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The campfire crackled, breaking and crumbling as a long stick poked and prodded at its dying logs. The short fire danced around, smoke billowing out above it. Arthur sat a few feet away, resting his face in his palm and jabbing the logs absent-mindedly. He sighed, lost in thought. The muted sounds of the island clogged his ears, but he didn't pay attention. Not to the waves crashing on the beach, not to the lizards scuttling around his feet, not to the people shouting in the distance.
What's the point?
What are we doing?
We'll never get out of here.
Arthur couldn't help but think. These past few weeks had been more than exhausting, and he was losing his grip. He hadn't slept in what felt like years, but he couldn't. For whatever reason, his body wouldn't let him. Since he'd landed on this godforsaken island, he felt he hadn't so much as blinked.
That's not Dutch.
This is exhausting.
We're all going to die.
He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice another body had slid in next to him. So close their knees were touching, so close he could smell the whiskey and cigarette smoke on him. So close he could feel the heat emanating off his person, seeping into his own. He inhaled sharply, taking in the familiar feelings. He didn’t need to look up to know who was there.
"Hosea."
"Hi, Arthur,"
Arthur could see him out of the corner of his eye. His head was turned, facing him directly. He might’ve been smiling, but he didn't look back to check.
"You okay, son?"
Arthur sucked in a breath. There was a pressure in his chest, rising up to his throat. He choked it down, swallowing it. Burying it.
"M'fine." He mumbled, staring into the fire. His eyes flickered rapidly as he watched it dance, not being able to focus on any one thing for longer than a second. Hosea didn't say anything, choosing to stay quiet while he thought.
“Ain’t gotta lie to me, you know.” Hosea smiled, looking around.
“Ain’t lying.”
Hosea sighed, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. He chewed the inside of his cheek, staring into the fire.
“…Do you remember when you were younger, and you had those bouts of insomnia?" Hosea asked suddenly, procuring a stick of his own from beside the log. He poked the fire once or twice, and it made Arthur realize he'd stopped. He'd frozen, and he hadn't even noticed.
"Vaguely," Arthur groaned, ignoring the biting pain in the back of his head. Whether it was from sunstroke, or lack of sleep, or malnutrition he couldn’t tell. He felt a hand wrap around his shoulders, squeezing him securely. He sucked in a breath, trying to ignore how safe it made him feel. "What about it?"
"You'd act just like this. Only, you'd pretend to fall asleep first just so we'd get off your back. We’d get out of the way, and then you'd sneak over to the dead fire and try to bring it back all night," Hosea sighed, a glossy sheer over his eyes. "One of us would have to come get you."
"You. Never Dutch." Arthur interjected. There was a bitter taste on his tongue, one that had been coming up more and more as of late.
"...I'd sit with you all night. We'd talk about nothing until you fell asleep, and I'd carry you back to your tent."
"We talked about the horses. About Boadicea." Arthur smiled, recalling the fond memories. It had been so long since he even thought of his beautiful horse, how much he missed her. How much he missed this. Hosea.
"Yes, we did. Never about work, never about the jobs." Hosea smiled, the reflection of the fire dancing in his faded green eyes.
"It was nice." Arthur choked again, a solitary tear managing to slip out of his eye.
"It was." Hosea poked the fire, watching a log crumble completely. It exploded in a plume of cinders, the ash brushing up onto his boots.
"I'd fall asleep on you, wouldn't I?" Arthur chuckled, shaking his head.
"You would. You'd jump away from me the next morning before John woke up, just so he wouldn't tease you. I remember at one point I'd started to keep a blanket by the firepit in preparation."
"You'd complain about your back hurting the whole next day," Arthur chuckled again, his smile finally reaching his eyes. "You were blond back then."
"I couldn't pick you up without jostling you awake, I had to sit still all night! God, that was so bad for my bones," Hosea was laughing now too, smiling wide. "Ain't been blond in decades. You bastards stressed that right out of me."
"Everything was bad for your bones. You worried far too damn easily, too." Arthur rolled his eyes. He leaned into Hosea, subconsciously. Before he knew it, he had his head resting on the older man's shoulder, his face nosing into the fluffy collar of his hunting jacket. The hand around his shoulder was rubbing the skin soothingly, running his thumb in circles. It stung, since Arthur was sunburned all over, but he didn’t dare ask for it to stop.
Hosea chuckled sadly. He got quiet, and Arthur was about to ask him what was wrong when he spoke up. "Was."
"...Yeah. Was."
The two fell into silence. It wasn't comfortable, but it was comforting.
"I miss you, Hosea." Arthur angled his head, looking at Hosea properly for the first time this night. He looked at him like it was a sin, like he shouldn’t be doing it. Like if he looked away for even a second, the man would fade away and disappear again. He looked exactly the way he remembered, right down to the silver shine of his hair. Hosea looked back at him, eyes sunken and sorry. He was smiling, though. Soft, and gentle. Just how he used to look whenever Arthur sought him out for help.
"Oh, Arthur…" Hosea held him closer, wrapping a hand loosely around the the back of his head. His fingers played with the pale brown hair, dancing with the strands. He stayed quiet again, but Arthur was unsure if he couldn't think of anything to say or if he was just holding his tongue. "You need to sleep."
