Archive of Our Own

1. Butch

The town baked as the sun reached the very top of the sky. Joanie carefully dismounted from her horse and walked down the street towards the general store. The dust stuck to her sweat-damp skin, irritating her eyes and nose, but she was determined not to let it bother her. Her father had trusted her to come into town by herself for the first time today. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. Nothing was going to ruin this for her.

Although, that was easier said than done these days when it felt like just about everything about her was wrong. 

Her neck prickled where her brown braid brushed against her neck. That wasn’t right and not just because it was becoming wet with sweat itself. She had never liked how long her hair was. Her mother said it was beautiful the way it ran down her back and nearly to her waist, but she didn’t know what it was like to dream of being strangled by thick ropes of her own overgrown hair. 

Joanie reached the shopfront, and a small brown and white dog trotted up to her. He yipped excitedly, and she bent to stroke his soft, floppy ears. She resisted the urge to kneel down and play with him. She was on a mission, and she couldn’t be distracted from it.

Not even if she felt trapped by her own clothes. Her skirt rustled around her as she walked, her legs bumping into its edge with each step. It made riding a horse a lot more difficult too, but her mother was clear. The family may have been a long ways away from the more civilized cities, but the women of the family would wear skirts.

“Afternoon, Joanie!” 

“Afternoon, Mr. Andrews,” Joanie replied, infusing her voice with cheerfulness.

“Anything I can help you with, little lady?”

Joanie shook her head with a tight smile.

She walked among the wooden shelves, searching for the items she had been sent to get. It was going just fine until she felt a tug holding her back. She turned to find that her skirt had been snagged on a nail. In an instant, she was back to feeling plumb outraged over the unfairness of it all.

Perhaps the skirt was meant to demonstrate her dignity, but all Joanie felt was trapped. Why should she be forced to deal with so much fabric and restriction? Pants would have been so much nicer. More her. She’d heard that a bit of discomfort was just a part of growing up, but she wasn’t so sure. Surely not all girls felt like they were being suffocated by their own appearance.

She wasn’t even sure she wanted to be a girl.

Joanie took a deep breath to clear her head. She wasn’t here to bellyache over what she didn’t understand. She was here to purchase coffee beans, sugar, and a bit of bacon. That was what she was going to do, and she might as well get a wiggle on.

Luckily, it wasn’t too difficult of a task. She got herself the coffee and sugar without any trouble, and then she asked Mr. Andrews to cut the bacon for her. He whistled as he measured it out for her, and she glanced around the shop awkwardly.

She was surrounded by everything a person could need to run a functional household. There was food of all sorts, colorful fabric of the kind Joanie’s mother used to sew her skirts from, more durable fabric for men’s clothes, lanterns, and basically everything else. Her eyes caught for a moment on the guns. Annabelle had mentioned buying guns recently. Something about being prepared for any eventuality and maybe robbing a bank. Joanie wasn’t sure what that was about, but if it made Annabelle happy, she’d go along with it.

Her examination of the store was nearly complete when a small book lying on the counter caught her eye.

“Selected Works of Lord Cunningsworth,” she read softly to herself.

“Yep,” Mr. Andrews handed her the bacon. “You read much poetry, Joanie?”

“No. Never.”

“You should try some. The poems in there are real good.”

Joanie turned back to him. “Maybe another time. I’m really only here for the grub.” She handed him the required silver coins.

He smiled at her and reached over, picking up the book to hand it to her. “Here. No charge. Just give it a shot.”

“Oh. Th- Thanks, Mr. Andrews. That’s real kind of you.” Joanie took the book and something in her leaped at the feel of the slim volume in her hands.

“Don’t mention it. You have a good day, now.”

“I will. You too.”

In a bit of a daze, Joanie left the store, nearly tripping over the dog on her way out. She was burning with curiosity. She wasn’t sure what to expect from poetry, but she couldn’t wait to find out.

What with returning home and doing her chores, Joanie didn’t get a chance to investigate further until that night. After her parents were asleep, she crept to the window, thanking her lucky stars that there was a full moon and a clear sky to keep her company.

She opened the book to a page at random and read her first ever poem by the pale light of the moon.

When I at night do lie awake and think

of who I am and who I’m meant to be,

I ponder life’s strong bond with mystery.

for I must understand before the ink

can dry on pages that have yet to drink

the words that will define identity

and tell the world the certain truth of me.

Until I do I cannot sleep a wink

Then I recall that truth does not feel shame.

