Work Text:
Thank you for reading!! :3 Please engage if you enjoyed- kudos, comments and bookmarks mean ✨ e v e r y t h i n g ! ✨Thank you, dear reader! ^_^ 💖💖💖
｡𖦹°‧ ⋆˚｡˚⋆ ‧°𖦹 ｡
Maybe you were an idiot to take on this task in the midst of the hottest summer Stardew Valley had seen in nearly a century. Despite the warnings from the weather channel and concerned townsfolk of an impending surge in temperature, you push on.
Perhaps you should have taken a page from your farm animals and simply rested instead. Even your chickens refused to leave their coop. Wilted little mounds of feathers underfoot and judgmental beady eyes upon you while you filled their nests with hay- like they were upset you hadn’t changed the weather as easily as their laying material. As though you- not Yoba- controlled the sun itself.
Evading their annoyed pecks, you flee the coop- wondering if you’d find any hard boiled eggs in their nests tomorrow- and load up your wheelbarrow with the wood planks you’d carved over the last few weeks.
As was common, once you got going with your days- you ripped around the farm like a stone from your slingshot, losing track of time and tasks easily. The chilled bottles of corn juice you wanted to take with you on your journey instead sweat-- abandoned-- on your porch as you depart for the beach. Surely, the wind off the waves would provide some measure of relief from the stifling hot air that felt like walking through bathwater.
Apparently, you’re not the only one that shares the sentiment once your boots hit the beach. A sand castle slowly erodes in the waves while Sam stands in the ocean. Glittering water around his knees- faded jeans rolled up to his thighs. His ever vigilant, older brother honed gaze carefully trained on Vincent where he splashes deeper in the shallows. Beyond them hot air balloons drift in the blazing sky. Colorful orbs floating in the distance. Not a cloud mars its wide, deep blue surface.
Small snatches of Vincent’s delighted laughter carries on the wind alongside the sharp cry of seagulls where they circle above in an updraft. The smell of seaweed and suntan lotion strikes you as you attempt to navigate your wheelbarrow through the uneven dips in the sand. The soft, shifting give of the terrain makes it so that the wheel readily buries itself and the whole thing nearly tips over. A sliver works its way deep into your finger as you unload the wheelbarrow and carry the boards to the river instead.
The tempting urge to rap your knuckles upon the sun-bleached wood of Elliott’s cabin builds and crests each time you cross the doorway like the waves rolling into shore. Back and forth, your mind traverses the possibility if only to have a reprieve from the bright sun beating down upon you. Sweat beads on your brow beneath your straw hat. Prickles at your spine where your t-shirt meets your skin as you organize the wood into a pile and survey the sorry excuse of what was once a bridge.
Before your hammer meets plank to rectify the old crossing, your knuckles are about to collide with the wood of Elliott’s home when Vincent runs to you. Kicking up sand as he curses the sun scorched heat it brings to his bare feet. The young kid’s growing excitement at your presence brings a smile to your face. Sam watches from a distance- offering a short wave while his little brother gapes at the pile of lumber you’ve created.
The boy is still dripping with sea water. A large hand print of sunscreen slathered across his shoulders- obviously Sam hadn’t the chance to rub it in properly before Vincent’s escape. The boy excitedly admires your efforts as he approaches- bounding across the sand.
“What are you building?” he asks, large eyes upon you with vested interest, as though he expects you to respond with something amazing. Perhaps a wicker basket- the beginnings of a hot air balloon with how often Vincent nearly dislocated Sam’s arm. Dragging his older brother through the town’s plaza towards the cliffs behind JojaMart every time the colorful panels of the balloon loomed over Pierre’s competitor.
“A bridge,” you reply, brows knitted together when Vincent’s disappointment is unguarded. White paste smeared shoulders dropping a fraction on a great sigh. Little eyes squinted up at you against the sunshine before he speaks.
“That’s boring,” Vincent ascertains and you shrug- stifling the laughter his blunt comment causes.
“It’ll allow us to visit the tide pools safely,” you say, pointing across the river to the area beyond and Vincent considers this for a moment.
“That’d be cool. Miss Penny taught us about those,” Vincent supplies before his focus returns to the woodpile. The mahogany planks are stained a deep red- however their sides remain raw. Revealing the pink and rich red flesh of the inner wood’s natural coloring. It would be durable. Resist the constant moisture of its new home. Relatively easy to work with- you expected the project to be completed by sundown.
“Did you chop down a lot of trees to make these?” Vincent asks and before you can answer he’s firing off more questions and information without a breath between them.
“My dad used to build stuff. Now he just stands and stares a lot. He said if the wood is red like that, it’s called hardwood. Did you know that? He used to build lots of stuff. Like boats and ships. There’s a difference, you know. If it’s big- like bigger than our house- and has lots and lots of sails or an engine then it’s a ship–,” Vincent rattles off a few more facts about large watercraft before Sam appears behind him with an apologetic smile. You hadn’t known Kent was a shipwright- although it explains the ship’s helm above his and Jodi’s house. Also explains their family surname being Wright. You’d mistakenly assumed Kent was a Captain however repairing ships was invaluable given the war and explained some of his long absence.
