The Farmer 🌻
The sun beat down wickedly upon the freshly turned earth of the earth; in particular, on a set of tan shoulders completely at the sun's mercy. Sweat glistened upon that finely sculpted figure- a man, no older than twenty-five. He made a living through his arduous work, the physicality bringing him to his knees by the end of the day. That, of course, was near the beginning of his employment. It was not so, now. His employer, Vincent Phantomhive, was in desperate need of a farm hand- someone to plant seeds, feed and water the animals, mow the lawn, and occasionally cook and make trips to the local market to both purchase food for the week and sell product. Sebastian Michaelis, a youth with the stamina and strength to swim a thousand miles without rest, was just the farmhand Vincent needed to make his life bearable. Sebastian had never once questioned Vincent. He was loyal, intelligent, and thorough in his work. Proving himself to be more than capable, Vincent had slowly but surely handed wretched physical tasks over to him- but that went without saying. Vincent was not a young man- and though not old either, he was well on his way, and had a family to care for. Rachel Phantomhive had been Vincent's wife, and he was sure had he the chance to meet her, she would have been a fine young lady. Since her death, however, Vincent had been shaken- unnerved by it to such a degree that the stress had aged him, and showed clear as day on his face. Rachel had lived until her son, Ciel Phantomhive, was five years old. He'd never met either of them- and though he worked the property, he'd only ever seen the outside of their house. Ciel Phantomhive, Vincent's youngest and only son, was a sickly boy since birth. His birth was Rachel's downfall, but she lived for five years with the illness afterward. No doubt something had been wrong with the pregnancy to begin with, and Sebastian Michaelis couldn't help but pity all of them. He would never ask what happened nor would he ever manipulate Vincent for an answer, but regardless, he'd been given the run down on his first day. Now, at seven months employed, Sebastian was hard at work, digging at the earth and wiping sweat from his glistening brow. He wore no shirt under his overalls- having found out the hard way that it was useless to wear one, and even harder to get the sweat stains out of it. The straps to his overalls were crossed in the back, but one lay unhooked, dangling at his side. His pant legs tucked into black boots that protected his feet and his clothes from the dirt and grime of the earth. Though he was more than dirty, he didn't mind so much. He liked the work, and it gave him something to do. And what was more interesting, Vincent left most all of the work- besides cooking and maintaining the house- to him. He made trips into town every so often- probably more than he should, be he always returned each night. A promise to both him- because he had to be paid and told to stop working- and to his son, who, though sickly, insisted so. He didn't blame the poor thing. Though twenty-one now, Ciel Phantomhive still had his youth. The youth of a teenager. The frailty and fear of a child. His sporadic, often bouts of illness was most likely the cause, but even so- with Rachel disappearing from the world like she did at the age of five, and with his only contact to be his father, it was no wonder he was scared of his father leaving. That would leave him by himself, and that alone, with the knowledge of his frequent illnesses, was scary in it's own right. Sebastian glanced back at the house, carmine eyes softening as he saw shadows flicker through the window. He wasn't too far from the house, but he was a good distance. The shed was more or less his home now- abandoning the one he had in town just to be closer. Vincent had suggested it- given his working hours. He paid him a handsome amount to work his farmland, it was only fair that he was given a proper place. Four in the morning to seven in the evening was not a pretty work schedule, and yet, regardless, Sebastian never once complained. Not even on day one. He was a rather reserved man. Abandoned at a young age and raised by the locals. He wasn't mute, but he seldom spoke. And when he did, his voice enchanted everyone who heard. At the market place, on a day without physical labor, he'd charm men and women alike into common-place grown foods such as tomatoes, potatoes, corn, and beans of a variety. There were more that he could potentially sell, but he was only permitted to sell whatever Vincent gave him. And that wasn't a lot- even in the middle of summer. He was quite the lady's man, but he never expressed interest. Many a day he would spend his nights- despite the exhaustion- awake and alert, wondering his purpose. He got up every day to take care of