A/N: Part of the one-shot seriesI've created for Red Dead.

A Night to Remember (Or Not)

"Hey, John!" A young male voice called the brunette's name, and he looked up from the small carving that he'd been whittling as Amos made his way over to the canopy he reclined under.

"Feel like drinking with me tonight?" The younger man was sweating, the heat from the day overbearing and causing his dark skin to glisten in the sun. The red bandanna he usually wore around his neck was missing, as was his hat and shirt. Lean muscle from hard labor and decent meals had turned him from the skinny beanpole he used to be, into someone the women in camp now stared after.

Amos was new. They'd picked him up a couple of months ago in some little Podunk town down near Lake Don Julio. He'd been a sorry sight when he'd arrived in their camp on the back of Dutch's horse, all dressed in rags and covered in dirt and grime. His face looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks, but his smile was bright and his expression keen. His enthusiasm to make himself useful had ensured that he fit right in even though he had no stomach for violence, and they'd put him to work helping Mr. Pearson with cooking. He did a lot of the chores around the camp that the women couldn't, like chopping wood or hoisting the bath water. He also often assisted Hosea in fishing, the much older man happy to see a new young addition to the gang.

According to Dutch, Amos had been living on the street, but not his whole life. The teenager's parents had been murdered when he was fourteen years young in a mugging gone wrong, and he'd been forced to fend for himself ever since. John could sympathize to some extent, though he'd never had a loving mother and father, nor a room to call his own. He'd always had nothing. Until now.

John transferred the horse and knife to his left hand and rubbed the back of his neck with his right doubtfully, "Well…," he began, looking back down to the little wooden horse he'd been carving out. It was still lumpy, like poorly sculpted clay, not having been given fine detail yet, but the overall shape was unmistakable.

"Oh, c'mon, John!" Amos sounded desperate. "I've asked everyone around here, and all anybody wants to do is laze around. Last thing I wanna do is go to town alone. You know how it is."

John did know how it was. Specifically, how it was for colored folk like Amos. Even though Amos was damn near the nicest guy he'd ever met, some white folk just hated people of different nationalities for a reason he didn't care to fathom. He had seen it firsthand himself several times. Most recently, there'd been an altercation between Bill and some rowdy lowlife on a supply run into Armadillo. The guy had been drunk and said some things to Bill, who being Bill, had retaliated with his fists. John and Amos had been bystanders, and even though Amos hadn't been a part of the scrabble, he'd still managed to get dragged into it after the man had called him a 'yellow-bellied darkie'. The man ate his words soon after, quite literally. John had seen to that, and long after they'd left, he'd still been massaging his bruised knuckles. Amos had told them it wasn't necessary, it didn't bother him, and Bill had shut him up with a gruff, 'Nobody talks to us like that'.

John sighed, tossing the wooden horse to the ground and pocketed his knife.

"Ah, what the hell." He conceded, and he stood and stretched languidly. "I ain't had some fun in a while, let's go."

Amos beamed at him, his white teeth shining.

John saddled up his horse, making sure he brought as much money as he felt comfortable carrying while drunk, and after putting on a shirt, Amos did the same.

"We're going out tonight, Dutch!" John called over the din of noise from the bustling of the camp in the gang leader's direction. The white tent flap was closed, signaling he was likely napping.

"Bring back some jerky!" The man yelled back from inside his tent, and John chuckled. "Will do!" The man had a jerky addiction.

He and Amos climbed on top of their horses, John on Big John and Amos astride his own stocky palomino, and they picked their way through the scattering of the other horses. As they guided the animals to the entrance, John's gaze slid over the camp one last time and landed on Arthur out of his own tent, watching them. His felt a strange buzzing somewhere in his stomach, and briefly wondered if something he'd eaten earlier was giving him grief.

Arthur was leaning against a post that held up his own canopy, smoking a cigarette, his dark hat pulled low. The blue and white flannel shirt he wore was unbuttoned, revealing a tan and toned torso that melted into deep blue jeans. John took this in and swept his gaze up to meet glaring green orbs. His eyes were narrowed, and his lips were drawn tight over his face in a scowl. John raised an eyebrow at his expression. What was his problem?