“Vince-,” Sam cuts off his younger brother’s tangent on boats, “We should let her keep working,” he says and Vincent’s disagreeable “Awww-” as though he’s reluctant to give up your audience causes you to chuckle while Sam holds out a water bottle to you.
“It’s hot out,” he says, “Be careful,” he warns, the same brotherly concern entering his tone as when Vincent is climbing a tree or balancing on the bridge’s railing over the town’s river. Sam takes one glance at your project and hands you his bottle of sunscreen too.
“Thank you,” you say, accepting the lotion and the cold water bottle, pressing its welcome chill to the heated skin of your neck. It gives a modicum of relief before you crack the seal and drink deeply.
The brothers depart up the path that leads back to town while you apply the sunscreen. Somehow the break in your efforts to speak with Vincent and Sam has you feeling the heat more than before. On the far side of the beach a blonde head bathes in the sun beneath a pink umbrella. Aside from Haley, you’re on your own. Figuring Haley’s distant enough that you wouldn’t disturb her with your hammer and nails- you start on your project. Eager to finish it and return to your farm for a cold glass of juice. All thoughts of Elliott fall from your focus the way sweat drips from your brow as you commence the construction of the bridge.
｡𖦹°‧ ⋆˚｡˚⋆ ‧°𖦹 ｡
The sun drops in the sky- nearly touching the white capped waves and you’re a handful of planks and nails away from being done. Despite the sun’s soon departure- Yoba shines upon you- the heat was still unbearable.
The water bottle Sam gave you is long since drained. Mouth dry so that it feels as though you swallow some of the sand you crouch in. While it’s on the further side of the riverbank than when you started- a small amount of pride at your efforts already stirring- you can’t help but regret your decision on taking on this project today of all blazingly hot days.
The hammer in your grasp slides in your sweaty grip. The smallest of shakes in your hand when the metal meets the board and your frustrated sigh that you’d missed the nail head almost disguises the sound of a door creaking open. As loud as a seagull's cry but it makes the same noise as your Grandpa’s old farmhouse door did when you first arrived in Pelican Town. The hinges on Elliott’s shack must constantly rust with the sea water.
From beneath the frayed straw brim of your hat, Elliott appears. Bursting from within the depths of his cabin- Elliott’s head swivels over his broad shoulders. Clad in a baggy, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the lacing along the chest undone to account for the heat- Elliott looks like a romance lead aside from the look on his face as his gaze scours his surroundings. The deep scowl that adorns his face is closer to the expression of a villain whose plots have been thwarted.
From the distance it’s difficult to tell his emotions at first- your hammer pauses in midair while you assess him because you can’t be certain of what you’re seeing.
Elliott’s pissed.
A stark contrast to the pleasant smiles and poised disposition you had become familiar with. Even when ants crawled into your homemade spiceberry jelly at the picnic you’d shared with him and Leah in the forest by her house. To celebrate said jelly being your first foray into preserved goods- Elliott had only smiled politely while shaking off the blanket from the little invaders. Even when Gus got his order wrong on a busy Friday night- even when you offered to switch your dish of the day for his meal- Elliott gracefully refused your proposition and never even frowned . Digging into the incorrect meal with zeal and continuing on with pleasant conversation.
But here- in the dramatic golden hour right before the sun boils itself into the sea- Elliott scans the beach as though it holds all his distaste. Like every grain of sand it contained was rubbing on his last nerve. Elliott’s head pivots in your direction last- like he hardly expects anyone to be east of his home. The bridge would change that, you muse but a shiver surprises you- as though you were prey when you register his furious gaze. Strong brows knitted together above blazing green eyes and a deep frown before he locks you in his sights.
The hammer in your grip strikes the board once more if only to pretend as though you hadn’t been staring- but your curiosity is too great to allow Elliott to leave your vision completely.
What was he so angry about? Maybe his writing wasn’t going well?
From the sliver of your vision that’s still centered on him- Elliott immediately deflates when he spies you. Tightly held shoulders drop from his red tinged ears. The hair tie that contains his auburn locks in a messy bun allows a few strands of loose hair to fall across his features. They soften upon your form in an instant before he approaches. Stepping across the sand- barefoot- he curses like Vincent at the sun drenched ground.
“Yoba, it’s hotter than an oven sheet-,” Elliott curses before his toes halt in front of the other side of the bridge you’ve made. Previously angry gaze now considerate upon the wood and your laboring form.
“So this was all that racquet I heard this afternoon,” Elliott comments as though to himself while your hammer stills. Guilt and embarrassment flood into your thoughts like the waves returning on the tide.
How could you be so inconsiderate? You hadn’t even warned him- asked if he’d mind-
A rush of apologies streams from your mouth while Elliott’s merely smiles- gently amused. Any anger that he may have held for your noisy project washed away as with the waves that surge between you. Drawing back out to sea with the late afternoon tide. Lost to the great unknown before some of it would return to greet the shore of the riverbank once again. Perhaps none at all.
“It’s fine, dear farmer,” Elliott supplies gracefully, “No need for apologies. My words weren’t going well besides,” he admits with a solemn shake of his head and small, regretful laugh.
