Work Text:
A lonely cabin sat in the middle of the woods, hidden from sight, unknown to the world save for the one who lives within it. He sits indoors, his curtains drawn shut, the fire in his fireplace the only source of light, a source of light slowly getting dimmer thanks to his neglect. The man sits in one of two chairs in the room, at the large table set against one wall, focused entirely on his craft, on the carving of wood.
A dozen or so figurines about the length of his finger sit before him, each carefully carved, made in the image of the few people he'd truly known in life. Where they were now, if they're even still alive, he doesn't know, nor does he particularly care. Their likeness only finds its way into his project because he doesn't know what else to carve. To his left, close to the curtain-obscured window, is a pile of cards, meticulously handcrafted, made on cardstock delivered to him.
The refuse from his carving and drawing has been slowly accumulating on the table, burying his figurines in a sea of wood shavings and graphite dust, a mess that goes unnoticed by him. Nothing but his work matters at that moment, but progress towards the conclusion of his project. The fire can die, the sea can grow, the dust can settle, but he cannot put this down until it's done.
Carefully, the knife carves more and more, etching features, arms and legs, a recognizable face. He's briefly thought about all of this, really thought about this project he's been pouring his blood, sweat, and tears into, and how it's likely that no one but him is ever going to see his effort. The thought doesn't dissuade him or even cause him to pause. It doesn't matter how many people see this, all that matters is that it reaches perfection.
And then, suddenly, his peace is ruined. The door to the cabin is flung open. It slams against the other wall loudly, shaking the whole building, causing the figurines to fall over, causing him to jump and his hand to slip. The blade buries itself into the wooden figurine. "Helloooooooo! I'm back!" They announce as they step through the now open doorway and into his house. The atmosphere is soured, ruined by their presence.
"You could knock next time." He hisses, grimacing. Why did they have to visit today? Why now, when he was finally in a good mood?
"Oh, but that wouldn't be any fun." They say as they close the door behind them. His eyes bore into them as they take a moment to look over the cabin. They kick their feet, dragging up dust, before walking over to the other side of the table and pulling up the blinds, stirring up even more dust. "When was the last time these were even open?" They ask, even though they know the answer. Both of them know he doesn't touch the blinds. "Been feeling well?" They ask as they gaze through the window.
"I was, until you got here." He mutters as he pulls the knife out of his hard work and looks for a place to put both of them down. The boy notices and pulls each of his delicate figurines from the ocean, before brushing all of it off the desk. A waterfall of wood shavings pour over the edge, a new mess he'll have to clean up later, another reason to be in a bad mood.
He puts his knife down, and they place most of his figurines down next to it, save for one. They turn it over in their hand, examining the detail, and in the dim light it almost looks like they're impressed by what they see. "Still working on this game of yours?" They ask, looking up at him. He looks over at the shelf next to him to avoid their gaze. It's full of other figurines, of wooden boxes full of cards, of dice and a collection of coins he's had for longer than he can remember.
"What else would I be doing?" He says, taking a moment to look over all of his work. "I'm almost done with the cards, and once I'm done with these, I'll start working on the masks." He explains, motioning to the wooden people. The child looks up to him with a questioning look, and he explains before they can open their mouth to speak. "I'm horrible at doing voices. Different masks for different characters will let them know who is talking." He continues.
"I could just buy you some, you know." The child says.
"I'd rather make them myself." The man retorts. "Is there a reason you've come to bother me? Or did you only come to make my day worse?"
They finally put the figurine down, much to his relief, before walking across the room to the hearth. "Just to make your day worse." They say, and even though their back is turned to him, he can *hear* the smirk on their face. He squints at them. What makes them come here, when he has nothing to give them? Can they not bother someone else? Can he not just have a moment of peace, or must every day be made unbearable by the reminders of his failures? The nuisance in his cabin kneels next to the fire and feeds it for him, and instantly the cabin is much brighter than before.
With better lighting, he can fully see the mess the boy has made. A deep gash in the figure's neck from where his blade had embedded itself, far from the perfection he wanted. It's ruined, no better than the shavings. He places it on the table, away from the others.
Silence, save for the renewed crackle of the flame, fills the cabin. The child stands in front of the flame for a moment, watching it, and he looks elsewhere in an attempt to pretend they aren't here. He can now clearly see the mess that they made when they swept all the shavings off the table, and he can see a few feet out the opened window, the bushes and leaves shaking in the wind barely illuminated by the far reaching glow. He watches the fire, and realizes that he had been very close to letting it die, and he lets its heat provide a bit more comfort to the cabin.
