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“Arthur, this has to stop. I’m not doing this with you anymore,” Charles said, focusing on sounding loud enough. The reflection looking back at him seemed unconvinced, and he knew he had to start over. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Arthur, it’s over. I’m not doing this with you anymore.”
It was hopeless. He figured practising saying it out loud would make it easier to actually say it when the other man arrived, but he still sounded so unsure, Arthur was going to see right through him. It was rare that he had a mirror to use for reference; if this is what Arthur saw every time he looked at Charles, it was no wonder he walked all over him. The neediness was obvious in his eyes.
Arthur had made a point of telling him to be at this hotel in Saint Denis, to wait in this room until he was done at the Mayor’s garden party. Something Charles wasn’t invited to, for obvious reasons. The same obvious reasons that he had to pretend he worked for Arthur to even be allowed into this room unattended.
It was admittedly a fancier place than he usually found himself. Arthur had apparently sent ahead details and money for this lavish room, with its decadent fireplace and gold filigree details all over. Charles felt so out of place, but this was exactly the type of establishment Arthur enjoyed frequenting - firmly above his station. It might have cost a hundred dollars for this room, maybe even more.
Charles dreaded to think what Arthur had done to acquire that money. Probably more than just bounty hunting. The more he thought about it, the more the room seemed tainted, bloodstains he knew weren’t there marking every surface. He should leave. Why give Arthur the satisfaction of knowing that he waited here, just like he was told to? Acting like he was just another commodity the man had thieved and murdered for, standing in this room like a damned prop. He should leave.
He didn’t move.
He stayed, looking at his reflection. Pathetic. Some strands of hair were out of place, so he tidied them up, weaving them back into the waves he preferred. His shirt also could be straightened out, so he did that too. Before he could do more though, he turned away from the mirror. The last thing he needed to do was primp and preen himself like one of Mary-Beth’s damsels while he waited for Arthur’s arrival. The man was sure to be stumbling drunk, probably with his blood up and his hands greedy. Charles would have to hold firm to his plan. He was going to leave.
It turned out he didn’t even need to wait much longer, which was some modicum of relief at least. He was sitting on a chair by the fire, still going over the right wording for his plan, when he heard the door open. He turned to see Arthur coming in, sighing heavily. Charles’ throat ran dry; Jesus Christ what was he wearing?
Charles knew there was a dress code for the mayor’s garden party, but he’d not anticipated this. The perfectly tailored jacket gave way to an excruciatingly tight, pure white waistcoat. The breadth of Arthur’s shoulders cut down to the narrowness of his hips, tall and sturdy. Even his hair was slicked back with pomade, his beard trimmed and more neat than ever. He didn’t even look drunk.
Although he hadn’t wanted to feel like a damsel from one of Mary-Beth’s novels, it was impossible not to when faced with Arthur looking like the perfect leading man. Charles’ face must have given something away because Arthur grimaced and waved his hand dismissively.
“Don’t even say anything, I already know,” he grumbled, his brow set and firm. A part of Charles panicked; was he talking about what Charles had planned? How would he know that Charles wanted to leave? He hadn’t told a soul - obviously nobody knew about what he and Arthur were doing - but he hadn’t even mentioned that he was debating taking off, fleeing the gang and all this mess they’d made. But something about the coldness in Arthur’s eyes made him scared he’d been found out all the same.
Charles opted for silence, instead watching Arthur walk over to the same mirror he was just trying to use and sigh heavily again. “I look ridiculous.”
“What?” He couldn’t be serious.
“Trussed up like a goddamned show dog, I know.” He was fiddling with the white bow tie, fussing and struggling against the knot of it in the mirror. Charles almost wanted to laugh.
“Are you serious?” Arthur heard the obvious amusement in his voice and turned to him with a scowl, gesturing vaguely at his bow tie. Of course he was too big to actually ask for Charles’ help. Still, Charles stood from his seat and walked over, standing in front of the other man and setting about untying the bow properly.
“You don’t think I look ridiculous in this getup?” Being this close to him only made the effect of his outfit more powerful. Charles worked slowly, keeping his focus on his hands to avoid noticing the deep blue-green and crow’s feet of the eyes softening in front of him.
“No, of course not,” he said lowly, pausing when he had the bow untied and letting his hands linger on the lapels of Arthur’s jacket, “you look good.”
