Summary: AU. Gil Centric: "Love! I am NOT in love—especially not with her. I just can't...keep it in my pants. That's all."

Disclaimer: I do not, and will never, own any bit of the Harvest Moon franchise. All I can take ownership for is the plot and my OC, Meredith.

Enjoy

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Hamilton Dietrich had come to the firm conclusion, over the span of his forty three years of living, that: Raising a girl would be hell—particularly, when puberty would, inevitably, rear its ugly head into the game called Parenthood.

However, someone seemed to favor Hamilton upstairs.

For after many months of courting his sweetheart, Meredith—the oh-so alluring preschool teacher from down the lane; with her flaxen ringlets crowning her beatific face and two honey-liquid irises dripping over her perfectly round and flushed cheeks—he finally managed to convince her that they were meant for one another. And what do people who are destined to be forever in-love do next? They agree to settle down with one another, have it acknowledged legally, and then proceed to romp in the sheets.

(Hamilton always finds himself chuckling when he recalls the way Meredith would playfully call him a 'creeper' whenever he suggested they get down and dirtier. He knows she loved the way he waggled his eyebrows—he just knows it.)

A riotous nine months later, and Hamilton finds himself blessed with the opportunity to meet his precious newborn son, the heir to his unexplainable greatness, Gil. When the doctor told him about his healthy new offspring and the impressive family jewels he was packing—

Hamilton thought he was safe from the impending doom that he might have been subjected to if his sweetheart had given birth to a girl instead.

His elation is only increased further when he wins a game of Rock-Paper-Scissors against Meredith. He won't even have to worry about giving the Talk anymore, because Meredith, that pretty little sore-loser, has just been given the rights to do that. And Hamilton honestly couldn't cease his bragging or excitement after that.

Honestly, Hamilton just wasn't the type of man who could mentally prepare himself to elaborate the wonders of mating to his son. Despite the fact that he was a master in bed, he could never bring himself to tell a hormonal and curious preteen the difference between male and female genitals.

He has to suppress a gag whenever he even thinks about those words.

Unfortunately, the Higher Forces no longer seem to favor Hamilton. At all.

It happens during mid-autumn, October, when Meredith's immune system suffers from a nasty virus. Every time Hamilton thought it would get better, things would only take a turn for the worst. The doctors, no matter how much money you shoved down their highly-educated throats, weren't reassuring in the least. Gradually, like the grains of sands in an hourglass, her life dissipates. And soon, she's slipped off the face of the earth, leaving behind a nearly suicidal Hamilton and distressed, yet perplexed seven-year-old.

Hamilton's grieving period did not waver for months. His mourning lasted years. The only world he had known was the abyss of depression that he had collapsed into the day she had finally stopped breathing. He wasn't functioning properly; alcohol and pills were his only comfort now. No more soft and tender kisses from a dainty Meredith.

His mother, struggling with running an entire town as the appointed Mayor and caring for her only grandson, scolded him. She reprimanded him physically, until he discontinued the act of staying within his room all day—only to end up sulking in public, at bars. Or when he was feeling considerably disheartened, he'd be passed out on some grimy sidewalk.

It wasn't until his old best friend—and rival—Thomas brought him out of his emotionally stump. It took him eight months to climb out of his dark, disturbing hole. Every suicidal note he had ever written was tossed into the furnace; hours and hours were spent watching the flames of his words written in the depths of despair. It only took three months to slip into an easy and comfort routine. Thomas and his mother were beginning to leave him to his own devices, letting him roam the world and rebuild his empire once more.

But it took a year and two months before his mother would let him keep Gil again.

Hamilton's primary concern when he was reunited with his son was how he was going to clear up the disappearance of his wife. Explanations were never Hamilton's forte, especially if they concerned death or sex.

Yet his son was sharper than he thought. He knew. He knew and he wasn't going to correct Hamilton when the bumbling man rambled on about how his mother was off teaching the deaf and blind in some unheard of third-world country. He stayed silent and played dumb, for the sake of father's anxiety and sanity. There were things he wasn't ever going to understand at his current age—but he knew better than to make the situation any harder for his recuperating father.

So, for three years, Gil played the game with his father. He pretended that he believed every single word Hamilton would fabricate for his supposed 'safety'. With encouragement from his father, Gil explored the world of education. He began to follow his mother's footsteps; with her adoration for learning and desire to spread knowledge to the supposed ill-fated and less fortunate. If only to understand the woman he affectionately called mother a smidge better—if only to appease his father.

Of course, it was only inevitable that Hamilton would opt to tell his son the truth. About how his mother wasn't traveling around, filling the world with wonders of education. About how instead, she was six feet under. Nothing but words, anxious and hurried, would tumble past his lips as he confessed his darkest tale to his son. Explaining why he wasn't there for him when his mother had departed. He had cracked from the pressure of repression.

And Gil would say nothing as his father's cries filled the night.

