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They'd drawn the curtains to keep the light at bay.
It cast the room into a darkened gloom, a glow of a lantern the only source of light. It wasn't a lot; just enough to see by. Enough for him to read by. Enough to give him something to do to distract his mind.
It was quiet. Relatively speaking. There were muffled noises from downstairs that permeated the walls, but they were dull admidst the raspy breaths that filtered through the room. It stuttered every few minutes or so, an admittance that there was still pain, but it was far less obvious than the strained whimpers that accompanied him in the past days.
Seemed like he was finally on the mend.
There was still a touch of fever, though it had dulled to a mere shadow of its earlier ferocity. No longer were his cheeks flush and skin drenched in sweat, but he still warm to the touch. It was something Hosea felt as he pressed his hand against his forehead, resting it along his cheeks before pulling away.
Arthur barely stirred.
He hadn't these past few days. The teen—nearly a man—had fallen to the fever hard and fast. Seemingly. Hosea had a brewing suspicion the kid had been fighting something off before it all came to head and he'd been too stubborn to say anything. He always was a thick-headed fool, prone to making irrational choices.
Though he wasn't the only one to blame.
They should have noticed that something was off with him. He should have noticed something. The signs were all but there; the sluggish way in which he moved, the sharpness behind his tone, the shortness of his temper. Arthur had his moods, in that there was no argument and normally they preferred to turn a blind eye to it, but the more Hosea thought of it, the more he realized that Arthur had been especially testy as of late.
But they'd been on the run.
Their investment ruse had been discovered back in Borden and the law had been fresh on their heels; there'd even been rumors of a bounty hunter hired to track them down and bring them in. There'd been little choice but to pack up and flee and keep on pushing. They'd come north, hoping to lose them in them mountains.
Of that they'd succeeded. It took several long days of travel through unfavorable climate until they'd stumbled across an old mining town that had long been abandoned. They'd gratefully taken to one of the houses for a spell, but they'd been short on rations. It'd left them all irritated and worn, so much so that they hadn't given Arthur's demeanor a second thought. His cynical gripes and sarcastic quips were chalked up to nothing more than thinly veiled annoyance at the situation in whole.
But tired as they were, they couldn't stop. Not unless they preferred to starve. Or freeze. They needed food. Needed wood for a fire. The place needed patching to keep the worst of the weather out. They'd all worked themselves to the bone; though none more than Arthur.
Two days after arriving here, he'd gone down hard. He hadn't gotten back up again.
Hosea looked up as the door eased open. A beam of light fell across the room as she slipped in, shutting it behind her. Grimshaw gave him a nod, her voice kept low as she drew near.
“He wake up at all?”
Hosea set the book down in his lap, watching him. “Not really. Should be soon, I think. Fever's gone down and he's resting a bit easier now.”
She seemed to take that in stride, her lips stretched thin across her face. “Foolish boy—well, you let me know when he wakes, Mr. Matthews. Got some stew brewing downstairs and we'll see about getting some food into him.”
“Will do,” Hosea thanked her, bidding her farewell. Her steps were just as quiet going as they'd been coming, and soon enough it was just the two of them again. He watched him for a moment, noting the way his chest rose and fell, the way his face scrunched up every so often. An illusion to the fact he might be waking...but each time Hosea called out to him, he was met with nothing more than silence.
Rest. He needed rest; it was the best remedy they had. So Hosea let him sleep, turning his attention back to the book in his lap, lost somewhere within the mystery of a murder that was sketched upon those pages. Every few pages he'd pause, glancing up, noting each and every shuffle. But it wasn't until he'd consumed several more chapters that those signs became even more apparent.
That he was waking up.
The most prominent indication was the groan. It was faint, his face drawn tight into a grimace as he shifted. Hosea closed the book, leaning forward as he did so.
“Arthur?”
His eyes blinked open, thin slits wincing in the dim light as they searched. It took a moment before he could focus, before the teen could actually meet his gaze. His words were slurred, barely decipherable, but wholly there.
“'Sea? Wha'—what you doin'?”
