Idk

The air in the Grizzlies was thin enough to make a man’s lungs ache, tasting of pine resin and the iron scent of oncoming snow. Arthur Morgan didn't mind the cold; he had enough meat on his bones to weather a frost, but he minded the silence. It was the kind of silence that usually preceded a gunshot or a landslide.

Beside him, Hosea Matthews shifted in his saddle. The older man looked lean—perilously so in the winter light—his grey hair peeking out from under a worn hat. His brown eyes, usually sharp enough to dissect a man’s intentions from fifty yards, were clouded with a fatigue he was trying very hard to hide.

"You're swaying, Hosea," Arthur said, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the crunch of hooves on frozen dirt.

"I am merely admiring the scenery, Arthur. It’s a rare thing to see the peaks this clear," Hosea replied. His voice was raspy, thinner than it had been when they left Colter that morning.

"You’ve been admiring the scenery for three miles with your eyes shut. We should’ve let Charles take this scout."

Hosea offered a faint, weary smile. "Charles is busy helping Dutch with the scouts to the south. Besides, I enjoy the company."

Arthur felt that familiar tug in his chest—the one he kept buried under layers of leather, denim, and a curated gruffness. He and Hosea had been dancing this dance for years, a secret rhythm kept in the quiet moments between the chaos of the gang. It was a silver thread woven through the rough fabric of their lives, known only to them.

The peace broke with the sharp crack of a dry branch.

It wasn't a lawman or an O’Driscoll. It was a mountain lion, a blur of tawny fur and primal hunger launching itself from a rocky overhang. It didn't go for Arthur; it went for the smaller target.

Hosea’s horse, Silver Dollar, reared in a blind panic. Hosea, caught off guard and weakened by the cold, lost his seat. He hit the ground hard, the cat landing inches from him, hissing with bared teeth.

Arthur didn't think. He didn't have time to. He drew his Schofield and fired three rounds in rapid succession. The beast slumped, its momentum carrying it over Hosea’s legs before it went still.

"Hosea!" Arthur vaulted off his horse before it had even fully stopped.

He scrambled through the slush, dropping to his knees beside the older man. Hosea was pale, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. His right leg was pinned under the weight of the dead cougar, and his shoulder was twisted at an angle that made Arthur’s stomach turn.

"I’m... I’m fine, son," Hosea wheezed, though his eyes were squeezed shut in agony.

"Don't you 'son' me," Arthur snapped, his hands shaking as he heaved the carcass off Hosea. "You're bleeding. Goddammit, Hosea."

He didn't care about being seen. He didn't care about the scout. He stripped off his heavy coat and wrapped it around Hosea, his movements frantic but strangely tender. He checked the wound on Hosea’s side where the cat’s claws had raked through the wool and skin.

"We gotta get you back," Arthur muttered, more to himself than anyone. "We gotta get you back right now."

The ride back to the camp at Colter was a blurred nightmare of white wind and Hosea’s stifled groans. Arthur kept him hitched to his own saddle, one arm looped firmly around Hosea’s waist to keep him upright. He pressed his face into the back of Hosea’s neck, whispering curses and prayers into the grey hair, terrified by how cold the man felt.

When they broke through the treeline into the makeshift camp, Arthur didn't wait for a greeting.

"Get Miss Grimshaw!" Arthur roared, his voice echoing off the derelict wooden buildings. "Dutch! Get out here!"

The camp erupted. Dutch Van der Linde stepped out of the main cabin, his face etched with concern that quickly turned to alarm as he saw the state of his oldest friend.

"Arthur? What happened?" Dutch hurried over, reaching up to help.

Arthur didn't let him. He swatted Dutch’s hand away with a ferocity that stunned the leader of the gang. "Back off, Dutch! I got him. Get the bed ready. Get the whiskey and the bandages!"

Arthur slid off his horse, catching Hosea’s dead weight in his arms. He carried him like a child, his broad shoulders hunched protectively over the lean frame.

Inside the cabin, the light was dim and smelling of woodsmoke. Arthur laid Hosea down on the cot, his hands never leaving the man’s shoulders. Susan Grimshaw approached with a basin of water, but Arthur didn't move.

"Arthur, move aside so I can see to him," Susan said firmly.

"I'll do it," Arthur growled.

"You're shaking like a leaf in a gale," she countered, trying to nudge him. "Let me work."

"I said I'll do it!" Arthur turned on her, his green eyes flashing with a raw, terrifying desperation. "Nobody touches him but me. You just bring the supplies."

The room went dead silent. Dutch, Bill, and Lenny were standing by the door, watching the scene with growing confusion. Arthur Morgan was the gang’s enforcer, their rock, their stoic soldier. He was never this unraveled.

Dutch stepped forward, his voice lowering into that soothing, manipulative tone he used to settle a spooked horse. "Arthur, son... you’re exhausted. You’ve done well. Let Susan help him. You need to sit down."

Arthur didn't even look at him. He was kneeling by the bed, dipping a rag into the water and gently dabbing the blood from Hosea’s temple. His thumb brushed against Hosea’s cheekbone in a gesture so intimate, so inherently loving, that the air in the room seemed to shift.

