Chapter Text
There is something difficult about seeing someone you adore struggle, and knowing that there is not really much you can do. Knowing that their troubles were something you couldn’t shoulder yourself and ease the burden. When you care about someone, that adoration causes roots to grow, and they sink deep down into your skin and itch. Each time you saw the person who planted them ache or have to face difficulty, those roots are tugged and torn at. Even though you are not the one hurting, it leaves you with this odd hollow spot that does not entirely make sense.
If watching them go through hard times was difficult, having to go through the motions with them at your side while they sleep in your bed, share your meals, bathe in your shower and wear your clothes was something that Braeburn could perhaps only describe as absolutely crippling. The roots were no longer sapling starters or blooming wildflowers to be replanted somewhere else, but instead the grasping, consuming talons of an oak, sunk deep into the soil and around his windpipe.
It was perhaps two weeks since Braeburn had come home from the hospital, and the days blurred together. They had fallen into an easy rhythm, he and Elliott, and things were easy. But simultaneously difficult.
The days went smoothly, with good food and hot drinks, long evenings and comfortable beds. Spending time with one another was easy, and it felt like they had spent more time laughing and talking than actually doing their necessary jobs around the farm. They had decided to take the work lightly - Braeburn's head injury was practically healed, but under Doctor Harvey's strict orders he had to rest often, and so breaks were frequent. He could still lift heavy things, however, which saved Elliott's tattered hands - and that was where it got difficult.
Every morning Braeburn watched - silently, though he was sure he was seen - through the open bathroom door as Elliott brushed his long hair, quickly shaved and brushed his teeth, and then finally washed his elegant hands - hissing when soap caught the healing flesh in the centre of his tatterdemalion hands. Having Elliott sleep on his couch was fine. Having him bound to his side each and every day was seamless. Having an extra mouth to feed was nothing. Having to watch the man in pain was soul shattering. He hid the pain well - when they worked the fields or cared for the chickens, fed the bees or tightened the tappers the writer only smiled as soon as Brae said a word, never making a noise or gesturing once that he was in pain.
It was clear that Elliott was just as thankful for their frequent breaks, however.
Every hour, on the hour, they stopped and sat for a while, lowering themselves to sit on the porch and just take in the fresh air and let the world go by without them. Sitting still eased the inconsistent dizzy spells that Brae's concussion tried to sneak up on him, and it gave Elliott time to scribble. He had taken to writing down little notes and short phrases in one of Brae's old spare notebooks, so that he could write them up later in his fresh new Cabin - the Cabin Brae still needed to see sometime, but they could go down to the beach and have a nice, relaxing day once they were both up to it. Brae had watched the writer pen down pages and pages of these notes, so when he returned to the farmhouse one evening with an ear-to-ear smile and a stack of papers, he wasn’t surprised.
“It's finally done,” Elliott breathed as he slipped into his chair at their little table by the window. It was good timing - even though he usually returned from his nightly evening excursions at this sort of time, Braeburn had only just filled his mug with hot water ready to get tea brewing. The papers were his book, finally completed after a year and a half, and the stack was thicker than the width of Braeburn's broad thumb. “Camellia Station. I cannot believe it has taken so long - but it’s finally finished.”
“Hey, you’ve had a busy time, don’t be mad at yourself that it took a little longer than you expected,” Braeburn smiled as he sat across from him, placing their mugs on their coasters. “Not everybody can write a book. I’m proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself.”
Elliott smiled, but it was a dizzy, incomplete one. “Well. I’ll be happy once my agent reads it over and gives it the big ‘yes’ stamp. I need to call him to arrange a meeting, and to fax him a copy in advance.”
“Museum should have a fax machine you can use,” Braeburn took a long drink. The weather was starting to get hotter, and he had craved a kick of honey and wet all day. “Do you have your agent's number? You can use my phone.”
“I have it memorized - are you sure? I don’t want to be a hassle.”
“El, you live on my couch, don’t worry about it.” Brae chuckled and stood to get his cellphone from his room, but caught the way Elliott's expression faltered before the writer smothered it. “Hey. That was a joke. I love having you here, don’t worry about it.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” Elliott only muttered quickly, fingers wringing the edges of his manuscript. “I - I can sleep back at the Cabin, if you would prefer.”
Brae slipped passed him, lightly petting the top of Elliott's head - cautious not to ruffle his pretty hair too badly. “Don’t be silly, I want you here. Wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
It was nice that Elliott finally had something going for him, Brae thought as he slipped into his room to get the phone. The year had been a long one, and the last month alone was enough hassle for a lifetime. He deserved something going right for once, and anything Braeburn could do to help was on the table. Whether it was keeping him safe and dry, or funding the Cabins repair, or making sure the idiot kept himself fed on the days when he lost track of time. Elliott was easy to care for, in every sense of the word, and Braeburn had a lot of time for him. He worked hard and tried his best, and nobody could ask more than that.
He found the phone stuck between his bed and bedside drawer. It had a habit of falling and getting trapped there, and as he unlocked the phone he swallowed a little; a candid snap of Elliott himself from last year's Flower Dance was his background wallpaper.
Yes. It had been a long year.
Braeburn shook his head clear and just opened up the app, ready for Elliott to use. He could change his background, but there was no point, Elliott wouldn’t see it anyway. When he came back through to the living room, Elliott was flicking through his immense stack of work - triple checking for any errors, no doubt.
“Here you go -” Brae handed the cellphone to him, the phone app ready and open to use. “Give ‘em a call, I’ll bet they’ll be happy to hear from you. Want me to take the book to the museum while you call, get it started?”
“Ah, no, thank you. Just in case I need to refer to it. I’ll only be a moment.”
“Want me to leave?”
“No no, it's fine.” Elliott stood, thumbing in the number with one hand and holding the wedge of paper in his other. As the tone rang and he pressed the phone to his ear, he paced the room a little. Mac - Braeburn's collie - watched him from his spot on the sofa, and Braeburn could practically see the little gears in his head turn as the farm dog decided whether or not to follow Elliott's path around the carpet.
“Ah, hello!” Elliott spoke into the phone, pausing his steps for a moment as someone answered. “This is Elliott, you have me filed under ‘J’. I was calling to let Mr Stone know that I have a finished manuscript. Thank you.”
Braeburn sat and took a sip of his tea as Elliott spun on his heel and started to pace in the other direction. Braeburn could tell that if Elliott's hands weren’t full of papers that he would be fidgeting - something he tried not to do, consciously. Having the notebooks ready in his pocket day-to-day seemed to be helping the habit, however.
“Good afternoon, Mr Stone. How are you?” He swallowed a little, and Braeburn watched the bob of his Adam's apple. This had been a long time coming, and Elliott had already done the hard part of writing the book. Now it was just the aftercare, and while Braeburn wasn’t an expert on the process, he assumed that others - his agent, his company, editors maybe - would take the reins on that process, giving Elliott a little time to breathe. He deserved time to breathe. Time without stress. “Yes, I’m well. Apologies that it has taken me some time to call you - there's been some, ah…”
Elliott glanced over at Braeburn for a moment, seeming to search for the right word. He didn’t meet the farmer's eyes.
“- family trouble. But the book is finished, or at least as finished as I can get it without your seeing of it. Approximately five-hundred-twenty pages. Yes. That's fine, I’ll be able to fax a copy tomorrow, or potentially I will - yes, I should be able to scan and send it to you digitally, if you could remind me of your details.”
Brae pulled a notepad and pen from the bookcase next to the table - he had always had a supply to hand, a notebook or two on each bookshelf, just in case, even though Elliott practically living there for the last nearly two months had depleted that stock down a little. Keeping the phone in place with his shoulder, Elliott bent to the table and jotted down the details, flashing a slight smile at Braeburn as a thank you as he did so. Braeburn couldn’t help but smile back - even though their last two weeks together had been good, and they had laughed and joked and fallen back into step with one another, it still felt that a genuine smile from Elliott was a rare sight, sometimes. Elliott left the stack of pages on the table as he stood back straight and paced a little more.
“Yes, yes, that's wonderful, I’ve got that down. Upon your reading it, I would appreciate a call back, or perhaps we could arrange a meeting? ...Let me just check.”
He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at Braeburn.
“Would it be alright if my agent uses this number to contact me, for the time being?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thank you, -” He put the phone back to his ear as Braeburn thumbed the stack - over five hundred pages did not seem like a stretch; it was a thick, thick chunk of work, and it would no doubt make for a large novel once finalized. “That's absolutely fine. Mh-hm, yes, I can do that. Alright. Marvellous, I look forward to hearing from you. Yes, wonderful. Thank you. Goodbye, bye.”
With his back to Braeburn, Elliott pulled the phone from his ear and clicked to hang up. He was silent for a moment, tensing a little for a split-second, before taking in a long breath and brushing his hair out of his eyes. As he turned he swallowed again, and the phone screen turned off in his hand.
“All good, sweetheart?”
The pet name slipped out - as it had done a few times recently - and besides a slight bloom of pink across the writer's ears and cheeks, Elliott said nothing. He just gave a faint nod and slipped back into his seat, sliding the phone over the wood to hand it back. He swallowed again - thick and heavy - and decided to drain his mug of tea in one long series of swallows.
It really had been a long time coming - and Braeburn was standing before Elliott’s mug hit the coaster again, intent to make him another mugful of liquid relaxation.
“I...I will head to the museum tomorrow and use their facilities. I should be able to scan each page and fax a copy to the company, and then it is a matter of waiting for them to get back to me. If all goes according to plan, then...once they have my work I - I have to go to the city, again. The agency is connected with its own publishing branch and so it functions as both, to streamline things. I’ll have to prepare a lot, tomorrow. Would you mind if I spend the morning away from the farm?”
“‘Course not. You do what you gotta,” Brae took the mug and slipped into the kitchen, and he could feel Elliott's eyes lingering on his back. “And if there's anything I can do to help, you just let me know. I’ll manage just fine without you for a morning, so don’t worry.”
“Just- ...promise me that you-”
“I will take my breaks.” Brae looked back over his shoulder, unable to stop his grin, and Elliott gave something like a sheepish smile back in return. He had worried the entire time - that month-long gap without seeing each other, of them both being exhausted and in pain. It had cemented something inside of Elliott that slipped out in waves; whether it was a newfound confidence in his work, or an eagerness to get out more, or more frequent displays of his care - and so he was the one usually to suggest their breaks, to ask if the farmer was managing, to take the lead on the more demanding aspects of work. Elliott worried, and while Braeburn appreciated the care, he didn’t want to give the man more on his plate than he already had. “I’ll drink a lot and take it easy. I’ll be fine. Your book is the most important thing right now, especially if you got your boss waiting on you for it.”
He refilled up the writer's mug and slipped back into his seat across from him. Elliott had the softest frown, like he was considering saying something, but it vanished at the sight of more tea. He wrapped his hands around the mug, for the heat to seep into the pads of his fingers, but hesitated - his healing, fragile skin flinching at the touch. A spasm ran down Elliott's ring finger, and Braeburn saw it. But nothing was said.
Braeburn would start cooking soon, and Elliott would help around the house - as much as the farmer would let him, anyway. They would eat, then crash on the couch for a few short hours; sharing stories, or watching TV, or maybe giving Mac a quick walk around the crop fields. Maybe one of them would shower, and their voices would grow softer as the night grew dark and lonely. Eventually they would separate, and Braeburn would lie in bed, awake for far longer than he wanted to be, thinking about the man curled up on his sofa.
Routine had come easy, like they had been doing this for years.
Listening to Elliott's soft snores through the tiny crack of his bedroom door left open, however, was hard.
The next day, Elliott took his stack of papers, his notebooks and everything he needed to the museum bright and early after a good breakfast.
And all of a sudden The Orchard was empty.
Braeburn sat on the porch, boots planted into the dust, letting the breeze catch his hair. He would have a few minutes, then get to work, then rest again, get a drink, and work some more. Routine was easy to come by at the farm, even though the enormous tracts of land laid before him felt quiet now without his company. The blueberries had gotten so tall so quick that they dwarfed the fences and Mac got lost in them when he ran out into the fields to play, and the scent of the local wildflowers grew stronger as each day grew warmer.
He had been glad - truly - to be able to stretch his legs around his Orchard now after so many dragging days of sitting in that cursed hospital gurney. While Doctor Harvey had been absolutely kind and caring, doting even, and obsessive over ensuring his condition improved as quickly and smoothly as possible, Braeburn had been restless as soon as he had woken up there in that little clinic room. He had had his fill of doctors long ago, from all his visits and aftercare as a child from the fire. He'd be happy if he never had to see one more plastic curtain or barred bed or little dinner tray again.
The restlessness was a merciless, ongoing drone he couldn't ignore - the drive to be out and in the fields, caring for his animals, tending to the land. He wanted to be outside, and feel the breeze on his skin, have the scent of honey catch in his hair and the shimmer of leaves and green and earth around him.
If the restlessness was a consistent annoyance, then the loneliness was an unending pit that swallowed Braeburn whole.
He thought of Elliott every day - and every night, as well.
When Doctor Harvey had come to check on Brae for the fifth, sixth perhaps, time that first day, he could tell something was wrong even in his semi-conscious state. He had asked and asked again, but the good doctor had told him nothing was wrong - and maybe Braeburn had forgotten for a day or so; those early days in the doctors care were when he was at his dizziest, his most confused. A head injury is no laughing matter, after all. But after a while, he remembered not only what had happened down in the caves, but also the way Harvey had frowned in a different way with that check-in. Instead of that stressed look that left rings under his eyes, there was a deep-set concern that made the corner of his mouth crease at the edge of his moustache.
He had asked again - something was wrong, something had to be wrong, and he was the patient, he had every right to know what was going on - and eventually Harvey caved, sighing and sitting on the bed next to the farmer. He explained that Elliott had run to the hospital, barefoot and terrified, and broke down upon hearing the news. That Elliott had panicked, and practically collapsed in fear, but that he was determined to set things right and that he was going to care for the farm single-handedly until Braeburn was back home, refusing any care or further assistance.
Harvey had to restrain him in his bed.
Were he at his full strength and normal heath, Braeburn mused that he could probably have overpowered the doctor without issue - but in that moment he was weak and exhausted, vertigo spiralling his senses and a splitting headache rendering him useless. Harvey had pushed him back into the pillows the split-second he had tried to erupt from the blankets, numb legs desperate to touch the floor.
There was nothing that could be done, not until he could stand without wobbling, move without dizziness, flex his damaged muscles without pain. And Harvey was right, of course - Braeburn was in no fit state to work, but neither was Elliott.
It drove him insane.
Hour after hour, lingering and drifting, sterile and senseless and endlessly repeating in that little cot, listening to the clock tick and bored out of his brain. All Braeburn could do was sleep and think. And he thought a lot. Of the farm, of his animals, of Cameo and Gala, and of Elliott. Mainly Elliott. The writer had needed him, still needed him - and it was Braeburn's own stupid fault that they were separated now. He should have done as Elliott had asked, should have stayed the night and left the work for the morning, should have slipped in beside him on the sofa and kept him warm in the night, should have protected him from the world. But he had been stubborn, and he had wanted to please; if he went to the mines, he would get iron, if he got iron he would get Elliott’s cabin repaired, if he got Elliott’s cabin repaired, Elliott would be safe and happy. He should have left it, should have let the sun rise before he trudged out into the cold.
At least it had only been him - if they had gone together, had the cave-in toppled the ceiling above when both of them were in there - he dreaded to think, his throat running dry. At least it was only him that was hurt. If he had taken Elliott to try out mining the next day, if he saved Elliott from one disaster to lead him into another, he would never have forgiven himself. It was why shame burned his throat harsher than dry rub whisky every time he saw a glimpse of Elliott’s hands now. Even though the writer hid them away and kept them out of sight at every opportunity, he saw. He saw the way the skin knot together as it tried to heal, the way the new flesh shone silver with growing sinew and sensitivity, saw the way Elliott flinched when he forgot he was hurting and tried to take on more than he should. Braeburn caused this. If he had stayed home, Elliott wouldn’t be in pain. If he had stayed home, Elliott wouldn’t have worked himself into such a state. If he had stayed home…
Braeburn could only shake his head - and then cursed at himself when the world spun a little. The dizzy spells were far apart and infrequent, but now and then if he turned his head too sharply or stood up too quickly the floor would wave around him and his balance would tip.
After a moment the swirl in his ears passed, and the farmer inched himself to stand.
The world was an unforgiving place, he thought to himself and he slowly made his way to the coop, breathing in deeply to keep himself grounded. He was lucky that he had the support of those he cared about - Gala had squealed down the phone at him as soon as he called, and Cameo had talked with him for hours while Elliott had soaked in the tub and prepared dinner, Shane had caught up with him one afternoon and they chatted a little, Braeburn paying him back for Marnie's kindness, Robin had swung by and gave him an enormous hug and chirped about how thankful she was he was okay and home again, and of course, there was Elliott himself.
Elliott who had made sure he didn’t push himself too far, even though the writer had been well past his limit for weeks, who took his elbow and helped him sit when the world spun, who had been teaching himself bit-by-bit to cook and made sure they were both well fed, who had kept his livelihood going despite not having any obligation to. Elliott could have locked the door to the farmhouse and walked away, but he had not, instead opting to pick up the mantle where Braeburn had dropped it and pushing through the storm, working his hands to the bone and wearing himself thin. Thinner. There had been so much pressure on the poor writer's back that Braeburn was surprised that his collarbones had not cracked and splintered from it all.
The chickens chirped with joy as Brae stepped over the threshold, flocking to his ankles for attention. Their thick winter feathers made them look plump and fluffy, and he bent slowly to ruffle and fuss them, petting each bird he could reach. He was so proud of Elliott for keeping things afloat, for keeping them safe and healthy. It was hard enough for Brae, who had years of experience and familiarity, but the writer had learnt so much so fast. The birds loved him too, and the Orchard had embraced him, keeping pace despite Braeburn's absence.
He didn’t want Elliott to leave. He sighed as he straightened out and started sweeping up the messy hay. These days passed by easily, comfortably. His grandfather always wanted him to have a comfortable life, and Elliott had slotted seamlessly into a gap he didn’t know had been empty. He had the Cabin rebuilt so his friend would have a safe home, a roof over his head, a comfortable place to sleep. But now there was a clench in his stomach every time he thought of the writer going back home. He wanted Elliott to stay at the farmhouse, to rest there, to grow strong and eat hot meals and soak in the tub, to play with his dog and write his notes and brush his gorgeous hair. The farmhouse was safe. The sofa cushions had his scent imprinted onto it. He could stay there forever and Braeburn could let him - but it was inevitable. Elliott would leave him, one day - one day soon - and things would go back to the way they were. They were friends, and always had been, but lately it had been so close to more; like the ripening of a fruit on a sturdy branch, there was a teetering, falling sensation Braeburn fought against. They were so close, and gentle touches, easy teasing, playful bouts - they had gotten more frequent, easier, warmer. Braeburn felt like if he perhaps tipped their movement, just slightly, that they would fall together, that the fruit would fall from his place and taste so sweet, that the slot missing from his life would not just be filled but cemented shut and tight and permanent.
But it was not his place to pick any fruit of this kind. Elliott was more than some wayward plant that had sprouted itself in the farm's soil and grew. Even if Braeburn had nurtured him, kept him safe, took care of him - he would do the same to any of his friends in need, just as he would do the same to any tree on the Orchards land.
Pillow clucked and flapped at his heel, waddling around and being incredibly, adorably underfoot.
Elliott had enough on his plate without Braeburn getting in the way. He pushed his thoughts down and far away, swallowing them back and concentrating on the farm. As he had done for the last year. He tried as best as he could not to flirt, not to let his affection slip through, but it was hard. Part of himself denied it all - it was silly, and maybe nothing. A harmless attraction, the writer was handsome and tall and pleasant on the eye after all, and if any of his friends needed help he would give it to them just as he had cared for Elliott. But he was lying to himself, and he would continue lying. The last thing the writer needed was more pressure, for the little stability he had to come crumbling down around him; Yoba forbid Braeburn spilt himself and let out how much he cared, the poor man might just feel that he was insinuating that he owed the farmer, that he was pushing for some kind of relief, some payment for everything - no. Braeburn steeled his jaw and poured the chicken feed out. No. Elliott needed a friend, Elliott needed security and stability and someone to lean on. Nothing more and nothing less.
And so the day dragged on, and The Orchard was empty.
The door opened when Braeburn's back was to it, as he was in the middle of preparing dinner. It wouldn’t be long until the evening dragged in, slow and easy.
“Busy day?”
Elliott bent to take his shoes off at the door, his stack of papers nowhere to be seen. Braeburn tilted to look at him - closing his eyes for a second as the movement made him feel off, but it passed.
“A slow day,” he answered truthfully. Farmwork was far easier with an extra set of hands, and Elliott had quickly gotten the hang of all there was to understand around here. “And yours? Everything sorted with your publisher guy?”
“Yes, I spent the day scanning each page in and then sent them all in one big email to the company, and the original is now back at the Cabin - though I may get it again later to double-check things again. Gunther let me use the phone to call and confirm they received it, and so now it is just the waiting game while they look things over. I am sure they will send a message to your phone to see if they can begin translating it into a typed script rather than my handwriting promptly. I doubt many people would read a book in my writing after all - printed text is how the world works these days.”
“Well, cursive isn’t the easiest to read, for some folk. I’ve no doubt your penmanship is pretty, but simple shapes are easier for a lot of people - my old man struggled to read anything that wasn’t big printed letters, so I had to write him in like, kid handwriting for years. Printed stuff is a bit more accessible.”
“That's true. Sometimes I struggle to read my own writing, especially when I was writing late in the evening and it seemed to spiral across the page.”
Braeburn dusted off his hands - flour and breadcrumbs were caught under his nails from the breaded fish he was frying. It sizzled nicely in the pan, the molten butter turning the bottom of the bass golden. He needed something hearty to fill him up today, and he was determined to give Elliott better food than the scraps he had survived off of back before the storm.
“Well, at least you don’t gotta worry about that now - not with your nice new place to write. And with you writing here, too. A little less eye strain for you to push through.”
A softness leant against Braeburn's back, unexpectedly, and came to rest on the peak of his head. He blinked, pausing for a second, before arms wrapped around him. Elliott was against him, chin resting on his head, hugging him.
“What’s this for..?” Braeburn almost laughed - physical contact was something Elliott had trouble with often. The smallest touch seemed to get him flushed and awkward, but as of late he seemed more and more comfortable with initiating such gestures. A full-body hug was a rarity; in fact, he wasn’t sure they had touched so much since he had come home that day from the hospital and the poor writer had clung to him and cried his heart out.
“I’m glad you’re alright. I worried about you today. It felt odd - not being next to you all day. Is this alright?”
