A Gentleman and A Scholar

by Oddshro0m

Summary:

Elliott moved to Pelican Town to dedicate his life to writing, but he’s lost his spark. Instead of focusing on his work, his mind conjures up all sorts of lurid fantasies about a certain museum curator. With his funds and patience running low, Elliott finds solace, and perhaps inspiration, in the arms of an older man.

This is a spinoff of Working it Out, but it can be read on its own.

Notes:

If you read Working It Out (or The Reboot), then you will be seeing some of the scenes play out again, but from Elliott’s perspective. In that fic, as Alex goes through his gay awakening with the farmer, Elliott and Gunther quietly get together in the background. Now it’s time for me to tell their story. There's a lot that the farmer didn't see while he was busy wooing the town jock. I estimate that Elliott is about 30 or thereabouts, and I always imagine Gunther to be somewhere in his 50s, so this is an age gap romance.

Also, I will at times make reference to the three potential novels that Elliott can write for his eight-heart event, but any text written by Elliott that is longer than one sentence will be an original bit of dribble put together specifically for this fic.

Chapter 1: Water, Water, Everywhere, Nor Any Drop to Drink

Sunrise. A time of quiet contemplation for one such Oliver Windham, who often finds himself on the beach, perhaps with a coffee, hot ceramic scalding his fingers as he ferries it carefully over the dunes toward the shore. This is one such morning. The waves lap at his feet as he sips the hot beverage– black, bitter, like his thoughts. His erstwhile companion, Leonard, was gone by the time the first rays of dappled sunlight filtered in through the fine lace curtains that hung on the sliding glass doors of their bedroom. Like a thief in the night, he had disappeared with nothing but the clothes on his back, a simple note that dashed all hopes of his return left behind on the credenza in the foyer. Love, Oliver muses, is like the ocean . . .

 

“No, this is stupid.” Elliott tore the sheet out of his typewriter and crumpled it into a ball, tossing it into the small wastepaper basket next to his desk where it bounced off the pile of wadded up papers within and tumbled to the floor. His failed ideas and half-starts overflowed from the can, a wire mesh graveyard of his hopes and dreams. Perhaps that was a bit dramatic. Elliott fished around in the pile and plucked one up at random. He smoothed the paper out on his knee and began to read, lips moving silently with the words. ‘ From the shadows emerged a man, radiating with enigmatic omniscience.’ He crumpled it, threw it back on the pile. “Stupid.”

 

“Love is like the ocean . . .” A phrase that had been rattling around in his skull for days. He was willing to bet that at least half the balled up papers in the trash had it laced into whatever story he thought he was trying to tell there– poetry, prose; it hardly mattered. Perhaps this was the result of living with the ever-present sound of the waves lapping the shoreline just outside his front door, a siren song luring him into the depths– a watery grave he would willingly dive into if this bout of writer’s block continued any further.

 

He was going insane. Over the last few weeks he had talked to no one aside from Willy, and that old fisherman spoke almost exclusively in strange oceanic proverbs and fish-based puns. Maybe he knew how love was like the ocean. 

 

A life in isolation in a picturesque location with nothing but time to write had seemed idyllic. When he first moved into that little shack on the beach, he hadn’t even balked at the dust and the spiders and cobwebs– he’d called it “rustic” and fantasized about gazing at the ocean through the windows as he wrote page after page of . . . something. That bit, arguably the most important of all the bits, was still eluding him like sand slipping through his fingers. He needed an idea– the right idea. So far all he had was a huge heap of useless drivel sitting at the bottom of a wastepaper basket. 

 

It’s not that he didn’t have a vivid imagination. He very much did. It was the thing that made him want to become a writer in the first place. The crux of the issue is that he didn’t have a say in what his imagination conjured.

 

Of late his mind had been filled with lurid fantasies about a certain museum curator. Gunther was an older man– much older than Elliott, but nevertheless a source of endless fascination. The wrinkles that deepened at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the flashes of white in the meticulously groomed beard that concealed his chiseled jawline beneath served to give him an air of distinction, his eyes the color of the sea at first light, twinkling with mystery behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Add to that his odd manner of dress, somehow both formal and casual, like a cowboy who never rides rough but knows how, and you’ve got the perfect protagonist for an erotic novella. One of those bodice-rippers like the kind he secretly stole from his mother’s bedside table as a young boy– a guilty pleasure, even now. 

 

He walked to the window, mind already spinning a new yarn– not the productive kind, not the kind he needed. In it he’s reclining in the sand, not on this beach, somewhere more tropical– exotic. Shirtless, slathering his sunkissed, defined pectoral muscles in coconut oil. Gunther appears, clad only in a pair of blue jeans and his signature blue cowboy hat. He rested his forehead against the glass, hot from the afternoon sun, and decided he was done trying to write for the day, that perhaps reading was a better use of his time at the moment, and the decision definitely did not have anything to do with who he might see at the library. All good writers know that you need to read, and read a lot, if you ever want to make it in writing. Resolute, he gathered up the volumes he’d borrowed on his last visit to the library– books of romantic poetry, almost exclusively. 

~*~

Elliott couldn’t help himself– the second the first rush of air-con hit his face as the door opened, his eyes darted to the circulation desk. He was rewarded with the ghost of a smile from Gunther, a slight uptick at the corners of his mouth, a muted glimmer in his eye– a subtle expression that spoke volumes on such a stoic visage. Wishful thinking, perhaps, on Elliott’s part. 

 

“Good afternoon, Elliott,” Gunther said in a low drawl that was at once a charming, down home country twang and also strangely posh and academic. A perfect blend– sexy, alluring. It made Elliott’s heart flutter. 

 

“Hello, Gunther.” Elliott did his best impression of a flirtatious smile as he added his books to the returns pile, but it faltered when he saw that the entire thing– a rather significant stack– was made up of his previous returns. All of them, every single one, either a romance novel or a book of poetry. All of them checked out of the library to get Gunther’s attention. Looking at it now, he felt the flush of embarrassment heating his cheeks. It seemed excessive, childish even.

 

“I see you’ve taken an interest in romantic literature,” Gunther said, eyeing the impressive tower of books on the polished hardwood of the circulation desk. “Inspiration for your work, I presume?”

 

“Aha, well–” The question caught him completely off guard. The “work” in question was currently non-existent. He hadn’t picked a genre, hadn’t pursued a storyline past the first few paltry sentences at all in the nearly two years he had lived in Pelican Town. “I don’t typically write in that genre,” he said, settling for a half-truth. 

 

“All literature speaks of love in its own way, romantic or otherwise.” 

 

“Ah– something to think about, for sure.”  That was the extent of their conversation– on that day and all the others previous. Gunther was a man of few words, which only served to deepen Elliott’s desires. It left quite a lot to the imagination, and of course Elliott’s overactive mind was happy to fill in those gaps, expounding on every small gesture, every simple turn of phrase endlessly long after the man had ceased speaking. 

 

As he turned to study the screen of the ancient computer that served as the library's cataloguing system, Gunther’s long brown hair fell away from his neck, revealing a pale pink scar that started just under his ear, trailing down his neck and disappearing under the high collar of his long sleeve pearl snap shirt. Elliott leaned on the circulation desk, eyes following the scar’s trajectory over Gunther’s neck. There was something irresistibly sexy about a man with scars, and from it new fantasies sprung forth in Elliott’s vivid imagination. He pictured a younger Gunther, engaged in a sword fight on a tempest-tossed ship in the middle of the ocean, shirt unbuttoned and whipping about his muscular torso in the driving wind and the rain.

 

“What can I help you with today?” Gunther turned to Elliott, as if sensing his lustful stare, one eyebrow raised as those cool blue-grey eyes assessed him. 

 

Elliott jumped, startled out of his daydream, and patted the stack of books, cheeks flushing, “Oh! Um . . . nothing at the moment. I was just contemplating my next read.” 

 

Gunther nodded slowly, “Well, I did get a shipment from the Grampleton Library yesterday– just got around to cataloguing and shelving it. There’s a few volumes that might be of interest.”

 

“Excellent,” Elliott said, patting his hands on the circulation desk, rocking on his heels indecisively, “I’ll uh . . . I’ll go check those out.” His stomach swooped, and he was grateful for the excuse to turn and flee into the bookshelves to conceal the guilty blush that bloomed on his cheeks. 

 

He wandered through the shelves until he saw a tall, hardback volume and pulled it off the shelf– an old farmer’s almanac, though it didn’t matter what it was. He wasn’t going to read it. On a short shelf in the back corner of the library– a dark little corner free from prying eyes, were the paperback romances, their covers slightly torn, spines creased from endless reading and re-reading over the years. Elliott sometimes saw Caroline back here, perusing the sordid volumes, but usually he was alone. He’d never had the courage to check one out. Handing it sheepishly over the counter for Gunther to stamp the card in the back was an image that sent shivers down his spine. 

 

Elliott pulled out one of the novels, eyes darting around to be sure he was unseen. The cover featured a buff, oiled-up shirtless man, a woman in a shiny satin red dress, bosoms nearly spilling over the top of her corset fainting dramatically in his muscle-bound arms. He opened the farmer’s almanac to the middle and slid ‘Summer’s Brazen Desire’ inside of it, turning to a dog-eared page near the end. He made his way over the reading section, where Penny sat with Vincent and Jas, going over some lesson or another. Elliott couldn’t quite hear her soft, lilting voice over the buzzing in his ears. 

 

From his position, standing at the end of the reference section, he had a clear view of the circulation desk, and the man standing behind it. As he read he would occasionally steal glances at Gunther, who was dutifully processing Elliott’s hefty stack of returns. 

~*~

The salty sea breeze ruffled the sheer curtains in the open window of the shack, teasing the dancing flames of the candles that flickered around the room, casting their writhing shadows on the walls. Elliott reclined nude in the bed, bathed softly in the candlelit glow. He listened to the sound of the waves gently lapping the shore, the soft breeze caressing him like a lover, closed his eyes, and drifted into a fantasy.

 

A crackling fire in the hearth warmed their bodies as Elliott and Gunther laid on their sides upon a bear skin rug in a passionate embrace. With one arm Gunther gently cradled the younger man’s head, the other draped over his waist, tenderly stroking Elliott’s throbbing member as he thrust deep inside him, their bodies rocking gently together like a ship on the waves. 

 

Elliott slid two fingers into his mouth, then brought them down, glistening with spit, and pressed them inside himself, working them in a come-hither motion, slowly, teasingly as his mind tried to conjure the warmth of Gunther’s body pressed against his back. He moaned softly, imagining Gunther’s breath fanning across the back of his neck as he brought his other hand down to stroke his cock with firm, steady pressure– how he imagined Gunther’s hands would feel. The touch of an experienced, older man. Heat pooled in his core, the pressure building slowly, cresting up and up and up– then crashing, like a wave upon the sand as he came.

 

The fantasy continued to play in his head as he washed up, dipping a washcloth into a basin on his nightstand– Gunther continued to hold him, basking in post-coital bliss as the man whispered sweet nothings into Elliott’s ear. If only he could write as vividly as he could fantasize about having sex with a man at least twenty years his senior.

 

He remembered thinking it was romantic– roughing it like this, in a little shack with no plumbing. Collecting the rain water was a laborious process, even if the little antique basin and pitcher he kept on his nightstand were charming. And it turned out that secluding himself to live a life of isolation was, in fact, isolating. He’d always romanticized the life of a tortured artist, living alone with nothing but his craft to keep him company, but now that he was actually living that life it looked less and less glamorous by the day. 

 

Perhaps his fascination with Gunther was borne out of loneliness. Or maybe he recognized another lonesome soul, and was drawn helplessly to it, like a moth to a flame. Perhaps picking apart the mystery that was Gunther was a way of staving off the boredom that came with isolation. Whatever it was, these fantasies felt more real to him than any words he ever put to page. All great writers had their muses, he reasoned– perhaps he’d found his, and only needed a way to tap into that inspiration. 

Chapter 2: If Only Pizza Could be the Cure for Longing and Wine a Substitute for Love

Summary:

Two gay disasters walk into a bar- hijinks ensue

Notes:

This is chapter 10 of Working it Out (The Reboot) but written from Elliott's perspective. As I said at the beginning though, you don't need to read that fic to understand this one. It will be funnier if you know what the farmer is thinking, but you really don't need it to understand this story.

“I haven’t picked up my tools in weeks,” Leah sighed, picking miserably at her goat cheese salad. 

 

“I’m in the same boat, I’m afraid.” Elliott swirled the wine around in his glass, a rich deep red. “I’ve written some, but it’s all–,” he gestured with his hands, miming the crumpling of papers, “it’s all . . . I’d need a thesaurus to find the word I’m looking for. The wine is already getting to me. Or perhaps I’m dried up.”

 

Elliott’s weekly commiseration session with Leah was something he always looked forward to– if only because Leah usually paid. Unlike him, she was actually selling some of her pieces, thanks to the art show the farmer– Kieran? Some kind of K name– had helped her set up last fall. 

 

“If you’re feeling dried up, maybe it’s time to get hydrated,” she said, “When was the last time you did anything aside from stare at blank pieces of paper and complain to me about said blank paper?”

 

Elliott pouted and took a sip of his wine. “I’m not sure I follow,” he said, “I do plenty of activities aside from that.”

 

“Going to the library to stare at that old man doesn’t count.” She narrowed her eyes at him, jabbing at the air with her fork. 

 

“He’s not that old,” Elliott said, truly settling into his sulk now. He folded his arms on the table and plopped his head onto them, turning to glower at Leah from under a curtain of auburn hair. “Besides, I’m thirty– age gaps are socially acceptable past thirty.”

 

“Whatever helps you justify it to yourself,” she said, hands up in surrender.

 

“I’ve always had a thing for the silver foxes, Leah– you know this. And you don’t even like men, so how can you possibly understand?” He sighed dramatically, idly batting at the edge of his soup bowl like a bored cat. Gus really knew how to brew up a good Tom Kha soup, and now it was gone– another thing to be sad about on his ever-growing list. 

 

“Take my advice or don’t,” Leah said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an idea for a new sculpture. I’ll call it ‘ Elliott’s Endless Lamentations’ .”

 

“Rude.”

 

Leah gathered up the bowls and silverware and scurried to the bar with them– something she always insisted on doing even though Gus and Emily had both tried to tell her she didn’t have to. It wasn’t like the Stardrop was ever busy enough that they couldn’t bus the tables themselves, even on the weekends. He watched her leave, tossing her long ginger braid over her shoulder, nearly colliding with someone as she pushed the door open– the farmer. 

 

Kieran was a handsome man. When he first moved to Pelican Town, Elliott would have called him pretty– a skinny thing with dark wavy hair, striking grey eyes, and a tall, aquiline nose, which was a little crooked; though the imperfection only served to make him more interesting to look at. Elliott did a double-take as he crossed to the bar, tanned skin, broad shoulders, biceps straining at the fabric of his shirt, jeans looking nearly painted on over thick, powerful thighs– like he’d transformed overnight and hadn’t had a chance to find new clothes yet. Elliott wasn’t interested in younger men, but he did have eyes– the farmer life looked good on him. 

 

He was used to seeing Kieran around town, and they occasionally exchanged pleasantries in passing, but they didn’t really talk. He chatted amiably with Gus, but as soon as the bartender disappeared into the back his head slumped into his hands, his form deflating a little as he released a sigh. Now this was an interesting development. Elliott sipped his wine, leaning an elbow on the table and idly twirling a lock of hair around his finger as he watched Kieran out of the corner of his eye. 

 

Elliott had seen that kind of dejection before. The man looked like a kicked puppy, and if he had to guess he’d either been rejected or dumped. Another lonely soul unlucky in love– a kindred spirit perhaps. A rugged life doing manual labor didn’t exactly mesh with more artistic pursuits, so they couldn’t connect over work, but Elliott had heard through the grapevine that he and the farmer had at least one thing in common: homosexuality. It was a tenuous connection, but it was one.

 

Leah had told him to “hydrate” himself– experience new things, talk to different people, all of that nonsense. At the very least, poking his nose into Kieran’s love life might provide a little inspiration– enough to get his fingers tapping away again. 

 

But at the same time– what if it was awkward? What if the farmer’s dour mood had nothing to do with romance at all and Elliott was going to get himself roped into some horribly dull conversation about dead grandparents or . . . broken farm equipment. 

 

The pizza made the decision for him fairly quickly. The aroma hit him first, warm fresh dough, and a symphony of vegetal, earthy, and sweet. When Gus emerged from the kitchen with it he craned his head to get a look at the most stunning pizza he had ever seen– words didn’t do it justice. From this distance it was hard to discern the toppings, but his mouth watered as he watched Gus set it in front of the farmer and sprinkle the top with fresh arugula. 

 

Kieran, who had been looking quite forlorn just a second ago, immediately straightened in his stool. “Gus, you spoil me,” he said. Gus beamed, proclaiming it was his newest recipe, and most importantly, that it wasn’t on the menu yet. Something new, something exciting . He tilted his head to better hear the conversation unfold. 

 

“I’m afraid I’m in need of something a bit stronger tonight– start me up a tab with whatever you think would pair well with this,” Kieran said, a weariness in his voice. Elliott stirred at that, plucking his wine from the table and taking a sip as he contemplated making his way over there. 

 

It was quite the curious scene unfolding before him. Each time Gus turned away, that telltale slump of the shoulders, the too-long sips of his wine, spoke to Elliott of a deep sadness– one that disappeared the second the bartender’s eyes were on him again. The gears turned slowly in his wine-hazed mind. Whatever the farmer was going through was something quite private, it seemed. What secrets does a man keep locked down in his heart other than love? Lost love? Unrequited love? Spurned love? He needed to find out. 

 

Elliott crossed the room, his carefully practiced swagger somewhat loosened by drink, and dragged a barstool over to the man, who pointedly kept his eyes trained on the pizza. He slid onto the stool, leaning onto the bar, and tossed Kieran the most charming smile he could muster.

 

“Long day at the farm?” Elliott asked, swirling his wine around in his glass.  “Kieran– is it?” The farmer nodded. He had the man’s attention, time to start the conversation. He sighed, shored up his confidence and said, “I couldn’t help but notice your melancholic aura from across the bar.”

 

Kieran snatched his wine glass off the bar and drained it. “Melancholic aura?” he asked, indignant. “I do not have a melancholic aura,” he scoffed. Ever attentive, Gus refilled the farmer’s glass the second he set it down. “I’ve got pizza and wine, what more could a guy need?” A classic denial– something was definitely eating at him, and Elliott was determined to find out what. 

 

Elliott stretched across the bar wincing internally at the sticky sensation under his fingers. “Oh, if only pizza could be the cure for longing . . . if only wine could be a substitute for love. Then, maybe, would I truly be content,” he said. He should write that down. A poem about substituting one earthly pleasure for another, less satisfying one. Although, up close, the pizza certainly looked tempting– goat cheese, asparagus, candied walnuts, fig preserves, prosciutto, a generous drizzle of spicy honey, a little mozzarella cheese, and just the right amount of fresh greenery to offset the fat. His stomach growled, the soup he had eaten completely forgotten.

 

“Are these theatrics leading somewhere?” Kieran asked, raising a skeptical brow and taking a hearty swig of his wine. Ah, banter– the farmer was succumbing to Elliott’s charms, playing his game. Or perhaps Elliott was just a convenient distraction from his woes. Either way, he had an opening.

 

“Oh friend, take it from one who is well versed in the tribulations of love and loss. You are– for lack of a better word– so obvious. It’s written all over that beautiful face of yours: you’re missing someone. Your heart cries out for them, but they’re not here to listen. So you eat your pizza and you drink your wine in solitude. But fear not, sweet, lovelorn Kieran, I have come to commiserate.” The poem was writing itself in Elliott’s head, but without pen and paper it was surely going to be lost by morning. If only he could be this eloquent when he was sat before his typewriter. 

 

“I know why you’re really here,” Kieran said in a low, conspiratorial voice, “If you can eat a whole slice without Gus seeing you, you can have as much as you want.”

 

Elliott grinned, turning to peer at Gus who was, luckily, distracted taking a drink order from Shane. He locked eyes with the farmer, slithered his hand along the bar and selected a slice by feel. The crust was thin, but the toppings made it heavy, and it folded in his hands as he lifted it and guided it into his mouth. His eyes slipped closed involuntarily as the masterful balance of flavors washed over his tongue, but he composed himself and returned his eyes to Kieran, staring him down as he polished off the slice– so delicious he almost forgot the real reason he approached the farmer. Well– the other reason. 

 

“Elliott! That is off-menu!” Gus admonished, appearing as if by magic. “And you– this taste test was provided in confidence. Did you say he could have some?”

 

Kieran laughed– a deep, infectious laugh that sounded genuine. “I said if he could eat a slice without you seeing he could have as much as he wanted,” Kieran said, “Guess he’s not getting any more.”

 

Spurred on by the farmer’s amusement, Elliott laid a hand across his chest in mock outrage. “I would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn’t for that meddling bartender!”

