Work Text:
꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚
Comfortable sensations surround me, your fingers offer caresses that are like small electric shocks on my neck, where my eyes already perceive you in many colors of the rainbow, a soul beyond the moon to the earth of mortals to watch over me who only venerates you.
꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚
The breezes among the pines gently carried the leaves of various colors across the meadows of that vast field.
Small sailboats, like sailboats, rode the refreshing current to the shores near the sea that surrounded everything.
He walked leisurely through the verdant pastures at midday; the sun at its peak was scorching. He wore light, comfortable clothes, worn from the constant work on the farm.
Sweat trickled down his neck, trickling down his back, leaving damp marks all over his body. He paused his work for a moment, heading back to his small house at the far end of the fields, where pests couldn't easily find their way into his cozy abode.
He mentally reviewed what remained of the day, his forehead feeling hotter, longing for a glass of fresh milk to calm himself.
He observed the lives of his neighbors in the distance as he walked. Outside, a couple seemed to be arguing, while one of them took an old carriage. Each seemed to be going their own way without looking back.
Another was leaving for the city; the number of people was increasing.
He didn't blame them. Life outside wasn't a walk in the park.
It was difficult to adapt; not everyone could endure such a demanding work schedule day after day, and even worse, with daily earnings, if you didn't produce good raw materials to sell, it was better to risk everything in the beautiful metropolitan area.
Without further ado, he decides it's best to ignore other people's lives, entering the front porch of his home. The paint was still fresh from the recent renovations, thanks to a good influx of money.
He enters carefully to avoid smudging the good work done on the facade, takes off his boots, and leaves them by the entrance to the living room.
Framed photos of beautiful landscapes are the first thing that greets him, a lovely selection of various moments brought by his most recent guest.
Still feeling his forehead hot and his head dizzy, he decides to go into the kitchen, alone without the usual presence of the young Catire eating the leftovers from the cupboard.
He grabs a bottle, sitting down on the polished wooden counter, and takes a gulp, the drink going down with difficulty in his throat.
He closes his eyes, breathing calmly, ignoring the growing exhaustion in his body.
Suddenly, he catches the delicious aroma of a steaming pot outside the house near the backyard.
Silva, from the doorway, looked towards the young omega, smirking at the comical scene of the young man struggling against the flames of the pot. As he could tell, the young man was having trouble, the cloth stick completely burnt, the main victim of the whole affair.
—Hey! Do you need help with that?
He said, his presence met not only by the aroma of the food but also by the enticing scent of gingerbread and cinnamon cookies, the omega responsible for the changes on his farm in recent months.
The boy turned, greeting him with a wooden spoon, noticing the young man's dismissive gesture. He was about to try what Silva had cooked, a very cute, proud expression on his face.
He cautiously approached him.
—That smells good. What is it?
The young man stood up, clearly pleased with his creation, grabbing another spoon for Silva to try.
—It's a stew, it's almost done, but taste it and tell me if it needs more salt.
He said, feeling the hot liquid in his mouth, momentarily relieving his morning headache.
—It's very good. Maybe some pepper and paprika to make it stand out.
With that, the young man turned around, lifting the lid and carefully adding more spices to the seasoning, while also grabbing more straw from the flame of the large pot, stoking the fire to finish cooking it.
—That should be it, Matsukaze. Are you going to stay for lunch or keep working?
He asked as he returned to the kitchen, taking out a blanket and a couple of plates on the front terrace.
—I should continue. I still have to set traps for the pests that are still ravaging the potato fields, and without them, your stews would be sad, lacking their star ingredient.
—I should continue.— He stretched his muscles, cracking some bones more than others, his muscles aching from the exhaustion of the last few weeks, working on a new project and expanding the businesses under his name.
Age was catching up with him, and he was barely halfway through his 25 years.
—I told you to hire more people for that. With those sounds coming from your body, I'm afraid you won't last much longer... But you're stubborn.
Iván went back to where the boilers were, finally extinguishing the fire, thanking him for the first few times he'd almost set his entire residence ablaze.
—We barely have enough for the renovations. It's not the right time to have more people working here yet, so we have to work hard to make sure things go well for us.
He subtly noted the young man's sad exception.
—Ginro.
A rag was thrown at his face.
—Wipe off your sweat. You're all sweaty. And wash your hands. We're ready to eat together.
He uses a small iron plate in his gloved hands, looking in her direction, waiting for her to follow him and refusing to take no for an answer.
—Who would've thought you'd become such a bossy guy?
—Well, I learned from the best.
