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“So then he goes, ‘gosh, you look like a lady I once knew, only she weren’t no kind a’ lady at all.’ I turn around, and Pearson’s mouth falls open all stupid-like!” Sadie nearly topples over as she slaps her knee and laughs so hard she snorts.
Charles’ quiet chuckles turn to outright laughter at that.
"‘Mrs Adler you’re l-looking f-fine!’ He says, and I go, ‘well you look just about as handsome as you ever did.’ And then some angry little woman straightens up and drops an armful of cans. Turns out it was his wife!”
John falls back laughing.
“And she’s all, ‘Honey, won’t you introduce me to your lady friend,’ and I swear on my left foot that man turned pinker than anything I ever did see!”
They’ve met Pearson’s wife, Arthur and him. Had dinner with them once and were blessed enough to see their old cook fluttering about in domestic bliss. A fish out of water John had thought at first, but the longer they sat there, the more apparent it was the old man had softened since the gang’s disbandment. A nice house, a pretty plump wife, a store to manage, a small community. He was well and truly living the dream.
“When’s the last time you saw that old fool?” Arthur chimes from where he’s sat pressed against John’s side.
“S’been a while.” Charles says, his wide smile shrinks a tad. “I meant to drop in on the way here, but the store was closed that day. Folks around said he got knocked down by something.”
“Well, I don’t think a little sickness is going to take him out. I got the terrible feeling he’s going to outlive us all.” Sadie shakes her head and reaches below her into the case of beer, she pauses to give their 'guard cat' a few scratches where the animal sits on a blanket at her feet.
Arthur mutters something beneath his breath. John nudges him gently, head turning to take in the sight of the other man tipped back onto the couch.
“Counting.” He says. “He’s got to be, what, maybe seventy now? Give or take a few years.”
Sadie coughs. “Damn. You know what that means?”
The three of them look at her as the room goes quiet.
“Means’ we’re getting old! This one especially,” she nods at Arthur.
John groans, “Please don’t get him started with that…” Arthur first started saying he was getting old at the ripe age of thirty five. Most of the gang laughed at it, John included. Two decades later, it’s gotten old.
“The lady ain’t wrong. Gone grey and tired, and that’s just from the effort a’ keeping you alive and well.”
“Shut up.” John knocks his elbow into Arthur’s gut.
“Ah! What kind of man picks a fight with the elderly?” Arthur shoves him gently. “For shame, Johnny. You ought to,”—
John brings his glass to his lips and sips whiskey so loud he drowns out Arthur’s taunting.
“Oh dear, look what you started.” Charles says. Then he straightens up. “Forgot, since we're talking about the others.” He twists around until he finds his bag. Charles rummages around until he finds what he’s looking for. He pulls out a battered looking leather-bound journal and flips the pages. “Here.”
John leans forward to meet him halfway, “What’s this?”
“From Tilly. A few photos she found while they was looking through her old things.”
Arthur leans forward alongside him. The first photo is frayed and damaged, the image faded mostly away on one side. John squints. “Don’t remember these.”
“That’s ‘cause you weren’t around during these times.” Arthur says. He smiles; eyes crinkling and shining from the flickering light of the fireplace. “I remember when we saved some old traveler and his wife. Chased away those folks robbing them and he’d offered to take a few pictures as payment. Susan must’ve given her those.”
John presses his lip into a thin line, it’s hard to stay so jolly thinking of that woman. Tough as nails and loyal as ever, she’d died all the same. Arthur must feel the same, he frowns a little. Then, he takes the pictures. “We brought ‘em back to camp. They took this there, while we all stood still. Dutch made me take my hat off.”
Sadie leans in to catch a glimpse, Charles fixes himself another drink.
“Here,” Arthur points, “Hosea was standing next to Dutch. Susan next to Pearson. I’m in the back there.” Faces are unclear and parts of their bodies are cut off, John wouldn’t be able to identify anyone even if money was at stake.
Arthur shuffles to the next. “Lord,” he sighs, and sags slightly. John frowns, the lingering taste of whiskey gone sour in his mouth. It’s a photo, slightly clearer, but still a tad faded. Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur. He’s seen this one plenty, Arthur had a copy on his wagon way back in the day. Hell, for all they knew this was the original itself.
“Now look at this!” Sadie breaks the somber mood. John’s eyes nearly bulge. It’s Arthur’s turn to groan. Charles chuckles again, already having seen the pictures for himself.
John whistles. “Good Lord Arthur Morgan, is that you?”
Arthur rubs at his face.
Nevermind the question, the photo is certainly Arthur. Only, a version of him more than thirty years ago. A young man he was, and dressed rather sharply. His hair slicked back, a little longer than it is now, his collar open, a tie hanging off his shoulder, and an uneven, bright smile stretched across his face. Arthur stands with his hands shoved into his pockets, the photo cuts off mid-thigh. He looks good, real good. Like one of those catalogue men picked for the job for their handsome face and fit bodies. John blinks again.
“Catching flies there?” Charles smirks knowingly.
John closes his mouth. “Well now, I almost didn’t recognise you. I would’ve thought it was some young n’ pretty city boy I were looking at.”