It doesn’t hide from us; It isn’t shy.

You won’t find it escaping in the night.

Instead it burns quite brightly like a flame

that, though it may be hid or almost die,

will always in the end flare up quite bright.

The words filled her to the brim, and somehow, she came to a decision without knowing she had been pondering a question.

The next morning, Joanie took a knife to her hair. Her mother was fit to be tied, but it was worth it. The next time she was in town, Joanie was going to buy herself some pants.

2. Johnny

Johnny was awake and confused. It was still dark outside, but he had no idea what had woken him. For once, it wasn’t because of a dream. He turned to look at Janae, whose eyes were also wide open.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Johnny asked.

“The crash. It was downstairs. Lots of glass broke, and I think-”

A car alarm started going off. It was nearby enough to be scary.

Johnny could barely breathe. “I had a dream that-”

“I know.” Janae nodded seriously. “I think a car has crashed into the house. I’m going to see how much damage has been done.”

“Wait.” Johnny grabbed Janae’s wrist. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Listen.”

They fell silent. The honking of the car was still going, but now it went along with shouting. Very angry shouting. There was a stranger’s voice, but it was mostly two very familiar voices going back and forth.

“They’re fighting,” Johnny said.

“A vehicle has most likely just done substantial damage to our house. Tensions are likely to run high.”

“I know, but… I don’t like it when they fight.”

Janae didn’t respond out loud, but after a moment, Johnny felt small arms wrap around him. He hugged Janae back.

They stayed like that for a long time. Eventually, the car alarm stopped. Much later, the shouting went quiet too. At some point, Janae fell back to sleep, but Johnny couldn’t. He kept waiting, wishing for Mummy or Daddy to come upstairs and check that the two of them were all right.

They never did.

The alarm went off - the time-to-wake-up one, not the car one - and Johnny stopped lying down. He was nearly fully dressed by the time Janae managed to pull himself out from under the covers. At least he hadn’t needed Johnny to shake him awake. Johnny wasn’t sure he had the energy for that today.

With a yawn, Johnny trudged downstairs for breakfast. His parents were already there: his father reading the newspaper and his mother scrolling on her phone. They were not looking at each other, and you could tell they were doing it on purpose. 

He got out the cereal and milk, pouring them in a bowl for himself before passing them to Janae, who put them away when he was done. Johnny had to move the milk from the cabinet to the fridge. For a genius, Janae was awfully scatter-brained about some things. 

Breakfast was silent, which only made Johnny feel more lost. Nothing was how it should be this morning. A car had hit their house. That was bad. Mummy and Daddy weren’t talking. That was also bad. Janae put his shoes on the wrong feet before they left. That was… normal, actually.

After ensuring Janae got to university safely, Johnny made his way to school. This day was not looking like it was going to get any better. By the time he was seated in his first class, he’d been run into three times, dropped a book twice, and had yoghurt spilled on him once. The morning had been awful, and maths hadn’t even started yet.

“All right, class. Today, we’re going to talk about the quadratic formula.” 

The class went by in a blur, mostly because Johnny fell asleep within a few minutes. He was startled awake by Miss Carruthers coming in and dropping her English textbook onto the front desk with a bang. For a moment, Johnny thought that that was the sound of a vehicle hitting the school’s wall, even though that was a ridiculous thing to think. Once his heart returned to a normal speed, he pulled out his English notebook, hoping that Janae would have time tonight to help him understand all the maths he’d missed.

“Good morning, students,” Miss Carruthers said. She was a petite woman with a quiet voice and a loud fashion sense who had difficulty understanding that not everyone was as interested in classic literature as she was. “Who can tell me what we’ve been studying lately?”

There was no response, but Miss Carruthers took that in stride. 

“Poetry! We’ve been learning all about famous poets and the poetic forms they used! Now, today, we’re going to start talking about the Romantic Era.”

She walked to the whiteboard and wrote the words ‘Romantic Era’ with a black marker. Then she wrote ‘1790-1850.’

“The Romantic Era was a time when poets explored strong emotion. That could be romance and love, but it also included any powerful emotion. Nature was another important topic of poetry during this time.”

Johnny’s eyes were drooping again. He rested his elbow on his desk and used his hand to prop his head up.

“Can anyone name a Romantic Era poet?”

The class remained silent.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve all heard of at least one. There’s William Wordsworth, Lord Byron, Percy Shelley, John Keates… Do any of those sound familiar?”

