Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mitchell was well aware of the seconds ticking away as he turned Red Night’s Delight towards the final jump, using his legs to extend her bouncy canter. He could feel her hooves pounding down onto the worn grass, bringing up chunks of dirt and grass with them. This was it. He could feel Red lengthening her stride as they approached the jump. 

His father, famous dressage rider Ira Henderson, was watching him. He still remembered the way his sharp words had echoed in the kitchen last year, how his cool gaze rested on his son, bitter and full of hatred. Mitchell hastily shoved the memory away. All he ever heard from his family was how he liked to run away from things. But this was one thing Mitchell wasn’t going to run from. He needed to win the Fourpoint horse show, to prove everyone wrong. And to win, he had to go clear in the jump off. Of course, Mitchell knew Red could win. He just had to focus, and not let his mind wander. Which was exactly what it was doing right now. 

Well, fuck. He just had to drag his mind back to the present, and keep it there. Remembering his trainer’s parting words, Mitchell counted Red’s ground-swallowing strides under his breath as the last showjump, a triple, painted bright pink and green and with some company logo plastered on the wings and filler. Red’s dark chestnut ears swiveled back, listening to her rider’s counting.

One.. two.. Three! 

As she took her final stride, Red’s coppery coat caught the sunlight, and for a moment there, Mitchell’s anxiety disappeared. He felt his face split into a huge grin, and as Red landed, Mitchell threw his arms around her sweat-caked copper neck, and whispered,

“You are incredible Red. You know that, right?” into her flame-coloured mane. And for a moment it was just them. Boy and horse. Connected with a wordless agreement. No, not agreement. Friendship. Love.

That lasted about ten seconds before the loudspeaker crackled to life, and Declan Dashwood’s familiar voice flooded into the arena. 

Fourpoint horse show was known for being very queer-friendly, and Declan Dashwood was no exception. He was openly gay, and he was always talking nineteen to the dozen about heartstopper lore or drag race or something when Skandar’s aunt Agatha dragged her half-awake nephew to book club at the eccentric commentator’s house.

But one thing about Declan Dashwood was that he was very talkative, and at this point, Mitchell had learned to tune him out. Not that his commentary wasn’t side splittingly funny (which it was). It was just that Mitchell couldn’t afford to fall off a 16 hand high Belgian Warmblood mid-jump because he was laughing too hard. This was not an exaggeration. Mitchell hated exaggerations. They confused him, like many other things. All this was running through his mind, his body subconsciously moving on its own, as the roaring crowd rose to their feet and applauded.

And, as he tilted his face to the sun, and a wide grin spread across his face, Mitchell couldn’t help but think to himself,

Can you see this, Father? See how the crowd rises as one, how their cheers fill the arena? See how the applause deafens me? Just as I dreamed they would. Just as you said they wouldn't. I told you so.

Chapter Text

Mitchell’s fingers curled around the frayed edge of the blanket as the horsebox drove along narrow country lanes, Queen blasting from the speakers. Skandar’s messy brown curls were peeking over the driver’s seat, and he was humming along to the song, occasionally murmuring lyrics under his breath. Bobby was curled up next to him, scrolling through TikToks on her phone, head on Mitchell’s lap. 

It was moments like these that brought Mitchell back to their days as training riders at the Eyrie, their nickname for White Eagle eventing yard, when Red and Scoundrel were green and inexperienced, when every clear round, every perfect half pass, was a victory. Bobby came later, from a small Spanish town, with her handsome Arab mare, Falcon’s Wrath. Flo was the last addition to their little group, a friend of Jamie. 

And, of course, there was Jamie. Skandar’s eccentric groom, who was better known as the casanova of Fourpoint, due to his history with pretty much every boy who lived in their small town. People would whisper as he walked past in the streets, and the rumours followed Jamie like a shadow. And he was blissfully unaware of it. It pissed Mitchell off.

He told himself it wasn’t jealousy, as he saw Jamie hand in hand with one of the farriers. It wasn’t jealousy when he acted snarky and rude for days after. Jamie acted like a kicked puppy during those days. ‘I thought we were friends’. Yeah, right. 