“Shut your mouth,” Arthur says, muffled by his hand. “I was young.”
“You sure was.” Sadie chimes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so big as that.”
John has, though he keeps that to himself. He takes that photo in hand, brings it up close and squints. Not a blemish or sunspot, nor that scratch on his chin, Arthur must’ve been about twenty. He’s not too far off from what he’d looked like when John joined up with them. A smile tugs at his lips. Hosea used to say young Arthur reminded him a lot of Sean, poor bastard. He does look like that young Irish kid in a way, carefree and confident. John has never known that Arthur. Confident maybe, certainly never carefree.
“You done ogling me?” Arthur asks him with amusement in his voice.
“Ain’t ogling, just admiring.”
“Sure,” Arthur looks away and clears his throat. “Now…Charles, you mentioned your wife’s father being a real hardass.”
The conversation picks up again. A drink or two later and John finds it harder to keep focused. Sadie was right, they’re all getting older. Hell, he’s grown older now than his Daddy ever got the chance to be. Arthur is older than him, older than all of them sitting around here; telling stories of times long passed and folks long gone and the future they were living in now. Yet he can’t help but picture that young version of Arthur; he’s still here in some ways. John catches glimpses of him when the other man lights up upon hearing about Marybeth’s latest doings. The way his cheeks stretch back into a warm smile at the mention of Charles’ kids, the way his eyes go all squinty, hell, even his slicked back hair now truthfully, mostly grey is not unlike the photo in John’s pocket.
“Gentlemen,” Sadie shoves herself up from her spot on the rug, closest to the fire. “Not to cut a good time short but riding took a lot out of me.”
Arthur stifles a yawn.
“Suppose I should turn in too.” Charles sighs. He shakes his head and stands after her.
“Rooms’ ready, you two can fight over who shares the attic with Uncle.” John says, slumping heavier against Arthur. They’ll deal with the guest house tomorrow.
“Sure,” their old friend says. Then he bids them goodnight. “John, Arthur.”
It’s the two of them now. Warm glow from their fireplace and a few candles scattered about; it’s a far cry from the old days of dense trees and hastily pitched tents. Comfortable, safe—even if John still can’t make himself believe that most days. It still feels like a dream. The two of them, shacking up together, running their own place fairly well. It’s not a big patch of land out west where they can play as their own people with their own laws, but then, it was never going to be.
“You falling asleep on me?” Fingers brush his hair from his face, tuck it behind his ear. John smiles.
“Maybe.”
Arthur shifts around, head turning to press a kiss to the top of his head. “C’mon, get up. I ain’t having you sleep out here by your lonesome.”
“Couch is pretty comfy, and I’ve had one too-many. Might have to carry me.”
“I’d have to throw you over my shoulder and chuck you outside if you really had one too-many.”
“You think yer’ real funny Morgan.”
“More likely you’d be out there making a proper fool of yourself, like that time with Charles and Uncle. God forbid I turn in early, missed all the fun.”
John shuffles away and stands up. The room spins for a second, he takes a breath to right himself. “Okay, I’m up. Quit complaining you big lout.”
“Watch it!”—
John steps on an empty bottle, throwing him off balance. Too slow to right himself he reaches out but nothing is close enough to grab. A pair of arms enclose him, and John knocks into a solid mass.
“Fool Marston! You trying to fall on that head a’ yours?” Arthur chastises. He makes an odd sound, then his leg buckles. The room spins again and this time the hard floor comes up to meet him. Meet them. Arthur’s still got his arms circling him. He groans about his back, about John being half blind in his bad eye, how he should’ve let John fall on his ass.
Laughter bubbles up John’s throat and forces its way out. Before he knows it he’s slapping a hand over his mouth to stifle his cackling.
“What the hell’re you laughing about? Oh, my neck.” Arthur’s bemoaning only worsens it.
“What’s all the ruckus!” Sadie hollers from the spare room.
“Oh great now you’ve disturbed our lovely guests.” Arthur says, voice deadpan. John tries and fails to shove himself up.
His eyes close at some point, right there on the floor. The giggling dies down long after his stomach cramps from laughter and Arthur has gotten up to snuff out the candles. Unlike his threat before, the older man doesn’t leave him there, but rather joins John, blanket dragging and pillow in hand. The last thing John hears before sleep meets him is Arthur, pressed against his back, complaining about how sore they’ll be come morning time.
Wind whips a gust of cold air against his wet naked body. Arthur shudders and hisses. He’s ankles deep in what feels like icy river water; it makes him feel oddly alive, at least for a few seconds. He blinks away the last of the water from his eyes and squeezes a fistful of his hair. It’s longer than it should be, but he’s been too lazy to go see the barber. John halfheartedly offered to do it, but they both knew that was a bad idea. Arthur thinks back on the first and last time he trusted the younger man with his hair. What a Goddamn mess that was.
He chews on his lip, considering the strands as water drips from his body. There really is more grey than brown, it hadn’t been a jest in good company. He sighs. It’s not a thing worth getting upset about, Arthur knows. Hell, strands of grey started appearing on John’s head before he hit forty. Though most of his head was still that tawny brown.
