."
Charles huffs softly. "Ain't much to tell."
"Bullshit", Lenny laughs. "Everyone's got somethin'."
Charles' gaze flicks to you. Just for a second.
"Some things", he says quietly, "ain't meant for everyone."
The words settle heavy in your chest.
You imagine what he might be thinking of.
___
It happened months ago. Before the intense weight of secrecy became so familiar.
You'd been hunting together, far from camp. The spring air was fresh and crisp, the forest quiet save for birdsong and the crunch of leaves beneath your boots. You made a good team, always had. Charles tracked, you watched his back. It was hard not to.
When a wild storm rolled in, sudden and fierce, you barely had time to react. Rain soaked both of you to the bone, thunder cracked overhead. Charles spotted an old cabin, abandoned but sturdy enough to wait it out.
Inside, the world narrowed.
Firelight flickered against wooden walls. Your clothes steamed as you peeled off the soaked layers, hanging them near the hearth. You laughed heartily about it, how ridiculous you must have looked, scrambling through the rain.
Then, the laughter faded.
You stood too close. Or maybe you'd always stood that close, and only now, with both of your chests bare, allowed yourself to notice.
Chares looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. Or maybe he'd been seeing you all along and couldn't look away anymore.
"You alright?" he asked, voice low and gentle.
You nodded. "Yeah. Just a bit...cold."
Without thinking, he stepped closer, hands hovering like he wasn't sure where he was allowed to touch. You could feel the heat emitting from him, warming you before he'd even touched you.
"I don't mind", you said quietly.
His breath caught.
Slowly, carefully, Charles rested his large hands on your arms. They were calloused, so warm. He searched your face like he was waiting for you to pull back.
You didn't.
You just smiled at him, and you lifted your hands, cupping his cheeks.
His eyebrows furrowed with silent desperation.
The kiss was hesitant at first, a whisper of a kiss, a soft brush of lips, barely there. Like a question.
When you leaned in, answering it, Charles exhaled shakily, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw. The kiss deepened, unhurried, full of reverence and aching need.
When you finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, the world felt different. Like it was spinning in another direction.
"I ain't supposed to want this", he murmured.
You swallowed. "Neither am I."
And with that, he pulled you down in front of the hearth, onto his lap, and kissed you again.
___
The present presses back in like a bruise.
Weeks pass. Jobs go wrong. A train robbery fails. Tension within the gang rises. The world around you feels increasingly hostile, like it's closing in around the gang, and around the two of you.
Charles grows quieter. He's always been quiet, but now more than ever. You notice it in the way he avoids even the smallest risks, no lingering glances, no accidental touches. It hurts, even though you understand why.
One night, you find him by the river, staring into the dark water.
"You're gonna wear a hole in it if you keep looking like that," you say gently.
He startles, and relaxes when he sees it's you.
"Didn't hear you."
"Yeah. That's cause you're somewhere else."
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.
"This ain't fair for you."
You step closer. "We knew it wouldn't be fair."
"That don't make it right."
The words hang between you, heavy with things neither of you dare to say aloud.
You reach out, just barely brushing your fingers against his. It's a risk. A small one, but your heart pounds anyway.
Charles doesn't pull away.
Instead, he closes his hand around yours, squeezing once before letting go.
"Arthur's been askin' some questions," he admits.
Your stomach drops. "What kind?"
"Not the kind that'd get us killed", he says. "But...he knows somethin's eatin' at me."
You nod slowly. Arthur's always been perceptive. You knew that.
"Maybe", you say carefully, "that ain't the worst thing."
Charles looks at you, conflicted.
"If I tell him...it can't be untold."
"I know."
He exhales, long and steadily. "I'm tired of lyin'."
___
It happens a few nights later.
You sit by the fire with the others, pretending not to watch as Charles and Arthur drift off towards the horses.
Your chest tightens. You don't follow. This is something Charles has to do alone.
Arthur leans against a fence post, arms crossed over his chest. "Alright", he says. "You gonna tell me what's been crawlin' up your spine, or we just gonna stand here starin' at the moon?"
Charles is quiet for a long moment.
"Ever love something'," he asks slowly, "that the world tells you is wrong?"
Arthur blinks, surprised.
"Yeah", he says, voice softer. "I reckon I have."
Charles nods. "Then you know what it's like. Wantin' somethin' simple and honest. And knowin' it could ruin everything if the wrong person finds out."
Arthur studies him, expression unreadable. "You talkin' bout a woman?"
Charles meets his gaze. Doesn't look away.
