Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The winter beckons in the new year with a promise of silence and a fresh heaping of ice white snow. New Year's Eve brings a trove of personal traditions in the Valley, it seems. You've half-promised yourself to the lingerers, those on the outskirts, for the night - Penny, Emily, and the other stragglers have invited you to the Stardrop to ring in this passage of time.

It's not that you don't want to be there. In actuality it's quite a relief to have traditions unfolded for you, welcomed to the newbie. Your own rituals back home were haphazardly thrown together each year, never with much forethought or care.

The advent of a new year comes with its own...well, memories. One's best kept in the recesses of your subconscious.

(It's been a year, just over a year to the date, since you walked into your shitty little city apartment and witnessed the shattering of your old life. It feels like it's been seconds. It feels like it's been decades.)

Which is how you find yourself back in the quarry, mining as if your life depends on it. The rhythm of the pickaxe is steady and soothing, the muscle aches a welcome distraction. You won't be able to carry all of this home tonight, no way. But the trips back and forth will get a little easier after the snow thaws. And, in the meantime, progress is progress.

You lose track of time, night having fallen long ago. Your arms feel like lead and as the last swing turns into a drastic miss, you decide to call it. You'll show your face at the Stardrop, stay for a drink, and then you'll knock out in order to do it all again tomorrow. The monotony of routine doesn't feel so sterile tonight. Maybe that's just the magic of the holiday.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket as you hike your backpack onto your shoulders, carefully stepping over the bridge's planks, returning to the mountain lake and its lonely inhabitants.

You don't think too much about it as you fish your phone out. You don't think too much about it as your screen lights up.

This is your mistake.

It is 12:14am on January 1st, your phone tells you. (The countdown to midnight is over. This is the first time you've missed it, you realize.)

Happy new year. Glad I get another one with you, your phone tells you. (Your brother is pleased to be alive. He was not yet out of the hospital last year to tell you himself, you remember.)

Happy New Year. I know you probably don't want to hear from me, your phone tells you. (You should have blocked her number. She was the last person you kissed before Harvey, you try to forget.)

Your phone falls loose in your grip.

(I know you probably don't want to hear from me.)

Those stars really are something, aren't they?

(I know you probably don't want to hear from me.)

What is the best way to stop a barrage of unwanted memories?

Drown them out, of course.

The midnight trek to the beach is simple, bypassing the saloon and any late night visitors. You stand beside Willy's shack - if he comes by, he'll leave you be. He's good like that. You stare into the abyss in front of you, the spray not yet reaching.

But why don't you let it?

Why don't you let it wash over you?

Drown them out, drown them out, drown them out -

You're stripping your clothes frantically, the call of the ocean intense and insistent. You have to get in there. You have to wash it all off of you - the before - or it'll tear you apart.

The gasp is ripped from your body as your bare legs hit the water, icy and dark. You trudge further, you need it to cover all of you. Standing in your sports bra and briefs, hands clenched at your sides, you succumb to the siren song. Visions flit by and you're watching them as if on a projector, as if they're happening to someone else, and maybe they are, maybe you've concocted everything in your head. If you will them away hard enough, maybe you will finally be free -

Rage courses through you, violent and vicious, biting at the edges of your mind like a rabid dog. You want to be fucking free of it all.

Without a thought, your mouth opens and a scream escapes from you like it's been forced, like there's no choice, no control. It starts deep in your gut, works its way past your chest, past your heart, up through your throat and then it is out and taken by the ocean, beaten savagely against the rocks.

It feels right.

It feels good.

So you do it again.

You throat feels raw, but it feels fucking good.

"UH - ?" The noise behind you causes you to turn, your teeth bared like an animal and maybe that's exactly what you are, maybe the ocean has stripped you of your human condition, has laid you out for everyone to see. You are nothing but ferocity and wildness, nothing but -

"Oh." It's just Sebastian. "Hi, Sebastian."

A pause.

"Er, Happy New Year?"

Sebastian holds up his phone, the flashlight a beacon from the shore. You glimpse a cigarette dangling from his fingers, ashing at the end. "Yeah. Happy New Year."

