westernson

[westernson]

It took me longer than it should to realize he was laughing. 

[westernson]

for awhile it goes unspoken; maybe they both have their reasons - luke doesn’t ask, arthur doesn’t seem to tell. it’s funny, sort of, this absent little dance they do, as if these things will just go away. but the world doesn’t work like that, he’d learned early on that some things were relentless - some things didn’t stop until they won, until their unfortunate host was no more. (he’s lucky he’s already dead, lucky he hasn’t gotten that fever from his brother years ago despite sharing such a tight space.) luke settles himself, perhaps too comfortably, over the expanse of arthur’s sturdy lap. he can smell the metallic of blood on his breath, brows knitting absently. someone has to bring it up, don’t they? “you’re sick.”

||| @immortalwest ; answered.

IT NO LONGER felt like some kinda fever dream; an impossible odd to take someone such as him. Deep had those roots set, bearing for all some kind of withering tree. Welting beneath each day’s sun and it’s joining moon, as if no one had noticed or no one thought to say much about it. That kind of CONSIDERATION weren’t nothing Arthur expected neither. Given the state of things, how it was all crumbling under their feet…

Not a one of them he blamed. Well, maybe that wasn’t all true either. 

He’d seen it with his own eyes. Watched it spread near faster than his own sickness, and costing them twice as much. Dutch hadn’t been himself for awhile, he’d come to reckon --- but since the fall of Hosea Matthews, the damnation truly set. Micah. Just the name made his stomach sour and his body ache. That rat son of a bitch had gotten his thumb right under where it counts, and Arthur felt his importance, his INFLUENCE wane just as assuredly as his deteriorating health. This would end in blood, and he knew it.

That alone plagued his mind greater than his own death. Sickness had rattled his very bones, but now there had been so much more at stake. And like the many times before, when Arthur needed to think ---- he’d deserted his once home among the suffocating hills just to lay a few nights in the woods alone. Well, not quite alone. Not when, like so often, Luke would join him in the shadow of trees and the COMFORT OF NIGHT. Resting beside him at the fireside. Like it often transpired in these last days, Arthur fell to silence. So lost in the makings of their sins and the hopeless time he had left to make it right. To make any kind of sense of it. So them eyes lit ablaze by the reflection of fire, as if it mirrored the burning inside. Nothing was left to such silence, though. Not with Luke.

He’d only found himself back to the present BECAUSE OF HIM. Brought him home, just the feel of him weighing against his lap. That draw for attention worked, though it seemed reluctant on Arthur’s part. Hesitant to meet him eye to eye, on account that he would know. He could read him in ways no one else could. Could he see how much of himself he’d already lost? The answer came to him in soft words, truer than christ. And all Arthur could do was look him in the eye for what felt like an agonizing moment. 

Then tongue poked out just to wet his dried lips, second came the attempt to clear his throat that only spurred on a single cough he’d swallow. This wasn’t how he’d wanted it to go, not for him...but then, Arthur hadn’t ever settled on whether he was going to tell anyone anyhow, and simply let it be a passing thing. No such luck with him.

“Seems that way,” his drawl was softer than it shoulda been, and RASPIER all the same. Cold palms settled flat against each of Luke’s thighs, where he gave a gentle squeeze. Careful affections, but careful for himself rather than the man he’d shared himself with. He wasn’t trying to break his own heart worse than he already had. Guess he was bound to anyway…

“It's all falling apart. Every goddamn thing. I’m a fool, make no mistake, but even I know I’m owed this. It’s just...the rest of them.” There hadn’t been a time like this between them, where Arthur was near pleading and unsure. All of their time together, it had been many things...but this sort of thing never should have been. The way his thumb circled along the fabric of his companion’s trousers, way those eyes searched the other’s. The fear of asking…

“You know I hate to ask fer favors, but I gotta. It’s important, and it’s the only thing I’ll ever ask of you again, if that’s what it takes. When things get worse, and I don’t make it? You make sure THAT RAT don’t either.”

[westernson]

Someone asked for John for the sixfanarts challenge but got carried away and drew Arthur and Charles too.

[westernson]

IT’S HERE 👁👄👁

[westernson]

RDR2 gifs [22/?]

[westernson]

||| @immortalwest​ ;inbox

he slinks through the evening air like a shadow - reaching out for arthur's cigarette with a fluid sort of motion. it's set between his own lips as they leave behind bustling saloon, superficial puff billowing through his nose. he passes it back and draws closer, hand settling in the collar of arthur's coat. "need something to lift them spirits, mister morgan?" mouth twists up, teeth glinting from the curl of lip.

DRINK didn’t seem to numb him or fill him with an unholy fire. Didn’t lay to rest the problem that clung to him now, more securely than the sweat of his brow or the dirt to his skin. Problem was, he’d gone soft. A man like Morgan wasn’t supposed to grow a kindness. No room for gentleness in bones like his. Hell, he’d killed over less. Didn’t feel a lick of remorse gunning down younger boys for stupider things. Christ, had today felt different...

ARTHUR drank until drunk and left only more sour. Coat barely clinging on to wide shoulders, near slipping down his damn arm when he’d fussed with the carton within the inner pocket, prying loose a cigarette and a single match. Bottom of the boot licked the fire into existence just to light up his somber face when flame met the rolled tobacco. A few short drags seemed to burn dangerously in his chest just before he’d taken himself out into the chill of night. It was out there that even the shadows seemed to follow him. An uneasiness that prickled at the hairs on his arm, and drew up a snarl when a separate hand plucked the cigarette from his own. 

 “ WELL, If it ain’t the damn devil himself,” drawl felt long and heavy. While the implication in his tone might have set a narrative that he hadn’t been all that thrilled to see him, the look in his eyes said entirely different. The loose, leaning into motions of his body spoke to craving his proximity. Wanting more than just a few sharp words and tired glances. Lazy eyes dwindled down to the cigarette that Luke seemed to enjoy, just as he’d wetted his own and traced through the mud toward the back of the establishment.

“WHAT is it with you and yer goddamn knack fer finding me at the worst ‘a times?” He’d taken that cigarette back to his own lips when it was gracious given back, and yes, maybe Arthur had dabbed his tongue along the end just to taste whatever was there to savor. But it tilted low between his lips, hanging on by the littlest effort of teeth when his companion took to closeness. 

THAT hand at his neck felt cold and unforgiving, and yet welcomed all the same. Sliding through Arthur’s sweat and spill of whisky. The question, or rather the offer, left him silent. All too telling eyes before a heavy huff of breath and the curl of lips. Didn’t take him but a moment later just to raise his hand to the top button of his shirt collar, unfastening it hastily. Angrily. Shamefully. In need of it more than he’d like to admit, but christ it was hard not to admit otherwise when Luke looked at him like that. When a smile as deadly as his offered what should have feared Arthur more than stirring his prick. The first button, and then the second gave him the exposure that felt needed, just before he’d tilted his own head just to flash his bare neck at him. “Go on then. You know how I like it. Lift my spirits, boy.” Boy, as if they weren’t damn near the same in age. As if Arthur was more man than, well…

“JUS’A  little. S’all I need.”