Thursday,

January 4, 2012

10: 37 AM

The construction project of the fence disgruntled the farm animals, an inconvenience as the doors to the barn needed to stay closed to protect them. The echoing racket they shout in pure boredom in the stables is heard by Kane, who is digging a hole for the fifteenth post this morning. Five minutes into starting, a headache had grown, slowly and steadily worsening. The sounds are annoying and unpredictable. It'll be days before he can drown them out, if ever. The throbbing at his temple is massaged after every successfully planted, heavy metal post. He pushes through the discomfort, working determinedly to get as much of the posts done before the day is finished.

Earlier this morning after breakfast, Valli handed over a thick stack of money with the directions to the nearest farmer supply store thirteen miles from the boarding house. Kane suggested equipment, wondering if his host had specific materials he wanted. Yet Valli gave complete freedom to the hunter; "Use whatever you want! As long as it stays up and can handle symbols on it! Money well spent, I say!"

Kane had bought plenty of extra hardware for updates when he couldn't return to patch them up. Instead of wood as the last, he thought steel and metal would be better. Weighty, steadfast metal posts and steel wire rolls to connect them, then three thick wooden planks for an extra layer of solid defense. Upon return, Valli was delighted by the materials and the consideration of future supplies, thanking the man generously. He helped carry the supplies to the stables, the men placing them under a little roof end of the barn to store until needed. The livestock has two full acres to roam and absently chew grass on, Kane hopes he bought more than enough for the long job.

Ma would be proud he picked such a lengthy job, she wants him here long enough to rest properly. She called the night before, demanding Kane be kind to his host and assist as much as he is allowed. Sunny (Ma) expressed her unique worry about his habit of staying in one place for a single night, the only exceptions are hunts. The man moves on before giving his sore and wounded body the rest it needs to heal, which leaves him with lasting injuries if he doesn't get it fixed. To prove her argument, the tip of his right pinky finger is missing; a lack of necessary care while driving between motels allowed an infection to set in.

He got slashed with a knife by a stubborn witch who just refused to fucking die, he wrapped it in a dirty shirt and passed out in the motel bed after cleaning it in the moldy sink. Wrapped with a gauze he found in his duffel bag of weapons, he hadn't stayed long to do much else. Two days later, he took one of his large, sharpened hunting knives and chopped the top of the pinky off to save the rest of the limb. It was blackened, stunk like a Wendigo (rotting flesh), and was beginning to leak thick green pus. The knife sliced through it with a concerning light squish, only the bone snapping off with a dull chop as if he cooked carrots and they still had a snap to them. Ma scolded him when she found out, noticing the wrapped stub immediately. She had grounded him, a grown thirty-year-old man, refusing to give his weapons back until the pinky and his other untended wounds healed.

That was five years ago, he had learned his lesson — if merely for getting his transporting duffel bag of arsenal taken away and hidden. He had his truck's hidden compartment, but Ma wasn't in the mood to let him out of the house. Kane appreciates her worry and determination to care for him however she feels is needed. However, sometimes it's too much. The message was clear; he now takes time to clean himself up after hunts, before he passes out for four hours.

He'll update her on what he decided on if she calls soon, he promised himself as he used a sledgehammer to beat the sixteenth post into the ground. After two more strong swings and the harsh, loud clang of the metal on metal echoing in his ears, he pauses. Testing the sturdiness of the post by using his body weight to push against it, when it barely moves he sighs. Leaning against his truck, the vehicle is carrying the supplies he needed today and he plans on using the finicky air conditioning unit in it to cool off later.

The weather is beginning to heat slightly up as the day progresses, soon it'll be too hot to handle his long-sleeved shirt. He had removed the jacket he tossed back on as he exited the house, soon after starting. It's still winter, while the night may be nippy and chilly; the daytime allows the sun to heat working men. Kane's body temperature already runs like lava in a volcano, constantly hot to the touch. It's why he dislikes the southern states.

He tolerates his thick jackets, pants, and boots because of the protection they can provide from teeth and claws. He'll be sweating a storm by the time he finishes his goal for today. The thought doesn't bother him, sweating only means he has worked hard and he'll have earned a good, deep sleep tonight; one he hasn't had in years.

Valli had kindly offered help, suggesting he could have handed the man tools if Kane's hands were full. The hunter had stared at his host for a moment, then grunted he'd be fine. He hadn't wanted to keep the former hunter from doing his business around his little farm. Not when he saw the sightless man carefully gathering baskets of freshly grown fruits from his gardens behind the house, Kane had come down after getting dressed to spot Valli through the rec-room rounded windows. He stood, observing as the burnett slowly went through his garden patch with his hand touching the vines and stems to check the growth.

Later, once he began to toss supplies back into the bed of his truck, Valli announced he would be walking down the driveway to open the farmers market. The hunter stopped in his tracks, uncertain if he should escort the other man. He wasn't given an option. Valli waved in his direction, starting to pull two blue painted hand-wagons behind him, and walked towards the main road, humming. Kane shook his head and went back to work, keeping his ears perked for any noise from the man's direction in case something happened.

