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prettyiwa · 1 month ago

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Relationship: March x NB!Farmer Rating: SFW Content Tags: March POV, Alcohol Consumption, Slight Jealousy, Light Flirting/Teasing, March is March (aka emotionally constipated), 2-Heart Event, Developing Feelings, 4-Heart Event, Incidental Shooting Star Festival, Referenced fear of the sea, References to March's parents (spoilers?) Summary: March lets it slip that he wants the farmer's attention, so they deliver. Word Count: 9.6k

A/N: The first two seasons for my Fields of Mistria fic. I have much more planned, but I figured why not share this while I have it finished? I'll be waiting until I have the first year finished before sharing to AO3, but in the meantime... Special thanks to @owoasis for letting me drone on about March at length (and for reading over this again and again with me). Also to the metalsmith who helped me for a throwaway line because March would know better than to try and craft a usable silver sword. (Header credit)

SPRING, Year 1

Laughter is in abundance, bouncing off each surface as nearly everyone sports a smile of some kind, grateful for the promised return of Saturday Markets. Ryis finished repairing the bridge only yesterday, and so this is the first weekend in months that everyone has felt hopeful about the future of Mistria. March is no exception, unable to keep his smile contained as he loosely listens to Valen and Juniper talk about wines, Hemlock’s brew keeping him jovial. The buzzing beneath his skin is pleasant, dulling the edges of the world in addition to his inhibitions.

The doors open and in walks you, drawing his focus effortlessly. There’s this glow about you as you move—or perhaps that’s just the alcohol and the warm lighting of the inn—, grabbing a beer from Hemlock before checking in with Eiland and the others. Their greetings are brief, engulfed in the game Eiland is overseeing (that doesn’t stop Holt from offering you no less than three puns, judging from your awkward smiles). Reina passes you by, delivering a pizza to their table before she stops to say hello, drawing an easy smile from you before you two lean in toward each other in a fit of laughter.

Each time you greet someone, they give you a wide smile and a warm welcome and something shifts. His quiet pleasance is interrupted by a subtle aching that occurs each time they brighten in response to you, a low throbbing beneath the skin that alcohol won’t quench.

His lips shape into a pout and he feels his brows stitch together as this twisting desire travels down his arms, settling into his fingertips. Making your way around Olric, March feels like he’s about five seconds from calling out and demanding your attention like a petulant child, the impulse stifled only by the small frown you give Errol.

Landen asks March something and the latter takes a swig from his beer, pretending like he was half-listening by the time you circle around the table. Ryis turns to greet you as you lean forward to look at his cards, your faces close enough that it cools the heat in his belly. Almost as though you can hear the words March has yet to breathe, you look up, meeting his stare, smile faltering. It falls before reshaping, turning playful, daring, demanding reciprocity.

As quickly as you cooled him, you heat him up, warmth spreading across his cheeks once more, and the hand holding his beer raises without thought. Your name is called and it takes a moment before he realizes it was his voice doing the calling. “Hey! Come sit with me!”

Something sparks within him when your smile grows, offering the silent promise of your company. As you straighten, you raise a brow, turning away only to offer Ryis a quick goodbye in the wake of the chorus of groans leaving his table.

March realizes a moment too late that there isn’t an extra stool for you to sit on (he himself is leaning against the edge of the bar, not having bothered grabbing an extra bar stool from the corner), but that doesn’t deter you. Instead, you sidle up beside him, shoulder bumping his before you wave down Hemlock for another beer.

It grows hot with you by his side, the faint scent of lavender and lemon invades his senses as you lean in, tilting your head to look past him. Your eyes meet his and your smile doesn’t fade like he expected. He’s left staring like an idiot as your mouth forms the words, “Scooch over, why don’t you?”

He complies, satisfaction settling across his chest at your proximity, at the way you shift, too, staying loosely pressed against his side. Hemlock returns with fresh beers, replacing the empty bottles. Before he can taste this new drink, you clink the neck of your bottle with his, offering a wink when he catches your eye. The light flavors of the beer soothe the burning of his cheeks.

“So? What’s up?” you ask, propping your chin on your hand to give him your undivided attention.

There’s all sorts of things he wishes to say to you, but all that comes tumbling out of his mouth is, “You’re always so busy during the week. Why don’t you stop by more?”

His words catch him off guard, tiny thoughts he keeps tucked away coming to life for both of you to hear. Your eyes widen and your lips are shaped by surprise before your smile returns, albeit different than before.

“What’s this? You want me to stop by more? And here I thought you wanted me to keep my distance.”

He snorts, trying to hide his embarrassment, a tiny seed of shame for the assumptions he’s made. “No, I mean… You can stop by. You’re always running around town, talking to everyone else and…”

The way your cheeks lift with your smile makes him freeze, and he starts to understand why everyone likes talking with you so much.

“My, my. Is it possible that you’re jealous?” you ask, eyes following the obvious flush of his cheeks. “I only steered clear because I thought you wanted your space, but if you want me to come around, I can do that.”

March is mesmerized by the emotion dancing behind your eyes, something bright that steals all coherent thought in conjunction with the weight of the promise on your tongue.

“Y-yeah. No, wait, I’m not jealous! I want—”

“It’s fine,” you say with a laugh, something just for him. “You want me to come by? Yeah, okay, Red.”

The name stills him before setting him alight like wildfire as you lean in. His face burns, as does the rest of him, and he’s temporarily overwhelmed by lavender. “What—? What’s with the nickname?”

Your eyes drink him in, again lingering on his cheeks before meeting his gaze. Unable to stand the intensity of your attention, he turns to his drink, catching sight of the way your right hand inches closer. When you don’t answer, he ventures a glance your way.

“It suits you.”

