What a Handkerchief is Meant For (8.5k)
was inspired by this post by @boobsneeze and just had to write it into a full little story. when i tell you this was the most cathartic and healing fic i’ve ever written please know that’s not a lie. it’s so so wlw and queer and romantic it’s one of my favorite pieces i’ve done. so. please enjoy a few thousand words of fetishy homoerotic pining and if you have any prompts pls send them my way because i’m in love with these characters and the potential of the world haha
Elanor has been watching them, the farmhand, for weeks. The newest hire, a young, clean-shaven fellow who she now thinks is more lady than they let on. She first noticed them a few weeks ago as they followed Farmer Thomas round the fields, tending to the animals and moving crops back and forth. Tall and nimble, light on feet that are weighed down by heavy boots, with dark curls that are too short to pull back but long enough to set them frequently running their hand through them to bring them away from their eyes. They’re a rather ordinary-looking boy who immediately snagged Elanor’s attention by way of their novelty, but held it so fiercely with their oddness, their quiet demeanor, so unlike the rowdy farmhands Elanor knows the family to employ. Not as loud or invasive, nor as strong— she thinks they’d maybe lose in a fight against any of the other men on the farm, with whom they speak but only just. But they don’t seem at all off-putting really. Just odd. They smile politely and speak when spoken to. Completely approachable, really, if there weren’t one more oddity that stirs something indescribable in Elanor’s stomach.
It’s the hay, she thought, or the animals the hay feeds. She wasn’t sure, but she noticed it only a few evenings after their arrival in her life. The boy must have been finishing up, as the sun was setting, but even from her bedroom window, Elanor could see him step out through the wide barn doors and double over. Quick and taut, she watched as he pitched forward two, three times in a row, before pulling the collar of his shirt up over his face. It was then she knew what was occurring, that he was gripped by a sneezing fit that lasted another minute and had him panting and swiping at his eyes before he returned to the barn. She kept her gaze out the window until she saw him reappear a few minutes later in step with Farmer Thomas, who had a hand placed on his back. Elanor’s stomach flipped when she saw him pitch forward again and again, Thomas’ hand on the small of his back for support as they walked. Collar up over his face, until Thomas said something and he dropped it, letting the sneezes out freely over his shoulder. It was intriguing, to say the least. She had to see more.
She sat outside one day the next week, after watching similar displays from her window every day since. The regularity of it made it seem like a natural reaction, like there would be more concern if he were truly unwell. But what sort of person would work with such ill effects? She had to see it, hear it for herself. So she brought a book and a blanket and situated herself under the tree in their yard, and read, and listened. To the ambient sounds, only, at first. Birds and hollers from farmhands, the breeze in the grass and leaves, the crickets and cicadas stirring in the afternoon air. And then, finally, the sound she was waiting for— a sneeze from inside the barn. She may have imagined it but then there was another, and another, and despite them all being muffled by the wooden doors and the wind, they were unmistakably rough sneezes. She waited with bated breath for another, but was met only with crickets. But that was enough to distract her from her book entirely, and it wasn’t more than a couple minutes before she was rewarded with another muffled fit. Something in her stomach fluttered. It could be anyone, she knew, but what she knew more assuredly was that it wasn’t. It was certainly only the boy whose narrow shoulders shuddered every time, even from the distance of her bedroom window. The sun was only slightly lower in the sky when he finally pushed his way through the door in the midst of another fit.
They were harsh, itchy-sounding things, like his throat had long been sneezed sore. Pitchy and desperate, they tore through him, and he propped a hand against the wall of the barn to support himself as he bent at the thin waist. He gasped for air after a string of three, his head snapping up, and that’s when they made eye contact for the first time, locking gazes across the clearing. He startled, his eyes widening, and then he grabbed the collar of his shirt to yank it up to his face before turning away and sneezing again. Some sort of measure of propriety or decorum, she suspected (and still does), but she couldn’t help the twist in her gut it sent when she could no longer see the way his lips parted and nostrils twitched for the next one. And yet, at this moment she noticed the next oddity: the layers of something pulled tight across his back, under the fabric of the shirt he was burying his face in. Like his back was bound, but that made less sense than the next thought— it was for his chest. How odd. The newest farmhand, bent at the waist from hayfever, and with a chest to be bound and reason to hide it.
This she took in stride, and it only heightened her curiosity. The farmhand caught their breath and swiped at their face with their hand. They threw a glance at her, as if to verify that she was still there, and the color in their smooth cheeks was unmistakable. They looked away quickly with a bow of their head and then slipped back through the barn door. She waited under the tree until after the sun dipped below the horizon, and only then did she see them again. They walked alone, today, as they hadn’t been accompanied by Thomas at all this week. They shouldered their bag up their back with a sniffle and tossed another glance her direction. Their brows pulled when they locked eyes, but when Elanor offered a friendly smile, she was returned a grin so surprised and fleeting it left her wanting more.
She had to ask her father that evening, of course, about the newest farmhand, the quiet one with the dark hair.
“His name’s Henry,” he said to her. “Why?”
“Just curious,” she said, taking note of how he referred to them, how he was seemingly under the impression that the farmhand was just a regular boy. “Never noticed him before.”
“Yes, well, it’s only been a few weeks since the season started. Not like he’s been around forever.”
“Of course, Father.”
Of course. Of course, if they had been, she’d have noticed them much sooner. As it was, she was having trouble thinking about anything other than the odd farmhand she so casually mentioned at the supper table. They now had a name: Henry.
