Those one track minds that took you for a working boy
Arthur Morgan walked in a stumble down the street, not that he was traumatized by anything that had happened that day, his dad just happened to make him sprain his leg, not anything he couldn't get over. His father had gone and killed himself. Probably not on purpose, not that Arthur would be able to tell the difference between the two for a few years. Lyle had gotten drunk, yelled at Arthur, the usual, went to his room, and hadn't left for a week. He still hadn't left when Arthur packed himself a bag and simply walked out. The situation now was that Arthur had begun realizing there was a car that had slowed to a roll. The Chevy Bel Air held two middle-aged looking men in it. One with black hair and the other with hair he couldn't discern the color of. It looked.. kind of blonde?
"Hey there, son. Do you need a ride?" The black haired man gave him a smile. And Arthur stared at him. He didn't particularly look like a bad man, but he didn't look like a good one, neither. "No, mister. Thank you, though." The blonde man just stared at the other side of the street, really refusing to look at either of them. The two must've had some type of argument. "What about a meal? There's a diner not too far—" Before the man could finish his sentence, Arthur cut him off, sounding more snarky than he meant to. "Not interested. Thank you." He turned to continue walking down the street, with no real idea on where he was going, and no real plan on what he was going to do when the sandwiches in his bag either went bad, or were eaten too quickly when the black haired man spoke again. "When was the last time you ate, son?" Arthur slowly turned back around to face the men and thought about it. He hadn't actually eaten anything other than a sandwich in quite a while, even before Lyle had died.
One slightly high-quality diner burger, fries, and a coke later, Arthur had begrudgingly got in the backseat of the creepy men's car. It beat walking the long trip to nowhere in particular. The men had introduced themselves in the diner, the blonde one, Hosea, having seemingly gotten over his weird peeve, and the black haired one, Dutch, was asking Arthur too many questions for his liking, so much so he chose to ignore him until he got the hint.
After a drive around 20 minutes long, they reached an isolated house that looked like it was built by hand, which wasn't necessarily an insult, but also wasn't a compliment either. For a long while, Arthur couldn't get used to the men he now lived with. Dutch listened to only Elvis Presley or classical music, but not only that, tried his hardest to get Arthur to like the same music, he did that so much so he'd have only one part of one Elvis song playing in the back of his mind for at least 2 hours. Honestly, he still couldn't get used to it, and he had been in that house for 5 years. The only difference now was there was a fourth person in the house. And he was exceptionally odd. John Marston, a kid they had found, about to lynched by a few local parents, took the word "ankle biter" quite literally. The first thing John had done upon being thrown into the backseat of the same car Arthur was found in years prior was bite Arthur's arm. He had to get stitches.
The last time Arthur had checked where John had been was breakfast. It was now lunch, and Arthur had been out all day. He was mostly working on a motorcycle he had "borrowed" from an old buddy turned enemy of sorts. Arthur, despite his best efforts and general aesthetic, knew very little about motorcycles or what maintenance they required, but books and manuals can be very helpful. What Arthur hadn't realized was that he had an audience. Well, an audience that was, for once, not made up of one of the girls from town, who had taken seemingly instant interest in him, and instead, was John.
"This is what girls like from guys? Really?" Arthur had nearly thrown the nearest tool directly at John's face before realizing who it was. "Yes, Marston. They like motorcycles—" John was loud, like usual, and again, like usual, he enjoyed cutting people off wherever he saw completely fit. "But you don't even know what you're doing." Arthur rolled his eyes and went back to messing around with the guts of what was essentially his stolen trophy. "It can't just be the bike. Can it?" John also, unbeknownst to anyone in the Bel Air the day they found him, had a knack for thinking out loud. "No, Marston," Morgan stared, exasperated, wishing for nothing more than for John to go away so he could figure out the stupid machine in peace. "It's also generally the Greaser on the bike."
"Do they have to be greasers?"
"Well, you don't generally see a wet rag on a motorcycle, do you?"
John didn't answer, instead huffing in annoyance and maybe a bit of jealousy before he continued his barrage of questions. "Who's the new girl you're seeing?" Arthur didn't answer John for a minute, too busy trying to remember what he had read in one of his books, which resulted in John kicking him in the leg to try and provoke an answer from him, however all he got from Arthur was a dull "ow." And nothing else. "You didn't answer my question." John was getting more agitated with Arthur's lack of interest in his, frankly stupid questions. "Do you think you'll be done soon, Arthur?" Arthur slid himself out from under his motorcycle, covered in oil and stinking of sweat. "You know what I think?" He stared up at John with a smile as he sat up off the too thin mat he had been laying on in the driveway. "What, Arthur?" Marston wasn't actually interested in hearing Arthur's opinion, but he didn't have much of a choice. "I think you talk to hear your own voice. That's what I think."