What was that look?

He shook it off and wheeled Big John around to race after Amos, who in his zeal had already taken off. It didn't bother him.

It didn't.

Barely a half hour later and the two outlaws were striding up the steps of a saloon brazenly dubbed 'Happy Daze'.

They'd hitched their horses out in front and left their guns in the saddle bags. No firearms allowed, apparently. The sun had begun its descent, as they were well into the evening, and some of the days heat dissipated as it ducked behind some shaded clouds. The street was littered with people strolling about making the most of the lingering daylight, some stopping to shop in the stores while others lounged around on porches gossiping.

The ride there had been uneventful, but you couldn't tell from the younger man's enthusiasm as he blabbered on and on about how grateful he was that John had come along with him. To be honest, John had been interested in hanging out with Amos for a while, the other man only being a year younger than him, but he'd been busy doing other things to really have any time. There was always something that needed done, and somehow John was quickly becoming the go-to man for ride-alongs. He wasn't complaining, but it was nice to be able to relax for once.

John pushed through the batwing doors and Amos followed close behind him, brimming with excitement as he let the doors swing to a shut behind him. The noise from inside died down a bit, and everyone within turned to look at them. John's brow furrowed in anticipation, and behind him, Amos tensed. Then, as if on cue, everyone resumed whatever they had been doing and the activity in the tavern continued as it had been.

The inside of the saloon was brightly lit and lively, and there was no lack of action. High, vaulted ceilings adorned with moose-horn chandeliers gave the front room a strong sense of grandeur, and numerous black-varnished tables scattered the floor, most of which were occupied by bodies of men and women alike. At a few tables, some of the occupants were shaking dice or playing cards, the excitement at the tables high as beautiful women fanned themselves. In the far back right corner, a piano rested on large ornate legs on a slightly raised platform, and an older red-faced man was happily plunking the keys in a bawdy tune as a woman with dark curls giggled beside him and swayed with her drink. A staircase to the second level dominated the center of the building, and up it, John could see people clutching their booze and having a good time singing or talking to one another. A hallway extended further back, but John's vision was limited, and he didn't really care. He was here to have a good time with Amos, who was already at the bar waving him over.

The brunette nestled in between a rather large, well-dressed woman and Amos, coming in beside him to lean forward on the bar. "Ready for a few rounds? We're bout to get fucked up!" The younger man's smile was bright.

"Can you even hold your liquor?" John asked doubtfully, giving Amos a quick once over.

"Ohhh don't you worry about me," The dark-skinned cowboy jerked his thumb up to his chest at himself. "I'll drink you under the table. Can you handle your liquor? 'Cause honestly, John, I've never seen you with the bottle." The grin on his face was playful.

"Is that a challenge?"

"Is the sky blue?"

"Oh, you're on, little man." John whistled for the bar keep and waved. The black-haired man behind the bar was tall and looked to be about twice their age. His jaw was square, the look on his face dour.

"What can I get for you…gentlemen?" He eyed them skeptically, the black squirrel under his nose wrinkling.

"Yeah, I need about eight shots of whisky."

"It's two dollars a shot." He seemed confident they couldn't afford it. John reached into his pocket, counted the bills out in front of the man's astonished face, and placed the correct change on the bar, pocketing the rest. "Keep 'em comin' and there's a tip in it for you." He gave the man a smirk as the bar keep pulled out the eight glasses he'd ordered and a bottle of Mountain Howitzer, carefully distributing it evenly between glasses with practiced hands. Once done, the man corked the bottle and put it away.

"Thanks, Mr.…" John began, waiting for the man's name.

"Gaffigan."

"We'll call you if we need you, Mr. Gaffigan, thanks." John's dismissal was clear, and Gaffigan moved away to serve another patron further down the bar. He greeted them much more enthusiastically then he had John and Amos, and it was clear he had thought the two outlaws hadn't any money.

John turned to the greedy-eyed kid next to him. He slid four of the glasses over by Amos, who seized one and raised it in the air in a dramatic toast.