Wading through the shallowest parts of the river careful of any sharp or loose rocks Arthur looks around for what ought to be there. Maybe he misplaced them? Hands on his hips, he cusses. “You can’t be that forgetful yet, Morgan.”
His clean clothes are missing. His boots and dirty jeans are still here, so is his coat. They sit in a pile with a towel on top. He reaches for it, grumbling to himself. At least his little camp weren’t too far away.
It was practically routine. Folks would come to visit them, spend a few days or weeks down on their homestead and some time during it Arthur would take off for a day or so.
He didn’t understand it at first, but seeing all those old faces come and go made him feel oddly… Nostalgic for a time he could ride out on his lonesome as he pleased. It reminded him of the old days when he hunted or fished or plain old robbed sorry souls for days or weeks at a time, sometimes only returning once one of the men was sent after him. Javier, Bill, once Sean, once Lenny. In the earliest days, it was Hosea himself who go looking for Arthur.
John wasn’t pleased at first. Though at some point and through many a difficult conversation he’d grown to understand Arthur’s need for solitude. He didn’t do it much since a crowd of no good criminals came knocking on their door while John was alone; he only left when there were good eyes and steady hands at the ready.
Company usually talked of their lives now, but the gang was guaranteed a place in their dialogue. Sometimes Arthur felt he couldn’t relate to it. He’d been in that life longer than John, or Charles, or Tilly, or Sadie. Or anyone really. They talked of a gang—of a Dutch he didn’t quite notice at the time. It was easier to get away for a day or two or maybe three, under the guise of hunting or foraging, to think on his own, throwback a drink or two, open up his journal and lose himself.
He’d be lying if he said it weren’t awkward the first time he took off; it was funny seeing the look on Tilly’s husband’s face when Arthur shook his hand and then left in a matter of minutes the first time they came around. Wasn’t so funny seeing John’s sour face and crossed arms when he came back a few hours later. Well, maybe it was, just a little.
Arthur dresses fast, teeth nearly clattering. He tugs his dirty jeans up, legs not quite dry and holds his jacket closed. A tickle runs up his spine. These days the cold hits him harder. He’s fitter than a lot of men he’s met in town—but he’s also more beat up than them. Old wounds flare up sometimes. His shoulder aches him the worst of all. Arthur shoves the memory out of mind, he won’t ruin his day thinking about Colm O’Driscoll and the beating he endured then. His shoulder locks up sometimes, the skin feels tighter, his bones feel like they’re rubbing together. His back used to hurt even when he was a young man, some days Arthur’s ashamed to say he can’t get up without cussing up a storm and taking his sweet time doing so. It’s days like that he’s glad to have someone like John. The young man knows exactly when to joke and when to keep his mouth shut and get to helping him. Those hands of his know exactly where to dig in, what muscles need kneading and what needs to be left alone.
Speaking of… “what are you doing out here?”
John reclines on his bedroll, one leg crossed over another, Arthur’s hat thrown on his head. As much as he wants to play mad, there’s something nice about the sight of the younger man wearing his hat like it’s not a big deal. Like it belongs to him as much as Arthur himself does. When they were young he might’ve knocked it off his head.
“I can’t come see you?” John asks, crossing his arms.
Arthur pulls his coat a little tighter. He spots his pile of clean clothes next to the smiling man. He cocks his brow. “Huh, was just looking for those.”
John snickers. “Was gonna’ grab those jeans too.”
“Wouldn’t that be unfortunate for any poor soul passing by?”
“Don’t reckon so.” John looks around. “S’not like many folk come around these parts, especially not this time of year.”
Arthur snorts. “Fair enough. Now what are you doing here?”
He grins, something boyish and devious. Arthur swears he sees a sparkle in his eye. For all the crap he used to give John for lazing about, one thing became clear in the years they spent together; the younger man was simply insatiable. No matter how much time has passed, no matter how much age touched them, John Marston had the appetite of a young man. Something Arthur is ashamed to say he can’t always match some days. They’d been kept busy in good company for a while; though the presence of other people, no matter how far back they went or how understanding they were, meant the two men kept their hands off each other for the most part.
“And here I thought you meant to check up on me. Instead you waltz up to my camp, steal my clothes, wear my hat and proposition me.”
“I’ll waltz myself right back home if you tell me you ain’t miss me like I miss you.” John says, half joking and half serious. Arthur doesn’t set up camp too far from home anymore, sometimes he’d catch John riding up, binoculars in hand spying on him, making sure he’s alright. Worrisome fool he is, it’s another loveable thing about him. He’ll leave if only Arthur asks it, but he sure as hell wants to stay. Arthur would be lying if he said he didn’t want that too. There’s something however…it keeps his mouth shut, keeps him from answering back. The smile fades from John’s face. He frowns at Arthur’s silence. “I can go.”
“Would rather you stay.” He finds the words.
“Stay and sit around or…” John cocks his head waiting for an answer. The gesture reminds Arthur of Jack’s old dog. Ear lifted and confusion on his sweet little face.
