#pinewrites

He wonders if Charles entertains it, even. The ease of his stature, of his presence. Some embodiment of something humble and grand that Arthur can't ever seem to pinpoint. Or neither. There is always something to admire. Whether showered in blood and anger and gun smoke or slack-faced and drooling on their shared pillow the few violet minutes before dawn.

It may be now, that Arthur could admire the rippling water around Charles' lower abdomen, or the soft flesh of it. The corded muscles of his back, shifting like divine machinery in every movement. The portrait of his face, aglow in the glaring limbo between afternoon and evening, blurred like velvet when the sun hits Arthur's eyes. It's an image he often indulges in, but not the one he has set aside for different worship.

Arthur is rightfully captivated by Charles' hair.

He stopped midway through undressing to simply watch the process. The care with which Charles washes it. The length it reaches when saturated and weighted with water. Pooling like a fountain of ink when the river reaches his neck. Snaking around like silken ribbons when he sinks beneath the water's surface. When they wake tangled in the morning, and he is veiled by the feathery strands. When they are close to one another, as intimate as Arthur's currently pursuing gaze, and he may find with his fingers where it meets the scalp. Burying himself there, clinging and carding through the strands, soft like nothing he's ever thought to seek nor hunger for.

Charles doesn't have to look back at Arthur.

"You're staring," he says.

It's hardly audible by the distance they are from each other. The timbre whispering against Arthur's senses, resonating only warmth. He decides enough is enough, and finishes peeling his muddied clothes off himself. Eyes averted down at the accusation, he joins Charles at the river.

The water could be warmer but he doesn't pay mind to it. He wades till his heels barely scrape the muddy sand and he must balance himself with his arms out in the current. Charles watches him, soap bar in hand. With a smile, he holds it out for Arthur to take, and kisses him firm. It leaves Arthur's chin wet.

Arthur takes it. Charles sinks down, nearly floating on his back, crown to Arthur's middle, looking up at him with the same brightness. Arthur looks down with plain reverence.

He hadn't thought it possible, to shrink himself in the narrow space of his heart that allows this sort of tenderness. To even relish in it without shame or reluctance. He lathers the hair above his hand, taking each section with undivided concentration. He watches Charles' features all the while, placid and quiet. Only sparing a few peeks at Arthur, relaxed and focused as he is, for the late sun that hits his eyes when he does. It is best to close them. Arthur thinks he might do the same, and they may both fall asleep to be taken with the current. He smiles at the thought.

Each time he feels he's become accustomed to the rhythm of their affection, it becomes apparent under the assumption of scrutiny. It is easier, more so on their lonesome trek, but still persistently resurfacing in dreadful bouts. They will bounce back like the collision of two universes. Arthur cannot handle the quiet. Charles can't handle the certainty. It's too true for either of them, and something they are both terribly inexperienced with.

But in this moment, like many others, it is the easiest thing to be true. Arthur works the soap in, infused with oils and herbs he's forgotten the name of. He thinks of all the times he's wished for something like this and thanks the world for letting him have it, small as it is.

When he's scrubbed most of the soap out, and the sun has hit below the jutting valley, Charles looks back up at Arthur.

He hums contentedly, beaming. A gesture which suffices as a thank you upon the surface. I love you woven beneath it. Dunks himself once more into the water, and leaves Arthur to bathe himself before the evening chill hits for good.

When they are both settled for the night, nestled against each other before the fire, Charles asks him to braid it.

"I ain't very deft," Arthur says.

Charles' voice fills every inch of him. "I want you to," he responds.

Arthur often returns to the knowledge that Charles' want is a force he's found only a certain devotion in. So Arthur sits behind him, all but wrapping himself, and tries his best to apply what he can remember. There are layers and a handful of errant curls all around, but the process is consoling and steady.

Arthur shifts again, turning his head to behind him, very inconspicuously, then back to Charles.

His voice stays hushed like the entire world is listening. "I know you ain't like a whole lotta attention, figured you was guarding tonight, woulda made it a little more... well..." Arthur trails off, averting his gaze again, shoulders dropping. Then, he starts up as he usually does, as if he's been shocked. Opens his mouth, and shuts it; another telling quirk of his.

"I made you somethin'," he settles on.

Before Charles can even process it, Arthur's slowly revealed the item in his hands, unable to hold back a smile. A small, whittled figure. Charles stares blankly at the thing, then back to Arthur, before he recognizes its shape.

It's... a horse. Not much bigger than his palm, carved and smoothened by deft yet obviously intermediate hands. Arthur's steps forward, offering for Charles to take it, like they're exchanging some divine, precious object.

Precious, certainly. "It's Taima," Arthur exclaims, a little less quiet than before.

"Arthur, I've never..."

"I know!" He huffs, "I just wanted to give you somethin' anyway. An' the gangs doing the whole gift thing come morning. Lord knows I'd get shit for the next week, if I'd shown you this then. Save us both the trouble."

