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The approaching storm brings along a fierce wind that snaps at his coat, whipping it open and sending a rush of cold air against his neck.
Arthur tries to shrug it tighter around himself, but the buttons are worn and his gloved hands fumble against them. Eventually, he gives up and hunches low over Boadicea’s neck, trying to curl into her warmth. She whickers low, a soft concerned sound against his shifting and he pats her neck, letting his hand curl into her thick mane. A reassuring touch for them both.
“Almost there, girl.” He promises, though he suddenly isn’t sure where they are much less where they're going.
They crest a hill, and he stares down into the plain below. It’s washed out in the gold and reds of fall, trees fallen to skeletal silhouettes that shadow a house that seems grey and colorless against the vibrant leaves.
He knows with a sinking in his guts that all the life within that building has fled, and he feels a rush of panic as he spurs Bo forward.
He knows this place.
He knows what he’ll find in that forgotten homestead… but maybe… maybe if he just rides fast enough.
Maybe he can get there in time.
He doesn’t remember dismounting, but he’s at the threshold suddenly. The front door lays open on Its hinges, the wood cracked and broken. The pool of vibrant red that stains the floorboards is the only color in the darkness within and he staggers back out and away from the sight.
There was no blood when he found them. Only silence. An empty house that hadn’t had time to yet fall into disrepair.
This is wrong.
He knows it’s wrong even as he turns and steps off the porch and then he’s looking down at two mounds of earth, one far too small, and a pair of wooden crosses. He kneels to read the names, even though he knows them without seeing.
Beloved Son… Beloved Mother…
“Arthur!” John’s voice calls out from behind him and he staggers, throat closing on a wracking cough and when he looks up the man is there, staring down at him. They’re in the mountains, snow falls thick around them and seeps in through the seams of his jacket, trailing icy rivulets down his neck and shoulders. “Come on… we have to keep pushing.”
Arthur can feel the coughs coming again, the burning fatigue that drags at his limbs and makes it hard to stand, much less climb this never-ending mountain.
“Nah… I think I pushed about enough.” John frowns and walks back to him, dragging him to his feet.
“We don’t have time for this… Arthur, we gotta go.” John tugs him forward urgently and he stumbles ahead another few paces, nearly collapsing against the other man. His heart is racing, breathes coming ragged in the bitter cold that fills his lungs.
“We ain’t both getting off this mountain, John.” He clasps the man’s shoulder, “You go. Be with your family.”
John’s expression fractures and Arthur can see the boy now through the man’s face, devastated and afraid. The boy that once huddled against him in the dark and clawed at his side, fighting nightmares that were all too real then and are no less real now.
“Arthur… You are my family.”
His heart clenches at the words, at the tears he can see pooling at the corner of the man’s eyes and he knows with a painful clarity that if he wants John to make it out of this, he’s going to have to find the strength to go with him.
The snow is thickening around them, obscuring everything but John’s eyes and he reaches out, grabs for the other man’s hand. His fingers are cold and stiff but he holds as tight as he can as the cold white steals everything else away.
“John?” He calls. The wind has fallen terrifyingly silent.
“Don’t let go, Arthur… just don’t let go.” John’s voice is far away and his fingers slip in Arthur’s grip as he struggles to hold onto them. His throat closes, the snow is strangling him, tearing him away….
Arthur lurches awake with a gasp, jerking his head away from the pillow he’s smothering himself with and coughing. At some point in the night, he’s kicked off the heavy furs keeping him warm and they’ve dragged the rest of the bedding away with them, pooling it around his knees and falling off the side of the mattress.
His chest feels tight and he stares down at the hand he’s been coughing into, that familiar fear zinging down his spine.
But there’s no blood on his hand, no taste of copper in his mouth and when he takes a deep breath his lungs feel no more strained than usual. Damaged, but no worse than yesterday or the day before that.
He blinks, trying to re-orient himself to his surroundings.
He’s alone and that combined with the grey light pouring through the curtains suggests it’s mid-morning.
He sighs and hauls the blankets and furs back up onto the bed. Most of their residual warmth has faded so even if he were willing to allow himself a further lie in, he knows he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. Instead, he drags himself up and hunts down his clothes. They’re not any warmer really, but there’s the promise of coffee and a fire to be had on the other side of the bedroom door so he ignores the persistent chill in the air and the remembered ice of his dream and steps out into the hallway.
The sound of humming draws him towards the kitchen.
