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Arthur - ever the dutiful uncle - often took little Jack on walks by the river, picking berries and gathering herbs. It was a quiet routine, one he found more peaceful than he’d ever admit. But one afternoon, as he turned his back for only a moment, a flash of movement caught his eye, Jack, in the water.
A panicked shout tore from Arthur’s throat as he bolted toward the riverbank, heart thundering in his chest. Abigail would kill him if anything happened to the boy, and honestly, he’d let her.
But the panic bled into a stunned sigh of relief as he slowed, watching the little tyke paddling through the water with ease, like he'd been born to it.
He had no idea whether Abigail could swim; but John? Christ, that was a whole different story. Man sank like a rock in molasses anytime he stepped in even the shallowest of water. He wouldn't be surprised if the fool ended up drowning in a puddle. Thank God Jack didn’t inherit that particular trait.
Arthur had more than a few memories of a younger John trailing beside him on jobs, always making damn sure to stick to the side furthest from any creek, river, pond, hell, even a muddy puddle. And, being the wonderful big brother figure he was, Arthur made it his personal mission to torment the poor kid. He’d scoop him up like a sack of potatoes, march toward the water, and yell, “Time for a bath, Marston!” while John screamed bloody murder.
Arthur wasn’t that cruel. Of course he helped John out of the water... Right after he watched him flail around like a half-drowned possum for a solid minute, sputtering and swearing like a sailor with soap in his mouth. Character building, he called it. John called it attempted murder.
Arthur would be doubled over laughing, and John? Well, he’d spend the rest of the day soggy, sulking, and swearing vengeance. Never came, though.
Well, seeing little Jack swimming like he was a sea animal gave Arthur a bright idea. Why not convince John to learn how to swim?
“Hell, Marston, even your four-year-old swims better than you! Kid’s out there doin’ laps like a damn trout, while you flop around in knee-deep water like someone tossed a hog in a bathtub!” Arthur cackled, hands on his knees, damn near wheezing. He kept at it until John finally caved, cheeks redder than a fire poker, grumbling under his breath like it might summon a flood just to shut Arthur up.
And there they were, standing at the edge of the Lannahechee River. Arthur wore a smug grin, arms relaxed, clearly enjoying himself. Beside him, John stood stiff as a fencepost, arms crossed tight, glaring at the water like it had personally offended him.
Arthur elbowed him with a grin that only grew wider. “Don’t worry, Marston. If ya start drownin’, just scream real loud in that high-pitched yelp you do. I’ll come fish you out... right after I stop laughin’.” He barely managed to hold back a snort, the corners of his mouth twitching.
John shot him a glare sharp enough to cut rope. “Shut yer damn mouth, Arthur,” he growled, but the red creeping up his neck gave him away.
Arthur just chuckled, hands on his hips. “Y’know, I think Jack should teach ya how to swim at this point.”
John muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Go to hell.”
John grumbled, rolling up his sleeves and stepping into the cold river with all the enthusiasm of a man walking into a battlefield. No, even less enthusiasm than that. He waded in until the water hit his waist, then took a deep breath and plunged forward.
But almost immediately, his strokes turned into a flailing mess, arms and legs thrashing like he was trying to fight off an invisible swarm of bees. Water sprayed everywhere, and John’s face twisted into a grimace somewhere between determination and outright panic.
Arthur didn’t hold back, laughing loud enough to carry across the river. “Look at that!”
John sputtered, swallowing more water than he wanted to admit, arms fighting the water... The shallow water. "Ar-" Words interrupted by yet another mouthful of fishy, salty water. "ARTHUR!" He managed to yell out, raspy and... uncharacteristically high-pitched.
Arthur took a long moment just watching, his cackles ringing out across the riverbank as he doubled over, barely able to catch his breath from laughing. Meanwhile, John was busy gasping for air, for all the wrong reasons, thanks to the river’s relentless assault. Well, as John would call it.
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” Arthur finally managed to wheeze, slogging through the water with his soaked jeans clinging like a second skin. “Christ...” he laughed, shaking his head at the sorry mess before him.
Arthur’s arms grabbed hold of John just before he went under again, somehow still thrashing like he was lost at sea in a harsh storm with no boat. Water splashed everywhere, John sputtering and kicking like a man fighting for his life.
Arthur nearly collapsed laughing, bent double in the shallows. “Put yer feet down, ya damn fool! It ain’t even deep enough to drown a dog!” he cackled.
John paused mid-flail, blinking through river water. He shifted, lowered his legs... and his boots hit solid ground. His head was still well above water.
The man panted, chest heaving with every breath as he glared up at Arthur, hair soaked, clothes clinging to his skin. "So much for teachin' me. Bastard." John breathed out, as he began trudging out of the water with Arthur helping him the few steps to shore.
Arthur smirked as they sloshed back onto dry land, water dripping off both of them. He planted his hands on his hips, eyeing the soaked, sulking mess beside him.“Well,” he drawled, “at least you’re consistent, still better at drownin’ than swimmin’.”
John shot him a soggy glare, looking like a wet dog that lost a fight. “Next time, I’m pickin’ the damn lake.”
“Yeah, and you'll still manage to nearly drown in a puddle on the way there.”