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Clint Harrison stared at the condensation dripping down the side of his glass. Even though it was the dead of winter, the roaring fireplace in the corner of the Stardrop Saloon meant that the cold drinks always were a welcome refreshment in the warmth of the room. As usual, he toasted his father's memory with Willy, his father's ex-boyfriend and local fisherman, the bitter taste of the hops somehow soothing Clint's unsettled emotions. Willy swore up and down that Nigel Harrison would be proud of him. Clint wasn't so sure.
He tried not to stare too hard as Emily, the bartender with the kind eyes, took orders from the Saloon's patrons, but he seemed to follow her path throughout the room. A beer for Pam, the bus driver who was down on her luck. A beer and a plate of pepper poppers for Shane, the JojaMart employee who was also down on his luck. A refill of drinks for Mayor Lewis and his just-a-friend Marnie (even though the whole town knew Marnie was more than just a friend to the town's stalwart mayor). And a wine for Elliott, the local writer who was new to Pelican Town.
Clint frowned as Emily laughed at something Elliott said when she placed a carafe of wine on his table, the tinkling sound echoing through the room. Elliott laughed as well, his melodious chuckle blending with hers in a sweet melody Clint never seemed to be able to sing for himself. Although he tried not to mind, he could admit to himself that he was jealous of them both - jealous of Elliott's ability to charm anyone he came into contact with, and jealous of Emily's effortless charisma and ability to light up a room with her presence alone. The days when she wasn't in the Saloon were a little bit dimmer than those when she was working, but Clint still visited the small town's only drinking establishment even when she wasn't there.
"You two alright for drinks?" Emily asked, circling around to them.
"Aye lassie," Willy said with a twinkle in his eye.
"Y…yes," Clint stammered, cursing his nerves. Why can't I speak normally around others? he chastised himself. He had no problem talking with Willy, but that was different. Willy was like a second father to him. He'd been with Clint during some of the worst days of his life when his father had died many years ago. And, maybe most importantly, Willy didn't expect much in the way of conversation from Clint, able to fill in any long pauses with stories about his days on the sea.
Clint's gaze still followed Emily, unable to look away as she walked back around the bar, pausing again at Elliott's table to exchange a smile and a laugh with the effervescent man. Clint had tried a million times to emulate her personality and conversation style, but he could never seem to get over his nerves, no matter how hard he worked at it. He cringed as he remembered the time he had asked her to go with him to the Grampleton Carnival, trying to impress her with his conversation, but not being able to manage more than a stammer or two whenever she asked him a question. He wasn't sure if Emily had thought it was a date or if they were going as friends, but ultimately it didn't matter. The result would have been the same either way.
Willy smiled at Clint sympathetically, patting his hand gently, and Clint tried to smile back. He'd told Willy his plan for the night, and he was trying to work up the courage to see it through. "You good boyo?" Willy asked him.
Clint downed the rest of his drink with a nod, his eyes still fixed on Emily and Elliott. "Yeah," he mumbled. "It's now or never, I think." Before he could convince himself otherwise, he stood and straightened his shirt. He heard Willy telling him he loved him. He was pretty sure he told Willy he loved him back, but he couldn't think about that now.
It felt like everyone in the room was looking at him as Clint crossed the room. Emily was back in her regular spot behind the bar, pouring yet another drink for Pam, but Clint wasn't worried about her now. He paused for a moment by Elliott's table, feeling his ears turning red. "H…hi Elliott," he stammered.
Elliott looked up, a faint hint of surprise on his face, but he greeted Clint warmly.
Clint cleared his throat nervously. "Do you mind if I sit with you for a couple of minutes?" he asked, tapping his toe in his workboots to help dispel some of his anxiety while he waited for Elliott's reply.
"But of course, my good blacksmith," Elliott replied kindly. "It's not often I have the chance to converse with a fine gentleman such as yourself," he said, his eyes sparkling as Clint slid into the chair across from him. "Is this a social visit, or is there something I may assist you with, my good fellow?"
Clint breathed out a long breath, trying to relax into his seat. He tried not to pay too much attention to the way Elliott's auburn hair draped over his shoulders, not a stray hair in place. He also tried to ignore how Elliott's emerald green eyes sparkled as he leaned forward to hear Clint's reply. Clint had always thought Elliott was handsome, but now that he was finally so close to him, the man was simply breathtaking. Which meant that Clint's next words were even more difficult to get out.
