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Dutch blinked awake into the dark.
The air inside the tent was cool and unmoving. Fabric shifted faintly in its ties, pulled tight by the weight of itself nailed into the dirt. Somewhere in the trees, a nightjar called, low, two-noted, then gone. The fire outside had burned low to ash, its light faint enough to cast only the dimmest outline through the canvas wall. A slice of moon lit the air beyond the tent's flap and lay against Dutch's lashes like frost.
He shivered. Pulled the rough-weaved blanket up to his nose. Grunted at the displeasure of being awoken. And sighed at the memory of where he'd been, a breath steaming white in the chill.
When his dream began to slip away like a dog chasing deer across a moor, Dutch began to realise that there was no warmth of a sleeping form pressed to his front. No other soul tangled with his under the blankets.
Just the cold, empty night.
For a while, he lay there, not entirely certain he was really awake. Bare toes curled, soft hair dragged over a lumpy pillow, all real enough to tell him he was awake, and that his partner really was nowhere near.
For a long time, he stayed, wondering whether his limbs might yet obey the drowsiness still coating the inside of his skull. Finally, grumbling into the scratchiness of his cover, he hauled himself up from the cosiness of his sleep and pushed himself to his feet, blindly searching for his coat and noting his partner's own was missing.
Then he stumbled out into the cold night.
As he stepped out beneath the stars that icy chill of winter snuck beneath the gaps in his coat and between the ties of his undershirt, making him shiver and pull his hands up to stuff them into the folds of his sleeves. It was a weak protection against the elements but one that gave the slightest modicum of relief as he came around to the edge of the camp, trying to squint through the deep dark and find his partner's distant shape.
Sight failed him, and his teeth soon found the edge of his lip in lieu of gnashing against the cold, until a glow emerged from the distant trees. And, drawing closer, Dutch recognised the form of his beloved; tall, elegant and fierce, an unseen breeze picking loose a curl of soft-coloured hair to float freely about him like a halo of silver silk.
Hosea.
At the same time, the scent of smoke drifted into Dutch's nose, thick and harsh and acrid, yet it was mixed with something unbearably sweet, like burnt sugar or treacle. A strange combination which sent a twinge to his insides and a frown to his brow, only to be followed a moment later by the heavy sense of dread at what he knew his lover was smoking.
The younger man swallowed. Heart began to thump inside his chest like a drum. All his hair rose at the base of his skull.
Despite not liking what he was sure he'd find, he nonetheless kept walking over to the silhouetted figure beneath the trees. Slowly. Warily. Held his breath the whole way, not daring even a single word as Hosea raised something to his lips and pulled a slow drag into his mouth, lips held closed and eyes lost somewhere to the sky above, watching his exhalation rise upwards like incense towards the stars.
Dutch swallowed. Kept moving until the thin outline of his partner drew up before him. Stood right by him as his companion continued to gaze heavenwards. Noticed how pale skin almost glowed in the moonlight.
And when Hosea finally noticed him, he jumped like a frightened cat, yet didn't turn, or run, or try to hide what was now obvious to the younger man - a worn wooden pipe hanging limp from one set of long, elegant fingers, its charred bowl and sated cherry just barely illuminated by a dim, fading light.
A small noise emerged from deep within Dutch's throat. A wordless sigh.
"Don't start. Please, don't start."
"Hosea-"
"I'm fine, Dutch."
Hosea's tone had no argument left. Merely exhaustion. Weariness that went deeper than his weary eyes. Deeper than his sunken chest.
It stung to hear and Dutch had to grit his teeth together in order not to retort, knowing full well that arguing was only going to make things worse and add to the headache his friend was doubtlessly already harbouring.
It took everything, too, not to rip the pipe from his lover's grip. Or shout, and roar, and shake the man. How many times, now, had they had this argument? How many times had he had to stand there like a kicked hound and watch his partner waste away?
Even thinking about it, it hurt. He felt his eyes prick, and had to shut them. Let out a tight breath.
"Hosea." His voice cracked. "I just-"
"Just go, would you?" came his lover's hard-edged reply, pushing him roughly away with a firm shoulder. "I'm tired."
The pipe was raised back up to pursed lips, but Dutch's hand got there first, wrapped around its curve and tugged it gently away, prompting a sudden shove from his partner who swiftly came around on him like a snapping wolf, jammed a pointed finger in his face, eyes spilling with hot rage that was surely more due to guilt than annoyance.
"Damn it, Dutch! For once, just give it a rest! Please, leave me alone for five minutes so I can-" He paused. Swallowed. Thumbed something away from his eye.
In the space between their words, an ache and a cold that couldn't be assuaged by their bodies alone filled the air. One Dutch couldn't fix, despite his love and care.
