Writing anything has been a struggle for ages now. It seems I am only able to write fluff at the moment, probably because I just want comfort. The many, many smut works I have started over the last few months stay stuck in my drafts, and nothing feels good enough.
Basically, Arthur loves her, and she loves the rain.
She always said she loved the rain.
Arthur never quite understood it.
The first time she told him, they were sitting out on the baked, ruddy earth of the desert out west, the heat of the day still rising in slow waves from the ground. They’d climbed the crest of a dusty hill outside a long-abandoned ramshackle cabin and settled there, overlooking the shimmer of the San Luis River, the water catching the last of the days’ sunlight.
It was evening, though the sun had not yet set. Camp was set up below them, half sheltered beneath the craggy overhang, which provided partial shade from the blazing sun for at least some of the day. The distant murmur of voices reached them as though from much farther away. The occasional sound of tired bickering, the crack and settle of the fire carrying on the warm air.
The gang hadn’t been settled there long, a few days, maybe approaching a week, but it was remote, isolated, safe. For now, at least. The desert sun pressed down, too close, too much—the way everything felt these days, like the world was tightening around them, slow and inevitable.
Out there, darkness came late and slow. The sky was still a pale wash of gold and dusky rose, but the moon hung low on the horizon—faint, ghostlike against the palest blue, waiting its turn. The scent of wild feverfew carried on the warm breeze around them, bruised by the day’s heat. Somewhere high above, a hawk cried, sharp and lonely, its shadow gliding long across the scrub below.
Arthur had pointed toward the wavering line of the horizon, squinting into the heat.
“Ya see that, over there? That’s Mexico... We’ll go there someday.”
Arthur knew what was left unsaid in that statement. Escape. Safety. A life; a real, proper one. For the first time, Arthur found himself wanting that. He said it like a promise.
She rested her head against his shoulder with a soft, pensive sigh, and he let his arm fall from the horizon to her, draping it around her shoulders instead. That felt more real than any distant country. He paused at her sigh, unable to read its meaning.
“Ya don’t want that?” he asked after a moment, keeping his eyes forward.
Didn’t she want a future with him? He had begun to assume, but he still wasn’t sure. And he wasn’t sure he could survive hearing otherwise. He didn’t dare look at her just yet.
She shifted then—not away, never away—just enough to turn and face him properly. She gazed at him, her dark eyes ghosting his features in the way they always did, slow and deliberate. He felt it when she looked at him like that. Felt her gaze trace the line of his brow, the set of his mouth, the tired blue of his eyes. Always his eyes. She searched them like she was looking for something long buried deep inside.
Arthur had never felt so seen as when she looked at him.
“I want that, Arthur,” she said soft and sure. “I want to be with you, to run away with you. More than anythin’.”
His chest loosened, just a little.
“But…” she added, a faint smile tugging at her full lips. “Well… I miss the rain.”
There was a pause—heavy and almost ridiculous in the dry air between them. They were in New Austin—in country that barely remembered what rain felt like. Months had passed since the last decent fall, and water had become a quiet, constant source of friction in camp.
How long can we stretch what we've got?
The earth itself seemed to beg for it. The desert didn't offer much in the way of comfort. The walk to the river and back was punishing, without shelter or shade, and carrying buckets of water to camp required many breathless, sweaty breaks along the way.
She and Arthur usually did it late at night, or in the very early hours of the morning, when the desert air finally cooled. This was also when they made the most of the quiet, stolen moments away from the lively raucousness of camp. Kissing breathlessly in the moonlight, Arthur would hike up her skirts with an eagerness he hadn’t felt since he was a damn teenager…
“Not that we get much of it here,” she laughed softly.
Arthur exhaled slowly, coming out of his momentary reverie. It wasn’t him she doubted—she just wanted rain.
He frowned, gazing toward the horizon again, but this time it was fond, thoughtful. Her love of rain didn’t exactly surprise him. She felt like something wild and green that didn’t quite belong in this dust. He huffed quietly through his nose then, amused, remembering her love of water in all its forms.
Back when they were camped further East, somewhere near Tall Trees, she was always the first to kick off her boots and step into a stream without so much as rolling up her skirts. The first to wade in up to her calves just to feel the current tug at her. She begged him to take her fishing whenever they were near a decent stretch of river—even though every time a fish thrashed on the line, she winced, half the time begging him to throw the poor thing back. He knew she just wanted to sit with her feet in the water, or trailing her fingers if they took a boat out.
He’d noticed, too, how often he’d found her staring at the sky when clouds gathered. The way she’d linger beneath trees during a drizzle, barely sheltered at all. The way rain seemed to soften her.
The last real storm they’d had out there, sudden and violent over New Austin, she’d stood out in the open like she’d been waiting for it her whole life. Hair soaked, skirts heavy and clinging, eyes closed as the water pelted her skin, her face turned towards to ominous sky above.
