I raised an eyebrow. “’Cause you keep changing. Every time I look at you, you look different. I got no clue how you do it.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Sometimes it’s a piece from when we were growin’ up. Other days it’s the gunpowder this life’s rubbed over your face.”
My head was still pounding, that feeling in my chest sparking low in my gut like it always did. Everything was too still, too quiet. Only the water and my heartbeat filled the space.
“You sayin’ you draw me because I’m complex?” John’s voice cut through.
I huffed, rubbing my face. “No. I draw you because it’s the easiest way to remember you.” He hummed, still confused. I couldn’t explain worth a damn. “Listen, let me just finish your nose, then we can go to bed.”
John shrugged. “Works for me.”
I pulled out my pencil and looked at him. A few minutes passed with no luck seeing him properly.
“I can’t see a damn thing—hold on,” I muttered, leaning into John’s space. “I’m gonna try something,” I told both him and myself.
John froze, inhaling slowly. “What the hell are you doin’?” he asked, trying to sound pissed.
I reached up and found his chin, then traced my fingers to his nose. “There,” I whispered to myself. His face was hot, and he sat stiff as a board under my hand. I moved my fingers up to the bridge of his nose, then back down, taking note of it.
“Jesus, you’re warm, Marston. You feelin’ alright?” I asked, leaving my hand on his cheek as long as I could.
John just stared, frozen. I pulled my hand away, instantly thinking it’d be safer to jump in front of a bullet than touch him again. That warmth was dangerous.
“I feel fine. Must be the beer—drank more than I should’ve.” John cleared his throat. A silence that could kill hung between us. “So, you uh, get what you needed?”
“Yep, that’ll work.” I open my journal up and start to fix his nose. Hosea was right, it was too big. Just a little too wide. As I’m sketching, I'm aware of John. He’s deep in thought, which is becoming more and more common with him. Especially since Abagail and Jack left, they got out just before the whole mess in Blackwater.
“Took you this many years to draw me?” John asks with a light chuckle.
I frown and look up from my journal. “If you want to count month by month, then sure.”
John stutters and tilts his head again, “You - What?”
I roll my eyes and finish the drawing. “I don’t draw most people more than once. Took me about three weeks to draw you after we first met.”
“You really draw me that often? Every month.” John’s voice is full of awe and disbelief. I nod and hold out the drawing without thinking. I’m too tired and blurred to think; I have been for hours. John takes it heistently from my hands.
“Bout that often, yeah,” I admit. He’s tilting it in the moonlight, observing it silently. John’s hands hold the journal like he knows it’s my lifeline. Something in me does a flip-flop seeing him be so gentle with something.
John looks up into my eyes. “Arthur, this is beautiful,” he says gently. And now it's my turn to have my face go hot. “You’re really special with all this.”
“So are you, John,” I tell him like the goddamnded fool I am. I don’t let myself be shocked by my own words. Grabbing my journal back, I stand to my feet, and they wobble under me as I rise. “Okay, night,” I grumble as I turn away and walk towards the rest of camp.
Stumbling over a rock, I didn’t look back. Even if I could see, I wouldn’t want to. No use seeing the look on Marston’s face after I’d just said that. The cot creaked as I collapsed, tossing my journal on the stand and kicking off my boots. Everything hurt, heat licking at me. I let my pounding head lull me to sleep, half-hoping I wouldn’t wake in the morning.
“Thanks for getting that done for me, Arthur,” Hosea says from across the table.
I nod at him and sip my mug of coffee. It’s cold now; someone made it hours ago. I much prefer it hot, but I’d left before sunup to catch a stagecoach up above Ringneck Creek. Lenny rode with me. Wasn’t much trouble, but I knew he could use the experience.
“No problem. Lenny was a big help. Kid’s got a good head on his shoulders,” I remark.
Hosea’s tired face pulls into a soft smile. He rises from his seat, saying, “That he does,” as he passes me, patting my shoulder on the way by.
Camp is quiet; folks are happy. We’re at a calm point in the storm we all know is coming. Ever since the mess in Blackwater, we’ve been chased too close for my liking. We should be going west. But for now—today—things are good. Everyone’s at camp. I can’t remember the last time we were all here. It settles me in a way that makes me feel like I can actually sleep for once.
I’ve got the rest of the day off, far as I know. Maybe I’ll finish my drawing. So I head down to the dock, bringing my cold coffee with me. At the end of the dock, I sit and lean against a post. Another sip of the cold coffee puts grounds in my mouth, so I decide to abandon the rest.