"I ain't leaving him," Arthur whispered, his voice cracking. "I can't. Not again."

Hosea stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He looked up at Arthur, his hand trembling as he reached out to grasp Arthur’s forearm. "Arthur... easy now. They're just trying to help."

"They don't know how to look after you," Arthur muttered, his bravado crumbling into something much more vulnerable. "They don't see when you're fading. I see it. I always see it."

Hosea pulled Arthur’s hand toward his face, pressing his tired brow against Arthur’s knuckles. "I know. I know you do."

The silence that followed was heavy with realization. Dutch looked from Arthur to Hosea, his eyebrows knitting together as the pieces of a decade-long puzzle finally clicked into place. The shared glances across the campfire, the way they always scouted together, the quiet murmurs in the dead of night—it wasn't just the bond of a mentor and a protégé.

"My God," Bill Williamson blurted out, his mouth hanging open. "Are you two...?"

Arthur stiffened, his hand tightening around Hosea’s. He looked over his shoulder, the look on his face a warning to anyone who dared to utter a word of judgment. He looked like a wolf guarding a wounded mate.

"If any of you got something to say," Arthur said, his voice dangerously low, "say it now. Or shut your mouths and get out so he can rest."

Dutch cleared his throat, his expression unreadable for a moment before he smoothed it into a mask of calm. "There is nothing to be said, Arthur. We are a family. We look after our own." He looked at the others, a silent command in his eyes. "Everyone out. Give them space."

One by one, the others filed out. Susan lingered for a moment, setting a bottle of medicinal tonic and a stack of clean rags on the small bedside table. She placed a motherly hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and for once, he didn't pull away.

"He’s tough, Arthur," she whispered. "He’ll be alright. But you need to breathe, or you’ll be the one falling over next."

When the door finally clicked shut, the cabin fell back into its quiet rhythm. The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing long, dancing shadows against the walls.

Arthur let out a long, shuddering breath and slumped against the side of the bed. He buried his face in the mattress near Hosea’s hip.

"You're an old fool," Arthur choked out.

Hosea’s fingers drifted into Arthur’s blonde hair, stroking the strands with a tenderness that made Arthur’s eyes sting. "And you're a very loud one. I believe you just told the whole world our business."

"I don't care about the world," Arthur said, lifting his head. "I thought... when that cat jumped... I thought that was it. I ain't ready for that, Hosea. I ain't ever gonna be ready for that."

Hosea reached up, his thumb tracing the line of Arthur’s jaw. Despite the pain etched into his features, his gaze was warm and steady. "We’ve had more time than men like us deserve, Arthur. Every day is a gift I didn't expect to receive."

"Then stop trying to give it back by being stubborn," Arthur replied, though the bite was gone from his tone. He picked up the bottle of tonic. "Drink this. All of it."

Hosea made a face but allowed Arthur to lift his head and tip the liquid down his throat. He coughed, leaning back into the pillows with a sigh. "Dutch knows now. Things will be different."

"Let 'em be different," Arthur said firmly. He began to unbutton Hosea’s blood-soaked shirt to properly dress the wounds on his ribs. "I'm tired of hiding it anyway. Tired of acting like you’re just some old man I happen to work with. You're more than that. You're everything."

Hosea watched him, his brown eyes soft with a mixture of pride and sorrow. "You always were a terrible liar, Arthur Morgan. Except when it came to this."

"I did it for you. To keep you safe. People find a weakness, they use it," Arthur muttered, focusing intently on the bandage he was winding around Hosea’s torso.

"I am not a weakness," Hosea said, his voice gaining a flicker of its usual strength. "And neither are you. We are the only thing in this life that is actually real. Dutch and his dreams... the law... the money... it’s all smoke. This? This is the only thing that has ever been solid."

Arthur finished the bandage and tucked the end in. He sat on the edge of the cot, mindful of Hosea’s injuries, and took the older man’s hand in both of his. He pressed a kiss to the weathered palm, his eyes closing.

"I love you, Hosea."

The words were rarely spoken aloud, usually kept for the dark hours when the rest of the world felt miles away. Saying them now, in the middle of a cold afternoon with the gang just outside the door, felt like a revolution.

Hosea squeezed his hand. "I know, Arthur. I’ve known since you were a boy with more heart than sense. And I love you."

Arthur stayed there for a long time, watching the rise and fall of Hosea’s chest as the tonic began to take hold and pull him into a healing sleep. Outside, he could hear the muffled sounds of the camp—the horses, the wind, the low murmur of voices. They would talk, he knew. They would wonder and whisper.

But as he looked down at Hosea, who looked peaceful despite the bruises and the blood, Arthur realized he didn't feel the weight he had expected. The secret had been a heavy thing, a stone carried in his pocket for years. Now that it was dropped, he felt lighter.

He reached over and blew out the lamp, the darkness wrapping around them like a shroud. He didn't leave. He wouldn't leave until the sun came up, and perhaps not even then.

For the first time in a long time, Arthur Morgan wasn't just a soldier for a cause he was starting to doubt. He was a man holding onto the only truth he had left, and for now, that was enough to keep the cold at bay.