Heavy, rhythmic, and solid, the sound of the hoe striking earth rang out over and over and over. Side by side, Big Macintosh and Graves tilled at the soil, their powerful muscles taut from exertion as calloused hands worked the land.
Straightening up, Graves cracked his back with a weary sigh. The sun beat down hot in the spring afternoon, and he was grateful for the shade provided by his broad, flat-brimmed hat. It didn’t stop the heat though, and sweat dripped from his brow as he paused for rest. To his side Big Macintosh did the same and ran a hand through his thick mane of hair before shaking it out in rippling waves of sun-warmed gold.
There were no words, but a silent conversation was exchanged as grey eyes met green. As one, the men moved to doff their dampened shirts, undoing the buttons one by one with ease and casual grace. There was no concern in their motions. Why should there be? The two were comfortable with each other and shared an understanding that few others could see. Who would worry about details when a bond such as that existed?
As the last button came undone, the garments came off and exposed their torsos to the midday sun. The farmer was bigger, barrel-chested and brawny with rippling muscles built from long days and heavy loads. The soldier was leaner, with chiseled facets scarred from war and forged from years of precise, martial training. Different but the same, both men rolled their broad shoulders, cracked their sturdy necks, and relished in the warmth of daylight as it shone on their sweat-slicked forms.
The two walked to the fence surrounding the field, still not talking, still not needing to. As Big Macintosh leaned against the rough wood, Graves leaned over and picked up a canteen of water. After a long, satisfying drink, the marshal capped it, and tossed it to Big Macintosh. The brawny farmer did the same, then took the rest of the contents and poured it over his head.
Graves watched as the glittering stream splashed onto that golden mane, watched as the crystal droplets dripped down across his chest and into the rivulets of his abdominals. As Big Macintosh gave his dripping hair a casual shake, Graves knew what he had to do.
He approached the farmer. Green eyes watched as Graves stood before him, reaching one hand out to lean against the rail. Big Macintosh continued watching, saying nothing as Graves leaned in, his gunmetal grey eyes shining with purpose. Closer the two drew, still silent, still no need for words.
Closer…
Closer…
Closer, and…
“… That what you wanted?”
Turning his head, Graves directed the question towards the bales of hay where Twilight sat with quill and parchment in hand. She didn’t respond. She didn’t even seem to notice and instead began scribbling away with flushed, fevered cheeks.
“Guess it worked,” Graves shrugged as he spun around to lean against the rail as well. “Applejack ever tell you what this was all about?”
“Not really,” Big Mac shrugged. “Said Twilight needed help with a writin’ project. Somethin’ about ‘yowie’ or something.” Graves frowned.
“What the hay is ‘yowie’?”
“Beats me,” Big Mac shrugged once more. “But looks like she’s happy, so it all works out, I guess.” Graves nodded.
“Looks that way.”
And so, with favors fulfilled, Graves and Big Macintosh returned to their work, oblivious to the fact that their actions that day had birth countless stories that would ring out through the hushed annals of fiction for ages to come.
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