The two of you stare at one another. And then a wave comes in, nearly knocking you over.

"Wanna join?" You shout, cause why the fuck not.

Sebastian doesn't move, except for the short drag he takes. You can't see his expression, the light too blinding until it's unexpectedly gone.

A shrug. "Yeah, alright."

Huh.

You turn back to the water, wave after wave breaking, spattering you with cold mist until you're shivering. You feel a presence beside, Sebastian with his black t-shirt and already soaked boxers.

"Fuck me, it's fucking cold." You notice he's abandoned his cigarette - nature conservation, and all that.

"Yup." The tips of your toes may be turning numb but your ability to care has been rendered obsolete.

A longer silence falls like a blanket.

"...And you were just yelling?" Sebastian's voice is barely audible.

You nod. "Felt good." You catch his eye under the mop of jet black hair and a wild grin forms.

Another howl bubbles up, claws its way out of your body and you release it as a sacrifice to the depth before you.

And then Sebastian mimics you.

What a sight the two of you must make - half-naked, shivering and screaming your lungs out. But there is something about not doing this alone, something about a kindred spirit joining you, not asking questions, perhaps even believing in the power of whatever the fuck it was you were trying to achieve.

Your last yell cuts out and you're not met with Sebastian's own, but instead, his laughter. It's a new sound, scratchy and almost high-pitched. But it is an arresting sound. And then you are joining him.

After a moment, Sebastian quiets his chuckles and asks, "What do you want?" You cock your head, not understanding. "If the ocean could give you anything, what would you want?"

The stars shine bright above you in all their glory. If you look out far enough, there is no distinction between the night sky and the black sea. There is no separation, only darkness. There is no separation.

"What I want - " Your hesitation comes instinctually. Uttering these words is uncomfortable, even after all this time. "What I want, sometimes, is a time machine." But you are shaking your head, because that's not the answer to his question. "What I want is stop having to learn so many fucking lessons."

"Hmm." Sebastian blinks, mulling the words over as if he's giving them real thought, as if they're worthy of his scrutiny. His attention returns to the vastness in front of him and then he yells out, "I want my motorcycle to stop shitting the bed!"

Your laugh feels like radiance. This is good, this is exactly right. "I want my dog to stop eating all the flowers I plant!"

Sebastian returns, "I want my boss to stop asking me how my fucking weekend was!"

You volley, "I want my ex to stop texting me!"

Sebastian slams a fist against his chest, "I want to tell the boy I love that I love him!"

And you realize that you're no longer laughing. Tears are blurring your sight but you don't swipe at them, let them fall with no care in the world. "I want to know what I'm fucking doing here! I want to know what my purpose is!"

Sebastian doesn't continue, hunches over with his hands on his knees, breathing strained like he's run a marathon. You slap him on the back twice and then tug on his elbow to pull him from the water. You're both shivering, teeth chattering, shaking out sand from your abandoned clothes as you re-dress.

Not a word is spoken as you leave the beach together. Not until you hit the bridge to town.

"Do you have to have a purpose?" Sebastian's voice sounds rubbed raw.

You shrug. "Don't we all? Want to have one, that is."

"Isn't existing enough?" You want badly to scoff at the boy, to ask him to tone down the melancholy. But you realize with a start that you can't call him a boy anymore. In fact, Sebastian's probably the same age as you now.

(And you remember the boy. You remember the summer - one of the last summers you visited with your brother, before he started distancing himself - you remember your grandpa telling you a new kid had moved in with his mom, moved to the house up in the mountains. How excited you had been to make a new friend, to not rely on your brother to be your sole entertainer. And then how disappointed you had felt when the boy, with the jet black hair and the braces and the little frog plushie, had denied your friendship. Denied your attention. Just like your brother. Boys were all the same.

You didn't know anything about loss, yet. You didn't know what it did to a person, to a child. Not yet.)

"Sometimes it doesn't feel that way, Seb." And you wonder about him finding you at the beach, joining you in the ocean. Sebastian would be the one to understand, out of anyone here. "Sometimes it feels like I need to know why I had to start over, why everything had to...fucking implode the way it did, if I can - if I can ever make sure it doesn't happen again."

