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There's been that awful itch to cough caught in his chest, his throat, all day. And all day, has he fought it, kept it down by keeping silent. Went out early to support the camp, careful about the Murfree gang out in these hills. Caught a few elk, brought back the bodies and a good pile of meat.
Despite their awful situation and everything crumbling down around them, Pearson smiled a little and told Arthur that they have a decent amount of meat again.
At the very least, everyone was fed. That was some small relief.
He nodded and told the poor cook that he's going to go down looking for some fish - something to top off their stores for a bit. Variety and all that. A dismissing grunt, and the gunslinger turned his back and headed for the path that'll take him down to the river.
The itch is back. But it felt like less of an itch and more like something crawling up his throat, uncontrollable. Arthur doesn't notice his expression turn distracted, worried, more concerned with picking up the pace and getting the hell away from camp before the next attack comes.
He knew his luck slipped when he felt the first hiccup of a breath, knew that was the match that ignited the awful fit that was to come.
He didn't have these often, but they're more frequent now than they ever have been. Dips his chin, covers his mouth, and fights to keep his cough quiet, fights to keep himself from bolting out of the camp and drawing unnecessary attention.
The coughing abruptly claws at his lungs and he feels the wheeze inside his chest, feels it snowballing, growing louder and worse, spiraling out of his control. It starts to ache in his gut and he suddenly feels hot, and shaky. A distant thought - this is how he felt just before he found out what this really is.
He hears his name, somewhere behind him, and waves them off. Just leave, just leave. Down the hill he tries to go, but gets barely further than the perimeter of the camp before the attack on his lungs turns brutal. An awful, hard cough that whooshes the air out of his lungs and ends with a long wheeze, and his only support is a nearby tree to lean on, knees giving out under him. His name again, and again and again, all different voices.
He can't stop coughing. His chest burns and with every one breath he takes in, he gives out two hard coughs. There's tears in his eyes and his head starts to pound. Not here. Not here. Please, whatever god is out there, don't let this happen here. The world spins.
He doesn't notice that he slips away from his tree and collapses. Doesn't feel the hands pulling at him or hear the voices calling out at him. But he feels how tight his chest is, the pressure consistent even in semi-unconsciousness.
When his eyes open, it's to a mess of shapes and a blur of dark colors, all surrounding him. A memory of Colm and the aftermath, but this is different. His throat opens just in the slightest, and his wheezing breath is loud in his ears.
The entire camp is gathered around him, he realizes. Something barely soft under him and a cold block of brown beside him - his tent, the wagon.
A noise in his ears that he recognizes as his name again, coupled with a concern. Fights to stay awake; these fits have battered him since the beginning, but now it's just getting harder to keep his eyes open.
"I'm okay now," he assures, sitting up even as he feels the itch again, his only warning before he turns his head away and gives a few more hard, awful coughs. He knows how he sounds. He can feel everyone's gaze on him, can feel the worry without even having to see it. When he feels like he can speak again, he says, "I'm okay. 's jussta bug I caught in Guarma."
No one believes him. He knows they don't. Or, if they do, their concern only worsened. He can still feel himself shaking, tiny tremors in his hands that he's not sure if everyone else can see. His head hurts, and the crowd disperses a little when he asks for water. Miss Grimmshaw - bless her heart - passes him a jug and he takes a careful drink.
He clears his throat and carefully breathes. The itch is gone, for now, but he can still feel the threat deep in his lungs. The smallest of growling wheezes in his breath, like packed gravel still crunching underfoot.
It takes a few more careful breaths and a clearer voice to convince Miss Grimmshaw that he actually is okay now, though Arthur notices her hesitance as she leaves to go about what little work she has here now.
And as Arthur sits there on his little worn out cot, trying to fight down the wheeze in his breath, he looks up, habitually searching for the bone white tent that had once always been in his peripherals.
Dutch wasn't there with everyone else. He's just standing there are the edge of his lonely tent staring at him. Looks away to spit out the blood in his mouth, kicking some dirt over it to bury it, and looks up in time to see Dutch's back, in time to watch him disappear.
His chest aches, but he thinks this time it has nothing to do with the cough.