Arthur was fifteen when Dutch found him, fists up and bloodied, too angry to die.
Too angry to live.
Dutch touched his shoulder like it was a blessing. “You got fire in you,” he said, and Arthur felt it. In his ribs, in his chest, in the way the world suddenly cracked open and someone saw him.
He rode with Dutch first. Learned how to shoot straight and speak smooth. Learned that stories could make you a king if you told them right.
He sat by the fire every night just to be near him. Listened to his voice like it was something holy.
It wasn’t love — not at first. It was awe. Like staring at the sun too long. But it soured sweetly over the years, turned softer, darker.
Love came later, in stolen glances and quiet aches. In the way Dutch would call him son but never look at him like one.
Arthur learned how to make himself useful. Brave. Loyal.
He learned how to swallow hunger.
He never asked for more. Not when Dutch pressed a hand to his back. Not when their eyes held too long. Not even when Dutch once stood too close behind him in the river and Arthur forgot how to breathe.
He never asked — because Dutch didn’t offer.
And Arthur knew what it meant to love a man like that.
Years later, John was twelve and full of fists and spit, just like Arthur had been. Dutch found him in the ashes, snarling. Dragged him out by the scruff of his neck and called him boy like it meant something.
Arthur watched from afar. Said little. Said less when Dutch started to favor him.
John followed Dutch like a stray dog made good. Sat beside him at camp, laughed too loud at his jokes, wore the bandana Dutch gave him every day.
Arthur saw it before John did.
The looking. The waiting. The ache.
John didn’t have Arthur’s quiet. He didn’t hide anything. He threw himself at Dutch — words, hands, bruises — and Dutch let him. Not always. But enough.
Arthur watched him come back from hunts, chest heaving, voice sharp with adrenaline. He’d push close to Dutch, breathless, bleeding, and Dutch would laugh and kiss his temple like he was proud.
Arthur saw it then — saw the thing he’d been once. The boy trying to earn a place beside the fire. The boy trying to make himself unforgettable.
He didn’t say a word. Because he knew how it ended.
Because he remembered what it felt like to love someone who was already part myth.
To be shaped by that kind of man. Burned by him. Left with nothing but smoke.
