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When Garroth realises he cannot fly, he's not upset about it.
He knew, really. He knew for a long time that his wings were too big and heavy to lift himself off the ground. Despite what his family has told him, he knows he will never be strong enough. It's okay. He knew.
As soon as he starts trying to fly, he gives up. It's no use. He's just glad he tried alone so he didn't have to embarrass himself. He tucks his wings up behind his back and forgets about it for a while. None of his friends will start flying for a couple of months, so he can pretend he's normal until then. He returns inside and stomps the snow out of his boots, only to go straight to bed afterwards to spend the night staring up at the ceiling.
When the summer rolls around and all of his friends have finally turned sixteen, Garroth refuses to go out with them anymore. They all know he can't fly. They pretend they don't, and Garroth pretends like he shouldn't have ever been able to in the first place. It's easier to be an anomaly than a defect. He loses touch with them gradually, and eventually they just stop caring. No one wants to be friends with the local outcast.
Instead, he people watches over the village from his bedroom, stoic and trying to stitch himself back together. He picks gently at his feathered wings, blank faced.
When Garroth tells his parents he can't fly - that their eldest son was born incorrectly - he cries into his pillow until he can't breathe. They understand. He knows they resent him now. He doesn't go out for months, hoping he can curl up enough that he'll disappear into nothing.
His parents worry. No one has ever seen a flightless angel - a span of wings too great to ever take off. The next time they force him to go to the market for them, it's because they know everyone else knows now. Stares of pity. Whispers. Garroth doesn't even bother to process his feelings anymore. He returns home with their groceries, face frozen still.
When Garroth gets his first job, it's because he's forced to. Everyone in the village is expected to pay their duties, and Garroth respects that. It's what makes things work. He accepts his job on the farm an hour away from the village, a task which requires no flight. He sleeps in the barn because he's too ashamed to go home and he spends most of his nights in solitude, listening to the sounds of the quiet rural farmyard. At least here he's not handicapped - there's no missing staircase in which only a proper angel could reach the top. There's no airborne structures that mock his disability. There's just the barn and the animals, and perhaps sometimes his manager that arrives every few weeks to make sure he's doing what he's supposed to before taking his produce back to the village market. It works. He does the job no one wants to, and he stays out of everyone's way. It's what he was made to do.
When Garroth makes his way to the sheep pen in the early hours of the morning for the billionth time, he doesn't expect it to be any different. He doesn't expect to have to do anymore than the job description, to do anything but heed the sheep and milk the cows and check the crops. He definitely doesn't expect to see a bloodied angel lying unconscious in the mud. And he definitely doesn't know how he's supposed to react.
For a moment, he stares at the body, blinking. Is he going mad? Is he so deprived of interaction that he's imagining this person half-dead in the dirt? He steps forward tentatively, trying to shoo the curious sheep away so he can actually decide for himself. Squatting down in front of the figure, he attempts to get a look at their face.
Male. Okay, that's slightly less awkward. Doesn't look much younger than him, either. Garroth lightly presses two of his fingers to their neck and waits. Alive; that's good. He holds his hand up to their mouth and sighs in relief when he feels their warm breath on his hand. What would he have done if this boy were dead? The village would have assumed he was the culprit. Then he would really be an outcast.
That's not the point, Garroth has to remind himself, this boy is injured and needs help. Since there's no one around for miles and he can't just leave him here alone to get licked by sheep, Garroth concludes that he is their only hope. So he stands up and tries to figure out a way to get him to the barn. He's going to have to carry him.
Luckily, Garroth has built up a bit of muscle since he started working at the farm - spending all day bullying the cattle and lifting heavy crates of vegetables. This boy doesn't seem too heavy, so he should be no issue. Now, Garroth just has to work out how to not make it uncomfortable. Unfortunately, that is where Garroth lacks in experience.
After several failed attempts, Garroth resorts to wrapping the boy's legs around his waist and hugging him loosely to keep him upright. Garroth makes his slow way back to the barn, careful to avoid any obvious injuries, and inhales the beautiful smell of manure and mud that the boy is caked in.
