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Hosea was only getting sicker and sicker.
It was a fact the entire camp knew, one that was hard to avoid. Early in the morning before the sun had risen, midday when they were out riding for another job, evening as the sun was sinking below the horizon, suddenly Hosea would start hacking into his handkerchief and coughing hard enough that his body convulsed with it. Sometimes he'd have to stop and brace himself against a tree, or a fence post, or a rock. Sometimes he'd have to drop his reins in the dirt and double over, struggling for breath as the horses danced anxiously beneath him.
The coughing fits left him breathless and weak, his face pale and damp with sweat. He'd wipe his mouth with the back of a trembling hand, a smear of red stark against his skin. The rest of the day he'd be quiet, listless, his energy drained. He'd sit by the fire at night, wrapped in a blanket even when the air was warm, his shoulders hunched and his gaze distant. Sometimes he'd stare into the flames for so long that Dutch would have to call his name twice to get his attention.
The others, they all did their best to help. Pearson would make him a special soup with extra herbs and vegetables, the broth steaming and fragrant. Charles would collect wildflowers and honey, brewing a tea that was sweet and thick. Susan would tuck extra blankets around him when he was sleeping, her touch gentle as she smoothed the wool over his thin shoulders. But it was never enough. The soup would go cold in the bowl, the tea would sit untouched, the blankets would be kicked off in the night as Hosea tossed and turned, haunted by dreams he wouldn't speak of.
And Dutch... Dutch was a storm of worried energy. He hovered, a shadow at Hosea's bedside. He'd smooth the blankets, only to tug them loose a moment later. He'd press a cool cloth to Hosea's brow, then pull it away, fearing the chill. He'd pace the small space of his tent at night, the worn canvas walls doing little to muffle the restless tread of his boots on the wooden floor as he wrestled with prayers and curses in equal measure.
They'd all tried to get him to go to the doctor a handful of times, but Hosea would always refuse. He said he'd already tried and the doctors had no idea. They didn't have the right medicines. They didn't have the time. So he'd stayed stubbornly in camp, letting the gang coddle him in their own ways until he became so weak he could no longer ride, and was bound to the camp.
But Hosea had never been to the doctors. He didn't need to. He knew exactly what was wrong with him. He'd known for months, since that night up in the mountains when he and Dutch had gone out on a little adventure together, just the two of them, to hunt down a pair of thieves.
Hosea remembered that night clearly. They'd had a good time, just like the old days. He remembered the thrill of the chase, the excitement as they'd tracked their prey through the thick pines. He remembered how the stars had seemed to shine brighter in the cool, clear night air as they laughed and Dutch slung an arm around his shoulders, the weight warm and comforting.
And he remembered the single petal he coughed up into his hand that night.
A red camellia.
He hadn't told Dutch about it. He'd tucked the delicate thing deep in his pocket, out of sight, and did his best to pretend like nothing was wrong.
He hadn't mentioned the next petal, or the next, or the ones after that. He hadn't said anything when a full flower came up one afternoon, the roots trailing from his lips, and he didn't speak of the blood that came with it.
There was no point.
The Hanahaki Disease had a reputation. It was a fanciful sort of malady, a tragic romance straight out of a book, the kind that ended in a woeful death or a happily ever after, depending on who you asked. And like most tales of its kind, there was no cure. There was no magic remedy, no miracle fix.
The only way to survive was for the person you loved to return your affections.
Hosea wasn't a foolish man. He knew he was doomed.
Dutch was many things. He was a thief, a murderer, a liar, a conman, and a whole host of other less flattering titles. He was also a father, a leader, a mentor, a protector, and the dearest friend Hosea had ever known. He was everything Hosea could ever want, and Hosea had fallen head over heels for him a lifetime ago.
But Dutch wasn't a man for love. Not the kind Hosea was looking for. He had a habit of falling hard for beautiful people, both men and women, but it never lasted. It was an infatuation, a fleeting interest, a brief flirtation that left Dutch's heart unscathed as he sniffed out his next obsession. And Hosea had no interest in being a fling, a passing fancy. So he'd buried his feelings, let them grow into a wild tangle that had no hope of surviving.
Now here he was, coughing up flowers and choking on their thorns. He knew there was surgery, but there was no possible way he could afford it. Besides, the cost was more than just the money. The surgery would take more than just his breath. It would leave a gaping hole in his heart, a wound that would fester and turn into something ugly and rotten. It wouldn’t just take his love for Dutch, but his admiration, his respect, his loyalty. It would shred every ounce of friendship he ever felt for the man-
No. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't. He'd rather choke on the flowers in his chest, slowly and painfully, than give up his memories.
As the weeks wore on, the coughing grew worse. Sometimes Hosea felt like he was drowning, there was no escaping it. The petals, the blood, the endless exhaustion that weighed him down, dragging him into a darkness that was always lurking just beyond his peripheral vision. But the hardest part was having to hide it from everyone. Of course, the minute he'd start coughing, they'd all swarm over him like a pack of mother hens, clucking and fussing, while he desperately tried to crush the flowers that were coming up into his handkerchief and hide them before anyone else could see.