Wind blows over the lake, carrying the smell of water and trees. I’m tempted to take a nap, but I know I won’t get a calmer time to draw. I pull out my journal and flip to my unfinished drawing of John.
What the hell…
The drawing is finished. And it’s perfect. I sit up a little, racking my brain over when I finished it. Last I knew, I was sketching by the fire last night. I look down at the page, my mind racing. Maybe someone got hold of my journal and finished it for me. But there’s no way it left my sight.
“Hey, Arthur, you busy?” John’s voice rips me from my thoughts. Little shit somehow snuck up on me. He’s just stepping onto the dock, walking toward me.
“You must want to go for a swim, ’cause I know you ain’t that dense, Marston,” I growl, irritated at having my thoughts interrupted.
I look up at John as he stops a few feet away. He looks off, like he actually needs me for something. Apparently, my comment didn’t get to him.
“I gotta talk to you ’bout something,” he says.
“On my one afternoon off? That’s real considerate,” I grumble. But he doesn’t move. He’s planted in the center of the dock. Maybe he’s afraid he’ll fall in if he moves.
“I ain’t waiting any longer,” John declares calmly.
Now I’m interested. It ain’t often he’s this persistent. “Alright, fine. What do ya need?” I give in and set my journal down beside me.
John lets out a quiet breath of relief and sits on the dock across from me. I watch him closely, observing his every move. My mind flicks through possibilities of what could be so important he’d come to me instead of Hosea or even Dutch.
“Arthur, I gotta talk to ya ’bout last night,” John mumbles, avoiding my eyes.
“The hell you mean?” I grunt, raising an eyebrow. I haven’t seen John since yesterday, around midday.
John tilts his head like a goddamn dog. “You don’t…?” he starts, then pauses. “Shit,” he whispers, running a hand over his face. Now I’m confused.
“Something I should know?” I ask slowly, tilting my head down, forcing him to meet my eyes.
John shuffles in place, then finally looks at me. “You remember drinking last night?”
“Yeah—opening the bottle, anyway. Get to your point, Marston,” I tell him firmly. I’m starting to guess what happened. Probably something along the lines of him dragging me to bed after I passed out again.
“So I assume you don’t remember coming down here to visit me,” John says slowly, and I’m starting to get a real bad feeling. That little voice deep inside starts whispering. “You, uh, finished your drawing too,” he mumbles, pointing to my journal on the dock beside me.
My heart skips a beat. No… “Uh, did I now?” I look down at my journal when it hits me. He knows. My eyes widen, and I feel myself grow real uncomfortable. I start to stand—don’t want to have this conversation, not today.
A hand on my wrist stops me. “Arthur, I know you don’t want to hear this. But you’re a damn artist,” John says as he stands, keeping his hand firm around my wrist. He’s right—I don’t want to hear this. “I’m not telling you to go be an artist. I’m just sayin’, you don’t have to hide it. I don’t mind bein’ drawn.”
I pause, turn my head to look at him. His eyes are bright; not a single thing about him says he’s lying. “I don’t hide it. I just don’t show folks. It’s personal,” I grumble. John’s hand grows warm on my wrist, so I pull away. He lets me go from his grip. I don’t walk off, and I don’t turn back to him. That damn voice from deep down tells me I miss his touch.
“If it’s personal, then why’d you hand it to me? I know a part of you wanted me to see it—even if you was drunk,” John says quietly, and my brain short-circuits.
I slowly turn to him, fear creeping in when I see the soft smile on his face. He’s not mad. He’s not disgusted. He ain’t even concerned. Hell, I’d rather he throw a punch right now. I’d rather he start hollerin’ at me than this. “Marston…” I warn quietly.
“It’s okay, Arthur,” John says, steady. “Ain’t here to laugh at you. Ain’t here to spread it ’round camp. Just sayin’—you don’t gotta carry it all alone.”
I shake my head, jaw tight. “Ain’t that simple,” I grumble, ’cause it never is.
“Sure it is,” John pushes, softer now. “You draw. It matters to you. That’s all.”
I want to argue, but the words catch in my throat. My chest feels heavy, so I just mutter, “It don’t matter.”
“Then why’d it look like it near tore you apart handin’ it to me?”
I glance at him—just a flicker—before my eyes dart away again. My voice comes out low, almost lost. “Maybe I… didn’t want to be the only one who saw it.”
The silence hangs. My gut twists, and I curse myself for sayin’ anything at all.
John doesn’t push. He just nods once, like that’s enough.
The silence stretches thin, like a rope about to snap. I grit my teeth, wishing I could drag the words back down my throat.