 

Gus gave a beleaguered sigh, but Elliott could hear him chuckling to himself as he walked away.

 

Kieran sighed, eyes far away as he gazed into the crimson depths on his wine glass. The dark circles under his eyes betrayed his misery– something deep inside him that was preventing him from continuing the merriment. Elliott was utterly fascinated, and more than a little desperate to know what was going on inside his head. 

 

“Alas, no more pizza– but perhaps that isn’t the real reason I’m here. Who is it that plagues your thoughts so terribly that you can’t even enjoy this incredible food without looking lost?” Elliott asked.

 

“I’ll share my pizza, but I won’t share that,” Kieran said in a playful, teasing tone. A thrill ran up Elliott’s spine– he was on the right track. Just a little more plying– a little more wine, and he would have the truth out of the man yet. 

 

“Why not,” Elliott pouted. 

 

“No offense, but we don’t really know each other that well.” That was true, Elliott conceded, but he wasn’t ready to give up. He was a fool to think the man would spill such sensational secrets without a little compensation. A transaction was in order– a little honesty from Elliott.

 

“Alright, I suppose I can break the ice,” Elliott said, draining his glass and gesturing to Gus for another. “Have you ever been down to the library?”

 

“Uhhh . . . maybe once or twice, why?”

 

“What do you think of Gunther?” Elliott quirked a brow, a coy smile playing across his lips.

 

“The librarian?” Kieran asked, incredulous.

 

“Ugh,” Elliott sighed, “That man . . . he’s so stoic, and hard to read.”

 

“Gunther? Really?”

 

“Yes, really– do try to take this seriously, lest I mock the object of your affections,” Elliott retorted, jabbing a finger at him.

 

“Alright, that’s fair. I didn’t realize you were into old men,” Kieran said. “Enlighten me.”

 

“Hmmmmm . . .” Elliott cradled his wine glass, envisioning Gunther in his mind. What was it about the man that he found so irresistible? “I think it’s how little he talks. It leaves room for the imagination.  And that jawline, hiding under his well-groomed beard. He’s rugged, yet refined . . . and so mysterious.”

 

“I see the appeal,” Kieran said, leaning back slightly on his barstool, giving Elliott his full attention. “Have you talked to him?”

 

Elliott raked his hand down his face, “Does repeatedly checking out books of love poetry count as talking to him?”

 

“No, I don’t think so.”

 

Elliott groaned and flopped over the bar. The tables had turned, it seemed. This farmer was more perceptive than he looked, cutting right to the crux of the issue. He and Gunther spoke when Elliott ventured to the library, but they didn’t really speak . Their conversations were short, always centering around books– superficial smalltalk. 

 

“Cheer up, buddy,” Kieran said, patting his back. “Gunther never leaves that place, so you always know where he is when you’re ready to fess up.”

 

Elliott didn’t want to entertain that subject anymore, so he turned the spotlight back onto Kieran. “What about you?” 

 

“He’s avoiding me,” Kieran said, staring off into the middle distance. Aha! There it is. Elliott leaned toward the farmer, eyes alight. He was getting somewhere, finally. 

 

“Oh no,” Elliott said, his voice dripping with sympathy. 

 

“Yeah,” Kieran sighed, chasing it with another sip.

 

“Tell me about him,” Elliott demanded, gripping Kieran’s shoulders and peering deep into his eyes. “If you’re feeling dried up, maybe it’s time to get hydrated.” This must be what Leah meant. There was inspiration here– he could feel it. Surreptitiously, he slipped another slice of pizza off of the tray, eating it quickly as Kieran sipped his wine, peering contemplatively into the glass.

 

“I don’t know how much there is to say, really,” Kieran said, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing deeply, “We were friends– really good friends. And then I had to go and fall in love with him. Like a goddamn idiot.”

 

Oh, this was juicy . Elliott suppressed a grin, turning his lips down into a sympathetic frown. He patted Kieran’s back. “And then?” Elliott propped himself up on the bar, fingers kneading the sticky wooden surface, eyes glittering in anticipation.

 

“He’s straight.” 

 

“Sweet Yoba, no . The horror!” A classic tale of woe– one Elliott had experienced himself quite a few times. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh, you poor thing.” Elliott’s heart really did twinge at Kieran’s tale, his mind recalling his own unlucky attempts at love with men who could never return his affections. He threw an arm around the farmer and he yielded to the friendly touch, leaning in slightly. Elliott snatched another slice of pizza. 

 

“I sort of . . . let him know how I was feeling. And he laughed in my face. And we haven’t talked since.”

 

“Get a room!” someone called from the other side of the bar. Kieran frowned, craning his neck to look over Elliott’s head at whoever had shouted at them– it sounded like Shane, who was clearly just jealous of the connection he was making with the farmer. 

 

“I was so foolish,” Kieran continued, resting his head on Elliott’s shoulder, “I knew he was straight and I asked him to dance anyway.”

 

“At the flower dance?” Elliott asked around a mouthful of pizza. He recalled the day, but he’d spent the entire event chatting with Leah. The two of them had a sort of lavender arrangement when it came to the dance, since Lewis insisted on pairing men with women. It was never mentioned, but Leah thought it was some sort of weird fertility ritual, and she often waxed poetic about gender roles and heteronormativity while they stood along the river drinking punch and ignoring the goings on. 

 

“Yeah, it was stupid,” Kieran said.

 

“Fuck, dude. That’s like . . .” Elliott’s thoughts hit a brick wall, and try as he might to peer over it, he was at a loss for accurate verbage. Perhaps this all related to a poem he read? He gave up quickly, admitting defeat. “It’s gone. I thought I remembered a poem, but . . .” He waved a hand dismissively and reached for another slice, no longer concerned with concealing the theft.

 

“Boys, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m thinking I might have to cut you off,” Gus whispered, polishing a glass and looking straight ahead. The man always did have a problem with being assertive when it came to his more troubling patrons. Elliott had seen this technique employed against Pam many times– he was kicking them out but too afraid to say so directly. 

 

“Gus, please!” Elliott protested. “Yoba forbid two young gentlemen engage in a little . . . bearing of the souls.” The conversation was just getting good, and now Gus was spoiling all his fun.

 

“Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

 

“We’ll leave,” Kieran said, plopping some cash on the bar. Elliott eyed the cash, not even trying to do the mental math– his thoughts were swimming, and he was just ready to assume that it would cover his own wine.  “Let’s go, buddy,” Kieran said, heaving Elliott unceremoniously from his stool. 

 

Elliott’s foot caught on the threshold, nearly sending him sprawling into the dirt, gripping onto Kieran for dear life. The farmer almost lost his balance, but he quickly corrected himself, shifting his weight to shove Elliott upright again, gripping him around his shoulders.

 

“How do you get your hair this shiny?” Kieran asked.

 

“Pomegranate shampoo. It’s got these . . . special enzymes. Fuck, I don’t know.”

 

Kieran giggled, “That’s why you smell so fruity.” 

 

Elliott ran his hands through Kieran’s hair, grinning. He had soft hair, long, nearly grazing his shoulders– perfect for petting. “And you smell like grass and dirt.”

 

“Hey!”

~*~

They stumbled down the path to the beach, weaving, giggling, pleasantly drunk. Elliott couldn’t remember the last time he had this much fun, and he was in high spirits– not just because he’d gotten a sensational bit of gossip from the farmer’s own mouth, but also because he had somehow managed to help him forget it. At least Kieran seemed to be in a much better mood now. 

 

Elliott wasn’t ready for this to be over– the full moon was high in the sky, casting her silver glow over the sea, and the night seemed ripe for giving in to reckless abandon. He plodded onward across the sand, dragging Kieran along toward the waves and shoving him down in the sand. “Wait here,” he giggled, “I’ll be right back.”

 

Back in his shack, he fumbled for the battery-powered lantern by the door, managing to turn it on after a few tries. He eyed his typewriter, debating with himself for a moment before he cautiously approached it, like it was some kind of scared, stray animal, and typed: 

 

“if only pizza could be the cure for longing and wine a substitute for love”

 

He hoped that in the morning he would remember the poem that had run through his head as he spoke to the farmer in the bar. That done, he grabbed a bottle of strawberry wine from a cabinet and headed back to the beach, unscrewing the cap as he went. He shoved the bottle into Kieran’s hand, and settled into the sand beside him as he raised the bottle to his lips and drank. “Love is like the ocean,” Elliot said, reaching for the bottle. The fragment returned to his mind as he gazed out over the calm ocean waters. He took a swig and handed the bottle back to Kieran.

 

“How is love like the ocean?” Kieran asked.

 

“I don’t know, that’s as far as I got.”

 

“Oh. Is it from something you’re writing?”

 

“I write about the ocean a lot. And about love,” Elliott lied. He suddenly wanted to look cool in front of the farmer– a mysterious sage, dispensing wisdom. Perhaps it was the wine talking– calling him to shepherd this poor young man through the trials of his first crush on a straight boy. Elliott didn’t even know if this was Kieran’s first time going through this particular struggle, but it felt right in his gut.

 

Kieran glanced between the ocean and the worn-looking shack that Elliott called home. “Good environment for that, I guess.”

 

“Love is like the ocean . . .” he began again, “Endless . . . deep.”

 

“That doesn’t rhyme.”

 

“It doesn’t need to.”

“Okay.”

 

They sat in silence for a time, passing the bottle of strawberry wine back and forth.

 

“Love is like the ocean . . . a vast expanse, teeming with life . . . and one time I lost my shoe in it,” Elliott said, giggling. Nonsense, really. He’d been sitting on the docks, contemplating his new life of isolation in Pelican Town, and one of his loafers had slipped off into the water. He was shocked he even remembered it. Kieran chuckled, draining the last droughts of the bottle. “That guy you’re into– the straight one? I think you should talk to him. Fuck it, throw your shoe into the ocean, and maybe it will return to you. If it doesn’t, find a new man, buy new shoes, be the captain of your own soul or whatever that philosopher said.”

 

“Which philosopher was that?”

 

“I don’t remember.”

 

Kieran stood suddenly, pinwheeling his arms as he tilted precariously. He pulled off one of his shoes and charged toward the ocean, throwing it with surprising force. He stood, wavering slightly, as his footwear splashed into the water. “It was a metaphor, you fool!” Elliott shouted, stumbling to the edge of the water. He sighed, and started wading into the ocean, scanning the horizon for the lost shoe. He heard splashing as Kieran followed. 

~*~

A Poem About Pizza

 

Oh! If only pizza could be the cure for longing,

If only wine could be a substitute for love.

Then, maybe, would I be truly content.

I'd toast to silence, warm and still,

And savor crusts in lieu of tender touch,

Each slice a balm, each glass a thrill—

Perhaps too much, perhaps not enough.

But hearts are stubborn, hungry things,

Unmoved by cheese or vintage red.

They crave the fire that feeling brings,

Not just the comfort of being fed.

 

So here I sit with pie and pour,

Full in body, but aching for more.

Notes:

If Elliott seems extremely self-absorbed in this chapter it's because he is. We will be fixing that sooner or later- or at least we will attempt it.

Chapter 3: The Jellies Shimmered, Pale Beneath the Blue

Summary:

Elliott finally faces his fears and invites Gunther to watch the Dance of the Moonlight Jellies

Notes:

We are getting somewhere! The first part of this chapter occurs in Working It Out (The Reboot), but again, not required reading to understand this story.

Sidenote, have you ever wondered how Elliott bathes in that shack with no plumbing or electricity? I've got the answers.

Warmth– comforting, cradled in Elliott’s arms. A person? Gunther . . . Elliott sighed softly, slowly becoming conscious of light filtering through his eyelids, of a body lying next to him, under his arm. He stretched, gripped the warm presence tightly against his chest. He was dreaming, surely, holding Gunther in his arms. Although, in his dreams he was usually the little spoon, not the other way around. Still, it was quite pleasant. That is, until the persistent pounding in his skull reminded him of the debauchery of the previous night, sickening nausea overtaking him as his arm was violently flung away.

 

“Elliott, what the fuck?” A voice– not Gunther’s, filtered through the haze. Loud. Far too loud. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

 

“Hmm?” The light was too bright against his closed eyelids. He flung an arm across his face to block it out. “What time is it?” he murmured.

 

“Elliott.” The farmer. He remembered now. He tasted strawberry wine and bile, tongue dry and feeling much too big for his mouth. He swallowed thickly, gritting his teeth against the burning at the base of his throat.

 

“Hmm?” He frowned, still somewhat unsure of where he was. Probably in his bed. And he had just been spooning someone. Kieran, right. Kieran was trying to talk to him. 

 

“Did we . . .?” Kieran let the question linger in the air unfinished, but even struggling into wakefulness through a vicious hangover, Elliott was aware of what he was asking– ‘Did they have sex?’

 

It was a perfectly normal question to ask when you wake up in someone else’s bed after a night of heavy drinking. Elliott didn’t remember even wanting to do that with Kieran, and the only sensations he felt in his body right now were his brain trying to violently beat its way out of his skull and the churning of his guts. So the answer was almost definitely no.

 

“Of course not,” Elliott replied, speaking slowly and quietly, trying to fight down the vomit that threatened to wretch out of him if he pushed his voice any further. “We’re both bottoms, how would that work?”

 

“I never said I was a bottom,” Kieran said, indignant. 

 

“It was implied.”

 

“Implied?”

 

Elliott waved a hand dismissively. He still hadn’t opened his eyes. “Something . . . something . . . subtext.” He remembered the conversation from the bar, vaguely– Kieran was pining over a straight man. That was bottom behavior, surely. It took one to know one. 

 

“If anything I’d consider myself vers, thank you very much.”

 

“Sure you are,” Elliott groaned, gripping his skull as he sat up, trying to keep his precious grey matter on the inside. He blinked slowly, letting the room come into focus. Kieran was sitting over the edge of the bed, his bare back turned to Elliott. “But the fact remains: our clothes are still on.” The same ones they’d been wearing from last night, to be exact– a little disheveled, a little damp on the pant legs, but still covering their bodies, mostly. Kieran’s shirt was in a sopping wet clump between the wall and the wastepaper basket sitting beside Elliott’s desk. He had a sudden flash of the farmer pulling his shirt off in frustration, tossing it into the waves and then hastily retrieving it. 

 

“How did we end up spooning then?” A fair question, but not one that Elliott could answer at the moment. His eyes felt like hot marbles burning a hole into his face.

 

“I don’t remember, honestly. The last thing I recall was wading into the fucking ocean to try and get your shoe back.”

 

“I don’t think we succeeded.”

 

“No, surely not,” Elliott said, leaning back on his elbows and squinting up at the ceiling. “Love is like the ocean . . . and when you lose your shoe in it, you just have to get a new one.”

 

“Another metaphor?”

 

“No, this time it’s quite literal. I’m too hungover to wax poetic with you.”

 

“I guess I should leave then.”

 

“Please do. I need to sleep this off.”

 

He heard shuffling, and then the sound of his cabin door creaking shut as Kieran made his exit. Try as he might though, he couldn’t fall back asleep.

 

He heaved himself out of bed and trudged around the back of his cabin, blinking into the harsh light of day. Just past the line where the sand blended into hard-packed dirt was an outhouse with a composting toilet that had been there for god knows how long before Elliott moved here. Inside, he found out just how much pizza and wine do not mix– at least not on the way back up. 

 

~*~

 

Willy was sitting on the dock when he arrived, line cast, watching the bobber dip and bounce on the gentle waves. The Gem Sea was pretty calm that morning, the sunlight dappled water blinding Elliott as he walked past the old fisherman into the shop with his canvas bag under his arm. Willy just nodded and told him to go right in, the water’s warm. 

 

Elliott had only lasted a week in the shack before the desire for a real shower turned into desperation. Luckily for him, Willy was willing to let him use his, in exchange for some company. The warm water in the shower was a soothing balm, the scent of his pomegranate shampoo and conditioner covering up the sins of the previous night. His head still ached something fierce, but once he was scrubbed down and dressed in clean, dry clothes, he felt a lot more like himself. 

 

He groaned, gingerly lowering himself on the edge of the dock next to Willy, the popping of his knees and the pounding in his skull reminding him that he was a bit too old for drunken debauchery. 

 

“Burnin’ the midnight oil again, lad?” Willy asked, handing him a ceramic mug filled with dubious coffee. He suspected that Willy used the instant stuff, but he never asked. There was enough cream and sugar in it to cover the acrid, bitter taste anyway. 

 

“Something like that,” he said with a sigh, shielding his eyes from the brutal summer sun. “I ran into the farmer last night, and we may have indulged in a little too much wine.” An understatement. Elliott should have known better than to try to keep up with a younger man, though Kieran seemed pretty worse for wear that morning too. 

 

“That’ll do it,” Willy said, “Ay, that’ll do it.” He passed over a breakfast sandwich wrapped in butcher paper: eggs, cheese, slice of tomato and– Elliott sniffed it– anchovies? He needed something in his stomach after being sick, so he risked a bite. It was anchovies, but surprisingly the salt of the fish balanced well with the rest of the ingredients.

 

“Helluva fisherman, that Kieran boy,” Willy said, “Caught that wily Crimson Fish– never thought I’d see the day.”

 

Elliott offered him a polite ‘hmm’ and nodded, focusing his limited mental faculties on the coffee and the sandwich.

 

“Will I be seein’ ya tonight then?” Willy leaned back, taking a slurping sip of his coffee and setting it back on the dock. The fish didn’t seem to be biting that morning, his line still slack in the water.

 

“I think I’ll be staying far away from the saloon for a few days.” 

 

“No, lad, for the jellies. Tonight is the most special night in all the valley– when the moonlight jellies dance.”

 

“I didn’t realize that was tonight,” Elliott said, draining the last dregs of his coffee with a grimace. 

 

“Have you talked to him?”

 

Kieran’s question fluttered back to him on the ocean breeze, pieces of the conversation filtering in behind it. He sure had a lot of advice for Kieran, but none of it was coming from a place of experience. He could lust after Gunther all he wanted, but he was never going to get anywhere if he didn’t actually say anything to the man. Easier said than done, he could admit, but the jellies provided a convenient excuse. On the docks, gazing out over the Gem Sea at the dancing diaphanous forms of the moonlight jellies– it was terribly romantic. 

 

~*~

 

It took him all day to get up the courage, loitering on the bridge that connected the beach and Pelican Town proper. He came there to think on occasion, begging the eddies and swirls of the river below to bring him inspiration. It only burbled in response, passing along its mysteries in an indecipherable tongue.

 

Now there was a line . . . maybe. Elliott shook his head and checked his watch. It was already five in the afternoon. The library would be closed at six, and so would his window of opportunity. He started walking before he could second-guess himself.

 

“So . . . Gunther,” Elliott said, pressing his fingers tentatively into the wooden surface of the circulation desk. “Any plans for this evening?”

 

“You’re looking at it,” Gunther said, gesturing to the array of gemstones and minerals on the desktop, “I’m cataloguing these specimens for the museum.”

 

“Do you ever take time off of work?” Elliott picked up a geode, glittering purple crystals within, and turned it back and forth in his hand as it caught the light. Gunther studied him for a moment, grey-blue eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted. Elliott gently set the stone down, returning Gunther’s gaze as butterflies fluttered in his stomach. “I-I mean, I never see you outside the library, so I wondered . . .”

 

Gunther gave him a rueful smile. “It’s been a while,” he said, not elaborating. A man of few words, as always, but it was giving Elliott particular trouble today. He felt like he was dragging in a heavy net, knowing it was laden with fish, but Yoba did his muscles ache. If he didn’t shore up his resolve it would slip under the water again.

 

“I was wondering if you might want to accompany me to the Dance of the Moonlight Jellies tonight,” Elliott said, voice wavering only slightly. “Surely such a fascinating natural phenomenon would be of interest to . . . um . . . to a scholar such as yourself.” 

 

There– he had done it. His cheeks were too hot, and he felt like he might be sick again any second, but his foot was in the door. 

 

Gunther seemed surprised, silent for a moment as he considered the offer. “Well, I suppose my cataloguing won’t take overly long,” he said, finally. “I’ll meet you there.”

 

~*~

 

The entire town had already gathered on the docks, the excited chatter of the crowd carried to where Elliott stood in front of his cabin on a light, salty breeze. He fiddled idly with the lantern in his hand, glancing up the path toward town until a light materialized, bobbing gently in a white-gloved hand. 

 

Gunther tipped his hat, “Elliott.”

 

“You made it, I was beginning to worry,” Elliott stammered, shoving his free hand into his pocket because he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “Ah, the um . . . the docks are pretty crowded already.”

 

“Yes, I see that,” Gunther said, surveying the scene outside Willy’s shop. Elliott might have been mistaken, but he swore that Gunther seemed a bit apprehensive– something in the tense set of his shoulders, or the slight downturn of his lips.

 

“The docks by the tidepools are empty, though,” Elliott offered.

