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Arthur was always one to enjoy hunting. The first time he ever went—properly, not tagging along with his old man that only got him to pick up a dead pheasant or two—was with Hosea when he was about fourteen. He was still a fragile thing back then, and he would be until he gained confidence in his late-teens. He was always ready to take flight at a loud noise or the smell of liquor. Hosea was quiet. Not soft or shy, but compared to his father or even Dutch, he was… sensible. That wasn’t an apt description for Hosea, but then again, Arthur wasn’t much of a writer. His jokes were crude but funny, and even the women he had around had a bite to them Arthur didn’t even know women could have. That was all to say that even if Hosea had a good head on him, he was still an outlaw.
He would stand by Hosea’s side as the man instructed Arthur on what to do, how to make bait, where to put it, what areas were better for what. He’d tell stories about catching huge fish, or times where he took days away from Dutch and his missus to camp out bears and wolves. Arthur wasn’t sure how much he trusted his stories about hunting grizzlies, but he laughed all the same and Hosea’s eyes lit up every time the poor youngin felt comfortable enough to even smile.
It wasn’t an exceptional hunt. There was no scarred, huge bear, or a five-foot-long catfish. It was a deer that had just shed its antlers, dazed and getting used to the new weightless feeling. Arthur remembered feeling for it, the way it didn’t have a chance as Hosea lifted a rifle and shot it dead. He knew that was something he’d grow out of, and his dad quickly beat that sort of talk out of him, so Arthur just hung back. He didn’t want to see Hosea skin it.
So Hosea watched him, and without saying a word, patted him on the shoulder and put the carcass on their horse.
“I’ll get Dutch to skin it,” He said, offering a hand to Arthur to help him up on the horse, “lazy bastard needs to do something ‘xcept prance around his ideas all day.”
Arthur couldn’t decide if Hosea knew that he was feeling particularly empathetic toward this deer, or if he truly thought the idea of Dutch van der Linde getting his hands dirty was funny, but he took his hand and hopped onto the horse, all the while Hosea began to spin another tale tailored to make Arthur laugh.
That was the beginning of his love for hunting. Which, now he thought about it, had nothing to do with the deer or even the food they got out of it, but the time before the kill, the time with Hosea.
After that trip, Arthur began to tag along with Hosea on every excursion. His feelings faded with time, instead welcoming the different strategies of hunting different prey, and more importantly feeding his family. When John joined their group—skinny, small thing, he was, with the ferocity of an alley cat, and the hunger of one too—Arthur would get a warm feeling watching him absolutely destroy a stew of pronghorn or deer he spent a day hunting. It was pride, and even deeper down, love, though he’d never say so to John.
As Hosea got older and sicker, and the gang grew in size, the man didn’t take to hunting anymore. Mostly it was because taking time away from camp became a dangerous act, but it was also because he worried about Dutch, and how the man never skinned a deer anymore, not for their sons or gang. He would sit in his tent and preach and Arthur could tell Hosea was irritated and concerned. Arthur wouldn’t think about it, it was practically treason to think of Dutch in that way, but he did notice that they were butting heads more, and Hosea was getting only more tired.
With Dutch’s grand plan with the Braithwates and Greys underway, and an idiotic badge pinned to his breast, Arthur needed some time away. He could handle his own against Pinkerton or bounty hunters, and a few days from camp would do him some good. He could put some food on the table, and maybe get something good enough for Pearson to make some equipment out of. He took himself east, spending a day on horseback, only stopping to eat and drink. When he allowed his horse to rest by a stream, he’d sit with his back to a tree, drawing in his book—trees, a new herb he picked, a frog he’d never seen before. He spent maybe thirty minutes watching a pair of alligators snap and hiss at each other, and another thirty minutes drawing it. Already there was a relief in his body, tension leaking from him, not having to worry for at least a day about the folk back home. They had Charles and Javier for food, and Hell, that O'Driscoll kid could cook up a mean fish.