How Elliott hadn’t noticed you transporting the planks from his window you couldn’t be sure. Maybe he’d been so deeply engrossed in his writing that the rest of the world fell away from him. Until you’d rudely knocked him back into it.
“I thought Willy was repairing the row boat in front of my cabin,” Elliott admits, “He keeps pestering me about it. A project I abandoned. Like all my ideas,” Elliott laments before his green gaze traces the planks you’ve installed with deep appreciation in his handsome features, “Your persistence is admirable, my dear.”
For some reason he’s left off your title of farmer to his endearment. The heat was getting to him too, you surmise from the sheen of sweat across his freckled skin. Nonetheless, his praise strikes somewhere in your chest before there’s a tugging lower in your gut.
Elliott crouches- splotchy fingers reaching out to admire your handiwork and leaving a trace of dark ink behind upon the wet wood. A baggy pair of trousers hugs his thick thighs- his shirt tucked loosely into the waistband so that when he bends forward- you’re given a window into the toned muscle beneath the fabric. A smattering of freckles across his wide chest and the bunching muscles of his torso distracts you so that your hammer misses its mark. The harsh rap of metal on wood draws his gaze to you once more- and Elliott laughs. Broad chest shuddering in amusement so that you entirely give up on continuing the bridge in the pleasure of his company and rise to stand.
The sand and stream blurs once your sore knees unlock from your kneeling position. The sound of the rolling waves fades into one rushing noise. Black spots like the spiders you find in the dark nooks and crevices of the abandoned mine swarm at the edges of your vision. Elliott sounds concerned but you can’t make out his words. The deep timbre of his voice far away while the hammer slips from your hand. The swift plop of its weight as it disappears into the depths of the river is lost as a ringing fills your ears.
｡𖦹°‧ ⋆˚｡˚⋆ ‧°𖦹 ｡
When your gaze swims Elliott doesn’t think- only reacts. Before your knees can strike the shore where they’ve only just lifted from he’s across the river and tugging you into his arms. When your head meets his chest, your eyes roll back and shutter closed causing a fierce shiver of fear to crash over him. Within his grasp your body is warm. No- it’s hot. Impossibly so. Like the worst sort of fever has taken hold.
The heat of you against him. The quick rise and fall of your chest. The limp weight of you in his trembling grip. The weak flutter of your pulse where your throat meets your jaw. All of it speaks to heat exhaustion. Too familiar with the feeling from his youth- how many times had he passed out in the sun while trying to keep up with his less fair haired friends?
Hauling you to him- Elliott crosses the little bridge and strides across the sand and back to his cabin in less time than a breath. Panic threatens to overwhelm him when the beach lies horribly vacant. Not even Willy is fishing on the pier.
For the first time since he arrived, Elliott curses his isolated setting. The townsfolk were simply too busy with rural life and tourism too little for anyone else to appreciate the beach at sunset the way he, Leah and Willy typically did. Yoba, he’ll never take joy from the sun’s rays again for how it's threatened you today, he thinks while he kicks open the door to his cabin. The air is stale inside but carries slightly less heat.
Elliott carefully lays you upon his bed. Worried thoughts traversing the worst outcomes before he lands on a possible solution. In a rush, Elliott lays a cold washcloth across your crown and then bundles his bedding beneath your legs- elevating them before he tugs on his loafers and takes his leave despite every fiber in his being wishing him to remain at your side.
Elliott’s long legs eat up the ground while his lungs and thighs burn with exertion. Sprinting footsteps hastening over sand, dirt then cobblestone before his fists collide with the clinic door. The harsh thuds echo back to him as he pounds before he throws his entire weight into his shoulder against the frame. Intent to access the only help he can think will make a difference.
“Doctor Harvey!” Elliott shouts, over and over- louder and louder until he nearly faceplants in the entryway as the door swings wide. Doctor Harvey blinks at him with startled concern while Elliott collects himself in a tight breath. The lenses of the Doctor’s glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose in a nervous tic, Harvey peers past his finger to find the world’s most harried writer on his doorstep.
“Please, you must hurry- it’s the farmer-,” Elliott says, words piling up against his anxiety, “The heat- she’s collapsed,” Elliott supplies, desperation clawing through him while Harvey collects his Gladstone that he keeps stocked and ready by the clinic entry just for such emergencies.
Harvey had spent the afternoon on the mountain, assuring Robin of Seb’s resilience when he had become sun sick. Thankfully, it’d been only a headache and mild cramping that eased with fluids and a salty concoction that Maru had cleverly come up with. Based on Elliott’s severe distress levels- what the farmer was experiencing was far worse than what Sebastian had.
“Lead the way,” Harvey says, brow pinched in concern. Sharing a deep frown as Elliott beneath his mustache and although he indicates for Elliott to lead the charge- the doctor turns west towards the farm by default. Elliott’s hand claps down upon his shoulder- hard- before Harvey is guided towards the Saloon with more force than the writer intends- so great is his anguish.
“Sorry,” Elliott says but the doctor waves off his concern- intent on the patient and the real harm he intends to fix, “I brought her into my cabin,” Elliott adds in a rush while they sprint towards the beach and that explains Elliott’s drenched appearance, Harvey surmises.
