#calen writes

Running a flower shop was your childhood dream, since you were little you grew up surrounded by all kinds of flowers and the meanings behind them, a family tradition that had grown into passion and now you are living it in flesh.

It wasn't easy to come to what it is now, espacially in such a small town as Makochi, but the people here are just as vivid and full of emotions as the flowers that are now part of your life and work. There's never one day without someone that needs to express themself through something more than words, and you, as someone that has memorized almost everything of what a flower can say, are more than happy to help those people find the perfect silent words through a bouquet.

People compliment the beauty of your work every time and admire how simply pretty a single flower can be, so is not new that when you are taking care of the flower exposed outside the store hear someone go like:

"Wow, those one are really pretty"

And you will usually reply with a smile, "They are, aren't they?" But as you turned around you found a pair of shiny blue eyes that were even prettier than any flower from your shop, and the words you were about to say are now forgotten in the air.

You just couldn't take your gaze away. Pretty blue eyes, bright smile, handsome face and nicely put-back white hair. How can you even say something when an angel just shows himself in front of you?

He was looking at you like he was waiting for an answer and you were lost in his eyes. you felt kinda dumb when he had to speak again to get you out of your mind.

"so, what are those called? Are they daisies?"

You forced yourself to get back from your thoughts. Focus, handsome boy is asking you something.

"Uh, actually they are called asters. They are part of the daisies family yes but the color, the central disk and the way they grow is different from daisies. And of course the meanings are different too, not completely tho but..."

Okay, now you are talking too much, the smile on his face is still there as he seems to keep listening to you attentively but you maybe shouldn't be yapping this much.

"Oh i'm sorry, i'm getting carried away. Can i help you with something?"

"Please, don't be sorry, you seem to know a lot of what you are talking about. You are really passionate about it, aren't you?" He said with a sweet smile and all you could do was nod shyly at the way he figured you out so easily "I'm a gardener myself but flowers are pretty much aside of my knowledge, actually i have a garden full of vegetables, you should see it someday!"

Oh, so he is a yapper too, and someone that seems to trust pretty fast. Does he realize that your first conversation just started three minutes ago? You can't help but find it kinda cute anyway.

"Anyway, I wasn't really looking for something but I knew I had to take a look when I saw you taking care of them. I think I might even want a bouquet now, can you do one for me?"

He just wants a bouquet because he saw you taking good care of your plants? You thought that was a silly reason, but who are you to deny a nice bouquet to such a sweet boy?

"Of course! come in, i can prepare one for you" You head inside and he follows you close behind "So what are you thinking for it? Any special meaning you want it to say?"

"Hmm, maybe something that expresses love and admiration. But don't keep it too simple, i think she will appreciate some variation of colors and scents, i want to surprise someone!"

"For someone you say? Must be really special then"

A pang of frustration brushes over your chest at the new information. Of course a boy like him would have a special someone already, what are you even disappointed by it? You decide to keep it professional with a cheerful tone.

"I can do something like that, i might have something in mind" you start walking around the store, searching for the right flowers for his bouquet "Maybe something like red roses for love, they are a classic, but we can mix them with sunflowers for admiration and white carnations for fascination. They also have a sweet delicate scent, so i think it's perfect combo for what you are looking for"

You keep talking as you pick the mentioned flowers. The conversation goes silent for some seconds as you wait for an answer that never came, and when you turn around you can see the admiration in his gaze, listening intently to your explanation. You can't help the slight blush that now paints your cheeks.

"I-is it fine for you?"

And just like your words brought him back to earth, he rushes to answer.

"Oh, more than fine, I think it’s perfect! It seems like you really know your stuff, your enthusiasm is very...attractive"

"Attractive!? Don't call me attractive when you are gonna gift flowers to someone else!" But you don't say that, instead you blush even more than you were before and try to understand how he could say those words so casually.

"O-oh thank you, is the first time someone refers to my work like that but i hope your special someone thinks that way too. Come on, you can wait some minutes while i make your bouquet"

The shop remains in silence while you work in your bouquet, the only sound being the chatters from people outside and the ticking of the clock on the counter, is not uncomfortable tho, you can feel the boy's gaze following every movement of your hands, which you can't deny it doesn't make you feel kinda nervous, just like his whole presence.

"To you, what does it mean when someone gives you flowers?"

The question took you by surprise, no one had ever asked you something like that before, but you don't mind a little chatting while you keep your hands at work.

"For me? Well, I'm not really the one who receives them, but I think it’s a nice gesture that can bring a lot of joy to someone. It means that you think of this person as someone special to you and that will make you happy seeing them smile with the detail" You sound almost hopeless, like is something you had been thinking for a while "And since i have some knowledge about the language of flowers, i can help people put a deeper meaning into their gifts, kinda like expressing their feelings into something more than words"

The look he gives you seems to be one of compassion, almost like feel some shame for you after hearing your words.

"You are absolutely right, I think it is a beautiful way to show affection, but... you've never received flowers before?"

And this question kinda itches, because you never did. Aside from the ones that you shared with your family, no one has ever given you a bouquet before, and even though you are immensely happy making bouquets for others, you often wonder what would it feel like to be on the receiving end.

"Actually no, I have never" you speak in a hopeless tone as you wrap the decorative paper around the flowers "But wouldn't it be silly? Gift flowers to a florist, i'm surrounded by them all the time, it wouldn't make sense for someone like me to receive something that i already have"

Again, silence fills the conversation, but you can hear footsteps getting closer to your working table as you tie the bouquet with a final bow. And when you raise your head there's again that sincere smile and a pair of eyes looking softly at you.

"But it is not all about the flowers isn't it?" His voice sounds soft and gentle, his sweet tone caress your senses with his words "It's about the meaning behind it, you said it. You can be surrounded by thousands of them, but wouldn't the gifted ones be more special than the others because they came from someone else?"

And you couldn't stop the way your heart was beating fast against your chest, suddenly feeling your face getting hotter and, shit, now you wanna receive flowers from him so bad

"yeah, you are... absolutely right" you repeat his previous words in what almost sounds like a whisper, the idea of it growing bigger in your head with every second. But now is not the time for that "A-anyways, your bouquet is ready. What do you think?"

He seems to finally look away from you, his eyes now glowing in admiration at your work.

"Wow! It's stunning! Genuinely breathtaking, she is gonna love it for sure"

And the remainder of the person that he's gonna give the bouquet is like a bucket of cold water, but is alright, you shouldn't be thinking this like this of someone that is already taken, even when his charming personality and sweet words had your heart racing the entire time he was here. It is what it is.

"I'm glad you liked it, I bet she will love it too. She is pretty lucky i would say"

"Oh, she is but I'm the lucky one too, for having the chance to know you now" and damn, can't he stop being so sweet for a damn minute? "I'll definitely return. I'll show you my work too, you'll be impressed by my huge garden, just wait for it!"

"I can't wait to see it" you say between giggles and you can't be more excited to see him again next time.

He was the most handsome boy you ever met, sweet, charming and funny at the same time. He was... adorable. You feel the urge to let him know exactly what you think of him but you can't say it out loud. Words are hard, complicated and embarrassing, you are too shy to even try to talk it out so... why not try other way?

"Oh wait, before you go" You rush to say and turn in your heels to search for something, returning with a single white flower in your hand "This is for you. Is a camellia"

The way his eyes shine at the little gift doesn't go missing by you, he seems surprised but happy to receive it anyways. Is that a blush what you see on top of his cheeks?

"A camellia? It's so lovely" he gives you a warm smile as he took the flower from your hand, admiring the gift as if it was the prettiest thing he could receive "Thank you so much, is there a meaning behind it?"

"T-the meaning? Umm..." you stumble in your words, trying to find an explanation without giving away much of your real intentions "I-i... it reminded me of your hair. You look quite alike, don't you think?"

He stays quiet for a bit and you swallow nervously while waiting for an answer, but a loud and bright laugh is what you receive in response. The perfect reply for you, you wish you can hear it many more times.

"Hahaha! My hair, huh? I suppose we do share some resemblance" His laugh continues for another couple of seconds and is so contagious that you can't help the little giggles that escapes your lips at seeing him enjoy a single flower this much "Thank you, i will take good care of it"

You two share another seconds in silence, just looking at each other with soft smiles. And you wished to be able to freeze the time and stay like that for longer, but even he figures out is time to go when he sees the hour ticking on the clock.

"I think I should be going now. I will come back, is a promise" He said while walking towards the exit, his eyes still looking at you as he walks away "Take care, Camellia"

And before you can even register the way he called you he is already out the shop, leaving you flushed in red and with a fast beating heart bumping against your chest.