 

He followed Elliott’s gaze to the two wooden docks jutting out over the sea in the dark, not a soul in sight. “So they are– shall we?” He smiled– a small, polite smile, but a smile all the same, crows feet deepening in the soft lantern light as they walked across the tidepools to the end of the dock. 

 

Elliott reached into his bag and pulled out a paper boat, shiny with paraffin wax, and a tea light. Willy had made it, and showed him how to coat the little craft in wax so it wouldn’t sink in the water. “It’s not as fancy as what Lewis puts together, but I brought a candle boat of our own,” he said, sheepishly. “The jellies are drawn to the light.”

 

“You know, it’s been many years since I’ve seen the jellies dance,” Gunther said, gazing wistfully across the water. 

 

“Why is that?”

 

He shrugged, “Life gets busy, and then when things slow down you forget what you used to do with all that time.”

 

Elliott nodded, unsure of how to respond. The man standing next to him didn’t seem to line up with the man in his fantasies. He was reserved, stoic, yes– but he also seemed lonely. Perhaps he was more of a kindred spirit than Elliott knew. 

 

“ The hours stretched like unfamiliar roads, and I stood at the edge, unsure where to walk ,” Elliott recited, “It’s from a poem I read once– something about aimlessness. I don’t remember the rest.”

 

“ I am learning again, how to be without needing to become. ” Gunther replied, “I know the one.”

 

“You read poetry?” 

 

“From time to time. You can find a lot of truth in poems, though usually that truth is hidden between the lines.”

 

“It’s what the poet doesn’t say.”

 

Gunther tilted his head with a smile, tapping the side of his nose with a gloved finger, “Exactly.”

 

Elliott’s stomach swooped, and he was grateful for the cover of darkness. He held his lantern low, hoping Gunther didn’t see the way his cheeks reddened at the praise. He supposed he shouldn’t be shocked that the man was just as reserved outside the museum as he was at work, but he had learned some new things– added some dimension to him in his mind. 

 

A noise from the main dock drew his attention– Lewis calling for the lantern boats to be lit. “Oh, damn . . . I think I forgot the lighter,” Elliott said, placing his lantern on the dock and fishing around in his bag, holding the waxed-paper boat with its little tea light aloft in his other hand. 

 

He heard a soft scraping sound, and the hiss of a flame being ignited. Gunther stepped in close, holding a lit match. Elliott watched, transfixed by the dancing firelight reflecting on the lenses of his round glasses as he lit the candle and shook out the match flame. “Ah . . . thanks,” Elliott said, heart racing at the sudden proximity. To his surprise, Gunther stayed where he was, close enough to be illuminated in the glow of the tiny makeshift lantern boat. 

 

“Would you do the honors?” Gunther said, gesturing toward the water. 

 

Elliott knelt at the edge of the dock and carefully lowered the boat into the surf, pushing it lightly. It caught a small wave, carrying it out beyond his reach. 

 

A hush fell over the crowd gathered outside Willy’s shop as the lanterns bobbed on the water, and soon the jellies began to emerge– just a few at first, and then the waves were filled with hundreds of softly glowing lights, dancing gently to music only they could hear. Gunther had set his lantern down on the dock, and he stood silently observing the jellies as they frolicked, eyes wide with wonder as his face was illuminated in the soft blue-green glow. Elliott tore his eyes away from the sea to watch him, the way his face softened as he took in the sight before him. 

 

“That’s quite the sight,” Gunther said, his voice low and silky, “Makes one want to try writing a little poetry.”

 

“Yes, I agree,” Elliott replied, still tracing the curves of Gunther’s side profile with his eyes.

 

“Thank you for bringing me out here, Elliott,” Gunther said, turning to him with the barest hint of a smile, “My work can be a bit lonesome.”

 

Elliott’s head swam, heat rushing into his cheeks and pooling in his core. “Mine too,” he said. 

~*~

A Sonnet For Gunther, After the Jellies 

 

You told me truth hides deep in poets’ lines,

Not in the words, but what they leave unsaid.

The sea lit up with soft and ghostly signs,

While quiet thoughts danced lightly in my head.

 

The jellies shimmered, pale beneath the blue,

Soft pulses echoing what I can’t say.

You kept your distance, careful in the night,

While I stood close but kept my love at bay.

 

Desire locked away, a silent sea,

A yearning deep I dare not call my own.

Still, under moonlight’s tender mystery,

I wait in shadows cast by you alone.

 

Though silent now, my yearning burns anew,

A whispered truth I give to only you.

Notes:

It's gonna be difficult but I'm tempted to end every chapter with a poem. It feels appropriate for this story and I'm having fun with it.

By the way, the poem that Gunther and Elliott partially recited is not real-- I just made it the fuck up. I had to fit the theme of the conversation, sooooo. . .

Chapter 4: The Oyster Asks for More than Hands that Pry and Yearn

Summary:

Elliott finds Gunther alone in the library, at golden hour.

Notes:

I had to get up several times to pace frantically in front of my desk while I was working through this conversation. And all it is, is like, the flash of an ankle to a Victorian. A tiny crumb of intimacy. Just one. As a treat.

When Elliott awoke that morning, after the Jellies, he knew attempting to write was futile. The first chill breeze of fall ruffled the sheer curtains, bringing with it swirling thoughts like fallen leaves dancing in the air. A lit match in the dark, perhaps a spark– Elliott certainly felt it, at least. Seeing Gunther outside of the library was illuminating. In a way he felt more real: a man, not just a fantasy. He was still just as reserved, and his face gave almost nothing away, but it felt like progress. Slowly that oyster of a man was opening up his shell, and Elliott could see the pearl glimmering inside. 

 

Had he been imagining the tenderness in his gaze as he held the lit match to the candle, or the softness in his voice as he recited that poem? Such is the curse of a writer, to romanticize such small interactions. Like a soft gasp, a slight brush of fingers, or the flash of an ankle in a period drama. For all he knew, Gunther was completely unaware of the ulterior motives behind the invitation. 

 

One thing had been real, though: Gunther’s sincerity when he thanked him, speaking of lonely work that mirrored Elliott’s own. He saw the two of them in his mind’s eye as pieces of driftwood lost in the surf, thinking the ocean is a vast, empty place. If he could find a common current, they could drift together, and perhaps wash up on shore, tangled up in seaweed . . . Damnit, he was thinking about having sex with Gunther again– Yoba help him, he was just a man at the end of the day. It had been far too long since he’d known the touch of a lover, and he suspected it was starting to drive him mad. The only benefit of that he could see was that the insane often made great artists. 

 

He was on the bridge again that afternoon, shoring up his resolve. The farmer’s drunken encouragement had given him enough confidence to break the seal, but that was all. He had believed that his one moonlit night with Gunther would erase his anxiety about the whole thing, but it might have actually made it worse. It seemed so easy in all of the romance novels he read. In reality, unfortunately, pursuits of the heart were less fraught with drama and more in danger of fizzling out before they even began. He had to speak to Gunther again, and then keep doing it until . . . until what? Until the man eventually caught on to the hints he’d been oh so subtly dropping?

 

The problem he was faced with now was that eventually he was going to have to be honest about his intentions. And it seemed he would have to do so without any indication that his feelings would be reciprocated. He liked a stoic mystery man, but the very thing that tantalized him also tortured him. 

 

~*~

 

The library was quiet at that time of day, golden hour sunlight pouring in through the tall windows that lined the far wall. The circulation desk was empty, but as Elliott scanned the room he spotted that signature blue cowboy hat peeking out above the shelves near the back. His heart fluttered, heat fanning across his cheeks as he realized they were alone in there, just an hour before close. It was the perfect setup for a romantic encounter, the afternoon sun painting the scene in shades of gold. Hadn’t he read such a scene before? A quiet library, a stolen glance, hushed conversation and maybe more betwixt the shelves. So why then, did his feet insist on remaining frozen to the carpet in the entryway? It was so quiet, the silence undisturbed even by Gunther’s movements just on the other side of the room, and all he could hear was the sound of his own heart beating, faster and faster as his brain failed to come up with clever words. 

 

“Elliott? Did you need assistance with something?” Gunther appeared in the gap between the shelves, glowing like a mirage in the desert, haloed in the brilliant sunlight. 

 

“Actually,” he said, steeling himself, “I came to see you.” 

 

“Ah, well, I certainly wouldn’t mind the company,” Gunther said, tucking his thumbs into his belt loops, expression unreadable as always– but was there a hint of warmth there? Or was it just a trick of the light?

 

“The museum’s been empty for years,” Gunther said, maneuvering a small cart between the display cases, “But Kieran’s been finding some great artifacts down in the mines. I’m just getting around to displaying some of these.” On the cart there was an assortment of strange items: a few ancient tattered scrolls, a chipped flute made of some strange off-white material that might be bone, the fossil of some prehistoric amphibian, a chunk of quartz, and a few other things Elliott didn’t recognize. 

 

“Would you like any help?” Elliott lingered near the edge of the museum, clasping and unclasping his hands before deciding to slide them into his pockets. He was trying to appear casual.

 

 “I’m happy just to chat. Don’t get to do much of that these days.” Gunther took one of the scrolls, tied around the middle with a faded blue ribbon, and delicately placed it on a small pedestal within a glass case. “Are you familiar with the ancient dwarves?” 

 

“I can’t say that I am,” Elliott said. He watched Gunther’s white gloved hands place the next scroll, this one tied with a red ribbon. It was hard to speak with the butterflies swarming in his stomach. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that he was finally, truly alone with the object of his fantasies– and the man was talking to him about dwarves. 

 

“They used to occupy the mines that cut through this valley centuries ago. Now there’s little evidence to confirm they still exist. These scrolls contain the secret to understanding the dwarvish language, though the paper is so brittle and dry, it would be a risk to study them.”

 

“That’s fascinating,” Elliott said. It truly was, but his mind was occupied thinking of ways to steer this conversation into more romantic territory.

 

“Indeed. This valley holds many secrets for those willing to explore its hidden corners.” He appeared to contemplate this for a time, selecting a hunk of quartz from the cart and moving on to the next display, where several other minerals and gems already sat on green velvet trays. “From what I understand, you’re a relative newcomer here in town,” Gunther said, “What made a worldly young man like yourself move to such a backwater place?”

 

Elliott chuckled, but there wasn’t really any humor in it. His move to Pelican Town had become a rather touchy subject of late, as the sand slipped through the hourglass and he still had nothing to show the world. Gunther raised his eyebrows, eyes curious behind his spectacles. “My father wanted me to go into business,” he said, finally, “but I never had any passion for it. I was always more interested in books, so I took up writing, hoping to . . .  I don’t know, weave my own versions of the fantasies I loved getting lost in.” 

 

Once those first words had passed his lips, Elliott couldn’t stop them. Leah might be the only person in town who had heard this story before, and it almost didn’t count because it mirrored her own. It was much easier to commiserate than it was to be vulnerable with a man who had been nothing more than a day dream until now. 

 

“My friends and my family didn’t believe I could do it. They said I was too wishy-washy, that I had my head in the clouds, and they kept reminding me that for every author who succeeds there are thousands of others who fade away into obscurity. So I thought I would go off on my own, somewhere quiet and far-removed where I could work without all the negativity weighing me down.”

 

“It’s quite admirable– giving up so much worldly comfort to pursue your dreams,” Gunther said, turning to gaze out of the window, golden sunlight reflecting off his glasses so brightly it nearly blinded Elliott. “How’s your writing been going?”

 

“Ahem . . . well, that’s the problem,” he said, voice coming out more timid than he intended, “It hasn’t. I’m proving them all right, I’m afraid.”

 

“Well now,” Gunther said, stepping around the display cases, stopping just feet from Elliott. He stroked his beard, looking up into the ceiling as if plucking words of wisdom from the rafters. “It seems a life of isolation hasn’t produced the inspiration you were hoping for.”

 

“No, it would appear not.” He found a few grains of sand in his pocket and rubbed it between his fingers, unable to look at Gunther now that he was so close. 

 

“Tell me, Elliott– what makes those stories you love so colorful?”

 

The question caught him off guard, like his math teacher in high school asking him a question he hadn’t heard because he was too busy reading a novel under his desk. “I– I’m not sure I follow.”

 

“It’s the characters,” he said, smiling, “The people who populate your fictional world and breathe life into it.” Gunther approached then, so close Elliott could smell the rich, masculine scent of his aftershave– bergamot, cedar, and black pepper– and reached to pluck a book from the shelf behind him. Elliott’s pulse quickened, loud in his ears as Gunther brushed a gloved hand over the worn, blue fabric cover, and opened it, the woody sweet smell of its pages wafting into the scant space between them. “This book was written by an old friend of mine,” he said with quiet reverence. “It follows the goings on of a small town in a valley just like this one. It might seem like your average slice of life story– certainly not exciting to today’s modern reader, but the characters feel alive. While she was writing the book, this friend of mine moved to a small town, and spent countless hours speaking to the people there, hearing their stories.”

 

They stood in silence for a moment that felt like a century to Elliott as he held his breath, mesmerized as Gunther’s fingers traced the words inside the book. “How well do you know the people in this town?”

 

“W-well I . . .” he trailed off, uncertainty creeping in. He knew Leah pretty well, and he spoke to Willy daily– and then there was that night with the farmer . . . but other than that he was coming up empty. He deflected, “Well there is, um, one person in town I’d like to know better.” He glanced at Gunther, shocked to find those blue-grey eyes looking right back at him, a bemused expression on his face.

 

“You know, Elliott, I am a bit perplexed by your sudden interest in me,” he said, “I’m sure you’re well aware that I am old enough to be your father.”

 

Surely at this distance there was no way for Gunther to miss the crimson that blazed on his cheeks at that remark, his palms growing sweaty as his heart galloped in his chest. He forced his eyes to remain locked on Gunther’s, stammering as he gave his confession– or as close to one as he dared. “S-some people . . . um . . . p-prefer the company of more, um, experienced men.” His voice was nearly a whisper, just loud enough for the other man to hear, as if speaking any louder would break the nearby display cases. “And for what it’s worth,” Elliott added, “my interest isn’t sudden.”

 

Gunther carefully returned the book to the shelf with a low chuckle, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I see,” he said, “So all those poetry books you’ve been checking out by the shelf-full weren’t inspiration for your work after all. You were hoping I would get the hint.”

 

Elliott sucked in a breath as wave after wave of sheer embarrassment crashed over his mind and obliterated all rational thought. Hearing it said out loud like that made him sound quite childish. There was nothing he could say, so he just stared at Gunther, heat blazing in his face, mouth agape. He tried to stutter out some excuse or another, but it was no use. 

 

“Those books are full of pretty words,” Gunther continued, slipping off one white glove and placing it in the breast pocket of his shirt. His hand was pale, and bore a large burn scar across his fingers and down the back of it, dusty red, raised, and wrinkled like worn leather. Elliott looked down, studying the patterns in the carpet as he tried to keep from falling apart under such direct attention. “But all of those words are from the mouths of other poets. I’d like to hear yours.” 

 

Gunther delicately brushed a lock of Elliott's long auburn hair from his face, gently caressing the shell of his ear, and the small gold hoop that dangled from the lobe as he tucked the wayward strand behind it. 

 

“I suspect the loneliness you’ve inflicted upon yourself is the reason you can’t find those words,” Gunther said, “And perhaps it is also the cause of this little crush.”

 

If he wasn’t so flustered, Elliott would be insulted by that. “Little crush? Gunther . . . I’m not some naive child.”

 

“No. No I suppose you aren’t,” Gunther said, stepping back only slightly. “I’ll admit I am quite fascinated by you. It’s curious that such a beautiful, intelligent young man would gravitate toward someone like me, when he could have his pick of any number of more attractive and age-appropriate suitors.”

 

“I’m flattered, but I’m not as popular as you think,” Elliott laughed nervously, fiddling with the sand in his pocket again, “And besides, even if I did have an endless parade of suitors, I wouldn’t want their affection.”

 

“No?”

 

“Not even a little.”

 

Gunther raised an eyebrow, assessing Elliott over the top of his glasses, which had slid slightly down the bridge of his nose. He pushed them back up, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, “Take some time to think on this, and try to speak to everyone in town. Collect their stories, and see if you can’t find some inspiration in them. Then you and I can sit down, have a meal, and talk it over– see where this goes.”

 

There it was– an open door. It came with caveats, but he could see the light streaming through it like the golden hour light bathing the inside of the library. “I think I can handle that.”

The Oyster

I found it nestled in a bed of stone,

Its edges sealed, determined, and alone.

No tide nor time could tempt it to be swayed,

To loose the pearl that deep within it stayed 

 

With careful hands I gently traced the seam,

Tried to pry the hinge that hides a buried gleam.

 

It would not yield to blade, nor wood, nor stone,

Each effort met with quiet watchful grace:

A question posed, unanswered– truth concealed

A riddle in the depths of years unrevealed.

 

They say some oysters never show their gleam

Too veiled in depths, too distant yet to dream

But I, a poet, never could ignore

A mystery that haunts a moonlit shore.

 

Still the oyster guards its pearl inside its shell,

Unwilling to part with treasures held so well

It asks for more than hands that pry and yearn

A journey walked before the pearl is earned

 

And so I took the oyster back to the sea

And from the tidepool it regarded me:

 

“Come back, young man, when you have sailed the deep

And lain your eyes on treasures not to keep

For true treasures are the memories you bear

Bring them back to me and sing them to the air

 

You’ll find your pearl then, nestled there.”

Chapter 5: Gathered Threads in Golden Spools

Summary:

Elliott gets to know the people of Pelican Town, and is finally invited for dinner at Gunther's.

Notes:

Sorry for the long time between updates. I was possessed by Sambastian demons the last few weeks, and was honestly struggling with how I wanted to portray Elliott going about fulfilling Gunther's little challenge. Now that those two Sam/Seb fics are done I can come back here and actually put some work in on this. There is an outline for this story, so never fear, I do not intend to abandon it.

Did you know that outlines are actually talismans? The protect me from The Curse.

Elliott was not a very patient man, something that everyone who knew him would attest to. It made Gunther’s challenge rather difficult, and at first he felt a strange stirring of resentment, sitting alone in his shack before the typewriter. No ideas were coming to him, as usual. He was stuck sulking, wondering if the man’s request for time had been a polite rejection– denying Elliott his presence in the hopes that his “little crush” would fizzle out, the way a teacher might rebuff the advances of an overly amorous student.

 

Still, there was tenderness in his touch. Elliott stroked his ear, toying absently with his earring, remembering the feeling of Gunther’s bare fingers tracing the shape of it as he tucked a lock of his hair. His pulse quickened at the thought, Gunther’s face so close to his as he told him that he was more interested in Elliott’s words than the ones contained in those poetry books he so often checked out of the library.

 

Perhaps he was overthinking things. His request wasn’t a rejection but a test. He wanted to know if Elliott was serious, that was all. A lonesome soul, like a stray cat, he reasoned, doesn’t trust its first brush with affection. 

 

Not everyone in town was so willing to talk to him, but he hoped that Gunther would appreciate the effort. Shane and Linus regarded his questions with suspicion, Pierre was simply too busy to chat, and Alex had promised to speak with him if he could catch a gridball– he could not. 

 

He was on the verge of giving up, in the saloon that Friday, listening to the local blacksmith, Clint, whine pathetically about his unrequited pining for Emily. Every time he thought the conversation was over, the man would continue, going on and on about how no one ever wants to listen to him, and Elliott was just such a nice guy for lending an ear. He leaned on the table, head heavy in his hands, regretting every second of this conversation. He must have drained three glasses of wine as the man lamented his terrible fortune. Elliott almost told Clint to try talking to her, but he decided he actually liked Emily, so he held his tongue. 

 

He was saved in the end, by Emily herself, flitting by the table with a wine bottle in hand. She laid a hand on his shoulder, her expression growing serious. “Your aura is looking quite clouded today, Elliott– is everything okay?”

 

“You can see auras?” Elliott asked, perking up considerably at the diversion. He followed her back to the bar, throwing an apologetic smile to Clint as an afterthought, and listened to her rattle on about energies and crystals while she cleaned the bar top in front of him. If he was of a mind to write fantasy, that conversation would be pretty inspiring. Not his usual cup of tea, but he found himself drawn into her warm and bubbly persona. 

 

“Are there any crystals that have to do with love?” Elliott asked, gliding a finger around the rim of his wine glass, feeling tipsy and more than a little wistful. 

 

“Ah, that would explain your aura. You’ve got someone on your mind?” Emily leaned over the bar, a conspiratorial glimmer in her wide brown eyes. 

 

Elliott sighed, “Yes, but I’m not sure if it’s going anywhere with him. Well, I got somewhere . . . there was a moment, but–” He trailed off, taking a long sip of his wine. “I guess I just have to be patient with this one.”

 

Emily nodded sagely. “Love often manifests slowly, and with effort,” she said. 

 

“I’m discovering that.”

 

The next day Emily appeared at his doorstep, a small chunk of rose quartz clutched in one hand. The glittering pink stone, she asserted, could be used to attract love. “It can also,” she added with a wink, “help you with some self-love and inner calm.”