On his way back, Garroth wonders how this boy could have possibly ended up in the middle of a field. His field. God, why did everything have to be Garroth's problem? Couldn't he have almost died on a different farmers land? What even caused him to become this injured? Is it something dangerous that Garroth should be aware of?
By the time Garroth makes it back to the barn, his head is swarming with anxious questions. The first: how is he going to get the connecting door open with his hands full of a stranger? The boy's ruffled wings are kind of blocking his field-view, so he has to do some sort of uncomfortable bend over to turn the handle with his elbow.
Once he's finally inside the living area, he carefully heads into the living room to gently lay the boy down on the couch. The barn has an attachment with a kitchen, living room, bathroom, and small bedroom for whoever's working there to stay, so it's not like Garroth has to literally sleep with the animals. The living room and the kitchen are practically the same room, but Garroth doesn't mind. He leaves the boy for a moment to wet a clean cloth under some warm water, and when he returns, he does his best to take most of the mud and blood off without having to remove any clothing. He bandages any apparent wounds, and leaves the warm cloth over the boy's forehead because he assumes it'll help.
The boy's wings are a different story. It's difficult to clean them without a bath or a shower, but it looks like they've received some nasty injuries. Possibly a broken bone. Garroth knows they're sensitive, so he doesn't really want to go near them for now. He unfolds the blanket resting on top of the couch and gently lays it over him. After that, he leaves the boy to rest and hope he'll find him when he wakes up.
When the boy finally comes to, Garroth is brewing tea on the stove, his radio playing some sweet classical music. He doesn't really care much for tea, but he figures it has some sort of healing properties that the boy might benefit from. Garroth doesn't notice that the boy has awoken until he turns around to see him looking straight at him, eyes half-lidded and riddled with confusion. He wishes he hadn't just hummed along to the music. How embarrassing.
"Hey," Garroth says casually, as if they were already acquainted, "look who's finally up."
"This- this is the afterlife," the boy mumbles, sitting up and glaring at the cloth that has fallen from his forehead into his lap.
"No, no," Garroth corrects, pouring the tea into a mug and taking it to the boy, "you're alive. I found you passed out in the fields. Here, drink this."
The boy gives him an unconvinced look.
"It's just tea!" Garroth promises. "Look," he sips at it and grimaces slightly at the taste, "okay, bad example, I don't like tea. But it's fine. Drink it."
Taking the mug tentatively, the boy sips it carefully.
"See!" Garroth says.
"Who are you?" The boy mutters.
Garroth sighs, squatting down in front of him. "I'm Garroth. I work out here on the farm. It's not mine. Can I ask you the same question? What were you doing in my fields?"
"I thought you said it wasn't your farm," the boy remarks.
"Shut up, smart ass," Garroth replies, "what were you doing half-dead in the sheep pen?"
"I don't... I don't remember," the boy concludes.
Garroth rolls his eyes. "Oh, how convenient. Could you tell me your name? Where you live, maybe?"
"Laurance," Laurance answers, "I live in the village, down south. I thought all angels were nice."
"I am nice." Garroth scoffs.
"Okay,"
"What are you doing here, again?"
"I don't remember." He sips the tea.
"Could you tell me why you're hurt?"
Laurance shakes his head. "I don't know. I don't remember any of this morning."
"You must have hit your head," Garroth assumes, "well, that's helpful. Are you in a lot of pain?"
Laurance takes a while to answer that. He shuffles uncomfortably. "Yeah, I guess."
"You guess?" Garroth frowns. "Let me run you a bath. It might help you get to grips with things, okay?"
When Laurance agrees, Garroth does as requested. He makes sure the water is soapy and warm before he helps Laurance towards the stairs.
Laurance takes his arm as support to pull himself up. "Ow," he grimaces, steadying his weight.
