Chapter Text
Isack is sick. Not physically, but if he has to hear another man in a perfectly pressed silk shirt fake-laugh he’s going to throw up. Or shoot something. Probably both. Damn his stupid law firm for deciding some kind of ranch-slash-farm-slash-agrotourism place two miles out from Perth was the place to have their summer retreat. He would like to spend summer back home in Paris, where it’s currently winter, where there’s family, and where his stupid colleagues are far far away. No. Instead he’s at this farm/ranch that’s only a twenty-minute walk from his office, because his firm is generous like that. He mutters something and excuses himself, stumbles out into the hot afternoon sun. Isack blinks up at it, undoes a few more buttons on his cotton shirt. The silence of four o’clock outdoors immediately makes him feel more human.
Land stretches in all directions, little cabins for guests littered across it, the main lodge with the dining room and reception behind him. The owner (Daniel? He’d looked kind of familiar) had said there were a hundred acres of land they were free to explore as much as they liked. He’d also said there were little attractions for the guests hidden all throughout the grounds. Fine then. Isack needs to clear his head. He sets off towards a patch of woods shimmering in the distance. Maybe he’ll find some sort of attraction.
The shade of the woods is welcome respite from the sun. Perth sunlight was like that, lovely in short bursts, less lovely when one had to walk under it to trees that were further than they seemed. Once he enters the woods, Isack realizes that they're much thinner than they looked. He can see sunlight on the other side, a green field. There are the sounds of bells jangling, and they sound so familiar. Isack pauses, tries to remember. Ah, he thinks suddenly, cowbells. Memories float upwards, of his whole family – mother, father, grandmother – road tripping through the Alps, stopping for hikes, being interrupted by loud happy French cows. His eyes sting a little bit, and that’s just not fair. He misses home.
And so Isack is standing there, almost crying over the sound of fucking cowbells, feeling very sorry for himself, when the jangling is joined by the soft strumming of a guitar. It sounds distinctly country, and Isack hates country music, but it’s not bad. Whoever’s playing it really knows what they’re doing. Isack follows the guitar chords floating in the air. Sue him. He’s lonely and homesick. The music is helping. Which is weird, but whatever. Australia is weird.
Isack stumbles into the sunlight, less harsh when reflecting off green grass instead of the yellowed wheat near the main lodge. A whole herd of cows lazes about, swishing their tails idly to brush away clouds of flies. Standing a little way away by the edge of the woods is a stunning chestnut horse, calmly eating grass. And sitting next to the horse, leaning on a tree, is a man.
He’s a sight to behold. He’s wearing a white tank top, dark jeans, leather boots. A brown cowboy hat is tipped low over his face. In his arms he cradles a guitar, lazily strumming a tune. And it highlights his biceps, well-defined and big and probably crazy strong. He has nice shoulders too, and a pretty tan, and long legs stretched in front of him, slightly bent at the knees. Isack’s mouth has gone a little dry and it’s definitely not just the sun anymore.
Isack must make some kind of noise because those fingers (damn Isack be cool) stop stroking the guitar strings. The stranger looks over at him. (oh god he has crazy gray-blue eyes holy fuck—)
“Hey,” says the stranger, tipping his hat, revealing the barest glimpse of blonde hair, “you must be staying here.”
Isack kickstarts his brain. “Yeah,” he says, but it comes out strangled so he clears his throat. “Yeah,” he tries again, walking over, “you too?”
“Nah,” the man replies, and damn he has an accent and it’s so hot but it's not Australian, and Isack can’t place it. “I work here.”
That surprises Isack. “What,” he says stupidly, flops down on the ground next to the guy who’s probably the hottest person he’s ever seen and tries to breathe normally.
“Yeah mate,” the stranger laughs in reply, “do you think I normally dress like this?”
And yeah, that makes sense actually. He was just so hot that Isack didn’t really question it. The sun must really be messing with his brain. Or the hours of memorizing stupid laws and poring over papers are finally catching up to him. Also the way guitar guy laughs is doing things to Isack’s stomach.
“Of course my firm decided to have a retreat at a place where the employees are forced to dress as cowboys.” he huffs a laugh.
“Hey man, I’ve actually got it pretty good, there’s one guy here, he’s supposed to be the Sheriff and he has to dress the part, fake gun, badge and all. He rides around on his horse all day and lassoes shit when the guests are watching. It’s fucking hilarious.”
And that’s the funniest thing Isack has heard in a while. Also cowboy-employee guy is really hot, so. Isack laughs a real laugh, loud and clear, washing away all the fake chuckling from the company gathering.
When he’s stopped giggling, he finally asks the question he should have started with. “What’s your name?”