 

Self-love. Now there was a topic he didn’t like to dwell on, as it seemed to be in perpetually short supply the longer he toiled over the blank pages in his typewriter. The man who swept into town all blustery confidence and romantic ideals was but a shade now, wandering in the back of his mind looking for crumbs of inspiration. 

 

He was feeling surprisingly buoyant after chatting with Emily, though. Her energy was infectious, and she seemed to have some confidence in him at least. So, rose quartz safely tucked into his pocket, he resumed his quest with renewed vigor. 

 

From Caroline he learned how to cultivate a tea sapling, watching her careful, dexterous hands prune the delicate branches in her little greenhouse behind her husband’s shop. For the plant to mature and produce quality leaves, you need to cut away the dying or malformed pieces that stymie its growth. In a way it was a lot like editing– cutting away superfluous sentences that don’t serve the narrative. But he still didn’t know what kind of story he wanted to tell. 

 

On another day he intercepted Kieran, who was carrying a basket of produce the Mullner’s had ordered, and offered to take it to their house himself. It took some convincing, but luckily the farmer was incredibly busy that day and in the end was grateful to hand it off. Evelyn was in the middle of baking a batch of fresh cookies, and while she wouldn’t share her recipe, she was happy to regale him with tales of her young romantic life. Looking into the living room it was hard to picture the grumpy old man as a nervous teenager, stuttering over his words as he asked a young Evelyn on a date. As he left, he heard the pair speaking quietly, and though he couldn’t make out individual words, George’s speech sounded uncharacteristically tender. 

 

It was unexpected, how deeply such a small thing touched him, and he thought about it at length as he dug into the plate of cookies Evelyn had sent home with him. The romances that lived on the darkened shelf in the back of the library were whirlwinds, flash floods, forest fires– here one second and gone when you closed the cover on the last page. The love that the Mullner’s shared was more like a hearth– a comforting blaze kept fed over many years, not with logs but with kind words, touches, fond memories, generously spreading that warmth to the people who sat beside it and listened to the crackle of the flames. 

 

~*~

 

Elliott couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment his perspective shifted, his conversations with the people of Pelican Town evolved from a simple means to fulfill a challenge to something he genuinely enjoyed. He was invited to tea at the Mullner residence, energy cleansings with Emily, and aerobics class in Caroline’s living room. At aerobics class, where he discovered he was woefully out of shape despite his lithe figure, he was invited to join the bookclub attended by most of the ladies in town, and Dr. Harvey, who was happy to have another male presence in the group.

 

Before he knew it, more than two weeks had passed, and in the golden light of the mid-fall afternoon, he finally made his way back to the library. In the end the most remarkable thing about the experience is that he didn’t feel lonely anymore. His writing wasn’t necessarily progressing like he’d hoped, but he found he cared a little less about it at the moment. He’d been jotting down poems in his journal– small signs that his creativity was slowly returning as he fulfilled his human need for connection. 

 

But what about Gunther, all alone in his library? While he was away, he had plenty of time to reflect on it. He still wanted the man carnally, that was for certain, but the mission now had a certain nuance. Gunther had given him a gift in forcing him to step outside his comfort zone, and Elliott wondered if he could perhaps return the favor, starting with the Stardew Valley Fair the next day.

 

Gunther wasn’t at his desk when Elliott arrived, so he made his way to the reading area where Penny sat with Vincent and Jas. The children were fidgeting in their seats, clearly antsy to leave as Penny spoke to them about the ancient dwarves that used to live in the valley. Elliott knew a thing or two about that subject, thanks to a certain someone.

 

Elliott cleared his throat as he approached the table. “You know, Gunther has some ancient Dwarven artifacts in the museum,” he said, “Might be interesting to take a look . . . you know, as a lesson supplement.”

 

The children's eyes lit up at that, and they started begging Penny to show them. She conceded, and the pair raced off toward the display cases. 

 

“Thanks for rescuing me there,” Penny said with a long-suffering sigh, “Those kids were so bored it was starting to make me antsy. I couldn’t get them to pay attention at all.”

 

“Oh, it’s no problem. Gunther showed them to me the last time I was here, and I heard some of what your lesson was about, so– thought it would be of interest.” 

 

“Would you mind pointing them out to me? I haven’t seen them yet.”

 

“Of course.”

 

The museum had expanded somewhat since Elliott was last there, and as he approached the case full of Dwarven artifacts he quickly scanned the plaques, all meticulously written in a precise, slanted script. 

 

“These four scrolls here were written in Dwarvish script,” Elliott said, directing the children’s attention with a pointed finger. 

 

“What do they say?” Vincent asked, leaning close enough to the glass to leave a circle of fog.

 

“We simply don’t know,” a familiar voice said, “Anthropologists haven’t quite cracked the code yet.” 

 

Elliott’s heart leapt in his throat as Gunther practically materialized at his side, beaming down at the children as they peered into the display cases with curious eyes. Penny leaned down and pointed at the plaque in front of a Dwarven helm, reading it out loud to the children, who clustered around her to gawk at the strange helmet. 

 

“Helping out with lessons today, are you?” Gunther asked with a gentle laugh.

 

“Well, I couldn’t help but overhear that today’s lesson was about the dwarves, and well– I remembered what you showed me last time . . .” he trailed off, cheeks heating, suddenly finding it difficult to speak with Gunther standing so close their shoulders nearly touched. “I . . . um, followed your advice, got to know people . . . all of that,” he stammered.

 

“I did miss seeing your face around the library, but I’m glad you took what I said to heart,” Gunther said, turning to Elliott with a warm smile, crows feet at the corners of his blue-grey eyes crinkling.

 

Elliott’s pulse quickened, stomach swooping at the implications of that simple sentence. Already he could feel his face warming under Gunther’s soft gaze, haloed in the golden light streaming through the windows. “You . . . missed me?” 

 

“Oh!” Penny exclaimed, looking at the slim leather watch around her wrist, “I didn’t realize what time it was– thanks for showing us the artifacts.” She ushered the children through the library and out the front door, and then he was alone with Gunther, finally.

 

“I admit I did miss you quite a bit,” Gunther said, gazing over the display cases, “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

 

~*~

 

Gunther led him behind the circulation desk and through the door behind it that led to his living quarters. Elliott’s head was floating somewhere in the aether, his heart racing as he followed behind, a feeling in his body like standing up for the first time after too much wine. This was uncharted territory– stepping over the threshold into something he’d only dreamed about before. He’d imagined what Gunther’s home looked like countless times, scenery filled in around the acts of passion they were so often in the midst of when he let his mind slip into fantasy. Now that he was actually here, he felt like a newborn colt taking his first steps. 

 

“It’s not much, but it’s home,” Gunther said, slipping off his shoes and placing them in a rack by the door. Elliott followed suit, placing his old brown brogues next to a pair of cowboy boots that looked like they’d been used for their original purpose, scuffed, creased and worn down in places– nothing like the sharp dress shoes Gunther usually wore in the library.

 

He was standing in a sitting area, small but richly furnished with a deep brown leather sofa, an antique-looking mahogany rocking chair with blue velvet cushions set in front of a small bookshelf packed full with books of various sizes and colors, their spines all creased but free of dust. A slim volume, poetry, it seemed from a brief glance at the cover, lay on a small wooden table beside the chair. In the center of the room was a fireplace and a rack of brass fireplace tools that looked used but clean and well-cared for. There was evidence of previous fires in the hearth, but it had been swept. Beside the tools was a pile of firewood neatly stacked in a decorative bronze log holder. The mantle was bare, but the walls of the room were decorated with tasteful landscape paintings and framed maps. 

 

“It’s beautiful,” Elliott said, taking it all in, “I think I’d be a bit embarrassed to show you my home.”

 

It was exactly the sort of place he would expect a man like Gunther to live– tastefully furnished and fastidiously neat, the decor speaking eloquently of times gone by. He couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering to the door on the far side of the room, likely leading to Gunther’s bedroom, and he wondered if the night would eventually lead him there.

 

Gunther chuckled, idly stroking his beard. “I’ve lived in more rustic places than this,” he said, “I’m sure I wouldn’t turn up my nose at it.”

 

The kitchen was small and intimate, a sturdy oak table with two carved wooden chairs sat in the center only a few feet from the stove and a granite countertop with a knife rack and a coffee maker. The fridge was an older model, but spotlessly clean and free of the magnets and photos you would see in other homes. You could probably eat off the floor, it was so clean. 

 

From the fridge Gunther produced an armful of ingredients: chicken thighs, mushrooms, a bundle of herbs, and fresh leeks, and set them on the counter.

 

“Oh, forgive my manners– I haven’t offered you a drink yet.”

 

“That’s quite alright,” Elliott said, standing awkwardly in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen.

 

“Please, have a seat,” Gunther said, gesturing to the table and filling a glass with water from a filter pitcher.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?”

 

Gunther handed Elliott the glass of water with a smile, “This kitchen’s not exactly made for two chefs– why don’t you regale me with tales of your adventure while I cook.”

 

And so he did, laying out before Gunther a tale of his integration into the fabric of the community as he effortlessly whipped up the meal. The aroma in the kitchen was intoxicating, and Elliott watched Gunther as he moved about the small kitchen as if in a trance, noting that his usually gloved hands were bare now, the burn scars on the backs of both clearly visible. Though they clearly didn’t come from cooking, if the grace with which he moved was anything to go by. Occasionally Gunther asked clarifying questions, and made noises of interest as Elliott spoke without looking up from his task. It was much easier to let the words flow when Gunther’s eyes weren’t on him, only stumbling over his words when Gunther offered praise for making such a strong effort. 

 

“I think that warrants a little celebration,” Gunther said, selecting a bottle of wine from the rack above the refrigerator. 

 

The dinner was simple, but the flavors were heavenly: roasted chicken thighs in a mushroom and red wine sauce, pan-fried leaks, and roasted potatoes flavored with rosemary and just the right amount of salt. To pair with it, a velvety merlot that went down nice and smooth. 

 

“This is incredible– where’d you learn to cook?” Elliott asked, still unsure if this was just another one of his dreams. But Gunther was there, in the flesh, eating and speaking and drinking his wine. Before the meal he had removed his signature hat, as if he’d forgotten he had it on, and hung it on a coatrack near the door. His hair was almost as long as Elliotts, deep brown but with streaks of gray at his temples and peppered throughout. Elliott had never seen him without the hat, therefore, he reasoned, this couldn’t be a dream.

 

“I’m not much of a chef,” he said with a light chuckle, “I just know a few family recipes passed down from my mother.”

 

“I don’t know, I think you could give Gus a run for his money with this,” Elliott said, grinning. 

 

With a liquid courage he found himself growing comfortable. Gunther had a gentle, easy way of speaking that set him at ease, although he still filled each quiet moment racing to the future in his mind, tantalized by the promise the night held. When Gunther laid a hand over his and suggested they retire to the living room he was sure the man could see it written all over his face, crimson blooming on his cheeks, pulse racing at the slightest contact. 

 

The image of Gunther kneeling by the hearth, arranging the logs and kindling, setting them ablaze, called to his mind a vision of a younger Gunther exploring the wilderness, setting camp for the night in the boots he had seen by the doorway. The furnishings in his home, the clothing he wore, the scars, and the quiet confidence of his movements spoke to a life of adventure. It contrasted sharply with the image of a man who never left his library.

 

For a while they sat in companionable silence, watching the flames dance. Elliott was hyperaware of Gunther’s presence just inches away, sure his heart beat was audible over the warm crackle of the fire. Whether it was sheer curiosity, or the wine, he was eventually compelled to break the silence first. 

 

He took one of Gunther’s hands in his own, tracing along the edge of the scar that splashed across the back of it with a whisper-light touch, “May I ask where you got these scars? I imagine it’s quite the tale.”

 

Gunther leaned back on the couch, gazing up at the ceiling, a smile flickering across his lips, “Indeed it is– a story from my younger days. I was on an expedition to some remote island, digging for fossils with my old friend . . . I believe he goes by Professor Snail these days.”

 

As he spoke, Gunther brushed his hand along Elliott’s cheek, trailing his fingers through his hair. Elliott leaned into his touch, slowly lowering himself until his head rested in Gunther’s lap. He held his breath for a moment, wondering if the man would protest, but he continued to tell his story, gently petting Elliott’s hair as he lay there listening. 

 

“We followed a dancing flame through the jungle, and it led us to a volcano . . .”

 

The meal, the wine, the gentle brushing of Gunther’s fingers along his scalp, the soft silky tones of his voice, the warmth of the hearth, the dancing flames casting shadows on the walls– ingredients to a powerful sleep potion. As Gunther told the story of the volcano, and the magma creatures he and Professor Snail encountered there, Elliott slowly drifted off to sleep.

 

~*~

 

The Pearl

I returned then, to the tide pools

and the oyster nestled there among the seaweed;

Stories in hand, gathered threads in golden spools

Unfurled from my silvered tongue.

 

I spoke of names once distant, now held dear,

Of mornings fading to evening amidst chatter and cheer,

Of laughter spilling from the saloon’s doors,

Of quiet talks that opened hidden doors.

 

The oyster sat, silent in the swell,

And in that hush, I knew it listened well.

 

But there came no crack, no sudden shining gleam,

No glowing pearl revealed beneath the stream.

Instead the oyster murmured soft and sweet,

A whisper like a tender kiss, when lovers meet:

 

“You sought in me what you already bore,

A gleam not forged in shell but something more.

The pearl was always yours, in every word and breath,

A shining light that grows with life and depth.”

 

And in the tidepool, clear as mirrored glass,

I saw myself, reflected from the past.

Not hunter now, nor seeker of the prize,

But the bearer of a light I’d failed to recognize.

 

The stories I had gathered were the key,

Not to unlock the oyster’s shell, but to set my soul free.

For I, myself, was the thing concealed:

A pearl of life, by living, slowly revealed.

Chapter 6: One Fair Day

Summary:

Gunther and Elliott spend some time at the fair as their connection deepens

Notes:

This chapter contains some scenes from Chapter 12 of Working it Out (The Reboot). You're probably tired of hearing me say this, but that story isn't required reading to understand what's going on. That said, writing this conversation from Elliott's perspective with the additional context of knowing what actually happened the night before is pretty funny. This is actually the last time this story will connect to the original.

This chapter is on the heftier side, so enjoyyyyy~

Warmth . . . the weight of a heavy quilt, soft pillow cradling his head, aroma of sizzling bacon wafting into the room, dappled sunlight on his closed eyelids– Elliott was unsure of where he was as he woke. The mattress beneath him was much more comfortable than his lumpy excuse for a bed at home. Half-remembered dreams flitted past in his mind, flashes of heat, flowing magma, swinging on a vine wrapped up in strong arms. Slowly, he opened his eyes and waited for the room to come into focus. 

 

He was in a bed, tucked under a heavy quilt, rustic and hand-stitched. Sheer curtains framed a small window at the foot of it, centered between two carved wooden bed posts. To the left of the window was a small dresser of dark polished wood, on top of which he spotted a hairbrush, a set of cufflinks in a small metal dish, a jar of shoe polish, a book of matches, a wooden pipe on a stand next to a pouch of tobacco, Gunther’s white gloves, and a framed black and white photo that appeared to be of a handsome young couple holding a small boy between them. On the nightstand beside him, beneath an antique bronze lamp was a glass of water. 

 

This must be Gunther’s bedroom. Elliott jolted upright in bed, pulse racing. He was still dressed, so unfortunately nothing had happened between them. He vaguely remembered lying in Gunther’s lap, eyelids growing heavy as he told a harrowing tale from his younger days as an archaeologist. Gunther must have carried him in here after he fell asleep. That thought brought a soft blush to his cheeks, heat blossoming pleasantly in his core, imagining the man tenderly slipping him beneath the covers, perhaps pressing a kiss to his forehead and he pulled the quilt up over his chest. He ghosted his fingertips across his forehead, trying to imagine the feeling of his lips there, the scent of his aftershave as he leaned in close. 

 

The other side of the bed was undisturbed, so he must not have slept in here. The sound of movement from the kitchen, the burble of the coffee maker, told him Gunther was already awake and making breakfast. He slipped out of bed and padded to the dresser.

 

The photo, held in an ornate frame, was of a man and a woman in simple but elegant attire. Between them a young boy grinned at the camera, looking like he was maybe ten or twelve– Elliott wasn’t the best at guessing children’s ages. He wore a blazer and shorts, a bit like what he imagined a child would wear at some kind of fancy boarding school, his hair disheveled, and the hint of a scrape on one of his knees. Could this be Gunther and his parents? It was hard to imagine Gunther as a boy, but the features of the older man in the photo were so similar to the man Elliott knew that it had to be his father. 

 

His eyes flickered to the closet along the wall, to the right of another door that must lead into the bathroom. He stepped softly, sliding open the door, careful not to make a sound. Gunther’s clothing hung neatly inside, each item evenly spaced. There were a few of those pearl-snap shirts he always wore, neatly pressed, all in various shades of blue. One item in particular caught his eye, at the end, nestled in behind a woolen winter coat. It was a dark brown suede jacket with leather fringe along the chest and the back of the sleeves. He imagined it paired with the cowboy boots by the door, the two of them riding off into the sunset on a horse, prairie wind whipping through his hair. It smelled of old leather, hay, and woodsmoke.

 

The bathroom was more or less what he expected– small, simple, and spotlessly clean. Beneath a small window was an antique clawfoot tub, a more modern looking showerhead affixed to the top behind a simple shower curtain. The vanity was solid wood topped with a polished white stone countertop and a sink with brassy-looking fixtures. He imagined his own toothbrush sitting in the small cup on the counter, next to Gunther’s. A very different fantasy than usual, imagining a picture of domesticity rather than carnal pleasures. 

 

Also on the counter was a tube of toothpaste, a razor, and a small glass bottle of aftershave. Elliott carefully unscrewed the cap and wafted it under his nose: bergamot, cedar, black pepper– his scent. It was different in the bottle than it was on his skin– less warm, less inviting. Another image flooded his mind as he inhaled the fragrance, his face buried in the crook of Gunther’s neck, the scent of the aftershave on his heated skin as they . . . He was getting ahead of himself. They had shared some intimate moments, yes, but there hadn’t been so much as a kiss. He sighed as he replaced the bottle, not sure if he was content with the knowledge that he was going to have to continue being patient.

 

He followed his nose to the kitchen, where Gunther stood before the stove, stirring a pan full of fluffy scrambled eggs, already dressed in his typical library attire. “You’re awake– perfect timing,” Gunther said, reaching into a cabinet for two plates. 

 

“Yes . . . sorry for falling asleep on you,” he said, sheepishly shuffling into the room. “I didn’t intend to overstay my welcome, it was just . . . so relaxing.”

 

“It’s been so long since I shared my home with someone else. I can’t say I minded.” Gunther set the plates on the table and gestured for Elliott to sit. On the blue and white china before him was a delicate pile of scrambled eggs, two slices of crispy bacon, and a piece of thick sourdough toast– the fancy kind, cut from a circular loaf and toasted in a pan with butter. His mouth watered, stomach finally waking up with a soft grumble. 

 

“How do you take your coffee?” Gunther asked, producing two ceramic mugs from the cabinet. “I s’pose I should ask if you drink coffee first,” he said, chuckling, “I have tea as well, if you’d prefer.”

 

“Coffee would be great . . . I usually drink it quite sweet,” he admitted, hoping he didn’t sound too childish. 

 

Gunther didn’t balk at his request, simply spooning a few tablespoons of sugar into one of the mugs. “Cream?” 

 

“Please.” 

 

He’d gotten so used to Willy’s bitter instant coffee that he’s almost forgotten what fresh coffee was like. The second the aroma hit his nose he knew he was dealing with the real stuff, that first sip of hot, sweet ambrosia coating his tongue like a lover’s kiss. He sighed contentedly, warming his hands on the sides of the mug. 

 

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?” Gunther asked, settling into the seat across from him, humor glinting in his eyes.

 

“Oh . . . no, I didn’t.” Elliott’s face grew hot, stomach filling with nervous butterflies. He was all too aware of the normal content of his dreams, and could only imagine what Gunther heard last night. 

 

Gunther gave a hearty, good-natured laugh, bringing his coffee mug to his lips. “Mumbling would be a more accurate descriptor, nothing coherent . . . if you’re worried I might have heard something salacious,” he said, winking. “It’s quite cute.”

 

Dear sweet Yoba , if only the floor would open up and swallow him so Gunther couldn’t see the bright crimson flush searing his face, lips pulling into a taught line as he cast his eyes into the mug of coffee in his hands. The mere thought that he gave the man even a small hint at the lurid fantasies that danced behind his eyelids when he drifted into the world of dreams was nearly enough to make him combust. At least he was charmed by Elliott’s somniloquies. 

 

“I . . . um . . . I was planning to go to the fair today,” Elliott stammered, changing the subject, “If you wanted to . . . that is to say, um . . . would you like to accompany me?” 