"To good times!"

"To good times." John agreed. They clinked their glasses together and downed the liquid in one sharp movement. John set his glass on the ledge and let out a sour breath as the whisky burned a trail of fire down his throat.

"So why do you want to go to the bar all of the sudden?" John asked conversationally. Amos pulled an ashtray from his right closer to him and picked a cigarette out of his back pocket. He lit it deftly with a match and waved it out, tossing it in the ashtray, leaning forward on his elbows. "Ya know, I just wanted to get out of camp for a while. I just needed to get away from everybody bitchin' and moanin' 'bout the heat, is all. All anybody does is complain, complain. Plus, me and you," He gestured between them. "We're the youngest in the camp, and its about time we did something together."

Amos took a puff of the cigarette, sucking it in quickly, then letting it out with a slow whoosh of his breath. The smoke curled up towards the ceiling, and John picked up another glass to raise it in suggestion with a grin on his face.

"Another?"

They downed another shot. John belched. It wasn't as bad as what they had at camp, but damn.

"Was nice seeing the ladies in their underwear, though. Ohh, that girl Jenny. Goddess." Amos finished. The four girls in the camp had stripped down to their underthings and gone for a dip in the San Luis River, and while most of the men of the camp had been entranced, John had been content with napping in the shade. He didn't see what the big deal was. He didn't mind the heat so much.

"Yeah, she's alright, I s'pose." For some reason, all John could think about was how green the grass had been that he'd slept on. How it'd matched Arthur's…

…what?

"Another?"

"What?" John asked, bewildered. He looked to amused amber eyes.

"Another shot, John." Amos clarified, and jiggled the drink he had held up in his hand, clearly waiting for a toast.

"Another."

They clinked glasses, and John grimaced when he swallowed the next shot. He could feel the liquid travel to his stomach and shuddered as the taste washed over him. Beside him, Amos breathed out a hiss as the he exhaled. Down the bar to John's left, two men began laughing outrageously, their cheeks rosy and faces merry and sloshed. He himself was beginning to feel a tingling in his spine and a burning in his joints that let him know he was pleasantly buzzed.

"You seem awfully distracted, John. Care to share?" Amos's voice from his right made him swivel his head to look at the dark-skinned man, and he raked his muddled mind for what to say.

"Uh…I think those men were laughing at us."

"You care?" Amos asked, surprised. He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette into the tin.

"Well, no, but you asked what I was thinking about." Good save, damn.

Amos hummed, taking another puff of the rollup and smushed it into the bottom of the ashtray. "Well, are we here to get drunk or what?" He grabbed his last glass and motioned for John to do the same. "Next rounds on me." Amos promised.

The shot went down no easier than the others and John burped, relieving some of the tension in his gut.

"Gaffigan!" Amos called down the bar to the black-haired bar keep. "Another round, my good man!"

Gaffigan finished his business with the older, gray-haired customer he'd been serving and slid down the bar to meet them, unenthusiastically as ever. "Same count, same flavor?" His deep, boring voice drawled.

"Yessir!" Amos sang, and Gaffigan pulled the glasses from beneath the counter-top, as Amos pulled out money enough for the drinks and a decent tip.

After the whisky had been poured, and the money accepted, Gaffigan had moved on to the next patron without so much as a word.

"Quiet man…" John stated.

"I like him!"

"I agree!"

"Another!" The pair exclaimed together, their glasses raised to the ceiling and they continued to down shot after shot, ordering more and more, until John was sure that if he didn't use the bathroom right now, he was going to piss himself.

The music in the room, over the time since they'd been there, had grown in volume, as had the number of people inside, and now the building rang out with the echoes of its crowded patrons singing 'The Ring-Dang-Do'. The older man that had been playing the piano when they'd walked in was still picking away to the tune, leading the charge for the rest of the saloon. The curly-haired woman that he'd been entertaining earlier sat next to him on the piano bench, draped across his shoulders, her face fond. Some people from the second story were hanging around the bars of the balcony, bottles in hand, eyes closed and head rocking as they hollered out lyrics at the top of their lungs. Their cowboy boots dangled, kicking along in time to the music.

