#wheatgil

Those nights proved to be the worst-- nearly urging the farmer to get up from bed and help the man, but he wasn't housing him willingly. He owed this soldier nothing. Or, perhaps, he did owe him a bit of kindness.. Even though sharing his home with this tall, strange man was not his choice, the man obviously did not wish to be taking from another's food and bed.

He insisted that he sleep on anything other than the farmer's bed, and would eat whatever was left after his own helpings of food, and kept his word on both despite the resulting misery. The farmer found himself leaving more potatoes and meat in the pot, curing more meat, buying another wool blanket.. He found himself taking comfort in the company of this man and his shaken, but firm grip on cups, plates, blankets.. The freckles on his face and down his shoulders and even his back, which he's glanced over to see more than enough times. What comforted him the most was a look the soldier gave him when offering or asking for something; his chin would be tilted down, eyes watching him intensely-- after a while, the look even appeared to become a bit... suggestive.

Surely, he was wrong-- why assume something like that about anyone? He was a soldier! What sort of soldier would give any suggestive looks towards a farmer? He continued with farming and cleaning, the thought being of no concern to him. What concerned him was how strongly he wanted the look to be suggestive...

The farmer watched as the soldier pulled his shirt over his head, folding it a bit before reaching down for a cleaner shirt. The farmer exhaled a bit as he looked over the freckles that spread past the man's shoulderblades, the pot he was stirring no longer moving; he was too distracted. The soldier turned to glance back, soon noticing the farmer's gawking, and glanced away, ears visibly reddening. He never truly stopped watching.

Eventually, the soldier stood up, dropping the cleaner shirt to the floor with his bundle of blankets and old clothes, and moving to innocently look over the soup. "Might I ask what have you made tonight?"

The farmer blinked a few times, mouth open a few seconds too long. "The usual soup, just.. just a few more potatoes this time. 'Figured you'd like some more filling vegetables.."

He gave a gentle, grateful smile before moving back over to slip on the shirt he had dropped. A thought slowed his steps. "Far-- ...Virgil..?" He asked, turning ever-so-slightly to see the farmer, "Have you always lived here alone? Not once did you marry? You are far too young to have children that have married or ran off, and I cannot say I've seen any graves anywhere around your house.."

Virgil shook his head gently, a bit nervous on subjects such as these. The soldier nodded, understanding some. He spoke again, stepping just a bit closer, "I have not either. Married, that is. Everyone has told me different things-- that I am broken, I am not yet grown up.. I am unsure of what to believe anymore.." His gaze fixed on the farmer then especially, eyes glancing along his arms and torso, his hair and eyes.. As if to reply to the gawking Virgil had been caught doing.

The days grew no lighter for either men-- their glances lengthened in time when the other was busy, and accidental brushes appeared just a bit less accidental. Dinners had become quieter, an unsettling weight pressing down on the men at every stir of their spoon or shift of their bodies. When Virgil lit a fire to sit beside it on the floor, he watched Oliver quietly sit nearby, fully aware of the man's shivering.

"Not used to this much cold?" Virgil gave a pitied chuckle, reaching for another wool blanket for the man. Oliver shook his head, unable to talk with his jaw set to lessen the chattering. Even as the fire swelled and grew along the pile of logs in the chimney, Oliver never stopped shivering, eyes avoiding Virgil's pitied looks.. Oliver shook more when he was urged closer to the chimney, his blankets tugged closer to the fire, closer to him.

Virgil shook too, this time over the touch of this man. They huddled together to cease his shivering, blankets shakily overlapped. "Ah, sorry I am not as big as you.. Are your hands c--" he squeaked, feeling his hands brush past his hands, "Your hands are very cold--!" Huddling together, in all honesty, was uncomfortable. The soldier was sinewy and every joint jutted out, seeming to stab him whenever he moved. The weight pressing down only grew in intensity with the other's breath on their necks and hands and feet desperate for warmth. They fell asleep like that, Oliver's forehead on the other's shoulder, Virgil's head resting on his..

Sleeping beneath wool blankets together became normal once the temperature dropped and Virgil realized how seriously cold Oliver would get in such temperatures with how skinny he was. Eventually, the floor grew too cold at night to stay sitting there, and they pressed together on his bed, never speaking.

Oliver spoke up one night, when they shared a glass (or three, or four) of mead on a particularly cold night, his nose and cheeks pink with intoxication, the smell heavy on his breath, as well as Virgil's. "You know why I never married, Virgil? Didja ever figure that out?" The two were closer than normal, and Oliver shifted to look his 'roommate' in the eyes. Eye contact was strong while this man was drunk.. "I never wanted to marry a woman. I never wanted to marry anyone.. I think I know how it feels to want to marry now, though.. Why exactly did y' never marry? 'Lost your girl? 'Prefer men?" He spoke softer at the last sentence, his words not as loud and proud, even when drunk.

The answer he received wasn't expected, but he noticeably accepted it nonetheless.

The farmer leaned forward to kiss the soldier's lips, shaking hands grabbing the other's for stabilization. Oliver gasped softly against his lips, one hand leaving the other's to hold the nape of his neck for support--