Hot, unrelenting, summer sun beats down on you and the few shards of broken glass that litter the dry grass around you.

Your palms are sweaty, the gun in your hand equally clammy as you observe your target practice results. Two out of the ten beer bottles Arthur had lined up for you has successfully shattered into bits. Really, it’s two and a half, one of the glass bottles still standing but with a noticeable hole in its center, but you’ll take your wins where you can.

“When you’re done wastin’ bullets, be sure to let know!” Arthur calls, shit-eating smirk no doubt on his face.

Oh, how you hate that man.

He leans against a wooden fence as if he’s got all the time in the world, hat pulled low, his arms and legs crossed as he watches you fail again, and again, and again. Sometimes you wish he’d catch some incurable disease and waste away on the spot. If he wasn’t the only member free for the day, you would’ve protested against his help much more vehemently.

Yet, surprisingly, this is the tamest attitude Arthur’s had with you over the few months you’ve worked together. Usually your harsh arguments and childish insults are resolved in physical fights, or arguments that escalate to the point you want to fight each other. There’d been countless instances where you two had to be separated like children by the older adults around camp.

Arthur sighs loudly, dragging you out of your thoughts. His footsteps resound around the empty field as he makes his way over to you, grumbling getting louder and louder until he stops a step behind you.

“Try again, but raise your elbow a bit. Don’t look at me like that, you’re the one that wants to be a big bad gunslinger,” he huffs, lifting your elbow and resting his other hand on your waist to straighten your posture as he speaks. His grip is firm, but unlike the other times when he’s grabbing you to throw you, his hold remains almost gentle.