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Snowball sat on an old log, in front of what used to be a campfire. The oak trees that surrounded him and the area were a strong, inky contrast to the pale orange, cloudless sky.
He had taken shelter in a faraway shed that used to belong to the farm, but it was so far away, most of the workers and Mr. Jones himself had forgotten its existence. There were its perks to it though, such as water, the supplies, and the fact that it's deserted. Snowball may or may not have been stealing food from the farm he's been exiled from, considering the bread in his hand he was chewing on. The clothes were thankfully supplied by some of his friends from the inside, but it's been a while since any of them paid a visit. What happened to them?
Snowball was lost in thought, his elbows pressing against his knees as one hand lazily gripped the bread he was eating. His hair had gotten longer, barely reaching his shoulders. It had been growing out since the day he was chased out of the farm. By their junior comrades. By Napoleon.
God. His eye and nose twitched at that. Napoleon. He thought he could trust him despite their disputes, but he was wrong. So wrong; Almost dead wrong quite literally.
He dipped his head backwards then pulled it forward again, having it hang loosely as he let out a weighted sigh. A sigh weighted with so much pain and emotional turmoil. It's ragged, almost like he wanted to cry at the thought of his- what even is Napoleon to him now? A friend? Enemy? An idiot?
He lifted his free hand into his view, gazing upon its pallid colour as he flipped it over to view his palm. His body had always lacked the melanin to provide the colour for his skin and his hair, so he could fit in with the others. While thinking so, he blinked at a loose curl of his hair in his view. Maybe it was why his parents sold him off when he was only a child. Sold him off as a slave to Mr. Jones. Maybe it's also why he was exiled from the farm, just because of how he looked.
He groaned at the thought, eyebrows knitting together. Clover always told him he was perfect and fine the way he was, so did some others, but the idea was more apparent than Clover's reassurance.
It was why he was given the name 'Snowball', to begin with. He had a real name, it's just that he had forgotten it while they kept calling him Snowball (he didn't actually forget). Course', who would want someone like him around anyway?
His new name was given during one of Mr. Jones' drunken episodes one morning in Snowball's early years at the farm. (Jones only ever liked using the children's real names if they slipped off the tongue nicely or just because he couldn't think of what to call them.)
He shouldn't let it get to him now- Not after all this while. He rubs his face with the back of his hand, sweat slipping right off. He's got better things to worry about.
Snowball's train of thought had stopped abruptly when he sensed something move in his line of sight. His head tipped up from his palm, detecting two familiar heads appearing right above the horizon, approaching his direction.
One head appeared taller than the other; a straw hat nested atop and around their skull. Snowball could see dark hair growing outwards from the shape of their neck, according where he stood. The shorter one had hair in the colours of syrup or cinnamon, its length reaching their elbows in a wavy manner. All Snowball could observe as they walked was the style of their clothing. It rang a bell in his head; it seemed familiar. It was similar to whatever poor attire he wore usually throughout his life on the farm.
(He currently wore suspenders over a worn-out dress shirt with flat-front pants that matched the colour of his suspenders. It's not that overly poor if you ask me.)
He gradually stood up, eyes squinting at the figures, trying to make out their faces as they approached and- wait.
Benjamin? Clover?
It's been a few years now. He still recognizes them even though its been such a long time since he last saw them. 5 years too long. Though, it didn't seem like it was going to be a very pleasant visit, seeing the dry and tired look on their faces.
Their expressions immediately shifted when they spotted him, standing by the log. It wasn't a look of horror, nor disgust. It was more of surprise or shock. Snowball could see it despite the distance. Clover's eyes were wide and Benjamin, for once in his life, had his eyebrows raised.
Snowball shifted in his footing, tips of his shoes kicking around the dirt nervously, as the sky was staring at them. He wore an expression that was mixed with relief and guilt, his eyelids blinking a bit lighter than before.
"Clover?" Snowball called out first; his tone was nervous. Clover's lip trembled, before she called back. "Snowball?"
"I remember- We were told that he was a traitor," Benjamin quickly objected, getting Clover to narrow her eyes at Snowball. "Well, I do not believe it. Look at Napoleon now and tell me he hasn't lied to us? He has betrayed Major's ideals, Benjamin. Why else are we out here for?"
Snowball's call of Benjamin's name cut into their small conversation.
"-And Jones is dead. What reason does Snowball have to betray us? Control? Power? I believe it not." Clover added in, before stalking aggressively towards the younger male who was a few feet away. She may have been a woman, but she lacked the dainty frame of one to properly fit in society, if she were suddenly thrown out to live among the common folk. Due to all the hard farm work, she has gained some muscle despite having some weight, but she knows she'll never be as built as Boxer. That man was built like a bodybuilder.
"Snowball- is that you?" She stopped once they were in arms-length, voice turning soft. Benjamin proceeded to follow suit of Clover from his previous space, uncertain.
She really has aged. Her meandering hair grew out, and he notices a few changes to her features, such as her cheekbones and the shape of her face. Her attire was different as well, the last time he saw her. She endured worn-out overalls and a white linen shirt, most likely to be old man Jones's hand-me-downs.
Snowball's lips lightly quirked up in response, a force of friendly familiarity nudging at him. "Yes. It is me, comrade."
Clover broke into a smile, like she wasn't able to find a reason to smile these past few years. "Comrade Napoleon said you betrayed us. Is that true?" Her eyebrows furrowed and the ends of her lips tipped downwards immediately upon asking.
