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The back door groans, a familiar, welcome sound as Dolph slips through, leaving the cacophony of his father's booming voice and Angela's shrill complaints about dust motes behind him. Junior, no doubt, is already out in the fields, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing indoors.
Dolph's jaw clenches, a tremor running through his small frame. He feels like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap, but the cool evening air, thick with the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke, begins its slow, calming work. Each step away from the house is a release, the tension in his shoulders easing with every stride.
He walks with purpose, his worn boots crunching on the gravel path that leads to the small, sun-dappled clearing behind the barn. Here, nestled amongst wild clover and buzzing wildflowers, sit his hives. Joe's idea, the bees. Joe said they teach patience, focus, and the quiet rhythm of nature. Dolph needed that desperately. He approaches the hollow of the old oak, his hand instinctively reaching inside. The rough bark scrapes his fingers as he confirms the familiar weight of his secret, tucked deep within the cool, dark space. A small, private ritual before he turns his attention to the true healers.
The air around the hives hums, a soothing, vibrating thrum that sinks into his bones. He pulls on his veil and gloves, the familiar scent of beeswax and propolis filling his nostrils. The world outside the veil fades, replaced by the intricate, industrious dance of the colony. He watches them, mesmerized, then kneels before three small, weathered gravestones (Gustav, Ida, Otto), his silent confidantes.
"They were at it again today," he whispers, his voice low, almost swallowed by the drone of the bees. "Father, I mean. And Angela found a speck of dirt, can you believe it? Junior just laughs."
He tells them about the new queen he spotted yesterday, about the sweet clover blooming by the creek, about the ache in his chest that only seems to ease when he's here, or with Joe.
Carefully, he lifts a frame, the golden comb heavy with honey. The bees crawl over his gloved hands, their tiny legs tickling. He works with a quiet precision, scraping a small portion of the rich, amber liquid into a waiting jar. It’s a small yield, but precious. The sweetness is a promise, a tangible reward for the quiet hours spent in their company. He seals the jar, the sticky warmth on his fingers a comforting sensation.
With the honey secured, Dolph sets off, a lightness in his step that wasn't there an hour ago. The sun dips lower, casting long shadows as he makes his way towards the Tiflis Theological Seminary. The grand stone building rises against the darkening sky, its domes catching the last rays of light.
He slips into the quiet courtyard, finding his usual spot by the ancient fountain, its gentle murmur a counterpoint to the distant city sounds. He leans back against the cool stone, lost in thought, a faint smile playing on his lips as he imagines Joe's reaction to the fresh honey. He pictures Joe, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughs, his deep voice resonating with a quiet strength.
The seminary door opens, and Joe steps out, his cassock rustling softly. He pauses, his gaze sweeping the courtyard, and a small smile touches his lips as he spots Dolph, lost in his private world. He sees the small jar clutched in Dolph's hand, a tell-tale sign of his recent visit to the hives. Joe's eyes linger for a moment, a knowing warmth in their depths, before he changes direction, a slight nod of his head to a passing trainee, and walks directly towards Dolph.
Dolph watches him approach, his smile widening and a familiar warmth spreading through his chest. Joe is his anchor, his conscience, the only one who sees beyond the storm, and the only one he truly wants to be with.