Through the Worst of the Winter

Summer, Year 1

“Bones,” Charlie asked conversationally, wiping sweat out of his eyes for the umpteenth time that hour, “when did it get so fucking hot?” The dog seemed uninterested in answering; he lifted his head briefly, squinting at Charlie from the shade beneath the front porch, and then dropped it listlessly back to the ground. Summer was in full swing in the Valley, and while Charlie was looking forward to starting his new crops, he wasn't thrilled at the prospect of doing it in this heat. This relentless, searing, brain-melting heat. He had already taken to working shirtless and tying a bandana around his head to keep the sweaty hair out of his eyes, which made him feel vaguely like Rambo, if Rambo had been planting blueberry bushes for the last five days.

He’d been so busy with the change in seasons—pulling up what was left of last year’s crops, shopping for seeds, hoeing and fertilizing and planting—he hadn’t had a moment to spare for leisurely trips into the village. His forays into town had been directly to Pierre’s for seeds, then to the Stardrop to pick up something for dinner, then right back to the farm. The trips had been made a tiny bit easier by his discovery of an old, rusty bicycle behind the abandoned Community Center; it wasn't much faster than walking, but at least he didn’t have to carry everything himself. Fertilizer got heavy.

A few of the villagers had made offhand comments about the old mine northeast of town, and Charlie had begun to seriously consider taking a trip down there—he had his old pickaxe, and ore was expensive— but hadn’t found the time yet. Getting his crops in was first priority, and then he could think about invitingly dark and cool holes in the ground. There were rumors of monsters in the mine, but he’d shrugged those off. Grown adults trading ghost stories, it was pitiful, honestly.

He’d taken to blaring old 90s music on the stereo he’d brought with him from Zuzu. It helped alleviate the monotonous, backbreaking work of hoeing, but it also helped drown out his own thoughts. He was avoiding the elephant in his mental room—namely, whether or not he was developing a little thing for the shy town doctor. The thing was, he couldn’t really afford a distraction right now. If he was going to really do this farm thing, he needed to focus on it, not spend all day fighting the urge to traipse off to the clinic and say hello. He figured he needed to put in at least a solid year of work before he even considered adding the complications of a relationship to his life. Really, it was for the best that he was too busy to leave the farm; without popping in to see Harvey in the afternoons, surely his little crush would have a chance to fade.

There was a flaw in this logic, though: a furry, floppy-eared flaw. Every time Charlie looked at Bones, he thought about the way Harvey had helped him after his injury. He remembered the gentle way he had treated Bones, the calm, methodical movements of his hands. He hadn’t seemed the least bit ruffled that his patient was canine rather than human, and he’d been so confident. Charlie couldn’t suppress a mental image of being treated by those hands himself, and a little shiver ran through him. He’d never thought he had a thing for doctors, but then Harvey was a combo-breaker in a lot of ways.

He wasn't exactly Charlie’s type—most of his boyfriends had been closer to his own height and age, and looking back, he noticed he’d dated a lot of blondes—but there was something about him that Charlie had noticed from day one. He didn’t seem to be able to keep anything from his face, blushing or smiling at the slightest provocation, and Charlie found it fascinating. You could watch the thoughts and feelings play out on his features like movies on a screen; it was fantastic. Add in the pretty eyes, the glasses, the thick wavy hair, and the surprisingly gorgeous smile, and yeah, he was definitely crush material. Even the mustache was actually kinda working for him.

Maybe more than kinda.

Great job, Charles. Really keeping your mind off things.

With effort, he brought himself back to his running mental checklist of farm work. These blueberries were just about done, and corn was next. Once he was through with those, he needed to feed the rapidly-growing chickens and refill the pickling jars. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he’d somehow added two more pickling jars beside the first, despite the fact that his space was limited and it was a huge pain to prep vegetables without a kitchen. Pickles weren’t even that profitable.