#arthuralbert

arthur morgan/albert mason, chapter 4: Saint Denis, pre-slash

[it’s 2:30am, that’s my excuse]

also on ao3.

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Arthur isn’t sure why he come to the exhibit in the first place. It’s just that, the weird little French man, Charles, intrigued him, and the little drawing he handed Arthur after Arthur bought him brandy might have made Arthur long for… something more. It’s been a busy couple of months. And call him stupidly sentimental, but he’d like something more than just a romp in the sheets

Damn, he’s getting soft.

So here he is, in the middle of this wretched city, a duck out of water in the art gallery, a stark contrast to the clean cut, fine citizens of Saint Denis. He’s never been one to let it bother him, the looks he gets, the disdainful sneers. He knows who he is, even if that person is a sad, old, ugly outlaw. This is the only life he’ll ever know.

He’s wandering aimlessly, looking at the paintings on the walls with disinterest as he listens for that French fellow, when he spots a familiar looking photograph: wild horses caught mid-gallop, the epitome of freedom. To the left Arthur finds another photograph he’s familiar with, only this one he’d recognize right away from long minutes of staring at his own, if smaller, copy of the photograph.

The wolves look just as hungry as his flesh as they did back then.

He sees other photographs he helped Mason take, like the alligator and the eagles, and is immediately brought back to those brief moments of freedom, so other from what he has known that they seem almost like from another life. He can recall with startling clarity how clumsy Mason was, but so full of energy and love for this world, that Arthur remembers wishing someone someday could feel like that about him: joyous at the very thought.

But it was a stupid, sentimental notion then, as it is now and Arthur should really be focusing on something else than pipe dreams and other, easier lives, and a klutz of a man that made Arthur think for a moment he could be someone else.

And that, of course, is when he sees the other photograph, set somewhat apart from the others because it didn’t quite belong to the wildlife. Although, Arthur thought with a snort, some might argue.

“Who the hell thought it to be a good idea to put this horrible man up on a wall?” Arthur wondered aloud.

“The series wouldn’t be complete without it, I think,” says someone from right behind Arthur, the voice awfully familiar.

Arthur turns and finds Albert Mason at his side, a slight smile on his face as he glances from Arthur to the photograph of Arthur.

“I even dare say it’s my best piec,” Mason continues, “The outside might be harsh, but it’s clear to see the goodness of his heart. It’s in the eyes.”

“It’s just an ugly cowboy,” Arthur feels the need to say, already feeling flustered.