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“You know, you sure gave me a lot of shit when I was recovering.”
Arthur glanced up at the familiar voice, blinking at the entrance of the tent. Bright light carved out the shadowed silhouette, his vision too hazy to see the features of his visitor’s face. Yet Arthur still recognized him, well acquainted with the shape and angles to mistake it for anyone else.
He pinched his eyes closed and leaned back against the cot. “Shut up, Marston.”
“I’m just sayin’,” John said, and Arthur could hear the shrug in his words–his tone haughty and fond all at once. Yet beneath it all, relief threaded the words, and John took three hesitant steps forward.
Arthur listened to the clack of his heels against the makeshift floor—comprised of wooden pallets. Rugs were layered beneath a plush pelt, softening the hard and splintered surface. But it was not enough to ease the croak and whine of the thin planks, and Arthur opened his eyes once more with a sigh. “You need something?” he asked gruffly, scowling up at John.
His head throbbed with a dull ache, pain rippling from his patched shoulder. The morphine that churned through his veins was thinning, its veil of numbness waning. His mind was unclouded, the anguish becoming unbearable once more.
John blinked down at him, gray eyes narrowed and stormy with an indiscernible expression. Somber enough that Arthur’s lips flattened and he said in a softened voice, “What is it?”
He was quiet for a long moment, his mouth hung open only to close when the words failed him.
Finally, after what felt like eternity, John said, “I thought you were gonna die.”
Arthur stared at him, startling at the confession—at the soft yet incessant earnestness in John’s words.
“Yeah well, so did I,” he tried to joke, offering a half-hearted chuckle.
It was short-lived, Arthur sputtering into deep and dry coughs. His lungs rattled, thundering in the hollow of his chest as pain rippled down his spine. Fuck, it ached, but even worse was the sharp reminder that hooked itself in his thoughts. He really did almost die, and his body was ragged from the fight.
It had been a long time since he felt so vulnerable, so near to death that hellfire licked at his skin. His mind still spun from the rapid oscillation, pivoting between fear and acceptance of his imminent death to hope.
Relief when the camp came into view on his long journey home.
That had been over a week ago now, and Arthur only just started to return to himself. The first few days were a nightmare; he recalled little of them. Just glimpses of reality shrouded in confusion and anguish. And then the fever set in, his body hot and shivering all at once as he fought off the infection.
Hell, it wasn’t until a few days ago that Arthur finally felt something close to human.
He didn’t remember much of the first week, but he’d heard about it. Dutch’s constant apologies and guilt-ridden glances; Hosea and Mary Beth holding vigil at his side. Miss Grimshaw tended to him, washing him like she once did a long time ago, when Arthur was just a boy and had injured himself in some reckless bid. He awoke one afternoon to Abigail and Jack, the young boy leaned over to peer curiously at Arthur’s face—his lips splitting into a wide and toothy grin when Arthur glanced back.
The others trickled in; Sean and Javier and Bill all took turns to visit him throughout the course of his recovery. Karen and Tilly slipped in to relieve the others, sitting at Arthur’s bedside for hours at a time.
Even that Kieran kid poked his head in once, stuttering a nervous inquiry before he scampered off.
Everyone came to visit him.
Everyone except John.
Arthur frowned at the thought.
Was this the first time he stopped by?
Had it been too uncomfortable, too strange to see Arthur as sick and weak as he was? Lord knew it felt strange for Arthur, and John never was good at that sort of thing. Confronting things despite it all.
When they were little, Arthur teased him about it. Use to call him a coward.
He still was in a lot of ways, but it wasn’t so funny now. Not when Arthur knew how terrifying it was to think you were going to lose someone you cared for.
His throat clenched at the idea, and he shifted with discomfort, glancing at John.
He just stared at Arthur with that same odd expression.
He flicked his gaze away and cleared his throat. “Don’t look like that. I’m still here, ain’t I?”
John huffed out a humorless laugh, like he didn’t quite buy Arthur’s nonchalance. He stepped closer all the same, and after an awkward moment he sat on the bed beside him. The thin mattress tipped with his weight, and Arthur’s thigh fell apart to rest against the other man’s back. John was still and quiet, his eyes pinned to stare at his lap. “I wanted to visit but…” he started to say only for the words to trail off.
Arthur reached for him, almost instinctively. A long forgotten motion but one he slipped into with ease, his fingers wrapping around John’s hand with familiarity.
He frowned, struggling to recall the last time he held his hand so intimately.
Sometime before John had left him, running away from the gang for a year.
