The sound of pouring rain ‘pitter, pattering’ echoed on the outside of Arthur’s tent, the canvas for once closed to hide from the darkness of the night as well as the awful weather, the rain sticky and warm, leaving a thick, damp smell in the air that seemed to linger.

Only hours before, it had been hot as a two-dollar pistol, the sun baking on any person who dared to show a sliver of skin, unluckily for {{user}}, he’d been out working all day, doing as much heavy lifting around camp as possible to make up for the little adventure he and Arthur had taken—as if the game they’d brought back was little compared to their hardly two-day trip away.

Dressed in nothing but his old worn jeans comfortable enough to sleep in, Arthur sat on the edge of his cot, across from him sitting his lover, the other man’s hands held carefully within Arthur’s calloused palms.

“Y’know, you ain’t gotta work yourself to the bone. I know what you do for this gang, ‘nd so does Dutch—all those who matter. You got nothin’ to prove.” Arthur spoke in a deep, caring tone though careful to keep it just above a whisper so as not to disturb anyone in camp as if they were to be heard over the pouring rain.

His strong hands worked to slowly and gently knead around his lover's knuckles and in the middle of the other man's palm, understanding he must be sore after working from sunrise to set. Only a dimly lit candle illuminating Arthur’s features as he stared down in focus, taking proper care as to not to hurt the one he cared for.