"Will you be here when I wake up?" Sheepishly, Arthur mumbled. His eyelids felt awkwardly heavy, but he fought to keep them open.
"I ain't even here now. I reckon you've finally lost it," Hosea tapped Arthur's forehead, but frowned when he realized his joke didn't land. "I'll always be here. You're stuck with this old man, remember?"
"That'd be nice."
"It is nice. I'll be here until the end, Arthur."
"You promise?"
"Of course I promise. Have I ever lied to you?"
Arthur snorted, chuckling. "All the damn time. That's what you do…did, remember? That's what you did."
"And I was the god-damn best at it." Hosea sighed, leaning back. He kept Arthur close, and Arthur didn't fight it. He leaned into the touch, smiling as his face scratched against the old fabric of his jacket. As he felt Hosea cough into his fist, trying to keep as quiet as possible. As the hand around his body squeezed tighter. As he finally let his eyes fall closed, and the familiar claws of sleep dig into him. He had no idea how long they’d been sitting like that, whether it was ten minutes or an hour. He didn’t care.
"Don't fight it, Arthur."
"Don't wanna….leave you…" Arthur mumbled, another tear slipping down his face. If he was fully awake, he thought he might be sobbing.
"Nonsense. I was always there when you woke up, wasn't I?"
"Is this a dream?" Arthur blurted out. His lower lip trembled, and he let it. He didn’t even feel it. Hosea just chuckled, holding him in place.
"It's whatever you want it to be, my boy."
“I want it to be real.” Arthur whispered, tears slipping unbidden from his eyes. He opened them again, and everything was blurry.
“Then it is,” Hosea took the stick in his hand again, testing its weight idly. He drew a small ‘x’ in the sand, right between his boots. He shifted so Arthur could see it, and then he put the stick down once again. “There. See? It’s real now. So sleep, you fool.”
Disdainfully, Arthur shut his eyes. He rested against Hosea, feeling his heartbeat through his chest. Or maybe, it was his own heartbeat pounding through his ears. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He was warm, he was safe, maybe he was even happy. He sat there listening to the older man hum softly, a tune he once knew but couldn't remember. He tried and tried, but the headache wouldn’t let him. The hand on his back brought him back to the edge of sleep, and he fell into it. Soon enough, he was snoring, and the fire had died.
—
"Arthur? Arthur!"
Arthur jolted awake, gasping as he did. His eyes bugged open, looking around for the voice. It came from behind him, but he looked only to his side. There was nobody there. Nothing but emptiness, echoed by the songs of the island. It was all flooding back to him now - the waves, the animals, the wind. The unfamiliarity.
He felt a hand on his back, shaking him awake and he turned. He didn't want to look, but he had no choice. The hand was burning him, but not in the same way it had before. This time it just hurt, with no ounce of comfort behind it,
"Are you alright? Look like you've seen a ghost." Dutch stood there, looking at Arthur with careful concern.
"I think…I was dreaming…" Arthur kept looking around, like Hosea would still be somewhere. He knew it was hopeless, that he was dead and it was impossible, that it wasn't much more than a hallucination. But still, he searched. He would've turned over the whole island if he had the energy. Dutch just followed him with his eyes, with an indecipherable look on his face. Arthur couldn’t tell if it was concern, or disgust.
"...Okay. Well, you're up now. Take a minute, and then come see me. Okay? Need to talk to you about our next move." Dutch clapped a hand on his shoulder once or twice, but it wasn't confident. It wasn't comforting, it wasn't familiar.
"Right…" Arthur groaned, looking down at his feet. The pounding at the base of his skull had returned, slow and steady like a heartbeat. He ignored Dutch as he walked away, and he thought he could faintly hear Micah behind him somewhere. He looked at the stick he held last night, his own footprints embedded in the sand. He saw the cinders and ash around the campfire, the blackened wood sitting alone in a circle. The empty spot on the log next to him. He whipped his head to the side, suddenly remembering and frantically searching for the ‘x’ in the sand. He crawled off the log and dropped to his knees, ignoring the popping of his joints. After being still for so long they screamed in protest, but they were ignored. He fisted at the sand, letting it fall through his hands as he clawed at it. He panted, eyes wide, lips parted. There, just where it should’ve been, was a small, faint marking of an ‘x’. Or maybe it was a rock, or a twig, or a mark he himself put there in his exhausted state. He was hit with a shiver, a cold sweat forming on his skin.
Hosea was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it.
It was too late.
Arthur stood up, the tears from before back now in his eyes. He knew Dutch was waiting for him, but he didn’t go to him. He walked off to his bedroll, not much more than a scrap of what it once was, and he threw his satchel onto it. He dropped to his knees, and started to dig through his belongings. It was a miracle his bag had even survived the wreckage, but it was all he had left. He threw papers and plants aside, all battered and ruined, looking for one thing. He held his breath until his fingers met with soft fabric, yanking it out. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Despite it all, he’d managed to save one thing. A scrap of red fabric from the bandana Hosea always wore. It was fading, and fraying at the seams where it had been ripped, but it was his. He wound it around his wrist, tying it so tightly he’d always be able to feel it. It cut off circulation a bit, but Arthur only revelled in the feeling.
The only thing about it was that he couldn’t remember when he picked it up - or how it even ended up in his possession in the first place.