“It's fine.” Brae chuckled. “You sure you’re not squishing in close just to smell the food?”
“That too. Yoba, it smells good,” the low growl of an empty stomach came from behind Braeburn's spine and he chuckled more. He’d thrown a touch of garlic and some dried herbs into the pan once the butter was melted, and the scent of it mingled in the air tantalisingly. “I forgot to get lunch today, I am truly starving.”
“And you were the one telling me to take breaks and rest up a lot.”
The chin moved - Elliott went from being on his tiptoes to perch on top of Braeburn's head to back on his feet properly, leaning his cheek on the back of Brae's hair, above his ponytail.
“Sitting and scanning pages is hardly the same as being out in the fields and toiling and - and moving, Brae.”
“Yoba, I can feel you pouting from here. Go wash up, and I’ll get you something small while the main course cooks.”
“Is that an order?”
Elliott seemed reluctant to move, but Braeburn didn’t question it. The writer’s long arms felt right around his stomach, the easy lean of his meagre weight against his back. Braeburn almost thought that if Elliott tried to push his full force on his back that he’d hardly feel it - the man definitely needed feeding up, a proper farmer's diet for a while. Living off of crab-pot fish and sparse vegetables and barely eating enough to maintain his weight for so long was doing him no favours.
“I can order you if you like.” He kept his voice light, but it was dangerous territory. He wanted to order. He wanted to be firm, to tease, to give Elliott structure - not out of control or harshness, but out of care. Elliott was an adult and of course could make his own choices, decide his own days, but a secretive place inside of Braeburn wanted to ease him into a better life - they already scheduled their days around one another, they ate together, worked together, slept at the same time; Elliott needed no instruction, but if Braeburn had his way he’d give him gentle prompts, little nudges to make things easier. Reminders to do small things, to keep Elliott aware that certain things needed attention. But it was not his place. Elliott was not his to tell what to do. “But I’m not about to tell you what to do, sweetheart. ‘Specially not if you’re comfy like this.”
“You are comfortable.” was his murmured response. Elliott’s voice had slipped slightly lower than usual as he said it, and his breathing deepened slightly. Braeburn didn’t need to look at the man to know that he was tired. Even though the day had been one without physical strain, Braeburn knew how draining staring at a computer screen and handling paperwork could be - he did it for years as a Joja employee, after all. Perhaps the routine and toil of farmwork really had become the norm for the writer now, and the abrupt change of pace had thrown him off. If Elliott wanted to rest on him and use him as a cushion after a long day, Braeburn was not about to argue. It was nice to be someone that was lean-on-able. He wanted only for Elliott to be content, he wanted the writer to smile and be comfortable - even if, selfishly, he wanted to be the one to make it happen. “Though you must tell me if I’m being inconvenient.”
“You never have been and you never will be.” he hummed reassuringly. The last few weeks had been wonderful, but every time Elliott opened his mouth to speak Braeburn could see something in his eyes process things as if he was meticulously planning what to say so that it would come out as pleasantly as possible, that the things he said would seem light and positive, that he was making himself small and manoeuvrable. Elliott didn’t want to be a burden and had voiced such concerns before, which was stupid. He had been nothing but helpful, and hardworking, and familiar. Part of Braeburn wondered if he should have proposed something in the beginning, that he should have offered a permanent residence here when the beach shack was destroyed. Maybe if they had become official roommates, sharing the house, perhaps Elliott would let himself relax a little more, feel less pressured to prove his worth. Even with the cabin rebuilt the writer only slipped away for an hour or two every day or so at the most to work before returning, so they may as well have been living together the way -
The way a couple does, he supposed.
It would be easy to turn in Elliott's hold and kiss him. To catch the edge of his jaw in a hold and pull him down, or to press against him, to return the touch, to embrace him in a hug. It had been a long time since someone cared for Brae, and he swallowed back his memories and tried to ignore that crawling sensation up the gooseflesh of his arms. His few relationships in his late teens, early twenties, they had ended badly, and there was a fear that history would only repeat itself. Elliott deserved care, he deserved someone to take care of him, and Braeburn had to watch himself to not overstep his boundaries or push too far. They were friends, nothing more, and he told himself this even as one of the hands wrapped around him gave his stomach the slightest squeeze. A silent ‘thank-you’ for the reassurance. Elliott didn’t touch him often - he wasn’t the type to show physical affection much, not the way Braeburn himself was, but the press of his elegant hand on the farmer’s stomach made his skin feel immensely cold and hot at the same time.
He didn’t know the inner workings of Elliott's mind. He couldn’t tell you why the writer had such nerves and anxieties over the world, couldn’t explain why certain things made him flush or made his voice vanish, couldn’t vocalise why certain topics made him look away or quieten. The writer had a maelstrom inside him, a Bermuda triangle that lay in a fog that he couldn't be free of - and maybe Braeburn would never know what was at the centre of it; but it didn’t matter. If he could make Elliott’s life a little smoother, make his smile come a little easier, be there to hold him up and lean on when needed - that was his place, and he would do all he could to make things right.
A slight sigh rippled against his back - one of near-content, near-sleepiness. He wanted to scoop the writer up and bundle him in bed, wrap him up warm and bring his food to him. Protect him from the world and let him sleep. Pamper him, spoil him, give him the world. Braeburn used a spatula to flip the fish over, tilting the pan slightly so the hot oil wouldn’t spit and catch Elliott's already fragile fingers. The was a possessiveness that he was well aware of clawing its way out, and Braeburn let out his own sigh - one that had something like frustration hidden inside. With his free hand, he snaked it over Elliott's where they held him and squeezed gently.
“Go clean up,” his throat felt hoarse, and the words came out cracked. “It's an order, now. Food won’t be long.”
The head against his moved; instead of cheek against hair, a forehead slid to bump against the peak of his head. After a second of lingering there, Elliott nodded, and Braeburn could hear the slightest smile sneak through.
“Yes sir.”
There was a reluctance as they parted, tired hands sliding around Braeburn's middle until they dropped at his sides and the writer slipped away, padded footsteps muffled by the carpet. Once the bathroom door closed, Braeburn's lungs emptied sharply, his breath leaving him all at once. He could feel his blood flush his cheeks, heat along his neck above the cold where Elliott’s body heat had been.
Yoba. This was killing him.
He took a few breaths to steady himself, planting his palms on the countertop as he stooped a little, stretching. Trying to centre his thoughts. Cooking. He was cooking. He could cook, and plate it up, and they would eat, and that was that. He could do that. And then they would rest, and then they would go to bed. He sighed again, trying to regulate his breathing but failing, as he got the plates out of the cupboard.
Elliott was not the only one who was exhausted.
It was about a week and a half later when Elliott got a response from his agent.
They were having breakfast before they got to work when Braeburn's phone gave a low buzz against the table, and the farmer flicked the screen open and read what it said aloud.
“Unknown number - Hello Mr J, we’ve been looking through your work and we’re very happy with what we’ve seen so far. A few of our editors are currently going over the first half of the book to ensure there are no grammatical or spelling errors. We would appreciate a face to face meeting as soon as you are available so that we may discuss your options going forwards regarding the editing and then eventual publishing. Please let us know when you are available and we eagerly await your response. - Mr Stone of the Zuzu Publishing agency.”
Elliott blinked, looking at the phone for a moment. He then spun it on the surface of the table and quickly reread the message, disbelief clear on his features.
“They - they liked it.”
“Of course they did, you did a great job on it.” Braeburn grinned and watched as Elliott ran a hand down his face, a slight smile overtaking his lips. “So, you gonna message them back? I can get us a trip to the city booked in no time flat.”
“Are- are you sure? I mean, of course I’ll respond, but - the city. I can go on my own, or…”
“Are you kidding me? No way I’m letting you go without me. I wanna be first in line to buy the first hardback copy, and I want it autographed.”
“It won’t be printed that quickly,” Elliott laughed, and Braeburn's smile grew. It wasn’t often he laughed outright, and the sound was melodic, magical, ridiculous. “You overestimate me, Brae. It will be a meeting to discuss things, and then it will take some time for the first copy to be printed and be available for sale - you’d get a free copy anyway, I would make sure of it.”
“Hah, nice. It’ll take centre stage on my shelf.”
“Thank you. But, as I said, if The Orchard needs you, I would not hold it against you for staying here.”
The farmer shook his head. “I want in on this. The city’s a big place, anyways, I wanna make sure you stay safe and find everything okay. It’ll be nice - a day trip for both of us, a little time away. Can’t hurt, right? Unless you don’t want me to come - I’ll stay if you don’t want me.”
“- I do.” He blurted, and a faint heat christened his neck. “I would like you to come. I just don’t want to be a bother.”
“You’ve never been a bother before. I’ll shoot Pam a text and get her to be free for a bus ride. We’d have to get up real early to get a full day in. I guess we can book a hotel room for it though, spend the night city-side and then come back the next evening. I can rope Shane into keeping an eye on things for a day or two, it’ll be fine.”
“Wonderful,” Elliott breathed, everything spinning in his head at once. His work was wanted, and he was going back to the city, and Braeburn wanted to go with him, and they would share a hotel room - while the last few months had dragged for an eternity, it felt that now Braeburn was back and back on his feet, the world was moving faster than ever around him. “I - I can pay you back, for the bus ticket, and the hotel room, and-”
“Shut upppp,” Braeburn chuckled, lightly nudging the writer's leg with his foot. “It's fine. My treat. You don’t gotta worry about anything like that, you just focus on what you need for the book. You let that Mr Stone guy know we can head his way anytime, and let me worry about the rest.”
He relented, picking up the phone and starting to type a response. “Thank you. I owe you.”
“You do not. Quit worrying.”
There. He sent a response and swallowed a little. The process was well underway, and the thought of his book finally being printed and finished and complete loomed over his head - not heavy and daunting like the pressure of completing it, but still there, distant and airy. A trip to the city stirred nervousness in his gut. He didn’t want to be back in his hometown, he didn’t want to be anywhere near the streets and buildings his parents had a grip over, but he shook the thought away. Braeburn would protect him - and it was only for a day. If he could survive the storm and The Orchard then he could survive a weekend in the city.
“Want a refill?”
Braeburn clinked their mugs together. The thought of another gush of that wonderful coffee dancing across his tongue eased the jitter in his stomach.
“Well, I wouldn’t say no.”
A firm knock came from the front door, breaking the pair out of their thoughts. Braeburn watched as Elliott stood and made his way to it, stifling a yawn as he opened it up. It was a nice morning, and the fresh sunlight backlit the silhouette of the Mayor.
“Oh, Mayor Lewis. Good morning,” Elliott nodded towards the older man, leaning to the side ever-so-slightly so Brae could see the Mayors face from where he was sat. “What can I do for you, this early in the morning?”
Lewis gestured to a package in his hands, a thick but soft object wrapped in a white plasticy-paper that Braeburn didn’t recognise.
“Thought I’d bring this by ready for you, Elliott. Give you time to try it, and if it needs any alterations then Emily says she's happy to help with that.”
“You - brought it here? Rather than drop it off at the Cabin?” Elliott gave the slightest frown but leant forward all the same to take the package from the Mayor. Curiosity piqued, Brae slid from his chair to make his presence known, stretching to look over Elliott’s shoulder at the bundle.
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” Lewis gave a slight frown back. “Either way - usually the Flower Dance Festival is held on the last day of March, but due to the recent storms and repair work through the town, we’ve decided to delay it until the end of April at the earliest. I’d recommend that the two of you keep an eye on the bulletin board outside of Pierres for more updates. Should you want to go over the steps for the initial dance, I’d say that finding Haley may be your best bet.”
“Ah.” Elliott tried to give a smile, but even from the angle he was at, Braeburn could tell it was a little too tight and uncomfortable to be genuine. “Marvellous. Thank you, Mr Mayor, I will...get right on that.”
“Good.” The Mayor nodded. “I look forward to seeing you both there if I don’t see you before. Stay safe out there.”
Lewis then stepped down from the porch and made his way back down the path eastwards, back to town. Elliott shut the door behind him, and Braeburn grinned as the writer's weak smile turned into a full grimace.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“It is. Do you think I could get away with ‘accidentally’ tossing it into your fireplace?”
“Don’t be like that. It suits you.”
Elliott pulled a face at him, but started to unwrap the packaging all the same. Out came the offensively azure suit, one of the matching sextet that was worn each year. As much as Elliott liked to wear his shirts and suits and dress somewhat more formally than others in their little town, he couldn’t help but feel disdain towards his mandatory Flower-wear. He opened out the jacket, tugging on it lightly. It was cheaply and quickly made, and always felt like the stitching would pop far too easily. Plus the colour...it made sense that the ladies got a wonderfully soft pink and white dress, that made sense thematically, but a vivid, royal blue? It had never suited Elliott, and he’d much rather wear his own clothes. Even having his best shirt on beneath the jacket barely made him feel any better last year. What he wouldn’t give to abandon the jacket entirely and just go in his own suits, but alas. The suit was his size and there was no getting out of it.
Brae's grinning face peered around the blazer. He was near giddy.
“Put it on.”
“Absolutely not.”
“It suits you.”
“No it doesn’t.” Elliott shot back, trying to hold his expression of disgust - but Braeburn's smiling face melted it considerably. “Don’t lie to me like this, I know how foolish I look when I’m wearing this.”
“I thought you liked the festival,” Braeburn rounded to his side a little, tilting his head to get a good look at the jacket. “You seemed to have fun last time.”
“I enjoy the festival. It's nice to get out and socialize and unwind, I suppose. But the main dance - the show of it all, being in front of everyone, in this. Nn...at least the others are wearing the same thing.”
“Want me to get a blue suit, too? Make you feel a little less out of place?”
Elliott nearly scoffed as he folded the jacket back up, slipping it back into its packaging alongside the trousers. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“I would. I mean it -” Braeburn nudged him, “For real, d’you want me to get some blue clothes and dress up fancy? Cus I’ll do it if it makes you feel better. We gotta head out into the city anyway, right? We can do some shopping, try and find stuff exactly like this.”
A crawling, gnawing heat fluffed itself up in Elliott’s stomach, and he was unsure whether it was because of the genuine offer from his friend, or the thought of him in a nice, tailored suit. He just swallowed, voice dying as he tried not to meet Brae's eyes. “You wouldn’t do that.”
Braeburn just chuckled and shook his head - a movement that Elliott almost assumed that meant he agreed - and headed towards the kitchen, no doubt to click the kettle on. “I dunno why you don’t believe I’d do that. It's no skin off my nose to dress up, too. Can’t be any worse than what I wore last year, anyway.”
“I would much rather wear what you wore last time.” The suit was stuffed back into the plastic-y packaging as nicely as Elliott desired to fold it.
Braeburn just snorted, getting ingredients out for a refill of coffee. “I doubt they’d fit you. You’d start dancing and the shorts’d slip right off. You forget how big I am compared to you.”
No, he doesn’t. But Elliott said nothing, swallowing his thoughts and voice in one and deciding to slip the clothes onto the little table. He could deal with the suit and all its problems closer to the day - his body shape and size had barely changed over the last year, save for the slightest amount of muscle in his arms perhaps, so having adjustments done was not really on the top of his priority list.
“I think I have enough to think about right now without worrying about getting you a matching suit, Brae. Heading back to Zuzu is...going to be tricky.”
“Let me sort it. I’ll talk to Pam and book us a hotel someplace near the agency. No problem. While you deal with business stuff, I’ll stick around nearby. It’ll be fine.”
“So long as you’re sure.”
“Always am. Come on then, let's get going and moving for the morning before we get lazy for the day and the chickens get grouchy at us for taking too long.”
The next few days felt odd - Elliott didn’t have to scurry back off to the Cabin to write up his novel, and so he hung around The Orchard for those extra few hours in the evening. It was odd in the sense that it wasn’t odd. If he were anyplace else he knew he would feel uncomfortable; even with living next to Willys store and using the facilities there, he felt awkward and out of place when he was there for more than, say, twenty minutes or so. The fact that he had spent the best part of nearly two months now, lingering and ever-present, at The Orchard spoke volumes to the comforting aura the place gave off.
They baked, and they read books, curled up on the couch in the quiet evenings. On the days it rained they worked quickly since there was less to do - ordinarily, on days like those before the storm and before it all, Braeburn would have gone to the mines to gather materials or to visit the writer himself, but instead they stayed indoors once things around the fields and birds were checked over. Once or twice they brought out a board game, TV quiet in the background, finished books stacking on the table, coffee cups soaking in the sink. Elliott had time to consume and rest, taking in ideas and writing styles from Braeburn's collection of romance novels and letting his thoughts quell quiet and distant. Camellia Station may be finished, but his creative flow had been so good recently that it seemed a shame to let it die so soon.
Braeburn had messaged their friends and organized what needed to be sorted - Pam was ready for a bus trip whenever (so long as they messaged her the night before to remind her to skip out her usual drinks at the Saloon) and Shane would stop over to take care of the farm for a weekend on the promise of some kind of payment, which was entirely fair. Once the day and dates were all arranged, Elliott booked it in with the agency, receiving confirmation fairly soon afterwards. Braeburn had looked up the location of the agency on his phone and had booked a room for them to share nearby - another aspect that made a jitter settle into Elliott's stomach. The area was a part of the city Brae knew well, so there was that at least. Just a few days, and then he and Braeburn were on a trip. Elliott had no desire to stay in the city long - if anything he would much rather prefer to run in the opposite direction, but needs must. He had to do this, had to see his work through. It was a good thing, a step up on a long ladder, but a swirl of worry stayed someplace by his intestines and had not moved. At least the trip would be quick, and the agency was not quite in the middle of the main hub of Zuzu, away from wandering eyes.
Curled up on the farmers' couch, Elliott looked up from one of the recipe books he had found himself flicking through. His skills left a lot to be desired, and if helping in the kitchen was a way of paying Braeburn back, well then it was an easy way to assist. Braeburn had gone for a long bath and had left the door to the bathroom cracked open an inch - not enough for anyone to see anything, but just to let the steam out to stop the room from getting too stuffy.
It was nice just to exist in the presence of one another, concernless and comfortable.
“You want takeout tonight?” Braeburn's lazy voice drifted through, accompanied by the sound of moving water. Elliott could picture his movements without seeing the farmer - he had been laying back, ears and hair beneath the water to relax, food ever on his brain, and he was sitting up as he spoke.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Last time I went to the Saloon Gus was saying that he was trying to make sushi more often. I don’t think he does a lot of food that's your sorta style, but. Sushi. Sushi is always good.”
“I imagine we could make our own if you wanted to try that sometime.” Elliott rested his head against the sofa cushions. It would be easier to speak if they were both in the same room - and a part of him wondered if either of them would mind or if they would be uncomfortable if he just walked in and sat by the bathtub while the farmer bathed - but it was still nice to have so few boundaries already. “We have some rice in and some canned fish. We could try and make some rough homemade sushi of our own - or even if the weather is nice we could go fishing tomorrow and get something fresh.”
“Depends on what we get, I guess. I think some fish have gotta be used for sushi specifically, I think? I dunno. I don’t think I’ve made it before. I feel like if we’re gonna make it I should read up on how to do it first.”
“Mm. I suppose we would need seaweed and other things to make it, also. I imagine it would be fiddly. Your hands may be better suited to the job than mine, you’re deceptively dextrous.”
“It's just more cooking practice. You’re probably better suited at fish-related stuff than I am, you’ve had more time working on that side of things….You know, I think I have some stuff to make veggie burgers. Could do that.”
It was nice that Brae had such high hopes for the writer's cooking skills - it was nice to be appreciated, even if Elliott felt that he was being overestimated.
“Are you hungry, Brae?” Elliott smiled - Braeburn was perpetually hungry. And he had every right to be so; even though he was soft at the edges he worked damned hard and was constantly moving and active and so he craved snacks often for the energy. Elliott understood it - how could he not? The weeks in which he had taken care of the farm alone made him feel awful and drained. No matter what he ate he was constantly starving and begging for something to fuel his muscles. It must be a constant nag on Braeburn's mind. Elliott had seen the bear of a man lug around entire trees, roll enormous logs and heft great weights with barely any strain - it was no surprise that fuel for his body was a common thought. Braeburn truly was the picture of one of those old-timey weightlifters; all bulk and solid. He deserved a relaxing bath to keep away the aches that came with farmwork.
“Always.” Came his reply - low and deep, with the sounds of more water moving. The man was getting comfortable in the bath again, laying back in the warmth. His ears were probably under the bubbles again, and after a few moments of quiet Elliott closed his book and slipped into the kitchen, determined to try and get at least something prepared in time for bathtime to be over. Mac looked up from his spot on the couch in hopes of scattered crumbs, but got only a gentle pet in return.
Their routine was easy, and as Elliott washed his hands in preparation, he wondered just how long good things could last.
"You know, I was thinking, " Braeburn started, elbow-deep in fish guts.
Willy had swung by around midmorning the day before their trip, both to see the pair but also to offer a trade with Brae - something he did semi-regularly; a half-dozen eggs or two for a fair share of his morning catch. He drove a hard bargain, and, never one to pass up a hearty meal, Brae was always happy to accept. He'd gutted his fair share of fish before, and so had Elliott, meaning cleaning, preparing and portioning the catch came easy. None of the fish would be right for sushi-making, and so Braeburn would cook it instead; he needed to look more into the art of sushi-making and practise in order to do it properly.
The week had gone by quickly. Tomorrow they would be heading for the city, and so they would eat some of the fish that night and save some in the freezer for when they returned.
"What were you thinking of?" Elliott pulled some empty containers from a cupboard - the same kind that Brae froze his portioned apples into for freezing. "I hope I have not done something offensive?"
"No! No, ‘course not. It was more along the lines of, well. You're here a lot-" - Elliott's heart plummeted for a moment - "- and often when I visited you were at your piano. You must miss it, right?"
He hadn't really thought about it. Between the book and the farm and living alongside the farmer, his musical hobbies had slipped his mind. Though now that he was thinking about it, he really was overdue some practice.
"Yes, I suppose. Playing the piano helped me focus and stay on track when the book was my priority. It became a bit of a habit."
"I could get one. For you, I mean. For here, so you could play without going back-" home "...all the way to the Cabin, I guess."
"You don't have to do that," the writer chuckled softly, shaking his hair out of his eyes. "They're far too expensive, and a rather large instrument to boot. I take up enough space here."
"I wouldn't mind. If it made you happy, I'd do it."
Elliott just waved him off airily. It was a silly thought, the two of them squeezing a piano into the farmhouse. There was hardly space for the two of them as things were, and with Mac and all of Brae's plants - no. A silly idea.
Elliott got a cutting board out for himself and started on the second of the four fish Willy had gifted them. His knife skills were not quite on par with Braeburn, but he knew which areas to avoid and which bones were the trickiest to trim out. He just hoped his hands wouldn't twitch or waver. He wanted the meal to be good. Braeburn deserved good food.
