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Elliott does not want to go to the doctor. Unfortunately, his best friend is at least as stubborn as he is, bless her, and he's run out of excuses. Leah talked Harvey into giving him a free checkup, not that healthcare was expensive to begin with in this town. The fall weather is middling; not too nice to complain about staying indoors, but not so cold that the walk to town would be unpleasant. Leah is taking Abigail to explore the forest, so she's unavailable; he finished writing his book a couple weeks ago; there are no festivals in town today—he cannot say no anymore. Damn his friends for being concerned about him.
He takes his time on the walk, hands in his pockets, meandering and wasting time. Maybe if he's late to the appointment, Harvey will make him leave sooner so as not to be late for the next appointment. Unfortunately, the walk is still all too short, and he must brave his fears, steeling himself for what's behind the door.
"Hi, Elliott. Right this way; I'm glad you could finally make it. I know the doctor's office can be scary, but it's better to come now than have to be carted in one day if you haven't been taking care of yourself." Agh, this man. This... this soft, simple, bossy little man. Doctor Harvey stands nearly a head shorter than Elliott, and it is, by god, the cutest thing. Elliott curses to himself, trying to determine the regular amount of attention to give another person without being weird. See, he used to be good about going to the clinic; doctors didn't scare him—but then, his crush used to be a trivial little thing. But that was two years ago. Damn this town.
"Leah tells me you've been living with mold in your house," Harvey mentions, gesturing for Elliott to take a seat as he grabs a stethoscope. "This might be a little cold."
And it is! Dear God, Elliott thinks, as the doctor reaches under his shirt to place the metal to his chest, why am I being tested this way?
"Breathe in deep, good... and out." Harvey's voice is soft and quiet, and Elliott's breath stutters a few times.
"Are you having problems breathing?"
"No! Not usually, no, merely..." Elliott clears his throat, steadying his nerves. "Try again?"
"Yes sir," answers the doctor, moving to the other side, "breathe in, good, and out," and again on the back, both sides, and Elliott manages to do so.
"Hm, a bit of wheezing... Have you been feeling congested lately, especially at home?"
"...Ah, perhaps a bit, but during the warm seasons, allergens and the spray of the sea tend to have their way with me."
"The warmer seasons are also mold seasons," the doctor warns. "And too much of the ocean air can be a little detrimental, too. Have you been getting too much sun? Your skin looks a little red; I know it's difficult to avoid the sunlight when you live on the beach, but make sure you're taking precautions. I can recommend high strength sunscreen for you, if you need."
Elliott shakes his head, brushing his hair back over his shoulder. "Thank you, doctor, but I assure you I take excellent care of my skin. My parents may have cursed me with an Irish complexion, but I am nothing if not diligent about skincare." If there's one thing he can be proud of, it's his vanity.
Still, Harvey stares at him, his brows pinched in concern, and it takes great effort not to shrink back. Surely the doctor will notice the blood flowing to his face, the racing of his heart, the sweat beading on his forehead - these are all things doctors are trained to notice, right? Dear God, this is why he didn't want to come! But Harvey just turns away, content, apparently, with his examination, jotting down notes in his notebook.
"Alright," the doctor begins, "I'd like to make a home visit to confirm the presence of mold, so I can be sure I'm not overlooking something serious. You can wait in the lobby while I grab some cleaning supplies."
"W-what, now??" But the doctor is already through the back door, up the stairs and out of sight, leaving Elliott alone to watch his life flash between his eyes.
Some might say their messy house looks lived in. Elliott's looks abandoned. The only signs of habitation is the fresh ink and the plants threatening to overthrow him if they don't die first. And this, this wonderfully clean man, is going to see his home? Without even giving him a chance to clean first?! Elliott's absolutely certain he's about to pass out in the lobby, clutching onto the front desk for dear life when a familiar book cover catches his eye.
Grounded by the familiar feel of paper, Elliott's still surprised when the doctor's voice rings out from the hallway.
"I recommend that one!" Harvey calls cheerfully, toting what must be an entire operating room in his duffel bag. It's the same size as he is. "I have a subscription for new authors and new books, and that came in just this month. It's so captivating! I think it might be a ghost writer under a new pseudonym; it feels too well written to be someone's first book."