Still leaving fat drops of sea water on the cobblestone in his wake- Elliott is soaked up to his waist. The wild concern the red-headed man is plunged within speaks to his affections and how deep they lay within him. Harvey can nearly hear Elliott’s heart where it beats a wretched song in his mouth. Elliott’s teeth clenched around his worry. Jaw ticking along to the rhythm of his devastation. Every word coated in distress as he relays every medically relevant fact he possesses of you to the Doctor before they reach his home.
｡𖦹°‧ ⋆˚｡˚⋆ ‧°𖦹 ｡
Beneath the twinkling stars, Elliott paces in front of the rickety bench beside his shack. Fretful thoughts cast into his fears as deep and dark as the forest that lays beyond. His mind catches upon sordid possibilities and morbid musings that his writerly inclination cannot help but detail much to his dismay.
It’s like when he fishes with Willy and all he reels in are slimy weeds and soggy trash. All of Elliott’s hopes cast aside the way some poor sod’s words become blurry ink upon a soaked newspaper. Like the only thing the sea has to offer him is an impenetrable surface and the worst it can contain- his mind does the same now. On the surface, his distress has lessened. It’s been a handful of hours with you in Doctor Harvey’s care and that had to mean something positive. But Elliott frets nonetheless.
What if he hadn’t been with you when you collapsed? What if no one would have noticed you in such an unusual spot?
The smell of pipeweed appears before Willy’s wool cap rounds the corner of the cabin. First the sun weathered mariner admires the nearly complete bridge. Smoke puffing through his wrinkled lips before it curls around to meet the deeply carved lines that frame his brown eyes. Next, he spots Elliott in the shadows- turning to offer a friendly greeting before the younger man’s forlorn expression stops him mid sentence.
“Good evening to you, young lad- What’s the matter, Elliott?” Willy asks, the answer not fully gathered in Elliott’s mind. The first time he struggles to find words when it’s not about his writing. The feelings he has for you are as clear to him as the sky above and yet he can’t speak.
The creak of rusty hinges draws both his and Willy’s attention as Harvey steps out of the cabin. Elliott only ever intended to stay for a handful of seasons at most. Never got around to fixing the place up in its entirety. And now what felt like his whole world lay inside its rickety four walls and Elliott can’t help his eagerness to know how you fare.
Doctor Harvey speaks before Elliott needs to ask.
“She’s better. The fluids are helping,” the doctor says and Willy pulls a breath tightly through his pipe- lips smacking around his unspoken curiosity.
“The farmer,” Elliott offers absently and Willy’s cap covers the way his brows rise to meet its brim before they furrow in concern.
“Heat exhaustion,” Doctor Harvey explains and Willy frowns with a nod towards the new bridge.
“Determined lass,” Willy remarks with a note of admiration and Elliott cannot help but share the sentiment- despite the anxiety your perseverance had now caused.
“Elliott,” Harvey says, “I don’t mean to frighten you- however, this could have ended much worse. She’s lucky it didn’t turn into heat stroke,” the doctor continues and although Elliott knows he’s not your keeper- he listens aptly. A serious look about him so that Willy blinks away the thought that even his pipe smoke seems to drift towards the red haired writer. Like all the universe were sucked into his intense orbit alongside the doctor’s lecture.
Responsibility weighs heavily in Elliott’s heart. He’d been closest to you. The most likely to intervene or supervise or aid- and he’d allowed the situation to spiral in his being unaware. Locked in on his writing notes until late in the afternoon when an annoying whacking noise had roused him from his inky plots and prose.
Willy’s pipe falls to his wool covered chest before his hoarse voice lifts above the sound of the waves against the shore.
“Now, I’m as much at fault here as the young lad,” Willy says, pipe gesturing between the younger men, something softer in his eyes when they land on the distraught Elliott.
Yoba, bless him, Elliott was in love and he didn’t even know it, Willy muses fondly.
Willy’s love for the sea was its own tumultuous thing. Sometimes she blessed him. A healthy catch to sell, a glorious storm to make beach combing a guaranteed treasure find. Other times her love took his breath away in a way that felt like drowning. She filled his hut with thousands of crabs. Or allowed that stinking Crimsonfish to make the pier unstable with its infernal presence. And despite all the stress- Willy blamed himself more often than naught. He felt a strong sense of duty to pass on the lessons of his forefathers about respecting the ocean and protecting her.
While he didn’t entirely understand Elliott’s affections for the farmer- he aligned with Elliott’s sense of honor and duty all the same. How easily the younger man adopted his role in the farmer’s life- as a good friend- if it were anything more yet Willy couldn’t be sure but the potential shone there like a pearl inside a clam. With enough time, it would be revealed. What a pretty sight it would be, Willy mused.
As long as the lass didn’t overwork herself to death, Willy cringes.
Elliott accepts Harvey’s lecture without argument. Agrees to observe her on bed rest until the next day when Harvey promised to return.
“I’ve just the thing for her. I’ll be back soon, Elliott,” Willy says before he totters back to his shack and Harvey takes his leave.
Elliott isn’t alone for long because he goes to you immediately.
Covered in a linen sheet- you blink wearily up at him from his bed. While his feet hung off the end when he lay down- yours tucked up neatly so that you made the frame look large. Still, there wouldn’t be enough room to fit two comfortably- not that Elliott intended to crowd you or even sleep a wink at all.