John don’t move, don’t say a damn thing. He just looks at me—steady, unshaken, like he’s been waitin’ years for me to finally slip.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “Don’t go readin’ into it,” I mutter, rougher this time. “Ain’t mean nothin’.” I step back away from him on the dock.
“Arthur,” he says low, near a whisper, “I think it means more’n you’re willin’ to admit.”
That damn heat crawls up my neck again, and I can’t bring myself to face him. The air between us feels tight, heavy—like if I take one step closer, I won’t be able to turn back.
Something inside me snaps. I turn, eyes locked on him, harsher than I mean. “And what the hell do you want me to admit, huh? That I can’t stop seein’ things when I look at this world? That I put it down on paper ‘cause it’s the only way it don’t eat me alive? That sometimes… sometimes I wish someone’d just see me for what I am, not what Dutch says I oughta be?”
The words spill out ragged, and I bite them back too late. My chest heaves like I just rode a hundred miles.
John doesn’t flinch. He just stands there, quiet, takin’ it all in.
And that’s worse than if he’d yelled. Worse than if he’d laughed.
Finally, he breathes out slow and says, “Arthur… I already see you. Always have. You just don’t let yourself believe it.”
The words cut clean through me. My throat works, but nothin’ comes out. I stare at the birds on the dock, the weight of his voice hangin’ on me heavier than any saddle. My chest feels too tight, like I ain’t had air in a long while.
John steps closer, boots scuffin’ against the wood, until he’s just a couple feet away. His voice lowers, steady but gentle. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ someone to know who you are. Hell, you been carryin’ Dutch, carryin’ me, carryin’ the whole damn gang on your shoulders. Maybe it’s time you let someone carry a piece of you.”
I shake my head, weak, not even convincing myself. “You don’t know what you’re askin’, John. You don’t know what it costs.”
“I do,” he says, firmer now. “Maybe not all of it, but enough to know you don’t deserve to keep it buried ‘til it eats you alive.”
I finally glance up, and he’s right there, eyes steady, burnin’ in that quiet way that tells me he means every word. That look makes somethin’ in me falter. Makes me feel like a damn fool and a child all at once.
My jaw works, tryin’ to lock everything back behind the wall, but it don’t hold. My voice cracks low, near broken. “You think I don’t want that? You think I don’t want—just once—to be seen and not judged? To put it down and not feel like I gotta hide who I am?”
The words scrape out of me raw, more than I meant to give. I turn away, ashamed, but my shoulders hunch like the weight’s too much to carry.
For a moment I wait for him to back off, to let me stew in my shame. But he doesn’t.
Instead, John steps close enough that I can feel his presence, warm and solid. He don’t touch me, not yet—but his voice is right there at my back. “Then stop hidin’ from me, Arthur. I ain’t the enemy. I ain’t Dutch. I ain’t the world. I’m just me. And I ain’t leavin’, no matter how ugly you think it gets.”
The earth feels unsteady under me. My hands tremble, so I shove them deep in my coat pockets, but it don’t hide the shake in my breath. For the first time in a long while, I can’t find the fight to push him away.
And that terrifies me more than any gun aimed at my head ever could.
The silence that follows is heavy, but it ain’t the kind that makes me want to run. It’s the kind that feels dangerous ‘cause it’s too close, too real.
I keep my back to him, tryin’ to wrestle the storm in my chest back under control. My voice comes out rough, quieter than I like. “You don’t know what you’re signin’ up for. I ain’t easy, John. I ain’t simple. You seen me at my worst, and that weren’t even the half of it.”
John shifts behind me, a slow step closer. “Yeah, I’ve seen you at your worst. And you still came back for me. Still looked out for Jack. You think that’s nothin’? That don’t count?”
His words sink deep, dig into the cracks I’ve been patchin’ for years. My breath shakes out of me before I can stop it. “It ain’t about countin’,” I mutter, but it sounds hollow even to my ears.
There’s a pause, and then his voice softens again, almost too gentle for a man like him. “Arthur… you think I don’t know what it’s like to hate yourself half the time? To wonder if you’re worth a damn? You ain’t the only one.”
That makes me turn, slow, my eyes finding his. He don’t look away, don’t flinch. There’s no pity in him, no judgment, just… steady.
Somethin’ in my chest twists sharp. The words spill out before I can choke ‘em back. “I don’t know how to let go. I don’t know how to let someone see all of it. I’ve been hidin’ so damn long, I don’t even know if there’s a man left under all that dirt.”
For the first time, John does move—one step closer, closing the gap between us. His hand lifts, hesitates, then lands firm on my shoulder. Not forceful, not possessive, just there. Solid.