The author stands there in shocked silence, blinking dumbly before he can word a simple response. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"I wrote this." He lifts the book, unable to restrain a broad smile, and points at the author's name, and it's Harvey's turn to stand dumbstruck. This silence must last eight years, at least, as they just stare at each other, until Harvey pipes up:
"W-will you sign it for me?"
This has come to be some sort of verbal boxing match, each sentence a finishing blow, but Elliott can't help but laugh. "Really? Of course!" Harvey fumbles for a pen, rocking on his heels like he's meeting a celebrity as the author signs a looping signature addressed to his dear doctor. "I'm very flattered."
"Th-this is a first edition," Harvey mumbles, perhaps a tad overwhelmed, "signed by the author... Christ, I knew you were a writer, but I had no idea you were so good! I-I haven't finished it yet, but I've already recommended it to Maru. It's wonderful; the-the prose is so..." Here he makes some sort of gesture with his hands, clearly meant to be a compliment. It's like a bullet through poor Elliott's heart.
"My goodness, doctor, such flattery, and I'm bound to leave this appointment with a swollen ego."
The good doctor chuckles, and the sound releases an entire ecosystem of invasive butterflies in Elliott's gut. "I'll try to finish it soon, so we can talk about it more, but right now, there's work to be done, yes?" And without further ado, Harvey leads the way, stopping only to hold the door for his patient. "I haven't been to the beach in a while," he muses. "I hope there aren't any bugs. There shouldn't be, this time of year. Thank goodness!"
Elliott presses his lips into a thin line, keeping a safe distance behind the doctor. How can he say these things with a straight face? Does he not know he's adorable? His fingers itch for his pen, but he left his notebook in the house, because it seemed a little foolish to bring his anthology of love poems to an appointment with the oblivious subject. Definitely foolish to write more in front of him.
As they step foot onto the beach, Harvey breathes in the ocean air with a pleasant sigh. "It must be wonderful to wake up to the sound of the waves outside your window."
"It is," Elliott nods, watching the shorter man carefully. "I've penned many a verse on the ocean's majesty."
"Oh!" Harvey perks up, turning to face Elliott with a delighted smile. "Can I read one?"
"Ah—of course!" He can't help but return that smile, though every ounce of his soul begs him not to let his book of poetry into the doctor's sight. "You'd have to let me find it; there's quite a bit to sift through, so... maybe once we're done, hm?" He sidles up to the house, pushing the door open behind him, trying not to let the beating of his heart drown out Harvey's steps.
"...Home sweet home," he mutters dumbly, stomach turning at the embarrassing sight of the decrepit shack he lives in. Fortunately, Harvey passes no judgement yet, simply setting his notes and duffel down on the author's desk. Before the inspection can begin, he dons a medical mask and a pair of latex gloves, which seems to be a bad sign, especially when he hands another mask to Elliott. "Just in case."
Elliott reaches for his notebook to flip to the page, any page, that holds a poem besides his bleeding heart. Unfortunately, he can only focus on the doctor, running his gloved fingers along the walls, crouching to check the floorboards, behind the desk, under the bed. It's nerve-wracking. Eventually, Harvey stands up, brushing off his hands. "I don't want to worry you," he begins, casually, "but I believe this house is technically classified as a biohazard. Fortunately, I brought my hazmat suit!"
Elliott fumbles over his own breath. He has a hazmat suit, that's so in character, and he looks thrilled to put it to use. Is this embarrassing or endearing? All Elliott knows is that he's suffering right now. He covers his mouth as he watches the smaller man slip into the comical suit, only able to offer a thumbs up as encouragement.
"So, here's the plan. We'll scrub all the loose mold off the walls and floors and... ceiling, and once that's done, sanitize and eliminate any spores in the air. We'll make this spotless."
"Should I be wearing a hazmat suit, too?" Elliott cautions, earning a bashful grin.
"Well... I've just been waiting for a chance to wear this, and this seems like a good excuse. Demetrius gave it to me. Is it a good fit?"