Abigail is sat at the kitchen table, winding a hank of yarn, the pile of the soft wool scarf she’s been working on that week settled at her side. She’s been selling them recently, sending a handful into town with John or Uncle or trading them with the neighbors for jams and canned goods.
This one is a soft shade of dusty blue, thick and plush. He envies whoever gets it a bit – it looks even warmer than her usual ones.
“Morning, Arthur.” She greets him with a soft smile, and he manages a somewhat thin one in response as he sits beside her. There’s something knowing in her gaze and she puts down the yarn, rising to her feet and offering his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll grab you some coffee.” She offers and he nods in thanks, not quite able to find words yet.
The view out the kitchen window is gray, the sky overcast and dull. The trees around the barn are dropping the last of their leaves, the golds and reds of Autumn fading to brown and rust. It’s an appropriate reflection of how he feels; worn and brittle and faded.
This time of year is never easy for him, too many bad memories all stacking up in the run into winter and his dreams haven’t helped shake him out of the mood any.
“Jeez it’s getting cold!” The front door slams open, and John stomps inside, rubbing his arms as he holds the door open for Jack to trundle in behind him, a basket of fresh eggs clutched in his small arms.
“It’s cold as balls!” The boy proclaims cheerfully, dropping the basket on the table.
“Jack!” Abigail frowns at him. “Where did you hear that?” She demands, handing Arthur a mug absently. He wraps his chilled hands around the warm metal, as grateful for the heat as the drink.
“Uncle.” Jack looks sheepish and John snorts a muffled laugh behind him, turning it quickly into a cough when Abigail’s irritated glare darts to him.
“So!” He claps his hands and peels off his gloves. “Who wants eggs?”
Arthur watches the usual morning chaos with a sort of fond sadness. As much as he loves to see John and his family like this, there’s part of him that aches with the could-have beens.
Jack could have been Isaac.
Abigail could have been Mary.
John could have been him.
John crooks an eyebrow at him as he grabs the eggs and sets to cracking them while he heats up the skillet.
Abigail makes good coffee, mostly edible stew and fairly awful everything else so he and John have taken to pre-empting her attempts at breakfast. He’s glad John’s taken the initiative this morning, Arthur doesn’t think he has it in him just then.
John serves Jack and Abigail first, and they’re both finished and off to some other morning errand by the time John slides a plate in front of Arthur and sits down across from him.
“You alright?” He asks, one foot tapping at his ankle casually under the table.
“Just… That time of year.” Arthur shrugs and pokes at his eggs.
“Hmm” John accepts his explanation, digging into his own breakfast. They eat in silence, and the mixed heat of the coffee and the eggs go a long way to thawing the chill that lingers from the night.
Watching John mellow into this life has been… good. Once the younger man would have prickled at his mood, picked a fight that would have at best resulted in them yelling at one another and at worst brought them to blows. Now he just offers quiet companionship, understanding in a way he didn’t when he was younger.
“You need anything from town?” John asks eventually, when they’ve both finished eating and Arthur has forced himself to get up to wash the dishes. “I’m going to run down with Uncle today. Don’t wanna risk the weather getting bad before we get supplies in.”
There’s plenty of things Arthur wouldn’t mind having. His current journal’s down to the last few pages and there’s a seam that’s torn open in the finger of one of his gloves, but he can get by with tucking scraps of paper into the spine for a while and borrow a needle and some thread from Abigail to fix the worn leather for another season at least.
“Some peppermints for Buell.” He requests.
“Sure.” John steps behind him, a familiar hand running over his shoulders and tangling with the mess of hair at his nape that needs trimming. Arthur tilts his head into the touch, wishing for a moment he could just forget the day and crawl back into bed, dragging John’s warmth and comfort with him.
The younger man tugs on his hair and leans up to press his lips against Arthur’s temple. Just a soft brush, there and gone again in a moment but it leaves a familiar ache in his chest.
“If you go bring the cattle back down today, can you take Jack? He’s being anxious about riding again.” John requests.
Jack has a funny love-hate relationship with the horses. On the one hand, he seems fascinated by the animals and can quite happily spend a whole day watching Arthur working them. On the other, he hates climbing on their backs alone and seems quite sure that his gentle-natured pony is going to throw him off at any moment.
“Sure.” Arthur’s more patient with the boy about his insecurities than John is and when Jack’s being particularly stubborn about not wanting to do something he often gets recruited to help out.
