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The farmer is in love with Shane. He’s never wanted to acknowledge it, but he really is. He loves his goofy smiles (even if Shane never really smiles much), he loves how honest he is (even though his bluntness can hurt at times), and he loves how gentle he is (even if Shane reserves it for his family and chickens… and sometimes for the farmer.) He just can’t help how he feels about Shane.
He can’t help but gaze at Shane across the saloon before eventually standing next to him. He’s never been a drinker, but he can’t help but feel a little childish while holding his glass of cranberry juice while everyone else in the saloon is getting at least a little buzzed. Regardless, he drinks his juice, looking up at Shane. He’d love to get his skin a little irritated from Shane’s stubble…
“You’re staring,” Shane says, interrupting the farmer’s train of thought with a playful grin on his face. He takes a sip of his beer. He goes to the saloon and drinks every night after work, like a routine.
Some people around town tend to talk about Shane’s drinking problem a lot, but the farmer doesn’t trust them very much. When he talks to them, their smiles never reach their eyes, and their tones are honeyed. They also talk about it like Shane can just stop drinking like it’s nothing. The farmer hates it. Shane’s working on it; the farmer knows that.
The farmer scoffs and says, “What? No, I’m just reading the labels on all those bottles.” He points to the bottles of alcohol on the big shelf behind the bar. He would love to tell Shane everything if he could. (...Maybe not everything. It gets to an embarrassing point.) Plus, it’s not like it was a very unbelievable lie to the farmer. He tends to stare at random things when he’s bored… but how could he ever be bored around Shane?
“Yeah, right. Like the labels aren’t the same every yoba-damn night.” He gently elbows the farmer. “Name one new thing about those bottles that makes them so damn interesting.” Shane has some bags under his eyes. At least that’s what the farmer has noticed. Well, he always has had bags under his eyes, but these ones are far worse than usual.
The farmer has to hold back a shudder at the contact. He had only moved to Pelican Town just last season, and he’s not the most socially skilled, so he’s been a bit lonely to say the least. “Just because I’m looking at something doesn’t make it interesting,” The farmer tells Shane, playfully rolling his eyes. “And there’s nothing new about them, either, since you wanna know so damn badly.” The farmer yawns. Now that he thinks about it, he’s been pretty tired lately. It probably just has something to do with the upcoming change of seasons. “I might go home soon.”
A thought pops into the farmer’s head of inviting Shane over, of letting Shane sleep with him in his bed. It would be so irrational for him to even try to suggest something like that, but the thought of cuddling up close, letting Shane see the most vulnerable parts of him, being close, falling asleep by each other’s side, even if nothing really happens… It’s something for him to think about later. It makes him feel a little comforted, yet disgusted. Shane’s his friend, and he’s going through a lot, yet here the farmer is, pining after him.
Shane clears his throat with a grunt, glancing away from the farmer for a few moments, as if he’s hiding something from the farmer in just that small noise. Something about it makes a wild feeling flutter around in the farmer’s stomach “Really? I was gonna go to the pond and smoke a bit before ending the night.” Shane raises an eyebrow, bringing his gaze back to the other man. “And if little farm boy isn’t tired, I’ll be smoking without any company, and I’ll be oh so alone.”
(His knees feel weak from being called a little farm boy. He can’t tell if he hates it or loves it.) “Oh, trust me, I can stay up,” the farmer insists before chugging the rest of his juice. He’d pull an all-nighter if Shane asked. Hell, he’d do anything for the other man. It didn’t really help that for some reason the farmer just… really liked watching Shane smoke. Something about the smell, the sight of the gray trails in the air, and then Shane attached to it was so attractive to him.
Shane grins and drinks the rest of his beer before they walk out together. The farmer can hardly believe that he’s standing upright with how weak his legs feel. They practically amble to the little pond by Marnie’s ranch before they sit on the dock together. The farmer can feel Shane’s body heat beside him. He wants to lean against Shane so badly. (To really get that heat on his skin.) Shane takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and takes out his lighter. The cigarettes are a cheap brand, but smoking is an expensive hobby nowadays, and the lighter is a simple dark shade of blue. (Something about the simplicity is comforting.) The farmer stares at Shane’s hands. (The way his thumb rubs against the lighter.) His gaze travels up to Shane’s lips as he lights it. The farmer can’t help but wonder what Shane’s mouth tastes like. He’ll never know, but Yoba, how he loves to imagine. (Cigarettes, beer, maybe hints of shitty Joja brand frozen pizza. Something about it, as gross as it is, feels a bit romantic. A bit real.)
