Chapter Text
“Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.”
Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")
by Geoffrey Chaucer
- THE ADVENTURER -
Even after all these years, he could still remember those eyes that stared down at him. Young, bright eyes, and the beautiful daisies the young boy held in his hands. Well, Andrew didn’t know many flowers, so he could only assume they were daisies—pure white with the most beautiful golden yellow in the center.
He was crying beneath a tree that day; a lone one, amongst the beginnings of flowing meadows. Some days he can still remember his father’s cutting words, the slap of that calloused hand on his cheek.
He was only a young child. Even if it was humiliating for a boy, especially one raised to be a working sailor, to sit alone crying to himself, the grey haired poet still sat with him, telling of the stories he created and how he wanted to be a great poet one day.
Young Andrew could only listen in amazement—or possibly something more. Something deeper, that he never wanted to explore within himself.
Ivan probably never felt the same way, to be honest, even though they’ve continued to be close acquaintances for quite a long time.
His thoughts were interrupted by a stern call of his name.
“ANDREW! C’mere boy,” his father yelled.
“Coming sir!” he responded.
Andrew set aside the soggy mop in his hands, resting the handle against the ship’s wooden railing before hurrying down to the main deck.
His father, Captain Ernest stood on the docks in front of the ship’s gangway. A man dressed in a fancy suit stood next to him, stroking his beard. He looked wealthy, especially considering he carried a large pouch which he handed to the Captain, walking away from the stacked crates behind him towards the city.
Andrew walked down the wooden plank to the docks. “Who was that?”
“None’yer business,” his father retorted, crossing his arms.
“...Right.”
The other crewmates started packing the cargo into the ship. Andrew was about to help before Ernest caught his arm.
“Not you. Ya gotta go grab me the salve for my arm from the apothecary.”
Andrew glanced at the wound, a large gash on his fathers forearm. He had gotten it as they were coming back to port from a neighboring kingdom through a rough storm, yet he still worked with it. Andrew could imagine it was at least somewhat painful.
“From Miss Catherine?” Miss Catherine was Ivan’s mother, a gardener and apothecary. He had known her since he met Ivan, and she was practically his mother.
“Who else, boy?” he snapped, “go get it. And don't waste time talkin’ to her son. Yer got more work to do on the ship before the end of the week.”
Andrew looked away. His father was never fond of the poet, even when they were both kids. ‘A waste of good arms’ he would say. Andrew never listened. What else could he do? Speaking out would get him another bruise on his face that he didn’t need. Silence was better; Obedience was safer.
“Yes sir.”
***
Cactustowne had always fascinated Andrew since the first time his father’s boat docked in the kingdom when he was just a young child.
It had a personality that piqued his interest, especially with the great mountains forming the horizon—sparking the feeling of that faint longing for adventure, for something new in such a stagnant life like his own.
But it wasn't just the scenery that made him fall in love with the town, it was the people as well. Everyone knew each other, and there were always flowing conversations in the streets and through the markets.
Andrew walked through the bustling market. Traders and farmers stood behind make-shift stands with their produce, bargaining and persuading those who walked by to buy their stock.
One stand caught his eye: a man selling unique quills and wax seals.
Andrew wandered up to the stand.
The elderly vendor greeted him with a smile. “Looking for anything specific, young lad?”
“No sir, thank you.” Andrew looked over the selection laid out, picking a quill and ink set and holding it up for the man to see. "How much for this?”
The shopkeeper thought for a moment. “Just a little silver will do, let's say six.”
“How ‘bout five?”
“Ya got a deal.”
Andrew set down five silver pennies on the stand and slid them to the old man, who collected them into a pouch on his belt. “Have a good day lad!”
“As with you, sir.” Andrew smiled.
It wasn’t any further down the street before he stood in front of the apothecary. Pots of different flowers and plants lined the front window and door. A woman exited with vials in her basket, walking back down the market.
Andrew walked in after the lady, the bell hanging from the door ringing a soft tune.
Miss. Catherine stood behind the counter, grinding up some herb with a mortar and pestle. She looked up from her work to greet him. “Good afternoon, Andrew. How are you today?”
He walked up to the counter. “I'm doing just fine, Miss. Thank you.”
“Are you here to see Ivan?” She smiled.
“I am, but I also need another vial of that ointment thou made for my father last week.”
She looked at a piece of paper next to her, covered with small scribbles of ink. It looked like a customer chart. She ran her finger down the list before stopping at a name. “Ah yes, the Bald’s eyesalve with myrrh for Ernest. I'll get that made up for you while you visit him.”
Andrew responded with a smile, “Thank you, Miss Catherine.”
He set down a few silver pennies on the counter before heading upstairs to Ivan’s room.
- THE POET -
The voices from the market could be heard from his window.
Saturdays were always busier than usual, especially during the warmer months of the year. If he had to choose, he would rather it be cold out. At least it would be quieter, and he wouldn't sweat buckets just taking a short stroll in the gardens.
Ivan sat at his small desk, staring at the notebook in front of him filled with odd metaphors and scrapped poems.