As Abigail likes to tease, there is not much Jack won’t do if it’s Uncle Arthur that’s the one asking.
“See you tonight then.” John gives his shoulder a squeeze as he heads out into the living room and Arthur can hear him speaking softly to Abigail and Jack through the door, asking if there is anything they need from town before winter starts closing in.
Rather than stay to eavesdrop he grabs his jacket and heads out towards the barn to see what needs doing. He’s just finished checking over the horses and is brushing down Buell when Jack’s head pops up over the stall door, eyes wide and curious.
“Pa said we’re going out to get the cows.” He says, and contrary to John’s words from earlier he doesn’t look troubled by the idea in the least.
“Yup. You good to get Patch ready on your own?” He asks. He was expecting to give the pony a rub down and tack him up before fetching the kid, but it’s another thing that Jack’s going to need to get the hang of himself sometime soon.
“Mmhmm.” The boy agrees, though he doesn’t make a move towards the other stalls, staying instead to watch as Arthur patiently combs through the knots that Buell’s wound into his tail somehow.
The big stallion is getting older, but he’s still feisty and prone to finding that one bramble in the fields that they haven’t managed to pull, and Arthur spends more time grooming him than he does all the other horses combined.
Sometimes, he wonders if that’s why the big brute does it.
“Patch ain’t gonna brush himself.” Arthur tells Jack, when he’s finally satisfied. The boy rolls his eyes at the admonishment but wanders off towards his own mount. Arthur saddles up Buell before heading over to check on his work.
Patch is a short little mutt of a horse. Not really a bred pony so much as a horse that’s grown up stunted, his coat is a patchwork of raggedy browns and creams and he has one blue eye that’s always a little bit crossed. He’s dumb as anything and likes to follow Buell around the paddock in spite of the stallion’s tendency to bite him when he’s in an unsociable mood.
John was probably an idiot to trade a good heifer for the animal when one of the neighbor’s kids outgrew him, but he’s at least steady and calm enough that Jack is willing to ride him, and John always has been a bit of a fool when it comes to taking care of his family.
Jack’s done about as well as he can while prancing anxiously out of the animal’s way whenever he shifts and Arthur only has to help the boy tighten up the cinch and double-check Patch’s hooves before they’re ready to head out.
He helps Jack onto the pony’s back and climbs up onto Buell before reaching into his pocket to fish out his gloves, huffing in annoyance when he finds John’s instead of his own tucked there. The man probably borrowed his coat that morning and forgot to switch them back. John’s are a bit small for him, but they don’t have any holes at least.
There’s nothing to be done for it, the wagon along with the other man is gone for the day and presumably, his gloves have either gone with John or have been left somewhere he won’t be able to find them until the man gets back so he tugs on the snug leather and ignores the slight chafe of them at his knuckles as he turns Buell towards the north pasture.
The sky has maintained its dull grey cast and the filtered light hasn’t done much to warm the day as they ride. Jack seems mostly unaffected by the cold thanks to the multiple layers Abigail has bundled around him, though his cheeks pink with it as he chatters through the entire plot of some book he’s just finished.
“…and the king’s name is Arthur! Just like you!” Jack grins up at him. “And there’s knights and magic! I think I’d like to be a knight one day.”
“You’ll have to work on your horsemanship then.” Arthur tells him with amusement as the boy nearly steers Patch into a cactus in his distraction.
“I guess.” Jack doesn’t sound too enthusiastic about that, eyeing the back of Patch’s head with a bit of wariness. “King Arthur’s best friend is a knight called Lancelot you know. I think they must be like you and Pa.”
Arthur huffs a laugh. He can’t wait to tell John about his son seeing him as the knight to Arthur’s king. If he recalls the bit he knows of this legend correctly they have something of a love triangle with the same woman too. Jack probably isn’t old enough to get that connection though.
“I look forward to you telling your pa about this one.” He tells Jack, as the herd comes into view ahead of them. “Since you’re interested, how’s about we practice your riding skills some? You ever helped herd?”
“No, sir.” Jack squints at the cows, looking skeptical.
“We’ll take it slow. You stay to the right and I’ll go left. Just try and keep them between us, alright? You see any of them try and cut away from the herd and you go around, just encourage them back in with the group. They want to be together so mostly you just got to get their heads pointed back towards the rest of ‘em and they’ll go on their own.”
Arthur points where he wants Jack and trots out behind the cattle, hollering a bit to get their attention. It’s a slow trek back, though no more than it would have been if he’d done this alone.