“I don’t know.” He sighs, stepping close to the fire and turning away from the other man.
“What’s the matter with you?” Heat coats John’s words. Not angry at Arthur, just angry he's missing something.
“I just…I don’t want…” Arthur shakes his head. How is he supposed to say it?
“Did I do something? You been acting all shy since Sadie and Charles came over. You know they’re fine with us being us.” John pauses. “Arthur. Did I say something—you know, after a few drinks, I’m…if I upset you…”
“No John.” He forces himself to look the other man in the face. His brows are furrowed and his lips are parted the way he gets when he’s confused. Stupidly handsome and silly yet, Arthur reaches up to thumb away the creases on his forehead. “You ain’t done nothing.”
“Then what is it?” John grabs his hand, gives it a squeeze and looks Arthur right in the eye.
Uncomfortable silence lingers in the space between them, neither looking away, neither willing to fill it. It’s Arthur who gives in and tsks.
“You know how I get sometimes,” he waves his other hand in the air. “All…vain.”
“Vain.” John repeats. “Insecure, you mean.”
“Sure, call it what you want.” Arthur breaks eye contact, pulls his hand free, and turns away.
“Oh Arthur…” John starts, voice filled with frustration.
Arthur has been shot and stabbed, struck and bound and taken and threatened and a hell of a lot of other things—yet of all that he’s shaken away he can’t rid himself of the strange and vain self doubt he feels more and more. It’s a blessing for folks such as them to grow older. That doesn’t mean he has to like what it’s done to his body. It’s not like he was ever a looker—sour-faced and sad, mean and nasty he was before. Maybe he was handsome in that photo, maybe for the briefest of times he might’ve made heads turn. Now he’s gone soft in all the wrong places. Somewhere in the years that passed, he got old. How long until he begins to hunch over—begins to walk funny? How long before he can’t hardly work around their home or properly love on the man he shares his life with? John loves him, there’s no doubt about that; but sometimes it’s hard to see how he could want him.
Look at you, sentimental and sad in your old age.
An arm winds around his middle, pulling him back against solid weight. Arthur sighs, shuts his eyes and relishes in the feeling of warmth on this cold day. Lips brush against the back of his neck, thin and chapped and instantly recognizable. That arm around him pulls back, slipping a hand past his fastened jacket, flat on his stomach. Just a nice soft touch. John mutters something that gets lost against his collar.
“What?”
“Said lose yer’ jacket. Jeans too.”
Arthur kisses his teeth. “John.”
“Hush. We ain’t had no time ‘till now.”
He ducks his head. “Only had company for a week.”
“A week without putin’ my hands on you is a week too long.”
“Speaking of,” he shoves away from John, turns around to look at him. “The house?”
“Charles is watching over the hands, and Sadie’s riding to town.” John says quickly. “Now come on, let me get a good look at my handsome man.”
Damn Marston and his fat sweet mouth. Arthur slips his jacket off, lets it fall to the ground. The cold air prickles his skin, turns John’s cheek a ruddy red. A nice sight. Still, he can’t help but let his eyes wander to the surrounding landscape; it’s empty now, he can’t recall seeing anyone come around, yet he can’t help but blush at the thought of some passerby catching an eyeful of him. John. Him and John.
“Maybe we could take ourselves someplace else?”
“We don’t have to do a thing.” John shucks his coat, tosses his hat to the side. “Lie on your belly.”
His cheeks start to warm. “Why?”
“Arthur.” John says his name with exasperation. It’s comical really, brows raised and hands on his hips, nearly tapping his foot with impatience. Arthur complies, but not without grumbling. He kicks his jeans off to the side. He lowers to his knees with a grimace. Doesn’t make it to his belly before John is on top of him. Quick as a whip, John’s hands grab at his hips. John’s breath comes out hot against the back of his neck, “just keep still and let me get a handle of things.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. John must think himself stern sounding. Some sort of authority. Fine, he’ll grant him that.
John’s rough lips pepper open mouthed kisses across his back, he hums like he’s satisfied.
“Thought you wanted me—oof!” Suddenly he’s smushed against the bedroll, his nose nearly knocks on the ground. Blood rushes to his head. Manhandling ain’t the word, it’s far gentler than John is capable of. There’s the sternness he thought he brought before. What his younger love couldn’t accomplish in words he conveyed with his actions.
“Want you to shut up and let me get to work.” John bites back with no real heat. Arthur can hear the smile that’s surely graced his face. His gloved hand grips firm at the back of his neck, keeping him pinned. His body a blanket of sorts against the elements, against the prying eyes of whomever might pass by—no matter how unlikely it is. Arthur can’t help but think on what it would be like, someone catching them like this—John fully clothed, forcing him to the ground, and Arthur himself naked as the day he was born, his hips raised with another man on top of him.
Arthur braces himself on his forearms. It’s easy to lose himself when John does this, takes control, fixes him however he wants and does what he pleases. There's little else in this world that clears his head of the constant noise and lessens the tightness in his chest brought on by fear or rage or doubt. It’s not a thing Arthur takes lightly, it’s taken a long time to build that trust between them as friends, even longer as lovers.
