Mars

Ever since Kieran has been let off that pole, he was trying his best to blend into the background. Doing just enough to contribute, keep the camp clean and the horses fed, but not enough to catch someone's attention and get yelled at for nothing.

Even though Kieran didn't mind it when you were the one yelling at him. Well, you didn't really shout, but even if you were just snapping at him, or nagging him to do something, he would secretly be happy, because at least you talked to him.

"Maybe you ain't that bad, Kieran."

Kieran knew these words probably didn't mean anything to you, but they made his heart thud in his chest like a train. And you were the outlaw his train was robbed by. And this was the first time you called him by his first name, instead of O'Driscoll boy, or something worse.

You continued, "She doesn't let others get close to her, not the men at least. Guess you're special." Your tone was teasing, but he took your words as a compliment.

"She's a nice horse," Kieran said, "I don't get why others say she's... mean."

Mean wasn't exactly how others described her, but you caught his meaning. "Guess she's very picky. I remember when we were out on a job in Blackwater and she literally bit Micah in the ass. He was so angry, it was priceless. Micah still says she should've been shot long ago, apparently that's what happens to crazy horses."

You laughed at the memory, and Kieran smiled. He didn't know why you were talking to him, but he wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

"I just..." he hesitated, "I dunno, talked to her. It's kind of like talking to people, you gotta earn their trust."

You hummed thoughtfully, surprised by his answer. It was easy to forget that there was more to Kieran than his stammering and nervous glances. For all his skittishness, he was an intelligent and caring guy - something most men in the gang lacked.

"Or maybe she's just like a stick of dynamite," Kieran allowed himself to joke, "gotta be careful with those."

A short laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "So which one is it, Kieran? Is she nice, or a dynamite stick?"

"Can't she be both? Makes her a lot of work, but she's worth it..."

The look in his eyes caught you off guard. He was talking about the horse, yes, but his words could have a deeper meaning.

Your mare shifted in spot, her ears flicking as if sensing the tension, and Kieran's gaze fell back to her, as if he feared he said too much.

"Thanks for braiding her tail," you switched the topic, "it looks pretty."

The second time you didn't snap at Kieran, but instead were nice to him, was a few days later. There were some tensions in the gang, Micah trying to get inside everyone's heads, Sadie arguing with Pearson, Abigail nagging about John's lack of responsibility more than usually.

So you decided to clear your head and go for a ride. Grabbing the saddle and throwing it over your mare's back, you hoped to be quick so that no one starts nagging your ass about a chore that needed doing.

As you tightened the straps, you felt something was different. You ran your hand along the leather, frowning. The buckle near the stirrup, the one that had been coming loose for weeks, was now repaired. As if someone carefully mended it without telling you, and you had an idea who could have done it.

You've been meaning to fix it for ages, but never had time. Every time you came back from a job, there were chores that needed doing, or people needing something. You barely had time to eat, let alone fix the saddle.

Kieran, as always, was by the horses. Making your way over, you heard a soft melody he was humming as he brushed one of the horses.

"Hey, O'Driscoll boy." You said, but your tone had softened throughout the days.

Kieran's eyes met yours, and you could see the nervousness already setting in. "Yes, miss?" He asked, clutching the brush in both hands.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about a saddle that needed fixing, would ya?"

He gulped, afraid he overcrossed a boundary. "Oh... yeah, uh, I noticed it needed fixing. So I— I fixed it. Didn't want you falling and getting hurt or... something. I know you didn't ask for help, but—"

You interrupted him, "I ain't mad, Kieran. Thank you, I appreciate it, really."

Kieran's face brightened as if you just handed him gold, his eyes widening. "I'm just happy to help, miss."

The next few days were tiring. Dutch had you running errands for him, some business in Rhodes, and you were so tired you couldn't wait to have a moment to sit down and relax.

You had just rode back into the camp. There was nothing you dreamed of more than sitting down for a moment to drink coffee and talk with the girls. If you were lucky, maybe Grimshaw wouldn't be after your asses for being lazy for more than five minutes.

You had barely finished unsaddling your mare when Kieran approached you.

"Hey, uhh..." he started hesitantly, shifting in spot, "I was wondering if you'd like t-to go fishing... with me?"

You blinked at him, your tired mind only half-processing his words. Fishing sounded like more effort than you had energy for. Besides, you weren't that good at fishing anyway. Like, Arthur was better than you, and he wasn't good at all, which spoke for itself.

"Not sure, Kieran. Kinda just feel like sitting around today, y'know?"

Kieran's face fell just a little, but he quickly covered it with a nod, forcing a polite smile. "I see, I see. Maybe another time."

"Maybe another time."

You walked off to where the girls were gathered by their wagon, and you didn't see how Kieran walked away, his shoulders slouched as if he has just been scolded.