He retorts with amusement, continuing the back-and-forth of things, setting the table.
—Besides, I don't want you to come on an empty stomach. Believe me, you're looking for a stroke if you keep working like this in the sun."
With no other option, he decides to take her up on it, firmly grasping the plates beside him on the terrace he built at the beginning of the year.
They both sit down, enjoying the breeze that surrounds them, with their plates of hot food.
A pleasant atmosphere settles between them; the silence is replaced not with a hint of resignation, but rather a comfortable time for both of them.
The breeze is refreshing and lets his mind wander, where, without asking, the first memories of his recent arrival or reception by the brands hit him in the middle of the night, a rain that swept through the fields near the road. He was there with several suitcases, paintings, and a large camera in his hands, trapped in the torrents of mud, stuck in the middle of that intense storm.
He came from the city, from a well-to-do family, the whole urbanite scream of escape.
His face was a poem straight out of Poe's melodramatic prose. Luckily, nothing bad escalated to such great catastrophes, as he had a room where he slept every night next to his own.
He escaped from his family; it wasn't the first time he'd heard of omegas running away from their families because of unwanted commitments or for furtive nights with Casanova lovers.
In the end, those stories remain in sadness and imposed shame on the pregnant party. Which triggered a major accident.
And the boy's case was no different.
They didn't go into details, just a calm and unofficial relationship between both parties, and at that moment he didn't know if it was sympathy for the omega's troubled soul in crisis, or simply a sense of solidarity with another person.
So he offered him a space in what was then his battered abode, a warmer and better refuge than the torrential waters of the sky.
He remembered how difficult those first days of living together had been, both of them a disaster with each other because everything was so new and challenging.
From hygiene to work and spending time together, it was especially difficult for the emerald-eyed boy who struggled a lot in the fringe and at home, since his life was clearly full of comforts.
But with each passing day, things improved, changed, and he adapted, as did the bad, bearing fruit.
But it still wasn't enough. The windows still needed oil, the children at school, the farms demanded more food, the beautiful vans straight from the workshops, for better materials, were within reach, and everything was tightening up to the neck at the end of the month.
It made his stomach churn to think about what he lacked. He looked at the young man and couldn't help but think that he was only burdening him with responsibilities that weren't remotely his. He should always be well-dressed, with polished shoes, and everything else, without worrying about bad days.
What remorse, which served as fuel to continue with what he had thrown away.
With his plate now empty, without a moment's rest, he gets up from the table. The blond man doesn't ask anymore; he knows that his mind is stubbornly focused on sermons of well-being, only on the best he could give.
—Matsukaze, wait.
He stops when he hears the boy's voice close by, looking weakly at the boy with a basket. It contains jams, preserves, and a few fruits and cheeses on a stick, all wrapped in straw, just for him.
—At least take this.
He carefully takes the provisions, a smile brushing against his slightly racing heart.
His neck feels warm, his forehead burning with a touch of heat, which makes him a little nervous.
—You don't have to worry so much.
The young man's face shows he's tired of the alpha's unnecessary carelessness.
—You've worked hard on this, and I know it's important to you, but you have to take care of yourself.
Noticing that the smile wasn't his own, he smiles back.
—Thank you, I'll come back later.
He sets off at high speed, determined to give the young man a special treat, without considering that the clouds were beginning to cloud over that afternoon.
Without listening to the omega's previous words.
—But not so late, it looks like it's going to rain... Wait, take the umbrella! Matsukaze!
That was the last thing he heard from the young man before he ripped the door open and left on that hot, busy afternoon.
꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚
The day passes, he goes from field to field inspecting, tidying, and placing whatever is needed, his shovel already covered in soil from the crops he harvested on time, as promised by his local supplier.
There were countless tasks that never ended, because as soon as one was finished, another began, in an endless series of repetitions of the shovel, soil, and seeds.
More hours went by, and with them, a headache more threatening than the daily grind. But this is the day.
His back was killing him, his head about to explode.
But he can't stop. There was still more to come before they could finally get some rest.
—Hey, one more, hurry up!
The man behind the cargo truck, with the last packages on the ground, accelerated.
With effort, he lifted the last Fiat from the back, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, dirty from the dirt he'd been working with for the past few hours, and climbed down from the truck with some difficulty.
He saw the supplier counting the bills for his payment for this last-minute order.
He handed it to him, seeing that it didn't amount to anything.
—What's this?
—You pay, oil-colored hair, or can't you see?
The disheveled and brusque man with yellowish hair scoffed at the amount.
