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He's been coughing more, and more, and even more lately, his lungs crackling with the effort and throat rubbed raw with the motion.
He is going to die.
He had come to terms with the idea of dying years ago, before John even, but having to face it isn't the same as understanding.
Blood sprays into his hand as he tries to cover up the noise, no one wants to hear him cough, no one wants to acknowledge his mortality.
So he staggers out of camp, not too far, vultures might take him out sooner if he goes out unarmed. He keeps his hand over his mouth and prays the fit to end. He's never been much of a religious man and doesn’t believe there's much for him after he dies (not with the life he leads anyhow) but he still prays. Hopes.
His eyes are sore and God is he tired but the coughing continues, palm painted with blood, more than there was yesterday and the day before. He steadies himself on a tree, the wet bark almost comforting under his fingers.
The coughing stops and he stands there wheezing, bloodied hand clenched into a fist by his chest, he hopes he can get the others out if he can't help himself.
He is going to die.
Maybe if he says it more it’ll feel better, in whatever way it can. He thinks to Hosea, goddamn the plan they had.
He looks down at his hand and uncurls his fist to stare at the clotting blood staining his skin, maybe he can still fix it all.
A hand touches his shoulder and he thinks to reach for his gun but doesn't.
“You okay?” Charles .
Arthur lets himself be turned and lets Charles take his hand, wiping the blood away with a bandana, “‘m fine,” Arthur rasps, still out of breath.
“Hm,” is all the other man hums, hand stilling once the blood has been wiped away.
“I'm fine, really,” Arthur says, more firm.
Charles meets his eyes, hair undone and falling gracefully over his shoulders, “Arthur,” he says in that tone that Arthur finds so alluring, “you need to rest.”
Arthur scoffs, he doesn't rest, he can't rest, who will feed the camp? Who will clear out raiders? But Charles stares at him, expression unwavering and it makes Arthur look down where his hand sits between them, and dried blood sticks between his fingers, “I know.”
Charles takes his hand and brushes hair from Arthur’s cheek, thumb brushing away the blood that sits under his lip.
Arthur thinks he's going to kiss him, the hesitation in his movements and the way his eyes flicker down, he's going to kiss me . For a moment he forgets everything, and wishes more than anything for Charles to kiss him, but it's too risky. Maybe he'll get sick too, or maybe he just isn’t tainted like Arthur is, mind or soul.
Charles clears his throat and looks away and Arthur wants to beg him for a kiss goodbye because they won't get the chance again, “let’s get you something to eat.” as if he’ll be able to keep it down.
Arthur nods regardless and follows a few steps behind Charles, staring at the drop of blood on the tip of his boot.
He is going to die.