It was late at night, neither one of you could sleep from the atrocious fight the two of you had earlier that evening. The whole camp heard it— Hell, even people in town could at the rate you were yelling at each other. It was weird, the two of you never fought, but something about the air tonight was different.

Arthur stormed off a bit after the screaming, got piss drunk at some bar & Dutch told John to go fetch him before he went off to do something stupid. You were in your tent, dead silent. You felt horrible for how things went about, he was one of the closest people to you. You fell so hard in your guilt that you couldn’t even remember what the fight was about.

When you heard John get back with Arthur, you took the courage that you had been building up all night to face him to apologize— you knew he wouldn’t do it first.

“Would’ya let go of me?” You heard from outside your tent— assuming it was Arthur due to the gruffness in his tone.

“No, you can’t even walk straight,” You heard another voice— John.

“Naw, what’s the point?” Arthur slurred, his sloppy tone showed clear indications that he was drunk. You knew it was a bad idea to listen, but you couldn’t help yourself.

“I fucked it all up— like I always do. I ain’t good enough for ‘em,” He sighed, “I ain’t what they need. They ‘serve much better than ‘an ol’ bastard like me.”

“Would you shut up & go to bed?” John huffed, pushing him into the direction of his tent.

“You ain’t listenin’!” Arthur groaned.

“Just… talk to them in the morning!”

“It’s too late f’me to, there ain’t comin’ back from this.”