Chapter Text
Cherry punch swishes around in a festive glass goblet, dark red-purple against frosted white. Elliott shivers in his jacket. Tucks the long tablecloth around his legs. Marnie’s heaters buzz underneath the feast tables, but it’s not enough to compensate for his lack of winter gear.
Another thing he did not take into account when he moved to a small town up north.
He carefully cuts himself another portion of chicken. He’s long been full, but it will be a while until his next non-seafood meal.
“Mel, have you met Elliott? He just moved in at the beginning of Winter.”
Elliott lays his utensils down.
The new farmer is led to the oddball (single’s) table by a smiling Jodi. So he did decide to come. It was all anyone could talk about for the last hour.
Farmer Mel’s form is hard to ascertain under his thick black jacket, wool hat, and long knit navy scarf, but he’s definitely tall and broad, with a direct gaze that seems to flay Elliott’s skin.
A large calloused hand stretches out. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Likewise.” Elliott takes the hand for the proffered shake, trying to ignore the comparison of his small, ghost white hands. Yoba, this farmer’s skin radiates heat like a furnace.
Jodi grins. “I’m so glad you decided to come to this festival, Mel. It’s my favourite.”
“There’s less to do around the farm in the winter.” The farmer’s gaze doesn’t leave Elliott, catching the next shiver that wracks his body.
“Would you like to sit down?” Elliott’s mother would be disappointed in his manners.
The farmer inclines his head. “One moment.” He swings a dark blue knapsack off his shoulders, setting it on an empty bench as he rifles through. “Here.”
It’s a thick wool blanket of a natural grey. It would be rude to decline.
“Thank you.” Elliott accepts and wraps it around his shoulders. It’s huge, draping over his body and brushing the ground. Yoba, it's an instant relief from the wind, which bites like piranhas wherever possible.
“How kind!” Jodi beams. “I’ll let you sit down and enjoy the feast, Mel. Feel free to stop by our table later if you’d like.”
Mel sits across from Elliott, his eyes sweeping over the beautiful smelling offerings spread across the table. “This Gus’ work?”
“Indeed. The finest fare in Stardew Valley.” Elliott sucks in a breath. “I would suggest a little bit of everything, if you have the room for it.”
“I always have room.” A big smile stretches over Mel’s face, denting a dimple in his right cheek. His eyes twinkled - an infectious sort of joy without words.
“Excuse me.” Elliott fumbles with the inside pocket of his forest green coat, bringing out his small spiral-bound notebook. His pen clicks loudly. He scribbles the line onto the page and waits a moment, but the inspiration grows elusive.
Mel is watching him with dark eyes. His plate is stacked high with mashed potatoes, chicken, stuffing, etc. He eats in efficient-sized bites. He should’ve been a competitive eater - he clears half the plate in what seems like a minute.
Elliott clicks his pen a few more times, caught in that gaze. “My apologies - when the muse strikes I cannot avoid her call.”
“Understandable.” Mel tips his glass up, swallowing his punch in three gulps, his defined Adam's apple dropping underneath his scarf each time.
His stomach twists and heats. Elliott tucks the blanket underneath his legs. He’s still chilled from earlier, but finally getting warm.
“Hey Farmer.” Leah greets, slipping in beside Elliott. Her long red hair is in its usual tight braid. Elliott ignores the usual pang of envy. “You got your gift all sorted?”
“Ready and wrapped.” He pats his bag.
Elliott slumps, forgoing his usual perfect posture. There’s no mother to rap his knuckles here, and all that food has made his eyelids heavy.
“I’m glad.” She turns to Elliott and whispers, “that man is terrible with gifts. You should’ve seen what he was gonna get Jas.”
Mel guffaws. “I’d have ruined a little girl’s Winter Star without Leah’s help.” He rubs his palm over a dark, well-groomed beard. It would prickle just right against the sensitive skin of one’s thigh -
“Leah is certainly a lovely friend to have,” Elliott says, “What were you going to get her?”
“He found a fossil on his last mining trip and was convinced that she would love it.”