"Betray you? My comrades?" Snowball raised an eyebrow as he blinked, his smile disappearing. That's a sudden, odd accusation. "No- I would never. Why?"
Clover's expression was one of dread when Benjamin finally caught up to them, standing right by Clover's side. Snowball was puzzled until he pieced it together himself in his little mind, with the pair standing before him. If Napoleon wanted him to stay out, he would've made him look bad in front of the farm. But, why? Can't he just- I don't know, kill him instead? Or is that too hard or something?
Snowball turned grim when Clover turned her gaze back to him. Benjamin just stood there idly, already knowing what's going to happen. That's just Benjamin- He's cynical even after the years.
Clover bit her lip, her eyes turning glossy while she tugged at the remains of her outfit. "Napoleon claimed you have been working with Jones from the beginning. Even after the Battle of The Cowshed."
"I would never side with the likes of him. You both saw him shoot me, and watched me bleed." Snowball stated firmly, before asking, out of sudden wonder. "Where is Boxer?"
Boxer?
The older pair turned so sorrowful suddenly. It looked like Clover was about to shed tears and Benjamin looked taken aback for a minute, before his eyebrows furrowed even more, looking more irritable than usual. What happened? What happened to Boxer?
"Clover," Snowball watched her and Benjamin, stern but worried nonetheless. His tone was drenched in distress, his hands coming up for a calming-like gesture, preparing to probe them for information. "What has changed after I was exiled?"
. . . . . . . . . . .
Squealer was one of the few smart people in the farm, who knew how to read and write properly (compared to the other slaves who were sold there since before they knew how to talk). He was also someone who knew how to turn black into white with the right string of words put together and the right change in tone. It was a skill Napoleon had placed to good use, hence why Squealer was his spokesman. Napoleon was never good with words, compared to Squealer or even Snowball. It was something Snowball would laugh at, sometimes, with his bickering and croaky laughter.
Napoleon would miss his laugh, sometimes.
Mr. Jones called him Squealer because of how he always 'squealed'. His voice was shrill, high-pitched as some of the other female slaves there, and he had this urge to always talk. Talk, talk, talk. It resembled squealing in Jones' book. His stubby-small structure didn't help the fact whatsoever. Squealer placed good work into the farm at least, even before Jones was overthrown. So, where was Squealer?
He was knocked out near the door to Napoleon's work room, along with the other younger comrades who acted as Napoleon's 'guard dogs'.
The first thing Napoleon saw once he walked out of that room, were the bodies of his acquaintances lying around, just- not dead. He could see them breathing, but it still sent a wave of panic into his system once he fully registered the situation. The muscles in his back tensed up together as a stressed hand grabbed at his hair, eyes large with fear.
He was staring at Squealer whose nose had a trickle of blood slipping out, when he heard what sounded like a click from a... revolver. Wait- a revolver?
Napoleon ever-so slowly turned towards his left, the soles of his shoes digging into the dirt underneath. His fingers froze like hard ice once his burning, wine-filled pupils sunk onto the person before him, only a few feet away.
Snowball.
Noah?
With his tufty, cotton hair of white. His curls resembled the fur of the sheep they used to tend to together when they were younger; When they were just farm lads, dumb young boys who just looked different, nothing else. I'm pretty sure Céleste Napolean made a joke about Snowball's hair being the same as a sheep's wool at some point. What happened?
Those eyes that held oceans from within don't feel or appear as welcoming as the sea breezes anymore.
Nothing seems friendly anymore. He has a whole gun aiming right at him.
Snowball stood some distance away, the gun's nose facing directly at Napoleon. A sadistic grin gradually crept onto those peachy lips of his, teeth shining through the crack of the smile.
The scene was taking place at where the big door at the end of the barn was fully opened, letting the setting sun shine onto one side of their forms. The other side was engulfed in the dark shade; a sick contrast between the light and the shadow on the figures.
Napoleon wouldn't admit it (not now anyway), but the sunlight always made Snowball's blue eyes really pop out. They glimmered in a nice shiny way, like a pearl or a bead, polished and kept away in a glass box for display. That's the last thing that should be on Napoleon's mind, really. He's literally knocking on heaven's door- yet he still thought about it. Why though? What a weirdo.
Squealer and the others made a nice addition to the scene, adding to its disturbance and the power radiating off of Snowball. The revolver was still in his hand as it's metal glistened like it was a diamond among dull rocks. There was something in those ocean pupils too- anger or hatred? Both? Or another thing none of us would know?
Napoleon's eyes widen ever so slightly, but it isn't out of fear for his life. He blinks hard a few times, his lips twitched.
It's the fact that Snowball was standing before him, alive and- well, standing in general. Alive and breathing, eyes full of living fire, totally not scribbled in hate or anything, like really. He stares at Snowball with his mouth slightly agape, not even paying attention to the obvious snout of the gun. It's almost like he's-
"Snowball."
His own voice snapped him out of it before he lost himself. Napoleon didn't even realise he had just called out to the other man, the knitted thought abruptly left unfinished.
"Napoleon." Snowball mirrored in return, his tone so painfully drenched in venom despite his unmoving grin; venom that had been nursed and nurtured over the period of Snowball's exile. Resentment refrigerated just for Napoleon, like a well-deserved dessert after starving all the while.
Napoleon doesn't even stop himself. "What are you doing here?" He tries to mimic the same amount of hatred shown in Snowball. (In which he fails)
In all honesty, it comes off as if he's irritated more than anything.
