you hold Finn to sleep, cradle his face and kiss him in the mornings, sit between his knees on the light of the bonfire, steal his jackets.

when theres to one around in the vast mountain where you and Finn work in, you can be soft, and to say cowboys can be such thing is a big statement.

because cowboys are rough and tough, spurs and mud, splintered hands and bitter faces. or at least supposed to be.

you and him never followed any ‘supposed to’s anyway.

but naturally, you discovered is true, cowboys are rough, just not in the way you’d expect.

Finn is grumpy today, it must be the extra moist in the morning heat, or the fact that you ran out of pumpkin soup.

or the fact that you’re leaving tomorrow, and won’t see each other till next year, everybody deals with grief differently, you’ve been clinging to him all week, he’s been hurting so bad he can’t look at you in the face.

you’re walking back to camp after handling the sheep, he hasn’t said a word since yesterday.

you take your looped rope—aim, and he’s fallen to the grass, he tugs you by the same rope, and soon enough you’re rolling along the field like wild animals.

it’s supposed to be fun, you do this all the time, you’re laughing, he’s not, but he wrestles back anyway.

it turns into something else, like sweet milk gone sour, he’s angry, and frustrated, that he can’t be with you, he wants to be with you all the time—all goddamn year long, why does he has time say goodbye for so long?

he’s bleeding, an elbow that sprung to his nose accidentally too hard—you didn’t mean it, you immediately panic and try to make it stop, hold him steady by the sides of his face but he’s restless, swinging and soon enough you realize; crying, unable to look at you in the eye without sobbing.

he loves you too much. but he can’t, it’s not fair.