HIGHWAYS & BYWAYS ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ viii

The air around you is getting increasingly hotter, heavier, just like your surroundings morph from grassy hills into a dry, desert landscape. All of a sudden, the air conditioning in Arthur's truck becomes your favorite thing in the world, which he notices with a half-hearted laugh through his nose.

While on the drive, you become hungrier and hungrier. The only reasonable thing to do is to busy yourself by looking through some of the belongings scattered around both in Arthur's glovebox and in-between the seats, behind the cassettes. Only upon asking for permission, however.

You stumble across multiple things, but most eye-catching of all: an architecture magazine, old, folded and faded under the influence of time. It is kept inside the glovebox like a treasure. A quick glance on its back confirms it's old. Very much so, in fact: at least a decade, if not more.

A building is illustrated on the front, gorgeous in spite of the paper's age. There's something utterly natural about it: its limestone facade looks like its made of waves, a constant, rounded curve shapes it.

You read the title out loud: " 'Antoni Gaudí and his creations'?"

"Ah, that, 's just some...stupid ol' magazine." Arthur glances sideways at you, then looks back at the road. If you knew him better, you can claim he is nervous. But his expressions are not that easy to read, not even after spending over twenty four hours in close proximity to him — he's still a mystery in many aspects. The man drums his fingers against the steering wheel when you raise a brow at him inquisitively, then gives in. "One of my...favorite architects."

You hum, analyzing the illustration more closely. There is no sharp edge to be seen on the structure, the building in incalculably calculated, warm and imperfect. Like leaves or warm caramel or smooth stones on the beach, it gives you the feeling of wanting to touch it, one way or another. "It looks somehow...soft. Smooth."

"'Cause it is. All of Gaudí's works are inspired by nature." Arthur explains. "Reeds, bones, mountains, trees, you name it. He always found a way of incorporatin' 'em into buildings."

"They're pretty." You agree, then start to flip through the magazine. It shows off more of Gaudí's works, some more colorful than others, but all of them sharing one similarity: the naturalness, the ingeniousness. It's like they're alive, wanting to be marveled at and seen, but without showing or demanding extravagance.

When you reach the end of the journal, familiarizing yourself with the very much old date, it suddenly strikes you that the paper may hold some form of sentimental value for Arthur. Why else would he keep it? Surely, it's not the only thing in the world that ever discussed his favorite architect?

"It's well over ten years old." You say aloud, though it ends up sounding a bit more judgmental than intended. Arthur avoids your gaze even more purposefully now.

"Yes. It's...I guess it's what got me into architecture in the first place." He admits, albeit reluctantly.

You neatly close the magazine, then look at Arthur with a tilt of your head, urging him to continue. If there are more informations to dish out, you would more than gladly hear them.

He complies.

"Hosea gave it to me when I was 17 'n still tryin' to figure out what the hell I was gonna do with my life." There's a warm, nostalgic smile on Arthur's features as he reminiscences. You have to admit it's quite endearing to imagine a seventeen year old version of him marveling at an architecture magazine. "Until then, I, well, I never thought of buildings that way. Just the practical aspect, the hard 'n ugly lines, how perfect and calculated they're supposed to be. When I saw somethin' so unusual but...gorgeous, I realized they could be so much more."

He looks at you as if an apology for rambling is on the tip of his tongue, but it seems to melt away when he catches sight of your warm smile. "That's actually amazing, Arthur." You affirm, and he looks down, almost bashfully, shaking his head.

"Ain't nothin' amazing about idealizing somethin' to the point where you go through the depths of trigonometry just to end up listenin' to whatever the hell an idiot of a client has to say."

An uglier, less gentle part of you wants to tell him that this is just how things, or people themselves, are. But you cannot find the heart to tell him that. Maybe because ever since you've been around him, it felt like you've been in a bubble, protected from everything else, like you've finally arrived home, in spite of physically being nowhere near it. And you fear that if he feels the same, your words would take that from him. You don't want that. So you empathize.

"I know what you mean. People just love pretending to be experts in fields they don't have a clue about." You shrug nonchalantly. So does Arthur.

"I reckon I shouldn't complain." He admits, unable to hold back a smile at how neatly and carefully you fold the magazine and put it back where you found it. Arthur doesn't know what exactly he likes about that so much, but upon witnessing it, he feels like he could trust you with anything, ranging from his thoughts to his feelings, and that you'd treat it all with the same demureness and respect.

"At least you're not robbing banks or pickpocketing for a living." You certainly do not expect the wolfish grin that settles on his features, as if he knows something you are in complete oblivion to. You can't help but add a reluctant: "Right?"

Arthur laughs through his grin.

"Not anymore, at least." The truck slows, and before you know it, he's pulling over, towards a shabby diner with a scarce parking lot. It looks strangely out of this world in a way you cannot comprehend. The engine dies out, the doors open with a click. "Well, here we are."

All of a sudden, you have thousands of questions you want to ask.

But the most urgent one has to be what kinds of food the diner has on the menu.