“Oh yeah?” Arthur was practically purring, clearly warming up significantly under Charles’ faint praise. He started fiddling with the hem of Charles’ shirt, inching closer. “You like this fancy stuff?”
“Suits you,” Charles mumbled, going quiet as Arthur leaned closer and kissed him. He turned his head into it, deepening the kiss and relishing in the pleased grumble that emanated from Arthur’s chest. Encouraging the older man was likely a bad idea, but it always bothered Charles to see Arthur belittle himself. He tightened his hold on the lapels for good measure; the man looked good.
“I’m glad you think I can pull off these fancy rags,” Arthur chuckled, keeping his mouth painfully close, “though maybe you’d like to be the one pullin’ them off, sweetheart.”
“Was it expensive?” Charles asked, pulling away a fraction and relinquishing his grip. He didn’t want to rouse suspicion in the other man, but he had to do what he could to steer them away from the deafening presence of the extravagant bed in the corner.
“Couldn’t say, I didn’t exactly buy it,” Arthur replied with a rough laugh. It was like a special ability he had to send Charles from sympathy to disgust so effortlessly. Charles stepped back fully, walking over to the dresser where he’d placed his satchel when he first got here. He pretended to organize his things, internally thinking about how quickly he could make a smooth exit. Despite himself, he couldn’t keep his fool mouth shut.
“So you stole it.” Even to his own ears, he sounded offended and dismissive. “Did you even pay for this room? Or did you just threaten the clerk to let you stay here?”
“You think I couldn’t afford to stay in a place like this?” Arthur bristled, walking up behind Charles and propping his hands on his hips, indignant and insecure. Charles turned to face him with a roll of his eyes. How was the man this dense?
“I don’t care about your money, Arthur.”
“Oh so it’s the threats you don’t like, is it?” The older man took two agonizingly slow steps until he was crowding into Charles again. Trying to stand his ground felt impossible, especially when he wanted to be close to the other man; he smelled so good, and he was absurdly handsome, even with an intimidating grimace. Maybe even because of the intimidating grimace. “You forget that we was outlaws or somethin’ there, Charles?”
“Doesn’t mean you have to beat people, or murder them, just for the thrill of it. Senseless violence, it’s stupid. You’re better than that.” Charles could see Arthur’s blood reaching a boiling point; he had to make his exit now. He grasped at the dresser behind him for his satchel, pulling it over one shoulder and gently stepping past the cowboy, toward the door. “Goodbye, Arthur.”
It was hardly the speech he’d been practising, but it still got the message across. He didn’t make it to the door before he was jerked back by a strong hand on the strap of his satchel. Arthur yanked it off his shoulder and threw it against the wall, grasping his shirt instead and growling in his face. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, Mr Smith.”
“Arthur.” Charles did his best to sound calm and unaffected, even with his heart pounding in his chest. Goddamn him, why did this feel exciting? “Let me go.”
“Why should I? Because you don’t like my ‘senseless violence’?” Arthur shoved him bodily against the dresser, taking his face in rough hands and kissing him hard. Just like everything else about Arthur, the kiss was overwhelming. Charles tried to stay motionless against his mouth, tried not to kiss him back, tried not to enjoy it so damn much. When Arthur pulled away, Charles followed him just a fraction before he caught himself. Enough for the man to scoff with cocky surety. “I’m better than that, huh? You didn’t seem to think I was better than that when I was strangling the life outta that poor fool who poached them bison. I only indulged in that senseless violence because you asked me to, angel. ”
Charles said nothing. He had no defense. Having his face cradled in the same hands that killed at his command left him feeling uniquely helpless.
“You told me to kill him and I did, and I loved it. Seeing the light leave his eyes made me feel good. So you think you can end this thing between us just because you feel like it? Because you’ve decided you don’t like a killer?” He pressed his face into Charles’ cheek, his hands holding firmer around the younger man’s jaw. “That’s too bad. You started this, after all. Or are you gonna pretend you don’t remember that too?”
Charles closed his eyes, doing his best to turn his head away despite the grip holding him still. He remembered the turmoil that coursed through him when Arthur killed the poacher. The total upheaval that left him desperate and disoriented, ultimately ending with him throwing himself at the cowboy. He almost wished he could go back and make a different choice.
“Not that I didn’t have my eyes on you already, sugar,” Arthur murmured. He started kissing Charles on the cheek, soft slow pecks that left Charles’ chest heaving. The older man’s hold turned gentle, adjusting Charles’ face this way and that to allow for more kisses. “Was gonna have you either way. It’s a good thing you wanted it too.”
