A/N: just something dumb and cute that i worked on as a way to help myself out of a bad case of writer's block. idk if it worked or not.
The seasons always came and went suddenly. It felt like summer was just yesterday. Next thing Abigail knows, the sun will set in waves of smooth caramel over the horizon, highlighting the warm gold of the leaves on the ground, only to rise the next day as a mere pathetic glow behind the moody, tumultuous clouds of winter. Then the year would end, as dull and lifeless as always, picture perfect and painfully boring.
It had always been that way, this never-ending cycle of seasons that came and went unnoticed as if hidden behind a nebulous window on a cold October night. Nothing changed. The seasons changed, but her life never changed, and once again she found herself walking down the same path to the forest.
She stared up at the sky; it was gentle and void of any clouds, disappointingly enough. It hadn't rained in a long while. It hadn't stormed in an even longer while. She'll lose her mind if it continues like this. Then she turned her gaze to the bushes, where, oddly enough, there were no blackberries growing. Perhaps it had been too early.
She paused. She could hear splashing by the river. Nearer to her spot by the Wizard's tower, where the river would curve and wrap around the small island, a woman sat with her feet in the water, her left hand dipped into a small woven basket and the other holding a thin book.
The large crimson bow that had been so carefully tied to the back of long, curly hair was recognizable, though just barely. Abigail had rarely seen the farmer the past two seasons, besides the times she would stop by her father's shop. It was a shame, really; Abigail always wanted to get to know her better. They talked, once, just a few minutes while she picked out a tree sapling. Pomegranate, if Abigail remembered correctly. She also recalled how quick the farmer was to leave.
The farmer heard the crunching of crisp, browned leaves behind her, and she looked over her shoulder. Brown eyes widened considerably; Abigail definitely remembered how expressive they were.
"Oh." She hesitantly set her book aside, finger trapped between the pages. "Abigail, right?"
Abigail quirked her brow upward, a bit surprised that the farmer had remembered her name after so long. "It's been awhile."
A blush rose to her cheeks, nearly imperceptible in the caramel sunset. "I've been holed up since Spring. I guess it paid off in the end; after this last harvest, I think I'm set for the rest of the year."
"That's good. Everyone needs a vacation."
Abigail saw the nervous little nod, the quick glance back to the book, and she knew it was time to go. She almost didn't want to leave, if starting a conversation meant breaking the regular, block-like schedule that she found herself trapped in. With a painful regret, she said, "Well, I'll see you around."
The relief was so terribly evident in those beautiful eyes. "Of course. Bye, Abigail."
She started off back to her usual bush by the Wizard's tower. Behind her, she heard a delicate splash of water. There had to be more to the farmer than a pretty face and a thin book. She thought up of questions to ask the next time the farmer went to Pierre's, should the opportunity ever arise.
Abigail didn't think she'd see the farmer again so soon.
It was the same woven basket that Abigail saw first, and then the bright crimson of the farmer's bow. The farmer popped another blackberry into her mouth from the large mound in her basket, leaning comfortably on the ledge of the bridge. Below her, the river flowed freely, bringing a pleasant breeze along with it that the farmer was undoubtedly basking in.
"Hey there!"
The farmer jumped a little. Abigail instantly regretted the action, but it was too late to run now. She tried again, softer this time, "Have you been to the beach yet? It's really calm out there at this time."
The farmer nervously reached for her basket. "There were people there." In an afterthought, she hastily added, "It's harder to read."
She tried with some difficulty to train her attention on something in the spotless river. Abigail recognized the tension in her shoulders, the way her brows knit softly together, the same way Sebastian was within the throng of a festival.
"Have you been to the pier yet? I like watching the waves from there. It helps me clear my head, you know?" Abigail held her breath, then decided to throw a wild stab in the dark with an exhale, "It'd be nice to have some quiet company."
The prospect of "quiet company" seemed to gain her interest. The farmer finally looked at her, eyes wide and filled with speckles of wonder. It was remarkable, the way the tension in her shoulders started to lift, the way those eyes trained on her, and only her.
"It would."
Although they didn't talk much and Abigail didn't get to ask any of the questions she had stored, it was actually quite nice. The murmur of the waves as they yawned past the legs of the pier, the gentle whisper of pages turning every now and again next to her.
It was slow progress, but progress nonetheless. Abigail glanced over to the farmer, watched as a small hand diminutively tucked a curl behind her ear, and then back out to the vast expanse of the ocean. She'd get there.
Winter was dangerously close, perhaps a week and a half behind them, and the ocean had started to bring a chill along with its whispering tides. Abigail realized that this would most likely be her last time spending the evening at the pier and watching the tide whisper through. The final walk to the pier wasn't as disappointing as it usually was, though, not when she saw a familiar head of curls and a comically large bow already at the pier.