The farmer’s show is interrupted pretty quickly. “You’re staring… again,” Shane tells the farmer, a dark, harsh tone in his voice. He almost looks annoyed. His eyebrows are lowered, and he’s frowning a little.
“Sorry, I’m just kind of… out of it,” The farmer mumbles, looking away from Shane and at his own reflection in the pond. “My ADHD meds are mostly worn off, and I’m tired.” He feels an ache at the back of his throat. (He hates how emotional he gets sometimes.) Sometimes he feels like he’s been almost crying over the smallest things. But then…
He hears Shane cough.
The farmer’s gaze snaps back to Shane.
Shane takes his cig out of his mouth and holds it between two fingers as he coughs into his elbow on the other arm, facing away from the other man. He hastily wipes his mouth with his free hand before putting it into the pocket of his dirty shorts and continuing to smoke.
“Man, maybe you need to lay off the cigarettes for a while,” The farmer says, trying to muster up a lighter tone. “Are you alright?” He puts a hand on Shane’s shoulder before it slides down to gently rub Shane’s back.
Shane pulls away from the Farmer’s hand. “I can deal with my own shit, farm boy,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes. “It’s probably just allergies.” He glares at him. “I swear, you act like you’re my damn mom sometimes.”
“I…” The farmer trails off and swallows. “Sorry.” He feels a sharp pain in his lungs and grips onto the skin over his ribs, wincing. He swears under his breath. It feels like his lungs are being stretched out, and like there’s something stabbing itself in place in his lungs. The pain is so sharp and loud that he can hardly think straight.
Shane’s expression shifts back into something far more concerned. “Farmer, are you okay?”
“I should go home.”
The farmer hastily gets up from the dock, almost losing his footing as he does so, and runs off to his farm, taking the grassy, rocky shortcut to his farmhouse beside Marnie’s ranch. The moment he gets on his property, he starts coughing. His heart rate spikes when he feels something coming up his throat. (No, no, he’s not sick. He’s felt fine all day, he hasn’t eaten anything out of the usual…) He leans over the grass, his body trembling, unable to keep himself from coughing… then small, blue petals start to fly out of his mouth. His anxiety isn’t letting himself think straight enough to be horrified at the sight. He just can’t help but be relieved that he isn’t throwing up in the grass.
He clears his throat when his coughing fit is over, a few flowers making their way out of his throat, and slowly makes his way to his little house. He spits the petals into his hand and inspects them. He’s been getting better at identifying flowers recently. They’re blue hydrangeas. (He’s pretty sure those are poisonous. That means he can’t swallow them down. Dammit!) He stops by his plants and stares at them, then he looks up at the sky. Imagine being his grandpa right now. Imagine letting your grandson inherit your farm and all he’s doing is coughing up flowers over a man.
He tosses the flower petals onto the ground before opening the door to his home. He pets his cat, with his hand that isn’t covered in spit, and then he kicks off his boots. He strips off his clothes, tossing them into a hamper, then he makes his way to his bathroom. He turns on his shower and rips a small bandage off of his thigh from his T-shot that morning. (Maybe that’s why he’s so worked up over Shane today.) He then stares at himself in the mirror for a few seconds, wiping his mouth with his arm. He always manages to get dirty during the day. It was natural for a farmer, especially one who forages like he does. He moves himself to the shower and lets himself warm up under the spray.
When he relaxes a little in the warmth of the water, the dirt and oil being rinsed off of his skin, the dread finally sets in. His stomach drops, his eyes widening as he looks up at the ceiling.
He’s sick. He’s going to be really sick soon if he doesn’t act on it, but he can’t act on it here. Not in little Pelican Town, where the church is attached to the only grocery store other than Jojamart. The pain in the back of his throat grows again, spreading to his palette. He lets out a quiet, pathetic sob and wipes his eyes, even if his face is already wet from the warm water. Even in the shower he felt disgusting.