Johnny wondered if his parents would be speaking again after school. If they weren’t, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He and Janae could get on by themselves, but with the giant hole in the side of the house, he didn’t want to be left alone. He’d really like a hug, actually.

“Well, that’s all right. Today, we’re going to read a poem by a different poet from that era: Lord Percy Cunningsworth. He wrote hundreds of poems, and he was an experimenter.” She was doing that thing where she tried to get everyone excited by pretending they were four-year-olds. “He wrote a lot of different types of poems, and today we’re going to look at a villanelle. If you’ve read Dylan Thomas’s ‘Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night,’ you’ll recognize this form.” 

She started passing out sheets of paper with the poem printed on them. Johnny tried to push down the gnawing feeling of abandonment. He had already missed one class today; he couldn’t afford to miss another.

“Now, this form originated in France, but Lord Cunningsworth enjoyed trying out styles from other countries. You’ll notice the repeating lines. Think about what emotions they evoke as you read.”

Johnny had to squeeze every bit of focus he had in his tired, overwhelmed brain to read the poem.

Your touch will calm my beating heart,

and bring with it when it draws near

a peace that shall never depart.

The pain of life tears me apart,

and though my body’s fraught with fear,

your touch will calm my beating heart.

My trials cause my wounds to smart.

But they are naught when you are here,

with peace that shall never depart.

Your kindness is a work of art

My spirits rise when you appear.

Your touch will calm my beating heart.

With every word you do impart

me with an endless sense of cheer

and peace that shall never depart.

You bring me joy I cannot chart

You pull me close and call me ‘dear.’

Your touch will calm my beating heart,

a peace that shall never depart. 

The tightness in Johnny’s chest loosened. Miss Carruthers started talking more about the rhymes and rhythm, and Johnny only half listened. He needed to reread the poem. 

When class ended, most of his classmates turned to talk to each other, but Johnny walked to the front of the classroom.

“Miss Carruthers?” His voice trembled.

“Is everything okay, Johnny?”

“I liked that poem.”

Miss Carruther’s expression lifted. “I’m so glad. Did it make you think of anything in particular?”

Johnny considered that. “I know it’s probably a love poem or something, but it made me think of my little brother.”

“Well, that’s the beauty of poetry. Just because the poet was thinking of one thing when they were writing doesn’t mean you can’t think of something different when you read it.”

“Yeah. Anyway, thanks.”

Mrs. Carruthers frowned thoughtfully. “Are you sure you’re all right, Johnny?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He didn’t even think it was a lie anymore. “Thanks for showing us that poem. It was really neat. I know that’s not a real poetic way to say it, but I’m not good with words. I liked those words though.”

“I’m so glad, Johnny. If you want, I could show you some similar poems after school.”

“I think I’d like that a lot.”

3. Titch

Something was wrong with Titch. He knew this must be the case because why else would he be so terrified? Sure, his relationship with Derek had changed dramatically over the past week, but this? This was nothing new.

Derek smiled down at him, somehow conveying both infinite patience and burning, intense love in a single glance. It was unclear how he managed to do that, but he had been doing it a lot these days. Titch thought he must be a horrible person because in this moment, he hated it more than anything.

How could he smile like that when Titch’s brain was moving faster than the speed of light? Did he not feel as though the walls of Titch’s bedroom were sliding inwards, liable to completely collapse at any moment? How was he completely unfazed? Titch was almost certain a horse was kneeling on his chest, and there Derek was smiling.

“Are you ready, love?” Derek asked, proving just how unaware he was of Titch’s inner turmoil.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea.” Titch blurted out before his brain could catch up to his mouth.

Derek froze for a moment, and Titch was certain nobody in the history of the world was a bigger dick than he was.

“What… What do you mean?”

“I just…” What did Titch mean? “Maybe we should take this a little more slowly?”

“Okay.” Derek nodded and sat down on the bed next to Titch, infuriatingly perfect smile back in place. “We can talk about this.”

“No!” Titch winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. I just need… I need some space?”

“Oh.” Derek’s face fell. “Do you- Do you want me to leave?”

Now that he wasn’t smiling anymore, Titch realized this wounded puppy expression was even worse. He couldn’t meet Derek’s eyes as he nodded.

“All right. I’ll go. Call me if you need anything? Or if you want to talk?”

“Mm-hm,” Titch stared at the carpet. He hated his carpet. It was an ugly green color that no one in their right mind would willingly choose for anything.

There was another heavy silence before Derek responded. “Right. I’ll see you at work tomorrow, love.” Then he was gone.