The farmer leaned back on her hands, feet swinging over the edge of the pier, a book tucked into her jacket to mask it from the spray. Abigail faltered in her steps, just for a moment, and the creak of floorboards behind the farmer drew her attention.
"I didn't think anyone would be here," Abigail blurted out.
There wasn't a hint of displeasure in her voice, mere awe at the prospect of the farmer joining her again. The farmer thought differently, however; a blush rose to her cheeks, and she drew her legs back, mumbling timidly, "I'm sorry."
"You don't have to go!" Abigail blurted out. It was loud, absolutely graceless, but the farmer stopped moving. "It's getting cold. I didn't think you'd want to come back."
She slowly slipped her legs back over the pier, shifting stiffly back into her place. After a long while, she finally said, "It's just . . . nice. With someone."
The end of her sentence faltered with an embarrassed murmur that was nearly imperceptible over the loud hiss of the ocean as it crashed against the pillars of the pier. There was a tension about her that refused to let go, as if she truly believed she had done something wrong.
Abigail sat next to her, closer this time, and said, "I always came here to avoid people. The solitude is therapeutic, I guess. So is the ocean. There's nothing out there. No people, no parents, no expectations, no judgement." She stared down over the pier and into the abyss below. The water, empty and unending, stirred beneath them in another rhythmic yawn. She continued carefully, "But there's still no judgement or expectations here, is there?"
A long silence followed, the confirmation hanging in the air. Abigail almost didn't catch the soft voice next to her; "Do you want to go one day?"
She looked at the farmer, who was staring wondrously over the horizon. "Go where?"
"On an adventure," the farmer responded. Her eyes turned from the horizon to Abigail, trained on her as if in scrutiny. "To the city. To the ocean. Anywhere, really, and leave everything behind."
Abigail smiled brightly. "You had me at 'adventure.'"
She wasn't entirely sure what to make out of the farmer's oddly fond smile.
The metallic ring of the bell echoed in Abigail's ears as she slammed the door to Pierre's shop. She started along the cobblestone path down to the bus stop, the scrape of her boots against stone helping to drown out the distant sound of her father's voice.
She ran a hand through her hair. The small tug of it always helped ease the angry heat that pounded in her head, and so did the cold touch of the autumn breeze. If she had to listen to another word of his criticism about her choice of hair dye and her "delinquent" clothing one more time –
"Oh!"
If she hadn't sidestepped on time, she would have run in to the person who had just exited the narrow trail leading to the bus stop. Then she realized with a start that it was the farmer. The farmer, of all people, with an odd mixture of concern and – because it's just her damned luck – what looked to be fear, even if just a small hint of it.
"I'm sorry," she gasped, "I didn't mean to scare you, I just –"
She trailed off with a helpless shrug. The red heat that threatened to cloud her vision dimmed considerably, now replaced with sickeningly cold tendrils that coiled in her belly. Those, too, started to unclench and slowly sink away when the farmer quietly responded, "I just wasn't expecting it."
Abigail sighed softly. "So you're okay? Really okay?"
"Huh?" The farmer stared up at her, beautifully large eyes encapsulating her in their scrutiny. "I . . . I am. Thank you for asking." She clutched her woven basket closer to her chest as she inquired, "If you don't mind, I . . . well, do you want to talk about it?"
"Talk about -? Oh, no! No, it's fine." With a backwards glance to Pierre's store, she crossed her arms over her chest, murmuring with a spiteful grumble, "I just don't like when people try to tell me what I'm allowed to wear or do with my hair."
The farmer didn't say anything to that, merely trailed her gaze up to Abigail's hair and down to the curls that were brushed over her shoulders. Abigail shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of how badly she must have mussed her hair when she stormed out of the shop.
The farmer lowered her basket, replying with a thoughtful hum, "I think you should dye it bubblegum pink."
Abigail stared blankly. Her face burned. "I should – what?"
"Pink. I think pink would look pretty."
Pretty, because Abigail absolutely needed a comment like that to stop the undoubtedly horrible blush from getting worse. She said with an incredulous huff, "You're good for a laugh."
A breathtakingly sweet smile graced the farmer's countenance. With that, she left, the image of her retreating back knotting uncomfortably in Abigail's chest.
Once again, Abigail found herself in the forest, occasionally kicking a rock into the river as she walked along it. It was no surprise to her when she found the farmer sitting near the spot where they had met at the beginning of the season, except this time, she sat cross legged and her basket was nowhere to be found. She looked up from her book when Abigail neared.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were following me."
Abigail snorted at the absurdity of the accusation. "Yes, of course I followed you to a river that the entire town visits."
The farmer set her book aside as Abigail settled down next to her. Something danced in her eyes, as warm as the golden autumn sun, and Abigail would lose herself in it if she could. She stared blankly at the river, into her own reflection, which stared accusingly back at her.