Jack manages to herd one calf back to the group when it steps out of line and is right proud of himself for it, relaxing a bit on Patch’s back now that he’s got something else to focus on, and Arthur reminds himself to mention that to John later. Maybe the kid just needs to focus on something besides his mount for a change.
It’s a bit after lunchtime once they’ve got the small herd back in the corral. Jack hops down off of Patch, looking windblown but happy and follows Arthur into the barn to untack their mounts.
“You can head on in,” Arthur offers but Jack just shrugs and warily sets to brushing out Patch himself before wandering back over to where Arthur is taking his time with Buell, brushing the old stallion’s mane until it flows like water under his hands.
It’s not really necessary, but the fall chill reminds him of Hamish and his promise to the man. It had been a day not unlike this one that they had gone on that last hunt together.
Jack’s feet are threaded through the stall divider where he’s perched himself to watch and they kick absently at the planks at irregular intervals. It’s clear the kid is bored, and Arthur can’t imagine what he’s still doing in the barn with him when he could be in the house with one of his books.
“You really don’t need to wait on me, Jackie.” He tells the boy, “I’m sure your Mama’s got lunch on by now.”
It would be nice, he thinks, to mope a bit in peace. It’s harder for him to dwell on things when Jack’s around. Even as he is, just lurking mostly quietly in the background.
Which… he glances at the kid suspiciously.
“I’m good.” Jack says, playing with Buell’s bridle now, knotting and unknotting the reins.
“Are you now?” Arthur leans over Buell’s withers and fixes him with a pointed stare. “Surely you got a book or something you want to be reading.”
“Nope.” Jack is very intently not meeting his eyes. The kid’s learned to lie from John, who can’t fib to save his own life, and he’s almost as bad at it as his father.
“Then you won’t mind helping me muck out the stalls.” Arthur catches the look of disgust that flashes on Jack’s face and hides his own amused grin with Buell’s neck.
“Couldn’t we go… um… feed the chickens or something?” He asks hopefully.
“Sure, you can go take care of em, while I do the mucking.” Arthur agrees.
“No! I mean… I’ll help.” Jack backtracks quickly, swinging down from his perch to grab the pitchfork near the door and drag it over.
Jack does try to be helpful, but the pitchfork is too big for him and the wheelbarrow is too heavy and the second time he nearly spills all the mess back on the floor Arthur stops him with a look.
“Jack, really, why don’t you go see about lunch? I won’t be too much longer.”
“But I wanna help!” He kid protests, looking distressed at the dismissal
“Jackie… Why do you really not wanna go into the house?” Jack’s gaze tries to slip away but Arthur kneels in front of the kid and stares at him until he can’t help but look up.
“Um… Pa said…” He hesitates, flushing a bit guiltily. “I promised him you wouldn’t be alone today.”
Arthur sighs internally because he’s not really surprised by that answer and it is sweet, if a bit annoying, that he’s got a ten-year-old babysitting him and his moods.
“Of course you did.” He ruffles the kids hair, and Jack huffs and sets his shoulders with that Marston stubbornness.
“So I ain’t going anywhere without you.” He persists and really, what can Arthur say to that?
“Alright. I’ll finish up here and we’ll go get lunch together.”
Abigail smiles at them when they enter the house, her gaze soft and fond and then a bit rueful when Arthur gives her a commiserating look over Jack’s head. The house smells like stew, edged with slightly burnt flour, but there’s no smoke so whatever baking she’s attempted is probably still edible.
She shoes Jack off to wash up and Arthur pauses as the kid scampers away.
“You knew about this?” He asks, nodding at the kid’s back.
“I suggested it.” She pats his shoulder. “Go wash up.”
Lunch is bland but hot and that’s honestly more valuable than all the spices in the world when it’s cold as far as Arthur’s concerned. Jack chatters over the meal, talking about herding the cows and how well Patch behaved and how he’s going to be a knight when he grows up.
After, Abigail turns back to her knitting and Jack goes off to find his latest book and Arthur tries to sneak out onto the porch with his journal. The ranch is still and quiet and he takes a moment to just breath in the crisp air and let his mind wander.
The door opens behind him barely a moment later and Abigail steps out, bundled against the chill. She doesn’t say anything but drops into the chair beside him, her pile of blue wool spilling across her lap. He shakes his head but doesn’t argue. She’s as stubborn as her men when she’s got something into her mind and apparently keeping him from moping alone all day is what’s gotten into hers.