John lifts off him, coldness sends a shiver down his spine. A fuzzy feeling tickles at him where John’s hand sat. “Okay Morgan?”
It takes a second, “yeah, m’okay.” Christ, nothing’s happened and he already sounds ragged. He feels shy. Another thing he hasn’t been able to shake completely. Arthur Morgan, bashful in bed—if folks only knew.
“Good,” John says. Then as he says, he goes back to work. Mouth moving and hands grabbing.
“Ain’t fair f-fer’ me.” Arthur mutters. “Can’t see you, can’t touch you.”
“Can’t keep your mouth shut,” John mutters back against his skin. Cold leather runs up Arthur’s chest, plays at his nipples, gives one a tug. He bows his head. They know how to rile each other up alright; how to draw things out, to slow them down, how to treat and punish and apologize to each other in this language they made up.
“I know you like I know the back of my hand.” John suddenly says. “You got a nasty habit of getting all ashamed of yourself fr’ some reason or another. How many times I got to tell you I want you in every way I can have you?”
Arthur takes a deep breath. “How long will you want me for? Until I grow old and cranky?”
“You’ve always been cranky. As for old,” John pauses, shifts around a bit. A hand settles low on his back. Arthur listens closely, waiting for the metal ting of a can of pomade or the shucking of a belt. He doesn’t hear anything of the sort. “It’ll be a blessing to see that happen, watch you grow small and feeble,” he jests. “But you ain’t nowhere near there yet.”
“Far from my best days.” John huffs, doesn’t say no more. A hand travels lower, atop his ass and spreads his flesh. Arthur’s breath hitches. He blinks. His voice comes out rough. “What are you playin’ at?”
“Not playing games no more.” John’s breath is hot on his most sensitive skin, still damp from washing. Arthur’s body locks up. He raises his head. It’s the middle of the day, the sky a grey colour, the wind a quiet swishing over the land. Empty land. It’s just him and John. John who loves him. Every part of him. In every way. John who does best showing it rather than saying it, no matter how sweet his words may be.
“Jesus!”
Arthur wasn’t ready for the long wet stripe John licked down his lower back. His gloved hands spread him completely. Before he can protest or whine or anything—John’s hot tongue finds his hole and laps at it. Arthur bucks forward.
“John!” He exclaims in surprise.
That little brat is always so smug each time he forces so much as a squeak from Arthur, there’s no doubt in his mind this time is any different. The hand on his back stills him, forces him down even as he moves instinctively. John's tongue prods at him, licks tentatively at the skin around. His stubbly face rubs against Arthur, makes him bite his tongue, stifling any shameful sounds of pleasure.
He can’t get over how strangely good it feels. Wrong in a sense; but who’s deemed the authority on right and wrong? Dirty; but he’s clean and they both know it. Embarrassing? Arthur sucks in a breath. His face burns and his head spins. Embarrassing it is and worsened yet by their setting. It’s one thing doing this on their bed, by their fireplace, curtains drawn and doors shut. Out here?
“John, ah, someone could,—”
“Someone could get themselves shot if they come upon us.” His voice knots Arthur’s belly. “Reach back, hold yourself open.”
A whine escapes him. His stomach is in knots. Arthur reaches back, holding himself open as per John’s order.
“Nice, real nice.” John breathes. “If you could only see this.”
He’s seen John like this, had him like this plenty of times; the image of himself comes to mind. It makes him want to curl up, make himself small. Die of embarrassment. He must’ve made a sound conveying exactly that because John pipes up after a long lick from his balls to his back. “S’okay, I gotcha’.”
“Dammit,” Arthur’s cock comes to life. John squeezes his wrist, then pushes his whole face back in. Arthur lets out a strangled moan. His cock jumps. He reaches out to grab at nothing, fingers reach cold dirt and grass, it gives no purchase. No escape. He doesn’t want to escape. He wants to stay here. He never would’ve figured running with John could’ve led to this, all those years ago.
A slapping sound takes him out of it. John moans and Arthur feels it against his hole. He’s jerking his cock while he works Arthur with his mouth. Arthur’s mouth fills with saliva, he swallows hard. His fingers dig into the dirt, John’s fingers dig harder into his skin. The other man breathes heavy breaths as he works, as his tongue prods at Arthur’s entrance, as his thin lips pucker against him and suck gently, as his stubble rubs at him almost painfully—
“Oh fuck!” Arthur moans out unabashed as John’s tongue breaches him. Wet and hot, so good it’s bad, so bad he might cry from just how good it is; it’s not enough. He needs something. He’s already leaking onto the bedroll beneath him. “John, please.”
John squeezes his wrist again before he comes up for air. Like he’d read Arthur’s mind he pipes up.
“Don’t you worry.” Then he dives back in.
The sound of John’s raspy voice, of him pleasuring himself, Arthur moans again. His forehead presses against the edge of the bedroll. His streaky hair falls around his face.
