I haven't post anything in a while- I was so busy with college. I promise I gonna post more often now. In the middle time, here's an old Risopro drawing. 🖤
Ringo character study, kinda sorta. The basics are about his illness and his strange relationship with over coming it. Also poly ship bby featuring Blackmore and Mountain Tim bc they deserve nice things
2,055 words; blood & illness & mentions of Ringo’s backstory (if you know you know)
Living out in the middle of nowhere came with its own special list of perks that made it more desirable than moving into town. The most notable was the quiet. He could sit out on the front porch steps without worry of polite conversation. It was truly peaceful without the hustle and bustle of city living Blackmore subjected himself to as Mr. Valentine’s personal hunting dog. There were no neighbors to cater to or bother whenever the echo of gunshots rang throughout the trees. Scattering the panicking birds and making his ears ring.
But the best was the fact he was able to enjoy his duels without meddling strangers dragging the sheriff’s and deputy’s into the middle of his business. No one but him and the body of the person that failed to kill him should intervene in a one on one duel.
Ringo grimaced, hidden behind his crop top’s raised collar as the deep scratch in his lungs itched like a wild animal flared up something fierce. The empty cylinder of his Colt sat in his palm, half disassembled to be cleaned. Bullets sat on the wooden porch between him and Tim, whom remained blissfully unaware of his silent struggle to smother the episode that’s been threatening him all day to make its grand appearance. Since the moment he woke up this morning, he’s been struggling not to cough or imply he’s feeling under the weather.
It’s been hell trying to keep it together for when they leave in the morning. Blackmore had been particularly antsy about going back to work, having expressed his worry for their employer in his absence despite Mr. Valentine having at least one of his personal bodyguards with him at all times.
The next exhale was wet and far too warm. It wasn’t often Ringo doubted anything, but he doubted he’d be able to hide his illness for much longer. Which would prompt Tim to stay with him until he felt better and Blackmore would throw a fuss and be upset the next time he saw him because he’d be unable to stay. And while he would appreciate the gesture, he didn’t want to worry either of them when he had a cure. He just had to wait for someone to come around. Travelers got lost all the time and wander towards the smoke of the fireplace to seek help. Which they would be then prompted into a death match.
The dirt around the house was filled with the bones and blood of people never able to kill him. People with murder that burned in their eyes but unable to shoot him dead. People that were likely reported missing and never able to be found by the families that missed them. But those that had that certain fire in their eyes marked a good day for many of the families he’d taken them away from.
Ringo doubted anyone would wander into the orchard in the coming days, knew that even if someone did happen to stumble upon him, that Tim would offer his assistance to guide them safely back out and give directions towards to wherever they were headed. That was just the kind of man Tim was. A kind one, always willing to help a stranger to the best of his ability. Something he deeply respected about the cowboy.
Tim was a different kind of man than him. Offering his time and help to the sheriffs to work as a bounty hunter and always returning with the bounty alive. Ringo wouldn’t have been nearly as kind. For him, if he chose to walk down that path, every instigation would become a duel for his life. Offering the chance to kill him in exchange for their freedom. It would greatly benefit both parties as the bounty would be a free man if they succeeded, and help guide him towards becoming a better man himself.
But he wasn’t going to seek someone out. That would defeat the purpose of bettering himself through duels meant to be nothing more than pure intended murder. Giving an option other than killing him would soil his betterment and make it obsolete. There would be no point in hunting anyone down. Trapping them and giving only one option, to kill him, was the only way.
Clearing his throat relieved some of that maddening itch but only made it worse as the desire to cough burned. The rocking chair Tim had dragged outside creaked from Blackmore idly pushing himself back and forth with his foot. A sack of pears sat between Tim’s feet, the same pears he was peeling with a knife and cutting into chunks to periodically hand back to Blackmore. Tim offered him some as well, but each time, Ringo would decline. The taste of blood on the back of his tongue had already ruined both breakfast and lunch.
It started off easy. A singular cough that started a chain reaction. Like dislodging a tiny pebble out of the wedge underneath a boulder that came tumbling down the hill.
Doubling over, he covered his mouth with his fist as hacking coughs raked his body. Violently sputtering up blood where it splattered against his fist, seeping into the wrinkles and pores of his skin and into the fabric of his gloves. Blood dribbled down the crease of his lips, uncomfortably warm drooling down his chin.
These flare ups always reminded him of being a child. He wondered if Tim felt the same way out on the range with the long hours of the sun beating down on him. If he thought back on his time as a soldier marching through the desert with his company slowly dying from dehydration. Ringo admired him for braving the sun’s rays after knocking on death’s door by its own hand. He knew a thing or two about that door. The familiar cracks and peeling paint, chipped along the frame where people have fought kicking, clawing and screaming to be spared.
