#SLEEP IN YOUR BARN. BREAK BREAD WITH YOUR BELOVED FAMILY.

[onthesubjectofanything]

something deeply real and homosexual and frightening happened to those two after reggie got home from basketball camp, after archie spent the summer keeping that home safe

and whatever it was it scared archie so bad he ran straight to his little quad and then all the way to california into the arms of a nameless wife and he never fucking looked back, he couldnt look back

[iliveiloveiwrite]

For blurb night!! Fluff 7 10 and 13 for Anthony and misc 4 and 8 for Bucky!!💕💕💕💕My two soft and angsty boys🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

(these are going to be under a ‘keep reading’ as it’s two requests, thank your for taking part)

To Wait For You

Fluff 7: “Of course I waited for you.” // Fluff 10: “You look wonderful.” // Fluff 13: “Are you wearing my clothes?”

blurb requests are closed, please do not send anymore.

London in May is decidedly wet. Though Spring was in full swing, the heavens had opened through the night and a rain had soaked the city. 

At some point in the night, you had been chased from sleep by your dreams. Your husband lay soundly asleep by your side; a hand outstretched, wanting to touch you even in the deepest of dreamlike states. Knowing full well that you weren't going to be falling back asleep soon, you left your marriage bed, grabbing a piece of clothing from the floor, and leaving your beloved husband to sleep in peace. 

Condensation lines the window of Anthony’s office and you rest your forehead against it with a sigh. The staff would be up soon, wanting to get the fires lit so the house would be comfortable when you both awoke. It seemed today, however, you would be active before the staff. 

You couldn't pinpoint why you had woken up; the dream wasn't frightful and you hadn't gone to bed angry. Rather the opposite, you had fallen asleep wrapped up in the strong arms of the man you pledged your forever to. Pressing a hand to your face, you go through the events of the last few days, wondering and pondering over why your body didn't need the sleep. 

“Are you wearing my clothes?” Anthony asks, his voice hoarse with disuse. Ten minutes ago he had been fast asleep, now he was standing in his study watching you fiddle with the hem of his white dress shirt. 

“I grabbed the first thing I could find,” You admit sheepishly after startling sightly. You peer up at your husband through your lashes. “I can find something else if you don't think it’s appropriate...”

“No!” Anthony all but shouts, his voice loud in the early hours. “Don’t change. You look wonderful.”

Your face flashes at the compliment; still very much in the honeymoon phase of the marriage. The actual honeymoon had ended some weeks ago; returning to London with your husband on your arm to find that you were very much having trouble keeping your hands off him. Who wouldn't? He had eyes of sapphire, and a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. It felt inevitable that you were to fall for the Viscount. 

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Anthony asks, joining you at the window where he reaches for your hand, feeling the coldness and rubbing some warmth into them.

You smile at the action, utterly besotted by the blue eyed man across from you. “I’m not too sure,” You answer honestly, “I can't seem to find a reason.”

“That means you've been thinking too much.”

“Have I?” You laugh, “I suppose I have.”

“What about?”

“Us, I suppose,” You sigh happily, poking your husband with a toe. “I’ve been thinking about us.”

“Good things I hope,” Anthony smiles wryly. 

“The best,” You laugh. “I’m glad you waited for me,” You whisper, thinking of the age difference between you and your husband. Five years wasn't a lot in your eyes, but to some, it was a gaping void that could only bring trouble. 

Anthony brings your joined hands to his lips where he presses kiss after kiss to the back of your hand. “Of course I waited for you. I love you too much.”

“I love you too.”

--------

Hatboxes and Love Letters

Misc 4: pinky promises // Misc 8: handwritten love letters.

The tradition knows no origins. A Barnes’ family secret for as long as the child could remember; her mother and her father leaving notes around the house. Menial notes that ask for more bread to bought from the supermarket, that the child has a dance recital that we absolutely cannot miss - call everyone and remind them. 

Other notes were kept out of the child’s eyes, a secret unknown until the child had turned into a teenager. 

The teenager found the box full of love letters on a whim. An old hat box sitting on a shelf; the colour faded, a sign of its age. The lid slides off easily, showing light on countless pieces of paper - some long, some short, some brown with age and some fresh as if written just yesterday. 

The teenager delves right in, reading and reading as if she were running out of breath.

