#kitsu.fom

He hadn’t realized it, but March grew fairly used to seeing that new farmer pass by the forge day after day. It became almost... routine, to see them from his peripheral and feel the twitch of his brow, ignoring the sudden increase of heat against his face that was surely from the forge he busied himself with.  

Some days they’d stop to annoy him, while he’d spare a few words out of the kindness of his heart, other days they’d simply throw him a smile and a wave, continuing their walk to wherever it was they’d decide to go that time. There were days they even ignored his presence and hurried on by—those were the days March liked the most, he was unbothered and uninterrupted—coincidentally, they were also the days he had the most trouble trying to fall asleep. Whatever. 

It was a constant, something expected, he would see them walk by his forge at least once a day. They’d dance along the path—hopping, skipping—frolicking through flower petals that danced in the wind alongside them in the crisp, spring air. They’d have days where they would practically sprint by and rush their hellos to make it to the beach, and others where they’d drag their feet and loudly bark up the wrong tree about the heat in the harsh summer sun. Fallen leaves would make constant crunching sounds as they’d make sure to find and step on every damn one just to get on March’s nerves with a giant smile on their face when autumn would roll around. He did get a laugh or two in when hidden ice had made them fall as they goofed around during the winter—he'd be oh-so-kind and let them warm up by the forge for a minute before they went about their day.  

Even through the seasons, this daily greeting was a constant. March hadn’t realized just how much of an impact this would have on his day-to-day schedule—or maybe he had and pushed away the thought—regardless of the true reasoning, it only donned on him when he found himself fidgeting and attempting to keep busy one day, to stay outside just a bit longer to catch sight of them, only to be graced by the lonely presence of the moon instead. 

Where were they today? Not that it mattered to him. They were probably out doing God knows what, making everyone in the town love them even more. Gross. March shook his head, trying to dispel the images of the farmer that continued to pop up in his mind. He didn’t want to see them. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t come by to annoy him. It didn’t bother him. 

But where in the world were they? He stepped onto the road, looking as far along the horizon as he could every which way. Had he just missed them? Maybe they snuck by him earlier, deciding that they’d leave him alone—maybe he’d just gotten so good at tuning them out that he never noticed them go by. Did they make it home alright? Whatever, it wasn’t his problem. He’d go inside and wash the day from him, relax, have a nice dinner with his brother, and get some sleep. 

He thought it’d be so simple. March felt as though his night passed him by—like he was looking at it through a stack of different paintings rather than living it first-hand. He couldn’t get that damn newcomer out of his head! Every waking thought was either accompanied by their face, their voice, or events including them replaying in his head. Now he lay in bed, looking up at his ceiling as the moonlight poured through the window, unable to get his mind to stay still. 

Did they go to the mines today? If they did, were they alright? Did something happen? Were they hurt? Had they exhausted themselves and passed out somewhere? Were they home? Had they eaten, washed up, tucked themselves into bed? March held his head in his hands, hoping if he squeezed it hard enough, he’d shut off his brain. It was driving him crazy! Why was he even thinking any of this—he didn’t care about them, he didn’t like them one bit! They were an annoyance, a pain in his ass, some... outsider! Why couldn’t he just go to sleep!  

The break of dawn welcomed him far too quickly, dragging him out of bed without a wink of sleep. Fine, whatever. He’d see them come by today and he’d just ask what their problem was. Maybe they were just home sick yesterday; sucks for them—maybe they should get better. No, not in a caring way! March rubbed at his face, smacking his cheeks lightly to snap himself out of it. He had things to do, he was going to do them. He was going to set his mind straight, focus, and go about his own day. 

Why weren’t they walking by! March held the hammer in his hand so tightly he started to shake, his teeth would shatter if he kept grinding them as hard as he was. The sun was setting and he still hadn’t seen them—not even a glimpse! He only got a fraction of his tasks done today; constantly looking over his shoulder to check if they had gone by, or standing out in the middle of the road to stare in all directions for a while to see if he could catch them coming. That makes two days now, don’t they know they were ruining his schedule? He found himself tossing and turning again that night, hardly getting any sleep as worry started to creep into his chest. 

Another day, then another, and another after that. Each day that had gone by without so much as a glimpse of them had now made his chest heavy—he didn’t like it. He didn’t know why it was bothering him so much. He entertained the thought of going to their home once or twice just to check in on them—yell at them for ruining his work—but something gnawed at him each time. What if they were avoiding him?  

