let me play among the stars;

🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈

Cats didn't like Arthur at all.

Dogs, sure. Horses, absolutely; he even had a knack for taming wild ones.

With cats, Arthur didn't even try anymore. Except when he was drunk, feeling alone and unloved and somehow even more awful that most of them wouldn't even get close to the can of tuna he offered them while he was close-by, nevermind letting Arthur pet them.

It wasn't a big deal. Drink just made him more sentimental than usual. And he drank more than usual since—

Well. Since the day Arthur arrived in Saint Denis with a persistent cough that he didn't really want to think about, and left the town with the knowledge that he was going to die soon.

So it didn't really matter anymore, that drinking in excess wasn't healthy — what a ridiculous thought, that there was a time he took care of his body and it obeyed him, honed to a fine edge like a weapon. But now, with that off the table, he just wanted to forget sometimes. Get the heavy weight of death off his shoulders.

Arthur used to be able to hold his drink, except that he's lost weight recently, and now it didn't take more than a few beers for him to get stupid.

Stupid like now. Swaying on his feet, and whispering 'pspspsps' encouragingly at the tabby he's miraculously found not far from camp.

And despite how this always happened, he felt heartbroken when it ran away. It must have either come from Annesburg or even the further cities, through the territory of cougars or worse; or maybe it was such a beloved pet its owner brought it on their travels, and it escaped. And after all that, it ran from him too.

Damn. Arthur must be so rotten inside even God's fluffiest creatures wanted nothing to do with him.

He sighed and drained the rest of his beer, gagging and coughing a bit and barely managing to keep even the drink down. Guess it was time for bed, if he was getting up to these shenanigans. But he hated sleeping, these days. He had nightmares more often than not, and the tense atmosphere of Beaver Hollow got in his head and made him restless, insomniac.

Not to mention sleeping here meant subjecting the gang to the humiliation of Arthur's mornings: the coughing fits and spitting blood; his slow, painful movement and loss of strength — completely coincidentally, there were way more volunteers for camp chores lately. Sad little camp Beaver Hollow was with little to do to make it home. And Arthur, when he went looking for something to do, barely found anything left, or even if he found it, it wasn't long before one of the others took it off his hands.

Most of the gang didn't speak of love all that often, but it was there, and they all knew it. Arthur felt it, strong even through the misery and hard times they faced.

He was still dying, though.

Ah, maybe he needed another beer or two, no matter how little he liked drinking it.

He started for the camp, needing to catch his balance on a tree every now and then, his lantern swaying along with him. It got late while he was wandering around getting drunk; it was dark, and colder than during the day. Arthur was grateful he at least had the good sense to stay near the camp, so now he didn't have to stumble through as much ground. It still seemed like an eternity.

After a while, he heard a "who goes there?". Charles on duty tonight, then, he'd know his voice anywhere. Deep, smooth, intoxicating—

Oh, what foolish thoughts he was having.

"It's me, Arthur." He said as loudly and clearly as he could.

Arthur stumbled closer, closer to finally resting for the night, closer to Charles, where he was sitting on a log, legs spread — and Arthur really did not try hard enough to not imagine what he could be doing in between those spread legs. The temptation was too great.

He'd be on his knees, the strong thighs surrounding his head. Charles' hands would be in his hair, he'd lean in close to breathe in the smell of him that must be delicious, leather and sweat and something else. Arthur wanted to get his mouth around him, struggle to take the cock that he only caught enough glimpses of to know it was more than proportionate to the rest of him—

Occupied with such impossible fantasies and staring, it took a while for Arthur to notice that the tabby that bolted from him earlier was sitting in Charles' lap now.

It even almost ran at seeing him again, but the touch of Charles' gentle hand (oh dear Lord those hands) settled it back down.

"That cat's an asshole," Arthur blurted out. No filter after this much drink, at this time of the night.

"Oh? How so?" Charles asked, amused.

Arthur never understood why some people called him aloof or intimidating or inscrutable. He always saw the emotion clearly in Charles' face, and it was often joy or curiosity or fondness.

It was only lately that there was a dark cloud over him of worry or exhaustion or anger.

But otherwise, he was so pure. Not suited for this wretched life. Not like Arthur. He should get out before he got poisoned, too.

"Ran away from me, climbed right into your lap."

… On second thought, Arthur didn't blame the cat. He wished he could climb into Charles' lap.

