✘ 𝐍𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄.

‘  you’re  recovering  well.  ‘  setting  himself  down  in  the  seat  next  to  john.  ‘  you  know  bill  is  jealous,  right?  says  he  wants  a  scar  like  yours  —  ridiculous.  ‘  a  small  chuckle  slipping  past  his  lips.

@enturmoiled ❤

“I’ll be honest, John,” she sounds tired. And she is. It’s not like Beecher’s Hope isn’t a lovely homestead. It is. It’s being cooped up there, agony creeping up into her side from the festering knife wound. “I try real hard not t'think about most of it. I’d lose my mind.”

Sadie winces, shifting to sit up. “Besides, some things are heavy enough all their own.”

   ❛ hey, easy there, ❜ ( sadie’s independent, hardier than most, with twice as much drive as the devil — john understands that, respects it. he tries to avoid overstepping her convalescence, but he does stray in moments like these, rising from his bedside seat to adjust the pillows against the headboard, lest her back strains. ) ❛ you don’t want that wound to open up. plenty nasty business gettin’ it closed the first time. ❜

     for a second, john’s not sure if he’s only talking about the gash in her side. sadie’s right, of course: some things are heavy enough all their own, and he should know better than to flirt with memory’s long drop with that much weight on his shoulders and too little rope. 

hey thanks!! i’m always up for rdr threads, but it’s a hard verse to make work for everyone given the plot constraints. 

tbh when i first played rdr, i got halfway through the mexican civil war arc and lost interest? i eventually watched a let’s play for the rest of the story, and enjoyed what i had missed more than what i’d actually experienced myself ( with a few strong reservations ), so take that as you will. regardless, i agree with the general consensus that rdr2 improves on rdr’s formula immensely. 

   John has spoken of freedom far too ignorantly. Naive, in that doubtful manner he’s always carried. — his freedom, always borne in that of his ‘ family ’, & in his frenzied pursuit of that liberty he’s strived for. — & Dutch knows that the other’s wrongdoings always lingered in his lack of FAITH & gullible affection for the wrong family. That affection, leading him to be the carrier of Dutch’s doom. His own son ; now the shepherd that guides him to what was once their common enemy. It pains him — a picture blurrily painting his harsh, bloodshot eyes.                   ❝   That ain’t fair, John. You always was like a son to me.  ❞

    He utters the words hoarsely, ignoring the advice assertively stated by the other. His breath, short from the horse’s back pushing into ribs. The remnant of the man he once was resides yet in an older frame. Residue, from a life so tainted with exterior weakness that he was only too blind to see — or rather too soft to deny. His life, what he once called family ; a beautiful, albeit fictitious tale    ( & how he longs for it yet ).     A retelling of adventures, inevitably leading to the downfall of man brought upon him by his very own creation. The rebirth, stronger & careless in an oh so caring manner. His gang, now steadfast though never the same. So there is truth to the same words he hears escape his own lips    ( though expressed in a mocking manner ),    as there is some truth to what is spoken by the other.         ❝  You mistake their decrepit power — you mistake their words — for that of promise. I’m ashamed, John. I really am.  ❞        

   ❛ don’t start with that son crap. ❜ ( rights to that word, to that bond, were forfeited when john had to pick himself up from the trackside dirt, shoulder pulpy with blood and grit, and trek his way back to beaver hollow knowing his life meant nothing to the man who’d shaped it most. he was a fool for keeping the faith at sisika, for expecting dutch to break him out and make good on that promise of paradise. john feels the rancor burn in his throat, rising with a vein in his neck. ) ❛ you chose your sons, dutch. and not one of ‘em was me. ❜

     there is no gratification in the rough and wearied state dutch bears. no joy in the last exchange john anticipates making with that suited bastard, ross. bitterness swells and spills into the spaces between his ribs come each passing breath, and yet john still wonders if he shouldn’t set his mentor down, fireside, for something like dignity’s sake. ( & not a moment later, he’s glaring back down at the outstretched flames, and wishing he could throw that damn thought in with the tinder. shouldn’t be dignity he’s worried about; should be an escape. )

❝  not many times , plus i jus ‘ wanna dance . it doesn’t matter if you can’t do it or not – just let me lead . ❞   she smiles , still flattered that he would keep away some annoying pestering suitor that she never would care for . she had eyes on other men and women , but right now – she had eyes for john marston , thought not in the light some of the women at this very same party probably had . still , she was glad to have his attention – his company . he was a good person , in her opinion , good enough that she thought highly enough of him despite his other obvious flaws . 

she pulls him out closer to the floor – but well away from the crowd . somewhere they can ramble about without ruining the flow of the other dancers . she had only learned in passing ; when she used to work the balls that needed prettier girls with baser skills .  ❝  the dance is pretty slow and simple , put your hands here .  ❞  her voice is gentle , hands just the same as she guides his calloused palm to her hip – truly taking the other in her hand until he’s gotten the positioning just right .

