Dance

The campfire at Clemens Point crackled, sending orange sparks dancing toward the heavy canopy of oaks. It was one of those rare, humid evenings in Lemoyne where the air felt thick enough to drink, and the gang had found a temporary peace. Dutch was off in his tent, lost in a book or a scheme, and the rest of the camp had settled into the easy rhythm of whiskey and low conversation.

Hosea Matthews sat on a crate, his lean frame hunched slightly as he cleaned a pistol, his movements fluid and practiced. His grey hair caught the firelight, shimmering like spun silver. Across the fire, Arthur Morgan leaned against a wagon wheel, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow. He was sketching, his green eyes focused intently on the page, the blond stubble on his jaw catching the golden hue of the flames.

To the rest of the gang, they were the father and the son, the brain and the brawn. But under the shroud of the tall grass and the quiet of the night, there were glances that lingered too long and voices that dropped an octave lower when no one else was listening.

"You’re brooding again, Arthur," Hosea said, his voice a low gravelly rasp that barely carried over the crickets.

Arthur didn't look up, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Just thinkin', Hosea. About how much I hate this heat."

"It’s not the heat making you scowl at that notebook." Hosea stood up, holstering his weapon with a sharp click. He walked over, his gait light despite his years. He looked around; Bill was passed out by the trees, and Mary-Beth was deep in a novel. The coast was as clear as it ever got in a camp of twenty people. "You need to loosen up. You’re as stiff as a frozen carcass."

"I'm fine," Arthur grunted, finally looking up.

Hosea held out a hand, his brown eyes dancing with a mischievous glint that Arthur knew all too well. "Stand up. I’ve been meaning to teach you something for a long time."

Arthur blinked, his brow furrowing. "Teach me what? How to pick a pocket? I think I got that down, old man."

"No," Hosea chuckled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "How to move. You walk like you’re trying to crush the earth beneath your boots. If we’re ever going to infiltrate one of those Saint Denis galas together, you need to know how to dance."

Arthur’s face went scarlet. He looked around frantically, his voice a panicked hiss. "Dance? Here? Now? You’ve lost your mind, Hosea."

"Dutch is busy, and the girls aren’t looking. Come on. Just a simple box step." Hosea didn't wait for an answer. He reached down and firmly gripped Arthur’s calloused hand, pulling him upward.

Arthur stood, towering over Hosea, his broad chest nearly bumping into the older man. He felt clumsy, his boots feeling like lead weights. "Hosea, I’m gonna break your toes."

"Then I’ll just have to be quick, won't I?" Hosea smiled, and for a second, the years seemed to fall away from his face. He placed his left hand firmly on Arthur’s shoulder and took Arthur’s right hand in his own. "Put your hand on my waist, Arthur."

Arthur hesitated, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stole a glance toward the tents, then slowly slid his hand to the small of Hosea’s back. The fabric of Hosea's vest was warm, and the man felt deceptively fragile beneath Arthur’s palm, though Arthur knew there was iron in those bones.

"There," Hosea whispered, his eyes locking onto Arthur’s. "Now, follow my lead. Step back with your right. No, your other right."

Arthur stumbled, his heavy boot coming down inches from Hosea’s foot. "I told you. I’m a lead horse, Hosea. I ain't built for this."

"Nonsense. You’re built for whatever you set your mind to," Hosea encouraged, guiding him with a gentle pressure. "One, two, three. One, two, three. Keep your eyes on me, not your feet."

Arthur tried. He really did. But every time he moved, he felt like a bear trying to mimic a butterfly. He was hyper-aware of Hosea’s closeness—the scent of tobacco, old parchment, and the faint, clean smell of the creek. It made his head swim more than the moonshine ever could.

"You're doing it," Hosea lied softly, a teasing smirk on his lips.

"I'm swaying like a tree in a hurricane," Arthur muttered. He took a step forward, caught the heel of his boot on a stray root, and lurched.

In an instinctual move to keep from falling, Arthur gripped Hosea’s waist with both hands, pulling the older man flush against his chest to steady them both. For a heartbeat, they stood frozen, the heat of the fire at their backs and the heat of each other at their fronts. Arthur’s green eyes were wide, his breath hitching as he looked down at Hosea.

Hosea didn't pull away. Instead, he let his hands slide up to rest on Arthur’s broad shoulders, his thumbs tracing the line of Arthur’s collarbone. The mask of the 'mentor' slipped, replaced by a look of such profound tenderness that Arthur felt his knees go weak.

"See?" Hosea whispered, his voice thick with an affection he usually kept under lock and key. "You’ve got the rhythm now."