Titch decided to try to sleep. He didn’t want to think about seeing Derek tomorrow. He didn’t want to face him after what had just happened. And he positively did not want to admit that sex felt so much more scary when it was more than a one-night stand.

There was a reason Titch didn’t go in for real relationships. It was easier to keep people at a distance. But then he’d gone and fallen in love. He had no experience with this, and he was as shaky as a new-born calf. He just hoped he wouldn’t end up hurting Derek.

You’ve already hurt him, a nasty voice in the back of his head pointed out. Didn’t you see his face when you told him to leave?

Titch squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shut the voice out. It didn’t work, and it continued not working until the wee hours of the morning. Finally giving up on sleep, Titch got out of bed. He threw on clothing at random and went outside. 

He didn’t have any idea where he was going; he didn’t even think he was going anywhere in particular. He was blind to his surroundings, only concerned with getting away from everything: his claustrophobic bedroom, his feelings, tomorrow morning. If he walked fast enough, maybe he’d be able to escape the whirlwind of fear and guilt swirling through him.

Perhaps his feet knew better than he did, or perhaps there was some deeper magic involved. In either case, Titch came to a sudden halt. He blinked, realizing that he had made it to town. A second later he realized exactly where he was standing and sighed. Of course.

As soon as he turned to face the door in front of him, it swung open, revealing a rather exasperated maybe-a-witch.

“Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to tell me what you want? It’s way too early to beat around the bush, so if you’re not going to take some initiative, I’m going back to bed.”

Titch did not point out that he hadn’t actually asked Margery to wake up and that he hadn’t, in fact, spoken to her in several days. She wasn’t the kind of person to care about details like that. Besides, it was entirely possible he somehow had woken her up through the thoughts that had been rushing through his brain too quickly to fully grasp.

What was he meant to be doing? Right. Telling Margery what he wanted. What did he want? He was far too tired for this. He hadn’t slept, his shoes were mismatched, and he might have just ruined his best chance for a relationship in his whole life. His eyes burned.

Margery’s face softened slightly. “All right. Having trouble saying it?”

Titch nodded, barely holding back tears.

“Then I think what you’re looking for are some words. Give me a moment.”

Titch didn’t see her move, but then again, he wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. It was possible he just hadn’t noticed. At any rate, she now had an extremely well-worn book in her hand.

“First edition,” she said, handing it to Titch. “Now, I’m not selling this. I’m lending it. I want it back in one piece, got it?”

“Sure.” Titch examined the cover. “Lord Cunningsworth. I’m not- I’m not a high school student anymore. Poetry isn’t-”

“Well, if you don’t want it, that’s up to you, but let me tell you, it’s exactly what you need.”

“I- Sure. Thank you, Margery.”

“Yep. I’m wonderfully kind, blah, blah, blah. The sooner you go back to your boyfriend, the sooner I can get some sleep.”

The door closed, and Titch was alone again. He flipped through the pages of poetry, wondering exactly what Margery’s point had been. Did she ever really have a point, or was she just making it all up as she went along?

He read as he walked back to the farm with relative ease. He only nearly tripped fourteen times. The poetry was keeping him from breaking down any further, but it wasn’t really giving him any answers. He flipped forward a few pages.

Friendship is a sturdy tree, growing ever tall.

Reaching heights beyond the clouds, it shall never fall.

Although the tree is safety, there is something more,

Not rooted in just one place, stuck to Earth’s great floor.

Keeping to the well-known path, never asking why,

Leaves you only with the tree, unable to fly.

I once chose to spread my wings, reach for sky above.

Now we can be so much more, for we call it love.

Around the second line, Titch stopped walking. Once he finished, he closed the book and started running.

This was quickly proven to be a bad idea when he collided with something tall and lanky, knocking the air out of his lungs.

“Whoa, there,” Derek caught him before he could fall and pulled him close to his chest. “All right?”

“Um.” That question had an easy answer and an extremely difficult answer. “Maybe.”

Derek stepped back to look at Titch’s face. There was a shimmer of amusement in his eyes. He wasn’t outwardly angry or hurt, which was a blessing Titch wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Care to elaborate on that, love?” Titch was still ‘love.’ That was good.

“I- I read a poem.” 

“Was it good?”

“Yeah. It was- It was good. I have to give it back to Margery soon.”

“That’s all right.” Derek clearly didn’t know what was going on, and Titch didn’t blame him for that. He needed to start saying the things that actually mattered.