"Are you okay? Where does it hurt?" Garroth asks, genuinely concerned. He's not an awful person. He cares. Too much, probably.
"My wings," he replies, panicked.
"Yeah, I think you may have broken a bone or two in there. They may be out of commission for a little while."
Laurance frowns. "I can't fly?"
Oh, how painfully ironic.
"I guess not. Sorry," Garroth says, taking the steps one at a time, trying not to say anything more.
"I need to go home," Laurance says.
"I don't drive. Otherwise I would have driven you to the hospital," Garroth admits.
"How am I supposed to get home?" He asks, voice strained.
"My manager comes to visit every two weeks. He came about three days ago, so you're stuck here for a week-or-so."
"You don't have a phone?" Laurance asks.
"Sorry," Garroth shrugs. He doesn't want his family getting in contact with him anymore. He'll go to visit them every couple of months, but otherwise his mom would call everyday asking how he is. He couldn't stand the pity.
"What if there's an emergency?" He asks, squeezing his fingers into Garroth's arms.
"Then I'll just have to die," Garroth tells him, and that's the end of that. He stops outside the door, embarrassed at how bleak that sounds, "this is the bathroom. There's towels in there and a change of clothes. You're smaller than me so they might be a little big; I can't really do anything about that. I'll be making breakfast while you're in there, so just call me if you need help. Take as long as you need."
Laurance thanks Garroth, eyes blank, as if he's trying to make sense of the situation. It must feel like some sort of dream - waking up in a remote farm miles away from civilisation, run by someone with an obvious death wish. It's not difficult for Garroth to wonder how on Earth Laurance managed to get himself here.
When Laurance returns bundled in clothes that are far too big for him, breakfast is already steaming on the table. Garroth was never one to wax much up to cooking, but since he plans on living alone indefinitely he thought he might as well try to teach himself.
They sit to eat across from each other at the old, rickety wooden dining table, and when Laurance mutters a 'thank you', Garroth gets curious.
"Are you sure you don't remember how you got here?" He asks.
Laurance sighs, rubbing his eyes with his palms. "I was drinking last night with my friends. That was it, I think. I was probably drunk."
"And that ended you up miles away from the village?"
Laurance sighs again. "My head hurts."
Garroth doesn't pry anymore. "What do you do for a living?"
"I sing at bars and junk," he replies.
"Oh, that's cool," Garroth says, even though he literally cannot think of anything worse to do, "you like it?"
"Yeah," he nods, "just wish my audience wasn't confined to a bar."
Garroth smiles half-heartedly. They eat in silence.
"Do you really live out here alone?" Laurance asks, not looking up from his plate.
"Yep."
"You don't get lonely?"
"Nope."
"What about your parents?"
"We're not on good terms," Garroth says. It's entirely true. They want to reach out to him but he just doesn't have the energy to reach back. It's better to pretend that he has no one to embarrass but himself.
"Oh," Laurance says, contemplating, "friends?"
"Not really," Garroth answers. He stopped trying years ago.
"That's sad."
Garroth doesn't really know how to reply, so he doesn't.
"Do you just work on the farm, then?" Laurance asks.
"Yep. I take care of the cattle and the crops and send stuff to the farmer's market when it's ready," he replies.
"Why do you do it?"
Garroth has trouble answering that. He has to spend a few moments thinking of a genuine answer. "Because it's quiet and peaceful."
"Is it fun?"
Garroth takes a bite of his food. "It's work."
"Work should be fun. I like my job."
"It's work. No one wants to work."
Laurance doesn't say anything else after that. Garroth takes his plate one he's finished and puts it in the sink to wash up at the end of the day.
"I'm going back out to the farm. You can look around if you want. Your room is upstairs to the left of the bathroom. Try to get some rest; see if you can remember anything." Garroth says curtly, and does not wait for a reply. He slips on his body warmer and his welly boots and trudges back out to the farm to finish what he started. He doesn't return until lunch, and even then he only makes he and Laurance some sandwiches before he takes his own outside and leaves Laurance's on a plate on the table.
