Sickfic

The humidity of Lemoyne was a heavy, wet blanket that refused to let anyone in Shady Belle draw a clean breath. For Arthur Morgan, it was worse. It wasn't just the swamp air; it was the fire burning beneath his skin and the way his lungs felt like they were being scraped with rusted iron. He had tried to hide it for three days, playing the part of the stoic enforcer, but the coughing fits were becoming harder to stifle, and his knees had started to buckle when he thought no one was looking.

He sat on the edge of his cot in the room he shared with John, his head buried in his hands. Every pulse in his temples felt like a hammer strike. He knew he should stay put, but a primal, aching need was overriding his common sense. He didn't want medicine, and he didn't want sleep. He wanted Hosea.

In the quiet, unspoken years of their relationship, Arthur had learned that Hosea Matthews was the only anchor that kept him from drifting into the dark. They were careful—painfully so. A lingering look over a campfire, a hand resting a second too long on a shoulder when the camp was asleep, the shared "scouting trips" that lasted a day longer than necessary. But the fever was melting Arthur’s iron-clad discipline.

Arthur stood up, swaying as the world tilted on its axis. He stumbled out of the room and onto the landing, his boots heavy on the floorboards.

Downstairs, the gang was congregated in the main hall. Dutch was leaning over a map with Bill and Javier, their voices low and urgent. Miss Grimshaw was barking orders at Mary-Beth near the crates. Hosea was seated at the small dining table, spectacles perched on his nose as he cleaned his silver-plated revolvers.

Arthur didn't care who saw. He didn't care about the plan or the Pinkertons. He just needed to be near the heat that wasn't a sickness.

"Arthur?" Dutch looked up, his brow furrowing. "You look like death warmed over, son. I told you to get some rest."

Arthur didn't answer. He didn't even look at Dutch. His bleary green eyes were locked onto Hosea. He lurched across the room, his gait uneven. When he reached the table, he didn't sit in the empty chair. Instead, he leaned heavily against Hosea’s side, his large frame nearly knocking the older man over.

Hosea froze, a cleaning rag mid-swipe. "Arthur? What are you doing?"

Arthur let out a low, ragged groan and tucked his face into the crook of Hosea’s neck, his hot breath ghosting over the older man’s collar. His broad shoulders shook as he practically draped himself over Hosea, his arms seeking purchase around the man’s waist.

"Hosea," Arthur mumbled, the name thick and slurred. "Cold. So cold."

The room went silent. Bill stopped mid-sentence, his jaw dropping. Javier’s hand stayed frozen on his holster. Dutch stood up slowly, his expression shifting from concern to utter bewilderment.

"Arthur, move back," Hosea whispered, his voice tight with a mixture of panic and protective instinct. He tried to gently push Arthur’s chest, but the younger man only gripped him tighter, burying his face deeper into Hosea’s waistcoat.

"No," Arthur grunted, a stubborn, childish sound that no one had ever heard from the gang’s most feared gunman. "Stay."

"Is he... is he drunk?" Bill asked, looking around for a whiskey bottle.

"He’s burning up," Hosea said, his voice losing its edge of caution as he felt the heat radiating through Arthur’s shirt. He gave up on the pretense of pushing him away and instead wrapped an arm around Arthur’s broad back to keep him from sliding onto the floor. "He’s got a hell of a fever."

"I see that," Dutch said, walking over with his hands on his hips. "But Hosea, he’s... he’s clinging to you like a lost pup. Arthur, let go of the man and let us get you to bed."

Arthur’s response was to tighten his hold, his fingers bunching the fabric of Hosea’s coat. "Don't go. Hosea, please."

The desperation in Arthur’s voice sent a ripple of shock through the room. This wasn't just delirium; there was a familiarity in the way Arthur sought comfort, a practiced ease in the way his body fitted against Hosea’s lean frame, even in his sickness.

Miss Grimshaw stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she looked between the two men. She had lived a long time and seen much. "He isn't just sick, Dutch. He’s looking for home."

Hosea sighed, a sound of total defeat. He looked up at Dutch, his brown eyes weary and filled with a sudden, defiant honesty. He stopped trying to peel Arthur off and instead rested his cheek against Arthur’s blonde hair.

"It’s alright, Arthur. I’m here," Hosea murmured, his voice dropping into a register of tenderness that made John Marston, who had just walked into the room, stop dead in his tracks.

"What the hell is going on?" John asked, looking at his brother-in-arms practically sitting in the old man's lap.

"Arthur’s sick," Javier said quietly, his eyes wide. "And apparently... they’ve been keeping secrets."

Dutch looked like he had been slapped. He paced a small circle, his boots clicking sharply on the wood. "Secrets? In my camp? Hosea, you want to explain why our lead enforcer is acting like you’re his wife?"

Hosea didn't flinch. He began to rub slow, soothing circles into Arthur’s back, ignoring the audience. "He’s delirious, Dutch. He doesn't know what he’s doing."

"The hell he doesn't," Susan snapped, though her voice wasn't unkind. "He knew exactly which chair to go to. And you knew exactly how to hold him."

Arthur let out a wet, hacking cough that shook his entire body. He whimpered—a sound that broke Hosea’s heart—and tightened his grip until Hosea winced. "Hosea... make it stop. Everything hurts."

"I know, son. I know," Hosea whispered, kissing the top of Arthur’s head. It was a natural, instinctive gesture, born of years of private affection, and as soon as he did it, he saw Dutch’s eyes bulge.