"… Thank you?"

Oh damn. Did he say all that out loud? Jesus.

"Sorry, Charles. Had a bit too much to drink, talking nonsense. You know how it is."

He was on the verge of bidding him goodnight and finally going to bed and not ever thinking about this again when Charles' answer stopped him cold.

It wasn't the words, it was the tone. The same tone Albert used, and Charles Châtenay, and Algernon, and a smattering of other men throughout Arthur's life. Wanting to give him a very specific sign but keeping plausible deniability in case they misjudged Arthur, or anybody overheard.

It shocked him to his core to hear Charles speak like that.

"I do know how it is. I know you. Though not as much as I'd like."

Damn. Overt, for their kind. Arthur felt abruptly both sobered up and even more drunk on the words — he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't passed out hallucinating somewhere. Or dying and hallucinating. But what a way to go.

If only Charles spoke like that a few weeks ago.

"Charles… I'd like to get to know you more too. But I'm not exactly pleasant company lately. And I don't want you to get sick too."

"I'd want to be in your heart more than your bed."

That was bolder than bold, and so outside his expectations he had no idea what to say or think or feel. There wasn't a lot of them, men of their proclivities, but surely Charles wasn't that desperate?

And, what was more, men didn't love each other. Arthur grew fond of some of them, and some of them grew fond of him too. They kissed, they were affectionate.

But they didn't love each other.

They couldn't.

That was the reality. That was the age they lived in.

But still he had no way to command his heart. No way to stop the fluttering in his chest the moment he first laid eyes on Charles. No strength to resist how easy it was to talk to him, how stunning he was to look at, the sight of him taking Arthur's breath away each time.

Effortless camaraderie gave way to friendship and then love. If Arthur wasn't hopelessly in love at first sight already.

And so the only thing he could say to that, quiet and aching, was, "I'd want that, too."

Arthur should shut this down, but he was weak. There were less and less pleasures to their life lately, and he never could resist spending time with the other man. Arthur would go wherever he'd take him.

And at his words, it was like the sun came up on Charles' face — in his opinion, that was an absurd amount of joy to feel because of a man like Arthur.

"Come here, then. Hopefully the cat'll let you pet it, too."

That was the last thing on his mind right now.

He stepped over but sure enough, Charles took his hand and carefully guided him to pet the cat. It started purring, which for Arthur was an entirely new thing to feel up close. The soft fur of the animal felt good; but the warmth of Charles' hand, the surprising smoothness of it, the surety which with he guided Arthur felt divine.

And then Charles took his hand with both of his and brought it to his mouth and pressed a kiss to it, and suddenly Arthur cared even less for the cat, sweet thing that it was.

He let out a shuddering sigh. Really, he shouldn't be letting even such an innocent touch happen, but it felt too good to resist. When was the last time he was touched like he was something precious? Looked at with such fire and longing, like Charles looked at him now? His eyes were endless black pools of desire that Arthur could get lost in.

"Wait for me?" Charles whispered. Suddenly it hit him how much of a risk Charles was taking — strong, stoic Charles baring himself for Arthur to embrace or to hurt.

It was inconceivable that someone like Charles could think Arthur worth such a risk. Even just the chance of loving Arthur, without any pleasurable reward at the end.

"Don't have long 'til Javier is on guard duty. Will you pitch a tent nearby, and wait for me?"

Arthur was nodding before the question was even finished.

"I will."

And he tried to convey with his gaze the many things that went unsaid between them, and would go unsaid always now.

But there was still some love left to be salvaged, Arthur reasoned, turning on his heel and walking away even as he felt like he wanted nothing less than to be farther away from Charles right now.

Dying men always got wise advice from everyone else, whether they were fit to give it or not. And they were always supposed to be grateful for it, even if not all of them were useful; but what the Sister said to him struck Arthur more than the others. It echoed in his head like a bell now.

'Take a gamble that love exists and do a loving act.' Arthur thought if that was anything more than comforting words, it referred to the gang. His family. The idiot little brother and the unraveling father he had left of it, and damn him that he still loved them both. And everyone else from the gang he'd still take a bullet for in a heartbeat.

But maybe he could have this. He certainly didn't deserve it, but if Charles offered, he feared he wouldn't have the strength to resist. Could this be his last wish? Was he near enough to death that he wouldn't need a last wish for anything else?

