#1890 words of yearning and damned things

[pinep-ne]

one shot idea- charthur cuddling for warmth???

mmm the classic.... here you go!! thought this would be more entertaining as an... almost developing relationship...? theres tension you just gotta squint...

anywho. i hope u enjoy ^^

-----

It had all become a haze very quickly. An ungodly amount of snow, swept like dust across the Grizzlies.

There's not much to see as there is to hear. They've both flipped up their collars to ease the damned wind. That's already proven itself futile. Arthur can only hear himself speak.

Unfortunate, he feels.

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?"

Charles gazes up at him, and Arthur can't see it, but he can feel it. "Yeah," he hears, silken and hushed, somewhere near his neck.