Plopping down beside Mary-Beth, you stretched out with a sigh, savoring the momentary peace. The girl beside you gave you a nudge.

"What did Kieran want?" She asked curiously.

"Oh, nothing," you replied with a dismissive wave, "he just wanted to go fishing or something. Told him I'm too tired for that. Not like I can fish anyway, never had the patience."

Other girls exchanged a knowing look, clearly amused, which only seemed to confuse you. "Oh, honey." Karen chuckled.

You looked between the three girls. "What?"

Tilly spoke, "You don't realize, do you?"

"Realize what?"

Mary-Beth leaned in, lowering her voice. "It wasn't just fishing he was asking you for. He was asking you to spend time with him. Alone."

You paused for a second, maybe too tired to process the meaning. "And?"

Tilly rolled her eyes, clearly struggling to hold back a laugh. "Girl, he likes you! He's been watching you for... well, as long as we've been out of Colter and he could take a proper look at you."

"What are you talking about?" Your tone expressed annoyance, but the blush that crept onto your face told a different story.

Karen interjected, louder than you'd like, "He's sweet on you, god damn it!"

Other girls laughed along as you let the realization hit you. You weren't the one to get involved with men, always too busy to focus on romance. Not like any man in the gang was your type anyway, but now... well, Kieran was a part of the gang too. Maybe it was the time to lay off the hard work to the side and focus on some romance in your story.

"You really think he was asking me... on a date?" You hesitated.

"Yeah," Mary-Beth nodded, "in his... odd, shy way. Probably the only way he knows. Kind of cute, it is."

Karen added, "Must've been the first time poor boy did somethin' like this. And he got rejected!"

Mary-Beth patted your shoulder encouragingly. "Go on, you can still catch him."

Hesitantly, you got to your feet, your heart racing as you made your way across camp. It didn't take long to find Kieran. As always, he was just trying to stay out of everyone's way. He was sitting down, fixing another saddle.

"Kieran?" You said, now with a completely soft tone of voice.

He looked up at you from his work, surprised. "Uh, yes, miss?" He asked, already bracing himself for another disappointment.

And just like that, your mind was empty and no words could come to mind. You bit your lip, thinking. "I was, uh, thinking... about that fishing offer, y'know? Is it still on the table?"

His face lit up, a bigger smile replacing his usual shy grimace. "Yes, yes, it is."

"I think I'd like to go, after all..."

"Great! I mean... good, good." He stood up, setting the saddle he was fixing aside. "I'll, uh, go get my fishing rod."

Your eyes followed Kieran as he rushed off to find the item. Maybe you were blind before, but you weren't about to make that mistake again.

Arthur still wants to go back.

It's been nearly an hour since Micah kicked him in the ribs. He knows, because he has become good at telling time, as if the universe is letting him on all those preternatural secrets a little early. It hurts so badly that it has ceased hurting at all— wouldn't he be sad to know it, if Charles had not shot him once Dutch had discarded him, too.

So many emotions on the matter of Dutch, yet no time to feel them. It's a good thing he began grieving him when Hosea died.

Instead of the sharp, white-hotness that he had worried was a rib puncturing his already squeezed lungs, there is now a constant ache throughout his body, maybe his very soul; he had used all of his breath screaming when Charles tried to move him, has not gotten one good one in since, and he thinks they both know the truth.

It's all up to one cough.

One last kick in the ass and it's lights out for old Mister Morgan, because that rattling in his breath can only mean one thing.

Charles kneels before where he lays on his side, looks down at him the way he had looked at that gored horse they came across while hunting, months ago— the way he looked at it before he told Arthur to put it out of its misery. He couldn't pull the trigger, even if he knew it was the kind thing to do. There is something meaningful in that memory which Arthur cannot think of words for, but he understands it the way men understand things when they are dying: silently, and completely.

Why is Charles so quiet, now? Arthur's eyes fall shut, and he cannot find the strength to open them for a long time.

He wouldn't be greedy if God came to him and said sure, son, you all look like ants from here, I'll drop you back into seventy-eight. Blood is seeping into his lungs, has to be, and every drop makes Heaven and Hell sound a whole lot more real.

In a perfect world, he might have left and made house with Eliza or made himself suitable for Mary, swallowed that boring life the happy way most men do. Because he would know. He would work in a mine and he would be happy to breathe in the coal, because he would know.

His wedding ring, he would know that, too, and suddenly this split-second daydream becomes a nightmare all over again.

I need to move on, Arthur, she wrote. It was one less thing to leave behind.

