Archive of Our Own ^beta

The cool air of Horseshoe Overlook blew Branwen’s silver mane as Kieran nimbly twisted it around his fingers and into a plait. The Tennessee Walker’s big, caviar-black eyes shifted from the ground, to Kieran, to the tree line, then back to Kieran again. Although only a horse, there appeared to be a look of knowing sympathy on his russet-fuzz face.

“How purdy you look with that braid in your hair.” Kieran mused, his voice barely a croak. “You’re no Arabian, but you’re the best horse I know.” He held the braid in the palm of his hand and admired his handiwork, before gently pulling it out again. Crickets and cicadas chirped from the bushes, and once in a while, a lonely gunshot or the distant sound of hooves and wagon wheels rustled the branches of trees. The days were hot, but thankfully not humid, and unfortunately filled with camp chores for Kieran. Night time allowed the man to unwind, as not only was he free from responsibilities, he was free to exist without a massive target on his back.

Some nights guys would come back from Valentine, booze-blind and barely standing. In groups, they’d ignore him. When alone, it was complete chance as to whether the alcohol dampened their aggression or worsened it. A few extra slurred words of abuse was nothing Kieran couldn’t handle, because at least he knew where he stood. What he couldn’t handle, however, was Arthur’s hot gaze from across the hitching posts.

Kieran turned around, slowly, casually, so as not to alert Arthur. He could make out the embers of a lit cigarette hanging from the man’s lips, which meant he had been drinking, more likely than not.

“Goodnight, Mr Morgan.” Kieran smiled. Arthur just scowled. He then threw his cigarette on the floor, stamping it with his boot, and walked slowly away to his tent. Kieran sighed, more jarred by Arthur’s inaction than he would’ve been by his aggression. He gave Branwen one last rub on the neck before walking back to his tree to sleep.

———

Arthur hated that O’Driscoll. He hated his big, glassy, grey eyes. He hated his greasy black hair. He hated his pasty skin, and the red blotches on his nose and cheeks, which made him constantly look like he had just finished crying. When Arthur tracked him down and hogtied him in the Colter snow; shaking, shivering, and sniffling, he may have felt some pity. He may have felt some pity if Kieran had shown any sign of resistance. It may have convinced Arthur that he was someone worth sparing. But he didn’t. He just twisted and turned like a worm in the summer sun and begged pathetically for his life. No threats of revenge or promise of reward; he just begged.

“Come on, Arthur, the man did save your life!” Dutch would goad, knowing that fact only intensified Arthur’s hatred for him. He remembers that tepid July eve at Clemens Point, when he stalked Kieran to Flat Iron Lake. It wasn’t the first time, but since most of Kieran’s excursions involved a lot of sitting and a lot of fishing, Arthur never bothered to observe for more than a few minutes.

That time, however, Kieran had decided to go for a swim. Arthur remembers the sour taste of his heart in his gullet as he watched the man peel off his clothes. The trousers were inconsequential. That was nothing Arthur hadn’t seen when Kieran was tied to that tree. It was when he pulled off his shirt. Kieran’s back bore a myriad of thin, white slits; keloids piled on top of each other until you couldn’t tell what was scar and what was tissue. Some had obviously been reopened whilst attempting to close, causing multiple scars to fuse and knot, like worms underneath his skin. On the man’s left shoulder blade, there was a small clearing, where the letters “C O’D” were seared onto his pale flesh.

Is this how Dutch felt when Colm killed Annabelle? At least Dutch loved Anabelle. At least Dutch knew where he was with her. Arthur dissolved into the foliage.

As he masturbated, he could hear the soft splashes of Kieran’s body swimming in the lake.

———

“You fellers certainly know how to have fun, Mr Arthur!” Kieran hiccuped. The stench of rot and decay was barely masked by the smoke of the fire and the moonshine on Kieran’s breath. Arthur didn’t know how the man managed to stumble up Shady Belle’s decrepit stairs and into his room.

“Sure.”

“If I had stayed with O’Driscoll… You’d have probably killed me by now!” Kieran proclaimed, emboldened by liquid courage. It dripped from his bottle and from the corner of his mouth. “You ever think of that?”

“We'd have both died at Six Point Cabin.”