He’s got to calm down somehow, though. Most of the time, showers work really well. He always feels a need at the end of the day to wash everything off of his body. The dirt, dead skin, stress, and sweat, all rinsed off into the drain, his body and mind getting cleansed by soap. In a way, it was almost religious or spiritual to him, like repenting for his sins. Well, he isn’t very sure about that, since he’s never really been religious. What he is sure about is that he loves being clean.
The farmer pants a little after planting his summer plants, looking proudly at the fertile soil with pride in his eyes, a small grin on his face, and a watering can in his hand. Farming is very tiring, especially for somebody breathing around petals, but it’s very rewarding. He hears footsteps coming from the entrance of his farm. He turns his head to see Shane. “Oh, hey, man.” He clears his throat a little, feeling those little petals rise in his throat just a bit, but not enough to choke yet.
“You seem… a little unwell,” Shane points out, raising an eyebrow. He walks up a little closer to the farmer, furrowing his eyebrows. “You’re pretty out of breath.” He puts a hand on the farmer’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb on him.
The farmer shrugs, almost leaning into Shane’s touch. He’s a mess. “I’m alright. Farming’s hard work.” He looks at Shane, his expression melting into something a little softer, his eyebrows lowering into a more relaxed position. (He wants to get closer. To touch him. To hold his hand. Even just graze his fingers.) “You taking the day off of work?” He asks.
“Yeah, just had a doctor’s appointment this morning,” Shane admits. He sighs. “I… I’ve also just been a little stressed.” Shane runs his fingers through his dark hair. His hair was always a bit oily and messy, a contrast to the farmer’s clean hair that he washed every night. The farmer has never really cared about that, though.
The farmer raises his eyebrows back up again. “What’s wrong?” the farmer asks, nearly immediately. He lets himself get a little closer, looking up at Shane.
Shane glances away from the other man. “Just… work.” He’s lying through his fucking teeth. The farmer can tell. He hates it. Shane’s always been honest, especially with him. He can’t help but wonder why he’s holding back now.
“Shane, you can be honest with me,” the farmer insists. He puts a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “It’ll stay between us. I promise.” Their faces are so close that he can practically feel Shane’s breath against his face. He drops his empty watering can beside him.
“I can’t tell you.” Shane takes a step back, separating himself from the farmer. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. The farmer practically yearns for the simple touch on his shoulder again.
“Why not?” The farmer takes a step back as well, not even because he wants to. He’s just trying to match Shane’s energy and meet him where he’s at. If he wants space… well, what else can the farmer give him?
“If I told you, you’d know what I can’t tell you!”
The farmer scoffs. (What the hell is up with Shane that’s so damn important that he can’t tell the farmer like he has with practically everything else?) “Why even bring it up, then?” He picks his watering can back up and puts it in his bag.
Shane groans and gently tugs at a handful of hair on the side of his head. “I don’t know! Why are you always so damn eager to hear about my fucking issues anyway?!”
The two men look at each other, staying quiet for a few seconds. The fall wind makes the farmer’s slightly longer hair blow in the wind. The farmer furrows his eyebrows and coughs into his elbow. Shane clears his throat and then swallows.
The farmer’s face crumples a little.“Why are we fighting?” He asks quietly. “Every time we talk now, it turns into an argument. We just get irritated and pissed for no reason…” He pauses. “Well, there has to be a reason.” A part of him hates getting vulnerable like this. There’s a bit of pain in the roof of his mouth. He might cry, and he almost hates that even more.
“Maybe we can talk about it later… I feel like everybody is listening to everything.”
“I hate this town… I mean, I don’t, but I do.”
“Me too.”
The farmer coughs, exploring the mines, his bag heavy from all the rocks and stones he’s collecting. He coughs again, feeling something larger in his throat. His breathing becomes labored, his chest rising and falling almost dramatically. (He should probably start heading home… it’s getting late…) He makes his way to the elevator, holding the skin on his ribs tightly. He can’t wait to get home and shower. He feels like shit.