The two of you pass by the saloon, pass by Alex's home, pass by Pierre's. Skin still damp under your many layers, the cold of the winter air permeates every part of your being and for once, you are grateful to it. It is a reminder that you are alive.

"Would it have changed anything?" Sebastian asks, hesitating almost imperceptibly. "The knowing?"

You pause next to the Community Center, abruptly frozen.

Would it have changed anything?

(Yes.)

Would it have changed anything?

(No.)

Would it have changed anything, truly, to know what was coming?

You want, desperately, to say yes. That knowing - knowing what your brother was going through, knowing what she would do, knowing the pain and suffering and utter devastation of it all - would have been enough to push you, enough to break you out of the cycle of tedium and apathy. That knowing the ending could have helped you change, could have made you want to change, so that you could be happy - finally happy.

But.

Hadn't you know, at least a little bit? Hadn't you known that Ren wasn't doing well? Hadn't you known that she was pulling away from you, bit by bit? Hadn't you known that ignoring emails from your advisor would put you on an academic shit list? Hadn't you known -

Hadn't you known that you were unhappy?

And knowing, even the little bit - what did that change?

"Or, er. What I mean is, would knowing have led you here?" Sebastian fiddles with another cigarette, uncomfortable in his new role of interrogator. Out of character, he probably thinks - although you've always suspected he's got at least one nosy ass bone in his body. "I don't know if you even want to be here, but maybe your purpose - if that's really what you want - is to not be where you were." A pause. "Physically or metaphorically, I don't fucking know, whatever."

He resumes his trek back up to the mountains but your feet feel planted in the light smattering of snow. The realization trickles in slowly, pieces clicking into their respective places.

You ran away from where you came from. You ran away, abandoning anything and everything that you had called home, to be here. To find something, here. The place you had spent your summers, your grandpa and your mom and Ren all cozied up together, in the heart of the Valley. You had come here because you felt helpless, felt like everything was crumbling around you.

You couldn't keep going, not the way you had been. 

The letter from your grandpa - reminding you of the farm, reminding you of a life that you loved - had been a beacon, light shining in the bleakness that threatened to subsume you in its entirety. And so you had run away, had left everything behind.

To be here.

(You can't keep running.)

You can't keep running seeing as there's nowhere else to go. You've run to the only other home you've ever known and you've spent the last year wondering when you'll be able to stop running but -

What if you did stop?

(I know you probably don't want to hear from me.)

There's nothing to run from here. There's no one to run from, no one except yourself. What if you stop running?

(Would it have changed anything.)

It might not change anything from the before, no. But if you can stop here, what changes now?

(You thought things would be different.)

Yes, you thought things would be different but you weren't ready. You have to want the change this time. Sweet Yoba, you have to fucking want it.

(Recover your life, mouse.)

Recover your life, little mouse.

Your grandpa, his nickname. You sneaking around the farm without a sound, hiding for hours without anything finding you. You took to the Valley like it was your sanctuary, like you were always meant to be here. You were a mouse, steadfast in your want to never, ever leave this place.

Steadfast in your want to never, ever leave your home.

"Hey, Sebastian?" He looks back at you, wary; he rejects the sentimentality underscoring your tone, even if he might also crave it. He's quite a soft boy, if he'd let himself feel it. "Thank you."

Rolling his eyes, Sebastian flips you off. "Keep that shit away from me."

A bubbling smile, growing larger. "Oh we're way past that, buddy."

Two fingers up at you now, as he elbows his way into his mountain home. "Not your buddy."

"We'll always have the ocean!" And you know he'd be slamming the door if it wasn't the wee small hours of the morning, if he didn't have parents to worry about.

And then you are alone, hiking your way up the summit path, following the faint lights of your home as they reveal themselves from behind the enormous pine trees. You breathe in. The air here is crisp, almost painful in your lungs. You breathe in, because you are alive, deep in the heart of the Valley.

You breathe in, because you are home.

Chapter Text

Irrevocably, it is a whole year since you have returned to the farm in the heart of the Valley. Living proof that time passes, as it always does, slowly and then all at once.