Arthur found a good spot at the entrance of where land turned to swamp, deciding he’d hang outside it until morning. One misstep would be in the jaws of an alligator, and a straggler had told him about some sort of legendary panther in these parts. He’d rather not get his face eaten off, and hunting in the dark was a fool’s game with canopies swaying overhead, blocking off light from the moon.
He slept, and in the morning made himself coffee and warmed a can of beans over a fire. After tearing his camp down, he resumed his hunt. He killed a few snakes, one hog that squealed so much he was convinced all the other creatures must have fled from the noise, and after an hour of walking around, was jumped by an alligator, which he luckily dashed away from.
The bayou wasn’t really his place. The constant buzz of mosquitoes, the humidity and dangerous animals made it a hard hunting ground. But he wanted to be away, he wanted it to be hard. As the sun began to dip over the horizon, Arthur had given up on the idea of this legendary panther (sometimes, legends were just legends, like those quick-draw fools who kept getting themselves killed around him), and began his trip out of the bayou. He’d rest on the outskirts again, and then do a day’s travel back home to camp, ready to show off the tusks and snake skin he’d collected. He was getting hungry too, and the hog would make good food, and he’d have some to spare for tomorrow’s stew.
He rested his hand on his horse’s neck, gently stroking her black hair, humming to himself as he lit a lantern. It had gotten dark quick, as it always did in this sort of place, and he kicked the horse into a firm trot.
It happened fast. As the lantern flickered to life and he raised it ahead, his eyes widened upon seeing a hung dead man. He barely had a moment to think when clicks and hisses surrounded him, and not the sort from tussling alligators. He reeled his horse back as three men emerged from the darkness, white paint smothering skin, and they held hatchets, knives and bows. The horse startled, and not trusting his non-dominant hand to pull a pistol and shoot, Arthur turned around and booked it the other way.
They followed, not making a single recognisable sound. Only more hisses and clicks. Arthur’s stomach dropped—was there more of them waiting for him? God, he’d read something about people eating other people in the east, was that this? An arrow whizzed past his ear, he bared left, his horse’s legs met water and—
“Jesus!”
An alligator leapt for the horse, and she jumped back, bucking Arthur off. He landed in a foot-deep water, mouth filling with brown, murky mud. The lantern crashed into the ground, water immediately snuffing it out. He sat forward and choked, watching with dread as his horse ran away, whinnying in fear. The alligator’s attention turned to him, and Arthur was up in an instant, soaked in filthy water and sweat. He ran in the direction he should’ve gone, cursing the world, cursing these freaks chasing him, cursing his horse for leaving him. He’d forgive her as soon as he saw her. He always did.
Arthur hid behind a fallen log. If he was being hunted, he might as well stand his ground. His eyes adjusted to the dark quickly, and all he had was his revolvers on his person, which he held in a gloved hand tightly. It was maybe twenty minutes, boots firm in mud, when he heard a sound of movement.
A short hiss.
It might have been a gator. But Arthur wasn’t taking his chances.
He sat up, made eye-contact, shot. A man with white paint dropped like a sack of bricks into the water. Gator food, Arthur thought grimly.
An arrow embedded itself in the log, inches from his face, and he shot up, realising one of them must be staring right at him.
Another arrow flew through the air, Arthur raised a pistol—BANG. He didn’t even scream as he collapsed. Arthur wondered briefly if they were even people he was killing.
It took Arthur about twenty minutes to feel confident the third had fled. It was the smartest thing to do, but if these men ate other men, Arthur couldn’t be sure on how sane they were. Wiping dirt from his elbows, he used some water from his waterskin to clean his face from mud, then stripped his shoes and emptied them of water. It was too risky to call for his horse. If one of those men crept up on him, he’d be lunch, he reckoned. So, instead he began for the small lodging he’d passed earlier that day, a few homes that were on stilts, probably a small community of fishermen or at least someone who may be alright with him staying the night. Perhaps he could trade some of his snakeskins for a meal. God, he was starving.