In the evening, Garroth finishes his duties and drags himself back inside, limbs heavy. He's so tired; he just wants to go to bed and forget about dinner, but he can't leave Laurance without any sort of meal, so he gets to work and - when he's about halfway done - Laurance wanders down the stairs, fingers fiddling with a specific part of his slightly untucked wings.
"You okay?" Garroth asks, more out of obligation than empathy.
"It really hurts but I can't see it," Laurance explains, brow knitted into a frown.
Garroth sighs and rests his spatula on the counter, moving the pan off of the stove. "Come here."
Laurance obliges, standing with his back to him.
"Can I touch them?" Garroth asks gently. He knows they're sensitive. Laurance nods.
His fingers dance over the part Laurance was holding. He's never really touched anyone else's wings before (apart from maybe his parents), so this is way too intimate for him. Laurance exhales slowly as he moves the feathers out of the way to get a look, and flinches when Garroth touches over sore skin.
"Sorry," he says, hand retracting, "I think it's bruised. Let me get you some ice."
Garroth hands him what he needs and continues to cook. Laurance watches, eyes not leaving the back of his head.
"You should sit down," Garroth suggests, not even turning to face him, "get some rest."
Laurance thinks for a moment. "There's only one bedroom. Where will you sleep?"
"On the couch."
"That's not fair. I should be sleeping there."
"You're injured and you're a guest. You get the bed. Don't argue with that."
So he doesn't. He sits on the couch and when Garroth serves food, they eat side by side in silence, the radio playing smooth music in the background.
The night is rough for Garroth. The couch is old and lumpy and he can't stop thinking about Laurance. It feels like a fever dream. Like he's so lonely that he's hallucinating this poor boy. Garroth yearns for his manager to arrive early so Laurance can return to his family as soon as possible. He knows the longer he's here the less he's going to want him to leave. And the longer he's here, the greater chance he has of realising that Garroth is not like him.
The next few days are solemn and harmonious. Laurance offers to cook a few times and he's excellent at it. He even helps Garroth with a few easy duties and they manage to find his phone buried in the grass far out in the fields. It's dead beyond repair and he wouldn't get any service anyway, but Laurance keeps it to remind himself that he's still living.
Watching Garroth from afar, Laurance fiddles with a few of his feathers as he sits on a milking stool. He's definitely healing. He can spread his wings slightly more each day and his wounds have healed over enough to not have to be careful with them. He'll be flying in no time, and he'll be able to help Garroth a little more around the barn. He’s infinitely happy for that.
"Why don't you fly very often?" Laurance thinks aloud with an absent mind.
Garroth freezes. It's not his fault. It's an innocent, genuine question.
"I like the exercise," he lies.
"I've never seen you fly before," Laurance adds.
"Oh," Garroth says. And he gets back to what he was doing.
Laurance frowns. Surely he's making his life so much more difficult. He could have his jobs done in half the time if he flew.
Then it clicks. The boy up north that everyone spoke about. Who couldn’t fly because his wings were too big, so he got a job and disappeared. Although he’s never seen Garroth’s full wingspan, Laurance knows for a fact that this is him.
He can't believe it. Everything makes sense now.
There's so much silence in between what Laurance says, but Garroth wishes it had never ended.
"You can't fly, can you?" He mutters, just loud enough to hear. "You're that guy with the big wings. Who can't fly. That's you, isn't it?"
Garroth sighs, pressing his forehead into the rung of the ladder. "...Yes," he finally admits, swallowing the lump in his throat, "that's- that's me."
"I- oh," is all that he can spit out, as if he can't even imagine a life so miserable, "that's- that's okay. I'm sorry."
Garroth pushes himself off the ladder with a huff. "Don't give me pity."
"Is that's why you live out here, all on your own?" He asks. "Because you can't fly?"
"I don't want to talk about it," he answers, throwing himself down on a stool to sort through his tools without purpose.