“Keeping an eye on you; making sure you don't get any foolish notions in your head,” Hosea told him, resting a hand on his forehead. He was still warm. He brushed away the loose locks of hair even as Arthur tried to swat him away.
“Foolish? Like what?” Arthur hissed, trying to sit up.
“Like that,” he chided, pressing him back down. It was an easy task—a testament to how weak he was.
“Hell you goin' on 'bout?” he wrapped a hand about his chest with a grimace.
Hosea tutted, shaking his head. “You don't remember, do you?”
He'd be surprised if the kid did. Not with how high his fever had been; he'd been damn near delirious that first night, muttering about demons long gone. Seemed as though his mind had drudged up unpleasant memories from his past. Things Arthur hadn't ever told them about before. Things that would be better left unspoken.
Arthur had closed his eyes again. Hosea might have been fooled into thinking he'd fallen asleep, if not for the hitch in his chest. His voice was breathy—almost a whine as he answered.
“Remember huntin'. Dressin' the kill 'n....'n I ain' remember after that...”
“Grimshaw sent you upstairs to wash,” Hosea filled in the gap for him.
There was a hum from him. “She ain't neither; I ain' even talk to her.”
“You got several set of eyes and ears that beg to differ,” he countered. “I won't repeat what the exact words you graced her with on the account they ain't very civil, but you most certainly had a disagreement with her suggestion.”
Arthur blinked, watching him. “I ain't—”
“Though I reckon you wouldn't remember, seeing as you didn't even make it upstairs,” Hosea waved him off. “You almost made it, before you passed on out. Came crashing down—nearly put a new hole in the wall there.”
It'd been the argument that had first caught his attention. Arthur crude slur and Grimshaw's bite back, a near full-on shouting matching as he'd stomped up the stairs. But it'd been the thundering clamor that had brought him running into the room. He'd gotten there just in time to witness Arthur's pliant form crashing into the wall at the bottom of the staircase.
He hadn't gotten up. No amount of attempted rousing had stirred him. His skin had burned beneath their touch and the pallor of his skin shone through and he shivered despite everything. Dutch had been convinced he was dying—it'd taken Hosea near a damn hour to convince him otherwise, even though he held his own doubts.
A low hum brought him from those troubling thoughts. Hosea watched as Arthur shifted, wincing as he cradled his chest more.
“That why—?”
“Yeah, that's why you're hurting,” Hosea confirmed with a small smile. “Don't you worry; ain't nothing broken. Just a little battered is all. You should consider yourself lucky on that.”
Another hum. “Guess I'll try 'n remember that.”
“You be sure too,” Hosea agreed, “just as sure as you remember to tell us when you ain't feeling too well. That way we can actually help.”
To that, Arthur laughed. Or huffed—it was difficult to tell. “How the hell is sayin' somethin' gonna help? If I'm sick, I'm sick...ain't change nothing.”
“We can keep a better eye on you,” Hosea sighed. “Get you some rest, keep you from working yourself to death.”
“Things still gotta be done,” Arthur grumbled.
“Not when you ain't feeling well, my boy.”
“Ain't that bad,” he argued, trying to sit up once more. Hosea didn't even need to reach out this time. Arthur collapsed back into the bed with a soft whimper.
“Course it ain't.”
“Ain't like that,” he mumbled, pressing a hand against his temple. “Jus'....just got dizzy is all.”
Hosea nodded at that. “Probably cause you haven't had anything to eat for a couple days now.”
“What you talking 'bout?” Arthur griped, “I ate yesterday. You and Dutch always get on me 'bout it, but oatcakes is food.”
“We bought those for the horses,” Hosea reminded him. “Oatcakes aside—you've been in bed the last two days now. You haven't had nothing more than some water.”
“Days?” Arthur glanced at him, a frown marring his face. “It ain't been days.”
“Oh, it hasn't?” he raised an eyebrow. “What day is it then?”
His face scrunched in thought. “You know I ain't ever been good at keeping track of days.”
“That's just a shifty way of saying you ain't got a clue.”
Arthur snorted. “Alright then, old man. If you so smart, why don't y ou tell me what day it is.”
“You think I'm really going to fall for that?” Hosea smirked, “It's a good effort, but I'm afraid that you'll need to do better than that.”