"Why? Is it because I do not belong here?" Snowball immediately answers, his voice running to aid his defence. "Tell me. Why did you drive me out?"
Napoleon knew this was going to come. The gut-wrenching question. 'Why did you exile Noah Snowball?'
The query regarding Snowball's exile. He knew karma would find her way to lurk behind him and stab him at the fated opportunity, be against him in the situation and whatnot. He just didn't realise he was going to get gutted by fate now, out of all other times. Why couldn't they deal with this later, like next week? Or better, never?
Karma was never kind, she was always fair. Fate has never been avoidable, but she can be merciful if Céleste Napolean played his cards right. Maybe fate will be in the favour of both of these stable lads.
Snowball's voice cut through Napoleon's thoughts, like scissors roughly skimming through fabric. "Why did you get rid of me? I thought we were comrades." The scissors were rusted, ragged and scarred.
Napoleon kept his focus, his chin tilted down while his pupils stuck to Snowball. A challenge. "Where is everyone?"
He earned a scoff and an eyeroll at the question from the other, the threat in his hand joining in the gesture. "They are outside. Clover and Benjamin have a good sense of what to do, as I entertain the dictator here."
"Now," Snowball growled through clenched teeth, the gun repositioning itself. "Answer my question."
Napoleon was getting irritated by the second, huffing out of his nose as it had the close comedic effect to an agitated bull. "You were a horrible influence to the farm, to our comrades. How is that not any clear?"
Napolean bites first. "Or are you too blind to see that?"
"Or are you too blind to see how bad of a lie you have attempted?" Snowball bites back.
"Huh-?" He gets caught off guard, breath stumbling. His eyes and brows try to put up false confidence for a retort. "What do you speak of? That is the truth!"
Snowball snorts. It was funny seeing him trip on his own words, Snowball would admit. He liked to pull his leg here and there, like here, right now. "Are you lying because I am not worth the truth?"
That's quite the bold claim, if you ask me. "What-?!" Snowball isn't wrong though, Napoleon.
"You are hilarious, Napoleon." Snowball let's his head slack to the side as his voice turns airy and haughty. His eyes were still aiming at the man who hurt him.
Then, his whole character suddenly jerks. "A full bushel of apples! To anyone who captures me alive!" Snowball yells, head snapping back up, hands getting into the gestures that match his tone of voice.
"Alive, Napoleon! Why do you want me alive? Only half a bushel when I get brought to justice apparently-"
"How do you know of that?!" Napoleon cuts him off, yelling in confused and irked tones. It leans more into defensiveness, actually. Only Snowball was able to bring out these sorts of sides of Napoleon whenever they were alone, really.
Snowball smiles menacingly, only for a brief moment, before talking again. Napoleon could feel the tolerance of the man ahead of him slowly draining because of his expression and voice. "Benjamin has excellent memory, despite it being a few years now. He is older than us, after all."
Snowball's patience was getting squeezed dry and thin, and it was starting to show. "Don't chisel me!" He hissed.
The tension in Snowball's muscles suddenly joined together in anger, the adrenaline jumping into his system. He huffs, before all hell breaks loose.
He finally snaps, surprisingly more angrier than before. "Why did you cast me out?!"
Snowball was like a fragile, naive cat who got declawed by their loving owners. Someone he loved and trusted so much, just for them to hurt him in one of the worst fashions possible.
And he's angry, rightfully so. His voice becomes snappy, aggravated, as he yelled. "What? Were you not so caught up in power and corrupted by control to even have thought of me?! I am just off to the side, not in any way in an obstacle, no!?"
"You were going to lead us down the wrong path!" Napoleon tries to counter him. Or is he defending his pathetic reason to exile his friend?
"LIAR!" Snowball shouted. Under the coiling fury, fueled by burning coal was just untreated pain, and it was about to uncover itself. "Don't cheese it! There is another explanation for it!"
He begins to rant, like a school teacher scolding her students. He even starts to slowly stalk towards Napoleon, gun still staring at its target. "Why did you lie to the farm about me? You know well I would never side with old man Jones. Between anyone, you are the only one I would gladly side with..."
For a moment, Snowball looks away in remorse. His eyes avoided the sun's direction, his shoulders slumped a bit. The gun in his hand, still gleaming against the fleeting sunlight, still had its snout pointing at Napoleon, but it's position reflected his sudden, low demeanour. Only for a moment, of course.
"So why did you throw me out?!" Snowball cried, snapping his head back at the dictator. The gun also straightened itself, the surprise startling Napoleon who still stood in place. "This is between us!"
"Snowball-"
"THIS. IS. PERSONAL!" Snowball cuts him off before he even tries.
The silence etched. They could hear each other's ragged breathing, either in rage or fear. Napoleon stared into the other's eyes, as he felt that he would get shot if he shifted his view anywhere else.
You could hear their heartbeats in the moment, especially Napoleon's.
A heartbeat. Another. And another heartbeat.
It was only now that Napoleon could see the familiar texture of liquids gathering around the bottom rims of Snowball's eyelids. It gave the spheres of Snowball's eyes a glassy look.
So,
This is personal.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Where were they?
Oh, that's right.
They were in the moment Napoleon fear would happen.
They were in the moment Snowball had been looking forward to. Or did he, really?