"Hosea..." Arthur breathed, his voice a low rumble.

"Well, look at this! I didn't know we were havin' a ball!"

The booming voice of Sean MacGuire shattered the moment like a rock through a window.

Arthur jumped back so fast he nearly tripped over the crate he’d been sitting on earlier. Hosea smoothed his vest with practiced nonchalance, though a faint flush touched his cheekbones.

Sean stood by the campfire, a bottle in one hand and a grin that stretched from ear to ear. Behind him, Karen and Lenny had emerged from the shadows, attracted by the commotion.

"Are you two havin' a cuddle?" Sean barked with a laugh, stumbling forward. "I knew you were close, but I didn't know you were 'waltzing in the moonlight' close!"

Arthur felt the blood rush to his ears, his hand instinctively flying to the back of his neck. "He was... he was showin' me a move. For a job. In Saint Denis."

Karen crossed her arms, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. She had a sharp eye for people, and she’d been watching the two of them for months. "A job, huh? Looked pretty cozy for a rehearsal, Arthur."

Lenny looked between the two of them, his expression moving from confusion to a slow, quiet realization. He didn't say anything, but he didn't laugh either. He just nodded slowly.

Hosea, ever the silver-tongued devil, stepped into the light, his hands shoved casually into his pockets. "A man who can't dance is a man who can't blend in, Sean. I was merely trying to ensure Arthur doesn't look like a disgruntled mule when we’re rubbing elbows with the mayors and the socialites."

"I don't know, Hosea," Sean chuckled, taking a long swig of his whiskey. "The way he was holdin' onto you, I thought he was worried you were gonna float away."

"Shut up, Sean," Arthur growled, though the bite was missing from his tone. He looked at the ground, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

The silence that followed was heavy, but not entirely unkind. The gang was a family, and families had secrets—some whispered, some shouted, and some simply understood.

Karen stepped forward, her voice softening. "He’s right, you know. About the dancing. But maybe start with someone a little lighter on their feet than Arthur, Hosea. He looks like he’s tryin' to wrestle a steer."

"I was doing fine," Arthur mumbled, finally looking up.

Hosea caught Arthur’s eye. It was a brief look, gone in a flash, but it carried a world of meaning. It said *it’s alright*. It said *I’m still here*.

"He's a work in progress," Hosea said aloud, turning back to the fire. "But I’ve always been a fan of a challenge."

Sean continued to hoot and holler for a few more minutes until John Marston wandered over, grumbling about the noise, and the focus shifted to John’s inability to keep his hair brushed. Slowly, the group dispersed back to their respective corners of the camp.

Arthur stayed by the fire, his heart finally slowing its frantic pace. He picked up his journal, but his hands were still shaking slightly.

A few minutes later, Hosea leaned back against the wagon near Arthur, lighting a pipe. The sweet scent of cherry tobacco filled the air.

"They're idiots, Arthur," Hosea said quietly, watching the smoke curl into the night sky. "But they’re our idiots."

"They're gonna talk," Arthur whispered, staring into the embers. "Dutch... if Dutch finds out..."

"Dutch sees what he wants to see. He sees a loyal lieutenant and a wise advisor," Hosea replied. He shifted, his leg brushing against Arthur’s thigh—a deliberate, grounding touch. "Let them talk. Let them wonder. I’ve spent sixty years worrying about what the world thinks of me, Arthur. I don't intend to spend my last few worrying about what Sean MacGuire thinks of my dancing partner."

Arthur looked at him then, really looked at him. He saw the wrinkles around Hosea’s eyes, the strength in his weathered hands, and the unwavering spark of life that had kept them both alive through decades of chaos.

"You really think I can learn?" Arthur asked, a small, genuine smile breaking through his rugged features.

Hosea reached out, his fingers grazing Arthur’s hand where it rested on his knee. "I think you’ve already learned the hard part, Arthur. The rest is just footwork."

Arthur turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with Hosea’s for a fleeting second before the shadows of the camp moved again. "Next time, let's do it somewhere with fewer Irishmen."

Hosea laughed, a warm, dry sound that made the humid night feel a little more bearable. "It’s a deal, Arthur. It’s a deal."

As the camp finally fell into a true slumber, the two men sat in the fading glow of the fire, side by side. They didn't need music, and they didn't need a ballroom. In the middle of a swamp, surrounded by outlaws and uncertainty, they had found a rhythm all their own—a quiet, steady beat that no amount of teasing or danger could ever hope to break.

Arthur picked up his pencil again, but he didn't draw the trees or the horses. He drew a simple line—the curve of a shoulder he knew by heart—and for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.