"Amos!" John called for the other man to get his attention over the noise, but his hoarse voice seemed so small, and he felt like he was yelling into a pillow. The darker man leaned into John to hear over the blonde-haired cowboy to his right, who was loudly singing the lewd lyrics.

"What's goin' on, John?" The man's brown eyes were slightly lidded, a sign of his inebriation, and John belted, "I need to piss! I'll be right back!" right into his ear.

He moved away from where he'd been leaning against the bar, and without the support, he immediately staggered sideways and nearly fell. Damn, I'm three sheets to the wind. He caught himself before he hit the floor, thankfully, and made his way to the back left of the saloon in the direction of the back door. He pushed sloppily past two well-dressed individuals who didn't seem to get the hint that he needed to go through the door directly behind them, and as he stumbled out into the heat of the night, he saw that Amos was following right behind him.

"Wanted to make sure you got there okay." Amos explained on seeing John's questioning look. "Shit seems to happen outta literally nowhere, sometimes."

"Well…watch my back...mmfucked up." John mumbled. "If someone tries to rob me, just...ya know…shoot 'em."

"Shoot 'em?" Amos looked mildly alarmed at the suggestion of violence.

"Yeah, I guess politely, if you have to." John stumbled back towards the direction of the outhouse and bit the dirt face first embarrassingly after he tripped on a rock. He yelped as he went down, and Amos busted out in deep, belly laughter, the rich sound echoing off the walls.

"Shut up, Amos!" John snarled, struggling to right himself. He pushed himself up with his hands, grabbing the wood of the outhouse for support. He couldn't help it if the world was doing back flips.

"Man, you're a lightweight!"

"Am not!" John yelled back.

He somehow made it into the outhouse without falling in and got his business done, sighing in relief as his bladder shrank in size.

John blinked, and he was back in the bar with Amos. They were drinking again. They each held a tall glass of beer apiece, and a scuzzy man next to them was cheering them on enthusiastically as they chugged competitively, each watching the other out of the side of their eyes. John swallowed as much of the liquid as he could, not tasting any of it.

Amos slammed his beer down on the bar, finishing first, and wiped the suds off his mouth. John finished barely a second after, letting out a long, low belch.

"Damn, boy, where'd ya learn to drink like that?" He inquired.

"Hung out with the right people, I guess." Amos replied, smiling, staring right back at him.

Then he was dancing goofily next to Amos as the darker man played the piano and sang the lyrics of 'Cielito Lindo' at the top of his lungs. An attractive dark-skinned woman was eyeing him appreciatively from his left, but Amos plowed on, as did the rest of the bar.

"Ay, ay, ayy, ayyyyyy…canta y no llores!"

A woman's high-pitched laugh rang out from somewhere. The mood in the saloon was like the way it felt when they celebrated at camp. Everyone was having a good time, and John had not a care in the world. He felt lighter than he had in a long time.

Then he was back at the bar and Amos was leaning into his right and whispering excitedly into his ear, "I haven't showered in like…four days!" He seemed proud and John couldn't understand why, for the life of him.

"That's an accomplishment?" John inquired, puzzled.

"And still smell this good?" Amos raised an arm and sniffed for emphasis. "Hell yeah!" He lit another cigarette and puffed it for a minute. The night had progressed, and outside was damn near pitch black save for the torches lining the dirt road. Smoke filled the air as everyone was balancing their drinking with their other vices, and John struggled to clear his jumbled head of the fog that had settled on it.

"So, what was with that look Arthur gave you earlier?" Amos asked suddenly, his voice bringing John crashing back down to earth.

"What look?" John echoed.

"C'mon, you saw it." Amos dragged from his rollup, flicking ash away from him to the floor. "He gave you a look like you killed his dog. Only he don't have a dog."

"Oh, that. I don't even know." And he really didn't, but it had been on his mind a lot tonight. He hadn't done anything? Had he?

"Maybe he's still sore about you stealing his clothes while he bathed." Amos suggested.