Monday rolls around and Friday is a distant memory if only because of how much booze he consumed. The air is thick with anticipation of a storm, wind picking up and carrying the distant scent of petrichor every now and then, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

With the bridge repaired, Balor was able to deliver twice as many ingots than March had anticipated, giving him plenty of work this week, the first of which is crafting a new hammer for Ryis. With the town depending on Ryis’ repairs, he can’t let him continue using something so worn. It feels good to work with more than the bare minimum, than whatever could be melted down. Even if it means working in the rain, he’ll keep at it.

Something moves in the square, catching his attention, and he realizes it’s you, hurrying toward the manor. Eiland heads down the steps and you two exchange a few words as you pass something off—he can only assume it to be a relic of some kind. You smile, offering a wave, then turn your head in March’s direction. Up until now, you’ve… you haven’t necessarily avoided him, offering chipper hellos as you blow through, but you don’t give him the same attention you do everyone else.

Except this time you wear a smirk that promises a headache for him. He tries not to look, tries to make it look like he wasn’t looking—nothing more than a cursory glance, that’s all—busying himself with the hammer.

“Heya, Red,” you say so casually he wonders whether you’ve hit your head.

Heat rises within him at the name, a stark contrast to the chill that the wind brings, and his swing falters. Catching himself before causing injury or ruining his work, he looks up at you. His eyes narrow as he takes in the dirt that stains your clothes, the gloves tucked into your pocket, the ax hanging from your work belt. He could comment on any of them, but one thought above all demands answering.

“What did you call me?”

Your lips curve freely, reactionary if he had to guess, and it fills him with a simmering anger. “‘Red?’ Oh, c’mon. Don’t tell me you don’t like it now.”

“Now? When have I ever given you the impression that I liked it?”

Vague memories of Friday hit him, namely the weight of you on his side and the shape of your smile, different from the one you offer him presently. His flush intensifies until he’s certain his ears are burning, too.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you drawl, stepping back to lean on the side of the shop. “Last Friday you didn’t seem to mind.”

Part of him wants to protest if only because it’s you, but another part of him, the part of him susceptible to flattery, likes it. Red is his color, and he can’t fault you for noticing. It's... not the worst thing you could call him.

Rather than linger on that, on the conflicting feelings rising beneath his ribcage, he changes the subject, returning to the hammer to relieve him from the fire in your gaze. “Whatever. What are you even doing here? Don’t you have dirt to shovel?”

He tries to drown out the sound of your laugh with the clang of his tools, but the sound bounces between you both, settling somewhere on his anvil.

“Oh, sure. But that’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I’m not in the habit of ignoring when my body tells me to stop. Don’t want to hurt myself when there’s so much to be done.”

If he knew any better, he’d say it was a pointed jab, a harsher reminder than his brother’s to stop pushing himself at all hours of the day. But he doesn’t know better, and neither do you.

“Besides… I thought you’d appreciate my company.”

Again, he wavers, looking up at you like you’ve lost your damn mind. “The hell makes you think that?”

With dramatics to rival Elsie, you give him the fakest sigh he’s ever heard, setting his teeth on edge. With a shrug, you close your eyes and shake your head, failing in your struggle to keep a smile off your face. Opening your eyes again, there’s something mischievous that he can’t stand (he can’t stand a lot of what you do). “I don’t know. It’s probably something I picked up about the same time I first called you Red.”

He needs to start cutting back on beer come Fridays.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he says, looking away.

“I’m sure I won’t.” He can hear the smile that colors your voice, and you make no move to leave, sticking around for another twenty minutes, even if you two scarcely exchange words after that.

“What do you mean, you won’t go into the mines? You love the mines! Think of all the rocks you can pick up while you get us some ore!”

“Bro. You don’t understand. Errol told me that since they’ve condemned the mines, he’s heard all kinds of noises in there! And Eiland was telling me that the cave systems around this area used to be home to all kinds of monsters and other magical creatures. What if they came back? I can’t go in there. It’s super creepy now!”

The sigh that escapes March is one belonging to someone who has been alive much longer and has experienced much more than he, full of exasperation he didn’t even know he contained. There’s a throbbing in his temple that warns him of an impending migraine as he reviews the letter from Balor detailing the delay in his copper shipment.

Given how Errol was singing your praises to Terithia at the inn last night, he knows the mines are reopened, though he can’t fathom how you possibly helped. Ultimately, he can push back some of the projects until he receives the bulk of the shipment, but he can’t—won’t—fail to get Juniper the copper pipe she needs for the bathhouse on time.

While he doesn’t have the necessary experience to deal with the creepy-crawlies that may inhabit the mines now, he knows at least a couple of qualified candidates who should, including you. Unable to face even the idea of being turned down and having to resort to you, he scribbles his request, leaving it on the bulletin board by the mill.

The day carries on and he does what he can with the limited materials he has, but he starts worrying when he sees Balor and Errol around town and no sign of you. It’s not until the sun starts setting and he’s making his way to the bathhouse to inform Juniper of the delay that you call out to him, jogging to catch up.

“Red. Hey,” you say, voice unusually strained, offering a nod instead of a wave. “You needed some ore, right?”

Sliding off your pack, you shift to open it, allowing him to see roughly ten times the amount of ore he needed.

“What—? You completed my request?”

He knew it was a possibility (a probability, honestly), but still. Of all the things you could’ve been doing, this is how you’ve spent your day?

Giving you a once over, he takes note of the pickax barely visible behind your back, the soot that coats your clothes, the scrape across your cheek. The scratch begs his attention, the dried blood that makes him wonder whether you were just clumsy or the mines really are as dangerous as Olric said they would be.

He can’t seem to take his eyes off the red that stains your cheek, something uncomfortable unfurling near his core. Looking up, it seems you’re looking away, avoiding his gaze for the first time since he’s known you. The muscles in his jaw clench and he reaches forward, seeking to relieve you from the weight of your bag, surprised at how easily you surrender it.

