Chapter Text
The evening is foggier and less windy than the surpassed heights.
Arthur is alone, in body if not in spirit, his horse an extension of himself, breathing in turn with him. She is also an extension of the landscape, her horsehairs blending in with the whiteness as if he was riding on nothing. She is as callous as the frosty lake where he found her, Ambarino not too unlike California in this kind of weather, autumn shredding itself to be taken over by winter. He turns Cailleach around, following her trail to ride back from where they left to go scouting, back to another creature pacified by the cold.
Soon, he spots a rider in the fog, and though he knows in his gut who it is, old instincts flare up.
"You up ahead, show yourself," he says and lifts his lantern.
A horse without a face moves into view; Baylock, his skull-like head and skeletal lower legs as white as Cailleach, the rest of the body a bigger and black shape, the rider no less dangerous. His icy eyes are hidden beneath the white hat, but Arthur can see the shadows beneath them, the lower half of his face pale except the color on his nose and in his cheeks. An unlit cigarette hangs from chapped lips, breath coming in thick clouds.
"Fool," Arthur says, lowering his lantern. "At least have the decency to answer.
Micah's expression remains hidden underneath his hat until Arthur rides close enough to pluck the cigarette from underneath the stubble, jangling the tiny ice crystals at the tips.
When Micah looks up, his eyes are flat.
"What, Morgan? You wanna lay down and make snow angels?"
"I thought you was sleeping," Arthur says, lighting the cigarette and taking a drag.
"Sleeping's overrated," Micah replies, the last word muffled as wraps his green wool scarf tighter around his head.
The last two weeks have proved some of his self-mythologizing to be wrong. One week of riding through three territories; and one week resting at an old military fort near the foot of Californian mountains. Seven days of sleeping rough on rock, sand, and grass; and seven days of Micah lying in a cold room of stone, sweating and twitching, caving in by having a shot of whiskey when sobriety got too bad.
Sometimes he'd seek stimuli by slithering into the room across the hall, waking Arthur by biting him in the neck. Most nights he waited by the door, and when it opened at midnight he slammed Micah against it, splaying his other hand over that wicked mouth to keep it from snapping at him, planning to put it to better uses. No matter how violent the beginnings, their arrangement often ended nicely enough, Micah's laughter easing into groans, and the soft footsteps he had entered with limping when he returned to his own room.
Arthur stretches his hand out and twirls his fingers as if playing an instrument, imagining the teeth marks under the glove. He almost misses the sign in front of them, covered by frost, letters almost scrubbed off.
"Snow Hill," Micah reads out loud, sounding both relieved and bitter.
"Congratulations."
"For what, arriving safe as houses despite all your nagging?"
"For knowing how to read."
"Shut up. Anyway, we're real close. Best set up camp." Micah inclines his head towards a nearby pine forest, shaped like a black knife cutting into the landscape.
"Did you shoot up this town too, last time you was here?"
"No. It's just …" he scratches his heavy stubble, two weeks old and not yet a full beard, but steadily growing into one. "They might know my face. Or they might think they know it."
Arthur waits for him to explain, but Micah just flashes him a humorless grin, frayed at the edges. Although the worst of the alcohol abstinences have passed, there is something off about him. All of that violence and will, riding by Arthur's side, is becoming more drained for every step closer to Snow Hill. His appearance speaks of what he will not.
"Fine. Keep your secrets."
"Oh, I intend to."
Even the voice is hushed, lacking its usual ironic mirth.
As they ride among the black, thick trees, the ground peeks up in hooved steps, as if walking bringing forth spring when it is sooner to be winter around them. When they set up camp, Micah is less useless than usual, managing the tent and wasting no time crawling inside. Arthur readies the fire and makes coffee. He takes a cup over to Micah. The other is already curled up on his bedroll, not sleeping, looking like a worm that misjudged the season. He sits up and makes a grab for the cup, but Arthur won't let go.
"Can you go on?" he asks.
It's meant as a throwback to another time, on top of a rockslide in a prairie with their positions reversed, but Micah takes it as a challenge. He yanks the cup out of Arthur's grip, spilling coffee, browning some of the patches of snow outside the tent, allowing more earth and sleeping grass to peek forth. He slurps, not even flinching at the heat, although it must burn hotter than his blue fire eyes.
"Of course I can. I just need some damn shuteye."
"Fine," Arthur says. "I'll go hunting."
"Don't go into town."