Three days before this momentous anniversary, two things occur in quick succession: you find a folded up note in your grandpa's old farmer jacket (the beat-up one that you've taken to wearing only on your loneliest days, when you need a reminder of the old man and his warmth) and there is a knock at your front door.

The former is a surprise - you could have sworn you'd gone through all of the old belongings, packing up the majority for donations and tucking the rest away.

The latter feels like an omen - the dying threads of winter are rapidly tying themselves up and your return to full-blown farm life is around the corner.

The note gets shoved back into your pocket for when you have the emotional fortitude to be met with your grandpa's words. You swing open the door and you know you don't have the emotional fortitude for this.

"Hello." Harvey's frame overtakes the doorway, his back illuminated by the oranges and purples of the fading sunset. Half his face is obscured by a comically large forest green scarf, pink nose peeking out.

You want to close your eyes, close the door, close yourself off to whatever is about to come next because you're not sure your fragile realization on the first of the year - that you've been running for so long, that it may now be safe to stop running here - is up to its first test.

(Because, the thing is, running is easier sometimes. Makes life less complicated in the short term. It's the catching up that knocks you out.)

You don't close off anything, though.

You can do better.

So instead of slamming the door in the doctor's face and prolonging the inescapable, you just sigh and step aside. You will do it, palms sweating and heart hammering. You will do it, scared.

Harvey tries to hide his shock at your easy acquiescence, but he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He shakes off his winter coat, neatly tucks his boots right next to the doorway, leaves the scarf hanging from the rack.

And then it's silent, heavy and uncomfortable. His hands fidget, clasping one another over his belly and then immediately moving them to his pockets.

"I came to apologize." He eventually ends up on, looking anywhere but at you.

A laugh escapes you, sudden and almost violent. It's just - it's fucking funny.

"Deja vu, Harv."

Because that's what it is, isn't it? Every single interaction with the man has been the same thing over and over and over. This dance that you and Harvey do - where you push each other's buttons and then regret it, apologize and make up, sweet and kind and just this side of something more - is never ending. The cycle is dooming, nothing changing.

What's the point if it's all going to happen again in a week or three?

(You thought things would be different.)

Harvey continues, undeterred by your outburst. "I owe you an apology, and it's taken me too long - "

(By Yoba, you will make things fucking different.)

"Stop apologizing." You interrupt and you feel the shift, profoundly. It mirrors the feeling in the ocean, walking home with Sebastian. That void, that chasm - cracked open that fateful night on Harvey’s birthday - yearns for more. A disruption in the pattern. 

Bravery, in the face of the unknown.

"I don't want you to apologize." You stare at Harvey, force him to meet your eyes. "Not unless you really mean it."

"I do - I do mean it." Harvey grasps his hands tightly, the nervous tick returning.

"Okay." You nod, once. "And what exactly are you apologizing for?"

"For, um. Well, for the - " He's stuttering and you get no actual pleasure from poking at his anxiety. But you need to turn the tables on his expectations. You need to get him a little closer to honesty.

"Are you apologizing for fingering me?" No hesitation, no tripping over your words. There's no time for that. "Or are you apologizing for finishing too?"

Harvey blanches. "Yoba , what - !"

"I wanna know!" Something's building within you, an indignation and also a near hysterical need for clarity. You need to know how far he's willing to deny you. "Are you apologizing for kissing me? For walking me home? For becoming my friend? For meeting me?" You stalk towards him, a predator, until his back hits the door. "Tell me, Harvey. What, exactly, are you apologizing for?"

He swallows harshly. You watch him search your face, uncertain. "I'm sorry for, for taking advantage of you - of the situation."

"And what does 'taking advantage' mean?" You won't let him off easily. If he came here for an absolution of whatever festering guilt he's been unable to let go of, he won't find it.

"You were drunk -"

"- and so were you." Exasperated, you scrub a hand through your hair. "We both acknowledged that."

