Apollo Deals With It
Imported from SF2 with no description.
No one's life gets to revolve around itself here. Everyone on the farms around these hills are dedicated either to their Miltanks or their crops or both, and without growing our own crops, it's the Miltanks we dance to on this farm.
Well, not we, but close enough.
Dairy or not, routine is what you survive on at any farm. It goes as pushing out of bed at four in the morning and eating a snack if you can't wait another two hours until breakfast, because your first step is bringing in the Miltanks from the field. They don't sleep in the barn unless it's wet outside—don't shit where you lay, as such. Once they're inside, you feed them. They eat before you do. No whining. They don't get to fix their own breakfast, and just some grass and hay don't count.
Miltank are queens, all of them. Every queen gets the royal treatment or you get a punt to the teeth. Lead them nicely to their stalls, shut them in after they're satisfied that they've got some extra chew in with them, then get your milk pail ready. These queens don't hold the same private attachment to their teats as somebody else might, so they don't mind the help relieving themselves. For the next hour and a half you smile, squeeze, and lug.
Don't go prancing toward the kitchen just yet when you're done. When the milk's gotten, you let your queens back out to their sunny grounds and you clean up the stalls properly. Freshen that straw, lay out more chew for the afternoon milking, and wheel the full milk churns down to the liquid cooler before the milk truck comes and takes it to processing.
After all of that, then you learn why some country folk feel the hype for just a good warm meal. It's how most everyone's routine goes on the dairy farm, Miltanks and humans alike.
Except for Harley and I cheating it a little bit.
We get up at the same time every morning, but she's the only one getting up. I slip over to the edge of the bed and she slips off onto her knees, then I pull my legs apart and she squeezes between them.
This is our routine, just as important as the rest. There are two rules we follow every morning about this time. First is that her hands stay on her lap, and second is that she gets to move as she likes only until I take over for her.
Then it's just a few minutes of forgetting about everyone else.
Right now, I'm the one in control in all this house. This is the only consistent time of day I get to see Harley look up at me without that same look she gives the Miltanks or even her family. The only time she doesn't see the fur or the paws or the snout, but just the smile I tell her to keep going with. It's when I hold her on me and she won't pull herself off, because my paws are still wrapped so well around her precious face and she knows she's not allowed to pull away.
When only I get to take care of brushing the hair from her soft lips and glowing freckles.
When I'm Sir, and she's wet.
You don't get a say in who you're attracted to and whatnot, of course, all of that. But I don't think you always get to choose how you show it, either. Some people aren't meant for a kiss on the lips and a couple of humps and rolling over onto their side of the bed. Everyone needs some control in their own life, but for some, that means offering theirs to someone who can wield it right.
If you could see the tears squeezed from Harley's eyes right now as she obeys what I make of her face, you'd come to the same conclusion as I do.
Too much information? Sorry, you. Around here, there aren't many people I can risk giving too much to. I may be called just a pokie around here, but at least I'm the kind of monster Harley likes.
So then's work. Harley goes out to milking and I tag along like a trained thing at her heels for the rest of the morning. She sweats her way through the next couple of hours and joins her family in the kitchen for getting breakfast ready before any of them get to eat. That's a couple scrambled eggs for everyone at the table, her uncle's leftover cornbread from two nights ago, their fresh milk, fried rice with broccoli and carrots mixed all over, and hoppin' johns in a big bowl right in the middle of the table—that's blackeyed peas, a kind of pork, and all sorts of family secret seasoning mixed in a cast iron skillet.
Also dog food. But that dish doesn't get served on the table.
So I munch on vaguely meal-like kibble and watch them get their fill on the rewards of their labor. I watch Harley eat hers without looking back down to me, but taking just an extra second every bite for the taste I contributed to her cheeks.
I may not get to help with the cooking, but I sure get to help with her meal.
Christ. That really is too much when the moment's gone.
Around here, there's an upside and a downside to everything.
We're going to town today. Hitting up the feed store, then browsing for what we like in the outlet. Harley's aunt buys discounted crops from the industrial farm down the road that Lewis's family owns, but we still need to mix in mineral additives and protein packs to make proper meals for the Miltanks.