Sometimes he wished that Charles went, too, that he had chosen the type of belonging he'd grieved so often or that he had chosen Dutch, never to be on this mountain in the first place. That he had spat on Arthur and left him without a trace of his mortal life as he lay here dying, none except the familiarity of the sun breaking the sky and the grass dancing in the valley below — dancing, what a funny word for it, or maybe he's just hallucinating as his consciousness begins to slip to—

Well, wherever it's going to go.

No matter what, Arthur wishes that Charles did not look at him that way when he decided to stick around. They both knew it was because of Arthur, and they both knew it was temporary. He's been giving him the same look. Something like love, and grief.

I'm not dead, he wants to tell him, but Arthur knows there's no difference now and Charles doesn't deserve any more lies, anyways.

He lied to everyone, and selfishly.

How many of them will die? Hosea was coughin' more. Was I contagious before...?

That day, Arthur had realized just what all those science folks mean when they say humans are brief, in the grand scheme of things even if he was not egotistical enough to believe life begins and ends with himself— but men are temporary, and there's only been so many of them, and there only will be so many of them. He had marveled at the huge, ancient bones he found for that odd little critter of a lady, months ago.

Just yesterday, he entertained the idea that God had been real even before he needed Him most, and that He was telling him something by crossing their paths: Life before you, life after you. Don't get comfortable.

Rest assured, Big Man, he thinks, I am not.

But somehow, he almost is.

Death is certain, now. There is no guessing here, no waiting without knowing.

Some divine intervention, he's sure all dead men receive it as a consolation prize of sorts for completing the great big task of living. Charles' large, warm hand is on his shoulder, light as a feather. He tries to speak, even though he can barely think in words, and all he manages is a groan that comes from deep in his gut.

Arthur wishes he would crush him, that he'd hold him even if it made him scream in agony. He wishes Charles was—

Was—

No, he doesn't. He doesn't want Charles to give him the mercy execution.

Arthur just wishes he were not giving Charles his own form of execution. He is laying still, grimacing hard each time the shallow raise and fall of his chest makes his body scream. Charles has no idea what he is feeling, but he must be able to see on Arthur's face that he's feeling things inside his body which should not be happening: the sac of his lung ripping further open, his bowels threatening to let go, his sternum pressed tight to the skin above from a week of near-starvation because there is no amount of food that could feed the disease that is eating him alive.

He knows how it feels to watch a man you love die, even if his had been his father and he's certain that it's harder at their present age, and when you've chosen to love someone. No hands of blood had pushed them together.

Arthur wishes he had known it sooner.

He doesn't know if he ever wants to hear it from Charles' mouth, but he blinks his eyes open as the vague, misty image of that day finally fades for good. The sky is breaking hard beyond the shadow of Charles' form. It is glorious as sunrises always are. He feels his bones grinding on one another. He is clenching his teeth so hard, his molars are about to be pushed through the gums and into his mandible.

Never one for making his own decisions, Arthur wonders again if God is real or if he is coping with this horribleness in the only way he knows how: relying on someone else.

Again, he wants Charles to crush him. Even if it stabs the broken rib through his lung and out his back, even if it kills him before he can use his last breath to find out how his throat smells— he wants Charles to be the one to hold him.

Hosea is gone. So is Dutch. Arthur would long for Charles even if they were both here, although alarmingly he feels as though Hosea is somewhere around him — he cannot see, smell, or hear him but he knows it silently, and completely.

I love him, Arthur is thinking, has no time to study how selfish he would have felt just one month ago for his desires in this moment. Dead men cannot regret any longer, or maybe regret becomes like the pain when you are dead, grows so big that it blocks out the sun of peace. He made me feel safe, he thinks, already in the past tense, as if he is rehearsing what he will tell all the fellow skeletons.

He squints through the morning light and finds Charles' face, drawn tight in an expression he has never, ever seen before.

His eyes are open sores. He's never looked more like an angel.

With the last of his breath, Arthur opens his mouth and finds it suddenly very hard to draw in air. His throat itches, and if he swallows this cough he will simply choke on his own vomit instead— so he begins to hack, feels his lungs decompressing and the violent convulsions through his abdominal wall as things that are not meant to touch it touch it.

He gets his wish, because Charles is curling around him. He wants to shove him away, but then he doesn't; if Charles is going to get sick, he already has, and this is all he could have ever wanted in this moment. Charles is warm, and his chest presses over Arthur's jolting side as if holding him still, and he realizes the man has been talking but he has no time to regret not listening.

He's forgotten English, anyways, doesn't think in words anymore but feels everything. His throat thickens with the metallic taste of blood and his body squeezes, squeezes— Arthur goes stiff in panic and shock, fingers of both hands clawing into Charles' arm, and if either of them were sober the blood his nails draw would be felt.

In the moments before he can no longer breathe, he sees — with that nonmaterial eye that shows men dreams, nightmares, the best novels — something like peace.