But it wasn't jealousy. Mitchell stood by that. And, even if it was, which it definitely wasn’t (it was), Mitchell had vowed never to act on his stupid crushes, ever since Skandar rejected him. It was four years ago, and they were still best friends, but the whole experience had left a sour taste in his mouth.

So he lived by three rules. Don’t call your father back. Don’t let Red down. And, most importantly, under no circumstances can you fall for a boy. Mitchell had tried to date women, but after a while, he came to the terrifying realisation that he was gay. His father could never find out. Ira would murder him. No,he would disown him. And then what would be left of his career?

Sure, Art, Flo, Bobby and Ivan from the Eyrie were all queer. But they either cut ties with their parents, like Bobby and Art, or had supporting families, like Ivan and Flo. But even then, Mitchell learned, not everything was so easy. Flo had had multiple incidents where people had verbally or physically assaulted her for simply using the female bathroom. Ivan had been rejected by almost every trainer until he met Bernard Webb, a no-nonsense ex-eventer in his fifties who came out of retirement to train Ivan. 

Mitchell was afraid of his father’s influence. He could lose everything. His yard, fondly nicknamed the sanctuary, which was ran by Skandar’s manic aunt, Agatha. Sponsors, which were the only reason he wasn’t riding in his old, battered saddle and rubber boots. So no. He was not going to accept who he was. He couldn’t come to terms with it if he was living in fear of his father. And Jamie was making everything ten times worse.

The snorting and whinnying of the three horses in the back of the trailer brought Mitchell back down to earth, and distracted him from his thought spiral. Bobby turned her head towards the slate-gray Arab in the back of the trailer, and chided

“Falcon, me cariño, if you don’t stop it with the dramatics, I swear to god…” her voice trailed off as she looked up at Mitchell and joked;

“Who kicked you, perrito? Cheer up dude, I promise whatever happens won’t affect the time space-time continuum and cause our untimely deaths before we can turn Red and Falcon out in the paddock. It’s just the reddit crackhead conspiracy theories.”

“Bobby, I love you, but you know I left the conspiracy theory subreddit. And you’re overexaggerating. I don’t look that needy.”

“Um, yes you do,” Skandar cut across, shaking his head in mock-disappointment. “I’ve known you since Red and Scoundrel were four years old. What’s wrong?”

So he was paying attention. Honestly, he should be concentrating on not crashing into, i don’t know, a dustbin or something. And he was SUCH a traitor. Now Bobby wouldn’t leave him alone. She had a habit of getting disgustingly worried about her friends.

“Nothing.”

“Lies and slander!” Bobby shot back. “Dude, just tell me. I’m your emotional support lesbian, I can take it. I’m insisting. This shit is gonna eat me alive if you don’t tell me immediately, and I'll stand in the kitchen all night like a skinwalker.”

“She’s done it before. Scared the shit out of me” Skandar added. “Just tell her, for all our sakes. And so I can concentrate on driving.”

“Well, thank god for that. I was worried that we would have a horrible road accident and be rushed to hospital, and Red would die”

“Nice to see who your top priority is.”

“Well, she hasn’t thrown me in a month. I don’t think i can say the same for you and Falcon”

“Fuck you.”

“No thanks, I have standards”

“Guys,” Skandar interrupted. “We’re back. Now Bobby, if you kill Mitchell, Agatha is going to make you poo pick the fields for the next month, so I wouldn’t advise that. Besides,we’re here now and oh look, Jamie’s doing tiktok dances in the driveway again.”

And sure enough, as the horsebox grew in closer Mitchell could see someone on the gravel drive in front of the stable doing what looked like the Apple dance. Bobby wound down the window and practically yelled

“YES JAMIE! LETS FUCKING GO, YOU FINALLY DID THE APPLE DANCE!”

