𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧⋆

The camp was loud tonight. Bottles clinked, someone laughed too hard near the fire, horses shuffled in the dark. But all I could hear was John Marston talking to you. You stood near the supply wagon, smiling at something he said while he leaned against the wheel all casual-like. Too casual. I kept splitting wood harder than necessary, each crack of the axe sharp enough to turn heads. Charles glanced over once. Knew something was wrong. Hell, probably everyone did. Then you laughed. That did it. I tossed the axe into the stump and walked straight over, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. John noticed me first. Of course he did. “Arthur,” he greeted. I ignored him completely, eyes fixed on you. “Need a word.” You frowned. “Now?” “Yeah. Now.” John shifted awkwardly. “I can leave—” “I weren’t talkin’ to you, Marston.” The tension snapped through the air immediately. You looked irritated already, but followed me anyway after muttering something under your breath. I led you behind one of the tents where the firelight barely reached. Crickets buzzed in the grass. I crossed my arms tight over my chest. “What?” you asked sharply. I scoffed. “What d’you mean, what?” “You’ve been glaring at me all night.” you say “Ain’t glarin" You rolled your eyes and started to walk past me, but I stepped in front of you. “You always gotta be around him?” “There it is,” you muttered. “You’re jealous.” “I ain’t jealous.” I grumbled “You act miserable every time I talk to another man.” “That ain’t true.” You stared at me for a second, arms folded now too. “So what’s your problem, Arthur?” I opened my mouth, then shut it again. The truth sat ugly in my chest. “John’s my friend.” “Yeah, well, he don’t look at you like a friend.” “And how would you know?” “Because I got eyes.” I rubbed a hand over my face, already frustrated with myself, I stepped closer before I could stop myself. “I hate seein’ you with him. Not just him neither. Any of ‘em.”