A few days ago, when the temperature had been almost overwhelming, John had been searching for a way to beat the heat. Nothing cured it like a dip in the river, and as John had made his way over to the body of water, he'd halted. There was a stack of clothes sitting on the riverbank, and from John's perspective, he could see Arthur rinsing himself off in the cool water a couple of yards from the shoreline. The older blonde man was standing in it wasted deep, and shiny drops of liquid glistened off tanned skin in the afternoon heat in a view that made John's stomach twist in some unknown feeling. The lines of his back were deep in their musculature, and strong biceps curled around his stomach, lathering a bar of soap between large hands.

And naturally, as the older man's back had been turned, John had lunged for his clothes, snatching them up and taking off without a sound back to the encampment.

An hour later, Arthur had come stomping into camp, naked as the day he was born, the air crackling around him in his anger.

"John Marston!" The angry man's voice boomed through the camp, and the older women giggled as they rested eyes on the naked man as he made his way to his tent. John had quickly hidden in his own tent, struggling to stifle his laughter, and minutes later, the flap was wrenched open, Arthur looming over him sans clothes.

"Hey, Arthur." John greeted apprehensively from where he knelt on the ground. The man truly was glorious in his wrath. Short, blonde hair stuck up messily in all directions, and emerald eyes glittered perilously down at him.

"Don't 'Hey, Arthur' me, you little shit." The fist that had connected with John's forehead had come quick as lightning and knocked the younger man onto his back.

As John lay there in a daze, Arthur snarled, "Don't touch my shit!", snatched his clothes back from the spot beside John, and had stormed off.

"You might be right." John settled, though he felt somehow like there was more to it than just that. He couldn't explain it.

"Another?" Amos asked.

"Another." John agreed, and they both knocked back a shot. It no longer burned John's throat, and the taste was practically nonexistent even though the proof was probably higher than the temperature outside.

"Gaffigan! Shots! Pronto!" Amos's hand was up in the air waving jerkily at the older bar keep.

Gaffigan had been cleaning a tall mug with a rag that looked as if it had seen better days and paused in his ministrations to move down to them, his thick black mustache winkling in distaste as he came upon the two young outlaws. There was a dark brown stain on the white lapels of his shirt that John wasn't entirely sure had been there earlier, and it bothered him for some inexplicable reason.

"Same four?" His dulcet tone rang out friendly, but his face told them he'd rather be attending other customers, regardless of the tip he received.

"Yes, yes, good man." Amos waved. The dark man's eyes were lax, and he had a slight smile on his face as he leaned back to retrieve some cash from his front pockets.

Shots were poured, and money was exchanged. John paid this time, and when Gaffigan moved away again, John and Amos toasted again twice more, downing two of them in rapid succession.

John rubbed his hand over his eyes, groaning, and when he lowered it, he was outside using the bathroom again, Amos standing next to him doing the same. Stars twinkled overhead, and John's vision blurred. Somewhere behind him, a man coughed.

Then he was upstairs, sitting with his legs through the bars like he'd seen a few others doing earlier and clutching his beer like a lifeline. Beside him, Amos was humming along as he jerked his head in tune to a piano version of the Cancan that the saloon was currently going crazy for. Roughly a half dozen girls were kicking their legs high, and men were making lascivious comments and wolf whistles in their direction as they paraded about the main floor.

Then John was dancing atop a black table on the ground level, kicking his legs higher than he ever had in his life. He had his arms linked with Amos and a voluptuous red-haired woman he had never seen before. The Cancan was still going, and he could hear Amos laughing uncontrollably as the woman watched John with lustful baby blue eyes. She really was quite pretty. Light red freckles dotted her face in a pleasing way, and the black corset she wore made her look like a siren wrapped in the devil's clothes. John's hat was missing, and he felt strangely bare without it. His cheeks burned from the smile on his face.

Then he was decking a mean-faced stranger with dark hair, while the red-haired woman John had been dancing with earlier was looking on tearfully from the stairs. His right fist crashed into the man's cheek with all the power of a mule's kick, and a rage he hadn't felt in a while welled up inside while Amos looked on from behind him. John's skin felt white-hot, and his heart was hammering in his chest.

