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When Arthur told him to take the bearskin, John had snorted with laughter and asked what the hell they needed it for on a fishing trip, but obediently rolled it up and secured it to his saddle. How fucking glad he was now that he hadn't let his stubbornness get in the way.
Arthur was massive, incredibly heavy. His winter coat was bulging and seemed to have absorbed all the waters of the lake, making him resemble the bloated carcass of a dead animal that predators had not yet reached. John, already numb from the cold but stubbornly clutching the collar of Arthur's damned jacket, dragged him closer to the fire; inhuman sounds and ragged breathing of one man were merging with painful moans and growls of the other.
For that brief moment his stream of curses directed at Marston subsided; only a few short, isolated curses could be heard, but John didn't even think of snapping back, feeling more than ever that he deserved them. Honestly, if he had the strength and the space in his mind free from panic, he would have scolded himself far worse than that.
"Just get this all off me!" Arthur spat, his voice was hoarse, John could hear him inhaling air with a sick whistle and coughing between his words. "John!"
His own name pulled Marston out of the chaos in his head; he shot a frightened glance at Arthur, begging him to tell him what to do. Just like before, when they were younger, when John was most successful only in doing what he liked and finding ways to avoid what he didn't want to do.
Arthur repeated patiently and much more calmly:
"Take everything off me and…" he paused for a careful breath that wouldn't send him into another coughing fit, "Wrap me in a blanket and a fur coat."
That was easy. John could do it. With trembling, unusually clumsy fingers, the man began undoing the bone buttons on the coat, one by one, trying to do it quickly, even though the water-swollen buttonholes stubbornly refused to let go of them. Arthur squirmed lazily, trying to force himself to rise, helping to free his own hands from the tightly clinging sleeves. The clothes resisted, unwilling to let go easily, like stubborn seaweed clinging to his body, but it couldn't resist their double pressure.
John himself didn't notice how his own breathing had more or less evened out, and the cacophony of hysterically racing thoughts had organized itself in his head and taken on the appearance of a clear plan, casting aside everything unnecessary at the moment.
He pulled off Arthur's boots, ignoring the water that splashed out of each in a small stream, and hurried back to the fire and the packs he'd earlier removed from their horses' saddles. When Arthur said, "Take everything off," he literally meant everything, and John couldn't continue until he'd provided him with at least some warmth and protection from the wind. What the hell possessed him to suggest winter fishing?! Although, with John’s luck, if he'd suggested hunting, they might have found themselves in a much worse situation…
These thoughts brought back uninvited memories. For a second, on the edge of his hearing he was sure he caught a familiar howl, that wasn’t actually there, and a chill ran down John’s spine that had nothing to do with the weather. Shaking his head, John quickly gathered up the folded blanket and bearskin; his gaze fell on Arthur's leather travel bag and he grabbed that as well. Surely there would be a bottle of alcohol or something else useful in there to warm him from the inside too.
Arthur, always a man of action, had already managed to wrestle with the buttons of his shirt and overalls, pulled his suspenders off his shoulders, and now, stubbornly pressing his lips together and shaking all over, was trying to take the socks off his stiff looking feet.
Wasting no time, John unrolled the skin as he walked and threw it on the ground next to Arthur, then immediately squatted down to continue helping him strip off his clothes.
"I brought your bag..."
Arthur, not looking up from his buttons and buttonholes, only grunted in response. Surprisingly, it sounded more like approval than irritation.
Together they stripped his body of all the wet clothing, he was flushed and pale from the cold, trembling uncontrollably. Arthur immediately sat down on the fur and pulled the blanket over himself, curling up as tightly as possible, like a child. John wrapped him in knitted warmth and fur, biting his lip to push back the unbidden emotions that had surged up. If Arthur saw anything on his face that could be taken as pity…
There was no time for that right now. They had to get back, but Arthur couldn’t be carried on horseback: he'd freeze. When it was John they had to save from freezing to death, at least he still had his warm clothes on. But now they had an axe and rope. There were plenty of trees with long branches around the lake, so John could at least figure something out with all of this.
***
"You know, I didn't realize that was one of your skills," Arthur said lazily, but with a hint of pride. This sluggishness betrayed how hard he was fighting drowsiness, and John tried his best to keep the conversation going, sure that Arthur should stay awake for a while.
"I didn't know that myself." He let out a slightly nervous laugh. "It seems I'm quite quick-witted."
"Yeah," Arthur agreed with a smile. "Quick-witted. A fool, I’m afraid, but a quick-witted one."
John managed to fashion a fairly decent stretcher from branches and rope, which he was hopeful would survive the journey to the small hunting lodge where the men had stopped for the journey.
Before setting out on their return trip, Marston tried to get Arthur some whiskey, but the man categorically refused. "No!" he had exclaimed somewhat sharply, but continued more quietly and calmly. "If I drink now, I'll get tired..."
The detailed explanation of the consequences hung unspoken in the air, but John understood perfectly.
