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First
Charles was thankful for the dry air of the coming winter, even though it was harder than ever to fight off the bitter chill. The icy winds rolled off the Grizzlies East and made his fingers slow and numb, but every breath was crisp and clean. He let his lungs fill, eyes drifting closed as the earliest frost crunched under his boots. The mountain air was nothing like the thick syrupy swamps of Lemoyne or the soot-soaked mountainside of Annesburg. There was none of the dust of the Heartlands or the gritty sand of New Austin.
It had never mattered so much before. He never thought he would measure each breath, testing the air to make sure it was just right. He never thought he would be so afraid to hear the faintest rasp, the slightest cough, a quiet wheeze in the night.
He adjusted the heavy pack on his shoulder and continued his way up the rocky hill.
Supplies were hard to come by. No town was safe, and strangers on the road never responded too favorably when Charles requested to trade provisions. He hunted as best he could, gathered herbs and vegetables in the wild, chopped his own firewood and crafted his own arrows.
It was everything else that they had to use sparingly. The booze, the medicine, the cans of food and ammunition. He spent every evening counting and recounting each item, measuring how long they had before it ran out for good.
He turned his face to the collar of his coat and inhaled. It was Arthur’s. The scent was the only thing that kept him sane, it felt.
The cabin was small, more of a shack really. Charles had cleared the corpses out before moving in, cleaned as best he could. It wasn’t a home by any stretch, but it was safe enough.
He pushed open the rickety door, wincing at the harsh scrape of the wood. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He glanced around the tiny space and felt his heart stop. The pack thudded against the ground, and he turned back out into the bright sun with a scream threatening to tear through him.
Arthur was gone.
The bed by the window, so small and rickety, was empty.
Charles hated seeing Arthur lie there, pale and thin and bruised black and blue. He was sick and on the brink of death and it wrung at his heart but at least he was there .
And now he wasn’t.
What was he supposed to do?
“Arthur!” he called. His voice rang out over the rocky ground and all the way down to the treeline, bouncing back at him, mocking.
“Charles?” was the weak response.
His head whipped to the sound, feet carrying him there before he could even register what was said.
Arthur was sitting on the rocks behind the shack, bundled up in Charles’ coat with a cup of coffee cradled between his gloved fingers.
“Arthur,” he breathed in relief. “What are you doing out of bed?”
Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I was about ready to shoot myself if I spent another minute stuck in that dismal shack. Needed to be outside for a minute.”
Charles knew that Arthur could barely walk without help. How hard must it have been to pour a cup of coffee and carry it outside?
“I was so worried,” Charles sighed. “Please don’t scare me like that.”
Arthur looked like he wanted to pick a fight but didn’t have the breath or the energy. “I’ll do my best,” he finally said.
Second
Charles still didn’t like the idea of Arthur getting out of bed on his own, but he couldn’t do anything to stop him. He was so damn stubborn. He watched Arthur limp around with his shallow, shaky breaths and tried to focus on the fact that he was growing stronger with each day they made it through. He could walk a little farther, stand a little longer, talk a little louder.
Arthur had much more confidence in his recovery, always trying to push himself beyond what was necessary. Charles knew he was probably being too overprotective, but he would endure an eternity of Arthur’s grumbling if it meant he was alive.
Still, there were some things he knew he could never keep Arthur away from.
He forced himself to ignore the fear that gripped him when he found the bed empty. He could afford a little more hope than that now. Instead, he listened for a moment and followed the sounds of Arthur humming to himself.
He wasn’t humming to himself after all, but rather to his horse. Forehead pressed against her coat and one palm raised to her muzzle so she could eat what was probably the last of their sugar cubes.
Charles watched for a moment, glad to see Arthur smiling as he ran a brush over her flank again and again.
“That horse gets better taken care of than you do,” he finally said. Arthur started a little, blushing pink as he realized he’d been caught.
“She works harder than me these days.” Arthur shrugged.
Charles wanted to point out that Arthur was the only one of them who had nearly died a few weeks ago, but he held his tongue. Arthur had turned to the horse tack, bending to try and lift the saddle.
“Arthur,” Charles stepped forward to grab him by the shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Want to go for a ride with me?” Arthur offered as a way of avoiding the question. He had probably intended to take the horse out without Charles knowing.
“Are you really sure that’s a good idea?”
“It’s just sitting on a horse,” Arthur said in disbelief. “She’s going to do everything for me.”
Charles frowned. He knew how much Arthur needed this. Riding was his life. But he couldn’t help but be afraid. There had been so many days where they wound up right back at square one, coughing and bedridden. He didn’t want to risk it.
“At least let me put the saddle on her,” he offered as a way of compromise. “You don’t want to exhaust yourself too soon.” He whistled for Taima, who came bounding up. It seemed everyone was excited at the prospect of going out for a ride.
Arthur’s pure joy would be enough to get him through the darkest nights.