Napoleon really needed to take a pause to fully process the situation. The muscles around his eyes scrunched as he was completely overwhelmed with the fumes of soot and musk of the barn. He could feel his skin oiling in sweat, especially on his nose. His palms were clammy and he could feel the heat of the moment dragging him down.
He remembered how Snowball didn't enjoy being stared at. Only maintaining eye contact made him comfortable, because it makes him feel more human, more respected.
Napolean on the other hand, didn't mind being stared at. He had gotten used to it with his appearance and all. Someone told him he looked like a cow.
Someone else also said he looked like a Berkshire boar, due to the way his pale patch of skin stretched from his nose, onto his inner eyelids. (Especially into the eyebags.) Some areas of his body were coated in pale surfaces, smearing his neck, shoulders and other limbs due to depigmentation. The spaces unaffected were of a beautiful umber or mocha even, and they posed wonderfully against the sunlight. These kids don't even know what mocha is.
He especially enjoyed the way his own hands looked like they were dipped in some kind of lily-white substance, the splotches stretching from his fingertips and barely onto his forearms. He thought it looked cool, as a child.
One time while they were just little boys, Snowball asked if he could hold Napoleon's hand out of pure curiosity, because of the way his hands looked. Both being naive, Napoleon obliged. 'Course, holding his hand didn't feel any different from holding other people's hands. Though, he did savour the memory, because Napoleon's hands were quite downy at the time.
Napoleon subtly shook his head at the memory. Now's not the time to remember such sweet niceties.
He blinked, and he took control of his breathing like the command was just returned to him by someone else.
Steadying his heartbeat, his eyes focused on others things, besides the current situation.
He realises how sweetly the curls of Snowball's hair frame his face, in the light of the sleepy sun and the razing shadow of the farm's structure. He notices the mold of Snowball's eyebags that curved inward his face, like a pressing reminder of how much in debt he is of sleep.
Finally, Napoleon sighed. He prepared his throat to talk, praying his voice wouldn't betray him like how he betrayed Snowball.
"You were going to drag me down with this farm. Our farm. This empire we've built." Napoleon tries, and he feels how pathetic it is for him to attempt to lie again. His voice was more firm, but he cringes so subtly. Still, he holds up a brave font, trying to demonstrate how his reasoning isn't as weak as him.
As Napoleon cringes, Snowball winces; it's like he knows. It's like he knows he's lying. Even from a few feet away, he could tell.
Snowball verbally spits at him, visibly fed up. "What's your proof? I thought you were the one responsible for the success of this farm."
Snowball repeats himself. "You are just a narcissistic, you never think of anyone else! What is your proof?!" His voice breaks near the end, but not into misery, into uncontrollable anger.
Napoleon grimaces at that, and the soles of his shoes dig into the soil even further. He halts in his speech, trying to nitpick his words carefully. He stares at Snowball in uncertainty, but it gives the pale boy an idea. An idea of the truth. An idea as to why he was truly exiled.
Napoleon pauses, and it gives the right amount of time for Snowball to finally break. Finally crack. A little edged line would stretch across his soul in such a shattering manner, like a bullet caught in glass. "Ah." Snowball goes, almost to simply so.
The sun's pulling the horizon over its head, and so is Snowball's will to pursue the truth.
"I understand now," His tone hushed for a moment, the end of his dialogue becoming shaky. The arm with the gun falls to his side, but it's still clenched onto the weapon for dear life, like it was its only set of defences left.
"I am not a bad influence," He says flatly. "You just hate me."
One heartbeat.
Napoleon's soul sank. It sank below his guts and into the pits of oblivion. His throat pulls itself down like its trying to choke him for being an idiot, like it's the punishment the universe was supposed to give him some time ago. And his stupid mouth still refuses to utter a word. It gives Snowball more time to think and to dread.
Another heartbeat.
That was literally the worst card Napoleon could've ever played.
"After all these years of pondering and wondering why I was exiled, I have finally reached a conclusion." Snowball claimed, almost so casually like it wasn't one of the most painful truths he could've came up with.
And oh boy, did that shatter on his soul leave a mark.
"YOU HATE ME!!" Snowball screamed.
"YOU DISCARDED ME BECAUSE YOU WANTED POWER, YOU EGOIST. AND I WAS IN YOUR WAY!"
He screamed in the empty space of the barn they were in. If you think about it, the others outside must've heard him. His voice was firm, and booming, and harsh. "JUST TELL ME YOU HATE ME YOU COWARD."
Snowball's stance reeled, his shoulders staggering and stressed. His face scrunched up, brows pulled so tightly together his lips trembled into the meanest frown Napoleon's ever seen. It was like Snowball's expression refused to believe it was true, because it truly wasn't.
He knew Napoleon didn't hate him. Napoleon never did. Snowball just doesn't know that.
Napoleon tried so hard. He really did, guys. He totally did.
Of course he didn't try- at all. He's pathetic for the man he'd kneel before if it weren't for the harsh world that clenched around them.
"What, you egg?!" He hears Snowball scream again.
Napoleon clutched his fists together, his entire spine tensing and head tipping downwards. The setting sun's still shining on them, as if it wants to finish watching until the end of this scenario. He's ought to give up now. His ears drown themselves in the yells and screams committed by Snowball's voice. What was once so warm and gentle was now ice-biting, cruel.
The empire around them was already collapsing anyway. He's definitely ought to give up now.
Amid Snowball's cries, he finally expressed the truth.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Snowball blinks. His voice shuts his throat.
