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usercozy · 10 days ago

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Rose Moon ⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

pairing: arthur x f!oc

tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, grief, angst, hurt/comfort, lowhonor!arthur, non-tb!arthur eventual romance, eventual smut, war, yearning!!!!

summary: When Aiyana comments on Arthur's beard, he reflects on a memory explaining the origins of his chin scar. Aiyana herself struggles with grief and loss as it becomes increasingly harder for her to stop thinking about Arthur.

a/n: Arthur's backstory in this one makes me 😋💗 while I keep some things that follow the canon— things are definitely starting to diverge even more and I'm soo excited to explore how their relationship develops!!

word count: 4.7k words

ao3 ✧ chapter three

chapter four

Pink, fleshy soles echoed in racing steps as a young boy weaved through tight alleys. Clutched in his hand, a stolen satchel like it was his lifeline. The pair of his blazing, cerulean eyes were his only source of light; nothing else in his line of sight mattered more than to escape what felt like a never ending tunnel. And it was one that smelled of grime and nests of rodent droppings, but he was too rapid and desperate on his feet to care. Behind him, a man chased and shouted a barrage of curses.

In his flight, the boy managed to turn his head. A single sided smile curved up on his lips. He was faster, that much was obvious by the distance he'd created between the man and himself. But he'd have to hand it to the bow-legged thing for not letting up. And what was the big deal, anyway? For a town that claimed to want to feed the hungry, they were sure doing a shit job of it.

Thud.

Whatever move he had planned next was crushed under the weight of his fall. The boy's nose crunched as his face collided with the graveled road. Fresh blood crawled in between his calloused toes and dust stung his eyes. Desperately, he tried to blink, to pry his vision. His hands were empty now; the satchel missing.

Get up…

Pleading with himself, or the universe, whichever acted first. Now wasn't the time. He was reckless to gloat. Had gotten too arrogant in his escape. And his stomach was certain to pay the price.

Sausage-like fingers yanked him by the collar of his loose shirt, throwing him smack against a nearby wooden wall.

He barely had any chance to react, let alone defend himself before the sharp weight of a knee plunged his gut, his spine feeling as if it would crack from the continuous pressure. Just one more blow to the head, he consoled, and it could all end. At least then he'd have no memory of the pain.

"Little fuckin' rat!" the man spat, warm breath rancid on the boy's face. Thick fingers snaked around his neck before a puffy palm struck him with a slap. It left a hot welt, dazing him and everything blurred. Though he knew his ears still worked as the small shing of a blade slid from its holster.

"Should teach ya proper to never touch what ain't yers!"

Fear struck his throat, coiling, as he gasped for air. His fists wailed and his legs shook and kicked in every direction. The man watched with a smirk as the boy pathetically squirmed.

He'd heard the clicked cocking of a revolver, next. Or had he imagined it? A physical manifestation of divine intervention. His gaze finally cleared, and it all seemed to glow like a gift from the universe. In an instant, the hands around his neck softened. And there, stood broad and tall was a mustached-man. He wore a pristine leather vest. Hair that shined with pomade and was slicked back with precision. What had been more surprising was what Arthur saw next. The man, whoever he was, was pressing the tip of his gun barrel into the back of the other's skull.

"Drop the boy," his deep voice resounded .

Obediently, he was let go. The man with the jet-black hair had a darkened gaze that snapped onto the boy as he fell on his rear and the welt on his face glowed like a ripe cherry. Blood started to seep from the metal that was digging into flesh.

"Empty your pockets," he commanded.

"Like hell! This good for nothin' done stole my—"

The taller man took a step forward. The weight of his gun pushing its victim with it. "Empty. Them."

A revelation spiked the relief that had initially swelled inside of him. The boy observed the confrontation with fearful eyes. Should he cut his losses and make a run for it? Before the man with the gun kills him, too?

Loose coin clattered, jumping from the wall to the ground. The dark-haired man chuckled.

"Now I'd consider you, sir, are quite the lucky fella today." He paused, and his gun lowered slowly. "Ain't gonna kill ya. But I probably should. Honest to God if the boy weren't here— I would."