He'd tried to be more discreet, tried to walk a little ways away from camp when he felt it coming on, but it wasn't easy. As it got worse and worse there was no prewarning before the flowers started pouring out, and Hosea couldn't do anything about it.
He couldn't do much of anything anymore. He was too weak, too tired, too sick.
The days blurred together in a haze of coughing and pain, until they started to look the same. A day when Hosea didn't wake up wasn't that unusual, not anymore. He slept and slept, his face pale and his lips stained with red. Then they moved him into Dutch's tent because Dutch wouldn't allow anything else, and the man spent his every waking hour by his side.
After a week of fading in and out, brief snapshots of people and sunlight and petals all he could recall, Hosea woke briefly one day, his eyes blinking open and struggling to focus on the dark shape looming over him.
"Dutch," he murmured. His voice was soft, cracked and broken, his throat raw and aching.
"I'm here, Hosea. I'm right here."
He could feel a warm hand on his cheek, Dutch's thumb rubbing a soothing path across his skin. It was nice. So nice.
"I'm cold," he whispered.
"Here, let me..."
Hosea drifted as Dutch fussed with the blankets, tucking them more tightly around him. After a few moments he stopped, his hands moving to Hosea's shoulders instead, pulling him gently into a sitting position. Hosea went without a fight, leaning back against the pillows.
"Come on, drink this."
Dutch pressed a cup into his hands. The water was warm and sweet, honey and herbs swirling on his tongue, and it soothed his parched throat. It was such a relief.
"There you go. Good, isn't it?"
Hosea drank greedily.
"Careful now, not so fast. Easy."
He didn't listen. The water was too good. Too good. He didn't know why he was so thirsty.
Dutch was holding the cup for him now, and Hosea reached up to wrap his fingers around the smooth tin. It was easier to drink the rest that way, though he could feel the water dribbling down his chin. He was too weak to hold it properly.
"There, that's better, isn't it?" Dutch asked, wiping Hosea's mouth with the hem of his sleeve. "You feelin' alright?"
"Yeah," Hosea croaked. He felt exhausted.
Dutch's face was fuzzy and indistinct, his features a blur, but Hosea still thought he was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He raised a trembling hand and tried to touch his cheek, but he didn't have the strength and his fingers fell limply to the blankets.
"It's alright, my friend, it's alright."
Friend.
Hosea let his eyes fall closed, a bitter laugh caught in his chest. It was funny. That was all they'd ever been. Friends.
"Dutch," he breathed, his voice no more than a whisper.
"Shh, I'm here."
He wanted to tell him, to finally get the words off his chest. To finally tear the roots from his chest and lay it bare on the blankets in front of him. To lay his heart out in a messy heap and watch the petals rot into the ground, watch the blood fade from his lips. To rip the thorns from his throat and let the last breath pass from his lungs.
But Dutch was holding his hand, and the touch was too comforting to risk losing.
He'd wait. Just a little longer.
Just a little longer.
"Hosea?"
He heard Dutch's voice calling for him, but it sounded far away, distant, like he was underwater. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, but all that came out was a rasping sound, a wet gurgle, and then he was hunching over as violent coughs wracked his frame.
There was a hand on his back, another gripping his shoulder, but the touch was lost as he realised there was no way he could hide the flowers now. They were tumbling from his lips in a shower of petals, covering the blankets and staining them with blood, the red vivid and stark against the white.
"Hosea?"
He managed a ragged gasp, trying desperately to catch his breath, and then another wave of coughs was racking his body. This time, though, there was something new, something worse. Something was pressing against his tongue, pushing up his throat, and no matter how hard he tried, Hosea couldn't stop coughing.
His arms flailed out, searching for something, anything to grab onto, but his fingers only met empty air. Then Dutch's arms were around him, pulling him tight against his chest, and Hosea's hands scrabbled at his back as he struggled to breathe.
Something was tearing him apart, ripping his chest apart from the inside. Every breath was agony. He could feel it, something rising, pushing and scraping against his throat. There was no escape, nowhere to run, no way out, and Hosea was drowning. He was drowning in blood and flowers and he couldn't breathe and Dutch was still holding him and he couldn't breathe-
And then, finally, after what felt like hours, a violent gag ripped through him and up came a deep red carnation, dripping with his blood and stained the same deep maroon. It fell into his lap, landing among the other flowers, and Hosea could only stare at it as the coughing ceased and reality began to settle in.
His head was pounding, his vision blurring, and he could taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. There was a ringing in his ears, the sound echoing and reverberating through his head, and Hosea didn't know what to do.
He knew.
Dutch knew.
Hosea squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't bear to look, couldn't bear to face the inevitable disgust that was bound to be written across his face.
"Hosea," Dutch breathed.
