Hank checks his backpack. Then he checks it again. Then he checks a third time just to make sure the sunny flowers are still where he left them.
He is not going to fuck up again.
He is not going to accidentally give Connor a raw sardine. Again. How do you accidentally give someone a goddamn raw sardine? It doesn’t matter, because Hank did do that and Connor accepted the lifeless thing with little more than a sad look on his face. “Oh. It’s dead,” was his only comment, but Hank knew he fucked up. Not wanting to be rude, Connor took the fish anyways and left Hank standing there nursing both his pride and his empty stomach: that was the same raw sardine he was previously, miserably, considering having for lunch.
That would not happen again. He moved everything —axe, pickaxe, everything— deeper into his pack, leaving just the flowers within arm’s reach.
Hank doesn’t remember learning that one of Connor’s favorite things is sunflowers. Or maybe he does. Maybe he overheard Connor mention it. The details are kinda fuzzy— Hank had been kinda drunk. He does remember how the kid’s face lit up when whoever was actually part of the conversation mentioned the traveling merchant having one of the flowers for sale. Out of season, too.
That was months ago— and now sunflowers are in season. Hank knows this because he saw the seeds for sale in the general store. He knows those seeds take eight days to grow because he bought them, and then he grew them. He tended to them for a week and a day until large gold blooms crowned them, and now he was going to give them to Connor.
Because he wants Connor to like him.
And he wants Connor to like him because.
Because the kid was charming. With a quick wit and a smart tongue he could be a real shit sometimes, but some other times he was quiet and pensive: looking lost in his own head. Looking like he needed someone else. And maybe Hank could be that. Maybe Hank wanted to be that. The other denizens seem to avoid him.
It’s a warm summer Wednesday, which means Connor will probably be at the library until some time after noon. Not that Hank has his routine memorized or anything. That would be weird.
Finished with the morning grind, and finally satisfied with the state of his pack, Hank makes the walk from farm to town. Of course, he checks the Help Wanted board:
Why? None of your business.
Immediately distracted. Hank knows he has a spare hot pepper back at the house, goddamn it, and is pretty sure he can get the little extra cash before finding Connor.
Pepper in hand —Hank you asshole do not give the flowers to North do NOT give the flowers to North— Hank is once again walking back through town. North lives by the river, and imagine his surprise when he finds her house is empty. She’s not at home.
So now he’s running all over hill-and-fucking-dale because North where did you even go and he almost doesn’t see Connor walking along the earthen path. Almost.
Everything stops. Looking for North stops, thinking about hot peppers and sardines and what Hank’s gonna do while it’s raining tomorrow stops. There is only Connor. Connor and his goofy face and his dark brown eyes. Hank stuffs the pepper aside and gets out the bouquet as he’s walking over. It’s alarmingly healthy, despite its cramped storage for most of the day. Connor hasn’t noticed him.
Hank has never been a wordsmith: all he can do is hold out the flowers in Connor’s path and hope for the best. It seems to do the trick the way Connor stops, eyes wide, looking at the bouquet and the big, sheepish man hiding behind it.
“Oh! Oh, these are beautiful,” a long beat. “Are these...for me?” Connor’s voice is soft and disbelieving. Hank nods, dumbly, hand now braced awkwardly on the back of his head. Again Connor takes the offering in hand, but this time he looks down and starts smiling. It’s small and shy and so goddamn sweet that it makes Hank’s fucking heart forget how to beat properly, the one thing it’s supposed to be good at. Connor puts the flowers to his noes and looks over them at Hank, lonely eyes looking a little less so when they’re all crinkled up around the edges. “They’re wonderful. Thank you, Hank.”
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