"Unlike you, I don't only hunt people," Arthur says, rolling his eyes. "And don't go wandering out into the snow."
"Why would I do that?" Micah asks, taking his cup with him back into the tent, going back to pretending to be a worm of some sort, maybe a caterpillar, hairy and thick. Although they rarely speak about it, his spacing-out have gotten worse, and Arthur believes it was the true reason for Micah not answering him back in the fog. Whatever the planned ransom means to Micah, it'll be more personal than a simple coach robbery. They're planning to kidnap his nieces, after all. He's never given the true reason for sobering up, but he's done it twice (before meeting Amos?), so he knows how to survive it.
Arthur watches him for a few moments, then exhales roughly, and goes over to Cailleach. He offers her an apple. More out of habit than expectation, he does the same to Baylock, and nearly loses the fruit when Baylock also accepts it. If Micah's story on how he got the horse wasn't entirely fictious, with the dark horse riding out of nowhere after Micah had committed a particularly nasty crime, it must mean Arthur's heart is black enough for Baylock to care for him. He doesn't know how to feel about that.
He doesn't go into the town as much as the town comes to him.
There is a large wooden church at its outskirts. The graveyard is larger still. It seems as if the town was more populous at some point during the last century.
He's studying the graves when a priest walks towards him, dressed in a thick robe, bald and with twinkling eyes.
"Looking for an ancestor, mister?" the priest asks, tone friendly.
"Not really, father," Arthur says. "Just couldn't help but notice that there were more graves than houses."
"Ah yes, I guess it's rather curious for a traveler. Snow Hill used to be a mining town before the gold ore dried out. Now folk get by from tourism, people wanting to fish. Perhaps you already knew that?"
"I heard there was some good fishing spots nearby, yeah."
"Yes, although we no longer have gold, we are famous for our Golden Trout. Would you to join my evening sermon, mister…?"
"Arthur Callahan," Arthur introduces himself, but he does hesitate before answering the question. "Well, to be honest with you, I ain't the sort of man who ought to be in a church."
"Everyone is welcome in a house of God, mister Callahan, as long as He is welcome your heart."
"Dunno about that."
The priest tilts his head, but he doesn't seem put off by the doubt. He smiles, and gestures towards the exterior of the church. "There is a bench, over there, under the broken window. I think it's the result of a snowball fight gone awry. Children may be closest to God, but they certainly do consort with the devil when confronted by untouched snow, even at a graveyard. However, if you wish, you can hear my sermon, sitting underneath the window. A friend of mine, a bit like you, used to do so. And after a month, he did enter."
After they say their goodbyes, Arthur gets a new theory for the priest's quiet confidence. Because when he turns around, people are streaming towards the church from the town, some riding horses, most walking. There are more people than there seems to be houses in town, showcasing a tightly knit religious community. He bends down by a worn looking grave, the letters and numbers having been scrubbed off by weather and time. He pretends to be deciphering it, but his eyes flicker up towards the people arriving.
There are torches by the church's stone fence and light streaming from the open doors. As such he sees the people illuminated, some of them casting him curious glances and even tipping their hat, but a town that gets by on tourism cannot be too unfriendly. Most are reverent, smiling at the familiar faces, the spirit between them. One of the families – a husband, a wife and twin daughters – makes his gaze linger. There is something eerily familiar about the man, his thick, blonde hair, and the way he twists his lips into a thin line.
It is Micah, and at the same time not.
Their features and gait are similar, but not the temperature in their expressions. The man is warmer. He has a longer, thinner beard, and he is less muscled, less fat and less hunched. Quiet pride radiates off him in to how he holds the woman by the elbow, and how he regards the two girls. The girls look nearly identical, hair braided, dressed in similar fur coats. One looks anxious and the other, calm. The latter is better dressed than her family, and she grins as she is approached by a red-haired man, similarly well dressed as her. He takes her hand and kisses it, then greets her family, otherwise keeping a respectful distance.
As if sensing a stranger's eyes on his daughters, he looks towards Arthur, eyes growing cold – and it is in this instant Arthur becomes dead certain that this is Micah's twin brother. There is something in his stance belonging to a gunman, the way he slides his legs almost abysmally apart, the way his head tilts, assessing the distance. Arthur is surrounded by shadow, and Amos, by light.
Going back to studying the graves, Arthur tries his best to play a friendly tourist.