“Derek, I’m sorry I pushed you away. This is scary for me, and I don’t- I don’t know exactly why, but it is. I want-” His voice caught. “I want us. You and me, and I’m trying, but-”

Derek cut him off by pulling him into a hug. “It’s all right, love. We can take our time.”

“I love you, Derek.”

“Love you too.”

4. Sammy

This really was an awful way to live. The worst part of it was that Sammy couldn’t even figure out what would be better. Realistically, that is. He was more than capable of imagining many brilliant futures that were about as likely as a human baby being born with their heart and lungs reversed (that’s less than a 1 in 10,000 chance).

If he were the type to spend hours daydreaming about the life he really wanted (he was, but only because he had so much free time on his trunk), Sammy would say he wanted to be afforded the same privileges humans had. He wanted to go to school, to speak to someone and have them understand him, to be treated as an equal. It didn’t matter, though. Sammy might as well say he wanted to go to the moon for how likely he was to ever be happy.

He was stuck in this prison of a cage, surrounded by loud, bratty children who didn’t even want to see him, and he was almost certain to either die in captivity or deep in some forest where there was zero intelligent conversation whatsoever. Life was an endless, boring slog from one meal to the next.

Well, things could be worse. He got apples for a treat sometimes, and he had hidden away two stolen books he had taught himself to read: a medical textbook and a thick informational text about cybernetics. He had been lucky that the group of college students who had come to the circus-zoo hadn’t been watching their possessions too carefully. 

He wouldn’t mind more reading material, come to think of it. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. He could probably do it today. Stealing more books would improve his life, and it was much more likely to be achievable than situs inversis. The odds of that would probably be more on par with a random human man being under six feet tall (about an 84% chance).

“Mummy, mummy look at that elephant! He’s so tiny! Is he a dwarf?”

Sammy humphed to himself. He was not a dwarf. That wasn’t even the correct way to say it. If anything, he’d be an elephant with dwarfism, which he wasn’t. Sammy was not finished growing. He would become larger. Danny said so. Of course, Sammy didn’t have any information about size percentiles for elephants, so he didn’t have any way to tell for sure. It just seemed likely that he’d eventually be as big as people seemed to expect an elephant to be. Dwarfism was rare in humans (only 1 in about 20,000 people); it must be rare in elephants too.

Sometimes Sammy wished he had enough memory of other elephants to compare.

He hoped he wouldn’t always be tiny.

The adult with the small child who didn’t understand basic medical terminology tugged at the child’s arm to guide them away. It was likely the mother, Sammy thought. She looked tired. So many humans looked tired, but mothers always looked the most tired. If Sammy had to raise a human from scratch, he imagined he’d be tired too. He did sometimes wonder why fathers never looked quite as exhausted, though.

The day went on, and people came and went. Sammy kept an eye out for books. It was nice to have a goal; that was something he could control. This particular goal was to find a book that was within reach of his trunk. He saw many books pass by, but all of them were either far away or impossible to steal because their owners were reasonably alert. 

Sammy didn’t want to think about how effective a pickpocket he’d become over the past few years. He liked to consider himself a fairly ethical elephant, and it was difficult to reconcile that with his blatant thievery. For the most part, he just reminded himself that if he didn’t take some initiative to get himself things, he’d probably have gone insane long ago. Who knows how unethical he’d be if he had a mental breakdown that caused him permanent damage.

Around noon (based on Sammy’s meticulous study on the relationship between the position of the sun, the month showing on Danny’s calendar, and what time the humans said it was), his patience (Was it called patience if you didn’t have any other choice?) was rewarded. There, leaning against the edge of Sammy’s enclosure, was a bored looking teenager scrolling on their phone. A promising-looking green corner poking out of their messenger bag. 

Sammy did his best to appear nonchalant as he strolled towards the holy grail dangling temptingly in front of him. For once, he was lucky nobody liked watching him much. It only took about thirty seconds for Sammy to be certain no one was looking in his direction.

His trunk struck like a snake, plucking the book from the bag and quickly tucking it close to his body. He turned around, blocking his prize from view. After a few minutes, he ambled over to his hiding spot (the one not even Danny knew about), and tucked the book away. Mission successful. He couldn’t wait for closing time.

Usually, Sammy loved it when Danny came to talk to him after the circus-zoo closed. Today, though, he just wanted to be left alone. As soon as Danny was finished with him, he tread over to where he’d hidden the book away and scooped it up in his trunk.

