Disclaimer: Harvest Moon is not mine.

Author's note: There really is no good excuse for the ridiculous lateness of this chapter. I recently realised that I wrote the first part of this chapter when it was still snowing. It is now July, which pretty much sums me up. Oh well, what can I say? At least I'm still carrying on, I guess. Big thanks to: Awesome Rapidash, sugarapplesweet and sarsak, as feedback is always appreciated! :)

Flower Girl

"Could I please take it away with me, Mary?" Gray had asked. "I haven't managed to read very far yet..."

A lie. Well, a half-truth at the very least. He actually hadn't made a great deal of progress with the manuscript, but not for the reasons Mary was probably imagining. She had smiled and said 'yes, of course', the only stipulation being that he would give her his honest verdict when he'd finished.

Now that would be the tricky part. It wasn't that Mary's novel was poorly written. Not at all. Gray was no real literature lover - he only really liked books because she did - but even he could see that Mary had talent. Her words flowed smoothly across the pages, appearing just as professional, he happened to think, as anything you'd find on a bookshelf. But then he was no literature lover - and perhaps a little biased.

No, it was the topic of the book that had left Gray stumped. Put it this way... he liked factual books, adventures and even the occasional mystery. But like any other guy feigning an interest in books to impress a pretty girl - there couldn't be too many of them, surely - he certainly had his limits.

Romance, of any description whatsoever, was his. And what had Mary named her heroine? Rose.

Oh, yes. And she was a sweet enough girl, poor Rose. He wanted to care about her, honestly, but it was difficult to plough through a story that simply didn't interest him. "I'll see you soon, Gray!" Mary called after him as he left the library, her voice carrying a strangely hopeful note, that he couldn't - and didn't try to - decipher.

Gray smiled and nodded, though his cheery mood vanished without a trace the second the door slammed behind him. He walked straight back to the Inn, the papers tucked under his arm, aware that it was lunch time and the place would be absolutely bustling - but also aware that he had nowhere else to go. Despite living so near to his grandfather, the two were not at all emotionally connected. They irritated one another far too much at work to want to spend their free time in each other's comapny as well. The Inn was the only home Gray had so, argument or not, he had no choice but to return there.

As expected, he was greeted by an instant barrage of noise: the usual rumble of chatter and Ann's unmistakeably raucous laugh, as she dashed about taking orders and serving meals in impossibly quick time.

You might assume, given their turbulent argument just hours ago, that Ann's buoyant mood was a good sign, a brilliant one, in fact. They've made up, you'd surely assume... right? Alas no, Gray thought. He knew from experience that nothing stopped Ann. She'd bite your head off one minute, become your best friend the next. Anything, as long as the Inn stayed in business. Ann simply didn't believe that personal problems had any place in the world of work. From the jokey smile on her face as she served Gotz his beer, you might mistake her for a recently engaged woman. But Gray was well aware that they might just as easily have broken up.

You never could tell.

Gray moved swiftly through the tables towards the bar, where Doug was stood waiting. "Alright," he said, greeting the blacksmith with a curt nod. Gray replied with a wordless shrug. He was not one for pretences.

Doug smiled sympathetically, as he wiped dirty glasses. "I didn't get a minute's sleep last night either," he informed him in an undertone, dropping his voice even lower when Ann bounced up to the counter to pass on an order.

"Hi, Gray," she trilled cheerily, just as he'd predicted. It was as if nothing had happened. "Manna wants a salad and mineral water, Dad," she added, and was half-way to bounding off again, when she noticed the wad of papers still tucked under Gray's arm.

She frowned. "What you got there, Gray?"

"Um... " He searched around his head for a lie, only to realise there wasn't one. "Mary gave them to me; it's an outline for her novel."

"Ooh!" Gray could also have predicted exactly how Ann's eyebrows would shoot up at the mention of Mary's name, but it didn't annoy him any the less when it actually happened. "Mary, eh?" she whispered, leaning close; her breath itched against his ear and he squirmed away, irritated. "Hanging around Mary again, were you?"

"No, Iwasn't! It's none of your business!" Gray leapt up both out of indignation and a desire to run for dear life once he'd made a cutting remark about her earlier explosion. Assuming he could think of one first, of course...

A grin unfolded across Ann's face, lighting up her eyes from behind. Gray was familiar with that look - and he feared it. "Well, you must have done something, Gray." She shrugged and flipped a white tea towel over her shoulder. "Mary doesn't show off her work to just anyone. She only allows her closest friends."