When he looks up, Amos' family has gone inside the church, while the man is talking to the priest near the steps. He seems serious. The priest gesticulates, throwing a hand in Arthur's direction, maybe telling him about their previous conversation. Arthur wonders if he gave too much away. But plenty of tourists will hesitate to enter a religious space, especially one that is so locally bound and cherished.
When the priest looks over his shoulder before entering the church, he nods at how Arthur had seated himself on the bench underneath the broken window. The doors slam shut with the groan of very old wood.
Not long after, the sermon begins.
"To anyone hearing my words, I pray that your heart will be softened and your eyes opened to God. I pray that when drink, books, friends and even family fail you, you will realize your need to turn away from our devilish age and turn to God for help. I pray that you'll visit a church like ours, run to the altar, and ask for healing of your mind. I wished someone had told me this earlier. Maybe I wouldn't wasted so much time on things that only addressed the symptoms and not the root of every bad thought …"
Arthur yawns.
He appreciated soup kitchens when he was homeless, even if they were accompanied by abstract doctrines, like a Bible served in a bowl of soup, but the little interest he had in religion died when he grew up listening to Dutch and Hosea's debates on the nature of such things. It's over his head. He leaves the churchyard before the sermon is over, relieved that Micah isn't with him, or he might have tried to burn the church down.
When Arthur returns to the forest camp, Micah is gone.
Baylock and Cailleach are still there, so he cannot have gone far, and the fire is easy enough to strengthen. For a second Arthur's head turns in the direction of the church, imagining it burning, but it is also when he spots the tracks leading in its direction, leading him deeper into the woods. The snowfall threatens to obscure the tracks, so he must be fast. It's quiet, the thick grey blankets obscuring every sound, except that of itself, dusting or falling in heaps off black branches.
Micah hasn't gotten far. He's walked in a straight line, and when Arthur lifts his lantern, Micah is standing with his arms wrapped around himself. He is staring in the direction of the town, hidden by trees like prison bars.
"So Amos is your twin, huh. Maybe you could've, I dunno, mentioned that before?"
Micah's face is hidden by the scarves, blackish green like seaweed in darkness. It is first when Arthur studies the skin showing between the wool that he sees how pale and sweaty Micah is, even more so than on the hours spent journeying across the mountains.
Arthur snaps his fingers in front of Micah.
When the other doesn't tell him to piss off, he is certain something is wrong. He lays his hand on Micah's temple. It is burning hot. Arthur shakes Micah's head a bit, trying to snap him out of it, but the reaction is dazed, Micah's shoulders tensing slightly. His cheeks and nose are cold, the latter running freely. His mouth moves, voice almost inaudible.
"Amos," he whispers.
Arthur supposes there is still some brainpower left in there, having heard his earlier statement. He grabs Micah by the elbow, dragging him back to camp. He pretends he's handling a young stallion shocked from being wild-caught. The only things that seem to bring Micah to such a state are being sober, remembering, and sex.
They haven't had much time or space dedicated to the last activity for forty hours, so he must be experiencing one of or a mix of the former two. Burning up inside can't be too comfortable when surrounded by uncaring cold.
"See, there's our camp. Wasn't so hard now, was it?"
"I'll kill you," Micah mumbles. "I'll shoot you in the fucking head."
"Yeah, yeah. Just wait until after we get some heat back into you, alright?"
He helps Micah into the tent, sees that he crawls under the wool blanket, before putting some more logs on the fire, checking that there's still some warm – but not scalding hot – coffee left. Then he goes in after Micah, ignoring how the other tries to get away. Usually, he would let him be, but his partner in an upcoming crime freezing to death would be a hassle. He helps Micah slurp up a cup of coffee, and as soon as he's finished, he holds Micah through the trembling, reaching out and pushing his jaw open using pressure points so he doesn't end up biting himself or grinding his teeth until he gets a bad – worse? – headache. The trembling slowly increases as Arthur opens their coats to wrap their bodies closer together.
"We can't stay here. We ought to go into town, find someplace warm."
"Fine like this," Micah says through clattering teeth.
"You ain't been well since you quit."
"Haven't quit. Taken a break."
"Told you we ought to have waited until you were better."
"Too hard to cross the fastest route over the mountains in the winter months," Micah says, finally ceasing to pull himself away from Arthur. "And speaking of lost time, why you stalling? Help me out."
"Help you out?"
"Did I stutter?"
"Yeah, you kinda did."