"What made you get into the piano anyways? I'm not the most musical guy, so it's kind of a foreign language to me, all the music stuff. My old man played the guitar, but it wasn't something he taught me. Notes on paper, tone, pitch, all that jazz. I never got along with music stuff, it goes over my head."
"My mother said that having a hobby would make me interesting."
Braeburn paused, and noticed that Elliott did not. His voice was low, but the farmer could not tell if it was because the redhead was concentrating or just ashamed, yet again, of his unspoken lineage.
"She said I was permitted to have a tutor for one hobby as a child, so long as my other studies were completed to her satisfaction."
"So you chose piano?" Braeburn tried to keep his voice light, returning to cleaning the seabass. He knew Elliott hated talking about his family, but things had slipped out recently, more and more, and Braeburn felt that if he steered the conversation back towards something Elliott enjoyed, then the writer wouldn't get lost in his thoughts.
"Actually, I asked if I could learn the violin."
"Oh." Braeburn could see that. Elliott in one of his elegant suits, tall and proud, the instrument nestled into his neck as his long fingers made each note sing - aesthetically, at least, the violin seemed to suit him a little better than piano. Not that the piano was by any means inelegant, but the image of Elliott standing straight with the strings humming in delight was one that shone warmly in the forefront of Braeburn's mind. "I can see you enjoying that - seems like it would have been your thing, for sure. How come you didn't go for it?"
"My grandfather played the violin. Mother's father. And quite well, from the few times she spoke of him. When I asked if I may be allowed to learn, she told me that she would never allow me to play the violin as it was his talent, not mine. She didn't want me to share a hobby with someone she cared for. She scolded me for asking, and the next day a piano tutor came to start my education."
Braeburn wrinkled his nose, and it was not because of the smell of the fish.
"That sucks."
"Mm. I just count myself lucky. Not everyone had the permission or the means to learn an instrument. Though I suppose a hobby is just a way of keeping an unruly child quiet."
Braeburn spooned out a glob of fish innards into a now-awaiting tub. He'd freeze them - separate to his usual food - and label it up as fish bait, and the cycle would go on. He didn't like the thought of permission being the most important thing of all to child-Elliott. He didn't like punishment being the first thought of adult-Elliott, either. If he ever met the man's mother, he'd have a few choice words to say, that's for damn sure. Elliott had never been a burden, never been a hassle, never had been loud or childish or excitable. Never once had the long-haired man ever been underfoot or in the way, but it seemed that that was the only opinion he had ever had of himself. Thoughts like that have got to stem from somewhere - or someone.
"Can't imagine you being an unruly kid, El."
"I wasn't." It was quiet, and Braeburn knew that it was not because the writer was concentrating. He watched Elliott's knife cut seamlessly behind the fishs' gills, practised care taken to avoid snagging the meat. Elliott was good at this, and Braeburn felt a trickle of pride wash down his back. Only for it to vanish when Elliott stood straight, downcast, pulling the knife away - his grip on the blade had wavered ever-so-slightly, for just a split-second. "Sorry. I believe I've made a mess of this. I can eat this one, so you can have the better one - or, I'll pay, I know you traded Willy for it, I can make up for it."
He peered over Elliott's taller shoulder. Within the fish, the tip of the knife had scraped what would be the fillet - barely. It was the width of a fingernail, maybe, and hardly noticeable - especially once the fish would be cooked and flaky and coated in a sauce. But Elliott only saw the damage - that it wasn't perfect. That he had messed up.
"What's wrong with it?" Braeburn nudged him. His fish was no different, no better. Elliott's hands were clenched on the countertop edge. Braeburn needed to hear what the problem was, so he could fix it - not with the fish, but with Elliott.
"I… I should have taken more care. It's my fault, I-" He was frowning, and looked away from his friend. He drew in a breath, straightened his back, and looked back at the perfectly edible and usable fish, voice flat but disdain evident. "I was careless, I should have prepared it better and should have had more care with it."
Every day, it became more and more obvious that too much had been put on the writers' shoulders from far too young an age. Somebody had expected perfection, and had instilled fear when those expectations were, naturally, unmet. Elliott was both talented and skilled, in many things, but it was not and never had been enough for whatever scummy little voice was in the back of his head. He had taken the blame for too many things that were not his doing. Nobody had ever believed in him before.
"It looks fine to me," Braeburn had half a mind to slam his knife straight into the fillet of his own fish, show how it didn't matter that there were nicks or cuts or damage - but no doubt such a vicious motion would startle Elliott when he was already in a fragile seeming place. "You've done a good job, I don't see anything wrong with it. And you're doing it with a fairly unfamiliar set of knives too. Don't worry about it, El. It's gonna cook up nice and it's gonna taste great."
He wanted to press his hand to the small of Elliott's back, stabilize him, warm him through his thin shirt, but his hands were messy. He settled for leaning their shoulders together for a moment, offering his weight as a comfort.
Elliott didn't say anything for a while, slowly working himself up to continue portioning the fish. He swallowed so his voice wouldn't crack.
"I will do better next time."
Storm clouds of negativity had long sat against Elliott’s shoulders. Perhaps the only thing Braeburn could do was to teach the man that they had silver along their underside.
“You know, it isn’t too late to learn.”
The writer looked at him, blinking owlishly. “T...to slice fish?”
“To play the violin, you dummy,” Braeburn smiled. Gentle teasing. It meant nothing, but perhaps it was enough to make Elliott feel more like the three-dimensional person rather than a cardboard cutout of a failure. “I could look into some lessons, or I bet online you’d be able to find some tutorials or something. I could buy you a violin, no problem. And if that doesn't work out, you could instead maybe get back into the piano by teaching me, if you’d like. Might be a bit of a project, since I’ve not got the brains for it, but I bet you’d be a good teacher, since you've been doing it so long. Gives you a new perspective on the craft, gives you time and chance to feel your passion for it come back up. I could get a lil' keyboard or something like that, something easy to move around the house instead of a full piano. I know it ain’t the same, but -”
“Thank you.” It was quiet, swallowed back by a tongue thick with grief. How do you process the act of thanking someone, genuinely, when the kindnesses you've been shown before were hollow and superficial? Elliott looked away and just gave a faint nod. “I….I shall think on it.”
“Come on,” Braeburn leant against him a little more, giving him a gentle nudge. “I’m hungry, and I bet you are too. Let's get food going, and then we can relax. We got a busy day tomorrow. Let's have some down time. You’ll feel better once you’ve got some food in you and we get everything together.”
Elliott nodded, a little more certainly. Braeburn was right. He’d feel better once things were over. He let Braeburn take charge, slinking behind him to wash his hands in the kitchen sink.
“If you would like to finish the fish, I can get something cooking to go alongside it.”
“‘Atta boy.”
Yoba. Elliott clenched his hands under the stream of warm water. A familiar trickle dipping into his gut washed away the stormclouds. Being so close around Braeburn was beginning to feel difficult. In a way, at least. Braeburn was easy to get along with, and they always saw eye-to-eye, had similar opinions on most things. Braeburn had an aura of ease and comfort that Elliott was lost within. They worked well together when doing chores on the farm and things seemed to flow naturally at home. But there were times when Elliott was not sure whether he wanted to push things forward or step entirely back.
They were friends. It did not matter how Elliott felt beyond that.
But Yoba, how often he fell asleep thinking about the farmer. At times he wanted to sink into Braeburn's skin and linger, sleep against him, forget the world. At times he wanted to flee back to the cabin, distance himself so the urge to straight-up cuddle into the farmer and cling wouldn’t grow to be too overwhelming. Elliott steeled himself a little, drawing in a slight breath. At some point, they should talk. Braeburn had kissed the top of his head, and they had not acknowledged it. Braeburn did not even know Elliott was awake for it, but he was. Something inside Elliott hoped that it meant something, and that Braeburn saw him as someone special because Braeburn was certainly special to him - at some point, something would have to give.
Someday, he would have to tell Braeburn how he felt.
The farmer leant around him, also quickly cleaning his hands off, and Braeburn was close enough to practically press against the expanse of Elliott's back. He held in a shudder. He vanished a moment after, hands clean enough to continue their work on their meal. The ghost of warmth lingered on his skin, the thin barrier of his button-down failing to keep Braeburn's presence against the writer.
Perhaps after their visit to the city. After the stress and worry was over. He could only deal with one thing at once. Once the book was in a secure place, and The Orchard was back in its rhythm, and they were solid and stable and everything was okay. Perhaps then, he would spill himself and make his thoughts clear.
It was just the issue of restraining himself until then.
Unfortunately, Elliott’s willpower was not entirely unwavering.
"Could - could I -" Elliott started, then stopped.
Braeburn glanced over at him, sat at the other end of the sofa. Elliott didn't meet his eyes, and Brae quickly paused the movie they were twenty-five minutes into. Crickets pined outside as the sun dipped below the trees. They had eaten well, and Braeburn had left Elliott in charge of watching the food while he quickly got a few things together for their trip, but they weren’t entirely organized quite yet. The fish had been delicious once it was cooked through and Elliott had been quiet while they ate. Worries about the fish aside, Braeburn just assumed that tomorrow's excursion was playing on the writer's mind.
Elliott was curled up, as he often did when he sat on Brae's soft couch; his long legs scooped up beneath him, his blanket over his lap and halfway up his chest. He was often cold - even though he had gained a little weight and muscle over the last few months of helping at the farm and eating Braeburn's wonderful food, he was still awkwardly bony and the old farmhouse sometimes struggled to keep the heat from the fireplace in. He wouldn't look at Braeburn, and the farmer could see a scattering of heat across his friends’ cheeks.
"...Mn…" He looked away entirely, almost as if he were trying to see something within the kitchen. "W...would you mind terribly if I were to lie down?"
Brae could have laughed - not out of cruelty, but that after two years of being friends, being so close that Elliott stayed in his house and helped on the farm and they shared meals, that he was still so nervous and unsure about even pretending to be comfortable around the farmer. Even though that had touched more frequently and gotten closer than ever, some distances seemed larger than ever.
Brae swooped the bit of blanket that lay across his legs back and patted the seat space between them. "You know you can always make yourself at home."
He had expected Elliott's long, elegant legs to shuffle their way up so that his feet would brush against Brae's hip, that it would be another tentative step on Elliott’s arduous journey in being even remotely comfortable with allowing and offering physical contact.
Instead, Elliott glanced at the spot Braeburn had pat, and then inched over, slid down, and laid his pretty head straight on Braeburn's knee.
"Oh."
"This - this is okay?"
Brae pulled the blanket back over Elliott, pressing it in behind his slim back so his precious heat wouldn't escape. As he clicked the movie back on, he laid his free hand on Elliott’s head.
It was fine, Elliott realised, letting out a long breath to smooth his jitters. This was okay.
The movie was some cheesy 80s thing - some straight couple avoiding whatever chemistry they were supposed to have as they had competing businesses, or something. They came across it as Brae flicked through the channels - it was raining lightly, and they had eaten together, side-by-side. Elliott didn’t have to slink back to the Cabin now that the book was finished and so they stayed together where it was warm and the night was still, comfortable on the couch that was now familiar to the writer that he was sure the shape of his body was beginning to imprint into the foam. Elliott tried to pay attention to the movie - it seemed to be the kind of thing Braeburn liked, as the farmer had admitted long ago that he had a soft spot for romantic things - but he was distracted.
Brae's strong hand kept petting into his hair, thick fingers pressing into his hair to gently rub at his scalp. It was maddening - hypnotic almost - and Elliott’s attention was focused mainly on not letting any affirmative noises slip free. He hadn't realised how much he enjoyed his hair being played with; as a child he'd had it so short and then his mother had demanded he treat his hair in such ways that he hated it for a long time, until he grew it out nicely and escaped to the Valley. He'd become proud of how it looked now - long and glossy and pretty. It was all his, and he grew it nice and long and kept good care of it without anyone intervening. And now Braeburn was playing with it.
One of the calloused pads of Brae's fingers slipped to just above his ear and scruffed the skin there distantly, affectionately, and that did it. A little noise slipped free before Elliott could stop it, and he immediately tensed up. Brae's hand stopped, and for a moment Elliott feared a reprimand for being so ridiculous.
"Just there?" Braeburn murmured lowly, imploring, and scratched the same area again, slower and wider and a shudder racked Elliott's shoulders.
"Mmn." Yoba, how embarrassing. Elliott hid his face without thinking, turning away from that curious hand to bury himself into Braeburn's leg. His face felt warm.
It didn't stop the farmer. That broad hand smoothed the hair on the back of Elliott's head and - Yoba - what an enormous hand it was. Elliott was by no means a small man but Braeburn's hand felt like it could cup his entire skull. It was comforting, in an odd way. Elliott was encompassed, safe, and as those searching fingers began to lightly rake again he let his hot breath seep into Braeburn's leg. It must have looked so silly from the outside - a man his age and build being petted like some house cat. But it felt wonderful.
It was definitely not to Braeburn's surprise that Elliott was hopelessly touch-starved. He'd lived in that little cabin alone for so long, and while they'd never really spoken about it there had been more than a few hints indicating a deeply unhappy childhood. Every time Braeburn had touched him in any way - a pat between his shoulders after a good job, holding his arm as they walked, tying his apron when they baked together - he had noticed the deep flush that would sweep over his friend's handsome face. It was appealing, almost addictive; each time that pink warmth spread up to Elliott's ears from simple little day-to-day touches, Braeburn felt a little sense of bizarre victory on his part.
"Cou… Coulbd youb - Mmnfg."
It was muffled by his thigh, and Braeburn let out a chuckle.
"Come again, sweetheart?"
He tightened his grip and gave a very light tug on Elliott's hair, a soft indicator for him to lift his head.
He didn't expect a deep, desperately rumbling groan as his response.
And then he could practically feel all the blood in Elliott's body rush up to his face, because the leg it was buried in was suddenly burning with heat and shame.
Braeburn watched Elliott's shoulders grow so tight and stiff, his entire body clenching - and Braeburn hoped that it was just out of embarrassment and not fear. Elliott knew he'd never lay a hand on him like that - and bit by bit Elliott's face slipped just off of his thigh enough for his mouth to be free.
"Don't look at me."
"It's okay. I'm not."
Braeburn bluffed. Elliott was still wrapped in that blanket and from here he was just a mop of auburn hair and the slightest glimpse of smooth, flushed neck.
His hand was still on his head. Carefully, as reassuring as he could be, Braeburn dragged the tips of his fingers back over Elliott's scalp, willing him to relax and silently know that it was okay, that there was nothing to worry about. Elliott practically melted, a long, stuttering breath puffing out hot against the side of Brae's leg. The tension in his spine and shoulders ebbed, but the heat remained, his cheeks no doubt glowing with embarrassment.
"Sorry," Braeburn murmured gently, rubbing smooth circles that almost had his friend squirming. "Didn't mean to pull too hard. Didn't mean to hurt you."
He knew damn well it didn't hurt. He knew damn well that that wasn't why Elliott was hiding from him.
"... Mmnmf." Elliott pressed himself up a little, burying his face back into Brae's thigh again. He rolled a little, angling himself so his lean body was no longer facing the TV, but now aimed more towards Braeburn and the back of the couch. It was clear where his interest was, and Braeburn used his free hand to lower the volume of the stupid, plotless movie.
"You good?"
"... Yes." came his muffled reply, and Braeburn was sure his chuckle must have vibrated his leg a little.
Like this, Elliott's elegant hair was slipping down his shoulders and pooling like molten amber on the blanket. Through the gaps, Brae could spot the back of his long neck clearly, pink and smooth, untouched. He'd fix that.
In one smooth, delicate motion - or as delicate as Brae could be - he smoothed his hand down through Elliott’s hair, lightly digging his nails just enough to be felt, until he reached the base of Elliott’s skull and squeezed, wrapping his fingers there with a just a tiny amount of pressure. He had his neck pinned under his palm, warm and vulnerable, and he kneaded it reassuringly, possessively.
A high keening noise was the response to his nails being added to the fray, and an audible swallow and open-mouth pant or two graced his thigh as his hand pressed to Elliott's neck.
He could turn back, he thought. Brae could give his friends neck a gentle pat, ruffle his hair and turn the movie back up. But he didn't want that. He wanted to hear how many little noises he could wrestle out of that gorgeous throat, how many hot breaths he could get to spill across his lap, how long Elliott could last without turning into a wiggling mess.
His nails caught the side of Elliott's throat, nearly catching his Adam's apple hidden in the blanket, and slowly, with careful ease, he dragged his blunt nails up from the front of Elliott's throat to the back of his neck.
Yoba, the long, low whine that Elliott let out was so pretty - but as his hand stilled, Elliott reached up and snagged his wrist in a firm but fragile grip.
He was trembling. His face was still buried there, skin still so hot against Braeburn's leg.
Braeburn has not left any marks, but kept his hand hovered above where Elliott had grabbed him. This was precarious, and he'd gone too far. The fruit wasn't ready to be picked and he was in danger of crushing it. Slowly, he let his other hand come down and cup the top of Elliott’s head, drawing little circles with his thumb.
"Sorry," he whispered, somewhat unsure of what to do now, worried he'd done more harm than good, "Too far?"
"It's good." Came his low reply. "It's… new."
"Do you want me to keep going? I can stop. We can go back to the movie, or find something else to watch. I don't wanna make you uncomfortable, El."
Elliott shifted a little, a tiny squirm to get comfortable without revealing his flushed face. After a moment, he let Braeburn's wrist go, and he brought his own shaky hand down to the same thigh his face rested on, pressing his palm into the outside of it with a little amount of pressure. Grounding himself, Brae guessed, and that was okay. It seemed to take him a moment but eventually Elliott tilted his head enough so that he lay facing Braeburn, finally, even though he wouldn't meet his eyes.
He was wonderfully flushed, pink to his ears, and though his eyes looked shiny it was clear he wasn't - and hadn't been - crying.
"... No one -.... No one touches me like you do." It came out as half a croak, a humiliating confession that he didn't want to face.
The hand he had used to hold his neck came to Elliott’s jaw now, and Braeburn held him there, cupping his cheek. Elliott's eyes fluttered for a second, and he swallowed again. When he didn't speak for another few minutes, Braeburn started to brush his thumb across his cheekbone in little circles. He was trying not to look at his friend - it was clearly overwhelming and intense for him - but Braeburn looked, and Elliott’s lips were thoroughly bitten and sore. He looked torn, eyebrows arched in a way that screamed conflict between enjoying the attention immensely and being so lost as to why.
"I can stop." Brae spoke as softly as could, careful not to spook him any more. Elliott had surely had enough new ground tread today.
"I'm not… sure. It's nice. It's… A lot."
"Slowly?"
Elliott nodded, managing finally to look up at his friend. Yoba, he was so handsome like this - all warm and soft and gentle.
"Slowly. Slowly is good."
The hand cupping his jaw and cheek trailed a half-inch further back and smoothed behind Elliott's ear in a soothing arc. No more nails, just the gentle glide of skin into hair, and the writer let out a soft sigh at the contact. He pressed his cheek more into Braeburn's leg; not enough to hide away, but enough to cover his flushed cheeks with hair and fabric.
"Sorry I was rough. You know I'd never hurt you, right?"
"Of course," Elliott murmured into Brae's leg. "You're the most gentle person I know. You're the safest… This, this is safe. I couldn't…"
It was hard for him to find the right words, something Braeburn had always noted - for a writer of such lovely poetry and elegantly flowing prose when it came to being honest with how he felt Elliott always seemed to falter.
"... I don't trust anyone else in the way that I trust you." he let out, and then gave a sigh as if he'd been carrying that thought for so long that it weighed him down.
The fingers behind his ear sped up for just a second, an affectionate, almost playful little scratch or two, before Brae went back to careful stroking.
"I just want to make you happy," Braeburn admitted, "No matter what that takes. And if this is what makes you happy, then it's an easy way for me ta get peace of mind, I guess."
Elliott was quiet for a moment, and went back to being unable to look at Braeburn. It was new. It was a lot.
It was untrodden territory, a line they both knew was there but hadn't vocalised their desperate want to cross it. Elliott was simply far too skittish to suggest such a thing, especially without a good drink inside him, and Braeburn was far too reluctant to set a pace Elliott wouldn't be able to keep up with. But this, sat on the sofa on a rainy day, wrapped in a blanket. It was new, and it was a lot, and it was good.
“...it’s been a while, huh?”
“Since?” Elliott looked up at him, blinking.
“Since anybody told you that you’re worth being happy.”
“Ah-”
“Since anybody touched you like this.” Braeburn continued, interrupting Elliott's open-mouthed, pink-cheeked reaction with a rub of a single fingertip in the join where the back of his sensitive ear met his head.
Elliott swiftly closed his mouth again. It was no secret that his life in the Valley was one of a hermit, at best. Even Linus had more of a social life than him. Braeburn always had this way of knowing how he felt, even if he had no way of vocalising it in a concise way himself. It was far easier to write his feelings than speak them. It somehow always felt like the farmer had a backseat in his mind, ever-present and knowing far more than he should.
“...Yes.” He admitted, slowly. “To both. Like I said - you’re the only person I trust like this. You’re the only person who - ….treats me like this.”
“What, like a friend?” Braeburn tried to chuckle. He wanted it to be so much more, but he would never press for it; he’d never forgive himself if he made Elliott feel like he was coerced into something, like he was forced into something he would never be comfortable with. Until Elliott made a move otherwise, he was comfortable with the back-and-forth they had of friendship, dedicated companionship with the slightest edge of flirting. If tonight’s conversation and gentle petting lead to anywhere, then they would deal with it when they got there - and if Elliott said that it was too much, then it was too much. And if he said that he wanted more, then Braeburn would happily give as much as he could.
“Like I’m...important, I suppose,” Was his soft response, muffled by the thickness of the blanket. “Like I’m something to be - bothered with, not just - someone in the way. Sorry. That’s - stupid.”
Time had taken its toll on Elliott. Years of neglect from the world, of loneliness, of sleepless nights and going hungry and feeling lost. He was a rarely-spotted passing face in a town where everyone knew him as an outsider, a kid who ran away from home with the clothes on his back and abandoned dreams. He was a ghost who hid away on rainy days, and didn’t know how to make small talk, and had poetry written into his bones but no way to express it without feeling overwhelmingly embarrassed at the act of opening himself up. His body ached in the cold, and his cheeks felt too hollow. His eyes had started weakening from all the times he’d forced himself to work in low light, his back ached from hunching over desks and he had no idea how to feel alive. His skin felt like a suit tailored for someone two sizes smaller than him, and the world felt like it would never even realize he’d ever existed.