Charles found Arthur’s lips, kissing him deeply, sighing into his mouth at the satisfaction of shutting him up. He couldn’t deny that it felt good to have Arthur at his command in this bizarre, twisted way. Even with his face literally in Arthur’s clutches, he could still silence the man’s ego whenever he wanted.
Arthur pressed closer to him, a suggestive thigh pushing between his legs. Charles felt the bed calling out silently again. He reached up to Arthur’s hands, pulling them away from his face; he could work his way out still, he just had to stay strong.
“Arthur,” he began, immediately cut off when Arthur propped his hands on the dresser behind Charles, effectively trapping him. He lunged forward into another kiss, tongue pushing past Charles’ lips. It was so disarming, Charles found his hands on Arthur’s lapels again. He held on tight and pushed lightly, just enough to get some air between their faces. “Arthur-”
“Don’t,” Arthur interrupted, sullen, “don’t do it, sweetheart. C’mon, stay here with me tonight.”
Those big, rough hands were back on him, this time at his hips. His hold was gentle, alarmingly so, and Charles could feel the threadbare defences he had falling apart under that touch. Seemed he’d tried his tough aggressor act and now it was time for the softer touch to try to win Charles over. He wished it wasn’t such an effective routine.
Charles’ hands had crept up to Arthur’s neck, reaching over his shoulders and pulling the older man closer still. He looked at Arthur’s face, looked properly into his eyes for what felt like the first time. The man had a soft smile on his face, deepening his wrinkles to a devastatingly handsome effect. When he spoke, his voice was like honeyed smoke.
“Stay with me tonight. Don’t leave me alone, in this awful room in this hideous getup. C’mon.”
“I told you,” Charles said, smiling, helpless, “it’s not hideous, it suits you. You look good.” This time it was Charles who leaned in to initiate the kiss, feeling Arthur’s lips curling up against his own.
“Hmm, how good?” Arthur murmured when they parted, not even giving Charles a chance to respond before indulging in more deep kissing.
“Good enough,” Charles smirked, eyes rolling, already knowing what Arthur was going to say next.
“Good enough for what, sugar? You gonna let me treat you right? You gonna give me what I need?” He kissed along Charles’ jaw, bringing a hand up to gently extricate the hair blocking his path to Charles’ ear, where he nibbled and grumbled his last threat. “Or am I gonna have to take it?”
What else could Charles do but kiss him? He gripped Arthur’s hair and pushed his tongue into his mouth, only pulling away to demand: “Stop talking.” Arthur chuckled against his lips, letting Charles turn them so he was walking backward to the edge of that goddamned loud, extravagant bed.
Once his back hit the mattress, Charles became Arthur’s plaything. The man rejoiced in tugging at the fabric of his clothes until they were all gone, relished in licking into his mouth, onto his tits, into his ass and then all the way back up again; he felt filthy and divine.
When Charles was panting, bruised all over and stretched open on three of Arthur’s fingers, moaning for more, Arthur pulled back. Despite what Charles was sure were some of his best moody eyes, Arthur only scoffed at his pouting, instead reaching for the lapels of his tuxedo jacket to remove it. Charles’ arm shot out to stop him.
“Don’t,” he huffed, chest glistening with a mixture of sweat and saliva, glowing somewhat in the low lighting.
“Don’t?” Arthur asked, frozen in place but already starting to crack that specific cocky smile that made Charles’ stomach churn in a painful cocktail of lust and distaste. The absolute certainty that he was always going to get his way, the ease with which he took up so much space, it drove Charles crazy in equal parts good and bad. Besides, with the efforts of their preparation, a few slick strands of pomaded hair had fallen free into Arthur’s face and Charles was certain he’d never looked better in his life.
“Leave it on.”
“Whatever you say, angel,” Arthur purred, letting Charles pull him in for deep, possessive kisses while he worked the fly of his pants open. This was often Charles’ favorite part; where he could finally escape his mind. Usually, he just lay back and let Arthur take over; it felt good to shut his thoughts off and turn himself over to pure feeling. And nobody knew how to make him feel like Arthur did.
On this night though, with the guilt still tugging at Charles over the pathetic way he let Arthur walk all over him, he tried to reclaim some power. With one hand on Arthur’s sternum, the fine fabric of the waistcoat and the finely starched shirt at his fingertips, Charles applied some gentle pressure.