“N what is it that you're expectin' me to do, exactly?”
“For starters? You could try sitting on up,” Hosea suggested. “See if we can get some food in you. Susan says she's got some stew downstairs.”
Arthur eyed him warily. “You sure that's safe? If I said what you done said I said—that woman probably spiked it with shroom's or somethin'.”
Hosea laughed at that. She'd certainly been angry enough after that exchange. But that anger had faded in accordance with the circumstances at hand. “I'm thinking she understood—though an apology couldn't hurt. But tell you what; if you're that worried, I'll have the first bowl.”
“Nah—no use in both of us being out. Look on the bright side—if it is poisoned, least it'll put me out of my misery.”
“Thought it wasn't all that bad?” Hosea teased him gently.
“Might have been lying when I said that,” Arthur winced. “I've had hangovers that haven't been this bad.”
“I believe it. You were pretty sick there for a time. Right nasty fever—got you pretty good, I think. Just how long were you feeling under?”
He was quiet a moment, his voice raspy as he finally spoke. “Ain't sure, really. 'Fore we left Borden, I think. Weren't sleeping well but thought it was just nerves. Then all that running we did—figured I could just push on through it. That it'd go away.”
Hosea nodded, taking all that in. It felt right; he still felt guilt in not asking after him sooner. “Well, now you know better. Next time you ain't feeling so hot, you take it easy—you hear?”
“Ain't like I didn' want to,” Arthur argued blandly, “there was so much shit we had to do, n' you and Dutch were both askin' favors and Grimshaw too, and—”
Hosea held up a hand, cutting him off. “I know—I know. And for that, I'm sorry, Arthur. We all got caught up in things and got a bit preoccupied. But in those times, you need to talk with us. Tell us you ain't feeling well, so that we can help before you run yourself into the ground.”
To that, silence. Arthur stared up at the ceiling, as though lost in a gaze. Hosea let out a sigh, leaning forward as he rest a hand on his arm. “We care about you, is all. And when you don't say something...well, sorta feels like you don't trust us.”
Arthur turned to him, meeting his gaze. “Course I trust you...I just—I ain't used to folk keeping after me, is all. If I got sick, I done got sick and weren't nobody there to help. I had to keep goin', cause nobody else was jus' gonna feed me or keep me warm or stop fools from tryin' to pull one over on me—”
“I know,” Hosea stopped his rambling, giving his arm a squeeze. “I know—but it ain't like that no more. You're with us now. We got you; just like you got us when Dutch and I aren't at our peak. Us three? We're family—ain't nothing gonna change that.”
He got a grin for that. “What's it that Dutch likes to say? The curious couple and their unruly son?”
Hosea laughed, “He does like that one, doesn't he? But you know something? He's right. Man makes mistakes more often than not, but he wasn't wrong in picking you up. Sometimes I think you're the best thing to happen to us.”
That grin had morphed into a warm smile. “Thanks Hosea...for everything.”
“Of course,” he smiled back at him. “Now...how about we sit you on up, get something in your belly? Probably will make you feel better.”
“Sure,” Arthur agreed, wincing as he eased himself up. Hosea set to shuffling the pillows behind, easing him back to rest against the headboard. There was still a grimace on his face, but he masked it quickly with a nod, waving off his lingering concern. “I'm fine.”
Hosea didn't fully believe it, but he knew there was little point in arguing. “Alright then—I'll be back in a moment. Don't you try anything stupid, you hear?”
“Come on, Hosea,” he pleaded, “you know me.”
“I do—reason why I said what I said,” Hosea teased, ruffling his hair. Honestly, he wouldn't put it past Arthur to try and crawl out of the damn bed on his own. And truthfully he might—given enough time. These next few days would prove to be hell, he was sure, once Arthur got enough grit back into his demeanor. It'd be damn near impossible to keep him in bed.
Yet for now, Hosea was simply happy to see him up. He let his hand drop to rest on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. There was relief in seeing him awake, even if it was only just. Though, as worn as he looked, he probably wouldn't last long.
Best to get the stew then.
And hope that he was right about his assurances that Grimshaw hadn't poisoned it.