A deeply unhappy childhood indeed, and scars lasted longer when you couldn’t see them. It was laughable - to get attached to the first person to flash him a smile, the first person to take the time to ask him about his day, the first person to ask of his work, to run a hand over his shoulder, to have hands that didn’t hit and words that didn’t bite. It was a lot.
“Come here.”
Elliott swallowed and met Braeburn's eyes. “Are you - angry at me?”
“No. I’m telling you to come here.”
It was an order, a gentle one, but it still sent some spiralling warmth down into the pit of Elliott’s stomach. Hesitantly, he sat up until he was kneeling besides Braeburn, unsure of where to go.
The bear hug was unexpected, but welcome, pinning Elliott’s hands to his chest as Braeburn squeezed.
The drag into his friend's lap was even less expected, however, and despite a slight noise of surprise, Elliott said nothing as Braeburn manhandled the taller man to take a seat right on top of him, sideways so that his left side was against Braeburn's barrel chest. In all the shuffling, Elliott didn’t register a broad hand scooping him up from under his ass and settling there, keeping him in place, steady.
He was encompassed, incapable of moving. Braeburn's comforting bulk on all sides, thick arms and blanket and beard wrapped around him with not an inch to spare. He was in the farmers lap, encased as if he were tiny.
It was nice.
“You don’t have to apologise for anything. And I’d never be angry at you.” The other massive hand that wasn’t keeping his butt still smoothed down Elliott's back. “And I can’t think of a single time you were in the way.”
“I mean - there was the time with the cabin-” Elliott’s voice was muffled slightly, his cheek pressed into Braeburn's chest. This was surprisingly comfortable.
“Are you referring to the time a storm destroyed your home?”
“Mn. And look what happened - you went out to get building supplies for me and ended up in hospital.”
“Did you come down into the mines with me?”
“No, but -”
“Did you cause the cave-in, specifically to trap me in there?”
“No, Brae-”
“Then there’s no problem.”
“You were hurt.” It was quiet, and Elliott grit his teeth. “And I was lost. You could have died in there and I slept through it and didn’t stop you and you could have died.”
“Come here.” The hand on his back pressed a little, and Elliott obeyed unthinkingly, slotting his head under Braeburn's chin. Curled up like this, they fit perfectly together, even if Elliott's back would no doubt ache if they kept it up too long. “I’d do it again if I knew it would give you your house, and you would be safe, and you’d have a decent place to work on your book and sleep, and all that, you know. You’re important to me.”
“Why? I mean -”
“El. Am I important to you?”
“I - Yes. I thought you knew that.”
Brae tilted his head, cheek resting in Elliott’s auburn hair. “And why am I important to you?”
It seemed to take a moment for Elliott to answer - either searching for the right tact, or just preparing his wavering voice.
“You’re good to me. Maybe that's selfish, but you’re kind to me. You’ve always looked out for me and helped me. It’s nice to have someone who cares enough to keep an eye on me. You make me -” He huffed a little, embarrassment taking over for a second. The room felt raw, like the air was thickened by secrets that would never spill out. But there, curled in his friend's lap, it was the most logical place to say it. “...Safe. And I have never had that before.”
“And you’re good to me, too,” Braeburn replied softly. “I care about you, and you care about me, right? Keeping an eye on you - that makes me happy because I know you’re happy. Knowing you’re eating, and sleeping and knowing things are a little easier for you when I’m around. I want that. I want you to feel safe with me, so I’m glad you feel like that.”
Braeburn squeezed a little, hugging his lanky friend closer, and he got a positive little noise in return.
“I want you to feel like I protect you. I know you still feel really raw about everything - the storm, and the cabin, and all that. But I’m here, and I’m okay, and I’ve got you.” It was punctuated with a kiss to the top of Elliott's head, and another gentle squeeze.
“Mnm,” Elliott pressed his face closer into Braeburn's chest. He could have cried - Brae had always been so good to him, so selfless. Elliott truly didn’t deserve such a friend. “Thank you. For everything. You’re too good to me. I’m sorry that I’m not terribly good at this kind of thing.”
“You’re good at other things,” Braeburn concluded. “You don’t have to be good at everything.”
Elliott didn’t feel like he was much good at anything, but wrapped up in Brae's hold as he was, he didn’t find it in him to argue. The stomach felt full - he was warm and heavy, and he wasn’t sure what to think. Braeburn had kissed his head, just like that night when he came home from the hospital. He was in his lap, and he was held, and time seemed to be still and slow but intense and fast all at once. The last few weeks since Braeburn's return and the storm had gone so quickly, and every day it felt like they were growing closer, braver. It would be so easy to kiss Brae like this, Elliott thought. He’d only have to angle his head and get his attention, and they would slot together. He could feel the farmers purple-pink beard on his skin, collarbone to ear, pressed against, beneath, encased. He had been touching Braeburn more recently - in short bursts when he could manage it, easy touches on his arm and shoulder, holding his arm when they sat together, brushing fingers when given food or mugs or tools, hugging when he had the bravery; but this was different. It would be so easy just to press up an inch and fit against his throat, his cheek, his mouth. Elliott was by no means a small man, but he felt small. Wonderfully, delightfully, dizzyingly small. Braeburn was power and muscle and thickness and he was surrounded.
“This is nice.”
It was all he could manage, and Braeburn's plush body rippled beneath him as he got a chuckle.
“It is. We should do this more often.”
“When Mac doesn’t claim your lap first, perhaps.” The dog in question raised his sleepy head from the carpet at the sound of his name, tail slowly beginning to beat the floor at the notion of being part of the impromptu pile of comfort and warmth.
“I’m not sure who I would bet on, in a fight between you and him.”
“In a fight for your lap? Hm, it would be close. Though I bet he would acquiesce if bribery came into play.”
“You’d have to drive a hard bargain. Actually, no you wouldn’t. He eats anything.”
Elliott chuckled, curling in a little further. Tomorrow they would get up early, grab their things and go to the city. And it would be terrifying. He had never wanted to return back to Zuzu, but needs must. He had to move on, and moving on meant going back. At least Brae would be by his side - and with Brae around him, he could do anything.
They didn’t turn the movie back on. Voices low in the dark, they talked of packing their bags, and the things they would need, and the long road ahead. And tomorrow came all too quickly.
Mist had settled over the farmland, and Elliott was surprised by how dark it was. Mornings were usually early at The Orchard, but this was something else. The walk to the bus stop was cold, and he was glad for wrapping one of Braeburn's old jackets around him before they left the farmhouse.
Braeburn had put everything in an old backpack ready for him - clothes, toiletries, the works. Elliott had only needed to put in the things needed for business, and he was incredibly thankful that he hadn’t needed to think about anything more than that, voicing as much as they walked the short sidepath down to the stop.
“Thank you for packing my bag for me,” Elliott adjusted it on his shoulder, matching Braeburn's pace, brushing his arm slightly to act as a buffer - should the farmer feel dizzy or off due to his head, he would be able to catch him. “I appreciate it. It's nice knowing that you think of things. It saves me from distraction, I mean. You focusing on the day-to-day things really...helps me focus on the work side of life.”
The farmer was quiet for a moment, but nodded. “Whatever I can do to help.”
It was 4AM, and Braeburn wanted to crawl back into bed. He wanted Elliott to crawl back into bed with him. He wanted to take care of the writer, be good to him, and if packing his bag for him was what he needed to do then he would do it every day if he needed to. Elliott was on the cusp of thriving, on the precipice of happiness, fulfillment, and Braeburn wanted to be at his side as much as possible to see it through. Even if it meant that in time he would return to the Cabin, if he would have to go on book tours and go to the city again and again, if Braeburn could help things happen then he would do everything he could. Elliott deserved happiness, and he had already done the hard part of writing the book while simultaneously surviving.
Pam was late. It was only by a few minutes, but Braeburn was silently glad. The woman had a temper at the best of times, and if she had been early she may have gotten bored and left before the two of them showed up. She was smoking as she trudged up the dimly lit path, the cherry of her lit cigarette the most visible thing in the lowland fog.
Braeburn took the lead and Elliott looked around as she approached.
“Mornin’ Pam.”
“Hey, Pinky.” She nodded, taking in a deep drag. It seemed that every time they spoke she seemed to use some new nickname to degrade him, but he said nothing of it. “You boys ready to get the show on the road? On the bus it’ll be about a two, two half hour journey. Hope you guys’ve pissed and’re ready for your legs to go numb.”
“We’re good.” Brae tried to smile. Pam had always been an odd one, but he did his best to be cordial. “Got everything we need. Shane’s watching the place for us - keys’re in a safe spot and he’s promised to watch the farm for the weekend while we’re gone, so. Don’t expect him to swing by the Saloon or anything.”
Pam waved him off and started unlocking the bus’s double doors. “Yeah yeah, I didn’t ask for your life story, Pinky. He don’t come around the Saloon much nowadays anyways, since he quit.”
“Well, that's good. He was getting a bit wild with the drinkin’, ya gotta admit.”
Pam just gave a grunt and hauled herself up the steps of the bus, slotting herself into the driver's seat and adjusting it. Brae turned to Elliott, who had been distant for the entire exchange.
“You good?”
“Hm?” He woke back up, turning to look at the farmer. “Oh, yes. Sorry. Just thinking, that's all. The fog across the town and the mist on the farm. It's nice - a few times I went fishing with Willy in the early morning like this, when it's still and quiet. I miss it a little. I can practically smell the sea salt in the fog, and I...I would quite like to go back to that little strip of ocean soon.”
“Oh.” Braeburn didn't know what to say. He knew the day was coming that Elliott would slip out of The Orchard as his friend and bunk-mate to only ever return as a passing friend and guest, but it still stung a little. “I hadn’t noticed the scent. I guess it must be weird, not being near the beach so much now for you.”
The engine started up next to them, the exhaust spitting out a dark cloud as it grumbled to life. Elliott took a step towards the doors.
“It can wait, though. Once summer is back we can go out fishing together. You, me, and Willy, if you would like to come? Mac too, if he can behave in a longboat. A nice day out to sea, all of us just relaxing in the sun. Maybe if we get a second boat, Shane too.”
Elliott was smiling, Braeburn's errant concern unnoticed and altogether washed away. Elliott's smile was like the sun, and the farmer could practically see them now, in a boat that's a touch too small, on an ocean that's a touch too quiet, on a day that was a touch too hot. Squeezed together, arm to arm, with the promise of fresh fish and cold beer. Life would be good.
Life was good now, too.
“I’ll bring along some homemade mead.” Brae grinned back, one of his hands coming to the small of Elliott's back to urge him up the steps, steadying him. “It's good stuff. Best thing after a day under the sun and surrounded by salt is something ice cold and full’a sugar.”
“Homemade mead,” Elliott repeated as he kept smiling, standing to the side as Braeburn handed Pam the cash for their tickets and return tickets and watching as she double checked the amount, tossed the Gs into a little tray and printed the papers for them. “Or, home-mead, if you are so inclined.”
“Shut up,” Brae chuckled, slotting the tickets in his wallet and then putting the same wallet into his bag. “You’d think for a masterly eloquent writer, poet, fancy-pants man you’d come up with something better than the labels I put on the crates.”
“Really?” They laughed as they slot into two seats, side-by-side. “I never noticed, you really had that on their crates?”
“Mh-hm. Homemead. Stupid, I know, but makes it easier to find in the brewing shed.”
“Hah,...” Elliott got himself settled in in the window seat. They had the whole bus to themselves, but Brae was next to him anyway, their thighs touching. They slipped their bags under their seats and sat back. “Well, if all goes well with the meeting this afternoon, then maybe we should pop open a bottle of home-mead once we get back. Or, have one as a commiseration, if things don’t go so well.”
A gentle elbow to the side forced a startled noise out of Elliott - and when he met Braeburn's eyes he got a slight tut.
“Today is going to go great. Want me to read their texts out to you again? They want to send your work to the editing stage, which means they want it to print and be exported, right? No commiserations needed. Today is probably just a formality to get contracts signed and sorted. It will be fine, El. We’re gonna go and have a great time, you’re gonna sign some papers, have a night out, and then once we’re home we’re gonna have a drink and laugh as your bank account gets full and your name gets out there. Right?”
“Right.” Elliott nodded, leaning back into his seat and watching as they pulled out of the bus bay, making their way onto the long, winding roads to the city. It was still gloomy outside, but dawn would be upon them soon. “It’s all coming together.”
The clouds parted as the sun rose, bathing the hot bus and the road ahead in golden light. The entire bus was warm and balmy, the thick windows trapping in the warmth seeping up from the tarmac and oncoming springtime.
Elliott must have dozed, drifting in the rhythmic bustles and bumps of the drive. When he realized he was awake, he blinked, cracking his eyes open against the sunlight.
He was in the crook of Braeburn's neck again, half-leaning against the farmer. There was a weight wrapped around his arm, and it took a long moment or two for the redheads brain to kick in. His nose was pressed into that soft spot at the juncture of Brae's throat and shoulder - right in the collar of his t-shirt. He was still asleep - that was his excuse - so he took in a long, deep breath before he straightened out. Braeburn smelt good; cedar wood and honeycomb and lavender, something unplaceable but familiar and homely. As he sat up Elliott felt something in his back click a little, fused in place from the awkward angle. He really needed that extra hour or so of half-sleep, so he was thankful for it. He went to rub the dried sleep from his eyes only to realize - the weight around it. Braeburn's arm was laid on top of his, hand wrapped around his and acting as a buffer against the air, protecting his tender palm from the world.
The farmer was dozing too; eyes closed, mouth slightly open, relaxed and soft in his seat.
Elliott used his other hand instead, rubbing away the sleep and lack thereof. Heat blossomed across the back of his neck - embarrassment maybe, at the fact that he probably fell asleep long before Brae did, mortification at the awkwardness of the thought that he must have just slumped against the poor man once he was out, or maybe it could have just been the heat. He found himself squinting as he looked out the window. Glimmers of heat sparkled on the damp road ahead, the mist of the Valley had cleared and the City was quickly approaching, shining and bronze in the morning light.
They’d be along the edge of the city within the hour, and then once they got off the bus it would be a case of finding some breakfast, wandering until they could check into the hotel, showering and preparing for the meeting with the publishing company, the big number, and then time to relax. Easy. The publishing office was in an off-shoot area of the city, a few streets away from one of the larger, busier parts, so they could keep a low profile. Elliott didn’t want any old friends or familiar faces popping out of the woodwork and trying to strike up a conversation. He wanted to be in and out of the more populated areas as quickly and quietly as possible so that no one would see him, no one would stop him, no one would ask questions. He had left the city behind, and it felt like a lifetime ago. He had a new home now, new friends, a new life, and purpose.
“Mnh,” Braeburn grunted next to him, drawing in a long breath as he, too, woke up. “S’hot.”
“It is,” Elliott glanced over at him, and his long hair was the only thing keeping the incoming sunlight from causing a sweat to form beneath his collar, along his throat. He would definitely have to shower before the meeting, lest he turn up to the most important talk of his life as a clammy, groggy looking fool. “The sun has come out, it's going to be a nice day.”
The hand holding his squeezed a little, pat twice, and then pulled away as Braeburn woke up a little more, scrubbing at his eyes with his palms.
“I got the closest hotel to your peoples’ office, so we can get you all dressed up nice and stuff before you head in, ‘n’ hopefully the heat won’t be too bad by then. What time’s it at again?” Brae yawned in lieu of punctuation, sleepily blinking once he was a little more awake. He pulled himself up to sit a little straighter, then bent to pull his backpack up from its hiding spot.
“Two-thirty,” was Elliott's response, going from watching the farmer move to looking out the window again, peering into the beyond. There were more cars now, building traffic as the morning rush was due. “We should be there soon, so we will have some time to kill before we can check in and use the hotel's facilities to clean up.”
Brae nudged him, and Elliott looked back over to see the farmer holding a bottle of water. He had just taken a sip - a shock of cold to wake up fully, perhaps - but Elliott had no qualms about sharing.
“Ah, thank you.” He took it and took a generous sip himself. The bus was humid, the windows almost beginning to fog from the engine and moisture and warmth. It would be terrible for his hair, Elliott thought, but a cool shower and change of clothes was only a few hours away. He took another sip before screwing the lid back on. “Good of you to think of bringing water, Brae, I always forget how long this journey is.”
“Before we head back we’re hitting up a store I used to hang around at - it does some cheap junk food, travel snacks, 100-G trash, that kind of stuff. It's a great last-minute stop before a long ride.”
Elliott frowned, hand tightening around the bottle a little as he looked back out the window. His voice came out perhaps a little lower than intended. “It isn’t a Joja Mart though, is it? I would rather not...indulge in their products.”
A snort was his answer, before Brae nudged him again - this time offering a piece of red, hard candy from a little packet instead of water. “What do you take me for? I’ve had more than enough of those crooks. I’m all about the Mom And Pop type stores, you know that. Nah, this is a little corner store, family-owned type deal. Great place, you’ll love it.”
Braeburn could physically see Elliott soften, and smiled a little as he took the sweet and tossed it into his mouth, trading the water bottle back to slot it back home safely into Brae's bag. The little packet of candy was a mixed pack of flavours - cherry, pomegranate, grape, orange and rhubarb, a seldom-bought treat that Brae stashed away for occasions such as these. He often thought about trying to make his own candy, but spinning sugar always seemed like a bit too much hassle. Maybe sometime they could try to make some together, once the fruit season was winding down. Distilling the flavours down from produce wouldn’t be too hard, but getting the liquid sugar to harden and caramelize and be malleable could be tricky. He’d have to look into a few methods before he and Elliott tried it together, lest the writer end up with sugar-burns on his already achy hands.
“I didn’t want to come back,” Elliott murmured distantly, candy sitting on his tongue, and he could feel Braeburn's gaze wash over him. He stuck to looking out the window. “I am positive that it will be a fun experience, but...I can’t help but feel nervous. I know the book deal will go well; even if they don't want to publish it they may give me advice, send me along to another publisher, something like that, but. The city itself. I...wanted never to come back.”
“It's just this weekend,” Braeburn's hand found his forearm, its warmth seeping under his shirt sleeves, and gave another light, reassuring squeeze. “A day and a half. We hide away in a cafe for a while, hit up a few bookstores, do some light shopping, get business done and then we’re home again. We don’t ever gotta come back if you don’t want. We can work something out with the publishers, see if you can do future stuff long distance. No big deal. And I’m here with you. No one’s gonna mess with you when you’ve got a bright pink bear following you around.”
The writer gave a little nod, thankful for the contact.
He had never been one for the hustle and bustle, the elbow-to-elbow crowds of the city, but with Braeburn by his side, he would manage. The thought of finding a coffee shop to grab breakfast also sounded increasingly good.
“You’ll have to show me a few of your old haunts. I was never one to explore much when I lived here.”
“I can do that.”
The last stretch to the city went by quickly, and before they knew it, Pam was maneuvering the bus into the station; a long cement lot with painted markings, rails and signs for each bus to park in. It was still early, but there were a few other buses and a few small groups of townsfolk gathered, waiting to step into the adjacent buses and head to work, home, wherever they were going. Pam turned the engine off, and they could hear her stretch a little from their seats. Braeburn did the same, arching his back and letting his arms curl back above him as he yawned. It had been a long ride, but the day was only just beginning. Elliott scooped his bag up and slot it back over his shoulder, and Braeburn did the same once he finished stretching, standing to slip out of the seat.
They inched by each other, and Pam nudged her little door open and gathered her affects as they approached the front cabin of the bus.
“Alright, boys. I’m going for a smoke break. After so many hours of driving, regulations are that I gotta take a break for forty-five ‘fore I drive back, so I’ll be back in Pelican Town by 'bout ten. I’ll be here at three tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll be around to get some stuff, so. You got my number. Drop me a text or call once you two’re ready for the slog back any time after that. I’m gonna grab some grub while I’m here on my break.”
“Didn’t ask for your life story, Pam.” Braeburn grinned, earning an eyeroll from the older lady. She instead leant over to the console and clicked a button, opening the bus doors.
“Get on outta here, Pinky. You two have fun, I’ll see ya both tomorrow.”
Braeburn gave a nod as he passed her by, slipping out the bus. “Thanks, Pam.”
“Thank you for the ride,” Elliott smiled at her as he made his way down the steps. “We’ll see you tomorrow, ma’am.”
“Stay safe out there, kids.”
She stepped out after them, locking the bus doors behind her and slipping away for a well-earned cigarette. Braeburn inched his bag up higher on his back, and there was a moment of quiet as they each took in a deep breath of fresh air after the long ride.
“So….Breakfast?” Braeburn propositioned, butting shoulders with the writer. “I know a great greasy spoon type place not too far from here. They do a real good bacon omelette - oh, though, maybe not for you, huh? I don't want you to feel sick before the big day by having something like that.”
Elliott found himself smiling. Years of living on fish and whatever he could manage had rendered him weak in some ways; he hadn’t had red meat in so long that he had no doubt that if he jumped straight into heavy meals with it that he’d be very, very ill. A strictly pescatarian diet was the smartest thing - for now, at least. It was good of Brae to think the same however, and he was thankful that the farmer had his concerns at heart.
“I certainly would not say no to something warm in me.” They fell into step with ease, Braeburn leading the way. “Coffee, especially.”
“Hotel lets us in at eleven - lets get some grub, hit up a few places, then get ourselves cleaned up, hm? We can get you all ready for the meeting in no time, but we need some energy first.”
The bus station was close to the centre of town, and Elliott found himself fiddling with his collar a little - he had forgone any kind of tie or cravat, which is what he usually preferred to wear, instead sticking with a simple button shirt for the early morning and humid ride. He had left the top button open, and soon found himself flicking the collar upwards, masking his jawline from the world. It was small and stupid, but it was another layer between himself and any prying eyes that may look his way. Though, the large man with fuschia hair was probably much more interesting to passersby - he hoped. Braeburn led him down away from the busier areas - stepping into side-streets and quieter areas - until Elliott found that the farmer was leading him into a park.
“Shortcut of mine. Used to grab breakfast from a cafe over there as take-out sometimes and eat it in the park before work; it's a nice one. The park, I mean. You don’t mind, do you? Coming this way rather than around?”
“I’m always happy to be surrounded by nature, Brae. And you know the way better than I do. You just point me in the right direction and I’ll follow you anywhere this weekend.” He’d follow Braeburn anywhere, anytime. It didn’t matter, so long as they were close together. “Though, I’d like to eat inside of the cafe, if possible.”
“Sure thing. I intend to eat way too much, and the place has some nice little booths in the back, if it's still open and laid out how it used to be. This place used to do the best hashbrowns known to man, and I will ask for a trough of them. I will eat, hands free, head first into a trough of hashbrowns, I swear. It will be ugly, and I will be very happy.”
“I will have to roll you to the hotel, as if you were a barrel.”
