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Jonathan woke with a start, sitting up in bed with a sharp inhale. The sudden movement jolted Edward awake beside him.
Edward blinked, disoriented and squinted in the dark. “Jon? You alright, dear?”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then Jonathan exhaled slowly. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine, Ed.”
The lack of conviction in his tone had Edward pushing himself upright, shifting closer until their shoulders brushed. He set a hand lightly on Jonathan’s arm. “Was it another nightmare?”
Jon let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “No. Far from it.”
Edward tilted his head, studying him. “Then what has you looking so pale?”
“A memory.”
That, of course, caught Edward’s attention immediately. Jonathan was not a man who offered up his past freely. Edward knew the outlines—the cruelty, the hardship—but only what Jonathan had allowed him. Still, he knew more than anyone else. As he should.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Jon made a small sound, something thoughtful, before—shockingly—smiling. “I dreamt of the farm.”
“The farm?” Edward raised a brow. “I thought that place was hell on earth for you.”
“It was,” Jonathan admitted. “Most of the time. But not all my memories are nightmares, you know.”
“That’s a pleasant surprise,” Edward murmured.
Jonathan huffed, amused, rolling his eyes.
“So what then?” Edward pressed, lips curling faintly. “What memory has you looking so… soft?”
Jon hesitated, then sighed through his nose. “Ducks.”
Edward blinked. “Ducks?”
“When I was ten,” Jonathan began, voice gentling, “I found an abandoned nest out behind the barn. I didn’t think much of it—just gathered the eggs and tucked them into one of the old incubators. Forgot about them, honestly. Then one day, two of them hatched.”
Edward’s expression softened, genuine delight flickering across his face. “You raised ducks?”
“Among other things.”
“I thought you were afraid of birds?”
“I was,” Jonathan admitted, “but mostly crows. There’s a difference.”
Edward smiled faintly. “So what happened in the dream?”
“I was outside in the fields. It must’ve been July—so hot the air shimmered.” His eyes went distant, unfocused, like he could still see it. “The grass was so tall it brushed against my knees. I remember chasing the ducks through it, laughing like a fool. Their wings were too small to fly yet, but they’d flap and flap like they meant to take off anyway. The sun was so bright I could hardly see.”
He paused, that small, wistful smile still lingering.
“When the heat got to be too much, I carried them to the pond. The water was cool, full of dragonflies and cattails, and I waded in barefoot to let them swim. It all felt endless back then—summer, childhood, the sound of cicadas.”
Edward could almost picture it—the boy that would become Jonathan Crane, barefoot in the mud, sunlight catching in his hair.
Jon’s voice softened even further. “That night, fireworks went off a few miles away for the Fourth. I used to climb up to the roof to watch them. The old woman would’ve tanned my hide if she caught me, but it was worth it. I remember one year I stole a firecracker from a shop in town—thought I’d see what the fuss was about. Lit it in the field. Thing tipped over and launched itself straight into a bush. Set it on fire. I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast in my life trying to put it out before she saw.”
Edward laughed—quiet, genuine, startled by how easily the image came. Jonathan’s mouth quirked, fond in spite of himself.
“What was it like?” Edward asked after a pause. “Georgia?”
Jonathan huffed. “You would’ve hated it. If the heat didn’t kill you, the winters would’ve. You wouldn’t expect a place like that to get so cold, but every year without fail we’d wake to frost on the windows.”
He went quiet again, eyes flicking toward the window as though he could see it all laid out there.
“But it was beautiful sometimes,” he murmured. “Quiet. The kind of quiet that hums. The air smelled clean—of pine and earth and smoke from the stove. At night, you could see every star in the sky. The whole world felt bigger then. Just fields rolling on and on, and the sky above it like something alive.”
Edward listened, hardly daring to breathe. There was something sacred in the sound of his voice.
“I think I miss the animals most,” Jonathan said finally. “We had everything you could imagine—cows, pigs, quails, horses. Even goats, for a while. Mean little bastards.”
Edward smiled. “You do strike me as the type to prefer animals to people.”
Jon laughed softly. “I did. But some people aren’t so bad.”
He leaned forward then, closing the space between them, and kissed Edward once—light, brief, but sincere. Edward returned it, basking in the rare gentleness of the moment.
When they parted, Edward couldn’t help but tease. “Should I take this as a sign I ought to get you a bird, then?”
“In my tiny apartment?” Jonathan deadpanned. “Yes, that’ll end wonderfully.”
“Maybe we should look for a bigger place, then.”
Jon froze, catching the "we" in that sentence. His voice went uncharacteristically quiet. “You—are you saying you want to—?”
“Live together?” Edward finished easily. “We practically already do. Might as well find somewhere with a bit of land, don’t you think?”
Jonathan’s eyes fluttered shut, the suggestion hitting him somewhere deep and tender. He didn’t answer, only pulled Edward closer, holding him tight. When he finally found his voice, it came out low and fragile, something he’d never let anyone else hear.
“I’d like that.”