No- he would watch you astutely the entire night. Taking your temperature to ensure it was within a safe range and making sure your glass of water was always full. You wouldn’t need for anything, he’d make sure of it until the only sickness you’d experience was of his company.
The legs of his writing chair are placed on the uneven boards beside the bed- and Elliott takes up his post while you sip from the glass he hands you.
Stubbornly, you wet your lips only enough to speak- another stream of apologies about to burst forth from your mouth but Elliott only smiles and shakes his head.
“Please, do not apologize, I’m only sorry I hadn’t noticed your plight sooner,” Elliott says with a regretful sigh.
“Thank you,” you say and Elliott’s smile flickers with painful gratitude that he was even there to help at all. Quietly, your gaze traces the candlelit walls of his barren little home and Elliott is pleased for your alertness and clear curiosity if not for his austere living style.
Eventually a soft knock comes upon his door before Willy toes it open. In his weathered grip is a steaming bowl of soup and above it- a small grin from the old man when he sees that you’re upright.
“Trout soup,” Willy says, handing you the food and Elliott hums in familiarity at its oily scent. Last winter, soon after the first snow when the threadbare blanket Elliott possessed wasn’t enough to ward off a serious case of the sniffles- Willy had damn near broken his door down to give Elliott a bowl of the same. Every day for a week, Elliott ate it with Willy until the illness finally gave up in the brine that his body had become.
“Pretty salty,” Willy chuckles when you take the first bite and your lips purse around the spoon.
“It’s perfect,” you say before inhaling the rest. While fish wasn’t your favorite- Doctor Harvey insisted you increase your salt intake to account for the dehydration. What Willy had given you tasted like an entire year’s worth of the mineral. Alongside it, Willy’s calm reassuring presence seems to settle Elliott.
“Quite a fine job you’ve done out there, missy,” Willy remarks once you’re finished eating.
“It’s not finished,” you say with a mixture of sadness and embarrassment that causes Elliott to lift a hand to his mouth in an attempt to hide the grin behind it, “I thought it would be nice to visit the tide pools,” you say and the men share a wholesome laugh.
Willy finishes it with a reverent sigh. Pulling his cap from his head to push his fingers through his graying hair as though to jostle free the memory he recalls with a fond tone.
“I used to take the missus there some days,” Willy says and both you and Elliott turn to him in slight surprise. Apparently neither of you had reached this part of Willy’s lore.
“It’s a fine spot for a picnic,” Willy says before he winks at Elliott- the side of his face occluded in shadow so that you miss the action but not the way Elliott’s lips twitch.
“Of course there’s also the ghost of an old mariner that haunts the tree line,” Willy adds, the same glint in his eye as when he mentioned the boat he keeps in the boathouse of his fishing shack. It’s a little unsettling, the way that Willy describes benign subjects as though you’d stepped into a thriller scene.
“Legend says you can see him through the raindrops when it’s pouring cows and frogs and that he’ll sell you a mermaid’s pendant,” Willy says and your brows meet in confusion.
“What’s a mermaid’s pendant?” you ask and Elliott’s head snaps to you, surprise and amusement glancing off his features in the flickering light of the candle flame.
Willy chuckles, his laughter rolling over itself like the waves outside.
“It’s an old tradition here in the valley. Suppose it makes sense you don’t know it- but most everyone here does,” Willy says, nodding at Elliott, “Even the out of towners like this one do,” Willy says and although Elliott is aglow in the candle light- warm oranges and yellows complimenting his auburn hair- he turns a shade redder at Willy’s comment. The blush runs from his chest- the white of his shirt contrasting against the flush that burns its way up his neck and into his cheeks.
“When you wish to marry someone, tradition decrees you present them with a mermaid’s pendant,” Willy informs you- tugging his own free from his wool sweater. A shell shaped like a spiraling cone between his fingers hangs from a chain necklace you’d never noticed before. The spines and patterns of the exterior that were more prominent in his youth are worn down to almost smooth. A few places have eroded entirely but Willy stares upon the item with fierce affection.
Curiosity burns within you but not before a yawn bubbles up inside you and despite yourself- it can’t be contained. Elliott clears his throat at the end of it when the older man doesn’t stir, and Willy snaps from his daydream.
“Well, get some rest, miss farmer,” Willy orders, gathering the empty bowl and tipping his cap before the door creaks shut in his wake.
Elliott turns that easy smile towards you but his eyes are creased with something like worry. With a tight sigh, you begin unwrapping the blankets from yourself and reach for your boots tucked neatly at the end of his bed. Elliott startles when he registers your movements, chair scraping across the floor while one of his hands steadies against your shoulder.
“Are you alright? Do you need me to fetch you something?” Elliott asks, his anxiety increasing as you struggle to toe on your boots. Even small movements feel like a chore and a half, your weight shifting loosely across your bones- shoulder pressing deeper into Elliott’s grip and nearly slipping out of it when you try to correct. Elliott’s elegant fingers reach to pull you from knocking your head against the wall with ease.