She should’ve connected the dots sooner, maybe, that the man she was watching was truly no man. A woman sneaking around in men’s clothes, hiding her body from the world to cram herself in with the rowdy men who don’t know her secret. This was something foreign to Elanor, the desire to eschew the social norms endowed by one’s body in favor of menial labor. Elanor’s days are spent learning and indulging— she reads and writes, sleeps and eats, practices piano, even paints. Never would she consider giving it up for a pair of pants and constant, bound-chested hayfever. But what was stranger than Henry’s desire to do such things was Elanor’s appreciation of it. It wasn’t until she was in bed that evening, scribbling furiously in her diary, when she realized she was thinking about Henry as both a man and a woman. That this was the most interesting man she’d ever seen and they hadn’t even spoken. That any thoughts she’s ever had about marrying a man pale in comparison to the fantasies she’s had about kissing women, touching them, holding them. That those fantasies were always balderdash, but that was before she knew that some men could really be women hiding in plain sight, like Henry. Maybe… She squeezed her eyes shut and saw the image of them bent at the waist seared into her eyelids, giddiness eating at her core.
She found herself outside more and more. With her book, her easel, a picnic blanket, anything. Her older sister asked what was so exciting outside in such heat, and all Elanor could say is that even small things can be exciting, which earned her a scoff. But still, she watched her new favorite farmhand every day as they switched from task to task. It’s the hay, she was able to determine with keener observation. They’re fine at the start of the day, and in the fresh fields, and even in the barn when the animal pens are clean. But as soon as they get within a few feet of a hay bale, all bets are off, though the encounters are unavoidable. Feeding the animals is a chore, and lugging bales across the old barn floor without having to step out afterwards for some fresh air is nigh impossible. But she watched them do it willingly, intent on their job. After enough time outside, the looks she got from Henry were not so surprised as pleased, like they were happy to see her basking under the tree despite the state they’re in every time they did. It was then that she decided to start a conversation.
Well, not then. She had to prepare, of course. She was covered in paint and not wearing the right shoes to traverse the mud, and her hair was in an unacceptably unkempt bun, and supper was waiting, and she didn’t know what exactly to say, or when, but she knew that she did have to. Just… after further bedroom ruminations.
This leads to where she is now, the next day, waiting nervously outside the barn for them to leave at just-past-sunset like always. She can hear them sneezing inside the barn, rough and breathless. There’s a particularly loud one, and she knows they must be right by the door. Why is her heart racing? Elanor takes a breath as they push through.
Sure enough, Henry just gets the door open before they have to stop and sneeze again. Elanor’s never been this close when it happens, and even from a couple yards away, she can see the mist of spray in front of their face. They let out another sneeze and then paw at their eyes, pushing blindly through the doorway and shifting their bag up their shoulder.
“Heavens! Bless you!” Elanor says.
They startle at this, at the blessing, at their typical observer being so atypically close. She sees that same surprise in their eyes as the first time when they jump back and sniffle, quickly swiping their rough knuckles against the underside of their nose.
“Oh! ‘Scuse me!” they say.
Their voice is raspy but high-pitched with surprise. Hardly manly, but not quite womanly the way that Eleanor’s mother uses the word. She supposes that might be the point.
“Oh!” she says. “I’m sorry! Didn’t mean to frighten you!”
Henry shakes their head and runs a hand through their hair, clearing their throat and setting their brows now that they’ve got their bearings. “No, I’m sorry.” They give another sniffle. “Didn’t see y’there.”
Elanor gives a little smile, locking eyes with them from close enough to see that they’ve got a touch of green in them, brightened against the soft brown by allergic tears. She steps closer.
“Don’t seem like you can see much of anything, right now.” She keeps a lilt in her voice, light and playful.
Henry snorts with surprised laughter and then nods. “‘Fraid you’re right.” They lift the collar of their shirt to wipe at the mess on their face. “The hay is dr-dreadful to me sometihhmes.”
Their voice wavers and their eyelashes flutter, and it’s incredibly obvious that they’ve got to sneeze again despite the way their lower face is covered. Elanor smiles at this.
“Sometimes?” she says.
To her delight, a curious smile reaches the corners of Henry’s eyes before they twist to the side and sneeze into their shirt.
“hhh’IISSHHHuh!… gah!” The sound is all-encompassing— Elanor swears the insects fall quiet to let her hear as well as possible. There’s an accompanying, desperately wet sniffle that pulls at Elanor’s heart. It makes something twist deep down in her stomach in such a carnal, unwomanly way that she can’t even think of it. The most she can muster is an enthusiastic blessing for the beautiful not-man snuffling in front of her.
“Bless you!”
The smile is faint as Henry nods and snaps forward into their collar again. “hh’EIHHSSZHH!… ugh… Pardon. M-more than sometimes, mh— maybeehh’IIDJSCHHHuhh!”
The way they stutter through their sentence to finish it before sneezing yet again has Elanor’s stomach doing a somersault. But they snuffle against their shirt again, certainly only for her sake as they seem to have otherwise stopped covering with it since Farmer Thomas’ words, and that reminds her what the purpose of preparing was.
“Goodness,” she says. She reaches into the pocket in the lining of her dress, where she stashed away an old handkerchief just before she left her bedroom earlier. It’s a tattered, lacy thing that she’s had for longer than she can remember. The bright pink color has been dulled from scores of washings, but the fabric is still in one piece.
“God bless you.” She smiles and extends the handkerchief. “Here— you look like you could use this.”