 

“I’d be delighted,” Gunther said, brushing his fingers over the back of Elliott’s hand, still clutching the mug with white knuckles. “I have some things to take care of at the library first, but I’ll meet you there.”

 

Gunther poured the remaining coffee into a stainless steel travel mug, stirring in some sugar and cream, and handed it to Elliott. “It’s a bit chilly out this morning,” he said, “This should keep you plenty warm until I get there.”

 

~*~

 

The town square was buzzing with excitement as townsfolk and tourists alike clustered around various booths, purchasing local goods, playing carnival games, and enjoying cups of hot apple cider. Elliott ferried his travel mug through the crowd, its pleasant warmth a reminder of the intimate night he had spent in Gunther’s home. Things hadn’t quite progressed in the direction he had been hoping, but there was the promise of more underlying Gunther’s words and actions. It would be enough to keep him going, at least for today– especially since Gunther had promised to meet him later. 

 

The question now was whether to wait idly, or enjoy some of the festivities before Gunther arrived. As he was deciding, the crowd parted slightly, and he spotted Kieran setting up his grange display, pulling items from a box that Alex was holding. That was odd– Elliott didn’t think they knew each other that well, and Mullner had been one of the people he hadn’t quite been able to reach on his quest to get to know the people of Pelican Town. 

 

An intriguing mystery, to be sure. He weaved his way through the crowd toward them, brain burning with questions. 

 

“Good morning, gents,” Elliott said, draping his arm around Kieran’s shoulder. “What a fabulous morning we are having! A perfect day to hold a festival, if I do say so myself.”

 

He flicked his eyes to Alex, noting the way the man’s eyes traveled to Kieran’s shoulder, where Elliott’s hand rested. Experimentally, he gave the shoulder a squeeze, noting with delight the way Alex’s expression darkened slightly, a furrow forming between his brows as his gaze locked in on the offending hand, the corners of his lips turning down in an almost imperceptible frown. Very interesting, indeed.

 

“Someone is in high spirits today,” Kieran said, extricating himself from Elliott’s arm.

 

“Hmm, yes,” Elliott purred, taking a sip of his coffee, “I spent the night with a certain museum curator.” He ran his hands through his long auburn hair and sighed contentedly, his eyes remaining trained on Alex. At the mention of Gunther, Alex’s expression brightened, his eyes leaving Elliott entirely, focusing in on Kieran as a smile spread across his face. 

 

‘Oh Kieran . . . there’s hope for you yet.’

 

“Congrats, man. I saw you two at the moonlight jellies, guess you really hit it off,” Kieran said, giving him a pat on the back.

 

“Oh it was horrendously awkward on my part, but once I was done stammering like an idiot he let me know that the feeling was mutual. Things have been going much more smoothly since then.” This wasn’t entirely a lie– he did get the sense that Gunther felt something for him. Why else would he invite him to dinner, say that he missed him, allow him to lie in his lap, and then carry him to bed after? He was aware that he was implying that they had sex, but he couldn’t bring himself to clarify. He told himself he just wanted to be a good example for the poor farmer, struggling through his attraction to a straight man who was clearly just deep in the closet. 

 

“Glad to hear it.”

 

“Well, what about you? Any news to report?” Elliott wiggled his eyebrows at Kieran, a mischievous glimmer in his mind. He was playing a dangerous game, bringing this up in front of Alex, if his intuition was correct. 

 

“Still single, I’m afraid,” Kieran said. He laughed then, but his eyes widened, lips pulling into a taught line as he leaned his head toward Elliott. 

 

He knew the universal signal for ‘shut up’ but he kept talking anyway. “Oh? What about–”

 

“Nope.” Kieran cut him off, glancing back to see if Alex was listening. The man had his back turned, examining the finished grange display, hand out like he was contemplating switching items around. How odd, that Mullner had such a strong interest in the farmer’s display. It’s not like he would get any credit if Kieran won, so there must be another motive at play. Excitement surged up Elliott’s spine– this was quite the juicy development.

 

Elliott raised an eyebrow, looked at Alex, then back at Kieran. He gave a slight nod in Alex’s direction. After turning to make sure that Alex’s attention was still elsewhere, Kieran nodded.

 

He grinned, the trumpets of triumph blaring in his mind. His next words did not match the expression on his face in the slightest, “I’m sorry to hear it, friend. You’ll find your prince charming someday, I’m sure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to pay a visit to Welwick’s before Gunther gets here.” He patted Kieran’s back and then sped off in the direction of the fortune teller’s tent, weaving through festival goers with coffee held above his head to avoid spilling it.

 

Did he have money to be spending on an oracle? Not exactly, but recent events had him wondering about his future, specifically the future of his love life. And Welwick only dispensed her prophecies to the public once a year, so why pass up the opportunity?

 

The scent of incense wafted from the tent, which was lit by two flickering candles on either side of a crystal ball in an ornate stand adorned with filigreed stars and moons. Welwick herself sat behind it, her face shadowed by the rich blue cloak she wore. From the depths of her cloak she produced her hand, and Elliott placed a few coins into it and sat in the chair opposite her. Wordlessly she raised her hands, swirling them over the crystal ball as glittering clouds began to form inside of it. 

 

Elliott leaned in close, but he couldn’t make sense of the strange gray clouds swirling within, shimmering flecks of gold almost glowing. Welwick watched the clouds dance, nodding occasionally as she received some kind of information from the pattern. 

 

“Ah yes . . .” she intoned, lifting her hands, palms facing up. “I see you on a boat with a man. He’s reserved, quiet, but passion lingers in his eyes. It would appear the two of you are quite close. I believe his name begins with a G.”

 

A pleasant tingling feeling spread through Elliott’s body, starting at the scalp and traveling down, butterflies dancing giddily in his stomach. “And . . . what are we doing on this boat?” he asked, leaning forward as if he could glean the information from the crystal ball itself. 

 

“I can tell you more . . . for an additional fee.”

 

“I’m afraid I can’t afford that.”

 

“Then the spirits will speak no more,” Welwick said, passing her hand over the crystal as the clouds dissipated. 

 

Elliott never put much stock in psychics, but he had to admit that Welwick couldn’t have known he was pursuing Gunther as they had never interacted outside of festival days. There’s no other person the vision could have been about. 

 

He stopped at the Adventurer’s Guild booth, admiring the selection of swords and shields just for something to occupy his time until Gunther arrived. The whole time he nervously watched Clint out of the corner of his eye– he looked like he might want to make his way over, and he didn’t think he could handle hearing about his woeful lovelife again. Not when his luck was changing in such a pleasant way. 

 

“As I live and breathe– you do leave the library,” Marlon said with a hearty chuckle. Elliott peeked out from around the shield display, following the eyepatch-wearing guildmaster’s gaze.

 

“Marlon, it’s been a while,” Gunther said, reaching out a hand for Marlon to shake. “How have things been with the guild?” 

 

It didn’t seem like Gunther had seen him yet, so Elliott lingered, listening. For some reason he never imagined that the man had friends in town, but there was an easy camaraderie between them as they chatted.

 

“Oh, same old, same old– dealing with a nasty infestation of slimes at the moment.” 

 

“Ah yes– remember the time we went down there looking for Dwarven artifacts and came toe to toe with a whole swarm of ‘em?” Gunther whistled low, leaning back on his heels. “I almost thought we weren’t gonna make it out of that one.”

 

“Ah, good times,” Marlon said, grinning at the memory. “What brings you to the fair today?”

 

Gunther glanced around, a warm smile alighting on his face when he spotted Elliott. He tipped his hat in greeting. “I do believe he has arrived,” he said, “Elliott, have you met Marlon?”

 

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Elliott said, shaking Marlon’s hand. “I didn’t know you two were friends.”

 

“Ay, we go way back,” Marlon said, “We may be old men now, but we went on many a caper in our youth.”

 

“I’m sure you have plenty of stories.” 

 

Gunther smiled at that. “Perhaps I’ll tell you about them someday,” he said. 

 

Elliott’s stomach swooped, a grin widening on his face. It wasn’t what he said, it was the implication of it. Someday . 

 

“Well, I won’t keep you– but don’t be a stranger, you hear?” Marlon said, waving them off. 

 

Gunther offered his arm, and Elliott threaded his through it and they meandered into the crowd. For a while he couldn’t focus, scanning the faces of the people they passed to see if anyone noticed them walking with their arms linked, his mind buzzing with excitement. 

 

As they walked from booth to booth, chatting idly about the novel Elliott was reading for book club, he made eye contact with Leah, who was there selling some of her sculptures. Her eyes traveled to where the two men’s arms were linked, mouth falling open in astonishment. He flashed her a wink, and though she rolled her eyes, an amused smile fell across her face. 

 

~*~

 

“Gus, you simply must tell me what’s in this sauce,” Elliott said, holding up the line for barbecue sandwiches, but not really caring. He asked for the recipe last year, and the year before that, but no luck.

 

“I told you, Elliott, that one’s a secret,” Gus said, glancing at the line with a beleaguered sigh. 

 

“So you did, but I know you’re passing recipes to the farmer,” he retorted– that was his ace in the hole. 

 

“He’s not getting this one.” 

 

Finally accepting defeat, they found themselves an open table. Before they could take their seats, however, Elliott spotted Kieran and Alex in the crowd. “One moment,” he said, offering Gunther an apologetic smile and making his way over.

 

“There you are,” Elliott said around a mouthful of sandwich. “I’ve been bugging Gus for his sauce recipe and he won’t budge.”

 

“I don’t think I can help you there. Gus is protective of that recipe,” Kieran said, shrugging. 

 

“Yeah, but you guys have a deal, right? You give him free ingredients, he gives you recipes. Maybe–”

 

“He doesn’t give me every recipe. Some of them are sacred.”

 

“Dammit. Well, it was worth a shot,” Elliott said, pouting. 

 

When he returned, Gunther stood, pulling out a chair for him. “Were you always such a gentleman?” he asked, beaming as he took a seat. 

 

Gunther gave an amused chuckle, doffing his hat and setting it on the table next to them. “I was a little rough around the edges in my youth,” he said, “Time has a way of mellowing even the wildest horses.”

 

“Really?” Elliott leaned an elbow on the table, his half-eaten sandwich forgotten. “Tell me about the slimes.”

 

Gunther removed an embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket and daubed at the corners of Elliott’s mouth, coming away with barbecue stains. Elliott’s cheeks heated with embarrassment, but he stayed silent, waiting for Gunther to speak. 

 

“I’d say this was about . . . oh, twenty, twenty-five years ago,” Gunther began, idly stroking his beard as he gathered his memories. “Marlon still had both his arms back then, believe it or not– both his eyes, too. We were down maybe fifty levels, and we still hadn’t found anything of note. We heard them before we saw them, squelching in the dark . . .”

 

~*~

 

They talked until the shadows grew long, the sun dipping low on the horizon, a fiery ball of orange like a great glowing pumpkin. Well, mostly it was Gunther who talked as Elliott listened with rapt attention, occasionally prodding the man for more details. Who could have known that this stoic academic was brimming with such fantastical tales? It was certainly more than Elliott could have imagined– and he imagined plenty.

 

As the various vendors packed up for the night, they walked down the path to the beach in amiable silence. Elliott felt like he’d been given a gift, finally getting to know the man he’d been secretly pining over for so long. Each glimpse into his past revealed a new layer to his personality, and he was growing more and more enamored with each new pearl the oyster bestowed upon him.

 

“Thank you, Elliott, for once again getting me out of that dusty library,” Gunther said when they arrived at the front door of the beachside shack. “I had a delightful time.”

 

“So did I,” he said, taking in the sight of Gunther, haloed in the light of the setting sun. “Wait here a moment? I have something I’d like to give you.”

 

Gunther nodded, and Elliott retreated into his shack, opening the door only wide enough to allow his body to pass through, not relishing the thought of his companion seeing the inside of his home. His heart thudded in his chest as he retrieved his journal from beside the bed. He was beginning to regret this hasty decision, but now that he opened his mouth, Gunther was expecting something. Carefully, he tore a page from the journal– a poem. ‘A Sonnet for Gunther, After the Jellies’. 

 

He slipped back outside, a blush creeping into his face, his skittish pulse racing, and handed the folded piece of paper to Gunther. “I wrote you something,” he said. “Oh, but don’t read it here, please,” he added, reaching out to grab Gunther’s hand, keeping it closed around the poem. 

 

Gunther gave him a gentle smile,  holding the paper against his chest as he reached out with his other hand to cup Elliott’s cheek, thumb idly stroking his heated skin. Elliott’s breath caught in his throat as their eyes met, the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears. Gunther closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to Elliott’s. When the shock faded, his eyes slipped closed and he melted into the kiss, breathing in the scent of bergamot, cedar, and black pepper, tasting the lingering flavor of barbecue sauce and hot apple cider on Gunther’s lips. It was over far too soon.

 

“Goodnight, Elliott.”

 

“G-goodnight.”

 

~*~

 

Standing in his humble shack, a far cry from Gunther’s cozy apartment, Elliott once again felt all that pent up desire bubbling up inside him. From waking up in Gunther’s bed to the chaste goodbye kiss shared at his doorstep, he’d been feeling positively giddy all day. The elation of revelation– the final confirmation of mutual attraction, had left him breathless, heart pounding loud in his chest as he lit the candles scattered around his room. 

 

He stripped, laying his clothing neatly over the chair in front of his writing desk, and made himself comfortable on the bed– well, as comfortable as he could manage on a mattress that was decidedly less quality than the one he had woken up in. He slipped two fingers into his mouth as his mind slipped away into fantasy.

 

They’d been rowing for what felt like hours, face to face in a small boat in the middle of the Gem Sea. There was no one around for miles, and there was a hungry look in Gunther’s eyes that could not be denied. He leaned forward, and captured Elliott’s lips in a passionate kiss. 

 

Elliott rose to a kneeling position, reaching behind himself with two spit-slicked fingers and slid them inside of himself, sighing as he began to move them in a gentle rhythm, hand bracing himself against the headboard. The sound of the waves lapping the shore outside fed into the fantasy playing behind his closed eyelids. 

 

Elliott knelt at the front of the boat, the clinking sound of a belt-buckle unfastening drawing his gaze over his shoulder as Gunther unsheathed his cock, tall and proud, practically gleaming in the bright summer sun. Elliott lowered his pants to his knees, the boat beneath him gently swaying at the motion. 

 

He lowered his head, resting it against the cool wood of the headboard, moaning softly as heat pooled in his core. His cock twitched, untouched, as he continued to work his fingers in a come-hither motion, teasing himself slowly toward release. 

 

Elliott cried out softly as Gunther’s cock filled him, his hands gripping the sides of the tiny craft to hold himself upright. Leaning over the edge of the bow, his long locks of auburn hair drifting softly over the water, he moaned as Gunther thrust into him again and again, their passionate lovemaking rocking the boat on the gentle waves. 

 

The motion of the ocean worked in harmony with the undulation of hips, soft sighs and moans blending with the sound of crashing waves, as the pleasure rolled in like the tides. 

 

The images were vivid in his mind, a movie he could feel, fingers increasing their rhythm as he moaned into the headboard, delicious warmth spreading through his body. Elliott came, a soft, undulating orgasm like ocean waves on a calm day.

 

And then Elliott was left alone in the afterglow of yet another fantastical dream. Only this time, the object of his fantasies was within his grasp. After he washed up he let himself linger on the kiss, fingers ghosting along his lower lip as he melted into the sheets. He hugged his pillow to his chest, falling into a deep, peaceful sleep. 

Notes:

Elliott's fantasy of getting railed in a rowboat was actually supposed to be a scene between those two, but the longer I stared at it sitting in my outline the more it felt unrealistic to the romance I'm building here. Still, it was too hot to let go of completely, so it went into Elliott's spank bank instead. This isn't how I would have written it if it actually happened, but in a fantasy you don't need to concern yourself with things like foreplay and lube and prepping. Hope you enjoyed!

No poem this time because honestly I couldn't think of one.

Chapter 7: A Pomegranate, My Heart

Summary:

A romantic horseback riding excursion turns into a different kind of riding entirely when Elliott and Gunther get caught in the rain.

Notes:

Yeah, it's happening ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)
[Featuring: HEALTHY COMMUNICATION AND EMOTIONAL INTIMACY YAY]

“Did you make any progress on ‘The Night Through the Painted Window’ ?” Marnie asked, leaning on the pillar of the barn as Gunther saddled up a horse– a tall, strong-looking thoroughbred with the shiniest red coat Elliott had ever seen on an animal. He stopped to give the horse a gentle caress on the neck after fastening the buckle, watching the conversation with interest.

 

“Yes, quite the fascinating read,” Elliott replied, “I’m still puzzled by Redford’s motivations in the ballroom scene. He didn’t strike me as the sort of fellow to turn down a dance with the countess.”

 

“Right? My theory is that he’s in love with someone else,” Marnie said.

 

“Oh, that’s a possibility. You know, it didn’t strike me as that kind of work, but his relationship with the stable boy has a sort of tension to it that makes me think this is really a story of forbidden love.” 

 

“What would make that forbidden?” Gunther asked, adjusting the reigns.

 

“Well, Redford is a noble, and the stable boy comes from a poor background,” Elliott explained, “Aside from the difference in social class, in that time period it was still taboo for two men to be romantically involved.”

 

“Makes you grateful for the times we live in,” Marnie said, turning from Gunther to throw a saucy wink at Elliott. 

 

Elliott blushed and gave her a subtle nod, “Yes, times sure have changed.”

 

“Gosh, now I’m going to have to go back and reread all those scenes with the stable boy. I didn’t pick up on that the first time, but I think you might be onto something.”

 

What Elliott didn’t say is that his fantasy du jour put himself in the role of the stable boy, and Gunther in the role of the dashing Duke Redford, taking him roughly in the hay while the nobility in the castle danced through the night. If Marnie wasn’t there keeping an eye on the proceedings he’d be a right mess. He was still having a little trouble following the conversation because of the sheer number of times he’d imagined the two of them riding off into the sunset together after finding that fringed leather coat in Gunther’s closet. 

 

Worse, Gunther was wearing it, along with a pair of vintage jeans he’d likely bought when they were new, and the cowboy boots that had been in the shoe rack by his door. It almost felt like he was doing it on purpose, but Elliott hadn’t told him about his dreams or how hot under the collar the outfit made him. The coy smiles Gunther had been giving him on the way over to Marnie’s ranch showed the man at least suspected that he was having some effect. Horseback riding had been Gunther’s idea, and it definitely wasn’t lost on him that that was the first time Gunther had made the first move and asked him for a date. 

 

And it was, in fact, a date. Elliott had giddily asked him as much, feeling a bit childish considering the man had kissed him last time they went out, but Gunther humored him. It was funny how that single invitation had suddenly made it feel like this was no longer a fruitless one-sided pursuit.

 

For as much as Gunther likes to talk about being old, he didn’t look it when he swung into the saddle in one precise, practiced motion, betraying the physical strength beneath his reserved academic demeanor. He looked like he’d done it a million times before. When he extended his hand to Elliott his grip on his forearm was strong and sure, lifting Elliott up onto the saddle in front of him with barely any effort. If Elliott was a fair maiden in one of those racy stories he enjoyed, he would have swooned on the spot. 

 

The Cindersap is at its most beautiful in the fall, and as Gunther guided the horse onto the path they were surrounded in warm hues of yellow, orange, and red, the leaves falling off of the trees and gently gliding to the forest floor. It was an overcast day, the breeze brisk and chilly, but Elliott was warm, nestled back against Gunther’s chest, his arms wrapped around him to hold the reins. Elliott ran his fingers along the smooth pommel, inhaling deeply as the now familiar scent of Gunther’s aftershave mingled with leather, horse, earthy fallen leaves and fresh pine. 

 

“I thought the imagery in your poem was quite beautiful,” Gunther said, “You have quite the talent.”

 

A flush of embarrassment heated Elliott’s cheeks at the thought of Gunther actually reading what he had written, given the intimate subject matter. And had he really been so bold to put Gunther’s name in the title? He didn’t feel so bold now. “Oh! Well, um . . . I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said, trying to muster up a little courage in the face of Gunther’s praise. “What did you think . . . of the, um . . . of the subject matter?”

 

Gunther let out a low chuckle, his breath tickling Elliott’s ear. His stomach swoops, an electric tingle racing up his spine. Gunther rested his chin on Elliott’s shoulder and spoke, his voice a deep rumble against Elliott’s back.

 

“I’ve been aware of you for quite some time. Any man with a beating heart would take notice of such a breathtaking person. I admit I did catch on to your feelings, but I had some reservations,” Gunther said.

 

“Reservations?” Despite the brisk afternoon, Elliott felt on the verge of overheating.

 

“Well, you know as well I do that our difference in age is wide enough to give one pause. A young man’s fascination is a fickle thing, and I thought your ardour would cool as the seasons changed. But you surprised me– you always surprise me. I was a bit taken aback when you approached me, but that night, watching the jellies, was magical for me, too.”