This was the first time he’d been able to get a good look at what he’d obtained. It was well-worn; one corner of the paper cover had been torn away to reveal the page underneath. It had a barcode stuck to the back that revealed it to be a library book. Did that make the thievery better or worse? Sammy decided that surely no library would deny someone the chance to read. 

Besides, the book was damaged enough that it probably would have been retired soon (or whatever the proper phrasing was). He couldn’t even read the title printed on the cover; it was so faded.

The title page revealed that what Sammy was holding was a poetry anthology. Further investigation led Sammy to learn that this was a word for a book containing many different poems written by different people. 

Sammy thought he might have preferred another non-fiction text, but he supposed he’d have to give poetry a chance. He didn’t have much of a choice. At least this book was like the others in his possession in that he didn’t have to worry about continuity. He could read through it in whatever order he wished (Sammy made the most of whatever small choices he was given in his life).

The book was propped up so that it was close to Sammy’s eye level. With a gentle puff of air from his trunk, he flipped through the pages until one of the titles caught his eye: “The Cage.” His heart did not skip a beat because that would indicate some form of cardiovascular issue, but he was rather interested by the coincidence. He looked over the description:

“‘The Cage’ (1850) by Lord Percy Cunningsworth was likely inspired by tanka, a genre of Japanese poetry consisting of five units or lines that follow a pattern of the Japanese phonetic units known as morae. Lord Cunningsworth substitutes traditional English syllables in a 5-7-5-7-7 pattern. It is unknown what the poem refers to, but scholars theorize Lord Cunningsworth was expressing frustration about being a part of some form of forbidden love, perhaps due to a difference in class.”

Sammy didn’t care much about the form of the poem. All he wanted to know was what the title referred to. Without hesitation, he began reading the poem itself.

They have caged me in. 

I have been bound by those who

think they know me much

better than I know myself.

They do not know me at all.

I cannot speak up,

for if I spoke truthfully,

they would turn my bonds

to a noose around my neck,

cutting me off from this world.

There is some small joy

within my strict boundaries.

I am given that.

So long as I stay quiet,

they will not take that away.

They allow me love,

but not love that shouts from peaks:

love that hides itself

Not because it is ashamed

But because it has no choice.

The cage is safety

And it is a hell on Earth.

It keeps me stable,

With all that I have built up,

But I am trapped within it.

If I could decide:

a prolonged life trapped within

these four metal walls

or leaving it all behind,

I wonder which I would choose.

Sammy traced the words with the tip of his trunk. His eyes watered (Danny said elephants and humans were some of the only animals that cried from emotion). Somehow, he felt less alone.

From that day on, Sammy would reread that poem every day before he went to sleep. Eventually, after he had finally left the prison of the circus/zoo behind, he would share it with Polly and Danny. Danny was never one for poetry, but Polly understood. It truly was the perfect poem.

5. Jeremiah

Bubba sat on the front porch and stared out at the land stretching ahead of him, an empty glass of sun tea on the small table beside him. The air was heavy with as-of-yet unshed rain. Soon, he'd have to go back inside, but for now, he was just enjoying this in-between state, as though the sky was holding its breath.

Not many people realized how beautiful the South really was. They talked about the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, the forests of the Northeast, the beaches along the coast, but nobody talked about the glorious simplicity of Texas's wide open space. It truly was a wonder.

There was a rolling sound of thunder far off in the distance. It wouldn't be long now. The floodgates were sure to burst soon. Bubba stood up and stretched. It was about time for him to cook up something for supper anyway. He took one last look at the landscape before turning to the front door. 

Just as his hand grabbed the handle, he heard a crash - the sound of glass shattering. Instantly alert and concerned, Bubba threw open the door and rushed into the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the scene inside.

There were indeed the remains of a broken glass scattered all across the white linoleum floor. In the center of the shards, Jeremiah sat, his knees pulled against his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around him. His eyes were glazed, and his whole body trembled.

Stepping between the biggest pieces, Bubba picked his way across the room as quickly as he could. He crouched down beside Jeremiah, ignoring the pain in his ankles as he did so.

“Babe? You okay?”

Jeremiah showed no sign of having heard, and he kept his eyes forward, staring at something visible only to him.

“Are you hurt?”

Still nothing. Bubba kept talking as he manipulated Jeremiah's limbs, checking each one to make sure he hadn't been cut by the destroyed glass.

“It's all right, ‘Miah. Everything's all right. You're safe, babe. I promise.”

Jeremiah still didn't acknowledge Bubba's presence, but he had stopped shaking. He felt almost limp now, letting Bubba manhandle him to make sure he was physically fine.