Yeah, he wasn’t the nicest to them. He didn’t care that he wasn’t. Maybe they DID start avoiding him—that was their choice. It’d be good for him, after all! He wouldn’t have to deal with them distracting him, or... trying to be his friend. Maybe it did bother him that he wasn’t very nice to them. Maybe he did care, just a little bit. 

When Friday rolled around, he ended up at the tavern early, and drinking heavy. He just wanted to rid himself of these feelings, these thoughts. If he couldn’t work as a distraction or sleep them away, maybe drinking them away would work instead. It usually didn’t take much for his head to get lighter, to shed all his worries and let himself be all smiles and laughter, but he was desperate to keep his thoughts at bay. What if they were avoiding him so much that they’d even stop showing up to tavern nights? He knocked back another drink and laid his head on the bar’s counter. 

“You doing alright there, March?”  

March turned so he could face the voice, closing his eyes once his cheek touched the cool counter. 

“I’m FINE, Hemlock...” Was that voice coming from him? Which way was the room spinning? “Just fine...” 

“I’m thinking you’ve had enough for tonight,” Hemlock shook his head and tried taking March’s half-empty glass, “but you can talk about what’s wrong if you want. No pressure.” 

“Nooo,” March drew out his protest, not bothering to raise his head as he grabbed onto his glass, “don’t take that.” 

“Fine, alright. It’s the last one though, alright?” 

Hemlock leaned against the counter in front of him, staring at the young disheveled boy in front of him. He cocked an eyebrow, thinking for a moment before his eyes lit up in realization. Mischievously, he leaned even closer to the faux red-head and called out just loud enough for him to hear, while keeping his plan believable. 

“Oh, hey (Y/n)!” 

“WHERE?” 

March sat straight up, unsure if the deep red creeping over his features was from being drunk, thinking about seeing them, or if all the blood rushed to his head at once from how quickly he moved. He did not last very long before laying his head back on the counter, a fist crashing down beside it. 

“Spinning, spinning, should NOT have done that...” 

“Ah, I had a feeling that was the root of your little problem.” Hemlock teased, once he caught his breath after laughing at the poor boy’s expense. “What issue do you have with them now?” 

“No... no issue,” March had to calm his breathing. Was he flustered? Oh, no, just trying not to throw up. Wait, was he sure? “Maybe an issue. I don’t know. Why are they avoiding me?” 

“Could be because you aren’t very nice to them.” 

“I’m sooo super nice to them.” 

“Uh-huh...” Hemlock pushed a glass of water onto the counter, trying to slowly switch out March’s two drinks. “Have you tried going to see them?” 

“...I don’t want to find out it’s because they hate me.” 

“Oh, so that’s the real reason.” 

March lifted his head enough to peek up at the older man before turning his gaze to the hand beside him, now dragging his finger along the counter in circles to distract him. 

“I don’t get it. Why haven’t they been by all week? Why... does it bother me so much in the first place?” March closed his eyes again, trying to steady the room. “I like to come here and have some fun; why am I still all upset?” 

Hemlock pushed the water glass further towards March, slowly bringing his glass of beer closer to the back of the bar counter, stopping whenever March stirred slightly. It was a pity, really; Hemlock was well aware of what (Y/n) had been up to—if they were purposefully avoiding March, then they certainly never expressed it. If he remembered correctly, he questioned why they were walking so painfully slow from the tavern the other night, almost comically dragging out each step as they looked up the road behind them. 

‘Should I book you for your new comedy routine?’ 

‘I’m just... takin’ my time, Hemlock! Nothing odd about it.’ 

He remembered watching as they drug their shoe against the road to make their next step, slow as a snail. 

‘Uh... yup, nothing odd about it all right. Everything alright, (Y/n)?’ 

They had given him a sigh then, their body almost melting to the ground as they voiced their woes—too busy to make it anywhere but their farm and the tavern for some dinner at the end of the day, something about cleaning up the old place. It was almost killing them having to stay there instead of running off—or rather, running by the blacksmith. 

‘Isn’t March always giving you a hard time, anyway?’ He remembered asking, putting the back of his hand on his hip and smiling—he already knew the answer. 

‘That won’t stop me!’ They stood triumphantly then, stomping their foot on the ground. ‘I WILL get that boy to be my friend, whether he likes it or not!’ 