That makes the feed store about a weekly visit. It's one of the chores I like most of the ones I can join in on.
See, I love road trips. Short, long, any. Whatever puts me on the road with Harley, some wind whipping past the truck, and the radio piping something smoky out our open windows while we lounge past a perfect prairie.
Riding with her provides both the upside and the downside to our trip.
Harley piles into the driver seat and shifts her jeans until she's comfortable to buckle, but it's her uncle who climbs in next to her. He makes a couple slides into his seat before he can shut his door, and I get to watch them both from the back, unbuckled and only glanced at to make sure I'm still with them before we're rumbling off.
Despite worse conditions than I daydream, from back here, I can still see broken-in ponytail holders slip down Harley's wrist as her fingers scoop a lock of fire off her brow. From back here, at least, her uncle can't see the way I get to look at her when she's in her most comfortable smile.
'At least' is the best I get. We ride in the same truck, but not together.
At least it's warm out today.
It's the rusty old voices of humans cracking jokes on the pavement that wake me. God forbid they care about their volume in public, but that's what you get when the feed store is right next to the liquor store.
Does that sound bad? It's not that bad. Around here, drunk means happy. Those folks' wives or husbands will come pick them up before they drink too many cups.
“Up and at 'em, boy," Harley says, pulling my door open. “Got us some shopping to do."
I lull my gaze over toward hers and, eh… stay put. She lays a fist into her side and stares me down. I pay no mind. Then she sighs, swings around, and leans forward. She tucks her arms back toward me and offers her spine like a gingham picnic blanket.
“Awright, lazy lump, get your ass on."
Yes, I think I will now. I clutch my paws over her shoulders and she clasps her hands under my backside, rubbing just a hidden second before hup-ing me into a better grip.
I let her do all the work again for this. She can handle it.
Joshua slams his door shut and stretches a good few seconds, leaning back as loud as he can sigh before he looks toward me but says to Harley, “You kids nowadays. When I was your age, folks knew how to learn a little discipline in their pokies."
I pretend my own little world ends just before Joshua's raspy throat and that I can't hear him, but Harley smiles back at her uncle.
“Tell me again, Uncuh Josh-ya, when did folks finally get around to inventin' consensual marriage back when you were my age?"
Joshua plants his arms akimbo like he's shocked Harley would offer a rebuttal. He says, “The shit, Harley. Where's that coming from?"
In a tone I'm certain is foreign to her aunt, Harley says, “Don't be so rude to my little man if you don't want none back."
Joshua just shakes his head and steps over onto the sidewalk ahead of us. He holds the door open anyway, surrendering, “Fuckin' modern kids."
Harley grins square in his face as she walks on through. “Erry day, erry night."
So continues my observer status for my own life.
Merchandise in the feed store is mostly piled in stacks of bags next to shelves of cans that we pass by on the way to the counter. Poster ads for Happy Miltanks, pet vaccinations, and electric rat removal are tacked up high on every wall between antlers and silly knick knacks you shouldn't find anywhere but old-timey restaurants, but only I offer them a glance. Joshua just crones, “Good morning there, Bobby-Lou. Any good news you readin'?"
On the other side of the counter, the barely younger old timer running this place has his fist to his cheek and his elbow on the morning's newspaper. He lifts his jaw up toward our party and kind of trawls, “Well, welcome back, Oh-Pines. How y'all doing today?"
“Doing just fine today. Weather's fine, and so are we," Joshua says. “Doreen just got us picking up our bessies' mix. Just the usual."
Bobby-Lou pushes off from his paper and raps his knuckles a second against the wood grain counter. He makes for the back room where he keeps the special orders and regular purchases, but not before Harley shuffles me right beside the counter and calls, “Bobby, you mind?"
Bobby glances back toward me and waves us off. He says, “Oh, you go ahead. He can go wherever he likes in here."
Harley leans onto her tiptoes to press her ass against the wood, setting mine down on it. She swivels back around toward me and tells me through a huff, “Boy, you need a diet."
Joshua chuckles at that. He looks from Harley to me before he shakes his head and says, “Don't we all, though."
And when I'm out from the corner of Joshua's eye again, I tell Harley what I think about that with a quick paw across my throat. She tucks her hands together behind herself and grins just at me.