There was no reason to be scared of death. It felt like how mom used to hold him when she would quietly sit by his side dabbing away the blood dribbling out his lips and down his neck. He always felt content when she did that. Loved. Death felt exactly like that.
Tim was at his side the second he noticed something was truly wrong. His hand felt heavy but warm and comforting on his shoulder. Reassurance he wasn’t alone.
Thankfully, the fit didn’t last long. His chest and lungs ached, feeling like someone lit his muscles on fire and stomped all over his chest like dirt. His face felt flushed and sweaty.
The sheer look of alarm on Tim’s face would forever be seared into his mind. Along with the fear hidden underneath a faux front of being brave. Tim wiped away the blood off his lips and chin the best he could. Smearing red into his skin.
Ringo’s eyes trailed after him cautiously. Uncertain. This was a part of himself he’s always seen as weak and vulnerable. A part of himself he’s never been able to accept and buried underneath a convincing lie of a suicidal ideation.
“Is it a Stand attack?” Blackmore asked, glancing around from underneath his umbrella. If it was, he’d be unable to defend himself utilizing his own Stand. He’s always said his ability was useless without the rain, and yet he still put his body in between them and the orchard.
Forever trained to give his life for what he believed was greater.
Ringo sighed. It came out wheezing and rough as speckles of blood came out his nose. “It’s no Stand attack. Just my body acting up again. Nothing more than that I’m sick.”
“How long has this been going on?” Tim demanded, getting up to his feet with a sense of urgency in it with his hand raised ready to call for his horse. “We need to get you to a doctor.”
Ringo snorted in dry amusement and went back to cleaning his gun. Tiny bits of blood were freckled all over the cold metal and wooden grip. “A doctor ain’t going to help me.”
The sentiment was touching, and made his chest all fuzzy. In a good way for once today.
“It’s their code of conduct,” Blackmore defended. That placidness no longer present in his voice. He strode forward and slipped to his side in an instant. Without Tim he wouldn’t be able to move him but Ringo had a feeling that wasn’t about to stop him. “They cannot refuse to treat someone.”
“I apologize, Blackmore. I didn’t mean it like that.” Ringo took a deep breath, that quickly proved to be a mistake as a coughing fit started up something fierce. Tim looked worried, scared almost, bless his heart, but couldn’t do much more besides rub his back soothingly until the fit stopped. It didn’t let up and blood pooled up his throat. Coating his tongue in a layer that felt disgustingly thick. Spitting it out in the dirt, he glared at it. Despising it for everything that it was. “Going to a doctor won’t change this. They hadn’t been able to help when I was a child and they won’t be able to figure it out now. Besides, I have a cure for it. Though it’s temporary.”
Tim groaned. “You think those death squabbles of yours does something to help that?”
He sounded angry. At what? Ringo pretended to be unsure.
“Yes, I’m positive they help. I have undeniable proof it helps.” The reassurance fell on deaf ears. All he could see on Tim’s face was panic, his hands were trembling like he was battling something difficult and not being able to do anything but watch. “There’s no reason to worry, Tim. This was inevitable and not something that can be fixed or changed with medicine.”
“Have you tried.” Tim gritted out.
Ringo shrugged, acting nonchalant and dropping the bullets back into their home within the cylinder. “My mother did, but me specifically? No. I found the cure without the need of a doctor.”
Found the cure at the cost of his sisters and mother being murdered.
Blackmore shifted anxiously on his feet. Like he wanted to say something but was too nervous to get it out. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that. Tim didn’t look happy at all. Neither of them did.
“The only way to make it stop is by dueling someone with dark intentions,” Ringo told them. A part of him knew deep down he was bullshitting himself because of everything that happened that day. How he’s never been able to get over it. “I figured it out by killing the man that murdered my mother and sisters then tried raping me. This gun was his. I took it from him and shot him. He didn’t believe I’d actually do it.”
He’s told them before. Bits and pieces of his childhood. Never about being sick and frail. The shame ate him up inside. The regret and pain of losing his family after having been branded traitors and having to pick up and leave.
“He wore a military uniform.” Ringo pointed out towards the orchard, between the spread of trees. Blackmore turned to look but faced back around with a frown when he saw nothing remarkable. “He’s buried somewhere out there. I could probably find it if I needed to.”
Living out in the middle of nowhere meant not many people came around, making it difficult to read people whom didn’t wear their heart on their sleeve. But being so close, he saw how Tim’s shoulders tensed and in that moment, remembered he had been a soldier himself.
Quietly, Blackmore slipped into the house, only to come back shortly with a cup of piping hot coffee as he didn’t usually keep tea in the house. Softly saying it was for his throat in the hopes to ease the pain, Blackmore handed it to him and sat down beside him. Thighs touching as the assassin invaded his space to lay his head on his shoulder.
Pity was useless but he’d let his partners do whatever they wanted if it was to comfort themselves. The past is the past. What’s done is done. No one in the world can go back and change that.
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