Hemlock remembered the shy heat that crept up their neck, touching their ears first before it reached their smile and they had to turn away from him before getting embarrassed further. 

‘Besides...’ their voice was soft, he thought, ‘when you get into a routine, the withdrawals... suck.’ 

Hemlock was brought back to the present by March blindly dragging his drink back to him, reversing all of his hard, secret work. He sighed, a smile on his face as he gave up and picked up an empty glass to start washing it. 

“Well,” he put on his wise father voice, “’when you get into a routine, the withdrawals... suck.’” 

Silent hung above both men a moment before March lifted his head with a confused glare. 

“Huh?” 

“Huh. I thought that would’ve been much cooler than it was. Context was probably better, in hindsight.” 

Both turned their attention to the opening tavern doors, a familiar figure now gracing the open room. A few others called out to them first, receiving a smile, a wave, and a short conversation in return. March sat up straight, ignoring how light headed it made him feel this time. 

“(Y/N)! Heyyy!" He practically drawled out his greetings. “C’mere, c’mere!” 

The heat from his blush was intermingling with the heat from being drunker than Hell, so he no longer paid it any attention. March eagerly patted the counter next to him, practically begging for them to come sit with him. If he were a dog, his tail would have wagged so intensely as the wide smile on his face mirrored theirs as they made their way over. 

“Uh, hi there March! Had enough to drink already?” 

“You’re here!” March let a genuine, heartfelt giggle bubble up from his chest at how light their presence alone made him feel. 

“I am—oh! Okay--” 

March practically threw himself against them, his head against their shoulder while they tried to hold onto the drink Hemlock has just offered them. His bottom lip jutted out, a very prominent pout, as he started to drag his finger along their extended arm now, drawing little shapes like he had done previously to the counter. 

“...Where were you?” His voice grew oddly quiet. “You haven’t been by in days.” 

“Well, I--” (Y/n) tried to explain. A heavy wave of guilt washed over them, a huge pang of pain shooting through their heart at how March looked up at them—sad, puppy dog eyes, his metaphorical ears and tail drooping as though he were sopping wet from the rain. They had to grip at their heart, almost comically, dramatically, throwing their head back in despair at just how evil they had been! 

“I’m sorry! I had a lot of work on the farm, you know? There’s a lot of cleaning up to do there before I can think about maybe expanding my crops, or working on a barn, you know?” They stuck their lips out into a pout of their own, gently patting March’s exposed cheek with their other hand. “Didn’t mean to make you worry.” 

March looked back down at their arm again, now dragging his finger up and down it, quietly mumbling, hoping that they wouldn’t be able to hear. 

“Wasn’t worried...” he started, mumbling even softer, “Just... missed you.” 

Though he thought it were quiet enough, a drunk person’s reality never seems to match; (Y/n) stared down at him, almost dumbstruck at how loudly he had professed his feelings—they weren’t much, but those words alone proved to (Y/n) that there really WAS some sort of fire in that frozen heart of his! Their gaze softened as they slowly turned their arm over, opening and closing their palm a few times to signal an offer. 

March almost immediately, willingly, took their hand and interlaced their fingers. He kept his eyes trained on their hands, studying the way their fingers seemed to fit perfectly between his. After they gently leaned their head against his, he spoke again—a little more clearly this time. 

“So... you don’t hate me?” It sounded pained. 

“No, I don’t hate you in the slightest, March.” 

“...You weren’t avoiding me?” 

“Not at all.” They gave his hand a little squeeze. “Is that what you thought this whole time? Is that why you’re so clingy tonight?” 

“...No.” March huffed, closing his eyes and turning his face away, though he doesn’t dare take his head off of their shoulder. Their soft laugh surrounded him like a soft melody, and he relished in it a moment before speaking up again. “Don’t ruin my daily schedule. Come by at least once a day.” 

“Alright,” they laughed again, “Demanding, much?” 

“You’re making it difficult to get my work done. To sleep. Just—come by at least once so I can see you and have a good day.” 

(Y/n) nuzzled against the top of his head slightly, a smile hidden from his view as they agreed, choosing to ignore the nervous way March started to fidget, and ignoring the way butterflies flew rampantly in their stomach. With their free hand, they brought the glass of water Hemlock had been trying to push on him all night up to his lips, encouraging him to drink at least a bit. 

