Chapter Text
“Keep pushing, Arthur!”
And despite the blood screaming in his ears, he hears the movement behind him fall still and the mountain take on a deathly quiet, pulsing with wheezing breaths.
“I think I’ve pushed all I can.”
Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking-
John forces his every instinct to just shut the hell up for one damn second and turns back round and heads up the mountain; to the snow-white face at the peak of a thin grey jacket and thinner shoulders. “Come on.”
Slowly, Arthur shakes his head, stumbling to face him. “You go, we ain’t both gonna make it.”
It’s the truth John doesn’t want to hear. Not with him so winded he can barely speak in sentences no more. “Go, now. I’ll hold ‘em off.” -John shakes his head this time, only Arthur doesn’t give him a chance, cutting the words off with a hand on his shoulder which he leans too heavily into and tenderly putting his own hat on his head- “It would mean a lot to me. Please…. There ain’t no more time for talk, you gotta go.”
“ Arthur .”
Whatever he wants him to hear in that word, Arthur doesn't. “Go to your family.”
“Arthur!”
“Get the hell outta here and be a goddamn man!”
With that, Arthur turns his back on him. John can scarcely breathe with the weight of his hat on his head- like it’s the gravestone and he the grave, but he raises his gun and draws back the hammer without flinching. “Don’t even try, Arthur.”
“Goddamnit, John!” he yells. Something cracks apart as his voice does. He coughs ‘til he’s bent over and John’s hand only gets steadier. “ John ,” he wheezes, still with his hands on his knees, talking to the ground. “Please. You gotta get out-“
We ain’t both gonna make it.
“Just fucking think about it, will ya?” The ground is spinning and the air is hot; the Pinkertons will probably set the whole mountain on fire soon, weed them out how his dad used to chase out rights. “I’ll shoot you if you try- I’m gonna waste a bullet on ya- maybe more, the way my shoulder’s damn stinging- and you can still shoot straight. I need you , and- and- Abigail will kill me and Jack will ask after ya.” He doesn’t think he can shoot his brother, but he won’t let him die alone either.
Whatever Arthur’s ‘boutta argue with is lost in a fit of coughing that leaves red pouring from his mouth to the ground in a bloody waterfall. We ain’t both gonna make it.
Well, fuck if John is going to let him die like Hosea did. To hell with that. “I ain’t gonna make it outta here walking. Least you can be a distraction when I try stealing one. Micah and-“ he can’t say Dutch’s name. “Micah’ll just kill you. That won’t help me none.”
He don’t wipe the blood off before his next words, “I’ll slow you down.”
John aims directly between his eyes, “Shooting you will draw attention.”
Arthur shakes his head and for a split second he thinks his knees will buckle and his eyes are gonna roll back inside his head.
Of course he’s wrong: Arthur’s always been the strong one of the two of them, even now. So: he doesn’t crumple, or collapse. He stumbles down the rocky slope on wobbly legs and John reaches for him, surprised when the next moment he’s pulled him into a hug. His chest crackles with surprise and then the next moment after that his big brother hugs him back, one large hand coming to rest between his shoulder blades, the warmth allowing John to finally take a breath as his heart stops fluttering. The body next to him is too hot for the cold night, but it doesn’t matter.
They remember the danger they’re in too soon and pull away, stumbling down the mountain one after the other. At one point John trips over a root and his gun clatters from his hand. He curses and skitters after it.
Arthur stops and waits for him, chest heaving, “You really woulda shot me, huh?”
Looking away hopelessly, John nods, “You’re my brother.”
An expression crosses his face. Unreadable, but a little like clouds before a sunrise, “I know.” He coughs, spits blood. “I know.” He coughs and this time doesn’t stop ; John scrambles further down to get to him, then when he gets there can’t do any more than grab his shoulders and tell him to breathe, as if breathing ain’t what caused the fucking trouble.
Arthur falls to his knees and a long time later forces himself back up again, refusing to lean on him even a little. It makes him feel better, in spite of everything, to still be his little brother. “’M alright,” he gasps. “I’m- shit, did you hear-“
Yeah, he did. The Pinkertons are getting closer.
He makes to start back down the mountain again, only Arthur grabs his (good) arm and shakes his head. “Closer they are, more chance we got of stealing a horse.”
John’s resigned himself to walking across this entire mountain if that’s what it takes. Easier with a horse, though. “Wait here,” he orders gruffly, pushing him down behind an old landslide of rocks. He’s so pale he glows like a ghost in the low light, until you got to his eyes and had to meet them the same way as a skeleton.
Still, he frowns, “I ain’t damn weak-”
Rolls his eyes,” You’re the best with horses. I’ll distract ‘em and you lure ‘em over here.”
They manage to grab a horse foolishly tethered up unguarded whilst its owner pisses by a nearby tree. She whinnies with delight to find their sugarcubes and they stir her into a canter whilst the sound of piss is still sprinkling over fallen leaves. Arthur’s hands hold onto his waist- and honestly, John appreciates the warmth- and they don’t say anything as they flee out from under the stormcloud they want to leave behind. The memory of Dutch reaches a lot farther.
They ain’t heard nothing for five miles when they reach a gentler slope and what could be mistaken for a road. John lets the mare have another sugarcube and ignores the sting in his shoulder. “Which way?”
Directions end with a wheeze that turns to more coughing, then more, then more. He always puts his head down so he don’t risk John catching what he’s got, except John don’t reckon it’s good for him to be all curled up in on himself like that. Hearing that sound is worse when they’re close together like this- worse by the fact he can’t do anything- he knows once one of them get off his horse they’re not getting back up.
“Alright,” he begs when it still won’t stop, feeling drops of blood hit his back. “Alright, Arthur, alright. Once we’re safe, we’re gonna take you to a doctor-”
“It’s TB, John.”
John freezes, fingers digging into Arthur’s knee, every single concern over the past few months falling into place. We ain’t both gonna make it . He clicks his tongue and sends the horse into a trot, thinking about how easy it was to lift Arthur onto the horse and how neither of them have had a good night’s sleep in weeks.
“Well, say something,” begs Arthur and with a start that jars his shoulder John realises they’re both scared and he’s not spoken for nearly an hour. He can see lights in the houses of a town, just over the horizon as if they were stars.
He can’t think of anything to say even with all the thoughts that’re racing through his head. “You… you been dying and you never said anything?” to me?
“I was-”
“No, wait- wait , you been dying and you still- you still been trying to look after everyone!”
“Well,” he answers without blinking, “You’re family.”
“Jesus Christ,” John sobs, dashing tears away as the town falls into the trees behind them and they turn north towards Copperhead Landing. Arthur’s hands tighten their grip. “Jesus Christ, I- don’t you ever pull any bullshit like this again, you hear me?”
We ain’t both gonna make it.
He speaks louder than the voice in his head, “Promise me you ain’t gonna.”
Arthur pats his shoulder gently, “Alright, brother, I promise.”