It's not. Elliott offers another thumbs up, utterly unable to respond further. The doctor digs through his duffel again, brandishing his tools with more enthusiasm than necessary for this sort of job. First, a vacuum cleaner, which, though small, is very comical to watch Harvey pull out of the duffel bag. The smaller man hums to himself, though the sound is drowned out by the vacuum. The floors, walls, even the ceiling, and every nook and cranny in between, are treated by this machine.
"Next is the fun part." Elliott finds this hard to believe, especially when Harvey hands him a pair of rubber gloves and a wet sponge. "Bleach should kill the mold, but we're going to have to scrub every inch of this place." He seems far too happy about this, but honestly, Elliott can't complain either. This house needs a deep clean, and he knows it, and the help is welcomed. And... He'd missed the doctor's company. There was a time when they were friends, and feelings were fleeting. Time spent together was time enjoyed. But this underlying discomfort grew, each refusing to meet the other's eye, until Elliott made the choice to grow distant—for Harvey's sake. As hard as it is on his heart, spending time with the doctor now is a breath of fresh air permeating the stifling, humid, bleach-and-mold scent.
The sun has already begun to set by the time the grueling work is done. Harvey sets out a dehumidifier to dry the wood, and steps back to admire the fruits of their efforts: a clean house.
"Thank you again, Doctor. I really appreciate your help."
"Please, just call me Harvey." The doctor sends a bright smile Elliott's way, and begins to shed his hazmat exoskeleton. "And I'm happy to help; I just want you to be healthy."
"...Harvey," Elliott amends, hurriedly turning to the beverage rack under his bed. "Can I offer you any refreshments? I have... wine." That's it, no matter how hard he looks. All of Leah's reds.
Harvey presses his fingertips together with what can only be described as a polite grimace. "...I don't mean to be rude, but I did just declare your house a biohazard."
Elliott can't help but laugh as he straightens back up. "Fair enough, I can't blame you for that. Then, may I treat you to a drink at the saloon?" You dumbass, he shouts silently, smile frozen in his face, what, are you going to ask him for his hand in marriage next??
They share an awkward silence, and with no immediate response, Elliott quickly covers up his folly. "Or, maybe next time..."
"I'll take that raincheck."
Smiles are awkward, now, as Harvey grabs his duffel and his notebook. "Keep the dehumidifier, please. This close to the sea, you'll need it." There's no more time for Elliott to thank him before the doctor hums his way out the door. Finally, Elliott is free to collapse from the stress. Not immediately, of course; first he has to pour himself a glass of the wine Harvey so wisely turned down—great, now he can't even have wine without thinking about that damn doctor. At least now he can vent in his notebook. The words are already singing in his ear as he grabs his pen, opening his notebook to put his feelings to paper.
As he's flipping through the pages, trying to find an empty space before his glass is empty, a few doodles catch his eye. In the margins, a few biplanes and jets loop-de-loop over the lines. I don't remember doing this? Elliott thinks, dumbly, thumbing through a few more pages before he registers the writing. At first glance, it looks like nonsensical jargon, but a few key words pop up at him, along with what's probably confidential information. He slams the notebook shut and slumps back in his chair, sighing. He'll have to return Harvey's notebook.
Shame, though, especially since he already took it with him.
Not even a moment passes between this thought and Elliott's chair clattering to the ground behind him as he bolts out the door, shouting Harvey's name. His heart skips at least six beats, and then seems to make up for it all at once, fueling a panic-laden sprint into town to intercept the doctor. His legs are little, he can't have gotten too far! But he's already off the beach, past the bridge, shit, past the graveyard - there!
The doctor's sitting quietly on the bench in front of the saloon. His brows are furrowed, mustache quivering adorably, but this is no time to get distracted-! Elliot practically screeches to a halt in front of him, white as the pages Harvey has open in front of him.
Shit.
They stare at each other, unblinking, like waiting for a painter to perfect the scene before either of them even dare to move.
Elliott finally blinks, breathing labored from the sprint. "...You took the wrong notebook," he says dumbly, holding out the doctor's.
Harvey doesn't take it, focusing on the notebook in his lap.