Charles runs his thumb along the detail, still fixated on it, feeling like his heart's caught in his throat. It certainly looks like her, now. Stylized slightly, but the head especially, her character portrayed to an impressive extent. He's known about Arthur's sketches. Seeing it translated to a tangible, sentimental thing, and a craft born from love specifically, is a whole other experience he's found himself unprepared for.

It was the smallest detail he'd shared over a few beers; only the vast prairie and Arthur having the ears to hear it. A simple admission, that he's never really had the opportunity to celebrate anything close to Christmas. As a child, it simply wasn't a part of his culture. Now it's merely on account of his lack of community, of permanence, and by that matter, any relation to anyone.

Arthur, still, rambles on all matter-of-factly. As if the gesture isn't completely shattering Charles where he stands, unable to yet say anything. Soon though, he notices, and immediately begins to wind down. Takes it as distaste, maybe. He starts spewing out empty apologies, under the guise of reassurances, doused greatly in insecurity, as he usually does when he can't really make sense of a reaction.

Charles doesn't take the time to decipher it, only grabs Arthur by his collar before the man can tear away anymore pages, catching him in a fleeting kiss. Embodying the desperate need to express something back; so rushed that it's painful. He snakes a hand, occupied with the little figure, beneath Arthur's arm, covering the expanse of his back— embracing.

He trails behind Charles, and it's like peering through a pencil-tip hole through a sheet of white paper, trying to make out his silhouette. In attempt to counter this, narrow as the path is, a meager game trail, he's been riding as close to Taima's rear as he can, as much as both horses can tolerate.

God damn mess.

The trail widens, and Arthur squeezes Elijah in, flank to flank. He grabs for Charles' shoulder.

He jumps, torso twisting just to meet Arthur's eyes. Arthur bites his cheek. Adjusts himself in the saddle to lean as close as possible without slipping off. It ends up being closer than he anticipated— their brims and collars brushing slight, like shields to the outside world, connecting and forming this little reprieve between the two of them. It dulls the blaring white, and the wind, and he breathes the space in, trying to focus on getting a single audible word out.

Charles squints at him, obviously desperate to get out of here. They're awfully close, Arthur thinks. But it'd probably be more awkward to back away suddenly, so he stays leaning. Maybe a little further, as Elijah sways, and he nearly falls onto Charles.

Arthur stabilizes himself, hand still on his friend's shoulder. Huffs, "I've come through this way before, scoutin' on the way back from Colter." He tries to keep his voice level, "Little huntin' cabin maybe... quarter mile off this trail..."

Charles nods and turns his sights to... nothing... ahead, then back to Arthur. He shivers, and it's a powerful little thing, and Arthur watches him with a pulling, pleading look on his face. He barely catches the 'alright' from Charles before the man's settled back in his saddle, halting Taima a moment to let Arthur lead.

Arthur gladly picks up the pace as soon as they get on. Eager to get out of this mess. Eager to get this whole trip over with. He'd suggested it in the first place. That map Hosea'd given him, he went and showed it to Charles all giddily not long after. Planted a finger on it, south of Grizzlies West, and figured they could catch a moose, or something alike. But he didn't tell that part to Charles. He only mentioned it was big game, and that was enough to sound like he knew what they were getting into.

Obviously, that didn't work out. He's been a fool.

They reach a thicker part of the forest, where the beast is forced to calm itself, stifled by the trees. Arthur groans with relief, finally out of the whirlwind. Back to his senses, if only slightly. When the cabin comes into view he thinks it's what arriving at heaven must feel like, if he should ever experience that. He looks back at Charles, who gives him a tired look. Feels a pang in his chest, that it must be resentment.

He takes to the horses as they settle, trying to corral them where there's more sun— or where there should be more sun. It's hard to tell. He imagines it's nearing evening, anyhow. Prays to whatever superior being to let all this up by morning, so they can at least have a chance at finding their way home. The adrenaline, the urgency, melts off him in waves. Leaves his body to the cold and hell, if it doesn't hurt. Hell if he doesn't think about the fire that must be in the cabin, being stoked by Charles. If theres enough room in front of it for the two of them to sit. He treats both horses to all the fresh fruit left in his saddlebags, and hops over to the rugged thing.

When he enters, Charles is, indeed, blowing over a small flame. Arthur hangs up his hat and looks around. One of everything— including a bed. Definitely not abandoned. Seasonal residents, maybe; likely for the summer. There's a thin film of dust over most of the furniture. Disturbed, now— a dense, blue fog, filling the room, drifting up like coffee steam. Dully lit, where the snow reflects slight and seeps through the threadbare curtains.

"Arthur."

He starts. Charles is looking back at him, still crouched at the fire. Arthur sniffs, brows furrowed. Charles exhales, long and tired. He sits back, knees drawn up, hugging them loosely, and softens. There's a subtle tilt in the corner of his lips when he speaks.

"You're letting all the cold in," he says, turns back around, and Arthur would take it as something agitated or distant if it weren't for the oddly fond look on his face.

