Chapter Fifteen

Hank

Now

“You sure you’re good?” Hank looked over his shoulder at a panting Finn, whose boot-covered feet dragged through the forest floor. It had only been three days since Finn’s fever had broken, but this morning, he’d insisted that he was getting cabin fever. Pulling on his worn green parka and muddy hiking boots, he rushed outside despite Hank’s protests. All jittery, golden curls falling into his face, he’d stood bouncing impatiently on his feet while Hank scrambled to get his lambskin coat on.

“Will you stop fussing? I’m good,” Finn wheezed, wiping the back of his right hand across his forehead.

“Stubborn kid,” Hank mumbled, stepping carefully over a protruding fir root. Strange how they’d settled into this quiet coexistence within a few days, in many ways behaving like they were old, long-lost friends. Strange how you could do that when you knew close to nothing about the other. Or perhaps that was why. Perhaps it was the anonymity that made Hank feel at ease. Or at least, more at ease than he’d felt in a while. With Finn, he wasn’t poor Hank. He wasn’t the bereft lover. He wasn’t Eugene’s Hank. He just was.

“What?” Finn looked up, his golden brows furrowed beneath the frayed edge of his knitted gray beanie.

“Nothing. Watch out for t—” Finn’s unexpectedly heavy form hit Hank from behind and he just managed to plant his feet securely on the ground and grab Finn by the collar of his coat.

“Motherfu—” Finn coughed, only a few feet from hitting the forest floor headfirst. That would’ve been grand, wouldn’t it? To bash his forehead in now that he was slowly recovering from the wound on his hand. That was the last thing Hank needed; to play nurse for another week. Already behind on his tasks at the shop, he could hardly justify taking any more time off, even if it was his place. Thank God for Colton.

“Easy now,” Hank spoke, wrapping his other arm around Finn’s midsection, pulling his back against his own chest. “You alright?” he spoke against Finn’s neck, a damp sheen covering the skin from exertion.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Finn leaned against him, still a bit unsteady on his feet. “Thanks, Hank,” he murmured while releasing himself from Hank’s grasp. Turning around, he squinted, his brown eyes nearly golden in the early afternoon light. “You keep saving me from myself, it seems.” He shrugged, removing his beanie, dirty-blond hair sticking against his sweaty forehead, spilling across the black frame of his glasses. Hank reached out and held the back of his hand against the clammy skin. “I don’t have a fever, Hank. I’m just out of shape.” Finn tilted his head toward the blue November sky peeking through the pine trees. As he exhaled, he squeezed his eyes closed, white air bursting from his lips, his Adam’s apple protruding behind the almost translucent skin of his neck. “Damn, it feels good to be outside,” he breathed. “Doesn’t it feel amazing, Hank?”

It did. It did feel amazing. It had been a while since Hank had ventured through these woods with someone else. Since he’d heard his name spoken by someone else, the single syllable echoing against the trees. And what was up with that, anyway? The kid spoke his name all the time. Hank this and Hank that . It was a little weird; almost as if he was afraid that he would forget Hank’s name or something. Or that Hank would somehow disappear on him. Or forget about him. Yeah, it was a little weird, but kind of endearing, too. Like a… well, like a kid. And who was he to talk about weirdness? He probably had his strange ways as well, living out here all by himself.

He took in their surroundings; how they must look to a stranger like Finn. The majestic trees, some of them now naked, others still covered in needles. The soft whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the wind teasing the bare branches, carrying the dead leaves in sweeping motions across the forest bed. The birds. Those who hadn’t gone away for the winter ruffled their feathers, soaking up the sparse warmth of the sun. Hank loved these woods. Our wild, wild woods, Hank. There was a familiar comradery between him and the ancient firs and pines, their solid presence getting him through those first few months after Eugene was gone. When he’d stumbled through the days, his heart steadily beating on even though he’d often willed it not to, the woods had offered a tranquil escape from the voices inside his head.

“It does,” he replied, as he continued walking down that well-trodden forest path. Leaves crunched behind him as Finn trailed after him quietly. As they came to a small clearing, he stopped, Finn standing next to him, his breath still leaving his mouth in small puffs. The younger guy appeared to have a constant involuntary pout with that fuller upper lip protruding slightly. It looked like he was always just on the verge of either complaining about something or seconds away from bursting into tears. Hank wondered what his face looked like to Finn and if Finn even thought about it one way or the other. Pretty presumptuous to think that he did. He was well aware that he had a pretty average-looking face at best. Nothing that made people turn their heads in the street.

