#albertarthur

"I don't think I can do this, Arthur."

"Albert--"

"The moment I heard about the gunfight coupled with your name, the minutes I spent it was you who died…" he looks at Arthur, but it's as if he doesn't quite see him, his smile brittle and weak. "It felt as if someone took a blunt knife to my heart to carve in it your name."

Arthur reaches for him, clumsy as always, but he hesitates to touch Albert, somehow still unsure of his welcome even after months of camaraderie, of this thing building between them. 

"Please, Albert," he says gruffly, pleading, "I'm fine, see? Barely a scratch on me."

Arthur closes the distance between them. 

"I can see you, Arthur," he cups Arthur's cheeks in his balls, relishes in the feeling of stubble prickling his skin. He leans in until their foreheads touch, unmindful of the way the brims of their hats bend, "I can touch your. I can feel your breath on my skin, yet it doesn't feel real."

"It is. I'm here. Right here with you," Arthur replies in a rush, the words tumbling out in panic.

"For how long? How long before it happens again and goes horribly wrong? Before you're caught, shot, killed? You've become so dear to me, Arthur."

"Albert, please, don't."