He can’t help but wonder what Shane’s doing right now as his eyes grow heavier and he stands in the rusty elevator. Maybe he’s laying awake in his room overthinking, or he’s brushing his teeth and staring at himself in his bathroom mirror. Maybe he’s staring at the trash on the floor of his room, feeling paralyzed like the farmer feels every time he looks at the petals in his hands.
When he gets out of the mines, he’s practically stumbling on his way home. He walks beside the river going through town, taking a second to stop and look at the Jojamart across it and snarl. He hates that place. He hates how it sucks the life out of Shane with everything going on with him. He hates how it takes over the economy of this damn town. He hollers something at the store, giving it a crude hand gesture before going back on his way. He stops at Pierre’s, his vision feeling a bit blurrier, which is odd since he’s wearing his glasses.
“Farmer. Farmer?”
The farmer opens his eyes, feeling two warm hands gently shaking. When his eyes adjust, he sees a familiar face. “Shane..?” His face goes red and he coughs a little more, something finally getting lodged in his throat. He would gasp, but he couldn't. His eyes widen and he reaches up for his throat. He can almost taste the flowery scent, and the smell almost suffocates him more than the actual flower lodged in his throat.
“Oh- Oh, Yoba!” Shane picks the farmer up and presses him close… (not for anything romantic, just to do the Heimlich maneuver.) He presses his hands against the farmer’s stomach, trying to get whatever he’s choking on out of his throat. The farmer has done so much for him. Shane has gotten so much better over the time the farmer has considered even interacting with him in ways other than criticizing him like the rest of the damn town does. Saving his life is the least he can do.
Eventually, the farmer manages to spit up a whole hydrangea, and he looks down at it, the petals fresh, yet dying and pathetic, just like he is. He trembles as Shane’s arms linger around him, tears lining the bottom of his eyelids.
“Yoba, farmer, I know you eat weird shit, but dammit! Those are fucking poisonous!” Shane scolds, gently setting him down. “Are you okay? That.. that was massive!”
The farmer turns towards Shane. “I’m a farmer who forages, I know what is and isn’t poisonous,” he murmurs.
Shane’s eyes go wide and he steps away from the farmer. He looks almost a little pale as a realization comes on his face. “Farmer, I…”
The farmer almost recoils at the horror on Shane’s face. His cover has just been blown. His mouth and throat hurt. His lungs hurt. His heart hurts. He feels his body grow cold, yet it sweats profusely. Before he can think about it, he bolts, gasping for breath with every step, his boots thudding against the dirt road on the way to his little house.
He’s filthy. Filthy. He’s disgusting. Covered in dirt and grime from the mines and sleeping on the cobblestone where everyone in town has walked on. Lungs full of poisonous flowers from nights spent pining after him, evenings spent staring into his eyes when they chat, afternoons visiting him at work, and mornings spent meeting at his house and walking to work.
When the farmer gets home, he walks to his bathroom immediately, stripping as he makes his way over. He turns on his shower before sticking his hand in, wincing at the cold water flowing against his shaky fingers. He runs his other hand through his hair and lets out an uncomfortable groan at the feeling of the oil built up in it. He’s filthy.
“Well… Shane, it seems like you’ve gotten far better since your last appointment. The dead pansies are a really good sign, actually,” Dr. Harvey tells Shane, looking at the papers on his clipboard. “Have there been any recent, good developments?” Harvey fidgets with his pen, twirling it in his fingers.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that they were good,” Shane admits, looking down at his shitty, old sneakers. He gently grips one of the armrests of the chair he’s sitting in. He can’t help but feel even worse than he ever did when the disease was at its very worst. He’s killing the farmer without even trying.
Harvey looks up from the papers, tilting his head in interest. “What was it, then?” He taps his pen against the clipboard.
“They… they have it, too.” Shane feels his throat tighten a little, glancing at the parts of the chair he’s sitting in that have worn down. Maybe he was worn down. Worn down from drinking and smoking… worn down from grief and guilt.
Harvey raises his eyebrows in slight surprise. “Did you tell them?” He begins to look back down at the clipboard, clicking his pen a few times.