"You know that I don't think any less of you. It's not your fault that you-"
"I said I don't want to talk about it." Garroth erupts, dropping his tools in frustration and storming into the kitchen, door slamming behind him, sleeve catching tears before they fall.
They don't speak again, avoiding each other like the plague. Garroth wants to feel sorry, but he knows Laurance feels worse. He's not ready to cry in front of him. He doesn't ever what anyone to know that his disability makes his head numb. Perhaps if he makes out that he likes living like this, he might start believing it, too. So he doesn't say anything. He pretends his outburst never happened, as if no one ever saw him weak.
The next morning, Laurance is nowhere to be found. Garroth searches the entire barn, but it's to no avail. He's gone. He probably gave up and started walking home. It's for the best. Garroth doesn't blame him at all.
Brewing his morning coffee, Garroth rubs his cheek a little. That's the end of that, he supposes. He assumes Laurance will get home and tell everyone about the pathetic flightless angel that spends all his time around smelly barnyard animals. He pours his coffee into his mug thoughtlessly, picking it up and holding it between both of his hands. It's getting colder now. He remembers seeing his breath in the air on yesterday morning's check up on the cows.
As much as he wants to resent Laurance for leaving without even a goodbye, Garroth can't help but hope he gets back unscathed. It's the angel blood in him. He's still injured, so he won't have his flight to get back quicker. It's going to take a long time to get home.
Placing his mug down, Garroth shrugs on his coat, trying too hard not to think about it. He walks slowly through the barn, sipping at his drink before he reaches the door. The animals are waiting for him to open it. The pigs won't stop squealing in their pen. He has to set his mug down to open the big wooden doors, and once he pushes them open, he unlatches the sheep pen so they can run loose.
This is why Garroth wishes he had some sort of sheep dog. It's almost impossible to get them all in their pen on the first try. Picking up his mug, he makes a slow walk over to the fences, and opens it so at least some of them can diffuse in. He leans against it afterwards, sipping his coffee and staring back at the barn.
Today's big job is the harvest. He'll have to collect everything he's grown for the last year ready for the basket prep tomorrow. It's a tough job, but it's satisfactory, and it means he can have fresh produce for dinner. He stares out onto the carrot field next to the barn, and has to do a double take when he sees a figure crouched down, pulling carrots out of the mud by their shoots.
Laurance.
"You should be wearing a coat, you know," Garroth shouts, as if he's not entirely relieved to know that he didn't leave him without a word, "it's too cold to go out without one."
Laurance looks up, breath heavy. "Morning."
"Did you hear me? Go and put a coat on," Garroth repeats.
"You're not going to help?" Laurance asks, wiping his muddy hands off on his jeans.
"You chose to do that," Garroth replies, "I was going to do that this afternoon. I have other stuff to do first. Come inside."
He ignores him and goes back to pulling up carrots.
"Please?" Garroth asks. He's vulnerable now, so he might as well embrace it.
Laurance eventually agrees to follow him inside.
"Have you eaten?" Garroth asks, opening his cupboard to search for something he might be able to serve.
Laurance shakes his head. Garroth makes him some porridge. He's not really up for eating, so he doesn’t make anything for himself.
"I'm sorry about last night," Laurance says after a mouthful of oats, "I shouldn't have pried."
"You didn't know," Garroth replies, picking at his nails, "I didn't mean to get angry. I shouldn't be getting emotional anymore."
"What do you mean?" Laurance asks, but he doesn't look up.
"I live on my own now. There's no reason for me to feel embarrassed anymore."
Laurance takes another mouthful. "You don't need a reason to feel anything."
Garroth doesn't really know how to reply. The breath he inhales is worth a thousand words. "Put... put your bowl in the sink once you're done. And put on a coat before you leave or I'll send you back inside," is all he can manage, and he returns back to the fields to finish his duties.