"How many of these are about me?"
Elliott shifts his weight, arm still outstretched. "...I haven't counted." Oh, really?? That's what you're going to go with? You're really just going to tell this man you've written countless love poems about him?? "...Most of them," he admits.
"I didn't mean to snoop, but I thought it was mine and I saw my name..." Harvey offers quietly, eyes reading over the words again and again.
"Do you think you could pretend you didn't see that?" Elliott's voice trembles almost as much as his hand as he reaches for his own notebook—but Harvey pulls it back, hugging it to his chest.
"It's about me, s-so I should have a right to read them."
Elliott swallows, dropping his arms to his sides. "Please, Harvey. I already feel sick to my stomach just knowing that you've seen these."
"Then... Read them to me."
Those words signal poor Elliott's heart to start its intermediate gymnastics routine, 7/10 from the judges, and his face seems to take on every hue possible in the span of three seconds. "What?"
"I want to hear your words in your voice," Harvey maintains, holding his ground.
Elliott stands there in utter silence, processing for what must be an eternity, the beating of his heart ticking- booming like a clock tower. Finally, he rolls his shoulders back, feigning some sort of confidence, and grabs the doctor's wrist. "Alright, come with me."
"What? Why? Where?" Harvey fumbles, allowing himself to be pulled along as he's led towards the forest.
"There's more to poetry than words," Elliott explains, "and if I'm to pour my heart out to you, at least allow me the dignity of more fitting scenery." And privacy.
It's an uncomfortably silent walk, the wind whistling past them, but Elliott doesn't let go until they find themselves underneath a giant, picturesque tree. He sheds his coat and lays it on the ground, gesturing for Harvey to sit, which he does without question. The doctor's notebook is set beside him, and Elliott's is handed off.
The author clears his throat, adjusting his stance. "Which would you like me to read?"
Harvey thinks, chewing on his lip. "I suppose... The first one you wrote about me?"
With a nod, Elliot flips the notebook to the third page, and takes a breath. Then another. And he begins, eyes firmly on the words he'd written.
"It's been one day. I check my clock; one day, it tells me, just one. I remember this morning, two years past, a decade, or three, at least. Two months of travel, an hour for lunch, a year, I think, to unpack. I know I devoted a week to the sea, the tides can account for that. A month, or a half, for making new friends, and here I must have lost track. I lost maybe a year when I met you, days in your laugh, a week for each smile, a month for the way that you look at me. A century I spent in your eyes, and eons just trying to breathe. I lived twelve lifetimes, growing ancient and old in your office, with you.
One day?
I threw my clock away."
This poem is read with the practice and ease of someone who's thought of it nearly every day since its creation. But the moments after are more than tense, a silent so fragile that any noise would break a heart. Either one.
"Is it true?"
Elliott fumbles with the notebook, his very soul unraveling in panic as he nearly rips a page out. Uncollected, afraid, he holds the notebook to his chest as he finally meets Harvey's eyes. Now he can't look away.
"They all are."
Poor Harvey just sits there, staring up in such earnest, wide-eyed like a little dog, so cute—and he sniffles, tears pouring all at once.
"Ah—don't cry! Please don't..." Elliott drops to his knees in front of the doctor, tentatively reaching to wipe the tears away—but Harvey lunges, throwing his arms around him, barely keeping himself from just bawling.
"N-nobody's ever... written anything like that about me," he huffs, shamefully hiding his face in Elliott's soft hair.
The author tries to compose himself, though Harvey can surely hear his heart beating out of his chest. "No?" He mutters, holding the doctor with trembling arms. "I can't imagine —you are so, truly inspiring. Please, stop crying, I don't think I can take it."
"Sorry," Harvey hics. "I... Thank you, it's... really beautiful." As if only now finding himself in Elliott's arms, he sits back, wiping his cheeks dry. "Um..." He chuckles awkwardly, resting his hands on Elliott's, "maybe... we could go on a date
sometime?"
"Yes! I-I'd like that," comes a glowing response.
It seems that both of them must have come to the decision at the same time, falling back into each other's arms, hearts thrumming under the autumn leaves.