“Wait, Arthur.”
“What is it, sweetheart?” How did Arthur manage to sound so genuine and earnest in these moments? When he was inches from what he wanted, from what he wanted to do, he had a softness to him that revealed something of what Charles knew he was like, deep down. “What’s wrong?”
“I wanna be on top.” Charles heard the uncertainty in his voice when he spoke. He wondered if Arthur would grab him by the throat, remind him of his place in this dynamic. He wondered if he would just ignore him altogether. So it surprised Charles somewhat when Arthur flipped them - seemingly with minimal effort - so that he was on his back with Charles spread on top of him, groaning with delight and squeezing at the plump flesh of Charles’ thighs.
“Fuck yeah,” he moaned, pushing him to press the hardness of his cock against Charles’ taint, “yeah, angel, show me what you got.”
Charles saw a glassiness to Arthur’s eyes that made his chest tighten up. How was he able to do that? He looked absolutely besotted. Charles ran a slow hand up the line of buttons on Arthur’s vest, slipping each one open as he ascended to Arthur’s chest.
The vest had fallen open as Arthur poised his cock at Charles’ entrance, oiled up and slick and red and enough to make Charles start drooling. As he started pushing in, stretching Charles’ rim just perfectly, Charles’ hands turned to gripping claws, pulling at the already-straining fabric of Arthur’s crisp shirt. He could vaguely feel the buttons struggling to hold fast against his hands.
The shirt tore open right as Charles thought about letting go. He was curious to see if this would break Arthur’s forgiving mood, if he’d suddenly flip Charles over and punish him in some delectable way for this transgression. He sat back, surveying the scene from the relative safety of being harder to throttle from this angle. When he looked at Arthur again, he saw that same, painfully devoted look.
“Aw fuck yeah, baby,” the older man groaned, pushing up into Charles until he was buried to the hilt “that’s good.” What had gotten into him?
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Charles asked, tentatively rising to his knees, letting out a small gasp at the feeling of Arthur’s cock spreading him as he lowered back down. Arthur’s grip tightened and his jaw clenched, a slightly flintier look taking over for a moment.
“Like what?” he clipped.
Like I’m something worth looking at, Charles didn’t say. Like you actually give a damn about me, he didn’t say.
“I don’t know,” he murmured, “just some kinda way.”
“Don’t know what to tell you, partner,” Arthur replied with a too-casual shrug. He shifted so his cock plunged deeper than it had before, playing it off like an accident.
“Goddamn you,” Charles huffed, one hand reaching back for support on Arthur’s bent knee. His head was thrown back, eyes screwed shut, bruise-bitten neck on show. His free hand held the fabric of Arthur’s suit on his forearm. He tried to copy the feeling of Arthur’s hold on his hip: now relaxed and easygoing. He tried not to hold on too tightly, or too needily. He tried.
“Now why would you go and say a nasty thing like that?” Arthur drawled, infuriatingly sexy from his laidback position. His tuxedo was rumpled in a perfectly effortless way and he performed a minute flick of his head to get the loose strands of hair out of his eyes. Charles had to clear his throat to be able to speak. “Thought you was gonna show me what you got?”
“Damn you, Arthur,” Charles said with a glare and a moan as Arthur pushed up into him again, forcing him to ride. “Why are you so good at this?”
Arthur, bastard that he was, let out a cocky scoff of a laugh. He gripped onto Charles’ hips and pushed him up, only to pull him further on the downstroke, making every thrust feel twice as long, twice as hard.
“You like that, sweetness?” Why did he have to sound so attractive about it? Charles didn’t answer him, biting his lip to keep anything from slipping out. Arthur clearly wouldn’t accept that, moving faster until Charles was gasping and panting. “C’mon, I know you like it. Just admit it.”
Charles closed his eyes again, avoiding Arthur. The cowboy only gripped him harder, pulling him closer until Charles was forced to rest his hands on Arthur’s now-exposed chest to keep from collapsing against him. And of course his chest was firm and full and hairy.
Arthur released Charles’ hips just long enough to swat his hands away, surging forward to sit up, pressing their chests together. Charles could feel how sweaty the other man was, still trapped in the layers of his tuxedo, and it only served to heighten the passion and tension in his gut. One of Arthur’s hands clutched Charles’ waist possessively while the other crept up his back, scraping at the nape of his neck and gripping a fistful of hair.