She’s less a distraction than Jack at least and he pulls out a stub of pencil and begins to sketch. It starts as Jack and Patch but there’s another boy that’s haunting him and the sketch that begins to form under his hands is rough and unsteady… just pale hair and a bright smile and he stalls out, staring at the lines that don’t form into anything more because he can’t remember the details of that precious face.
“Arthur?” His face must reflect his inner turmoil at that realization because Abigail’s voice is concerned.
“I don’t remember what he looks like anymore.” He says after a moment.
The admission cuts.
He doesn’t have a picture of Isaac, never found a good time to take one, and all his drawings of the boy from back then have been lost over the years, his last one burned or buried with their camp in Beaver Hollow. Every year the details of that face he never thought he could forget become hazier. He knows his son’s eyes were hazel… but he can’t recall the slant of his nose or the shape of his brow.
All that’s left of his features is the happy smile he never deserved. That grin that was always waiting for him when he bothered to visit, and messy hair the color of wet straw that curls just at his nape.
“Oh, Arthur.” Abigail reaches out a hand for his, and he didn’t realize how chilled his fingers were until they’re against her skin.
“It’s awful, ain’t it? That I’ve forgotten him.” He hates himself for forgetting. Just another way he’s been a bad father.
“You ain’t forgotten him.” She protests, slim fingers squeezing his own.
“Haven’t I?” He pulls away. “I can’t remember his face, Abigail. It’s all a blur.”
“What was he like?” She asks, hands twirling in the wool scarf.
“Happy.” Arthur closes his eyes and leans back in the chair. “Always smiling when I would visit. Eliza were always less impressed but Isaac… he was always happy to see me.”
She doesn’t say anything and he finds himself continuing. Trying to reach back through the years to the scraps and moments that made up the pitifully small handful of time he had with the boy.
“He liked animals. Had this ornery old one-eyed barn cat that he was always carrying around and feeding scraps to.” The cat had hated Arthur and Eliza both but would curl up in the kid’s lap in a heartbeat and purr like a steam engine for hours on end. “I took him riding whenever I made it by. He always loved that. Tried to take him fishing once but he said the fish were too pretty to keep.”
Arthur had decided against pointing it out where the fish they’d had for dinner that night had come from. Kid had a gentle streak that he’d worried would give him trouble when he was older.
And then… well.
He never got older.
“See? You ain’t forgotten nothing but the window dressing.” Abigail picks up the scarf that she’s finished sometime while he’s been talking and leans over to wrap it around his neck. It’s even softer than it looks and still warm from where it’s been curled in her lap. The feel startles him and he blinks down at the length of blue wool. “And if you want that back, you might try looking in the mirror a bit less harshly sometime. I expect he looked a lot like you.”
He can recall more than once Eliza commenting on just that resemblance so maybe she’s right.
“You don’t gotta give up a good scarf just because I’m feeling sorry for myself.” He protests the gift, though he can’t quite convince himself to take it off again. It reminds him of his old sheepskin-lined coat where it brushes against his cheeks.
“I made it for you, you idiot. So just say thank you and come inside ‘fore I have to send poor Jack out here to sit with your frozen ass.” She pats his shoulder kindly and he sighs, knowing he’s beat. He ain’t gonna condemn the kid to be cold all afternoon just because he’s having a bad day.
“Alright, you win.” He climbs to his feet, trying to ignore the stiffness in bones that are starting to feel their age. “And thank you.”
She smiles softly and steps into the house ahead of him. It’s warm as they enter, the heat stinging against his chilled skin. Jack is curled up beside the fireplace with a book but he jumps up when Arthur settles onto the couch, climbing up to sit next to him.
Like John, Jack radiates heat. He’s a warm bundle of limbs by Arthur's side as he glances from his own book to Arthur’s journal curiously. When he flips it open to the sketch he was working on he can see the boy’s eyes light up.
“It’s me & Patch!” He identifies the rough drawing Arthur had begun of him with his pony happily before his eyes slip over the rest of the page. “Who is he?” Jack points at the unfinished sketch of Isaac curiously.
“He’s…” Arthur hesitates. It took him years to have this conversation with John and Abigail and he’s never felt like Jack was old enough to understand it. Maybe that’s unfair though, to both of them. “He was my son.” He says at last, voice thickening a bit. This is the most he’s spoken of Isaac in years. Decades maybe.