Whatever look that had momentarily softened his features had turned dark again. "Get the hell outta here," he said. And the man's legs turned into rickets, threatening to snap. "I won't tell ya again," was all that was needed to hear before he was scrambling off in quavered, broken strides. And the boy shielded his face from the clouds of dirt swarming to prick his eyes again.

The strange man kicked at a silver coin. "Well. Have at it."

He didn't need to be told twice. In a flurry, his arms swept like a hawk. He scooped up each coin and spotted the satchel. Any thoughts the boy had on who this man was and why he'd done what he did, faded out. The gurgle of his stomach being the only impulse he needed to act on.

Silence fell between them as the man analyzed the boy. Not a beggar, this one. A street rat, surely. But quick. Perhaps sharp, even… if guided correctly. The man holstered his weapon.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The boy looked up. And he had soft eyes. "Arthur."

The man nodded carefully, before studying him again. An orphan— he had no doubts about that. Not only were his jeans fitted too tight, exposing his bruised shins, but his shirt was baggy and stretched past his waist. His feet, a bit large, were filthy and bare. Blackened dirt was smeared on every inch of his skin. His clothes were torn at the knees and ripped at his wide shoulders. But in those blues irises was something else. There, a little boy swam as if lost at sea.

And like a wave, a curious feeling bloomed inside of the man. One that bordered upon sympathy mixed with luck. His lips widened into a gracious smile.

"How'd ya like to sleep in a real bed tonight?"

***

"This is horseshit!" Arthur growled. He flung the small shank and it bounced from his feet. The air nipped his freshly opened skin. With a frustrated sigh, his grubbed fingertips smeared the blood that splayed his prickled chin. The tips of them smelled like the pennies he stole. He didn't need the blades reflection to confirm what had been done. He'd cut himself again.

He was sitting with his arms crossed, leaning against his new cot. Gentle steps across the dirt diverted his attention. When he'd looked up, his frown fell, replaced by a subtle, surprised look. The knife was being handed back to him, a firm hand gripping its blade, pointing the handle toward himself. Arthur's hand was hesitant at first, but Hosea was always patient with him.

"You're using too much force. Here." Arthur took the knife. "Clean yourself up. Come," he said, motioning Arthur with him.

He led their way to a nearby pond. Arthur had complained that his legs hurt. A lie, of course, as Hosea already knew the boy had formed a habit of when it came to doing a tedious task. Though when Arthur threatened to cease his tracks, his heart plummeted when Hosea's legs kept moving. Not once would he entertain the tantrum with a cheeky response as Arthur expected. Nor did he glance back to convince him to follow any further. As the figure of Hosea grew into a dotted reticle, a sharp panic arose. The fear of becoming lost again curled his tight stomach. Arthur gulped and his legs galloped, racing behind.

The water shimmered with mossy dew and he felt a slimy sensation as Hosea worked to wash his wound. With a face squished, Arthur had flinched at the wet touch of fingertips. Whenever a man had touched him, it had been violent. And it was always rugged and never intimate. The hand of his father.

But Hosea hadn’t ever struck him, nor had Dutch. Sometimes, Arthur wondered how long he had until they did. But with such hands that were slow as they were gentle, he found himself hoping that they never would.

A frown deepened on the youth of his face and Hosea chuckled in response. When he patted his face dry, Hosea explained the importance of prepping his skin and shaving at the right angle.

"You don't want to press too hard," he said, and his voice was soft, sounding of fine silk. Hosea reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a small, tin jar. As always, Arthur studied its image.

He shot Hosea a bemused look. “What's that?"

"You never seen one of these?"

Arthur shook his head. His eyes squinted at the letters, his mind wiring circuits as he tried to read them and make out their sounds.S O A P.

His lips quivered, struggling to string the word together. Hosea offered an understanding smile. "Don't worry about that. We'll teach ya." The lid popped open and he gestured for Arthur to take it. "Put this on," he nodded. "It's alright."

