Chapter Text
The mosquitoes will be the death of him.
Robert swats another one away from his neck. The little demons just wouldn’t leave him alone, marking his skin with the same angry red bumps he tells Klara not to scratch.
The white shirt he’s wearing has gone damp and transparent, sweat sticking to him like glue. Thomas had warned him about summer in the countryside, about the heat and the insects and the inevitable boredom from being so far away from the rest of civilization, but Robert had long made up his mind about coming here.
He has a book he needs to finish writing and an extensive grocery list of issues to run away from. He needs this. If he can’t get his personal life sorted out, he might as well get his professional life moving. Xavi would kill him otherwise.
“It is nice to finally see you, Robert,” his gracious host tells him, opening her arms and inviting him to an embrace. “You’re early. I only just finished cleaning up.”
Though not one for physical affection, at least not with people he just met, Robert lets himself be hugged. It’s the least he can do for someone who has kindly welcomed him into their home for the summer.
The Gavinin in front of him is no different from the woman he had spoken to on the phone: mild-mannered, middle-aged and motherly. Her eyes are kind, and her long hair is somewhere between blonde and brunette, framing a face that must have been very pretty in her youth.
Robert himself isn’t that old, not in the literal sense, but divorce takes its toll on anybody. Physically, mentally, emotionally, and maybe even spiritually if Robert was religious.
He isn’t religious though, so he can’t pray for forgiveness, nor can he ask a magical sky deity for something good to happen to him.
Gavinin asks if she can help him with his bags, more out of courtesy than an actual offer. They both know Robert can carry his own bags. He’s a head taller than her, and the muscles underneath his shirt aren’t for aesthetics.
Robert walks through the rusting metal gate, gravel and dried leaves crunching under his feet as Gavinin leads him to his accommodation for the long summer months.
Nestled amidst verdant fields and fragrant gardens stands an old house, a picturesque little thing straight out of a Pinterest board.
It looks like something out of a storybook— made of bricks and painted a pretty red color with a thatched roof and a veranda that overlooks the long stretch of grass. Ivy grows in the tight spaces between the bricks, wrapping around the house like it’s trying to drag it back into nature.
There are hoards of trees around the property, tall and sturdy and perhaps even older than the little village itself. One even has a makeshift swing hanging from its branches, a crude rope and wood fixture that was clearly once loved by the village children.
It sits unmoving and alone ancient, old and forgotten without any adoring kids around to keep it company. Robert knows the feeling.
Another mosquito lands on his neck. Robert swats it away before it can bite him. He should have gotten some repellent spray before he left.
While he had been adamant on staying in the countryside for the summer, Robert honestly doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to last like this, soaked in sweat and covered in mosquito bites. He vows that he will at least try— that he’ll stop procrastinating and actually finish something substantial before Xavi disembowels him for missing another deadline.
“We have breakfast at around eight,” Gavinin says, welcoming him into the home she insists has been in their family for generations. How many generations exactly, Robert isn’t sure. “I hope that is not too early for you.”
“It isn't,” Robert says. It doesn’t matter to him much. Sleep is a luxury he can’t afford these days, not when there are deadlines to meet and mid-life crises to avert. “Thank you,” he says, because he was raised right and has good manners.
The inside of the house is just as lovely as the exterior. Charmingly mismatched and legitimately vintage. There is something alluring about the aging wood and the antique carpets that line the halls, the windows where stained glass lets sunshine pour into the living room, and even the errant dust bunnies along the stuffed bookshelves.
Wooden planks groan noisily under Robert's shoes, like they’re greeting the strange new guest occupying the old family house.
“You will be staying in the guest room upstairs,” Gavinin informs him, gesturing vaguely up the stairs with her hand. “Pablo will be right next to your room. He's quite shy, but if you need anything, just ask him."
“Pablo is your son?” Robert asks. He vaguely remembers the heavy thumping of feet from the other side of the telephone when they had spoken, with Gavinin scolding someone in the background for being too loud. That must have been Pablo then.
“Yes. He just turned eighteen, but he still acts like a child,” Gavinin shakes her head, sounding more fond than exasperated, the way most mothers are with their precious sons. "Most of the time, I do not know what to do with that boy.”
Robert hums in response. He doesn’t have anything to say to that. He never had to spend much time with teenagers, but he hopes that his daughters will grow into the nice kinds— even if Robert won’t get to see much of them.
Gavinin shows him the rest of the house, the sound of her voice carrying over a distant radio playing somewhere in the house.
Robert smiles to himself. He thinks he can carve out something nice for himself here, at least for the warm summer when the world seems to slow down to a more relaxed pace.
The wooden stairs complain under Robert’s heavy feet as he ascends. He doesn’t particularly mind. He would much rather go up and down these old creaky stairs than ride the cramped little elevator in his city apartment.
“And this is where you will be staying.” Gavinin pushes open a paint-chipped door to reveal an airy oasis.