Harvey’s face is flushed, but you can see a hardening of his brow, a flicker of frustration. Good. "Right. But that doesn't make -"

"Do you think I took advantage of you?" It's a genuine question, if you're following his logic. He was probably drunker than you, plied with drink after drink all night.

"Well, no - "

" - but you were drunk, like you said." How far can you push him? (Fight back, you think.)

"Will you just let me - "

"No, Harvey! I have no interest in a back and forth with you about what enthusiastic consent is." You rub at your eye, suddenly exhausted. It's not fun anymore, this back and forth. It's not fun and actually it's rather devastating, to think that the memory of that night is now permanently marred by overthinking and remorse. "I don't want you to apologize for some notion you've made up about how I do or do not feel about the fact that we kissed and then you got me off - in quite a miraculous fashion - and now you regret it."

"I never said I regret it!" Harvey throws up his arms in dismay. 

You want to shake this man, shake some sense into him - and oh, you suddenly get it, all the times he chided you in the clinic, all the times he called you stubborn. "Then what the fuck are we doing here!"

A hand scrubs up and down his face, into his hair, messing up the curls. He's pacing in front of the couch and you'd call him skittish if you didn't know any better, if you couldn't see the tempered irritation just below the surface. "I don't - I thought - "

A pause. "I thought you did."

"You thought I regretted it?" His wordless nod only ruffles you further. "Why!"

And it's so frustrating that he would think this, so frustrating that he would -

"Because why wouldn't you."

A cavernous silence falls on the farmhouse, threatening to swallow the two of you whole. You gape at him, stare and stare until you feel your eyes burning with something unshed.

(Because why wouldn't you.)

He refuses to meet your eyes, instead collapsing onto the couch with an exhalation, deflating. It's the smallest you've ever seen him - hunched over, head dangling.

(Because why wouldn't you.)

And there's a memory tugging at the back of your consciousness, vying for attention that you know, you know, you cannot give it right now. But, well. Memories have a funny way of not giving two shits if you're ready for them or not.

(A woman slaps her hand on the bedroom dresser. She is wild and upset and it makes you feel small, so small, so useless. "Because why wouldn't you see it? If you really loved me, you would have noticed!")

A shuddering breath runs through you and then you shake your head forcefully, loosing the memory from your mind, removing its power.

"Why wouldn't I?" It's not a question - it's a repetition, one of pure disbelief. 

Harvey's back tenses, sweater pulled taut across his shoulders. His knee is bouncing, tips of his ears turning red, he won't turn to face you. The impatience is long gone, replaced with a stark and vicious embarrassment. No, not embarrassment. Panic.  

And in your mind, this Harvey becomes transposed onto something else, the something you had left behind, the something that you had been running from -

This Harvey is transposed over an image of yourself, from before the Valley. 

Tightly wound, fragile.

Afraid, under all that stubbornness.

One in the same.

Oh, Harvey.

You're in front of him before either of you can blink, bending down and grabbing his face - a little more stubble than you remember, but that's okay - and pressing your lips to his. How can you make him understand? How can you make him see?

How can you do this for the both of you?

You press kiss after kiss and then he is returning them, meeting your ferocity with each beat.

"I don't regret it." You whisper, only retreating enough to tell him this. You tilt his head back, lick your way into his mouth. "How could I ever regret it, Harvey?"

You can feel him trying to shake his head but he doesn't retreat. Doesn't stop kissing you.

If you can't tell him - you will show him.

With everything you have.

Climbing onto the couch, you straddle his lap. It is a wonder to get to do this sober - to touch him, feel him, kiss him, when you are cognizant of everything. Every taste, every breath dragged from his chest as you work your way down his throat.

You are not sure if you will be able to do this again, so you will savor every second this time.

"Wa - wait." Harvey manages to groan out as you suck a particularly harsh mark into his neck - below the collar of course, you're not an animal.

It takes all of your willpower to pause, to lean back, to rest your hands gently on his shoulders. You want to show him how much the idea of 'regret' did not even pass your mind - but not if he doesn't want it as well.

Harvey clutches onto the back of your flannel, wrinkling it in his harsh grip. He searches your eyes, your face - like he did that night - and you let him see you once more. You let him see your pleasure, let him see your want.

