Work Text:
Art done by the amazing oldowlshollow
Elliott March had never found a sense of calm in routine. To him, it signified control. Signified all the parts of his childhood that he wanted to forget.
That made him feel less than.
By the age of eight, Elliott was dragged out of bed promptly at 6am. He was washed, dressed, fed, and passed off to his first tutor of the day.
By 8am he was in school, fidgeting in the scratchy grey wool of his uniform, trying not to get caught as he picked at the fine embroidery on the crest on his jacket.
10am was recess. Students running to play soccer or tag while he sat and daydreamed. It was the smallest reprieve from his regimented existence that he was granted.
After school was no different. The rest of his days were sliced up into segments, Elliott barely getting a sliver to himself.
Piano lessons on Mondays?
Check.
Horseback riding on Tuesdays?
Check.
Tutoring in mathematics three times a week?
Check. Check. Check.
Silent study every night before bed?
Check.
On those rare occasions where Elliott would try to deviate from his predetermined path, he would instantly be shot down. Firmly snapped back into place like a puzzle piece. Even if his request was something as simple as sitting under the large elm tree on his family's property just to breathe for a moment. It was always a firm no. In their eyes, it would have been considered a complete waste of time.
And that was simply something the March family would not abide.
Sometimes, he thought his family felt that if they could just keep him busy enough — keep him active and engaged in hobbies that they deemed worthy — that he would suddenly, somehow bend to their rules and change to fit their needs.
But Elliott never did. He never could… and never understood why he felt like such a black sheep most of the time.
As time marched on, Elliott's responsibilities changed, but the sense of entitlement to his time never did.
As a young adult, he was thrown into charity galas and networking events. Put to work writing speeches for his older brother's budding political career, and being forced to socialize in the right circles over endless games of golf (ick) and afternoons of yachting (yoba, help him).
Elliott was always there in the background, collecting demands like crab cakes piled high on his plate. Any protests were met with guilt. With the need for him to fulfill some fabricated sense of duty to his family when he had given so much of himself away to them already. He was starting to forget his own very real wants and needs.
It had all come to a head one winter in his mid 30's when the cost of not living his life for himself finally became too much.
Even if he failed, he wanted to say that he had done it. That he had written his book.
"But Elliott, where will you find the time for such an endeavour?"
"Don't you have that speech to write for your brother's upcoming campaign?"
"Frivolities. Novel writing is so pedestrian. You were meant for so much more."
"You do know that most authors fail, right? We will not be pulling any strings for you."
They had almost convinced him, too. The constant poison being poured into his ear had taken its toll, worn him down.
Maybe he was being silly. Surely, he could fit his hobby into evenings between his duties. But even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn't. Knew that if he stayed, they would eat his time alive, until he was completely hollowed out of any remaining joy he somehow still managed to cling to.
So, when Elliott finally broke away, and stepped outside of his rundown cabin that very first morning, he felt a sense of calm settle over him. The kind, that up until this point in his life, he had assumed was mere fiction.
Here it was, the entire day stretched out before him like a blank canvas. He could write, he could enjoy his coffee, he could take that dip in the sea just to feel the waves crash around him. He could introduce himself to the townsfolk, settle in, unpack, go at his own pace. Infinite options, and Elliott completely at the helm of his own life for all of them.
It had all been so magical at first, but even with the occasional evening spent in the company of companions at the Stardrop, the bachelor life wasn't a great fit. He balked at structure, writing until the early hours of the morning, sleeping away most of the productive hours of the day, and let the lonely nights at the saloon eat up the remainder of his creativity – and his funds – with alarming efficiency.
All that hope he'd initially arrived in Pelican Town with was fraying around the edges; much like the seams of his favourite red jacket. Elliott was worn out. Still determined to write, but with an underlying dread running through him now at the thought of having to tuck tail and move back home – certain his family would never let him live it down – would use his failure to dictate any future endeavours he might try that didn't directly align with their interests.
That's why it was such a surprise to find you amidst the melancholy of his situation.
You, and your kind eyes. Your curiosity and genuine concern.
You, who without thinking of how it would be beneficial to your needs, slowly, miraculously, managed to nudge him towards some semblance of a routine. The trick, Elliott would come to realize, was that the nudges were meant to make his life better. Not yours.
Because if he slept through the mornings, he might miss your soft knock and the pomegranate jam you brought for coffee and toast.
If he stayed awake writing all night, he'd miss the free time you had carved out to spend with him between farm chores.
Elliott found that more and more, he wanted to be present for you, take care of you, be better in ways that never mattered much to him before. The truth of the matter was that you kept filling his cup instead of draining it. He'd never experienced that in a partner before.
By the time you were married and he had settled fully into the farmhouse, Elliott marvelled at how routine had crept back into his life in the gentlest of ways, and how he now welcomed it.
At 6am, he'd wake up, slip into a robe and pad down to the kitchen to put on the pot of coffee.
By 7am, you'd be out the door and he'd clean up, heart and stomach full.
By 8am, he would take another cup of coffee to the veranda and read.
At 10am, he'd finally settle down to write, the words now flowing freely without the constraint of failure constantly hanging over his head. You had gifted him not only the time to find his words, but the support to thrive, even when he wasn't producing.
Afternoons were less structured, but still followed a regular cadence. He'd start dinner, or slip his hand in yours as you headed to the Stardrop with friends. Evenings could go any which way. Reading on the couch, walks through the Cindersap forest, stargazing in the back yard. The goal wasn't measured in the productivity of the task, but in the quality of the time spent with each other.
And now, when he ended the day, it was with you in his arms, reading little snippets of poetry that had caught his attention, or murmuring passages from what he was working on.
Yes, slowly and surely, you had somehow taken something that had been designed to make him feel less than, and injected love into it. Until one day, Elliott had realized with startling clarity, that it had never been about the routine at all, but about the family that had never seen him as he was, but as a tool to control.