“I’ve lived what feels like a thousand different lives, but the one I have with you is what I will cherish most. Pinky promise, Bucky.”

“Look after my heart, I know it’s safe with you. Pinky promise, Bucky.”

“I still think of the first night you told me you loved me. Doll, I’ve never known happiness like that until the day we brought our child home. Pinky promise, Bucky.”

“To be given the chance to live my life with you - the love of my life - that is what I fight for. My heart beats for you, doll. Pinky promise, Bucky.”

“What have you found?” He mother asks from the doorway, no trace of anger in her voice. 

“I was reaching for one of dad’s jumpers, but I found this,” The teenager gestures to the hatbox and the letters piled in there.

“I haven't read these in a long time,” Her mother muses, a soft smile turning up the corners of her ageing face.

“What does ‘pinky promise’ mean? All the letters from both you and dad are signed with ‘pinky promise’.”

“When your father used to go out on missions all those years ago, I would make him pinky promise to come back to me. A pinky promise is sacred you see, you can't break them. After a while, ‘pinky promise’ replaced ‘I love you’ in our language,” Her mother confesses, taking a seat on the edge of her bed and holding a hand out for the hatbox of love letters.

The teenager hands them over, watching the memories flicker over her mother’s face as if it were her own private cinema. At this moment, the teenager feels as if she has invaded some private memory - something to be shared only between her mother and father.  

Another voice sounds from the door. “Sentimental, doll?” Bucky laughs.

Her mother smiles, looking like a love-struck teenager as she faces her husband. “Always when it comes to you.”

Her father places a hand over his heart, winking at the teenager before joining her mother on the bed. “I can’t believe you kept them all.”

“Always and forever,” Her mother murmurs, holding her pinky finger up. 

“Always and forever,” Bucky echoes, hooking his pinky around her mother's. “Pinky promise.”

[fuzzydemolitionsquad]

The Tractor

                                                   Part   1

A rusty GNK droid plodded across the farmstead’s dirt yard, its pace much slower than its maker had programmed it to be.

It was morning. The sun had just peeked over the humped ridges of evergreen trees in the distance. The air was already beginning to warm and the humidity was high.

The GNK tried to ignore the condensation building on its circuit boards. It made a deep gonking groan and tilted its boxy body toward the sky. How dreary it was to waddle around a farm, looking for something in need of power.

Why couldn’t I have been a spaceship, a sleek X-wing, or a roaring TIE? The sky beckoned. The GNK moaned sadly .

Its dream suddenly ceased to be when a circuit in its electronic brain crackled. Sense of duty restored, the GNK marched toward a shed containing the chooken brooder. There, behind a wall of woven wire, a passel of fuzzy, powder-blue chicks snuggled together. The cord to their heater box had come loose, pulled out by a pesky varmint who chewed it to a fray . The GNK  plugged a pronged service arm into the box and powered down to fifty-percent so that it could rest.

And dream.

Pa Trodd stepped out of the farmhouse’s door and stood on the porch drinking his morning caf. He snapped his suspenders and looked at the large and formidable anooba laying upside down on her back and staring back at him.

“ Whadda yew say ol’ Gracie. . . wanna hep me till that quarter acre fer ma’s garden?”

Gracie’s tail thumped the porch’s wood planking so hard it raised a ferocious cloud of dust. The anooba stood up and stretched and trotted over to where pa was standing.

“Dat’s my girl.” The lasat thumped her side and scratched her ears.”When we done ahl gives ya a nice big soup bone anna plate a kalgow jowls for breakfast. Howzzat sound?”

The anooba's brushy black and tan mane quivered. Pa stepped off the porch, slapped his thigh and whistled. Gracie galloped to his side,  her tongue lolling and her great jaws clacking. She gently took his wrist into her mouth and followed him to the barn where the old tractor sat.

                                                                **

Zeb Orrelios opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling and smiled. He was back home.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love the barracks at the academy–on the contrary–all of his best mates were there. He chuckled as he thought of serious Geezer who–didn’t look like it– but had connections to the owners of every dive cantina and strip parlor in the Capitol.