“M’fine,” you offer, words slurred for the fatigue thrumming through your sore muscles, “Just gonna-,” you say with a huff as you manage to wrangle on a boot. Exhaustion claws at you so hard that it's difficult to keep your eyes open. Belly now full of food and veins filled to the brim with fluids from Doctor Harvey’s saline iv and Willy's soup- your body screams for rest.
“Go home-,” you say with a weary sigh and Elliott laughs. A soft chuckle that rumbles through his chest and into his arm where he steadies you as you slide back into his pillows.
“You’re welcome to stay here, dear farmer, I wouldn’t have it otherwise,” Elliott assures softly, lifting the blankets to tuck you in. Sleep pulls you into its easy embrace like a siren song. Any thought of further protest is lost as you begin to drift into nonsensical dreams. The boot you’d managed to don is tugged off your foot and Elliott returns to his writing chair- amused gaze tracing your sleeping form with a relieved chuckle.
｡𖦹°‧ ⋆˚｡˚⋆ ‧°𖦹 ｡
The cry of seagulls stirs you from a deep slumber. The squeaking sound is like the door hinge on your chicken coop- always rusting after the rain. Cracking open your sleep crusted eyes, you startle at the worn wood beams that stretch across the squat ceiling above a bed you barely recognize. A moment of confusion passes before you register your eyes search for your Grandpa's farmhouse out of familiarity- and instead you find Elliott's sleeping form draped over a chair that looks two sizes too small for the man. Somehow, Elliott manages to look like a king upon his throne despite this. Elegant and regal. All long, lean lines of dozing mass. Those strong arms, now laying in his lap, sleeves pulled up to his elbows, had carried you to safety yesterday. From Doctor Harvey's recounting- Elliott's legs that are folded at an awkward angle against his bedframe now, had sprinted across the majority of Pelican Town to assure your care.
Gratitude swells in your heart like the tide following the full moon's pull. It's impossible to ignore the tug in your chest when you gaze upon your savior. Guilt threatens to bleed into your awareness as you stretch in Elliott's bed which is closer to being a cot, especially given the size of its usual inhabitant. Even if you doubt he fits in it easily due to his height- you've taken up the most comfortable real estate in his small cabin.
While it was only for the night- something about the way Elliott's neck is angled makes you think he'll be feeling the repercussions of his hospitable nature for days. The bulk of his red locks are pulled into a loose bun behind his head. Chin tucked into his chest, Elliott sleeps with a carefree expression. It feels almost wrong to wake him up- the impending pain he'll feel when he straightens up in his seat- so you take a look around the space instead.
On the windowsill behind the headboard is a line up of shells and rocks. A pearlescent, rainbow colored shell draws your eye first. Then the time ravaged bands of a fossilized nautilus shell. Next, a plain white seashell with many fine ridges rests with a piece of driftwood in it's indent. A handful of other fascinating pebbles, their edges worn smooth by the presence of the sea. A few pieces of bleached coral. A straggly looking white and grey feather. An assortment of nature, plucked from their home by the ink stained fingers of a writer out for a walk between sprints.
The little collection reminds you of the keepsakes you've curated since becoming a farmer. The first feather you'd found on the floor of the coop. The dried round seed of a bean. Fat and slippery between your fingers like a polished gem. A tiny jar of dirt from the first hole you ever dug on the farm. A key from a maple tree when you'd tapped a maple tree for syrup. The rusty nail that Doctor Harvey had pried out of your toe before he lectured you on the importance of keeping up with your shots.
You'd have to find a way to show your thanks to the Doctor, Willy and of course the handsome man sleeping at your side. Beyond Elliott stands an upright piano, a writing desk and a few bedraggled looking plants. A rose that was once red but looks a sickly shade of mottled purple in the morning light. Beside the door, a near barren shrub perches in a shallow container.
The enrichment of Elliott's seaside enclosure wanes- your gaze drifting back the him. The most interesting part of his cabin remains the man that has opened his door for your safe harbor.
"Elliott," you call, softly, one hand reaching for his knee that's jammed against the bedframe closest to you. The tips of your fingers only graze the fabric of his trousers before his green eyes snap open. Elliott's focus swims freely for a brief instance as though he were looking upon a daydream- a slight curving of his lips as he digests the view in front of him before his attention lands securely upon you.
"Yes, what do you need?" Elliott asks, suddenly serious, voice gruff with sleep, lower than you've ever heard it before it dissolves into a sharp hiss as Elliott begins the painful process of righting himself into the world of the waking. One large hand lifts to his neck and rubs, his brow pinched in concern not for his own plight but for yours.
"I'm fine," you implore, although Elliott takes a moment to ascertain your sincerity with his own quiet assessment. Eventually, his slow smile returns.
"Thank you," you say, gesturing at the bed and the cup of water that had remained full the entire night despite how many times you drained it completely, "For taking care of me."
Elliott chuckles. It's a deeper noise than usual. A rumble in his chest that shakes the air as he rises and your thoughts alongside it. Whatever the sun hadn't damaged yesterday sizzles like a fried egg into warm, butter slick musings of how good Elliott looks in the morning light. The sun has barely risen and somehow he still looks handsome in the twilight. It isn't fair.