"Do you see regret?" You whisper, forehead pressing against his. Breathing together, your eyes fall shut. A strange sensation flows over you, so distinct from the fire that was just raging. The tension is still there - it always is with the doctor - but you cup this feeling tenderly in your chest.

(Later, you will realize with a start that the feeling was safety.)

"No." His voice is steady, assured in a way you so rarely hear. One hand travels up to your nape, the other to your waist, holding you on top of him.

You don't move, barely dare to breathe. He has to move first, it won't mean anything for you to sway him. He has to touch you, he has to drag you closer, he has to -

Harvey is kissing you and it feels fated.

That closeness you crave is back, a desire to burrow into his clothes, into his skin, if only he'd let you. You push him back into the sofa cushion, push your weight into him, push down unconsciously -

Harvey lets out a groan, a beautiful sound triggering goosebumps. You grind down, purposefully this time, to hear it again. You feel him under you, already hard, and you lick your lips remembering you never got to see him, fully.

"Don't do that." He gets out, even as his hand digs harder into your hip, even as he nips playfully at your ear. 

"Don't do what?" You bite at his lower lip, noting the flex of his hand, the jump of his hips. 

"Look at me like you want to devour me." He pants out and oh. Isn't that an absolutely marvelous idea?

Huffing out a laugh, you whisper. "And what if that's exactly what I want to do?”

A soft moan, this time tinged with a lick of fear if you're hearing right. "Yoba, you might actually kill me."

"Well that'd be no fun." You shift back and yank off your flannel, leaving you in a thin tank top and sports bra.

He takes you in, mouth agape and eyes blinking rapidly behind his smudged glasses. You nudge them up until they're resting precariously in his curls. Another swivel of your hips and his eyes are fluttering shut. His throat bobs, hungry. You want his fingers to leave bruises on your waist. 

"I believe last time I said something about wanting to see." You're unsure where this confidence is coming from. You're not a particularly insecure person - usually the instigator in your relationships actually, at least in the beginning. But considering your last fumble with Harvey was - well, a fumble - you expected to feel more hesitant. More reserved.

Instead, you are met with a greedy hunger, an unending longing. You want to wreck him, only a little bit. Only enough to satiate your own desire.

(You want him to lose the word regret from his vocabulary.)

This hunger has you recapturing his lips. You try to communicate all of this through your movements, through your sounds. You try to make him understand.

You think he gets it, even just a little bit.

You press up, hands sturdy on his thighs - thick under your palms, in a way that has you swallowing hard. But that can wait until later.

You're on your knees as Harvey is blinking his eyes back open, mouth parting, objection on the tip of his tongue.

"You don't - " He begins, but you are ready.

"I know." You simply look up at the man, firm and sure. 

He looks two seconds away from jumping up, from stumbling away with another round of stammering apologies. But you wait. You will not do this without him. You will not do any of this without him meeting you every step of the way.

(You remember the way he studied you when he had you up against the wall, fingers working relentlessly. You remember how he talked to you, how he begged you to come. You badly want to remind him of this, to explain just how hot it was for him to lean into his arousal, to his lust, with you at the epicenter of it all.) 

You wait and wait, and Harvey's eyes flicker down to your lips and then to your hands.

Okay. Perhaps a little nudge of encouragement couldn't hurt.

Your fingers dance up the seams of his corduroys, teasing but never touching where he is straining the fabric. You reach his belt, tapping your nails against the buckle. The sound is jarring in the heady quiet.

Your eyes do not leave his. "Okay? Or we can stop and put on a dumb movie, but then you'll have to listen to my shitty commentary and really, Harv, nobody wants that."

Harvey blinks once, twice, and then laughs - a real one, you can tell, emanating from deep in his belly.

He needs to know that, whatever his choice, nothing will be ruined.

(You've ruined too many things to let it happen again. You cannot ruin this too.)

Running a shaky hand through his hair, he accidentally knocks his glasses off and they tumble into his lap, right in front you. It’s this which breaks the tension, a smile forming as you grab them, fold them, place them gingerly on the coffee table behind.