"Oh. Right," he says. Takes a second, shoulders raising, then fumbles behind him for the handle.

Shutting the door, he steps into the center of the room. Charles stands and undoes his scarf, hair cascading down like linen curtains. He bundles it, and throws it on the floor with his boots, and hangs his coat. Arthur, mirror-like, follows him in undressing, keeping as many layers as necessary.

At some point, Charles goes out to collect water. To brew something, if Arthur can guess. He sits on the bed and waits, slumped and done with the damned day. Done with the damned cold. It seeps under his skin, pulsating with shivering bouts, and it aches. His muscles, both tense and limp with exhaustion, make their soreness known. He shakes his shoulders, breathing harsh. Whispers a string of curses. He supposes whoever hates it more can sleep at the hearth. Soak up the last bit of warmth for the night. He adds in a few logs.

The sun sets as if it were falling. Or maybe the horizon's just that far beneath them. Charles returns, and pours a mug for him and Arthur, and there's enough room for the two of them to sit at the fireplace. Arthur leans back on a hand, not entirely parallel to Charles, askew enough to easily catch the soft line of his profile.

He looks down at his mug. Chamomile, Charles had said. Not his favorite, but no tea really is. Not so far at least. He thinks it's selfish of him to tell Charles otherwise. To take the tea for the simple fact it was brewed for him. Satiate that itching part of him that likes to be cared for.

"I can take the floor," he says, and waits. Picks the skin at his lip. He can feel Charles looking at him. Smiling, probably. His face burns.

"Mm. And take up all the heat?" He looks at Arthur, and moves to grab their mugs. He stands to discard them as Arthur sputters.

"Well, y'know, I dragged your ass out here for nothin'. Figured the bed would be a little comfier, but if... if you want I can grab the blankets from the horses, and our bedding, and you can—"

"They're probably all frozen, Arthur." Charles sits back down, closer. "I don't mind sharing."

"Sure." Arthur breathes. He hums, still stumped. "Though... both our built asses might just cave the whole thing."

Charles laughs. It's brief, but full. It makes Arthur laugh, too. He feels like his heart could stop at any moment.

Not for the first time, this gap between them makes itself very prominent. But not of distance. More like an unfinished piece, slowly unfurling itself. How light it makes his breath, his touches. It's so easy that it's suffocating. Consumes him greatly with those implications. He wants to smother it once more, as he has every other time.

But the air shifts, and he lets it, and he realizes they've both sunk into this dance once more regardless.

He thinks that maybe he should say something. Something about turning in, or hitting the hay, or going out for a smoke. But he doesn't, and neither does Charles. There is only the sound of their thin breaths, and the rustling of clothes, and the wind hitting the outer walls of the cabin, and the crackle of the dimming fire.

Charles rises then, and puts it out. Crosses the room to dim the lantern till there is only swallowing darkness, and the faint blush of moonlight off the snow. He walks to where Arthur sits on the bed, waiting. Aimless, blindly brushing the back of his hand across Arthur's bicep, shins hitting the edge of the bed.

Goodnight, he whispers. Arthur watches him get comfortable on the wall-side, sprawled out on his stomach, before he settles down himself, on his back. He mouths the words back, trying to preserve the syllables, or the softness it was said with. He does it again for good measure, enough to hear, to which Charles hums, a lot like a purr.

"It's cold," he says, the low timbre of his voice filling Arthur's head, nestling deep somewhere under his sternum.

"I know," Arthur whispers. He can feel a palm on his arm, frighteningly warm. It slides down, finding the skin of his wrist beneath his sleeve, and he tenses, sitting halfway up. Holding himself up on his elbow, his shadow blanketing. Charles lies on his back, now, hand still wrapped around Arthur's wrist, pulling. Beckoning. Arthur gazes down at the scene, and it hardly does anything to smother the blooming feeling in his gut.

He wishes he could see Charles right now. To decipher the knowing offer he has twisted into his wrist by the gentle features he'd much rather scrutinize. Tempting could be the right word, but Arthur feels he's stepped into something terribly domestic instead. Terrible that it is requited, apparent with only the guise of necessity— because of course they'd both be warmer that way. Of course the night is so cruel, as well as the singular bed, and the storm that snuffed their whole trip, to coerce them so. To persuade his own palm to reach beneath the layers of fabric and find the soft skin there, where neither of them have ever breached so carefully before.

And Arthur realizes then that it's not a apprehensive proposal, but rather an answer.

So he gives the question, and lies back down. Steps into this home they have built together. Finds a spot to nestle himself into, pulling the warmth towards him, as if he could burrow himself beneath it. He all but wraps himself around Charles. Feels a similar motion behind him, now holding each other, facing each other, entirely encompassed. And it's strikingly familiar, being held. In a way he hasn't experienced it before, but that was inevitable from the beginning. He feels Charles hands wander across the expanse of his back, catching on the folds of his shirt, and he says the word again in his mind. Home.

He turns his nose into the pillow, reaching for that closeness again. Voice breathy, and muffled, "You better?"