Hosea waited, waited for the recoil, for the rejection, but it never came. Instead, he felt warm hands on his cheeks, gentle and trembling.
"Oh, Hosea. Who?"
His voice was so soft, so filled with pain and confusion, that it took a moment for the words to sink in.
Who?
Dutch wanted to know who.
Hosea had to laugh. Was he really so oblivious?
He took a deep breath, and the air rattled through his aching lungs. Then he forced his eyes open and lifted his head.
Dutch was staring at him, his brow creased and his eyes wide. Hosea watched as a tear escaped, carving a path down his cheek, and he couldn't stand the sight.
But the words were like molasses in his throat, and all he could do was cup the dripping carnation in his palms and lift it, offering the flower up to Dutch like a sacrifice.
"It's you."
The words hung heavy in the air between them, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence.
"What?"
"It's you," Hosea said, the words scraping his throat raw.
He was shaking now, trembling in Dutch's arms, and he could feel the tears starting to roll down his cheeks. It was too late now. Everything was out in the open, and there was no turning back.
"Me? You love me?"
"Yes," Hosea choked. "God help me, I love you."
Dutch didn't say anything. He was just staring at Hosea, his expression a mix of shock and confusion.
And then, before Hosea could even blink, Dutch was crushing him to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around him, his face buried in the crook of his neck.
"You damn fool," he breathed. "You damn, beautiful fool."
Hosea couldn't breathe. Dutch was squeezing him so tight he couldn't breathe.
But then, after what seemed like an eternity, Dutch pulled back, his hands cupping Hosea's cheeks, before he leaned in and pressed their lips together.
Hosea had always dreamed of kissing Dutch, but like most people tend to dream it was a fanciful, hazy sort of thought. A distant wish, a fantasy, a momentary desire, one that was quickly and easily dismissed. Vague flashes of them sitting atop a hill at sunset, the grass swaying in the breeze. Or walking along a riverbank, hand in hand. Or curled together by the fire, visions only for a split second of their lips meeting, what it might feel like, how Dutch's beard would scratch his chin, how his breath would taste, the warmth of his skin.
But nothing compared to the real thing.
This wasn't sweet or gentle, but rather desperate and messy. Dutch's hands cupped his cheeks like he was afraid he'd fade away if he didn't, and the taste of iron was sharp on their tongues as their mouths slid against each other. Tears were running down both their cheeks, mingling and dripping onto the blankets, and Hosea clung to Dutch's shoulders like a lifeline.
And then, all too soon, it was over.
They broke apart, panting, and Dutch's forehead fell against Hosea's as they gasped for air.
"It's me?" Dutch asked.
Hosea swallowed, his throat thick with emotion.
"It's always been you," he whispered.
And Dutch pulled him close again, wrapping him in his arms, and Hosea buried his face in the crook of his neck.
"I love you," Dutch murmured, his voice thick. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
He kept repeating it, like a mantra, a compulsion, like he was afraid he'd never have the chance again. Hosea felt his heart swell, the roots tearing free at last, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he was able to take a deep breath.
When he did, he was startled to discover there was no burning in his chest. No pressure on his lungs, no ache in his sides, no weight dragging his breaths down. Nothing, save the feeling of Dutch's arms around him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and his heart beating strong and loud against his ribcage.
They stayed like that for a long time. When Hosea shifted and finally looked up, Dutch's face was red and his eyes were puffy, but the grin on his face was wider and brighter than Hosea had ever seen it.
"I love you," he repeated for what must have been the thousandth time, and it was all worth it for the way his smile seemed to light up his whole face. He cupped the carnation cradled in his hand and brought it to his nose, breathing in the sweet, sharp scent.
"I love you, too." Hosea said, and the words were the easiest he had ever uttered.
He hadn't made any kind of confession, any kind of admission of love, for many years. Not since Bessie. But this was so different. So very different. Bessie's love was gentle, loving, quiet, while Dutch was passion, was heat, was fireworks in the night, was the rush of a wild thunderstorm, was lightning sparking across his skin, setting his blood aflame. He was the crackling embers of a fire, was the burn on his tongue after a hot drink, was a scorch mark on the side of his hat, was every pulse point thrumming as the wind raced through his hair.
"Hosea," Dutch murmured, stroking his cheek. Hosea leaned into his touch, closing his eyes.
"Hosea." he repeated, his voice quieter.
"Hm?" Hosea murmured, his eyelids flickering half-open. Dutch was still gazing at him, a small smile playing on his lips.
"My Hosea," he whispered, tracing the shape of his face. "You are the most stubborn, foolish, wonderful man I have ever met."
Hosea couldn't help the wry smile that tugged at his lips.
"The perfect match, huh?"
"Just so," Dutch chuckled, and the sound was like music to his ears.
He leant forward and planted his forehead against his chest, feeling Dutch's arms wrap securely around him.
And finally, Hosea could breathe.
A breath he'd been waiting what felt like his whole life to take.