"If she gets published, she'll have no choice, but to let 'just anyone' read it," Gray retorted. Was it his imagination or did Ann over-emphasise the word 'friend'there? Knowing Ann, who had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, it was probably the latter.

"So," he blurted out, before she could turn away. "Have you read it?"

Ann looked suitably surprised; he knew full well that she wasn't a big fan of the printed word, and that was putting it lightly. "No," she admitted. "Romance? No thanks, not my scene at all. I told Mary straight. We had a laugh about it and she sent me on my way with a pile of the most gruesome horror stories she could find."

Gray laughed along with her, but felt the smile melt off his face the minute she walked away. How he wished he'd simply had the courage to say the same.

As a kid, Gray had always been the quiet one in the classroom. He wasn't always comfortable letting the chatter of others just wash over him; it was simply the easier option.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though Cliff played the exact same kid in his school. And as Gray was currently discovering, this led to a painfully awkward confrontation between the two. Neither would talk, and both needed to.

The blacksmith hovered in the doorway of their shared room. Across from him, on the bed beside the window, sat Cliff, a silouette against the snowy background. Gray broke the silence with a cough, then followed it up with an exasperated sigh when Cliff didn't so much as glance up. Finally, when he was on the verge of giving up and heading back along that corridor, Cliff leapt abruptly to his feet and gestured for his friend to enter.

And because, deep down, he did want to make amends - but mainly because he didn't fancy being struck with another shoe today - Gray shuffled dutifully into the room. He raised his head a fraction to nod in Cliff's general direction. "Look, Cliff... I'm sorry... about earlier, and what I said... " The words stumbled out awkwardly; apparently, apologising in the face of Cliff's silence was no easier than standing up to his anger.

Moments slipped by, then Cliff exhaled heavily. "But it's not you," he explained. "It's Ann."

Gray's fingers paused in the motion of tracing the ugly bruise colouring his cheek bone. He frowned. "What? So you still haven't made up with her?"

"Well. Yes. That's kind of the whole problem."

There was a long pause, in which Gray struggled, mentally, to understand what Cliff was getting at. He loved Ann - didn't he? - so it made no sense. For as long as Gray and Cliff had been living together at the Inn, there had been a definite spark between the lost traveller and the hot-headed barmaid. Even Gray, dense as he was romantically, could clearly see the attraction. Cliff didn't blush that shade of crimson for just anyone. "What do you mean?" he asked eventually.

"I mean... well, sometimes... it just seems that Ann doesn't take our relationship all that seriously." Cliff's words rushed out almost too quickly, as if he was simply relieved to tell someone how he truly felt.

Gray merely felt out of his depth and wearily massaged his temples. Now Mary, she was great at all this Agony Aunt business. She'd helped Gray many a time, never realising that she was nearly always the true source of his anxiety.

He shook his head a fraction and turned to Cliff, trying to focus not on the past, but on Ann - the important things. Flopping down on his bed, he asked, "What d'you mean she doesn't take things seriously?"

Getting answers from Cliff was like drawing blood from a stone. He needed to be pushed all the way to reveal even the slightest imformation, and even then Gray found it pointless. And honestly? He already knew what Cliff meant. Was it possible that Cliff cared more about their relationship than Ann did? Definitely, Gray thought.

To put it in its simplest form: could he love her more than she loved him?

Cliff sat on his own bed, opposite Gray. "We're like polar opposites, you know? She's so loud, a little crazy sometimes, and... confident." It didn't take a genius to notice the wistful tone Cliff had adopted and Gray realised he was merely listing the qualities he wished he possesed. "And then there's me," Cliff added, stuggling to fight off self-pity. "You know I love Ann, but - "

"Does she?" Gray interrupted.

"Does she what?"

"Does she know you love her? Maybe she's not exactly taking this seriously because she doesn't realise there's anything to get serious about. You know what Ann's like; she's not the most romantically aware." That applied to Gray, too. It had taken him weeks to understand that he wasn't sick or allergic to the books; simply in love with the quiet librarian who guarded them. Of course, that said, there was really nothing simple about it.

Cliff shook his head and fixed Gray a hard look. "I don't know," he answered eventually, more upbeat suddenly, as if he'd realised that his problems weren't quite as significant as he'd initially imagined.

And in the end Gray didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed that someone else's fairytale ending wasn't as perfect as it appeared on first glance.

