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Arthur had been on his way back from huntin’ with Hamish, half lost in his thoughts, when he’d been dragged out of his mind by the fields of Ambarino flowers and had raced back down to the mud of the bayou in a fit of madness. He’s hitchin’ up outside of camp, peppermint already in hand by the time his dusty boots hit the ground, ready to make an apology to his horse. Like Josiah’s wife is to him, Rhiannon is far too good to Arthur.
Fits of madness - he’s been havin’ them more recently, since the night on the river boat. He’s been pressin’ plantain lillies and cornflowers in the pages of his journal, pullin’ out his camera every hour to capture a bird in a roll of film, hummin’ along to every song he hears.
And it’s all Trelawny’s goddamn fault.
He catches Josiah around the fire, talking to Javier, who shoots him a grateful look as he pulls the man into the early evening sunshine next to the fountain. He’s holding his hand behind his back and is dredging up the courage to talk.
“Are you quite alright, my dear? You look like you’ve been spending a little too much time with the sun today, and may want to find an aloe plant to ease any stinging from the burn.”
Somewhere in the cold stone of his heart, there’s a root pushing its way through, weak and insistent. It’ll grow on nothing but air and Josiah watering it with his kindness, like the tillandsias of Mexico.
"I, uh-" he blushes furiously, then thrusts out the handful of flowers, tied hastily with a piece of fraying twine. It’s a vivid riot of color - red poppies, wild daisies and violet snowdrops, simple but vibrant. There's earth on his skin and the stems are slightly crushed from how tightly he’d held them on the ride down to the bayou, desperate not to lose them or have them wilt in his satchel. “I saw these, up near O’Creagh’s Run, and I thought you’d… like them, but now it just seems kinda stupid, and-”
“Arthur,” Josiah cuts in, smiling. “I think they’re lovely.”
He reaches out and plucks the small bouquet from Arthur’s hands, holding them up to his face and breathing in. Delight is a good look on Josiah - suffused with light, eyes sparkling and mouth upturned - and he’d do anything to keep him draped in joy.
Josiah takes a poppy and slides it behind Arthur’s ear, the petals soft as they brush across his skin. He keeps his hand there, just grazing his ear.
“I think you’re lovely,” he says, caressing his cheekbone with his knuckles. Then he tilts his head, playful. “May I borrow your camera?”
There’s a seed that’s being watered, a tender green shoot burrowing into the stone.
“Sure,” Arthur says, so mellow he’d have agreed to anything, pulling the small machine out of his satchel. He passes it to Josiah, careful to keep himself still so the flower won’t fall.
As he’s adjusting the settings, he asks, “Do you know the meanings of these flowers, my dear?”
Arthur laughs. “Do I look like I know nature symbolism?”
“I think you’d surprise me with what you know,” Josiah muses.
A tiny flower unfurls and begins to bloom, delicate and defiant.
“Well… maybe I’ve read a book about it once or twice, but I didn’t pick these for their meanings - I just thought you’d like the colors,” Arthur says, almost bashfully, looking down at the grass. He’s always loved learning about the natural world that blossoms around him.
Josiah smiles again. “And I most certainly do! It’s very thoughtful of you, not to mention how swiftly you must have ridden back!”
“Ah, it was nothin’,” Arthur says. “I wanted to repay you for the river boat.”
“It’s a wonderful gift.” Josiah takes one of the violet snowdrops and slides it into one of his jacket’s button-holes. “If I recall correctly, the snowdrop symbolises hope and perseverance through challenges, although I’d say your current situation is somewhat more than challenging.”
He holds up the camera and Arthur’s suddenly self-conscious, feeling like a prize idiot. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands or his face - he’s too awkward, too clumsy, like a baby deer learnin' to walk on shaky legs, and he's too nervous about the camp around them - anyone could look over and see how stupid he is.
Josiah steps into his space and lowers his voice, speaking quietly. “Why don’t we go and stand by that tree? It would be a marvellous backdrop, don’t you think?”
Arthur nods, grateful. Why was he ever ashamed of how clearly Josiah could see through him?
They make their way over to one of the cypress trees towering over the lake, rounding it so they’d be hidden from the camp’s view. Josiah gently pushes him against the trunk with a hand on his chest. Arthur goes willingly, letting his shoulders be pressed against the bark. He folds his arms behind his back, palms flat against the tree, the sensation of woody fibers biting into his skin grounding him in the moment.
“Now cross your legs at the knee, and look towards the sunset,” Josiah says.
Arthur does as he’s told - always been good at that - and faces the golden sky, sunlight almost blinding him. He waits for a few heartbeats, then hears the click of the camera but doesn’t turn back because Josiah hasn’t said he’s allowed to yet.
Josiah’s voice is warm as he takes hold of Arthur’s jaw and tilts his face towards him. “That’s beautiful, Arthur. I will cherish these flowers and think of you each time I see them."
The stone cracks wide open and ferns spill out into his chest, verdant and green. Maybe their roots will soak up all the blood in his lungs.
Weeks later, Josiah kneels in the earth and places a poppy on Arthur’s grave. It’s deeply, morbidly red, and it’ll die in time - something that Arthur never had enough of. But… perhaps that had been for the best. Seeing who his friends had rotted and wilted into would have killed him if the sickness hadn’t first.
Josiah lays his hand on the wooden cross, and holds the photograph tight - Arthur, alive and peaceful, bathed in sunlight beneath the cypress tree.