Henry’s eyes go wide again, a crease forming between their brows. Their shirt drops back into place, revealing the mess leaking from their nose, as they raise their hands up.
“Oh, please, no, I couldn’t.”
Something shoots through her stomach, something she’ll have to think about further when in bed tonight. For now, she presses closer.
“I insist. I’ve got plenty more in the house— don’t you worry.”
Something tugs at Henry’s eyebrows and they sniffle, hands pulling back an inch. “I shouldn’t.”
Elanor swallows back her nerves and offers a soft smile. “Please?”
Henry hums, eyes locked on hers. But then they lose focus, gaze lost in the distance behind Elanor, and their lips part as they suck a soft breath in, and then another. It’s as if time slows— she watches the need grow in their widening nostrils and in the uneven rise and fall of their bound chest. She sees the desire for the handkerchief swell suddenly as their eyes set back onto her hand. And then they give in and snatch it from her, pitching forward into it with want so ferocious it sends something slithering up Elanor’s core.
“hhHY’AIIDJSCHHHMMPHhh!” The sneeze seamlessly melts into a short blowing of their nose before their eyes open with what might be horror. They turn their head away and swipe at their nose with the kerchief, and the color in their cheeks is again unmistakable, almost as bright as their nose and more vivid than the handkerchief itself.
“I’m sorry,” they say, eyes glued to the handkerchief, where Elanor finds her own gaze lingering for some odd reason. “Pretty messy, this time o’ day.”
Elanor snaps her gaze back up to Henry’s face. They seem embarrassed by the whole affair, releasing sneezes so close to her. Their brows are pulled tight, a crease in their nose and their parted lips downturned. Again, something shoots through her stomach and down into her core. They’ve no need to be embarrassed by such a stunning, unrelinquishing display.
“Hush,” she says with a wave of her hand. “That’s what a handkerchief is meant for.”
Henry hums, eyeing the kerchief. “I suppose.”
Then they look her up and down, cautious but with that warmth seeping back into their expression. Elanor gives the most endearing smile she can muster with her nerves firing the way they are, even as Henry’s eyes go hazy again.
“It’s past sundown,” she says. “You must be finished for the day.”
They nod and— “hhH’IHSSCHH! ‘IKSCHHMPHhh!”— a quick pair of harsh sneezes are caught in the handkerchief before they respond, “I am. Caught me on m’way out.”
“And you’re just heading home?” Elanor asks. Her voice is shaking. She hopes Henry doesn’t notice; how embarrassing that would be for her.
“Home?” Henry eyes her again. There’s something unreadable in their expression, an odd little quirk to their lips that their hazy eyes don’t clarify. Their tone, though, is light and congested enough to be endearing— almost playful, maybe. “Yeah, I’ll head that way, reckon.”
“Then let me walk you down the lane way,” Elanor offers. Henry’s eyes are widening before she even finishes, “It’s the least I can do.”
“Oh, Lord, no! It’s gettin’ dark.” Their eyes dart up to the house in the distance as they sniffle. “Supper’ll be waiting.”
They’re right, but worse things have occurred than a plate of cold turkey. She isn’t sure what, exactly, she wants from this interaction, but she knows she’s not had nearly enough of Henry, yet. Their nose is so flushed pink she wants to kiss it, and the sweat of work and the hay dust on their skin and clothes fill her nose from this close, and the rasp in their voice certainly made worse from all the sneezing is making her insides crawl, but all of these are things she’ll have to think about tonight. Right now, she needs more. More of the quiet farmhand whose sneezes could reveal them in a field of hay ten feet tall. More of the man who stands so small in frame next to the other farmhands, but who is faster and more methodical at work than any other man she knows. More of the working woman who has wormed their way into the fields, who’s been working since sunrise this morning, who is now taking time out of their long day to accept a conversation and handkerchief from Elanor despite clearly being embarrassed or nervous or something that’s making them hesitant to do so—
She takes a steadying breath and resets her focus on Henry’s eyes. Her lips crack a smile.
“Let it wait,” she says. “We can’t have you fumbling around the fields like this.”
Henry’s eyes widen and their jaw drops. They pull back, stuttering for something to say as they process her words.
“Ah, I’m—”
Elanor’s stomach twists. She took it too far, she thinks. Banter is only friendly when you’re already friends, after all.
“I’m sorry!” She holds her hands out towards them. “I don’t mean to be rude! Just—”
But Henry’s expression has shifted. They’ve gotten over that initial shock, and that delight is overtaking them again, smile pulling at their lips, their brows quirked quizzically, like they’re pleasantly surprised that Elanor offered them such patronizing words, or that she’d put off supper for their sake. Baffled, almost. Taken aback by Elanor’s unladylike, out-of-line quip and offer.
She lets out a small sigh and returns the smile as calmly as her insides allow.
“Please,” she says. “It’s hardly very far. I insist. Let me see you safely out.”
Henry looks at her, their eyes scanning her face, her posture. They’re so clearly thinking, but what, exactly, they’re thinking is regrettably unclear. They look amused, perhaps. Intrigued, at least. This is odd, considering Elanor has been feeling that way about them for weeks. Suddenly there’s heat rising in her cheeks, and she feels so strangely exposed and vulnerable that she’s afraid she might just perish here under their baffled gaze.