The first nigglings of guilt captured Gray at two o'clock precisely - in the morning. He was not pleased, to put it lightly. Mineral Town was still clinging onto the final death throes of winter, leaving his bed as warm and appealing as freshly burnt toast.

If his mind hadn't been wired up to an invisible television set, one which played his thoughts on fastest fast-forward, Gray could've easily settled down for a few more hours sleep. On the other side of the room Cliff lay snoring lightly, obviously untroubled. Gray often wondered what it would be like to switch places with his friend, but the thought of having to cope with Ann usually dissuaded him.

Ann was fire.

He let his head dive-bomb onto the pillow, feeling no less awake. No doubt he'd keel over tomorrow morning - today, actually - in the blistering heat of the Smithy. That'd give Saibara something different to complain about, if nothing else. Normally it was, "Yer head's in the clouds, son. Daydreaming again, were you? About a pretty girl, no doubt? Women don't like a dreamer - " How the hell should he know? " - They want a proper man!"

Read it.

Gray rolled onto his side, paused, and rolled onto his stomach. He tugged his sheets over his shoulder, he let them rest on his hip, he threw them off altogether. Then, admitting defeat, he reached below his bed and fumbled for a stack of papers that had been left to gather dust.

"Gray, for the love of - " Cliff bolted up in bed. "Shut up!"

The Blacksmith's had a smell that was hard to define. Metal, sweat and dirt. It emanated heat.

Gray stared loosely at a dull wodge of metal, soon to be transformed into a glittering success of a bracelet. Much like a butterfly or a swan.

He had to bite back a snicker; Saibara was right then, he was becoming stupidly dreamy and poetic. Swans and bloody butterflies... Personally, he blamed Mary. Her damn seductive prose had sucked him in for at least an hour longer than he'd expected last night and, though he rocked tiredly on his heels, Gray's mind was still buzzing.

"You start work whenever you feel ready, Gray." His grandfather's curt, sarcastic tone filled the room. "You take your time."

Gray pulled a face at the older man and starting rifling through his tools. And then, as the door swung open, something entirely new entered. The sharp scent of winter blew in with another, stranger smell fast on its heels. Flowers, he thought as Popuri crossed the threshold. Her sweet, floral fragrance was soon engulfed by the hot, stagnant air of the workshop.

Gray ignored her. He set to work, just as his grandpa had instructed. At the counter, an order for Popuri's family's chicken farm was discussed.

For a fraction of a second, Gray found her breathy voice irritating. He soon remembered that he was too exhausted even to be irritable, and relented, allowing it to wash over him in waves. She was actually a little soothing, in a way.

"Gray!" his grandfather barked. "Carry the lady's order home for her, will you?"

What, can't Princess manage a little watering can all by herself? Gray longed to ask. But when he reached the counter and aimed an icy glare at the girl, he was surprised to meet sheepish, apologetic eyes.

They stepped outside into dazzling winter sunshine. "Sorry," Popuri said immediately, and when Gray didn't answer she giggled nervously. In only a couple of short strides, they crossed the road to stand in front of Poultry Farm.

Still fuming with his grandfather, Gray thrust the watering can at her. "Here you go," he muttered, "madam."

To his bewilderment, however, this made Popuri laugh outright. Her cheeks, he noticed, blushed the colour of her hair. "I did say sorry," she pointed out, her fingers wrapping around the handle. "I don't enjoy being treated like everybody's kid sister, you know."

Gray blinked at her, dazed. "Yeah, sure," he agreed, suddenly feeling the past, sleepless night catch up with him in an unexpected pulse of tiredness. He started to turn away, but Popuri pulled him back.

"Thanks." And then she kissed him.

It was so brief, it could have been a mere illusion. And in the corner of his lips, of all places, as if she had just missed the place she was really aiming for. The question was: just where had she been aiming? Lips or cheek? There was a world of difference...

"Well..." Popuri smiled, as if she had done nothing out of the ordinary. "See you."

As soon as the door to the farmhouse clicked shut, Gray glanced around wildly, fearful that he was being watched. He was drawn to the windows of Poultry Farm where he half-expected to see a prying mother - or, worse, a furious older brother.

Thankfully, he found neither, so -

"GRAY!" Holy Goddess. The blacksmith leapt about a foot into the air at the sudden shout, only to spot Cliff stood across the street in the Vineyard, clutching a barrel and looking slack-jawed with shock. He looked how Gray felt, actually.

"Yes?"

"What the hell," Cliff mouthed, "was that?!"