It isn't deliberate.
Not that first night, at least.
He just can't sleep sometimes. Drifting off is easy, but then John wakes up screaming, clutching at a rope that hasn't been wrapped around his throat in years— clawing at his neck, gasping like he's suffocating. He still remembers what dying felt like; the trembling, fragile intimacy of it.
Still remembers the loud crack of Arthur's gun. Arthur's calloused hands on his face as he coaxed John up out of the mud, eyes so bright they hurt to look at, shhh, you're all right now, boy. I gotchu.
Arthur wasn't lying. He had him then, and he has him now, and every single day in between. Dutch looks out for them all, but in a fight it's always Arthur standing at John's back. Arthur's bullets taking down the men in John's way. Arthur's hand on his shoulder when he's shaking with adrenaline, easy, now, easy.
It is never easy, but it's easier, with him there.
The nightmares still come, though, late at night when everything is hollow and lonely no matter how many people are around, and there's no point chasing sleep after that. When John was younger he would crawl into Arthur's tent, into his cot. Nestle himself under Arthur's blankets. Press his cold hands against Arthur's sleep-warm skin, watch him shiver before he pulled John in close.
Except John got older, and Arthur felt too good wrapped around him. Smelled too good, woodsy and familiar under John's nose. Tasted too good, once, when John pressed his split, quivering lips to Arthur's collar, felt him breathing deep and even in his sleep.
He wants it too much, now, and so he stays away.
He wanders instead. Through the woods more often than not, but right now the wind is viciously cold, and even without any snow on the ground he can't work up the energy to saddle his horse and face it. John trudges through the camp, pilfered bottle of bourbon in one hand to keep him warm, glancing around to see if anyone else is up and about. It's quiet, though, the campfire nothing but embers glinting in the dark, only the soft sounds of people breathing to break the silence. There's something ethereal about it, and John moves carefully, drinks carefully, unwilling to shatter the stillness.
He finds himself a few yards away from Dutch's tent, light glowing under the bottom edge of the canvas. It's no surprise; Dutch sleeps even less than John, but it feels more deliberate on his part. As though he is above it somehow, needs less of it than the rest of them; like sleeping is some kind of indulgence. He doesn't make a conscious decision to move forward. John is just suddenly closer, head cocked to the side, listening; someone is moving inside Dutch's tent, rustling around. Breathing hard.
Gasping.
John's reaching for the tent flap in a daze, about to pull the cloth aside, when hears it.
"Dutch, please."
Arthur's voice. Strained and ragged.
Fucked out like it only ever is in John's dreams.
John draws his hand back as though he's been burned. Takes a few clumsy steps around the back of the tent, glancing over his shoulder. Guilty, like someone might have seen him, but everything is still hushed and drowsy— everything but the muffled moans and sounds of skin on skin filtering out from Dutch's tent.
Arthur's punched out little whines. Dutch cooing, like he's soothing a skittish animal.
Dutch's voice, now, soft and fond, "There's my good boy, you can take it."
Arthur sobs out a grateful yes, and suddenly John's legs won't hold him up anymore.
He covers his mouth with one hand and sinks down to the ground, leaning into a stack of wooden crates and trying not to whimper.
It's not that he doesn't know what Dutch and Arthur occasionally get up to at night, or out on jobs when it's just the two of them. Everyone knows, even if no one talks about it. John learned that early, learned it well.
Arthur is Dutch's boy in more ways than one, and John is better off keeping his goddamn mouth shut.
He doesn't even hold it against either of them, doesn't feel the sharp twist of jealousy he might expect, being confronted with it so directly. It's always been an abstract idea, something he couldn't quite get his mind around.
There is nothing abstract about the way Arthur is moaning. Muffled, like Dutch has a palm over his mouth, or he's shoving his face into his arm, or the bedroll. John has his hand in his clothes before he can stop himself, cock so hard it hurts. He shudders when he palms himself, as though he's pressing on a wound he didn't know was there, tender and exposed.
Arthur belongs to Dutch, and that isn't anything insidious, isn't anything wrong. They all belong to Dutch, one way or another, and John doesn't want to change that.
He just wants to belong to Arthur, too.
John listens to the noises Arthur makes. Listens to Dutch murmur things that are far softer than anything John has ever heard from him. Listens to the wet sounds of them kissing each other— lingering, on and on, until their mouths must be swollen and red with it.