The blood bloating his brain, the smell of soap on his skin, of grass and dirt he fruitlessly digs into; the wind picking up and beating against his naked body, the obscene wet sounds John’s making while he devours him—the pathetic groans leaving his own mouth. It’s too much. Arthur’s legs buckle. John catches him, holds him there ass up and on crude display as he tonguefucks Arthur to his heart’s content. He’s boneless, gasping, squirming.
“Oh God,” Arthur loses the grip on himself, he yanks his hand back and grabs the base of his cock. He makes a tight fist, unable to stop from pumping himself.
John pulls back just enough to speak, “ain’t done with you yet, Morgan.”
“John!” He hisses it like a curse, cries out like a plea. Arthur clenches his teeth, gathers his resolve and releases himself with a shaky hand. John runs a hand beneath him, fondling his tight balls, fingers travel the length of his cock and smear his precum around. Arthur freezes when John presses a finger against him. Wet enough and spread enough, it slips inside with ease.
“Gonna’ turn you ‘round and fuck your head clear. How’s that sound?”
Arthur squirms at the pressure of a second finger slipping in alongside the first. His entrance burns just right. Thank God for the suggestion, there’s no way in hell he’s riding John in this state.
“Calm down,” John says. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
Arthur opens his eyes, realises he started to move back. Trying to fuck himself on John’s fingers to stimulate that miraculous spot inside him he’d gone thirty-six years not knowing was there.
“Hurry up.”
“Turn around then.” John’s arm unwinds from his waist and Arthur falls flat for a moment. He drags himself up, rolls over. The second he’s on his back John slips his hand on the underside of his thigh and bends his leg up. Arthur throws his head back, his arm reaches up wildly until it grabs onto John’s shoulder. He’s still completely clothed. Arthur tugs at his collar. Their eyes meet as John begins fiddling with a few buttons. Arthur shudders at the dark look John shoots at him.
His shirt stays on, but his chest is bare. “S’real chilly.” John mutters.
For a moment Arthur wants to cuff him upside his head. That is until John’s fingers brush against his entrance. He arches his back.
“Get on with it.” He urges.
“Ain’t going to hurt you Morgan,” John says with a rough voice.
He slips two fingers back in and pumps them slowly. Arthur digs his fingers in, losing himself before realising it’s John’s bad shoulder. His arm falls away, lands on the bed roll and stays there. “You ain’t gonna’ hurt me.”
John chuckles. “Not unless you ask for it.”
“I’m asking for it.”
“Are you?”
“John, do not tease me right now.” He blurts. “Don't make me beg. Just fuck me.”
He braces himself for more teasing; it doesn’t come. Instead John rips his fingers out so hard Arthur yelps! Then, he spits. Arthur closes his eyes, body tensing for what’s to come. A million thoughts swirl around loudly in that head of his and then;
Near silence. The only thing left in his head is John.
The younger man’s cock presses against Arthur’s entrance. Almost stalling, almost. John spits again and slicks Arthur up this time. Then, he presses himself inside agonizingly slow. Arthur’s eyes roll back. He stretches and burns around John’s cock. It hurts, like it always does when they get too eager, but God does it feel good. It takes time to adjust. John watches him closely, he's being awful patient. This really is for Arthur more than for him. There are times when placating words aren't enough to fix or help. They're both men of action with watchful eyes; in the years they've grown together John learned how to soothe him with actions and words, even at the risk of Arthur lashing out. Like now. Arthur never would've sought out love or reassurance, but John knew he needed it, came and found him. Something about the care and consideration makes Arthur's heart swell.
They moan matching sounds when Arthur’s body finally sucks him in. John is fully seated, fully inside him. No matter how many times they’ve done this, he can scarcely believe it. The way it works, the way they fit together every which way, it’s beyond words.
“Move!” Arthur cries out.
John squeezes his thigh, he makes a sound like a snarl and finally starts. Arthur’s hands fly to the bedroll, grasping at the fabric. He whines a broken sound shamelessly. John says something, but Arthur can’t hear it; his heartbeat echoes in his ears.
“My God, oh Lord!”
John chuckles, moves like he’s gutting him, like he’s just barely poking into him. Slower than usual, Arthur's preferred pace. “Barely got started and look at you.”
His words bring a heat to his ears, to his cheeks, his chest, his belly, his balls, everywhere. He doesn’t reach for his own cock, John likes to bring him off himself. He’s more than capable of taking care of Arthur these days, in more ways than this.
“Ugh God, feels like you’re squeezing me. Taking me in so good.” John’s voice, his eyes, both are filled with adoration as they look down at him. He runs a hand up Arthur’s side, touches the softest parts of him. Parts of his marked-up body he dislikes the most. John touches him gentle. “No one like you—there’s no one like you Arthur.”
Arthur can only respond with a broken moan. John cups his pec, gropes the mass of his flesh and thumbs his nipple. He grabs John’s wrist, brings his hand up to his mouth; Arthur kisses his hand, presses his cheek into it all needy-like. John chuckles again.
It spurs him on. He shouldn’t have so much energy at this age, not with that body of his taking so much over the years, but John picks up the pace. Screwing into him proper, pushing his leg up higher. Arthur gasps. That's it! John found it. That glorious spot in him. He takes his hand away, runs it down Arthur’s soft belly and moans.