But in her mortified silence, Henry’s expression shifts again. Their face takes on that pre-sneeze fuzziness, their nostrils flaring, the twitch in their brows indicating the overwhelming itch in their sinuses. They nod their head slightly, raising the handkerchief up towards their face. Their breath hitches across several notes up the chromatic scale, wrenching Elanor’s heart as she hears it, watches it from so close. Then they double over with another frame-shaking sneeze, pinching her pale, pink fabric around their nose. The sound, the relief in the exhale, stirs heat between Elanor’s legs. How odd, indeed.
“‘Right,” they finally say with a sniffle, watery eyes again scanning her frozen form. “Guess I could— hold it—”
They raise their index finger up, breath snagging again, and Elanor is entirely transfixed on their expression. Again, it’s like time has slowed, allowing her to watch the sneeze quickly swell in urgency. Their nostrils flaring wide, a jagged breath slashes through their throat before the itch overtakes their body again. Their shoulders look as strong as they do when they pull the hay bales, and the rasp of their breath sounds as if they need to lay down with a hot cup of tea.
A small squeak escapes Elanor’s lips, washed away by the rush of mess into the handkerchief. Too many potentials and fantasies and dreams to process now, so she tries to clear her throat and thoughts. Henry appears not to notice as they groan and look at her sheepishly, the itch still clearly occupying a large portion of their thoughts.
“‘Scuse me,” they say, snuffling against the handkerchief and blinking hazily. “Could use the company.”
Elanor gives a short nod, her cheeks burning. A small huff of relieved laughter cuts through her throat.
“Wonderful.”
And then she forces herself forward down the path, one foot followed by the other. Henry joins in step with her. The two of them make it all of ten yards before Henry pauses again, though, breath tearing through their throat.
The following sneezing fit twists Elanor’s insides in a way so unusual she practically sees spots. One, and then another, and another, and then a fourth— the sneezes tear through their nose and mouth and they bend at the waist again, hand pressed against their bent knee for support. They messily catch each in her handkerchief, now thoroughly dampened, and stutter for breath after each release. Their shoulders shake with the exertion. Elanor has to keep her mind from thinking about what else might work up such desperately hitching breaths.
“Oh, my!” she says, reaching a hand out towards Henry, who wipes away tears with the handkerchief. “Are you sure you can walk home like this?”
There’s another sneeze, but it melts effortlessly into a short chuckle. The sound is magical.
“Hah. Don’ worry your pretty little head about that. I make it home just fine.”
The sneezy laughter and the word pretty reverberate through her skull and slam her heart back and forth between them. God help me— how very, truly… odd, peculiar… queer… that Henry can so effortlessly stir such a fire in the deepest parts of her body.
Elanor hums as Henry brushes their hair out of their eyes and falls back in slow step with her, the itch still obvious on their face and in the soft, erratic gasps of air. The steady hum of the cicadas makes the frequent, sharp in-and-out of itchy breaths all the more palpable.
“So tell me, then,” Elanor says. “If you’ve got such terrible hayfever, why work as a farmhand?”
Henry hums, a small crease forming between their brows, their gaze drifting. Something tugs at the corner of their lips.
“Not many places wanna take someone llhh— like me for work, but I know Farmer Thomas from the S-Saturday market. Hh— he knew I could yhh— use a— ughh— sorryhhHH’YISSCHHPPHHhh! hhAH’EIISHHMMPphh! ugh… Could use a few pennies. Told me he had a jhh— drat—”
They pitch forward into the handkerchief with another sneeze, holding the explosion of mess tightly to their face with the light pink fabric. Elanor’s cheeks burn as they pinch at their nose and tilt their head back to gasp for air, only to snap forward again. The pool of heat between her legs only grows warmer and churns faster as Henry sucks in another crackly breath and snaps forward yet again. They snuffle into her handkerchief, shaking their head with a soft groan, and attempt to continue.
“Pardon. T-told me he hhhad a job needin’ done and faith in me that I could. An’ I aihh— ain’t one to turn down free workhh.”
Elanor is having as hard a time paying attention to the words as Henry is getting them out, but she does her best to act casual and not as grotesquely interested in each hitching breath as she is.
“Even if it leaves you—”
It’s then that Henry wrenches forward again. This fit has Elanor mercilessly stunned into silence— why would she ever speak over such a lovely sound? One, two, three sneezes with zero breaths between them, and Henry takes a blind step forward. The handkerchief sounds useless but they still clamp it tight over their face as they draw in a pair of shaky gasps. Elanor stares, mouth agape, as they snap forward, yet again with a final, resounding—
“hhHY’AIISSZHHH’iiewhhmmff!”
—that swings upward in pitch at the end in a frustrated whimper that is perhaps entirely womanly and sets something absolutely ablaze beneath the skirt of Elanor’s dress. They mutter a curse under breath that rasps through their chest and nose, and Elanor finds her hand resting on their shoulder should they keel over completely. Despite the heat burning in the parts of her body normally reserved for her bedroom, she returns to her senses to rub Henry’s back gently, letting her hand run over the binding pulled across their jolting shoulders. Their shirt is damp from sweat from the day’s work— smells nice. They gasp, stiffening at the touch, but before Elanor can think to pull away, the air leaves their lungs in a slow, shaky exhale, their shoulders relaxing again. They bury their nose into Elanor’s soaking wet handkerchief to blow it. It’s absolutely drenched. She’s got the odd mental image, then, of her drawers similarly soaked, Henry snapping forward with desperation and then blowing it right into her—
She swallows, squeezing their shoulder as they blink blearily and groan something low and congested enough to send another shiver up her spine.