“C’mon then. Let’s get your reward.”

Constantly importing metal has left his savings running dry, so he can’t possibly pay you for everything you’ve mined, though it would surely be a boon to receive even a fraction of it.

Still sure he doesn’t know you by any means, he finds it odd, the way you don’t say anything. He’s grown used to your quips (as used to them as he could possibly get with fleeting meetings lasting no longer than fifteen minutes at a time), so the absence of them as you follow behind is almost startling. If anything, there’s a quiet nag in the back of his mind about what you went through to complete his request (and then some), but he’s not ready to give it credence.

“You didn’t have to get so much, you know,” he says as you two pass the fountain.

Hearing your sigh, he glances over his shoulder, catching sight of the way you look down the street toward the inn. “Not the way I see it.”

Annoyance burns his cheeks and he rolls his eyes. “And how do you see it?” You shouldn’t have pushed yourself into getting hurt. With how abundant those mines are, tapping one vein would’ve been enough. There was no need for you to be gone all day fulfilling his stupid request.

“You and Ryis are the reason Mistria’s hanging on. Yeah, Adeline and Balor deserve credit for keeping things organized and making sure you’re connected to the world, but… you two are the reason buildings aren’t falling apart. And…” The sound of your footsteps ceases and he half-turns, meeting your eyes as you watch him, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “I dunno. If you two need anything and I can do something about it, I want to be able to help.”

The nag grows, catching in his throat as he continues toward the shop, fingers digging into the canvas of your sack. Pushing past it, he’s glad to hear you fall in step behind him. Your words tumble in his mind and the clawing sensation starts reaching for his heart.

It only intensifies when you take your payment but start emptying the copper.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is yours. Take it with you.” He doesn’t need your handouts.

Without so much as looking over your shoulder, you simply say, “Tomorrow’s your birthday, right, Red? Think of it as an early birthday present. Dunno if I’ll have the energy to stop by after my farm work, so.”

It seems you won’t give him a choice, nor can he seem to find any words to refute your actions here. Adeline doesn’t give him much opportunity to formulate a response, finding one for him in the form of an impromptu smithing lesson.

He remains stupefied throughout the rest of the evening, crafting the pipe he can now deliver on time. His thoughts continually return to you, turning over your words again and again as he considers everything you did to fulfill his request. As time moves forward, he grows all the more uncertain how to proceed.

The following morning he comes out to find a perfect copper ore on the doormat with a note beneath.

Forgot this was in my side pocket till I was handing things off to Balor. Thought of you when I found it. Happy Birthday, Red. —Your favorite farmer

As March stares at the perfect copper hoe, freshly crafted, irritation bubbles within him, rising from his chest and up his throat. Crafting it was an impulse brought on by a sleepless night and ruminations thereof. At some point, he started imagining an infusion for the hoe and he knew then it was too late.

The minutes he spends in the shop, awaiting your arrival, seem to drag on, knowing you would’ve received his stupid letter, knowing you’ll come when called. With how much running around you’ve been doing, he can’t see any way you’ve actually made meaningful progress with your farm, and he has no interest in seeing that.

The bell above the shop door rings and his heart immediately kicks up, an involuntary reaction that pisses him off. Turning, he sees you meandering forward, hands stuffed in your jacket pockets as you look around. You stop in front of the ax he has on display, eyes tracing the metalwork.

Without looking at him, you say, “Morning, Red.”

In your inattention of him, he’s allowed a moment to appreciate your appearance. Instead of your ax or the shitty hoe you’ve been using, you have a sword at your hip, looking beat to shit. His palms start to itch and he makes his way from the drafting table to the counter.

Stopping on the other side, you finally give him your full attention. “Got your note. What’s up?”

He rolls his tongue between his teeth, trying to remember what exactly he wanted to say to you before whim wins out.

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

“What?”

“In Mistria. What do you think you’ll achieve? You come here with no experience as a farmer or a carpenter or blacksmith and you think that, what, you’re going to luck your way into running a farm?”

Tilting your head, he watches as your brow furrows, as your easy smile is nowhere to be found, replaced by a frown. Taking your hands out of your pockets, you place one on your hip and the other on the hilt of your sword. A different image flashes before him, one of an adventurer determined to get the job done, whatever the stakes rather than the facsimile of a farmer he’s met so far. As you shift, his eyes catch on the head of your pickax, again tucked between your back and your rucksack.

Aside from the challenge clear in your eyes, you offer no retort, and he takes it as his cue to continue. “Despite all this, everyone’s talking about you like you’re the one who’s going to fix up the town, like it’s you who’s the award-winning blacksmith.” He’s tired of everyone dismissing all that he and Ryis have accomplished for the town in the wake of the earthquake, talking like you’re going to save Mistria when even you recognized who’s actually putting in the work. It wouldn’t be so bad if people hadn’t left, if they had the extra hands they once had, but—

The memories he’s tried pushing aside start to arise and he snaps. “The second things go to shit again, I bet you’re going to ditch Mistria and all its problems.”

You’re just the same as the adventurers who came before, standing in the exact place you stand now. Better to get you to turn tail and run before people start actually growing attached to you. Things are looking up, especially now that the mines have reopened and the bridge has been fixed. They can take over from here—you can scamper off to wherever you originated.

Rather than meeting his anger with your own, you smirk, dipping your head before he hears what he believes to be a laugh. With a short exhale, you roll your neck, looking away before meeting his glare. Your smile lacks its usual familiarity, matching the silent taunt present in your eyes.

“Are you feeling okay, Red?”

“What?”

“You don’t have a fever or anything? Don’t need me to double check? I’m a little worried. Jealousy is such a nasty disease; it packs quite the punch. I’m a little afraid you might be infected.”

