Tags: male player / Shane, moping, mutual pining, Acts of Service as a Love Language, alcoholism
In trying to do a good deed, Tavi somehow manages to turn a patch job for a tattered, old hoodie into a philosophical question of persistence of identity.
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Sticking his needle and thread back into the pincushion, Tavi took a moment to properly stretch his hands and wrists. After spending the past several hours sweating out his nervousness under the heat of the valley’s afternoon sun, he held up Shane’s hoodie at arm’s length to appraise his own handiwork.
By any measure, it looked much better than it ever had as long as Tavi had known it. He’d patched the holes - at first with scraps of blue fabric that nearly matched the hoodie’s original color, and then with swatches in fun yet unobtrusive patterns that he hoped Shane would like. Tears had been mended as invisibly as possible, although some had been too large to hide the stitch lines even with his best technique. He’d gone the extra mile to reinforce seams that looked ready to go. Even the arm that had nearly torn off had gone back on cleanly. He could only hope that reuniting it with its owner went just as smoothly. Rubbing a section of cuff between his fingers distractedly, Tavi was drawn back to the argument two days ago that had afforded him the opportunity to see to these repairs.
He’d headed into Cindersnap Forest after a fruitful day of work to unwind with an evening of fishing, but found the pond’s dock already occupied by an all-too-familiar sight: Shane, with a beer in hand and the rest of an empty six-pack at his feet. It wasn’t so dissimilar to the time they had shared a drink there and Shane had first intimated some of his troubles to Tavi. It was a fond memory, if bittersweet. Shane had been so standoffish when they’d first met that even an odd moment like that had felt like a show of great trust, as though Shane had really been making an effort for himself and for Tavi. As the farmer approached, however, it had quickly become apparent that Shane wasn’t in such generous spirits this time around.
As far as Tavi had been able to put together from the man’s drunken ranting, Leah had shown up at the ranch earlier that day complaining to Marnie about beer cans being left on the ground in the forest. Of course they were Shane’s. Even in his own disjointed retelling, he didn’t bother denying it; only got annoyed over being called out on it. But the more Tavi had tried to understand, the angrier Shane had gotten, misconstruing Tavi’s attempts to balance empathy with his disdain for littering as the farmer’s turning against him.
’Of course you’d take her side.’
’I’m not taking anyone’s side…’
At the same time, it had become increasingly clear to Tavi that none of it was really about the littering. As was often the case, the little things were merely tipping a scale overlaiden with much larger burdens. Which was a relief; if Shane really had felt entitled to leave his trash in the woods, that would have spelled the end of Tavi’s respect for him. As it was, the biggest hurdle was trying to steer Shane towards identifying whatever was really eating at him.
’Everyone’s a critic! Morris getting on my case for being hungover at work, like I can’t stock a shelf with a headache. Marnie telling me what to think and how to feel. Now this crap!’
Swinging his arm in a wide arc to gesture rudely in the direction of Leah’s house, Shane smacked his elbow into one of the dock’s wooden pilings. When he flinched back, clutching his arm to his chest, the sound of shredding cloth had torn through the air. His sleeve had snagged on a massive splinter.
’Son of a-!’
’Are you okay? Did it scratch you?’
’Crap. Nearly ripped the whole sleeve off.’
’Can I see?’ Tavi had reached out, only for Shane to shrink back, still holding the sleeve in place.
’Don’t. Just- Don’t, okay?’
’Maybe I can fix it.’
’Tch. Mr. Fix-it.’ Shane had sneered at him, taking Tavi aback. Sure, Shane hadn’t been the most welcoming to him when he’d first moved to town, but Tavi had thought they’d moved past that. And even then, Shade had never been so openly hostile. ’What, you finished fixing the farm, got tired of fixing up the community center, now you think you can make me your next project?’
’I was talking about the hoodie…’
He didn’t catch most of the angry muttering that followed as Shane struggled out of his hoodie - possibly doing even more damage considering the state of it - and threw it at him. Tavi barely managed to catch it before his drunken aim sent it directly into the drink.
’Fine, whatever. Be my guest. But you can’t fix everything. Maybe you’ll finally get that.’
Grabbing his wide-brimmed, straw hat from beside him on the porch, Tavi sighed, stopping himself from chasing the memory down any further. He’d only wanted to help, and in the end, he’d technically gotten what he’d wanted. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d only made things worse. Shane never would have torn his sleeve to begin with if Tavi hadn’t agitated him.
Putting on his hat to block the sun from his eyes and holding the hoodie up again, Tavi looked over the damage once more. His efforts would keep it going a while longer, but with such heavy repairs, was it still the same item he’d started with? Even the blue fabric he’d found for the larger patches wasn’t an exact match, nor was the thread. The form of it was certainly still there, recognizable as being of the same make as Shane’s hoodie, but was it still actually Shane’s hoodie like this? Tavi felt the familiar chill of doubt creep into his heart. It was in much better shape now structurally, but it was not unchanged. And if it needed any additional patchwork in the future, it might turn over its original materials completely.
His stomach sank as he realized what he’d done. Shane may have given him permission to work on it, but he’d been drunk. And Tavi had been too much of a coward to seek him out after, too afraid that they’d just end up fighting again. The right thing to do would have been to return it. He hadn’t had the right to change it like this.
As he worried a section of the fabric between his fingers, the softness of its touch helped calm the building storm in his chest. Despite the outer side being rough and durable, the inside was - or rather, had once been - a plush fleece. It had been worn to almost a pulp over time, yet it still retained a semblance of that softness. And even after giving it a thorough wash before working on it, it still smelled like Shane, as though more than just memories had bled into it over the years.
Folding it up and tucking it into his bag, Tavi consoled himself with the knowledge that his work could be undone if needed. If Shane objected to the repairs, the stitches could be plucked out with a fraction of the effort it had taken to put them in. The choice would be his - as it always should have been.