Idk

The air in the Shady Belle camp was thick with the humidity of the Lemoyne swamps and the mounting tension of a job gone sideways. It had been a simple stagecoach robbery—or as simple as anything ever was with Dutch van der Linde’s grand ambitions. But the law had been waiting, and the sound of gunfire had echoed through the cypress trees like a rhythmic death knell.

When the horses finally galloped into the clearing of the camp, the silence that followed was deafening. Arthur Morgan was slumped over the pommel of his saddle, his face a ghostly shade of grey that clashed violently with the dark, wet crimson soaking through his duster.

Before the horse had even come to a full stop, Hosea Matthews was off the porch of the manor. He didn’t run with the frantic energy of the younger men; he moved with a terrifying, sharp-eyed focus that cut through the chaos like a razor.

"Arthur!" Dutch shouted, stepping forward to grab the reins. "Son, talk to me."

But Hosea was already there, his lean frame pushing past Bill and Javier with a strength that belied his age. His hands, usually steady and rhythmic when cleaning a rifle or turning the pages of a book, were trembling as they reached for Arthur’s waist.

"Get him down," Hosea commanded. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a jagged edge that stopped everyone in their tracks. "Carefully! If you drop him, I’ll kill you myself."

Bill Smith looked taken aback by the venom in the older man’s tone. "Easy, Hosea. We got him."

"I said carefully!" Hosea snapped, his brown eyes flashing with a predatory fire.

As they lowered Arthur to the ground, the big man let out a ragged, wet groan. His green eyes fluttered open, unfocused and clouded with pain. He looked up, his gaze searching through the crowd of concerned faces until it landed on Hosea.

"Hosea..." Arthur whispered, blood bubbling slightly at the corner of his mouth.

"I’m here, Arthur. I’m right here," Hosea murmured. He dropped to his knees in the dirt, heedless of his good trousers. He took Arthur’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking the stubble on Arthur's jaw with a familiarity that made Miss Grimshaw pause in her tracks.

"Dutch, get the medical kit! Abigail, boiling water and clean rags, now!" Hosea’s orders were barks, leaving no room for the usual democratic debate of the camp.

"Hosea, maybe we should let Swanson—" Dutch started, reaching out a hand to touch Hosea’s shoulder.

Hosea whirled around, his teeth bared. "Swanson is drunk or praying, and neither will pull a bullet out of his lung. Get away from him, Dutch. You’ve done enough."

The camp went silent. No one spoke to Dutch like that. But Hosea didn't seem to care about the hierarchy or the eyes of the gang members watching them. He turned back to Arthur, his expression shifting instantly from rage to a heartbreaking tenderness.

"You’re going to be fine, you big fool," Hosea whispered, leaning in so close their foreheads touched. "You hear me? You aren't leaving me behind."

Arthur tried to chuckle, but it turned into a hacking cough. "Stubborn... old man."

"Damn right," Hosea breathed.

They moved him to a cot under the shade of the large oak tree near the water. Hosea refused to let anyone else touch the wound. When Charles offered to help, Hosea nearly snarled at him before catching himself. He was hovering, his body positioned like a shield between Arthur and the rest of the world.

As Hosea cut away Arthur's shirt, revealing the jagged hole just below the collarbone, the camp watched from a distance. There was a shift in the atmosphere. It wasn't just the worry for a brother; it was the realization of the intimacy unfolding before them. The way Hosea’s hands lingered on Arthur’s skin, the way he leaned down to whisper reassurances into Arthur’s ear that weren't meant for anyone else to hear.

"Hosea," Mary-Beth said softly, stepping forward with a bowl of water. "Let me help. You’re shaking."

"I am not shaking," Hosea lied, his hands visibly vibrating as he held the forceps. He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at Arthur, who had passed out from the pain. "I just... I can't let him go, Mary-Beth."

"We know," she said, her voice full of a sudden, sad understanding. "We see it."