His starry eyes are at a loss for words, looking as polished as a porcelain vase in the summer's glimmer. The same eyes Napoleon always enjoyed looking into just because of how deep they were in blue.
It echoes through his head. It reverberates through his mind like a truth navigating it's way through a mirage.
"... I was in love with you."
Napoleon admitted very slowly, like laying down a firearm, finally giving up. Surrendering. He embraces how absolutely pathetic the situation appears to be.
"I am in love with you." He corrects himself.
And Snowball freezes.
Every muscle in his body stopped abruptly to time. The tears hanging onto his bottom lashes also seem to freeze, the stillness of his pupils almost appearing as haunting. The manner of his movements seemed to match the frosty nature of Snowball's eyes; cold and unmoving.
I'm sorry- he loved him? Napoleon loved Snowball? Céleste loved Noah? It sounds improbable.
Although, not impossible.
Upon hearing Snowball's silence, he continues. "It is not a reason, honestly." Napoleon's eyes darted to the side cowardly as his shoulders slumped in defeat.
"It is taboo for men to love men the same way a man would love a woman. I have never loved a woman the same way I have loved you." He tiredly says, attempting to pull his eyes up to gaze at Snowball who still stood ahead of him. He could feel the sweat on his palms and nape as he confessed.
"I knew if you lingered around for any longer, you would disrupt the plans for this farm- disrupt me, and cause me to lead this farm astray."
Napoleon's eyes twitched downwards, very much disappointed in himself. "But it is not justified. It was cruel of me."
"I bear no excuse or alibi that vindicates me of the act of hurting you."
In the slight dark of the farm, the only response Napoleon earned in return was the quiet. The sun was just a moment away from fully closing its eyes.
However still the air was, he could see Snowball's brows furrowing deeper, his nose scrunched and lips twitched. Snowball's shoulders edged forward in an unhinged manner as he saw a vein or two pop out of his neck. Napoleon couldn't observe properly, but he could tell Snowball's eyes weren't frozen anymore as the rest of his body were.
(They were as restless and hot as a star's fury, boiling and spilling out of his icy pupils.)
Napoleon could tell Snowball's figure was tense from afar, the way his head would hang and his eyes dipped forward like a predator selecting prey. They were always like that. They used to be so close, but now so far. But, he didn't understand just now-
Napoleon didn't catch it, process it, whatever- he didn't realise-
As he heard and glimpsed the quick footsteps of the man before him, Napoleon jittered backwards. The languid language no more.
"YOU-" Hard, cold metal- "-IDIOT!" -pounced against Napoleon's left cheek, forcing his head to toss to the side in a rushed and careless manner.
Napoleon yelled at the contact. It stung, it aches, it becomes sore in the swift moment. It actually bruises. It was over in a moment, but his cheek bone was suddenly condemned to soaring pain.
Napoleon only stumbles, his footing loosened by the impact and his hand immediately reaching for the spot. Yet, he did nothing, but his eyes gaped at the pale boy in front of him, through the locks of his own dark and sweaty hair.
"YOU THREW ME OUT BECAUSE YOU LOVED ME?!" Snowball yelled in his face, forcing Napoleon to stagger backwards a bit.
(And the deep abyss of his pupils stared back.)
"THAT IS A LIE-"
"I KNOW!"
"YOU HARD-BOILED PIKER-"
"WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?!" Napolean screams back, taking a step forward into Snowball's space and baring his teeth.
Probably because the pain in his cheekbone was starting to act up real badly. Snowball reared his head away, his own composure tumbling down.
"I thought-" Snowball huffed, his frown still prominent. "This was it- for where I would be for the way I looked. The last place we would go to for what we are."
"But-" Snowball chokes. His head slants away, eyes and nose squeezed together in disgust as he glares at Napoleon. A tear finally slides down his cheek as he blinks at him. "I was wrong."
He could feel the heat edging away at his skin despite his eyes being so glacial. Despite how half of the sun had already sank below the horizon.
Snowball sniffled, before the shape of his eyes resumed to be that of an aggravated cat. His voice had turned a bit croaky, and miserable, really.
"You proved me wrong by chasing me out with those juniors. These juniors that are laying here right now!" Snowball glances at the people around them, throwing his arms up to the sides to gesture at the bodies.
Napoleon twitches at the sudden change of tone, again. He had almost forgotten they were there. I can't blame him- so did I.
"You chased me out because you were scared!" Snowball lurches towards Napoleon's face, his chin lifted and eyes digging into Napoleon's own burnt umber irises.
Napoleon only trips in his words (and footing) at the sudden closeness again, almost letting his composure slip before he caught it again. His throat prepares his lips to speak, but-
"You proved to me that even a hellish place like this did not want me! A HELLISH THING."
"BECAUSE YOU LOVED ME?!" Snowball's voice shakes. His entire upper body jitter towards Napoleon, like a puppet being shaken by its master.
His eyes are still locked onto Napoleon's, as if he's desperately searching for an answer in those pools of mahogany. His being is begging for Napolean to give up an answer. If he looked into them long enough, he thinks he could pull out an answer.
Napoleon does not answer.
Snowball's eyes only widen in anguish.
He screams, and Napoleon watches as his arm raises quickly again.
Napoleon feels the same force pounce against his face again, but it was- stronger? He yelped again as his head was flung to the side. It stung more painfully. Maybe because it was already stricken before anyway.