“There’s a man there,” he says, quiet but sure. “I see him. Always have.”
The simple weight of his hand feels like it might undo me. My throat burns, and I look away quick, blinking hard. I can’t let him see just how close I am to fallin’ apart.
But his hand don’t move. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I don’t want it to.
John’s hand sits heavy on my shoulder, steady as a stone, and I swear it’s the only thing holdin’ me together. My throat feels raw, my chest damn near caved in. I force myself to breathe, to get words out before the silence eats me alive.
“You know why I keep drawin’ you?” I rasp, and I already regret sayin’ it. My fingers twitch toward the journal sittin’ a few feet away, like I could snatch it up and bury it before I run my mouth any further.
John tilts his head a little, that same damn way he always does when he’s listenin’ close. He don’t answer. Just waits.
I swallow hard, lookin’ past him to the water ‘cause I can’t stand his eyes right now. “Ain’t ‘cause you’re pretty. You ain’t.” A humorless chuckle slips out of me, shaky. “It’s ‘cause you don’t stay the same. Every time I look at you, you’re different. One day you’re that scrawny kid Dutch dragged in, grinnin’ like you didn’t know no better. Next day, you’re older than me, all the weight of the world sittin’ in your eyes. I can’t keep hold of it in my head. So I put it down, else it slips away.”
The words scrape out of me like splinters, but I can’t stop now. “I draw you so I don’t forget. ‘Cause if I forget, it feels like losin’ you. And I already lost too damn much in this life.”
My voice cracks on the last part, and I bite it back sharp, jaw tight.
When I finally risk a glance, John’s starin’ at me, brow furrowed, like he’s tryin’ to piece me together same as I been tryin’ with him all these years.
“You think I’m worth rememberin’ like that?” he asks, quiet, almost disbelievin’.
My chest twists so hard it hurts. I huff out a rough laugh, shake my head. “Hell, Marston, you think I’d waste this much lead and paper on someone I didn’t?”
The dock creaks under us, and the only sound is the lake lappin’ at the posts. My hands are tremblin’, so I jam ‘em deeper into my coat. “That’s all there is to it,” I mutter, though it sure as hell ain’t. Not by half.
But John don’t press. He just looks at me, softer than I can stomach, and says, “Then I’ll try not to make it a waste.”
John’s hand don’t leave my shoulder, not right away. Then, slow-like, he pulls it back, and for a second I almost reach to keep it there. Instead, he lowers himself onto the dock again, boots hangin’ over the water. He pats the spot across from him.
“Sit,” he says, simple as that.
I hesitate, but my knees give out anyhow, and I sink down across from him. The journal sits between us like it knows too much.
For a long minute we just sit, the lake whisperin’ under the afternoon sun neither of us speakin’. My chest is still tight, but I can breathe again, a little steadier.
John breaks the silence, voice low. “You ain’t the only one who remembers like that.”
My brow furrows. “What d’you mean?”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, starin’ at the water instead of me. “Back when I left… when I ran off from camp. Everyone thinks I did it ‘cause of Abigail, ‘cause I was scared of bein’ a father. That’s true, sure. But it weren’t the whole of it.”
His voice cracks in a way I don’t expect, and my stomach twists.
“I left ‘cause I couldn’t stand feelin’ like a ghost. Like I could’ve died in Blackwater, or Saint Denis, or hell, any day Dutch sent us ridin’, and no one would’ve noticed past the hole I left in the cookin’ pot. Nothin’ to prove I was ever there. I was scared I’d go my whole life and not matter to nobody.”
John finally looks up at me, eyes glintin’ in the firelight from camp. “And then you show me this,” he nods at the journal, “like maybe somebody saw me all along.”
I can’t find words for a long stretch. My throat’s dry, heart poundin’ like a war drum. The weight of his gaze pins me right there.
“John…” It comes out rough, half a warning, half a plea.
But he don’t back off. Instead, he huffs, shakes his head, and lets out the faintest laugh. “Guess we’re both fools, huh? Hidin’ what we actually give a damn about. You, with your drawin’. Me, with… well. Everythin’ I was too damn scared to say out loud.”
The corners of my mouth twitch, and I let out a shaky breath. “Fools, sure. But maybe not cowards.”
That earns me the faintest smile out of him, and it near guts me, the way it softens his whole damn face.
We sit there, starin’ across at each other, the night holdin’ us still. My hand twitches toward my journal again, not to hide it this time, but to open it, show him more. I stop myself just shy. Too much, too soon.
Instead, I mutter, almost too quiet, “Ain’t just the drawin’ that keeps me rememberin’ you.”