 

Elliott swore he could hear a symphony of angels harmonizing with those words. If this were a romantic novel the clouds would open up, sunlight spilling down on them as they rode through the forest in a riot of autumn colors. “But you still held back,” Elliott said, “I suppose that quest you sent me on had nothing to do with getting inspiration for my writing.” He was feeling bolder now, wanting Gunther to admit that this had all been a test to see if his affections were serious.

 

Gunther laughed, and Elliott could practically see the smile on his face, though he didn’t turn around. “I may have had ulterior motives, but I did want you to find that literary spark you were looking for. I know your life has been lonely, and mine has too. But look at you, you’ve managed to make connections with the people in this town with nothing more than a gentle push from me– chatting with Marnie about books like you’re old pals.

 

“What I mean to say, Elliott, is that you’ve brought those connections into my life, too. These last few years, I’ve hardly left my library, but thanks to you I’ve reconnected with old friends, gotten back out into nature. I think we both needed this.”

 

Now that he thought about it, life has felt richer lately. Even after Gunther let him in, he’d kept up with the friendships he made during their time apart. He went to book club, and aerobics class, and had a standing appointment at Evelyn’s for tea. He did all of that to get closer to Gunther, but almost against his will he’d found a real community in Pelican Town. And the poetry in his journal was flowing from his pen like water. 

 

He laughed, reaching behind him to stroke Gunther’s beard, “I suppose we did. But tell me, did you really know how I felt before the jellies?”

 

“Oh yes, I noticed that you spent a lot of time reading that old farmer’s almanac,” he said, a tinge of mischief in his voice. “I thought it was odd, you not being a farmer and all, but you would always head to the back of the library first. Imagine my surprise when I went back there and found the romance novels all dogeared.”

 

Elliott’s stomach dropped to his ass, heart jackhammering in his chest, hot shame pooling in his guts. He opened his mouth to say something, but his mind was completely blank. Gunther’s full belly laugh rumbled against his back and only compounded his embarrassment.

 

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Elliott. Perhaps I could have you read one to me sometime.”

 

“I– I . . . oh Yoba ,” Elliott stammered, dropping his head into his hands. “I think I would actually die.” 

 

“We can’t have that now, can we?” Gunther teased. He pressed a kiss into the back of Elliott’s head, and he could feel more laughter trying to bubble its way out of his lips. “I know you thought you were sly, reading those racy novels while you watched me– but I was watching you, too.”

 

This was all too much for Elliott to handle. On one hand, he was over the moon that Gunther was returning his feelings. On the other hand he was fighting the sheer mortification that flooded him, mind at body, knowing that Gunther was aware not only of his secret pining, but his guilty pleasure. 

 

“I’ll admit I’m absolutely mortified,” Elliott said, “but if you’re here with me right now that must mean . . .” He trailed off. He was usually so good at talking, but with Gunther he found himself speechless more often than not.

 

“That I want to be with you? Yes, Elliott, I do.”

 

~*~

 

They were halfway to the library when the first raindrops began to fall. Gunther raised his hand to the sky, examining the droplet in his palm with dismay. “The forecast didn’t call for rain today,” he said.

 

“Getting caught in the rain is very romantic,” Elliott said with a wistful sigh.

 

“Not if you catch a cold.”

 

The sky opened up, icy rain pouring down on them. Gunther grabbed Elliott’s hand and they ran, soaked to the bone by the time they reached the library doors.

 

The moment they stepped through the door into the apartment, Elliott let out a giddy laugh, rain clinging to his eyelashes and trailing cold rivers down the back of his neck. It was just as exhilarating as they made it look in the movies, racing through the downpour with his lover to the safety of home. 

 

Gunther was already moving with quiet efficiency, boots and socks already off and placed on the shoe rack, lighting the fire that was already prepared in the hearth, the kindling stacked in that neat precise way that Elliott was coming to see as Gunther’s signature. Elliott watched him for a moment, appreciating the way the firelight caught in the lines on his face. There was something so grounding about Gunther, always steady, consistent, and thoughtful in his every action. 

 

When Gunther disappeared into his bedroom, Elliott began stripping off his wet clothing– shoes, socks, jacket, shirt. He hesitated when he got to his pants, holding his sopping clothing over one arm and nervously holding the buckle of his belt. 

 

Gunther emerged carrying a drying rack under one arm, which he set up next to the fire. In his other hand he carried a stack of towels, balanced on his hand so they didn’t soak up any water on the way over. He draped a towel over Elliott’s head, a playful smile on his face that looked unfamiliar but not out of place and took his wet clothes, draping them over the drying rack. “There’s dry clothes on the bed,” he said, taking off his rain-spattered glasses. Elliott didn’t miss the way the older man’s eyes roved over his bare chest as he passed him into the bedroom, and in his mind’s eye he saw a new fantasy unfolding with stunning clarity. Only this time it didn’t have to stay contained in his imagination. The man was here with him now, standing in front of the hearth, real as anything. 

 

Laid out on the quilt was a green flannel shirt, a pair of boxer shorts, and a pair of plaid pajama pants that Elliot could not fathom existing in Gunther’s wardrobe. The jeans he’d worn that day were the closest Elliott had ever seen to casual wear. He realized that even though he had slept here before, he had no idea what the man wore to bed. 

 

He slipped off his wet pants and shimmied into the boxers, his eyes lingering on the pajama pants. Gunther had clearly thought of his comfort, but an idea surfaced in the back of his mind. Elliott had long, shapely legs, well-toned from constantly having to walk through sand and the days spent sweating with the ladies at aerobics class. He buttoned up the flannel shirt, still mulling it over. The shirt was a little baggy on him, but it didn’t quite swallow him up, and the fabric was soft from countless washes over the years. 

 

Elliott picked up the pajama pants, gently kneading the fabric between his fingers. Did he dare? 

 

Now was the time to be bold, he decided, resolutely abandoning the pajama pants on the quilt. 

 

As he exited the bedroom with his wet pants, coy smile in place, he was somewhat disappointed to see that Gunther had already changed into dry clothes– a long sleeve shirt and an identical pair of pajama pants. His hair had been spared from the rain by the cowboy hat he always wore, now drying out near the hearth. He almost seemed naked without it. This getup had definitely not appeared in any of his dreams, and the idea of him dressed so casually was oddly tantalizing. The side of Gunther no one got to see but him. 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Gunther’s eyes traveled down his body, no surprise in them, but there was the barest uptick at the corners of his mouth as he watched Elliott drape his pants and underwear over the drying rack. 

 

Gunther took a seat on the couch, patting the space next to him, and when Elliott sat he unfurled a fresh towel and began to dry Elliott’s hair. The silence between them felt comfortable, like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. The room felt smaller than it had just moments ago, like they were encapsulated in a bubble, the world outside consisting only of the sound of rain tapping against the windows.

 

He’d dreamed of Gunther in countless ways, but none of those sordid little fantasies quite captured the quiet intimacy of this moment– the warmth of the crackling fire illuminating the space in its dancing orange glow, Gunther’s gentle, but steady hands drying his hair with the towel. For once Elliott was content not to break the silence. 

 

“What’s on your mind, Elliott?” Gunther asked, setting aside the damp towel. 

 

What wasn’t on Elliott’s mind? Anticipation burned low in his belly, wondering how the evening would progress now that he knew without a shadow of doubt that Gunther wanted him. What he wanted at that moment was to close the distance between them once and for all– to touch him, to taste his lips again.

 

“I was thinking,” he said, hesitation creeping into his voice despite his best efforts, “about how nice this is.” He raised his hand to cup Gunther’s cheek, tracing the lines there with his thumb.

 

Gunther pressed his hand over Elliott’s with a gentle smile. “Are you warm enough?”

 

“I could be warmer,” Elliott said, letting his eyes wander from Gunther’s eyes to his mouth. 

 

Gunther took his cue, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Elliott’s. Elliott melted into the kiss, the scent of Gunther’s aftershave mingling with rain water and crackling logs, the warmth of Gunther’s hand on the back of his head making him dizzy. He threw his legs over Gunther’s as the kiss deepened, a little squeak of surprise escaping his lips as Gunther’s hand dragged down his back and pulled him fully into his lap. 

 

There was nothing chaste about the way he was kissing Elliott now, one hand firmly on his ass and the other kneading his upper thigh as his tongue licked across Elliott’s lower lip, seeking entrance. He granted it, tasting coffee and the faint traces of tobacco from the pipe Gunther smoked that morning before they set off as his tongue explored Elliott’s mouth, hungry and wanting. 

 

Gunther broke away, trailing kisses across Elliott’s jaw, slow and purposeful, and followed the curvature of his neck as he leaned his head back to give him more access. 

 

“I’ve had fantasies that start this way,” Elliott said, heart racing as his blood rushed lower, his groin throbbing with aching need. 

 

Gunther maneuvered Elliott so he was seated firmly on his lap, back pressed against his chest. He pressed a kiss into Elliott’s shoulder. “Tell me about them,” he said, with no trace of teasing in his tone. Elliott nearly gasped when he felt the evidence of Gunther’s arousal beneath him. It didn’t feel small, and the thought sent electricity shooting up his spine, his face hot and flushed with a mixture of desire and embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to say that. 

 

“Oh, um . . . I couldn’t possibly–”

 

“You’ll get no judgement from me, Elliott, far from it,” Gunther said, his voice low and soothing in Elliott’s ear. “I want to enjoy this with you.” As if to back up the statement he palmed Elliott’s erection over the boxer shorts, slowly stroking upwards in a way that sent shockwaves of warmth through his core. A soft moan slipped unconsciously from his lips as he melted into Gunther’s embrace.

 

Elliott’s brain was slowly turning into pudding as all the sexual fantasies he’d had about this man swirled in colorful fractals through his mind like a kaleidoscope. It wasn’t that he couldn’t conjure one for Gunther, but that he didn’t know where to start. 

 

“Well,” he said, breathing heavily as Gunther’s hand continued to softly fondle him, “We were in front of a fire, like this one. On a bear skin rug . . .”

 

He trailed off as Gunther’s hand retreated to a side table, retrieving something from inside the draw that looked suspiciously like a small bottle of lube. His breath hitched in his throat. “Keep going,” Gunther urged him as his thumb hooked into the waistband of Elliott’s boxers, gently tugging them down until his cock sprang free. Gunther gave a low hum of satisfaction, ghosting his fingertips up the length of the shaft, eliciting a breathy sigh from Elliott. His hands were so much softer than he expected, his feather-light touch electric.

 

“W-we were naked . . . on the bear skin rug, as I m-mentioned . . .”

 

“Go on . . .” There was a soft click as Gunther popped the cap on the lube and squirted a healthy dollop into his right hand. Elliott watched, lower lip caught between his teeth as Gunther slicked the lube of Elliott’s cock with slow, deliberate strokes, desire coiling tightly in his belly.

 

“It’s hard to think when you’re touching me like this.”

 

“I know,” Gunther said with a soft chuckle, “But pretend you’re telling me about a scene in one of your novels. How would you write it?”

 

He was not in the headspace for writing, but the sensation of Gunther’s hand leisurely drifting up and down his length with a gentle but firm grip felt exquisite, and the throbbing heat from Gunther’s own erection against his ass was a clear signal that the man wasn’t put off by Elliott’s fanaticizing in the slightest.

 

“The firelight bathed our bodies in a warm glow as embraced . . . y-you were, um– you were behind me.”

 

With a dexterous hand, Gunther unbuttoned the flannel shirt and fanned it open, exposing Elliott’s torso and pulled his legs close together so that Elliott’s fell open, spread on either side of Gunther’s knees as he continued to stroke Elliott’s cock. His pace was excruciatingly slow, the pleasure agonizing but sweet. 

 

Elliott leaned his head back on Gunther’s shoulder, draping his arms backward over the back of the couch and letting his hands dangle there. Gunther’s hand roved over Elliott’s stomach, dragging his fingertips up toward his chest.

 

“You were touching me, like you are now, slow . . . deliberate . . .” Elliott was getting into it now, emboldened by Gunther’s exploratory touching, the way Gunther’s cock twitched beneath him with each detail he divulged. It wasn’t so long ago that he was touching himself to this dream, but now he didn’t have to imagine what it felt like to be pleasured by the object of his desires. 

 

“You whispered sweet nothings into my ear as you thrusted into me, our bodies rocking gently like– ah!” Gunther pinched Elliott’s nipple, then rolled his thumb over the sensitive skin. He kissed the shell of Elliott’s ear, the heat of his breath sending a thrill up Elliott’s spine. 

 

“That’s quite a pleasant dream,” Gunther purred as Elliott moaned, low and pleading. “I’ll admit I’ve indulged in some dreaming myself, but nothing can compare to the real thing.”

 

Gunther didn’t pick up the pace, just continued his steady, deliberate movements, occasionally jolting a cry from Elliott’s lips when his thumb rolled over the head of his cock, slicking through the precum that clung there in pearlescent beads.

 

Elliott was almost there– so tantalizingly close to the edge, but Gunther continued his ministrations at the same leisurely pace. He squirmed in Gunther’s lap, a pleading whimper emanating from the back of his throat. His abs tensed, breath coming out in a keening whine. 

 

“Such pretty music you’re making,” Gunther breathed. He nipped at Elliott’s earlobe, tugging lightly at his gold hoop earring. 

 

Those words, sweet and teasing, sent him over the edge. The pleasure rolled over him in gentle waves, shuddering as the tension released, Gunther’s gentle hand carrying him through the orgasm. He increased the pressure of his grip but not the speed, squeezing every last drop from him as he practically melted with a deep, contented sigh. 

 

Gunther cleaned him off with a towel, pressing kisses to his temple as he did, and Elliott found himself at a complete loss for words. His head was spinning, and he was hyper aware of Gunther’s erection still pressing into him. He turned to the side and captured Gunther’s mouth in a kiss, trying to say what words couldn’t in that moment. 

 

It almost didn’t feel real, being here, doing this with a man who had previously lived only in Elliott’s wildest dreams. And he only wanted more.

 

Gunther hooked an arm under Elliott’s knees and lifted him from the couch in one fluid motion, not even stopping the kiss to do it. Elliott’s heart fluttered in anticipation as Gunther whisked him away to the bedroom, a giggle threatening to burble from his lips. He set Elliott down on the bed and pulled off the long sleeve shirt, casting it aside onto a small chair near the door. Elliott’s eyes widened in shock when he noticed the tattoos.

 

There were quite a few, done in traditional style on his arms and peeking out beneath his chest hair, most in nautical designs, but with a few nature-inspired ones in between. Elliott scooted on his knees to the edge of the bed and ran his fingers along an anchor tattooed on his bicep. “I was in the navy for a time, before I went into archaeology,” Gunther said, “Tattoos were a sort of shore leave tradition.”

 

“Wow,” Elliott said, taking in all the details, but mostly just using it as an excuse to touch him. “I didn’t picture you as the type to have tattoos. I like them.”

 

“I suppose there’s less room in your imagination now,” he said with a sly smile, easing the flannel shirt off of Elliott’s shoulders. 

 

He flushed, dropping his eyes to Gunther’s chest. He had almost forgotten everything he said in the heat of the moment, allowing Gunther into his most private thoughts. It was a bit mortifying– enough that it overshadowed the fact that Gunther had responded to those words with his body. He could see the evidence of that tenting his pants, but still . . . how many times had he visualized that exact fantasy with his own fingers inside of himself? 

 

“Elliott,” Gunther said, crooking a finger under Elliott’s chin and lifting his face to meet his haze. There was something so tender in the way he said his name that it had butterflies fluttering in Elliott’s stomach. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. I asked you to share your fantasies with me because I wanted to hear them. I want to make them real for you. I was teasing you a little bit just now, I’ll admit, but not because I was judging you.” 

 

Those grey-blue eyes, like the ocean at dawn, gazed at him with such warmth. Elliott wanted to drown in them and let all his insecurities melt away in their depths. 

 

Elliott smiled, a bashful blush still blooming in his cheeks. “I just . . . never thought I’d say those things out loud. I could only have you in my head for so long.”

 

“Well, Elliott, I’m right here in front of you,” Gunther said, “And I’d like to know what it is that you want most, in this moment.”

 

Elliott tugged at the waistband of Gunther’s pants and pulled him closer. “I want you to make love to me.”

 

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

 

Elliott fell back on his hands as Gunther’s mouth found his, smoothly pulling back the quilt as he scooted backward, the pull to Gunther’s push. The brush of bare thigh against his zapped Elliott’s brain– the realization that Gunther had shed the pajama pants as he climbed onto the bed after him. Everything in him screamed to take a look, but his mouth was occupied, and he almost wished that kiss would never end, so hungry, so full of need. He ran his hands through Gunther’s chest hair, soft and downy over his lean, defined musculature. He found his way back onto the pillows, stroking his hands down Gunther’s side to his hips, mesmerized by the feel of him. 

 

Gunther pulled back, his hands bracketing Elliott’s head. “I won’t ask you to recite more of your dreams, but I do want you to tell me what you want, what you like and what you don’t.” 

 

“Of course.” Anything– absolutely anything Gunther asked of him at that moment he was willing to give. 

 

Gunther’s thumb ghosted over Elliott’s nipple and he arched into the touch. “These are quite sensitive, aren’t they,” Gunther said, pinching and rolling the tender bud between his thumb and index finger. Elliott gasped at the slight pain that melted into arousal as Gunther kissed the spot and swirled his tongue over it to soothe. He made his way down, trailing kisses as he went, then rose up between Elliott’s legs, resting his hands on his knees.

 

His eyes swept over Elliott’s body, splayed out beneath him with something akin to reverence, an undercurrent of lust simmering beneath. “You’re quite the sight,” he said, “Makes a man want to write a little poetry.”

 

Elliott knew he was attractive, he’d heard it time and time again, but Gunther’s words held weight. His mind traveled back, recalling that Gunther had said the same thing about the moonlight jellies, but unlike that day, his tone was low and dripping with desire. It was beyond thrilling, to be wanted like this after pining for so long.

 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Elliott said, finally allowing his gaze to wander down. 

 

He tried to maintain his composure, but his mouth fell open when he saw it, standing tall and proud between Gunther’s legs. “Dear god,” he breathed, unable to tear his eyes away. His cock was shockingly close to the way he imagined it in his fantasies, which is to say: large. He liked to embellish– it was the writer in him. But he never would have guessed that the reserved museum curator was hiding something like this in his trousers. 

 

“I’ll take it slow,” Gunther said with a light chuckle, uncapping the lube and pouring a generous amount onto his fingers. 

 

He inserted one finger, and then a second, slowly working them in and out, his eyes lingering on Elliott’s face. Elliott was used to that– that slight but pleasant stretch that felt not unlike what he did himself in the privacy of his home, though his cheeks still flushed crimson watching someone else do it. He was no blushing virgin, but this part was always the biggest hurdle to get over with a new partner. Gunther curled his fingers, rubbing upward experimentally until Elliott gasped and arched his back as Gunther found his g-spot. He pressed into it, eliciting a low moan from Elliott.

 

“So sensitive . . . I could probably make you cum from this alone,” Gunther said, watching Elliott squirm in the sheets as he worked his fingers in a come-hither motion.

 

“You could– I usually do . . . when I, um . . . when I do it myself.” Yoba, did he just admit that? He supposed it wouldn’t do to be embarrassed by that when the man was knuckle-deep inside him– they were well past that.

 

Gunther grinned at that and slipped in a third finger. There was a slight sting that subsided to a dull ache at his entrance as Gunther slowly stretched him. When the pain faded back into pleasure Elliott wanted to tell him to just put it in, but he bit it back. He was learning to be patient, albeit begrudgingly. Gunther was taking his time, and it wasn’t to tease him, or draw things out. It was a kindness. His manhood was impressive– he could wield it as a weapon if he wanted to, but he wasn’t so cruel. Elliott felt like one of Gunther’s treasured artifacts; fragile, but safe in his careful hands. 

 

“Are you alright?” Gunther asked, and Elliott realized he’d been quiet for some time, save for the little moans that bubbled up from his throat. 

 

“Yes,” he replied. He was getting hard again, relishing the feeling of Gunther’s fingers stimulating his prostate, but yearning for more. 

 

“You’re doing so well . . . just a little bit more,” Gunther said, as if he sensed the impatience fighting for control over Elliott’s brain.

 

When he was satisfied, Gunther withdrew his fingers, Elliott’s heart leaping into his throat as Gunther slicked lube over his cock, careful in ensuring it was fully coated, the way he was in everything he did. His instinct was to tense up, and brace himself, but instead Elliott focused on his breathing, relaxing his muscles as Gunther nudged at his entrance and slid the tip inside.

 

Inch by inch, Gunther slowly eased inside, letting out a soft moan. Despite the preparation his fingers had done there was still a throbbing ache as Elliott’s hole stretched around Gunther’s impressive girth. He lowered himself over Elliott and laid a kiss on his forehead, then his nose, finally pressing his lips to Elliott’s in a deep kiss, unhurried and indulgent, giving him time to get used to the sensation of being so thoroughly filled. Elliott had to remind himself to breathe, fighting every instinct to tighten up.