“I… I couldn’t bring myself to.” He grabs a tissue from the counter in the little room. “I don’t know why, but it was just… devastating. Harvey, it’s killing them.” He practically chokes on the words, struggling to get them out.
“What’s your favorite flower, Shane?”
“Blue hydrangeas.”
Harvey’s eyes widen. “Shane. You have to tell them. Hydrangeas are far more harmful than little pansies!”
Shane wipes his eyes with the tissue. “I know, I was just so shocked, I couldn’t think straight! I… I should’ve told them.”
Shane waits in front of the door of the farmer’s home, holding a small bouquet of blue pansies. He gently puts his hand on the door’s handle and opens it, stepping inside. He’s actually never been in the farmer’s house before… something about the clutter and little collections was almost comforting to him in a way. The farmer has plenty of posters around their room of bands and movies they like all over their walls, shelves of dusty figures, a desk with a bunch of artsy crap scattered all over it. He pauses his looking around when he sees the shoe rack beside the door. He takes off his sneakers in case the farmer prefers people to keep their shoes off in the house.
He looks at the little couch, sitting in front of a little TV, and hesitantly sits down. He knows that the farmer usually comes home around this time, but the minutes are starting to feel like hours as he waits. He just wants to talk to him. To apologize for practically killing him. A part of him wants to know how long he’s even liked Shane, or maybe even when he felt like his feelings weren’t reciprocated. He turns his head when he hears the door fly open.
The farmer kicks off his boots, not quite noticing the whole ass grown man in his house. He only notices when he grabs the bottom of his shirt, about to strip like he does every evening before he showers, and Shane exclaims, “Woah! At least take me to dinner first!”
The farmer goes bright red and lets go of the bottom of his shirt. Not a lot of people come into his home very often. “Oh! Shit! Sorry, Shane, I- I had no idea you were in here.” He makes his way over to the couch and sits beside the other man. He coughs a little, shoving his nose in his elbow. “Are you here for anything in particular?”
The composure in Shane’s expression falters a little when the farmer coughs, but he smiles softly. “I just wanted to talk.” He gently raises the bouquet.
The farmer gasps. “Shane…” He looks up at him, already feeling tears build up on his bottom lashes. “How did you know?” He really doesn’t want to cry. He tries not to when he’s in front of people; that's reserved for the nights when he can’t sleep.
“The same way you know my favorite flower.”
The farmer can’t help but let a few tears out, even if he’s trying to blink them away. He rubs his eyes and murmurs, “Shane, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you think I like you?” He sobs a little, looking up at Shane, but then he blushes and glances away.
Shane gently sets the pansies down on the coffee table and puts his arms around the farmer. “I don’t know you just seemed so out of reach for me…” The thought feels kind of silly now that the farmer is sobbing in his arms. He seems a lot more human right now than he did before. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
The farmer ends up letting himself bury his face in Shane’s shoulder. “You danced with Emily at the flower dance…” He admits quietly. He remembers that day very clearly… along with how nobody gave him a memo about the dress code. All of the single guys were in their blue suits and all the single ladies were in their frilly, white dresses while the farmer was in his regular ass clothes like all the married folks. He felt ridiculous. On top of all that, he was standing in the corner, yearning for Shane across the dance floor as Shane danced with Emily!
“It was more of a lavender couple sort of thing, farmer… I promise,” Shane assures him, holding him closer. “Plus, I wanted to dance with you anyway.”
“Aww, you’re sweet,” the farmer says, his voice muffled by Shane’s shoulder. He looks up at Shane, still sniffling a little, and they can feel each other’s breath on their cheeks. The farmer looks into Shane’s eyes… and then he pulls away to grab a tissue from the box on his coffee table and he very loudly blows his nose before throwing out the tissue in a nearby trash can. He then looks at Shane again.
Shane laughs, pulling the farmer closer. “You’re ridiculous!” He takes a good look at the farmer’s lips before looking back up to his eyes. “Am I going to get snot on me if I kiss you?” He asks teasingly, cupping the farmer’s cheek in one of his big hands.
“I think I blew my nose pretty well, asshole,” The farmer quips back, grinning a little. He presses his chest against Shane’s and touches their foreheads together. “Kiss me, big guy.”