“Ah.”
Mel laughs again. “The look on your face is proof enough that Leah is correct.”
Someone clears their throat. Lewis hem hem’s once more, the twinkling of the Winter Star Tree lights outlining his small form. How can he stand to wear that flat cap in this weather?
A hush sweeps over the tables as everyone directs their attention.
“Time to exchange gifts, everyone. Go ahead.”
Nausea sinks through Elliott’s body like a crashing ocean wave. He grabs the newspaper wrapped gift beside him and swallows. If he’d been a braver man he would’ve asked Mayor Lewis to remove his name from the festival, but by the time he understood the concept, he’d already received his letter.
Mel stands, digging a box from the bottom of his backpack. It’s covered in white wrapping paper with pink fairies dancing along the sides. The corners are unevenly folded, covered in an abundance of clear tape.
Jas is chatting her Uncle Shane’s ear off - gesturing with her fork - until Mel approaches. Her eyes turn to saucers as he crouches down to eye level, speaking to her quietly as he hands over the gift.
She unwraps it gingerly, gentle hands taking out a light pink wooden box. Mel speaks to her as he points at the back of the present.
She squeals at the fairy turning inside as the music plays. “Thank you,” she whispers, placing it on the table to evaluate it further.
Mel returns to his seat with a small smile upon his face.
“Told you,” Leah says from behind her goblet.
Elliott doubts his interaction will go quite as well.
He sighs, pulling his shoulders back. The blanket is painful to remove - the air just as bitter as before - but when he attempts to return it Mel shakes his head.
“I’m plenty warm.”
“Thank you.” It’s a bit odd to go walking around practically swaddled in a blanket, but the cold seems to have seeped into his bones, momentarily obscuring his vanity.
Mel is looking at him too closely once more. Elliott strides off before any awkward words can fall from his tongue.
Sebastian sits among his peers, Sam and Abigail. They chat eagerly, watching Sam play something on a handheld gaming console. Smiles and laughter echo through the group.
Elliott clears his throat.
The expression falls from Sebastian’s face with the brutality of an avalanche, while Sam and Abigail merely quiet.
The present held out, Elliott represses the urge to make a joke. Teenagers (or young twenty somethings) can judge so easily.
“Thank you,” Sebastian murmurs, though his expression does not match gratitude, as if Elliott’s presence is a major inconvenience.
Elliott inclines his head once. “I hope the rest of your day goes well.” He turns on his heel and walks away before he can fully burst into flame.
The sense of community and togetherness is lovely with all of these festivals hosted in Pelican Town - but situations like these make him want to tear his skin off.
He plops back into his seat.
“He’s a tough nut to crack.” Mel says, as Elliott can’t help but watch Sebastian tear the newspaper off of a cardboard box.
Sebastian appears utterly disgusted by the crystal fruit jelly, immediately tossing it in the box and hiding the gift under the table.
The three return to their game.
Elliott sighs. It’s ridiculous, really, but he’d gone through so much effort to make it - spending an entire day foraging for the fruit, and another day learning to make the jam. At his current budget, the only thing he can afford to spend is time.
“He’s like that with everybody, as far as I’ve seen. Hopefully you get an easier recipient next year.” Leah throws her arm around Elliott’s shoulders and gives him a hug. “Here.”
It’s something soft inside a thick cotton bag. For Elliott is burnt into a carved wooden tag attached to the drawstring.
“You sly fox.”
She just giggles. “Open it.”
Inside is a beautiful black double-knit sweater. He marvels at the softness beneath his fingers. If he were alone he’d rub his face into it like a cat. “Where on earth did you find this?”
“At the market in Grampleton. Do you like it?”
“I adore it. Thank you, darling.” Elliott turns to Mel, whose presence is impossible to forget, despite his silence. “And who was your giver?”
Mel’s mouth twitches, prompting a hot flush through Elliott’s body as he reconsiders his words.
“Mrs Mullner.” He points to a decorated cookie tin.
The silence aches like growing limbs. Should Elliott ask another question?