Near the end of middle school—the stage in which Gil drastically changed into the stoic and work-hungry man he would be known as in the future— the two managed to patch up an awkward but relatively decent relationship. Life was becoming tolerable. Though, old fears managed to dig themselves from the depths of Hamilton's mind once more. The worst had happened:

Gil had his first wet dream.

Hamilton could have broken down and wept for many nights to come—but his newly reformed dignity wouldn't have let him do that. He remembers it all too well…

It had been a chilly February morning, roughly two months after Gil's thirteenth birthday. Hamilton, a man who was often struck by the "midnight munchies", had been creeping back upstairs to his room. He had just finished devouring a pint-size tub of fudge ice cream and a box of gram crackers when he decided he had gotten his fill and it was time to return to bed.

But that's when they had collided. Hamilton had barely felt his son when said boy had bumped into his profound stomach. It was only when he heard the light thud from the hard wood floor did he realize he had knocked over his son. With the slight difficulty of the darkness that surrounded them and his tiredly functioning senses, he peered down at his the towheaded boy. His eyes were wide with fright, almost like a deer caught in the headlights. Immediately, his expression switched to a mixture of embarrassment and shame as his cheeks blossomed with blood and his trembling hands tightened over bunched up sheets.

Confusion was the first actual emotion Hamilton felt when he realized that his son was awake at two in the morning. But, when the usually stoic blond began frantically explaining something that vaguely sounded like, "I didn't think this would happen,", "I'm too old to be still wetting the bed,", and "it must have happened earlier, because it was all sticky now," Hamilton's dark, beady eyes shoots down to his son's powder blue boxers.

There was a wet patch on the blue material.

Suddenly, Hamilton is shrieking, loudly displaying the panic that's thrashing within him. Gil is startled by his father's outburst, becoming nearly as frantic as his father.

It doesn't help that in the next second, Hamilton ungracefully collapses onto the floor, quite unconscious.

Ever since that day faithful, chilly February night, Hamilton deemed that there was only one way to handle this. His decision of course, was utterly irrational, but effective. He was going to instill fear, of everything and anything that was sexual, into his boy. Sexual education was going to be taught to an unnecessary extreme. He didn't bother with the silly legends like "Cooties", because Gil was just too damn intelligent to fool with that nonsense.

So he went all out—from the in-detail STD lectures, to the gruesome genital side shows. He dragged his son to the clinic, where he would show him suffering patients who had risked indulging in too much sex. Brothels and whore houses became a once a month field trip for the two—where Hamilton would also get in a lesson or two about the misfortunes of alcohol and drug abuse.

Everything Gil had seen could not be unseen. Nothing he had learned could be forgotten. Anything he had heard would forever haunt him.

Hamilton proceeded to mold his son, especially his interests. Somewhere in the recesses of his unsettled mind, he thought it safe to teach his son to love something more than intimacy. And he successfully managed it too. Gil had grown into a workaholic. There were times when he felt undeniably guilty about what he had forced his son to witness—how his son had gotten the minor quirk of a person with obsessive-compulsive disorder. It was beautiful, and Hamilton assured himself that nothing was wrong. Nothing would hurt.

He took a sickeningly twisted delight in the fact that, while all those frisky youths of Gil's generation were off unwittingly reproducing and gladly spreading disease, his stern offspring held no interest in the opposite sex—whatsoever. Sexual pleasure could find no domain in his heart.

Gil was utterly repulsed by it.

It was beautiful.

And yet, deep down in that tiny niche within his soul—where Meredith played the chords of his hearts, with her syrupy honey flavored eyes and soft, wavy light blond curls that wound about her soft pink shaded cheek—

Hamilton would always wonder if having a girl would have been easier.


Asexuality


His full name was Gilbert Dietrich.

To the exceedingly few associates that he had willingly allowed into his personal social web of life, he was known as Gil.

Gil was strictly a man of labor. He was the definition of neat and organized; his patience and time only worth the selected goals he possessed in life. He wasn't one for anything less than perfection, unless that's exactly what the plan called for. Yet, his plans—those convoluted little schemes, weaved with anxious fingers and trimmed with a focused judgment—never called for anything below flawlessness.

He had been born on Gofre Isle, a miniature Spanish vacation island that his parents had often visited back in their youth. He had several plans for retirement there, after he had made sure his life had gone all accordingly before he would add in any leisure time. His father, though born in America, was of German descent and his mother's family had come from Sweden during the early stages of her childhood. To put it simply enough, with a background such as that, Gil was considered attractive amongst society.

Though he couldn't blame them for believing so—he was quite handsome. With soft flaxen strands of hair combed into a tidy style and gorgeous azure pools that could read your body language as easily as a book; along with his fair skin (which had once been littered with pimples during his adolescent years) and his lither build that constantly revealed his impressive physical endurance. All this was hidden beneath his favored, refined array of clothes. From the cool-colored button-downs and plaid patterned sweater vests, to his designer slacks and well-polished dress shoes. Yes, Gil was most certainly desired by his fellow peers. But he never batted a single eye lash in their direction.

Appearances were important, but unnecessary sexual attention was not.