"Camellia" the way he called you, it sounded so affectionate, so adorable and sweet. And you repeat the new given nickname in your head over and over again, figuring out he didn't ask you for your name and maybe that's why... wait, neither did you. You don't know his name.

"Oh, I'm so stupid!"

.

.

.

Bonus

"Kotohaaa!! Look what i got you, they are just as cute as you aren't they?"

"Spending your money on gifts again? Hajime, i already told you to have to start saving your money"

"I know but they were looking so pretty, I couldn't resist! Oh, and the florist was so sweet too, she even gifted me a flower for me, you should check her flower shop one day. Actually, let's go together, I wanna talk to her again!"

"Hmm, I might do it when I'm free, I'm looking for new decorations for the café. What's her name?"

"Her name is... um, uh..."

"Oh, you are so stupid"

.

.

.

after a moment, the bed dips with new tentative weight, hands and knees pushing temporary little valleys into the plain sheet. they bring a gentle world with them, j'gar's next breath in tasting of forest and rotting leaves and sweat and dirt. he exhales around it with a hint of a smile.

barely awake, j'gar lifts an arm and the blanket. another heartbeat and someone presses in against him, damp and shivering.

it's lamb.

he knows it's lamb. knows it's morning like a pigeon knows north. the dark behind his eyelids is soft and warm, tinged pink with sunrise through the window, and it is lamb curled up impossibly small in the curve of his body. their heartbeat flutters rabbit quick where they meet skin on skin.

he doesn't have to think about it. doesn't have to open his eyes. it's lamb's breath that roughs hot against his throat, ragged where the wet of his hair smears smooth. j'gar holds onto sleep and tucks his arm around her. the next inhale she draws is softer, more settled. not exactly normal, but getting there. she doesn't say anything. they just fit under the blankets with him.

good morning, he thinks.

lamb's always quiet like this. trying to slink back in without disturbing him, like j'gar minds, like it would bother him. like it hasn't been hard to get lamb out of bed let alone the house since may. lamb crawling back into the blankets with him smelling like life and earth is a good thing.

it means progress. it means that fear is fading with the scars down her arm and hand. it means something like normalcy settling back into the farmhouse. j'gar presses an aimless kiss to his head, thoughtless and instinctive.

the tremble buried in lamb's bones lingers even squashed in against him, early fall chill made worse by the low morning. that won't do. j'gar mumbles a low sound in his throat like a thrum, shifting to draw them in closer like always. he hooks a leg over her thigh, ankle nudging. lamb's breath hitches but they go easy, nestling into his chest.

that's better.

j'gar keeps that little rumble at the back of his mouth like a deeper hum. sleep still weighs down his eyelids, pulling on skin and muscle like gravity. if he stays still enough, he will fall back asleep for a few hours. he's done that plenty. the day doesn't need to start just yet. they can stay like this for a little while. maybe lamb will even sleep some. it was a full moon last night so he was foraging. all the better to see by, and something to do with their sleep muddled too far sideways with elvish insomnia like always. all that perpetual restlessness and his wandering heart still found his way back home again like always.

like before the attack. like normal, like always. so familiar it is almost boring.

j'gar exhales a wry sound, a half-hearted snort. so much for falling back asleep. forgot to keep his mind still.

ah, fuck it. he's awake.

"smell like mushrooms," j'gar yawns. lamb's wet hair tickles the hollow of his throat.

"sorry, didn't- want to wake you."

"barely."

"what?"

j'gar pushes another vague kiss to their head. "'m barely awake. not time t'be awake, lamby. you get some good stuff?" he asks.

lamb's breath hitches. "not much. it was- there wasn't much out there yet," he says.

"glad you're gettin' out there 'gain."

"sorry."

"said 'm glad, honey. that's good things," j'gar reminds.

"i know, i just." they curl in smaller somehow, forehead pressed against his collarbones. "i'm still trying to get better again."

"ain't no rush," he says, thumbing absentmindedly at the curve of lamb's hip. his fingers just brush under the fabric. "you're gettin' back out there at your own pace. i know you been workin' hard. lemme be sweet a little."

"you don't have to do that."

j'gar butts his chin lightly against her head, a half-hearted admonishment. "hon, just shut up a little sometimes. take some pride in your progress, an' lemme do the same."

lamb is quiet for a heartbeat, two, three, then mumbles, "sorry. i'm trying. i'll try."

it does not look sacred anymore. it is not sacred anymore. a graveyard abandoned by a family that now refuses its own. thousands of years of history picked apart by pilgrims like vultures, scraping splinters from the marrow for any helpless fraction of holiness, and now they do not even pray. lot's first known hand in the valley and it is a carcass, a fossil.

it feels like home.

nowhere breathes in.

it feels natural, good and pure. honest. the ground where lot first offered a miracle, one of many, and asked for obedience and trust. ask, and if it must be, it shall.

and the world still failed. lot looked down on the hundreds who came through and saw through them, not of faith but of want. desperate enough to demand, not ask. lot looked at those who would deny its will and nature and denied them. it did the same to the sisters, who claimed to know better than it. as though stained glass and a gilded altar made them worthy, made them faithful. it did the same to his brother, doubt overwhelming when his prayers were not answered how he wanted them and instead how they should be.

no, this is home. lot's absence here is proof.

nowhere exhales. returns the air back to the mountain. the breath is warm against his face before the wind pulls it away. his hooves feel steady against the rock. the old spire holds like an old friend over his shoulder. he does not lean back for fear it will break under the weight. looking down the cliff face into the valley, he picks thoughtlessly at the fur matted to his forearm. his fingers are rusted.

the city is so small from here. insignificant.

they want for everything. why should lot answer them? if a prayer is a question, why must be the answer be positive, desired, perfect. why do they think they know better? he did everything he was asked. he listened. he prayed. he obeyed his nature. he did not waver. he asked for his brother's salvation and it was not so. lot's will did not allow it, a miracle for someone so tainted.

he asked a question. he asked thousands of times, please, just this. he was given an answer, silent and damning every time. it does not matter that he does not like it. he should learn to stop asking. he has to accept it.

he accepts it.

he accepts it. he does. he does now. it is the rest of them that do not. lot will not allow his brother to be anything else, and the sisters and the city and the world still demands he change.

he should have known.

nowhere sighs, eyes closing against the sky for a moment. he did know, once. he knew, back in the convent. he knew the sisters were lying, too prideful to admit their own failings and lot's true judgement. every restraint, every hour forced on salt, every drag of the saw on bone to his scalp. an attempt to make him into their image, not lot's.

when did he forget that?

it was just-

he wanted to save him. wanted his brother finally safe. happy. good. wanted to believe he could do that, do enough that lot would have to notice because god, faith burns in him like salt in a wound. his brother is good. his brother grants miracles, honest, genuine miracles, and still damnation clings tight. he was supposed to be saved. nowhere obeyed, ripped out every stone in the road ahead of him, and it still.

it wasn't enough.

his nails scrape against the skin. his palms still ache, a dull throb with movement.

it was never going to be enough but he prayed anyway.

he asked.

he asked.

his brother did not. his brother doubted, wavered. his own damn miracles were not proof enough of something better than him. now there is no point. nothing will change. he has his answer. lot has decided. no matter his effort. no matter the evil he blotted out, no matter the freshest heretic scorched skyward, body and its sin strewn ash from the ovens.

he did not change anything. he has to accept it.

this is his answer.

his brother will not be saved.

nowhere digs his nails into his arm. the sore flesh hurts. the thin seams in his palms split fresh, warm blood blooming slow. it is almost gentle. he breathes deeply against it. his teeth feel wrong in his mouth.

"lot, why," nowhere says thoughtlessly, the sound heavy. it drops like snow.

"why?" his voice echoes.

out of the corner of his eye, he watches a shape sit down beside him. it makes no sound. the lichen and rock do not move. they are just no longer visible, localized night swallowing them down.

the hair down his back raises. the cuff of fur around his throat flares. for a moment, in his haze, he fears the baker; fears a man clotted arterial on his arms, fears he dreamed it, destroyed a different soul. imagines his brother and panics. he fumbles for the blade in his pocket, twists and raises his hand without thinking.

the light stops.

the sun is gone.

lot abandons the valley. there is nothing left.

there is no sun. there are no stars. the horizon's jagged mouth closed shut.

he can't see. his vision is empty.

fear tangles in his throat, sharp and knotted. he should not be able to see yet the person next to him is darker still.

he cannot see his fist or the knife, but the silhouette to his side is unmistakeable. a complete form with defined edges in the blackness, solid where the rest of the world has softened and fallen away. it doesn't make sense. it can't. his eyes hurt. he forces his eyes to focus and they refuse. there is nothing to see but this shadow, light devoured. he does not lower the knife.

he asks, "why did you make me like this?"

the head tilts, motion uncanny in the impossibility of it. "why did you make me like this?"

