five time kissed ( lincoln fuck me up. )
send five times kissed for a drabble about 5 times our muses kissed (x)
Arthur didn’t remember much of his mother even now. She had always been more a feeling than a memory. She felt like safety, like a warm embrace and the gentle press of lips to his head. He didn’t really think, only wanting to be that for Lincoln as his nose buried in that neat shock of blond hair and he pressed a kiss to his crown. The wet heat of tears still soaked into his shirt, Lincoln continued shuddering, bony shoulders so slight in Arthur’s bigger arms.
It was useless, he knew. A damn hug wouldn’t do anything. It wouldn’t put a bullet in those bastards’ head or patch Lincoln’s wounds or even take away the hurt any. But seeing him there so broken down after so long slogging through the shit, Arthur didn’t know what else to do. So he just sat there as long as he needed, anger secretly festering into something ugly, something useless. Because what was he going to do? If he couldn’t save himself how the hell was he going to save anyone else.
The chances were one in a million. God knew how many years now and here they were, in a saloon, each a drink in hand and another few in their gut. Arthur had hardly recognised him. The last time he’d seen Lincoln he was stick thin, all small and quiet and obnoxiously polite. The boy he knew was long gone now standing even taller than Arthur. He had filled out some, unsurprisingly really when Arthur considered he had in much the same way. Still that same face though, even if it had squared off, colour in his cheeks and finally some hair on his chin. His voice hadn’t changed either, dropped a good octave or two of course, but it was still the same beneath it all. That’s what gave him away, Arthur’s ears pricking as he heard that familiar apology of all things.
Arthur and alcohol were never a good idea, Lincoln hadn’t had the chance to become acquainted with that back in the day. That was perhaps why he was so happy to allow Arthur to keep drinking bottle after bottle, smiles growing larger with each one and conversation more rowdy. Catching up and stories had led its way here, Arthur grabbing Lincoln’s head in his hands and smacking him with a laughing kiss only to shove his head away the next second.
“Ah, I’ve missed you, kid,” Arthur mumbled still chuckling, hardly noticing the glass lost in the crossfire as he stood on unsteady feet. “Gotta take a piss.” He walked away thinking nothing of it.
Drink turned out to be a useful tool between the two of them, softening their smiles and loosening their lips only so much that the distance between them didn’t feel quite so insurmountable if only for an evening. They may regret it by morning, but for now Lincoln’s neck was hot beneath Arthur’s lips, the thrum of a racing heart beneath his tongue.
Times had certainly changed. They were both men now, both a little more free. It hadn’t taken long to stumble, fumbling over the precipice into something more than the friends they’d always been. Now Arthur was pulling shirts free, letting hands roam up over that unfamiliar frame as his mouth explored, scalp prickling with the pull of tangled fingers in his hair, bodies pressed closed and grinding closer and right now? Right now all he could think was regret could wait.
As much as they’d talked they’d somehow managed to avoid delving too much into the past. Everything was about what they’d done since, how they’d been chewed up by the world and spat back out fighting, but never going back so far as their childhood.
Around a fire always seemed the best time to spill guts, darkness all around giving the illusion of intimacy where they could stare into the embers instead of one another and spit their secrets to the fire to never be spoken of again.
Lincoln’s eyes shone wet, sunset orange eating into blue. Arthur had known all those years ago what he was leaving Lincoln to, knew he was abandoning that boy when Dutch and Hosea swept him off his feet and into a better yet still just as violent life. He supposed he’d rationalised it at the time, but seeing the consequences of his selfishness struck hard and deep.
Arthur’s lips were chapped against Lincoln’s temple as he drew him in. “’m sorry,” was all he had to say, though he knew it would never be enough. “Was a bastard back then. Still am if I’m honest with myself… If I could do it all again–” He hoped he could be a better man, stay and be that helping hand he knew Lincoln had needed. Not that it mattered now. It was all too little too late. Lincoln’s mouth was some small reassurance against his own, still soft even if it didn’t feel like forgiveness.
Sunlight filtered down, dusty and warm across crumpled sheets and bare chests. It was the kind of morning that came softly, soothing aches and pains and weighting limbs until all one wanted to know of the world was bed. It was peaceful. Miles away from where they began. Miles away from those thin tired smiles that had felt so happy at the time, but looking back they had always been a little lacking. Now they could lie here, scars bared to the world, content to see this life through for a little while longer. Luckily for them, for now there was nothing that called to them outside this room, free to trace lazy fingers through dustings of hair and press wrists into mattresses, stealing sloppy kisses and chuckles and shoves when teasing became too much. The camp would need him again soon, but right now, they could wait.
@painmask | not accepting