Napoleon tumbled backwards, his head still loosely swaying to the side when he felt a strong hand pull at his shirt. His entire upper body swerved forward, footing uncertain, as he gets yanked into another solid punch again.
Napoleon grunts, his teeth gritting. He's convinced he's about to endure an entire session of beatings to the face and body. He was prepared for it. Then, his entire demeanour freezes.
It's not even because he felt the cold surface of the gun's muzzle being pressed against his neck.
It was because of Snowball's stare.
Napoleon didn't properly look into Snowball's eyes this entire time. However, at the close proximity, he was forced to stare back and sink himself into those miserable pools of Antarctica's deepest pits.
Pure hatred shrunk the dark pupils that placed themselves onto those glacial irises. Snowball's eyelids were wide, yet narrowed with rage. He could see the slight twitch in them under the sun's burning gaze, with the fine hairs of his lashes shimmer.
Oh, he has truly hurt the boy.
Snowball dug the firearm into the pocket between Napoleon's jawline and neck. Snowball felt him shudder under his grip, as his upper body became rigid and stiff. He doesn't fight back, he just contemplates and silently relishes the sight of Snowball, horrified with his own conclusion.
He could hear Snowball's fingers sink into the being of the gun as he readied it's trigger. His index finger slunk into the curve of the trigger gaurd, almost as if it was a perfect fit.
"You just hate me but you will not admit it." He sneered through bared teeth, his grip fastening.
Napoleon groaned, his head slanting back as his senses came running back to him. The tilt of his chin didn't do much in putting space between him and Snowball's intense eyes, but it was enough to give some power back to his voice.
"Then, do it." He hoarsely beckoned.
"Shoot me."
. . . . . . . . . . .
The utter surrender was profounding. Snowball realised that a bit too late.
It wasn't just in his words either, Snowball physically felt Napoleon ease in his clutch. Snowball observed his shoulders slightly lower from their rigid position and his feet replant themselves onto the ground (despite being literally manhandled by Snowball).
It was especially clear on his face: the determination in his dark irises and the grit in his teeth said it for them both.
The smallest gasp escaped from Snowball's lips, as his gaze shifted. Now, it was Snowball's turn to waver; the tug in his lips and brow, the beads of sweat on his nose told Napoleon so. The muzzle of the revolver was certain, but the hand behind it now was not.
Napoleon focused on him. He scrutinises him balefully. He watches as the man who was earlier hellbent on tearing his skull out, immediately falter in his stance.
Yet, their eye contact remained, as if it would bring shame to look away. Snowball tried to hold himself up against those brown pearls, but it wasn't helping. The way Napoleon looked at him wasn't helping.
Quite the entertaining shift in power.
He appeared unimpressed with Snowball, as if he himself didn't just confess his love to the pale boy a moment ago. Napoleon studied his face, and it was the first time in a while Snowball had felt.... exposed. It was like he was looking for a fault in his reason for being angry, but Snowball had every right to be angry at him. It felt eerie, uncanny even, it didn't seem-
"If you wanted me dead, you would have shot me sooner." Napoleon suddenly spoke up, shaking Snowball away from his thoughts.
"What is stopping you?" Napoleon rebuked lowly. "Do it."
And Snowball quivered at that. Quivered at Napoleon's welcoming of death so easily. His head unintentionally tipped downwards, as if he was trying to evade Napoleon's pointed glare. The eye contact was still maintained, but it was weak.
Napoleon noticed the movement, and narrowed his eyelids even more.
"Are you behind the eight ball or so?" Napoleon sneered. "Why will you not do it?"
"You came here to kill me, Snowball. Did you not?"
"So why will you not?"
Snowball could feel the goosebumps raking down his spine, crossing into his ankles and grounding his soles into the dirt. His reluctance was embarrassing, so to speak. It was now he noticed how sweaty his face felt, with the beads of sweat dotting his nose and cheeks. It was when he realised how... handsome Napoleon appeared to be in the soft paint of the still ever-present sun, despite his equally glaring eyes.
Yes, this is problematic.
Snowball chided at himself for that, his fingers tightening around the fabric of Napoleon's shirt. The gun was also burrowing into the crook of Napoleon's neck, but he was done with the foul play. Snowball still gaped at the flare in his eyes and-
"Do it!" Napoleon barked.
"Nothing is stopping you!" Napoleon growled at the pale boy, his shoulders shaking in response. His hand abruptly grabbed Snowball's armed one, causing the latter to shriek.
He wasn't even given enough time to think- the next thing Snowball knew, his hand was being painfully seized into pushing the muzzle further up Napoleon's lower jaw. His own grip was loosening and the hand on Napoleon's shirt slacked.
"If you hate me so much, why not just shoot me!?"
Snowball staggered. In everything. His words, his composure, his eyes, his grip-
"Pull the trigger and LET ME DIE-"
"NO!" He hastily cried, catching himself from his scampering thoughts. He attempted to pull the revolver away. "I CANNOT-"
"YOU WILL NOT OR YOU CANNOT?!"
"I WILL NOT-"
"WHY?!"
"BECAUSE I-" Snowball rasped. "I..."
He stopped.
Snowball heaved. His shoulders tensed again. Water was returning to the bay of his lower eyelids, as they stuck to the edges of his lower, pretty white lashes. They glistened like ice in the morning, Napoleon noticed.