Really though, this is the best spot in the store she stuck me down on. There's a little table behind the counter that's tucked just past a clunky aluminum filing cabinet, someplace hidden from the whole store unless you're just close enough to peek around it and spy the yellow woolen blanket laid on top and the food and water bowls slid beneath.
Harley leans way over beside me and looks the same way I'm looking. A Vulpix, as what people call what this girl looks like, naps all curled up over the blanket, tails wrapped up just away from her face.
She has two names. Her old timer calls her Luster, but apparently she prefers something else. I don't know what. You might think this is the part where we grunt and growl a conversation between the two of us, but the only words we share is recognizing English.
So Harley puckers her lips and whistles for me. 'Luster' pokes her eyes open. She lifts her chin a second later and stretches her paws, not getting up, but resettling herself awake now.
“Hey, girl," Harley coos. “How you been doin'?"
I cry what we at least got as a hello. 'Luster' mewls back toward me.
Bobby-Lou ambles back from the back at the same time, petting an absent hand over his girl's ear on his stroll over to Joshua. He's got a big plastic bag of the brand we like tucked under his arm, hardly breathing harder as he sags it next to his register. Harley's the one who takes it over her shoulder while Joshua tugs out his wallet.
And while they all don't see, I look toward 'Luster' and nod just so slightly toward Bobby-Lou. She glances at him, rolls her eyes, and sticks her tongue out. I know those words fine.
What about her?
That's how I read her next motion. Something like that. I take a look toward Harley, and no one's looking at me, so I look back and waggle my brow. And again. And again. And 'Luster' rolls her eyes again with a little smile.
Just for these few minutes—there shouldn't be much nice about this, just being near someone who I can still never really talk with. We don't know each other at all. We only might share some experiences.
I don't know what quite's nice about it, but something is.
“How old's your little fellow now?" Bobby-Lou says without looking up, taking Joshua's money and tapping open the drawer.
Harley swings around with the bag from one to another and says, “He's hardly younger 'an me. Almost nineteen. How's your little girl been doing?"
“Oh, she's doing quite good, thank you. Not completely good, though," Bobby-Lou says, peering back as slow as he does toward 'Luster,' wagging a finger at her. “She been getting mischievous lately, making trouble for me."
Soon as he looks away, 'Luster' frowns the way I do only when humans aren't looking. Harley adjusts her bag and asks for the both of us, “What she do, then?"
Bobby-Lou folds a receipt precisely in half and hands it to Joshua, saying, “Well, she tried to get out just last week. I remember, it was just getting dark. I was just about to lock the door, helping out the Garrisons with their order, and Luster jumped right up from her little blanket there and tried to run out the door with them while I was holding it open."
All Harley says to that for us is, “Oh."
“Now, I scooped her up 'fore she got loose, of course," Bobby-Lou says. “Some folks let theirs run loose outside, I know, but Luster's an indoor pokie. She don't get to go outside like that."
“My mama kept birds," Joshua pipes in, shoving his wallet tight back in his denim. “Same thing from 'em. You let them out once, they never come back. Don't know what's good for themselves."
And Bobby-Lou just nods gently. “She knows better. She knows I'll get out her leash if she tries again, and neither of us appreciate that. Poor girl does not like that."
At least he knows half the truth.
“Now, Harley," Bobby-Lou says quicker, leaning back over his paper and pushing his cheek over his fist. “Seems your little fellow likes her plenty, too. You just let me know if you ever want to put them together. I raise no objection."
“Uh—what do you mean?" Harley says.
'Luster' lowers her chin back to the blanket and turns away from any of us.
“Oh, yes, those two are compatible," Bobby-Lou says. “Might not get a, uh—a Cyndaquil, that's it—but she could carry his egg if you like. Them Vulpix babies are precious, believe me."
“We can already see that, Bobby-Lou," Joshua says. “You raised yours right. She's a beaut."
At least no one's asking any fucking money for the deal.
“No, uh, no thank you," Harley says, stepping back as subtle as she can. “Apollo's not ready to be a daddy, and neither of us got the time to look after—no, but, uh, thank you."