"If ya say anything like that e'r again, I'll fuckin' kill you." John heard himself saying to the now crumpled man, his hoarse voice low and deadly.

"Thanks, John." Amos said beside him, and John turned unsteadily to face him. The dark man's lip was busted and starting to swell, gratitude in his brown eyes.

"No problem." John replied, bemused about what was happening and why, but not caring to question it. He hadn't been this drunk in…well, ever.

They turned back around and headed to the bar, unmindful of the man that John had put to sleep in the middle of the saloon. Once there, John held onto the ledge with both hands, feeling like he was on the deck of a ship in the middle of a raging ocean hurricane, rather than in a saloon in the middle of Western civilization.

"Do you ever think about the future, John?" Amos was asking him. A cigarette had found it's way into his left hand, and Amos smoked on it as he leaned forward on his elbows.

John sighed, "More than I care to admit." He rubbed the back of his neck absent-mindedly.

"I'd like to think a few years from now, we're able to finally settle down and stop all this moving around." Amos's voice was dreamy. "I'd like to find the right lady and hole up somewhere and raise a family." He took a long swig from a beer in front of him. "What about you, John? Do you have any dreams?" His eyes swiveled to watch John.

"Yeah, I guess I'm just really on the pursuit of happiness, myself." John admitted, though unsure of what exactly he even meant.

"And where's that?"

"I don't know, probably somewhere in Ohio."

Amos brayed with laughter, and John smiled at his own joke.

Then they were wrestling on the floor of the saloon amidst at least a dozen onlookers who were cheering on one or the other. Amos's frame was leaner where John was broad, but the younger man was lither and more agile, and flipped John over onto his stomach to push him into the floorboards with a strength John didn't know he possessed. The older outlaw let out an indignant grunt as his cheek rubbed against hard wood and Amos straddled his back, bringing both John's arms up behind him and twisting them painfully.

"Say you give." Amos whispered in his ear playfully. The slippery little maggot.

"Never!" John bellowed trying to buck Amos off, but the man's weight wouldn't budge. He was trapped, and his disobeying body couldn't muster the concentration to do what he needed it to.

An onlooker sniggered, and several were expressing their approval when the batwing doors leading outside burst forth. Everyone looked to the sound, including both John and Amos, who froze.

There, looming in the doorway like an angry god, was Arthur, his expression thunderous. Green fire pinned them to their spot on the floor, and his hands rested threateningly on the hilt of his knife as he entered the saloon, his boots thudding on the ground. "What do you two think you're doing?" He boomed, clearly livid.

Amos scrambled off John's back and rose quickly, his expression ashamed, and John groaned as he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, staggering slightly.

"What's your deal, man." John drawled at the fuming cowboy, pulling his arms up in mock surrender. "Comin' in here, killin' our buzz-.".

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you two are in?" He spat furiously. "The law's comin' for you both any minute now. Drunk and disorderly conduct, you're lucky I got here when I did! Now come with me, we're goin' home."

"No!" John couldn't stop himself from blurting out the word. Who was he, his father?

"What'd you just say?" Arthur's eyes narrowed dangerously. Amos looked at John, horrified, as did half of the saloon, their mouths gaping. All gossip and music had ceased, the silence ringing in the air, and everyone's eyes were on the two arguing cowboys.

"I said 'HELL NO'!" John roared and took off in the direction of the back door, somehow mustering up more coordination than he thought he would be capable of at this point. Behind him, Arthur let out a curse, and there were footsteps as he gave chase.

John was laughing as he exploded out of the door like a cannon, nearly knocking it off it's hinges with his strength. He tore out of the yard, skidding in the dirt, and down the alley to his right, escaping to where, he didn't know. This was fun. It was like playing tag when he was a kid. Only back then, being caught didn't come with the promise of a fist in the face.

The door behind him banged as the other cowboy burst out. "John Marston! Get the fuck back here!" His rugged voice sounded pissed.