—We agreed it would be three hundred for the packages and five hundred for the embalming, and you're only giving four hundred for these, barely a third of what we agreed on, man.
He expresses his anger, oblivious to the other man who was putting the last of his tasks together, closing up the products, leaving him dissatisfied.
—What can I say? This economy is skyrocketing. Your vegetables are competing with twenty others at lower prices. You should be more grateful, 'eyebrows,' and not complain so much.
He looks angrily, frustrated by the measly pay for the hard work he puts in. Magma gets on his paycheck, still checking and reviewing before leaving.
—I'm not going to give my work away for free.
He looks at him with an expression of pure annoyance.
—For His Majesty of Vegetables, I can give you the other hundred, and that's saying something.
—From 700 to almost 500? Do you think this stuff grows on thin air? That others don't care and give away their produce is the least of my concerns. I need the full payment.
Maintenance was already costing enough to take everything he gave him, and replacing it is another story.
—And what better than 500 to zero? My generosity, Matsukaze, has its limits. I remind you that I'm your last supplier. Everyone has left this backwater town, betting everything on the beautiful city of that strange, popular, executioner-haired investor who appears on television.
Magma comments, taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter of oil without a care in the world, unlike him.
—I can't afford this meager payment.
Magma twists his mouth, angrily revealing those rotten teeth from decades past, rubbing his eyes.
—How the hell are you stubborn?
He can see him take out the other 200 in his hand.
—Don't even think you'll pay me the other 100. It's worthless compared to what people make for less than this.
It wasn't all bad; it was better than the paltry initial amount.
—Thank you. Things aren't like they used to be.
The products no longer speak of their quality, but rather of productivity, and those who discard them for not meeting all the requirements inscribed in ink, printed on typewriters—something shared daily by those who decided to stay and continue profiting from the land.
—If you want money, why don't you sell some of your land?
He asks, as if he'd just won the biggest lottery ticket in the world.
—Think about it, you blockhead. You own these almost 50 hectares. You don't know how much idiots care for a bit of land. You have a huge goldmine that you're wasting. If I had it, I'd already be rolling in cash.
With his arm, he extends almost the entire brown, possessive arm—at least what the printed document said years ago when his father died.
—As much as I'd like to sell some, I don't want to completely give up my family's farm.
—See, you'll end up stuck because of that crap. You have a paradise, and you're going to waste it because of your stubbornness.
He'd like to deny it, but deep down, there might be some truth to it.
—Think about it. Besides, you don't have one of those cute, upper-class omegas at home, and don't play dumb. It's obvious you're interested. Your brutish face is showing from miles away. Wouldn't you like to give more than what you're offering at that farm to what she already had? And those are hard to maintain.
That touched a nerve, a thorn buried deep in his mind. He stood before him, facing the other man.
—Just think about it.
He checked his watch with his other hand.
—I can't take any more time with you. I'll let you know if I need another job.
He waved goodbye, climbed into the truck, and finally drove off.
His head ached terribly.
He held the money in his hand, a bitter feeling in his eyes. He thought about how much he would have to spend on repairs, food, seeds—all piling up into something that... wasn't enough.
Things might have been slowing down considerably, working in the back near the forest, or perhaps he had carefully considered the words of his supplier.
His brother had already moved away some time ago, having first suggested selling part of the land, reducing his father's inheritance to go to the city. His heart wasn't with the farm he inherited, but he couldn't judge him; his life changed for the better when he met his wife around that time.
A decision he didn't support at the time, sparking a fight and a rift between his brothers. Just like Kirisame, he left with two large suitcases and dreams of something better, each taking their own path.
The thought of leaving made his stomach churn.
Most of his life was spent on this large farm. His family happily grazed in the pastures with his father's old dogs, eating from the fertile trees of his mother. Everything seemed easier then than it did now that they were gone.
Their departure from this world gave him purpose, and his heart wasn't ready to relinquish that part of himself.
However, the image of Ginro flashed into his mind. The mere thought of being in that fissure, of plunging him into the loneliness of that place, weighed heavily on him. He came from the big, colorful cities; he couldn't offer him a dignified and fulfilling life.
His breathing grew heavier. If he dwelled on the matter, he would only delay things. Tartarus was worsening; the heat intensified with every action he took.
—Shit.
The increasing tremors in his limbs were shocking.
Suddenly, wet crystals fell from the sky.
A gentle rain embraced him, cascading down the sides of his body.
He hoped it wouldn't spread and he could continue his work.
But it seemed the heavens were against him.