“What kind of trees are these?” Finn pushed his glasses up the ridge of his nose, pointing towards the tree line of a gathering of at least sixty-foot-tall trees rising majestically above them, the bark an orangey cinnamon brown.

“They’re ponderosa,” Hank hummed, his voice intermingling with a distant repetitive call.

“What’s that?” Finn tilted his head, an eager expression on his face, eyes bright and alert. “That sound. Is it… an owl?” He looked questioningly at Hank.

“Nah, it’s not an owl. Those are mourning doves.” Hank swallowed, kicking his scoffed boot at the ground, making a small trail through the layer of pine needles.

“Mourning doves?” Finn repeated, looking at the trees. “I don’t see them. Where are they?” he whispered, as if afraid he would scare them off.

“They’re more heard than seen,” Hank replied. “There ain’t anythin’ spectacular about them anyhow.” His voice came out gruffer than he’d intended, and Finn looked slightly crestfallen.

“Oh, okay,” he nodded, and just when Hank thought that this meant the end of their conversation, Finn sucked in a breath, and continued, “What do they look like then?”

Hank sighed. For Pete’s sake. He wasn’t used to all this chitter-chatter. Perhaps it’d been a mistake to ask the kid to stick around. But he had told Hank that he didn’t talk much, so how come he’d suddenly morphed into a Curious George?

“Uhm, I don’t know. Rather dull-looking, I guess,” Hank brushed at his beard.

“Dull?”

“Yeah, I mean, they’re a kind of tannish cream, I guess. A light gray, maybe. Perhaps there’s a greenish tint to the wing feathers. I don’t know…” he trailed off. Of course, you know.

“They sound beautiful,” Finn whispered, a ceremonious edge to his voice. “Do you think I’ll get to see them while I’m here? I mean, over the winter.”

“Perhaps,” Hank grunted. Eugene would be scolding him by now, always saying that even though you were a man of few words who didn’t enjoy most company, it was no excuse for being rude. ‘I enjoy your company, my love. That’s enough for me.’

“C’mon.” Hank nodded over his shoulder. “We should get back before it gets dark.” He wasn’t sure if Finn had heard him, still enthralled by the constant melancholic call of the doves. The younger man’s profile was delicate as he stood there in the retreating daylight, his face half in shadow. The slope of his chin was covered in a light dusting of scruff since he hadn’t shaved for two days. Hank hadn’t noticed before now how long his eyelashes were. A lot darker than his hair color, they fluttered as he blinked towards the tops of the trees. They looked featherlight and reminded Hank of the wings of the Carolina Sphinx when it landed on his potato plants in the summer. They came in swarms sometimes, there one minute, gone the next. Perhaps Finn, too, was some elusive creature of the forest, there one second, then gone the next.

“Why are they called mourning doves, Hank?” Finn asked as he broke free from his stupor, a moist gleam to his eyes, his voice sounding heavy.

“Uhm, it’s because of their cooing calls, I guess. Those who hear the call often find it sad or mournful. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.” He turned on his heel and started walking back and once he reached the path, Finn jogged up beside him, cheeks flushed scarlet, shaggy locks all over the place.

“I don’t think they’re sad,” he spoke. “I think they’re just looking for a mate, or perhaps just a friend. Very few birds are solitary, you know? Few species are, come to think of it.”

“Yeah, maybe…”

“Don’t doves mate for life, Hank? I think I heard that somewhere.” They were walking so close now that their shoulders were brushing against each other. They were nearly the same height, but built differently. So very differently that Hank felt clumsy and ordinary walking beside the younger man.

“Some do,” he hummed, his boot connecting with a pine cone, sending it flying across the forest path. Finn ran ahead, bending down, still running as he picked it up in a sweeping movement. Jogging backward in front of Hank, he held up the cone between them, eyes glowing.

“Which tree is this from?” he spoke, his slender fingers cradling the dull brown cone like it was some rare treasure. Jesus Christ , this was gonna be a long-ass winter. Well, as long as they didn’t snow in like during the Great Blizzard of 1975, he would at least get a few hours of peace every day at the shop. Yeah, a blizzard at this point would be a minor catastrophe.