Micah's wiggling makes sense then, not trying to pull away but seeking attention. Generally, he avoids proximity unless he wants something or is too exhausted to care. Arthur's exhaustion is high, but lesser than Micah's, and it isn't unmanageable. There is too much fabric between them, so Arthur reaches into the other's underclothes, opening them or sliding them away just enough to look for interest. His lip quirks upon finding the other man hard. The wool blanket traps the hot air around them, although the cold sneaks through the closed tent flap. Luckily Arthur has experience with this angle, with the other not helping more than the bare minimum. Arthur brings a hand in front of Micah's mouth, leaning closer.
"Spit."
Of course, Micah tries to bite him. But Arthur has become clever at avoiding his teeth, clasping his hand around Micah's mouth. He shudders when he feels the tongue lap at his palm, audibly sucking salvia from his cheeks.
"That's better. Good boy."
When Arthur cups his hand, Micah spits into it. Arthur uses it to reach down and slick up Micah's cock, because while the other doesn't mind getting it chafed, the aftermath makes him a kind of creative – with belts, knives and guns – that Arthur prefers to avoid. He jerks Micah off as harshly and unsentimentally as he likes. He is panting, and he rubs himself against Arthur. Arthur licks the hollow behind Micah's ear to make him continue squirming, liking the vibration more than he was shivering with cold. He's sweating more than Arthur, his hair is a mess, and he looks like the sickness that he has and is.
Arthur ceases grinding into the other to take himself out of his pants. It doesn't surprise him too much when Micah turns around. Those cold blue eyes are not quite present but concentrated regardless. He likes rapid changes, and they've rarely done it like this before, grinding their cocks against each other. It's pedestrian by their standards, but the heat and pressure are good, and fucking in a baser sense would extort more energy than they have. Micah slaps Arthur's hand away to get a hold of himself, preferring to navigate his own climax. Kissing would make this too real, so Arthur ends up with Micah resting his face against Arthur's neck. As his end nears, his teeth sink into Arthur's collarbones, but the fabric protects him from the worst of it.
"Like a rodent," Arthur says almost affectionally.
Micah grinds his molars down in response, chewing, no doubt drawing blood. He's probably searching his brain for some kind of copycat insult, but instead he comes rather abruptly with a muffled groan. His orgasm is secondary to new extremes, so it doesn't take a long time for him to recover, wiggling his fingers underneath Arthur. His grip is ghastly, and he uses his own cum as lubrication. It's so repulsive it makes Arthur grimace, and so arousing the grimace twists.
"Terrible," he wheezes.
"Shut up and come for me, Arthur."
Arthur does, spilling into Micah's hand. He closes his eyes tightly, and when he opens it, Micah is licking and sucking on his own fingers with obscene noises and an obscener grin. He seems to enjoy how Arthur twitches at the display. They spend a minute catching their breaths, in a space where everything smells like musk and salt, and that licoricy undertone that clings to Micah if one is used to cigarette smoke and gunpowder, the earlier scents of leather and whiskey having been replaced by wool and fur.
Like always, they pull away from each other. But Arthur doesn't miss Micah's expression, pleased and present before he faces away from Arthur once more. Quiet pride, like Amos'. There is a wrongness in the comparison – one twin at church with his wife and daughters (and a soon-to-be son-in-law?), the other twin in a tent having just committed debauchery someone who can't be called friend nor family.
"Are you gonna go running off again in the night?" Arthur asks.
Micah doesn't answer, but he moves his arms up and crosses them in the request he never voices.
Arthur sits up and takes a rope out from his undercoat, freshly conditioned from his time spent at the fort. He also spent some time burning off the small hairs, so when he wraps it around Micah's wrists, it won't irritate his sensitive skin. The sensitivity is new, more of a restlessness. Micah shifts, and Arthur sighs and gets out another rope, one of those that is little less well kept, and ties Micah's ankles together. For his work, Arthur receives no compliments, but no insults either. Micah always seems to relax in ropes, Arthur having discovered it accidentally back when they were trying to kill each other more often. When allowed to do so, he takes full advantage.
"Better?"
"Go to sleep, sweetheart," Micah says, ignoring the question.
The speed of his reply is a good sign. Arthur is so used to the nicknames that they don't bother him. Any name is better than the time in a green forest where Micah lost his head and called Arthur his parasite, permanently scarring his face with a machete. They've come a bit further since, but Arthur shivers at the memory. It's as if the scar throbs, the one Micah said makes him look like a sad clown. Micah becomes drawn to Arthur's discomfort, pushing his back closer to Arthur's, taking up too much space in his life.