 

“I’m going to start moving now,” Gunther said, sounding a little breathless, “Nice . . . and slow.”

 

Elliott nodded, digging his fingernails into the back of his thighs, creating tension in his fingers to keep the rest of his body loose. 

 

The first gentle thrust sent Elliott’s head spinning, and he wasn’t sure if it was the shock of finally obtaining the object of all his desires or the fact that he had never taken anything this large into his body before. Either way, it felt incredible, and he gave into the sensation, wanton moans cascading from his mouth as Gunther thrust into him again and again, peppering kisses along his collarbone.

 

Gunther rose to his knees and grabbed Elliott’s ass, lifting it off the mattress as he rocked his hips forward, pressing until his cock was fully sheathed. Elliott let out a sharp gasp. He hadn’t realized it earlier, because he couldn’t see it, but Gunther hadn’t been all the way inside before. He threw his head back into the pillows, groaning low in his throat. 

 

He extended his legs and rested them on Gunther’s shoulders, using them as leverage to keep his ass elevated. Gunther gripped his thighs and ramped up the pace– only slightly, but enough to make Elliott cry out, twisting up the sheets in his fists as the delicious friction dragged him toward the edge. 

 

Elliott was no longer in control of the sounds he was making as liquid heat pooled in his core, lost in the haze of lust. It was just on the cusp of being too much. He could hear Gunther somewhere in that fog, speaking soft and low, praise, encouragement– kisses on his legs. Things he would file away for later, when his mind was clear and wanted to disappear into this blissful, thoughtless place again. 

 

He might have cried out for god, possibly just whimpered a stream of expletives, in those final moments before he careened over the edge, vision exploding in stars, but he couldn’t remember what he said if he tried. Gunther’s thrusting became more erratic, hips stuttering as he sought his own release, each thrust a shockwave through Elliott’s body as he rode out his orgasm. Then Gunther pressed into him, cock pulsing deep inside Elliott as he came.

 

All Elliott could do was lie there in a boneless heap, a dazed, but satisfied smile on his face. Gunther lay down next to him and pressed a kiss into his temple, one hand gently caressing his cheek.

 

Gunther rested his forehead against Elliott and his eyes slipped closed. For a moment there was only the sound of their labored breathing.

 

“What’s on your mind, Elliott?”

 

“I think it’s gone,” Elliott said.

 

Gunther laughed and kissed the tip of Elliott’s nose. “I suppose you can take a break from thinking for tonight. Let’s get cleaned up, then I’ll make us some dinner.”

 

“I think I might have died and gone to heaven.” Elliott sighed, luxuriating in the afterglow.

 

“I must have done the same, if there’s an angel in my bed.”

Pomegranate

 

I offered the fruit, because you asked

Ripening there beneath my ribs

The kind that stains lips

And sheets

A pomegranate, my heart

 

Split me open, red and pure

Each jeweled seed a secret

Each sweet drop of juice a confession

I give you everything that once hid behind my tongue

 

And when your mouth pressed to the red,

Your lips knowing no hesitation, only reverence

I opened wider, ripe and reckless,

Seeds bursting sweet with honeyed ache

Notes:

Are pomegranate metaphors a bit cliched and overdone? Yeah, but it's one of Elliott's loved gifts so it had to be done.

Chapter 8: So the Adage Goes: Write What You Know

Summary:

Elliott is feeling inspired, in more ways than one.

Notes:

There are some time skips in this one, but nothing too drastic. Oh and the safe word is "pomegranate" ;)

The bulk of this chapter takes place after the events of Working It Out (The Reboot), so while we will be seeing Kieran and Alex again, the scene is not included in that fic.

Elliott thought that getting a taste of Gunther in the real world would put an end to his fantasizing, but that was definitely not the case. The only thing that had changed, aside from the fact that his saucy daydreams were more grounded in reality, was that he was able to stow them away for later, to be whispered in his paramour’s ear in front of a crackling fire. 

 

His typewriter was no longer an object of dread. Lately he’d been eyeing it with more and more interest, on the increasingly rare occasions when he came home from Gunther’s place. It was finally time to get cracking on that novel– he could feel it in his bones when he sat down at his desk that morning.

 

He had an idea the night before, about a train stewardess who falls in love with a traveling architect, but the more he wrote, the less he liked it. That wasn’t the story he wanted to tell. Clara and Horatio felt oddly flat, and their meet cute on the commuter train contrived. He pulled the paper from his typewriter and balled it up into the trash. Usually this action came with a wave of helpless frustration, but instead it sent his mind down different, more exciting pathways. There was a story there, buried deep in his heart– he just had to dig it out. Elliott shook out his arms, and began to type:

 

A life in isolation in a picturesque location with nothing but time to write had seemed idyllic to Everett. When he first moved into that little shack in the forest, he hadn’t even balked at the dust and cobwebs– he’d called it “rustic” and fantasized about gazing out his window at the clearing, watching the deer and the squirrels frolic as he wrote page after page of . . . something. That bit, arguably the most important of all the bits, was still eluding him like spring water through his fingers. He needed an idea– the right idea. So far all he had was an enormous heap of useless drivel sitting at the bottom of a wastepaper basket. 

 

It’s not that Everett didn’t have a vivid imagination. He very much did. It was the thing that made him want to become a writer in the first place. The crux of the issue is that he didn’t have a say in what his imagination conjured. 

 

Of late his mind had been filled with vivid fantasies about a certain lumberjack who worked in that very forest– a man much older than Everett, but nevertheless a source of endless fascination. The wrinkles that deepened at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the streaks of white in that meticulously groomed beard that concealed the chiseled jawline beneath served to give him an air of distinction, his eyes the the color of the pines that surrounded Everett’s shack, twinkling with mystery. Graham cut a rugged figure, walking into the forest each day with his axe over his shoulder in his flannel shirt and steel-toed boots.

 

Everett walked to the window, mind already spinning a new yarn– not the productive kind, not the kind he needed . . . 

 

That was it, Elliott decided, rereading the chapter he had written. Unlike the stewardess and the traveling architect, this story felt authentic. Before he knew it, it was late afternoon, the shadows growing long, and he had the beginnings of his first novel– a romance, true to his own heart.

 

~*~

 

“This story feels awfully familiar,” Gunther said, smiling around the antique pipe he held between his teeth. He shuffled to the next page, looking quite pleased as he shot a glance at Elliott over the sheaf of papers. 

 

“Well, you know what they say– write what you know,” Elliott said, clutching his mug of after-dinner coffee, hoping the warmth in his hands would steady him. Anxious butterflies twittered about in his stomach. It was one thing to know that someone read his work, it was another thing entirely to watch them do it– especially when that someone’s opinion mattered more to him than just about anything. 

 

The kitchen was full of the scents Elliott had grown so familiar with as of late– coffee, tobacco, and the remnants of the dinner Gunther cooked: venison chili and fresh cornbread. He still saw Leah for dinner at the Stardrop about once a week, but most nights he was here, basking in the domesticity of it all. He had his own toothbrush, in the little cup next to Gunther’s, and he could tell you, with confidence, where everything was in the kitchen cabinets. He found it so strange– only a few short months ago all of this hadn’t even been a fantasy. He never imagined that one day he would be so comfortable just sitting with Gunther at the breakfast table, or on the sofa watching the fire, or disclosing all of his raunchy little daydreams with the man who featured in them. There were still some nights where he thought he might wake up, only to discover that this had all been a dream.

 

“There are moments in this where your prose almost starts to sound like a poem,” Gunther said as he set the papers neatly in front of him. “I quite like that– it has a sort of melodic feel to it, like it would be pleasant to read aloud. And . . . I’m quite fond of this Everett character. He reminds me of someone very dear to me,” he added, shooting a meaningful look at Elliott over the rim of his glasses.

 

If Elliott smiled any wider his face might crack in half. His chest felt tight, like it might burst. “I’m glad you like it so far.”

 

Gunther walked around the table and ran a hand through Elliott’s hair, bending down to press a kiss onto the top of his head. He rarely saw Gunther with his gloves on– they were reserved for museum work now. He suspected it had something to do with the man’s fondness for his hair, always finding an excuse to touch it. They spent many afternoons by the fire, Elliott’s head in Gunther’s lap as he slowly stroked his long auburn locks, fingernails lightly brushing across his scalp in a way that sent pleasant tingles through his body. He often fell asleep like that, curled up like a contented cat. 

 

~*~

 

The square was alive that morning– the entire town turned up for the annual Winter Star festival, dressed in their holiday sweaters or bundled up in coats. The buffet tables, festooned in red table cloths and green bunting, were laden with comfort food– roast turkey, stuffing, warm fresh-baked bread, and a dizzying array of desserts. 

 

At the center of it all was a massive pine tree decked out in lights and colorful baubles, gifts in shiny paper and bows stacked in piles beneath it. Elliott’s secret friend that year was Kieran. He’d gotten him a bottle of wine and decorated the package with interesting shells he found in the tide pools that summer– a reminder of that crazy night they’d spent together, commiserating over their love lives. He brought a second gift, too, for Gunther. It was a slim package, neatly wrapped in blue paper.

 

He’d asked Gunther multiple times who his secret friend was, but the man had simply said, “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.” That was probably the only time Elliott’s charms had failed to sway him. 

 

When Elliott first moved to Pelican Town it struck him as odd that they always held their winter festivals outside in the cold, but the sun was out that day so it wasn't as bad as last year. It was a sad affair, everyone just huddled around the tree in the bitter icy wind. 

 

Gunther was dressed in his usual attire, but his hair was held back with a blue silk ribbon. Elliott toyed with it as they stood at the edge of the buffet table, an idea slowly forming in his mind. Gunther turned to him, one eyebrow raised.

 

“I know that look,” he said with a smirk, “You’ve got something on your mind.”

 

Elliott flushed, caught in the act of dreaming up something truly scandalous. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get back to your place,” he said, his blush deepening to crimson when Gunther laughed.

 

He scanned the crowd, looking for a distraction from his racing thoughts. “Dear sweet Yoba,” he said, awestruck, “it finally happened.”

 

“What happened?” Gunther asked. Elliott nodded his head in the direction he was looking. Kieran was there with Alex, chatting with the Mullners. But something has clearly changed. Alex’s arm was around Kieran’s shoulders. The pair looked close, exchanging an intimate glance as they laughed at something George had said. When they parted from Alex’s grandparents, Elliott grabbed Gunther’s hand and cut across the square.

 

“Gentlemen,” Elliott said, a teasing quality in his voice, “Things are going well, I see.”

 

“For you too,” Kieran said, nodding his head toward Gunther.

 

“So that straight boy you were in love with, did things ever work out with him?” Elliott asked, smirking. 

 

Alex looked a bit startled at first, then he grinned, “You’re in love with me, farmer guy? Wow,” Alex teased, giving Kieran’s shoulders a playful shove.

 

“Be so fucking for real,” Kieran said. The blush in his cheeks contrasted heavily with his biting tone. He turned back to Elliott, “Yeah, we’re together now.” 

 

“Yoba, you were so miserable that night, I'm glad things worked out.” 

 

Alex quirked a brow, “What night was that?”

 

“Remember that night you saw us leaving the saloon, and accused me of going on a date with Elliott?”

 

“I didn't accuse ,” Alex clarified, “I asked. And yeah, I remember being so upset and not knowing why.”

 

“Well, I didn't use your name, but Elliott figured out who I was talking about at the fair,” Kieran said, a bit shame-faced.

 

Alex laughed, “Yeah, I figured some things out at the fair, too.”

 

“And it still took you until winter to say something? You jerk.” 

 

“Well, I didn't figure it all the way out.”

 

“Sometimes the closet has too much clothing in it,” Elliott said, sagely, “You have to fight your way out tangled in sweaters.”

 

“That’s an apt metaphor,” Gunther said as he slid an arm around Elliott’s shoulder.

 

“Was it like that for you?” Alex asked.

 

“Oh, heavens no. I think I came out of the womb wrapped in a rainbow flag.” 

 

Gunther disappeared when it was time to open the secret gifts, telling Elliott he had to go take care of something. As the gift-giving ceremony proceeded, Elliott grew worried, putting on a cheerful face when he presented Kieran with the bottle of wine but still scanning the edges of the crowd for Gunther out of the corner of his eye. 

 

When it was Elliott’s turn to receive his gift, Gunther stepped out of the crowd with a package. “Ah, so that’s why you wouldn’t tell me who your secret friend was,” Elliott said. 

 

“It is very difficult to keep secrets from you,” he said with a grin as Elliott took the gift. 

 

Inside the meticulously wrapped package was a leatherbound journal, the cover embossed with Elliott’s name in flowing gilded script, along with a beautiful fountain pen with wooden inlays and a bottle of ink. “For your poems,” Gunther said, “You filled up your old journal, so I thought you could use it.”

 

“It’s perfect,” Elliott said, tracing his fingers along the smooth leather. It was very Gunther– such thought and care put into it. The journal looked hand-crafted, not like anything you could find in a store.

 

“There’s something else, too,” Gunther said, the hand he’d been holding behind his back emerging with a colorful bouquet, gorgeous flowers in hues of pink, orange and blue wrapped in lavender paper. Elliott gasped.

 

Everyone in Pelican Town knew what this meant. It was an old tradition among the people here, unique to this valley. Gunther wanted to make their relationship official, and he was presenting it to Elliott in front of the whole town. A hush fell over the gathered crowd as Elliott reached out to take the bouquet. “I don’t know what to say, other than . . . w-well of course I accept.” 

 

In that moment everything was perfect– a dream that stretched beyond Elliott’s imagination. And as the town came forward to celebrate the moment with them, offering their congratulations he leaned against Gunther’s side, just basking in the moment. Sure, they’d been living like a couple for some time, but there was a label on it now, the flowers signifying that he was Gunther’s, and Gunther was his. 

 

When the festivities finally died down, Elliott finally remembered the package tucked inside his coat. “I have something for you as well,” he said, presenting it to Gunther.

 

It was a slim book with a hand-stitched spine. Leah had helped him make it, taking his hand-written pages and binding them into a little booklet with a soft leather cover that was dyed blue. From the outside it looked unassuming, no title emblazoned on its cover, but its contents spoke volumes, straight from Elliott’s heart.

 

“I’ve been writing a lot of poetry, since you and I began talking. A lot of it is about you,” he said as Gunther flipped it open. “I wanted you to have them.”

 

Gunther brought Elliott’s hand to his lips, rubbing his thumb over the spot he had kissed as he offered him a warm smile. “This is the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me,” he said, “I’ll cherish it forever.”

 

~*~

 

When he divulged his idea for the silk ribbon, after much cajoling from Gunther, Elliott was unsure if it was something his lover was willing to try. He was surprised at the lack of hesitation in Gunther’s hands as he bound Elliott’s wrists in blue silk, completing the tie with a neat bow, as if Elliott, naked and stretched out in downward dog, was a gift under the tree. He’d been a bit nervous when Gunther started talking about safewords and aftercare, and it made him wonder for the first time about the man’s sexual history before him. But at the same time, he was thrilled.

 

Gunther grabbed Elliott’s ass, roughly kneading his flesh in his hands, the possessive, hungry feeling of those hands sending an electric thrill up Elliott’s spine. “Now, Elliott, you understand that I’m not going to be gentle,” Gunther said, voice low and almost threatening.

 

“Yes, Sir,” Elliott replied, feeling the heat creeping into his face as Gunther spread his cheeks and ghosted a thumb over his hole.

 

“Remind me of the safeword.”

 

“It’s ‘pomegranate,’ Sir.”

 

“Good.” Elliott heard a click as Gunther uncapped a bottle of lube. “And you understand that if you say that word, everything stops.”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Very good.”

 

The first lubed finger slipped in without warning, Gunther’s other hand gripping Elliott’s hip to prevent him from jolting forward– not from pain but from the surprise. “Keep still,” Gunther ordered, maintaining a firm grip. Elliott steadied himself on his elbows, bound hands clawed on the pillow as the second and third finger followed the first at the same time, breathing through the ache of the stretch.

 

Gunther hummed appreciatively, “You listen so well.” He arched his fingers down sharply, drawing a startled gasp from Elliott’s lips as he felt the intense pressure on his prostate. He dragged his knees inward, and Gunther nudged them to the side with his own, keeping him spread, exposed as he continued to work his fingers in and out of Elliott’s hole, pushing his fingertips– hard– into his most sensitive spot. 

 

Elliott dropped his head onto his arms, ragged moans dragging out from the back of his throat as Gunther fucked him with his fingers. That’s what this was: fucking , not the gentle love-making they usually did. And he loved it– flirting with danger, falling out of a plane miles in the sky knowing he could pull the string on that parachute at any time. For now he was content to free-fall, the intense pleasure, mixed with just a touch of pain taking him to dizzying new heights. 

 

It wasn’t long before the pleasure began to peak, hot magma pooling in his belly. Elliott was just cognizant enough in the heady daze, to recall Gunther’s earlier instructions to tell him when he was getting close. 

 

“I’m going t-to– ah! Yoba , I’m about to–” before the words were even out of his mouth, Gunther’s fingers stopped moving. His other hand gripped Elliott’s cock tightly, pressing his thumb over the slit. Elliott whimpered at the sudden cessation of pleasure, unconsciously rutting against Gunther’s fingers, his breath a keening whine.

 

Gunther withdrew his fingers and slapped Elliott’s ass– not hard enough to leave a mark, but the sudden sting caused him to cry out. “Patience, Elliott,” Gunther warned, kneading the flesh where he slapped it, to soothe. His hand was still firmly gripping Elliott’s cock, denying him the orgasm that he sorely craved. “Hold it in– you’ll cum when I allow it.”

 

Elliott was quickly realizing some things about himself. The feeling that coursed through him in that moment, hearing Gunther talk to him like this, wasn’t fear but exhilaration. He spent so many of his waking hours thinking and worrying about one thing or the other. And wasn’t it so nice to just relinquish control like this? With his hands tied, there was nothing for him to do but obey– let Gunther take the reins and take him places he had never been before. All along he had been craving wiser, more experienced hands to guide him, and he was finding it out that he very much enjoyed extending that to the bedroom. 

 

“Yes, sir,” Elliott said, unable to stop the giddy laugh that tumbled out of his mouth afterward.

 

“Are you okay?” Gunther asked, real concern in his tone.

 

“Never been better,” Elliott said, throwing a coy smile over his shoulder, “I’m quite enjoying this sadistic side of you.” 

 

Gunther swore under his breath, “Sometimes I think you were specifically designed to drive me crazy.” 

 

Elliott wiggled his ass playfully, and in response the fingers returned, all three at once plunging mercilessly into his hole. His cry edged into a low moan as he arched back against Gunther’s hand. Gunther teased him relentlessly, bringing him to the edge of orgasm again and again until he felt like his insides were liquified, writhing and panting, wrists straining against their bindings. 

 

It was maddening. Each time he peaked the tension ratcheted tighter and tighter, until he felt like he was going to explode. “Please,” Elliott begged, “Please, I need to cum.” Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall. Despite his desperate need for release, he didn’t hate this. Exquisite torment– those are the words he would have used if his brain was still operating. At that moment there were no thoughts behind his eyes, only a feral, aching need. 

 

“Please, what?” Gunther said, his voice calm, almost cold. He withdrew his fingers again, and Elliott fought to hold himself still, whimpering at the loss.

 

“Please, Sir,” he said, doing his best to enunciate carefully, though it was becoming difficult to speak coherently, “may I cum?”

 

There was a beat of silence, followed by the soft click of the lube bottle opening again. “You’ve been a very good boy, Elliott. How would you like to cum? What is it that my love desires?”

 

Elliott grinned, eyes half-lidded and dazed, Gunther’s words lighting a fire inside him. “I want your cock inside me,” he said, hastily adding the ‘Sir’ after another beat of quiet. 

 

“Then you shall have it,” Gunther purred, nudging his cock against Elliott’s entrance and immediately pushing the head inside. “You don’t need my permission to cum, but I won’t stop when you do. I’ll fuck you until I’m satisfied, or until you use the safeword.”

 

Elliott gasped and fought the urge to clench around it as Gunther slid inside– still careful, but faster than normal– until he felt Gunther’s hips against his ass. Elliott groaned low in his throat, relishing that deliriously satisfying feeling of fullness.

 

Gunther pulled out almost completely, thrusting back into him suddenly and viciously, his hips ramming hard against Elliott’s flesh. He cried out, the pleasure fusing with the pain. Gunther set a brutal pace, his hands digging into Elliott’s hips as he fucked him. 

 

Elliott gripped onto the pillows with white knuckles, strangled moans gritting out through his clenched teeth. When he came it wasn’t a gentle crashing of waves on the shore, it was a bomb, his body shaking violently as his vision exploded in stars. Bright flashes of pain tore through his body as he involuntarily clenched around Gunther’s cock as it pounded into him relentlessly.