Arthur walked carefully, with the quickest speed he could manage without risking making too much noise—because, even if those men were gone, legendary panther wanting to maul a man to death was still very much on the menu. A while into walking through the thick, hot bayou, Arthur focussed on a lone house to the side of the path. He hadn’t crossed it in the daytime, but from what he could see it was blue with bordered up windows. Maybe it was abandoned—maybe he could just sleep there.
“Hello!” A voice called from the dark and Arthur almost recoiled at the sudden exclamation. He had gotten so used to the silence of being alone that another person’s words scared the shit out of him. Still, Arthur realised there was a man sitting on the porch, smiling and waving for attention.
“Evenin’,” Arthur replied, beginning to move on. A lone, friendly man might be more dangerous than a panther, he decided. The multiple homes would be a safer bet.
The man scrambled up as Arthur began walking away, “My, you look like you’ve had quite the day! Hey, why don’t you come on in? You hungry?”
Arthur paused, studying the man closely. He had thin hair over a balding head, missing a few teeth and was shirtless beneath dungarees. He didn’t seem to be armed, and was quite thin. If he tried anything on Arthur, he could easily win, Arthur decided. He’d taken on bears and rival gangs after all.
“Maybe.” Arthur glanced away, trying to figure out where that tiny community must live, but the darkness made it hard to navigate.
“Come on in, come on in,” the man invited again, “I just made food! It’s still hot.”
It was either getting shot by some cannibalistic bastard or putting up with a weird man for a few hours, until it got light enough he could call out for his horse safely. So, Arthur made the judgement call, and began walking up to the house. He could spend some time drying his socks and gloves, maybe rest for a few hours, trade a snakeskin or two if he had to.
“Come on in, you wanna to see my collection of skulls?” The man asked, holding open the door. Arthur couldn’t help but snort at that—it was such a weird fucking thing to say that it disarmed him completely.
Arthur took in the home. It was the average sort of place, grimey and with minimal furniture. Arthur had lived in a place similar when he was real young, and the few places that they’d camped at were usually at the same amount of disarray. There was a small kitchen, and posters covering the wall head to toe, and then there were chains at the end of the bed—
Arthur froze, his skin rising with gooseflesh, yet he hadn’t the time to react as a plank of wood met the back of his head, and he was tumbling forward onto the dirty floor.
The world was a black blur. Words met his ears but he could hardly process them. His skull throbbed, and Arthur groaned as he was dragged up and onto something.
“Don’t you hate ol’ Sonny now,” The man was saying, “don’t hate him.”
Slowly, his eyes opened, and Arthur vaguely recognised he was on a bed, rolled onto his side, looking up at the man as he gently stroked Arthur’s hair. He could barely react, trying lamely to move, but his hands and legs were chained and the man only smiled down at him. Like he was sweet on him. Like he was his lover.
Blackness came again, and the next time Arthur regained consciousness, it was with the slow realisation he was on his front, a pillow under his stomach, his trousers starkly missing. His head still a mess, Arthur pulled at the cuffs, groaning in pain, mouth pressed into a pillow.
“No, no,” Arthur murmured, unable to summon strength to his voice, “stop it, stop.”
There was movement, then coarse, warm hands on his thighs.
Arthur recoiled more, tugging at the cuffs, harder and harder.
“Get the fuck away—get off me!”
The hands came up to his rear, and Arthur's voice turned frenzied, “I’ll kill you, I will! Stop it!”
“Now, what did I tell you?” The false-coaxing voice purred, and Arthur shuddered as breath tickled his ear, “Don’t hate on ol’ Sonny.”
Arthur thrashed as best he could, roaring and threatening, but his whole head felt like it was about to cave in. The world was caving in. Oiled fingers made their way into him and Arthur’s breathing drew sharp and pained. He battled tears from his eyes. He would keep the last bit of dignity he had.
“I’ll kill you! St—Stop it!”
Arthur didn’t believe his own words.
