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galadrieljones · 5 years

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that he may hold me by the hand: chapter 4

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Albert Mason

Rating: Mature (Adult Themes, Violence, and Sexual Content)

Summary: After saving Albert from stumbling off a cliff in the Heartlands, Arthur invites him to Valentine for a drink. What ensues after that is a quiet love story, in which both men find themselves completely undone.

Masterpost | AO3 | Epigraph

Chapter 4: Because I love you. Why else?

Blessed are the Peacemakers, Micah had said. Arthur had been nervous for the parlay. He went with Dutch anyway, feeling he’d been remiss lately, absent, that he owed it to the gang.

The night that Mary Beth found him, he had fallen off his horse Amelia right outside the camp. Once they got him back to his tent, she sat with him. She stayed all night, until morning. Miss Grimshaw tried kicking her out around midnight, but Mary Beth told the old bitch to fuck off. She had never really used language like that before, not really. But he was shot, and as Charles had deduced, it looked like he had cauterized the wound himself. Because of this, it was closed. It wasn’t festering, but he had broken ribs, too. The bruises were spread all out over the left side of his chest like mean flowers, and he seemed deeply disoriented, and badly concussed. He had been tied up, strung up, probably tortured. You could see the ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. His face was black and blue. Some blood had matted his hair in the front, but she took care of that with a pan of warm water and a wash cloth. She fed him some water, first with a spoon, and when he came to a little bit, helped him sip from a cup. She had never seen him so broken, didn’t know he could be. In the years since she had joined up with Dutch’s boys, he always seemed the strongest of them, the most sturdy, as a tree.

On the fourth night, around ten or so, she was washing his clothes in the lake with a washboard by the light of the moon. She waited until the late evening to do this. She did not want to be bothered. That night, however, Abigail came, looking for her.

“Arthur is asking for you,” she said. “He’s up and moving.”

Mary Beth left his clothes in a bucket by the pier.

When she got there and pulled the tent flaps back, it was like Abigail had said. He was up. Or, he was sitting up. He had his feet on the ground. He had been writing something. There was a fountain pen on the bedside table, and he was sealing an envelope. The outside of the envelope was blank. When he saw her, he smiled, looking mighty weary, but alive.

She sat down on the bed beside him. She stretched her arms around him as far as they would go and placed her head on his shoulder. “You’re moving,” she said.

“That, I am,” he said. It seemed to take a great deal out of him. Every time he moved, his breathing was disturbed. “My damn rib cage,” he said. “You know, I have been shot in the leg, and it hurt less to move.”

Mary Beth laughed a little. But in truth she was close to crying. “How’s your head?”

“It hurts,” he said. “But I think mostly I’m just thirsty.”

“Oh.” She got up. There was a pitcher of water on the shaving table. She brought it to him.

“Thank you,” he said. He took a long drink straight from it. He seemed together, clear, like the concussion or whatever it was had mitigated. He set the pitcher down and leaned forward with the heels of his hands pressed into his eyeballs. “Mary Beth.”

“Yes?”

“I need to—ask a sort of favor from you.”

“Sure,” she said. “Anything.”

He picked up his face. He handed her the envelope. “I need you to deliver this to someone,” he said. “His name is Albert Mason. He’s a nature photographer, living in St. Denis. I’ve been sort of helping him out with a project. I was supposed to meet him yesterday, but obviously I never showed, and I ain't in no shape to ride yet. I don’t want him to think I stood him up on purpose. Can you do that for me?”

Mary Beth looked at the envelope, then at Arthur. “Of course,” she said. She placed the envelope in her pocket.

“I’d use the post,” said Arthur, “but lord knows how long that’ll take. Bring Marston with you, or Charles. I don’t want you riding all the way to St. Denis alone.”

“Okay, Arthur,” she said, happy to help. “I can do that.”

“He’s real nice,” said Arthur. “Mr. Mason. You’ll like him. He’s boarding at the high saloon in town. Just ask the bartender when you get there. He’ll direct you.”

“Sounds good.”

“Thank you, Mary Beth,” he said. He took a deep breath. His lungs were strong, but the pain from his ribs hindered him a great deal. He was leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. His hair was getting long. His beard was growing in. The tent smelled medicinal. It was almost dizzying, an effect of the salves Charles had been applying to the wound in his shoulder. Arthur scratched at the scruff on his neck a little and lamented then that he was, once more, exhausted.

“Let me get you some dinner,” she said. “There’s stew leftover. I can heat it.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to,” she said. She placed her hand on his knee, in a reassuring manner.