His mind was blanking today, for whatever reason. Even after his mother gave him some mint tea, he still had trouble recalling his ideas from the days before. He really needs to remember to write things down…
Though, deep down he really knows the reason why.
He hadn’t seen Andrew in a few days.
Of course, Ivan couldn't see him every day—as much as he wanted to, at least. Andrew had enough things to do working for his deranged father on the ship. Part of him felt almost selfish for wishing he could borrow hours of Andrews time.
They weren't anything more than friends, after all.
Yet something about him… perhaps it was his skin, as golden as a marigold. Or his eyes, an alluring olive green that struck something deep within you, like the leaves of Cannas, as if you were a butterfly trapped within its beauty, destined to land in them.
Ivan snapped out of his thinking and stared at the fresh ink on the page.
Of course he wrote a poem about him.
God help me…
There were footsteps on the stairs before someone gently knocked on his door.
Scrambling his crumpled mess into drawers and shutting his notebook, Ivan called out, “Come in.”
As if he knew what Ivan had just been daydreaming about, Andrew appeared in the doorway, a soft smile on his face at the sight of the poet.
“Andrew?” Ivan said, “I thought you were too busy this week.”
He sighed. “I am… But you know I’d always make time to see you at least once.”
The yellow-haired sailor wandered over to Ivan’s bed, sitting down on the edge like he owned the place. He rightfully deserved so, in Ivan’s eyes.
Andrew spoke up first. “Well, how fare thee?”
“I’ve been okay. Though I fear writer's block has hit me like a brick.” Ivan glanced over to his closed notebook and frowned. He was usually full of ideas and inspiration. “And you?”
“Ah… tired.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been attempting to finish my work so I can meet in the gardens tonight, as promised.”
He did promise the last time they met; He had hurried to Ivan’s window at dusk just to say goodnight, and promised to meet him in the gardens right outside of Cactustowne a week from then.
Ivan hates to admit he would be upset if Andrew did miss their meeting, but of course, what kind of friend would he be? It’s not like Andrew can fight back against his father.
But something within Ivan makes him feel… jealous. What if he had found someone better? What if the adventurer realized how incapable he was and wanted nothing to do with him? What if...
“It’s okay if you can’t make it. You know I won’t be upset.” Ivan smiled.
Andrew returned with his own lopsided grin, the one that seized Ivan’s heart like the flowing current of a storming sea. “Thank you, Ivan.” He looked out the window. “I truly hope I don’t. I’ve wanted to speak with you all week.”
Just that sentence wiped any doubt from Ivan’s mind. “As have I.”
“My father is needing his salve for his arm. I’m afraid I must be going.”
Ivan sighed, “Already?”
Andrew stood, placing his hands in his pockets. “Sadly, yes.”
He barely reached the door before Ivan rushed up to him, grabbing his wrist. “Wait—”
“Is something wrong?” Andrew raised an eyebrow. His hand wandered to the poet’s side, before hesitating.
Ivan paused for a moment, thousands of unsaid words running through his mind. So many words, yet so few he had the courage to say out loud.
“Promise you’ll make it tonight. For me.”
Andrew stared down at him—with those eyes he adored more than words could begin to explain. The adventurer's face almost grew worried for a second, before melting back into that soft smile he always managed to bear around Ivan.
“I promise.”
***
The garden that night seemed like a paradise, kept hidden away from human eyes. Something about the moon in the sky, full and illuminating a soft blue hue unto the beds of flowers and verdure. That and the flickering lights of the lanterns hanging from their posts, scattered around the walking path.
Ivan came here almost every night as a child, sitting next to the flowers, thinking of intricate stories and singing unfinished tunes he made up on a whim.
As the moon rose further into the night sky, and the light of the sun slowly disappeared behind the mountains, Ivan grew restless.
He promised.
Where was he?
The poet gazed at a group of golden Dahlias, grazing his fingertips against the soft petals. He couldn’t help but imagine it was Andrew’s face, his gaze fixed to Ivan’s.
Why was he so obsessed with the adventurer? He shouldn’t dream of receiving affection from another man, let alone from his own best friend. What would his father think?
What would the city think?
Ivan felt a small tap on his shoulder, and he spun around.
Andrew stood in front of him, his hair combed back neatly. He wore the same outfit he did that afternoon when he came to visit; a thin white tunic beneath a pink vest, like the color of strawberry scabiosa flowers.
Somehow, his eyes glowed brighter in the moonlight than they did before.
“Oh, it's just you.” Ivan looked away, hoping the red flush on his face was subtle enough to go unnoticed. “I was worried you weren’t going to show.”
Andrew smiled. “I promised, didn’t I?”
“I guess you did.”
The sailor held his arm out as a request. Ivan took it, locking his arm with his.
They walked the garden’s paths, occasionally stopping and pointing at flowers in the bushes and greenery.
“What’s that one called?” Andrew asked. He pointed to a bundle of flowers with deep blue petals.
“Larkspur, but they’re also called Delphiniums,” Ivan answered, “did you know they’re poisonous?”
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “Really? I did not. It’s incredible how something so beautiful can be so deadly.”
“Yeah, it is.” Ivan smiled.