White hot anger flashes behind his eyes, culminating in his hands, reminding him of the heat of the forge during the peak of summer. It gags him, steals his response away so all he can do is gawp at you while you wait with sickening patience. Unwilling to keep up this staring contest, to be tortured with that expression, he turns to his desk where the hoe awaits.

“You think you’re going to stick around? Fine.” His fingers wrap around the handle, half wanting to give it to Balor to sell instead. He walks it to you, meeting you in the center of the shop, thrusting it forward as though it’ll burn him if he keeps it any longer. “Take it. I won’t be responsible for your failure.”

The judgment in your expression is slow to evaporate as you assess it in his hands, fingers brushing against his when you take it. A shock runs through him, originating from where you two touched, but he refuses to react in the face of your indifference. Your eyes flicker to him as you turn the hoe in your grasp, feeling its weight.

When you properly turn your attention to him, he wants to squirm, though he can’t place why. You stare at him intently, eyes squinting imperceptibly before relaxing, your lips slow to shape into a smile once more, missing the sardonic edge this time.

“Thanks,” you say, seemingly genuine in your gratitude before it’s replaced with something indecipherable. “Is that all?”

Do you need more?

At his silence, you turn on your heel, stopping just shy of the door. Before you turn, he realizes he’s uncomfortable allowing you to have the last word.

“Who knows. Maybe you’ll surprise me.”

As you look over your shoulder, his eyes catch the quirk of your brow, the parting of your lips. “You can bet on it. I take it that you mean to keep an eye on me, so in the interests of your new hobby and presumed diligence, I’m gonna go ahead and leave this here,” you say, lifting the hoe and wagging it to grab his attention before placing it on the window ledge. “I planned on making my way through the mines to get more ore, and I’d hate if anything happened to your quality handiwork.”

Not giving him a chance to answer, you slip through the door, leaving him feeling chewed up and spat out.

SUMMER, Year 1

There is no relief to be found from a summer breeze as the sun bears down upon him, even in the evening. Between the heat of the forge in the early morning and the weight of the sun on his back all day, he’s had no reprieve from this week’s heatwave.

Ryis and Reina are both preoccupied, leaving March alone in his trek to the beach, not that he’s complaining.

As far as he can remember, he’s always found comfort in the sand, in the briny scent heavy in the air. Even now, in his approach, he feels better simply for the whiffs of sea that waft over the trees near Sweetwater. It’s always been this way, but he doesn’t know whether it’s tied to the natural presence of the sea or if it’s some enduring association with his dad he’s tried forgetting.

Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, he’s made it his own.

Breaking through the tree line, the heat turns blistering, the last bastion holding on as the sun hangs low in the sky, blinding in its descent. He raises an arm to block out the light, eyes scanning the shoreline in search of someone (anyone). There’s a figure seated at the docks, looking out to the west, and he heads in their direction.

Not until he’s coming down the steps from Terithia’s does he realize that it’s you, though, again, he’s not complaining.

Despite his hard words when he gave you the hoe, you’ve lingered, almost constantly in his peripheral. Both Olric and Ryis talk about you, the latter more than the former. Since he unleashed on you in the spring, you’ve ensured a steady supply of fresh produce, helped restore the mill, and are currently working with Ryis to renovate the general store. That’s not mentioning the ore you give Olric to give to March. Can’t really complain about someone who’s chipping in.

His boots knock against the pier and you half-turn in acknowledgment, face mostly hidden between the wide brim of your hat and your sunglasses. Adorned in a loose-fitted button up and shorts, your boots sit to the side, allowing you to dangle your feet above the flow of the rising tide.

“What’s up?” you ask, keeping your eyes on the horizon. Do you know who’s at your side?

A wave comes, larger than those before, reaching your feet. With a kick, you splash the water, the subtle lift of your cheeks telling him of your mood. He removes his own boots, tucking his socks within them, and joins you on the edge, bumping your shoulder on his descent.

“Trying to escape the heat,” he answers, ignoring the urge to look at you (made infinitely harder when you start at the sound of his voice, turning to face him with obvious surprise).

“Ah. That makes sense. I don’t know how you can handle the forge for as long as you do.”

“You get used to it. An artisan such as myself can’t afford to stop just because of a little heat.”

With a snort, you return your attention to the horizon, allowing him to sneak a glance. Your shirt’s unbuttoned, bringing a new heat to his face—he can and will blame it on the sun if asked. But more than that, he’s drawn to the curve of your lips, the serenity in your smile.

“Oh, of course,” you say, sarcasm drawing out your words. “I guess I’ll just have to spend more time at the forge. Maybe then the rest of summer will be bearable.”

“Are you really such a wimp that this is too much for you?” As far as you’re concerned, this heat is nothing to him (even if there’s a part of him currently wishing he could venture further into the sea than his calves).

Rather than bristling like expected, you laugh, loud and uninhibited. “Jeez, only you.” Wiping tears from behind your glasses, you say, “Beaches up north are cooler than here. Never liked the heat of the capital, either. Maybe I am a wimp.”

You’re completely at ease, more than he’s seen from you sober, though it’s probably just the atmosphere.

The sun hovers near the line of the horizon, turning the sky. Calm azure meets the copper that bleeds from the sun. Salt kisses his skin as the tide ebbs and flows, lapping at his feet, and a breeze finally begins to blow.

“Say, Red?” Leaning back on your arms, your voice lifts with an impending proposition. “You wanna share a beer with me?” A quick glance around confirms a distinct lack of beer around. Anticipating his question, you add, “In exchange for my imported beer, Terithia let me use her cooler.”

“Imported—? Hemlock’s brew isn’t good enough for you now?”

“Ah, you’ll see.” The sun its your face just right so he can see past the shade of your sunglasses as you turn, allowing him to admire the crinkle of your eyes with your grin. “I’ll be right back.”