When you've turned back, there's a glint. Good. He's made up his mind. Harvey nods, slowly, but with purpose. Your grin only broadens. It is the equivalent of a good boy, just for him.

Your fingers work in earnest, no longer interested in prolonging the inevitable, unbuckling and unzipping in record time. He pulses against his boxers, a wet spot already forming.

You can't help it - you lean in and mouth at his outline softly, earning a small moan for your efforts. Okay, so maybe you're not totally past the teasing.

You tug at his waistband, pushing his pants and boxers down enough to give you access. You wrap a hand across the head of his cock, thumb rubbing lazily against the slit. You're not sure exactly where to look - Harvey's head thrown back, his eyes hooded and watching you, or his cock throbbing in your hand, almost along with his heartbeat.

Both are quite a vision.

A bead of precum spills out and you're mesmerized, your tongue quickly lapping at it. You hear a panting gasp and you do it again. And again. Little kitten licks at the tip, down to the base. Suckling at the head, your hand works up and down his shaft. You let a trickle escape from the corner of your mouth, guiding your hand in its movement.

It's messy, messier than you're used to and you're about to pull away to wipe your mouth but then Harvey releases a whine, louder than he's been, and not even a catastrophe could wrench you off your knees.

"You're so good, Yoba, you feel so good." The red of his face is slightly concerning, but the praise encourages you to keep pace. His gaze keeps shuttering then recapturing your own, like he doesn't want to miss a second.

Harvey is a gasping mess and each sound sends a shiver down your spine, a jolt to your core. He's pleading, begging, hands tangling in your hair - not pulling, as much as you'd like that, but finding purchase. His thighs jump under your hands, his hips strain up and up into your waiting mouth.

You've never enjoyed sex like this, never felt this kind of power before Harvey. You ache to consider him, stripped of his nervous temperament, if only temporarily. He's chasing his pleasure and that does all number of wild things to your own desire, to your own heart.

You suck harder, your hand speeds up a little, and the punched out noise that escapes Harvey has you keening. He's close, you can tell.

"Darlin', please don’t stop, please, please.” The pet name slips out and your hand squeezes involuntarily. A tell-tale flush heats up the back of your neck, at the name, at his begging. You shift back slightly and the heel of your foot pushes against your own core - the moan is ripped from you, mouth still hot around Harvey's cock.

And then his hips are jack-knifing up. "I'm - fuck! I'm gonna - "

His hands relinquish their grip, encouraging you to pull off. But, oh, that wouldn't do at all.

"I'm, you - !" Harvey can barely form words as his orgasm races through him, but you take him down, as far as you can reach, and then you swallow. You watch his mouth open in a wordless shout, and his hips fight your grip as he comes.

You continue swallowing until his hips slow their juttering motion, until his breath starts to come down, until his hands rest on your shoulders, gently nudging you back.

"It's a lot, please, I can't - " Harvey's voice is wrecked, torn to shreds by his own pleasure. A smug smile blooms on your face; you're nothing if not proud of rewards earned. You tuck him back into his boxers, tugging up his pants to at least offer him some modicum of modesty. Retrieving his discarded glasses, carefully replacing them on his nose (strong nose, brown eyes, but there's some other color at the edges, you'll have to look closer).

You thread your fingers through his unruly hair, scratching at his scalp when the mood strikes you. The fire is dying behind you, you'll have to feed it more wood soon. But at this moment, you are content.

"I..." Harvey rouses as if from a daze, pink starting to fade from his cheeks. (You'll miss the blush, miss the evidence of his arousal.) You give a little tug at the roots and he nuzzles into your hand, not so dissimilar from a cat. You expect to hear purring next.

"Alright?" Your question is accompanied by a soft kiss placed at his temple. 

Harvey laughs, incredulously. "Alright? Yoba, I think I almost saw heaven." His hand suddenly grabs your unoccupied one, pulling it until it rests, intertwined with his, over his heart.

You can feel his heartbeat slowing and you squeeze his hand. "I have been called a god before."

He scoffs a little, an affectionate eye roll that has his gaze landing on your face once more. "Give me five minutes and I can return the favor."

