I'm so deep down the rabbit hole folks.
My list of fic ideas is endless, but I keep adding new Stardew-related ones for this series as my friends gas me up until I'm blushing in the middle of coffee shops.
Luckily it seems you lovely people enjoyed the opening exploits of Alexis and Haley too. So, I'll keep rabidly gnawing at the chains around my insanity until it bursts free.
When you're drowning in an ocean of queer escapades and deep lore, remember that you only have yourself to blame.
Sebastian lets the last wisp from a burnt-out cigarette trickle off their lower lip. It dissipates into the warm summer air; caustic tobacco masqueraded by ocean brine and catch-of-the-day from the fishmonger's shop at Pelican Town's beach.
Their head lulls toward Robin swaying with Demetrius on the thatched Luau dance floor. She looks happy, if focused on her footing. As much as Sebastian dislikes the new "family" dynamic his mom roped him into, deep down he knows her smile is a good enough reason to stick around.
Not that he would admit it out loud.
They roll the coarse, smoldering butt against the palm webbing between their index and middle finger. Then, Sebastian pulls away from the tiki-inspired totem he posted up against, stretching out the awkward crick in his neck. Alex gives them snide looks from the open sand nearby, ignorant to Haley fawning over his letterman jacket. Sebastian snarls and traipses off to the dock, gothic boots leaving deep imprints in the shifting dunes with each lanky step.
The loner tracks sand along warped, soaking planks until he reaches a piling near Willy's shop. This would be the ideal place to hide if not for excess heat reflecting off the water's surface.
"Like a fucking roasted hog," they mutter, bringing their thoughts into the ether.
Feeling the drenched hoodie stick to their binder makes Sebastian briefly reconsider their all-black attire. For now, they flick their spent cigarette to the dock and scatter ash into a splintered gap between planks with their heel. Sebastian can't help thinking it'd be more satisfying with some prick jock's neck underfoot instead.
One of the new farm girls, Gardenia, turns the corner in time to watch Sebastian tease greasy spikes of black hair down the right side of his head back into place, and brush flecks of sand off his hoodie.
She doesn't just watch. She stares, intently. Hazel eyes with painted-over dark rings scan the back of Sebastian's head, occasionally peaking to see how their butt sat in those molten black jeans.
It takes a moment to catch her breath, by which point Sebastian spots the unexpected guest.
"Oh."
Their remark is brief and reserved. They look away and scratch the side of their broad nose, as if expecting Gardenia to disappear behind the not-so-subtle cover. However, her curling drills of sage-green hair are still waiting when Sebastian looks back, sullen eyes bleeding mascara and eyeliner.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." Gardenia's almost panicky, apologetic tone is matched by how she raises both hands, assuring that she wouldn't step closer. As the farm's livestock expert, she knows how to deal with skittish beasties. "Just saw you step away and thought, 'Hey, I should make sure Seb's okay.'"
He raises an eyebrow. It's hard to tell whether the dusting on his cheeks comes from being social or burgeoning sunburn – something easy to graft over his pasty computer tan.
"Seb, huh?" Their tone is low, but a bit of their trained, smoke-addled rasp comes though. "Didn't realize we were on a nickname basis."
"Oh no, I mean if you aren't comfortable with that, of course."
Gardenia rubs her arm, fully exposed in a sleeveless seafoam shirt.
"Guess I don't mind."
"Really?"
"Nah." They shrug, both arms crossing over their stomach. "Think you called me that when you gave me cloth the other day. Seems your heart's set."
The rancher's cheeks run darker than summer flush.
"O-Oh." Gardenia's meticulous speech pattern breaks. "You're not still mad about that, are you?"
"Dunno that I was ever really 'mad.' Definitely surprised, confused."
"Yeah." She holds her elbow and starts twirling a lock of hair, face down. "The way you were staring I thought you might never talk to me again."
"Mm… Might've been a premature reaction."
Gardenia lights up.
"It made for a good grease rag, actually. Whatever you recycled it from…" His voice trails. This is his longest conversation in some time. "So a little late, but… Thanks."
Waves crash against the dock's braces, leaving a thin sheen of foam as they recede. Gardenia's nerves draw back to her core in turn. She gingerly folds her hands over the golden buckle of her jean shorts.
"Of course. I'm really happy you got some use out of it!"
"Maybe stick to normal presents next time, though. Like wine. Or one of those cool cave tears." They tug the front of their hoodie to free their skin again – to no avail, based on their expression. "No idea how you landed on a cloth rag."
The answer is… Complicated. Gardenia's nerves crash back in full-force, wondering how to move forward without tearing down whatever rapport they're building. Her eyes glaze over as she focuses on a half-covered barrel of chum, flies swarming like a pestilent cloud.
They remind her of the fireflies that night.
The mountain lake exudes a particular aura in the spring. As the chill of winter gives way to summer's blaze, dank fog blankets the sparse forest. Animals wake from their hibernation to enjoy the crisp air and scurry through moss-infested dirt, guided only by the effervescent spark of firefly constellations.
Owls hoot from every direction, sharp eyes cutting through the evening fog better than any human could. Their cacophonous chorus line is plenty distracting to Gardenia, dressed in darker, longer clothes to hide amid towering pines.
"Such good little guys," she mutters in an infantilized tone.
Gardenia can't see a single owl, but knows the babies appreciate having a loving audience this late.
Eventually, her attention is drawn back to Robin and Demetrius' place, better known as the Carpenter's Shop. All its windows are dark, inhabitants long since tucking in. But that's not what Gardenia cares about.