“Goodness, darling!” The endearment slips out naturally— she can’t stop it before it’s already through her lips. “God bless you! Even if it leaves you like this?” Nor can she hide the sheer amusement in her voice, the utter fascination.
Henry reaches their own hand out towards her, like they’re meeting her with calloused fingers at a different anchor point for further balance.
“Guhh…” They sniffle, pinching the pink kerchief tight around pinker nostrils, and toss a damp glance at Elanor. Sheepish and embarrassed, their countenance suggests, but Elanor’s got much more reason to be— under her skirt, she squeezes her legs tight at the heat begging for her attention.
“Forgive me,” Henry groans. They sound terribly congested. But they run their nimble fingers through that mop of hair and shoulder their bag further up their back, which might be a shrug as well as the physical readjustment. “Work’s work. Family needs the money.”
This reminds Elanor of perhaps the most obvious difference between them, from which maybe all others stem: their wealth. Of course finances play a role in Henry’s current state. Elanor’s home is grandiose, her closets lined with dresses she loves to wear for the audience of any gala she gets the chance to go to. Her sisters indulge in life in all the same ways she does. Her mother gets by without working, living off of her father’s wealth and business ventures. Henry, however, appears to own a single pair of properly-fitting boots and wears the same pair of suspenders to hold up a cycling rotation of apparently only two different pairs of pants (brown and brown with a hole in the knee). It’s no wonder they need to work. Despite the job coming free, money does not, a fact which Elanor normally might not think about but which now sends a pang through her chest.
“Does your whole family work?” she asks, steering them forward, too-aware of her lack of familiarity with Henry’s lower-class tribulations.
They scoff and flash her a quick look of half-genuine disdain. “Lord, no,” they say. “That’s the problem.”
Elanor’s eyebrows pull quizzically. Seems like that’s the opposite of a problem— who would want to work like that? Henry hums and elaborates as if it’s something they were prepared to do.
“Pa died a few years back, so ‘course that lost us a lot o’ what we got. An’ Ma stopped working when she was pregnant with the twins, but they’re nearly three, now.” They sniffle. “Needed this job.”
Elanor’s mind is flooded with images— Henry with an entire family, with parents and siblings like Elanor has. With long hair her Ma probably braided down her back. With nimble fingers that deftly imitated skills from his Pa. As both a young boy and young girl, some quiet child who could easily have sat next to her in any of her lessons and picked it up just as quickly, should they have been given such an opportunity. As a young maiden, now forced into manhood by circumstances beyond their control. As a loving older sister to a set of twins. To a dutiful older brother to the same pair. As a young boy who was probably instructed not to venture into the fields because of the way it set her sneezing, and of the young woman who today lets himself be gripped by fits of the things for the sake of his family.
The first thing Elanor thinks to say is, “How noble of you.” It’s completely genuine.
Henry laughs, a sharp, raspy huff of amusement. “Hardly.” They snuffle back mess and swipe the handkerchief along the flushed underside of their nose. “Labor is money. S’not much thh— to it— hhh!”
“Certainly.” Elanor raises an eyebrow. “But not all labor does this.” She slides her hand from Henry’s back to wave it towards their face.
They shake their head, that bleary look glossing over their expression again. Their nostrils flare wide, their lips forming half of a curse before slipping open to suck in air. And, as if to prove Elanor’s point, they catch another breathy pair of sneezes into her handkerchief, stifled more by the rough hand clamping it tight than by the fabric itself. What else would those strong hands be good at? Elanor’s eyes are wide at the explosion of mucus muffled against the soft fabric.
But Henry snorts into the handkerchief and clears their throat. “‘S’no problem, really.” They meet her eyes with a soft smile, handkerchief still pressed to their nose. “You’re lovely to be concerned, but it ain’t an issue. The pay’s worth it.”
Elanor swallows. She sees an opening here. A path to something more. A path she considered propositioning when she was in the privacy of her bedroom, but which now seems much more daunting in person. She steels herself.
“Well, you know… If you end up this sneezy every day, you could use the basin at the house to wash up.”
Henry’s eyebrows shoot up with shock. Crude disbelief, like they can’t believe what Elanor just said, or like they think they imagined it and that that’s even more unbelievable.
“What?”
“If you’d like, I should say!” Elanor blurts out, hands up. “Use a cloth to wash all the dust off.”
Then, in a way that’s apparently typical for Henry, their amusement catches up with their surprise and their lips curl up with the baffled grin.
“Hah! Reckon your father’d shoot me before I even set foot through the door.”
Elanor’s jaw drops. “No!” And then a more placative, “You don’t have to come in. We keep the basin outside during the summer, anyhow.”
Henry eyes her skeptically, pinching the handkerchief around their poor, twitching nose again. “Pretty sure none of us are even s’pposed to talk t’you ladies. This walk alone might earn me an earful from Thomas.”
Elanor scoffs, incredulous at the idea that Henry might be perceived as just as threatening to her and her father as any other farmhand is. This half-man is nothing like the men that her father and Thomas employ. They’re… different. And Elanor’s father knows it, even if he can’t or won’t place his finger on it.
“Please!” she says. “My father would never wish anything like that for you! He likes you! Says he’s never seen such a fast learner!”
Henry’s brows furrow as they process her words. She’s quiet to let them. They sniffle, nostrils twitching against pink fabric, and keep their eyes glued to her for a moment before they prompt her for more.
“Do tell.”
Elanor lets a smile cross her lips. “Told us last week over supper that Farmer Thomas knows how to pick ‘em. That you’re small but quicker than lightning.”