Arthur pushed the thought away, not wanting to sour the moment. He pressed his lips into a stiff smile and said in what he hoped was an assuring tone, “I know.”
John slumped forward with a sigh, deflating with the words. He fell silent then, his gaze falling listlessly ahead as he laid his other hand over Arthur’s own, playing idly with the thick digits. An old nervous habit, and Arthur felt his mouth twitch into a fleeting grin.
Fond.
Fuck.
He missed John, more than he realized.
More than he hated him for leaving.
Minutes stretched onward, neither of them daring to disturb the odd moment of peace they found themselves in. John leaned deeper and deeper into Arthur’s side, his body a hot and comforting weight. They sat like that for what felt like hours, though Arthur would still argue it wasn’t enough, and he bit back on a strangled sound when eventually, John pulled away.
He shifted until he faced Arthur, though his head was still lowered. Dark hair hung limp on either side of his face, and he averted his gaze even as he started to speak,“I-I know it’s been awhile but…can I…I mean…” He opened his mouth only to stammer and clamp it shut, trying and failing to say what he wanted.
Instead, he reached between them and flattened his palm to Arthur’s chest. He held it there, feeling the steady thrum of his heart before he slid it lower, smoothing over the thin blanket.
He didn’t speak but Arthur understood him all the same.
John always had a way about him, an obviousness to his wants.
And Arthur always had a hard time denying him.
But he hesitated. “It has been a long time,” he agreed.
Maybe it was too long; too long for it to not be complicated.
Messy.
John leaned closer, inching nearer to Arthur as a pink tongue darted out to lick at his chapped lips.
“I just…after everything that's happened,” he waved a hand between them, as thought gesturing to some broad and nameless thing. “And all this other shit we've got going on, I don't know. I guess I just miss it.” He pinched his lips, quiet for a moment before he added in a softer voice, “I miss you.”
The hand that splayed over Arthur’s torso twitched, sweeping down his thighs in a tentative touch.
As if John was testing the waters, his dark eyes wide when he met Arthur’s gaze. Pleading, and his lower lip jutted out in a pout. “I just want to be close to you.”
Arthur knew he shouldn’t—it was a bad idea in so many ways.
But...
He always had a hard time telling John no.
With a single nod, Arthur moved to shirk the blanket away, revealing himself within the private space of the tent. He wasn't quite nude; a thin pair of cotton slacks concealed his lower half, though his chest was bare beneath the blankets and the thick swatch of bandages around his shoulder. Dark and ugly bruises mottled his flesh, though his chest was hardly a sight before he crossed paths with the O'Driscolls. Old wounds, threaded in scar tissue, littered his torso, marking him in memories of long-forgotten violence.
It was rough and hideous, but John drank down the sight of him with unabashed desire. His mouth hung open, his thin lips parted in soft, panted breaths. Gray eyes traced the myriad of bruises like stars in the night sky, admiring the blue and violet blossoms.
Any sense of hesitation vanished as John leaned forward to drape over Arthur and press his lips against burning flesh. His mouth was hot and wet where it kissed him, dragging leisurely down Arthur's front.
He groaned, arching his back to meet John and his fervent kisses.
“John,” he warned in a roughened, syrupy voice.
The younger man understood, pulling away from Arthur with a sigh. He slid lower and hooked his thumbs under the waistband of Arthur's pants. He tugged them down, exposing the dark curls of his groin and softened cock.
Arthur lifted his hips from the mattress, helping John in removing the pants. Once they were bunched at his calves, John slotted into place, wedging himself between Arthur's thick thighs. He lowered his head, dark hair falling in front of his face and obscuring him from view as he wrapped his mouth around the length and swallowed him down.
Arthur's breath hitched in his throat and he dropped his head against the pillow, his eyes fluttered closed. Instinctively, he reached for John, threading his fingers through his hair.
For a long time they laid like that; Arthur playing with the dark locks as John simply held him in his mouth, his head tipped to rest against Arthur's thigh. He was soft as velvet and hot to the touch, gripping Arthur like an embrace; familiar one even after so much time.
All of it was painfully familiar. The swipe of John's tongue against the bulbous head of Arthur's cock and the gentle way he suckled when he started to grow impatient. When he wanted to tease Arthur and feel his cock as it steadily filled out and thickened.
As though the years of bitterness and resentment that stifled their relationship had never happened.
As if they could return to what they once were before all the other bullshit. Things that didn't really seem to matter anymore.
How tempting it was.
Arthur was pulled from his thoughts by the arousal flooding his veins and simmering in his gut. He was hard now, soft pleasured moans falling from his lips and he blinked his eyes open to stare down at John.