The wax was slippery between his fingers. Arthur's face scrunched, loathing the squish of it. But if there was one thing he knew how to do since the night he had been found, it was to trust Hosea. So he did as he was told, careful and swift. Seated next to a stump, his hands daubed the thick, soapy substance into the stubble of his facial hairs.

"Now…" Hosea began and Arthur made a grab for his knife before a hand snapped to his wrist, lowering it with the shake of his head. "No need�� I brought one." He handed Arthur a clean razor. It was of minted silver, slick and smooth as if it hadn’t ever been touched. Similar to the one he’d once failed to swipe from a local barber. Hosea pulled out a small mirror. "Go with the hairs."

"With the… hairs?" His brow quirked.

Hosea nodded. "That's right. The cut should go with them. And move slow. Take your time with it."

Arthur's hands trembled, half scared that he was going to nick himself again. Except this time, the razor glided smoothly with the grain as he trimmed down. Hosea had steered him right.

It took him ten minutes to finish and when Hosea observed the skin for any new wounds, his only response was a light chortle. Arthur had left two patches of hair untouched by the razor.

By the time he cleaned his face again, Hosea packed the mirror and shot him a side-glance. Arthur’s hands sped to pocket the tinned soap, but he attempted to return the razor. Hosea gave a firm shake. "You keep it. Use that can too. It helps."

Arthur’s eyes slid to the ground. A warm flush swelled his cheeks, embarrassed that he’d been caught. He visibly swallowed and counted the pebbles that laid at the polished toe of his leather boots. Stealing was something natural to Arthur. Intrinsic, as his days surviving the streets had depended entirely on it. But stealing from a man like Hosea gave him a strange feeling. One that tugged and squeezed at his chest. Perhaps it was fear. Then his mind flashed to the last time he had stole from his father. In an instant, he soothed his scarred wrist, immediately shutting his eyes.

No. Pa's dead. And that’s where he would stay.

It wasn’t until Hosea’s hand gripped his kinked shoulder, relaxing it. And that the man had nodded pleasantly to Arthur and crinkled his eyes again. That was enough to extinguish the singe of his guilt.

"Not bad, kid.”

He followed Hosea back to their camp with a triumphant smile plastered across his face. And that night when he'd used the wax and the mirror to shave once more, he'd gotten the rest of the hairs that he’d initially missed. But as his fingers traced the smoothness of his freshly cleaned face, his smile fell and his eyes stared back at the horizontal scab that rested against his chin.

Stupid bastard.

Arthur’s fingers turned the bottle, circling the swish of clear liquid that remained.

"Your beard doesn't grow all the way in."

Obsessively, his mind replayed the trace of her slim fingers. How she'd tilted her head and eyed that spot on his face. A frown twitched on his dried lips. How could she see what he had tried not to notice? Had tried to forget since he was a boy? Truthfully, he tried not to regard himself much, if at all. Because what was there to look at anyway? All that was left of him was a shell. A worn and emptied casing. He knew he was quite the fool for letting her words sting him in this way, though he always did think of himself as a simple man.

He remembered back on his trip to Valentine earlier that morning where he’d paid for a cleanup and a trim.

“Ain’t got nothin’ for it? You sure?”

The barber shook his head and adjusted his eyeglasses. “I’m afraid that’s quite a scar, mister." He turned and shuffled through a cabinet. “Might try this,” he added, handing Arthur a small tonic. “Wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you. Seen many men come in… Some of ‘em worked up in them mines and burnt their scalps,” he sighed. “Well, hair don’t just magically grow if it don’t want to.”

His arms flung, discarding the bottle and he exited the tent. The cool breeze bit Arthur’s skin. A sky had traded its orange warmth for one that bruised with purple. Charles was tightening the ropes and readjusting the saddle on Taima. His face turned at the small crunch of springy twigs.

“Arthur," he nodded.

Arthur tipped the front of his hat. “Charles,” he replied back, his voice low and gruff.

“You need somethin’?”

Arthur shrugged, hoping for his shoulders to speak with nonchalance. “Thought we’d ride up to that reservation.” He spit and his hands slid onto his buckle.