Neither did Sonny.
He couldn’t tell if he blacked out again or if he just pressed his eyes shut and willed the awful sensations to stop. But next time he could hear, the next time he could see, he was on his side again, union suit done up, jeans still discarded to the side.
Arthur moved his head up, blinking through the haze, through tears he didn’t remember crying. A hand was back in his hair, petting kindly and softly, the way Mary would after he drank too much, the way Eliza would when he came down to visit her and Isaac, the way Hosea used to when Arthur was small and cried about his mother.
“Oh, you struggled… and you lost,” He said, a grin spread across toothless lips, “but it was quite a tussle, I tell you. Quite a tussle, my pet.”
Arthur was going to be sick. His whole body ached. His rear ached. It felt like there was a jackhammer beating into his brain and he just wanted to fucking stop. He realised drearily that his wrists and legs were free. The bastard was so confident that Arthur couldn’t fight back, and he was right. His body was slack and he was humiliated, God, he wanted to die.
The world was fading away from him and this time he welcomed it. He wanted to stop feeling the hands caressing him, the wet patch on his lower back he didn’t dare even consider, he wanted to melt away into nothing.
“See, friendship ain’t so tough. And neither is you.” The words swirled in his head as he went slack into the bed. Maybe if he just stopped struggling, it would stop.
Arthur woke on the outskirts of the bayou, the harsh sun enveloping him in an uncomfortable sweat. He blinked slowly, lifting himself up, whole body tense. He took a moment to get his bearings, the back of his head throbbing dully, the world spinning. He sat still for a while, focussing on the grass beneath him, the way it felt on his fingers. It took him so long to be able to look straight that he hadn’t even realised his horse stood nearby, grazing, waiting for her owner to wake up. She wouldn’t know any different, after all.
He stood, slow, unsure, wobbling like that deer two decades ago. He felt like he had lost something, like something had changed within him. There was a deep pit in his stomach that turned his blood cold, and Arthur pressed a hand to his mouth as he suppressed a sob. Slowly, his horse trotted over, nosing at his arm, and Arthur took in a deep breath, instinctively putting his hands to her muzzle, running dirtied fingers over her brown coat.
“I’m sorry, girl,” He whispered, though for what he wasn’t sure. He pulled himself up on her, grimacing on the pressure on his backside. He wanted to pretend it didn’t happen, but the pain stung so much he couldn’t.
He just needed to get home, he just needed Hosea.
His brain swam as he made his way to camp, eyes glazed over while he steered them home without much thought. If anyone tried to speak with him, he didn’t hear it, instead thinking about what happened, going stiff and freezing as he remembered hands on his thighs, inside him. The thought made him pale, and he barely managed to get off his horse as he threw up yesterday’s breakfast. He wheezed and groaned for a while, and only managed to keep on going after the animal trotted up to him again. At that point, Arthur had surrendered all control to her, letting her take them home.
Arthur didn’t stop to rest, not even in the night. He didn’t want to be vulnerable again, never again. He needed Dutch, Hosea. God, he’d take John right now. The idea of telling any of them made him almost throw up again. Arthur Morgan, five-thousand-dollar-bounty, Dutch’s dutiful favourite, feared gunman and outlaw, raped? He’d never be seen the same way, it would be pity, or Hell, mocking sympathy from Micah and the like. Arthur would sooner take a gun to his head then tell Dutch. He needed to be strong, not just for him, but for the camp. Who else would do all the hunting, all the killing? He needed to bury it. No one could know.
Arthur’s eyes refocussed as someone called out, “Who’s there?”
That was Lenny. Arthur summoned strength to his voice, “Arthur.”
He hitched his horse and slowly swung his legs over the saddle, grunting at the pressure on his back. He adjusted his coat, noticing only now that his coat was dirty, and he was covered head to toe in grime. He must look a wreck, and he had nothing but snakeskins and tusks to show for it. He began for his tent, trying to hide the limp the best he could. He just needed to get changed, to get clean. He needed to sleep as long as he could and just fucking stop thinking about it.