The day went by, the sun slowly moving over Earth and bringing its warm heat. Valli opened his stand, using his phone to call Addy. The witch was delighted as always to inform the other neighbors in the area who couldn't get into town, that the market was open. Soon, his stalls were crowded with small cars, a horse or two, and a crowd of people needing fresh food. They are all regulars, close neighbors who have been stopping by his little market since he opened them years ago. They're aware he is blind and are kind and patient with him. When the rare tourists or city people stop by, they are certain Valli is treated kindly by them.

The retired hunter is appreciative of his customers, his acquaintances. There has been a moment or two throughout the years where someone needed to assist him with an unruly person. A rude, impatient tourist here or there when he took a moment too long to gather their order. A specifically angered woman was deeply upset when the man couldn't see what she was pointing out to him, huffing and puffing until someone informed her he was blind. Then she stuttered in embarrassment, rushing to snatch the little paper bag of her purchase and leave. The surrounding people snickered and mumbled how rude some others were, checking on Valli to ensure he was okay.

The man returned to his house in the late afternoon, closing the market once the supply for today ran dry. He waved goodbye to the draining little crowd, promising to open the next day with more produce and food. As he passed the field Kane was working in, his senses guiding him along the path he had taken for years, the grunts and clanging the man created during his project traveled to his ears. The sun had warmed him a bit while he tended the market, and he acknowledged Kane must have been burning up with the heavy-duty work he had chosen.

Inside his kitchen, he felt out for the basket on the island counter, grasping a circular shape from the pile of fruits and vegetables he keeps for himself and his visitors. Rising it to his nose and playing with it in his hands to get a feel for the texture of the item, he sniffs curiously to discover which he picked up. From the freshness and energizing scent that lingers at the back of his throat, and the weight of it nestling in his palm; he had found his target, a lemon. Copying the action three more times, he gathers the lemons and starts the process of making fresh lemonade in a large pitcher. He uses a handheld squeezer to squeeze the juice out and carefully dumps ice from the freezer into the pitcher, adding a measurement of sugar and then stirring. He takes comfort in the scent, and the sound of the glass clinking as the ice cubes spin in the pitcher.

Valli hums quietly to himself as he mixes the drink, head tilted down, and wonders how the new fence will hold up after Kane is finished. He hopes the man is as hard worker as Ma had promised, she swore he was a determined worker and never left a job half-assed. He certainly sounds beefy and hefty like a moose — a description Ma created to give the blind man a vague mental picture. Valli smiled and stifled his giggle at the image that popped into his head, but now that Kane had been here a few short days, he could admit that the man walked heavily and often sounded like a disgruntled male moose. He still hasn't gotten close enough to the hunter to get a feel of how tall or wide he is, yet Valli is curious and eager to get more descriptions of his new temporary roommate.

Pondering, he pours himself a small glass of the finished lemonade. Sipping from it, he considers the taste then adds a dash more sugar to even out the acidic taste of the lemons. Once happy with his creation, he gathers a tall glass from a cabinet next to the fridge. Dropping a handful of ice in it, then cautiously begins pouring the liquid. He uses the tip of his (freshly washed) finger to measure the glass filling, stopping once he feels the chilly temperature of the ice at the tip of his finger. I hope he isn't too picky about what he drinks, he could be one of those hunters who only drink coffee and alcohol.

Outside, Kane is cursing under his breath. Standing tall with his labor-flushed, sore hands on his hips, his irritated gaze on the stubborn post laid on the dirt that would be the twenty-first if it would cooperate. It refuses to be buried in the dug hole, continuing to fall every which way as the man tries to shove it in. He had checked the hole, knowing for a fact it should be clear of rocks and deep enough the post should be snug. His hands and forearms are covered in a layer of sweat and dirt, tiny stones sticking to his bare skin. His shirt had been removed, too wet from sweat for him to tolerate. This leaves him shirtless in only jeans and boots, of which he is glad. The gentle cool breeze soothes his hot torso, sending a light relief through his body.

"Are you okay?"

The curious voice behind him causes Kane to spin around, ducking down to reach for his only weapon — the large sledgehammer, holding it tightly and high until he processes what is in front of him. The sight of Valli standing at a safe distance from him clad in a baggy hoodie and gray shorts that reach above his knees, forces his body to relax the tension in his shoulders, silently sighing as he nearly killed the man. Grunting, vexed, expression in a tight scowl. "You shouldn't sneak up on me like that."

The other man's eyebrow rises, lips twitching in humor he seems to find in the statement. "You never sneak up on a hunter. Why do you think I stood so far away?" He questions, head tilted in a duh manner. "I like my head on my shoulders and being hit with a hammer like that would likely hurt a lot."

Glancing at the weighty sledgehammer in his grip, Kane's bushy brows jump in slight agreement. Flicking his attention back to the host, his jaw flexes. "Something wrong?"

Curiously, he blinks his pale eyes. "No. Why would something be wrong?" Valli steps closer once he hears the thud the head of the hammer makes when it lands on the soft ground. Holding out the glass of lemonade, as if a small peace offering for startling the man. "I just thought you'd like a cool drink. I made lemonade."