She was in love with him. She knew he would never love her back at this point, but love is just love.

The next morning, Mary Beth set out with John, and the two of them rode to St. Denis. They took the roads. Neither of them had been to St. Denis before, so they were going off signage and instructions given to them by Hosea. Mostly they just ended up following the train tracks. At one point, Mary Beth’s horse spooked at the presence of a gator, but John shot it with his sidearm at alarming speed and it scurried away. The swamps, it turned out, were full of horrors.

When they got there, it was not difficult to find the saloon. The bartender was jovial and told them that Mr. Mason was upstairs in his room, that he had not yet come down for the day. He directed them to the last room on the right, on the second floor. “Room six,” he said.

John and Mary Beth went upstairs to room six. When they got to the red door, they were not entirely sure what to expect.

“What did Arthur say about this guy?” said John.

“Just that he’s a nature photographer,” said Mary Beth. “That he’s been helping him out with a project, and that he felt badly about missing their appointment. He said he was real nice.”

John sighed. “Okay.” He had his hair knotted back off his face. He took a deep breath, and he knocked on the door.

After a moment, the door opened, eagerly, and there was a man of modest size—about as big as John, but not as wiry. He had a beard and soft eyes. He wore a violet collared shirt made of what looked like expensive fabric. “Oh," he said. He looked surprised, as if he were expecting somebody different. “Hello. How can I help you?”

“Are you Mr. Mason?” said John.

“That’s me,” he said. He opened the door a little wider.

“Good,” said John. He had the envelope in his gloved hand. “Good. I’m John, this is Mary Beth. We're friends of Arthur Morgan."

Albert's face sort of fell. He all but froze. "Arthur?" he said. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah," said John. "Yeah, it's fine. But he got himself into a pretty ugly scrape a few a days ago, and he felt bad about missing your appointment. He, uh, he asked us to bring you this."

He handed Albert the letter. Albert looked at it, then he looked back at John. "An ugly scrape? Is he hurt badly?"

"No," said John. "Or, well, he'll be fine. Just not really up to riding horses yet."

Albert had these sort of eyes you could get a little lost in. They had a sparkle to them, a quiet but certain kindness, even when desperately worried. “I see."

“Read his letter,” said Mary Beth, her hands folded in front of her. "He really is fine."

Albert studied her, then nodded once, perhaps unconvinced. He did not ask again. Instead, he seemed to catch his bearings. He folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. He had a sheen about him, a fine finish, like he knew how to operate in almost any social situation. “Would you two like to come in?” he said. “It's the least I can do for your trouble. I’ve just made a pot of tea.”

John and Mary Beth looked at each other. They both shrugged. “Sure,” said John. “What kind of tea?”

“Earl Grey, I believe.”

“Sounds fancy,” said Mary Beth, smiling.

Albert was impressed by her. It was easy to tell. He smiled with his sad eyes. “I assure you, it is anything but fancy. Mary Beth, was it?”

“That’s right.”

“And John,” said Albert.

John nodded.

“Well, come in then, Mary Beth and John,” he said. “Any friends of Arthur’s are friends of mine.”

They followed Albert through the door. Albert closed it, then ushered them to a little sunny living area by the window with a plush, blue sofa and a couple of parlor chairs. There was a balcony right outside, and the French doors were thrown open, letting in a lovely breeze and the bustling sounds of the city below. The room was mostly neat. “I apologize for the mess,” he said. "Make yourselves at home."

He went to the kitchenette to pour the tea. Mary Beth sat politely, admiring the dainty, moneyed quality of the room. There were little hanging Chinese lanterns in the window that made her feel romantic. John looked around. He was curious. There were a few clotheslines hanging in one of the dark corners across from the bed, pinned with a multitude of photographs. John examined them, holding his hands behind his back. He noticed the camera then, and the deconstructed tripod leaning by the door.

“So,” he said. “Mr. Mason.”

“Yes?”

“Arthur says you’re a…nature photographer?”

“That’s right,” said Albert. He brought the tray with the tea to the little table in the sitting area. Mary Beth straightened up, excited for the Earl Grey tea. “I hail from Philadelphia originally, but I recently set out with hopes of making a name for myself, in the art. Arthur has been—well mostly he’s been protecting me.”

“Like a bodyguard?” said Mary Beth.

Albert smiled at this. “A little,” he said. “More like, he knows his way around the wilderness, and, love it as I do, I do not. We met each other on happenstance out in West Elizabeth some months ago, struck up a partnership."

“There are a lot of pictures of Arthur up here,” said John. “They’re really something.”