Grabbing his shoulder, you pull yourself up, the water from your feet splashing where they land. With your back to him, he’s free to watch as you run toward the shack, not minding your bare feet on the hot planks.

He closes his eyes to the sky. What the hell is he doing? The longer you spend here, helping folks, the tighter his chest grows, wary you’ll leave like all the others. It’s only a matter of time.

The padding of your feet brings him back, though he doesn’t turn to look away until you’re only a few feet from him. The bottle you hand him has a black label, some brew he doesn’t recognize (he didn’t expect differently). As he goes to remove the cap, he realizes it’s not a twist-off.

“How am I supposed to open this?”

Settling down beside him, a few inches further than before, you look up. “Hm? Oh. You don’t—? That’s fine. Gimme,” you say, wagging your fingers at him.

Passing over the bottle, he watches you line up both bottles in the same hand, the edge of his lid above yours. Bringing both down against the wood, his cap goes flying backward, clattering against the dock. When offered, he accepts his bottle, trying to hide the sliver of awe he feels.

He brings the bottle to his lips, watching as you pull the knife you keep on your belt, using it to leverage your cap off. Feeling his stare on you, you meet his eyes again, offering a wink and a lopsided smile. Warmth spreads from his neck as he turns away and you laugh as he takes a swig from his beer. It’s smooth as it goes down with a pleasant crisp that lingers on his tongue.

“Nice, right?”

Grunting in response, still a little bitter that you winked at him, he takes another sip.

“That’s what I thought.” He can hear the smile on your voice. “It’s from home, a little town in the mountains. One of the only things I miss from there. Like it better here.”

You probably liked “home” at some point, too, but you still left.

“It’s alright,” he mutters.

Laughing again, he glances over, catching the way you hold your tongue between your teeth. “Yeah, okay.”

Silence falls between you both, the horizon catching fire with the sun almost gone, a last flicker of flame before night takes hold. It’s gorgeous, accompanied by the steady wash of the waves against the shore, the occasional cry of a seagull. He savors the citrus of the beer as the wind grows persistent and his muscles begin to relax.

Giving into impulse, he shifts to watch you.

Stray hairs fall from under your hat, framing your face. You’ve taken off your sunglasses, hanging them from your shirt, allowing him to watch as the remnants of the sun reflect in your eyes. Your smile never falters and he envies you for it.

Without so much as a glance in his direction, you say, “I’m not going anywhere, Red. I like it here. I like my farm. I like working the land. I like helping Ryis and Adeline and Hayden. I like being useful.” Lifting your knee, you rest your cheek, eyes flitting across his face before meeting his gaze. “I think I could even come to like you, too.”

The slow lift of your lips gives away your tease, the reluctant press of the corners of your mouth as though you’re trying to repress your smile that causes his blush to blossom across warm cheeks.

Part of him, and he doesn’t know how large a part, wants to believe you. But he’s heard those words before from another adventurer who once settled down. That didn’t stop them from leaving. Words don’t carry as much weight as actions, not even pretty words like yours, so he’ll wait and see.

He lays back, eyes catching on the stray clouds scattered across the twilight sky. A stronger breeze blows through, combining with the chill of the sea at his feet, sending shivers down his spine. A chuckle escapes you, the sound pleasant, different from the others he’s heard before. Propping himself up, he notices the clouds that gather to the south, beyond the sight of you. Following his line of sight, you sigh, the sound forlorn, though he can’t imagine why.

“Juni gave me a crystal ball that predicts the weather. With how hot it was today, I didn’t want to get my hopes up about its prediction for tomorrow.”

The rustling of your movement draws him to you once more, watching as you start to pick yourself up. He lays back down as you bend over, your sunglasses almost slipping lose as you reach for your shoes.

“We shouldn’t stay here much longer.”

Can’t argue with you there, but he can’t quite find it in him to move. Sensing this, you tuck your empty bottle into the shaft of your boot, freeing your hand to offer it as help. If not for the beer, he’d otherwise smack it away. As it is, he’s already pulling his feet out of the water and reaching for your hand.

Calluses litter your palm, different from his, solidified after years of blacksmithing. His thoughts travel to the life you lived before, the one that gives you experience with your sword, the one that created the habit of keeping a knife on your belt. Did your calluses develop then? Or are they from your first few months here?

Effortlessly, you pull him up, and he feels a little dizzy. The moment he registers the warmth of your hand still wrapped around his, he lets go as though you’re metal fresh from the forge.

As he goes to pick up his boots, his attention remains on the incoming clouds, blotting out the stars as they grow in volume. Before he can ruminate, before memories of the past can pick up, you distract him.

“You haven’t seen the farm yet, have you?”

“You need a chaperone to make it home?”

His shoulder jolts as you push him, clicking your tongue. “You wish. I actually wanted your input on some plans I’ve been drawing up. It’d be easier if you knew what I was working with.”

Yeah, right.

“Ryis is the one you want to talk to about things like that,” he says, denial settling in his chest.

You start walking backwards, urging him to follow if only so you don’t trip over the edge of the docks. That’d be a nightmare—you, finding out he doesn’t swim on the off chance you fucking fall into the sea.

“Please. Can you look where you’re going?” His arms come out, ready to grab you if you fall, though you never do.

Oh, if only he could wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.

“Worried about me? How queer.” Despite your tease, despite your glowing smile, you comply, turning, allowing his heart to slow. “If you don’t wanna come, don’t worry about it, but I meant it about wanting your input. I’ve been trying to hone my blacksmithing skills so you don’t have to worry about orders from me, too, but I think I might be out of my depth.”

Of course you are. “What do you mean, so I don’t have to worry about you? Do you think I can’t handle it?”