It was the worst possible situation; the money he had saved could be lost. He couldn't go home, being so far away. He didn't have the strength, and if he ran through the rain, he would only arrive with all his money lost and a look of deep sadness in the omega's eyes.
With no other options, he sought refuge, his first thought being the shop windows of abandoned barns in the areas closest to his home.
The further he advanced, the more intense the raindrops became as they fell from the sky, their impact on the ground growing stronger.
He felt every shocking sensation in his body, losing himself completely, his head about to explode from the stifling heat trapped within him.
And searching for signs, he heard a voice.
Days sometimes seem as if they'll never end.
It was soft, eerily calm.
The sun digs its heels to taunt you.
A tranquil specter enveloped him; he tried to spot it in the surrounding area, but the storm was stronger.
But after sunny days, one thing remains the same.
With her hair pulled back from her forehead, all the colors appeared more vibrant, and the atmosphere shifted in a continuous movement, allowing her to visualize the scene.
The moon rises.
Everything around her was cloudy, but the figure sang calmly, unconcerned by the massive appearance that was forming.
Days fade into a watercolor blur.
She tries to reach her in a familiar memory; her silver hair turns to gold in the sway of the sunset, through the visible ground into the sky.
Memories swim and haunt you.
This figure advances, sinking into the grass like a flowing river.
But she looks toward the lake, shimmering like smoke. But look into the lake, shimmering like smoke.
Although in the water it's an impossible task, one that only the figure possessed.
The moon rises.
Everything begins to darken; the beasts of aggression with greater force dragging all the eyes of the trees, tearing out eyes of bushes and countless heavy rocks in their unstoppable waves.
Oh-oh, close your weary eyes.
The earth rises, a sustainable seat, the task of looking ahead, but it doesn't stop; as best it can, it continues with the basket in its hands and all for which it has worked.
I promise you that soon autumn comes, to darken the fading summer skies.
The legs don't respond to its body falling downwards; it still tries to see the figure without any success; it simply couldn't go on anymore; its body reached total collapse; it tries to prevail in the midst of the storm. Still stubbornly moving forward, where the figure was joined by others in its direction, before it could be distinguished, it rested on the ground.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Matsukaze... Please... Get up.
꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚
The air reached his lungs in slow, sharp breaths.
He still couldn't see anything; the soft surface beneath him was all that was visible.
The heat on his forehead wouldn't subside. He tried to open his eyes, but they blurred; he felt too exhausted for any action, even the scent of gingerbread cookies in the air.
Little by little, he felt his limbs looser, his eyes splaying as he vaguely perceived what was above him: wooden beams and a couple of wispy hay bales on either side, accompanied by a soft melody.
Days pull you down just like a sinking ship.
Moving his head wasn't easy; he could only move a few centimeters, noticing in the darkness some pharaonic strands of hair in the air.
Floating is getting harder.
He sang with his back to her, following the rhythm of the enigmatic figure from earlier, his voice echoing off the walls along with the constant patter of the drops that still fell with no intention of stopping for quite some time.
But tread the water, child, and know that meanwhile.
Concentrating on his task with a wet cloth, he wrung it out as much as possible, the translucent drops falling down his neck and back for lack of a top.
The moon rises.
Had Ginro been looking for him?
He moved his mouth, trying to form some sound to get his attention.
—Gin-n-ro
His gums and jaw ached, but it was enough to silence the beautiful siren song, turning his full attention to the almost dying man lying on the floor.
—Matsukaze... Matsukaze!
he drops whatever she's holding and, in the blink of an eye, rushes to his side, her eyes brimming with anguish at his condition.
—Matsukaze, are you alright? Can you say anything? Can you see anything, please... How could you go out with a fever?! Have you lost your mind?!
he touches his hands while scolding him, nervously sensing his trembling hands as she searches for a way to help him.
—H-how gin-r— he can barely manage to speak, coughing the words forcefully into a rag, the omega helping him avoid straining.
—Shit— he coughs violently, coughing as best he can into his forearm, watching with revulsion the blood mixed with his saliva.
—No, forget it, don't talk. Just take this.
As he tries to sit up, he feels the metal of a spoon with something sweet on his palate, accompanied by the crack of his spine.
—It's syrup to bring down your fever. Please, Matsukaze, don't move or you'll get worse.
He holds him by the side of his back, shifts his position, and simply leans beside him, breathing as best he can, his lips still moving as he tries to speak.
—Where are we?
The place was dark, but it was clear it wasn't his home. Completely alone, he felt how he had dragged the omega into such terrible situations.