Charles let out a quiet chuckle before turning his head. “Can’t. Gotta help John with this herding job”

Arthur’s face fell. “John can’t herd for shit," he scoffed.

“He seems pretty confident of it.” He eyed Arthur carefully. “Y’know, you could always head up there. If you really need to.”

Arthur shot him a sizzling glare. He shook his head with finality. “And get an ear load from that woman again? Yeah I’ll pass,” he sneered. "I ain't wanted there— you know that."

“Give her some grace, Arthur. An army man killed her mother. I’d… feel the same if it were me,” his words were spoken slow and quiet and Arthur noticed that Charles’ eyes had hardened, pausing on Taima's reigns as if trenched with a memory.

Arthur shifted his feet and his eyes flicked to the flow of the wading grass, bearing the weighted silence. Their mothers had been taken from all of them.

He still hadn't moved and Charles sighed. “Listen— The Wapiti… " his vision skimmed the gray streaks of the forming clouds. "I don’t expect you to understand. Ain’t exactly a good time for them.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Ain’t exactly a good time for us, neither.”

“Sure,” Charles nodded. “Just somethin’ to think about.” He climbed his mare and gently tapped his heel into her side. Arthur waited, watching them ride through the forest valley. He fixed his hat, lowering it to shield his eyes and shroud the echo of his thoughts as his mind wandered to her.

Then, Charles’ voice again as it replayed the information about the regrettable death of her mother. And what did any of that have to do with him? He’d lost his own mother, sure. But was he inclined to care about whatever business the Army and the Indians had? A rolling wind pushed into the shagginess of the trees, signaling the incoming night. The chilling, faint reminder of how quick the world moves on. As it once did since his mother. Since his father. And since Mister Downes.

She, too, would learn to play the cards just as they'd all been forced to.

Aiyana’s fingers pruned in the wash bucket as her fingers scrubbed over linens and thick fabrics. The speed of her hands slowed as her eyes watched the sloshing ripples. What once served as a distraction from her grief, now intensified it. Grandmother Wíya had fallen too ill. She could still hear the tune of the woman's voice before the illness froze her throat. On her final morning, she wept dry tears as she fought for the strength in her aching hand to grip Aiyana's. Her fever and the chill of her body, had broken along with the fight left in her. The bucket splashed and Aiyana’s wet hands brushed at the corner of her stinging eyes. Of course it would happen, and why did she think this time would be any different? She had let her die. Just as she had let her mother and everyone else that would come after.

In a distant memory, was the time grandmother Wíya had comforted her in the news of her mother's death. Everyday, she would pick a new flower and leave it to rest at Aiyana's bedside, something her mother had always done. In those weeks, she had always felt grave and sick. A warm body stricken with pallor. Then she had lost her tongue, the silence deafening the sky that peaked what used to be a home. She refused to speak to her brother. Barely spoke a word to her father. There were days she would spend on her cot wishing to finally wake herself, deluding that this was all a twisted kind of feverish nightmare. Surely, one that she would stir her eyes open from soon. And in a blink, it would be her mother there, seated next to her and holding her hand, instead of grandmother Wíya's. But that dream never came.

She choked out a painful sob. One that clawed at her throat. Her breathing shifted in broken fragments. Tears trickled into the bucket, forcing her abrupt retreat. Her glossed eyes scanned the surroundings of the reservation. Realizing she didn't want any of the others to find her like this, she decided that the laundry could wait.

The cadence of the stars on this side of the camp dazzled in their brilliance and the nightly shine offered her a semblance of relief that her chest couldn't find. In tremulous steps, she passed the listening willow and connected the nebular dots, her eyes tracing the curvature of the moon until her lips prayed a silent hymn.

“Omakiyaye,” she whispered, over and over in harmony with the owl that hooted against the ink sky.

Omakiyaye… Omakiyaye…

Protect Wíya Aŋkíla as the wind carries her spirit. May she guide us with the strength of each mountain as the stars welcome her. Please give my mother a hug.