That night, Garroth lays awake to the sound of Laurance crying. He can't tell whether he's crying because he wants to go home or because he feels guilty. It doesn't matter. Even hours after he's done Garroth still can't seem to bring himself to close his eyes, the raw sound ringing in his ears mercilessly.
When Laurance bounds down the stairs in the early hours of the morning, it’s because he has something significant to announce.
“I remembered how I managed to get hurt,” he announces, eyes bright with realisation.
"Really?" Garroth asks curiously, rubbing his eyes and sitting up from the couch. "How?"
"I was camping for my friend's birthday. You know that campsite outside the village?"
Garroth nods. He knows the one. It's the hotspot for people go to get blackout drunk and lose their virginities, but Garroth tries not to think about that too much.
"Yeah, I was there. I must have drunk way too much, and I know flying is dangerous when drunk but I think my friends and I did it anyway. I probably flew too far and got lost and passed out or something."
Garroth contemplates that for a moment. He almost forgets that Laurance is a normal person and that he must have had a life before arriving here. "Oh," is all he manages to say, "I hope your friends aren't worried."
Laurance agrees. "I don't think I actually broke a bone in my wings, anyway, so it shouldn’t be that big of a deal when I arrive home,” Laurance admits.
"No?" Garroth asks, standing up go get himself a glass of water.
"I think I may have just fractured it or sprained a muscle or something," he elaborates, "I tried spreading them last night and it didn't hurt."
"Oh, that's good, then," Garroth says, sipping his drink, "I'm glad it isn't anything serious."
Laurance hums in response. He opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, but nothing ever comes out.
"What is it?" Garroth asks.
"I was..." Laurance frowns, shuffling uncomfortably. "I was going to start practicing flying again, if it's okay with you. Only if you're comfortable. I don't have to. I don't mind."
Garroth sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. "Laurance, I don't care. You can do what you want. Please don't walk on eggshells around me. It's not like I don't want you to fly, I just want to be able to do it with you."
"That's why I don't want to. Because you can't do it with me."
"Please don't make your life worse because of me."
"Flying isn't what makes my life good." Laurance furrows his brows. "People's lives don't revolve around flying."
"That's what everyone else seems to think," Garroth says, taking a huge gulp of his drink even though he’s not really that thirsty anymore, "please practice flying. I would really like to watch you."
Laurance doesn't reply, but Garroth knows he's accepting the request.
When Laurance tries to fly again that afternoon, Garroth leans against the doorframe of the barn and watches carefully from afar.
The spreading of his wings, holding them up with such confidence, the inhale of his breath as he prepares himself for pain. Garroth thinks he has pretty wings. They're quite traditional, arched a little like the stereotype, unlike Garroth's straight span. He recognises the peach tint between the white feathers (and the contrast of the colour to his deeply tanned skin), and how soft they look when they begin to flap.
As Laurance's feet leave the ground, Garroth has to close his eyes for a second. It's so surreal. He can’t imagine a life like that.
Laurance turns around to smile - beam even - at him, the rhythmic beating of his wings sends gusts of wind though his hair. "I've still got it!"
Laurance lied. Flying is what makes people happy. There's no other reason for this big of a smile to be on his face.
Garroth feels suddenly queasy. He has to feign a genuine smile so Laurance won't ask. "You made that look easy."
Laurance lands quickly at that. "Because it is. I'm sure you could do it."
"I can't. You know that, Laurance," Garroth reminds him.
The frown that falls upon Laurance's face makes Garroth's stomach churn with regret. His wings tuck up just a little. "When was the last time you tried?"
Garroth's eyes widen. "No, Laurance. No. I'm not going to try. I won't."
"You won't even contemplate it?"
"The answer is no, Laurance. I do not want to send myself back into despair when I can't fly," he justifies.
"But what if you can?"
"Then I've wasted my life for nothing. Ignorance is bliss. I won't try. That's final."
"Can you at least spread them for me? I haven't been able to see how big they really are. I don't even know what shape they are. Doesn't it hurt to keep them so tucked up against your back?"