Until it must hurt, how much they want each other.
John comes over his fingers when Arthur finishes, teeth in his knuckles and eyes shut tight, trying to swallow a whine of his own.
Listens to them mumble out drowsy affections. Arthur says 'I love you.'
Dutch tells him he's a good boy, and, 'I love you too, darling,' and John slinks back to his tent, and doesn't sleep again.
It's not every night.
It's not even every week, not always.
But Dutch and Arthur aren't as subtle as they think, or maybe they just don't care enough to try and hide it. Now that John is looking it's easy to figure out. Dutch stares a little too long, sometimes, and Arthur flushes hot, and looks away. Or Dutch pats him on the shoulder, fingers slipping under Arthur's collar, rubbing at his collar bones. Arthur's eyes go lidded and dark, and he shifts; towards Dutch, like he can't help it, like his body does it all on its own. They sit a bit too close, get a bit too quiet. Start talking in that wordless way they have, speaking volumes to each other without making a sound.
Dutch rakes his eyes over Arthur, once, hungry and lascivious.
Arthur fucking whines, and then swallows it, scrubbing a hand over his face like he can wipe the sound away.
It's easy, and it's obvious, and John finds himself sitting outside Dutch's tent in the black of night again and again. Palm over his mouth, breathing too fast through his nose, stroking himself frantically as he listens to them move. He thinks Hosea sees him, a couple of times, but he never says a word. Even if he had it wouldn't matter.
It's not like John can stop.
The cold gives way to spring. To the heat of summer. To a chill in the air again, and leaves underfoot, loud and unmistakable. John sweeps them away from Dutch's tent when no one is looking, clears himself a path.
It's been almost a year of this when John's world shifts under his feet. Like he's missed a step on the stairs, and gone tumbling to the ground.
"Seen John looking at you again tonight," Dutch says from inside his tent, voice light and amused, and John sits up so fast he knocks his head on the crates behind him. Swears softly, rubbing over the throbbing knot that's rising under his hair, teeth bared at the sting. Arthur groans, and the sounds they're making pick up, like Dutch is fucking him harder, faster. "Seen you looking at him, too, when you think nobody else will notice. Neither one of y'all is sneaky like you think. He's what, sixteen now? Seventeen?"
John fights down the urge to scoff, but it doesn't matter; Arthur does it for him.
"Eighteen," Arthur hisses, voice breaking as Dutch rails into him, the metal of his cot grinding under the assault.
"That how you like 'em, Arthur? Mouth on 'em that makes you wanna choke him half the time? Lean and young and unwashed?"
John can feel his ribs, if he tries, feel how they're just a little too prominent under the soft red of his long-johns. His hip bones jut out a bit more than they should; underfed, like some fucking stray, though not from Dutch's lack of trying. His palm is gritty where it's wrapped around his cock, hair filthy in his eyes. He wants to be offended but there's not much room for indignance when Dutch has him pegged so well.
When he says it with an indulgent fondness that makes John warm all over.
"That's… how old… fuck…" Arthur struggles to catch his breath, biting out words that are high and reedy, "how old I was, when… when you—"
Arthur grunts loud, and then whimpers. Comes all shaky, Dutch working him through it, the sound of them finishing together enough to have John following after them like always. He's drowsy, now, boneless on the ground, the tension drained out of him. They're all quiet for a while, nothing but the sound of their breathing, John muffling his as best he can in his bandana.
"When I what?" Dutch finally asks. He's winded but not like Arthur is, gasping like he's run for miles. "When I finally let you be my good boy like you wanted?" There's no audible answer, but Arthur must shake his head, or maybe it's written all over his face. Dutch laughs. "He can be your good boy, too, if you want. Or you can be his. You know I don't mind, Arthur. John is trustworthy, and it's best to keep things like this in the family. I don't much like the thought of either one of you tryin' your luck with some stranger if you get bored."
Arthur grumbles, and when he speaks again it's low and lonesome.
"John don't want me like that."
John's come is still warm on his fingers, heartbeat still thrumming wild in his chest, lungs on fire with just how wrong Arthur is about that.
"Oh, Arthur," Dutch says. There's the soft sound of lips on skin, the rustle of blankets. "What a fool you are. I thought I taught you better than that."
John stays there a long, long time. Then the sun starts to rise, and he limps back to his tent, and doesn't come out again.