 

True to his word, Gunther continued, not slowing his pace for even a second. Elliott writhed, the silk ribbon biting into his wrists as he struggled and failed to regain his composure. Gunther didn’t even sound like he was out of breath yet.

 

His hole felt sensitive and raw, but still the pleasure continued to build as Gunther’s cock thrust over his overstimulated prostate. Gunther pressed a hand into Elliott’s lower abdomen, the overwhelming feeling of fullness seeming to double, and suddenly he was cumming again. He squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering through the orgasm, breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Gunther pressed into Elliott, praise tumbling from his lips as his cock pulsed deep inside him. He withdrew slowly, tenderly massaging Elliott’s lower back as he did. Elliott collapsed, breathless onto the bed, legs shaking.

 

Gunther gently brushed Elliott’s hair away from his face and planted a tender kiss on his forehead, pulling the end of the ribbon to release the bindings. Ever so gently, he massaged the tender skin on Elliott’s wrists, soothing the red marks that were left there. 

 

“What does it say about me,” Elliott said weakly, “that I really enjoyed that?”

 

Gunther chuckled, “Does it have to say anything?”

 

“No, I suppose not.” His mind was slowly clearing, like he was swimming up to the surface from the bottom of the sea. “You called me ‘my love’,” he said, “Do you? Love me, I mean.” Elliott wiggled closer to him, resting his head against Gunther’s chest as the man gently stroked his hair. 

 

Gunther kissed the top of his head. “Yes, Elliott, I love you.” 

 

If he had the energy to do so, he would have screamed. Instead he pressed his face into Gunther’s neck and whispered, “I love you too.”

 

~*~

 

Elliott had been lying, when he said he couldn’t walk by himself, but Gunther had obliged him anyway, carrying him to the bathroom and lowering him into the steaming water. The clawfoot tub was spacious enough that Gunther could climb in behind him, and he settled back against Gunther’s chest with a contented sigh. The hot water felt incredible on his aching muscles, and he imagined himself melting away down the drain. 

 

Gunther pulled down the showerhead attachment and used it to wet Elliott’s hair, then squirted shampoo into his hands. Elliott’s eyes slipped closed as Gunther massaged the shampoo into his scalp, little tingles running down his spine as the sensation released the last of the tension from his body. “If I knew you’d pamper me like this every time, I’d let you do that every night,” Elliott said, practically purring. 

 

“That would not be safe or sane, my love,” Gunther said, laughing. “But you don’t need to do anything special for this. If it makes you happy, then I’m happy to do it.”

Notes:

There's a sticky note on my brain that says "Stop Writing Edging in All Your Fics" and I am pointedly ignoring it. It's hot, I don't care. If I had a nickel for every time I wrote a Stardew Valley character getting edged right after the Winter Star festival I'd have two nickels but it's weird that I did it twice (the other time was Sam in If You Only Knew, hee hee).

This is my first time writing anything this kinky, so I hope it a fun time for everyone.

Chapter 9: Kindling Hearts

Summary:

Elliott holds a special event at the library to present his newly minted novel to the town. And when the doors are locked for the evening . . . well, let's just say Elliott's vivid imagination conjures up something new and exciting.

Notes:

Yeah, we're going there . . . in the library. Yep. I couldn't let this fic go on much longer without including naughty activities behind the circulation desk, sorry. This is the second to last chapter, at least that's how it's written in my outline, and since this is a shorter fic I wanted a lot of bang (pun intended) for my buck.

I'm also not tagging this as semi-public anything because the doors are locked and it's past closing hours, so there's not really any risk of getting caught involved here. Let me know if you think my justification for that is wrong though, I do want my stuff to be tagged appropriately.

Elliott fiddled nervously with his tie, watching with some trepidation as the townsfolk began filing into the library, taking their seats in the rows of chairs that had been arranged in the reading section of the library. 

 

“Nervous?” Gunther asked, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

 

“A little,” Elliott admitted.

 

“You’ve worked hard for this, and everyone is here to watch you succeed.” That was Gunther, always there with the words he needed to hear. 

 

His novel was finished, and though it hadn’t made it to publication quite yet, he’d secured enough advance copies to distribute in town. At Gunther’s suggestion he was hosting a reading of the first chapter, and it looked like nearly everyone would be attending. 

 

It had taken some time to get this story onto the page, and he spent many a night lamenting to his lover, to Leah, to anyone that would listen, really, that maybe he couldn’t do this after all. But everyone who heard him describe the novel was excited about it, so there was that. Leah had helped him brainstorm some of the final details, and Gunther read and edited as he wrote, always offering him praise, words of encouragement, and constructive criticism where he needed it. 

 

Everything he’d been dreaming of since he was a small boy was finally realized– he was an author, soon to be a published one, he had the man of his dreams, and he had a whole community of friends and neighbors ready to rally around him. 

 

When everyone had received their copy of the book and taken their seats, Elliott cleared his throat. Nervous butterflies flitted around in his stomach, but he found Gunther’s face in the crowd– front and center– and spoke directly to him. 

 

“Thank you all for coming today,” Elliott said, “Ever since I was a young boy I dreamt of becoming a writer, but I can’t say I had much success at it when I first started.” That earned some sympathetic laughter from the crowd.

 

“When I moved here I was drawn to the peaceful beauty of the valley, and I hoped that days of quiet reflection in this idyllic atmosphere would fan the literary flames. But it didn’t. I found myself locked in a lonely existence, unable to write more than a few lines of useless drivel, running out of funds and patience as the days turned to months, and then eventually it had been nearly two years. I’m sure by that time Leah and Willy were quite sick of me.

 

“But I found someone who was just as lonely as I was, and he gave me a challenge: talk to the people of this town, find community, and see if my creative spark didn’t reignite. And it did. I would not be where I am today without so many of you, sharing your tea and your time. Only when my life was full, of friends, of things to do outside my pitiful shack, and of love, did I find the drive to write again.”

 

Gunther gave him an encouraging nod, and Elliott scanned the smiling faces sat in front of him. So many people who had touched his life, and he saw in the shine of their eyes that he had touched them, too. He laughed when Kieran shot a thumbs up at him from the back, seated between Alex and Leah, who had the widest grin on her face. His heart was so full it might burst.

 

“And so, without further ado, I present to you my first novel: Kindling Hearts. It’s the story of a writer, who moves to a little cabin in the forest hoping to find inspiration for his next novel. What he doesn’t expect to find there is Graham, a handsome, rugged lumberjack who teaches him the way of the woods, and the way to his heart.”

 

He cleared his throat again, nerves reigniting as he took in the eager faces all around him. Gunther winked, and tapped the side of his nose, and he found the strength to continue.

 

“Chapter One: A Change of Scenery . . . A life in isolation in a picturesque location with nothing but time to write had seemed idyllic to Everett. When he first moved into that little shack in the forest, he hadn’t even balked at the dust and cobwebs . . .”

 

~*~

 

“We’re officially making Kindling Hearts our next book club read,” Marnie said excitedly, presenting her copy for Elliott to sign, “It’ll be nice having the author there to help with the discussions.”

 

Elliott flushed. It would be awkward, reading this with the book club knowing that the story contained intimate details about his own romantic life. He’d changed the name, the setting, and disguised certain other things, but he knew that at least a few people who read it would catch on. Still, he couldn’t disappoint the ladies– or Harvey, who shyly presented his copy, telling Elliott that he was looking forward to book club as well.

 

“Hey, so this Kenneth Guy in chapter three,” Kieran said, skimming through the pages as he approached with Alex in tow, “That’s me, isn’t it?”

 

“W-well . . . a writer often finds inspiration in their real life,” Elliott said, flustered. He’d only read chapter one, carefully avoiding going further in case certain someones realized they’d been written into his work. 

 

“Relax, Elliott, I think it’s cool. I haven’t read much since I moved to the farm, so it’ll be nice to crack into this. And I really like that it’s a queer romance– you don’t see too many of those in the bookstores.”

 

“Right? It can be frustrating sometimes. In any case, I hope you like it.”

 

“Am I in it?” Leah asked, pulling Elliott into a tight hug.

 

“Oh of course, where would our lonely writer be without an artist friend with which to commiserate?” 

 

“You better have made it flattering, or I’ll come find you,” she said, the smile on her face emptying her words of any threat.

 

“I would never do you wrong,” Elliott said, holding his hands up defensively as a laugh threatened to burble up from his throat. 

 

“I’m proud of you– really.”

 

“Thank you. For what it’s worth, I really appreciate how patient you were with my endless whining in those early days.”

 

“Hey, I was whining back then, too– tit for tat or whatever.”

 

Gunther was the last in line, a warm smile on his face as he held his own copy of the book out to Elliott. “It sure would mean a lot to have an autograph from my favorite author,” he said. 

 

“It’s not even out in stores yet,” Elliott said, blushing.

 

“Even so, this author is my favorite for a great multitude of reasons.”

 

Elliott took the book from him, and wrote:

 

For Gunther,

My muse, my anchor, my Love– you helped me find my spark again, and kindled it into a flame.

–Elliott

 

~*~

 

When the last of the guests exited the library, Gunther left him for a moment to lock the door. While his back was turned, Elliott scurried behind the circulation desk and composed his face into his best forlorn pout. 

 

“Elliott?” Gunther asked, face drawn into a look of concern– fully buying the act, “Is something wrong?”

 

Elliott fought to maintain the frown that was threatening with each second to morph into a grin. “It’s just . . .” he sighed, trailing a finger along the desk, “I don’t know how I can possibly repay all these late fees, Mr. Librarian Sir.” He tilted his head down, fixing Gunther with a pleading look through his long eyelashes. 

 

Gunther’s eyes widened for a moment, brief confusion flitting across his features before relaxing into a smirk. “I see,” he said with a soft chuckle, stalking purposefully around the circulation desk toward Elliott, “This is quite the pickle you’ve found yourself in. What do you intend to do about it?”

 

Elliott sank to his knees and curled his fingers around Gunther’s belt, gazing up at him with wide doe eyes. He batted his eyelashes, trying to look innocent. “I’m afraid I haven’t any money, Sir. But perhaps I could repay you . . . with my mouth?”

 

Pride surged in his chest when he realized that Gunther was already hard, his erection straining against his dress slacks. It pleased him deeply to know he had such power over the man, needing only a light touch, a teasing glance, or a simple phrase, to get his engines revving like this. 

 

“You make a very tempting offer,” Gunther purred. He crooked a finger under Elliott’s chin and tilted it up, running his thumb along Elliott’s lower lip. “And what  a pretty mouth you have . . . I’m sure we can work something out.”

 

Flames of pure desire licked up from Elliott’s core, coloring his face as his lips parted and he sucked Gunther’s thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it– a little preview of what was to come. Gunther sucked in a breath, his eyes locked on Elliott’s as he released the thumb with a wet pop. Elliott smirked up at him, slowly undoing his belt and tugging down the zipper of his slacks with his teeth. 

 

The way that Gunther was looking at Elliott as he took out his cock, a strange mixture of awe and simmering hunger, set Elliott’s heart racing. His movements were slow and sultry, never taking his eyes off Gunther’s as he licked and kissed up the length, sticking his tongue out and making a show of lapping up the precum that clung like tiny pearls at the tip, the low, appreciative moans from Gunther’s parted lips like applause in his ears. 

 

“This is quite the performance . . . but I think it’s time you put that mouth of yours to work,” Gunther said with a wolfish grin, carding his hands through Elliott’s hair.

 

“Mmm?” The sound came out like a question, muffled around the tip of Gunther’s cock.

 

“Put your hands behind your back.”

 

A thrill rushed through him, sudden, sharp, and white-hot. He shifted on his knees, trying to relieve some of the pain from his own throbbing arousal pressing hard into the zipper of his pants. Elliott’s face was sizzling as he obeyed the command, fixing Gunther with a provocative stare as he tilted his head back, opened his mouth wide and stuck out his tongue. 

 

The sudden, sharp intake of breath as Gunther watched him assume the position was like a lit match thrown onto a pile of gunpowder in Elliott’s belly– the way he stared down at Elliott for a prolonged beat as if the vision before him had short-circuited his brain. It was a rare treat to see his level-headed, reserved companion lose his composure like this. This was like a game to Elliott now, gleefully pressing buttons until he found just the right one. Even lost in a lustful daze as he was, he took note of that moment, to be weaponized again at a later date. 

 

“So eager,” Gunther said, regaining his composure and pressing the head of his cock against Elliott’s tongue, “You must be so committed to repaying those debts.”

 

Elliott curled his top lip over the top lip and sucked the tip into his mouth, bobbing down slightly and suctioning on the way back up, releasing it with a wet pop. “Yes, Sir,” he said, “I’d do anything.”

 

Gunther raked his hands up the back of Elliott’s head, gathering his hair into a fist and pulling it back. Elliott grinned as electricity jolted up his spine, and as Gunther pressed his cock to Elliott’s lips he parted them eagerly, feeling the dull ache in his jaw as it stretched to accommodate its impressive girth. When he felt it tap the back of his throat he sucked in his cheeks, applying more pressure with the flat of his tongue as Gunther slowly pulled back– but not out. 

 

That slight pause, the fires burning in Gunther’s eyes as they locked onto Elliott’s, his hand still fisted tightly in his hair, told him what was coming. He took a deep breath through his nose, and Gunther thrust into his mouth in a careful way that was less consideration, and more testing limits, and when Gunther’s cock hit the back of his throat again and he didn’t gag, Gunther grinned. “You’re a natural at this, aren’t you?”

 

With his mouth still full, Elliott couldn’t reply, so he let out a muffled moan as Gunther thrust into his mouth again, thrilled at the throaty groan the vibration of his voice elicited from Gunther.

 

Steadily, Gunther ramped up his pace, keeping Elliott’s head firmly in place with a fistful of hair, hitting the back of his throat each time, but Elliott could sense he was pulling his punches at the last second. That is until he began pressing in further, angling Elliott’s head so he could push past his mouth and down the bend in his throat until Elliott’s nose pressed into Gunther’s belly. Tears sprang to his eyes, his throat convulsing involuntarily as he clenched his fists, but didn’t dare move them from behind his back. Gunther held him there for a few agonizing seconds, only yanking his head back with Elliott began to squirm. He took a few panting breaths, and then Gunther was thrusting into his mouth, faster this time. 

 

The ache in his jaw built and built, until it became a sharp, pulsing pain. Still, he kept his eyes trained on Gunther’s face, the man’s eyes half-lidded behind his glasses, face flushed with pleasure. Still, his own erection throbbed with need, spurred on by the satisfied moans and praise that Gunther rained down on him from above. Gunther’s pace became more erratic as he sought his release, then once more he pulled Elliott close, cock pulsing as he doubled over, spilling his seed down Elliott’s throat. Elliott swallowed around him, fighting the urge to gag as Gunther slowly retreated from his mouth. 

 

When Gunther released his hair Elliott sank back on his heels, gasping for air but triumphant. Gunther leaned down and kissed his forehead, and then his nose, finally capturing his lips in a deep, passionate kiss as he lifted Elliott to his feet. 

 

“This is probably the wrong time to bring this up,” Gunther said, refastening his belt, “but you actually do have some late fees that we should discuss.”

 

“I do?” Elliott’s eyes widened in shock, mind immediately cycling through his list of checked out books. 

 

Gunther laughed, a deep, gleeful, rumbling sound. “It was a joke,” he said, swiping the tears from Elliott’s cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. 

 

“Well, even if I did have some late fees, I’d say that was probably payment enough, yes?”

 

“Oh my love, what am I going to do with you?”

 

Elliott was still painfully aroused, and even with his aching jaw and bruised throat, he wanted more– much more. “What do you want to do with me?” he asked teasingly, walking his fingers up Gunther’s chest and tapping him on the nose. 

 

Gunther smirked at that, and unlocked the door to his apartment. He scooped Elliott up in his arms and carried him across the threshold, straight to the bedroom. 

Notes:

Listen, I know that was a ridiculous setup, but I thought of it while doing my morning Sheetz run and I laughed so hard I almost dropped a lit cigarette into my lap while I was driving, so I had to do it. Apologies if that "badly acted porn intro" routine Elliott did was a bridge too far, I enjoyed myself immensely. I also think it's in character for him to be perfectly honest. The version of Elliott that I have brought upon this world is a ridiculous man, I love that about him.

Chapter 10: Love is Like the Ocean

Summary:

Elliott sails across the Gem Sea with his Love. He can finally finish the phrase that's been haunted him since chapter one: love is like the ocean . . . and no one is losing their shoe in it this time.

The Gem Sea glittered with the sunlit gold of late afternoon, stretching for miles upon miles in every direction. The salty ocean breeze ruffled Elliott’s long auburn hair as he stood on the bow, gazing toward his next adventure– to his future, which looked brighter and brighter by the day. 

 

Kieran and Alex had graciously offered the use of their Ginger Island farmhouse to Elliott and Gunther for a much needed vacation, and Elliott was looking forward to the change of scenery. Still a beach, but something for exotic and exciting. Kieran told him the sand there was of a softer, finer grain, the color of gold. 

 

He remembered a fantasy he once had about Gunther, shirtless in blue jeans on a beach just like that one. And it hadn’t taken his agile mind long to come up with countless new ones. His most recent involved himself as a nobleman, cast adrift at sea, kidnapped by the fierce but ruggedly handsome pirate captain, Gunther. The man in question had raised an eyebrow when Elliott slipped the pirate hat and rope into their luggage, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

 

Gunther joined him, wrapping his arms around Elliott from behind and resting his chin on Elliott’s shoulder. “Willy reckons we should be there by nightfall,” he said. He reached up, plucking the spiraled blue shell that Elliott wore around his neck and held it up to the light, rubbing its smooth surface with his thumb. 

 

“Perfect,” Elliott said, admiring the way the sun glinted off the mermaid shell pendant. 

 

Gunther had been waiting for him, when he returned from his book tour, standing by the hearth and the warm fire crackling within, pendant in hand. That day had been perfect– and this one was perfect, too: sailing off into the sunset with his husband, not a worry in the world. It was the heartwarming ending to every good romance novel, and it was his.

 

“There was this phrase rattling around in my head for weeks before I got up the courage to speak to you: ‘love is like the ocean’. It was the start of a poem I never could complete,” Elliott said, gazing wistfully over the water.

 

“And now?”

 

Elliott knelt, reaching into his bag for the leatherbound journal Gunther had gifted him at the Winter Star festival where he made their relationship official. He flipped it open to a page near the back, and began to read:

 

Love is Like the Ocean– a poem by Elliott

 

I.

Love is like the ocean—vast, untamed,

A thousand songs within its depths unnamed.

It stirs the soul as moonlight stirs the tide,

A restless pull no sailor’s heart can hide.

 

At times it whispers soft upon the sand,

A gentle breeze, a warm and steady hand.

At others, storms will howl with jealous might,

And drown the stars beneath a clouded night.

 

Yet still I stand beside its briny shore,

A poet longing always to explore.

For though its moods may toss my heart anew,

It leaves behind a light no dark can rue.

 

Like waves that kiss the dock then drift away,

Love asks for trust, not chains that bid it stay.

And if it leaves, it’s not a cruel farewell—

But proof it touched the soul, then broke the shell.

 

So here I write with candle, tide, and pen,

A tribute to the hearts that dive, and then—

Emerge not dry, but wiser, soaked in grace…

For love, like oceans, shapes the human face.

 

II.

Love is like the ocean—wild, immense,

It crashes past the boundaries of sense.

It calls to hearts that wander far from home,

And offers them a place to call their own.

 

It lingers soft where sand and shoreline meet,

A hush of salt and heartbeats in retreat.

Yet just as swift, it rises up in flame—

A wild storm that dances without shame.

 

Still, I return, my feet upon the pier,

Drawn not by peace, but something bright and clear.

For though it tears, and churns my soul in two,

It mirrors all the ache I’ve hidden, too.

 

Like tides that pull two sailors far apart,

Love knows the secret chambers of the heart.

And when it leaves, it carves the self anew—

A scar, perhaps—but lined in something true.

 

So if my heart should drift to distant bays,

Toward softer hands or long-forgotten gaze,

Know this: I loved not quietly, or small—

But like the sea, I rose to feel it all.

 

III.

Love is like the ocean—wide and deep,

It stirs the soul, then rocks it back to sleep.

A tide that moves with neither haste nor sound,

Yet finds a way to wear the hardest ground.

 

He came not like a storm, but like the tide,

With quiet eyes and knowing tucked inside.

A scholar's hands, a careful sort of grace—

And stories hid in every line upon his face.

 

For love rewrites you slowly, like the shore—

You are yourself, but somehow, something more.

He treasured every line I dared to share

Held all my words with gentle, quiet care.

 

Love is like the ocean, I once wrote.

A drifting heart. A castaway. A boat.

But now I think it’s something more than art—

It’s when someone decides to know your heart.

Notes:

Thank you for reading!! I still cannot believe this is the only Elliott/Gunther fic on AO3 (as of 9/2/25). Hopefully it won't be for long, once people start to see my vision. I will evangelize this ship far and wide.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Working It Out