Zeb checked his chrono on the nightstand and jumped out of bed. The delicious aroma of   bacon and maize-bread, fried eggs and beans tugged at his nostrils like a farmer leading a hammerhead bull by the nose-ring. Being away on leave meant ma’s home cooking and lots of it. It wasn’t uncommon for Zeb to put on  fifteen or twenty pounds during his stays with his family. Of course, it was all converted to muscle. Zeb  thought of the academy.  If it was one thing he didn’t like there, it was Private Rrazchow’s breakfast special, a plate of jellied meat chunks floating in greasy gravy and served on a couple pieces of stone-dry bread. Zeb and his mates affectionately referred to the entree as ‘dung on a raft.’

Zeb looked into the full length mirror and couldn’t help but smile. His stripes were growing a deeper purple, a nice contrast to the pale lavender of his base coat. His beard was darker too, and  a lot thicker than it was the last time he was home.

“Looking good.” He pointed into the mirror with both index fingers and made a clicking sound with his tongue. Pulling on a pair of skivvies he grabbed his scrub brush and towel and headed to the wash room to pump water into the round wooden tub he had taken baths in when he was a child. It seemed so big back then, a veritable ocean. Now he couldn’t even stretch out his legs.

Ma Trodd served up plates of bacon, beans and bread then padded back to the stove to pick up a huge iron skillet full of sputtering eggs. She went around the table, neatly plopping two eggs on every plate.

Jax rolled his eyes and slammed his elbows down on the table. “Aww ma, yew know I like mah aigs on m’ beans! Now there’s yolk all over the maize-bread!”

“Land-a-muddlin’ Jax!” Ma put her furry hand on her hip. “Yew done act like I kilt yer best friend. They’s a lot worse thangs happ’nin in thee universe then aigs a’leakin’ on bread!”

“I’m sorry ma. Didn’t mean t’ get yew riled.”

“She’s not riled.” Sister Sal said, cutting a dainty slice of egg with the side of her fork. “She’s worried. Mizz Yogg  was telling her about the Coruscant emperor. He’s got six more planets under his belt.”

Brother Muss wrinkled his snubby nose. “Huh? Whadda yew mean, sis?”

“He stole them. Not fair and not square.”

“How do you steal a planet?”

“With a lot of guns.” Puggles grunted through a mouthful of breakfast. Egg yolk glistened in his shaggy beard.

Sally nodded her head. “It’s true. Unfortunately.”

Ma’s yellow eyes flashed with fear. “ Some people is fightin’ back. Mercy. There might be another Clone Wars round thee corner.”

“Ain’t no Jedi left t’ fight um.” Brother Jimbo said, subdued, a sweating beer can held to his forehead. He hadn’t touched his breakfast. The hangover he was fighting demanded some hair-of the bantha first.

Sister Shoog changed the subject. “ I shore wish cuzzin Zeb could stay longer. He’s only got two more days, and he promised to take me to the fair.”

“Cuzzin Zeb never breaks his promises.” Said Muss.

“CuZzIn ZeB NEEEEEVER BreAKs his PrOmiSes. . . Puggles said in a wheedly, exaggerated voice, his face puckered like a dried korbapple.

“Did I hear my name?” Zeb said from the foot of the staircase. He hopped down and entered the kitchen.

Ma beamed. “ Bout’ time yew got up! Sit at the table. I’ll git yer vittles ready. Did you sleep well?”

“I slept like Firuz in his tomb.” Zeb  said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his breakfast.  Maybe tomorrow ma would make her special spawffles and needle tree syrup. He was about to tuck his napkin into the front of his shirt when-

“Hey, did you all hear something?”

“ Like what?”

Like bellowing. Sounds like the Lunx’s  bull got out of his pen again.”

There was a stamping of feet out on the porch. Older sister Hallie opened the front door and hurried inside. She set her basket of herbs on the table and started to pour herself a cup of caf.

“ Pa’s out in the field and he’s cussin’ up a dust storm. I mean, worse then usual.”

“ Ma clutched her apron. “Goodness child! D’yuh think he’s a’right?”

“I asked him, but he jus’ kept on a hollerin’ and   carrying on. I think the tractor musta broke down or sumthin’.”

“Great an’ benev-lent Bearded One.” Ma groaned as she served  Zeb his breakfast. “I’m  gonna hear ‘bout this til thee end a’ days…Jimbo, Jax,  go see what’s goin’ on, woudja dears?”

Jimbo looked up. His yellow-orange eyes were rimmed with red. “ Ma! I jus found out mah girl is courtin’ another he-male! I cain’t take pa’s bellyachin’ right now. I’m too e-moshan-lee com-pree-mized!”