His face hurts from smiling. The boys keep slapping him on the shoulder so hard he staggers, shaking him, cheering. He did good. Knows he did good. Chasing down a tip, checking out the place, making sure everything was lined out before bringing the rest of the gang in on the score.
It was almost too easy. Rich family gone out of town to see a sick relative, big house all empty and unguarded. There were a handful of servants who raised their hands high and didn't make a fuss, and a pair of country boys with shotguns they left knocked out on the front porch. Not a single shot fired, and now they're back at camp, pockets full of cash, everybody grinning. Things have been rough lately, but this will go a long way towards smoothing them, and it's all because of John.
Now everyone is celebrating, loud and raucous. Javier is playing Cielito Lindo, like he always does when they score big, ignoring how everybody else gets most of the words wrong. The liquor flows freely, beer and bourbon and whiskey and gin; John has a bottle all his own, but he's nursing it gently, trying not to get too drunk, too fast.
He's sitting on a log, listening the girls yell along with Javier, canta y no llores, when Dutch sits down next to him with wide smile. He pats him on the thigh, taking a generous swig of his brandy and leaning hard into John's shoulder.
"You did us good, John. Put in the work, and we all came out the other side, fat pockets and no blood on our hands. I'm real proud of you."
John shrugs, ignoring how Dutch's praise settles warm in his guts, and tries not to preen.
"Weren't nothin'. Just chased down a lead that panned out, is all."
Dutch shakes his head, pointing at John with his bottle.
"No. No, it ain't nothin'. You done good, son, I mean it. Good work like that deserves rewarding in my book. Come by my tent later on, I got somethin' for you. I think you'll like it." Dutch winks, eyes are shining in a way that makes John want to squirm. He nods dumbly, and Dutch nods back, like John's done something that pleases him. "Good. Good."
Then he's gone off to dance with one the girls, and John's left with his bottle, and the butterflies that have taken up residence in his stomach.
It's hours before John looks around and realizes Dutch is nowhere to be seen.
The party has died down a bit. At least half the gang is passed out in different places throughout the camp, drunk and snoring; Hosea is slumped over the card table. Bill is curled up under a wagon. John isn't sure where Arthur has gotten off to— he's been trying not to watch him so closely, with varying degrees of success. It's part of the reason he didn't want to get too drunk tonight.
Whiskey and want tend to mix ugly. It's enough to make any man pathetic, and John is certainly no exception.
There's light under the edge of Dutch's tent, though, which means he's still up. John doesn't know what kind of reward he has in mind, but he'd be stupid not to take him up on it. He pulls himself to his feet and trudges over, pausing outside and calling out warily.
"Hey Dutch? You still wanna see me?"
There's a noise John can't quite make out. Hissed conversation he can only hear one side of, and then Dutch's voice, loud and cocksure.
"Oh, I certainly do, my boy. Come inside."
John pulls the tent flap to the side and ducks under it, freezing halfway inside. Dutch is sitting on a chair, leaned back with his legs thrown wide, but that isn't what has John staring.
Arthur is kneeling between Dutch's feet. Shirtless but still in his pants, in his boots, suspenders tangling loose around his thighs. Still wearing those fucking fingerless gloves that are downright obscene; John has a hard time looking anywhere else when Arthur's got them on. He's thought about stealing them and tossing them into a fire just to be free of the damn things.
Nobody should look that good in half a pair of gloves.
Right now Arthur's got one hand curled around Dutch's calf, fingers clutching at the leather of his boot, eyes locked on the ground. His face is flushed brighter than John has ever seen it, and he's breathing a little fast, leaning into Dutch's palm where it cups his face.
"Don't let the cold in, son. Get in here, take a seat."
John startles out of his reverie and stumbles the rest of the way inside, letting the tent flap close behind him. There's a chair near Dutch's own, offset a little to the left, and John sits in it gratefully.
He doesn't know how much longer his legs will hold him up.
Doesn't know how long any of him will hold up with Arthur on his knees like that. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, like it's pumping his blood too fast through his veins and making him dizzy.
He glances from Dutch to Arthur and back again, wary and uncertain. Dutch lost his jacket and vest somewhere, but he's still calm and collected in comparison to Arthur.
Arthur twitches, restless, shifting in place— looking anywhere but at John, and Dutch shushes him, fingers stroking slowly through his hair.
"Shhh, easy, you're alright. You two been dancin' around each other for too long. It's getting tiresome. John creeping around my tent at night any time I got you in it, you moonin' over him like a lovesick idiot. Fools, the both of you."
