#but people probably don't even know the prompt so it comes across as tacky

[kohakuhibiki]

People who can't write: chat gpt stole my style.

Writers: here is my style but in bad writing

[allthingsmustfall]

for @johnlockerooni who prompted: "Charles and Arthur making s'mores at a camping trip they planned for just the two of them"

They been on the AT two days when Arthur first starts to regret this whole venture.

Truth be told, maybe he regretted it the first time Charles mentioned camping, getting out deep into the wilderness for days on end, and Arthur, halfway to being in love, had said, readily, "'course I love camping, who don't?"

Charles ain't fancy about it, god knows. The kids that come around Hosea's ranch turn up in their parents' Teslas and BMWs and are outfitted in a few hundred dollars worth of new gear just for a 3 hr afternoon of riding around Bethel, the 18 year old mare who was so much like riding an old couch as to not make much difference. Charles ain't the type to drop 2 thousand dollars when and old tent and grim determination will do. So when planning, Arthur hadn't fretted much or asked any advice. A mistake, maybe, in retrospect.

Charles is kind, though, endlessly, and when Arthur turned up at the trailhead two days ago in old jeans and a baseball cap, Charles had chuckled, cupping Arthur's face in his hands in the parking lot, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth before turning to dig more practical clothes out of his bag to share.

"Alright there?" Charles says easily, dropping back to walk beside Arthur as evening came upon New England in quick footed strides. The trail ain't obvious to Arthur’s untrained eyes, but Charles knows this stretch of the AT like his own name, and Arthur knows they're in no danger of wandering astray.

"I'm fine," Arthur says, maybe too grouchy. This thing between them is new, unasked for, and precious. They passed a few people on the trail, sure, but for the most part it's just been the pair of them and their footsteps and birdsong for company as they wound their way through Vermont. Arthur wants to luxuriate in it, in the peace and tranquility, in having Charles so close to hand. But, what he feels mostly is the weariness in his own feet, the frustration with himself for overselling his own outdoorsmanship when Charles had pitched this whole plan in the first place.

"Another 15 miles tomorrow, I guess?" Arthur tries to sound excited, sincere, but what he mostly sounds is tired.

Charles smiles over at him in the dusky twilight, his hair all black and silver in the shadows. “Why push it? Not like we gotta calendar to keep to.”

Arthur wants to argue that, protest, but Charles catches his hand and presses a quick kiss to his knuckles. There again and gone.

“‘Sides,” Charles says, his voice casual, purposefully so, “I might wanna sleep in tomorrow.”

Cos I can’t keep up, Arthur thinks first, and then reconsiders, feeling the weight of Charles’ eyes on him, unpresupposing and intent. Maybe there were other reasons to dally, as well.

*

The clearing where Charles finally calls them to a stop is lovely, a break in the treeline that gives a clear, unimpeded view of the mountains and valleys that roll away from the AT like a sigh.

“I got the tent,” Charles says, probably because he’s seen Arthur curse over the poles and canvas too much to think he’s capable of seeing to it unsupervised, “There should be an old firepit on the rise there, see if you can’t find some firewood?”

“Not cliff bars and trailmix for supper then?” Arthur says, but Charles just snorts.

“You want a cold dinner then by all means, but I wouldn’t mind a fire tonight.”

So Arthur sees to it; Lord knows he ain’t ever been a boy scout but he gathers what he needs and lights it up all the same, using a tacky-ass lighter that John bought him in Atlantic City 5 years ago, now faded and worn with use. He’s starting to doze in his boots and dusty flannel by the time Charles drops down beside him, cheery and bright-eyed as he takes in the valley below. His arm settles, strong and warm and familiar, across Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur curls into his side, sticking his nose into Charles neck, just below his ear.

“Could’a told me,” Charles says, his voice soft and rich, and maybe Arthur is far further than half-way to being in love than he realized.

“Told you what?”

In the tall grass, the lightning bugs are waking, drifting lazily out of the meadow like sparks cast from a fire, flicking like starlight into dusk and beyond.

“That you hate camping,” Charles says, soft, indulgent, and when Arthur turns up his head to protest, Charles slides their mouths together, sure and soft and easy.

“I don’t hate it,” Arthur says, soft, looking up at Charles, thinking could love anything that makes you smile just so -

- and what Arthur will spend years realizing, coming to know is true. is it ain’t the woodsmoke or starlight or fireflies in the grass that makes Charles smile, it’s the warm breadth of Arthur pressed into his side, that having Arthur beside him is the fuel that fills that furnace of delight that makes Arthur’s chest feel small and precious -

- but that’s years down the road and far away, and this is still new enough to feel frail and uncertain, and Arthur is hesitant when he says, “Didn’t mean to spoil nothing,”

And Charles says, “Hush up, you old fool. I got marshmallows in my bag and enough graham crackers and chocolate to make even Jack sick with it, so how about we cool those aching feet of yours and enjoy the night?” “Ain’t waking with the dawn tomorrow?” Arthur says, thinking about how the smell of carmelized sugar will add to that woodsmoke and sweat smell that’s undoubtable Charles.

“If you’re up before noon, then I’ll eat my boots,” Charles says, half teasing, half a promise as he slides a hand around Arthur and slides his fingers, a weighted, comfortable promise, just beneath the top of Arthur’s jeans.

Arthur might say any number of those things in that moment, a joke, a come-on, some pitiful excuse for his lack of camping expertise, but what he says then is - nothing. Nothing comes easily when Charles is there, folding Arthur into a precious little pocket of peace that is as strange as it’s welcome.

The campfire sparks and crackles, and night folds around them like a promise, something soft and secure.

In need of some inspiration for charthur, any head canons or prompts that folks want to see? Doesn't need to be 'like thieves in the night,' I'm just having my first bonfire of the year and feeling soft about cowboys.