Garroth sighs, defeat falling over his shoulders. He supposed he owes this to him. "Okay. I'll show you, but you're not going to get me to try. You can't even try to get me to. Do you understand?"
Laurance nods, honestly and solemnly. "I understand."
When Garroth steps past him and tries to untuck his wings for the first time in years, he groans at the ache. His green-tinted wings spread fully to their full span, spread out at almost double his height. Garroth can already feel his back aching. He fees ridiculous. Embarrassed. Swamped.
He hears Laurance gasp from behind him. "Oh my God. They're huge."
Garroth stares plainly at the ground. "I know, Laurance."
"No, they’re beautiful," he admits. Garroth frowns. He's never heard that one before. He's just a malformation, overgrown. There’s no beauty in that, "they're so pretty. I can't describe it. Can I touch them?"
Garroth closes his eyes. "I guess."
The fingers that dance over his feathers are so delicate that he almost can't feel them. They tickle over them carefully, but not enough to make him squirm. "Wow," Laurance breathes, in awe. Garroth truly has never heard someone so impressed by his handicap.
He wants to thank Laurance. Tell him he's never spread his wings since he first tried to fly. Cry to him about how much he wishes this wasn't his life. And he's going to, but the rumble of a car engine from across the field makes his heart drop to his feet.
His manager.
At the sound of the car, Laurance turns around quickly. Garroth tucks his wings up at an instant and flashes Laurance a look of surprise.
"Is that your boss?" Laurance asks.
Garroth nods, "I have to go," and then he jogs all the way to the driveway to greet the man as he arrives.
"Afternoon," the man says, clambering out of his truck. He's a stodgy guy, with thick fingers and thinning hair with small, thick white wings, "you finally had a friend visit?"
Garroth hadn't even noticed that Laurance had run up behind him earlier. "I guess so, yeah," he plays loosely with his coat, "do you think you can give him a ride up to the village? He needs to go home."
"As long as you've got all the harvest for me I don't see a problem," he says, bearing a pleasant smile.
Laurance beams back, and they introduce themselves to each other.
Garroth leads his manager inside the barn to his crates of produce and gives Laurance a look that tells him to wait.
"Didn't know you had friends coming," his boss notes.
"It was a surprise visit," Garroth says. Not a lie, "he got dropped off here a little over a week ago."
"Must be nice to have some company," he says, and Garroth doesn't do anything but help carry the crates to the truck.
Laurance watches the loading with his arms crossed behind his back, shooting Garroth kind smiles when they make eye contact.
He dreads the moment that they finish, and when they do, his boss offers Laurance a seat in the front with him.
Laurance stares at Garroth expectantly.
"Oh, uh," Garroth smiles awkwardly, "I'll see you, I guess."
Laurance's smile is genuine and fond. He embraces Garroth in a tight hug, and he has no clue what to do but loosely hug back.
"Thanks for taking care of me," Laurance whispers lightly in his ear, "you taught me a lot. Like how to milk a cow."
Garroth chuckles at that. "Anytime."
He doesn't know if it's an invitation to return, but he lets Laurance take that whichever way he wants. If he wants to come back, he will, and if he doesn't, Garroth doesn't think he'll ever blame him for it. He has a life, after all. Garroth doesn’t. They don’t match.
Laurance clambers into his managers car, and as they share final goodbyes and his manager finishes final checkups and gives Garroth his groceries, Garroth waves them off from the driveway. And that's that. Back to normal. He gets his bed back, his routine, his solitude. It's quiet again. That’s good.
When it sinks it that Laurance is truly gone later that evening, Garroth can't hold back his tears this time. He doesn't know why he's crying. He's not even that attached to Laurance. He was just fucking lonely. It was so, so nice to have company for once. Someone that wouldn't judge him. Someone cheerful and the complete opposite to him.
It's not Laurance, it's the fact that he had company.