“That’s true…” Kieran paused before bursting out in laughter, “Oh brother, I am really drunk!” The oil lamp’s light was meagre, but Arthur could still see the crows feet tug at Kieran’s eyes as he smiled. The men’s shadows danced across the peeling wallpaper as the flame flickered. Kieran took a step forward, then a step back, then began to sway as his legs buckled beneath him. He laughed as he collapsed, and the moonshine bottle made a sonorous ring as it slipped out of his hand and onto the floor.

“Mr Arthur… Why are you so mean? I saved your life…” Kieran asked, almost begged, from the floor. Arthur felt that familiar hatred slide down this throat and settle in his stomach.

“Because you’re fucking pathetic.” He muttered, picking the bottle from the floor and inspecting its rim before taking a hasty swig.

“Pathetic?” Kieran stammered, obviously hurt. “How?”

Arthur just stared at Kieran through a scowl.

“Yer nasty to me…” Kieran’s eyes fluttered closed. Arthur took another, larger swig from the bottle and cast it aside. The floorboards moaned under his shifting weight as he crouched in front of the stable boy. Immediately, he was transported back to that day in Colter, when he hoisted the grovelling O'Driscoll from the snow and onto the flank of his horse. He hated him then, and he hated him now.

Arthur wrapped his fingers around the waistband of the O’Driscolls pants. Unhesitating, he pulled them down, which earned a moan of discomfort from the unconscious man. He was disgusted by Kieran’s cock; fittingly pathetic and nestled amongst a thicket of black hair. The man’s lithe legs trembled feebly beneath him, unable to articulate any proper movement. In one motion, Arthur unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. He failed to realise how desperately, achingly hard his own cock was. The Lemoyne air was hot, but still felt cool against his aching girth as he brought it above the waistband of his underwear. Arthur positioned himself at Kieran’s entrance. The sound of blood pumping through his brain obscured the sounds of merriment from the gang below.

Kieran jolted awake almost immediately as Arthur went in.

“Arthur?!” He choked, before Arthur’s hand flew to his mouth and slammed his head back against the floor. Large, wet, scared eyes gawked through strands of sweat-soaked hair. The larger man didn’t return the gaze, he just thrusted his hips, sloppily and recklessly and drunk on rage. The repulsive sound of slapping skin and pained grunts filled the room. It didn’t even feel good. Arthur expected this to feel good in some capacity, but it didn't. His anger and disgust persisted, tearing a hole through his chest as he tore the man below him apart.

“You’re not even worth the air in your lungs.” He growled, grabbing the O’Driscolls hips so he could move the man with his thrusts, impaling him on his cock. “This how Colm had you, huh? Like this?”

“Please stop-“ He croaked, teardrops pooling in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks.

“Shut your mouth.”

“Did I do something wrong-“

“Shut your fucking mouth! Shut it before I kill you, right here, right now!” Arthur barked, increasing his pace as his manhood became slick with precum and blood. Kieran, not doubting Arthur’s threat for a moment, just sobbed; pliant as a baby foal in the cowboy’s hands. The ghosts of the derelict plantation could only watch, helpless, as the party raged below.

———

The last time Arthur saw Kieran Duffy, he was comatose and covered in vomit, dried blood staining his buttocks and thighs, and laid out on the edge of camp like wolf bait. Arthur had sighed over him, like an angel of death, as he took long drags from his cigarette. Each drag was accompanied by a gargled cough and spittles of blood. Perhaps he should have stayed there and let the O’Driscolls take him, too. Perhaps dying together would’ve broken whatever curse bound him to the O’Driscoll.

Arthur reckoned his seed was still in Kieran when he died.

———

Occasionally, Arthur thinks of Kieran. He thinks of his eyes, and his hair, and his face. He thinks of the petrified, stupefied expression he had when he first took him in Colter, and then when he took him again in Shady Belle. He thinks of how his skin stretched and maw gaped when Hosea picked him up by the hair, and he thinks of how angry that made him. Reverend Swanson offered to prepare his body for burial, or at least change him into clothes which weren’t bloodstained. Arthur hastily fabricated an excuse as to why he couldn’t do that. Even in death, Kieran retained the ugly, malformed, and misshapen beauty he had in life. If the O’Driscolls hadn’t done such an ad-hoc job of his decapitation, Arthur would’ve liked to have sewn his head back on.

“I always thought Kieran was living on borrowed time.” Tilly mused in passing, some weeks after his corpse had ridden into Shady Belle.

Arthur grunted in response. He tried to expel the image from his mind, to some success. But he couldn’t rid the sour, rotting taste from the back of his throat.