This sigh is exasperated, tired, making your cheeks fall. “That’s not what I meant. You think I want to hand you yet another order for nails? I’d rather commission you to craft my next sword. That seems more worthy of your skill.”

Oh.

He’s left watching as you finally bristle, rolling your eyes before turning toward the shore, leaving him to follow in your wake. In the silence that follows, he reflects on your words, letting your sentiments replay in his mind. The walk to Sweetwater takes on a different tone until something strikes him.

Reaching the edge of the ranch, he stops you.

“Don’t tell me you’re still using that rusted piece of garbage when you go into the mines.”

You’re still the only person daring enough to enter the mines in any meaningful fashion, and each time he sees that rusted junk attached to your hip, he becomes dangerously close to having an aneurysm.

“Yeah. I miss my old sword, which is why I wanted to commission you for a new one. Among other things.”

“What happened to your sword? What kind of adventurer loses their sword?”

You pause, eyes widening imperceptibly, and he realizes it’s the first time he’s properly asked about your past—up until now, everything he’s learned about you has been against his will. A slow smile appears, your previous irritation falling to the wayside, and you say, “That’s a tale for when I have a few more drinks in me. Doesn’t really matter since I don’t have it though. The way Balor spoke of this place, I didn’t think I’d need it. A little hamlet in need of hard work? Somewhere he felt comfortable staying for a time?” You chuckle at some memory, lost to him. “Imagine getting here and being handed a rusted piece of shit instead of a scythe.”

He’s not sure he wants to hear the story, something grating in the back of his mind at your words, but he does know that the mention of crafting a sword has his mind working overtime. It’s been so long…

“So. Final offer: wanna swing by the farm? Or should I just come and bother you later this week?”

“Olric doesn’t like when the weather gets like this. I should head back,” he says, not looking at you. “But you know what? Come by the shop tomorrow. We can talk about that sword.”

The smile you reward him with is blinding, causing his heart to hiccup at the sight. For as long as you’ve lived here, he’s never been on the receiving end of it, and he’s not quite a fan of the fluttering it causes beneath his skin.

“Hell yeah,” you say, your smile never fading. “In that case, I’m gonna head home.” He watches as you turn, heading toward the path he’s never taken. After a minute, you look over your shoulder, that smile still there. “I had fun hanging out with you today, Red! Thank you for sitting with me.”

Yeah, he really doesn’t like that fluttering you leave him with.

“Eighty tesserae for each ingot? Are you sure?” March asks, eyeing the crates loaded onto Balor’s cart outside of the inn. “That’s… that’s amazing!”

“It is, isn’t it? That means I was able to get quite a bit more iron than we had originally agreed upon for the same price,” Balor says, pride heavy in his voice. “The problem is, I injured myself loading all of it beforehand, so I won’t be able to help unload. I’ll cut another five percent off the price if you and Olric take care of it yourselves.”

“That’s… You’re joking.”

“I am not. I’d like to get to Valen before my next excursion, but I can’t do that until this is taken care of.” While Balor’s smile hasn’t faltered, there’s an edge to his voice that March would rather not test.

He’s in no position to complain, nor can he pass up the opportunity to save tesserae where possible. Factor in his current workload and there’s no time to complain.

“Right. We’ll handle it. Let me get Olric.”

Balor’s response is lost to him as he hurries down Main Street, eager to not let this deal go to waste. He’s grateful, not just for the discount, but for the extra ingots which will be useful in the coming weeks. With fall around the corner, the rush for repairs will compound his workload and the additional iron will allow him to get a head start.

Rounding the corner, he calls out to Olric, apprising him of the situation, only for his eyes to fall on you.

You’re slipping on your blacksmithing gloves and his first thought is that you’re here to try and work on your own projects, comfortable in your skill to handle them without help in the immediate.

“What are you doing here? Not trying to use the forge, right?” he asks, though it comes out like a bark.

Olric chimes in and March realizes what happened. The traitor. As March readies himself to dismiss you, he’s reminded that Hemlock asked if he could craft the inn a new cauldron, something he wished to deliver tonight.

Fuck.

“Fine. Stick around and help if you think you won’t slow us down.”

Your eyes narrow, but your lips curl into a wry smile, asking, “When have I ever genuinely slowed you down, Red?” Olric shifts beside you and your eyes flicker to him. “Alright, what do you need, Boss Man?”

Another—? “First: Olric— no, wait. First, don’t call me that.” Olric’s worry lines disappear at the sound of your laughter. “Second: Olric, I need you to start carrying over the shipment. Balor has it at the inn. You,” he commands, finding you annoyingly attentive, “get the forge fired up.”

Olric disappears from view and March follows as you prepare the forge, something akin to pride flaring in his chest at how easily you take to it, remembering the lesson. With the fire going, you look over your shoulder, smiling when you find him already watching.

“So you have a problem when I call you ‘Boss Man’ but not when I call you ‘Red,’ eh?”

Heat crawls up his neck, settling across his face and he rolls his eyes. “Shaddup, will you? Let’s just get this done.”

“You got it, Red,” you say with a wink, laughing when he turns around.

Working alongside you is different than when you watch him in the afternoons or he watches you in the evenings. It’s different when you move around him before he can ask, when you’re quick to take direction (and you’re so easy to direct). Unlike when he works alone, you’re largely silent, offering little more than the occasional wink or small nod as you two work.

About halfway through, you step back, slipping off the glove on your right hand to grab your canteen. His eyes are drawn to the bob of your throat as you drink, to the trickle of water that escapes your lips. With your forearm, you wipe away the sweat gathering on your forehead.

“Think you were one hundred percent right, Red,” you say, removing your second glove. He pauses, openly watching as you pull your hair up.

“Of course I was. About what?”

“I am a wimp when it comes to the heat. I’m more than a little impressed that you can do this everyday.”