Life was going accordingly for him. Recently, he had permanently moved from his one of his father's old houses to rent an apartment of his own. He paid for with the money he received from his occupation at City Hall—a job he had landed with not only his charm and intelligence, but as well with the whisper of assistance from his father's family history in politics.

But flaws would always weave their way into the quilt. Be it in-between the snares of thread or the knots of fabricated fibs, there would always be a downside to Gil's happiness.

Never once before—never, ever, ever—did he ever have to deal with such a problematic predicament. It was a miscalculation that he quite thought he would make. He wasn't dense, but he was always well assured that nothing like this would transpire.

And to be perfectly honest, he had always assumed he was Asexual.

Gil wasn't sure how his miscalculation even slipped past his radar, but he needed to double-check his findings with a professional—As soon as possible.


"And why am I not allowed to even be prescribed, at the very least, a placebo?" Gil prodded incessantly, his flaxen brows wrinkling in absolute distress, "What kind of doctor can't even allow his patient to pretend that their receiving help?"

The man before him, who was regularly known as Doctor Jin Won to his patients, sighed dejectedly. Over half an hour later and here he was, still arguing with one Gil Dietrich.

"Because, Mister Dietrich, a placebo is a merely a sham medical intervention. Moreover, your dilemma isn't all that serious in the slightest. There is no need for a prescription, I assure you."

Gil visibly bristled at the doctor's response. He scowled in annoyance with his arms crossed over his torso. The older male rolled his dark violet eyes, promptly turning away and returning to the paper work on his desk.

"Impossible," Gil stressed feverishly, "This isn't just some minor dilemma, Won! It's a crisis. Setbacks like this don't happen to men like me!"

Dark violet eyes narrowed, glinting behind slim glasses as the doctor glanced back at his client.

"You're overreacting—"

"I'm sick."

"It's a common occurrence for all men—"

"I must be ill then, because I'm not like the average pig that fills our pleasant streets with their idiotic filth." Gil remarked smoothly, barely containing his anger as he fidgeted in his seat. Gil didn't need his temper to linger along the edge of conscious. Not when he already had the anxiety slithering there. He wasn't going to play any games—even if it was with the Asian doctor he had grown to call possibly more than an acquaintance over the years.

Jin released another solemn sigh. He pushed his clipboard away from him, dreading the idea of looking at any more documents at this point. With his hands now free, he idly readjusts his pony tail. He was gifted with silky, ink colored tresses from his mother; and such delicately healthy hair could be troubling when hunching over paperwork all afternoon.

"Perhaps," Jin slowly began, his glasses tilting downward. "You are in fact ill."

The blond smirked in triumph—

"Mentally ill, that is."

The smirk had dissipated as soon as it had appeared. Gil slumped back into his seat, glaring heatedly at the other; who nonchalantly shrugged, the corners of his lips curling just so.

"Why Jin," the blond spat, dropping the formalities and using the other's first name, "who knew you could be not only holding out on giving your dearest patient the proper medication for what could possibly be fatal to their well-being—but… you're also a smartass. Wonderful."

The bespectacled doctor rolled his eyes, finally opting to actually pay attention to that paperwork he had momentarily ceased. No matter how stressed he might become from Gil's harassment, paperwork always served to be a great distraction.

"Do you honestly expect me to prescribe you a sugar pill for an unplanned erection?" Jin deadpanned, scribbling away on the manuscripts neatly arranged on his desk. Gil blanched.

"I hate you." Gil mumbled dryly.

"Yet, you still pay me for every ridiculous infirmity you seem to have."

In response, Jin earned a pitiful groan from the blond. Exhaling nosily, Gil abruptly arose from his seat. He shuffled toward the door, expression aghast as he realized that Jin was certainly not going to help him.

The scratching of the pencil ceased, low muttering following right after.

"Gil."

The towheaded male halted at the threshold, a small flaxen curl on top of his head bouncing with his sudden pause.

"Yes?"

Gil could feel Jin's eyes watching him carefully; as if he was analyzing what he might plan to do next. Clever decision, being that Gil always planned ahead. His fingers twitched against the knob. His was body teeming with anxiety.

"You realize there are other methods of handling your discomfort, right?"

For some reason, Gil didn't like the sound of that.

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Hi. I exist. Changed my name from Blubber Nuggets to TickleMeRainbow too…

I revised it—at three in the morning. Yeah, I should be more focused on His Glass Slippers, shouldn't I? But, I think that's a dead horse. I'm sorry. I promise to beat it another time. Also, since it's so late at night, the style was taken into a more… realistic light? I'm going to try and make the next chapters (after the revised, current chapters) darker, sexier, and alive. –bricked—

My reason for this is that, I need to practice more. More than ever if I plan to do something as tedious as write in my near-future. Not that I wouldn't mind sitting back and brain-puking absolute bullshit onto a computer err-day, all day.

Oh. And I lost my beta…Anybody up for the task? And uh, if you're chill with the revision and actually want to see more, then I will pump them out like a boss. Because I actually have a resolve to complete.

Sweet lord. I'm tired.