The gesture prompts a sudden stunned silence, the hunter is shocked into silence at the abrupt dubious feeling of domesticity and belonging. He hadn't had anyone besides Ma and his father try to take care of him or think about what he could want. Take in his work and offer to make him something to drink. Thankless jobs are normal, leaving quietly afterward with nothing but cuts and bruises. Or worse. He was aware Valli knew exactly what the hunting life was; he hadn't exactly expected the man to be genuinely delighted to play at domestic life so easily. This man comes from a very different line of hunters than Kane had experienced before, a loving family that had stuck together, having dinners and a house to call home.

However, he was still preparing for the general acts of Hunters he knew to show in Valli; the harshness in his voice, paranoid looking over his shoulder, downing bottle after bottle of whiskey to drown in. The kindness he is receiving each day and minute will take time to get used to, especially with these types of gestures. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he takes the glass from the slimmer hand. His mind supplies that his fingers are thicker than the other man's, with more obvious scars and white lines of old scratches. Valli's fingers are softer, and smoother even with his work about the gardens and animals.

Mumbling, he shoves out. "... Thanks."

Valli merely smiles, "You're welcome. How's everything coming along? I heard you cursing and something fell."

"Eh." The man hesitates, chugging half of the lemonade, and is relieved at the cool ice. Peeking over his shoulder at the post laid smugly on the ground with squinted ocean eyes. He shrugs, dismissively, lips turned down. "Damn post won't stay in. Keeps falling over in spite."

This gains a light laugh, and Valli moves past Kane. The taller man almost reaches out, concerned the other would trip in the wide hole he dug. He thinks better of it, yet his eyes stay trained on the sightless man. Observing as he locates the hole with his ankle-booted foot cautiously, then drops into a squat to press his hands to the open dirt. Pressing a few times around, reaching the puncture of the ground. His head stays straight, in the direction of the barn where he had been facing, pursing his lips. Those eyes that Kane is slowly growing to get accustomed to, absently flicking occasionally and the pupils dilated.

After a moment or two, he hums thoughtfully. "I think the dirt is too soft here. The ground gets all soggy sometimes down this way, so close to the marshes across the road, and little streams that connect to the river might run under." He stands up, head turning to the side to face Kane, brow wrinkled and chewing the inside of his cheek. "I can suggest putting gravel around the post, or I can give you money to buy cement if you think that's better." He picks at his nails and head lowered to make minimal eye contact, anxious. "I'm sorry I didn't remember to mention this. I kinda forgot about it. The fence hasn't been messed with since it was built, and my father and grandfather didn't say anything more about it."

"It's fine," Kane assures, unbothered, downing the rest of the lemonade in one go. The sweet and fresh taste lingered on his tongue pleasantly. A faint French accent deeply buried peeking out, catching Valli's attention. "I'll try the gravel first, see what works best. No trouble."

"I'll get some money together in case you need it." He promises, hopping over the hole childishly and pacing back Kane. He figures he should ignore the curiosity growing in him at the accent, being patient to bring it up. Pausing with a faint "oh!", gazing unseeingly up at the man he's a few feet in front of. The hunter shifts on his feet, still uneasy with the knowledge he isn't being seen but rather heard. It reminds him too much of monsters. "Are you hungry? I was gonna make lunch, is there something you'd like?"

Being so close for the first time, Valli can sense the area of space the man in front of him takes up. He images Kane as a board-shouldered, long-legged man with a hefty muscle mass. The way he walks is purposeful; he is aware, heavy, and loud — announcing his presence in the house. Valli mentally compares the space he, himself, takes next to Kanes to get an idea of other details. He is slimmer, long-limbed, and roughly average height. His muscles from hunting had slimmed out over the years, leaving behind defined and lithe strength. Nowhere near the substantial bulk, Kane must have to make such hulking steps. Standing directly next to the taller would most likely bring him a few inches (possibly a foot) shorter than the man, and given the educated guess of width and muscle mass; Valli would likely be considered small. Huh. A moose indeed.

The mention of food roars Kane's stomach, reminding him he hasn't eaten since this morning. The glass in his hand is beginning to melt in condensation as the ice inside is heated by his palm, yet he isn't sure if he should hand it to Valli or keep it in the truck behind him. Awkwardly, he clears his throat. "I'll eat anything if you make it. Just yell for me."

Valli grins a dimpled smile, cutely bouncing on his toes. Then he suddenly hesitates, his hand rising only to stop abruptly, head cocked to the right. "Ah... you're done with the glass, right? I can only hear the ice in it when you move. I can take it inside if you want."

Kane blinks, beginning to understand he needs to stop being awkward. Valli clearly can handle being blind, there is no need to be overly cautious. Surely, he would be told if he does something wrong or disrespectful. Gruffly, yet no less awkward. "Yeah. I don't wanna break it."

The host holds his hand out toward Kane, waiting patiently. Stating, not allowing the man to argue. Chirpy, crow's feet around the outer corners of his eyes as he smiles. "I'll bring more lemonade and some sandwiches before lunch."

Before Kane can try to protest, the blind hunter is already walking away with a cheery tune humming in his throat, the French man huffs through his nose in amusement. He and Ma would get along, I'm positive of it.