"It's a little of both," he mumbled, picking at the frayed edge of his sweater and wishing he had something nicer to wear. "I… I've been wanting to talk with you for a while," he said, looking up, his breath catching as Elliott smiled at him warmly. "But… well there's a magazine I get every month, Mining Monthly, and they have an open invitation for people to write articles about stuff that interests them. I… I've been thinking about writing something about how hard it is to be a blacksmith in a small town."
Elliott's grin grew wider. "Oh, that's a delightful endeavour," he said enthusiastically. "I am certain that you have quite a few anecdotes that would make such a piece truly shine."
"Well, I dunno about that," Clint said, knowing that he was blushing.
"Don't sell yourself short Clinton," Elliott insisted, putting his hand on Clint's and squeezing it encouragingly.
Clint looked up and met Elliott's eyes. "Please," he said. "Call me Clint."
"Clint then," Elliott said, leaning back on his chair, his hand still resting on Clint's. "Is this the first time you will be attempting to transcribe any of your tales in the written format?"
"Not really," Clint admitted. "I took a writing class when I went to college, and I enjoyed it. I… find it easier to write something instead of saying it," he mumbled, grateful when Emily stopped by their table again so that he could have a chance to catch his breath.
Elliott pulled his hand away while he ordered another drink, and Clint ordered a beer of his own. They waited until she returned a couple minutes later before speaking again.
"I wasn't aware you had pursued a higher education, Clinton," Elliott said before correcting himself. "Clint, I mean."
"I only had one semester before I had to drop out," he admitted. He glanced across the room at Willy who was grinning at him. "My father…" he took a sip of his beer, always hating when he had to explain why he'd left school (not that most people bothered asking). "My father passed away suddenly," he said quietly. "In the big mining accident that happened ages ago. I returned home to take over the family business."
Clint sipped his drink again, fading off into silence. When he glanced at Elliott, he was surprised to see tears in the man's eyes. "I understand what it's like to lose someone you care about," he murmured, covering Clint's hand with his again and rubbing his smooth thumb along Clint's rough skin. "It's quite noble of you to continue on in your father's footsteps. I may be amiss in saying this, but if you were studying writing at school, it is unlikely that you were expecting to continue forward in his stead."
"No," Clint admitted, suppressing a shiver at the way Elliott's hand felt against his. "But I felt it was the right thing to do, you know?" he asked.
"I do," Elliott said with a small frown. "Even though it is not perhaps a choice I would make for myself if I were to every find myself in your position." Elliott sighed. "That is neither here nor there, though. I must say, Clint, it is encouraging that you wish to continue your creative endeavours," he said, brightening again. "Now, good sir, tell me more about this magazine of yours."
Clint stared at the envelope in his hand as he turned it over, debating on whether or not to open it on his own, or to wait for Elliott to come over in the evening. He was surprised at how quickly he had become comfortable around his new friend, even though there were still some moments when the light caught Elliott's hair in a certain way that made his heart beat a little faster than normal.
Clint hadn't had a crush on someone like this in years - not since he was in university and had briefly dated one of his classmates before his life turned upside down. But he didn't know if Elliott felt the same way. Given the fact that it had taken Clint the better part of three months to find the courage to say hello to the man, he couldn't imagine ever having the nerve to ask if Elliott wanted to pursue anything beyond friendship.
He tucked the envelope in his pocket, deciding to wait to open it until he wasn't alone. Instead, he got back to work, delicately crafting the copper bars the new farmer had brought him into an upgraded pickaxe in the way his father had taught him long ago. He was so lost in the intricate details of his work, he didn't notice the door had opened until Elliott cleared his throat.
"Greetings," Elliott smiled, his eyes twinkling in the light from the furnace burning in the corner.
"Hi," Clint beamed back, happy just to be in the other man's company. He glanced at the clock and realized it was well past quitting time. "Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't realize it was so late. Let me just clean up and then I can start dinner."
"Sounds good," Elliott replied, following Clint back to his living quarters behind the shop. As winter melted into spring, it had become their habit to work on Clint's submission to the magazine every Wednesday evening over dinner, sometimes at Clint's house, sometimes at Elliott's cabin. After they'd workshopped Clint's article for an hour or so each night, they'd inevitably turned to discussing other topics. Each man was surprised to learn they had more in common than they'd originally thought. They preferred the same snack when going to the movies (stardrop sorbet), they each had scars on their thumbs from poor attempts at fishing when they were children, and they each had an affinity for the same murder mystery book series, comparing theories about who they thought the culprit was in its newest installment.