the land and animals, and then he returned to bed. It wasn't much of a life to live, and he was definitely replaceable. With no purpose, he could only ponder what death would feel like, but refused to go through with it. He would live until he died- whether by accident or by nature, it didn't matter. He was alone, truly, and that in itself was sad. He turned away from the house, shoulders sagging as he paused his work like he so often did every day- not because he was tired, but because he wondered. Knowledge was a powerful thing- something he'd amassed while people spoke lies, betrayed each other, and gave in to politics. The human race would destroy itself, he was sure, with the way everyone talked to each other. He didn't bother contributing to that statistic. Instead, he sought answers to nature. Learned visually, and listened carefully. The sun in the sky was smoldering, and he realized, sheltering his face with his hand, that he was almost at his limit. He hadn't had water yet, and the sun was fiercer than usual. His daily allotment of water was diminishing quickly, and while conservative, it was evident that he would eventually have to ask for more. It was one of those days. And he was sure Vincent wouldn't mind terribly... Except, Vincent was in town today. With Vincent gone, he would indefinitely run out of water, and, having calculated the time between needing a refill, he would probably collapse long before he returned. Even if the sun went away at five-thirty. A frown creased his lips as his hand fell away from his face. He turned towards the shed, swinging his pitch fork over his shoulder. A brief break, then, would fix that. Normally it wasn't necessary, but today it would have to happen. Each refill diminished what he had, and with breaks set, he might be able to make it through the day. Perhaps. Propping the pitch fork against the inside of the shed, he turned, once more, towards the house he worked next to every day. He was never allowed in, but that didn't bother him. The inside of a house brought no interest to him. As to why he was looking... The ebony hair on the back of his neck rose, prickling with awareness. It wasn't often he felt it, or felt a need to give it much attention, but the feeling was familiar, and it came so often without consequence that he often put it out of his mind. Especially while he was working. Eyes were watching him. And the second his carmine eyes drew to the front window, he shivered, locking eyes with a gaze so blue it reminded him not only of the sea and the cold, but also of curiosity and the realization that he had no shirt. Oddly... It struck a naked feeling. Like he was ripped apart, analyzed from the inside out, and told how to work. He couldn't pull his grasp from that gaze. He couldn't move or twitch a finger. His lips were parted, as if those ocean-blue orbs were the glass of water he needed, reviving him, energizing him, and sending a chill down his spine. Awareness rippled through his body in a way he'd never felt before. He felt so alive; each breath he took was audible, and he became sharply aware of the steady rhythm of his beating heart, feeling it's thuds in his well-built chest. He became aware of how tall he was. How long his hair was. How thin his own lips were just by wetting it with his tongue. He noticed every bead of sweat on his body, and how they rolled together, and slid down his body. He felt... Self-conscious. Naked. At the mercy of those blue orbs. Had they wanted him to approach and list a million reasons why he was working like he was, he would do it. Count right up to a million, because that was what this being had asked of him. And yet, if this being had asked him to look away... He wouldn't be able to. His breath caught in his throat as the connection grew to be too much for him. He swallowed thickly, aware that his adam's apple moved too much, and that he smelled like dirt, looked dirty, too, and was weakened by the stare. He leaned heavily against the barn doors, his dark hair- tied back in a short, ugly ponytail- pressing hard against the door. One of the nails caught the band holding his hair together, and tugged. Hair freed, it cascaded down in an easy ripple. It wasn't greasy, just a little dusty. But, unbeknownst to Sebastian, that incident only pieced together his handsome face and accentuated his features. Had a lady been in front of him at that moment, she might have jumped him. But for the moment, had that occurred, Sebastian wouldn't move. He felt the pull. The electricity of that gaze. He wanted to obey. He wanted to bow before the feet of that being, and subject himself into submission. This feeling he felt- it was so vicious and greedy that it startled him; had the shed door not been propping him up, he would have fallen. He was sure. @sweetlovingearl