Tuberculosis.

A death sentence in the era he lived in, a death sentence for everyone around him if they ever touched him again, if they did as little as touch any body fluid coming from him. He was a walking disease, a walking virus, ready to kill and infect anyone who tried to come in contact with him.

He had never felt more grateful and more concerned when he received the diagnosis.

It all had a deeper meaning, it wasn't just a simple you're smoking too much. No, it was death incarnate, ready to take him slowly, bit by bit, until all he could do was stare at his reflection in a mirror and notice the dark bags that appeared beneath his eyes from the lack of sleep, the way he had grown thinner with how little he properly ate.

When the remaining members of the gang started asking him what was wrong, it was like a knife being stabbed into his heart. He had loved those people, protected those people, he had done everything in his power to keep them safe, and now he couldn't keep them safe from himself.

One touch, one kiss, that was all it took.

So, whenever he noticed you approaching him, trying to get closer, to ask him what was happening he'd be quick to push you away. He knew it was inevitable, that you'd find out sooner or later why he kept you at an arms-length, but the more time you spent away from him the better.

Or, at least, that was what he told himself.

Arthur lifted his hat from his head, fingers drumming against it as he paced for a little while in front of your tent. Was he really doing this? Was he really about to tell you about his diagnosis, finally letting you know why he had been avoiding you for so long?

He didn't spend too long thinking about it before he moved aside the flaps to your tent, giving you the smallest of smiles as he crouched to the floor.

"Knock, knock, comin' in."