![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
You&& (working title) is a queer novella about when home is other people, including the monsters lurking in the woods. Check out the about page here. You&& is a sequel to Sometimes The Mountain Buries You.
It's another five years before Sheppard finally dies; Basin knows him for all of five months. When the preceding veterinarian had disclosed that Sheppard existed—that Sheppard came to the clinic for medical care, that the veterinarian position in this town was available because the preceding veterinarian was retiring to live in the woods and take close care of Sheppard—the preceding veterinarian told Basin how the last five years had run their course.
After an incident neither the preceding veterinarian nor Sheppard would go into detail about, Sheppard's health had been "better for a while". The preceding veterinarian had hoped that Sheppard had stabilized, but in reality he was just falling apart slower.
They had tried everything to get him back in his "better for a while" condition. And then they tried everything to get him to stop declining. And then they just wanted comfort, time together, and to ease the process as much as was possible.
Once the preceding veterinarian had decided to retire, to live with Sheppard in the woods and take care of his decaying body full-time, it took half a year to find a suitable replacement veterinarian.
Basin is relatively new and relatively inexperienced, professionally. They grew up in what had been more of a town and had turned into more of a city before they left, in not the same but a similar area to where the preceding veterinarian and Sheppard made their home, surrounded by and tending farm animals large and small, common and less so. Outside of medical science and diagnostic equipment, the joke they stopped telling after some weeks of icy reception by their fellow staff at their first veterinary job was that certification was 'just a formality'.
Basin is not relatively new and relatively inexperienced to the possibility of things like Sheppard. "Hop enough trains and you see things in the places no one lives." They learn everything the preceding veterinarian is willing to teach them about providing whatever Sheppard is medical care with little shock and awe.
They don't learn about the practices Sheppard has been doing to keep himself alive past due.
What they do share between the three of them are meals, where to pick berries, where to fish. They share evenings mesmerized by flickering flames after card games and meals of berries and fish. Basin learns all the best spots along the river to swim and to cliff jump. Basin learns the names of people in town until too many people are in town to remember. The preceding veterinarian reassures Basin when they fumble the responsibilities of running a veterinary clinic. Sheppard and Basin swap stories about the things they've seen in the places no one lives.
On a late summer day, in the quiet clinic, Basin sits eyes unfocused and adrift as the preceding veterinarian notifies them of Sheppard's passing.
In five months, the meaning of living here in this town had become more about this abnormal circumstance than this job. Basin had come here for the job, intending to use the stability of guaranteed pay and housing to be a place for others to rest and rely on. They hadn't intended to rest and rely on the preceding veterinarian and Sheppard. They had planned on providing a home, not finding and losing one.
On the wide rocky bank of the near-autumn shrinking river, the preceding veterinarian doesn't have to wait long for It to show up. Having walked some distance up river from where the waters veer nearest town, the pervasive silence stretches far for its audience of one. The preceding veterinarian feels some pride for noticing the silence well before It emerges from the opposing bank's treeline.
It lumbers across the rocky shore and through the warmest the river will be. There's a steely acceptance and tired concession from the preceding veterinarian who is mourning and grief-stricken—who has always been mourning and grief-stricken—and then It takes the preceding veterinarian with a horrendous rending cacophony of skin, muscle, cartilage, and organs.
It anew, not that It which had emerged from the treeline, lumbers not-back across the river not-returning to the woods and disappears as the tranquil hum of the near-autumn shrinking river restores.
One day, not long after, with nowhere else to go but no desire to stay, Basin leaves town.
It's another five years before Sheppard finally dies; Basin knows him for all of five months. When the preceding veterinarian had disclosed that Sheppard existed—that Sheppard came to the clinic for medical care, that the veterinarian position in this town was available because the preceding veterinarian was retiring to live in the woods and take close care of Sheppard—the preceding veterinarian told Basin how the last five years had run their course.
After an incident neither the preceding veterinarian nor Sheppard would go into detail about, Sheppard's health had been "better for a while". The preceding veterinarian had hoped that Sheppard had stabilized, but in reality he was just falling apart slower.
They had tried everything to get him back in his "better for a while" condition. And then they tried everything to get him to stop declining. And then they just wanted comfort, time together, and to ease the process as much as was possible.
Once the preceding veterinarian had decided to retire, to live with Sheppard in the woods and take care of his decaying body full-time, it took half a year to find a suitable replacement veterinarian.
Basin is relatively new and relatively inexperienced, professionally. They grew up in what had been more of a town and had turned into more of a city before they left, in not the same but a similar area to where the preceding veterinarian and Sheppard made their home, surrounded by and tending farm animals large and small, common and less so. Outside of medical science and diagnostic equipment, the joke they stopped telling after some weeks of icy reception by their fellow staff at their first veterinary job was that certification was 'just a formality'.
Basin is not relatively new and relatively inexperienced to the possibility of things like Sheppard. "Hop enough trains and you see things in the places no one lives." They learn everything the preceding veterinarian is willing to teach them about providing whatever Sheppard is medical care with little shock and awe.
They don't learn about the practices Sheppard has been doing to keep himself alive past due.
What they do share between the three of them are meals, where to pick berries, where to fish. They share evenings mesmerized by flickering flames after card games and meals of berries and fish. Basin learns all the best spots along the river to swim and to cliff jump. Basin learns the names of people in town until too many people are in town to remember. The preceding veterinarian reassures Basin when they fumble the responsibilities of running a veterinary clinic. Sheppard and Basin swap stories about the things they've seen in the places no one lives.
On a late summer day, in the quiet clinic, Basin sits eyes unfocused and adrift as the preceding veterinarian notifies them of Sheppard's passing.
In five months, the meaning of living here in this town had become more about this abnormal circumstance than this job. Basin had come here for the job, intending to use the stability of guaranteed pay and housing to be a place for others to rest and rely on. They hadn't intended to rest and rely on the preceding veterinarian and Sheppard. They had planned on providing a home, not finding and losing one.
On the wide rocky bank of the near-autumn shrinking river, the preceding veterinarian doesn't have to wait long for It to show up. Having walked some distance up river from where the waters veer nearest town, the pervasive silence stretches far for its audience of one. The preceding veterinarian feels some pride for noticing the silence well before It emerges from the opposing bank's treeline.
It lumbers across the rocky shore and through the warmest the river will be. There's a steely acceptance and tired concession from the preceding veterinarian who is mourning and grief-stricken—who has always been mourning and grief-stricken—and then It takes the preceding veterinarian with a horrendous rending cacophony of skin, muscle, cartilage, and organs.
It anew, not that It which had emerged from the treeline, lumbers not-back across the river not-returning to the woods and disappears as the tranquil hum of the near-autumn shrinking river restores.
One day, not long after, with nowhere else to go but no desire to stay, Basin leaves town.