Shoog  rolled her eyes.

Ma looked at Jax, who panicked.

“I’m late for mah sparrin’ practice!”  The blotch-coated lasat rose from his chair and threw his napkin on his plate.

“Now where’s mah boxin’ gloves at?” Jax ran from the kitchen.

Zeb forked his food between two pieces of maize-bread, making a giant to-go sandwich. He  scooted his chair back and grabbed Puggles by his scrawny wrist.

“Let’s go help pa!”

“Help Pa? Is yew crazy? He’ll tie me into a Mon Calamari sailor knot fer intrudin’ on his bad mood!”

“ Not if we solve his problem.”

Pa raged. He pounded on the tractor’s hood and stamped the turf beneath his feet, turning it  into a large patch of dark dirt. Gracie sat on her makeshift perch next to the tractor’s seat, grinning and panting, her tongue darting in and out of her mouth. Every time a fist came close she attempted to give it a sloppy kiss.

“ WHAT IN CONSARN-A-SHUN IZ WRONG WID YEW, YEH BLASTED CONTRAPTION!!!???”

“TAR-BUBBLIN’ LAZYBUMP SONNAVA JUGHEADED PLEASURE DROID!!!”

“ POCKMARKED’ PISSENGINE!!

“CHEAP PIECE A’ RUSTED RUIN!!”

“DROIDSON BATTERYDOOKER!!!”

“Do you kiss ma with that mouth?”

Rufus Trodd whirled around. He saw his beloved nephew standing there, smiling, his demeanor as calm as a boodle bug floating on the surface of a still pond.

“She would faint if she heard you cursing like that.”

Pa’s giant mitt batted at the air. “ Aww. Not now Zebidiah. I’m inna awful gaumy stew.”

Puggles stepped out from behind his brave younger cousin.

Looky here pa, I brang yeh a nice cold one! I thanked yew could use it.”

The mammoth  lasat grabbed the offered six pack of beer, cracked each can open with machine-like speed and poured six streams of  golden brew into his cavernous mouth. He wiped  the stray foam from his mane and belched.

“Thanks son. Remind me not t’ call yew an ijit next time yew piss me off.”

Zeb approached the tractor. He ran his hands over three, still-warm engine cowls and sniffed the turbines and jet ports. “What’s going on with her?”

“She were running fine, then all of a sudden, she starts a’shaking and a sputterin’. Den the jets got all quiet-like. How did I blow up three engines? That tiller I’m towin' behind her don’t weigh that much. Hells, I towed a big ol’ howler-barr to thee taxidermist with dis here tractor. ”

Zeb scratched his head. “Was there any smoke?”

Pa thrust out his thick lower lip and tapped one of his fangs. “Now thet I think about it. . . not a hole lot. Jus’ a little puffin’ out from under thee hood.”

“Ah-ha. Pop the hood Puggles.”

The little lasat obeyed and the tractor’s  boxy mouth opened with a ‘TUMP’ Zeb raised the hood, looked inside and saw the problem immediately.

“It’s not the engines, pa. It’s your injector cylinder. Are you running super-lean Kashyyk oil in her?”

“Shore as dust I am!”

“Well, it must be  clogged with dirt. The guy you bought this from should have changed it before he sold it.”

Pa snorted. “Figures.”

Zeb changed the subject. He patted the old Agri-Hover. You know, inside, these tractors are almost identical to the inside of the tanks in the royal army. They really ARE well made. Let’s pull the injector and Puggles and I will go into town and get a new one.”

Pa looked resigned to his fate of plowing the field by himself. Why did he sell that good team of muley-tauns? They weren’t that long in the tooth.

“Payday’s not fer six more days. I don’ wanna ask ma t’ dip into her savings. She ain’t got that much anyway.”

Zeb grabbed Puggles by the ear and tugged him away’t so pa couldn’t hear.

“I have some extra pay this cycle.” He whispered.

“Must be nice.” Puggles' gold eyes flashed orange. “I cain’t even afford a lil’ teeny-eeny far-cracker or a pack a smokes.”

Zeb crossed his striped arms. “First of all, you shouldn’t be smoking. It’s bad for you. Second, you’re a liar. I know for a fact Hallie gave you credits for cleaning her shed. You put them in your. . . ahem, ‘detonite fund account.’”