Abigail heard the farmer's shaky sigh. Shortly after, she prompted, "I have a question."
Abigail glanced over to her, surprised by how timid, how small the farmer seemed, as if she herself had been intimidated by her own question. It was remarkable just how quickly the farmer's demeanor changed, almost as quick and silent as the change of seasons. It was another enigmatic detail that Abigail didn't quite understand, but that in itself was intriguing in a way Abigail hardly recognized.
"Yeah?"
The farmer contemplated the question for awhile, long enough for Abigail to wonder if she was going to ask it or not. Then, she started hesitantly, "I've heard things floating around about . . . Marnie and Lewis . . ."
The farmer jumped a bit at Abigail's incredulous laugh. "Oh, they're probably true!" At the inquisitive tilt of the head, Abigail said, "You know what? You should stop by Haley's place this weekend. That's just about the only thing she's interested in."
"You're inviting me?"
Abigail's breath caught in her throat at how breathless, how wondrous the farmer had asked such an innocent question. The timidness melted away almost immediately, replaced now by such an exquisitely lovely smile. Abigail nodded, and the farmer's smile widened, brightly and so breathtakingly genuine in its gleam that Abigail had to bite her lip to stop herself from saying something she'd end up regretting.
". . . there's so many things you hear when people think you're not paying attention," the farmer said, the implication of it mischievous and exuberant and so, so beautiful all at once.
"We'd love to hear it," Abigail said weakly.
In the end, the farmer didn't end up coming, but Abigail supposed it was the sentiment that counted.
At the sight of a red bow, Abigail immediately thought of the farmer.
It was quiet in Pierre's, the sound of cans clunking against one another while Pierre restocked them resonating from a few shelves behind her. She abruptly set down the crate in her hands, its contents jangling loudly together, as she reached for the basket on the shelf.
It was another woven basket, lined with a silken ribbon on its rim that branched up to wrap around its handle. On the handle was a bow, hanging delicately off to the side, the glittering, smoldering crimson reminiscent of the bow the farmer wore in her hair. It would make a nice gift, no doubt, and it was definitely an upgrade from the basket the farmer carried with her.
The noise behind her quieted, and shortly after, Pierre rounded the corner. "Did something happen?"
"No, everything's fine." Abigail held up the basket. "Can I keep this?"
Pierre pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, contemplation evident in the knit of his brow, and for a moment, Abigail considered the rejection. Then, he sighed, "I don't see why not. It's one basket."
She beamed, bright and lively, a vastly different expression than the one she typically wore when stuck with stocking duties. It didn't go by unnoticed. He left to continue his own task, oddly quiet as he usually is when something was on his mind, but Abigail didn't bother inquiring exactly what.
Later, once Pierre retired to the kitchen, Abigail took the basket and left, swinging it by her side as she rushed down the path. The sun had already begun to set, illuminating the sky in a deep, ripe orange as its last dying rays spilled over the valley. The sunset had always been breathtaking in the fall, and she realized that this would be the farmer's first autumn in Pelican Town.
Abigail briefly wondered if the farmer had already watched the sunset, and if she hadn't, how it would be like to show her. How it would be like to stand by the ledge of the mountain where they could see the entirety of the town and watch as the sun drenched it in a hazy orange and yellow. She glanced back down at the ribbon on the basket and swallowed thickly, her mouth inexplicably dry.
Abigail hadn't stepped foot on the farm since the farmer had moved in. She had faltered in her tracks at the sight of the wooden fencing that had been laid out meticulously over the farm, the cows that grazed peacefully along the edges of them, and in the far distance, the windmill spinning diligently on. She neared the large house by the entrance, only to find the farmer on the porch.
The farmer's hair had been pulled back into a lazy ponytail, curls cascading wildly down the back of the porch swing she was in. She held a book in her lap, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the tight pull of muscle evident under her tanned skin, now a gentle caramel in the shadow of the sunset. The dog by her feet looked up, nose twitching curiously, and she followed in suit.
Abigail uncomfortably cleared her throat. She willed herself to move again; she was hyper aware of how oddly heavy her feet felt, awfully clumsy in the way they scraped against the gravel.
"I brought you something." She didn't know how she managed to speak without a tremor in her voice to mirror the jumbled thoughts that whirled in her head. "I'm sorry I didn't warn you."
She winced at the loud creak of the floorboards on the staircase as she made her way up. The farmer laughed, a calming sound, and the dog rest his head back between two giant paws. She took the basket, cradling delicately as if it were a sacred treasure. This close, Abigail could see her eyes; they were typically a strong brown, almost black in the shade, hiding absolutely nothing with how brilliant, how expressive they were. In the presence of the sunset, however, where the rays lit the stunning beauty of her eyes and filled them with a warm, honeyed gold, Abigail almost felt unworthy.