Large windows allow natural light to stream in, casting a warm glow over the room. Across the bed stands a tall closet for him to house his belongings. Thin curtains flutter in the breeze, carrying in the sounds of crickets and the sweet smell of blooming flowers.
A wooden bed stands in the middle of the room, draped with a floral-printed duvet and matching throw pillows. A large quilt sits on the edge of the mattress. Soft to the touch and a cream color that strikes Robert with something akin to longing because Klara used to have one just like it.
Robert shakes the thought out of his head. He had gone all this way to pull his mind away from his family, or at least what’s left of it after the messy divorce. He isn’t here to brood and feel sorry for himself. He’s here to write and present something that isn’t utter garbage to his publisher.
Robert decides to shift his attention back to the room he will be staying in. For him, the best part of the room is undoubtedly the small writing desk by the window, a dedicated space for work that invites him to soak in the peaceful surroundings and finally put his thoughts down on paper. Yes, paper. Robert had deluded himself into thinking that purchasing a moleskin notebook and fancy fine-tipped pens would compel him to write more.
Robert hopes he can actually get work done instead of lamenting in dreadful and unproductive procrastination. Too often his big ideas turn into ambitious projects that he obsesses over for weeks and weeks until he gets sick of them, hating both them and himself in the process.
Robert knows he’s a good writer— he's still living off of the royalties from his last book— but he needs something new and exciting. Something comprehensive and complete. He can’t present half-baked ideas to Xavi and expect to get paid for them.
Hence this trip to the middle of nowhere, in a village so small it doesn't even have its own Wikipedia page. If he didn’t have to look at his work emails, Robert would have attempted to forego his laptop and his phone to eliminate the most number of distractions.
“It's just you and your son here?” Robert asks Gavinin, setting his bags down on the floor. The room is sparsely decorated, but Robert doesn’t need much. He just needs to concentrate and work.
"Yes, his father is no longer in the picture," Gavinin says tersely. "But the two of us are okay by ourselves."
Robert nods, sensing that it's a sensitive topic that Gavinin doesn't want to talk about. It isn't any of his business anyway. Besides, the last thing he needs right now is to get involved with a woman.
“Where is that boy anyway?” Gavinin wonders out loud, eyebrows knitting together across her forehead. The action makes her look older than she is— which is rude to think about but it isn't untrue. “He is supposed to be helping me with dinner.”
Despite himself, Robert’s stomach grumbles at the mention of dinner. He hasn't eaten since last night, and he can't remember the last time he had a proper homecooked meal.
"Do you have any allergies?" Gavinin asks.
Robert shakes his head. "No."
Gavinin smiles. “Good. We get everything fresh from the market,” she tells him. “Oh! I will show you the garden if you like. You like flowers, yes?"
Robert doesn't have particularly strong feelings about flowers, but he nods anyway. He’s finally away from the city, but it isn’t like he’s bursting with ideas or itching to write just yet. Hopefully, that will change in the near future.
He follows Gavinin down the creaky stairs, careful to not skip a step and subsequently smash his face into the ground.
Gavinin pries open the sliding door leading to the garden, and Robert is immediately struck by an array of colors.
There are beds of bright, colorful flowers in every direction. Sunflowers tower over the other flowers, their golden heads bobbing in the gentle breeze. Delicate lavender and dainty pansies are springboards for busy buzzing bees and butterflies, flitting and fluttering in the afternoon sunlight.
“Pablo!” Gavinin calls, because there, lying on his stomach in the center of the tapestry of flowers is her young boy.
And what a boy he is.
The flowers are bright and in full bloom, but none of them are as beautiful as the boy reading a book in the middle of the grass— surrounded by nature like a fictional forest fairy.
A bird’s nest of brown hair sits atop of a pretty little head. Plains of milky white skin stretch across twig-thin limbs, sprawled carelessly over the dark green grass responsible for staining his clothes... if they can even be considered clothes because they’re so short.
Evidently, the boy's garments have become too small for his growing body. A light yellow shirt clings to him like a second skin, like he was born wrapped with the tiny scrap of fabric that does nothing to cover his flat stomach. The concave curve of his back dips into a pair of ridiculously short shorts, the dark blue denim a stark contrast against the pale skin. His soles are bare and dirty, beaded anklets hanging off his right foot as he kicks his feet in the air.
The loveliest flower in the garden lifts his head, revealing big brown eyes that look like they belong to a puppy and not a teenage boy.
“There you are,” Gavinin says with a sigh. Yes, there he is. The most gorgeous boy Robert has ever seen in his life. “Say hello to Robert.”
“Hi,” the flower boy says with an errant wave of his hand. He surveys Robert for a moment with those endlessly deep brown eyes, rose petal lips pursing into consideration. “I hope you like it here.”
Robert’s mouth suddenly feels very dry.
When Gavinin mentioned her son, Robert had no way of knowing that the boy would be this stunning. Nature has a way of capturing beauty in its most raw and unfiltered form, and here, in the Spanish countryside, Robert has stumbled upon the truest form of beauty.
He swallows the big lump that had formed in his throat.
He has a bad feeling about this.