#canon dialogue | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nizzysam · 1 year

Text

Don’t Follow

Rating: Mature

Pairing: General - Micah Bell & Arthur Morgan

Tags: Angst, Crying Men, Childhood Memories, Fist Fights, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Dialogue, Enemies to Friends Warnings: Past Child Abuse, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Panic Attacks, Anxiety Attacks

Summary: Hosea asks what happened in Blackwater. The conversation takes a turn for the worse when the old feller places all the blame on Micah. Or, Micah cannot handle another conversation in which each misstep of the gang is placed on his shoulders. Arthur makes it worse before (trying to) make it better.

Snippet: Suddenly he was a child all over again, trying to hide in the darkest corner of the room as the screams grew louder and closer and the tears warmer and uncontrollable.

AO3 Link - or read under the cut!

That cigarette tasted like wasted time. The air was stifling, and the clothes felt sticky on his skin. He didn't even have the energy to think. Smoking was certainly not the best idea, but what else was there to do? It gets very boring at Clemens Point.

He leaned against Hosea's tent trying to steal some shade. He would never have dreamed of sitting next to the old man as he knew Hosea had no sympathy for him. Micah felt his eyes burning in the sun.

"Let me ask you a question," he heard Hosea's voice behind him. "Just what... exactly went on in Blackwater?"

Just what he needed. He told himself he better finish his cigarette immediately and leave. He knew exactly where the conversation was headed. But Micah was not the sort of man to ignore a provocation.

"Nice to see you, old feller. Why you ask?"

"Just- what went on in Blackwater?"

"We got jumped, what do you think happened?"

"You said it was going to be easy."

His breath began to shorten. Surely the cigarette’s fault. He had to leave, he had to end that conversation there and then. No way he would be blamed for something out of his control. It had happened too many times. He couldn't take one more.

"I did the best I could, old man. I don't answer to you."

He looked Hosea straight in the eyes. No, Micah didn't answer to him. He owed him no explanation. So he turned to leave. But the old feller had something more to say.

"We're running for our lives because of a bad call you made."

"We're bank robbers... way I see it, it's an occupational hazard," he could feel himself really struggling to breathe. The heart burst in his chest. He had to run. Now.

"Jenny… Mac… Davey… they were… they mattered to me!"

"Well, I'm real sorry… but dying… that's part of the game. You know that," he took a step back. His eyes quickly shifted from Hosea's face to the ground. "This is unnecessary. Excuse me."

Blaming him for their deaths, putting the entire burden of the group's collective failure on his shoulders. It was not fair. How could he have predicted it? Sometimes things get out of hand, sometimes things don't go as planned. And no matter what, he was always the one to blame. Always. Wherever he went, people always found a way to blame him for whatever misfortune befell them. Was there something wrong with him? Had he by any chance been cursed from birth? So Micah Bell II had led him to believe. A great man, A great son of a bitch.

He walked away from the camp sucking avidly on his cigarette. His vision was blurred from the sweat, the heat, and the sour taste of the smoke in his throat. He coughed repeatedly with his arm resting on a tree. Behind him, in the distance, he could still see the camp.

He had been staring at the grass around his feet for several minutes, his mouth half open and the now extinguished cigarette still pressed between his fingers. He gasped, choked by something he couldn't quite articulate.

It's not my fault. I did what I could. I couldn't have known the outcome.

His eyes flicked and his lips curved as Micah did everything he could to stop what was about to happen. But despite clenching his fists and holding his breath, he could not stop the tears.

He sobbed helplessly as his fist pounded faintly on the tree. He felt ashamed. And he wanted to stop crying. Suddenly he was a child all over again, trying to hide in the darkest corner of the room as the screams grew louder and closer and the tears warmer and uncontrollable.

He made no sound, trying to be as quiet as possible even if the camp was far away and no one was around to hear him. The only sound was his choked sobbing. And he cursed himself for not being able to stop it.

You damn fool. Shut up. Goddamn idiot.

Hours passed before anyone went looking for him. Hours he spent gazing at the water of Flat Iron Lake. Boats came and went with the sun trailing behind them. Soon the deep orange of the evening glowed all over Scarlett Meadows.