“Then why even come? Your plan of avoiding the forge until the evening seemed to be working for you.”

Grabbing your gloves, you start slipping them on again, teeth biting your bottom lip before that grin breaks free, wide and carefree. Your eyes meet his and he can’t look away. “And miss out on the opportunity to do all this?”

There’s something in the way you say it, something in the way the words drop from your lips like honey. Is there more that you’re not saying? Your following wink seems to support that (you need to stop).

“S-stop joking around.”

Returning to the barrel hoops, each strike of his hammer seeks to suppress the creeping flush, the image of you burned so thoroughly into his retinas that he sees you without looking. Venturing a glance, he sees you hard at work, focused on your hands, smile still present.

When Olric returns from speaking with Adeline, you grow chatty, cracking jokes and telling anecdotes of your life in the city. Then come the compliments. Compliments to Olric, to his patience and strength. Compliments to March, to his efficiency and concentration. Things neither would even think of, things he doesn’t believe to be deserving of attention as they’re simply facts of his work, but the way the words come make him pause. They make him fluster.

Which is stupid.

He doesn’t need your supposed praise to know he’s doing a good job or that his work is the best around. There’s no reason for him to be heating up at your words. Even if he finds himself getting into the zone a little easier. Even if the weight of the work before him seems lighter. Even if, for all intents and purposes, he’s starting to have fun.

You say as much when the work is finished, when the three of you are sweating and tired from everything you’ve accomplished. Wiping the sweat from your brow, you almost look like you belong here.

The moment it crosses his mind, he feels on edge, eyes shifting to Olric who looks all too pleased by the outcome of everything (of course he would; he’s the one who invited you in the first place). As possible as it is that Olric only invited you here to lighten the load, it’s possible there was another reason for his actions, some quiet wish he hasn’t voiced to March.

Whatever that could be…

It’s suddenly all too hot and he’s entirely too aware of you and Olric to think.

“I… I need to cool down. I’ll be inside,” he says, rushing past you to the shop. As his hand wraps around the doorknob, he turns to you, spotting the slight pout of your lips. That’s— “I’ll need time to recover from all the work we did today. Come by again on Sunday and we can talk more about your sword.”

Your tongue laves your bottom lip before you offer a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah. Okay. See you then, Red.”

The door shuts behind him as the nickname leaves your mouth and he presses himself against it, trying to catch his breath. That he has to catch his breath at all is—

maddening.

Crickets begin their song along the path leading to the Narrows and the moisture that hangs in the air adds to the weight of the swing of his hammer. March’s clothes stick to him as he works, partly because of his refusal to stop working, partly because of the insufferable humidity lingering from last night’s storm.

Harsh clangs ring throughout the square in time with his strikes as people start making their way to wherever they’ll be viewing the stars. Every strike of his augments the irritation that’s been building since this afternoon, your noted absence making it worse.

He’s seen scant trace of you since you helped out on Thursday, barely catching sight of you at the inn on Friday. Even if his appointment with Vera ran long yesterday, he expected you to stop by in the evening as you are prone to doing. But there has been no sight of you. The heat has come and gone, the shadows have danced across the ground until swallowing the world, and still no sight of you.

It’s not as though you two have a lot of history making plans—you come and go as you please—but the two times he has asked for you, you’ve been punctual. Hell, when last he asked you to stop by and talk about your commission, you were waiting in the rain before the shop even opened. It…

It shouldn’t bother him. He shouldn’t be bothered by your absence. (If anything, he should feel relieved). (If he is bothered, it’s only because he asked you to come and you agreed). The longer he ruminates, the more irate he grows, blaming it entirely on you because it’s your face he sees when his hammer makes contact and sparks fly.

Laughter rings out near the fountain and he looks up, catching the amethyst of Juniper’s hair as she leads Valen. They turn their heads toward the anvil and Valen offers a wave. As March nods in acknowledgment, Juniper adopts her usual haughty smile, heading down the steps toward the inn. If he concentrates, he thinks he can hear Balor and Hayden. Are you caught up with someone else in town, readying yourself to look at the stars with them?

Something ugly starts gnawing behind his sternum and he rolls his eyes. Footsteps approach from the woods, and he assumes it’s Olric with one last ditch effort to get him to watch the sky.

“I already told you, I’m not interested.”

“Oh, but Red,” he hears you say, making his heart pick up in his chest, prompting him to look over his shoulder, “I think you will be.”

You’re dressed in a thick cotton blouse and jeans, though they’re torn just above the knee. Blood stains the fabric and there are light scratches littering your forearms. Either you’ve done him the courtesy of hiding that rusted abomination, or you went into the mines unarmed. A flash of heat flares in his chest at the thought, and you smile knowingly, eyes twinkling in a way that promises nothing good.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks, fist clenching around the handle of his hammer before releasing it, letting it clatter against the anvil as he turns around.

“Did you want to spend more time with me that much?” you tease, oblivious to the anger that must be radiating from him as you shuffle out of your sack, positioning it for easy access. He steps forward and your eyes flicker up, flitting across his face. The edge to your smile softens as you turn your eyes back down.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” you start, unexpectedly earnest. “I justified it by telling myself I wouldn’t be too long and that we never agreed on a time and…”

You’re rambling. You don’t ramble. Do… Is it that you feel bad for what could ostensibly be considered standing him up? (That makes it sound like a date, which this is very much not).

Deft fingers pull at the leather straps of your rucksack, pulling the flap to reveal the familiar sheen of silver.

“I found silver.” There’s pride in your voice and something that sounds almost conspiratorial. His anger begins to dissipate as you loosens the strings, letting him slip his hand inside to grab a piece.