"So this reminded you of me?" Those eyes turned back down to the basket, following the thin line of silk that wrapped around its handle. She said with a wondrous sigh, "It's beautiful, Abigail."
"Exactly," Abigail responded on an impulsive heartbeat. The light of realization added to the speckles of gold that graced the farmer's irises, and with it, the jump in Abigail's heart that made her hastily add, "Your bow. Reminded me of your bow. Where did you get it, anyway?"
The farmer's countenance shifted, just for a moment, enigmatic for the very first time. Then, she said, "Bought it from a mouse in the forest."
"You bought it – from a - a mouse, you said?" The farmer timidly nodded, and Abigail let out an incredulous laugh. She stepped closer, excitedly asking, "Think you could show me?"
The farmer jumped at the sudden approach. She let out a guarded little laugh, an exquisitely diminutive sound, and the tension in her shoulders melted considerably. A smile finally graced her lips once more.
"Sure. It'll be an adventure."
By the time Abigail left, the sun had already set and the frigid wind had already started to tug at her hair. An adventure, the farmer said, as if she could read Abigail's mind. It's all she could have ever wanted.
"The things you find here!"
The farmer listened to Abigail babble on about the other nonsense she discovered during the many years she had lived in Pelican Town. She didn't catch herself until later when she realized that she had been the only one talking for a long while after they had started their way back to the farm. She timidly reached up to run her fingers along the smooth petals of the daisy that she had clipped on, painfully aware of the silence that followed the end of her sentence.
The forest murmured idly on, filling the noise with the calls of wildlife and the whisper of leaves as the breeze brushed through them. Their path was spotted with dancing patches of sunlight. It was dim despite it being the middle of the day, another indicator of the winter that was lurking nearby. Another breeze whispered past, this time brushing their shoulders, and the farmer sidled near her.
Abigail's hand fell from the hair clip. Shortly after, it returned, consciously fussing at the petals. The farmer quietly asked, "Do you not like it?"
"It's not that! I love it." Abigail held her breath, exhaled quickly, unsure of exactly what she was looking for when she asked, "What do you think? You're not just flattering me, are you?"
The farmer looked over to her, the shadows of the leaves that hung overhead masking her irises in a deep, black veil. They trailed over the hair clip, lingered far too long, and then her gaze was turned back towards the path, to the many dried leaves splayed out around them.
"I'm not. I think you're beautiful."
Abigail swallowed around an inexplicably dry knot in her throat. The farmer didn't dare make eye contact, her chin tucked low into her scarf, but judging by the delicate crinkle in the corner of her eyelids, she was smiling. And Abigail, damn it all, could only step closer, could only lick her lips as she grasped desperately for what she wanted to say.
But there was nothing to say. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable; it almost never was. The only dominant thought in the whirlwind of responses in her head wasn't even truly a response, merely a want, a pathetic yearning. She clenched her hand into a fist, aware of how painfully empty it was, how cold her fingertips felt against her palms, and she found herself staring longingly at the farmer's hands.
She'd reach out if she could, if the farmer hadn't taken to timidly holding her hands together in front of her.
"What are you thinking about?"
The question caught her by surprise. The crinkle in the corners of her eyes were gone, replaced with a worried knit in her brow. Tension laced her words, looming dangerously over her shoulder as if she expected the response, if any, to bite her. Abigail typically took risks, sometimes didn't even bother looking back, but this one wasn't something she wanted to ruin. Except when those eyes were cast downwards and the farmer seemed to curl into herself by the mere look she wore, Abigail went for it.
"Holding your hand."
Breathing had never been more laborious. They never did stop walking, but the noise did; there was only blood rushing in Abigail's ears, the heat that radiated from her cheeks, the pumping of her heart, and for a frighteningly numb moment, she regretted it all. The adventure, the clip, the confession – for one fleeting moment, she wished she could take it all back if it meant the farmer would say something, anything.
Something pulled at her fingertips. All at once, the rustling trees and the crunch of leaves under her shoes rushed back to her, and the numbness subsided. At her right hand, the farmer's fingers smoothed gently against her own. Abigail became acutely aware of the awful trembling in the farmer's hand when their fingers intertwined.
The farmer pulled herself closer, gradually until they were pressed close. She was shaking terribly, a delicate leaf clinging desperately to its branch in the wind, but not once did her grip falter. Abigail felt the distinct urge to say anything and everything at once, lace each word with the giddy excitement that bubbled in her chest, but at one look at the farmer at her arm, she stayed silent.
In the place of a conversation, a soft, intricate sort of fondness grew, cradled by the warmth that swelled endlessly in Abigail's chest. Abigail squeezed the farmer's hand, and within a heartbeat, the farmer squeezed back.