Work Text:
Hunter looks at the pictures everyone else has pinned to the notice board in the outhouse and smoothes a finger along Flapjack’s wing absentmindedly. Amity’s father standing behind her two siblings. Willow’s dads, side by side. Gus’ father. All of them smiling. The pictures are surrounded by other various plots and papers and plans, with almost no extra space.
The conversation that had sparked the little art session had started and ended when Hunter had been in a corner of the room that had felt a million miles away from the others. The distance wasn’t their fault - they might’ve sent surreptitious glances his way in between discussing their people back home, alert for signs of engagement, but he wouldn’t have known as he kept his eyes cast on the floor. He’s pretty sure they had each guessed what he might answer if they asked him if he wanted to draw something to put up on the board too. They are considerate like that. They care for his feelings. They know him. Care about him. It’s a warm feeling.
Hunter steps closer to the board. Admires the photos Willow has taken of them all over summer. Side by side. Smiling. Warmth. His heart aches with it. There’s a piece of paper that sits, folded in his pocket. He put it in there after they had drawn that day and forgot to take it out. Carefully, he smoothes it out and sits down with a pen. Circles appear, side by side, with dots and curves, as the pen glides across the paper. A smaller shape forms in the space above them. He smiles down at them and reaches for the coloured markers that had been left on the side. He adds all the important shades: Red, purple, pink, green, blue, brown. Seven figures smile up at him, and he smiles back down at them. He holds his family out in front of the board, and tries to imagine it fitting between the others - in the small gaps between plans, plots, projects and each other. But he already knows - no matter how he visualises it, that’s not where they belong. None of them are in the Isles.
He exhales sharply, turning away from the board, ignoring his sudden to crumple the paper, to hide it his pocket like it never existed. Instead he folds it gently, ready for the day he’ll have to pin it on his board, missing his little family just like they already miss their own.
Hunter’s arms come to hang by his sides. Flapjack hops onto his shoulder and nuzzles up against his ear. He chuckles wetly and lifts his hand up so that he can smile directly at the palisman he loves.
“At least I’ll always have you, Flap.”