"It's my pleasure," Elliott begins, arching one auburn eyebrow at you when you scoff while he shoves at the window frame behind the headboard until it squeaks sharply. Fresh, salt brined air sweeps into the space, "Truly," he adds with a flash of teeth that feels like sparks upon tinder. Despite the cold ocean air cascading from the open window, heat rushes through you.
"I believe you," you reply, unaware you'd spoken the thought out loud until a few piano notes begin to play. Elliott's long fingers graze over the keys from where he stands astride the instrument, absentmindedly pulling a melody forth.
"I'm pleased to have your faith," Elliott replies, a soft smile sent to you alongside a softer song from the piano's heart. A shiver runs through you at how devastatingly beautiful he is- and the piano notes fade.
"Are you cold?" Elliott says, gaze cutting to the traitorous window, "Force of habit," Elliott says on a tight sigh, "I have to air out the cabin or a disastrous form of mold will take over. Or so Willy tells me," Elliott says with an uneasy smile.
"No, I'm fine," you say, "He has a way with that. Turning the benign into terrifying tales," you remark with an amused laugh. Elliott returns it with one of his own- a trace of stress leaving his features at how much breath you place into the expression. You look and feel stronger than you did yesterday.
"He's usually right," Elliott says with a sigh that's both annoyed and sincere, "Wisdom that only a full life can bestow, I suppose."
"Did you know he was married?" you blurt out, the taste of surprise and salt mixing in your recall of the previous evening.
Elliott shakes his head, red locks falling across his features before he wanders back towards you. Shimmying up his bed until you're sat upright, you gesture at the end of it when the wooden chair scrapes across the floor.
"Please, sit," you ask and Elliott hesitates for half a breath before he settles onto the other end of the mattress. His long legs overhang the edge- feet still planted on the floor- wide shoulders shored up against the rickety wall and head turned towards you. A warm look in his green eyes as he gets comfortable. To take your mind off his new proximity, you toy with the frayed edge of one of his blankets.
At your one side, the crisp morning air is cool against your skin. At the other, heat radiates from Elliott. The urge to settle into him is difficult to ignore. To lay your head on his broad shoulder and gossip about the old mariner until Doctor Harvey arrives for your check up. To feel the rumble of his elegant words through his chest and into your head. The softness of his hair against your cheek. From this distance, the barest hint of fiery red stubble across his face gives him a more rugged appearance. Something about his slightly disheveled appearance has you wondering how good Elliott- usually so polished and well kept- would look coming apart completely. Wrecked and messy. Your thoughts plunge to meet the tug in your gut and then lower.
Perhaps it was a mistake to invite him to sit beside you. Maybe your mind hadn't completely recovered from the sun stroke and was searching for easy comfort--
"I used to think my romance radar was decently acclimatized," Elliott says and your next breath gets caught somewhere behind your teeth, worried you may have admitted out loud your desired snuggling scenario, but Elliott continues, "I knew he was in love with the sea," Elliott says with a small chuckle.
"Maybe his other love has been lost for too long," you muse sadly, "He keeps her close to his chest," you say remembering his pendant. The way Willy's thumb rubbed over the shell and his mind over his memories. Perhaps, Willy was afraid his love would erode the way the ocean reclaims the stone into sand. Elliott ponders your words for a long while.
"He stays close to the sea," Elliott says, gaze far away and yet near all the same. As though he's recalling life times and yesterday all together.
"Practically lives in it," you say, whether it's the fishing shack, the boat that needs repairing, the bait he collects, the fish he hooks- Willy's mind never strayed far from the ocean even if he ventured inland to the Stardrop or further.
"Reminds me of someone else that I know," you say, throwing Elliott a playful glance which he catches with a smirk.
"I wasn't the one building a bridge to the tide pools," Elliott volleys back with an amused grin before his attention shifts somewhere serious, "Almost dying in it," Elliott says with a frown before he gasps and slaps a hand over his mouth. An urgent apology streams through his fingers while he tries to shove his morbid musings back where they'd come.
"Yoba, I'm sorry- that was morose," Elliott says even though you laugh. It ends on a nervous sigh.
"I'm sorry- I must have given you quite a fright," you say and Elliott's hand drops, jaw chewing over his speech because his gloominess has caught you in a spiral of shame. Elliott struggles to find what to say- all his words sliding like fish through a tattered net.
"It's alright-," Elliott says, "I'm sorry to bring it up again," Elliott says, trying to hold space for your feelings yet desperately wishing to return to the happier, lighter feelings of a moment ago. It'd be easy to talk of Willy and find solace in something further that what you'd shared yesterday. The old man's love story over a bowl of fish soup. But Elliott felt like one of his characters- thrust into a chaotic scene and this was the quiet moment after to process it all.
"To be honest, I was terrified," Elliott said and your gaze lifts to meet his but his focus is upon one of his large hands outstretched towards you and you place your own within it. Elliott squeezes gently, thumb rubbing over your work blisters and calluses, remembering how feverish it had felt in his grip yesterday.
Elliott chuckles but there's no humor in the sound. It echoes more hollow in his chest than when it bounces around his sparse cabin.