“Well, he is quite photogenic,” said Albert. “Would you like sugar, or lemon in your tea?”

“Sure,” said John. He came and sat down in one of the chairs. He took off his hat and balanced it on his knee. Albert served the tea. They all sipped judiciously. Mary Beth enjoyed it a great deal—the ceremony, and the lovely tea cups and saucers with playful patterns of suns and ants and umbrellas and things on the porcelain. John wasn’t sure. He thought the tea just more or less tasted like flowers, but maybe that’s what it was supposed to taste like. He put the cup and saucer down on the table. “So you and Arthur are pretty good friends.”

“That, we are,” said Albert. He met John head-on with his eyes. He was a very astute and upright man, John thought. Straightforward, well-mannered and easy to be around. But then he looked away nervously, folded his hands in his lap. “I was very worried when he didn’t show last week. That’s not like him.”

“No, it’s not,” said John, watching him. “Arthur is a man of his word. I hope you can forgive him.”

"Oh, of course,” said Albert. He was toying with the hem of his shirt. He smiled without looking up.

Mary Beth sensed his unease. She set down her tea. She reached forward to place her hand on his hand. “He’s fine,” she urged, squeezing once. “He just needs time. Try not to worry too much.”

He was taken with her. She was very sweet. “Thank you, Mary Beth. I shall try.”

She picked her cup back up and drank more tea. “This is really good,” she said. "I've never had this sort of tea before."

“I’m glad you like it,” said Albert.

“It tastes like flowers,” said John, feeling stupid for having spoken, but now committed to the sentiment. “Real floral,” he continued, awkwardly. “Sort of like, lilac or something. Maybe jasmine? Jesus, I don’t know.”

But Albert just gazed at him, disarming. “That is a genius interpretation, and spot on. I shall remember that.”

John smiled, flattered, in spite of himself.

As they rode out of town, John waited until they were well beyond the confines of the city, and out in the pretty but dangerous quietude of the bayou. Then, he stopped them. He wanted to ride along the lake a little bit, see the water, and she was amiable to this. So they took a left turn and went further south, cutting over just east of Braithwaite Manor. When they got to the shore, they dismounted their horses and went to throw rocks into the water. The weather was warm. John wished he’d brought his fishing rod.

“Look at the birds,” said Mary Beth, enchanted. “A blue heron. It’s must be four feet tall.”

“Yeah,” said John, pensive. He picked up a long, flat rock, skipped it across the stillness of the lake. Part of why he'd wanted to take this detour was to talk about something. “Hey, Mary Beth," he said.

“Yeah?”

"You know Arthur pretty well, right?" he said. "Like, you guys is friends."

"Yeah, I think so," she said.

He sighed. “Has he ever said anything else to you? About Albert?"

“Not before yesterday," she said. "Why?"

“I don’t know,” said John. “I just—did you pick up on a…kind of vibe back there? Or something?” He skipped another rock.

“A vibe?”

“I just mean, Albert was pretty worried, don’t you think? Like, real worried."

“Yeah,” she said, her skirt rustling in the breeze. “He was worried. I saw it, too.”

“And all those pictures?” John went on. “I don’t know if you saw, but those ones of Arthur, they were taken in a dozen or more places. Like, they been traveling a lot together. And he's been gone so much, sometimes for a week, sometimes two. He comes back, his head’s in the clouds. Now, he has us hand-delivering this letter that’s too urgent for the post. And there was just...a vibe.”

Mary Beth was trying to follow. She had picked a little bushel of wildflowers. She was standing, staring at him. “What are you thinking?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know—do you think, maybe they’re like, more than friends?”

“You mean like lovers?” she said.

John looked at her. “Maybe. Yeah.”

Her face changed. At first, she was confused, but then it was like gears turning, coming together behind her eyes. “Golly,” she said, looking down at the wildflowers. “I guess. Maybe?”

“You're sure he hasn't said anything that might indicate...?"

“No,” she said, looking back at the water. “No. I mean, I don't think so.”

John sighed. He dug up a big old rock then with the toe of his boot, the size of a baseball. He bent over, picked it up. He studied its weight, its curves and its roughness. “Arthur is so goddam secretive," he said. “I know it’s none of my business.” He chucked the rock into the low tide and dusted his hands together. "I'm just curious. About his life."

Mary Beth was looking at the silver lake and how it bent off into the sky. The sunlight soaked right into it and made it sparkle. She let go of the wildflowers. They caught into the wind and went into the water.

“He was really nice,” said John. “Albert. Don’t you think? Either way, I get why Arthur would like spending time with him. It's different.”

