Requested by the wonderful ohmycottonsocks on wattpad, who said: hmmmm i got a lil idea, you don't have to do it though of course if you don't want to! skipping way on to chapter six, maybe arthur could tell the reader of his sickness. one thing that annoyed me in the main story is nobody really noticed arthur's health get worse (except for micah and the npc's in the towns), and arthur never made an effort to tell anyone- excluding rains fall of course (i have played it once so excuse me if i'm wrong). the reader can be lover or friend, but i'd love to see your interpretation of arthur confiding such information to someone. it can be on his own terms or the reader takes notice of the disease, or even both. probably wouldn't request something so sad but it's one factor of the game i hate. i realise everyone in the gang had their own issues and arthur doesn't really make a fuss of himself to everybody else but it would still be interesting to have seen, y'know?
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In which you realize that not looking back is a very difficult promise to keep.
It nearly dawns on morning when your lover returns. Arthur's drained, shoulders slouched, scruff longer than he normally keeps it. Red stains the corners of his mouth.
Blood.
You dread to think about what he's done, seen, and been through in the past few hours — asking about it would be putting him through that torture all over again. Some things are better left unsaid, for his sake.
With a stifled cough into his sleeve and unsteady steps, he makes his way to your cot. It reminds you that whatever condition he's in, it's not only out of your control, but also not within your knowledge. Whatever he has, Arthur has refrained from telling you about it — and that doesn't bear any good news. The poor man has to brace himself against his caravan to not tip over from sheer exhaustion.
You sit up, smile at him gently. He's surprised, almost looks sorry to have disturbed you, but you interrupt his thoughts with a whispered 'hello' before his self-dread returns. You don't look angry, he realizes. Just relieved and happy.
When you offer your hand as support, he refuses it, plops down beside you on his own.
"You didn't even take off your boots, cowboy." There's no sign of reproach in your voice, it's just an observation. The look on his face tells you he's well aware of that — but that he can't possibly muster the willpower to do anything other than lay down.
He's dead on his feet, working himself into the ground. You don't know for what exactly, and part of you fears he doesn't either. His loyalty to Dutch has ceased being unwavering, and yet he follows his leader blindly. You fear it's more out of habit than sensibility.
"I know, I just need a—" Arthur gets interrupted by another coughing fit, which he can't hold back anymore. "Just need a...second. Mayb' a minute."
You nod, understanding, then move to leave the bed. Tiptoeing comes naturally to you, even more so over the bearskin rug, to the other side of the tent. A washbasin, a washcloth and Arthur's water flask is all you need — not like you have many other things at hand anyways.