Arthur wrenched his hand back, pulling Charles’ head with it. He pushed a bristly kiss against the underside of the younger man’s jaw, scraping his teeth against the bulging vein there.
“C’mon, baby,” he purred in Charles’ ear, “tell me you like it.”
“Arthur.” It might as well have been a goddamned confession. The effect it had on the cowboy was enough to make Charles wish he could turn back time to before the asshole’s ego took up all the oxygen in the room.
“Yeah, angel, say my name.” That low rumbling tone made Charles roll his eyes and he started moving to dismount, only stopped by Arthur’s grip on his hips turning to steel. The older man shoved his shoulder into Charles’ chest as he swivelled, forcing Charles hard on his back with a dense and breathless thud. He had to ignore how good it felt to finally have some contact on his cock, trapped between their stomachs as it was.
“You’re so fucking arrogant,” Charles complained with a gasp, at least tilting his head away so Arthur couldn’t try to kiss him or look him in the eyes. He didn’t know what he’d do if he saw that same devoted look in his eyes right now. Arthur, seemingly unperturbed, lathered affection on his neck instead, humming his appreciation for the taste there.
“That’s right,” he agreed, “and you’re fucking beautiful.” He followed up with soft kisses, the gentle touch of one hand on Charles’ cheek and along his jaw, completely contradicting the firm thrusting of his hips. Charles was overwhelmed in all directions. How did he always know exactly what to say? Charles was actually grateful in that moment for Arthur’s arrogance; the man was so deep in his own world he didn’t notice the impact of his words, and he was happy to keep on murmuring them to Charles’ collar bone. Even Charles’ hands clutching at his shoulders didn’t stop him - although was he pushing or pulling? After Arthur spoke again, he couldn’t tell. “So beautiful, so perfect.”
A part of Charles wanted to push him away, shove him with the strength he knew he had and walk out of there. If he set off now, he and Taima could be the other side of Lakay in an hour. Closing his eyes, Charles pictured the satisfaction he’d get from refusing the cowboy, from walking out on him without so much as a goodbye. He opened his eyes and saw he hadn’t moved an inch, and he knew he wouldn’t. Perhaps it was that spiteful bitterness that pulled out his next words.
“Like you know a thing about beauty,” he spat with a scoff.
“I know it when I see it,” Arthur replied, stopping everything to pull away and look into Charles’ eyes with that terrifying, alarming sincerity, “and, darlin’, you’re it.”
Before Charles could respond, the older man returned his attention to kissing, licking, and biting at the flesh coating Charles’ collar bones, grunting and thrusting again like he hadn’t just changed everything with that look. Charles could feel his nails digging into the muscular skin of Arthur’s shoulders. He wanted more, and he hated it. He wanted to say what do you mean, beautiful how, what about me is beautiful, compliment me. He wanted to punch himself in the gut.
But Arthur, stupid, arrogant, terrible, perfect Arthur didn’t need him to say anything. Perhaps knowing Charles was a greedy void of desperate need, he offered more without hesitation or demand.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. Your mouth.” A kiss. “Your hair.” A hand - uncharacteristically delicate - twisting in the coal-dark curls at his roots. “Your eyes.” And there was that look again, like the man was bearing his entire soul, wholly for Charles to witness. “Your eyes, baby, your beautiful sad eyes. Drive me fucking crazy. You drive me fucking crazy.”
Arthur took one of Charles’ hands, clutching it and pressing it over their heads into the mattress, pinning him like a lepidopterist. And Charles was glad to be pinned, despite every survival instinct in him trying to scream over the pounding of his heart. Let Arthur capture him, body and soul. Hell, let the man disembowel him on this bed and lay him out like a specimen proper, if it meant seeing that look on his face. The soul under the skin.
Tears welled in Charles’ eyes as Arthur dropped his forehead to the other man’s chest, thrusting wildly, hammering incessantly at the very core of him. His breath escaped him, half forced-out with the power of their coupling, half crushed out by the weight of Arthur’s head against his lungs. He told himself there was no other third reason, closely linked to his heart, for his tearful gasps.
Arthur’s other hand gripped Charles’ hip, heaving him closer, half folded in on himself, further trapping his cock in a tortuously pleasurable vice. His animalistic grunts gave way to something softer as he spoke in a half-whisper. “Wish I could make you happy.” He turned his head to the side slightly, but thankfully didn’t raise it to look at Charles. The younger man wasn’t sure he could stand it if he saw that face again. Not now. Not while his legs held so tightly to him, needing him to stay close and deep. “Wish you were mine.”
