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“Quirin, I need to have a word with you about that girl of yours.”
Varian flinched from where he sat below the apple tree, the words hitting his ears and leaving behind a pounding in his head like he had just blown something up. He was sadly accustomed to the phrase, ‘that girl of yours’ as painful as it was to admit.
That girl of yours is up to no good.
That girl of yours is nothing but trouble.
That girl of yours is stirring up such a fuss.
That girl of yours this, that girl of yours that.
He’d been having a pleasant day up until that point. His father had taken him out apple picking. Not in one of the big farming orchards for work, just to some of the smaller trees that were scattered against the forest entrance. For fun, he had said, and Varian had looked at him as if the idea of him and his father having fun together was so novel that it bordered on fantasy.
Apple picking was one of his favorite things to do, besides inventing. Far away from the judgemental stares of the village and out in the cool crisp air as the sun beat down against his face and brighted the freckles scattered over his skin. Sometimes when the lab became too stuffy he would pack a light lunch and his notebook and just sit underneath one of the trees, plucking fruit after fruit from one of the lower branches as he wrote down ideas until the sun set and he was forced to drag himself home due to both lack of a light source and a sore stomach from indulging too much on the sweet fruit. Those days he would return home to his father and complain about the ache in his belly until the older man sighed and fixed him some tea. Varian could catch the slightest glimmer of a smile on his face as he did so and in return he grinned widely and curled up on the couch with any available blankets until he returned from the kitchen, tea in one hand and a spare pillow in the other.
Varian loved seeing his father smile. He had hoped to see more of the sight today, just the two of them along the forest line, picking the last apples of the season and joking lightheartedly about the recent gossip in town. For such a small village there was always a buzz about something. The carpenter's son using pine instead of oak, the baker’s daughter sneaking off with the family horse in the night, the glassblower’s apprentice getting into a fight with his little brother over his pet frog that broke his best cup. In a small place, people created scenarios to entertain not only themselves, but everyone around them.
There was one bit of gossip that the two never talked about, though it was the most prominent. The whispers and the sneers and funny looks. All about the leaders child, who had cut his hair short. The odd twitchy kid who compressed his chest with a material of his own design. The strange, bewildering boy who said, no matter what anyone else in the village had to say in retaliation, that he was in fact a boy.
That bit of gossip both Varian and Quirin wiped their hands of and scraped off of their shoes at the door. Until, of course, it was brought back to them.
Varian knew that his father got complaints often, but he never stuck around to hear his father’s answer. His father, as loving and strong as he was, never wanted to cause trouble. He was mild mannered and level headed and never one to start a spat. Varian could only imagine the responses he had given all the people who had come up to him about his son’s transition.
In his more self deprecating day-mares he imagined his father apologizing, saying that it was just a phase and that he was waiting it out and that it would be said and done with in no time. Anything to placate the villagers and their confusion, anything to make them feel less stupid and small minded.
Varian never stayed to hear what his father had to say but today he had no choice, hidden behind the largest apple tree as he sat out the lunch he had packed them on a blanket. Maybe, he thought, if he concentrated very hard on the exact positioning of the bread against the tomato and cheese, maybe he wouldn’t have to hear what was being said.
It proved to be of no use, however, as the angry man-who must’ve spotted Quirin while on his own walk against the woods-continued his tirade.
“Now I was willing to look past the breeches and hair, lots of girls are mixing up their fashion now of days and I respect that, but to go around calling herself-”
“That’s my son.”
At that, Varian perked his head up and glanced from behind the tree.
His father looked as if he wished to gut the man out with his own boot.
“See now,” The man continued, not giving mind to Quirin’s words or glare, “That’s just the problem. I have three kids of my own and you can’t just indulge in your girl’s-”
“I said: That is my son.”
The other man had been ignoring Quirin’s glare, but he couldn’t ignore being picked up by the collar and pushed against the nearest tree.
The man opened his mouth to speak but when he met Quirin’s eyes, his words fell silent against his lips.
“I feel sorry for those three kids of yours, sir. It must be hard for them to grow up with a father who goes around glutting himself on his own ignorance. But let me make myself clear and let me tell you what I tell everyone else. Listen close. That’s my boy. He always has been, even when I didn’t know it. Now, if he has, say, accidently blown something of yours up or ruined your yard with one of his machines, then I will be more than happy to discuss with you about what should be done. But, as far as I’m aware, he’s done neither of those things to anyone in the village for several months. So I’m going to put you down and you’re going to say ‘Sorry about disrespecting your boy, Mister Quirin’ and then you’re going to go home and you can spread your misery to your own family as much as you want and when you’re old and grey and they won’t come visit you, then you can relish in that all on your own. But like hell are you going to talk that way about my son, are we clear?”
The man nodded his head with a whimper as he was lowered back down on his feet. Varian heard him mutter something, probably the apology, and then scurry off like a dog with his tail between his legs.
Varian’s eyes followed him, wide and glittering with what he just saw. Then he turned his attention back to his father, surprised to find that his eyes were looking back. There was a glint in them, something soft and fond that made Varian’s chest feel warm. There was love in those eyes and a smile on his father’s face.
Quirin came around to the side of the tree so that Varian didn’t have to strain himself to look around more and sat down on the blanket. Neither of them spoke, instead they listened to the world ring out around them and ate their sandwiches.
As they did, an apple fell from the tree, right into Varian’s lap.