"Hosea!" Dutch barked.

"Be quiet, Dutch!" Hosea snapped back, his voice cracking like a whip. "He’s sick. Truly sick. I’ve been trying to get him to see a doctor in Saint Denis for a week, but he’s as stubborn as a mule. Now, either help me get him upstairs or get out of the way."

Dutch opened his mouth to argue, to demand an explanation for the years of deception, but he looked at Arthur—pale, sweating, and trembling—and the anger seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a heavy, confused silence.

"Bill, Javier, help him," Dutch commanded softly.

As the two men stepped forward, Arthur sensed the intrusion. He growled, a low, predatory sound, and tried to pull Hosea closer. "No. Leave 'im. My Hosea."

The confirmation hit the room like a physical weight. "My Hosea."

Bill looked at Javier, who simply shrugged and reached for Arthur’s arm. "Come on, Arthur. We’re just getting you to the bed. Hosea’s coming too."

It took three of them to pry Arthur away. He fought them with a fever-dream strength, reaching out for Hosea’s hand until their fingers locked. Hosea didn't let go. He walked alongside them, his face set in a grim mask of concern, ignoring the stares of the rest of the gang.

They got him into the bed in the upstairs room. Arthur immediately grabbed Hosea’s sleeve, pulling him down until the older man was forced to sit on the edge of the mattress.

"Don't leave," Arthur wheezed, his eyes half-closed but fixed on Hosea’s face.

"I’m staying right here, Arthur. I promise," Hosea said. He took a basin of water from Miss Grimshaw, who had followed them up with a tray of medicines and cloths.

Susan looked at Hosea, then at Arthur, and then back again. She sighed, shaking her head. "I should have known. All those 'hunting trips.' You two are the worst liars I’ve ever met."

"We weren't trying to lie, Susan," Hosea said softly, wringing out a cloth. "We were just trying to survive."

"In this life? I suppose I understand," she muttered, though she didn't look entirely convinced. She turned to the door. "I’ll keep the others away. Dutch is downstairs pacing a hole in the floor. He feels like he’s lost his two best friends to a conspiracy."

"He’ll get over it," Hosea said, placing the cool cloth on Arthur’s forehead.

Arthur let out a long, shuddering sigh at the touch. The coolness seemed to ground him for a moment. He reached up, his large, calloused hand trembling as he cupped Hosea’s cheek. "They know?"

Hosea smiled sadly, leaning into the touch. "Yes, Arthur. They know. You weren't exactly subtle."

Arthur closed his eyes, a ghost of a smirk touching his cracked lips. "Good. Tired of hidin'."

"Me too, dear boy. Me too," Hosea whispered.

Downstairs, the atmosphere was electric. The gang had gathered in small clusters, whispering furiously.

"I mean, I knew they were close," Lenny said, leaning against a pillar. "But that... that was something else."

"It explains a lot," John said, sitting by the fire and staring into the flames. "Why Hosea always defends him. Why Arthur gets so quiet when Hosea is sick. I feel like an idiot for not seeing it."

"It’s unnatural," Bill grumbled, though there was no real venom in it, just confusion. "Two grown men, especially them two..."

"Shut up, Bill," Charles said firmly from the corner. "It’s none of your business. If they found some peace in this hell, who are we to judge?"

Dutch was leaning against the mantle, his cigar unlit in his hand. He looked up as Miss Grimshaw descended the stairs. "How is he?"

"Fever’s high, but he’s resting," she replied, wiping her hands on her apron. "Hosea’s with him. He won't let anyone else near."

Dutch nodded slowly. "I’ve known them both for over twenty years, Susan. Twenty years. And I never... I never suspected."

"Maybe you weren't looking, Dutch," she said pointedly. "You’ve always been more interested in your own vision than the people right in front of you."

Dutch flinched but didn't argue. He looked up the stairs, the shadows of the old mansion playing across his face. "What happens now?"

"Now? We let them be," she said. "Arthur needs to get well. And when he does, I expect he’ll be a lot less agreeable if anyone tries to give Hosea a hard time about it."

Upstairs, the room was quiet save for the sound of Arthur’s labored breathing. The sun began to set, casting long, amber streaks across the floorboards. Hosea hadn't moved. He sat with his hand in Arthur’s, watching the way the fever flushed the younger man’s cheeks.

Arthur stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He looked less lost now, the delirium receding into a heavy exhaustion. He looked at their joined hands and then up at Hosea.

"I made a mess of it, didn't I?" Arthur whispered.

"You usually do," Hosea teased gently, his thumb brushing over Arthur’s knuckles. "But it’s out now. No more shadows."

Arthur squeezed his hand. "Dutch is gonna have a fit."

"Let him. He’s had plenty of fits before. He’ll realize that nothing has changed. You’re still his best man, and I’m still his conscience. We just happen to love each other."

Arthur winced as a fresh wave of pain hit his chest, but he didn't let go of Hosea. "Love you, Hosea."

Hosea leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to Arthur’s sweaty temple. "And I love you, Arthur Morgan. Now sleep. I’m not going anywhere."

Arthur finally let his eyes close, his body relaxing into the mattress. For the first time in years, the weight of the secret was gone, replaced by the simple, healing presence of the man who had been his heart for as long as he could remember. Outside, the gang would talk, and Dutch would brood, but in the quiet of the sickroom, there was only the truth, and for Arthur, that was enough to fight for.