He had stopped crying. The only visible trace of his pain was his swollen lips and his eyelids heavy on his irises. Micah was dreadfully tired.

"Micah! So you've been out here all this time while I've been working all day to clean up the mess you made."

His eyes widened upon hearing his name. If the other man could have seen his face, his panic would have been obvious. He told himself not to, but something grabbed his stomach and forced him to stand up and face Arthur Morgan. Because of course it was Arthur Morgan.

"The mess I made? The mess I made. Will it be my fault if it rains tomorrow, Morgan? Are you going to come to me all high and mighty to let me know how much you want me to scram? That seems to be your favorite pastime."

“Careful, Micah.”

“Go back to camp, Morgan. Quit following me.”

“Just who do you think you’re talking to?”

“A glorified moron with a cowboy hat.”

Arthur zeroed the gap between them and grabbed him by the shirt collar. Micah could see the disgust on his face. Arthur shook him a few times before pulling him closer.

"You're lucky Dutch likes you. If he didn't, you'd be dead a long time."

"Go on, cowpoke. I'm just so frightened by you."

“You ain’t worth it.”

“Act superior all you want. You ain’t better than me.”

He channeled all his sadness into a fist that struck Arthur right in the stomach. Freed from his grip, Micah adjusted his collar and waited for the other man to swing. A strange, manic smile spread across Micah's face.

"Do you think it's fair?" he said, dodging a hook. "Do you," he put his elbows on Arthur's back, pushing him down toward his knee, "think it's fair?"

He repeatedly hit Arthur's stomach and chest with his knee before the man caught his leg and knocked him off balance.

Micah fell to the ground, Arthur on top of him pinning his leg and holding him down with a forearm pressed to his neck.

“Life ain’t fair. I’m about to show you just how much worse it can get,” Arthur said as he continued to crush Micah's throat.

"Yes," Micah's voice was a rattle. "Show me, cowpoke."

“You sick bastard. Do you want to die?”

Micah felt he was losing control again. That question pushed him to the edge. His mind brought him back in time, proposing memories he couldn't quite distinguish but whose sensations he clearly remembered. That sense of defeat, weakness, resignation.

Tears were streaking his temples, falling heavily from his already tired eyes. Arthur loosened his grip.

By the time Micah realized why Arthur had sat next to him, it was too late to come up with an excuse or to deny it. He held his breath as he still lay on the ground staring at the now violet sky.

"The secret is to breathe nice and slow."

Micah thought there was no secret that could save him from himself. But he followed the advice and took a big breath of air. The weight he felt on his chest eased. Still, it wasn't enough.

He felt another burst of tears shake him as he sat up. And he felt ridiculous. He hoped Arthur would go away and leave him alone. Alone, as he always was.

But Arthur sat next to him in silence, lit a cigarette, and just sat while Micah tried to hide his sobs in vain.

“Sometimes,” Arthur said once Micah's crying began to subside. “I start thinking about what it used to be. It makes me feel some kind of way and I write it down. Get it out of my head.”

“Ain’t my fault they died.”

“No. We’re all responsible for the people we love. Ain’t easy to accept when they’re gone.”

“But it’s easy to blame it on someone.”

“It is.”

Micah watched as Arthur stood up and crossed his gaze. There was something in Arthur's eyes that he did not recognize. Arthur was looking at him so deeply, so closely. Micah became all too aware of the state he must be in. Once again, he felt ashamed. In an effort to hold on to what little dignity he still felt he had left, he decided to stand up.

“I’m going to camp. Come with?”

Wiping his face, Micah shook his head at that offer. He would have felt like he was being observed. Not to mention the constant chatter of the camp. "I think I'll stay here a while."

Arthur nodded and handed him a cigarette. He still gave him that look. Micah didn't understand why. He took the cigarette, brought it to his lips and lit it with a match he kept in his pocket.

“Alright then.”

Arthur was already a few steps away when Micah felt the urge to say something. Anything at all. "Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll come back. Later."

"Five fingers fillet?"

"Sure."

#micah bell #arthur morgan #morbell #enemies to friends #red dead redemption 2 #fanfiction #ao3 #i made myself cry #angst #hosea matthews #canon dialogue #nizzyfic

13 notes · View notes