“Right. Let's get you somewhere nicer than the kitchen floor, yeah? That'll be nice, won’t it?”

Bubba ended up having to practically carry Jeremiah out of the kitchen and into the living room. He laid his husband out on the couch and gently kissed his forehead.

“Just breathe, babe. Everything's fine.”

Blinking rapidly, Jeremiah let out a shaky sob. His eyes seemed to refocus, and he turned to cling onto Bubba's shirt.

“You there, ‘Miah?” Bubba knelt beside the couch when Jeremiah didn't let go.

Jeremiah didn't say anything; he just nodded once.

“That's good.” He hesitated a moment before asking, "Flashback?”

Another nod.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“That's all right. Don't really feel like reliving that myself, so unless you think it'll help…”

“No.” Jeremiah's voice was so quiet Bubba almost didn't hear him.

“No problem. In that case, what do you need? Water? Food? Me shutting up and giving you some peace and quiet?” He ran a hand through Jeremiah's hair, playfully fluffing it up.

“Stay?” Jeremiah’s voice caught.

“Of course, baby. Mind if I get us a bit more comfortable? My knees are killing me.”

Jeremiah nodded and smiled weakly. 

Bubba hauled himself to his feet and rearranged the two of them until he was seated on the couch with Jeremiah leaning against his shoulder.

“Anything else, babe?”

“Maybe… talk to me?”

“What should I talk to you about?”

“Anything. Just wanna hear your voice.” Jeremiah cuddled up close to Bubba, like a cat trying to steal as much of his body heat as possible.

“How would you feel about some poetry? That'd be nice, wouldn't it?”

Bubba could feel Jeremiah's face break into a smile. “You always make things ‘bout poetry.”

“Only ‘cause you love it too.”

“Don't want you to leave.” Jeremiah said, somehow clinging to Bubba even more tightly.

“Don't you worry,” Bubba grinned proudly. “I've got one memorized.”

“‘Course you do.”

“Yep. How'd you feel about some Cunningsworth?”

“Mmm. I like him.”

Bubba knew he did. When they'd finally been allowed to be married in the eyes of the law, he'd read one of Cunningsworth's love poems, and Jeremiah had smiled through tears of joy.

And Bubba knew just the poem for right now. It was a sweet one, and it was long enough to induce a sense of calm in anyone. He began speaking in tones as soft as a baby bird’s first feathers.

“It’s cold and dreary as I walk home,

and I crave the simple comfort

of being able to step through the threshold and close

the door that separates me from you.

Then I will know I’m safe in the warm,

soft embrace of love.

Though, perhaps it is mere distraction to speak of love

so blithely, when I’m miles from home,

solely missing the warm

tenderness in your smile. I will be without comfort

until I reach the end of this road and see you,

looking as beautiful as ever, close

to my beating heart. Only then may this long day come to a close.

Everything will be made better, love,

just by the presence of you,

waiting for me at home,

awake until I come in, begging for comfort,

which you will provide. As I keep walking, I feel a warm

feeling that spreads from my core. It serves to warm

my scared, lonely heart before the fear of dark unknown can close

in upon me. Yes, just that thought will comfort

me, though that should come as no surprise, love,

for when I speak of home,

all I want to speak of is you.

Each step I take brings me one step closer to you.

As the hunter would say, I am becoming warm,

the scent of my prey growing strong. I home

in on my greatest want. It gets ever near as I close

in. Finally, I have come far enough to sense your love

and taste the sweet comfort

of returning to where I belong. It is no small comfort

when I finally set eyes upon you,

and I am overcome with love,

for it is only in your arms that I feel warm

after the cold of the rain outside has seeped close

to my very bones. I am home.

Love has come to roost in my chest, and comfort

is near at hand. Home is you:

warm against my skin and always close.”

A comfortable silence fell in the room when Bubba reached the end of the poem.

“Bubba?” Jeremiah murmured.

“Yeah, babe?”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

After a few more minutes, Jeremiah's breathing slowed. Bubba looked down at him, content to just watch his sleeping husband for a time. The tension had left his face, and he looked so peaceful. 

Bubba smiled to himself. He supposed he ought to do something productive. Jeremiah's grip on him had loosened, and he would probably be hungry when he woke up. He'd sweep up the glass and then make some supper. He thought there was some homemade pasta sauce left in the freezer, and nobody could go wrong with spaghetti.

