Chapter Text
_____________________________________
ANGELROCK
WEDNESDAY
AUGUST 17, 1888
02:24 PM
1 WEEK FROM THE HEIST
"Ever seen a dead body?” Nori asks, not looking away from the mangled corpse lying not three feet away from them. "Poor bastard," he shakes his head.
Bofur scrunches up his face.
The sun beats down on the remains of what once was a man, now a heap of torn cloth, bone, and rotting flesh. His skin shriveled and burnt from the unrelenting heat, body slumped over, half-sitting, half-laying on the side of the dirt path. Next to him was a wagon that Nori doesn’t even think is worth the effort of searching. Bofur has to catch himself before he can gag, glancing at Nori, who is looking straight at the corpse without so much as a wrinkled nose.
“Yeah,” Nori huffs and starts to turn away, dropping a hand on Bofur’s shoulder to pull him along. “Lots of those ‘round here.”
Nori's seen enough bodies to know more about what intestines look like than flowers— been the cause of more bodies than he can count on his fingers and toes three times over, too. By now all he does is suck his teeth as a form of pity and move on.
The road into town is worn and unkept. It's some mean little place off to the side of the main road where the law enforcement is shit and the visitors are shunned; perfect for discussing shady business and organizing small deeds of crime, Nori thinks. The buildings look run down, walls covered in old, chipped paint, and if it weren't for the few horses and residents lining the streets — most of them still as mannequins, anyway — he would’ve thought Bofur brought him here to kill him.
Bofur takes the lead once they reach the saloon, putting a finger over his lips to tell Nori to 'shut the fuck up' if he knows what's good for him. That tongue of his never knows when to stop; in the few hours he's spent with him, Nori and Bofur already ran into enough trouble for a group ten times their number.
Nori rolls his eyes as they push through the doors, going on about Bofur being no fun. He doesn't bother looking around as he saunters in, obviously there would be plenty of time to explore the entire building with the pace Bofur was taking.
“Cousin!” Bofur announces, loud enough for a man at the bar (and several others) to turn around. He seems to recognize Bofur immediately, standing from his bar stool, and, much to the red-head's annoyance, all but ignores Nori's presence.
He's tall in a shorter than Bofur, taller than Nori (by two inches at most) kind of way — not that it matters, or that it was a big deal, because it isn't, and there has never been a height issue with his 'colleagues', nor has there ever been a dick measuring contest, but still, Nori might hate it a little.
He wears a dark leather vest over a casual gray undershirt. It's nothing too fancy for a place like this, he came as soon as he'd received Bofur's letter after all. His pants are covered in splotches of mud, a working man by the looks of it, probably doesn't have a proper spouse at home— again, not that it matters, but it's nice to know he doesn't have major attachments in case he was offed somewhere; Nori hates making house calls.
“Bifur, Nori. Nori, Bifur.” Bofur finally introduces, motioning to and from the red-head beside him and his cousin. Bifur tips his hat, makes a hand gesture Nori isn’t quite familiar with, and taps the counter for another round of drinks.
— • —
Bofur slams his fist on the table, rattling the knife Nori had set down and spilling the shot glass Bifur was about to take. He was already having a bad day, having had to spend most of it with Nori — of all people —, and on top of that, the weaselly bastard didn't even have a 'plan'.
"One week?" Bofur holds Nori's empty (yet somehow challenging) stare, seeing right past his confident act. He should've known. In fact, he did know. He called it the moment Nori sat him down to write the letter to Bifur.
"There's only three of us, you realize that, right? Bet you don't even have no plan, don't you? You'll just get us killed and walk your happy ass right out with all the cash, huh?"
"Shut the fuck up, Broadbeam." Nori snarls, picking the blade from the tabletop and aiming its tip at Bofur's face. "'Fore I make you."
Bofur leans toward him daringly, the whites of his knuckles visible on his hands— and with spite in his voice, "I'd like to see you try."
He feels all eyes on them, the commotion of their child-like maturity overwhelming the saloon to silence, and Nori growls, eyes narrowed with malice on his tongue.
"Now... you listen here, Broadbeam." Nori says slowly, danger dripping off every dragged out syllable. "We do things my way and nobody, that don't need to, dies. Capisce?"
Bofur looks like he's about to lunge across the flimsy saloon table and strangle Nori with his bare hands. He certainly wishes he could.
Nori looks between Bofur and Bifur, inviting either of them to object. When they don't, he drops his rigid stance and downs the rest of the bottle Bifur had ordered for their table.
"What's it, then?" Bofur grumbles, falling into his seat with a thud and defeated sigh. He watches Nori's lips curl and rolls his eyes, wishing he declined the first initial offer when he still could've.
"I can get them train prints by…" he counts on his fingers.
One…
Two…
Three…
"Saturday."
— • —
STAGTOOTH
THURSDAY
AUGUST 18, 1888
05:07 PM
6 DAYS FROM THE HEIST
Home; something Nori hasn't felt in years. His little brother was still in diapers and Dori was breathing down his neck about some bounty on his head the last time he left.
It was nice, actually. Ori babbling incoherently and Nori babbling right back, Dori was a joy, and their mother was still healthy, then. Times were simpler and Nori desperately wishes they stayed that way.
Things change too quickly for his likings and Nori runs off for the first time when he's fifteen. He's nothing but an angsty teenager looking for something to control his still prepubescent anger, something to rebel against and defy.
Now he's twenty-seven and something inside him still tells him that he's angry at the world, everything it stands for, and anything it's ever made. He takes and takes and takes until there's nothing left to take, and he's left with everything and nothing.
He remembers how cold it is to sleep against stones in the grasslands, and how hot it gets to not have a roof over his head to protect himself from the sun. Then, later, how lonely it can be, running from the law all the time.
It isn't as fun as they said it would be.
Nori pulls the reins toward his chest with a gentle "slow down, boy." to his horse as they walk into view of the house Nori hasn't seen in five years.
The grass is yellow where it was green, and the paint along the porch railings has nearly all chipped away. It looks old and tired and hateful.
Just outside, on the front steps of the wooden home he used to know, a young boy sits playing fetch with a dog. When he sees Nori on his horse, Nori swears the boy perks up with a grin that reaches his ears as he runs inside. There's a little bit of commotion before an angry-looking Dori swings the door open with a presumably loaded rifle in hand.
Even when Dori sees Nori's face and even when Dori sees their family's crest across the chest of Nori's horse, he stands, ready to fire at any sudden move. Nori notices this, puts his hands up, and rears his horse away from the house a few feet.
"Dori," Nori asks more than says. He still has his hands up as he slides down from his horse. Dori points the barrel of the gun at him and Nori freezes.
"Don't you know when you're unwelcome?" Dori shouts, and a smaller than small looking Ori peeks from behind him looking terrified. He clings to Dori's shirt, little fists tight and trembling.
Nori's heart clenches watching Ori look at him like he's never seen him before. He looks at Nori like a stranger; an intruder trespassing on their land, and it hurts.
Nori stands dumbfounded for a minute in silence, blinking stupidly at the aimed barrel. He makes no move to stop Dori from threatening him. He deserved it, after all, for running off without a word, abandoning him and baby Ori, leaving them to tend to their sick mother without any stable means of income— the list could go on for miles.
"Come on, brother." He tries again, ignoring the ache in his chest, and inching— not only one, but two— steps closer. "Is this any way to greet a sibling?"
_____________________________________