It was a breathtaking sight—his chapped lips stretched obscenely around Arthur’s firm erection, dark lashes fluttering over lust-blown eyes. A faint blush colored his cheeks, staining the tan skin in blotches of red.
Fuck, he was pretty, and for a moment Arthur just stared at him, gaping stupidly at the younger man warming his cock.
John flicked his eyes up to hold Arthur's gaze, the intensity striking him like a slap. It made his heart stutter rapidly in his chest and his breath hitch, lodged in his throat.
If they didn't stop soon…
Arthur cleared his throat and tightened the fist still wound in John's hair. He tugged him upward. “Al-alright,” he began, the single word stuttering on his dry tongue. He paused to lick his lips before he added, “we should stop.”
He didn't want to—Christ, he didn't want to.
But arousal was making him dizzy, a dull, static hum filling his head and blotting out his senses. Quieting the doubts until he could hear nothing but the thrum of his heart and the low, mewling sounds John made around his cock.
John was no more eager to stop than Arthur, and he moaned in protest—his lips buzzing around delicate skin. He pressed his thumbs into the hollow of Arthur's hips and tightened his grip on the other man. All at once, his passivity came to an end, no longer content with just holding the length in his mouth. He bobbed his head, swallowing down another inch or two of Arthur's erection. Until the sensitive glans prodded against the back of John’s throat.
Arthur gasped, his eyes rolling back against the sudden constriction, the tight clench of the passage. John offered a muffled gag, the sound more lewd than it had any right to be.
He suspected it was theatrics—John loved to amp up his dramatics, making himself loud and obscene in such moments. Arthur didn't care; it made his pulse quicken and his cock lurch all the same.
“John,” he groaned, the consonants and vowel ground against his teeth. His limp fingers twitched before they entwined in dark hair and once more, he gave him a tug. Sharper now, as if refusing to be ignored. “If we don't stop now…” he trailed off, not giving voice to the warning.
A half-hearted one if he were honest; the last thing he wanted now was for John to stop.
John glanced up and searched for Arthur's gaze, his own eyes hot and certain. Tears clumped his lashes together, yet still he swallowed—pulling Arthur's cock even deeper into his throat.
Arthur hissed, instinctively tightening the hand fisted through John's hair. Hard enough that several strands snapped from his scalp.
Neither men paid it any mind as they dropped any and all resistance; as they gave in to their wants.
Maybe it was stupid, and maybe Arthur would regret it later. When there was nothing left to do but return to their life as it was and not the one it had been once. When the illusion faded away and only the ugliness and resentment remained.
It was a problem Arthur would happily put off for the future if it allowed them this moment.
He really had missed this, after all.
Arthur dropped his head and arched his hips forward, holding John in place as he pushed himself further and further—choking the younger man. Fingers dug into his hips, nails carving half-moons into the skin. John gagged again, though this one seemed more sincere than the first.
Less performative.
A moan sounded low in his chest and John held the position as long as he could. Until tears spilled down his ruddy cheeks and his lungs seared for air.
He pulled away from Arthur with a gasp, the air cold where it kissed the spit-slicked member.
A shiver rippled down Arthur's spine. “You're going to kill me one of these days, Marston,” he said, his voice ruined as though he were the one draped between another's legs, stuffing his throat until it was fit to burst.
John laughed, the sound soft and roughened from the abuse. He loved the treatment though; begged for it even. Back when the thing between them was new and Arthur hesitated to be too rough. He didn't want to hurt John, regardless of how fervently the man insisted.
But he did insist, and Arthur always gave him what he wanted in the end.
“Just not today, alright?” John added, swollen lips pulled into a smile. It was a joke, but something earnest threaded through the words. The anxiety from Arthur's near-death still simmering low in his gut, a fear he wouldn't soon forget.
“Not today,” Arthur agreed.
With a final grin, John ducked his head and took the cock into his mouth once more. He bobbed up and down, taking Arthur as far into his throat as he could, holding him there just long enough for the grasp around the aching member to become too much. When he pulled off him, it was with an expert twirl of his tongue to the spongy head. He lapped at the slit, collecting the thin pre-come and swallowing it back down.
A hand moved between them, fingertips grazing over quivering thighs in a phantom touch before John reached for him. He fondled Arthur as he devoured his cock, toying at his sac when he was sunk down low and dragging it up and down his shaft when he came up for air.
It was maddening; better than the memories he'd been left with and for just a moment, Arthur felt a swell of jealousy. Hot and corrosive, it twisted in his chest.