“He looks happy.” Jack says, staring down at the unfinished drawing with none of Arthur’s pain or regret. He’s not wrong either, Isaac was a happy kid, bright and full of joy. “If he’s your son does that mean I have a brother?” There’s a flash of excitement in his words and Arthur feels his chest tighten, half at the innocent admission and half with the want of it.
He opens his mouth to argue the semantics.
They wouldn’t have been brothers. Not even really cousins for all that Jack calls him Uncle Arthur. But the words stall on his tongue. This family… their family doesn’t work that way and never has and maybe the boy has the right of it in his own way.
“Well, no.” He manages at last. “He… died. ‘fore you were born.” He swallows against the ache. “But I expect he would have loved to call you his little brother, if he were still here.”
Jack is silent for a moment, taking that in. He’s still a bit too young to understand maybe, though he’s seen enough loss in his short life that Arthur guesses he understands that death means the person doesn’t come back no more.
“What was his name?” He asks at last, still looking at the sketch.
“Isaac.” Arthur finds a sad smile on his lips. He hasn’t said the name aloud in a long time, it feels strangely freeing to speak it again. “His name was Isaac.”
“Isaac.” Jack repeats, looking thoughtful.
Arthur lets him have the journal to study it closer, and when he looks up Abigail is watching them with something soft and fond on her face.
He blames the flush he can feel in his cheeks on the warmth of the nearby fire.
John and Uncle get back just as the light’s beginning to fade from the day, the night coming too soon as it’s want to do this time of year. John drops a few small parcels with Abigail before Arthur follows him back outside to help unpack the wagon and get the horses settled. He passes John his misplaced gloves as he steps up beside him into the wagon bed.
“You left these in my jacket this morning.” He tells the younger man, “I’m really hoping you remember what you did with mine.”
“’Course, here.” John pries off the pair he’s wearing and hands them over, replacing them with his own. Arthur blinks at the fine leather in confusion. They’re obviously too big for John but they’re not the pair that the man apparently took with him that morning either. The leather is new and still a bit stiff. They’re thick and sturdy with a soft wool lining.
“These ain’t my gloves, John.” He protests, even as he pulls one on. It fits like it was made for his hand, which he suspects it was.
“They are now.” John shoves a bale of hay at him before he can argue about it and he scrambles to get ahold of it and pull on the other glove at the same time. “And I don’t want to hear you complaining. Your old ones were falling apart.”
“I coulda fixed em.” He argues.
“You also coulda lost a finger to frost once the cold gets here.” John points out, shoving at him to encourage him to head into the barn with his load. “I can promise getting a doctor out here to deal with it would cost more’n those did.”
Arthur grunts but does as he’s bid, glaring at Uncle who has taken up the ever so helpful task of holding the lantern for them as they unpack.
The gloves are nice. Warm. They’ll hold for years to come.
Just say thank you… Abigail’s words from earlier echo in his mind and he figures this is as lost a cause as that was.
“Thanks, John.” The younger man trips at the words, pausing to blink up at him in surprise.
“You’re welcome?” He asks, obviously not sure what to do with an Arthur who’s decided to try and be gracious. It’s just about worth his discomfort at accepting the gift to see the other man so flustered.
“Good grief, the two of you are hopeless.” Uncle cuts in and John turns to glare at the old coot.
“How about you give us an actual hand here you old leech?” He retorts.
“Aw come on, Johnny boy… this weather, you know what it does to my Lumbago!”
The two fall to bickering, and Arthur lets the familiar cadence of it wash over him. His hands and neck are warm and the repetitive work of hauling in supplies is soothing in its own way.
Dinner is leftover stew, but it’s made a lot better with the fresh bread they’ve brought back and some slices of salted pork.
After, Uncle pulls out his old Banjo and regales them with only slightly drunken old ballads, carefully mumbling his way through any particularly bawdy lyrics he thinks Abigail might find objectionable for Jack to hear, and thus repeat later.
Arthur ends up sandwiched between Abigail and Jack on the small couch, with John sat on the floor and leaning back against his leg while he absently whittles at some small figurine. The younger man can’t draw worth shit, but he’s somehow gotten to be passable at carving and Jack has a small stable of crude animals in his room to prove it.
This one looks to be shaping itself into a horse, and Arthur itches for a pencil to sketch the scene. He’s out of paper in his journal though and too comfortable to drag himself up in search of scraps so he just leans back and tries to memorize it as best he can for later.