It's early noon when he rides through town, seeking a place for them to stay, leaving the other facedown – maybe sleeping, maybe not – but untied in the forest. Without darkness nor fog, it's easier to map out the place. Snow Hill reminds him of a flatter Strawberry situated next to a large lake. There are two general stores, a butchershop, a blacksmith, and many different houses clinging together in the town center, sparser by the lake. As Arthur passes a saloon, a man hauls a drunkard out into the snow, before he spots Arthur. He brushes dirt of his clothes as if touching the drunkard – passed out, by the looks of it – dirtied him. He introduces himself as the saloon owner. Arthur shares that he's looking for rooms. There is an odd moment as the owner looks him over, gauging the state of his clothes and of his horse, before he is pointed at the direction of the fishing cabins.
The cabins are hidden by a tall line of trees, and by the wall's entrance there is a house belonging to the landowner. Arthur hitches Cailleach outside it, knocks twice, and is granted entry. The landowner is sitting behind the counter, blinking sleep out of his eyes, clearly just having awoken from a nap. He greets Arthur with a friendly growl, asking him to state his business. Arthur tells him he's a tourist looking for a cabin to spend an unspecified amount of time, trout fishing. The landowner shows him a drawn selection of cabins, and Arthur chooses the cheapest, most rundown one at the edge of the lake. When the landowner leans over the counter and tries to persuade him to choose a better – more expensive – one, his necklace swings across the drawings as if the vessel of his religion is more indecisive than Arthur himself.
"My friend is trying to quit the bottle," Arthur admits, and then colors the truth with lies, like he's been taught to do since he began running with Dutch and Hosea. "I've been tasked to look after him before bringing him back to his wife and kids where he belongs. They don't know he's here, but they don't deserve seeing him like this."
The landowner leans back so that the cross falls across his chest, its edges tangling themselves in his fisherman's sweater. "It's a shame when even a man's own family has to keep away. But most people in our devilish age have experience with addiction. I know how bad it can get. My mother died trying to quit. Tough on the body, abstaining." After loosening the cross from the sweater, he gets Arthur a cabin key from one the counter's upper drawer. "But spiritually rewarding, if successful. I hope for your friend's success."
"He'd thank you if he'd been able to," Arthur says, paying for two weeks in advance.
The landowner counts out the money. "By the way, I couldn't help but notice that your collarbone is bleeding."
"Oh, this?" Arthur says, looking down at his steel blue wool shirt, visible from where his fur coat is open. The fabric is dotted with blood. "You wouldn't believe me, but I was attacked by a rat."
"Forceful bite for a rat. Was it dropped from the sky by a vulture?"
"Nah, I got bit it while sleeping. It must've been drawn in by the warmth, whatever it was."
"Hm." A pause. "I suppose it is my turn to speak of things that you might not believe in, but there are plenty of strange things in the night around these parts. Devils. Demons. Fairies. Call them what you will. This is an old town, with an older history than most. Do not venture go around these parts without the light of a cross."
"I won't," Arthur says.
Lies slip off him so easily, similar to the water melting in his hair and on his coat. As soon as he's outside, smoking while the cabin key is secure in his pocket, more snow coats him. Underneath the snow, the fur, and the wool, the bitemark on his collarbone continues to bleed, a thin but steady oozing.
Riding with Micah through the town in daylight is not an option because the face he shares with the man who lives here. Arthur spends the rest of the day arranging their move from the camp to the cabin. The latter is about as rundown as the drawings of it suggested. It is dark and dusty with thin wooden walls, but the fireplace is huge. Arthur spends some time riding back and forth, stocking up wood from the shed near the landowner's house. As the fire lights up the cabin, he spots a cauldron and things needed for cooking, and a table with six very uncomfortable chairs. There is a large bed built into the wall, and on one side of it there is a ladder leading up into a small alcove with another mattress and a low ceiling. The walls are clad with animal pelts that have seen better days. He frequently trips in the stuffed head of a bear rug that takes up most of the floor.
He spends the afternoon assessing the grounds, finding three of the six cabins – including his own – occupied. He spots a few men fishing by the lake. He tips his hat, and is greeted in the same fashion, none of them interested in talk. The large, thick forest nearby seems good for hunting and hiding.