“Liam,” is the reply, “yours?”
“I’m Isack.”
“Pleased to meet you, Isack.” Liam twists around and holds out his hand. Isack shakes it. He does not think about the callouses and the long fingers. He does not.
“So what brings you out here, Isack?”
“Well stupid fucking company retreat,” Isack replies bitterly. And then, “oh wait you meant here, like this field?”
“I did,” Liam laughs, “but I’m assuming it has something to do with the stupid fucking company retreat?” He puts air-quotes over the last four words.
Isack laughs breathily, leans his head back against the tree behind him.
“Yeah,” he says, “they’re annoying.”
“You’re welcome here anytime then,” Liam smiles.
“Thanks,” Isack grins. He tries not to think too hard about how Liam’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, how those lines join the smile lines on his cheeks, punctuated by his dimples.
They’re quiet for a bit then, Liam plucking random notes on his guitar, Isack staring at the cows. But his mind is whirling along, full of questions about this devastatingly handsome stranger.
“Wait,” he asks, “what exactly do you do? Sit here playing the guitar and wait for some guest to stumble across you?”
Liam laughs at that, loud and unabashed. His horse looks up at him for a moment before losing interest.
“Nah mate, I’m the cowherd. So I bring the cows out in the mornings, keep an eye on them, round them up in the evenings. And at night I usually play at the club on the farm. The whole outfit is a vibe thing in case a guest sees me, gotta keep the magic alive, you know?”
Isack does not, in fact, know, but he nods anyway. “Are most of the attractions like that?” he asks, “things that need to be done packaged as some magical Western movie lifestyle?”
“Yeah kinda. Like the Sheriff I mentioned earlier, his real job is to make sure no one gets lost, and to usher people towards the riding and stunts show. The show is just for the tourists though, so I guess it’s a mix of both? This place is complicated man, I don’t know how Daniel keeps track of it all.”
“Daniel?”
“He’s the owner, he probably gave you some spiel about the whole place when you arrived?”
“Oh yeah, I remember. He seemed nice. Like, warm?”
“He’s great. Good friend of mine. He can be a bit of a tease sometimes, but that’s how it goes you know. He really helped me figure out how to live in Perth.”
“Right,” Isack remembers his earlier freakout about Liam’s accent, “you’re not from here?”
“Nah, I’m from New Zealand actually. Came here to get a bit of distance from home. Just to put stuff in perspective.” he sighs. “What about you? Your accent doesn’t sound very Australian.”
“No,” Isack laughs, “I’m from France. Paris, actually.”
“Damn,” Liam whistles, “you’re a long way from home.”
“Yeah,” Isack agrees but doesn’t elaborate. Liam doesn’t push it.
“I’m assuming you’re a PSG fan then?” Liam asks, rather pointlessly.
“Obviously.”
“Pity. I’m more of a Real Madrid man.”
“How dare you,” Isack exclaims, full of faux anger.
“Okay, okay. Give me one reason to switch to PSG.”
“Because we’re the best!”
“Yeah you see that’s not helpful and also not true.”
“Hey!” Isack elbows Liam’s arm, and that was a mistake because wow his biceps really are hard holy—.
Liam laughs at Isack’s indignation, and hopefully not Isack’s very normal freakout over the hottest guy ever.
“No,” Isack says, gathering himself, “we are the best. We’re going to win UEFA this year.”
“Sure, dream on.” The sarcasm oozes off his words.
“No, we will. Here’s why…”
Isack proceeds to go on a twenty-minute rant about how PSG was on the up-and-up. He’s too riled up to be embarrassed. Football is in his blood, after all.
Finally, Isack slows down, looks at Liam rather sheepishly, apology ready on his tongue. But Liam cuts him off.
“Okay,” he says, “you’ve convinced me. I’ll catch their match next time it’s on. I might even root for them.”
“Allez!” Isack pumps his fist. One more PSG fan acquired. Job well done.
The conversation lulls after that. The cowbells jangle but the homesickness isn’t threatening to drown Isack anymore. He’s surprisingly at peace. He’s not sure he’s felt this happy since he moved to Australia. Isack is a bit thirsty though. He blinks. And then blinks again. Because Liam is holding a water bottle out to him. God did he say that aloud?
“It’s kinda hot man,” Liam says, “want some?”
So Liam might not just be hot. He might be caring and attentive and Isack is fucked. “Yes please,” he croaks, and downs half the bottle.
Liam goes to give some water to his horse. He discards the cowboy hat. Isack stares. He was right about Liam’s hair being blonde. It's short, messy, the roots closer to brown, giving him the impression of having bleached tips. It's unfairly gorgeous. I want to run my hands through it. Fuck, Isack, stop it.