"Okay," he licked his dry lip, swallowed, and nodded. "Then later. When we're in warmth."
"When we're in warmth," Arthur confirmed, not looking at him.
Oldboy's smooth ride was ideal for transporting such important luggage—the gelding remained calm in John's improvised harness and didn't mind pulling something that even had no wheels.
Arthur shifted under the blanket and rubbed at his arms to create more warmth within his cocoon. Like a bear in its lair, he kept grunting and groaning. The branches beneath him crunched with every movement, smelling of resin, the pine needles trying to push through his clothes or at least lick his cheeks, but instead only bending elastically and crumpling under the weight of the body lying on them.
Arthur's horse, Orville, walked docilely, slightly to the side, as if reluctant to stray far from his master. He kept turning and tilting his head toward the fur mound Arthur was hiding in, and flicking his tail. Morgan cooed tenderly at such moments, clucking his tongue and soothing him, and John was once again convinced he had done the right thing in letting Orville walk by himself rather than leading him by the bridle. Still tense as a harp string, with adrenaline coursing through his veins, John wasn’t confident he would have been able to control someone else's equally nervous horse.
At least he made one good decision in all this mess.
If John hadn't rushed to show off his catch, abandoning his fishing rod and other gear near the roughly cut hole in the ice, if he hadn't asked Arthur to go get them, none of this would have happened. Arthur was heavier; if John had gone himself, the ice would have held.
John had only turned away from the lake for a moment to throw some wood on the fire and start cutting up the fish when he heard that terrible sound behind him. The ice gasped almost inaudibly, a dull crack in the background, and then Arthur's surprised cry and the splash of water obscured it completely. John jumped up and rushed to help — to where the upper half of his companion's figure loomed dark above the snow-white surface — but John came to his senses in time and darted towards the saddles stacked by the fire. Their lassos laid together; Marston grabbed both without wasting any time on thinking.
"Don't come here! Are you crazy?!" Arthur hadn’t noticed him right away, focused on trying to pull himself up onto the edge of the ice hole with his arms, but falling in again and again. He couldn't even try to hook his knee over the edge to pull himself up — the ice groaned and broke under his weak grip, widening the hole but making the task even more difficult.
John obediently stopped a few meters from his target and, with practiced precision, threw the lasso loop, but Arthur wasn't a stubborn bull stuck in mud or a ravine, and John wasn't sitting in the saddle. They both realized right away that the rope was useless — a drowning man would more likely drag the hapless rescuer across the slippery ice and straight into the water beside him.
"John," Arthur's voice sounded unusual — too hoarse, stubbornly breaking through a throat constricted by the shock of the icy water. "Go to the shore. Find... a long stick. Go."
A stick? Did John even have time for a damn stick? The axe was now sticking out of the ice not far from Arthur — John hadn't even bothered to take it with him when he hauled the fish he'd caught to their campsite. But there were still some small trees growing on the lakeshore that he could use. Marston had a completely insane idea, one for which he was sure Arthur would have beaten him up if he'd had the chance. But John was ready to take any anger, no matter what form it took. He'd rather prefer Arthur alive and angry to dead and approving of his actions, any time, under any circumstances.
"I'll be right there!" Afraid of falling and being unable to help Arthur, John slid towards a tree that caught his eye, cursing under his breath at the disgusting sensation of time slowing down. Every movement, no matter how sudden, felt like a dreamscape. In such a state, not being able to see Arthur was unbearable, but John only moved forward with greater determination.
The tree turned out to be more like a cluster of several trunks, similar to some types of mushrooms, sprouting from a single, practically buried stump, all covered in a soft blanket of snow. John chose the one that looked thickest, shook it experimentally, testing its strength, and, satisfied that it would hold, he secured a long rope to it then tied the other end around himself and confidently made his way back to the ice hole.
Arthur, thank God, hadn't disappeared. He'd managed to reach the axe and was now using it as a lever to pull himself up. However, he stopped trying as soon as he saw John again:
"Damn you, Marston, I told you not to come here!" he growled. "Are you deaf or a complete idiot?!"
"A complete one, maybe," John panted, the frosty air simultaneously couldn't reach his cheeks because of the warm breath and stung his nose, making his eyes water. He had almost reached the spot where he'd stopped last time, but now he slowly sank to his knees, then lay flat on his stomach. He remained motionless for a few moments, getting his bearings, and then began to carefully push off the ice to crawl forward.
"Stop, you moron, you'll go under too!" Arthur didn't move. The sight of John stubbornly approaching froze him, like the sight of two carriages rushing inexorably towards each other. A premonition of some kind of catastrophe simply wouldn't let him look away.
But John made it. He crawled over and grabbed him under the elbows, and they both froze there, not knowing what to do next, staring into each other's eyes.
"So, what are you go-"
But John didn't let him finish the question. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "Hold on to me tighter. I'm going to turn around now."