Henry sniffles again. “Huh. Ain’t that ss— swell?— hih?!— ih!—”
“Well, I think s—”
“hhIH’KKSSHHMmfff! hhah!— IISSCHHHmmpphh!”
“Oh!”
“Ss—sorryhhh’EISSHHHIUmmfshh!” They clamp the handkerchief over their face— “hhAH’IIHJSCHHHFF!”— keeping the explosion of itchy messiness against their flushed skin— “hhIH’HKTSSCHHIUHhh!”— and blinking tears out of their eyes. The handkerchief is less than useless, but the sight of it is sending warm sparks through Elanor’s brain, so she doesn’t say anything of it.
“Goodness,” she breathes. “Bless you.”
“Ugh. Thank you. I’m— ah— If yhh— you’re sure it wouldn’t be a bhh— bother— ‘ISSHHHMMPphhh! ugh—”
Their skin is bright, flushed red from embarrassment, with sweat beaded across it even in the light of dusk. They blink at Elanor with their brows turned up, a pitiable tug to their lips as they snuffle against the handkerchief. But Elanor is enamored. Her eyes are unable to pry away from the handkerchief pinching against the sheen of mucus on Henry’s reddened nostrils. She wants to touch them, to trace her finger along the slick warmth on their twitching nostrils and further irritate those abused sinuses. To kiss them softly with her warm lips that are cool by comparison and to hum words of affection into fruitful fits of satisfying sneezes. To let Henry toss the handkerchief to the floor in favor of something pinker and softer that Elanor would be happy to offer—
“No bother at all,” she affirms, blinking against frazzled thoughts, again touching her hand gently to their shoulder.
“Then s’ppohh— hih!— s’ppose I couhhh— could— hhh’ISSHHH! ‘HKSSCCHHMPHhh! ugh!”
They moan into Elanor’s handkerchief and snuffle back the mess that is no longer being absorbed by the thing. Elanor wishes she were the one holding it to their face.
“‘Scuse me,” they continue. “S’ppose I could take you uhh— up on the offhhh— heh?!— offerhhh— oh, have mercyhhh’AIISSZHHHFFfwhh! hh’AESSHHOO! HAH’EHHSSCHHHiuhh! God…”
The last two sneezes are less restrained against the kerchief— perhaps they’re less inclined to press it so tight to their face when it’s so properly useless. With this, the spray is visible and half-caught against the sodden fabric. The moan of relief after letting them out more loosely makes Elanor almost wish she’d never offered the thing in the first place. The thought of them sneezing into their shirt again, and then losing even that once it’s thoroughly soaked… Elanor has much to think about.
“Hm. I’d be pleased with nothing less,” she manages.
Henry wipes meekly at their nose and flashes another one of those surprised smiles at her. Even with the sweat on their brow and the mess on their face, their blushed cheeks and nose and their shy smile evoke an undeniable femininity. It continues to shine through as their breath snags yet again, blessing Elanor with a lovely view of flaring nostrils and a chest straining against sweat-dampened binding that she’d maybe love to tear right off. Henry’s voice cuts through their throat, again rasping up the chromatic scale with a melody so simplistic it’s astonishing that Elanor’s on the edge of her seat.
“huh…? heh…? hih…?! hehh…! AHH’IHHSSHH’HOOoo!… ugh…”
Elanor feels as liquid as the sneeze sounded, hardly caught in the handkerchief. God, what on Earth is wrong with her? She bites her lip as Henry sniffles and blinks at her through loose curls, wriggling their bright pink nose with a sheepish grin.
“Well, reckon I ghh— gotta, then. Wouldn’t wanna disappoint someone as pretty as you, would I?”
There it is again, the word pretty, an undeniable compliment that stirs something twisted and hungry in the pit of Elanor’s stomach. Complete, unabashed desire heats her cheeks, and she feels that vulnerability again driving her to shift on her feet and pretend it’s even close to the sensation she really wants. She smiles, her turn to be surprised at the obvious fondness the other has, gaze soft and warm and watery from the ceaseless sneezing.
“Hm. I should think not,” she says.
She hopes it sounds more confident than she feels, but surely anyone with one ear could pick up on the quiver in her voice, the hesitation giving away her hammering heart. Perhaps they could hear her heart itself, slamming against her ribcage. Despite this, she’s unwilling to let Henry slip from her gaze for even a second for fear of missing any single magical detail.
They hold her gaze, their eyes narrowed like they’re thinking, or fighting off the unending itch. The smile still graces their lips.
“Hah. Then I oughtta ‘pologize for this.”
They hold the handkerchief out briefly to give Elanor a glance at how utterly soaked it is. They keep it tight in their hand and then pinch with it at their nose self-consciously, but Elanor wants a better look at the pink fabric, heavy and dark with Henry’s spit and mucus. As if them soiling her handkerchief is anything other than a blessing. She wants to coax even more out in such explosive, desperate fits. She wants to tease an even broader smile from those rough lips, chapped and pink and so kissable. She wants—
She smiles, shaking her head. “Please— keep it.” She squeezes their shoulder.
There’s that crease between their brows again. “Keep it?” they repeat.
“You need it more than I do, I’m sure,” Elanor says, letting her smile broaden into a smirk. A warmth fills her insides when Henry’s confusion again fades for amusement, scoffing at the half-quip.
She motions with her head towards the house. “Told you, I’ve got dozens.”
Their eyes go a little wide, like they have trouble believing Elanor would so willingly sacrifice a handkerchief, like she doesn’t have a million pieces of fabric around the house she could spare. What they don’t know is that she’d happily sacrifice her whole collection of kerchiefs if it meant having even one more conversation with them.