"you could have stopped it," nowhere says, agonized. dizzy nausea digs thick fingers into his stomach.

"you could have stopped it."

it hurts. he bares his teeth in a loose snarl and it means nothing. there is no light to see by.

that's not right.

it should still be light. the sun has not set and there is no one here. he knows that. he knows that.

god, he knows that. he is at the peak, pilgrimage ended at the old spire of the original miracle, and there is no one else here. they do not come here anymore. no one else believes. that damned city miles down is nothing but liars and thieves and heretics. lot is nothing but the name of the valley now. no more pilgrims, no more ragged displays of faith. this place means nothing, is nothing, is nowhere.

there is no one here.

nowhere lowers the knife. his fist meets rock, the metal clinking at the contact, and the sensation is overwhelming. bizarre, foreign, wrong. he can't see.

he can't see.

the shape beside him stays like a shadow. it hunches the same, shoulders drug forward. mimicry, but even then it cannot bear to lower itself to him; its shape is human, absent of beast. it does not look like him. it will not save him. this was never going to work. he asked a question.

nothing changes. lot offers nothing.

the blood on his face itches, sour against the skin. it mats the fur down around his neck as it flares instinctive like a nervous dog. his ears feel tight against his skull.

"i tried," nowhere says, voice raw. his arm shakes, a tremor built into bone. "i tried to save him. i did everything i was asked."

lot's eye flickers to regard him.

as the eye opens, a single curve of light on the face like a nerve struck, nowhere forces himself to remain.

lot's light is not how he imagined it. it is not warm. it does not allow him to see. it is just a different kind of emptiness. this is not his brother's miracles, gentle like candelight and honey. his pulse throbs around the hilt squashed tight in his palm. his jaw clenches.

"i tried," it echoes. the voice is flat. "i tried to save him. i did everything i was asked."

that is not fair.

that's not fair.

it's not fair. he tried. he obeyed. he submitted to lot's will and it didn't matter. none of it mattered. lot didn't care. it didn't listen, didn't try, didn't lift a goddamned finger. he asked a question and lot never once answered. not a yes, not a no, just fucking silence. lot knew he would never be good enough to be saved and still it allowed the sisters and the city and the world to demand impossibility from a child. he can still feel rope at his wrists.

he asked a question.

"why didn't you help?" begs nowhere, twisting blindly to his knees. his body hurts, existence a bruise. he cannot see anything but lot, impossibly dark with a single pitiful miracle of light. "you could've saved him."

lot says, "why didn't you help? you could've saved him," and the voice is his brother's.

no.

no.

there is no one here.

the metal in his grip catches in the empty light.

this isn't fair.

he asked a question.

this feels like an answer. the blade almost slips out of his hand. his palm is hot and wet. his breath burns in his chest, scream tearing off his tongue as he connects bodily with the shape.

none of this matters. this place is no longer holy. lot gave him an answer and he has to accept it. he has to accept it. there is rope at his wrists and the mother superior's voice reads scripture in his ears, and he has to accept it. his brother's knees are rubbed raw until the skin splits and he kneels on salt, and he has to accept it.

he has to accept it.

but it is wrong. it is wrong, and lot is wrong, and this is not fair, and he has been nothing but faithful, and this is wrong.

this is wrong.

this is wrong.

this is wrong.

blind, his teeth find something solid, warm like a throat. the light does not come back, even as he cuts stars into the blackness of it with a silver knife. there is no sound. nothing changes. he snarls a sob around the flesh torn against his mouth, salt and light burning like blood. what more did it want? why was he not good enough? was he not faithful, obedient, loyal like a stray dog.

"why?" says his voice. "why? why?"

old dirt abandons the leather for the road, scraped off like fish scales. the wind against his face pushes like the crick's current, gentle but insistent. like he isn't supposed to go this way yet, like the sun and sky don't want him to.

like he isn't supposed to go home.

because he's not supposed to go home like this, his daddy lagging politely behind him with the rest of everyone still in town. he's doing this wrong. it's a market day. he should be helping. he should be hawking zucchini and bright tomatoes. wandering with melli and a basket of eggs to trade because she's always been the best at bartering. kicking lagoe when he tries to nap under the stand again. braiding naie's hair when it gets slow. counting coin with his momma.

he should be with his family like every weekend. he should be doing something. he should be helping and happy.

he should be fine.

he shouldn't be like this. j'gar grinds his teeth, hands stubborn fists at his sides. his eyes feel that warning hot again, pressure aching behind his forehead, and there's something terrible about it. he's cried enough today. embarrassing, eyes sprung a leak so furious he could drink the crick dry and not piss.

no. no, he's done crying. he don't want to no more. had enough of it. gnawing the inside of his cheek, j'gar glowers at the road.

it's worse with his daddy here. not quite here but around, with him since he stormed off. impossible to tell if it's judgement or sympathy hovering off of him. he's a silent shadow, only sign of him the little sounds of his footsteps just off-kilter to j'gar's own and the occasional wince of a sigh. he hasn't said anything since they left, and that's worse somehow. simultaneously better and worse, because if it was his mama she'd be asking all kinds of questions and j'gar's not sure he'd got any kind of answers.

he hates that.

he doesn't have the words for any of it. the whole tangled feeling. a thousand tiny molehills he's building into mountains, and then all those mountains keep catching storms.

it's stupid.

it's all stupid. feelings are supposed to mean something. you feel things because something made you feel them. they don't just happen.

but nothing happened and he feels something too big for the whole of him and there is no goddamn reason for it. no rock in his shoe driving him mad, no feather-shaft stuck in his clothes, no hunger pangs, no kosha and naie poking and prodding him trying to start a tag after he done said no. no reason for any of it, his insides all tangled up with nothing on the ends. melli's asked him dozens of times before if he's bleeding and needs a rag. it shouldn't feel like nails in his ears. ruva nudging his shoulder when he gets distracted talking and asking, hey, sis, you grab a box'a eggs for the junipers here and let 'em on their way shouldn't hurt the way it does. that shitty little thomas boy always compliments his necklace like he don't wear it every day since his mama gave it, and he hates how self conscious it makes him. he doesn't want anyone looking at him. doesn't want to walk and run and move and feel the new weight on his chest.

even frowning this bad don't make his tusks poke over his upper lip.

he hates it. hates this. hates this nameless, faceless, baseless thing. he feels wrong, out of place in his own damn family. it's so stupid. he wants to pry it out. he wants to go home and curl up in bed and be alone. he wants to go back. lose a few years until he's back before he felt like this, do things different until he's right again. put himself back together right.

j'gar sniffles, a ragged breath in. he grinds his teeth, biting down the worst of it. tears cling salty to his eyelashes.

"do you want to talk about it, sweetheart?"

j'gar startles, shoulders tensed. his daddy's soft voice behind him doesn't push. that doesn't make it better. he don't know what he's asking, because there aren't words for it and j'gar can't talk about it because.

because he can't. he doesn't know what words to use and he hates it. he hates it. frustration bubbles hot in his chest, clawing at his throat.

j'gar snaps as his voice wavers, "don't got nothin'a talk about. quit buggin' me. i swear, everybody been on me about shit today an' it's a whole lotta nothin'. i'm fine."

