Roman’s thumb brushed over the etching in the metal of the silver lighter he tried not to use these days. He leaned back against the car, eyes peering out over the horizon. He was a real piece of work, pursuing Henry, wasn’t he? He knew damn well that Henry was better off on his family’s land, secure, able to move past the chaos and demands of the field – a field he still worried about him walking in. A god damn minefield.
He exhaled, pocketing the lighter again before rolling onto his side, pushing off the car to grab the door. It wasn’t far now, there was no sense putting it off any longer. He needed Henry. He’d couldn’t navigate the mines without him. The rest of the drive was quiet, not that the first half had been filled with any real noise, only the crunch beneath the tires of the car as he headed out to find him. The breeze was soothing though, the sun trying to peek through grey clouds as the warmth caught his arm. He parked, fingers drumming against the steering wheel for a moment before finally climbing out. It had been too long. He missed him. Something raw nestled between his ribs, tongue pressed firmly to the roof of his mouth as he made his way up the path.
He wanted to find Henry well, safe and sound in his family’s space. The thought of anything else was unacceptable. He refused to entertain it. Walking, his eyes scanned the grounds, knowing better than to just approach and knock without keeping sight of his surroundings. Henry might be retired, but he wasn’t stupid, and he was far from incapable of taking care of himself. He looped around the house, spotting the sheep first. They were well tended to by their shepherd, that much was evident from their visible health. Of course Henry was a natural at this. Their shepherd though, was nowhere in sight, though they were safe within the confines of the fence. Roman’s tongue shifted to press against the inside of his cheek as he considered where he might be.
Realizing, Roman made his way toward the water, the lull of the waves against the shore, against rocks in the distance, calling him forward. There was something steady about the crunch of rock beneath his boot, but the ache in his chest refused to give way even for the familiar sounds and smells of the english countryside. He’d grown up nestled in the city, but it didn’t mean he never enjoyed his time outside of it. At long last he spotted that familiar dark hair, longer now it seemed than when he’d last seen him. Tension rolled off his shoulders as his lip quirked into amusement, taking the rare chance to simply observe him on the beach near the water. A part of him considered turning around, walking all the way back up to the farm, passing the sheep, and climbing right back into his car. He didn’t owe this Levi gentleman a damn thing. But, even if he chose not to speak a word about what was happening, he wanted to speak to Henry. His voice appeared too often in his dreams to keep him from seeking the chance to hear it in person again.
His voice was clear enough to be heard from across the way, “David est-il revenu? Ton troupeau est magnifique.” He asked, eyes filling with a warmth that had been absent for some time as he came to a stop some paces away, eyes flicking between the sea and the good shepherd whose flock he’d admired just before.
the ocean roared, hungry waves crashing against the open shore ; the mouth of the sea open wide, wide, wide, and ready to swallow him whole if he’s not careful about just how deep he dips his toes. may meant the chill of the morning could be tempered by the warmth of the water as it rushed up to kiss his feet ––– something of a ritual he’d made a habit of, some few years running now. throwing stones, however, was rooted in his childhood on that same strip of the coast, and he dips down, fingertips sifting through fine sand.
the strain of the muscle of his arm as it swings, launching the stone into the sea, is immensely satisfying for reasons he ––– nor his mother, nor her mother before her ( neither mother, nor crone ) ––– will ever entirely understand. but it is, and he closes his eyes against the whip of the wind, breathing in deep, tongue sweeping out to lick salt from his lips ; tucking his hands back into the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunching against the chill of an english spring, henry feels –––
there is a sound from the dunes just behind him, high grasses brushing against a long stride. henry freezes, fingers twitching in his pockets, flexing ( hesitance, though the glock hidden ––– tucked between his belt and his lower back ––– burns hot against his skin ). his mind flickers, stutters, flashing through a catalogue ; the sheep are penned, his mother is in town, nan’s not begun to haunt them yet, despite her playful threats some two years ago –––
a voice sounds, a chill slithering like a snake down henry’s spine. ❛ oh no ––– ❜ all too familiar, long past, but not yet forgotten. ❛ oh non, je t'en prie, tu ne sommes pas chez nous ––– ❜ irrational irritation flares low in henry’s belly like burning embers because this can’t be good. he was so careful about keeping them hidden, keeping them safe. after all that’s happened. he spins on his heel, digging deeper into the sand, stubborn, green eyes flaring. ❛ salaud. ❜
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