Leah pipes up. “Mel, weren’t you saying to me that you were looking to hire a farmhand for next year?”
Mel’s black brows raise. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Because Elliott was looking for work, if you’re still offering.”
Elliott’s head is on a swivel. “Leah,” he whispers.
She waves her hand dismissively at him. “Mel?”
Mel looks between the two, evaluating for a moment. “You ever done manual labour before, Elliott?”
There’s a lump in his throat. He clears it. “I’m a quick learner,” he says with as much confidence as he can muster.
Mel doesn’t seem to buy it, but he nods. “We can trial run you.”
To avoid another winter of an empty belly? Elliott would do a lot of things he never considered as an option. “That would be marvellous. Thank you.”
Leah looks unreasonably smug. Elliott will definitely be having a talk with her later.
“No promises. Farm work is hard on the body.” Mel’s fingers drum along the table. He picks up his utensils again, readying another bite. “Come see me on spring 1. There will be lots to do.”
Only three days from now. “Sounds perfect.” Elliott doesn’t know what to do with hands, so he picks up his goblet, immediately choking on the punch.
Leah thumps him on the back, while Mel’s eyes don’t miss a thing. A flush washes through Elliott’s body.
What has he got himself into?
Elliott spends the next three days between an anxious meltdown and bliss. Having stayed late enough at the feast, he was sent home with enough leftovers to last him until spring, provided he correctly portions everything out.
A fuller belly means he can think well enough to write.
But when not writing, he’s wearing a hole through the library floor with his unease. Poor Penny looks ready to slap him silly for the distraction. He hasn’t made a good impression on her.
Manual labour has never been one of Elliott’s strong suits. He’s always been an academic, and in the little bubble he grew up in, that was fine.
He can do it though. He must. If he has any chance at making a life for himself here, he needs a stable job. Writing… will bring in income at a later date.
Spring 1 dawns with an aching relief and stomach twisting dread. Finally he won’t be cold every night - but it’s his first day at a job he’s wholly unqualified for.
Elliott is determined to have a good attitude and try his best. And if all goes terribly, Leah will owe him a glass of wine this evening, at the very least.
The valley is mostly dark when Elliott awakes, a thin layer of sun peaking over the ocean, sending glimmers over dark waters.
It’s entirely too early. He pulls himself out of bed like a zombie from its grave. A mug of hot water and a bowl of oatmeal is his breakfast.
His stomach protests the portions. Exhaustion weighs his limbs. He bundles himself in his new sweater and a pair of worn jeans, pulling on his hardiest pair of boots and lacing them tight.
It’s uncomfortably cold still. The wind seems to pick up out of spite.
But the air is fresh, clearing his foggy brain.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and trudges onwards. No one is awake in town, though dim yellow light spills through from Marnie’s kitchen.
When he first arrived, she invited him to tea. In the fashion of true small town hospitality, he’d been plied with cake and sandwiches, and had supplied her with a bit of his history in return.
Not the bad stuff. Just where he was from, a vague answer for why a city boy like him moved to a place like Pelican Town, if he was single?
The last question seemed to be the most important.
Marnie seemed a bit taken aback by Elliott’s:
“Single, yes, but my tastes run entirely male.”
That little bit of gossip had filtered through town before Elliott had even made it back home. But no one had been cruel about it in the days that followed.
Hidden Hollows Farm is well-organised, though spring weeds, miscellaneous branches and stones block the occasional path. Official walkways are marked with smooth cobblestones. Various trees are planted to one side, all different sizes and leave colours.
Little signs - Leah’s work, definitely - are nailed to each tree, marking “apple, orange, peach,” and so forth, with an applicable painted picture included.
The other side seems to be a crop field - though it’s currently barren.
It’s all tidy and neat, which is unexpected. Maybe Elliott misjudged the farmer on appearance.
He quickens his steps. He’s dawdling. It would be incredibly unprofessional to be late on the first day.