“If I fit out the door. You underestimate my appetite for hashbrowns.”
Elliott snickered, their footsteps in tandem. The park was nice - fairly quiet, with long-ish stretches of hilly green and a winding path between them, edged with pebbles and stone. There was a pond at one of the lawns where a few ducks gathered, a willow tree dripping green leaning over the murky water, a few benches here and there. A few sparse little blossom trees no taller than Elliott were sat, dotted around, branches only just starting to show swelling buds for the incoming summer. It was nice, for a city park. As someone who obviously loved the outdoors and was right at home at The Orchard, it made sense that this was a place of peace for Braeburn, back when he lived here full-time.
“You know, I don’t think you ever told me what you did for work while you lived here. It's hard to imagine you being anything other than your current, authentic self.”
“I worked as tech support.” Braeburn's tone was flat, but he smiled all the same. “It sucked. I understand that not everybody feels comfortable with computers, and sometimes we did actually have legitimate issues, but...long hours staring at blue light, little screens, answering phones to rowdy customers who just demand the same answers from you, day in and day out when it's really simple, common sense solutions ninety-nine per cent of the time...It….it was unpleasant. It barely paid for my apartment, and it was long, long hours. No real set schedule, either, so sometimes I’d get thrown into night shifts on no sleep.”
“That sounds awful.” Elliott frowned. “I’m not surprised that you were so eager to leave and be free of it.”
“I barely had enough to keep myself afloat, even working like, fifty, sixty hours some weeks. No fresh air, no overtime extra pay, no union, no down time. Blech.” Braeburn stuck his tongue out, and Elliott could tell that he had eaten some of those red candies from earlier by the crimson stain across the centre of his mouth. “I know work on the farm is long and hard, but it's by far an easier stint. I feel way healthier now that I’m not at a desk all day. No offence.”
“None taken.” He slightly raised a hand, waving off the idea. “I’d be lying if I said I did not feel the benefits of being put to work at The Orchard, inexperienced as I am. The clean air and dirt under my nails have given me inspiration enough to finally finish the book if nothing else. I suppose in time it will be a case of finding a good balance between the two.”
Braeburn paused in his tracks, and Elliott overtook him for a step or so before turning back to look at the farmer. Some ducks quacked nearby, and the rumble of the city seemed a million miles away.
“Hm?”
“You - wanna continue things as they are, on the farm? I wasn’t sure, if, y’know. The head injury.” Braeburn was somewhat wide-eyed as he locked eyes with the writer, and he gave a half-hearted shrug. “Figured that once Doc gave me the all-clear proper that you’d scamper back to the Cabin and I’d have to come pull you away from your desk each day, like I used to, so you’d see some sunlight. Thought maybe you’d wanna run from the place, after…”
He trailed off, eyes downcast. Elliott followed his line of sight - Braeburn was looking at the palm of his right hand, where the sinewy line of healed-over contusion sat pearly and translucent on his skin. Elliott swallowed, and thought over his words a little.
“...I never really worked. I’ve never had a real job, or responsibilities, or a purpose. I write because I enjoy it, and it's only by luck and others’ kindnesses that I’ve managed to make it so far by doing only that. Helping out around the farm has given me a clearer view of things, I believe. If you would have me, I would think that I could very much enjoy having my time divided between two realms; spending some time writing, some time laboring. I know I must get in the way, but. Should you need the help, I would be the first in line to offer it. I know that things are difficult no matter the job but I...have enjoyed my time with you. And without you, as well - when you were away, I mean - it was rewarding. Even though it was difficult, I felt good. For being able to see it through.”
Braeburn seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment, breaking Elliott's eye contact to look over at the little pond nearby. After a few agonizing seconds, he managed a tired smile.
“You’d get sick of me.”
“No I wouldn’t.” Elliott stood to the side, giving the farmer space enough to keep walking and lead the way yet again, once he was ready. “When living at the cabin before, I saw you most every day. Going forward, this could just be an improved version of what we had before, perhaps. We can figure it out another time. Let’s...lets get this weekend dealt with first, get some breakfast, get some sleep, then we can bicker over what days you want me to feed the chickens and scoop up their poop.”
Braeburn grinned, and grinned wider when he realized Elliott was doing the same.
“You’ve got a deal, mister. Food first, business later. You know me, I ain’t able to think on an empty stomach.”
“Me neither - hence the long stretch of no work and empty crab pots on the shore. I think I may just have to join you in a trough full of hashbrowns.”
“Tell ya what, we can share a trough.”
The waitress on the clock recognized Braeburn, even with the pink hair and build change. She seemed ecstatic to see him again, and they had chatted a little while Elliott looked at the plastic-sheet menu encased in a frame on the wall. Since moving away, both Braeburn and the waitress had dyed their hair eccentric colours, it seemed, and she was in awe of how he seemed less chubby and shlubby and now stronger, tightened up from less hours hunched over a keyboard and more plowing the fields. She was incredibly bubbly for a person at work so early in the morning. They were the only ones in the cafe, but more customers would trail in soon enough. She and Braeburn caught up for a few minutes, happily and cheerily chatting, before she showed the two of them to a booth in the back of the cafe, away from the windows at the front of the store, which helped Elliott feel a little more comfortable.
“You guys just call me over in a sec once you’re ready, okay? I’ll get you some hot coffee going. Creamer and sugar is all over there where you can help yourselves, and I’ll get you both some orange juice, too!” She chirped as she showed them their seats, laying a copy of the menu down for each of them. She beamed and pointed towards a stand in the corner where in little cubbyholes on a table there were packets of sugar and cream, and she gave a wide smile before slipping away to get them each a mug.
“She’s so cute.” Braeburn smiled as he glanced over the menus. Elliott peered over his own to look at the farmer. “She was blonde last time I saw her - the bubblegum blue really suits her.”
“An old friend?” Elliott tried to smile. He wasn’t jealous he wasn’t jealous he wasn't jealous he wasn't jealous he wasn't jealous. “She seems happy to see you.”
“I came here a lot. She was working towards graduating - she’s gotta be in her final year of school now. This place has been great for her confidence, though. When I first started seeing her here she got really nervous and flustered with the till system and would trip up her words a lot. But hey, we all start somewhere, right? Sometimes you just need a familiar face and a little patience. When she's in the back of house doing the cooking on the short-staffed days, she makes a great egg sandwich. She just needed some time to get used to the job.”
Elliott softened a little. Braeburn was the kind of person that oozed patience and relaxation, and he continued to show that he saw the best in all he passed by. If he had come here often before work, he and the waitress must have spoken often, and shared many a sleepy morning together. Elliott had no need to be possessive - it was not like they were a couple, he had no claim over the farmer whatsoever. But part of Elliott wondered if that was his type - if Braeburn had a thing for perky, bubbly little girls with chipper smiles and colorful hair. He - Braeburn - always seemed so welcoming, nurturing, encompassing. It would be easy to see him paired with someone a little younger, dantier, someone he could take care of, someone he could protect. He couldn't compare with that - despite everything Elliott was, in fact, a man. He tried to read the menu, but found his attention drifting.
A shock of blue entered his peripherals, and a cup of juice was placed in front of him.
“There you guys go!” The waitress smiled, a tray balanced in one hand with mugs and a metal pot of black coffee. “Coffee’s comin’ up.”
“Thanks, Star.” Braeburn smiled, leaning on the table with his elbows. “This is my buddy Elliott, by the way. Elliott, Starling, Starling, Elliott.”
“Nice ta meetcha,” She smiled, ponytail bobbing as she gave a little nod to the writer. Elliott gave a polite smile in return. “So what brings you both back into my neck of the woods, hm?”
“Elliott's an author - we’re here to chat with his publisher on his newest project.” Braeburn looked proud, and a trickle ran up the writer's spine.
“OOooh, exciting!” Starling beamed, placing the coffee mugs on their coasters and pouring the inky liquid in. “You’ll have to let me know how it goes, I’d love to hear all about it!”
“Well, we can swing by tomorrow morning, if you like? We're here for the weekend. Is that okay with you, coming by tomorrow before we leave?”
“Of course,” Elliott smiled, and Starling seemed pleased, her cheeks plush and rosy from smiling. “Braeburn’s in charge, where he goes, I follow. I’m up for brunch tomorrow if you are.”
“Yessssss, it means I get two chances for some hashbrowns.” Braeburn gave a little wiggle in his seat, drumming his fists on the table. He nudged Elliott's leg with his foot, a teasing look on his face. “That's the most important thing, even more than the book deal. Gettin’ me some fried potato in me.”
Starling gave a little laugh, pulling a notebook from the pocket on her apron. “One order of extra hashbrowns, noted. What's your poison today, Braeburn?”
“I gotta go for a full plate, Star. Load me up, it's been a long drive.”
“You got it,” she scribbled on the notepad, before turning to the redhead. “And what can I get for you?”
“Oh, uh,-” Elliott quickly scanned the menu, mind blank. He had been reading it but none of the words had sunken into his mind, and he found himself spiralling at the choices laid before him. “Um...I, ah-....”
“Think you could do him one of your tasty little egg sandwiches, Starling?”
“Oh, sure! Mikey's on the grill today, but he knows how I make ‘em, I’ll ask him to do it special.”
“You’re a gem.” Braeburn smiled as he took a sip of juice. “Thanks, Star.”
“You got it. Full plate, extra hash, and one of Stars’ special eggies’, coming on up!” Another enormous smile, before she flit behind the double-doors to the side of the front counter, no doubt to relay their order to the cook, Mikey.
Elliott closed his mouth, a strange calm sitting on his shoulders. The panic of choice had dissolved as soon as Braeburn had taken charge. Braeburn had ordered for him, and somehow it felt right. Braeburn was the one in control, and Elliott was just something he took care of, a second thought to carry around. It was…Good.
“You’re gonna love the food here, I promise.” Braeburn scooted out of the booth to stand. “Back in a sec, I’m gonna grab sugar.”
The weight of his palm settled on the top of Elliott's head as he passed, a familiar ruffle before he vanished behind the booth. As the touch left him, Elliott found himself letting out a breath he did not realise he had been holding. It had been a long drive and his nerves were alight in a dull background fizzle and Brae was good to him. Braeburn knew best, and when choices and distractions were removed, Elliott felt far more at ease; whether it was choosing what to eat, or what clothes to put in his overnight bag, or taking over when things got too overwhelming. He was lucky that he had a friend that understood him so well, could read the way he wanted things to go, could seamlessly nudge him in the right direction. Whether or not things continued as they were going, whether or not Elliott stayed at The Orchard or returned to the cabin or what, it was nice that their friendship not only survived but sustained and felt entirely natural.
Braeburn was quickly back, and he opened his cupped hands to let little containers of packaged milk creamer and sugar to scatter over the table. Without thinking, he cracked a little tub of the creamer open and tipped it into Elliott's coffee, stirring it for him. That relief intensified, marring into a peculiar excitement. Braeburn knew exactly what he liked, and there was something intensely comforting about the man looking after him, seemingly on instinct, let alone ensuring that the writer had his drink made properly before he did his own. It was small, something insignificant, but it made a distinct heaviness settle inside of Elliott, and he felt special for the attention.
"Thank you." He said as Braeburn put in the final packet of sugar. "I've been thinking about a good coffee since we woke up."
"This place's good is bound to put a spring in your step. And a clog in your arteries too, probably." Brae chuckled, and started to fix up his own drink. "I've lost some weight since I left, and I don't think it's just the farm work, I think not coming here most days has helped."
"I think doing what you do on the farm everyday is enough to make anyone change shape." Elliott took a sip of his coffee. It was perfection - or as perfect as it could be. It didn't have that hazy tang that Braeburn's homemade brew had, but it was close. "I think if I stay around and work hard that I'll be as broad and strong as you in no time."
"If I increase the calorie intake on our meals, maybe. I'm gonna have to start putting butter in your tea and full-fat cream on all your snacks if you ever expect to be as big as me." Brae smiled. Elliott had meant it harmlessly, but they both knew that. Braeburn was soft, the pudge of his stomach fitting his body and suiting him; he was stocky and bulky and broad, the body of a man who lifted heavy things and toiled long hours. Their builds could not be more different as Elliott's body seemed reluctant to keep any excess weight, but Elliott wasn't envious. He admired Braeburn's body, but did not wish it for himself, not entirely. A bit of extra muscle would not go amiss, but such things would come in time, he was sure.
"More protein rather than cream, maybe. I'm not sure I'd be able to be quite as strong as you, it comes all natural to you and I haven't quite the metabolism for it, but given some more time out in the fields, perhaps, I'll be able to pull my weight a little more easily. Literally." As Elliott spoke, he realized that Braeburn was watching his mouth. “- Do...do I have something on my face?”
“No, just - your tongue is red. From the candy earlier.”
"Oh." Warmth found its way to his face. It was odd - childish, even, to feel flushed over the thought of it. Though, whether it was the thought of looking less than his best, or the thought of Braeburn noticing his tongue, he didn't know. Hot coffee would wash the redness away, anyway - of his tongue, at least. "Well, that will be away with soon. I'm famished."
"Eating here will make you regret ever leaving Zuzu. Well, not fully, but. You know what I mean. This place is good, is what I meant." He rambled, waving the accidental faux-pas away a little; Elliott would never regret leaving the city. He just continued, quickly changing the subject. "There was a few other places nearby I liked a lot that I'd like to show you. Couple of cute convenience stores that sell good snacks, there was a few nice bars I went to various times, that little store I said earlier, things like that. It'd be nice tomorrow, once we don't have a schedule to stick to, just to wander and explore a little."
"We have a little time today, too. I thought perhaps it may be worth finding a few clothing stores before the meeting. Most of my things were destroyed with the cabin, and I can't live in your old clothes forever."
"Why not? They suit you." Brae smiled, taking a sip of his juice. "Nah, it's fine. There's a couple good places nearby. There's a pretty cheap place that does some standard, everyday clothing not too far from here - your white tees and jeans and things like that - and there's a pretty nice formalwear shop a few streets away, if you want something that fits your style a little more."
"I wouldn't say no to some new suits." He sighed, tilted back against the plastic plush of the booth seat, coffee warming his palms. "Though wearing such things may just be something instilled into me by my mother, I can't help but say that I am most comfortable when looking my best. Cozy as your clothes may be, I think that I would perform better when I feel better about my appearance. Does that makes sense?"
"Totally. When you look outside how you feel inside, the world feels a little nicer. You're talking to a guy with eggplant-coloured hair here, El. Changing things up and finding what works for you is what it's all about. If getting you a couple nice new suits makes you happy, then I say it's the first place we hit up once we've eaten. I packed you a button-up shirt and tie, and the green cravat you like is in there too, and your slacks all folded up in your bag ready for the meeting. They're the nicest things I think you had left, but we can always see if we can find you something nice and new and neat to wear for that Mr Stone guy. "
Elliott smiled and took a sip of his coffee. Braeburn was so good to him, packing his bag and thinking ahead, knowing what he liked to dress in. He didn't deserve such care but he said nothing, instead taking in a long gulp of the warm drink. His eyes followed the approaching shock of electric blue as it approached, mug not leaving his lips.
"Hope you're hungry!" Starling chirped, tray now loaded with three plates.
"Aw yessssss." Brae lit up as his plates were put in front of him, the larger of the two stacked with fluffy eggs, strips of meat and crisp toast, and a smaller plate with a miniature game of hash brown jenga. "Best hash browns in town, Star."
"Anything else I can get for you, big guy?" She put Elliott's sandwich in front of him - Braeburn was right. It smelled heavenly, and Elliott wanted nothing more than to dive straight into it. He thought back briefly to that first pie he and Brae had baked together...and the uncouth way he rammed it down his throat at the first opportunity. His hunger was not so grating today, but were he in less company…
"You want anything else, El? Star's sandwiches are deceptively filling, but it's my treat if you want something more."
"No no, that's quite alright. I'd rather not gorge myself too much, lest my nerves act up before the meeting."
"Good point. I think we're all golden here, Star. How's things with you, anyway? You still seeing that guy?"
"Oh, ppbbbt." Starling waved a hand and blew a raspberry. "Man that was a while back. Nah, he's outta here. Single and ready to mingle, nowadays. Though, studies come first, you know how it is."
"Aw, you'll get snapped up in no time once you're ready for it, I bet. But good on you for buckling down. You got this."
She gave a chipper smile. "Thanks, Braeburn! I'll let you guys eat. Just give a shout if you need me!" And with that she was off to the counter to organise the things on display.
Braeburn watched her go, happy to see her happy. The city was a long time ago, but good folk never change much. His stomach growled a little, the smell of hot food enticing, and he shot Elliott a smile before digging in.
Elliott bit into the sandwich. The bread was soft and fluffy, airy and light, but the centre hid away melted butter that seeped into the inner edge of the bread. The white of an egg hit his tongue first - fried crisp and dark gold, thin and crunchy, before the yolk burst against his teeth - the fat oozed together and mingled, drippy and sweet and sharp, melty and sticky and Elliott could have groaned.
"Oh my Yoba."
Braeburn grinned, mouth full of hash browns and lips shiny from the sheen of oil used to crisp up the potato. "Right?"
"This is so good," Elliott spoke with his mouth full, and covered his lower face with the back of his hand as he chewed to give himself some semblance of manners. Perhaps it was because he was so hungry, so ready for food, but it was a damned good sandwich. "I can see why you came here so often."
"Open up the sandwich?"
He did as he was told, folding back the upper piece of bread - two fried eggs were within, one already seeping its flavour into the soft bread. Elliott watched as Braeburn used his fork to drop one of the hash browns right into the centre, where the butter would permeate into it.
"Try, try try, it's so good, trust me." Braeburn gestured with his fork, excited. Elliott knew he had always been passionate for food and cooking and it seemed that sharing something familiar and comforting with his friend was something he had truly been looking forward to. Elliott would have to get a bigger meal tomorrow, if only just to see Braeburn so pleased.
He bit into the sandwich again, the crunch of the hash brown now joining the cacophony of runny egg and spongy bread and molten butter. They were a marvel - fried to perfection, the potato crumbly and onions not too sharp. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it - not only the taste, but the fact that he was mellow and relaxed. He needed this, needed a quiet meal to ease the butterflies in his stomach and quiet the bizarre thoughts fluttering through.
"Thank you." He mumbled around the heavenly mouthful. He leant back against the booth seat a little. "I needed this."
He didn't need to look to know that Brae was smiling into his toast.
Once breakfast was out of the way, the pair wandered for a little while, glancing into a few odd shops, taking in the sights of the city, and just enjoying some time away. The month of March had flown by in their separation, and they found themselves at the beginning of April. More stores would open as the summer came, but this time of year made the city hum in warmth and freshness.
Before they knew it, it was eleven o’clock, and the hotel let them check in and put their things away.
The young man at the desk gave Braeburn a keycard and told them their room number, pointing them towards the stairs and elevator upwards - they were on the third floor up, as as they approached the stairs Elliott found himself laying a hand along the small of Braeburn's back - should a dizzy spell come over him or his head start to ache, the last thing they needed would be for the giant man to topple down backwards. Even though the vertigo had passed and Braeburn was practically back to normal, it still didn’t hurt to be safe.
It didn't take them long to find their room and after a few seconds of getting the hang of the keycard lock, Braeburn let the two of them inside.
Two beds. Elliott let out a breath he didn’t know had been inside of him. Two small, neat little single beds with white sheets and pillows. The walls were made to look like grey wood in vertical planks, the carpet a soft and plain beige-brown. A white wooden desk and wardrobe were against the opposite wall, and a little nightstand in matching wood acted as a separator for the two beds, the headboards against the wall. An analog clock sat on the wall, its blue border the only splash of colour in the room. A door to the side led into a conjoined bathroom and Elliott peered in - no bathtub, but there was a nice shower and plenty of room.
“Looks good,” Braeburn commented, dropping his bag on the bed furthest from the door. “Hope this’ll do for ya. Figured we may as well share a room, rather than one each. Makes it easier to keep schedule with each other, so to speak.”
“No complaints here.”
“Beats the couch, huh?” Braeburn shot him a grin, sitting on the edge of his newly claimed bed to rummage through his bag.
“I like the couch,” Elliott murmured simply. He was in no place to make demands, and the sofa cushions had done him well for the last few months. “I’m lucky to have anything, after all.”
“Robin made you a new bed, right? At the cabin?” Braeburn pulled out his clothes for tomorrow, moving to put them on the desk, and Elliott sank to sit on the edge of his own temporary bed. It was firmer than the couch. “We could always bring some of your stuff over so it's more comfortable.”
“She did - it's nice. I’ve slept on it once so far since it was made.” He gave a slight smile. He’d passed out on it for a few hours the day Braeburn came home and hadn’t gone back to the cabin for anything other than writing furiously and getting his work together. The walk from The Orchard to the cabin was not long, but the distance felt stretched and empty when Braeburn wasn’t with him. It was perfectly healthy for him to get away for a few hours here and there, but still...there was something staggeringly lonely about being sat in that new little white room by himself. The farmhouse felt much more lived in, much more secure. The entire thing made the writer feel guilty - there was no middle ground; he was either in the cabin that Braeburn had paid for, alone, or at the farmhouse, underfoot and in the way.
“I still gotta see it sometime. Things have just been in the way, I guess.”
“It isn’t a priority. We will have all the time in the world once we’re back home.”
“First things first, huh?” Brae gave a little stretch. “Well, let's make plans. Suit store’s not far from here, so we can get you dressed up fancy real easy. Is there anything else you want to do before your meeting?”
Elliott scratched his cheek. He needed to shave, and he still felt grimy from the humid bus ride. “I think a shower is in order. Shower, suit, back here to change, and then the meeting, I suppose. Unless you would like to do otherwise?”
The farmer shook his head. “Today's all about you, El, you’re in charge.”
“Please do not give me responsibility,” he gave a soft laugh, kicking his shoes off and nudging them under the bed, out of the way. “I don’t think I can handle any more pressure. I’d much rather you tell me what to do than you make me decide things.”
Something hot bloomed behind Braeburn's ribs, his bellybutton, hidden away. He wanted that. He’d always wanted that - there was always the urge to nurture, to guide, to protect. If Elliott asked for it, he would give; but he bit his tongue a little. He was already in deep, the last thing he needed would be for the other man to unknowingly slip right into the farmer's love language and submit to his odd desires.
“Go shower.” He said, toneless, trying not to react when a soft look of surprise and then something similar to relief passed by on the writer's face. “Take your time. Once you’re done, we’ll find you a new suit.”
“Okay.” The writer gave a little nod, picking his bag back up so he could access his things - things Braeburn had put in for him. He knew what he had to do and in what order, but somehow hearing Braeburn say it made it easier for him to process, made it a clearer objective to tackle. That, along with an odd sense that doing what the farmer said would please him, somehow. It was an easy dynamic to be a part of, a fulfilling role to play. “I will try not to be too long.”