"I write about heroes. Create stories about romance and danger and damsels in distress- as cliché as it is," Elliott says with a half smile but it's tugged into a deep frown while his other hand claws through his red locks in a stress tic. Elliott sighs tightly- frustrated to put words to his thoughts that tumble over the events of yesterday with an intensity that makes it as though an entire novel is written across his face.
"And I thought I knew what it would be like-- what it would feel like--," Elliott says, words stuttering over his lips before his hand comes up to contain them for a few breaths. His voice is coarse over his next words like they're lodged in his throat and he doesn't wish to give them more air.
"I've never written that fear," Elliott admits, green eyes absorbing your form like he can carve you into his mind.
Something in your chest shatters for the most forlorn man in the world stares back at you.
"I wish I'd never known it--," Elliott says and you begin to apologize but he shakes his head fiercely. Auburn locks swaying in front of his intense gaze as though the next words he speaks are the most important ones he's ever said and he needs you to know it.
"I'd have never known that terror if only so that you hadn't suffered any harm--," Elliott is quick to explain, "Of course, I'd panicked when you collapsed-- and the entire time I was afraid-, but the moment when the most agony took me-- was having to leave you," Elliott says, both hands clasping yours as though you were an anchor in a storm and he was a ship being tossed over waves the size of cliffs.
The edges of your eyes blur and burn. Elliott sniffles harshly- red locks cascading across his face when his head threatens to fall between his shoulders but you launch forwards- hauling him into a tight hug. Elliott's arms encircle you, pulling you into him. The solid bunching of muscle beneath your hands- the shuddering of his shoulders against your cheek, all of Elliott revealed to you like you'd cracked open the cover of a book and all the words had spilled out of its pages.
"I wanted to remain close to you-," Elliott heaves out through shuttering sobs that rival your own.
"Like an old man that loves the sea," Elliott says on a warbly laugh that you meet with a shaky one of your own.
Pulling back, Elliott's hand sweeps over your crown in a tender gesture, his freckled cheeks wet and red with the last rush of his emotions. Green eyes pour over your own before they fall to your mouth. It's only a blink before he gathers himself and presses a soft kiss to your hand.
"Forgive me, my dear farmer," Elliott says with a sigh, "I fear I've been overcome with the luxury of your presence, and have forgone all my manners in favor of your closeness," he admits, and when you don't move to disengage- Elliott leans forward until his nose barely grazes your own. Lips hovering near to yours so all you need to do is tilt your head before they connect with his.
Something snaps in you. The adrenaline from yesterday, the guilt for Elliott's plight, the need to feel his hands on more than your own.
The first press of your lips to his is a simple meeting. A light pressure. A toe in the water. But the next kiss has you both plunging into deeper territory.
When Elliott's lips quirk against your own- you press into him further. Teeth find firm flesh. Breath follows in tight exhales before Elliott groans. It's a deep sound- torn out of him and delivered straight to the center of you. Releasing his hands, you scrabble around the blankets until you're rooted in his lap, Legs astride his and Elliott's found the perfect use for his fingers the way he found a sweet melody from his piano keys. Hauling you into him further like he can fit you against him in a way that would have you stay with him forever.
A chorus of breathy sighs and husked groans fill the little cabin. Elliott's draws up his legs until his thighs press against your backside- his upper body curling around you as he kisses you with fervent need. Elliott kisses you like he's drowning and you're his next breath of air. Like he'll dissolve into nothing if he doesn't. There's no surface in his embrace. You're thrust into an sea of only Elliott. The slide of his locks through your fingers as you hook your arms over his shoulders. The tight, bunching shake of his muscles beneath your touch. The coarse scrape of his stubble against your face when he breaks away to breathe. Latching on as quick as he leaves. The solid feel of him beneath you as he surges to meet your hips with his own. A whimper that he tries to bite back when you grind into him and tug the hair tie free and card your fingers through his locks properly. The slightest tug evoking a strangled noise.
Elliott's green gaze is blown out dark. Reddened mouth slackened in pleasant shock while you reward the discovery of that sound with another gentle tug. Fingers gently clawing at the corded muscles of his neck and the divot of his scalp where his skull meets his spine. Elliott stifles the moan behind his lips. Jaw clenching past the pleasure you've induced to register the one he invokes with a sharp thrust of his hips against you.
The moan you try to contain is cut off at a loud rapping of the door.
A flurry of blankets, quiet curses and righting of clothes is had before Elliott rises- carefully adjusting himself before he stalks to the door. Throwing you a deeply apologetic glance, Elliott opens it to greet Doctor Harvey.
"Good morning," Doctor Harvey says cheerily, if not slightly jittery- and you wonder if its due to his coffee addiction or if the walls of Elliott's cabin are as thin as they look. Elliott hangs by the open door as Doctor Harvey approaches you.
"Feeling better today?" Doctor Harvey asks as you nod- stealing a glance at Elliott who takes a swift exit outside. You can't help the burst of laughter at Elliott's quick haste from the savior role when the heat is of a different sort.
Elliott definitely wasn't coming to your rescue now, you think with mild amusement as Doctor Harvey runs through an assessment.
Doctor Harvey's hum of disapproval as he reads the digital thermometer floats into your awareness before he speaks.
"Still a bit warm."
｡𖦹°‧ ⋆˚｡˚⋆ ‧°𖦹 ｡