He’d had grabbed her wrist and hauled her back toward the tent, muttering about lightning and catching her death. Now, remembering it, he shook his head faintly.
“So… ya want rain, huh?” he asked gruffly.
He felt her nod against his shoulder. He tightened his arm around her. He stared out across the endless stretch of country before them, the cracked earth, the distant haze where land met sky. The San Luis River and the shadow of Mexico in the distance, dusty and arid and fading in the darkness.
“I reckon places in Mexico got rain,” he said after a moment. “Reckon they got places we ain’t even dreamed about.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Yeah?”
“Sure.” His voice softened. “It’s a big place… we might have to travel a while. But I heard they got tropical forests. Tall trees. Thick grasses. Plenty of flowers… maybe some people ain’t even discovered yet.”
“You think?” she rested her head against his shoulder again, gazing off into the distance, toward the haze of the land across the river. He felt as though he could almost see the future taking shape behind her eyes.
“I reckon you’d discover a new one or two yourself,” he murmured. She chuckled at that, warm and low, before turning to face him properly.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” she teased, her eyes bright. “Though I know you think I could do just about anythin’.”
Arthur simply nodded, serious and calm. As far as he was concerned, she could do anything.
She studied him for a long moment, her expression soft now.
“You can do anythin’ too, Arthur. I won’t say I think you can. Or I know you can.” Her fingers brushed gently over his forearm. “You just can. Because you can.”
She shrugged lightly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. The wind shifted, carrying dust over the crest of the hill. The desert pressed in on all sides. The heat was dry, oppressive, but the breeze picked up for a moment and caught her hair. Arthur watched as she closed her eyes briefly, gratefully, before turning back to look at him.
“I miss mist. And greenery. Waterfalls.” Her voice drifted, wistful. “The smell of damp earth….” She paused. “I don’t know if I could live without it.”
Then she nudged him gently.
“But then again… I know I couldn’t live without you.”
Arthur swallowed. His hand flexed slightly against her shoulder.
“Y’know, when I really think about it though, I’d be happy anywhere,” she continued thoughtful and soft. “The coldest mountain. The driest desert. I mean it. If I’m with you… I’ve got everythin’ I could ever want.”
She leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek—soft and warm against the rough scrape of his stubble. His heart gave that familiar, traitorous skip he had grown accustomed to when he was with her.
“I tell you what then, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and rough. “Wherever we end up… I promise you rain.”
The was a pause, where Arthur realised how ridiculous that must have sounded. And then she laughed—bright and unrestrained —a sound Arthur had come to realise he didn’t want to live without. He cleared his throat, aware that that probably didn’t sound nearly as smooth as he had meant it to, and he felt heat begin to rise in his cheeks.
“I mean—” he started, eager to clarify, to explain that he meant he’d find it, he’d take her somewhere green and stormy and alive—
But she cut him off, pressing her mouth to his, soft and gentle and certain. For a heartbeat, the world was only that—her lips, the fading warmth of the day beneath them, his heart thudding in his chest.
The wind shifted again, carrying dust and desert sage between them. The moon had climbed higher now, bright against a sky finally deepening into indigo. Below, the river shimmered silver in the last of the dying light, and somewhere in the darkening scrub, the hawk gave one last lonely cry before silence claimed it.
They sat like that for a long moment then, her head on his shoulder, his arm steady at her waist, quiet and still, watching the stars blossom in the sky, the moon growing brighter with every passing minute.
Then, somewhere far behind them, the sky grumbled, low, and distant, and unmistakable.
They glanced at one another, before turning back to look behind them; not toward the wavering promise of Mexico beyond West Elizabeth—but back the way they’d come.
The horizon behind them had darkened. Thick, rolling clouds swallowed the last traces of gold and rose. Another rumble followed, closer this time, deep and quickly followed by a blinding sheet of lightning that tore through the sky, illuminating the black underbelly of the storm. Down below, the distant murmur of camp sharpened—voices raised joyously, someone calling for canvas to be secured, a burst of laughter.
She turned her face upward, eyes wide, amazed. Arthur watched her instead of the sky. The wind shifted again, cooler now, charged with electricity.
And then it came; one heavy, deliberate droplet. It struck her cheek and clung there a moment, before beginning a steady track down her freckled cheek, catching in what little light remained.
She inhaled sharply, reverent, and Arthur felt something settle deep in his bones. He knew then—muggy rainforest or windswept coast. Rugged mountain or endless, grassy plains. Wherever the road finally took them—he would find a way to get them there. He knew it the way he knew very few things: not in his head, or with any particular logic, but deep and quiet and sure.
If she wanted rain, he would find it for them.
And he would stand in it with her.