He travels back to the forest camp as soon as it's dusk. He finds Micah huddled in clothes and blankets inside the tent, otherwise unmoving. By the looks of it he tried to eat something and failed. Arthur gets him to his feet, and found him sullen. As Arthur's rubbing away the ash with his boot, Micah finally manages to mount Baylock. Not a word is exchanged except the mere basics of where they were headed, and a muffled "Get your hands off me," when Arthur hid Micah's face with the scarves, but otherwise he's silent on the ride through town.
Arthur has never thought it would be possible to miss the other man's forked tongue, but it is a bit unreeving, the cozy smalltown feeling contrasting the presence glowering at his side. As soon as they reach the cabin, Micah dismounts and goes inside, throwing a hand after Arthur to signal that he needs to hitch Baylock.
As soon as he's moved necessities from the horses' backs into the cabin, he rides them – Cailleach leading, Baylock following – over to the stable by the landowner's house. There are three other horses in the stable, of good make and shape, showcasing the pockets of the other men renting cabins. Arthur takes a mental note of them. The landowner steps outside to help him with the horses, asking for their names.
"This here's Blackey," he says, pointing to Baylock, and hesitating a second before Cailleach. For once he agrees with Micah's earlier assessment: the habit of giving their horses majestic names, originating in Dutch, sure makes them sound like a pretentious bunch of cowboys. "And this here's Whitey."
"We get a few Arabians passing through, mostly in the summer, but it's refreshing to see one that isn't named after some dead king or queen, or a lowly god of some sort. But I guess you've got that bit going for yourself, first name being Arthur and all."
Arthur smiles and nods, having heard similar jokes from Dutch for years, with Hosea being called the evil witch from the stories of said king. He misses them both, a feeling like a vortex in his chest, and he tells himself it'll be fine, he's doing this for his family. The thing he has going on with Micah is just a distraction, a way to blow off steam. Soon, he'll return with his promised half of Micah's inheritance, the legendary treasure began by Micah Bell the First. All will be forgotten and all will be well.
Upon his return, Micah has crawled up on the alcove, taking a few blankets with him. Arthur remembers sharing similar spaces with other members of his gang, more often when he was a child, and how no one would go up on the higher bunk beds willingly, having to draw straws on it. Micah peeks forth from the blankets like a cat finding the highest space to keep guard, so Arthur supposes his choice makes sense.
Throwing a few more logs on the fire, he finally undresses from his fur coat, slinging it over a chair. The saddlebags are close enough to the door – and to the cold of the outside – that he needn't worry of the foods spoiling. Arthur sits down in front of the fire, warming his hands enough for him to be able to defeather the two birds he caught while riding across the mountains, having put them by the fire earlier in the day for them to defrost. He focuses on plucking the feathers out, and he loses himself to the routine of it.
Micah is watching him, but upon being spotted doing so, his eyes jumps towards the fire. He's chain-smoking, indulging in his main passion besides shooting, knifing and drinking. The alcove looks like a concentrated night in the fog, suiting the man who resides in it just fine.
"You warm enough up there? No drafts, so close to the ceiling?"
"Quit nagging. I'm fine."
Arthur raises his brows to show him what he thinks of that statement. From his earlier life, he remembers once finding Bill half frozen to death near a creek and having to drag him back to camp. Even as his skin was turning blue, and he couldn't walk, he'd kept insisting that he was fine, again and again, which he wouldn't have been if it wasn't for Arthur. In terms of last words, Arthur believed I'm fine! was almost as popular as Fuck!
"It'll all be just fine," Micah says, as if reading Arthur's mind and ignoring the danger there. "The plan is the same. We'll find a way to whisk those girls of his away."
"He didn't look like the kind of man who'd allow your nieces out of his sight."
"What?" Micah says, rising on his arms and accidentally hitting his head in the ceiling. He curses, but seems more awake when he asks, "When the hell did you met him?"
"Already told you, yesterday."
"And I told you not to go into town," Micah exclaims, clearly not remembering but unwilling to admit it.
"Saw him outside of church."
"How'd he look like?"
"What you mean, how does he look like? You grew up with the guy, you know he looks just like you. Just skinnier and generally less of a pain in my ass, but I guess we'll see about that."
Micah growls, "I mean, who was he with?"
"His family, of course. Wife, two daughters, and what looked to be one of them daughter's fiancé, probably the reason why he brought that house. Why, you think your brother would be alone?"