"No."
The silence stretches.
Arthur scratches his chin.
"Alright. That ain't what I expected. But...it ain't my business to judge, neither."
Relief hits Charles like an arrow to his chest, so hard his knees nearly buckle.
"I trust you", Charles says quietly. "Didn't know who else I could say it to."
Arthur nods. "You're family. That don't change.
After a pause, he adds. "You happy with him?"
Charles doesn't hesitate. "Yeah."
Arthur smiles faintly. "Then I ain't got a problem."
___
You don't know what was said. At least not exactly.
But when Charles returns to the fire, his shoulders are visibly lighter. His eyes find yours, and for the first time in weeks, he doesn't look away.
Later, when the camp sleeps, and you're the only one left at the campfire, stirring the glowing embers with a stick, you feel him sit down beside you.
"It's alright", he whispers. "Arthur knows. Ain't sayin' nothin' to anyone."
You let out a shaky breath you hadn't realised you were holding.
Charles' hand finds yours in the dark, not letting go.
"We'll still be careful", he says. "World ain't changed."
"No", you agree. "But...we're not alone."
He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a quiet, intimate gesture, meant only for you.
___
The next morning comes cold and hard. Not the gentle stretch of dawn you love, but a sharp, brittle sting of cold air biting at your cheeks, the frost clinging to the edges of the tents and bedrolls like it doesn't want to let go. The camp wakes in pieces rather than all at once. A cough here, a muttered curse there. Someone kicks a crate by accident and swears under their breath.
You're hauling water from the river when something happens.
The bucket's heavier than it looks, the metal biting into your palms through worn gloves. Your shoulders ache pleasantly.
It's honest work, the kind that keeps your mind quiet.
You're halfway back to camp when a familiar voice cuts through the morning haze like a blade dragged slowly through flesh.
"Well, ain't that a sight."
You stop.
Micah leans against a post near Dutch's tent, arms crossed, hat tipped back just enough to show the curl of his grin. It's not a friendly one. Never is.
His eyes rake over you, openly assessing, mocking, hungry for something to tear into.
You don't answer. You keep walking.
Micah snorts. "Rude, ain't ya? Guess manners ain't your strong suit. Or maybe you just don't hear so good when folks like me talk."
A few heads turn. Pearson pauses mid-stir, Lenny glances over, brow furrowing. You feel the familiar tightening in your chest, the instinct to make yourself smaller, quieter. Invisible.
But something in Micah's tone feels sharpened today. Like he's been waiting for the perfect opportunity.
You set the bucket down beside the fire with deliberate care. Water sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
"What do you want, Micah?" you ask, keeping your voice even.
He pushes off the post, boots crunching against the frozen dirt as he circles closer. Too close. He smells like smoke and bad Whiskey with something sour underneath it all.
"Just makin' conversation," he says. "Though I gotta admit, I've been wonderin' about you."
"Oh?", you say. "That so."
"Yeah." He tilts his head, eyes glittering. "You ain't exactly...normal, are ya?"
The words are there, ugly and sticking to your chest.
A murmur ripples through the camp.
Someone clears their throat. Someone else shifts uncomfortably. You feel heat crawl up your neck, but you don't look away.
"I do my share", you say. "Same as anyone else."
Micah laughs. "Sure you do. But folks notice things. The way you stick close to certain people. The way you look at 'em." His grin widens. "Makes a man wonder what kinda games you're playin'."
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides.
"Careful", you warn quietly.
Micah's smile sharpens. "Or what?"
Before you can answer-
"That's enough."
Charles' voice cuts in, low and solid as bedrock.
He steps between you and Micah without hesitation, broad shoulders blocking Micah's view like a wall slamming down.
Charles stands tall, his posture rigid, his eyes dark and unyielding.
Micah's gaze flicks up, annoyance flashing across his face. "Well now. Ain't this interestin'."
Charles doesn't rise to the bait.
"You got somethin' to say, say it to me."
Micah chuckles. "Easy there, big fella. I was just jawin'. Ain't my fault if your friend here's a little sensitive."
Charles' jaw tightens. You see it from where you stand, muscles working beneath his skin, restraint stretching thin.
"He ain't done nothin' to you," Charles says. "You best leave it be."
Micah's eyes narrow. "Funny thing is, I don't remember askin' you."
He steps closer, invading Charles' space now, chin tipped up in challenge. "Or maybe you got a reason to be so damn protective."
The implication is heavy. Downright nasty.
Your stomach drops.