Her focus centers the basement window she discovered on one of her many trips up toward the Community Center, dug beneath the eastern wall of the garage. On most days, that two-panel slit of glass is Sebastian's only connection to the outside. Even if the lights were on, Gardenia would have comparatively little to see; outside observers can only glimpse his tabletop game board for "Solarion Chronicles" from this angle.
As Gardenia laments the injustice of her beloved tucking their bed beneath the window, a ghastly figure emerges from ripples in the fabric of space nearby. Her pupil-less white eyes cut through darkness better than the owls, and pierce any living being they happen to cross.
The more Gisabelle's incorporeal figure passes through the dirt, her magenta hair glistens in the moonlight. She appears to absorb the radiant celestial energy, and soon her distinctly '50s vintage updo glows bright enough to expose the cheery smile underpinning her dead eyes, as well as the pink sundress that shows nary a scuff from her emergence – but does add a summer-y tone to her pale form.
"Finally," Gardenia hisses.
She gestures the floating spirit over. Gisabelle's hum saunters around the fog with a mind of its own, setting the scene like a Victorian ghost tale as her arms and legs loosely drift behind.
"So, what did you find out Jizzy?" Gardenia whispers. "Anything juicy?"
"Oh, it's juicy alright."
Gisabelle sounds like a normal 20-something in the uncanniest way. It's as if one is listening to a clip that has been imperceptibly doctored, perhaps overlaid with buzzing white noise on a different frequency. It's impossible to tell what's wrong, and most casual observers will think nothing is wrong. But those who can sense the difference will find themselves lying awake at night, ready to scratch that curious itch coursing through their skin until raw and bloody.
"Okay, great. I just need, like, one thing to really break Sebastian out of his shell."
"Oh. We're going to crack this kid wide open." A wisp escapes Gisabelle's curled smile, like she's perpetually stuck in a walk-in freezer.
The ghost twirls higher into the air, then she faces a rocky mountain wall and sways her hands this way and that, pretending to organize things.
"There are posters and junk everywhere. Paintings that are trying too hard to be edgy and rebellious, but you know they're genuine."
"Yeah, love that about him," Gardenia mutters.
Gisabelle is suddenly in Gardenia's face, her head dipping closer to the ground than the rest of her body. She was a little too close. Gardenia leans back, trying not to think very hard about her poltergeist friend's seemingly translucent teeth.
"A big tarp is up next to the bed too, very colorful. Yellows, purples, blacks."
Gardenia gasps.
"Oh, I know what that means!"
"Me too!"
Head steady, Gisabelle's body drifts back to the floor, settling in an upright position so she can take Gardenia's hands. While she can generally control the opacity of her skin, it's harder to keep corporeal in the moonlight. Her touch bleeds through Gardenia's palms, ephemeral as the clouds pooling around her ankles.
"You have to get Sebastian some cloth."
Gardenia's excitement ticks closer to confusion.
"What?"
"Trust me, I've been around the block dozens of times." Gisabelle turns her head, puffing up like a cocky pheasant. "They've got cloth all over the walls. That's your ticket to ride."
"Hm." Gardenia doesn't look convinced, but can't argue with her ghostly companion's decades-long experience in the afterlife. "I guess I can borrow the cloth Lotus is always dragging around."
"That's the spirit!"
Gisabelle pushes off Gardenia's hands and backstrokes into the sky. She swims around the treetops, pulling a little tunnel of fog behind her high-heeled boots.
"Let me know how it goes, Gardenia!"
Gardenia looks down at her hands, still tingling from potent spiritual energy. With a deep breath, she clenches both fists.
"…"
"… Gardenia?"
The raspy voice jolts Gardenia out of her memory. She has to shield her eyes against the ring of sunlight emanating around Sebastian's darkly wrapped form.
"Sorry, think I might've dissociated for a bit."
"Yeah…"
Sebastian takes a cautious step toward her, dock creaking under his boots.
"Well, listen. I'm gunna go see if anyone's wrecked havoc like last year."
Gardenia blinks. "Last year?"
The goth chuckles, once again covering their face behind a casual scratch.
"Yeah. Sam put a pound of anchovies in the potluck soup." Their eyes pop against running shadow as the good memory courses through their body in a matter of breathes. "Ever wondered why Sam leads the town in community service hours?"
A chill runs up Gardenia's spine.
She glances around Willy's shack to find Alexis standing by the communal pot, sniffing at a sardine she snagged on the way over. The brunette offhandedly tosses her fish into the soup before meandering off.
"I'm sure everyone got their shit together this year…"
As Gardenia snaps back into place, she finds herself face-to-face with Sebastian. She didn't expect them to get so close. Her chest gets tighter.
Then, she coughs at the lingering cigarette on his breath. Sebastian's taken aback, and Gardenia covers her mouth to prevent another.
He sidesteps her and quickly starts back toward the beach.
"Sorry… Gunna grab a beer and hide out from the crowd."
"Seb, wait!"
When Gardenia reaches out to Sebastian, they're already far enough to hide behind shimmering waves of heat in the middle distance.
"Shit…"
The sage-haired rancher puts her head in her hand.
Soon after, a bell rings at the entrance to the nearby shack.
"Them's the breaks with that one, lass."
Gardenia lowers her hand just enough to glance at the gruff-voiced Willy, leaning against his doorway with a polished fishing rod.
"Excuse me?"
"Ol' Sebastian still has plenty to unpack. See them down on the docks every time it rains, bumming a smoke. Lotta thinkin' to do, I reckon." Willy fixes his ratty fiddler cap. "Probably on account of all the gender dysphoria an' stressful family."
Gardenia's posture straightens, and she stares at Willy like he's grown a third eye. He stares back, casually scratching at his beard.
"What? Just 'cause I'm an old mariner type doesn't mean I'm not read-up on gender politics."