"The house he bought with my money," Micah says hotly, ignoring Arthur's question in favor to zone in on their reasons for being here: the luxurious vacation house, bought with the inheritance of Micah Bell the First and Second, if Micah the Third's sources – and instincts – are to be trusted. And so far, the story has added up, because one of the daughters seemed to be ready for a marriage. "Did he spot you?"
"Yeah," Arthur says. "Didn't like the sight of me much, but the priest covered for me. As far as anyone in this town knows I'm just a tourist looking to fish. Landowner thinks you're my friend recovering from drink."
"We're not friends, Arthur," Micah says, faux sweetly. "And he'd best keep his mouth shut about me. I don't know much about this town except that it's so small that the only real currency around these parts is gossip."
"The real currency here seems to be faith."
"Even worse. Fucking parasites, deceiving people, people being deceived."
Micah lights another cigarette, getting more comfortable on the alcove. By how slowly he smokes, Arthur knows he's getting ready for one of his monologues. It's like a pastiche of Dutch chewing on his cigar.
"People who can't see there is nothing out there, them's the real fools. They're weak, and their weakness is infecting the rest of us. Ain't no feeling sorry for others, what's done or what's about to get done, ain't no judge up in the sky watching us, there's only us, naked and alone, killing each other under a dead sky. Now and now and now and then nothing! But life is still," a dramatic pause, "grand. It's big enough while it lasts."
"You know I don’t care for your philosophizing, Micah. Makes me feel dumber by the minute."
"Not my fault you can’t keep up." Micah peeks out from his smoky hell. "You faithful?"
"Loyal? Sure. Religious? Nope. I don't believe in nothing."
"Good," Micah says. The tenseness in him – the one which rises as soon as Amos is mentioned – is ebbing away. He stretches out, gurgles and grunts, like he's just eaten. But no man can survive on philosophy alone, although he sure seems to try hard to be self-conscious but otherwise senseless.
When Arthur is finished with the birds, he shreds them into a soup with a can of beans, and salt, pepper, and ginger from his satchel, making a mental note to buy butter and flour to make it more filling. Soon the whole cabin is filled with the smell of cooking. Arthur looks behind him, gauging the interest, but Micah beats him to it.
"Not hungry."
"You haven't eating anything since we left the fort. Can't keep it down?"
"Not really," Micah says, so quiet it could be a wind from outside.
"Alright," Arthur says, filling a bowl for him regardless. "But try to get something in you. I'll put out a bucket."
The bucket ends up being one of the wash basins, as the actual bucket outside the cabin has frozen to the wall. Micah only finishes half of his bowl before he goes paler than usual. It's a miracle that he doesn't just throw the plate onto the floor, and Arthur climbs up a few steps on the ladder and gets the plate back. He is kind of disgusted at how used he is to the domestic routine between them, established the past weeks, mostly disgusted at how little he minds it and how normal it will continue to become.
It's quiet on the alcove, so Arthur doesn't bother saying goodnight before getting into bed. He lies on his back, one knee swung over the other, thinking of an abstract nothing.
He is unsurprised when a head lowers itself from above him. Being upside down, the hair seems longer, strawberry blonde and frizzy in the firelight. Micah's head is blocking the view from the fire, shadowing his expression, but Arthur has an idea what he wants.
"So, are you going to come down or what?"
No answer.
Arthur briefly hopes all the blood rushing to Micah's skull will make him fall headfirst out of the alcove.
It doesn't happen. The eyes keep watching him, alit with blue fire. But he's fallen asleep to Micah watching him so many times that it's easy to do it with how exhausted he's been from carrying wood, riding back and forth, wrangling Micah with more use of gestures and suggestions rather than orders and brawls.
When he does awaken, it's not because of the usual warm weight at his back, but because of cold. The cabin creaks with the winds from the outside, which somehow has gotten inside as well. The fire has burnt out in the fireplace. Tripping in the head of the bear rug, Arthur sees that the door is wide open.
"Goddamn it, Micah," he says for the dozenth time, adorning his boots and coat, tripping in the head of the bear rug a second time. He doesn't need to look up towards the alcove to know that the man is missing, but he does so nevertheless, and wonders if he ought to have tied the other down.