“Though I suppose the same can be said for a lot of people as well.” Andrew looked to Ivan. “Shall we keep walking?”
He nodded, and they continued forward. The moon crept further into the sky. Ivan could feel his heart in his chest, beating uncontrollably at the thought of Andrew next to him, their arms interlocking.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve been working on a poem recently.”
“Is it going well?”
“I assume so. Though I’m having trouble searching for the right words.”
Andrew gazed at the sky as they slowly walked. “You’ll find them eventually. You’re very good with words, you know.”
“I am?” Ivan blushed.
Andrew tittered, “Yeah. I don’t know anyone else who can speak as poetically as you do—especially not myself. I’ve found I’m not very good with words.” He frowned. “...Nor have I been fond of them.”
Ivan saw the expression on his face. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to be sympathetic of sorts.”
“I appreciate it, but there’s no need.” He sighed. “It’s just my father.”
Ivan inhaled. He hated Andrew’s father with a passion, more than anyone. Ever since that day he found him underneath the tree near the shore, crying in his arms. The deep purple bruise on his face lasted for weeks after.
“Don’t worry. One day you’ll get away from him and you’ll be a famous adventurer like you’ve dreamed of.”
Andrew couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Ah, alright.” He pulled his arm from Ivan’s. “Speaking of my father, I must get back to the ship before he finds out I’ve been away.”
“Oh,” Ivan mumbled.
Seeing his frown, Andrew pulled him into an embrace, wrapping his arms around the poet.
Ivan stood startled before resting his head on Andrew’s soldier, holding him as close as possible.
He smelled like saltwater—in a good way—with the faint smell of cigars and rich oak seeping in the longer you stood there. Ivan closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
When Andrew let go, he fought against the urge to hold him for longer, letting his arms fall to his sides.
“Will I see you again soon?” Ivan queried.
Andrew grasped the poet’s hand, bowing and lightly pressing his lips against the top of his hand. He straightened and gave Ivan his usual goofy smirk. “You have my word.”
Ivan flushed, looking away and smiling like a bashful girl being courted. He reached over and picked a daisy from the foliage. He tucked it behind Andrew’s ear.
“Thank you. It’s beautiful,” Andrew whispered.
Just like you, is what Ivan wanted to say. But he only stood there silently, smiling.
The adventurer turned, wandering back to the city, leaving Ivan with his wandering mind and beating heart amongst the flowers.
- THE ADVENTURER -
Andrew was the brightest shade of red by the time he walked out of the gardens.
He didn't know what urged him to do that. There was just something in the moment that… that pierced him so deeply in his chest and made his heart race. All he could focus on was those dark eyes staring at him, the frown Ivan had made the moment he let go.
Could it be— no. No. It’s not. It can’t be. They’re just friends. Nothing more.
…Right?
Andrew groaned, threading his fingers through his hair and scruffing it up. He didn’t care about the ten minutes he spent trying to get it to stay slicked back.
He was barely to his room door on the ship before he was stopped by an all-too familiar voice.
“Andrew.”
He froze.
Goddamnit.
Andrew slowly turned, keeping his gaze to the floor. His father’s usual black boots stepped into view. “...Yes, father?”
He could feel the sting from the slap before it even happened. Andrew stumbled backward, his arm reaching up to cover his cheek.
“Where were ya, boy?! How many times have I told ya not to go out without my permission?”
Andrew spoke quietly, “I’m sorry sir, it was just—”
“Ya didn’t even finish yer work.” His father gestured to the bucket and mop, which had slid to the floor from the railing sometime after he set it down. “Yer crewmates have already finished their's n' went to sleep, and here ya are slacking off.”
The Captain reached out and grabbed the flower behind Andrew’s ear.
“H-HEY! Give it back!” Andrew lunged to take it back, before being pushed to the ground by his father. “Please…”
He scoffed, “Where'd ya get this? Did ya go see that 'friend' of yours?”
“His name is Ivan!”
“Dont talk back to me.” He threw the crumpled daisy into the water. “That degenerate has gotten ya tied up, hasn’t he?”
“Stop calling him that,” Andrew lashed. “At least he's better than you.”
“Better than me?” Ernest laughed, “ya act like you're in love! Stop being a halfwit for God’s sake!”
Andrews stood. “And what if I am? Would you leave me to the streets? Would I still be your son?!”
His father paused, staring at him with nothing but fury in his eyes.
“Ya haven’t been my son for a long time, boy.”
Andrew staggered. “What?”
“Ya heard me. Ever since yer mother left, you’ve grown more n' more spineless. I’d be ashamed to call you my son.”
Andrew couldn't manage a response to that. He couldn’t do anything but stare at the man in disbelief. It felt like a betrayal; someone he despised yet held so close to his heart breaking what little trust he still held for him. It burned.
“I wasn’t gonna to tell ya before, but considering you've grown so attached to this damned place, I might as well. This is the last time we’re stoppin' in Cactustowne.”
Andrew sputtered. “What do you mean ‘the last time’?”
“Are ya a bonehead? I said we ain’t stoppin’ back here after we set off this Friday.
“And that’s final.”
***