"alright," icao says.

and that's it. he doesn't needle, doesn't swat at him or prod like mama. it's almost satisfying. a brief sense of control, like he can beat the feeling down if he tries hard enough.

it fades quickly though. embarrassment and shame fill in the space just as hot. j'gar squares his shoulders stubborn but it pulls at the buttons on his shirt. he hunches instead, swallowing a dry lump of wrong, and stomps ahead.

his pulse thuds loud and insistent in his ears. he breathes through it, nails sharp against his palms.

he can't talk about it. he doesn't know how.

the dull clod of his boots on stone softens as the road tapers out. this far out of town, it's dirt paths, kept paths only by habit and not built up by money they don't have. there's a long few moments where his footsteps are a different sound than his father's and, nonsensically, it almost hurts.

j'gar huffs, scrubs his face with an angry palm. salt burns against the raw skin of his cheeks.

god damn it.

impulse sparks behind his sternum, scatters down into his legs; he starts running, not waiting for his father. the wind whips past his ears, loud with the combined metronome of his pace and pulse. if his daddy calls after him, he don't hear it. that soft voice swallowed up by the fields. sound cropped short like their shadows with the sun too high overhead.

he just runs.

throws himself up the path like a salmon upstream. shame burns hot at his heels. it doesn't feel good, doesn't feel better. it's just.

he wants to get away.

go away. run until he gets someplace else where they don't know who he is and be someone else. grow into whatever wrong shape the stranger in his periphery wants, grow without everybody's memories clinging to him like cucumber vines of how he's supposed to be and who he's supposed to be and.

he wants to be different. wants it to be different, wants to feel normal again. wants to stop feeling like a ghost in his own body, his own family. he can't even name it, can't say what digs at his insides so bad his body looks wrong, moves wrong, works wrong.

that's not fair. it's not fair. not fair that everybody gets along just fine and this feeling comes outta nowhere like a snow squall and even with the cold and the powder not a single one of them notices. like he's fine, like he's built just how he was supposed to be. like he isn't.

like he isn't.

god.

if only he didn't care about that. if he could ignore that wrongness, it would be fine. he would be fine.

he'd sit at the market with everybody and have a grand old time. he'd go swimming down at the crick again. he'd race kosha, naiel, and lagoe to the bakery after their school lets out for the first freshest bite of bread. he'd stop feeling so goddamned weird and out of place in his family, snapping at his daddy just for wanting to help. his tusks would push at his lips like they're supposed to and the weight on his chest would be gone and he'd breathe easy and he'd sound like ruva except not quite as succinct and he'd.

with a bark of a hiccup, breathing harsh, j'gar yanks open the door to the house. he doesn't bother shutting it, not with his daddy somewhere behind him. not a soul's home when he hauls himself up the ladder into the loft, collapses facedown onto his bed, and tries not to think.

if he doesn't think about it, it'll get better.

it'll go away. eventually. right now it's just like pushing on a bruise, ain't it. if he told his mama it hurts when i do this, she'd say stop doin' it then.

he just has to stop pressing at it, worrying at it.

stop thinking about it.

come on. anything else.

j'gar breathes ragged into the pillow. his lungs finally ache, body catching up with him. his legs burn, pulse pounding in his feet like he's still running. annoyed, he blindly kicks his boots off and they thud against the floor.

then the farmhouse is still again. nothing but j'gar's own breath and the sounds of bugs and birds outside.

better.

a little bit. sort of.

lying on his stomach like this, his chest squashes uncomfortably against him, his nose into the pillow. it doesn't feel good. he rolls over eventually, curling up in a sullen pout. some part of it feels too childish for nearly fifteen. another part don't really care.

embarrassment burbles up anyway like nausea, warm and spreading. j'gar squeezes his eyes shut then relaxes. forces himself to. he focuses on the noises of the house, little settling sounds and familiar creaks. there's wind by the front door, birdsong and cicadas uninterrupted.

all the same as always. same things his mama heard growing up here. there's something about that.

his ear twitches at the dull whisper of footsteps, raspy against stubbled yellow grass. his daddy finally catching up. he doesn't sound hurried. he's got an easy pace, slow and steady.

j'gar swallows guilt sour in his stomach and doesn't move.

another moment and it's footsteps on the wood. the door closes gently. the quiet that settles is tentative and fragile.

icao breaks it. "gar?"

j'gar sits half-up, enough to peek at the loft's edge. there's his dad's hand just curled over. it waves just a little. his voice breaks when he first tries, tears dried tacky on his cheeks.

second time the words wobble, "'m here, daddy. sorry i was rude. i don' know why i'm like this."

"you're alright, love. want to help me pick some tomatoes for lunch?"

"okay."

"i'll meet you outside. take your time."

//

sitting at the foot of the bed, j'gar pulls his boots back on slowly. the old leather barely squeaks. the grommets are dull, copper shine tired over the years with dirt and sun, but they hold up well. the laces are newer since he frayed the last set kicking logs into place for the axe; cordage still bound tight, it's easy to string through. he tangles up a fresh knot and plants his feet on the floor with a dull thud. he stares down at them.

come on.

move.

exhaling shakily, j'gar wipes his palms on his thighs. too hot and too cold all at once. impulse withers down his spine, not making it the whole way down. his heart hurts, a little guilty ache.

his daddy's waiting outside. come on.

come on.

it's fine.

it'll be fine. he'll apologize honest this time. for all of it, for the market, for leaving, for being short and unhelpful and rude, plain and simple. yeah, he'll apologize face to face and not hiding in his bed.

he had a bad day.

he's having a bad day.

he doesn't know why.

he doesn't know how to explain why.

it's embarrassing to try and explain why.

it doesn't feel like he can talk about it.

feels like his daddy and everyone should just see him and know.

he just.

j'gar sighs. clasps his hands together and grimaces at the sweat again. his pulse flutters against the thin skin of his wrists, a dragonfly buzz in his ears.

swallowing the feeling like a cold, tacky and clinging to his throat, j'gar forces himself off the bed and down the ladder. it feels like sinking in the lake, holding his breath tight in his throat and dropping down. dad left the door open for him, but it might as well be shut.

this sucks.

he knows his daddy ain't a whole lot mad if he's mad at all. he's not like that. it'll be like a dozen of bad days before. icao will sit and listen, patient. explain what happened and how everybody can do better by eachother next time.

it'll be fine. he knows it'll be fine.

god, but he don't want to talk about it.

grinding his teeth, j'gar breaks the threshold, rejoins the sunlight and the empty sky. it's hard to pull his ears up from their droop, his shoulders from the hunch. he drags his feet and every scuff and scrape sounds like his late nana scolding him for not walking right proper.

he should be acting better.

come on.

his daddy should be by the tomatoes. with the summer bloom, the garden is a forest. sunflowers line up outside the fence like soldiers, fat heads turned bright to the sun. past the fence it's just as green. the pathes, bordered with branches, are good old dirt, weeds rips out by the roots as quick as they set.

j'gar rounds the beds slowly as if he don't know where he's going. it's slow going, delaying the inevitable. he brushes shoulders with towering zucchini leaves, eager cucumber vines, lazy peppers; mumbles through the tall tunnel of winter squashes, spinach and lettuce and arugula nestled in the shade of them. if his hands weren't buried in his pockets, he'd knick a raspberry or a peapod. he'd bend down and yank out renegade dandelions and all the stubborn little plants that let bad air and disease sit around.

the mustard of his daddy's shirt dapples like sunlight when j'gar finally convinces himself past the rhubarb. he's by the tomatoes, sat right in the dirt with a thick-woven basket in his lap. he's got a multi-colored handful of cherry tomatoes already picked. one of his ears twitches at the soft footfalls, but he doesn't turn away from the tomato bed. all of his fussing has the air bursting with basil and tomato vines.

there's a moment, standing there, that j'gar thinks about being small in the garden with his daddy again. mama off in the woods checking snares with baby kosha because that little thing loved climbing into bushes and thickets like nothing else. j'gar's barely hip height by icao, not quite at his head when he crouches down. he pulls gentle on a tomato vine, coaxes it closer with a gesture for j'gar to look. there's two fat green caterpillars with white fuzz on the leaf, chomping away. j'gar's old enough to be indignant at the offense, yelling for his daddy to pluck them off before they hurt the plant too bad. icao makes no rush. he points out the differences - two species, tomato and tobacco, both nestled on the same plant since they're mighty close family - and notes the weird growths along them. parasitic wasp eggs, taking care of the pests for them. if he kills the worms, the wasps won't have any food. but it's good to keep track of what species are around, in case something comes unbalanced.

it matters what things are. j'gar can see his daddy's words in his mind. it's nice to know things for what they are.

okay.

j'gar folds himself to sit, quiet beside his father. his heart sounds too loud. tentatively, he leans against him, butts his forehead to his daddy's upper arm. "sorry 'bout bein' shitty today," he mumbles.

"want to talk about it?" icao offers. his voice fades and curls at the edges like worn paper, a familiar sort of pain that says he doesn't have many words left in him.

"i." j'gar starts and stops. he sighs, leaning into his father. "iunno, daddy. i been really thinkin' hard about it an' i don't got any good words for any of it.

"use any you have, honey."

okay.

come on.

j'gar takes a deep breath, tomato-green and basil-bright. the words are tight in his throat like dirt packed too tight for the sprout. he keeps his forehead pressed to his father's arm. he can't look at him. "i- been feelin' different. i tried talkin' to ruva an' melli, but they just wanna keep tellin' me i'm fine an' ain't nothin' wrong with me. it's just parta growin' up or somebody in town tellin' me i'm weird or. or whatever, they just got answers for me that don't fit right. an'- i did try'n tell 'em that ain't it, it don't feel like that, but iunno. i guess iunno, really, but it don't feel like- that, i guess. that's not real helpful. um.