Such were Arthur's thoughts — rambling, nonsensical, hope warring with despair — while he fetched his sleeping bag.

He picked a direction and walked for a few minutes, then deemed the area far enough and started on a campfire. He had no doubts Charles could find him easily, but even if they only talked, it wasn't wise to do so in Arthur's open tent in the camp. Maybe he was getting paranoid, but he no longer trusted everyone in the gang with this particular secret, and it seemed Charles didn't either.

Well. Arthur's nature was only mostly a secret. Hosea knew, because Arthur couldn't hide anything from him, and Bill knew, because men like them recognized each other. He had a feeling about Charles too, but thought he was just imagining things, hope making him stupid.

Arthur laid down his sleeping bag next to the now-burning campfire and settled on his back. He stared up at the sky, but everything was obscured by fog; only the moon and a few of the brightest stars were shining through.

It was foolish, but he was always comforted by seeing the night sky. The stars scattered like freckles on a face, shining, too many to count. The milky way, if he was lucky, and the moon with its mysterious glow. It was all beautiful, in a way he could never capture in his drawings.

And he liked not being alone in the darkness, liked being reminded how small he was compared to the vastness of the world. But now that thought filled him with a touch of sadness too; he'd never get to see any more of it. All those things he put off for later, thinking he was too busy, thinking he'd have time; and time was suddenly running through his fingers like sand.

Thank God he slacked off some days. Thank God he explored, and helped strangers and friends, and played cards, and ate good food, and loved a little bit before his time was up.

Arthur also robbed and killed and hardly thought twice about it until he felt the consequences on his own skin.

Charles interrupted that miserable line of thought. He must have deliberately made some noise as he arrived so as not to startle him.

Arthur heaved himself up, trying to stifle the noises his body made as it protested the movement.

"You don't need to get up on—ah, nevermind, you stubborn fool," Charles chastised him fondly.

"Forgive me if I don't want to be abed like an invalid while you talk at me," Arthur snarked back.

The corner of Charles' mouth twitched up in amusement as he held up his own sleeping bag in question.

"Can I rest by your fire, kind stranger?"

He was so charming, damn him. Arthur took his time answering just so he could look his fill for once, not just try to content himself with quick glances.

Charles was perfect all over. His broad, strong shoulders, thick thighs. His face scarred by violence right next to his kind, warm eyes that still held that hint of laughter in them. Handsome stubble on his chiseled jaw, plush lips that Arthur wanted to bite, silky-looking long black hair, dark brown skin that now he knew the feel of.

He could have been a fairytale prince in another life.

Arthur wished they could kiss. Fairytale-like. The kind of kiss that meant a happy ending. He wished they could make love. He wished they had more time. He wanted arguments and making up and many more rides and building a life together. Desperately, he thought they could have had a house somewhere in the west. No sickness, no violence, nobody who would know them.

Well, if wishes were horses.

"Sure. Have a seat," Arthur drawled after he finally made himself stop staring and wishing and blinked away his tears.

Charles put his sleeping bag down right next to Arthur's and sat. Now that they were both here, suddenly Arthur had no idea what more to say. They stared into the flickering flames.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," Charles started hesitantly after a while. Arthur's eyelids were getting heavy, and he had to make an effort to focus on the conversation.

"Tell me what?"

Charles fixed him with a bewildered look at that, like it was obvious.

"That I love you."

Oh. It was different to hear it said so plainly.

Instead of something unbelievably stupid like 'better late than never', Arthur made himself answer, very quietly, "I love you, too."

Saying it made his chest ache in an entirely new way.

Charles reached out to grip his hand. All the warmth and goodness in the world seemed to be contained in him.

Arthur closed his eyes. He breathed in and out, noisily and heavily. He took in the crisp evening air, the smell of the earth, the crackling of the logs on the fire. He imagined he could hear Charles' breathing; the beating of his heart, endlessly precious.

In a few minutes, Charles would ask him if he could hold Arthur as they fell asleep.

He'd say yes despite himself. Anything. Always.

Tomorrow, he'd wake breathless. He'd regret putting Charles in danger, no matter how right it felt to be together like this. Tomorrow, he'd go back to camp and speculate whether anyone knew, just by looking at him, that he gave into temptation. Tomorrow, he'd wrestle with himself until inevitably he'd seek Charles out again, and his presence would quieten the hate in Arthur.