Its weight is familiar, sitting differently in his hand than the copper or iron you’ve brought him thus far. It’s been over a year since he was able to work with silver. Rotating it in his hand, his thoughts drift to Josephine and Valen, to much needed silverware and medical supplies.

“You found silver.”

You beam at him, the same smile you shared with him when he first promised to do something about your sword, and the back of his knees start to feel weak.

“It’s all yours if you forgive me for being late.”

“Not a chance. It’s not like you know what to do with it otherwise,” he bites, not quite ready to free you from his ire. He hasn’t taught you how to work silver, but that lesson isn’t too far away.

Swiping the silver from his hand, you say, “I could give it to Balor with explicit instructions to sell it outside of Mistria.” A hollow threat if ever you’ve given one. With how much you insisted upon a silver sword, you wouldn’t relinquish it so quickly. “And what, you’re gonna make something for me if I gift it to you?”

“You wish,” he says, eyes narrowing. Truth is, he’s tired of the orders he’s been working on and he’d need to re-familiarize himself with silver before undertaking an order from Josephine or Valen. The silver you give him now will likely go to something you could use if only because he knows you’d be quick to bring more.

But you don’t need to know that.

(Even if he suspects that you already do).

“Yeah, sure,” you dismiss, bringing your bag to his work bench. He follows, watching as you unload your silver delivery until the bag is empty. Reaching into the front pocket, you pull out what he can only imagine to be food, wrapped in the butcher paper from the inn. Glancing at him as your fingers begin to pull at the wrapping, you ask, “You mind if I eat while we talk? I haven’t sat down since I got up this morning.”

“Would you stop if I told you I minded?”

Your fingers stop pulling at the tape, the hint of a smile disappearing before you bob your head. Guilt pulls at his throat, not expecting you to take his rhetorical question seriously.

“It’s fine! Eat if you’re hungry! Should’ve taken a break earlier.”

Without missing a beat, your finger slips under the tape to undo the wrapping, revealing a lobster roll. He watches as you tear the sandwich in half.

“Share with me?”

You pose it like it’s a non-issue, like you couldn’t care either way, but he has a feeling you do. As he prepares to turn you down—it’s your food and you just said you haven’t rested since you got up—his stomach growls, betraying him.

“... Fine.”

“It’s Reina’s, if that makes a difference.”

“It’s fine,” he says, taking the offered roll.

You follow his lead, coming to sit at the edge of the steps of the forge, arm’s distance from one another.

Just as he’s about to take a bite from the sandwich, you say, “So. About my sword…”

He closes his mouth, lowering his sandwich before looking at you. “You want it to be silver?”

“I do! I know what you’re gonna say: steel will last longer and work better. But silver’s great against monsters.”

Rolling his eyes, he sighs through his nose. Hunger wins out over the urge to rehash this argument, so he tells you, “Go ahead. Make your case while I finish.”

“I mean, what’s there to say? Silver weaponry always works better against monsters, and considering that’s all I’m using my sword for, I think it’s for the best. I don’t know if you’re aware, but the magic here is overwhelming. Silver just… cuts through it all. It’s not like I’m fighting people in Mistria, so silver will protect me just fine. Any other situation, hell yeah, I’d defer to you, but I’m gonna be a little pushy here. And before you even say it, I do trust you as a professional, but I’m asking that you trust me as a professional, too. You’re the best blacksmith I’ve seen, so I don’t want you to think that I’m discounting your opinion.”

Swallowing, he wants to suppress the heat that crawls up his neck. “I’m the only blacksmith you’ve seen.”

“In Mistria? Yeah,” you laugh. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re certainly my favorite.” Glimpsing in your direction shows your cheeky grin. “I could always commission you for a steel sword after we get the blast forge built?”

“I’ll charge extra.”

“Worth every tesserae.”

Outside of Balor, you’ve certainly the most experience with monsters (perhaps the only one with genuine experience). He’s unsure about all this magic talk, but he’s coming to trust your experience as an adventurer. As you eat, he weighs your words, eyes dancing across the scratch on your leg, the nicks across your arms.

“I’ll get started on your silver sword.”

“Thank you, Red,” you effuse, your smile audible.

The sincerity of your gratitude eats at him, making his skin tingle, and he can’t stand watching you. Beside him, you turn your face upward. It’s a moment before you nudge his shoulder. When he looks, your free hand is extended, pointed toward the sky.

“Hey, look.”

Stars shoot across the sky, vibrant against the backdrop of the cosmos, one right after the other. He’s mesmerized by the way they move, unable to look away.

“Did you know this was tonight?” Reverence drips from your tongue, so strong he wants to watch you instead (he doesn’t).

“Yeah, but it’s no big deal.” Even as he says it, he’s not so sure anymore. He never felt like he was missing much when he skipped this night every year for the last couple decades.

“Wow, they’re so clear here. I’d watch them when I was in the capital and sometimes at home, but they never looked like this.”

The urge to look at you grows, demanding his attention be torn from the sky and be placed upon you. Uncertainty grows at the revelation and he keeps his eyes trained on the sky, even if he’s otherwise focused on you. Even if he wants to meet your eyes when you turn to look at him.

“Did you ever hear about the legend surrounding tonight?”

“No. I… never cared about the festival.”

“... That’s fine. It’s just a story anyway.”

Something in his chest aches and it feels almost as though something is crawling under his skin at the thought of asking you to clarify, so he doesn’t. You’ll probably share it with him one day anyway.

A/N: Tried posting Summer separately three times and Tumblr kept hiding it from the dash/tags so I figured I'd just tack it on to the original. The rest of the fic will likely be hosted only on AO3 if Tumblr doesn't fix itself </3

#fields of mistria x farmer #fields of mistria x reader #march fom x farmer #fom march x farmer #march fom x reader #fom march x reader #march fields of mistria #fom.✒#✒.ix writes #red.✒#march x farmer #march x reader

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