“Hey, pamper yourself. It's been a long ride, have some you time in there. Should be a hairdryer and everything you need, so, take your time. Fancy yourself up, it's all good. You wanna make a good impression, after all.”
“Right.” He slid into the conjoined bathroom and began unpacking some of the toiletries Braeburn had packed for him, lightly speaking through the still-open door. “It will be nice to be less constricted tomorrow.”
“Mm. Today’ll go by fast, but tomorrow we can take it easy, explore s’more. Change of scenery now and then can’t hurt.”
Elliott hummed in agreement, seeing what his bag had inside. He needed to shave, the scratch of his cheek catching his hair ever-so-slightly. He - while the cabin was in its older state and lacked any kind of bathroom facilities - had taken to using Willys bathroom and area to take care of himself, and because of this had become accustomed to using a straight razor to shave, the same way Willy did. Braeburn had only had a few old disposable ones at the farmhouse, and so he had learnt to use them, instead, not bringing it up - the farmer had already done enough without the writer asking for silly luxuries.
“Have you ever shaved with a straight razor, Brae?”
“I mean, I don’t shave.”
“Good point.”
A disposable razor was indeed in the bottom of his bag - wrapped carefully by the farmer and slot into a side pocket, put away with purpose so that Elliott would not reach in and accidentally cut himself.
“Why, what's made you think of that?”
“I got quite used to using one, back at the cabin. There was something about it - rustic and simple. I’m a sucker for the old sailor aesthetic, I suppose, and I got rather good at using one.”
Braeburn wouldn’t even know where to get one. He’d dug up some disposable ones knowing that Elliott liked to keep himself clean shaven, but he himself hadn’t shaved in a good few years, instead just trimming the beard when it got to the point of slightly too long.
“Think we could find one somewhere in the city? I guess they’d last longer than disposable ones. Better for the environment. Not sure where you’d get one though - maybe there's a store for one out there.”
“Perhaps. It isn’t important, however. Alright, time to shower. I won’t be long.”
Braeburn led them to the suit store he had mentioned, and upon stepping inside, Elliott simultaneously felt entirely out of place and completely comfortable. He was begging for a new suit, his regular attire old and due replacing, and the walls were lined with jackets and shirts that all looked like they would suit his style. It was a wide store with many rails laden with formal clothing of all colours, displays of ties and kerchiefs, anything a person in need of a suit would want.
“I ain’t a guy who knows much about suits,” Braeburn admit, giving a polite wave to the clerk as they stepped in and headed towards the back of the store where changing booths, an area to assess oneself with a mirror and seats were available. “So you’re gonna have to take the lead on this. We don’t have a ton of time, but if we get you a couple things to wear, that’d be good. You need measuring, or…?”
“I think I should be fine - my build hasn’t changed much, I think. I can recall my measurements, it would just be finding colours that would be suitable for work attire.” He was wandering as he spoke, eyes scanning the clothing on display. He muttered his measurements lowly in a reminder to himself as he flicked through the rails, seeing what was available, checking labels and sizing. Braeburn caught the numbers Elliott murmured, and committed them to memory, rounding to another rail to see what was closest to his size. It didn’t take long for Elliott to find things that would fit him.
“I may try this one,” He held up a shirt that was a soft, pale blue. Beneath it on the hanger were grey slacks with subtle stitched stripes, and Braeburn gave a little nod of approval. Elliott looked back at the rails. “Though, black could look nice, if we work with it.”
“Any others you wanna try? I’m so used to seeing you in your white shirt and brown, blue’ll suit you.”
“I’d go with green if it wasn’t so garish.” He smiled a little, heading towards the booth. “It's a colour I’m fond of, but. A bright green suit would be quite the eyesore. Spruce-blue is a little kinder to those who see me.”
“You go get it on, then, I’ll have a look to see what else would fit.”
He did as he was told, slipping into the booth and closing the curtain behind him. As he undressed, he could hear the farmer continue the search.
“Black, yeah? I’ll see what they’ve got.”
There was a smaller mirror within the changing booth where he could check himself over. Same as ever, he was there in his reflection. It was nice to be out, though, and able to look through clothes he enjoyed without ridicule. By the time that Elliott was redressed, Braeburn was sitting in one of the armchairs, black clothing laid on his lap.
He stood before the mirror to the side of the booth, where a few lights above and to the side helped show off the new clothing. The shirt was nice, fitting him well - his measurements were pretty much the same as he had thought, and so he was pretty comfortable in it. The pearly blue shirt suited him, and Elliott could see Braeburn look him up and down in the mirror.
“That one’s real nice.”
The suit pants made him look even taller, the vertical stripes against gray elongating him. Shirt tucked in and the outfit rounded off with a dark belt, he liked it - but it felt almost casual. A shirt and slacks were things he wore most days, and he wanted to shine in his meeting, to give a truly good impression.
“I like it, the colour especially - but I think it needs a little more.” He fiddled with the top button in the mirror. Without a tie or jacket it felt far too bare, incomplete. He wanted Mr Stone and all of his associates to see that they were not wasting their time or effort on him. The farmer was watching him in the mirror and the deft movement of his hands as he fidgeted, and began unbuttoning the shirt. “It's a nice colour - but not for this, I think.”
He got a few buttons down before turning, glancing over his over choices. He’d have to tie his hair back for the meeting also, but at least he had already shaved and showered, giving him that little bit of extra time.
“You’re thinkin’ the black suit then?” Braeburn's voice perked up behind him “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in black. Certainly would leave a striking impression, I think.”
“I don’t want to look like I’m the director of a funeral parlour,” Elliott mused aloud, looking over the rack of ties. “Black may give the impression of professionalism, but it's also rather sombre. A splash of colour would help, in both shirt and tie, maybe. At least something not entirely black and white.”
“I guess you don’t wanna go in without a tie; shirt and jacket open like you're some debonair celebutante, whisking into the office you own the place.”
“Another time, perhaps,” Braeburn had earned a soft laugh from the man. “Maybe not for my first book. A few books down the line and under my belt, perhaps, and then I can storm the publishing agent looking like some form of formalwear pirate.”
Braeburn stood, coming to join him in looking over the selection. After a moment, he slid a hand up between Elliott's shoulders in a friendly pat. “You go get outta that, I’ll pass through the black suit jacket and pants, find you a shirt and tie. What colour were you thinking?”
Elliott let out a breath - Braeburn's hands were also so warm, even through fabric - and gave a slight shrug. “Dealers choice? You have more of an eye for colour than I do. So long as it isn’t solid black or something too bright and eye-catching, I think. Subtlety may be the word of the day in terms of my regalia. Something lowkey.” He started to slip into the changing booth, halfway between pulling the curtain back and his shirt off when Braeburn spoke up.
“You don’t want me to ask the clerk if there's a bright yellow tie with neon cartoon characters on?”
Elliott's head and hand poked back out of the curtain, pointing at him, Braeburn's beaming, teasing grin doing next to nothing to sully his fake-anger.
“I will murder you. I swear it, Braeburn, I will find a way.”
Braeburn snorted, planting a hand on Elliott's forehead and pushing him back into the booth. “Get on with it. I’ll grab your stuff, drama queen. No neon ties, I got it.”
“Jerk.” Elliott muttered, purposefully loud enough for the farmer to hear, and beyond the curtain of the changing room he could hear him laugh. He found himself smiling nonetheless as he peeled the clothing away from himself. No one else treated him the way Braeburn did - sure, others in the town would be polite and chitchat, talk of their days and how things were, but no one had the level of comfort Braeburn had where it was safe enough that they could tease each other.
It only took a moment for the second suit to be folded over the top of the booth, followed by a shirt that Braeburn had picked, and Elliott quickly slipped it on - the shirt fit nicely; a powder grey shirt with silver lining, with a slight amount of room to spare along his arms and collar, but only just. It felt smooth on his skin, fancy and form-fitting. It would do well for the meeting and in time, hopefully, he would fill it out just that little bit more. By the time he and Mr Stone met again for his second book, he may just have gained enough strength and changed shape enough in his shoulders to feel just that little bit more masculine, stronger, fuller. He already felt a little better in himself from the last few months of farmwork and good food - if a sequel book took another year, well. In that time he could be an entirely new person.
“How’s that?”
“The shirt is nice,” He spoke through the curtain and pulled the black trousers on. Grey, silver and black worked well, and it had the same lengthening effect as the previous suit. Though, it could just be that Elliott stood a little taller when wearing finery. “I may have to take you shopping next time, too.”
“Tie’s up,” came the farmers voice, and the flap of fabric hitting the top of the booth came soft. The writer reached up and took it, running his thumb over the material. It was a blue so desaturated and soft that it shone like mercury as he tilted it under the light. It was silken smooth, and he held it under his chin to see how it measured up in the mirror - yes, it matched well; Braeburn had a hidden talent in picking clothes, it seemed. Black and silver and a muted royal blue. Once the jacket was on, hair back, shoes on, Elliott would look quite the part. “Let me know whatchu think, there's a pocket-filler of the same material so you can get it all to match. One of them handkerchief squares.”
Braeburn glanced over the other ties and handkerchiefs. He didn’t wear suits - he’d never had need to, and he would probably have to get one tailor made for his size and shape; he wasn’t exactly the conventional style of model places like this wanted, after all. Not like Elliott, all tall and lean and neat. The colours were nice enough, though. Should he ever actually need a suit, this would be a good place to return to. Maybe once Cameo settled down and got married or something - that would be the only time he could see himself in wearing something so formal, but he guessed that was what most people wore suits for. Elliott was a bit of an exception to that, but it was understandable, and formalwear had always fit him well. Braeburn plucked the matching kerchief from the stand, keeping it aside in case the writer wanted it.
The curtain pulled back to his side, and Elliott slipped out. He swept his hair to one side, pulling it away from his face for a moment.
“Do you have a tie on you? A hair tie, I mean. Do not hand me an actual tie, or I will be mad.” He smiled a little, still in the mood to tease, hands full of pouring amber that trickled over his shoulders. Luckily Braeburn was already prepared, and pulled a spare hairtie from his wrist, black and plain. It only took a moment for the writer to secure his hair back, a low ponytail hooked over one shoulder, and he took a proper look at himself in the long mirror. He felt elegant; legs long and sleek in black simple slacks, the shirt shining light gray and in silken stripes twinning with the sheen of his dull royal blue tie. He twisted to get a full look at himself. This would do nicely. It was comfortable, the material cool on his skin and the collar of the shirt snug against his throat. It was nice to feel proper again; a suit was a luxury, and perhaps a little over-the-top, but it fit him inside and out, and felt right again.
“Hmm, I think that it will go down well. What do you think?”
Braeburn covered his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to make it look as if he were just contemplating and looking the writer up and down rather than just staring. Yoba, Elliott was so fucking handsome. Perhaps he had just grown accustomed to seeing the man in his slouchy clothes for the last few weeks, less than his best, wiped out and overworked, but seeing him there under a spot light, satin and smooth with his back straight, jaw shaven, hair up - something inside the farmer fluttered errantly. His hair had gotten a little longer, and it sat sleek and exquisite down his shoulder, a golden-red curtain that framed the sharp, strong edge of his jaw. The suit fit perfectly, cuffs and collar flush against his throat and wrists, tucked into his belt. His ass looked incredible in the pure black slacks, and Braeburn tried not to stare, forcing himself to watch the way the fabric rippled around the redheads shoulders as he adjusted the tie instead. He stayed silent as the man stepped over to the jacket and pulled it on, buttoning it to cover his stomach. It framed him perfectly, the simple black fabric shaping him wonderfully - waist small and tucked, legs endless and strong, professional and graceful and sophisticated. His shoulders looked wider and his chin higher than it had done in weeks. There was a glow about the man, as if the suit was an old friend that he had been waiting for, that the fabric was made specifically for him. Elliott always had an air of dignification about him, but it had distilled and concentrated and he looked dashing, distinguished, as if he lived on the most exquisite things in life. He deserved such things. Elliott looked expensive, inarguably high-class and he glanced back at the farmer.
“Looks great.” Brae nodded, voice tight.
Elliott turned fully, smile soft and thankful. He stepped a little closer, dusting the jacket down. Braeburn hoped his face wasn’t red - he felt as if his blood was on a slow simmer, veins tightening a little at the sight of his friend. He held out the handkerchief almost robotically, eyes affixed to the way the knot of the lapis tie sat smooth against Elliott's neck. He took the square gratefully, folding it to sit inside the pocket of the suit. The look was complete, and Elliott voiced as much.
“The illusion begins, hm? Hopefully looking like this will persuade the publishing people that I’m a reliable author and not a lonely beach hermit.”
“You look the part.” Brae tried not to bite the inside of his mouth. “Of a writer, I mean, not a hermit. It looks good on you. It suits you really well. Let's hope that this suit doesn’t end up with crabs living in the pockets this time.”
A slight sigh came out of Elliott, paired with a smile. “It's what I get for cleaning my clothes in the ocean. Though that crab was an excellent little roommate for a time. Well, I think this suit is the one, so to speak. If we get this, we can head back to the hotel so I can change and be ready. The meeting may take a little time, but…”
“I'll be around,” Braeburn tried not to make his smile seem tight, but it was hard. Elliott looked like a wrapped package, an easy meal, a Yobadamned snack. It was distracting to say the least. “I’ll just take a little time away for myself, I’ll be back before the meeting’s done.”
“Thank you. I hope you don’t get into trouble without me stuck to you.” Elliott gave a little smile, turning back towards the booth to change back into his normal clothes.
“Saying you’d rather me get into trouble with you?” Braeburn fiddled with his bag, pulling his wallet free. He wasn’t sure if he was looking forward to some time alone or not; Elliott had been by his side so often lately that any space between them made him feel as if he were missing a limb. The curtain to the booth was open, just an inch, and Braeburn turned away, ignoring the temptation to peek.
“Well, at least I’d know you were safe.” There was a soft grunt from the changing booth as Elliott bent to scoop up the clothing. “I can’t have you doing anything dangerous without me there to feel guilty about it, can I?”
“I don’t want you in danger ever again.” The farmer grumbled, standing in front of the booth with his back to the curtain, ready to move as and when needed. “One storm’s been more than enough. I want smooth sailing from here on out, no more….upheavals.” The word took a moment for him to find, and it was partially the truth. He didn’t want anything else to rumble the world, no more disasters, issues to overcome, storms to sit through. Changes were welcome so long as they benefit the two of them - Elliott deserved stability and structure after everything.
Elliott's concerned face appeared by his shoulder, curtain moved out of the way so he could see the farmer. He was leaning forward ever so slightly, so that he could catch Braeburn's expression. “Is that your way of telling me to move back to the Cabin?”
“No, what? No,” Braeburn looked back at him - he was still getting dressed, and beyond the edge of the curtain he could see a bare collarbone and a scattering of hair - he swallowed slightly, choosing his words with caution. “That's pretty much the opposite of what I said. No big changes, what we have right now is good, right?”
The worried look dissolved - but only slightly. The writer retreated back into the booth to finish getting changed, his answer soft and unsure. “Right.”
“The only kind of upheaval we want is lugging your piano to the farm, isn’t it?” He tried to keep his tone light, to get back the Elliott that was joking and confident before - the thought of being pushed away had made him quiet and Braeburn didn’t like it. “We can make space. It’d fit somewhere, I’d make it fit.”
“I don’t think either of us are in the place for heavy lifting such as that,” The curtain was pulled back fully, and Elliott stepped out, dressed and his usual self. “Between your head injury and my, well.” He held his hands up, palms out, the deep welts of his palms visible. They were still healing and healing well, but there were times where he caught them, where he twitched a little too easily, where the cold made his fingers lock up. The last thing he needed was something weighty and splintering to lug around. Again. Elliott deserved to be wrapped up warm and content, to sit, decadent, wrapped in plush and to work on what he loved where it was safe and easy. An idea trickled into the back of Braeburn's mind but he pushed it aside, distracted by the writer handing him the folded suit.
“This is the one you want?”
“Yes,” Elliott nodded. “I like it, and I would wear it again, not only for business meetings. If we get this and head back to the hotel now, it gives us enough time for a cup of coffee at the hotel and a little time to prepare while I get dressed, I would think.”
And they would do just that, with Elliott wondering the entire time how long they would go without any kind of upheaval - and how long he would be able to resist the thought of change.
Two o’clock came around far too fast, and Elliott stood before the doors of the agency, his messenger bag full of his paperwork, butterflies in his stomach. The glass windows revealed the foyer of the building, a little room with some seating and the secretary at her desk, wooden floors, pale walls, elevator doors, a ticking clock. His knees felt weak, lungs shallow. This was so important, and he could not afford to mess this up.
“Hey,” came from beside him, and Elliott glanced down at Braeburn. He had one of those travel candies in his mouth again. They were shoulder to shoulder, and Elliott was thankful for his presence. “Look at me for a sec.”
He did as he was told, turning to face the farmer. He didn’t meet his eyes, the wibbling sensation of his stomach sapping his ability to be brave.
Carefully, Braeburn's giant hands came up and adjusted his tie, tightening it ever so slightly, nudging it to be central. Elliott followed what they were doing, watching as they moved from the tie to the lapels of the jacket, straightening them a little too. He managed to look up at Braeburn who seemed light and unburdened. Relaxed. Elliott realized that he was breathing, and breathing slowly. Braeburn's touch grounded him, his presence relaxed him, his hands made him focus. The farmer had faith in him when no one had before, had taken him in and cared for him. All Elliott had to do was sit in a meeting and talk, and if he did that well enough then he could pay Brae back for all the charitable things he had done. He had to do this, not only for himself but for him, too. He drew in a long breath, standing up a little straighter.
“Shoulders back,” Braeburn gave the command softly, but Elliott obeyed nonetheless. “You got this. You’ve worked hard, now all you’ve gotta do is give them permission to do the rest. You go in there, sit and listen to what they have to say, shake their hands, and then everything will be okay, I promise.”
It would all be okay, because Braeburn said so. In the end it will all be okay, and if it wasn’t okay then it wasn’t the end yet. He gave a little nod, the end of his ponytail swishing against the fabric at the small of his back.
“You’ve got this. Come on, say it. Let me hear you.”
“I’ve got this,” Elliott parroted, smiling down at the farmer a little. “Thank you.”
“Ah-ah, one more time. You got this. Elliott, what have you got?”
“This,” he chuckled a little at the absurdity of it all. “I’ve got this, it's going to go well, it's just a meeting. I’ve got this.”
“‘Atta boy.” That wide, infectious grin may as well have given the butterflies in his stomach a straight shot of ketamine. Braeburn's hands held onto his shoulders for a second, an affectionate, reassuring thing, keeping him solid and secure. “Go in there and give ‘em hell, sweetheart. I’ll meet you back out here once it's all done with.”
“I’m not sure how long it will be,” Warmth was in his ears and he willed it away. “You may be waiting for a while.”
“I’ll be here, that's what matters. I don’t care if I have to sit out here the whole time until it gets dark. You go in there and knock ‘em dead; I gotta go grab a few things for myself, and I’ll find you, I’ll be here when you’re done. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“One more time.” Braeburn was smiling wide, and Elliott looked away, the smile spreading and making him feel silly, the farmer doing his job perhaps a little too well.
“Okay. I got this.” He chuckled, and Braeburn released his shoulders.
“Be good.” The fuschia-haired man smiled, before turning and walking away, heading towards the shopping district of the city. That was that. And now, this was this, Elliott figured, turning towards the agency building. He took in another long breath. Shoulders back, he approached the door and pressed the buzzer for the secretary's attention.
“Hello, Stone Publishing Agency.” The voice crackled through after a moment.
“Hello, I’m Elliott J, we have an appointment at two-thirty. I’m a little early.”
“One moment.” There was silence for a few seconds before a low beep rang out, and the locked door opened. Elliott pushed it, stepping inside. The secretary gave him a polite smile and nodded towards the seats. “Please take a seat, Elliott, Mr Stone is just organizing things and he will be with you in a moment.”
He did as he was told, sitting and pulling his bag into his lap. His written copy of his work was in there, along with all the paperwork and details he thought useful. He swallowed a little, anything in hopes to coat his dry throat. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, trying not to fidget, trying to turn his brain off, but after some time the elevator to the side dinged and his agent slipped down.
“Ah, Elliott,” Mr Stone smiled down at him, and Elliott stood to shake his hand. Mr Stone was an inch shorter than he, an older gentleman with greying hair gelled back out of his eyes and crows feet framing his eyes. He was clean-shaven and well dressed, his handshake firm and short, “Wonderful to see you. You’re early. I love the suit.”
“Well I did not want to keep you waiting and give a bad impression. And thank you.”
Mr Stone clapped a hand on his shoulder and rounded him to the elevator. “So, we’re going to have a little meeting. I have some associates upstairs waiting. Let's get a coffee and go and sit with them for a little talk. Sound good?”
“Yes sir. I’ve been looking forward to this. I do apologise for the finished piece taking so long-”
“Elliott, it's fine.” Stone gave a little laugh, clicking the button in the elevator to take them up. “Daily life gets in the way, doesn't it? A work-life balance can be tricky at the best of times, let alone where there are, what was it, ‘family troubles’ you said?”
He cleared his throat a little, aware of warmth creeping up the collar of his suit. “Ah, yes. I had to take care of my friend's farmland while he was ill recently, after a major storm. It's been an intense few weeks, but also revitalizing, in a way. I’ve been more determined than ever to get my work written and done since things have started to cool back down.”
“Is your friend alright now? Sounds a bit harrowing, going through all that. Though you look better for it - last time I saw you, you didn’t seem as...healthy.” Stone gave a slight gesture, slightly sheepish. “You appear to be in better health, is what I mean. Fresh farm air must have done you some good.”
“He’s fine - as am I, thank you. I do feel better. I suppose the last time you saw me was just before I left the city a few years ago now. I’m much more my own person now, doing better for myself. It has been a learning curve, and a brutal one at that, but things are going well overall.”
“Good.” Stone gave a nod, and the elevator doors opened. There was a small room that it opened into where a kitchenette with cupboards sat, and then a long hall with several doors. “Right, let’s get you a drink and head in. Sugar?”
“Please.” Elliott adjusted his bag. “What can I expect from the meeting, is there any advice you can give before we go in?”
Stone clicked the kettle on, pulling out a few uniformly plain white mugs and filling them with the desired amount of coffee and sugar each. “I’ll be on your side for it, Elliott. We’ve always liked your work and we’ve been looking forward to this book being finished. There’s a few kinks to work out, a few plans to make, don’t be nervous. It's just a step as part of the pipeline, a regular day at the office.”