Clint headed to the bathroom, taking a very quick shower and changing into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt before he returned to the main area of his living quarters. Elliott had already started cooking, having found the ingredients for dinner in Clint's fridge, and soon they returned to the shop portion of Clint's home, sitting across from each other at the table Clint kept there since there was more room.
Clint's favourite blues music played in the background as they ate, and they exchanged stories about their days until Clint suddenly remembered the letter he'd received. He excused himself for a moment to retrieve it, sitting in the chair kitty corner to Elliott when he returned and sliding it in his direction.
"This missive is from the magazine?" Elliott asked, his eyes growing wide.
"Yeah," Clint said, his mouth suddenly dry. "I haven't been able to open it yet. Thought we could do it together."
"I am truly honoured you waited for my company," Elliott smiled at him, sliding the letter back to Clint. "Are you going to open it now, or do you want to wait for a more opportune moment?"
"Now," Clint said with determination, slipping his finger under the flap of the envelope. He paused a moment before removing the letter. "Be…before I open this," he stammered, "I'd like to thank you for your help. I don't think I would have been brave enough to submit anything without all your advice." Elliott nodded in response, and Clint slowly unfolded the letter.
He quickly read over the words, and then paused, trying to process what the letter said. He read it again, and then a third time, surprised to see that it said the same thing every time.
"Well?" Elliott asked, his eyes scanning Clint's face for any hint of what the letter might contain.
"It says they've accepted the piece. They're going to pay me for the submission, too. Not much to start with, but they…" Clint trailed off a moment as he scanned the letter a fourth time to make sure he was reading it correctly. "They want me to start a regular column, El!"
Elliott gasped and before Clint realized what was happening, Elliott had thrown his arms around him in excitement. "Congratulations!" he said, pulling back for a second, and then hugging Clint again.
Clint chuckled, happier than he had been in ages, as he returned Elliott's hug. "Thank you, El," he murmured. "I couldn't have done this without your help," he added.
"Balderdash!" Elliott scolded him, pulling back for a moment. "You possessed the talent and skill to write the article, I merely provided some suggestions to finesse your submission," he said.
"We both know that's not true," Clint insisted, "but I appreciate your vote of confidence."
"It is most certainly true," Elliott shot back. "The ideas and the words are your own."
"Hardly," Clint protested. "I mean, I barely know how to…"
Clint's argument was cut off suddenly as Elliott leaned forward again. Instead of hugging him, though, he pressed his lips onto Clint's, shocking him into silence. Clint closed his eyes, savouring the feeling of Elliott's plush mouth against his own. All too soon, Elliott pulled away, his cheeks flush from more than the warmth of the smithy.
"El?" Clint asked, his heart racing a million miles a minute.
"My apologies," Elliott said, looking away, his breath coming in quick gasps. "I didn't intend to overstep."
"No, no it's fine," Clint said, and Elliott's gaze returned to his face, as if he was studying Clint's every reaction. "I… I'm glad you kissed me," he said quietly, running a calloused hand along Elliott's smooth jaw.
"I've been wanting to kiss you for the last few weeks," Elliott admitted. "Ever since you first approached me in the Saloon, believe it or not."
Clint blinked. "That long?" he whispered.
"Even longer," Elliott admitted. "I thought you were quite striking the first time I laid eyes upon you, but I was undecided as to whether I should approach you or how to go about doing so. I was ecstatic when you sat with me at the Saloon that evening at the end of winter."
"I'd been trying to come up to you for weeks at that point," Clint admitted shyly. "I didn't think that someone as handsome or as charming as you would be interested in someone like me."
"I'm more than just interested, my dearest friend," Elliott corrected him. "I'm enamoured, besotted, infatuated, enchanted, bewitched-"
It was Elliott's turn to have his sentence cut off as Clint leaned forward and kissed him, threading his fingers through the glorious hair he had long admired. Then Elliott's fingers tangled in Clint's hair at the base of his neck, eagerly returning the kiss. Neither man noticed as the letter slipped to the floor between them. They wouldn't think to look for it again until the following morning.