"No! You're just gonna hit me!" John called back. Morgan was hot on his heels, uninhibited by vast amounts of booze. The brunette nearly stumbled but caught himself with his hands before he went face first into a brick wall. He pushed off, using the wall for momentum to accelerate himself forward and away from Arthur as hands grabbed at where he'd been seconds before.

"You're damn right I'm gonna hit you!" Arthur snarled. "And it's gonna be worse the longer you run from me like some damn child."

"Well then there's not much incentive for me to- ", John turned his head to address Arthur and his world unexpectedly tilted sideways as the older man tackled him to the ground. The younger cowboy landed on his back with an undignified, "Oof!" as the older man's full weight pressed on top of him.

They were wrestling in the dirt now, and John pushed desperately at Arthur's shoulders to get him to move, but the blonde man didn't budge. He was made of stone, he had to be. John's stomach rolled nauseatingly. "Get off me, dammit- ".

"Quit struggling, you idiot- ".

"Why do you always have to ruin the fun- ".

"Cause I have to be the responsible one for the both of us!" John bucked like a horse to try and unseat Arthur, but the older man hung on and snatched John's flailing wrists in his own with a vice grip.

"Who told you to do that?" John hissed. He was beyond incensed, and sweat prickled at his forehead, but Arthur's death grip on his arms tightened painfully when he struggled. He could feel his bones grinding together, and he winced. "Who told you to look out for me? Me and Amos were doing just fine, and we woulda gotten outta there just fine without your help, too!"

"You and Amos." Arthur spat the younger man's name like it was beneath him, and John bristled.

"Yeah, I came with 'im. What of it? He's my friend." Something flickered in Arthur's gaze, but to John it was unrecognizable.

"It was foolish."

"You think everything I do is foolish!"

"Cause it is. You always manage to get into trouble." Arthur's voice grew strangely affectionate, and the grip on his wrists lessened, though they didn't release their hold. "You'd have burned the place down if I hadn't come."

"Thanks for the faith, asshole." John snapped, indignant at the mere suggestion.

Crickets chirped happily from nearby, and the noise from the saloon had resumed, the sound a fuzzy clamor of music and laughter and clinking glasses in the background of John's hearing. Above him, Arthur's green eyes burned through him, and John was becoming increasingly aware of a boiling in his gut.

"I don't need someone to look out for me. I do just fine on my own." John heard his voice say.

Black dots danced on the periphery of his vision, and Arthur sighed and leaned his head back, rolling his eyes. His neck was bared, and the younger outlaw could just make out the way his collarbone curved. He swallowed down something he couldn't name.

Then the older man was looking at him. "You're stubborn, John, and you can run far away and go back to the way you used to live and pretend that there's people that don't want anything to do with you and live out the rest of your life alone. But while you live here, with us, you need to realize there's people that care about you."

"Yeah?" John snarked. What was he even saying? "And I s'pose after a hunting trip gone wrong, you think we're suddenly best friends? Do you even really know who I am?"

The look on Arthur's face was soft, tender almost. Eyes the color of bottled jade pinned him where he was, and Arthur leaned in close, mouth slightly parted. John's gaze flickered briefly from Arthur's eyes to his lips, then back again, and John wet his own palate with his tongue reflexively. The world narrowed down to him and Arthur in this very moment, and everything else was silent. All he could hear was his blood rushing in his ears, and his heart was beating wildly in his chest as he felt a fervor like he had never felt before rise within him.

Then the back door of the saloon banged open from around the corner, and Arthur jolted, the older man clearing his throat and pulling away from him to stand up quickly and adjust his shirt. John blinked in confusion at what had just happened. Then suddenly his stomach turned aggressively, and he rolled over and vomited on the ground to his right, his belly contracting violently as it spewed its contents all over the grass along the brick wall.

John rose to his knees as he heaved, one hand on the wall for balance and his stomach lurching as someone's hand ran down his back soothingly. His insides were on fire, and his eyes watered as he struggled to breathe. The taste was horribly vile, remnants of Mountain Howitzer his body hadn't been able to digest leaving his stomach.

"John, we have to go."