Elliott nodded a little, one of his hands finding the back of his neck and rubbing slightly. It wasn’t as easy as just not being nervous. But if Mr Stone was relaxed, then there was no reason for him to be so jittery.
“It will be you and me and two others in there. We’re all friends here, Elliott. Don’t panic.” He turned and handed him the steaming cup, and Elliott took it, careful not to press his palm against the hot ceramic. Stone then also handed him another cup, one filled with black coffee compared to his white. “That one is for Alica, one of our translations staff.”
“Translations?” Elliott looked up hopefully, following when Stone picked up the other two mugs and jerked his head, an indication to follow as he started down the hallway. “That sounds promising.”
“All in time, Mr J.” Stone chuckled, getting to a door and nudging it open with his shoulder. Inside was a broad table with several chairs, two people already sat and chatting lightly. Elliott followed Mr Stone inside, watching as he passed a coffee to one of the people sat. “Alright, introductions. Elliott, Alica and Clay. Alica is one of our translators and Clay is one of our editing managers.”
Elliott gave a polite smile, placing the coffee in front of Alica - a tan skinned woman with her hair long and dark against her shoulders. She gave a smile and thanks in return. Elliott placed his own coffee on a coaster before shaking hands with her, and then Clay - a blond man with glasses and a rounded jawline. He had not seen them before in his previous visits to the agency, though he assumed that as specialist workers that they spent a lot of time away from the actual writers they worked with.
“It's a pleasure to meet you both.”
Stone sat in his chair and took a sip of coffee, and Elliott did the same as Clay spoke.
“And you. I’ve been looking over your work, it's nice to put a face to the name.”
“So, where to start,” Stone smiled at the pair across from him, and they seemed in good spirits. Polite and professional, they smiled back, and Elliott relaxed a little. This was fine. “So, Clay? Why don’t you start us off and put poor Elliott out of his misery. He’s been nervous the whole ride up.”
“Don’t be,” was his blunt answer, the blond man making direct eye contact with the writer. “Seriously. It's fine. We’re all here ‘cus we believe in your work and wanna make a good final product. So, I’m the one in charge of editing and checking. Stone is happy with your actual content, which is the main thing - we’re not gonna start tweaking and putting polish on a book that isn’t gonna sell, but we’ve all got really high hopes for your work, so it's the job of me and my team to basically go over it with a fine-tooth comb, type it all up, fix any spelling errors, grammar, all of that. What we’ll do is make a digital version of your work, and any issues like a misspelled word, a sentence we think is weird, stuff like that, we’ll put a little note next to it and put like, ‘hey, we think this should be this instead’. Then once we’ve done that, we’ll send it back to you and you’ve gotta say yes or no to what we think about the fixes. Make sense?”
“Yes,” he nodded, keeping his mouth busy the entire time Clay was speaking by drinking the still too-hot coffee. “That all sounds perfectly fine, I’m happy with that.”
“Good. The best way would be for us to send it back to you chapter-by-chapter, that way the process is just a little smoother and we’re all kept busy, rather than us keep you waiting for a few months, then you keep us waiting, all of that. We’ll work in tandem with each other so we’re all happy with the way the writing will look and feel at the end when it's ready for publishing.”
Stone gave him a little nudge, sly smile catching the corner of his lips, and Elliott found himself grinning back a little.
“That all sounds marvellous - you really think it will sell well? That it's worthy of being published? It is my first full-length novel, after all.”
“We’ve read through your shorter pieces before,” Stone nodded into his coffee, relaxed and leaning back in his chair. Elliott had indeed submitted short stories and little tales before - pieces he could get away with writing while he still lived with his parents. “We all liked them and they would sell, too, were there more of them. Should you ever figure that full length novels are a bit of a time-sink, you could easily do books of shorter stories and they’d sell just as well. You’ve got a good style of writing that's approachable and pretty eloquent, and what you’ve submitted to us is all looking good. There's been a dry spot in the market recently for romance novels, and your work could be some fresh air for a new audience. Now, I’m not saying it's going to be number one, best seller, take-over-the-world kind of novel, but we’re all eager to work on it because we think you’ll get good revenue for it.”
“It is your first novel, as you said,” Alica spoke up, a faint accent that Elliott couldn't place tinting her words prettily. “You do not have a name or brand, yet. The more you write, the more people will recognise your name - or, pseudonym.”
Elliott flushed a little. He had written under Elliott J because he did not want his second name fully attached to either his work or himself. He didn’t want the name of Johanesson to influence his audience.
She continued - “We think that this novel is a very good start; this is your first big step out into the mainstream audience of romance novels, an audience begging for more content - the timing is good, the writing is good, and we are all hopeful. Now it is time to edit, and get it all wrapped up in a nice package to export. And that is where I come in - while Clays team will ensure that it makes sense in English, my team will ensure that it makes sense in other languages. The foreign market is open to you, and so we are all in a very good foothold and we all think that Camellia Station will sell well across the board, so to speak. It has a nice element of travel and mystery to it that many people out there will enjoy. If you keep up the good work, we have all agreed that this will likely be a regular occurrence. You could easily become a name that is familiar with the genre, if you wish to be.”
“We’re not telling you to shoehorn yourself into a box, Elliott,” Stone looked over at him, posture open and friendly. “But, this is a good opportunity. Camellia Station is a romance, and that's what people want. Our sales people have looked it over and predict that it’ll do pretty well for itself. If the people of the world out there like it enough, a sequel or other romance tales could really help kick-start up your career. It's just something to think about. There's no harm in trying other genres, but for your first romance novel, it's looking good and we’re all excited to see the outcome.”
“I would be more than happy to work on more romance books.” He could feel the jitters of nerves melt into jitters of excitement. “I loved working on this book, and I’m so, so… relieved. That you all think that it will do well. I would be happy to start thinking about other romance premises, and I’m completely happy for your teams to do what you will with my work. Whatever it needs to have tweaked to make it into something others can enjoy, I am ready for it.”
“So. With that out of the way, money.” Stone turned and looked at him, and Elliott's heart gave a weird little wiggle. He hadn’t thought of the money side of things too much, besides the fact that he wanted it to do well enough that he could help Braeburn out. “We’ve had a chat with the publishing side of the company - since it is your first book, they think that you earning nine-point-five percent is pretty fair, and as your agent I’m gonna say that that is pretty generous. Authors in general usually get between around eight to about thirteen percent of the profit; you have to think that the money from the book is split up for our editors, the publishers, me as your agent, you; everyone who touches your book gets a little piece of it. Nine-point-five percent is reasonable for your first book, and they've said that if Camellia Station gets really popular and becomes a hit that not only will they see about you getting a little extra but that your cut on the next book could also be higher. You’ll also get a little advance once it does start selling. Now, all of that is still a rough ballpark, it could change in the few months it's going to take us to edit and export it, but that's the number I want you to keep in mind. How does that sound for you?”
He was dazed - was this how Brae felt, with his concussion? He was floaty and light, his brain hazy with relief.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine with that.” Elliott nodded. “Whatever it takes, whatever you all need, I want us to be on a fair footing and work together. It sounds more than fair as a starting number, and I am determined to write more and more frequently now that things have started, so we can all stay busy.”
He shot a smile to Alica and Clay, feathery and fluttery. Bubbles were in his stomach, his heart pressed to his larynx. Stone clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Good man, we’re all a team here, right? Let's hit the ground running. We just need to get a few more details done and dusted, and then we’re all going to have work to do.”
The paperwork side of things didn't take long - a few things to sign, a few things to explain, but all in all the entire meeting went well. The ball was rolling, and Elliott's work had the support of Mr Stone's company happily. Stone saw him out, the two walking together back down the hallway and to the elevator once it was all said and done, Alica and Clay no doubt returning to their teams to work on other projects for the time being.
“So. Feeling a little better about it all, now?”
“Much.” The relief must have been evident on his face as Elliott leant against the wall of the elevator, letting out a long breath. “I know I’m starting small, but I’m still starting. I’m incredibly appreciative for all you’ve done for me, Mr Stone.”
“Well, I get my cut of the profits, it's in my interest to see things go well.” He smiled but gave the writer a nudge all the same. “But I’ve had my eye on your work for some time, and I’m happy to see you getting a piece in a good place. We’ve kept your previous submissions in your file, so should you think about shorter stories at some point in the future, it's also a viable project. Don’t feel bad that it has taken you some time to get here - you’ve never given up, and you’re here now. Now it's just keeping momentum.”
“I can do that.” He could. He could do it. Whether he was working at The Orchard part-time or not, fuel had been placed within him and a fire was crawling into his bones “ I will. I owe it to you all, and I think I’m going to have more ideas than ever before, now.”
“Just don’t burn out too quickly.” Stone chuckled as they reached the ground floor and stepped out. “This is a marathon, not a sprint. Keep yourself healthy, Elliott, things will come together in time.”
He nodded, the evaporation of nerves leaving him a little tired. But he could do this - he was doing it - he could stay by Braeburn and make himself stronger, fitter, he had the Cabin in all its fresh new glory to work in, he had a goal and purpose and joys in his life when he had not before. Time was all it would take now - along with a little effort and elbow grease when called for. “The next time we have a face-to-face meeting I will look even healthier. I’ll be sure of it.”
“Good, you keep it up. Well, we’ll be in touch. We have your number, and you have ours. Feel free to send a message to me should you have any other worries or concerns. It’ll be a little while until the first lot of editing is underway, so take a few weeks to yourself, perhaps. Get some more of that farm air.”
They shook hands, and Mr Stone seemed pleased. Elliott felt lighter than air - they liked his work and had high hopes, and now it was all down to the team and the audience out there waiting for him.
A little tapping noise broke him out of his thoughts. Fingers on glass.
At the window, on the street outside, stood Braeburn. With an immense grin on his face. He pulled a metallic blue paper shopping bag into view, one with a technology companies logo on the side, and shot Elliott a thumbs up.
"That… friend of yours?"
Mr Stone still had Elliott's hand in his grip, eyes on the farmer too, and he gave one last squeeze before clapping that hand on the writer's shoulder. Surprisingly, he seemed amused.
"Something like that," Elliott replied, smiling through the glass back at the farmer. "If he has spent money on me again I swear…"
Elliott buried his face in his hands, sinking low into the plush chair that appeared behind him.
“I cannot believe you.”
Braeburn laughed softly, trying to keep his volume down as he unpacked his bags on the little table between them. They had found a bookstore that had a quaint little coffee shop on the ground floor, and so they had each grabbed a drink before heading up the staircase to sit and get away from the city centre, surrounded by bookcases and comfortable seating areas for the express purpose of escape. Elliott hunched in his armchair, elbows on his knees as he hid his face.
“You absolute….”
“You can call me an ass, it's okay.”
A low grumble was his muffled response, and Braeburn continued to show off his things; or rather, Elliott's new things. A white, pristine box with labels and designs on them of a tech company whose store sat a few streets away. A brown bag with some clothes in it. A smaller bundle wrapped in a white paper. And then, finally, Braeburn opened a blue, metallic-sheened bag to lift out a rather large box; enough to fill Elliott's arms, again white and design-printed - and the writer watched him through his fingers in horror.
“For you,” Braeburn said simply once he was done, sitting back comfortably in his chair and lifting his legs so that one ankle perched on his knee. He took a sip of his coffee, nodding his head towards the tableful of gifts. “Go on, take a look.”
“I can’t believe you.” Elliott sat up, palms sliding from his cheeks. “You shouldn’t be spoiling me, I owe you, you can’t just keep getting me things.”
“But I can. And I have. Go on, open the little one first.” Braeburn grinned, ignorant of - or rather entirely ignoring - Elliott's discomfort. He was allowed to buy him gifts, damn it, and these were things he needed. Like it or not, Elliott was his friend and was going to be treated well. The writer pouted a little but picked up the smaller white box all the same. He ran a fingernail along the seam to cut through shrink-wrapped plastic, and almost dropped the entire thing as he opened it.
“- No. You didn’t.” He looked up at Brae - and Braeburn was smiling, but inside the farmer tried not to frown a little; Elliott looked like he was expecting all of the things on the table to be swept away, for the farmer to go ‘Just kidding, these are for me!'. He looked like he was expecting it all to be some big joke, some sick prank, the look on his face a mixture of hope and distrust. “Brae…”
Braeburn leant forward, plucking the top off of the box. Inside was a cellphone - a shiny, brand new cellphone with a wide screen. The outer case was metallic green and tucked beneath it was a protective case in a matching earthy viridian.
“This is far too much - with everything, the hotel, and the bus ticket, and I still...I want to pay you back for everything so far, the Cabin, you cannot just keep getting me things, Brae.”
“Think of it as an investment.” Braeburn shrugged. “You need to keep in contact with your publisher and have access to stuff for them, right? Everything I’ve got you here today is to help with your writing. I promise. You worked so hard at The Orchard for me, think of this as payment for those weeks of hard work - now you can write and talk to your editors and businesspeople way, way easier.”
“Are you...sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. Though I have the receipts, so, if you don’t want them I can go back-”
“No! No, no, it's fine, I -” Elliott was going pink at the ears, and Braeburn smiled into his coffee. “I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful, it is just that this is an awful lot. I don’t feel that I deserve it.”
“You haven't opened your other stuff yet. Once we’re back at the hotel I’ll help you set the phone up. Wanna open the paper bag one next?”
He did as he was told, cautiously putting the lid back onto the phone box and re-wrapping it in its bag. The brown bag had tape sealing the top, and he pulled it apart, glancing inside, and then started pulling its contents out. It was a shirt - the soft blue shirt he had looked at and tried on in the suit store, pressed and prepared and wrapped up nicely.
“Oh -” He ran his hands over it, turning it over and back again. It was in his size, silken smooth and that periwinkle pale blue. “Thank you.”
“You could have gotten both today - you looked like you liked that one too, so I figured I’d grab it as a backup. Just in case.”
“Thank you.” Elliott smiled. Braeburn truly was spoiling him. “I’m sure it will be worn a lot.”
“I know you like your suits. Sorry you’ve had to put up with my old clothes for so long. You’re due a whole new wardrobe, now that you’ve got space to put everything.” The farmer gave a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don't even know how you were comfortable in my old stuff, if I were you I would have complained way back. Pretty sure you used magic to make sure it all fit you these last few weeks.”
“It was nice to have clothes that felt comfortable, in all honesty.” Elliott gave a nervous smile, carefully re-wrapping the shirt and putting it back in its bag. “As much as I enjoy the aesthetics of suits and formalwear, it has its drawbacks. It takes some time for them to be entirely comfortable, whereas your sweaters and workwear have all been lived in and made soft. It has been a pleasant change, I promise.”
“Well, we’ve got tomorrow here, too. There's that cheap little cosy-clothes store I mentioned. We can grab you some slouchy stuff to wear after work when you want to relax, if you want to mix it up a little. They may do a couple of shirts and ties too, but. You seemed to like that one, figured I’d grab it for you.”
“Thank you.” He smiled again. The largest box was still on the table, and he nodded his head towards it. “It feels odd, having so much to open. It isn’t even my birthday. You must have spent an awful amount of money on me, these last few months."
A shrug was his response. “Money comes and goes, El. I’ve had times where I’m barely scraping twenty Gs together to get something to eat for a day and I’ve had times, like now, when The Orchard is in a really, really good place and I have enough to go around. I have more than enough for myself and what I wanna do. In time I’ll expand the farm a little, which will be an investment and take a lot of time, so I’m planning that for later next year, meanin' this year is just working with what I’ve got and floating, financially, which is pretty easy when I’ve already got my trees and crops all sorted - in part thanks to you, too. Blueberries are one of the biggest exports besides the apples and we have...so, so many. It's gonna be a busy summer and we’re gonna be more than comfortable by the end of the season. So, I’m paying it forward - you need some looking after, you need a little extra to help you get by what with the cabin and it all. So see it like this, I help you out a little, and you’re happier, and in time I know that you’ll do well for it. That’s all. What I’ve got, I’ve got to share. I gave you snacks and fruit and stuff the whole of last year, this is no different.”
“This is a little bigger than a few spare apples.”
“Eh,” The farmer just gave a shrug. “You only come around this way once, right? Might as well share the good with those you want to be good to. I know you worry about being a burden and me spending money, but, genuinely, don’t. I’d tell you if I wasn’t happy with how things are, I promise.”
“Mn.” Elliott was aware that he was pouting ever so slightly. He didn’t want Braeburn to think of him as needy or some kind of charity case….as realistic as that view would be. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful either, and so he reached for the largest item. After a moment of wrestling with the box, he got it open - a laptop. Pristine and new and shiny.
“Yoba, Brae, what are you thinking?” He hissed. He wasn’t angry, not by a long shot - but it was so baffling that someone would give him such an expensive gift. Especially without something in return. What kind of madman buys someone not only a phone but a laptop too? Braeburn just looked smug, sat back with his coffee, not a care in the world.
“Something along the lines of - hey, if I get this thing for my best friend, then he can stay at my house where it's warm and comfortable and write and do what he loves rather than go back to the beach where it's cold and lonely and he’ll get miserable again.”
He hadn’t had it in him to be angry, just shooting the farmer a look. Braeburn shrugged, smiling a little. He was frustratingly good. Obnoxiously so. Elliott wanted to throttle him, to bat at him - playfully, of course - until that smug look was off his face.
“...You are an ass.”
“Pbfbfbtt,” Braeburn snorted into his coffee and choked, coughing up laughter. It wasn’t Elliott's style to cuss, and it took him by surprise. It only took a moment for the absurdity of it to catch on, and Elliott found himself laughing, both with and at the farmer. He would never forgive him - he felt thoroughly spoiled, and he would never be able to repay such senseless kindness.
He smiled, shaking his head once the giggles faded a little. “I’m going to have to work awfully hard on the next book in order to pay you back for it all. The laptop is sure to see a lot of usage in that regard, I think.”
“How was the meeting, by the way? I didn’t ask, I was too excited to give you stuff. Assuming good, by the fact you seemed pretty chipper when you left.” Braeburn wiped his mouth. There was one more gift left - the smallest - but Elliott ignored it in favour of telling Braeburn everything that happened at Stones Agency - the money, the editing process, the prospect of international export. By the end of it, Braeburn's grin had split wide and excitement had made its way back into Elliott's hands. “Hey, that's great! If they’re gonna send you ‘Station chapter by chapter to check over then the laptop is definitely gonna be used then - you’re not gonna want to traipse to the library every day for that. Now you can crash at home and work in your own time, it’ll be way quicker and easier. It’s all coming together, see? Just like I said it would, it was all okay in the end.”
“Thank you,” Elliott said quietly - the months had hit hard and fast and it truly had gone well. Braeburn had done so much and continued to be good to him - recklessly so, affectionately so. “For helping me. And believing in me. No one else ever has, and...it means a lot to me. Back when I lived here, everyone said that it was a stupid dream. And maybe it is, on its own, but….I don't know, perhaps finding a balance between writing and working is more realistic, and I can make myself more useful and...things will all work out, now.”
Braeburn put his coffee down on the table, making sure it wasn’t dangerously close to any of the gifts in fear of spilling it. He softened a little, grin fading to a soft smile instead. Balance was something they could work on - and no doubt it would come quickly and easily, like the passing of a springtime snow, seeing as how they had already been working well together for so long. Support was something Elliott had; Braeburn would give enough to make up for all the naysayers and people that had dragged him down before.
“You’ve got one more, El. You saved the best till last.”
The little bundle in white paper was last, sat neatly on the table. There was a lump in Elliott's throat. Carefully, he unwrapped the soft package only for a long strip of fabric to come unravelled as well. He placed the handful back on the wooden surface - careful not to get coffee droplets on anything - and pulled the fabric and paper apart. It was a long, plush scarf, caramel coloured and made of thick, velvety cashmere. He ran his hands along it - the end of the scarf finished with woven ties, and the smooth fabric was incredibly soft, even against the scars on the inside of his hand. Then he felt something was inside the scarf, wrapped tight and secret - he pulled the folds of the accessory open to find the final gift.
Gloves.
In the same caramel-brown colour as the scarf but in soft, pliant leather rather than woven wool. The insides were soft and feathery, and he thumbed open the mouth of the gloves to look inside to check - fur, cloudy white and cottony. A little tag sat inside of the glove he was peering into - 100% SUSTAINABLE AND CRUELTY-FREE RABBIT FUR AND LEATHER. The gloves felt tough, resistant, but still looked insanely comfortable, and while Elliott wasn’t one for seeking out furs and finery, he knew that the leather would be much more secure, eco-friendly and longer-lasting than polyester or something plasticy. He was beyond touched - not only that Braeburn had thought about a gift so meaningful, but that it was also useful, and kind, and from a place where nothing suffered for its creation. The gloves would be used and used well; he broke the little thread tying the two together and slipped them on. The insides cradled his skin luxuriously, and Elliott flexed his fingers. They were strong and hardy, protective and gentle, and they ended just below his wrists to give his entire hand support. The tender lining on his palms was flat into the fur and it was wonderfully fluffy, smooth, encompassing.
“You said you wanted to stay on the farm for work, right? I can’t have you overdoing it and hurting your hands anymore. And - there isn't as much to do around the place once the frost comes, but I’d want you to stay warm, too.”
He looked up at Braeburn, entrancement breaking. He felt raw and small, and a tremor started somewhere near his collarbones and travelled to his fingertips. He moved, unthinking, standing up to round their little table and bent - a little awkwardly - to wrap Braeburn's seated shape in a hug.
“Ha, hey, I’m glad you like them.”
“Thank you.”
One of Braeburn's arms wrapped around his middle, returning the hold. Part of Elliott wanted to crawl into his lap, to be held and coddled, swaddled, protected - but that would be odd, especially in the middle of a coffeehouse. He pulled back and - unthinking - mimicked a motion Braeburn had done before by planting his hand on the top of Braeburn's head affectionately. Braeburn's hand fell away from his side, and the farmer smiled up at him.
“Happy with them?”
“Very much so.” He made his way back to his seat, easing the gloves off with the utmost care and folding them home in their soft wrappings. “I’ll treasure them.”
“Rabbit leather’s good stuff for farmwork. No more scuffs or scrapes, you hear me?” Braeburn pointed at him, but his tone was light and playful. “If you even wanna think about helping me in the fields again I wanna see those gloves on you. No more scratched up hands, never again.”
Elliott held his hands up, capitulating, silver-threaded scar tissue on display. He smiled back at the farmer. It was good to be cared for, and the world was seeming a little warmer each and every passing day. “Never again.”
“Alright then.” The farmer eased, picking his drink back up. “I couldn’t find you a straight razor - I did look. I may have to order one from a specialist supplier, but...we can get to that in time. Hey, with the laptop now, you can even look online for your own, you know them better than I do.”
“Buying a treat for myself with my first royalty check, perhaps.”