John feels his face heat as he realizes he's been caught. Wonders how long Dutch has known.
Wonders how long Arthur has known. If he spread his legs for Dutch all shyly, palm over his own mouth, trying to keep quiet. A memory slips through his head unbidden— one of many, Dutch murmuring soft to Arthur from the other side of thick canvas.
None of that now, darling, put your hand down. It's okay, let us hear you.
It's an effort not to whine.
Dutch continues, hands on either side of Arthur's face now, coaxing it up where Arthur's trying to hide in his thigh. Arthur lets him, bottom lip bitten between his teeth. Pink cheeks, hair in his face.
Prettier on his knees than he has any right to be, and John swallows hard.
"Now, John did a real good job today. I figure he's earned a reward, don't you?"
Arthur nods, eyes sliding over towards John. They catch on John's, and hold, and suddenly it's hard to breathe.
There's desire there, raw and unguarded, and the longer John stares the more relaxed Arthur becomes. No more skittish anxiety, like some wild horse ready to bolt, and a few moments pass before John figures out why.
All that want in Arthur's eyes is a mirror, and John is giving every ounce of it right back to him.
"You're my good boy, ain't you, Arthur?" Arthur nods again without hesitation, eyes still locked on John, dark and hungry. Dutch presses a thumb to Arthur's lips, and he opens for him, sucking Dutch in eagerly. His tongue works around him, and it's easy. Practiced.
Something he's done a thousand times before, and John can't look away.
"Always gonna be my good boy, but that don't mean you two can't take care of each other. We're family. We look after our own, don't we?" Arthur's head bobs up and down without releasing Dutch's thumb, lips closed tight around it, except he only has eyes for John. Dutch combs through his hair, and Arthur relaxes further with a sigh. "You wanna show John just how good you can look after him? I know you do. Go on, it's alright."
Dutch pulls his thumb out of Arthur's mouth, nudging him on the shoulder, but he doesn't seem to need much encouragement. He walks on his knees across the pelts spread out underneath him, fingers dropping from Dutch's calf as he eases over in front of John instead. Insinuates himself between John's thighs, palms laying flat on top of them, mouth wet and eyes shining as he looks up at John from under his lashes.
John's already hard, has been since he walked in, but this close it's impossible to miss. Arthur slides his palms higher on John's thigh and then stops; like he's waiting for permission, but John is too dumbstruck to even nod. He's just leaning forward, tongue darting out to lick his lips, hands itching to sink into Arthur's hair. Dutch laughs, but there's no derision in it.
It's dripping with affection.
"Just kiss the boy, Arthur, he's about to explode."
It's all the invitation Arthur needs, apparently. He runs his hands up John's body; rucks up his shirt, fingers curling around his neck, thumbs brushing over his jaw. Arthur lifts higher on his knees. Pulls John down, and John goes, and then they're kissing.
It isn't deliberate.
Not at first.
John just can't help himself, the way his arms wrap around Arthur, how he clutches at the warm expanse of his shoulders, nails scratching down his back as John tries to tug him closer. Someone's making a pitiful noise— John, it's John, he can feel it in his throat— and Arthur huffs a soft laugh against his lips.
"You're sure about this, then, yeah?" Arthur drawls, smiling. John doesn't make it easy; makes him mumble out the words between kisses, won't give him any space to retreat. Nods fast, still licking into Arthur's mouth, grinding absently into his stomach.
John's forgotten Dutch entirely when he speaks again.
"Ever the romantic." John jumps, but doesn't stop what he's doing. Won't. Can't. "You boys got all the time in the world to whisper sweet nothings. Let's get John his reward first, what do you say, Arthur?"
Arthur doesn't say anything.
Just kisses his way down John's jaw, mouth lingering at his throat as he works John's belt open. He bites, and sucks, humming like he's pleased with the taste. There's going to be a mark there tomorrow— a dark violet tattoo of Arthur's mouth for everyone to see— and John shivers at the thought. He's still nosing into John's neck when he gets his pants undone and slips a hand inside, palming at John's cock, grinning when he moans.
"Easy, now, easy," Arthur murmurs, mouthing wet kisses over John's collarbones, over the fabric of his shirt, easing back down between his thighs.
"That's it, there's my good boy," Dutch lilts, and John thinks he means Arthur, but it doesn't matter.
