The little AU: Vignettes: Gratitude/The Ranch
The little AU: Vignettes: Gratitude/The Ranch
slashfairy
PG
~~
His head down he writes and writes, scribbles out and over and underlines, outlines, stares out the window at snow drifted along fences and at mountains capped in white against dark green and granite, and sharpens his pencils, puts another cartridge in his pen, and writes some more. Hours go by, logs put on the fire absent-mindedly by hands already turning the page to make room for more words; dogs fed and let out and in again, maté made and sipped and let grow cold beside thesaurus, dictionaries, notebooks and rubber-banded sheaves of scratch-paper notes. Sometimes he wipes at his cheeks, unconsciously removing tears shed as words pull feelings out of him, as feelings push words onto paper; at other moments he stops and clutches his belly, wraps his arms around his own shoulders and howls with longing and loneliness and need and gratitude.
Hours go by, hours and hours, pages filled and pencils worn to nubs, pens filled and filled again and flung aside when unfillable, until, finally, he can write no more and slumps, exhausted, on the pile of sleeping dogs lying on the old braided rug in front of the stone fireplace, and sleeps the sleep of a dead man for nearly half a day and most of a night, into morning.
When he wakes, it's to sock-footed tip-toeing, to dogs already full-fed on scraps dropped apurpose by deft busy hands, to scents of turkey and hot drinks, pumpkin and spice, fir and pine and spruce from branches cut and put up around for interior green against the blizzard threatening in the grey sky visible through the windows deep-set in the log cabin's thick sturdy walls. He's covered by a soft oft-washed wool blanket of indeterminate age, Plains Tribes patterns of mountains and rivers and clouds more outdoors-brought-in, the way he loves it best, nothing excluded, everything at least possible-by-implication.
He stretches and yawns and disturbs the dogs, who whine and whimper and grouse a bit as they resettle themselves to soak up the heat he leaves behind as he takes the square brown hand offered to him and lets himself be pulled up into two pairs of strong arms for a double hug. He stands surrounded by love, by his mens, by the choices he's made and the ones he's let go by, and in this moment is as grateful as any man could ever be on the face of this earth for the life he lives.
The desk full of papers, of writing and pens and thoughts and feelings, catches the corner of his eye, and he turns away from it to one, two, single kisses, then the three-forehead version of Hongi that they've developed, the 'sharing of the breath' that Aotearoa gave them, and he smiles into it. Just words, his thoughts remind him. Just words, and he lets his heart fill completely with this, wordless thanksgiving.
~~
slashfairy
PG
~~
His head down he writes and writes, scribbles out and over and underlines, outlines, stares out the window at snow drifted along fences and at mountains capped in white against dark green and granite, and sharpens his pencils, puts another cartridge in his pen, and writes some more. Hours go by, logs put on the fire absent-mindedly by hands already turning the page to make room for more words; dogs fed and let out and in again, maté made and sipped and let grow cold beside thesaurus, dictionaries, notebooks and rubber-banded sheaves of scratch-paper notes. Sometimes he wipes at his cheeks, unconsciously removing tears shed as words pull feelings out of him, as feelings push words onto paper; at other moments he stops and clutches his belly, wraps his arms around his own shoulders and howls with longing and loneliness and need and gratitude.
Hours go by, hours and hours, pages filled and pencils worn to nubs, pens filled and filled again and flung aside when unfillable, until, finally, he can write no more and slumps, exhausted, on the pile of sleeping dogs lying on the old braided rug in front of the stone fireplace, and sleeps the sleep of a dead man for nearly half a day and most of a night, into morning.
When he wakes, it's to sock-footed tip-toeing, to dogs already full-fed on scraps dropped apurpose by deft busy hands, to scents of turkey and hot drinks, pumpkin and spice, fir and pine and spruce from branches cut and put up around for interior green against the blizzard threatening in the grey sky visible through the windows deep-set in the log cabin's thick sturdy walls. He's covered by a soft oft-washed wool blanket of indeterminate age, Plains Tribes patterns of mountains and rivers and clouds more outdoors-brought-in, the way he loves it best, nothing excluded, everything at least possible-by-implication.
He stretches and yawns and disturbs the dogs, who whine and whimper and grouse a bit as they resettle themselves to soak up the heat he leaves behind as he takes the square brown hand offered to him and lets himself be pulled up into two pairs of strong arms for a double hug. He stands surrounded by love, by his mens, by the choices he's made and the ones he's let go by, and in this moment is as grateful as any man could ever be on the face of this earth for the life he lives.
The desk full of papers, of writing and pens and thoughts and feelings, catches the corner of his eye, and he turns away from it to one, two, single kisses, then the three-forehead version of Hongi that they've developed, the 'sharing of the breath' that Aotearoa gave them, and he smiles into it. Just words, his thoughts remind him. Just words, and he lets his heart fill completely with this, wordless thanksgiving.
~~