You crinkle your nose in distaste. "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like it's - " You grapple for the words. "Like it's a transaction or something. I did it because I wanted to, Harvey, not because I expected anything back."

Harvey blinks at you. "Okay. What if I also want to do the same?"

You squint at him. He squints back and now it's a game of chicken but you've always been so horrible at that, and you're letting out a bark of laughter before you can help it, falling into him, shoulders shaking and face already aching from smiling so much, and, and -

And you take a deep breath in, inhaling the scents of the fireplace, of your leftover stew, of the whiff of sweat and soap emanating from Harvey, of the smell of spring beginning to blossom outside of your front door, on your farm, in the heart of the Valley.

It is sometime later that you walk the doctor to the edge of your farm, fingers still entwined, letting the seconds linger. You give him a nudge through the wooden gate, a final kiss placed on his cheek before he crests the hill and is gone.

A firefly dances past you and you find yourself following it for what feels like hours. Spring is almost here and you are content.

It isn't until Buck, your unruly pitbull, comes bounding at you, nearly taking you out with a well-timed swipe at the back of your legs, that you decide it's about time to head back in. You tuck your hands back into the jacket you'd haphazardly thrown on and it's then you are reminded.

The letter.

You fish it out carefully, its edges already crinkling and tearing with age. Plopping down onto the porch swing, Buck's head nestling into your lap, you try to discern the handwriting. You skim down to the bottom and your heart jumps as you recognize your grandmother's name.

You have no memories of the woman, her life and death preceding your own. All you had were glimpses of her through your mother's stories, through your grandpa's pictures. All you knew was that she and your grandpa had met young - right here, in the heart of the Valley - but hadn't gotten married until later in life. That your own mother had a complicated relationship with her. That your grandpa had a hard time talking about her.

(But, under all of it, there was an undercurrent of unfathomable, devoted love.)

And before you can think about whether this is a good idea, before you can wonder about whether now is the time to do this, you are devouring the last relic of your grandmother.

Dearest,

When I was a child and I imagined my future, it was always rife with adventure. My father used to read me stories of pirates and knights, dragon-slayers and heroes. I wanted so desperately, as if it were a physical ache in my chest, to rid myself of the prosaic nature of the Valley. I remember you would listen to me go on and on about where I would travel to first, the people I would meet, the food I would eat. 

I also remember you asked me if I would take you with me. I said no. I said, I am sorry but I must do this on my own. I said, I will write to you so that you never forget me.

I am trying to uphold that promise.

Halfway across the world and I cannot seem to escape the lure of the Valley. I have never been able to name it. Perhaps you have, dearest - you were always the poet, whether you wanted to admit it or not. I am traveling on trains and boats, I am meeting wonderful people who are teaching me so much, I am finally living the life I have always dreamed.

It is spectacular. It is everything I always hoped it would be. It is everything I planned for myself.

Except, for the life of me, I cannot stop thinking about you.

Please understand: I know this is not fair to you. Mother told me in her last letter that you're going steady with the librarian's daughter. She was always such a sweet girl. Mother has also probably told you - probably told the whole town - about my recent engagement. He is a kind man. He follows me everywhere I go, whatever whim I spring on him each day. He indulges my adventures.

However, he is not you.

I'm unsure why I'm writing this. It is highly likely I won't even put it in the mail - that I will shred it, as I did the multiple iterations that came before it. I am staring out at the ocean - the sky is rich and blue, the water almost touching my toes. I am surrounded by strangers who do not know me, will probably never know me. I am lost in the middle of everything and I am happy.

I know you wouldn’t like it here. It’s loud and garish and there are too many people. You love your solitude, you always have. Will you indulge me, though, this once? Will you dream with me, what it would be like with you by my side? Will you imagine us lost together, in the throng of hundreds of people? Will you tell me you would come find me, whisk me away, remind me who I am and where I come from?

Will you take me home, dearest?

I cannot return, not yet at least. Not until I find what I am looking for. I would never ask you to wait for me. It is not fair, I know. 

It is a wondrous dream, though, you must admit.

Yours, always,

Bea