Work Text:
“whatcha makin’?”
ole glanced up. rabbit was there, standing for just a moment before flinging himself down onto the couch beside ole. he settled there, pressing himself against ole’s side. ole shifted his arm, making space for rabbit. trigger settled at ole’s feet.
rabbit was dressed smartly. a short-sleeved collared shirt, white with green trim (“polo,” dorothy’s sweet voice chirped in his mind) and tan trousers that fit well. ole knew he must’ve come from lunch with the lyons, an appointment they kept every sunday after church. rabbit didn’t attend—he described religion as a “sore spot”—but he met them at the restaurant every sunday, dressed nicely, as if he had, the pup trigger in a matching bandana. sometimes, he tried to goad ole into meeting them there and joining, but ole refused to impose.
“heard the needles. color’s the yarn?”
“green.”
since ole had begun carrying rabbit’s heart alongside his own, he’d been favoring yarn in shades of green and blue. rabbit couldn’t see, but ole could tell him, did tell him. it made rabbit smile. he knew what green yarn was for. “so it’s for me?” he said, nudging ole’s side.
ole huffed. “yes,” he said. “sweater.”
rabbit ran his hand along ole’s knitwork, dangling between his two needles just shy of his chest. “soft,” he said.
“mm.”
ole liked to stand in the craft store feeling each yarn, rubbing his palms and his wrists over them. he recognized some brands, now, and counted them among his favorites, but he figured that he wouldn’t know if he liked a skein unless he felt it, and he had nothing but time, as wayne liked to say. he chose most yarns for their practicality, their fiber content, listed on the side of the packaging. but when he was looking for yarn with scotty or mattie or the new babe or rabbit in mind, he always sought something soft. comforting.
“‘m gonna get somethin’ to eat,” rabbit said.
“you ate.”
“well, yeah, but i know there’s pie in this kitchen, and i want some bad.” rabbit grinned. he sat up and nuzzled close to ole’s face before he pecked ole’s cheek.
ole flushed, eyeing rabbit as he stood and shuffled away, not needing trigger or his cane to make his way around ole’s modest home. ole imagined he might always flush when rabbit touched him, kissed him. he might never grow acclimated to rabbit’s easy affection, his sweetness, his softness. he thought of when they shared a bed at night, bound together by lust and by a shared, all-consuming desire for comfort, for affection, and how willingly rabbit gave himself to ole, all of himself, even after everything. it never ceased to bring ole to heel.
“pumpkin pie? good shit!”
a month later, ole admired rabbit asleep in ole’s bed, rumpled in his undershirt and boxer shorts, finished green sweater fitting loosely around him.