Snowball sighed, his eyes submerging into the darker ones before him. They were doleful, even in light shining from the side. Snowball's body language alone tugged Napoleon into easing his own figure. He then dropped his head away from Napoleon's stagnant gaze, remorsefully.
"I do not want to kill you," He avowed. "I am just angry at you."
"I deserve to die. Why?"
His quick response to Snowball was oh-so humiliating for him to bear. He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. Slowly, he pried the gun away from Napoleon's head and hand, even sliding his other hand away from his now rumpled shirt. (It was a pathetic, white dress shirt with its buttons undone.)
Snowball took a step back, still avoiding eye contact. He didn't want to admit any more secrets, especially in this circumstance; Unconscious people laying around you with musk and soot in the air, along with the heat and sweat of the evening? Not the ideal confession scenario (personally anyway).
And yet, Snowball answered. It won't take the evening's discomfort to stop Snowball from responding to Napoleon, especially since he has a lot to say, after all this time.
Still looking away, he nitpicked at the words in his head, before gradually turning back to Napoleon.
"Because I have held onto my feelings for you as well. Regrettably so." He finally decided.
He couldn't blame Napoleon for the reaction he gave. It was not only unbelievable, it was upsetting. He watched as Napoleon's expression shift into vexation. His eyes and brows were pointed as if he was about to argue, yet all the while his mouth was pulled into a mournful frown.
"That is unjust. I do not deserve your reciprocated feelings."
"Yet here I am, choosing not to fill you with daylight as I should." Snowball glared through tears.
This very much was embarrassing.
Snowball hissed with his narrowed, glossy eyes. Then, he tilted his head away from him.
Snowball absentmindedly stuffed the gun into his back between his shirt and trousers. He let out a sniffle as his eyes wandered away from Napoleon's. He faced away while his hand came up to his face in an attempt at comforting himself. Perhaps another's hand was needed.
He didn't realise that, until he was quietly sobbing into his pale palm. This was very much demeaning.
He figured how truly degrading and idiotic this situation was. The boy he loves is the same boy who exiled him? Who also shares the same feelings? Sounds like a rejected Shakespeare play- no, no- that's insultive to Shakespeare even. He would never write a play as low as this.
And Napoleon just stood there, motionless. Only his eyes danced with emotion, even he wasn't really welcoming it in. It was all foreign to them, really.
He only stared with his eyes in bewilderment and tragedy. His lips unmoving and soles held in place.
It was maddening how conflicting it all felt. Snowball felt his hands ball up into clenching fists, his own nails digging into his palms. They pushed through his locks and rested their forms onto the leaking eyes of Snowball.
They called him Snowball. He was known as Snowball, in this only place they'd call home. The only place he'd ever truly known and remember as he could. This wretched home for Snowball.
Snowball.
Snowball.
Snowball.
"Noah."
His eyes shot open.
He could feel his throat shrinking, as his entire body stilled for such a small moment.
His hands tightened possibly more into themselves as he steadily moved them away from his eyes. His irises were directly pinned onto Napoleon, like an arrow stuck to its target. As if he was the only existing thing in sight.
Napoleon only exhaled at that. Exhaled at the pathetic shape Snowball Noah was in. He was slightly hunched over with his burdened hands in his face. His curls were messier, and his eyes were as piercing as when he first stood here.
Snowball saw how Napoleon's figure bathed in the shine of the evening and the dark of the barn. Snowball almost struggled to speak. Their dialogue was so quiet.
"You remember my name?"
He sighed.
"Why should I not?"
Mr Jones would scold him for crying, but he isn't here now. He is dead, after all.
And boy, did Snowball Noah take full advantage of that, unwillingly.
He let the topside of his knuckles brush at his eyelids as tears streamed down his cheeks. His brows knitted and his nose scrunched, while the streams glinted in the light. His frown was childlike, and Napoleon harken back to the days where they had to hide behind walls, or corners of the fields to avoid Mr Jones whenever they would weep as children.
It was like they were kids again. The yelling and crying. They were not.
Napoleon understood that. He understood the harm he has done ever since Old Major died. To the people around him, his comrades, Snowball Noah especially.
He watched as Noah's sobs snaked through the air, his falling composure reflecting in his posture. His name really was a lovely one.
"What is your.. name?"
"Noah."
"Noah?"
"Yes. Noah."
"Noah. That is.. nice name."
Napoleon reminiscences. He grimaces. He truly doesn't know if right now is the right time to remember said sweet niceties. His English was horrible back then, anyway.
Hesitantly, Napoleon took a step towards the lad. One small step for man, they say. They have not said such thing yet, since we're in 1922.
Noah only continued to weep, much like how did as a child. Hands in his face with his everything turning ugly. Napolean always hated it when he cried. Mainly because he didn't know what to do about it. Perhaps another's hand really was needed.
Carefully, Napoleon trudged towards Noah. He wasn't exactly sure of what he was about to do once he was in arm's reach of him, but he was going to find out, for Noah's sake at least.
"What is your name?"
He found out once he was in arm's reach.
"Céleste..." Noah silently choked out.
And now it was Céleste's Napoleon's whole world that had frozen up this time.
Oh. Hell.
"My name?"
He staggered in his final step, now at arms-length of Noah. He saw how Noah's eyes peeked through the crevices of his hands, those glassy eyes still shimmering in the shadow of his hair. He saw how grief-stricken they were.
His breath stuttered at the sight, how vulnerable Noah was, and his elbows raise. He lowered his hands which opened at the palms, motioning Noah into a hug.