"i just." j'gar swallows, smears his hands together. he can hear his daddy listening, hear the tomato bushes leaning as he picks. "it feels like i got put together wrong. like you an' mama planted a seed in the tomato bed an' it weren't a tomato that cropped up. so i. i don' really like how i look- or, it's not that. i like myself. i like who i am, it's not just me feelin' ugly. i look fine, i just. i don' think i'm supposed to look like this. i should be different. an' so. i guess- i been gettin' mad at everybody for. seein' me how i look insteada how i wanna be. an' i guess that's not real fair, but i. i wanna be different. an' i know it doesn't really work like that."

that.

okay.

heart kicking like a rabbit in a snare, j'gar holds his breath. he doesn't move.

neither does icao.

j'gar opens his mouth to- apologize, maybe, say anything to change what'll happen, when he catches the faint scratching of his daddy's pencil. he shouldn't interrupt. he tries to breathe instead.

breeze light between garden beds, the sun is warm on his shoulders. the plait down his back feels heavy. a brief swish of paper and something swats his head.

j'gar baulks. "hey!"

"listen," says icao, whispery. he jostles his little notebook, held out to j'gar. raises his eyebrows.

"sorry," he mumbles, taking it gently. he sits up straight, ignoring the anxiety that settles in his gut.

"i know how you feel," his daddy writes. "how do you want to look?"

his script is neat like always, letters straight with small flourishes and loops, even as he tries to not grimace. his mouth is a flat line. his tusks are long gone, stolen, ripped out of him to make him someone else. made to look like something's he not, told by everyone else what he was supposed to be.

it's nice to know things for what they are.

sitting in the shorter grass under the lone big tree, j'gar fidgets blandly with a frayed blanket edge by his heel. he picks a few strands loose, separates them out until they're neat in rows like soldiers. tangles them up in a not-plait, ignoring the braid down his own back. his wrist rests on his boot. there's mud on it from the crick by the house and from rocama. he's smudged a little on the blanket again like he does plenty of nights, tagging along with ruva like a burr to hear about star stories again. they'll sit in the fields until night settles in with them, fireflies flashing hidden codes back to their distant cousins up above.

it's good like always.

good enough. he's freshly fourteen and gangly with it, a sprout grown lanky from overcrowding, and that sits heavy with him. a weirdness he hasn't managed to shake off or parse out. nobody's said nothing to him yet. whatever it is, it isn't obvious, isn't something stuck in his teeth.

j'gar's eyes drift to ruva. next to the lone tree, ruva is tall, taller than he is. taller than he might ever get. his daddy was taller and toothier. same reason that in the twilight like this the bone of his tusks stands out. they curl up well over his lip, projected out to not poke into his cheeks. his gray-green washes out to leaf-dark, the finer features of his face blurred. only his scratched glasses catch in the last bit of sun. at twenty, he occupies every inch of his body, unbothered, squinting in the low light to read the same book he's read for a dozen years.

it feels like something. j'gar feels his eyes stick even when he means to pull them away. his heart is a dull warmth in his chest, odd and heavy like a magnet.

he can't name it. no words fit. just another in-between, another uncertainty. ruva flips the page and j'gar thinks about the size of his hand next to his own. the thought almost hurts. he folds his hands self-consciously into his lap.

"not fallin' asleep on me, are ya, gar?" says ruva, teasing. he doesn't look up from the book. his voice is soft like always but with a deepness to it that j'gar can't muster.

"no, sir," he says. he rearranges his legs, kicking them out in front of him. "'m jus' waitin'. i don't never remember what stars're out when, so."

"come on, you recognize 'em plenty. you know these old stories by heart by now."

"that's true, i guess, but i like hearin' alla it from you again."

ruva laughs, a little thing. he holds the book out and down to j'gar on the blanket. "still waitin' for a truer dark so we can see all of 'em, but you got better eyes than me right now."

oh.

wide-eyed, j'gar takes the book. it's worn with use, spine ratty over the years despite all the care in the world, but it's his brother's.

his brother's.

he hugs it to his chest and the feeling twists in his gut. face tilted back up to the stars, ruva doesn't seem to notice when he folds in on himself a fraction.

what he wouldn't give. ruva fills out every last bit of himself, occupies the whole of his body. he's always been quiet and softspoken, but ain't nothing unsure about his posture. he stands plain and easy. doesn't fidget with his clothes. doesn't think about how anybody else looks at him.

ruva just is.

anxiety shimmers in his limbs, speckling like fireflies. j'gar almost feels guilty for it. it's a nameless, baseless sort of thing, difficult to place. it's a fly cast out and fish set, but not reeled in.

by now, though, it isn't unfamiliar. none of it is. it creeps up on him sometimes, bubbles up like groundwater until he can't do nothing but tread and keep his head up. things just feel wrong. they don't fit together how they're supposed to. he doesn't fit together how he was supposed to. too big and too small and too far north of anything to be where he needs to be. the day slides down into night and it's like he's a songbird singing dawn. out of place, crooked, uncertain. he breathes through it and it almost shakes. he glances at ruva and it does.

j'gar opens his mouth. shuts it. swallows thick, and tries again, "hey, ru?"

"hmm?" ruva makes a noise low in his throat. his ear, shorter than j'gar's, angles to listen.

the words want to catch in his throat. it doesn't feel like something he can say. should say. can put into words. he feels wrong, awkward like the time between seasons when it's not quite clear which it's supposed to be.

oh, well.

that means he needs to try. maybe ruva can help tell him what he's supposed to be.

winter or spring.

what comes out is: "you never feel different?"

"'course i do," ruva says. "i think everybody does at least sometimes an' we just don't like to talk about it. somebody call you different?"

j'gar stares down at his lap. "no, i just. iunno."

"i don' think you're much different than anyone else."

"i been feelin' like i'm not right," he admits quietly, rubbing a thumb over the book's spine. "like somebody went an' put me together wrong."

he keeps a slow pace beside him in companionable quiet. his steps meander, heels placed casually and staggered. there's no urgency to him despite the time, like clinic didn't go late, like he isn't going well out of his way to walk crossroads home. they've spent the past week running fenn and wild alone, shiloh struck with flu, and fallow has walked him home every night. he lives above the clinic and he wanders through the dark across town and back for him.

for nothing, really.

crossroads exhales carefully. it's not a sigh. his breath is just enough to cloud in front of him, curling as it disappears. fallow can do what he wants. this is nothing special. nothing new. they've done this walk hundreds of times, an odd two years worth of footsteps worn into the stone, and it's always the same. crossroads knows he should decline the offer but he never does anymore. fallow can't see well in the low light so he moves slower than his honest pace. sometimes they talk. sometimes they don't. it's familiar and simple. it doesn't mean anything.

none of it meant anything.

stop.

crossroads shakes his head like it will shake the thought away. his ears flick in audible motion. there's still something embarrassing about that.

"did i miss something?" fallow asks, breaking the stillness.

he keeps moving, unhurried, but his head angles just toward him. behind his glasses, his eyes are dark and wide and unfocused. his hands are in the pockets of his coat, thrown over the doctor's cloth. crossroads glances at him but can't bring himself to look longer. he swallows thickly.

"no, sorry," says crossroads. he brings a hand up to his ear, smooths over the animal shell of it. "ticklish. con of long hair."

"is that why you prefer braids?"

"sometimes. they helped when i couldn't wash. i suppose it's just old habit now."

"they look good on you," fallow says.

and that's all he says. no flirtation, no playful ribbing. he doesn't even sound bitter. he offers a compliment like a friend and leaves it. it's the same way he talks with everyone, plain and honest. his hands stay in his pockets.

crossroads closes his eyes briefly. a bird trapped in a cage, his heart flutters, thuds dull and quick against his sternum. he breathes a thank you and it doesn't hurt.

it doesn't.

it shouldn't. it's better like this. better that fallow isn't trying anymore. he doesn't expect anything now.

"same thing for breakfast?" crossroads asks, ignoring the heartbeat in his throat.

"same thing," fallow says. "would you pick something up for shiloh? i was going to stop by tomorrow."

"of course. have you heard anything?"

a shrug, head cocked noncommittal. "not much. it sounds like the worst has passed. fortunately miloh isn't showing any symptoms. i'm hopeful he managed to avoid it."

avoid it. hah. crossroads is good at that.