Eventually the fading light sends Uncle up to bed and Abigail off to encourage Jack towards the same.
Arthur finds himself yawning and heads that way himself while John cleans up his wood shavings, running a hand gently through the man’s hair as he goes. John swats at him playfully and Arthur wishes he had the energy to do more than offer a smile in return.
There’s a journal sitting on top of the pile of furs on the bed, alongside two brand new pencils. The cover is crisp and stiff, the pages blank.
He turns it over a few times, flipping through the sturdy paper. Another gift, and it hits the hardest somehow. This odd bit of him that seems so frivolous, but that he can’t seem to do without. John never looks in any of his journals unless Arthur offers to show him something so he isn’t sure when the man would have noticed his current one was nearly filled.
As he turns it over in his hands, he realizes that the last page is already marked and he flips it open to a crude drawing. A child’s drawing.
It’s just stick figures. A box for a house, another for the barn and some lumpy shapes he thinks might be horses, seeing as one of them has patchy spots and a squinty eye. Each of the figures are labeled and there’s six of them. “Uncle” holds a banjo off to one side, while “Ma”, “Pa”, and “Dad (Uncle Arthur)” stand together in front of the house holding hands. The other two are a little ways away, labeled “Jack” and “Isaac” and the kid has drawn Issac’s figure with a pair of wings, a little angelic halo and the big smile from Arthur’s sketch.
He swallows hard, vision blurring.
“Alright there, old man?” John’s voice startles him from the doorway where he leans watching him.
“Yeah.” He sniffs, flips the book closed, and turns to meet the other man. “Yeah, I’m good.” John’s smile says he’s skeptical of that, but he doesn’t push. “You didn’t need to be spending money on this.” He raises the book and John just shrugs in response.
“Weren’t that much. Anyway, ain’t you always tellin’ me I’m a fool when it comes to family?”
You are my family, Arthur… The words echo in his mind. He often wonders if they were really said or if they were just a dream, as far gone as he was back then.
“Anyway, you oughtta have nice things sometimes, Arthur.” John pushes off the wall and steps towards him, slowly wrapping his arms around Arthur’s middle. Cautious like he half expects to be pushed away.
For a moment they just stand there, stiff even after all these years and then Arthur finally lets himself relax. Sink into the offered support for a moment. John smells of leather and horses and a bit of smoke. He lets himself breathe in the familiar scent.
“One day down, few more to go you think?” John asks eventually, nuzzling his cheek in a way that rasps their beards together.
“Maybe.” He agrees. It’s hard to tell how he’ll feel one day to the next sometimes.
“Any plans for tomorrow?”
“Should probably go hunting.” He muses. “We could use the meat before the snows come in heavy.”
“I’ll let Abigail and Uncle know we might be out all day then.” John’s breath is warm against his neck.
“John… You know… I don’t…” He starts but falters, trying to find what he wants to say. “You know you can’t take away my grief, yeah?” He manages at last, not quite frustrated so much as guilty on top of everything else for taking up the man’s attention.
“I know.” John’s arms tighten around him before he lets go and steps back. “But that don’t mean I have to let you have to suffer it alone.”
Arthur turns the journal over a few times in his hands, staring down at the book. It feels good. New but not unfamiliar, a continuation of something as much as a fresh start.
“Okay.”
“Good.” John smiles and darts a kiss to his forehead before stepping back into the hall. “I promised Jack a story. I’ll be back in a few.”
Arthur nods and flips back to the page their kid drew, eyes tracing again over the figures, the names. The connections drawn in childish clarity.
Hesitantly he closes the journal, stacks it on the bedside table atop his old one, and shucks down to his union suit. The quiet murmurs of voices echo through the walls as he digs himself under the blankets.
He’s just starting to drift when John climbs in behind him, bringing a moment’s rush of cold air and then a broad stripe of heat along his back. It’s cold, but not yet cold enough for Abigail to be inclined to join them, loud as they both apparently snore, and Arthur’s selfishly grateful that he doesn’t have to fight her for the heater that is the younger man just yet.
One of John’s arms wraps around his waist and his nose, the only cold on his body, presses against his spine.
You are my family, Arthur…
John’s always been a fool when it comes to family, and Arthur supposes he’s no different. It doesn’t matter maybe if the words ever really happened because John’s said them in other ways a thousand times since.
He laces their hands together and brings the man’s scarred knuckles to his lips.
“You’re my family too, Johnny.”