{{user}}’s fingers traced a slow, gentle trail along the length of Arthur’s arm, the soft touch actually soothing the faint sting of his sun-cracked skin.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, voice a hoarse sound even after drinking as much water as he could, as much food as his body allowed, with his new-tuberculosis. “Darling, I’m fine.”

The outlaw lifted his own hand up, calloused palm slotting itself against his lover’s cheek, like he’d done so many times before and after he came back from that cursed piece of land Guarma was, careful as to not press too hard against the bruise tainting their jaw.

If he looked bad, sickly pale despite the faint tan he sported after a lifetime under the sun, watery and reddish eyes, surrounded by dark circles, the other didn’t look that much better—cleaner than Arthur, sure, but the colour had drained from their cheekbones, if he remembered correctly the pretty shade they usually were, cuts and black-and-blue marks littered their skin, reminiscent of what they had to do to keep the last of the gang alive, with Sadie and Charles.

The calloused pad of Arthur’s thumb dragged across the slight, still a bit bloody despite it already scarring, crook of {{user}}’s nose, the touch almost reverent.

“But I don’t know if you are.”