It's almost nice enough that he can pretend they aren't here, nice enough for him to lose track of time while also watching the fire, nice enough to begin imagining how his day, his life, could have gone if their paths had never crossed. Alas, all of that is dashed when they turn away from the hearth and approach him, each step making the floorboards creak. They grab the extra chair out of the corner of the room and place it across from him, before taking a seat at his work table. "You haven't swept in a while." They say.
"Because I don't need to, it hardly gets dirty." He hisses as harshly as he can, which does not dissuade them from asking more questions in the slightest.
"And have you been going outside recently as well? Eating? Sleeping?" They press, leaning a bit closer in their chair. He doesn't answer, picking the knife back up and reaching for the next bit of wood he'd gathered for this project. "The bags under your eyes are much more visible now that you aren't sitting in complete darkness." They continue. Another taunt, he's sure, one which makes his hand stop in its tracks.
"Why do you care? I'm not your problem, so stop trying to be mine." He snaps. First they barge into his home and ruin his work, then they make a mess of his floor, and now they're getting on him about all of this? He doubts they've slept lately either. He doubts they've been eating, and he's sure their house is far messier than his.
They smile widely, a wicked smile that makes him tense up. "Because you wouldn't be here if it weren't for me, old man, and you deserve to be here for a few more years. I'm not going to let you starve yourself to death, or get sick from living in a pigsty." The boy explains.
He grips the handle of the blade for a moment, grimacing as those words replay in his head. He hates it, he hates the feeling of being indebted to them. He'd rather be gone completely than existing in this haze, this half-dead state, because at least then he wouldn't have to deal with them. At least then he'd be at peace. He puts the knife down, as gentle as he can because a reliable tool like it is hard to come by.
The boy lets out a sigh. Maybe one of exhaustion, maybe disappointment. Whatever it is, he doesn't care. "I actually did come here for a reason. Other than ruining your day." They say, before shoving a hand into their pocket. They rummage for a moment, before retrieving something. Whatever it is is immediately covered as they cup their hands around it. "You told me last time I was here that you were looking for tokens and little trinkets, and I managed to find something that might fit that criteria." They say, excitement in their voice as they hold out their hands. Were it anyone else, he might have felt flattered by this (were it anyone else, they wouldn't be intruding on his project). They're silent for a few moments, waiting for him to say something in return, while he stands silent knowing this. Their patience runs out, and they open their hands to reveal what they've brought.
It's a small, plastic firefly. A crude toy, made for a child. The dirt stuck in its joints indicate it was abandoned at some point and left forgotten. He can't imagine how they found this, and he doesn't particularly care to know. "Ta-da! A little guy! I'm not sure where you could use him, but I'm sure you'll think of something in your endless creativity." They say, a hint of mockery creeping into their voice near the end. They place it on the table next to his mistake. A useless pair.
The man doesn't say anything at first, even though he badly wants to point out that this is just a piece of junk, because he knows that that'll open the door to more conversation. The silence that follows, and the tapping of their foot, tell him that he isn't getting out of this without an answer.
"It doesn't have a place among everything I've worked so hard on." He says, taking it from their hand and placing it on the table, between his figurines and his mistake.
That seems to get through to them, as a look of disappointment flashes across their face. "Fine, toss it if you’d like. If you're such a party pooper that you’d throw away a gift." The child says, before getting up from their chair and tucking it in. "I'm afraid I can't stay any longer, I've got more important things to do than making you miserable." They tease as they walk toward the door. "But I'll be back in a day or two. Take a break before then, and eat something, if you can." They say. It sounds too genuine of a request for them to brush it off as another taunt.
The door opens, and they leave into the night, leaving his cabin quiet and restoring the peace. He's alone once more, just as it should be.
He turns back to his work, picking up the knife and finally grabbing the next piece of wood. The man closes his eyes, trying to imagine the mask he'd been envisioning. His memory fails to recall it, and his creativity fails to show him a new one. He'll be starting from scratch again then. Wonderful.
A small pile of wood shavings later and the vision still hasn't started coming to him. He decides he isn't going to get any more work done tonight. He puts his figurines on the shelf, sorts the cards and puts them into their boxes, and after a moment of thought, puts the failure and his child's gift next to them. That simple visit, as short as it was, drained all the energy he had. He isn't sure how they manage to still have so much energy after everything, how they can prance through the woods, collecting trinkets, taking care of themself, coming here and bothering him, and still having the energy to do more. Maybe it's the age getting to him.
The creeping exhaustion, paired with the conclusion of his work for tonight, gives him no reason to stay up any longer. He draws his curtains closed once more, turns the locks on his door, and shambles across the room to his comfortable bed, ready to face the discomfort of a night of dreams once more.