“You feel that? Feel me?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Feel how hard I am. That’s how bad I want you.”
“Yeah,” he repeats, quiet to his own ears. His ears are ringing, his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. Breathless he is, his lungs ain’t keeping no air inside. He’s teetering on the brink of release, reaching the end of his line and he’s stupid with the selfish want to shoot so hard he blacks out. Let John do what he wants with his body after he’s closed his eyes and let bliss carry him away.
“Shit. Almost there, know it’s soon, but Arthur I’m almost,—”
“Lord, John.”
John is a sweaty picture blurred by happy tears. Handsome and lean, hairy and muscular in all the right places. They lock eyes and time stops just for them. John falls forward, onto Arthur’s cold sweaty, heaving chest, into Arthur’s awaiting arms that enclose him in a tight embrace. Fingers grab fistfuls of his shirt and hold on for dear life as John braces himself with hands splayed out either side of Arthur’s face, and fucks him so hard the slapping of skin on skin renders him deaf—
“Oh my God!” he’s going to scream, he’s going to cry. Folk'll hear him, across town, to the other side of the country; he can't keep quiet, can't practice restraint. He digs into the shirt so hard he feels John’s hard back.
“My beautiful...old boy,” John pants. Finally, he takes Arthur's cock in his hand and strokes. “Love you. Want you forever. Want this forever.”
John's sweet words turn to babbling noise to his ears as that precious spot inside of Arthur takes hit after hit while John jerks his hard heavy cock until;
“Oh fuck, Arthur!” John hangs his head, his black hair tickles Arthur’s face. His grip is so tight it hurts.
Arthur's eyelids flutter and he clenches around John’s cock so tight the other man cries out a beautiful sound that finally sends Arthur over the edge. His muscles tense and release instantly and he sags, a foreign cry comes from his mouth, a pathetic sort of keening as he shoots off in the other's hand. He paints his own stomach in hot ribbons of cum. John never looks away. Not as Arthur heaves heavy breaths and comes back to himself, not even when he realises there’s tears running down his face.
The world comes to a quiet stillness; the ringing in his ears replaced by the whooshing of wind and the pounding of blood. Past John there’s the cloudy grey sky engulfing them, trees rustling into view.
“Ain’t so pretty now.” Arthur says when he can finally speak again. He laughs from his belly, or maybe it’s a sob—he can’t rightly tell.
Rough fingertips find his face, forcing him to look up. No hiding. Arthur stares back into John’s eyes, dark and narrow and bliss-blown.
“Know what I’m seeing?” John slows. He's breathless, his words come out barely a whisper between gentle thrusts. “M’seein’ soft blue eyes...nice pink all over your skin. Strong jaw, nicely tanned skin. Got the best lips, better than anyone...man or woman. I’m looking at the only man I’ll ever love and he’s a real pretty sight.”
It’s too much all over again. Arthur throws an arm over his face. John just chuckles. He picks up momentum again, hard heat moving inside him once more. Almost painful. Arthur’s back screams from this angle. His ring is puffy and sensitive, his insides aching fiercely. John knows this, picks up pace. Sharp breaths through clenched teeth and brows drawn together with concentration; he knows John is still looking at him. A shiver travels up his spine. Arthur bears his face, shoves aside his shyness and shame, and tosses his arm over John’s neck.
The younger man thrusts once, twice; like an animal searching for a pulse John noses his neck until he finds a pulse point and skims it with his teeth. He doesn’t bite, only closes his mouth around it and sucks a moan from Arthur’s mouth. He could sink his teeth in and taste blood if he wanted to, Arthur would let him, God help him he’d let John do anything he wanted.
John’s hips sputter, for half a second he stops moving; then he jerks forward, forces every last bit of himself into Arthur and spills with a deep raspy groan.
It’s Arthur’s turn to bring him back. He grabs both sides of John’s face and pulls him back just enough to pepper him with chaste kisses everywhere he can reach. He groans as John slips off him, lays at his side; his body stretches out into a much more comfortable position with his legs and hips finally laying flat.
“Alright,” John chuckles, breathless. Voice giddy and rough.
“Tickleish?” Arthur grins, teeth against the other man's neck.
“You know I am.” He sucks in a breath, shoving himself up with a groan and looking over Arthur. John opens his mouth, then promptly closes it with a smile and a shake of the head. “Darling, you…you’re something special.”
Arthur takes a deep breath. Soft words, sweet sounding affirmations, all of it feels wrong coming from his mouth. He takes better to pencil and paper. “You sure do talk a lot.”
“I do a lot of things.” John smiles smugly, sounding way too proud of himself.
“Sure do,” Arthur shoves himself up. “Now c’mere, come help your ‘old boy’.”
“Again?” John asks, or maybe suggests.
“Jesus, give me a breather.” He winces at the drop of spend that escapes him as he moves. “If you were a proper gentleman you’d offer to clean the mess you made.”
“Good thing I ain’t a proper gentleman then.” John stands, stretching his arms and groaning, then he holds a hand out.
“What the hell is this!”