"that would be good," crossroads says distantly. "i'm glad they're okay. it's been strange without them around."

strange because of him. fallow eats alone in his office unless shiloh is around. he is no less playful but he doesn't flirt, doesn't angle for attention. clinic still goes too late. crossroads still talks too much and fallow is still too willing to listen, like it matters, like he cares, but something is different. it is not just shiloh's absence. this has been a while.

almost two months.

something has been wrong since fallow returned from that damn surgical course that took him to the capitol for a month in its own right. that fondness in him comes stilted and awkward. fallow is confident down to the core, but there is an uncertainty at the edges now that crossroads knows is his fault.

he didn't say anything.

crossroads looks away, clammy palms clasped together. he can't think about that right now. he needs to get home, thank fallow for his company, and go to bed. this won't matter in the morning. fallow tolerates him. fallow is willing to keep him around, keep paying him for petty miracles and shoddy medicine, keep walking him home in spite of everything, and that's fine. it's already more than he deserves.

he is just being selfish. greedy, spoiled rotten by the endless generosity of his betters, obvious in how he never stops wanting. he knows this is more than he should ever have, and yet. and yet.

and yet fallow wants to give him more.

god, crossroads never should have gone to his apartment. it was stupid. he knew it was a bad idea and he did it anyway because why wouldn't he? he always makes the wrong fucking decision. he can't do anything right. why would he have done the right thing and stayed away? no, he had to wait and beg like a dog. he pushed. he asked to stay, asked to be allowed to stay and made to leave in the same stupid, drunk breath. he made fallow agree. made saying no so difficult fallow had to let him stay, and fallow acted like he wanted that all along.

fallow said he missed him. fallow wanted to hear about his day.

"you seem like you have a lot on your mind," fallow says softly. it's a familiar tone: not quite hesitancy, but an awareness of pushing a sensitive subject and pushing regardless.

crossroads waves him off, shame thorny on his tongue. his mouth tastes sour. "it's nothing. it's just late," he says.

"it is late," agrees fallow. "i'm sure he's asleep by now, but if you see nowhere, would you let him know to stop by? i have something for him. i know he isn't a fan of gifts, but maybe consider it payment from a grateful man. he's been a great help getting food to shiloh."

"he probably won't come by."

"the smell, right?"

thoughtlessly, crossroads breathes an approximation of a smile. "more or less. he really hates that bell," he says.

"that bell serves a purpose," fallow says.

"to annoy him."

"to tell me when someone comes in," he says pointedly. "i don't always hear my name. i get distracted."

"to get caught in my horns and give me a headache."

"you know how to duck," says fallow.

"you just don't care enough about me," crossroads says.

it only registers after the words leave his mouth. crossroads sucks in a breath. guilt burns hot in his face. fallow's easy pace falters for a half-step but he recovers quickly. when crossroads braves a look, he doesn't look upset. he looks tired. he looks almost sad.

crossroads clears his throat. he can feel his tail fluffing on instinct and he tries to force it flat. "i. i meant. i'm sorry. that wasn't-"

fallow interrupts, voice broaching no argument, "it's fine, crossroads. you don't have to explain."

guilt rises like bile. crossroads holds his tongue, tamed from further protests. he doesn't let his ears react, artificially casual instead of tight against his skull. he nods, small.

beside him, fallow sighs. the disappointment is visible, briefly lived fog ghosted through little light. a hand leaves his pocket to drag a palm over his hair. the quiet feels heavy. maybe it has this whole time and crossroads just keeps lying to himself like always. keeps pretending like this is fine, like he didn't ruin everything, like he didn't hurt fallow.

because he did, two months ago. somehow. it still feels foreign. fallow bared his heart not for the first time, asked for something more than petty flirtation and physicality, and crossroads.

crossroads didn't say anything. he twisted it around because fallow can't really want that, not with him, and the conversation died on the vine. no answer. too much of a coward, too selfish to commit to a no because god, the attention feels like sunlight. he can't say no. can't say yes either, can't damn himself to making fallow hate him because that's what will happen. one way or another, crossroads will ruin it and fallow will hate him and he'll lose that little bit of love he's managed to pry out and that's.

crossroads can't. he can't. it doesn't matter if he misses fallow. the doctor keeps his hands in his pockets and crossroads misses knocking knuckles, that awkward half-connection that never quite fits. he can see the apartment from here and he knows that fallow will stand with space between them as he says goodnight. he won't complain, laughing at himself, that crossroads is too tall. he isn't going to draw himself up on his toes and angle for a kiss. the rejection he asked for stings, and crossroads wants to rip that feeling out, untangle all the veins and nerves until they stop wanting and.

god, he misses fallow.

the key to the apartment is a weight in his pocket. crossroads can't bring himself to lift it. he stands, back to the door, looking down at fallow. fallow's eyes close for just longer than a blink. he looks tired behind his glasses. his hands stay in his pockets. the space between them is cold.

"i shouldn't have snapped," fallow says after a long moment.

"no, you. i shouldn't have said that," crossroads says. he wrings his hands, palms sweaty. "i really put my foot in my mouth there. i forgot myself. you've always been very kind. i- i don't know what i'm doing."

"it's still new to both of us."

crossroads winces. his tail curls tight against his legs. his voice dies in his throat, too tight to breathe.

it doesn't matter. fallow looks at him. there's something sad there but he smiles anyway, genuinely. a little bittersweet but warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes further. "i'll see you in the morning, then. don't forget something for shiloh," he says.

"okay," crossroads says, more of an echo than anything honest.

"and tell nowhere i can meet him outside so he doesn't have to deal with the bell."

"right."

fallow lingers like a shadow. there's a moment where his mouth opens and it looks like he is going to speak again, and crossroads, pulse a tangible anxiety in his chest, knows what he wants to say.

but it is only a moment.

fallow's expression shifts and softens, not quite sad but wistful now. the words don't come. he breathes a smile. "goodnight, crossroads," he says.

frozen, crossroads makes no move to turn or unlock the door. his voice comes out awkward, half-strangled, "goodnight."

and that's it. fallow sort of sighs, the sound a mixture of fond and weary, and turns to leave. his hands are still in his pockets. there's no more trying. they haven't talked about it since fallow returned. it's better like this. it should be better like this. fallow could have never come back and it would've been better than this.

instead it just hurts. why does it always hurt. no matter what he does, it's always the wrong fucking thing. he's never made a good decision in his goddamn life. a rejection he deserves, asked for, and it stings anyway because when has he ever made up his mind. he wants and when he gets, it's too much, he doesn't want it anymore, he can't have it, doesn't want to want it. he said nothing, left it as good as a no without committing to it. that's what he does, right. he makes stupid decisions even if he tries, because any fucking decision is wrong because it's his. he can't make the right choice. he never could, never did, never will.

he thought he was doing better. people talk to him. they ask after him. twice someone brought him food to thank him. shiloh jokingly complains that patients would bleed out waiting for him, anxious for a miracle over brute force and genuine skill. even his actual stitchwork improved. his hands don't shake when lot stops offering, and fallow pays him even then like he didn't hire him for a handful of shitty light. he knows what he's doing and cahors lets him do it, but he knows good graces don't last.

but god, he misses fallow. he missed him two months ago and it hasn't stopped.

crossroads glances up to the moon, heart in his throat. lot is as silent as ever, dull light a judgement. he can't stop shaking.

he can't do this. he is going to say or do the wrong thing, and fallow is going to hate him some day. maybe he hasn't yet, but it won't last. crossroads knows that. people do not like crossroads.

except shiloh asks for him to reach things too high up for them just poke his side and make him squirm. nowhere took his dirty clothes to the river and washed them without being asked. merle gave him a basket full of eggs for soothing the dull ache plaguing his hip for the past three weeks. una refused to let him pay for cheese, the round bundle of her baby he helped deliver propped on her hip. fallow asks to hear about his day, all the boring, monotonous things that happened while he was at the capitol, and that kindness doesn't stop even when crossroads doesn't deserve it.

come on.

come on. the words stick tacky and bitter on his tongue. he can't get his fur to settle. he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to say. fallow is walking away and his patience feels fragile for once and crossroads's hands are useless and clumsy.

palms clasped nervously together, crossroads releases a breath. the first word breaks in his mouth, but he blunders through panic. "fallow, wait."

fallow pauses, an audible thing as the click of his raised heels on the stone stops. he looks curiously back at him, distance yawning but not wide. his expression goes unreadable when crossroads closes some of it.

"i-" crossroads gnaws the inside of his cheek. the fur down his arms stands on end. "can i- try again?"

"try what?"

"talking to you. i- i know it's late, and. i'm- two months late, but."

realization flickers across fallow's face, but that nameless professionalism swamps it down quickly. "i thought i had your answer," he says.

"can i try again?" crossroads pushes, desperation creeping in with the nerves. "i- i didn't know what to do. i still don't. i'm not- i'm not good at any of this, but i. i don't want you to hate me."

"i don't hate you, cross."

"i know. i know. but i know one day you will, and. i don't want you to. but i don't- know how to be good enough. i've barely managed this now."