A hand grasped his shoulder and Arthur hollered, jumping back and ready to fist fight Sonny. But the confused gaze of Sean met him, and he gave Arthur a small smile, “My bad, my friend, didn’t mean to scare ya. What happened t’ ya?”
“What you mean?” Arthur grumbled back, shouldering his hand off and continuing to stalk to his tent.
“Jesus, who shat in your bed?” Sean followed behind and Arthur was quickly becoming irritated, grinding his teeth together. “Just wanted to know if you’re all right, Arthur. You don’t took too—”
“I’m fine,” Arthur snapped, turning round giving him a harsh look. A few eyes were drawn over to him, and he shrunk in on himself, shaking his head dismissively at Sean. “Just fell off my horse.”
It was an embarrassing lie based on the truth, but it was less embarrassing than everyone knowing what really happened. Sean raised a brow, and Arthur couldn’t tell if the feller believed him or not, but he decided right now he didn’t care. He was fucking filthy and needed to be cleaned, he felt disgusting. He took a fresh set of clothes, a pale and some soap, sat himself by the shore and began to scrub his body with a cloth.
The sensation of cool water helped, taking the grime off his skin with relative ease considering he was smothered in bayou muck. As he took his union suit down, he stopped at his pelvis, realising he didn’t… see what happened down there. It hurt, sure, but he couldn’t imagine looking at himself naked right now, or being naked in such a public space. There was nothing worse, he realised, and he’d rather skin himself alive than take his whole suit off. So he didn’t, instead rolling it up to his mid-thigh.
He scrubbed his legs, starting at his calves and making his way up, and came to a halt as he realised his inner thighs were red with marks. Arthur lost grip of the soap upon inspecting further, seeing indents of teeth, pressed hard enough to bruise but not bleed. Arthur stared, and all of a sudden he was back in that bed, back with his head in a pillow, back with something, someone pumping in and out of him and he was sobbing and begging like a fucking child for it to stop. That hand was in his hair, caressing his bloody scalp, quiet whispers in his ear.
“Arthur,” A voice stated so firmly he was back in Clemens Point, back home, not in that dingy bayou and not with Sonny. Arthur’s eyes wildly searched for the voice, until his eyes landed on Hosea, and he suddenly felt very tiny under his careful gaze. “Arthur, I think you’re clean.”
Arthur’s brows furrowed in confusion, but he looked down and realised he had been scrubbing his thighs so gruffly his skin was red. He wiped his nose and pulled his union suit back down, keeping his torso positioned away from Hosea, feeling weirdly exposed and watched as his father approached. Hosea’s face was the normal amount of carefully practised composition, but he took a beat before approaching further, as if Arthur would scamper away like a stray. That was embarrassing, what gave him away so badly?
“How was the trip? You were gone three days. Pearson said you didn’t stop by him.”
“I’m dirty,” Arthur explained, rinsing out the cloth, dipping it in soapy water as he scrubbed his arms.
“You look pretty clean to me, son,” Hosea said so softly that Arthur tensed. Hosea was treating him like a scared dog. He bristled, running his tongue over his teeth, shaking his head.
“No, I ain’t,” He replied.
There was a pause as Hosea watched as Arthur scrubbed his skin pink, and his eyes came up to Arthur’s face, then his hair. Suddenly, he breathed in deeply, concern painting his face. “Arthur, you—”
“I’m fine, old man. Leave me be.”
“There’s blood in your hair, Arthur.”
“Hit my head when I fell off my horse. ‘M fine.”