The little lasat was incensed. He balled his bony fists and put them up, taking a fighting stance.

“I otta whup the green right outtta yer eyes yuh sucklin’-cub!! Of all thee indig-nitities! Called a larr by m’ little cuzzin!!!! Y’ain’t got the manners of that bitch anoobie over there! Come on, git yer dukes up!”

Zeb rolled his eyes and bit his lip. “ Not again.”

The young lasat was turning out to be a rather large and honorable soldier. One befitting of admiration and praise. How much longer was he going to allow his belligerent cousin to talk to him this way? Zeb sighed. A lasat couldn’t choose his family or the members within, but if he could have chosen, he would have picked what he already had,  the hard-working and sometimes crude,  spiritual, salt-of -Lasan Trodds.

“Alright you little a-hole. I’m sorry I called you a liar.  Do you have any creds you can spare? Any at all?”

Puggles put his fists down. He retrieved a toothpick from his pocket and wedged it between his crooked incisors. He made a sucking sound with his teeth.

“Maybe. . .”

[yuensteiger]

The farmer saw his wife put the breadbasket in the center of the table, he smiled thankfully but she warned him that they were not for him.

"They're for the boys, you know," said the woman, pointing to her children as they walked through the dining room door, approaching the table.

- What have I done to deserve this punishment?

- You know, you have to take care of the food, you are not so young, and I see that the wine diminishes faster and faster, do not think I do not notice.

"Come on, one slice," the farmer replied, ignoring the comment about the wine.

- It's okay! I hate those damn honey eyes you have, I can not against them, but one - said his wife walking away to the kitchen - I'll be controlling you!

- Thank you!

With a giant smile, the farmer received his sons, breaking bread, singing "come, come and see that there is bread for everyone" strong enough for his wife to hear him from the kitchen. Despite this staging he would only eat a portion of the bread, which he split into pieces to last the whole lunch.

-How was the work today guys? - He asked when they were all already sitting around, having blessed the meal and thanked his beautiful wife.

- We waited for you, said the eldest of the two young men. - It's ending the harvest season and we were waiting for you with the tractor and you never came.

- You know what happens every fall, son. You know we have to celebrate the harvest with our neighbors. We were with your mother decorating outside the barn, getting ready for the party of this weekend. This afternoon the band has to come in for rehearsals, so I can not help you either.

- You should start thinking about charging for the show, pa - said the youngest - I say, because it is becoming more popular every year ...

- I told you, that's not his job. - interrupted the older brother -We are farmers, not musicians. What we do at the end of the harvest is that, a party, a celebration of the hard work of the whole year. We are not a traveling circus and we will not charge our neighbors and fellow farmers for celebrating with us. If you want to make money or sell something, you can do other things, like cakes or tissues or even offer a part of the harvest ...

- Of course, without touching what we give to your beloved union. - he murmured, tossing a bite of bread, the smallest but not tall. Despite having a year of difference, his wrinkles and his way of speaking made him look bigger.

- OUR union. They are helping us in whatever we need, and yes, we have to give a portion of our harvest to help those who were not as lucky with the harvest as we are. You have to think about the community, not just your benefit, dear brother. Do you remember when Dad's tractor got stuck in the ditch? They were the first ones to come and take it out, and they did not ask for anything in return ...

- That reminds me… - interrupted finally the mother, calming the waters, as she always did: in a tone full of love, but with the firmness and wisdom necessary to avoid further discussion. - did you ask him about the boys? - She said turning to her husband.

- Ah, true, can you tell your friends from the union if they can come tomorrow to lend us a hand with the stage?

- A stage?! - Said the oldest of the brothers, the syndicalist, who wanted to control his tone of voice. Because two emotions collided within him, on one hand he wanted to emphasize the usefulness of the union to which he had joined not long ago, and to show his brother that it was not wasted money to give part of the harvest to his comrades. But at the same time, he did not want the celebration to turn into a carnival, an event so great that he set aside his year-round work, that his father be considered a musician rather than a respected farmer who opens his doors to his neighbors.

- You see? It is time to sell tickets, we have to seize the moment, we are entertaining many people, even to several towns. Not only our neighbors come to see Dad and the band, we could buy more chairs, so they would not have to bring theirs or sit on the floor.