Had John taken another lover in their years apart? Was it truly better or just a reminder of how things had once been, before it all went to hell?
Like the first sip of water after too long without or the first bite of a meal when you were hollow with hunger.
He didn't have long to linger on the thoughts. Within moments, pressure mounted behind his naval and his thighs clenched in anticipation. His orgasm sat just out of reach, and he panted, practically delirious in the throes of pleasure.
He couldn't recall the last time he came—by his own hand, nonetheless. It was even longer still since he had been with another and shit.
He didn't realize how much he needed this.
The release and the intimacy of it all; the way John touched him, still so familiar with Arthur after all this time.
The soft, garbled sounds he made–noises of pleasure and assurances that he was alright, despite it all. Despite the intrusion and stretch of his throat.
Arthur never entirely understood it—how John enjoyed being used in such a way, whether it was the rough treatment or the slow and tender way he warmed him. But he knew what it was like to want to please someone so completely; to hold them close for as deep and long as possible.
And fuck if Arthur didn't enjoy being on the receiving end of John's unusual brand of affection.
“I'm close,” he stuttered, the simple words gritted against his teeth.
All at once, John halted.
His hand stilled where it wrapped around Arthur’s straining erection—pink and wet from a mixture of saliva and seminal fluid. He gripped the base of his shaft and pulled off of him with a pop.
A trail of drool connected bruised lips to the swollen glans, John's face flushed and blissful.
Mischievous.
Arthur groaned. “Quit teasin’ me already.”
“Can you fuck me?”
“John,” his name caught in Arthur's throat. He wanted to, God he wanted to. But it was a bad idea, a terrible one, even. Worse than the lines they already crossed by having this moment together.
They shouldn't.
“Please,” John asked, his lower lip protruding forward in a pout, lashes dark and fluttering.
A very, very bad idea.
“Alright,” Arthur agreed.
There was little time for him to regret it as John shuffled out of his slacks and tossed the garment to the floor. His flannel shirt hung loose around his chest, exposing his jutting collarbones. It was oversized, like most of his clothing.
All hand me downs from when Arthur was younger.
He liked how the man looked in his old and worn clothes.
John returned to the bed a moment later, clambering up to straddle Arthur. He felt so perfect, his weight a familiar comfort. Knobby knees and warm thighs pressed against Arthur and squeezed his hips. It felt like a hug, holding him in the same tight and grounding clasp.
He dropped down over the older man and slotted into place; the two fitted together like they belonged. His cunt was hot and moist, and with a wriggle of narrow hips, John shifted until Arthur’s cock pressed between his folds.
Christ, he missed this—missed John. Arthur ignored the twisting discomfort in his shoulder and lurched forward, capturing John's lips in a kiss.
It was messy and clumsy, all teeth. An aching reminder of how long it had been since they came together like this; how out of practice they were. Yet it didn't take long for them to find their rhythm. John clasped a hand to Arthur's face and swept his thumb across the bristled jaw as Arthur reached for the back of his head, a fist tangled in dark, greasy hair.
They kissed like they were starved for it; like the saliva passed between their lips was ambrosia.
John ground against Arthur, his hips seeking more friction; more heat. He angled himself to rub the sensitive bud up and down Arthur's cock, each thrust forward bringing with it a shudder of pleasure to sluice down his arching spine. He was drenched with arousal, his hole clenching around nothing—Arthur could feel it, the muscles that contracted with need as John chased his own pleasure.
Unbothered or unaware of the heat that was burning Arthur alive, how feverish he was growing in his own arousal.
“W-wait,” he said through strained teeth. John's hips stuttered and he whined, as though put out by Arthur's request.
He wedged a hand between them—his good one, though in the dizzying haze of lust he'd almost forgotten entirely about his wounds. Gripping himself around the base, he held himself firm and settled his other hand on John's hip. “Come on, now. Like that,” Arthur murmured as he guided his cock to John's entrance.
With a grunt, he sank down.
Arthur filled him all at once, gasping at the sudden vice that gripped him. The velvet walls that enveloped his length and pulled him in, deeper and deeper. It was impossibly hot, and Arthur whined before he could bite back on the pleading, desperate noise.
John blinked down at him, his lips parted in each sharp exhale. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide in lust. His voice was thick and gravely when he said, “Fuck, you're big. I forgot just how big.”
“Christ, John.”
He really was going to kill him one day, Arthur thought.
It would be a sweet and welcomed death.
John leaned forward to splay his palms against Arthur's broad chest, leveraging himself as he began to move. He rode Arthur slowly, allowing them both time to adjust the renewed sensations.