Bobby-Lou shrugs as slow as he fucking likes and smiles at Harley like some kindly old fool. He says, “You're quite welcome, Harley. Anytime you might change your mind, you just come on back down and we'll put them together."
Joshua's the one who takes a lead strolling back toward the door, muttering, “Shit, now I'd near like to raise some little Vulpix."
Harley follows. I hesitate. 'Luster' brushes her tails back over her whole face.
“Come on, buddy," Harley strains.
I hesitate.
I climb down.
Bobby-Lou just watches us go, but something deeper in his voice crawls out as he says, “You two have fun, then."
Harley looks back the same as me, and Bobby-Lou doesn't break his gaze at either of us. Harley turns on her heel and marches quicker with me. Being the one without looking back, Joshua waves over his shoulder and chirps, “You too, old boy."
It's too bright outside now. Joshua holds the door again, but nobody follows Harley and I onto the sidewalk. Nobody else is out here anymore.
At least—
Maybe not.
Sometimes we just get the downside.
Harley thumps the bag of feed into the truck bed and pauses over it, saying something of her own mind instead.
“Uncuh Josh-ya—I think we're running low on bourbon, too. You mind if we pick some up real quick?"
Joshua pauses from opening his door, then pats his fists akimbo. He says, “Harley, I will never say no to that."
He says, at the very least, “Let's go get some."
Nineteen.
She shouldn't be here anymore at her age, is what I think about.
But Lewis, from across the dining table, past my place at Harley's feet, is the one who gets to air his thoughts.
“Missus O'Pine, I hope you understand how much I appreciate your cooking right now," he says through an unswallowed mouthful. “Thank you so much for inviting me tonight. I missed this greatly."
“Thank you, Lewis, but don't be such a kissass," Doreen tells him sweetly. “You've got to learn to lay it a little thinner, there. That'll get you farther."
Lewis chuckles through the same stuffed shit. Doreen says further, “It's my father's recipe, though. He was the cook in our family while I was growing up."
The disgusting sound of a mighty gulp.
“You were lucky to have him, ma'am," Lewis says. “I don't have a bad word to say about my folks, but cooking—that ain't their skill. I have them to thank for teaching me the microwave, and that's about it."
Joshua clicks his jaw and sighs, “Ain't nobody don't need to learn how to feed themselves. Ain't no excuses not to learn, Lewis."
“Oh, yes sir," Lewis says. “It's a process. I'm learning something here and there, every now and then. My roommates last semester got me started on stovetop basics, so I know how not to kill myself with that now."
Doreen chuckles like she's really enjoying this. “Well, that is a start."
“I was telling Harley, actually," Lewis says, “that I think she's really take a liking to it herself there."
And Doreen's the one to say, just a second later, “If she wants to go, she'll go."
Harley's is the only face I can see, but from both me and the table, she keeps her feelings secret. But only I see the hand in her lap laying perfectly still the whole conversation.
She clinks her spoon across her plate and says, “Still thinking about it."
“I know, I just keep talking about it, and I shouldn't bring it up all the time," Lewis says. “I'm sorry."
Spoiler: he's been sorry like twenty goddamn times by now. Even though this is the only thing I've ever wanted him to convince her of, and so badly, I still want him to fuck off.
“Pass the bottle, please," is all Harley says.
Doreen laughs, “That's what we call a shutdown in this family, Lewis."
“Apollo?"
That's Harley's tone of voice when it's just the two of us, side by side at night, but not when she's got the sweetest things to say. She brushes a finger across my jaw and looks me in the eyes.
“Do you ever want to be a father?"
I look her in the eyes and rustle my paws between us in slower motions.
I don't know that much yet.
Harley doesn't smile, but I stare at her lips. I look back to her eyes. I don't want to be subtle.
Harley takes my lips and draws hers close for just a moment, pecking me as soft as ever I need. She tilts her gaze even closer.
“It's your birthday next week, y'know," she whispers to me. “I want us both to come up with something really special for it."
She whispers, “Whatever it is, I'll do it."
And she holds me in one more kiss, and she barely pulls away. She whispers, “I love you, Apollo."
I hold her the same, and it's still as warm as the first time.
But it's despite this, despite her, that I already know what I want.
I love you, too, Harley.