Jamie looked up, stuck his tounge out at Bobby, mismatched eyes glinting mischeviously as he pushed his curly hair back, which would have been hot as fuck if there wasn’t Charli XCX blasting from Agatha’s shitty speaker and Jamie wasn’t in a t shirt that said ‘I won’t go down in history but I will go down on your brother’.

At that exact moment Agatha Everheart came storming out of the tack room, a thermos flask of tea in her hands and a stony expression on her face. She started yelling at Jamie about ‘inappropriate use of yard equipment’ and ‘health and safety policies’, the flask of herbal tea raised as if she was going to beat Jamie with it. Knowing her, she probably would. Jamie looked thoroughly bored, and at one point he winked at Mitchell, who was caught completely off guard and lost his balance, hitting his head on the headrest of the car seat as he fell back. And the crown jewel of all this was the fact that, during this whole debacle, Brat was blaring from the speakers at full volume.

Well, Mitchell thought, just another day at the Sanctuary. As Bobby would say, another day another slay.

Chapter Text

Later that day, when Agatha had brewed some more tea and handed round fucking custard creams, Skandar had insisted on watching a movie. ‘Team bonding’ or something along those lines. Skandar and Flo were cuddling under a blanket, looking disgustingly adorable, sharing popcorn. Jamie was in the kitchen, microwaving some more popcorn with Bobby. Jamie and Bobby being put in charge of food was never a good idea. Mitchell recalled the last time Bobby cooked them dinner without supervision. She had somehow managed to burn pasta, which, to be honest, Mitchell found kind of impressive. 

And, of course, there were the emergency sandwiches. When she arrived in Dover, Bobby had invented a bizarre sandwich, christened the ‘emergency sandwich’. Bobby used up about a family-sized jar of marmite and jam every month on her excuse for a sandwich, and complete with a slice of cheese, the abomination was complete. Probably the strangest thing about this obsession (addiction?) was the wide variety of emergency sandwiches Bobby had made over the years. She photographed each sandwich and posted them on an online blog managed by local cafe owner Sally. Some were made from stale burger buns and plum jam, with a slab of red leicester cheese, while others were assembled (as the creation of this ‘recipe’ required little to no skill levels) from toast triangles, raspberry jam and swiss cheese slices from Lidl. The only consistent ingredient seemed to be the marmite, which Bobby was currently hoarding in about four different places in case the company ever went bust (impossible, as she was probably their main source of income based on how much she spent on Marmite).

So, it was safe to say that Mitchell absolutely did not trust Bobby with the simple task of microwaving popcorn. And then there was Jamie. It wasn’t that Mitchell didn’t trust him with food. It was just that he didn’t trust him. He was sarcastic and opinionated, and why the fuck is he hot? Sure, he wasn’t a bad person, and he was perfectly friendly and considerate when he wanted to be. And Mitchell would, under normal circumstances, act as he always does around Jamie. But, for some reason, he had to get horribly awkward and quiet around him. Though who wouldn’t? Mitchell never understood how other boys and men could be straight when Jamie fucking Middleditch existed. 

He didn’t have some juvenile crush on Jamie though. He just had eyes for Christ's sake. Eyes that had memorised every inch of the blonde’s face and body, to the point where he was sure that, even in different bodies, in a different universe to where he existed now, he would recognise Jamie. He supposed that this was the first sign of what was to come. How he would be drawn in, like a moth to a flame, and be consumed by the heat, until he was nothing more than a husk, a shell of his previous self. How these feelings would lead to pain. But he was not a moth. He could fly away if he wanted. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. If whatever could happen between him and Jamie would be worth it. Because, sometimes, the light from the flames was worth the burn. 

…

A piercing ringing ripped Mitchell from sleep. His phone was vibrating under his pillow, the alarm he had set last night, titled ‘School Red, try not to die’ displayed on his phone’s glowing screen. Mitchell’s phone case felt warm in his hand, in stark contrast with the cool screen under his fingertips as he switched the alarm off. His phone flashlight was his only light source as Mitchell rummaged round his room in search of a pair of jodhpurs and a clean shirt. 

