#the second chapter will be pure sugar i'm already warning y'all

[kbstories]

Kicking off the second part of my Charthur series with some fluff!

Quiet For So Long

Tags: Fluff, Road Trips, First Time, Bathing/Washing

This is a direct sequel to my first fic, Only Lost The Night. Please read that one first!

(No AO3 links this time, sorry!)

“... and this guy, he comes charging at me like a bull, I panic, throw the knife. Perfect bullseye, clean between the eyes–“

“Oh, horseshit–“

“No, no, I swear, on Taima, the fucker went down like a sack of bricks, and there I was: money in hand, just... drenched in blood from head to toe, it was a mess.”

Arthur's expression must've been more than a little incredulous because Charles starts laughing the moment he sees it, head thrown back, teeth bared in a broad grin. Arthur huffs, shakes his head.

“I can't believe this. You are the luckiest fuckin' bast– and that was your first run?”

“The very first one, yup.”

Charles's eyes are shining with mirth, the smile clinging to his lips as he leans over his horse's neck and pats her beneath her mane, settling back comfortably in his saddle. A day's ride or two away from camp, they've fallen into their usual system to cover long distances: side-by-side, their mares march in step with each other, the calmer Taima acting as a guide to temperamental Dyani in narrow spaces and tense situations.

They camp by sundown and keep moving by sunrise, spending the time in-between swapping stories, singing familiar songs, whistling along with the birds – sometimes, when Charles is in the mood, he'll get out that ancient harmonica of his and play a tune, and Arthur will hum along, closely watching Charles's mouth as it teases an incredible range of tones from the instrument, sometimes joyful, sometimes full of sorrow.

It makes him think. With Arthur back on his feet and orders from Dutch to follow up on a lead across-state, together, the reasons keeping them apart dwindle to nothing; and while their first night away from camp was spent with bold kisses and even bolder hands mapping each other's backs, there's an invisible line neither of them have approached yet.

It's distracting, it's the only thing on his mind at any given moment. All Arthur can do is wrangle those thoughts into manageable pieces, pieces of himself he pours into the silent pages of his journal.

Arthur pushes the sweaty tips of his hair off his face and under his hat, the motion calming in its familiarity. A little worse for wear and patched in some areas, Charles had given it back the day Arthur had been cleared for duty.

Welcome back, Arthur.

The man is watching him, now, in that undemanding way of his. Arthur tips his hat a little, smiling at the deadpan blink he gets in return that might as well be Charles's version of an eye-roll. Continuing his story, Charles gestures vaguely to Arthur's saddle.

“That bow I gave you? I bought the wood for it the day after. Figured stealth would be a better way to go about things.”

Arthur's look turns surprised, genuinely impressed. “Wait, you made it?”

Charles's eyebrows rise. “Yeah? I thought you knew. All you folks know are pistols and rifles and it shows, no offence. Makes it hard to find one that's balanced right.”

“Huh. Never crossed my mind, that.”

Arthur glances at Charles, then, at his capable hands, and the jagged scars there. A thousand questions burn on his tongue, but he hesitates, wondering what is off-limits and what isn't. Collecting his reins, Arthur brings Dyani's head back from the clouds, murmuring a word of praise under his breath. Her ears flick back and towards him; she chews on her bit.

Finally: “Is that, uh, somethin' your mom taught ya, or…?”

Charles hums, “Mh, you could say so”, and for a while, only the four-beat gait of their horses is to be heard. “She showed me how to hunt, too. Said it's best to trust in nature to stay alive, and to rely on my skills rather than other people.”

“Wise words”, Arthur agrees softly, maybe it's better that way. He's too selfish to voice the thought out loud.

“Yes and no”, says Charles, meeting Arthur's gaze briefly, shrugging. “Followed that advice most of my life, and it's not enough. I know that now.”

And Arthur knows, before he even opens his mouth, that he shouldn't pry. That he shouldn't drag the vulnerability lurking beyond those words into the light – yet he asks, “What changed?”, and Charles looks at him, eyes warm.