His brow lifts, eyes sharp, like he caught more than I wanted him to. He leans back slow, but his voice is steady. “Maybe one day you’ll tell me what else does.”
I grunt, look away, but there’s no fight in it. “Maybe.”
The silence after that don’t feel heavy no more. It feels like somethin’ fragile we’re both holdin’ careful.
The dock creaks soft under us, the water lappin’ gentle, and for a spell it feels like the whole world’s gone quiet just to listen.
John’s still lookin’ at me that way — steady, patient, like he’s been waitin’ longer than I realize. My chest’s a mess, every beat heavy enough to split me open.
I clear my throat, try to look away, but my eyes keep draggin’ back to him. To the way the sunlight dances across his face, sharper and softer all at once. My hand twitches like it’s got a mind of its own, wantin’ to reach out the way I did last night.
“Arthur,” John says low, almost careful. “That ‘maybe’ you gave me just now… didn’t sound like a no.”
I huff out a laugh, humorless, rub a hand over my mouth. “Ain’t soundin’ like a yes, neither.”
“Don’t have to be,” he mutters. He shifts closer, just a little, enough the air between us feels warmer. “Just… don’t lie ‘bout it bein’ nothin’. Not anymore.”
His words hit deeper than I’d like to admit. I meet his eyes again, and for once, I don’t look away. The silence stretches tight between us, and I know if I move even an inch, I’ll fall into somethin’ I can’t take back.
So I do.
Slow, like I’m drawin’ the lines of him same as I would on paper, I reach out. My fingers brush his jaw, rough calluses against warm skin. He don’t flinch. Don’t breathe, even. Just lets me trace the edge of him, like he’s lettin’ me make damn sure he’s real.
John exhales, shaky, and his hand comes up, hesitates, then settles against mine. Not holdin’ me there, not pushin’ me away — just with me.
“Guess we’re both fools,” I murmur, voice low and ragged, “but maybe I ain’t the only one drawin’ you in their head.”
That earns me the faintest, crooked smile. He leans in, just enough our foreheads brush, the gentlest damn thing in a life full of violence.
We stay there, breath minglin’, hearts poundin’, neither of us crossin’ that last inch. Don’t need to. Not tonight.
‘Cause we both know now.
And that’s more dangerous — and more precious — than any secret I ever kept.
The dock holds us quiet, the night stretched thin between our heartbeats. I don’t know how long we sit there, forehead to forehead, breath tangled. Long enough I start thinkin’ maybe the world finally gave us a moment to ourselves.
Then a voice tears through it, loud as a gunshot:
“Arthur! Johnny boy! You two courtin’ the moonlight down there or what?”
Sean’s laugh rattles across the water, sharp and grinnin’, and the moment shatters like glass.
I jerk back quick, damn near lose my balance, and John’s hand drops from mine like it burned him. He clears his throat, sittin’ back fast, eyes dartin’ away. My chest aches like I’d just taken a bullet.
“Christ alive,” I growl under my breath, pushin’ to my feet. Sean’s standin’ up by the fire, wavin’ his arms like he owns the place. “Some of us tryin’ to think, Sean. You oughta try it sometime.”
“Thinkin’, eh?” Sean hollers back, grin wide enough to split his face. “That what you’re callin’ it now? You two look cosier’n a pair of raccoons in winter!”
John mutters somethin’ foul under his breath, rubbin’ the back of his neck. His ears are redder’n I’ve ever seen.
Before I can spit back at Sean, another voice cuts in from camp — Dutch’s this time, cool and sharp as a blade.
“Arthur. John. Since you’re so well-rested and full of jokes, I got a job needs doin’. Stagecoach, north road. Hosea’s drawin’ the map now.”
My gut twists, the weight of the world slammin’ back down on me. I glance once at John, and he glances at me. That fragile thread between us still hummin’, but already bein’ buried under duty.
“Be right there,” I holler back, voice rougher than I want it to be.
Dutch don’t answer, don’t need to. His footsteps fade, and Sean’s laughter follows, still echoing smug-like.
I grab my journal off the dock, clutchin’ it tighter than I mean to. John rises beside me, brushin’ his coat off, still not meetin’ my eyes.
For a moment I think about sayin’ somethin’ — just one word to tie us back to what almost was. But the world don’t leave room for it. Not now.
So I just grunt, “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.”
John nods, quiet. And as we walk back up toward the fire, our shoulders brush. Neither of us pulls away.
We don’t speak on it, but we both know: whatever just passed between us, it ain’t gone. It’ll find us again.