"i said i was willing to work with you," fallow says, dull.

crossroads fights the childish urge to hold his tail. he takes a deep breath, panic threatening like a noose around his throat. "that won't work. i don't know how to be what you want. you'll try to make me better and i'll fuck it up every-"

"i'm not trying to make you do or be anything. i like you how you are. you're a good, flawed person and i like knowing you. if that means we stay friends, you stay at the clinic, whatever - i can live with that."

god, what the fuck.

he isn't getting it. fallow isn't listening.

crossroads tries again, hesitant and halting, "no, i- i don't- want you to go but. i don't know how to do this."

"do you want to try?" asks fallow. his voice is soft and neutral, pushing a sensitive subject but pushing regardless.

the doctor is unreadable, personality abandoned for bland objectivity. a mask to be projected on. but his eyes search crossroads's face a fraction, and it betrays some vulnerable little hope.

the words catch in his throat. crossroads doesn't want to break it. he has to say something this time. he has to say something. he can't drag air through his throat, heart panicked hollow against his sternum; staring helplessly, he nods.

the idea is a little far-fetched anyway. fallow didn't sound like he expected it to work. he had a vague sort of plan to try it, but not much in way of confidence. for a few weeks, crossroads could try the draught they commonly provide new mothers who struggle to produce and see what happens. it would probably do nothing. crossroads is not capable of pregnancy, nor does he have the sort of breasts required for milk. his chest is flat, albeit with a fresh softness to it since cahors, since regular, consistent food, but he hardly has tits. tits in pathetic name alone.

so he tried it.

without saying anything to fallow beyond needing a moment to think on it. fallow, as predicted, let it lie without a word: he hasn't mentioned it again, several weeks in.

when fallow brought it up, he rambled off concerns and thoughts and whatever else his steel trap of a mind spat out. he was not convinced it would work. young mothers try the draught at three times daily, though he would lean towards once daily just to see the effects. best case scenario, perhaps his nipple sensitivity would increase. he didn't think it would cause breast development of any significance. if it did work, it would likely be reversible within a few days of no stimulation, as with mothers who wean their young. any production would be minimal if it occurred, given a general lower end of milk ducts in males. he wouldn't have the same worries about leaking or timing then as nursing mothers. it would be simple to hide, and reversible, and it's just something fallow was thinking about admittedly for a short while that he may have gotten off to, but it is a lot to ask of crossroads and he holds no expectation that crossroads is willing or interested in that, and.

poor fallow was so flustered. crossroads grins at the memory.

the doctor means every ounce of his word, though. it's a strange feeling to trust him so deeply, but fallow proves himself repeatedly and without prompting. when crossroads asked for the key to the cage on his cock last month, fallow pressed it into his hand immediately. no complaint, no needling pressure to convince him out of it. the most he asked was if everything was alright, if something hurt or pinched, if they needed a different size. he accepted the key back just as graciously when crossroads gifted it afterwards, no backhanded, snide comments.

because that's.

it's still disorienting. fallow doesn't demand or expect his submission. crossroads is wholly within his power to upend the dynamic should he be so inclined, withdraw his submission entirely, and it would be nothing more than a discussion as to how he would be interested in play going forward.

fallow's control is- sweet. earnestly, honestly comforting, that stupidly heady feeling of /good/ that he chased for so long and kept getting wrong. by submitting, crossroads does not make himself /less/; he is still fallow's equal, as strange as it feels, and his voice carries just as much weight as fallow's. he will not lose his job if he declines. he will not lose his home, his standing, his safety, access to food, whatever good graces cahors has provided him if he says no. when fallow asks if he would be interested in attempting to induce lactation, he means it genuinely and accepts whatever answer crossroads gives.

it's still hard to believe. but crossroads knows it more than he believes, and that's good enough. surprising fallow with this will be fun. gifting him a new act of submission is exciting. he is looking forward to being fucked into oblivion if all goes well.

when he joins fallow in his office after clinic, it's like always. fallow offers a brief acknowledgement but remains focused on his notes. crossroads sits in the chair at the front of his desk patiently, examining his nails. with winter still lingering at the edges of the day, his fur hasn't made the full shift yet. he's shedding more and more, embarrassingly so, but perhaps more annoying is the dry skin revealed underneath.

all those fur oils and his skin is still dry. bastard. this winter was colder than previous. he won't fuck fallow with flaky skin; leaning down to his bag by his feet, he rummages through the miracled interior and chirps happily when his nails clink against familiar glass. he places a few droplets of a shiny gold-tinged in the palm of his hand, abandons the bottle back in the bag, and rubs his hands together. it smells lightly floral like jasmine, specially made. he watches fallow's dark eyes dart to him and linger before they return to work.

cute.

crossroads leans back in the chair, hands folded neatly across his stomach. his loose shirt looks habitual, worn to allow shedding and more air flow given the still-thick coat, but he dragged a vigorous comb through his body fur to get the worst out already. it's been three weeks of sneaking milk draught, and the loose fabric helps immensely; his nipples are swollen and puffy, and every movement of cloth across them chafes or goes right to his head.

neither is good during work.

fallow, somehow, hasn't seemed to notice. he's said nothing so far. there's something sort of hot about that though, crossroads thinks. what is there to notice? of course he's sensitive and needy. he loves his tits played with. he probably just played with them too much and that's why they're so flushed. maybe he was trying to see if he could cum like that again.

god, that's the other thing. he can't cum. he can't normally, chastity cage comfortable and weighty on his cock, but he's not even getting hard in the metal. using his ass feels stupidly good, always does, but he hasn't been able to cum like that in-

two weeks? maybe. he can't quite remember.

all the stimulation in the world and he can't wrench an orgasm from himself. it's different than the cage. the cage is almost more symbolic. he likes presence behind it, the reminder of it. he gets more than enough pleasure from fallow without his cock, whether he gets fucked or fisted or otherwise.

but now it's like he can't get enough. his cock isn't part of the equation, rarely is, and that's good. but fuck, even grinding his ass on his thickest dildo, the wooden one with those glorious fucking bumps massaging his prostate, just brings him vaguely close to an edge and refuses to step him any closer.

it's- hot. desperately hot. god, if the draught makes him this sensitive and dulls - or removes - his ability to cum-

crossroads bites his lip. okay. "doctor, i- hate to interrupt but i.. might need your help," he says.

"can i finish this note?" fallow asks distractedly, pen scratching away. he doesn't acknowledge the teasing title. he might not have noticed.

"i've been taking the draught," says crossroads.

the pen stops immediately. deeply satisfying. fallow doesn't look up from his desk but his ears go dark. "crossroads," he says.

"three weeks, once a day as suggested. i drink it before bed then i massage my tits for an hour until i fall asleep."

fallow closes his eyes, sits back in his chair. he takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes shut. "that's- i thought you looked different."

crossroads grins inwardly. an excited shiver ridges down his spine. fallow's reactions are always fun. breaking his composure can be a challenge, making it all the more thrilling when it works.

crossroads leans forward eagerly, puts on a shy, needy voice, "i might need an exam, doctor. my chest- ah, it's- embarrassing. i don't know what's going on. i'm so sensitive, it's driving me crazy."

"take your shirt off. show me."

with a whine, crossroads obeys. drags the fabric up and over his head, throws it off mindlessly to the side.

he knows what he looks like. fallow opens his eyes and there's an immediate self-conscious want transparent across his face. he's so cute. his gaze sticks to crossroads's chest. helpfully, crossroads cups the faint swell there in his palms, nipples flushed dark against his pale skin. they're puffy, several times more prominent than before and peaked excitedly. they feel more swollen than even the day before. just squeezing his chest is enough to make him squirm. it almost hurts this time, an unfamiliar soreness.

"fuck," fallow breathes.

"please, sir," crossroads says, "can you help? it's tender. what- what can i do?"

"let- let me take a look," he says, winded.

fallow pushes back in his chair and stands, rounds the desk. his arousal is obvious at the front of his doctor's cloth, but he pays it no mind. blindly, he pulls the chair next to crossroads to his front and sits. his fingers tremble slightly when he raises them.

his eyes flick up to crossroads's face. "may i?" he asks.

"please," crossroads whines, lowering his hands. he leans forward, arching his back to push his chest out. "be gentle though. i'm sensitive..."