At least for the night, tension between them had settled—whatever tension they chose to believe there was. March’s chest felt lighter, a weight lifted off his shoulders, as he basked in their glow rather than the cold, lonely moon’s, just for tonight. A goofy, genuine smile made its way up to his eyes, watching as he messed with (Y/n)’s hand and easily accepted any time they gave him water. 

“You’ll forget all this tomorrow, huh?” 

“Yup.” He smiled, giving their hand a squeeze and slightly cuddling further into their shoulder. 

“You’ll go back to hating me tomorrow too, then?” 

“So you see, this time we’re going to fill out all of the tax forms THREE times, so there’s three copies, right?” 

“Mmmhm...” 

“Sooo... one gets sent to the Capitol, and another goes to our records. That means there’s one just to practice on! Isn’t that fun?” 

“You’ve got an interesting understanding of ‘fun’, Adeline, but I’m excited for you.” 

“You should be excited too! See, if we fill these ones out...” 

Their best friends excited voice started to mix into the background as (Y/n) started to zone out a bit, their chin landing in their hand as they tried to look as though they were keeping up with her excitement over tax forms, a content smile lingering on their lips. Truly, they loved Adeline and her enthusiasm, but filling out paperwork that specifically required math just wasn’t high on their list of things they’d call “fun”; but for her, they’d sit and listen—they'd fill out however many papers she’d hand them—if it meant she was happy. However, something just seemed to be nagging at them today, something sitting heavy on their mind. 

Their eyes started to wander alongside their thoughts—and through the crack in Adeline’s office door, they found exactly what had been pulling them away from their best friend’s speech; across the hall, a certain pink-haired man was fumbling with various scrolls of different sizes, trying to keep them tucked under his arms as he struggled to pull his office door closed behind him. (Y/n)’s eyes seemed to widen involuntarily as they locked onto him and every little movement he had made—their stare surely held some weight as he seemed to look up and lock eyes with them for a moment. Eiland had given a soft smile, one that seemed to only barely reach his eyes—one that seemed a bit more sheepish about being caught fumbling around rather than just genuine happiness—and an attempt at a small wave the best that he could manage without dropping anything. As quickly as they had seen him, he had disappeared out of their line of sight—assumingly out the front door of the manor and off to the museum, if they had to take a guess. 

(Y/n) took a heavy breath, trying to fill their lungs back with the air they had lost holding their breath at the mere sight of him; it may not have been wrong to harbour a bit of feelings for him per say, but it certainly didn’t feel right to have them. Eiland: the brother of their best friend, Eiland: one of the children to the Baron and Baroness, Eiland: the man that unfortunately took residence in most of (Y/n)’s thoughts. Just when did they start feeling like this? The fluttering of their heart, the rising of heat on their skin, the involuntary way the corners of their lips dragged up into a love-struck smile whenever he was simply in their line of sight? The way their body seems to go numb and move in the most embarrassing of ways like stumbling over their own feet or dropping things out of their hands? How about when they find that their mind has gone completely blank, with no capability to string words together and leave their lips—even if they could, they certainly would not make sense. Eiland? Their best friend’s brother. Ridiculous. 

When did it start? Their thoughts turn to a memory, such as when they had visited the beach together last summer; Adeline sat opposite of (Y/n), the both of them excitedly chattering away as they soaked up all the sun had to offer them, letting the light spray of crashing waves fend off the heat for them. (Y/n) couldn’t recall what they had talked about then, but they certainly couldn’t forget looking past their friend to see another head of pink hair pop out from the water a little further away; if they had stopped to think about it, surely they would have just realized he had been scolding one of the other boys for pushing him in, but perhaps the sun had just gotten to (Y/n) that day, clouding their reasoning—for all they could focus on was the seemingly slow-motion raining of sun-kissed water droplets, the halo behind Eiland’s head as he ran his hands through his hair to remove it from his face, and just how stunning he had to have been to rival the clear water surrounding him. It felt as though it were something from a cliche story—maybe even one that Elsie would have recounted to them—but just how did (Y/n) seem to see Eiland like that? How had they been unaware of how quickly their heart had started to beat, or how hot their face had gotten? Their memory had ended with them feeling faint, and something about Adeline reprimanding them for apparently getting too much sun—how could they look her in her eyes and tell her that they’ve looked straight into something brighter than the sun—her very own flesh and blood? 