+1. Percy

The words on the paper in front of Percy swam before his eyes. Straight lines of text tumbled over each other in an inky mess. The most recent scribbles were a grey hue, but he’d been at it for so long that most of the ink had dried to a purplish-black color.  

He blinked, fruitlessly hoping that might somehow make everything fall into place. It was a losing battle. He was well and truly stuck. He was surrounded by fragments of verse, figments of ideas, and fractions of phrases, but none of them were good enough. It was up for debate whether any of them were any good at all.

Normally, it wouldn’t bother him that much. All poets had off days after all. It was just that it had been days since he had written anything worth considering, and he was starting to feel like it was hopeless.

There was a knock on the door, which would have made more sense had the door been closed. Percy looked up, and the world blurred temporarily before his eyes as he tried to focus on something more than a meter from his eyes.

“Franklin?” He was fairly sure that was who it was.

“That’s right, my dear. You’ve been up here a long time.”

Percy realized it had become awfully dark outside. “I’ve been trying to write.”

“Why don’t you call it a night? We could spend some time together.” From the twinkle in Franklin’s eyes, Percy could imagine quite well what activity he was envisioning.

“In a little while. I want to get something down.”

“What do you mean? You have loads of stuff down,” Franklin said, coming to stand beside Percy’s chair. “I mean, look.” He picked up one of the pages from the pile and laughed. “You’ve got a list of about twenty rhymes for ‘heart.’ What more could you want?”

Percy groaned and rested his head on his desk.

“Percy?” Franklin’s voice softened. “Are you all right?”

“I can’t make anything work! All I have are- are rhymes, and half-cocked ideas. I mean, look!” He propped his head up and slid a different page in Franklin’s direction.

“That’s my name.”

“I know,” Percy said dejectedly.

“I mean, I’ve not seen it written vertically before. That’s new. What’s it for?”

“That’s what I mean! I can’t make it work.”

“You can’t make what work?”

“The poem!”

“Well, maybe a break would do you good. You can come back tomorrow when you’re fresher.”

“Is there really any point?”

“Percy, you don’t mean that. You’re a wonderful poet. You know that. You’ll figure it out.”

“And then what? Will it even matter?” In the back of his mind, Percy knew he wasn’t reacting proportionally to the situation, but he’d been fruitlessly poring over half-sentences for hours. He was edging near hysteria.

“Of course it’ll matter, my dear. People love your poetry.” Franklin put a hand on Percy’s back and began rubbing soothing circles into it.

“But does it actually make anything better? Poetry is supposed to help people understand the world, and- and- make them feel understood themselves. Is anything I write ever going to do that?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course it will. It already has. Every time you read me one of your poems, my life gets a little better. You’ve written amazing things, and you’ll write more amazing things. You’re a pro.”

“Pro?” Percy looked up at Franklin with a weak smile.

“You know, a whiz, an ace, an expert in your field.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Now, come on. I’m going to make you get some decent sleep, so we don’t have all night.”

Percy gave a small nod of agreement and stood up. Black spots crowded his vision, and his knees buckled beneath him.

“Whoa. Okay.” Franklin caught him. “You have to take care of yourself, my dear. Have you moved at all since noon?”

“I-” Percy swallowed and slowly straightened so that he was supporting his own weight again. “No.”

Franklin sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in the sound. “That’s what happens when I don’t check on you, is it? Here I thought I was giving you some space to work. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“I’m fine now.”

“I should hope so.” Franklin winked at him. “Ready to go?” 

“Yes, please.”

In an instant, they were in Percy’s bedroom. Franklin kissed Percy slowly and painstakingly along his body. It was glorious.

“By the way, Percy?” Franklin pulled away for a moment, and Percy briefly mourned the loss.

“Yes?”

“I’ve got a poem for you myself.”

“Do you?”

“Yes indeed. You’ll like it, I think.”

“You should tell it to me sometime.”

“No time like the present. I think it’s appropriate for this moment.”

“Then I’d love to hear it,” Percy murmured. Already he was feeling much better.

“Well then, I’d better start it.” Franklin’s voice dropped to a seductive purr, each line practically dripping from his mouth like honey.

“There once was a man so alluring,

with beauty and charm long enduring.

It made him seductive,

but quite unproductive,

for his lover’s lust it’s ensuring.”

It didn’t take long for all Percy’s stress to vanish under Franklin’s watchful care. His last coherent thought before everything swirled into a hazy mist of pleasure was that although Franklin’s poem was a bit on-the-nose, it was nothing if not accurate.