“I met you.”

*

They arrive at Strawberry with the last light, riding through wafts of mist that flow down the streets and sticks to the few scattered buildings the village has, making them stick out like milk teeth in a child's mouth.

At the end of the road, the hotel's warm glow beckons them closer, and Arthur answers Charles's questioning glance with a shrug and a muttered, “Might as well.”

This, too, is a well-known routine: Arthur strides up to the clerk to get a room set up and the bath running, mentions in stride that the tip'll be highest the least he is disturbed and, thirty minutes later on the dot, he slides the window open and waves Charles inside.

By then, he's washed and making short work of his scraggly beard, preferring a neat shave over his typical scruff just because it's been so long since he felt anywhere close to clean in these past few weeks.

In the mirror, he can see Charles undress in the low light, movements quick and efficient,and while they've been naked in each other's presence countless times – after all, there's no room for propriety in an outlaw's life – Arthur's gaze wanders over each inch of bared skin like it's the first. Until the razor nicks his skin and he hisses, face heating up at the chuckle from across the room.

“Careful, there”, Charles tells him, and Arthur doesn't reply, resolutely staring at the slow glide of the blade over his already-smooth jaw as water splashes behind him and Charles sinks into the tub with a groan of relief.

Arthur blames the sweat on his brow on the thick steam filling the room with nowhere to go.

It's quiet, then. Arthur lingers in front of his reflection a little longer than usual, eyeing the messy flop of his wet hair critically but deeming it a lost cause like the rest; throwing the razor on the bunched heap of clothes beside him, he stands up, stretching and sighing as his back cracks audibly.

Charles hasn't moved a single inch, body soaking up to his chest in soapy water, face lax and eyes closed. Dozing, perhaps, although his breaths are too measured for that.

For a lost moment, Arthur looks at Charles and wants, feels it like a physical string pulling at his guts, very much like arousal but also... different. More intimate, more fragile, like it could shatter in his hands if he holds on too tightly.

Quietly, as quiet as possible, he pads over, kneels, mumbles his name, to wake him up or give him an out, Arthur doesn't quite know; Charles blinks his eyes open drowsily, a lazy smile spreading on his lips. He rasps, “Hey”, and “Kiss me?”, so soft it could've gone lost in the gentle trickling of water.

Arthur does, careful at first, nipping at the perspiration gathering on Charles's lips and watching his lids slip shut again. The string tugs, pulls taut in his chest at the blatant trust in the gesture, how Charles hums and his mouth relents to Arthur's.

The water is warm on Charles's skin, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing under the tender slide of Arthur's hands; he squeezes and Charles's brows twitch closer together as he moans, low in his throat.

“Let me”, Arthur whispers; Charles mumbles, “Whatever you want”, and Arthur exhales shakily, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You're makin' offers that are hard to refuse.”

“Then don't.”

Two words, simple, really. Arthur swallows, traces the faded arch of a scar on Charles's bicep. The graze of a bullet, maybe, or a knife's cut. Charles leans back and lets him, previously calm breath hitching as Arthur's touch trails further down, brushing over the smattering of coarse hair on his chest and abdomen and lingering there.

Arthur catches the intense look in Charles's eyes and leans his forehead against his, breathing the same air. “Gotta stay quiet”, he reminds him, waits for Charles to nod – Arthur watches him bite his bottom lip as he takes him in hand and pulls experimentally, tightening his hold around him at the almost-hurt noise coming from Charles–

If Arthur had any concentration left to form doubts they'd be gone, blown away by how Charles's voice sounds as he groans his name; Arthur shushes him, wraps his arm behind his shoulders to place his hand on his mouth, gentle.

The angle doesn't allow for much but Arthur doesn't care, eyes fixed on the way Charles's abs tense and release in the rhythm of his hand on his length, how the murky white of the water flows across his dark skin like silk.

Charles pants against his fingers, eyes half-lidded and hazy with bliss – an image that etches itself into Arthur's soul as he strokes him to completion and thinks, I love you.