With as straight a face as he can muster, he passes the barns and coops. They reek of manure and animals and are full of clucking, bleating, and heavy cow breaths. He will need to get used to that, if he’s going to work here.
The farmhouse’s exterior is minimal, with a single wood bench as outside furniture. The shingles on the roof appear new, along with a fresh patch of boards on the porch, sticking out among the old like a sore thumb.
“Mornin’.” The door opens abruptly, revealing Farmer Mel in a dark tee shirt and worn jeans. Dark tattoos rope over his large muscled arms, the art too dense to ascertain the contents from afar. He sets a steaming thermos of coffee down lightly and stoops to tie his work boots. His back forms a perfect curve -
“Here and ready, sir.”
Mel’s eyes sweep over him, his expression serious. “None of that is necessary, Elliott.” There’s something different about his face… the bags beneath his eyes are heavier and dark, exhaustion pulls at his skin, drawing it tight.
His cheeks burn hot. “My apologies.”
Shoes tied, Mel stands. He looms over Elliott by at least a foot.
“You ever cared for livestock?”
Elliott tries not to grimace. “I have not, but I shall learn.”
When Mel had mentioned hiring help to Leah, he’d meant someone like him, able to shoulder feed bags and spend hours in the fields. This man seems ready to blow away in the next strong wind.
There’s a vast difference between lending a handsome writer a blanket and hiring him to be a farmhand. What did he get himself into?
Elliott looks at him through inky black eyelashes, a pink lip bitten, and Mel has to quickly turn his thoughts to business.
“There’s a tap on the side of the house. Keep yourself hydrated - I don’t need you getting sunstroke.”
Elliott follows him like a duckling, quiet as they stride the path to the coop.
“Shovel the old hay into the wheelbarrow and take it out back, the fresh stuff is over here to replace it with. Then collect the eggs and bring ‘em up to the house.”
Elliott is quiet, nodding, his eyes just a little too large to project confidence.
“You good with that?”
“Yes, you will have no reason for disappointment -” Elliott cuts himself off from another sir.
“Alrighty.” Mel evaluates him. There’s not a lot of damage that can be done leaving him alone - he’ll check his work later. “I have to hit Pierre’s for spring seeds - should be back in an hour. Replace the hay in the barn, if you finish before then.”
Thin shoulders pull themselves back, and Elliott turns to his task.
The coop door clattering shut behind him, Mel strides forward, relishing the silence and fresh air. Songbirds twitter in the trees. Daffodils and dandelions are already sprouting along the path, eagerly reaching for the sun.
Tension eases from his body. Last night’s nightmares left him ready to fight something.
If he’d known, he would’ve had Elliott start tomorrow.
He tries to clear the frown pushing at his forehead. Small town people love to talk, best keep his face friendly.
The door to Pierre’s jingles. The store owner looks up from the register:
“It’s Farmer Mel!” he says, like he always does.
“Mornin’.” Mel tips his head in greeting and gets to seed shopping.
There’s an evil look in this chicken’s eye. Elliott winces, approaching slowly. “Good chicken, good chicken.”
If Adam could see him now, he’d die laughing.
The chicken lunges.
Elliott shrieks, stepping backwards. He slips. His back slams against the floorboards of the coop. Pain runs through him like lightning, prompting another shriek.
At least Mel has not yet returned. This is embarrassing enough with his own self as an observer.
Yoba, what a fucking day.
He pushes himself up, the straw sticking to his sweaty palms. All he’s got to do is collect these awful eggs. He arms himself with a big stick, using it to poke the chicken out of the way.
Demonica clucks angrily and puffs her feathers, but Elliott gets a small white egg for the wicker basket.
“Only 11 more to go,” he whispers to himself. He must think like the hero. Fear is something to be conquered. His shoulders pulled back once more, Elliott addresses the empty roosts first, then moves to the last two, occupied areas.
These hens don’t look quite as evil. He brandishes the stick like a sword, but the birds allow him to retrieve the eggs below them without protest.
“Huzzah!” He yells, startling movement throughout the coop.
But if Elliott thought that was bad, the goats are so much worse.