To distract himself, Isack picks up his guitar and decides to dick around with it. He has one cousin who’s a musician, maybe it runs in the family? Unfortunately, music is very much not in his blood. His first strum sounds like screeching metal. Liam’s horse whinnies at the sound, and Liam laughs so hard he has to lean on his horse to not fall over.
Isack laughs back.
“I’m good, see?” he says, and strums randomly again, smiling up at Liam shamelessly.
“Oh absolutely. Natural talent.”
Isack laughs.
“Wait wait,” Liam says, sitting down again, closer to Isack this time. “Want me to actually teach you?”
“I’m scared,” Isack says, but he’s grinning.
“Okay, you’re holding it pretty decently, just try to sit up a bit.”
Isack tries and fails.
“That’s the best I have bro, I’m just small.”
They both laugh at that. Isack sits a bit straighter.
“There you go,” Liam smiles. “Let’s do some chords.”
Liam takes the guitar back and it looks so natural resting in his arms. Isack never thought he would ever be jealous of a guitar. Well, first time for everything.
“Right,” Liam says and that drags Isack back to the present. He plays a note. “That was an E minor. Your turn.”
Isack takes the guitar back and then has no idea what to do. What he doesn’t expect is for Liam to lean over and use his own hands to guide Isack’s fingers to where they should be on the guitar. He thinks he might black out at the proximity. He tries to strum and it still comes out a little off. He giggles, Liam smiles, and he’s so fucking handsome oh my god.
“Okay that’s not bad,” Liam says, “you have to push more firmly on the strings.”
“My hand is cramping,” Isack whines, smile never leaving his face.
And then Liam’s hand is back on his, pressing his fingers down onto the strings. “Try again,” he says. And this time it works. Isack doesn’t really hear it. He definitely blacked out for a second there. He tries again.
“There you go,” Liam congratulates him. “You got it.”
Isack whoops. “I’m happy.”
Liam looks like he’s about to say something when they’re interrupted by galloping. Isack looks up and he’s seen enough Westerns to know that this is the Sheriff. Starched uniform, gun, badge, lasso hanging from his hips, a huge black horse. He tries very hard not to laugh but judging by Liam’s grin in the corner of his eye, he’s not doing a very good job.
“Oy Liam,” the Sheriff calls, and he’s definitely Australian which kind of takes away from the whole bit, “what are you still doing here? Gig starts early tonight did you forget?”
“Oh shit,” Liam says, “what time is it?”
“Seven thirty.”
“Fuck.” Liam scrambles up, grabs his hat, and then offers a hand to Isack to pull him up. Isack takes it and is so very normal. Doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t hold on too long, the whole deal. He runs a hand through his hair. He’s so cool.
“You got this?” the Sheriff asks Liam, still on his horse. “I still gotta round up the rest of the guests.”
“Yep, thanks for the reminder, Jackie.”
The Sheriff (Jackie?) throws up a middle finger and gallops away.
“Jackie?” Isack asks.
“His name is Jack,” Liam takes the guitar from Isack and begins zipping it into its case. “But I call him Jackie just to piss him off. He’s one of my best friends here.”
Isack nods. He suddenly feels out of depth. All afternoon he’s felt close to Liam, like he’s known him forever, and now suddenly there’s a whole new side of mystery. “What gig was he talking about?”
“I told you I play at the club at night, right? Apparently we had to move our whole set an hour earlier to accommodate some guest who had to have absolute silence after eleven pm. And he didn’t ask for it on the reservation so Oscar put him right next to the club. Daniel almost had a meltdown. So. I’m late. Need to get the cattle into the barns too.”
“What a dick,” Isack says, “it was probably one of the corporate motherfuckers I have the privilege of working with.”
Liam laughs at that, shoulders the guitar, now safely in its case.
“Will you come by tonight?” he asks. “You haven’t heard me sing yet. My set starts in,” Liam glances at his watch, “fuck, an hour and a half.”
Isack smiles. “I’ll be there.”
“Great. Will you be good to get back on your own?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
Liam swings onto his horse. Isack has to stop himself from drooling.
“Oh and Isack? I had fun today.”
“Me too.”
Liam nudges the reins and coaxes his horse into a trot.
“Try the noodles at dinner tonight,” he calls back to Isack, “Yuki makes an awesome ramen on Fridays.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Isack laughs.
As he makes his leisurely way back to the dining room, he’s warm from the promise of good soup to come, from Perth afternoon sun, and from the knowledge that he’ll see Liam again very soon.