Third
They had to move. It wasn’t safe to stay in one place very long; and as it grew colder, it was more important to be near a town to buy supplies.
The new cabin was closer to Strawberry. Arthur assured Charles that it wouldn’t be the end of days if they dipped into some of their old money from the gang to stock up on provisions and buy some new clothes.
And thus they settled in, more comfortable than they had been before. Arthur hadn’t taken well to the travel, no matter how slow and careful Charles had insisted they go, and he was frustrated to have lost so much of the strength he gained back.
He seemed determined to drown those sorrows in their newly bought whiskey, and Charles had tried to wrestle the bottle away from him about four times that night.
“I’m owed a drink at least,” he growled in between horrible bouts of coughing that made Charles want to cover his ears and run out into the snow. “My lungs may be weak, but I know how to hold my liquor.”
They would soon find out that Arthur did not know how to hold his liquor anymore. After weeks in bed spent without hardly a drop, the whiskey hit him faster and harder than Charles had ever seen. He was drunk as a skunk and seemed intent on making as much trouble as possible.
The troublemaking soon gave way to terrible, inconsolable grief. Arthur hadn’t really spoken about the losses he suffered. The dead and the missing and the betrayers. Charles had often wondered how his heart was doing but hadn’t dared to ask in case it affected his already tremulous health.
Charles spent more nights awake than asleep, haunted by the ghosts of everyone he failed to protect. He never took a step without checking over his shoulder, always kept his ear to the ground in case someone had managed to catch their trail.
Arthur was worse. It weighed heavy on him, the fear and the sorrow. He had been wrestling with it even before the end, hadn’t found an answer in time. He blamed himself for not protecting everyone, for not stopping it all sooner. Not that there was much he could have done, sick and near dying as Dutch worked him into an early grave.
They were alone, likely for the first time since Arthur was a young boy. No gang. No family.
In a way, Charles was thankful for the whiskey, for the drunkenness. He doubted Arthur would ever have said anything otherwise. Charles held him as he cried, kissing away his tears and fighting back his own as they mourned for everyone they hadn’t yet had time to grieve. They had lost so many so fast. The people that Arthur had worked for years to protect.
“You came back for me,” Arthur whispered to him in the darkness. Charles knew what he was thinking. In the first days after he found him, Arthur had cried out for Dutch again and again, for the father that left him. Arthur said he could hear the sound of his footsteps walking away nearly every time he fell asleep.
“I’ll always come back for you,” Charles promised.
Fourth
“Hey, woah,” Charles managed to catch up to Arthur just as he was riding out, rifle slung over his shoulder and saddle packed full of his supplies. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Hunting,” Arthur said, barely glancing at Charles before continuing on his way.
“We have plenty of meat. I just brought some in the other day.” Charles tried to pull Taima out in front of his horse, but Arthur just went around him as if he were a stump in the road.
“Then I can sell what I kill,” Arthur shrugged. It was quiet a moment before he continued. “I need to get out of that cabin, Charles. I feel trapped, like I’m losing my mind.”
“You’re not strong enough to go out on your own. You know that.” Charles did his best to keep his tone even. He knew how hard this was on Arthur, and as much as it frustrated him, anger would get them nowhere. “Let me come with you at least, just in case something happens.”
Arthur glared straight ahead for a long while, mustering the courage to admit defeat. “Fine. I’m just sick of being treated like a damn baby all the time.”
Charles fell into place beside him. “It will be nice to go hunting together again. I’ve missed having you out with me.”
Fifth
They decided to go into town for a night. As long as they kept out of trouble and didn’t draw attention to themselves, then it shouldn’t do any harm. Arthur was in much better condition, and the celebration felt well deserved. He could ride for a few hours at a time now and drink a little more without losing his wits. Charles even dared to let himself hope that they were through with it all.
So they found the nicest clothes they had and washed up as best they could. It felt silly, but they couldn’t help the smiles and laughter as they straightened each other’s collars.
The lodge was a little crowded, but not unbearable. They planted themselves at the bar for their first round of drinks and took in the noise and the ruckus. Arthur frowned at the northern socialites and businessmen in their party clothes, but they were too wrapped up in themselves to even notice two rugged locals.
“Did we really ride all the way down here just to sulk silently in the corner?” Charles grinned behind the rim of his glass.
Arthur shrugged. “That’s about all I’ve ever done. Just waited until I had to pull Marston or Escuella out of trouble. I’m not too keen on ingratiating myself with any of these folks anyways.”
Charles hummed in agreement, content to just be near to Arthur in the warm light of the lodge. They were close enough he could feel the warmth of Arthur beneath his shirt. He had filled out some despite the hard living. His eyes were bright and warm, cheeks more colored despite the tan they had lost. He held his glass with hands that didn’t shake, laughed louder and deeper than Charles had heard in a long time.
He was so overcome with how far Arthur had made it. From the broken, bloodied man abandoned on a mountain.