"You goddamn bet you are, Marston," Arthur growled. "You'll turn around and crawl from here to the shore."
John didn't argue. The fact that Arthur had the strength to bicker gave him some elation, but instead of wasting his breath, he’d be better off focusing on building up his grip. Marston slowly released Arthur with one hand and carefully began to turn on his stomach, hating that he was letting go of Arthur completely, but Arthur got the idea and clutched onto his legs and waist. It felt like hours, even though it had only been a few seconds before John was facing away from the hole.
“Scold me, Arty, scold me…” he muttered, not addressing anyone but himself, and for some inexplicable reason this phrase encouraged him, like a second wind.
The man's stream of curses soon died down to an incoherent muttering under his breath, and then ceased altogether. John tugged lightly on the rope, checking one last time that it wouldn't fail at the crucial moment. To be sure, he wrapped his legs around Arthur's torso behind his body, almost as he would have done on horseback, tucked the ill-fated hatchet into his belt, and began pulling their hapless pair out of the ice hole. He took his time, alternately gripping the lasso with his left fist and then his right, pulling himself up with the strength of both arms, oblivious to the fact that his fingers, even through the gloves, no longer felt like his own.
It took longer than his first slide toward the tree. It was harder than dragging the carcass of a freshly killed deer. But just when John thought he'd pulled them far enough away from danger, he extricated himself from Arthur's weight, leaped to his feet, and dragged him across the ice to the shore, this time using nothing but his own hands.
***
The wood in the stove crackled cheerfully, hissing with tiny droplets of resin. It provided enough light to prevent John's eyes from hurting, and enough warmth to stop Arthur's toes from aching.
He was lying still, wrapped in all the warm clothes they had with them, obediently drinking the whiskey and warm water that Marston brought him, and no longer trying to bring up the topic of what an idiot John was.
John wrung out all the wet clothes thoroughly on the porch and hung them up as best as he could in the warm room. He was very reluctant to leave Arthur alone, but the horses needed to be housed in the outbuilding for the night and given food and water. He tried to handle this quickly, but no less responsibly than usual. After all, they were a big help in today's incident.
"You know, you did really good," Arthur said from under the skins and blankets once John returned to the hut. "I won’t believe even for a second you calculated all the risks... More like you were relying on luck, but hey, it worked out," he chuckled quietly, a yawn catching him.
"Something like that." John shrugged his coat off his shoulders and began stripping down to his union suit. He rubbed his still cold hands together and approached the injured party's bed.
John first touched the tip of Arthur’s nose with the back of his hand, but his hands were still too cold to feel much else other than the hard tip. He frowned and then chuckled at Arthur's affronted look. He then leaned forward decisively, bumped his own nose across it. Still failing to get the feeling he was interested in, he pressed his lips to the now warm nose. Arthur, heroically enduring this abuse of his face, chuckled with a mixture of irritation and tenderness.
"What's the verdict, Doc?"
"Hm..." John finally straightened up and went to get another whiskey. "It’s warm."
"Hm." Arthur smiled with satisfaction, closing his eyes. "All thanks to your care. But I'm afraid I'll need some additional treatment."
"Is that so?" John returned with a half-full cup and helped his patient to raise his head so he could drink it without choking. "If you wake up completely ill, I'll show you goddamn additional treatment!"
John bit his lip, abruptly falling silent. Guilt stung him again, and he simply didn't dare continue his accusations, even if they were just jokes.
"Hey..." Arthur sensed the mood shift right away. His blue-green eyes persistently tried to catch John's, and Marston quickly gave in. "It'll be fine. I've been colder than that. We both survived Caulter, why would some ice hole be worse?"
John swallowed, fighting the urge to argue, but he held back and nodded.
"Okay, enough of this nonsense. Move over," he grumbled.
"That's my boy." Arthur grinned and obediently shifted further on the bed to give John enough room.
He didn’t hesitate to dive under the blankets, swift and smooth, like an ermine, trying not to lose the pent-up warmth beneath them. He immediately wrapped his arms and legs tightly around Arthur's body, fidgeting and rubbing himself in an awkward determination to get the sluggish blood pumping through Arthur's chilled veins. His impulse was not unrequited, but both men failed to notice the precise moment when practical necessity escalated into an overwhelming need, albeit of a different, more pleasant kind.
"It looks like you've finally come back to life, Mr. Morgan," John said, not stopping the lazy movements of his hips, separated from Arthur's firm muscles by the slightly itchy red fabric of his union suit.
Arthur suddenly made a single effort and rolled onto his stomach, hugging John tighter. "And what are you going to do about it, Mr. Marston?"
His weather-beaten lips grew quite warm, even hot, as did his breath, greedy, which, perhaps better than anything else, confirmed that John's verdict on the injured and potentially ill man's condition was absolutely correct.
This couldn't help but bring a smile back into the voice of the man pinned to the bed.
"I have a couple of ideas..."