Micah's grin turns mean. "What is it, Charles? You sweet on him? Or you just like keepin' strange company?"
Everything goes dead quiet. Even the fire seems to hush.
Charles doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. But something changes inside of him, like a storm breaking its leash.
"You don't get to talk about him like that", he says, voice quiet. "Not now. Not ever."
Micah scoffs. "Or what? You gonna hit me?"
Charles leans in just enough that Micah has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact.
"I ain't threatenin' you", Charles says. "I'm promisin' you. You keep my name, and his name, outta your mouth."
Micah's face flushes.
"The hell you think you are?"
Before Charles can answer, someone steps besides him, putting his hand on his shoulder.
"That's plenty."
Arthur's voice rolls in, calm but carrying weight.
Micah glances between the two men, irritation flickering into something more cautious.
"What, you too now?"
Arthur shrugs. "Reckon I heard enough to know you're lookin' for trouble."
Micah snears. "This don't concern you."
Arthur's mouth quirks into a humourless smile. "Funny thing is, Micah, it does. 'Cause the last I checked, stirrin' up shit in here tends to concern everyone."
Dutch's tent flap rustles. Hosea watches from a distance, eyes narrowed. Grimshaw stands with her arms crossed, unimpressed.
Micah bristles, clearly aware of the audience now. "So what, you all just gonna gang up on me 'cause I asked a few questions?"
Arthur's gaze hardens. "Ain't questions when you already think you got answers."
Charles speaks again, quieter now. Steadier.
"You got a problem with me", he says, "you bring it to me. You don't use other people as targets.
Micah's eyes flick to you, lingering with open contempt.
"This 'other peoples business' is exactly what I'm talkin' about."
Arthur steps forward then. Just one step, but it's enough.
"You talk like that again, and we're gonna have words you ain't gonna enjoy."
Micah scoffs, but there's sweat at his temple now. He tips his hat back into place with a sharp motion.
"Tch. Whole camp's gone soft," he mutters. "Watchin' out for freaks and sodomites."
Charles has had enough. In one smooth motion, he grabs Micah by the front of his coat and slams him back against the post hard enough to rattle it. The sound cracks through the air like a gunshot.
Gasps erupt around the camp. Arthur's hand comes up, not to stop him, but to calm down the situation. "Charles."
Micah wheezes, boots scrabbling for purchase. Charles leans in close, voice low and lethal.
"You don't say that word," he growls. "Not to him. Not to anyone."
Micah spits on the ground between them. "You think you scare me?"
Charles' eyes burn. "I don't need to."
Arthur steps in then, firm but controlled, placing a hand on Charles' shoulder again. "That's enough. He ain't worth it."
For a heartbeat, it looks like Charles might ignore him.
Then he exhales.
Slowly, deliberately, Charles releases Micah and steps back, fists clenched together tightly at his sides.
Micah straightens shakily, adjusting his coat with trembling fingers. His bravado is gone now.
"This ain't over", he snarls.
Arthur meets his glare without blinking. "It is for today."
Micah spits again, then stalks off towards the trees, boots crunching too loud against the frozen ground.
Silence settles over camp like fresh snow.
You realise your hands are shaking.
Charles turns to you immediately.
"You alright?"
You nod, though your throat feels tight. "Yeah, I...yeah."
Arthur glances between the two of you, expression thoughtful.
"You didn't do nothin' wrong", he says. "Both of you."
Grimshaw clears her throat. "Back to work", she snaps, though her eyes linger on Micah's retreating form with clear disdain.
___
Later, when the sun climbs higher and the cold eases its grip, you find Charles by the horses. He's brushing one absently, movements stiff.
"You didn't have to do that," you say softly.
He doesn't look at you. "Yeah. I did."
You step closer. "Micah's dangerous. He won't forget this."
Charles finally meets your eyes.
"I know."
"Then why-"
"Because I ain't lettin' anyone talk to you like that." His voice breaks slightly. "I've been quiet long enough."
Your chest aches. "I don't want you hurt because of me."
He steps closer, lowering his voice. "You ain't a burden. Don't ever think that."
You swallow. "Arthur-"
"Arthur made his choice", Charles says. "Same as I did."
A pause.
Then, quieter. "Same as you did."
You reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve. He exhales a shaky breath and covers your hand with his, grounding you with his touch.
Across the camp, Arthur watches from a distance, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he nods once, to Charles, then to you.
It isn't exactly approval.
It's solidarity.
And as the day wears on, you realise something important has changed.
Not only in your heart, but in the hearts of everyone else, too.