—In an old barn belonging to the previous neighbors. I saw the storm. You didn't come back, so I took Cinnamon from the stable. I saw you on the ground. I tried to carry you, but you're too heavy, and Cinnamon ran away. So, as best I could, I brought you here. I know it's not the best place, but at least it's dry.
The atmosphere was quiet yet stifling. He remembers his things, how he lost them. The weight of every action burdens him, and seeing Ginro like this hurts even more.
He ignores the blond's tiredness and warnings, moving away from him.
—Matsukaze, please don't get up. It'll be a while before the rain stops. When it does, I'll take you to the doctor.
—Ginro, do you want to go back to the city?
He spits out those words, followed by a cough. The young man's expression is pure exasperation at what he's said.
—Did you get a fever?
His hand lands quickly, which irritates him slightly. He takes his hand and looks at him straight ahead.
—Ginro-o, you want to go back... I-o, I can sell some of my land so you can return.
—You definitely got a fever.— The kiss clicks his teeth.
—No, Ginro... I'm serious.
Ginro looks at him, puzzled, but doesn't give up. He looks away, very worried.
—Why are you telling me this? You... you don't want me here anymore.
Those words are unleashed with sadness towards him. Now he looks at him in astonishment.
"No... No, I didn't mean it like that. It's just that more and more people are leaving for better opportunities that you won't have here."
He looks down at the floor, still tired from the effort of standing, but he also couldn't hold the omega's gaze.
"Wouldn't you like to live somewhere better? I mean, to have more space, not have to worry about what to eat, be able to enjoy your life more, without being tied to this?"
Silence reigns between them. He continues looking at the floor, not seeing the blond man. He couldn't decipher a change in his brow or a look full of repudiation.
Somehow, he felt defeated, only with the fervent desire that he could have something better.
—Matsukaze...
He says softly, and it only makes him feel smaller. He knows that Love is perhaps more vulnerable than ever. His hands gently touch his tired face, feeling the tenderness and a small smile.
—You remember when I arrived, right?—he says in a whisper beside him.
—How could I forget? You were in the middle of the rain, your clothes all muddy.
They both finish the last part, triggering a couple of laughs.
—Yes, and you pulled me out of the mud, my boots were stuck. I cried a lot, and you took me to your house, offered me a bed and some hot chicken soup.
He feels his cheeks warm as the memories of their encounter flare up like a beacon.
—That night I was heartbroken. I felt like it was the end of the world, and it just kept getting worse. I won't lie, those weeks felt like hell; but you didn't judge me for how I was, for being a complete mess.
In that statement, he could see how unconsciously he placed his hand on his stomach.
—You were in the worst possible situation, I couldn't judge you— his voice came out hoarse with pain. He would give the boy support whenever he could.
—I know... That's why it's my turn to lean on you.
The blond-haired boy's arms extended calmly; it was hard for him to let go because of his stoic personality, however; he didn't reject the contact, how could he, so tired of fighting against the world.
—I want you to live happily, not to waste your time with someone who can't give you everything you deserve... I don't know if I'm what you need.
Something churned in his stomach, a weight of many things that had affected him in his life. What would his mother think if she saw him like this right now?
Until he smelled the sweetest aroma of cookies, and understood a strong hug.
—Well, I think you're great.
They come so naturally to her; I feel the warm tears falling silently from her eyes, there was no need to stifle them in a silent cry, tenderly comforted by the young man who accompanied her.
In six, he allows the previous melody of the beautiful song he was singing.
"Can you continue the song? You sing so beautifully."
The omega smiles, a tender affirmation.
Days pull you up just like a daffodil.
He wraps his arm around the boy's body.
Uprooted from its garden.
The aromas blend into a delicious scent of cookies and comforting spices.
They'll tell you what you owe, but you'll know even so.
He leans on him, who completes the embrace against the backdrop of the still-persistent rain.
The moon rises.
The minutes pass like petals in the wind.
You'll be visited by sleep.
That turned into hours.
I promise you that autumn will come soon.
Days, months, years.
To steal away each dream you keep
Resting, they calmly endure each other's company amidst dreams of honey and milk in their little paradise.
Waking up each morning with a sweet kiss on her forehead, with bread, jams, and plenty of fruit, and at night, the songs they sing to the little baby in her crib, watching the moon that shelters them every cold night where they rest.
Where the last paragraph was predicted, on the tip of my tongue, if I understand the paused register in her arms.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Saying goodbye with a goodnight kiss to their little star.
꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