They both jump from their skin. John scrambles for his gunbelt, Arthur’s head whips up. He lets out a breath and sags.
“S’only Sadie.” He's glad for that, then realises it's Sadie and promptly reaches for something to cover his shame.
John freezes, then in a split second he drops his gunbelt cussing and shoves his cock back into his pants.
“Damn-well sounded like you was bein’ gutted!”
“Ain't too far off.” John mutters.
“John! H-he didn’t mean nothin’ by that,” Arthur sputters.
“Shut up. I come by enough I know what that means. You yowl worse than a cat Arthur Morgan! Out here in the open, that’s the issue, anyone could’ve walked right up and neither of you would’ve noticed!”
John has the good graces to hang his head in shame at least, mock shame more likely than not. Sadie turns around, hands on her hips.
“Unbelivable. Out here like a pair of young boys who don’t know better. Fools you is.” She shakes her head, peers over her shoulder. “How does that saying go?”
John beats him to it, “men grow older, not wiser. Something like that.”
“Exactly that. Now are you two coming back?”
John smirks at her chastising. Then he looks at Arthur, eyes flitting over his body once more. Heat spreads to Arthur’s face again.
"Think we'll be seeing Charles an' you much later." John says. "Got a mess I need to attend to."
Sadie and Charles leave within two days of one another. Sadie first, heading back into town to spend some more time with Abigail; then Charles who takes Uncle along with him. He’s Abigail’s problem for however long he chooses to stay there—if they’re lucky he’ll opt for a full month in town this time.
John collapses on the couch, bone tired from hauling boxes and packing wagons. The scent of something good cooking wafts from the kitchen to the living room, he breathes it in as he searches for his smokes. John’s fingers close around a slip of paper. Perhaps it’s the dreaded delivery note from earlier. He pulls it out then pauses. That photo of Arthur, still tucked away in his jeans from that night. Huh, he would’ve put that away when they—oh that’s right, he fell on the floor and didn’t get back up until morning light. Arthur bitched and moaned about his sore back for hours. John chuckles.
“Something funny?” Arthur lingers in the doorway, his shirt stained with droplets of whatever he’s got cooking away.
“Look what I’ve got.”
Arthur pauses, mouth slightly ajar. “Never gonna’ be rid of that am I?”
John rises, steps over the sleeping cat, making his way to the bookshelf. He skims until he finds their scrapbook. Flipping around for an empty spot, he lands on a clear page that just so happens to be next to a photo of Arthur and him. It’s in much better shape than others, having been taken and kept safely tucked away for their eyes only.
Albert Mason came around after a few years of letters back and forth with Arthur; he’d situated them properly, fussed about their outfits and hair, and posed them just right before he finally took their photo. There’s a few; one right by the door, both of them lazing about—staged of course. Another he’d taken by the firepit outside, it was terribly blurred, hadn’t really turned out. They’d both been laughing about something. The photo sits there anyway, with a little note beside saying “poor Albert came close to throwing his camera at my head that day," written by Arthur. The memory of it makes John smile.
His favourite of the bunch was one taken inside. It started with a joke after a few drinks. Albert had long packed away his camera. The dreaded question of “why ain’t you married?” directed at Arthur. Albert already knew little of the unconventional situation concerning Abigail and John.
“Never been asked.” Arthur had simply said. Which then prompted John to slip to the floor in an over dramatic fashion, take his hand, and pose the question half heartedly.
“Almost said no.” Arthur chimes in behind him. “Remember Albert’s face? Looking between the two of us, could see him piecing things together.”
“I remember. Never seen a man want to take back his words so quickly.”
“There was that one time with Uncle.”
“That’s right. I almost hit him.”
Arthur winds his arm around John’s waist. He tips his head to the side, joining him in looking over the photos. “Imagine the look on his face if I’d taken you into my lap.”
“Oh wonderful Mr Morgan! Why didn’t I think of that!” John gives his best Albert Mason impression.
Arthur laughs softly by his ear. John traces the image with his thumb. In the photo; they sit side by side, turned toward one another slightly. John’s leg swung over Arthur’s, the older man’s hand on his thigh. They’re dressed in their regular clothes looking a proper mess after a few drinks. They’re grinning like idiots. On John’s hand is Arthur’s old ring. Worn just for the photo, for the joke of it; years later it was John's turn to gift the other man one that matched.
John takes the old photo of Arthur, gives it another look, then places it inside the album before shutting it. Soon as the book is put back John spins around, slipping his arms around Arthur. The older man cups his face gently, thumb resting on his cheek. They come together slowly. Something chaste and sweet. Arthur’s lips are rough, but the kiss is soft. He hums happily and John melts at the sound.
It’s just the two of them now, and they stand alone in their living room. The fireplace flickers, the space fills with the sound of lips on lips, John’s nose fills with the scent of…
He breaks the kiss. “You getting soft in the head in your old age?”
Arthur scowls. “What?”
“Arthur, the stove.”
“Shit!” Arthur shoves him so fast he nearly falls. He half runs to the kitchen. “Quit laughing Marston, that’s your dinner too!”
John bites his lip, muffles the sound of his amusement, and follows after Arthur.