❝ if it were a waltz , i think you’d have to go with the tune , but i think like this you just do two swaying steps .  ❞  she obviously wasn’t the expert , but she was also enjoying herself . full lips pulled into a smile .

     in spite of himself, john allows himself to be led, the odd sheep to her shepherd, his legs long but keeping a modest ( shy, even ) gait as their pair relocates to a remote corner of the floor. his palms are collecting a slick unease, which john tries to wipe off on his coat in a furtive motion before his hands are due for here and there along tilly’s figure. 

     it’s a dance, not a shootout, though somehow john thinks this would be less daunting if it were. he knows his way around a gun, after all, not a high-domed ballroom cluttered with folk better dressed and more cultured than he is. but tilly’s voice is lenient, her touches kind, as she tenders one of his palms to her hip, the other to her own. john clears his throat, awkward and wistful for the slipshod simplicity of saloon jigs. ❛ i, uh. i’m glad this ain’t a waltz, then. ❜ 

[ ❖ ] ;; – When has Arthur ever been a different man, really? Sour as he may be, quick to judge and even quicker to pull the trigger, family was still family and that loyalty had meant everything to him. Restless fingers flick off the ash at the end of his cigarette before he brought it back to his lips, inhaling deep enough that he smoke that thing down to the filter, whats left of it snuffed out by his boot shortly thereafter.

“Are you done?”

Sharing had never been his strong suit, not with emotions. Not with the way his mind worked. Always too convinced he’d been too stupid to put feelings to words, that even if he could do it no one would really understand. What kind of fool had Arthur been this whole time, shunning the mere thought of emotional intimacy with another human being– with family– over his own wounded pride? Through the smoke he could see the fault lines of their tenuous relationship, but he doesn’t want to be the one who caused the earthquake that could make it all fall apart more than it already has.

“I’m not asking you to read my mind, Marston.” In comparison his voice does not raise at all, it lowered to that quiet uncomfortable growl, thick fingers curled into fists with his nails leaving little crescents in his callused palms. “You go on and on about my attitude, how I do the things I do, but never stopped to think about asking what’s wrong or reflecting on it even a lil bit without guidance. I don’t give TWO SHITS about anything else right now, the only thing between us is just us. Not Dutch. Not anyone else, not like you think I do. I ain’t petty like that, you know it.” 

   ❛ — no, i ain’t done. ❜ 

   ( the edge in his voice could pare obsidian. it’s an old anger rupturing within him, one that’s folded and folded upon itself like hot iron with every moment he’s turned the other cheek, refusing to add fire to the flame which has beset the long-suffering bridge between them. john feels his temper careering wildly away from him, a coach without a driver, but can’t bring himself to care. the grievances have been aired, finally, and every passing syllable is another piece of kindling thrown on the pile. )

   ❛ if you ain’t petty, then how come i ain’t never hear you shut up about prize pony this, work horse that? all it ever is with you is how things is changed, ‘cept for how damn stupid i am, and how high and mighty you once been, as if you ain’t always been the low-down son of a bitch you are now. ❜

   ( somewhere beyond the haze of his own bitterness, john knows he’s the only one yelling. maybe that’ll change, maybe it won’t. for the moment, he’s just burning and hoping all of this weight, all of this bullshit he’s been dragging behind him, will cinder too. ) 

Giles sat wearily next to the other as the silence rises between them once more. Gaze flickering from the hand that rested upon his own knee and to his head as it tilted back. Watching gulp after gulp be SWALLOWED down with ease. The hunter only wishes he could drink like that tonight. It might would settle his rattled nerves. But… a part of him didn’t want to try and push this off. Or have it CLOUD over their company. If they didn’t get past it now— this tension would still remain when they met again.

Tongue dipped out to dampen chapped lips before teeth gently bite down on his lower. He stared at the empty bottle. Thoughts wandering once more on the matter at hand. He’s itching to address it once more— force the two of them to talk about it. But he wasn’t looking to scare John off or start anything over something so… well, he isn’t even sure how to put it into words. MINOR. Gaze snapped back up as the other spoke. Brows furrowed and eyes wide. Evidently TAKEN ABACK. Giles questioned him with uncertainty, ‘‘… No?’‘

‘’I— I ain’t either.’’ It wasn’t very often the world or the people in it were KIND to the hunter. When he received it, it wasn’t always easy to understand. Why? For what? Giles rested his elbows against the table. Fingers laced together as he turned his eyes back down to trace the pattern of the wood. ‘’It’s…’’ voice was soft, ‘’Yous was… real quiet tonight— I jus’ hope that weren’t my fault. Because of what I did.’’

   ❛ had a lot of thinkin’ to do. makes for bad company. ❜ ( john idly rotates the bottle in quarter turns, listening to it scrape the water-worn softwood beneath. he’s grateful the table grain bears the weight of giles’ attention; john’s not sure if his burgeoning grit is well-cured enough to withstand the whole of it yet. ) ❛ my friends tell me i ain’t never been good at doin’ two things at once, so i just — picked one and stuck with it. ❜

     he’s being polite, in his own way, when the alternative response is a decisive nod of his head and some confirmation that the silence was giles’ fault, even if for reasons john realizes now that he doesn’t regret or contemn. what’s transpired between them is a hard skein in his throat, and while john has never had a talent for words, the mere ghost of a gesture hanging over him makes it all the more difficult. his eyes hazard the climb to giles’ shoulder and no further.