Garroth repeats that phrase like a mantra in his head while he goes about his day, and skips dinner because he has no one to be responsible for anymore. Instead, he spends a good forty minutes trekking slowly across the outskirts of the farm, stopping only right at the far corners of the land where his manager's allotment meets another's. His mind is full and he hopes the fresh air can carry all of his thoughts away in the wind.
He tries flying again for the first time in five years that night. He doesn't really try hard, but he spreads them again and he revels in the feeling of the breeze ruffling his feathers.
He spends the next twenty minutes trying to figure out how people flap their wings in the first place. He doesn't have that innate knowledge. He doesn't know what muscles to move, which part of the wings actually make the motion to fly. Trying every section that may have some mobility, he bears no luck. They're just too heavy.
But then they're not. He tries the outward muscles of his wingspan and practically cries out when they don't feel frozen solid, and he moves them enough to have them spread like real wings, not just flaccidly against the ground like they usually are. Dropping them immediately from the strain, he gasps for air.
They were supposed to be immobile. They're too heavy. No one can lift something like that. No one can lift something like that.
He doesn't know what to think, how to feel. This means that - if he had the right muscle strength - he could possibly be able to fly. That all he needed to do to be able to fly was grow stronger. He wants to cry. He wants to reverse time and show his younger self this moment.
But then he realises he doesn't care. He's spent all his life flightless. If he tried to fly he would have wasted his life working on this damned farm for nothing. He pretends it never happened out of spite and he heads straight to bed, unable to do anything but stare at the ceiling for one last night.
A week passes and he never thinks about it again. He pushes it to the depths of his mind; drowns out his thoughts by carrying his radio around with him everywhere he goes.
It's only when he fails at positioning the latch on the sheep pen for the tenth time in a row that he snaps. He groans in frustration, storms into the empty patch of wings and spreads his wings with so much force that he almost falls over. Using the same motion as last time, he tries to flap with more fervour than before, but his feet never get the opportunity to leave the ground before he hears the familiarity of a car engine roaring down the country lanes. But his manager isn't due for another week.
And it's not his managers car.
Garroth can't do anything but watch, stunned into fixation. It's not his parents. God, he hopes not. If they've seen him flap his wings he'll never hear the end of it. He'll be told that he has to practice every day, and they'll never stop until he can fly. They'll forget about how he might feel about it and just try to make him normal. And maybe Garroth doesn't really want that.
He realises immediately that he's never seen this car before. It pulls up in his driveway and Garroth is too curious to even fold his wings back up. He watches the driver climb out of the driver's seat, and Garroth doesn't think it's possible to hallucinate as vividly as this.
"So look who can fly after all, huh?" The voice asks, and Garroth realises then that it's so, so, so fucking real. "Didn't think you were going to try."
Laurance.
Even if Garroth knows there's no reason for him to feel so connected, he still runs into his embrace as if they were old friends.
"Why did you come back?" He pants, too shocked to even process how stupid and goofy he must be acting.
"Because I missed you," Laurance admits with a beaming smile as he pulls away, "and I missed living here. I actually liked it, even if you try to convince me it's a dump."
"Because it is," Garroth breathes, and Laurance giggles, "I still don't understand why you came back. Please don't say it's because you feel bad."
"It's not," Laurance promises, "it's because I've been thinking about you while I've been at home. And I've been thinking that - while I did miss my family - pissing about on a farm all day with you is way better than anything the village has to offer."
"I still don't understand," Garroth admits. How could anyone want to give up everything they could possibly want for a life of shovelling manure and dealing with his moping? How is that better?
"You're an idiot," Laurance admits, and there's no remorse. Garroth even knows it's true, "it's because I want to do this."
When Laurance kisses Garroth, he spends the first few seconds far too shocked to return it. His soft lips, his hand on his arm, his emotion that seeps through every movement. It’s far too much.
But he understands. He missed Laurance so much because he likes him. Not because he loves him (although it has the perfect opportunity to blossom into that) but because he wants to try. He really, really does.
And - for the first time in his life - he knows he won't give up if it doesn’t work the first time.