They're both his good boys, now.
Arthur pulls John out of his pants. Licks over his lips, holding John's cock in one hand, nuzzling his cheek against it. He looks up and meets John's stare before pressing a chaste kiss to the base of his shaft. Then another, just a little higher, thumb circling over the crown where his foreskin has pulled back. Again, and again, all the way up John's shaft, so slow that it's agony. Arthur's lips are red, and slick, burning hot, and John shivers every time they touch him and fights down the urge to come. It would be easier if Arthur wasn't staring, watching John watch him.
Eyes so bright they hurt, but it feels good.
John does what he always does when something hurts him, and leans into the ache. Tangles his fingers in Arthur's hair. Hears Dutch talking, a thousand miles away.
You can pull a little, I promise he won't mind.
Then Arthur takes John between his lips, and he can't do anything else. He tugs Arthur's hair and moans, loud and helpless, bucking into the slick heat of his mouth. Arthur's arms curl around John's thighs, holding him in place as he swallows deeper, deeper, until his nose is buried in the messy curls on John's belly.
Arthur pulls off slow, sucking all the way, before taking him in again.
And again.
And again.
Arthur doesn't have the decency to look away. His eyelids flutter shut a few times, like the feel of John in his mouth is too good and he can't quite keep them open, but they're never closed for long. John is incoherent, jaw fallen wide as he tries to take in air, spine arching and one foot coming up off the ground of its own volition.
Then Arthur squeezes his thighs, and moans, and John comes down his throat without warning.
John waits for Arthur to choke, an apology ready on the tip of his tongue as he shakes and makes embarrassing sounds, except it never happens. Arthur tenses for the barest of seconds, and then swallows everything John has to give with pleased hum, like it's nothing at all.
"You like that don't you, son?" Dutch asks, and Arthur nods, but doesn't stop.
He keeps sucking. Keeps swallowing until John is soft in his mouth, shivery and oversensitive. When he finally pulls off he's smiling, and John can't help himself.
He's on the ground in Arthur's lap in an instant, kissing him hard. Arthur doesn't expect it, isn't braced against it; he goes tumbling backwards, landing against Dutch's leg with a surprised groan, arms closing around John automatically. His fingers clutch at John's clothes. Their teeth knock together, and John tastes blood, but it doesn't matter. He can't slow down, can't stop, can't wait.
He fumbles Arthur's belt open one handed, shoving into his pants the moment he has the space and palming Arthur's cock. Arthur whimpers. Grinds into him, and shakes, and John did that, it's all for him, and—
"Oh, good boys," Dutch says, hands in both their hair now, and it feels so good. John shoves into it without thinking, stroking Arthur inelegantly. The angle's off, and it's too dry, but it must be enough.
Arthur comes into his fingers with a broken noise, holding onto John so tight it's painful, "God, John."
John kisses his name off Arthur's lips, both of them sleepy and sated, sitting on the ground at Dutch's feet like it's where they're always supposed to be. He's still stroking through their hair, and finally he chuckles, and drops his hands away.
"You two get out of here," he says with a grin, "I already got mine."
John doesn't know if that means Arthur already took care of him, or that he doesn't need to right now, but he doesn't have to be told twice. Gets up to his feet on shaky legs and tucks himself back into his clothes, trying to look a bit less freshly fucked. Arthur kisses Dutch goodnight, and they stumble out into the dark together.
Arthur's arms feel just like he remembers.
Safe, and warm, and John never wants to leave them.
Arthur nuzzles into his hair, humming a song John recognizes but can't put words to, hands rubbing circles into John's back.
"Thought you grew outta this," Arthur says, and it's dark, but John can tell he's smiling.
"Grew into it, more like. Wanted more'n someone to keep me warm in the cold. Got nervous. Stayed away."
Arthur laughs, and kisses his temple.
"Mmmm, well. Nothin' to be nervous about anymore, I reckon."
John reckons he's right.
The cot is too small for the both of them, but neither of them complain.
When they both stagger out of Arthur's tent the next afternoon, flushed and stupid and smiling, nobody says a word.
They keep their mouths shut. Maybe they grin, or shove at John without saying why, but it's all right.
John can take it.
Arthur's warm the next night too, and the night after that.
Sometimes John still jerks awake screaming, clawing at the ghost of a noose, and Arthur is there shushing him.
Easy now, you're alright.
I got you.