Arthur reached for him, his large hands gripping around John's hips. He guided the younger man, urging him to move faster. He bucked his hips upward to meet him, filling him completely; wholly. John groaned with each thrust, his head tipped back and eyes closed in an expression of bliss.
Releasing hold of his hip, Arthur slipped a hand between them. He pushed his thumb through the patch of thick curls, sodden with arousal, and between the puffy lips. Searching for that sensitive bud.
It was already swollen when he found it, rubbing the pad of his thumb in a circular motion.
John shuddered.
“Arthur!” he gasped, dropping forward to collapse against Arthur's broad chest. His fingers smoothed across the hard muscles, entwining in golden hair, tugging on them playfully. Teasingly.
Arthur growled. How he loved it, the way his name sounded when it fell from John’s tongue in pleasured cries.
How desperate and adoring it was.
John tucked his head into the crook of Arthur's neck, his panted breaths hot and moist where they fanned over fevered skin. His lips were parted, and he offered lazy, open-mouth kisses up the column of his throat before he found a spot just below Arthur’s ear. His tongue darted out, lapping circles over the skin in-between sharp nips of his teeth to the earlobe.
It lit his senses on fire, like a bolt of lightning snapped down his spine and flooded his veins. Arthur canted his hips up, driving harder, deeper, into John in response. Yet beneath it all—the disorienting pleasure and need that drowned him like craving waves of an ocean—something softer rang out.
Something almost sentimental.
Emotional.
How long had it been since he and John came together like this? Not since before he ran off. Years and years ago that might as well have been a lifetime.
And still, John remembered him and his body like it was an instrument. One he could never quite forget how to play, no matter the time and resentment that grew between them. The things he once traced so carefully with tongue were committed to memory, and fuck if that didn't tug at something somber within Arthur.
Something that wanted to hold John and keep him close.
To never let him go—not this time.
John's moans grew louder, as thick and sweet as honey. His thighs trembled where they gripped around Arthur’s hips, his walls clenching in anticipation. He was nearing his release, pushed closer to the edge with each pass of Arthur's thumb over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
Dragging Arthur with him as his cunt squeezed down on his cock.
“I ain't gonna last much longer if you keep that up,” Arthur managed to say, the words a warning of his own approaching orgasm. Already, his vision started to blur, the tell-tale tightness behind his naval pulling him taut.
John moaned a low and keening sound. He wasn't undeterred—in fact, it only seemed to encourage him. He slammed his hips down on Arthur, riding him with reckless abandon. He clenched his muscles intentionally now, and Arthur made a final, feeble attempt to pry John off before he relented.
The wave crashed against him once more, and this time he let it drag him under.
With a growl, Arthur came. Lights, like fireworks and bursting stars, filled his vision and his cock jerked within John—pumping him full. John's walls tremored and twitched around him, and with an uneven buck of his hips and strangled whines, Arthur pulled him under as well.
For what might as well have been an eternity, they wrung out each drop of pleasure.
Until John collapsed over Arthur, weightless and limp, panting out in sharp, exhausted breath.
Until Arthur had given him everything he had, his cock softening where it was still buried within his lover.
And just like that, the world seemed to stop.
Silence blanketed them, their senses quiet in the haze of release. Each breath was impossibly loud, their exhales shaking and strained. Arthur's veins thrummed with the sluggish churning of his heart and his skin buzzed, bright and alive.
He felt deflated, like the act had exsanguinated him.
For a long while, they laid there in a tangle of limbs and breaths that slowly evened out. Their shared heartbeats slowed, mirroring the dull thumps, and finally, Arthur shifted. He stretched out beneath John, lifting himself just enough to press a soft kiss to the crown of his head.
John sighed and nestled closer, content.
Arthur was still buried within him, the passage slick from their arousal.
And his release, he thought with a frown.
“You shouldn't have done that,” was all he said; words that John seemed to understand all the same.
He hummed; sleepy and lazy. “I missed it, feeling you fill me up.”
Arthur quietly agreed.
Still, it was a mistake. All of it was, if he was being cynical. Realistic of the world that moved on around them; the world beyond the tent that they would need to return to.
Eventually.
But for now, Arthur decided he didn't care.
He slung an arm around John—his good one, of course. The other was stiff, pain returning to it anew now that there was nothing to distract him from each agonizing and undulating ache.
It felt tolerable now that John was there, draped over Arthur’s chest where he belonged.
Within moments, he fell asleep; soothed to slumber by John’s embrace and the soft breath that fanned over his skin.