Work Text:
The sun fades slowly that evening, as it always does in summer, and you watch as the sunset stretches its fiery fingers across the sky, painting it in reds and golds. No one pays you any mind as you slip out of camp with a bottle in your hands, making your way towards the cliff surrounding Horseshoe Overlook, hoping for a bit of peace and quiet. But even as you find a large boulder to sit on at the edge of the cliff, the sound of music and laughter still reaches your ears. You try your best to ignore it, staring out over the valley below, but suddenly a great cheer erupt from around the campfire, and you can’t help but turn to look. Through the sparse trees separating you from the heart of the camp, you see Sean and Javier, standing face to face near the campfire, seemingly in the midst of a heated drinking contest. The others egg them on with shouts and curses, and the sight might have made you smile, had you been in a better mood. Your eyes unwittingly drift to Arthur - he laughs and slaps his knee at something Dutch tells him, and the sight of him tears painfully at your heart, as it always does lately. You turn away before he can catch you staring at him, reminding yourself for the thousandth time that he doesn’t feel the same way about you as you do about him, and that he never will - your mind knows it, and yet your heart still flutters naively every time you see him. You sigh and uncork your bottle; this is going to be a long night.
You’re not sure exactly how long you spend sitting there, drinking and brooding, but when you finally snap out of your own misery, the sky is dark and studded with stars, the moon is high in the sky, your bottle is almost empty, and your thoughts are little more than a jumbled mess. You can still hear voices behind you, a few people still sitting around the fire despite the late hour - Arthur amongst them, you can’t help but note as the low, familiar voice drifts to your ears. In your drunken haze, reflections you’d tried to keep at bay for weeks flit through your mind - how would it feel to kiss him? How would it feel to have him hold you, touch you, his hands on your skin, his lips on yours, his -
You cut your own thoughts short before they can go any further, huffing out an irritated sigh as you feel yourself blush, even though you’re alone - why couldn’t you just let it go? You’d been as forward as was appropriate - and had perhaps even been inappropriate, once or twice -, but he’d never shown interest in you. So why couldn’t you just let. It. Go? You drain the last of the whiskey in your bottle, the alcohol burning its way down your throat as you squeeze your eyes shut, though you quickly open them again when you hear footsteps behind you. You tense as you turn around, ready to snap to be left alone, but the snarl dies on the tip of your tongue when you see Hosea emerge from between the trees, the genuine warmth of his eyes taking you off-guard.
“You alright over here, Y/N?” he asks, coming to stand next to you. “Didn’t see you around the campfire, got worried.”
Despite your dark mood, you feel yourself relax, his soothing presence easing your racing mind. You had always liked him; he could always be counted on when it came to good advice and pleasant company - though you’re not sure you’re in the mood for either tonight.
“I’m fine,” you mutter unconvincingly. He gives you a pointed look, and you let an exasperated groan escape you as a knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“I know that look,” he says softly, a gently teasing glint in his eyes. He gestures to the empty space next to you, asking for permission, and you find yourself nodding, moving over to make space for him on the boulder. You watch as he lowers himself next to you, sighing contentedly before turning his head to look at you. “Who’s got you feeling like that?”
“Arthur.” Your drunken mind blurts the name out instantly, unthinking, and heat rises in your cheeks as you look down at your boots. You suppose that if anyone had to know, Hosea was probably your best choice - he’s sure to tease you about it, but you know he’ll keep your secret. So you wait for him to speak, but his words never come. You look up, and see that his smile has softened, saddened. There is something akin to pity in the curve of his mouth now, and sympathy in his eyes instead of gentle amusement. Dread grips at your heart as he looks away, gazing over the darkened forest below; you had expected surprise, scepticism, even perhaps mockery - not silence. An eternity seems to go by before he speaks, each second that ticks by adding to your restlessness.
“Oh, my dear,” he finally breathes, voice threaded with melancholy. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. You’d always assumed Arthur’s apparent indifference towards you was due to him being interested in someone else - but Hosea’s words seem to hint at something deeper, and much more painful.
“What do you mean?” you rasp, your throat as dry as sand.
You see it in his eyes when he turns back to you - a look of quiet grief, as one might get when mourning something that could have been, but had never come to be.
“He’s broken, Y/N,” he replies quietly. It’s said simply, sincerely, without even a hint of malice or resentment - only a sorrowful sincerity. A weight settles itself in your chest, slowly growing with every word, crushing your heart. “Mary broke him. Eliza and Isaac shattered him. He won’t ever be able to love you the way you want - deserve - to be loved, even if he wants to. He’s loved too dear, and lost too much - he gave everything he had, and it was destroyed time and again.” He pauses, turning his eyes toward the sky. “There’s nothing left.”
The words are harsh - but not cruel, though they might have sounded so had they come from anyone else. You know he’s right - somehow, you’d always known. It was in the way Arthur’s smiles never quite seemed to reach his eyes, in the wistful curve of his mouth that he could never truly hide, the weight that bent his shoulders whenever he thought himself alone - Arthur is broken, and the wounds are too old and deep now to ever be healed.
“He is like a son to me - no, he is my son,” Hosea adds quietly, “and I want him to be happy. But I know that’s not where his happiness lies. Not anymore.” He’s silent for a moment, lost in his memories. You feel as if the weight in your chest has replaced your heart entirely, crushing the breath out of you as it presses against your lungs. “And neither does yours - not with him.”
The comforting hand Hosea places on your shoulder almost startles you. You meet his eyes, and there is pain there, a pain that you think might rival yours - Arthur had broken his heart, too, though in a different way. It was the pain of a father seeing his son in agony day after day, and being powerless to help him.
“Time will be enough to heal your wounds, my dear,” he says gently. “But not his.”