The wildflowers kind of changed colors when they got all wet like that. Mary Beth wasn’t sad, not really. She was just thinking. “Yeah it is,” she said.

After they were gone, Albert left the tea cups and the tea pot on the table and went and sat down on the edge of his bed. He picked up Arthur’s letter, opened the envelope gingerly and unfolded the piece of paper within.

Dearest Albert,

I hope you are well, and that you have been keeping safe and not getting yourself into too much trouble out in the wild without me. I am mighty sorry that I missed our appointment. Truth be told, I met with a bad character while out on the range, and he messed me up pretty bad. So bad, it’s had me flat on my back since Thursday. I am fine though. Please do not worry. I got a feeling that you will, because you are prone to do so, but I promise that I am healing, and the moment I am able to get on my horse, I will be there, and we will find you those orchids. I estimate another week, maybe two. I wish I could give you an exact date, but I don’t want to make another promise to you that I cannot keep.

I hope I am not overstepping when I say that I have missed you something fierce, Mr. Mason. I am very much looking forward to seeing you again. I pray that I have not missed my chance, and that you feel the same.

With love,

Arthur Morgan

Albert set the letter down on the bed. He placed his hand on top of it. He closed his eyes and imagined Arthur’s kiss beside the houseboat in the marsh. He had been nursing these thoughts, along with his nerves and confusion for days now, ever since Arthur did not show when he said he would. Sometimes, their kiss didn't seem real, but other times, it was so real, he lost his sense of almost everything else. The visit from John and Mary Beth had comforted him some, but seeing them there and knowing they would be returning to Arthur, wherever Arthur was, hurt, and leaving Albert alone to his hectic paranoia and this desperately romantic letter had mostly increased his anxieties. Even as he found himself enormously relieved, the more time he spent alone with his thoughts and reverie over his feelings, the more he could sense himself cracked and wide open, his insides exposed to the world. It was uncomfortable, to say the least.

So he carefully folded the letter back into its envelope, and he tucked it into the drawer of his bedside table. He then got up and put on his shoes, and he got his camera, and he left and locked the door behind him, and he went downstairs and had a drink with the bartender who was nice and easy to talk to. He then took a walk around the city to take as many pictures of the urban dwellers in their natural habitat as he could. He knew that Arthur would appreciate them when he saw. He lingered longest in the park, where a scientist with a remote control boat was performing his magics for a small crowd at the little manmade lake there. A couple of interested bystanders asked Albert if he worked for the newspaper, and Albert just said no. No, no. I’m just your average voyeur with a camera, he said. Don’t mind me. They found him charming, as many people did, though he never understood why.

Over the next couple weeks, Albert kept himself very busy. He read the new Henry James, a short novel called The Turn of the Screw, which he found dreadful and boring. He smoked far too much, drank too much gin, and ate little but for what they served at the bar. He became a fixture in the parlor room down there. A tall man in a tall hat who knew card tricks swept in one night and taught him how to play poker. With a bit of beginner’s luck, Albert won a $25 pot on two pair: aces over tens. The tall man had an impressive mustache, said his name was Trelawny. “You look me up if you’re ever in Rhodes, dear boy,” he said. “I’ve got a dalliance with the fence there. He’ll host poker games in the evening to your heart’s content if you mention my name.” He then tipped his hat. He was on his way.

Albert was a sociable man, but whenever he returned to his room in the evenings, he felt overcome with loneliness and longing. He had experienced romance before with women, and that was fine, but it was not like this. This was a deep and existential pain that seemed to transcend the stupidity of youthful infatuation and all of its dramatic overtones. So he turned to developing his pictures with a kind of obsessiveness he had not channeled in some years. When he had been in university at Haverford, there were times he practically lived in the dark room. He loved his art, it was true. Among other things these days.

It was exactly thirteen days gone by when, one evening, finally, as Albert sat in his parlor chair, reading yet another terrible novel and smoking a cigarette by the light of his pretty Chinese lanterns, there came a knock on his door. He looked up.

When he opened the door, it was Arthur, looking tall and hale, though perhaps a little gaunt in the fact. His hair was touching his shoulders, combed neatly behind his ears. He held his hat with two hands in front of him and stood with his regularly gallant posture. He smiled and said, “Hey there.”

Albert stared, feeling a little like a buffoon, as he often did in these moments. He forgot everything. All of it. The pictures in the park. The magician. The bad novels. The loneliness and all the cigarettes. Every single frivolity he had experienced these past weeks alone.

“It is good to see you,” he said, smiling with weary content.