- It is true that I have seen several people from other villages last year, - said the father thoughtfully, stroking his brown beard with dyes of red, meditating the possibilities - not only farmers, I saw the bartender of Scarlet Town with his new girlfriend . I know that some sailors from the neighboring coastal town were there, I heard them partying some songs. I understand that even the mayor was interested in coming to know us.

- Maybe we could record a couple of songs and send to him, probably he wants to contribute something and we will improve the farm and the facilities a bit ... - said the younger brother, who spoke more and more excited about the idea of having someone like the Mayor on the farm.

- Now you want to get politicians ?! - The syndicalist brother said in complete terror.

- I thought it was a family celebration - finally speak the mother of the house, to the surprise and complete relief of the eldest son, who snorted and felt it like a glass of water in the desert, which looked increasingly dry . - Can you imagine how the farm will be when the politician leaves with his caravan? And the image that would give us between our neighbors? I do not think it's worth submitting to that.

- But a record of his own, of his songs, he would be famous ...

- Your mother is right, - interrupted the father - we do not really need that, this is our thing, not the state. We are celebrating our work, from the beginning it was and will be like this. The fact that we invite the neighbors and the doors are open, it is because they also worked hard and we help each other in times of crisis and we want to share this joy, not take advantage of them.

The syndicalist son, who could imagine the face of his union comrades, when they found out that the mayor was on his farm, eating his food and using his house for political campaign, would undoubtedly get him out of the union and there would be no more help for his family, he felt his soul suddenly go back to his body and his chest swell.

- Just tell me when you want them to be setting the stage and they will be here without hesitation. They can help in what you need during your show and I will ask you to stay to lend a hand with the cleaning at dawn once we finish the celebrations or you prefer the early morning?

-That's what I wanted to talk to you about too, -  the father replied, looking a little more tense. -I'm not sure if I want them to be here during the show, maybe on the first night, Thursday night, there will be less people and the songs will not be so clean. But at the closing show, Saturday night, I would prefer that they not be present during the show and come Sunday morning, to clean and disarm the stage.

- Why? He ask in complete surprise.

- I know them, son. - he said softening his tone, approaching to the eldest of his children, painting his voice with tenderness and experience - I have known the unions for many years, I know they put the situations tense and it is not what we look for the festivities. We want people to feel in family, not to have eyes watching everything, talking low, planning, pressing those who do not pay the fees they ask, distributing their propaganda. Do you understand what I ask?

- It's okay, I understand - he said with some sadness in his eyes.

The rest of the lunch went on without much surprise, and there were no issues such as the union or recording a songs, much less the mayor. Until it was interrupted by a knock on the wooden door, which was increasing in intensity, but always keeping the rhythm. The whole family's face lit up and a smile was painted on each of its members. Quick, the youngest at the table, got up and went to open the door. From the table they could listen a scream, a laugh and a hug so loud that it rumbled through the house.

One of the band members had arrived, the boys' uncle. After melting in a hug with his nephew, he went in the house shouted and laughed, giving the boy his guitar to carry, he knew that the kid had some curiosity about music and liked to be close to the instruments since he was a child. The Musician was white-skinned as his sister and with the same deep blue eyes, eyes that saw everything, but with an aquiline nose and a well defined jaw that differentiated it from her, which with delicate and subtle features completely enamored the farmer her husband. He shortly after knowing her was completely determined to marry her and make her the happiest woman on the planet, and that nothing would be lacking. He was never sure if she had missed anything in all these years of marriage, but he knew she was happy with him and cared for him with her whole being.

His brother-in-law also knew it, so much that he chose him to found the band that played in the small meetings they held to celebrate the harvests, and little by little they became brothers and partners as the meetings became the small festival that they rode on the farm every year.

- Sometimes I do not know whether he is my younger brother or yours - She used to tell them mockingly when she saw them rehearse well into the night, as she was preparing to go to bed, knowing that they would go to sleep when the crickets did. And that the house would smell of tobacco for several days. The farmer, with his mandolin, and his brother-in-law, with his guitar, played a string and left it ringing as they bowed to it, and said goodbye to her, crying of "Goodbye, ma!"

The night that her musician brother came, the mother of the house ordered his real children, put his suitcases in the room they had prepared for him. She knew that this week would be the mother of four children who had to have at bay and that the normal hours of the house would be altered, "is once a year, ma, let's have fun," his brother used to say spinning her like a spin on the middle of the room while they danced.