Fuck. His side slams into the barn wall. “Bad goat,” he says sternly. “I am trying to help you, you know. Even goats require hygiene.”
It’s like high school gridball all over again - a whole lot of him hitting walls and getting nothing accomplished.
The takeaway seems to be: carry something that can be used as a weapon. His hands curled around the rough wood handle of a metal shovel, he manages to keep the animals back long enough to finish his job of replacing the hay.
Outside the barn, he welcomes each breath of fresh air. His limbs are shaking already, lungs burning and tasting of iron. Is he truly so out of shape?
He straightens and adjusts his face as Mel appears around the path.
“Done?” Mel asks, his eyes on the field.
“I believe so.” Elliott’s attention catches. “Yoba, are you well?”
Mel’s knuckles are raw and red, swelling larger than his other hand.
“Just a little disagreement at Pierre’s.” Mel smiles without teeth.
Elliott shivers. Mel seems so calm and collected. What would prompt him to fight someone?
“Enough chit chat. Time for you to learn to hoe.”
No one would say that Elliott is skilled, but he makes up for it in tenacity. He’s fallen down at least thrice in Mel’s periphery, and gotten up each time without a complaint.
Elliott is even paler than he started, his freckles sticking out like constellations on his cheeks. With the sun overhead, shadows cast dark into the deep hollows of cheeks.
Mel sighs and checks his wrist. 12 o’clock. “You pack a lunch?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Let’s break.”
Elliott wipes his arm over his forehead. His breath comes quick - he nods.
With a gesturing hand, Mel strides to the farmhouse, his temporary farmhand in tow.
“Sit.” Mel points to the chair at the kitchen table.
Elliott sinks into the seat like water into a cloth. He’s shaking like a chihuahua and trying to hide it.
“It’s not going to be gourmet.” Is Mel’s words of caution. He chops some winter root, scraping it into a buttery hot pan. Once the root is cooked through he’ll add the eggs.
A little laugh leaves Elliott’s throat. “Sorry.” He says to Mel’s look of askance. “It’ll be a lot better than I usually nourish myself with, I am sure. Would you like help with anything?”
“You just sit there and have a little break. I don’t need you fainting on the first day.”
“Sorry,” Elliott says again. “I’ll grow stronger.”
Mel hums. Maybe. Or he’ll quit.
Everything aches. His limbs slowly move him down the path to the beach, his joints attempting to lock every time he stops.
It’s like cement has been poured into his bones, attempting to anchor every step with the ground.
Yoba, what will he feel like tomorrow?
Elliott trudges forward, managing to get himself through the front door of his shack.
Home is just as depressing as usual. He paces robotically as the stained bathtub fills, wincing at the temperature of unheated water.
Just two seasons ago he had a huge ivory tub to enjoy. Baths used to be an enjoyable activity, with frothy bubbles and soothing essential oils. Now they are cold, miserable, and utilitarian.
Maybe one day he will enjoy them again.
Today he lets himself swear through the pain as he washes the farm grime from his body. The dirt turns the water grey, particles swirling around like predators chasing prey.
Once wrapped up in as many layers as he can afford, he tucks himself into his single bed, burying himself under the covers of his three quilts.
Sleep is immediate.
“Mel!”
A gleaming steel blade twists through the air, splashing into a puddle of red. The earth gurgles, swallowing the blood like a ravenous beast. Water droplets spill from the heavens; Mel’s uniform has long been soaked through.
Acid rain slips into his screaming mouth, sour and metallic.
The croaking wheeze of death curses his ears.
He’s too late.
Mel jackknifes out of bed, breath coming in gasps. He pats himself quickly and extricates himself from the bedding, cursing when the sheet wraps around his bare foot.
He’s here. It’s over. Stop thinking about it.
Rain pitter patters on the metal roof.
He exhales heavily, drying his sweaty hands on his plaid pyjama bottoms. His bedside clock gleams the numbers 5:15. That’s enough sleep for him then, it would be a waste of time to try.
Time to get a head start on chores.