"Is it too late?" said Arthur. "I came as soon as I could."

"It is never too late," said Albert, stepping aside and holding the door. "Come in, dear friend."

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #albert mason #arthur morgan x albert mason #arthur x albert #albthur #sorry for the slow burn #i hope you like it well-done #:)#that he may hold

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netunleashed-blog · 6 years

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Nick Grimshaw's love life as he leaves BBC Radio 1 breakfast show to 'find Mr Right'

http://www.internetunleashed.co.uk/?p=36937 Nick Grimshaw's love life as he leaves BBC Radio 1 breakfast show to 'find Mr Right' - http://www.internetunleashed.co.uk/?p=36937 Nick Grimshaw has said he's looking forward to finding 'Mr Right' now that he's leaving his BBC Radio 1 breakfast show. The 33-year-old hosted his last ever breakfast show this morning, and is moving to a later slot in the day. He's hoping that working more regular hours means he can finally find a man. It comes after he told the Mirror that he's hoping to find 'Mr Right' . Asked if he thinks changing jobs will help his search, he said: "Yes. I think I will have more time to put my life first. Read More Nick is hoping to eventually find 'Mr Right' (Image: BBC) Read More More on Nick Grimshaw... "I have committed to this show, especially the last year, and I have put my head down. But now I can go for dates with people and the new show will help. "I have been trying to date people, but you don’t want to ‘day date’ and even two weeks ago, I went on a date and then he said, ‘do you want to go to the cinema, it’s at 8.20pm?’. "And I was thinking, ‘8.20, arrggh the film won’t start until ten-to-nine so it won’t finish before 11’ so home and asleep at midnight and that is if I fall asleep straight away." Here's a look back at the people he's dated and rumoured to have hooked up with... Harry Styles Nick and Harry were rumoured to be dating for years, simply because they hung out together quite a lot. But earlier this year, Nick spoke out to put an end to the gossip. He told The Sun : "I don't know if it's because we were both Northern and had quite a similar sense of humour and because he was down in London and away from northerners and friends and family and we all just ended up hanging out together and getting on. Nick and Harry (Image: BBC) They're good mates (Image: PA) "I think that people assumed that because I was gay and he wears like floral shirts that he must be gay, and they were like they must be going out with each other. "But I don't know, it was something we never actually discussed together." Nicco Torelli Back in November 2013, is was reported that Nick had secretly been dating fashion stylist Nicco Torelli for three months. It came after they were spotted together at Glastonbury festival wearing matching Hunter wellington boots. A source at the time told Heat magazine that Nick had introduced Nicco to all his showbiz pals. Nick and Nicco (Image: Barcroft Media) Video Loading Video Unavailable Click to play Tap to play The video will start in 8Cancel Play now They said: "Harry's heard all about him and is excited to meet him properly. It's his first serious boyfriend. His friends are all really pleased for him." Michael Mayren In July 2015, Nick was linked to celebrity photographer Michael Mayren. The Sun reported that the pair had been getting close and spending a lot of time together ever since Michael split from his ex. Read More Nick and Michael (Image: Getty) A source said: "Nick and Michael started off as mates but things have been developing lately. "They have loads in common and have been hanging out a lot. After spending much of Glastonbury in each other's company they celebrated Michael's birthday with a trip to the nearby Babington House hotel." Pixie Geldof In 2009, Nick was rumoured to be dating Bob Geldof's daughter Pixie. But the duo have always maintained that they're simply good friends, and that there's never been anything romantic between them. Nick said: "There's nothing going on with Pixie Geldof! She's a good friend of mine, but there's nothing romantic." Nick and Pixie (Image: Getty) They've been friends for years (Image: Getty) Rita Ora In September 2015, rumours began swirling that Nick was dating his fellow X Factor judge Rita Ora after he revealed they'd shared a passionate kiss at Glastonbury festival. Nick told his radio show listeners that they'd shared a bed at the musical festival, but that all was not as it seemed. He said: "Over the course of the weekend, we got closer and closer… then we all went to watch the Rolling Stones and we ended up watching it with all our friends who were in relationships. Nick and Rita (Image: PA) They were judges together on the X Factor (Image: ITV) "Then it would get to a romantic Rolling Stones song or a bit of a moment or an acoustic moment, you know there's flares going off, everyone's cuddling and stuff, and we were like, 'Why don't we have boyfriends?' "So then we decided to get off with each other for a bit." The DJ was then asked if tongues were involved during the smooch to which he responded: "Yeah! I don't know how to do it without tongues!" Source link

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