"fuck. of course. i'll be- tell me if it's too much."

crossroads loses his breath in a shiver when fallow touches him; his hands are cool, fingers calloused and beautifully rough. he starts tentatively. there's a funny sort of curiosity to him; crossroads imagines the cogs whirring in his head, trying to piece together a small dozen bits of biological knowledge into a functioning theory despite the temptation. he nudges crossroads's hands off, flattens his own palms into a c under the curve of his tits. he presses just a little, squeezing. muttering an apology when crossroads winces, fallow shifts his hands up an inch and tries again. he squeezes more gently this time, kneading almost.

crossroads lets his eyes close. as much as he wants to watch, there's something about focusing on the feeling. letting his body narrow down to fallow's hands on his tits and the dull throb in his caged cock. it's an odd relief. arousal warms in his cheeks, but he feels calm, unhurried. a new way to prove his submission, and fallow likes it transparently. he offers needy little noises that feel almost like a show but they aren't, want plain and honest.

fallow's hands massage his chest and it's sore, distinctly, a fuzzy ache that has a furrow settled between his eyebrows, but. it's not exactly bad. like warm pins and needles, an awareness of his body that isn't normally there. crossroads gasps, the breath almost knocked out of him when fallow rolls his nipples, pinches and tugs and teases.

"doctor, please," crossroads whimpers, grabbing fallow's wrists like he means to pull him away, "is- is the exam almost done?"

"not quite. just relax for me. any tenderness when i do this?"

"this feels- hah, inappropriate-"

"you're doing beautifully, don't worry. this is all part of the exam."

biting his lip, crossroads squirms. he can feel his cock drooling against the inside of his thighs. god, if fallow could make him cum just from his tits, edge him stupid by playing with his nipples while his useless little cock dribbles a puddle between his legs. he moans when a warm tongue sweeps over one nipple, a quick thing; yelps when fallow blows on it, cooling the spit on it until it stiffens.

"doctor, i don't-"

"don't worry. i know it's uncomfortable, but i promise it's necessary. have you tried sucking them?"

"um, what does that-"

fallow cuts him off with a rough thumb over his nipples, hands returning to cup and knead the small swell of his chest. "your nipples are just a little swollen and puffier than i'd expect. i don't know how you hid them under your clothes. they're obscene," he says.

crossroads pretends to balk, leaning into fallow's attentions. "doctor-!"

fallow tightens his fingers around his tits again. suddenly, the weight of his hands vanishes with a sharp inhale.

with a whine, crossroads drags his eyes open. he blinks to refocus. "why'd you stop?"

"crossroads," fallow says, winded, "you're, uh. you're leaking."

what.

looking down at his chest, crossroads stares. white slowly beads at his nipples, swelling before it drip down to his lap. after another heartbeat, it starts again, a little droplet forming over several seconds before it's too weighty and spills off.

oh, fuck.

he can't move. his eyes stay fixed. his hands stay at his sides, twitchy with nerves. his ears feel abruptly hot, embarrassment flooding his face until fallow reaches back out and he has to watch as he rolls one of his nipples between his thumb and forefinger, coaxing a small milky dribble down the side of his hand. fallow exhales shakily.

"i didn't- think it would take," he says.

"fallow," crossroads says desperately, unthinking. he can't look away from his chest; fallow teases his nipple as more milk flows, brings his other hand to its twin to pinch it out. "please."

"is this the first time?"

"i... i don't know," crossroads says. "i- before, i. there was something but i thought- it was just sweat. this. oh, oh, fuck. you're- fuck."

"how do you feel?"

fallows asks this like he can answer. like his mouth works while fallow keeps up his attentions, rough fingers trying to be gentle as he rubs milk from him. it isn't much. but it's something. fallow is milking his tits and there's actually thin rivulets of milk down the sides of his palms and his cock is just soft in its cage and lot above, crossroads's tongue sits useless behind his teeth. his face feels too hot. his ears stay flattened against the sides of his head, embarrassment hiding them away. he can't look at fallow. he can hardly find his voice.

dazed, crossroads giggles. his tail curls self-consciously around his legs and the chair's. it takes a moment to bring the words up. "you're- you're milking me. i can't cum and you're- you're actually- can you- fuck."

"can i what?" asks fallow. his fingers still but don't leave.

behind him, fallow is asleep unbothered. he is solid and warm. the slow rhythm of his breath disturbs the ruff of fur on his neck. the arm over his waist is relaxed, a familiar weight.

when fallow wakes up, they'll get ready for clinic. it will not be fast. winter makes fallow's knees ache; he'll ask for a massage, and crossroads will indulge him, pushing a few little miracles into his fingertips to gild the bone there. fallow might shave and the apartment will smell like his habitual cologne for a few precious moments. crossroads will step out to the cold for breakfast pastries before shiloh arrives, and they'll eat tucked in the clinic backroom because fallow and shiloh want to be close to the hearth. nowhere will collect him for lunch. because he stayed at the doctor's, crossroads will let him pick lunch and because it's nowhere and it's winter, it will be hot cider and sticky honey crepes.

it'll be-

nice.

it is nice.

it feels almost fake. not like a dream. his dreams are not this kind. just fake.

crossroads takes a deep breath. his heart is a slow, steady beat in his chest. he knows it sounds no different than fallow's. it can be simple. there is nothing wrong. the old guilt buried like a knife between his ribs still hurts, but.

but it feels smaller right now. smaller with every new laugh with his brother, with every time shiloh asks him to reach something just to poke his side, with every lesson from fallow that goes on well past clinic. every little wave and greeting when he walks around from people who recognize him fondly, every insistent farmer at the market who presses extra meat and vegetables and cheese into his basket without taking his money.

it feels like he could pull it out one day and it wouldn't bleed, wouldn't fester and rot again. but he doesn't want to touch it. even now it's still sharp.

it's easier to ignore.

blinking open his eyes, the sunrise stains the apartment in a fading pink. it hasn't changed much in two years. the same old mess: thick textbooks piled on the small kitchen table, letterbox overwhelming, a half-used block of tea next to their wine glasses from the evening, fallow's thin-framed glasses glinting on the nightstand. with the stove burning it smells like smoke. his clothes hang in a neat fold over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, fallow's doctor cloth on a hook on the door.

his chest hurts, just a little. warmth like a fresh bruise. thoughtlessly, he reaches down to fallow's arm and pulls it close to his chest. there's a brief point of resistance, awareness replacing limp sleep, but no genuine fight: fallow just makes a curious noise against his shoulder. crossroads places his hand palm down, tracing the veins on the back of it with a light finger. some forty years of life mumble there, most of them safe and happy. there are writing callouses on his fingers. dried ink smeared on the side of his palm makes the dark hair rough.

"good morning," fallow says through a yawn, forehead bumping crossroads's back. his fingers twitch when crossroads turns his hand over. "examining me?"

"maybe."

fallow hums an acknowledgement. he stays still otherwise, a solid weight at his back. arm relaxed down through the wrist, he doesn't seem to mind crossroads's fidgeting. crossroads ghosts his nails along his forearm and admires how the hair there shivers on end at the touch.

he was never one for touching. he is used to being touched. but fallow is indulgent and tolerant, and he likes it transparently. he turns his arm when the skin desensitizes, nudges loosely curled knuckles against his chest when crossroads slows or stops. he wants the attention. it's cute.

fallow's hand flinches when he traces the veins in his wrist, ticklish. daring, crossroads pulls his hand to his lips and kisses the palm. he nuzzles it once, holds it splayed out. fallow has very nice hands. big with a neatly defined wristbone, all long fingers with thick knuckles. he knows they're good. a purr starts low in his throat on embarrassing instinct, but he can't bring himself to care. it earns him a smile against the back of his neck, disturbing the fur. when he kisses the pad of fallow's first finger, fallow nudges his nose against his shoulder. when he does it again, just parting his lips around it, fallow twists out of his grip and catches his hand.

amusement curls his voice, "stop that. you know what you're doing."

"what? i'm just looking you over," crossroads says innocently.

fallow squeezes his hand. "sure you are. don't get any ideas. we have work."

"i would never. god's truth. give me your hand back."

with an affectionate sigh, fallow relaxes his hold. crossroads, for once, decides to be true to his word; he presses his lips to the thin skin of fallow's wrist, pulse warm against him, and tucks fallow's arm to his chest. it is hard to stop purring, the action of it more subconscious than purposeful. but still, he doesn't tease or tempt. if this were the other way, fallow asking him to stay the night and he said no, fallow would offer no pressure. he would accept the boundary gracefully. he does consistently. takes no for an honest answer. crossroads will do the same.

it's enough to enjoy the closeness. he feels like a whole person, a man, a someone and not a something. he feels good.

he's happy.

twisting at the waist, crossroads cranes his neck to meet fallow. his hair is messy with sleep, dark eyes squinted a familiar fraction without his glasses. they crinkle at the edges.

"that doesn't look comfortable," says fallow.

"you know i'm flexible. can i get my morning kiss?"

"you're demanding," he says, propping himself on an elbow to kiss him. "better?"