- I think the boys are big enough, do not you think brother-in-law? They can take part in the rehearsal, maybe we can teach them some musical tricks, so they can get lucky with some young lady at the festival - the Musician said, during dinner, winking at the smallest of his nephews, who was the one who really wanted to have him in the rehearsal, but he could not pass over the major, he could never understand him, he always seemed so serious and content.

All the eyes of the table went to the woman in the house, begging for approval. She ignored them and kept talking about something else while eating, until the end of the dinner did not give them the answer, which she had already decided as soon as they asked. It was a small game that she had, to see how much they wanted to do what they asked. With this technique she was able to defuse many pumps and inconsistent orders, which her children asked without thinking well.

- Okay. - He said with a snort, a mischievous grin. -But no tobacco for them, look, I'll be controlling you all.

- Jujuju! - Laughed the Musician hitting the back of his favorite nephew, hugging him by the neck - This will be good!

They all laughed and finished dinner. While the eldest of the brothers helped the mother to gather the dishes, the youngest ran off in search of the instruments, and the Farmer with his brother-in-law carried the chairs to the gallery of the house.

The night was starry and the moon illuminated the whole farm. The oldest of the brothers came with a bottle of whiskey, sent by his mother. The Farmer turned to peer through the half-open door and saw his wife wink at him, he smiled and felt his heart full.

When the instruments arrived, the Musician was surprised to see a violin, and even more surprised when the older of his nephews took it and began to tune it. He looked at his uncle and raised his eyebrows, his eyes were the same as his own, the traditional eyes of his family, but the youngest of the family, was the exact copy of his father, even the beard that was emerging of his face, and trimmed it neatly to age his features, had that reddish hue of the other side of the family.

The boy had a perfect control of the violin, he even knew how to play with the libretto, thing that his uncle loved, who changed his opinion about his nephew song after song. And so the night and rehearsal were flowing in a very natural and magical way, to the last song, where the adults left the instruments and started to take the whiskey watching as the young people had fun and they only accompanied with the choirs. At the end of the rehearsal, the uncle handed his little nephew the whiskey bottle while the Farmer lit a cigar.

The youngest of the brothers, tasted a drink and spit it out, to everyone's laughter. The older  brother took the bottle and poured himself into a glass solemnly, and was slowly swallowing the drink that burned his throat, and knew it, from escapades with his friends from the union. The bottle returned to his father, while his uncle took the cigar, the four stood staring at the nightan how the moon with its light bathed the barn and the field in all its length.

You are growing, boys, - said the uncle -what do they plan to do when you grow up a little more?

- I want to remain a farmer, -replied the elder brother - I like to work in the countryside and I would like to help the community and fight for their rights against the companies.

- Your father told me that you were helping the union and that you were participating a lot.

- Yes, it is time for the big factories and companies to stop oppressing us, we have to take care of each other, Uncle. No one will if we do not.

- You have to be careful with the revolts, some are usually violent ...

- I want to continue working with the farm, - jumped the youngest - but I think there are many ways in which it can be improved, to get more profit, looking for more variety to crops and byproducts. Maybe sell out of the community, to big cities. I would also like to be able to go there, and market myself, confront the big businessmen and show them that we are up to them, and what our products are worth.

- You have two little fighters here, dear brother - said the Musician affectionately.

The Farmer stood all the time, hammocking his chair, staring at the stars, smoking his cigar and listening as his sons showed their personalities to their uncle. The two clearly had warm blood, but they had different ends, they looked at things in different ways. Both felt injustice towards the treatment that this zone of the country had, injustice that had been scattered for many years and perhaps continues to spread, once he is no longer with his tractor walking in the fields. These camps, he thought, who had seen history come and go, had colonels and their wars marched, and revolutionaries promising better times, all died before seeing their dreams fulfilled or seeing them destroyed by the next. He felt the breeze of autumn taking the smoke of the cigar, he knew that breeze came from other sides and other times that saw the wheat and the corn of the field grow, that saw floods and droughts. He felt all the poverty of the people, remembered his childhood, the stories that told him about the war, a war of brothers, a war of neighbors, left the history unbalanced. Looking into the eyes of his youngest son, who finished counting on what he wanted to fight, and marking him forever, he continued with the joke his brother-in-law had planted, but with deep sincerity he said:

- You know, son, one of these days, the south will rise again.