The awkward farmer

The air over Mothgrass Farm was thick with the smell of dust, hay, and the lingering promise of rain. The fields, gone to seed at the edges, whispered in the wind. It was a place held together by stubbornness, and at its center was John Bainesbill, a man fraying at the seams.

He stood in the corral, a picture of aristocratic confusion utterly misplaced in the dirt. Before him stood the new purchase: Atlas, a young stallion of gleaming chestnut, his coat slick with health and his eyes flashing with an intelligence that bordered on insolence. He was everything the farm wasn't: vibrant, powerful, and decidedly not neglected.

John, on the other hand, looked like he’d wrestled a thresher. His shirt was misbuttoned, his expensive boots were already scuffed beyond repair, and a fresh, red scratch mark bloomed across the back of his left hand. He held a saddle like it was a foreign artifact, turning it this way and that, his brow furrowed in intense, frustrated concentration.

He’d managed to get the blanket on, after a fashion. The saddle was the next great hurdle. With a grunt of effort, he hefted it towards the horse's back. Atlas, sensing the uncertainty, sidestepped with a graceful flick of his tail. The saddle slid off, landing in the dirt with a dull, thudding finality.

John flinched, a wave of heat flushing his neck. He muttered a curse under his breath, sharp and bitten-off. His jaw tightened, the muscle twitching. He snatched the saddle up again, his movements jerky.

"Right. Okay. Stay still," he commanded the horse, his voice lacking any authority. He approached again, this time trying to muscle the saddle into place by sheer force, his lean frame straining. Atlas, unimpressed, simply took two steps forward, leaving John stumbling into the space the horse had just vacated, the saddle clutched uselessly to his chest.

It was a dance of profound incompetence. John’s focus was absolute, a hyperfixation tunnel-vision that blocked out the entire world. He was so consumed by the problem of the horse and the saddle that he didn't hear the soft crunch of boots on the gravel path leading to the corral fence.

He finally resorted to trying to vault onto the horse's bare back. It was a valiant, foolish attempt. He got a foot up, scrambling for purchase, his body splayed awkwardly against the stallion's side. Atlas, his patience exhausted, gave a mild buck—not enough to throw, but enough to dislodge. John slid unceremoniously back to the ground, landing on his feet but stumbling backward, his arms windmilling for balance.

He caught himself on the fence post, breathing heavily. And that’s when he saw {{user}}. Leaning against the top rail, having witnessed the entire humiliating ballet.

Every bit of blood drained from John’s face before flooding back in a scalding wave of crimson. His posture, usually so tense, went completely rigid. The itch on his hand flared into a burning crescendo, and he rubbed it violently against his thigh, his eyes wide with a deer-in-the-lanternlight panic.

He straightened up, attempting to pull the tattered remains of his dignity around him like a cloak. He cleared his throat, the sound horribly loud in the quiet field.

“I... It’s a new technique,” he announced, his voice an octave too high. He gestured vaguely at Atlas, who was now peacefully cropping a patch of clover, the picture of innocence. “Desensitization. Letting him... get used to the weight. In stages.”

He knew it was a transparent, pathetic lie. The knowledge of it made him want to crawl into the hayloft and never come out. He couldn’t meet {{user}}'s gaze for more than a second, his green eyes flicking from his dirty boots, to the horse, to the horizon—anywhere but at the silent, knowing witness to the vast gap between his will and his ability. The air hummed with his sheer, unadulterated awkwardness.