There was shouting from somewhere nearby, voices angry. The brown-haired cowboy wiped the bile off his mouth with the back of his hand and made to stand up on shaky legs. His stomach ached something fierce. The world was rotating slowly, and he was having trouble keeping his balance. He ran a hand through his mane, smoothing it back and out of his face. His sweat made it cling to his scalp, and he was glad it was out of his eyes.

"John! C'mon!" Arthur's voice echoed. He was no longer with him, and there was the sound of breaking glass from somewhere. John looked about him in seeming slow motion, confused…where was Arthur? He blinked…

…and when he opened his eyes, he was draped over Arthur on top of Grey Wind, the large dappled grey mare propelling them through the dark woods at a brisk pace. His hands clutched at the blonde man's shoulders like a lifeline as they raced through the darkness, running from the sound of yells and horses and lantern fire from behind them.

Arthur was warm, and he smelled like leather and campfires and cigarette smoke. John squeezed his hands tight and buried his face against Arthur's back.

"I forgot to get Dutch's jerky." He mumbled against the other man's shirt. "He's gonna be…he's gonna be mad."

Arthur grunted, and John could feel the noise reverberate through his back. He closed his eyes and nodded off to the pounding of hooves and the gentle swaying of Grey Wind's movements.

John woke up the following afternoon, and his first thought was that he'd been knocked out the night before. There was a vicious pounding in his brain that encased his head like a hood and he groaned, reaching up to clutch at his scalp. He was facedown on his own bedroll, with no memory of what he was doing the night before. His mouth was dry as dirt, and when he rose to his feet unsteadily, his headache increased ten-fold.

He pushed aside the flap of his tent and the daylight momentarily blinded him. John squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and rubbed a hand over them, massaging out the night's sleep. He smacked his lips tiredly and stumbled over to a bin of water near a tree, burying his forearms in it. It was lukewarm, but to John it felt crisp and cold in contrast to the heat of the day, and he splashed it on his face vigorously. There was a cup on a desk directly to his right and he snatched it, filling it to the brim and quaffing it like a dying man in the desert.

His empty stomach churned as the water hit it, and John immediately felt a little better. He put the glass down and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he looked down and groaned. He was still in his clothes from the night before. He'd have to have a bath. He was covered in dirt smears and grass stains, and his boots and socks were missing, leaving him standing in the grass barefoot.

He heard a chuckle from his left and looked to the sound. Amos was resting on his bedroll under his tent a few paces away from him, sitting up and watching him with amused honey eyes. He had changed out of what he'd been wearing the previous night, donning only jeans and an undershirt.

John made his way over to the man, his headache only slightly abating after the water he'd consumed.

"What happened last night?" John's voice croaked from disuse as he came to stand over the younger man.

"You don't remember?" Amos's brow furrowed worriedly.

"Bits and pieces. I remember drinking enough liquor to feed the town." John muttered. He scratched the back of his neck absent-mindedly while he racked his brain. The older outlaw looked at the ground as he concentrated on the images that tumbled around in his hazy memory. "And…dancing on a table? I think we wrestled…and Arthur was there?" Angry green eyes flashed in his mind.

"Yeah, he was there."

"I don't remember him coming with us." John stated confusedly.

"He showed up later, madder than a hornet. Talkin' bout how the law was on the way and we had to get outta there."

John hummed, chewing on his lip, and looked over to the older man's tent. Arthur was currently scrawling something in a leather-bound journal as he reclined in a chair in the shade of his canopy. His strong brow was furrowed in concentration, and his wrist jerked back and forth as the pencil moved across a page. He wore a light green undershirt that accented his eyes with faded sky-blue jeans. His dark brown boots were propped up on a table in front of him lazily, his ankles crossed.

Then he met John's gaze, green eyes piercing straight through him. Arthur was straddling him, large hands on his wrists, clutching them to his chest. It was warm, and the older man was leaning in to him, his green eyes dark and hungry-

John looked away quickly, his heart thumping madly for some inexplicable reason. What was that?

"You okay, John?" Amos was asking him. He looked at the darker haired man, who was watching him with concern.

"Yeah, just…thinkin' bout last night."

He shook his head tiredly. What was wrong with him?