Arthur stared at him, challenging Hosea with darkened eyes and a straight lip. I dare you, Arthur thought, disagree. Hosea sighed, looking away, and gently took the cloth from Arthur. Without saying anything else, Hosea raised the rag to Arthur’s ear, glancing at Arthur to see if he would pull away. He didn’t, remaining perfectly still as Hosea gently brushed at the dried blood in his dirty-blond hair. Arthur faced away, at first to let Hosea to clean the blood, but soon to hide as his lip tugged down, trembling as he had the sudden urge to cry. It was like he was a kid having a nightmare about his dear old ma, dreaming of belts and mean words and liquor, and Hosea was there to stroke his hair and soothe him to sleep. Arthur tucked his face in his elbow, trying to pass it off as being tired from a long day of travel, but he hid tears, exhaustion settling in his bones, so deep that he couldn’t suppress his shoulders from rising and falling with each small, ragged breath he let out.
“Oh, Arthur,” Hosea whispered, putting the rag down and lacing an arm around his bare shoulders. Even though Sean had touched him earlier, something about Hosea made it nice, and he let it happen. The hand on his shoulder was firm but kind, and Arthur put every bit of energy left on stopping the tears from becoming sobs. He just wanted to keep one bit of dignity, God, please.
So he cried quietly for what could have been a few minutes or a few hours, and eventually melted into Hosea’s arms, wrapped lovingly and kindly and Arthur wanted to fall asleep like this, how he did when Hosea earned his trust when he was still a kid. Arthur had been hostile to him and why? Why had he done that? Hosea wasn’t Sonny, Hosea was his dad, his dad he loved so dearly and he loved him too.
“Why don’t you put your clothes back on, son? You’ll catch a cold.”
He was right. Arthur pulled away, wiping at his face, keeping his eyes glued to the lake in front of them instead of humiliating himself further. Arthur stripped his union suit when he was sure no one was looking and changed into his spare, and then pulled on a pair of trousers and shirt that would have to do while he cleaned his usual get up. He still felt filthy, he realised, even with a fully scrubbed body and new clothes, and he dreaded to think he felt that way not due to actual dirt on his skin.
He leaned against the tree, half-lidded eyes watching the still water ahead. He felt a bit better now, even if he was still dirty-feeling and his body ached, it was better now he had Hosea with him. Arthur stood slowly, hand on his hip, grunting quietly in pain. Hosea considered him deeply and silently, and when Arthur went to say goodnight, he realised Hosea’s face was now a shade paler, and he looked distressed, even if it was just in his brows.
“What’s it, ‘Sea?” Arthur asked, frown on his own face.
“Nothing, my boy. Why don’t you get some rest?”
Arthur watched Hosea carefully now, and he swallowed deeply.
“You know you can always come to me, don’t you?”
Arthur let the words hang in the air, the implication heavy and knowing. Arthur couldn’t maintain eye contact, body slacking with shame, eyes red with tears. “‘Course.”
“All right, then,” Hosea said, nodding his head to the tent, “I saved you some dinner, just in case you came home. Eat and then sleep.”
“All right,” Arthur replied, throat closing up, “thanks, ‘Sea.”
“It’s okay, my boy.”
As Arthur began to walk back, a small limp making it difficult to move, he paused, and turned, for just a second, before deciding against it.
“I can if you want, Arthur.”
He paused again, closing his eyes and taking a moment to process his words. He sighed, running a hand over his face, and let out a shuddery breath, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then.”
So Hosea stood, following Arthur to his tent. Luckily people had started to head to bed now, eyes no longer glued to Arthur as Hosea pulled up a seat beside Arthur’s cot. Arthur peeled his shirt and trousers off, getting under the cover of his blanket, turned toward the wagon instead of Hosea, as if that would lessen the embarrassment at all.
Still, Hosea seemed to understand, remaining quiet as he leaned forward and laced his warm fingers through Arthur’s hair, gentle and purposeful to not touch the sensitive part. Arthur’s eyes slowly closed as Hosea hummed low in his throat an old song that Arthur couldn’t remember the words to, relaxing with each tender touch Hosea gave him. Falling asleep was something he was anxious for as he bathed, thinking about being exposed and weak, but with Hosea at his side, he felt safe. He dreamt of nothing, and while he’d never be the same, it felt all right he at least had his dad with him through this.