Hosea looked up, his brown eyes scanning the camp. He saw Dutch standing by the campfire, watching them with a furrowed brow and an unreadable expression. He saw John and Abigail holding each other, their eyes wide. He saw the realization dawning on all of them. The secret they had kept for years—through the cold nights in the mountains and the long rides across the plains—was bleeding out in the dirt along with Arthur’s lifeblood.

Hosea turned back to Arthur, his jaw setting in defiance. He didn't care. If the world had to know so that Arthur could live, then the world would simply have to deal with it.

"He’s losing too much," Hosea muttered, his voice cracking. "Arthur, damn you, stay with me. Stay with me, please."

Hours passed in a blur of copper-smelling steam and the metallic tang of blood. Hosea worked with a singular, desperate focus. He didn't eat, didn't drink, and didn't move from Arthur’s side even when his old knees began to ache and protest. He cleaned the wound, extracted the lead, and stitched the skin with the precision of a master tailor.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the swamp in shades of bruised purple and gold, Arthur’s breathing finally stabilized. It was shallow, but rhythmic.

Hosea sat on a small stool by the cot, his head bowed, holding Arthur’s large, calloused hand in both of his own. He was pressing Arthur’s knuckles to his lips, closing his eyes in a silent prayer to a God he hadn't spoken to in decades.

"Hosea?"

It was Dutch. He had approached quietly, his boots soft on the grass. He stood a few feet away, looking down at his two oldest friends.

Hosea didn't look up. He didn't let go of Arthur’s hand. "He’s sleeping. The fever hasn't taken hold yet, but he’s strong. He’ll make it."

Dutch was silent for a long moment. "You should have told me, Hosea. All these years."

Hosea let out a dry, tired laugh. "And say what, Dutch? That the two enforcers of your grand vision were finding a different kind of peace in each other's arms? You always talk about loyalty, about family. This is my family. He is my heart."

Dutch sighed, a sound of genuine weariness. "I ain't judging. I’m just... I’m surprised I didn't see it. The way you look at him when he rides into camp. The way he listens to you when he won't listen to a soul else."

"It wasn't for you to see," Hosea said, finally looking up. His eyes were red-rimmed and fierce. "It was ours. And if you think this changes his standing, or mine, or how we operate—"

"It changes nothing," Dutch interrupted, raising a hand. "He’s my son. You’re my brother. If he makes you happy in this hellish world, then I am glad for it."

Dutch turned to leave, but paused. "Get some sleep, Hosea. You look like you’re about to fall over."

"I’m staying right here," Hosea replied, his tone final.

The camp settled into a hushed evening. The usual rowdiness was replaced by a quiet respect. People walked softly past the oak tree. Lenny brought over a plate of stew, which Hosea ignored. Pearson brought a blanket, which Hosea draped over Arthur’s legs.

Around midnight, Arthur stirred. A low moan escaped his lips, and his fingers twitched in Hosea’s grasp.

"Arthur? Arthur, I’m here," Hosea said instantly, leaning forward.

Arthur’s eyes cracked open. The green was clearer now, though still glazed with exhaustion. He looked at Hosea, then looked down at their joined hands, then looked out at the camp where the fire was dying down.

"They know?" Arthur croaked, his voice barely a shadow.

Hosea wiped a smudge of dirt from Arthur’s forehead. "I believe the cat is well and truly out of the bag, dear boy. I may have been a bit... vocal in my concern."

Arthur managed a weak, lopsided smirk. "Old mother hen."

"Keep talking like that and I’ll poke you in your stitches," Hosea threatened, though his eyes were shining with tears of relief. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to Arthur’s brow. "You terrified me, Arthur. Don't you ever do that again."

Arthur squeezed Hosea’s hand back, his grip surprisingly firm despite his injury. "Nowhere to go, Hosea. You’re stuck with me."

"I certainly hope so," Hosea whispered. He settled back into his chair, refusing to let go, watching over the man he loved as the stars wheeled slowly over the Lemoyne sky. The secret was gone, lost to the blood and the panic of the afternoon, but as Hosea watched Arthur’s chest rise and fall, he realized the weight he had been carrying was gone, too. For the first time in a long time, he could breathe as easily as the man sleeping before him.