It isn’t right—the way he looks as though there’s sunshine and flowers floating around him in response to his excitement. It isn’t right—the way (Y/n) wanted to reach out from behind Adeline and caress her brother’s cheek and direct those starstruck eyes in their direction instead. It isn’t right—the way (Y/n) found Eiland so insufferably attractive as he rambles on ecstatically about some relic he had dug up and started explaining the history to his sister when she and (Y/n) had simply come by to ask about some document he had been neglecting. Life simply wasn’t fair—the way their brain had completely shut down and their body had wanted to move on its own to bring him closer, to relish in that smile that lit up his face, to kiss every inch of his face to soak up how adorable he was. It certainly wasn’t fair to Adeline, who had brought (Y/n) along to help back her up and enforce the need to finish his paperwork, only to find that they had clammed up and couldn’t bring themselves to look either of them in the eyes, stuttering through any response they gave as meekly as possible, solely because the sun himself had smiled their way and fried their brain. How were they supposed to tell her that their body had plans of its own the moment their eyes landed on her brother? They wouldn’t-- they waved it away as not wanting to crush his excitement—a half-truth.  

What excuses could (Y/n) possibly give? They hadn’t touched a single drop of alcohol that night in the inn—this, they remember very clearly—yet their eyes sat lidded, their gaze far away and glazed over, their head resting in their hand; for what reason? They vaguely remembered what Adeline had been talking to them about, and for this they were truly remorseful—for what good was a friend who sat so close yet so far away in spirit, drunk on their own feelings for a pink-haired boy sitting at the end of a different table across the room? Not that Adeline had known, however, that there was no alcohol in their cup—just eyes full of a man so animated, taking his title of “Drama Maker” to heart. They had been so drunk on every elegant movement, every fluid motion, every ounce of aura he had given off. It was embarrassing, really, when (Y/n) thought back to how hard they had to fight to keep their heart beating within their chest. It was embarrassing, truly, when (Y/n) had to remember how to string together words and peel their eyes away from Eiland whenever Adeline would call for their attention. It was downright pathetic how desperately they wanted to be over there, at his table, with those shining eyes trained on them. They couldn’t tell her that—no no, definitely not—they had lied and said they’ve just had a bit too much, they were starting to get tired. They prayed she wouldn’t question the lack of alcohol on their breath. 

They wanted this man so embarrassingly bad—but God, just how wrong was it of them? The thought of him—their feelings for him, rather—started to make them feel... dirty. Filthy. Not that they were having wicked thoughts of the sinful nature—no no, not to that extent... yet. How long until they’re so far gone that they’re beyond saving? Was that not a level of betrayal to their best friend on par with the layers of the Underworld? They’ve known Adeline long enough, and definitely know her well enough—surely she wouldn’t be irate with them, right? What of the sense of betrayal, though? The level of trust? Would it all diminish in the matter of seconds, if she were to notice the way (Y/n) looked at her brother? Adeline was a very smart woman—maybe she’d already realized by now and simply left things be; would that make things easier, or worse? 

What sense was there in worrying about this here and now? (Y/n) mentally sighed, what good would it do in the end? A problem for tomorrow—or perhaps even the next day, or even three months from now—but certainly not a problem for today. Adeline tapped lightly on (Y/n)’s forehead, snapping them clear out of their head as they looked at her bewildered, eyes wide and on par with that of a frightened owl. 

“You’ve been sighing for a while, are you alright?” 

“Huh?... What...?” (Y/n) blinked rapidly, shaking their head a bit and laughed to themselves, “I just... couldn’t wrap my head around what you were saying, sorry.” 

“Oh, I know, right?!” Adeline seemed to go back to her previous level of excitement. “Isn’t it crazy what they’re asking for this year regarding the paperwork? We’ll have to work even harder! Isn’t it great?!” 

(Y/n) smiled to themselves, a sense of relief that their best friend had misinterpreted their confession. Their chin returned to their hand, a slight nod prompting the pink-haired woman to continue with her explanation. (Y/n) kept their eyes on her, watching every excited movement of her hands and how wide and bright her smile had been; once she turned around to find another stack of papers, (Y/n)’s eyes travelled to the crack in the door once more, staring at the closed door opposite of them. Almost longingly, a faint smile graced their lips as they studied the tall piece of wood.