#charthur

(from an up-coming one-shot in my a never ending kind of love AU)

“Looking good,” Charles remarked, considering Arthur over crossed arms. The cowboy’s thighs—still painfully thin, but rounding out at last with some hard-earned fat and muscle—strained as the older man struggled to keep his back pressed against the stable’s wall. Arthur’s legs were bent at a right angle, ass hovering in the air. Sweat beaded from his flushed brow as he struggled to maintain the position. 

Arthur’s face twisted in frustration as one of his knees buckled, his palms slapping out against the rough wooden wall as he fought to keep his balance. “Dammit,” Arthur cursed, hands curling into fists as he strained. “How long I got?” 

“Little longer,” Charles said, checking the pocket watch in his hand. He’d paused his own labors—hauling bales of hay up into the stable’s loft—while Arthur did another round of his occupational therapy exercises. “Doc wants you to get to three minutes, remember?” 

“Demons, the both of ya,” Arthur grumbled, one shaking hand swiping sweat from his brow. “Gangin’ up on a poor, dyin’ old man—“

Charles rolled his eyes, tucking the watch away just as the second hand clicked over to the twelve. “Rest.” 

Arthur’s legs straightened immediately. The man slumped against the wall, panting with exhaustion. There was enough space and open air between them that he had his mask off, and Charles relished seeing his lover’s unguarded relief. “Can’t believe that was only three minutes,” the older man managed, bending shakily to snag his canteen from the ground. 

Charles bent to grasp another bale, bending his knees as he squatted to grip it around the baling twine. With a smooth movement he hefted it, using the strength of his thighs to hoist the thing overhead and toss it up onto the wooden ledge just above his head. “Four minutes, actually.” 

“Four min—“ Arthur snapped his head towards Charles, too affronted to do more than gape at Charles, baffled by this deception. Water slopped from his open canteen down his shirt, further pasting it to his hairy, too-thin chest.

Charles shrugged. “You kept giving up on yourself at the three minute mark,” Charles explained, not unkindly. He knew it was hard on Arthur, going from being the strongest—or second strongest, in their case—man in the room to being an invalid. It was going to take a lot of time and tedious effort to regain the strength the older man had lost. Careful, deliberate effort that also didn’t overly tax Arthur’s disease ravaged lungs more than was good for him. The doctor had been very clear with Charles—if Arthur wanted to live, then he’d have to stay active.

There were some days that were good, and working through the regimen of breathing exercises and lifting and calisthenics the doctor had assigned Arthur was easy. The old outlaw’s stubbornness served him well, those days. 

Then there were mornings like this one had been. When Arthur was too discouraged by his snail’s pace progress to want to try much at all. 

Arthur took an irritated swig of his water, swishing the water around in his mouth before spitting decisively into a pile of old hay Charles was getting ready to sweep up for the compost pile out back. “Dirty trick to pull on a sick man, Mister Smith.” 

“How’re your legs?” Charles asked, casually hoisting another bale and tossing it into the loft. Arthur could grumble all he liked—Charles still caught the greedy look in his eye when he turned to face his lover again. The dirty old cowboy had been watching his ass. “Good for another round?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur started, reaching down to massage one skinny quad. “Kinda lost my motivation, I think.” 

“Interesting,” Charles said, then unbuttoned his union suit, stripping off the top until it hung around his waist. He looked down briefly while he tied the sleeves around his waist, then smirked as he looked up through his lashes, catching Arthur’s open-mouthed gape. 

“I was going to finish hauling the hay up,” Charles continued, stretching one bulging bicep across his softly shining chest. It wasn’t that hot in the barn, but he’d been working hard and had built up a healthy layer of sweat to show for it. “But if you’re done for the day—”

Red Dead + the internet