"Yes."
At first, Noah's eyes darted away in spite as his hands dropped to his sides tiredly. He only looked away from the blazing sun to the shadows for solace, as if that was going to make anything better. It didn't. Maybe Céleste's hands would.
"Céleste. My name."
"Céleste. That is a weird name."
Céleste remembers sweet niceties as the shorter man gave in. Noah looked to the side in contempt, before pushing himself into Céleste's embrace.
It was the first time they've hugged since Old Major passed.
Noah tucked his head into his shoulder and his hands grasped Céleste's back. He trembled and shook in whimpers while Céleste only held him in return, lightly placing his arms around his lower back.
Noah noticed some things through his sniffling. Céleste reeked of... cigarette smoke, and alcohol. Gin, Noah figured, because of the strong lemony pine scent. He also noticed the way Céleste placed his arms around him. Unlike Noah's tight grip, Céleste's grip was more lenient and gentle, yet firm.
There was always a contrast in their personalities after all, yet they always somehow complimented each other nicely.
They were always like that. Maybe not everything has changed. They were both as stupid as they usually were.
. . . . . . . . . . .
This whole thing is bizarre, really. The sun's so thankful this act is coming to an end.
The two held each other, one more desperate than the other. Céleste felt how hard Noah was gripping onto his shirt, almost pinching at his skin. It was a bit humorous, but then he was reminded that it was his fault Noah was behaving this way. 5 years of exile can do so much.
The two lads stayed like that for a while, in each other's embrace. It felt lonely, but in a sense they were alone together.
Considering the other comrades are waiting outside the barn, and the several unconscious people around, it couldn't be anymore lonelier than this.
The comrades are waiting outside. They're outside.
Oh.
"Our comrades are waiting outside." Noah mumbled despite his face being pressed against Céleste's shoulder.
Céleste's scent was comforting to him, although the disgusting description. Normal people don't enjoy juniper (an unlikeable aroma) and cigarette smells together. 5 years of isolation can really fo things to you. It was uncanny.
"I am aware." Céleste responded.
"Then let us go."
Céleste slightly swayed with his feet, deciding his words firmly. "I do not want to go now."
Noah paused. "Neither do I."
They remained silent for a little while longer.
Noah somehow pushed himself into Céleste even more, trying to get rid of any space between them. As if he was going to cast him out again, become separated again. He clung onto him tiredly, a heavy sigh leaving his dry mouth.
Céleste continued to slowly sway both of them with his feet grounded into the dirt. There was nothing else for him to do besides move a bit while holding Noah tenderly.
Well-, there is one thing they could do before they go.
Silently, Céleste lowered his head and brushed his lips against the shell of Noah's ear. He felt the texture of his tufty hair before he whispered.
"May I kiss you before we leave?"
Noah chuckled. "Oh, how bold of you." Before he reared his head away to study Céleste's face.
"Oh-" He choked. "You are serious."
Céleste only laughed, his face gleamed even if half of it was in shadow. He leaned in, brushing his nose against Noah's and earning a surprised gasp from him.
"You are serious." Noah closely eyed him.
"Why would I not be?"
What followed after was a kiss that would forever savored in memory.
Yes- shame on I for writing and you for reading.
It was Noah who leaned in first, initiating the kiss. Céleste didn't realise he was a step behind, but with the feeling of the lad's lips on his, he was quick to quit his complaining.
Céleste sank into it, tasting and sipping Noah's lips like vintage wine for the first time. It was delightful, succulent, presenting itself like a fine meal after a day's work. It was more addictive than the several cigars he's had smoked or even the many shots of fresh gin he's taken. It was like a newly discovered alcohol, and Céleste wanted to keep it for himself only, for him to drink whenever he pleased.
Maybe Noah was right. Céleste is greedy. It's just a trait of being a dictator, after all.
Noah could feel Céleste melting against his touch and surrendering completely into the kiss. He noticed how Céleste pushed deeper into it, as if trying to taste more of his nector. It was amusing, yet pleasant moreover. He could feel his heart swelling, as Noah sighed into this shared moment.
They eventually pulled away, but Noah giggled at how Céleste attempted to chase after him. It was fleeting, but such a fleeting moment exposed his true nature so easily. He could see how love-stricken Céleste's eyes were, as he stared at Noah in awe.
"Breeze off, you snob. We have our comrades waiting for us." Noah berated in shared breath, yet he smiled.
"You cannot blame me." Céleste dipped his eyes away, bashfully. Like one does when caught being too eager for the common.
Céleste heaved, promptly resting his head against Noah's. He closed his eyes and only held Noah close.
"Céleste..."
"I know."
"Napoleon."
"Do not call me that again." He growled.
Noah purred in a hum and gave into the moment as well, closing his eyes in return. He bathed in the smells of alcohol and old tobacco, relishing the presence he's missed for years of isolation. Céleste's always had a certain effect on him, and the rest of the barn noticed as well, far before his exile.
"I hate you, Céleste." Noah mumbled.
Céleste smirked. "Understandably so."
They stood there for a while again, resting their soles on the grounds that belonged to them only now. The sun resisted, its flare persisting through the eve and the warmth seething through the air.
The two figures joined the dark of the foreground as the background was painted in blazing rays of yellow and pink. The bodies complimented the foreground. Trees in the distance lined well with the background, adding to the gorgeous contrast of such a scene.
"Egoist." He hissed.
"So are you."