“Really?”
“Truly. Have it.”
They’re at the end of the lane way, by the fence at the end of the yard. The street towards town is dark. Elanor’s stomach twists at the thought of parting ways so soon.
Henry sniffles. “I dunno. I shouldn’t— it’s—”
“Or, if you’d like, you could wash and return it. But I’d be glad just to know it’s being put to use.”
Their lips twitch like there’s something at the tip of their tongue, and they look at Elanor with hesitation.
“Spare your shirt that way, right?” she adds, tone light.
That pulls the smile back out, the slight dig at their composure clearly a bit surprising but, at this point, not unwelcome. Their eyes dart away, cheeks flushing with embarrassment, and they sniffle.
“Lord— forgive me,” they mutter, stepping away from her touch. They let out a small, raspy huff of laughter, disparaging in its bitterness, and a nervous smile as they glance down at their shirt. “I’m not always so…” They sniffle and motion loosely with the handkerchief towards their face.
Elanor chuckles. There’s a long list of words she might use to describe Henry right now, none nearly so disparaging as their tone suggests.
“Balderdash!” she says with a wave of her hand. “That’s how you know you’re doing a hard day’s work, here, right? Non-stop sneezing and no time to pull out a handkerchief?”
Henry’s sheepish grin takes on an odd tilt, a strange pull into a more assured smile.
“Huh. S’ppose.” They sniffle, looking at Elanor, eyes narrowing in thought. The insistence and light teasing is apparently mollifying enough, because they say, “Thank you, then,” and ball the handkerchief up in their hand. “Elanor, ain’t it?”
“It is, indeed. You’re Henry, right?”
“That I am.”
She doesn’t ask how they know her name, nor do they ask her how she knows theirs. Through word of mouth, through observation, through active curiosity— that’s all she knows and all she needs.
She beams, her cheeks hot. They stand like that for a moment, taking in each other’s image. Henry is sweaty, sun-beaten, with a mop of disheveled hair hardly tucked behind one ear. Their eyes are red and watery, though no better than their nose, which leaks mess that no amount of congested snuffling seems to quell. Their cheeks are flushed and they drink in Elanor’s presence with a sharpness in their gaze made almost unreadable by the haze again overtaking it. A twitch in their nose, a light gasp in, that same shy smile. She only hopes she looks half as astonishing as they do.
“Well,” she finally says, when she feels she’s had enough of a look for their image to again be seared into her dreams, and before she gets distracted by the sneezing fit she can see stirring. “Have a safe walk home, then, Henry.”
They chuckle and nod, slow to let their gaze leave Elanor’s face. “I’ll try.” They sniffle. “And maybe I could bring this back tomorrow? Ih— If you meet me again?”
Elanor blinks. Again? Her cheeks burn, her heart racing.
“Oh! Tomorrow?”
That's so soon that Elanor doesn’t know if it’s logistically possible. It would require her to not combust as soon as she gets a second alone in her bedroom tonight. It would require her to retain her composure for the whole day after that, and then throughout their next meeting. And do they truly want to meet Elanor tomorrow, despite how frilly and out of place she looks in the field next to them? They look like two people who should never even speak to each other, let alone—
Their eyes go wide, and they stiffen, hands up defensively again. Their eyebrows are pointedly drawn with hesitation.
“O-or I could leave this in the pohh— post box! It’d get back t’you the same—”
“No! I mean…”
Henry blinks at her, nose wrinkled with a sniffle. A small, bewildered smile pulls at the corner of their lips. That same hesitant amusement as earlier.
Elanor forces her thoughts into audible words. “I’d love to meet you. Tomorrow is wonderful.”
Henry’s smile broadens even as their eyes lose focus on her and shift to the itch obviously creeping back through their sinuses.
“I can—” Elanor stutters, transfixed on Henry’s flaring nostrils. “Same time— I’ll come, yes.”
“Ss— swell,” Henry gasps, bringing the handkerchief towards their face. “Well, thh— then— ugh— mercy— hhy’AIIHTSCHHH! hiH!— ‘IIHSSHHHhiuhh!—”
Elanor watches as they’re again gripped by a sneezing fit that has them bending at the waist and has saliva collecting on the back of her tongue. They direct each sneeze towards the handkerchief, which they don’t bother pressing to their face, allowing Elanor a good look at the spray that comes from their nose and mouth. The merciless first two, and then a third, and a fourth, the sneezes sound absolutely itchy, completely breathtaking, and utterly heart-stopping. When they manage to snag a breath, their head snaps up, showing Elanor their nostrils flaring wide. They reach a hand out for balance, eyes half-lidded and streaming, and she’s quick to grab their arm to hold them steady. Their muscles are tight and their bound chest rises and falls intensely, like they’re wrestling at the edge of the itch. Lips parted, nostrils twitching like a wild rabbit’s, breath dancing in and out of their throat like music, Elanor is enamored. There’s suddenly an odd image in her mind of her fingers swiping a piece of hay softly along the sensitive insides of Henry’s twitching nostrils, of her conducting the music that’s so melting her, and there’s a tight clenching between her legs before Henry’s even snapped forward with the next sneeze.
“Ah… God bless you, darling,” she says with a soft squeeze to their arm. It’s all she can muster.
Henry sniffles and scrubs at the bridge of their nose, breaths short, and nods dazedly.