The tears she shed had time to settle as she watched the glow that hung above the cracked ridge. A curious chill goosed the enclosure and her flesh numbed in response to the sounds of rustling leaves, but her body refused to move. She didn't need to turn around. He was the only one that had picked up the habit of finding her like this. And she held herself ghostly still, unwilling for him to see her.

Perhaps, in another life, meeting him like this would set her skin ablaze. Maybe she would turn and scorn him, even. Allow his calloused words to mar her. But she felt too paralyzed with her anguish to entertain anything, let alone him. Oh, how lucky she was to feel a sliver of contempt for someone when those who'd fallen no longer had the luxury.

Cruel, cruel, world. And we are crueler.

The harrumphed rasp of Arthur's throat sliced the night air. And while it did little to reverse herself, it was enough to at least alert her glancing eyes. Yet, on she walked.

She had followed the swell of the gorge and he had realized then, that he was nothing but a damn fool to come. Alone. To possibly think that she would pay him any mind. Something about that prickled the workings of his chest. His mind flicked behind to the sounds of a group of men building a fire. And he knew they would ignore him just as she did.

He wanted to lash. Why? Why was he not worthy of being spoken to unless Charles was next to him? And even if Charles had been there, they barely looked at him. His jaw clenched as he scowled.

Arthur's fist tightened over the cloth bag that rested in his palm. Inside were the gold bands, heavily nestled with the haunting fate of the Downes. So much for trying to do right by these folk. His eyes switched onto Aiyana's back. How moronic of him to believe that she would have any interest in them. She didn't trust him— none of them did. Then he thought of something even more loathsome.

How could they when he had barely trusted himself?

He ran a palm across his beard, fidgeting with the sack before shoving it inside one of his pockets. As he eyed where Mable was hitched, he whistled for her. When her hooves came to a gentle stop, a child-like voice, shrill and annoying, poked through the air. Arthur turned to observe a young girl that looked to be no more than Jack's size, toddling out from the bushes of the reservation. With his curiosity appeased, he clicked his tongue and reached for the mare.

"Aiyana! Yana! Yana!" the voice called.

For a second, he froze, and his hand dropped from Mable's reigns. His feet remained firm as their voices grew in tempo.

"Yana you were supposed to come back to the tent," the little girl said.

Aiyana exhaled, slow. Arthur found that she wore a restless expression on her face. Bags he had not noticed under her eyes before had darkened. She shook her head and her tone became stern.

"I've been busy. You know you shouldn't be this far from the others. "

The girl slumped her shoulders. "Well… Paytah said he was gonna take me to the rocks. But when I asked he said he was too tired."

Aiyana gave her a sad smile as she reached to caress the girl's hair. "There's just a lot happening, Kaya."

"Everyone says that," she complained. "It's not fair."

"I know," Aiyana said with a slight frown.

Then, Kaya lifted her head to see Arthur and Mable standing at the waters edge. Her small eyes widened, glowing with awe, never before seeing a man as big as him. She studied his large coat, his steed and his gun holsters, the leather satchel he carried and even the outline of his black hat. A true gunslinger. He reminded her of the cowboys that rode horses in one of her favorite books.

"Wow," she said, smiling, turning to Aiyana. "Is that a real cowboy?"

Arthur turned his face and Aiyana glared, a silent shot in the dark. Her hand tugged at Kaya's, attempting to pull her near.

"I don't know— you need to go back to the tents."

The little girl pouted and Aiyana sighed. "I'll find you a new rock," she said, spoken like a promise.

A grin stretched her face. "A shiny one?"

"Sure." Aiyana smiled back and Arthur had to press down the small twitch of his lips as he finally turned his attention to Mable.

Aiyana watched as Kaya ran off. The shrubs shook in her leave. A moment passed where the two of them stood like this. Mable's careful snort was the only sound that carried between them. And whatever smile Aiyana had faded as Arthur's gaze lingered on her.

"Who's the kid?" he asked, and she realized that she'd never heard his voice any softer.