One he couldn't do anything about at all.
He bowed his head, abashed. Returned the pipe to his lover and watched him snatch it back and bring it back to his mouth. Saw the way it shook against those scarred lips. Listened to the gentle crackle of resin beneath his breath.
"Go back to bed, Dutch." His voice was softer now. Not angry, nor frustrated, but that sad, distant sound the younger man had become all too acquainted with over the weeks, months and years since his dear old friend had succumbed to his vice.
"Not without you." Dutch could muster no anger. Was not irritated. Didn't feel his blood burning at his partner's attitude. Simply felt... numb. Weakened. Worn, like Hosea.
Once, he would have argued. Screamed. Blamed and accused. Gone toe to toe with his partner over his failings and his addictions. Back when Hosea had been well, and strong, and able to stand his ground in a shouting match.
Now, he just stared up with reddened eyes, the barest shimmer of moonlight trapped between his lashes. His skin pallid, but drawn dark and shadowed around his eyes and hollows. Sallow-skinned and frail and distant. Too exhausted, even, to hold himself properly and having to lean his shoulder and upper body into the trunk of a tree for support.
Once again, it wrenched deep in the pit of Dutch's heart. Made his very being ache, and he reached out gently. Hesitantly, a trembling hand brushed that delicate shoulder, feeling the bony muscle and pictured the taught, papery skin beneath.
"You... you don't have to..." He struggled with his words, trying desperately not to upset the man any further. Trying desperately to keep his temper and his tone level, for the sake of his own wellbeing, if not his partner's. “Don’t have to hide from me, Hosea. If it helps..." A deep breath to keep a tremor from his throat, the whisper of a tear across his eyes. "...If you need this."
"I..." For a second, Hosea seemed about to fight. Perhaps even make some remark about Dutch being an uncaring brute and send him back to the camp alone, or angrily declare their relationship a farce, then vanish into the night in search of some place he'd not be followed.
But instead, he seemed to visibly slump, dropping his chin to his collarbone and turned fully towards his lover, deflating as he pushed himself against that firm stature,silent but for the wheezing of his chest.
Instinctively, and without prompt, Dutch wrapped a solid arm around his partner's skinny waist and pressed him tight to his body, enveloping him against his broad form and folding his coat around them both, seeking whatever feeble shelter the gesture could offer. Hosea shivered against the chill. Dutch wrapped his arms tight around the man. They stood and shared their warmth, their strength.
Felt their breaths ghosting between them. Scent of tobacco and opium fading away.
Finally, a voice spoke softly against him, timid. Afraid.
"It just hurts. So much." A shaky intake. Another held breath. A hand rising from the shadows between them and, gently, finding the lapel of Dutch's coat and digging trembling fingers into its thick folds. "It hurts, and I just... I..."
"Shh, I know." Dutch placed his cheek to his partner's forehead and squeezed them tighter together, trying to will the heat of his body through the other. "Can you tell me where?"
A shaking sound emerged in response. A nervous whimper, muffled into Dutch's chest and full of anguish. "My lungs. My back. My shoulders, and my thigh. My head." A brief gasp and a shuddering of his form as he tried and failed to stifle another groan, biting off his words at their ends.
"All the time?"
"Every damn minute."
And, with a tremble and a tiny sob, Hosea buried his face into his beloved's coat and finally wept.
It wasn't uncommon, any longer, for his pain to have him quietly gasping on the verge of tears. For his stoic front to buckle under the intensity, the sheer awfulness of his malady. It would hit without warning, drawn on by the cold weather or a particularly bad spasm, and so suddenly Hosea would collapse into Dutch's arms, pleading through clenched teeth for some source of relief that Dutch simply couldn't provide.
But opium helped.
Made the agony more bearable. Steadied his hands, calmed his mind and smoothed the wrinkles from his brow. Made him sleep a little better, for the night or two thereafter. Let him feel more human for those short handfuls of hours.
He could only wish for an easier cure for his dearest friend. A balm that didn't come with its own challenges. That didn't need to be hidden.
His voice cracked beneath his lover's sobbing breaths.
"Oh Hosea..."
"Don't. I don't want your pity. Just..." Hosea gulped, and let out a mirthless chuckle that felt painful, "Just love me."
"That," Dutch mumbled into his soft greying locks, "I can always do."
"Take me home, Dutch." The request was fragile. "Get me warm."
"Of course."
And Dutch helped snuff out the dying embers within his pipe and tip out the dottle of sticky, half-melted char, placed it tenderly away inside a slim metal box and back within Hosea's coat, then led his shivering lover through the frost and back towards their tent.