“Th— thank you kihh— kindlyyy’IISSCCHHHuhh! God… ugh…” They sniffle and blink blearily at Elanor, who may or may not be gaping. They offer her a small, sheepish, watery smile. “Well, you know where I’ll be.”
Elanor nods, cheeks burning, and raises her eyebrows. “And if not, I’ll just follow the sound of sneezes.” She throws in another light squeeze to their wrist, soft and playful, before letting her fingers slide away. She immediately misses the feeling.
“Hah,” Henry lets out a wry laugh, followed by a thick sniffle. “‘Course.”
There’s a few seconds of ambience, of crickets and cicadas and congestion. Henry’s dark eyes, with those glowing flecks of green, dart up the lane way and up to the house, before they flick back to her. They take in her form, her posture, her clothes and hair— she feels it.
Then they huff and run a hand through their sweat-slick hair casually, nodding towards the house. “Now, go have supper. Can’t be starvin’ for me.”
Starving is maybe the appropriate word for it, yes. Starving for them. How odd.
She shakes her head and waves her hand dismissively. “Come, now. It’s only been a few minutes. You look like you could use more than that.”
Another wry chuckle from Henry. “Heh. Yeah, well—” They hold up her handkerchief, giving it a small flap. “This is plenty.”
“Hm.” Elanor’s smile broadens. “Well, then, I look forward to seeing it again, tomorrow.”
Henry nods and sniffles, then swipes the hair from their face gestures to themselves. “I’ll try to be more becoming. Caught me unawares, today.”
Elanor scoffs. As if the mess on their shirt and the worn-out draw to their countenance after a hard day’s work is anything less than entirely becoming.
“Please.” She locks eyes with them. “This is perfect.”
“Heh.” They give her a wet sniffle and the warmest smile of the evening. “Perfect.”
They stand like that for a moment, frozen in each other’s gazes under the first stars of the night. There’s a twist in her core, a warmth slithering up and around her heart, gripping it so tightly that she has to bite back the whimper that threatens to slip from her lips. There’s something so shy and genuine about their smile that it makes something in her stomach flutter— it feels like a rarity, a short glimpse into the person she’s been watching for weeks. She wants more. She needs more. She needs to see them again, with enough handkerchiefs to satisfy them. She needs to see and hear and feel them sneeze again, desperately itchy after working so diligently on the property on which she lives so blissfully. She needs to touch them again, somewhere more sensitive than their shoulder or arm. She needs—
She needs to breathe. She heaves a short sigh that melts into a smile, oddly bittersweet. The most she’s had of them, and it’s still not enough.
“Well…” She clears her throat. “Have a lovely evening, Henry.”
They grin, and nod, and bring her soaking handkerchief up to swipe at their nose. Their boot scuffs against the dirt path as they take a step backwards and shoulder their bag up their back. Their snotty smile is exquisite.
“You too, Elanor.”
And with that, she watches them walk off, off the property and away from the house, down the road into town. At a few dozen yards away, they stop in their tracks and stiffen before pitching forward with a pair of sneezes. The sound carries, which Elanor can’t stop from spreading her lips in a grin. They turn around to face her, and upon seeing her still watching, raise their hand to wave her off with another flap of the handkerchief. She waves back to them, and they appear to shake their head before wrenching forward with another sneeze. They toss one more glance at her as they continue on their way, and before she knows it, they’re gone.
Her heart is racing, pounding against the inside of her chest like it’s desperate to escape. God, that was magnificent. Who knew a simple conversation could stir such warm feelings? Elanor can’t help the flush in her cheeks or the smile on her lips— she’s swimming in thoughts of Henry. Of their accent, the drawl that gives away their lack of formal education but that holds her attention better than any book. Of their smile, so shy and warm and glowing with surprise at Elanor’s presence. Of the way the smile broadens enough to expose teeth when Elanor teases them. Of their kind words, strange and sweet and so unlike the rough exchanges she’s had with other farmhands. And, of course, of the incessant sneezes that reverberate in Elanor’s stomach, brought about by the hard work they do.
She lingers on this thought. The thought of Henry’s nose fighting them as they drudge through hard labor— so curious. And how non-stop and loud and unwomanly the sneezes come, except for when they’re so desperate for relief that it sends their pitch up an octave. Then, of course, Elanor is well aware of the fact that there is only pure want, only unadulterated desire for relief. God, what she wouldn’t give to hear those sounds again. Henry’s nose twitching with need, their raspy, staccato breaths, the rapid rise and fall of their chest, the tension in their muscles, the tears in their eyes, the loose curls falling in their face— she could go on and on about the things she wants more of. She’s swimming in them.
And, to that end, those itchy whimpers and moans sound particularly like the noises Elanor herself has to bite back when her fingers are especially clever while alone in bed. The heavy, panting breaths, the heaving chest, the trembling shoulders and shaky hands, they’re all quite reminiscent of the reflexes associated with a more carnal need. The spray from their nose, the slick running down their skin and hastily mopped up by Elanor’s own handkerchief— Lord. Again, the image of them burying their nose into Elanor as they fail to hold back sneezes sends heat pooling between her legs. The thought of pressing her lips to theirs and only pulling back when they’re right at the edge of a vicious sneezing fit just makes her want to kiss them more. The idea of them, those parted lips down where her fingers roam in privacy, their sensitive nose pressed against the sensitive skin there. Their twitching nostrils against her throbbing sweet spot—
Elanor clears her throat and turns back towards the house. There is much to ruminate on, tonight, indeed.
This is perfect 😍❤️