“You should - every time the money rolls in, get yourself something for yourself. A little prize to show that you made it. Makes the hard work feel worth it.”
Elliott gave a nod, before cautiously packing his gifts away, ensuring that they were all wrapped nicely and secure - when something caught his eye. There was another bag by Braeburn's chair, one Elliott hadn't opened. It was a brown paper bag, medium-sized and taped shut at the top.
"Oh? What's in that one?"
"Ah. That's something I got for myself. It's a surprise, for another day.”
That was fair - and Elliott didn't pry. They sat and relaxed for a little while, and once they had their fill of warm drinks they ventured around the bookstore to see what it had in stock. By the end of it Braeburn picked up a few more books to fill his shelves - a few recipe books, a romance novel, a plant guide he did not already own, and they shared the bags, carrying them back to the hotel together.
Taking Elliott's new things back to the hotel room was easy, and once the bags were safe next to the nightstand Elliott flopped back onto the solid bed sideways, his long arms and legs dangling off of the sides. He let out a great breath. Today had been a lot - it was only five in the afternoon, but the weight of the meeting and all its significance was eased and it was relief, pure and simple. He’d have to change out of his nice new suit soon, lest it get wrinkled over the course of the evening.
“So. Dinner?” Braeburn sat on his own bed, resting his chin on his elbow on his knee and smiling at the relaxed writer. It was nice seeing him do something a little goofy, a little childish - flopping over the bed with his hair pooling down towards the carpet was something he’d only ever do when entirely relaxed. There was a nice little restaurant not too far from the hotel, or there were a few fast food places, convenience stores if Elliott wanted something easy, or -
“Pub.” Elliott murmured. His eyes had closed for a moment, but he opened them to peer up at the farmer - from the angle he was at, he was looking at Braeburn upside down as he dangled unceremoniously from the bed. He’d had more than his fair share of coffee today - another reason his nerves were probably shot - and now he was due for something stronger. “Pub. Celebratory drinks are in order, I believe.”
“You know they won’t have homemead.”
“Mm, that's different. That's for at home, where we can be comfortable and relaxed. I want to go out and buy you several drinks to pay you back, and I want to drink a little too much, eat something greasy and disgusting, and stumble back here entirely unprofessionally.”
“I didn’t know you could stumble anywhere professionally.” Braeburn teased, and Elliott reached for a pillow, throwing it towards his head. The farmer dodged it, chuckling a little. “Sure, I’m up for it. It's been a while since we’ve gone out and drank together. I think there's a couple of bars not too far from here, but we’re having something to eat first, even if it's small - otherwise the ale’ll go straight to your head and you’ll feel awful tomorrow.”
“Anywhere you recommend?” He started to sit up. It would be best if he changed out of the new suit now rather than after drinks; it had done well and made him look presentable in the company of business folk, and now it was time to relax. Plus he’d never forgive himself if he spilt beer down himself.
Braeburn glanced at his phone, typing on it for a few seconds and then thinking out loud. “There's a decent bar a little away, with a burger and pizza place next door if you want something super greasy and quick - I know you hate pizza, but they do some chicken and other stuff like that… oh, but it looks like the bar does some snacks. Oh, hey, they’ve got a menu on here, they do fried calamari, pepper poppers, that kind of thing... That sounds good.”
“It sounds like we’ve found the destination for the night, then.” Elliott smiled. He felt relaxed, and it was good. The pent-up strain of working and stress and worry had ebbed considerably. His book was well-received, and he had new tools in which to write, and Braeburn was happy and happy to have him around. Things were good, and he could keep his thoughts in line. He hoped. But it didn’t matter. They had eaten well that morning and had a busy day, and it was time to fill his stomach with cheap warmth and food he would no doubt regret - but when was the last time he had done such a thing? Months. He was due a night to splurge and act a fool. He pulled his clothes back out from that morning and he didn't think much of it - the act of undressing in front of Braeburn. That is until his shirt was off and he caught Braeburn looking him over. For a moment a faint heat settled along the back of his neck, but it was quickly replaced when Braeburn opened his mouth.
"You've gained weight."
Mortification. Embarrassment. The thought of being seen squandered all of his built-up bravery and Elliott quickly - though he tried to keep his motions smooth and natural - worked on putting a shirt back on, turning away. As the fabric passed over by his ears he heard Brae continue.
"Good. It suits you, and I'm glad - you look healthy. Back in the cabin you always looked half-starved, you know. You look like you're alive again."
Elliott stopped moving, hands wrapped in the hem of the old shirt. He didn't know how to respond. He knew things had been bad for him - health-wise, monetarily, in terms of self-respect - but the fact that Brae had been so observant of it made him simultaneously warm and cold. It was nice to be seen, to be looked after, to have someone keep an eye on him. It was just a pity that Braeburn saw him at his lowest.
"It's all thanks to your cooking." he tried to play it cool, give a little shrug, but his voice wavered. "I'm not terribly skilled at caring for myself, so it's a good job you came along."
“You’re easy to take care of.” It was gentle and genuine, and Elliott looked away to tie his cravat back around his neck, saving Braeburn from the sight of his skin flushing again. He was beginning to grow tired of the nerves; it felt like a conversation was fast approaching that he didn’t want to be a part of. He wished there was a little more certainty in the future, their future, but Elliott shook the thought away. A little longer. He could hold out a little longer. They were away from the world, having fun just in each other's company - that was enough.
“Drinks are on me tonight.” He said, changing the subject. “So I hope you’re thirsty.”
“I’ve never said no to a drink before.” A chuckle came from behind him. “Let me just get ready, and we’re off.”
He had drunk far too much. The floor swayed a little, and he would place himself firmly in the realm of tipsy.
The city lights were pretty; the neon signs of the still-open shops, the music echoing out over the streets where dance clubs and house parties were in swing, the scents of hot food cooking on open grills from the standing room only fast food shops, the chill of the night air and the taste of beer on the back of his throat - they swirled his senses together and made the inside of his head roll and rattle as he propped himself up on Braeburn's arm while the farmer collected himself.
“Okay. Home time for us.”
They were outside of the bar - Braeburn adjusting his bag and ensuring his wallet and keys were safe and secure inside for the short walk back to the hotel. The cold air was helping both of them, but Elliott had certainly drunken a little more. That was fine - Braeburn was happy to play caretaker, and Elliott was an easy charge to protect.
“Home time.” Elliott echoed, leaning on the farmer's shoulder. “That's good - home, home is good. I think it's getting late.”
“It is. Let's get to bed, come on.”
In one fluid motion, he looped his arm around Elliott's waist - hooking his fingers under his belt and hefting him up a little. Elliott's arm immediately came to wrap around his shoulder.
“I can walk, you know.” the writer laughed, the noise bubbling up out of his throat. “You don’t have to carry me.”
“I don’t want you stumbling anywhere - if I let you go you’re gonna plant yourself face-first into the concrete.”
“Would not.”
Braeburn let go of Elliott's belt, lifting his hand free, for the writer to cling to him, balance thrown off, Elliott tilting backwards sharply as his gravity was skewed.
“Nononono-”
“Ppfffft,” Braeburn grabbed him back, keeping him close. “Told you. It's okay, hotels’ not far.”
“It's been a while. Since I’ve drunk so much. You were right - eating was a good idea.”
“Eating’s always a good idea. You don't get to grow up big and strong without eating, El.”
“I’m twenty-six, Brae, I don’t think I’m going to grow much more.”
“You might, Mr-Old-Man-Elliott.” Elliott's weight was nice against him, even if his footsteps were a little uncertain. They had needed a night to blow off steam, and the last few hours of laughing raucously over nothing and eating crappy food and drinking chilled beer had been just what they needed. Braeburn blew a lock of the writer's hair from his face, realizing how close the man was pressed into him. “Though hopefully, you won’t grow taller. You already make me feel little, you know.”
“Six-foot-one.” Was his mumbled response. “That's not that tall.”
“Compared to my five-ten? Still tall. I’m used to being the big one, then you come along.”
“You’re stronger, though. Bigger in width. That's more important. You’re strong from the farm and everything, I’m -” Elliott tried to make himself articulate, to spout a long, flowing sentence about body types and the positive side of Braeburn being the way he was, but his thoughts were foggy. “.... not.”
“After a couple months on the farm you’ll be feeling stronger, I bet.”
“Mm,” Elliott smiled, half-sleepy, breathing in the cold night air. “Looking forward to it. I like The Orchard.”
The walk back to the hotel was indeed short - this section of the City was dense and tight-knit, tourist-y overnight places open for those looking for a good time with friends all spread over a few short streets. They took the elevator up this time, neither of them brave enough to face the stairs in their drunken state. They leant against the wall of the elevator as they drifted upwards, the cold of the metal plating seeping into the back of Elliott's shirt, sobering him slightly. Tonight had been good. The ale wasn’t quite as strong as Gus’s usual brand, but the food was decent, and Braeburn's company was always more than welcome. He had needed to let go, to laugh, to not care about who saw him. He would sleep well tonight.
Braeburn half-carried him to their room, and it was nice to be against him; the solid weight of muscle and power and softness against his side. Elliott found himself quickly feeling warm, the drifting mist of drink clouding his brain a little too easily.
When they got to their door, Braeburn leant him up against the wall.
“Stay there. You won’t fall, will you?”
“I’m fine,” He smiled, sleepy, letting his head fall back against the plaster. “I’m not that drunk. I’m okay.”
“Alright,” Braeburn murmured, not believing him, as he fished out the keycard to the room. “But if you fall down, I’m not helping you up.”
“You would, though.” the redhead snickered a little bit, and Braeburn waved him off.
The keycard was acting up - each time he swiped it into the slot, the light would change but the door remained locked. He kept trying, huffing a tiny bit as the door system clicked, lit up, clicked, and remained locked and shut. Elliott just watched. He watched the farmer, the way that drinking tonight had let warmth seep up into his cheeks, the way his shirt was pressed into his skin from where he had carried him, the way his fuschia hair hung over his shoulders in pretty pink spirals. Braeburn's arm flexed with each movement, muscle tightening under his skin. Elliott may have been taller, but Braeburn was much, much stronger, and the writer felt tiny in his presence.
He was in far too deep. He could smell Braeburn's scent on himself, the quickly evaporating body heat ebbing away, and he longed to press back up against the other man. He swallowed, mouth dry and tired.
He wanted to kiss Braeburn. No, that wasn’t quite it - he leant against the wall of the hallway, watching the farmer. He wanted Braeburn to kiss him - to shove him unceremoniously against the wall and press against him, render him thoughtless. He wanted the farmer to push him into the hotel room and press him to the bed, make him bear his throat, mess him up - whatever his alcohol addled mind thought messing him up was, at least. He wanted it to be rough and sloppy and rude, forceful and unexpected and eager, like a scene straight out of one of the romance novels Braeburn liked. He would reciprocate, he’d let it happen, he’d let Braeburn do whatever he wanted to him. It would not be within him to fight back - he had no urge to fight at all.
But Brae wasn’t like that. Braeburn wasn’t about to force him into anything or coerce the writer into something he’d regret - especially when he was pretty, pretty drunk.
“Ah, gotcha.” The door finally opened, and Brae wafted the keycard a little. “Stupid thing. Glad it's only one night, these cards never work. C’mon, you.”
He held the door open and Elliott staggered in, keeping the wall within arm's distance to steady himself. He closed his eyes, rubbing at one with a balled-up fist. He leant against the wall again, temporary balance surge waning. He was tired - the drink had sapped his energy, and despite his enthusiasm for touch he found himself wanting to fall into bed and hibernate. He could hear the fuschia-haired man shuffle around, putting his bag away, clicking a lamp on, closing the door.
“Hey,” Braeburn murmured, low and close, and a warm hand appeared on Elliott's back, steadying him. He opened his eyes blearily to find the farmer in front of him. “You good?”
“Mm, I think so.” He nodded. Braeburn's palm soaked into his skin, warm and distant, hazy, dense and surrounding like a soapy bubble bath. Elliott tried to give a little smile. “Just a little tired now.”
He got a soft smile back, the low light catching the pink of the farmer's hair, the softness of his features, the solidarity of his shoulders. Careful hands came up, gently pulling at the cravat around the writer's neck, undoing it attentively.
“Come on. Bedtime, mister.”
It would be so easy. It would only take a simple lean forward, one smooth motion to crash their lips together, to wrap around the man, tangle his hands in his hair and hold him close. Braeburn was so good and so, so close, taking gentle care of him, and Elliott didn’t deserve it - but he craved it, ravenous and blinded to anything else. He lifted his jaw a little, giving his friend better access - what little consciousness he had begging him not to make a fool of himself, not to force things too soon. If he kept his chin an inch higher than it had been, then it would keep him from kissing the man - that was his reasoning at least. The light pressure of the tie fell away, and Brae's hands got a touch closer. He was undoing the top button of his shirt. Elliott was pliant, ever tender under his touch. His thoughts the last few months had been primarily of care, a desire of safety and closeness, but with the sharp tang of ale in his gut the only thing spiralling in his mind was lust, the need to taste and touch, and he swallowed - Adam's apple grazing Braeburn's knuckle slightly - in an attempt to cool the typhoon curling up the cliff edge of his mind.
He wanted to be held - for Braeburn's enormous hand to slip past his collar and press on the column of his throat, to squeeze, solid but easy, like he had before. He wanted his fingers to wrap around his chin, keep him grounded, to spike his senses back into his brain. He didn’t want to be choked, not fully, but the appeal of Braeburn's pressure controlling him made the haze thicken and his blood run a little warmer.
“You still with me in there?” Brae was smiling at him, head tilted a little. “Elliott?”
“Mm, sorry.” He mumbled, looking down to meet the farmers' eyes - was he always so much taller than he? There were only a few short inches between their heights, and Braeburn always seemed so big - “I’m, ah... Not entirely here.”
Braeburn's hands came to his shoulders, giving a steadying squeeze before he took a slight step back - Elliott wanted to whine at the distance, but controlled himself, barely - the farmer was smiling, calm and easy, as always. “You think you can take care of yourself getting ready for bed? I’m not holding anything for you in the bathroom, you know. Just cause you’re drunk doesn’t mean I’m going to help you aim.”
Tease. Elliott felt himself pouting, blood rushing to his face in indignation.
“I’m fine.” He croaked. He pushed himself off of the wall a little. His tongue felt a little too thick to be his own. “I’ll be okay once I splash some water on my face, I’m sure.”
“Good good. You go get yourself fixed up, I’ll get our stuff ready so we can settle for the night.” Brae leant up and gave him a slight, affectionate pat on the cheek - in hopes, no doubt, that it would wake him up a little. Some dark, stuffed away part of Elliott's brain hungered for it to come back again, firm and fast, sharp and stinging.
“Mnn.” He rounded himself into the little bathroom attached to their room. What a day. This was why he didn’t drink so much - besides the lack of funds. He turned the faucet on, letting the sink fill with chilly water. A few splashes on his face, a quick brush of the teeth, and he’d sink to bed. He had no alarm set for the morning, but chances are that the two of them would wake fairly early in quick succession of each other.
The cold water did him some good, clearing his thoughts and cooling the pulse that drifted throughout his stomach. He only left Braeburn alone for a few minutes while he collected himself. He must have looked like a wreck when he wandered back out of the bathroom, shirt half unbuttoned, cravat loose around his neck and hair unkempt and damp. He closed the bathroom door behind himself and leant on it. His mind was empty, thoughts quiet and faded. Outside cars thrummed in the distance, the city still alive at such a late hour.
“Sweetheart,” Braeburn's voice came out quietly in the dark. Elliott glanced over, pet name his siren song - it wasn’t just that his body and mind felt tired, but his eyes did, too. He’d have to get glasses one of these days. He squinted into the dark, the lamp across from the farmers' bed highlighting him just enough to see; he was sitting up in his bed, an old t-shirt on, fuschia hair loose and curly and perfect. He was watching the writer, a sympathetic smile across his face. “Come to bed. It's been a long day.”
“It has been, yes.”
Elliott moved slowly, sobered up enough to be cautious. He hadn’t looked to see whether the farmer had packed pyjamas or something for him to sleep in, and it was late enough that he didn’t care that much. He pulled his shirt off and tossed it unceremoniously in the direction of his bag, yawning as he did so. He didn’t dare look at the clock - he wanted to sleep in in the morning, to laze in a sunbeam and forget his increasingly frequent heart-related twinges and how close his friend was next to him.
He was face-first into his pillows before Braeburn could say anything else, shirt and jacket abandoned to the floor, slacks and shoes still on.
“Mmrph.”
Even with his hair and pillow muffling the world he could hear the farmer's gentle laughter next to him.
“Do you need help?”
He managed to drag his face out of the pillow, chin pressing to the plush as he laid there, exhausted.
“No,” It was entirely undignified, a far cry from the Elliott in a sharp suit in a professional business meeting, but he wriggled, kicking his shoes off and nudging his trousers down - letting them both slip off the edge of the bed to pool in a puddle with his shirt. He flopped once he was done squirming, prone and boneless in his boxers atop the bedcover. He closed his eyes - even though he would have to move to get comfortable properly soon enough. “I think I’m good.”
Braeburn's chin was propped up on his elbow as he leant against his bent knees. Elliott could feel the farmer's eyes on him but with his eyes closed he could not see the sheer fondness held in that gaze. There was a shuffling - and the redhead cracked an eye open to see; Braeburn stood out of his bed and moved closer until one of his fingers poked at Elliott's side, earning a faint grumble.
“Scootch up.”
Elliott obeyed, pushing himself up to climb upwards and sit. It took him a second to understand what was going on - Braeburn lightly pushed his shoulder, urging him to get into bed properly while the other pulled back the blankets. He inched up, curling his legs under himself as he slipped under the awaiting cover. Braeburn folded the quilt back over the man, making sure nothing was exposed to the night air. That now-familiar thrill settled under Elliott's skin; any time Braeburn's caring side slipped out, tender and doting, it made him feel wonderful. The farmer was always good - and good to everyone - but in the quiet moments like this, being tucked into bed, drunk and bare, there was a specialness to it. Maybe Braeburn wouldn’t do this exactly for just anybody. There was something about the way he always came to Elliott's rescue that made him feel as if he were something precious, something cherished.
“There,” came a low murmur of approval once the writer was successfully in bed and covered over, tucked in snugly. Then the voice came a little easier, more teasing. “Don’t sleep out with nothing on like that, idiot, you’ll catch a cold.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t help me, because I’m drunk?” It came out before he could stop it, and Braeburn only scoffed a little and playfully messed up Elliott's pretty hair in response, earning a mirthfully grumpy “Hey.”
Maybe it was a two-way street. Braeburn would perhaps not be so doting to just anyone, and Elliott would not let just anyone touch his hair and mess with him so easily. They each gave, and they each took - though Elliott felt like he took far, far more. They had fallen into it easily, naturally, and it was impossible to tell how long it would last, what would be the motion to make one of them snap and beg for more. Elliott wanted more, definitely - and at times like this his patience with himself wore thin. He had drunk far too much, and the liquid bravery had only made him cloudy. It wasn’t enough, and the fear of ruining their world was far too daunting.
Braeburn lumbered over to the desk and flicked the lamp off. The room was pitch black, save for the minuscule glow of signs for overnight businesses twinkling through the curtains. Elliott listened to the sounds of the giant man slipping back into his bed. There was a few seconds of silence, stretched out long and empty against the wails of the awaiting city, before the farmer let out a quieted yawn and was audibly comfortable.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Oh.
Elliott was tired. Bone-tired, and all at once he both sobered entirely and felt himself sinking low and deep, as if a wave had dragged him to the darkest pit of the ocean. He found himself looking over to Braeburn's bed, weak eyes searching fruitlessly in the dark. He wanted Braeburn to tell him to scootch over again, for him to share the tiny space they had, for their skin to touch. He wanted the hands back in his hair, against his throat, he wanted those enormous arms wrapped around him and for another kiss to be the awarded crown for the king of insecurity.
But he stayed silent, bringing the starchy blanket up to curl under his chin. What would it take? He could just clamber over there, press himself under that blanket instead, beg for attention...but then tomorrow would still come. Braeburn could push him away, could say no, say he wasn’t interested. Could say that he wanted a pretty girl on his arm and in his bed rather than him. For all the times that they were on the same page, there were moments where Elliott swore that he was reading an entirely different book.
It would only take one push, one moment of bravery, one step off of the ledge. But after that, there would be no coming back. And so he laid there, wearing next to nothing in a cold hotel room, drunk and listening to the echoes of a city that used to be his home.
“....goodnight, Braeburn.”
Something disturbed him in the night. The unfamiliar blankets and unfamiliar bed and their unfamiliar textures made it hard enough to sleep, along with the faint buzz of alcohol in his blood, but there was something else. At first, Elliott thought it was some kind of movement, something nearby shifting, but then he realized it was the opposite.
There was an unsettling stillness nearby. Half-asleep, eyes still closed, he rolled over onto his back.
"Mnmnm…. Brae?" he murmured, voice thick. He rubbed at an eye but kept them closed, wanting to drift back off.
"Sorry." came his immediate response, clear and solid. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"Mnm, you didn't." it was a half-truth, and Elliott stretched a little. He preferred Braeburn's sofa to the hotel bed, but it had been a busy day and he still wanted to sleep. Something about Brae's voice, however, and the odd stillness of the room made him crack an eye open. It was too quiet, and the world was bathed in black.
Braeburn's upright figure was an inky silhouette, an immense shadow sat in his bed. He ran a hand through his messy hair and tried to keep a sigh quiet, but the writer heard it anyway.
"Are you alright?" they both asked simultaneously, and Elliott smiled when he realised.
"Mm, I'm okay." The pillow behind his head was surprisingly soft in his half-awake state. "Are you..?"
"Just -... Bad dream. Are you-... Sure? That you're okay? You're not hurt?"
"No?" Elliott opened both eyes now, looking at Braeburn as best as he could in the dark. He could feel the farmer's eyes on him, searching, double-checking. "I'm fine. I'm right here."
"...good." was his breathed out response, and the shadow ran a hand over its face and sagged a little. Whatever nightmare he had endured had shaken him, clearly - and Elliott swallowed, trying to ensure his voice would be clear and comforting.
"I'm not going anywhere - it's safe here. You don't have to worry."
Another sigh - a greater one, and Braeburn nodded after a few seconds of silence. "Thank you. I just-... Wanted to make sure."
Their beds were close enough that they could touch, if they reached over. Elliott cautiously shuffled, rolling onto his front and threading an arm under his pillow - leaving the other dangling off the edge of the tiny bed, outreached towards his friend.
After another minute or two of sitting upright and clearing his head, Braeburn lay back down. He sought out the outstretched hand, lacing their fingers together. He gave it a gentle squeeze, and - Elliott was asleep again.