“What’s got you so misty-eyed?” Arthur asked with a crooked grin.
“Nothing,” Charles sighed fondly.
“C’mon, Charles,” Arthur goaded. “You’ve been staring at me for ten minutes now. I’m not gonna keel over dead if you look somewhere else for a minute.”
The joke did not land well with Charles. His heart twinged at the mere thought of losing Arthur. “I was just thinking about how handsome you are,” Charles said, knowing exactly what came next.
“You’re fooling yourself.” Arthur, predictably, couldn’t take the compliment. He scoffed and tossed back the rest of his drink.
“You asked what I was thinking about.”
Arthur waved his hand and turned his attention to the barkeep to get more drinks. Charles couldn’t help but smile at his back.
He had barely closed his fingers around his second glass when commotion sounded from across the lodge. One of the groups of rich folk had been growing steadily louder, culminating in some kind of disagreement.
Arthur and Charles both watched, tense and calculating.
A man had grabbed one of the women by the hair, much to the astonishment of everyone. “I’ll teach you a lesson about your place,” he was shouting, dragging her to the door.
Arthur moved before Charles could stop him. He stalked forward and placed a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let the lady go,” he growled.
The man whirled, not releasing the poor woman who shrieked in pain. “Mind your own affairs,” he shouted, voice slurred and breath pungent.
Arthur fisted a hand in the man’s immaculately crisp jacket. “Let. Her. Go.”
The man released his hold on the woman only so he could free his hand to swing at Arthur. Charles saw red as Arthur’s head snapped to the side from the force of the blow. The woman had fallen to the floor and scrambled away as soon as she was free, and now Arthur and her assailant were grappling right there by the front door to the lodge.
Charles couldn’t get there fast enough. The crowd had pushed in to watch the fight, and he was trying to elbow his way through so he could get to Arthur. Each hit that connected made his stomach turn, the way Arthur wheezed and coughed with every blow -- loud even above the raucous crowd.
By the time Charles had made it to them only a few seconds had passed, but Arthur was standing over the downed man, shoulders heaving with every labored breath. “Don’t you never lay another hand on a woman like that again,” he snarled. And then his eyes rolled and he staggered and swayed on his feet.
Charles caught him as he fell. He doubted they were still welcome after all that trouble, so he carried Arthur out into the cool night air. He was totally still in his arms, unconscious and barely able to breathe. “Arthur,” he begged, “stay with me.”
+1
Charles tried to be as quiet as possible as he slipped out of bed. He had barely moved towards the edge of the bed when Arthur’s arm wrapped around his middle, tugging him back under the blankets. “‘S too cold,” Arthur mumbled, nuzzling against Charles’ shoulder and holding him firmly in place.
Since Arthur had been confined to another bout of bed rest after the fight at the lodge, this was usually how their mornings went. Arthur was always a light sleeper and knew the moment Charles tried to get out of bed. He hated being stuck in one place all day and seemed to think the only way to make it more bearable was to have Charles there with him.
“If you let me up, I can put another log on the fire,” Charles bargained.
Arthur let his lips drag across Charles’ skin, an open-mouthed, lazy attempt at a kiss. “Or we could warm up a different way.”
This was another one of his daily temptations. Arthur didn’t seem to care that he had nearly died… again. He wanted to make love even if it killed him. “Not until you’re better,” Charles reminded him, reminded both of them.
“I feel fantastic,” Arthur said, voice thick with sleep yet still teasing. He punctuated his statement by rocking his hips so Charles could feel firsthand just how ‘fantastic’ Arthur was. Charles rolled his eyes and tugged weakly at Arthur’s grip. “C’mon,” Arthur tried again. “I miss you.”
Charles tried his best to steel his resolve. He would be the first to admit he was weak to Arthur, especially like this. “You see me every day.” In fact, just yesterday Arthur had cursed and groused about the fact that Charles never left him alone for even a minute -- not when Arthur would surely try to get out of bed and wind up straining himself.
“I guess you don’t like me anymore now that I’m sick and pitiful.” His tone was all jest, but it was a low blow. Charles immediately turned to cup Arthur’s face in both hands.
“I love you. Sick or not, I’m never going to leave you.” He knew he was playing right into what Arthur wanted, but he could never stand the jokes. Arthur always covered his pain with wry humor.
The kiss was heated. Both of them had been holding back for too long out of fear. Charles too afraid to hurt Arthur, Arthur too afraid to ask for what he wanted. They clung to each other, disheveling the blankets in an effort to be closer. Charles wanted to move slow, but Arthur clearly had other plans.
“I’m sorry,” Charles gasped between kisses.
“Sorry for what?”
“I’ve been so busy worrying about you. I didn’t mean to pull away.” His head tipped back as Arthur kissed across his chest, one hand working its way down the front of his pants.
“You’ve been taking care of me. It’s my turn to take care of you, okay?” Arthur was so earnest, so desperate.
Charles didn’t have it in him to protest.