"SO, Mr. Bang," Han began, leaning against the untiled that counter that a hired carpenter had varnished not too long back. "Would you rather converse inside or on the veranda?" He asked, the endearing smile still defined on his cheeks.

      "I don't mind it in here," Bang answered, quick to make himself comfortable by pulling a chair from the table; he hoped that its meagre legs could sustain his brawny build. "Anywhere is fine," he sat, eyes still focused on the other man.

      "Alright so I suppose I should begin with a proper introduction," Han sounded, his smooth voice with the fresh absence of a grin in its company sending shivers down Bang's spine. "My name is Peter Han, and I migrated with my wife and son from the city a few months ago." He neared an empty chair, adjacent to his visitor's, continuing upon making himself comfortable. "We don't own a lot around here, but the peaceful environment is much better, and Johnny can be more focused on school when it reopens," the smile finally returned.

      "Ah, I understand. Well me, my name's Christopher Bang, and I've been living in these parts for almost all my life. I own a couple 'a acres in front of my house- planting corn and wheat— the usual," Christopher smiled back at Peter, their one-on-one meeting causing each's features to show so much clearer. So as Christopher spoke, Peter couldn't help but admire his dimples; how one was more prominent than the other, but both just fitting for their respective cheeks. "So what's your wife like. How'd you two meet?"

      "Well," Peter hummed, averting his gaze from the other as he recollected the not so honorable story. "It was some form of arranged marriage," he slumped his shoulders, voice deepening with the dampened demeanor. "Joanne is peculiarly older than me. She's about forty-three and I'm," he paused, rethinking his confession at the thought of possible judgment when compared with his son's standing age; twelve. "I'm only thirty-two."

      Involuntarily, and unintentionally impolite, Christopher's eyes widened. He almost choked on air at Peter's admission, mind rummaging for answers as to what parents would do such a thing to their son. "Th-thirty-two? And she's forty-three?" Christopher stuttered, reaching out to stroke a hand against Peter's with hope to convey the slightest idea of comfort. "How do you cope with that?"

      "Well," Peter sighed, "I've learned from my father that the man should always be in control. So I concluded that once I keep my foot down at all times, make all the decisions and, you know, be the man, I'd be alright. Not that I'm pleased with this lifestyle, but for my own pride and protection," he lowered his head, trailing off.

       "I understand," Christopher muttered, looking away, "I don't quite fancy the dominance stereotype either, but my wife," Bang tsked, sighing, "She's— she's a handful. So I had to put my foot down."

      "Ahh I see," Peter nodded, understanding, "I honestly could somewhat sense that. You know, the way that she fails to uphold your surname," he thinned a smile, looking at how Christopher's settled expression was swift to grow infected with one of disgust.

      "Yes. Anyhow, I was thinking, since you're relatively new to the area, Would you like to work in my field with me occasionally? I could even pay you for your day's work," Christopher smiled assuringly, mildly nervous that his request was too blunt. "It's perfectly fine if you don't want to. Just an offer."

      "No I would love to," Han gestured a noiseless clap; his childish demeanor brewing the assumption that he was rid of the majority of opportunities to have a joyous childhood- one of joy and supervised freedom of actions until maturity. Complete, unforced maturity.

      It had barely been twenty-four hours of acquaintance, but Christopher had already began to take a liking in the younger man; how his plush face appeared so faultless, and how his voice, silky but masculine, managed to cause Christopher to shudder such a great deal, every couple of minutes.

      Han was briefly perceived to be the son that Christopher was yet to have-- or rather, Han could be more appropriately labeled as the male companion that Christopher hadn't found the time to grow comfortable with, at his age. Bang couldn't quite put his finger on a solid description for the younger as yet. He was not certain of his insight. Or, he was unsure if what he was feeling was really what it masked to be.

      "Good. We- we can head out right now if you'd prefer. Once we're in the field we won't really catch sight of the women, and them us, unless they're really focused," Bang prepped his palms against the table to ease the strain of standing, "And I believe that they're too deep in conversation for our concern."

      Peter chuckled some, eyes studying Christopher's as he fiddled with his fingers, whose smile gradually thinned at the prolonged stare. Christopher accomplished making Peter feel weird. A weird kind of weird that was last acknowledged in the age of childhood.

      The kind of weird that had probably forced his father to quickly arrange his marriage with a woman at such a young age. Han cleared his throat, pawing at the back of his ear ever so lightly, almost invisible patches of red growing from either side of his closed lips.

      His eyes appeared glossed, but not with tears; only their natural bliss was emphasized by the light from the kitchen window highlighting his face, hair falling against his forehead. Everything about Peter was so beautifully different.

      "Well then let's head out," Bang smacked his tongue, fixing on his wide hat.

      Peter followed the elder out of his cottage, locking the door behind. "Come to think of it, I've never truly taken a walk along any of these roads," he spoke, Aussie accent as thick as his black hair with the latter of his speech. "This might actually be fun."

      "Fun, yes. But even more-so tiring," Bang straightened the straw hat on his head, again, pulling out a pipe and lighter from his pocket that Peter had not noticed until then. "But I'd try to make it fun for you," he muffled against the wood now in his mouth, inhaling a great volume when the tobacco lit to bring the craved yet poisonous gratification.

      "O-oh you smoke," Peter gulped, voice low; timid. "Isn't- isn't it dangerous," he eyed the tall man, observing how he held the pipe in his mouth so effortlessly. How a puff of white spilled out every few seconds from both the wood and Christopher's mouth so smoothly.

      "Is something wrong?" Bang asked, perplexed at how Peter had become so flustered. "Are you allergic to the scent?"

      "N-no," Peter dismissed, "It's nothing, it's just," he paused, probing for the appropriate words.

      It's just that the smoke was what ruined me in the first place. The smoke that cycled meetings and goodbyes with his mouth ever so often. How his lips would part so gracefully, their softness not at all phased from the reckless bombardment with the gas. They still stayed perfectly pink, soft, plump, continuously and eagerly comforting that wooden button, making me wish that it were my lips in its place.

      "Nothing's wrong, I think it's cool," Peter translated with a lie, drowning a strained chuckle. "Let's go," he motioned.

      Scoffing at the man's unexplained trance that Peter himself most likely didn't even notice, Bang took in another foul breath, leading Peter through the path. Echoed giggles escaped them both over varied conversation.