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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It took Tavi a couple more days to build up the courage to approach Shane. He didn’t even care anymore whether or not Shane was still mad at him. The only thing he dreaded was his reaction to the repairs.
Making his way into the saloon, he was unsurprised to find Shane wedged into his usual spot between the end of the bar and the fireplace with a half-empty mug in hand. Even though Tavi knew to expect it, he still looked strange without his hoodie. It made him wonder if he had ever seen him without it before. Which sounded like an absurd question, but he found himself unable to answer it with any certainty.
Shane must have spotted him first, since he pointedly refused to look up as Tavi approached.
“Hi Shane.” Tavi fidgeted with the cross-body strap of his messenger bag. Shane sipped at his beer intermittently, still refusing to look at him. “I just wanted to give you your hoodie back. Sorry it’s taken me so long.”
As Tavi pulled it out of his bag, Shane finally stole a glance. His expression soured the instant his eye caught one of the non-matching patches, dropping a pit in the farmer’s stomach. It was exactly the kind of reaction Tavi had been dreading.
“What did you do to it?”
Sheepishly handing it over, he tried to wait while Shane inspected the repairs, but got antsy quickly. He just wanted this to be over with.
“I’m sorry.” Tavi apologized reflexively before Shane could say anything. “I should have asked first. But the sleeve really was falling off, and I didn’t realize how extensive the repairs would be until I’d finished. I was only trying to help, but…” He trailed off. He shouldn’t be giving excuses, he realized. He’d done what he came here to do. “It was clearly well-loved. So, I hope it can survive being loved a while longer now.”
With that, he took his leave. It would be an early day tomorrow, what with the coffee beans and melons both coming in. He needed to rest.
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Shane stood in stunned silence as the saloon door swung shut behind Tavi. When he finally snapped out of his daze, he found an empty mug in one hand and a hoodie he barely recognized in the other. Whatever magic the farmer had conjured had imbued the garment with an entirely new lease on life. He was baffled.
When Tavi had walked into the saloon, Shane had aimed to avoid a confrontation and failed. When the farmer had approached him, he’d tried to formulate an apology for his outburst at the dock the other day and failed. When Tavi had handed over his hoodie and he’d seen the extensive repairs that had been done, he’d tried to puzzle out why anyone would put that much time and effort into a ratty, old rag like that and failed. And when Tavi had said something as nauseatingly beautiful as that he hoped he’d enabled it to continue being loved, Shane had failed to so much as thank him.
It wasn’t until the other man had disappeared back into the valley’s early dusk that Shane collected his wits enough to set down his mug and shrug the hoodie on. It felt as unfamiliar as it looked, but it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, with all of the holes patched, it was decidedly warmer, cozy even. He hadn’t noticed before how all of the damage it had accrued over the years had compromised what he’d originally liked most about it. And while he’d initially been annoyed to see that Tavi had altered it without asking, he couldn’t deny that it was an improvement.
As he flagged down Gus from across the bar, a pleasant scent tickled Shane’s nose. Sniffing his sleeve, he recognized it immediately: his hoodie smelled like Tavi, like sun and grass and a hint of coconut. It seemed that more had changed about it than he’d first realized. A heat rose to his cheeks as he wondered how long the scent might stick around. Like the hoodie’s renewed warmth, he didn’t find it unpleasant. However, per usual, a lonely despair followed close on the thought’s heels as he accepted that it likely wouldn’t stick around for long.
“Hey, Gus: another ale.”