This time Arthur doesn't need to follow the tracks, because despite the dark fog Micah is visible from the porch of the cabin. Snow is falling, thicker and thicker. It is a world of gray. At the edge of the lake, Micah is standing and looking down into the gentle waves, a blackness that once would've been considered bottomless. Between the path he has taken from the cabin to the lake, he's taken off his fur coat. Arthur has to pick it up and shake snow out of it. He steps into Micah's footsteps to avoid alerting anyone else to their presence on the off chance that the residents in the other cabins should find their steps in the morning.
Micah is just as frozen as the last time he did this around twenty-four hours ago. He's wearing an old, tattered undercoat, arms wrapped around himself, eyes staring off into the lake, breath coming in small fast puffs. He doesn't react much when Arthur moves close, a subtle tremor going through his jaw.
"Why do you keep doing this to yourself, huh?" Arthur asks, and he is surprised when he receives an answer.
"To feel something."
Sighing, Arthur wraps the fur coat around Micah. The other struggles but is too dazed to do any real damage, especially when Arthur buttons it at the front. He reaches out to touch Micah's neck to gauge his pulse, and Micah's arms twitch as if he would've shoved him away if they hadn't been trapped inside the coat.
"Feel me, instead," Arthur murmurs, feeling the fast pace of the heart underneath his thumb.
Micah doesn't reply, but his eyes glide over to Arthur's, meeting them with the steadiness the rest of his body lacks. His skin remains coated with a thin layer of sweat, mistakable for snowfall hadn't it smelled sour and salty, but Arthur has had that smell in his nostrils for too many nights to mind it. His body is so fine tuned to it that it reacts accordingly, warmth pooling in his gut, enough for the two of them. Adjusting his grip around Micah's neck, he guides him back to the cabin, letting the other walk in the front so that Arthur can mirror his steps.
"There's no hurry, you know. Our money can wait a little."
Inside the cabin, he peels off Micah's clothing, the outer layers, the wool underwear, insistently touching. Micah starts shivering, making up for his time frozen, but he lets Arthur undress him.
"Did you need an invitation to get into my bed? Are you a vampire?"
"What's a vampire?" Micah asks, stammering the consonants while sitting down at the bed to shred the last of his woolen underwear.
"Some kind of fairytale creature who bites your neck and sucks all the blood out."
"I'll suck all your blood out. If you wanna," Micah says, licking his lips. He is aware of what kind of effect it has on Arthur's mind. "Make you all pale and pretty. And useless. Like a doll."
"Look who's talking."
There is a brief interlude in which Arthur makes a fire, and Micah crawls underneath the blankets on the bed, lying on his stomach. He cranes his neck to look at Arthur while the latter undresses, a twitching sneer at his lips. After a minute, he is beneath Arthur, who pushes his naked body against the colder one.
"Do you feel me?" Arthur asks, pressing his erection against Micah's ass, threatening to go in dry, not because he's planning to but because he likes how Micah's breath hitches. "Don't be scared."
"Never scared," Micah mutters, looking over his shoulder and raising a brow in challenge.
There unsteadiness remains as he raises his lower body, making Arthur get into position behind him. He gets out the familiar container of animal fat, warming in his hands, slicking himself up. He's slow about fucking Micah more open, gripping his hips too tightly for the other to move, or have any real control whatsoever. Fantasies of ropes, knives and belts play out in Arthur's head, grounded in real events. But he likes having Micah like this too, bucking into him so slowly he's forced to feel Arthur around him. Maybe it feels like a thicker version of the smoke from the fireplace, a smog laying a fatty layer in his mouth and nose. When he tries to get into all fours to get some control, Arthur pushes his upper body back down, head down into the pillow.
"You didn't answer my question," Arthur says, reaching around to grip Micah's cock. "Do you feel me now?"
"Arthur," Micah whines. While it isn't a yes or no, it's an answer.
Feeling generous, Arthur starts stroking Micah, harsh and quick. The moans underneath him increase, muffled by the pillow, but still enough to make him move faster, trying to time their release. Micah is fisting the sheets, clawing at everything he can find, spreading his legs in a way that must put a strain on them. When he comes, it's with a wretched noise, squirming away while Arthur follows him, continuing to stroke him while chasing his own ending. Cursing, he empties himself into Micah, the slap of flesh dying into a halting rhythm. They part, they breathe, they sleep – but not before Arthur has tied Micah wrists. Micah faces the wall, and Arthur, Micah's back, rising and falling more calmly than before.
Closing his eyes, he thinks that maybe they can go on like this for a couple of days.
He doesn't know that they'll stay in Snow Hill for three months.