After a few minutes of fumbling through his wardrobe in the dark, pulling on some (possibly?) red riding clothes, and shoving his phone in the handy pocket in the leg of his jodhs, Mitchell crept down the creaky oak staircase, stopping in the kitchen to grab a granola bar and some carrots for Red. His helmet and riding boots stood by the door, the battered leather boots illuminated in the dawn light. He shoved his feet into them, and pulled on his hard hat, pausing only to pull down his black hat silk and to brush some straw off the end of his foot. He noiselessly opened the Sanctuary’s pale wood door, and stepped out into the gravel drive and overgrown lawn, dew from the overgrown grass dripping onto his boots as he shut and locked the cottage door behind him.

It was a cold morning, but there was something strangely ethereal about the frozen fog, illuminated by the rising dawn sun. The silhouettes of four horses grazed amongst silver beech trees, and Mitchell grabbed a black leather headcollar and leadrope from the frosted paddock gatepost. He hid them behind his back, and took a carrot from his pocket. A peace offering for Red. As a filly, she had been known to run halfway across the paddock at the mere glimpse of a leadrope, so Mitchell had to provide bribery so he didn’t have to run at practically the speed of light to catch a smug chestnut belgian warmblood mare with a metric tonne of horse shit, grass and dirt caked on her coat, resulting in her going from a shiny liver chestnut with three white stockings to a scruffy bay in desperate need of a good wash. 

Now Red seemed to be relatively calm, her head lowered as she trotted towards Mitchell. She had obviously seen the carrot. As her velvety muzzle crunched it up, he quickly slipped on her halter, clipping on the red lead rope to ensure she couldn’t escape. He waited for the chestnut to finish eating the bribe, and clucked her on into a walk.

“Bamboozled again, Red”

She looked up at him with her liquid brown eyes, as if to say ‘just you wait’ whilst Mitchell strode toward the indoor arena, lead rope in hand. The sun had finished rising, the birds were singing, and everything was perfect. Just Mitchell, his horse, and some practice jumps. Heaven. Or it would have been, if it wasn’t for a certain blonde groom. 

Jamie Middleditch and Scoundrel’s Luck, Skandar’s enormous friesian stallion and an absolute machine in the dressage arena, were at the cross ties.

 Great. Amazing. Absolutely spectacular. This meant that some form of basic human interaction would have to take place. Not exactly Mitchell’s strong suit. Red seemed to recognise Scoundrel, with whom she was very friendly- possibly the most out of all the horses at the Sanctuary- and let out an ear-splitting whinny, her ears swivelling forward. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, f-

She started to speed up, and Mitchell felt the once-slack rope in his hands grow taut as he was practically dragged along by his absolutely batshit crazy sixteen-hand showjumper. He could sense his balance faltering, and although he tried to stay upright, the ground was slipping underneath him. He was preparing to meet the cold flagstones, thankful that at least he had his helmet on, when he just stopped falling.

Mitchell looked up, confused, and thankful to whatever upper power saved him from hitting the floor like a sack of potatoes, and his eyes met a pair of green-and-brown irises. Jamie was flushing slightly, and was holding Mitchell up by the fucking waist. His skin was on fire. Jamie mumbled something under his breath, flushing even more. 

Trust Red to make things awkward. Fuck this shit. Things were tense enough around him and Jamie without this… thing. Scoundrel and Red were touching noses, squealing and nickering, as if they were laughing at them. Well. This was fine. Stepping out of Jamie’s arms, Mitchell looked down at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere except a pair of brown and green eyes. If he had looked into them, he would have noticed how remarkably long his eyelashes were, how what seemed to be green was an ocean of yellow, blue, teal, gray and any other colour imaginable. How freckles were peppered on his nose and cheeks, pale enough to be hidden from a distance, but definitely there. And how his long, curly hair framed his face, the early sunlight illuminating Jamie Middleditch’s face. But noticing this, looking up at the other boy, was terrifying. How could he guarantee that his mismatched eyes wouldn’t cause him to do something irrational?

 No. He would look down. Love never ended well for him.