“Arthur,” Charles hiccuped with a sob. Arthur released his hand to cradle his face, still respectfully averting his gaze. The cowboy made a sound too, ungainly and vaguely snotty. Was he crying? Charles could feel droplets hitting his chest, but whether they were tears or sweat he couldn’t discern.
As Arthur’s pace increased, every muscle in his body appeared to tense. One hand squirmed between them to grasp Charles’ cock and roughly jerk it in time with the near-vicious thrusting. The soft touch on Charles’ face became a painful, punishing grip around his bottom jaw, domineering in its ownership. It didn’t so much as push him over the edge as catapult him off it with a trebuchet. In the blurry, pulsing rush of his own orgasm, Charles only half registered Arthur’s thrusts stilling in spasms, barely acknowledging the sensation of liquid heat filling him.
Arthur was still. Finally. Charles might have been relieved were it not for the heaviness of the other man’s breathing. Painful, wet breaths wracked out of him and Charles knew it wasn’t sweat that had dropped onto his chest - or at least not all sweat. Without permission, Charles’ hands came up to Arthur’s back, one on the shoulder blade of his jacket and the other around the back of his matted head.
They stayed like that a while. Charles wasn’t sure how long.
Eventually, Arthur’s breath evened out and his weight somehow got heavier. He was asleep. Typical, Charles thought, he gets to look at me like that and say that and do that and fall asleep. He should shove him off, get clear from this room, and this building, and this poisoned fucking city. He should take Taima and hit the road and never look back at this man again.
He didn’t move.
Arthur shifted at some point, his hands finding Charles’ waist and holding him close like a child with a teddy bear. Charles was surprised that the deafening beating of his heart wasn’t enough to wake the man. Then again, he’d seen Arthur sleep through thunderstorms with only the cloth of his tent sheltering him. A single pathetic human heart wasn’t going to stop him.
Charles drifted nearer to sleep through the night, only making it there just before the dawn. The black darkness outside the gossamer curtains was becoming a sickly skyless blue when his tired eyes finally stayed closed. His hands kept Arthur close.
Several hours later, Charles woke up somewhat curled on his side, feeling the relief of breathing without dead weight on his chest. Of course, that soured when he turned over to an empty bed. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but somehow he was still disappointed.
The sounds of the city finally filtered in to him: yelling, horses and wagons and doors with bells on them and distant engines to a million machines he didn’t understand. Charles ducked his head under his pillow, pulling it close enough to muffle everything else.
And then he heard his stupid, wretched heartbeat instead and resurfaced, suddenly grateful for the cacophony. He sat up, wondering (like a fool) if perhaps Arthur had just left temporarily. In a moment, the door would open and he’d walk in with a tray of food for them. Of course, Arthur’s possessions were all gone. He’d fixed up that tuxedo that he’d hated so much and worn a torn shirt just to be clear of this room before Charles could wake. Of course he did.
Throwing the sheets back, Charles pulled himself to the side of the bed. Everywhere ached. He’d have to wear his hair down to cover what felt like extensive bruising across his neck. He briefly panicked that his legs would give out from under him when he started to stand, but he managed it. Before he knew what he was doing, Charles had walked over to the table beside the fire. He realized he was looking for a note.
Like Arthur would leave him a fucking note.
If Mary-Beth ever offered to lend him another book he was going to refuse. As Charles slowly dressed, mindful of his overworked body, his traitorous mind replayed the previous night endlessly.
Wish I could make you happy.
You could, he wanted to say, you could be the man you are, the man I know you are in there.
Wish you were mine.
I could be! He wanted to cry out. He wanted to take Arthur by the shoulders and shake him, slap him, kiss him. I already am.
But no, he’d said nothing, and now he was alone. Charles knew he’d ride back to camp today and find Arthur’s bed empty. The older man would be out somewhere, punishing himself until he felt ‘normal’ again. Crushing down the man inside until the armor was thick again. Breaking down the soul under the skin.
The next time Arthur saw Charles, he’d touch a finger to the brim of his hat and announce a simple ‘Mr Smith’ in greeting, like none of this had happened. Between this point and that one, Charles would make sure he suffocated this memory and buried it deep. So deep that he wouldn’t even have to play pretend when he replied with nothing more than ‘Arthur.’
He’d bury it.