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When he went to bed, the green grass was visible. The camp knew better than to bother him. Arthur had gone to bed shortly before daylight went away. It was dusk, he supposed. The ride from Colter had worn him out, and that was days ago--settling in Clemens Point, hunting, then checking out the saloon, doing some petty jobs here and there to up the money in the donation box so Dutch would get off his ass long enough to let him sleep? Well--that was one shot after another that followed. So when Arthur's head hit his cot, he pulled his hat back over his brow, and it was over. The sound of Javier talking to Lenny was faint in his ears, Swanson's drunken singing couldn't even keep him up. He was out.
The man usually woke up once or twice a night. Tossed and turned or had a dream, or lost the ability to sleep at all. Those nights he would get up and walk, or drink, or write, or go to the fire--something. But that wasn't one of these nights.
Voices. A kid, maybe? Giggling? Jack. Jack's voice. His body probably would have woken him up on its own sometime soon, anyways. Stiffness. Arthur knew that he hadn't moved the whole night. Still in a state of half-consciousness, he knew he was in the same position he had drifted off in the night before--legs crossed, flat on his back with his hat over his eyes. The only difference was his left arm--it had rolled off his shotgun coat covered chest and hit the ground knuckles down--and Christ alive it was cold. Too cold.
"Jack Marston, don't you do it!" Abigail scolded--and there was a thud, an odd one, sounded like something crunchy had shattered after hitting someone in the back? Sort of? And it was followed by Lenny's laughter.
"So that's how you wanna play, huh?"
Arthur groaned under his breath. Not in irritation at his friends, no--just in irritation at his stiff back. He pulled his hand from the ground and clenched it--so cold it was numb. He knew he shouldn't have taken his gloves off.
"Jesus Christ..." He mumbled. Amidst his own voice he heard crackles. What the hell? If felt like something crisp had formed around his face and was tugging unpleasantly at his beard, prickly, itchy--and cold.
His hat remained over his eyes--raising his right hand, he felt his beard. It was like Colter again. Ice. Snow. Both covered his beard and froze the hairs right together. He scratched away at it, picking pieces off, and at this point, forcing himself into a sitting position, he sat, letting his hat fall from his face and into his numb left hand, only to find that the world around him was alive and well, and covered in a blanket of white, cold, wet snow.
His eyes were wide. He could tell by the way the cold air stung 'em.
Now, how exhausted does one have to be in order to sleep through cold, heavy snowfall?
"Wonderin' when the hell you was gonna get up."
That voice was rough.
Arthur sniffed. He wiped his nose with his sleeve, cheeks and nose undoubtedly red from the cold. "Mornin' Marston."
"Mornin'." John rounded his cot, and handed him a beat up tin cup. "Coffee. From Hosea."
The contents of the cup were steaming, to which Arthur groaned in pleasure and eagerly took it in his cold palms. "Thank ya..." He sipped it--eyes fluttering closed. He'd have to thank Hosea soon.
"You're the last up."
"Yeah--" Arthur sipped his coffee. "Ask me if I care."
John laughed with Arthur--not at him.
"You look like shit." John chided.
"So do you." Arthur swallowed another gulp of the pleasantly warm, bitter coffee. "Look like a cat's scratch board." He said, earning a laugh from John.
"Damn, Morgan!"
As the older man shifted to put his cup on the table, he noticed it was gone. Already packed away and stowed into his wagon with the tarp pulled down.
"Where the..."
"Grimshaw packed it up." John pointed. "Said she was gonna pack it away from the snow and you mumbled "uh-huh" in your sleep."
"I wad'nt awake..." Arthur grumbled.
"I know."
"We movin' camps? Again?"
"No, she just said you ain't gonna sleep out here in the snow. You're already covered in it, and it ain't quit." John motioned to him.
Sure enough. A light dusting had blown under the sheet on stilts that covered Arthur's view of the starry night sky, and landed on him throughout the night he had spent comatose. And it was still coming down, to beat all.
"Where the hell am I gonna sleep?"
"With me, stupid. Finish your coffee and we'll move your cot into my tent."
Arthur smiled, shaking his head with a laugh. He licked his chapped lips and hummed, sipping his coffee again as he watched John stand in the snow, underneath the fabric awning of his wagon, sipping his own. He was watching the camp, Sean throwing snowballs at Karen and Jack in a snowball fight with Lenny, Javier was chatting with Charles as he held tight to his poncho by the fire, and Dutch was emerging from his tent with his day clothes on--gloves and scarf included--seeking out Hosea with a large warm coat in hand for the old man.
"Sleepin' with you? Ah ain't complainin'..."
John just shook his head with a little grin, watching as Arthur stood, knocking back the last sip of coffee.
"C'mon, let's get this in there." He nudged his cot with his boot, the leather darkened in patches by the snow that had melted from his warmth, and he pointing to Johns tent. He bent down and stuck his empty coffee cup in the snow by the wheel of his wagon.
"Sounds good."
Picking up the head of the slab where Arthur laid his own, John waited for Arthur to grab the foot, and together, they moved the cot into John's much warmer, much cozier, more sheltered sleeping quarters. They sat it down together, across from John's, and lifted up.
"Thanks for the help with that thing." Arthur smiled. "I'm gonna grab us some dang blankets off my wagon..."
"Hey." John spoke. "Thank you for your help..." John caught Arthur's hand as he turned. "I... I woulda died up there."
He was talking about the Grizzlies. It took Arthur a moment to gather that, as he just stared dumbfounded at John for a few seconds.
Arthur shook his head, looking up to finally meet John's eyes for the first time today. "It ain't nothin you wouldn't'a done for me, Marston..."
"I know, but..." John shrugged. He paused.
"But nothin'...." Arthur stopped him. "...S'okay..."
The look in John's eyes said he understood. He nodded, and stepped closer to Arthur. Just the two of them, the camps view obscured by the tent flaps. Arthur's hand rose--at first, about to cup John's right cheek. Scarred. Still irritated and red, the stitches were in no mood to be handled, that's for sure. So instead, Arthur raised his right hand and cupped the cheek opposite, and mumbled a quiet "C'mere..." as he pulled John in close, and their lips met. His kiss was soft, tender, gentle. And as he pulled back, he ran his thumb over John's cheek bone, and the younger man kept his eyes closed in a relaxed daze--placing his own hand over Arthur's with a warm smile.
"I love you..."
John's cheeks grew hot under Arthur's touch. He forced his eyes open and nodded, casting his eyes shyly towards the ground. "I love you to."
"Now." Arthur stepped back. "Lemme go grab those blankets, huh?"
John blinked, having forgotten his lovers original objective already. "Oh. Yeah."