Then her head shook. "Nobody that concerns you. Why did you come? Charles isn't here." Her shoulders tensed and she crossed her arms, as if demanding an answer. She couldn't help that it still irked her, him being there.

Arthur sighed, a jaded expression leeching from his pores. He shuffled and flung a tiny, knotted bag at her feet. Aiyana's eyes slid to where it fell as suspicious curiosity swirled behind her eyes. Her face grimaced; the nerve of him to expect her to pick up whatever filth he brought!

"Don't worry. It ain't gonna bite ya." Arthur sniffed, waving it off. "Sell 'em. Probably could use the money."

Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?" He sure was ever slick and arrogant with his insults.

"Hm?" he shrugged.

And there it was, more of his insolent apathy. Her mouth frowned deeply. "We're not a charity."

His eyes flickered. "Ain't like that."

With sharpened eyes, she noted that he refused to look at her. His demeanor making it clear to her that she, much like himself, it seemed, wanted nothing to do with the thing. Her eyes honed in on its size and like a light, a thought clicked on her; a harsh reminder of who he was. This was not an honorable man, she reminded herself. None of the ones that looked like him were. And she could never forget that. No amount of anything he brought them would change that, she knew.

A cold silence froze them momentarily. Arthur turned his attention to his saddlebags. Aiyana knew she should've left it at what it was and been done with it. But the mystery of it all— of him, urged her to speak once more.

"You killed someone."

Arthur almost laughed, his chest rumbling with a slight scoff. But he still hadn't faced her. "Ain't kill nobody," he muttered.

"Don't speak to me like I'm stupid," she said, quiet and unperturbed.

His eyes narrowed, latching onto her. "Ain't say that neither. And damn sure ain't killed anybody. So you go ahead and swim in that lil head o' yers. But don't put that shit on me."

She hadn't known when it happened, but he was closer now. Close enough that only she and the forest could tell of how he smelled of fresh firewood and gunpowder.

"Would you have?"

And his eyes glared a blue frostbite. "The hell's that matter?" he murmured, before stepping farther back.

Aiyana watched him mount the horse, the back of him bouncing as he directed her steady gallop. And as foul as she tried to brush him off as, she couldn't deny the soured comfort she felt that came and left with him. Whether distracted by the beauty of his mare or observing him with Charles. Whenever he was there, she was always reminded of a world outside of her own.

In the hour that followed, Aiyana tucked Kaya over a small cot. The girl snugged a wool blanket under her chin. A kerosene light dimmed the tipi and Aiyana gently pushed it away.

Kaya's doed eyes spotted one of the books laying nearby.

"Can we read the cowboy one?" she asked with the same smile she had on after seeing Arthur.

Aiyana's eyes flickered from the book and to Kaya. She strengthened her face, internalizing a sigh and any other feelings she had on the matter. The last thing she wanted to do was to read something that would only remind her of him.

She sighed, "We just read that one. How about something else?"

"No! You have to read it to me. Look—" in a swift motion, Kaya pulled out a miniature wooden horse that Paytah had carved for her. "Cinnamon wants to hear it too."

Aiyana chuckled. "I still can't believe you named that after a spice."

"It's his favorite food."

She exhaled a small, sincere laugh, but found her hand still pausing above the book. And as if sensing her hesitation, Kaya found her eyes. "Pleeeaase?"

And well, how could she say no to that?

So she read her the story about the cowboy that had found a sickly lamb and nursed it back to health.

…What the man had not been prepared for was how unwilling he was to part with the animal. Up the mountains and across the long prairies did she travel with him. Her quiet baa's and the fluff of her coat warmed his loneliness. Everyday he would—

"Yana?"

She paused and swallowed a frustrated sigh, turning her face to Kaya. "Yeah?"

Kaya tugged the blanket over both herself and Cinnamon and closed her eyes. "I'm pretending the cowboy in the book is the one we saw earlier."

Then, Aiyana's lips quivered into a soft smile. Because whenever they'd read that story, she had done the same.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan x female oc #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fanfic #slow burn #enemies to lovers #ao3 #cozy writes

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