May had always had a particular fondness for the softer things - music, she avoided the dark keys, the higher pitches, the sharp movements of a song - and it was appropriate and fortunate that they were unnecessary in many worshipful compositions.

Sweetness came naturally to her. Just as soft silks and incredible fabrics could so comfortably enshroud her in kind coloration, it made her easily appreciable to wholesome sensibilities.

And yet - she held a needle.

A belt, she'd intended to make, to put some part of her into that fabric that she'd stitched so neatly, an entangling design that even the most careful eyes could get lost in, a maze of branches and boughs, leaving her intent -

A gift for him - to finally say she'd noticed, to once more gain his wandering eye, and yet...

It wasn't appropriate. Or rather - wasn't subtle -

A belt?

Her thoughts, she'd realized her forbidden desire had been to have the work of her hands. That intimate softness of her finger tips, the careful stitches, her very song - her breath so close to that portion of him.

Obvious. Not subtle -

So she'd changed it, taking narrowed elastic bands from a portion of her own clothing, to add the hoops - the loops, that would retain the ammunition that he used in diligent combat and if it was the most private of clothing that had been shredded for use? If it was the straps that went over her shoulder and down her back, that cupped and held her close -

It was only because it had to be - it was the only fabric that would work...It had nothing to do with -

A bandolier for his ammunition, to lay there, what had been upon her own chest to lay across his, to hold the tools of his trade, to be close to his weapon -

That was May's gift, now finished - that her needle had moved with near impossible speed once she'd fallen into the passion of her work, that she could stitch with eyes closed - that she could imagine the wide length glowing within her mind, her fingers guiding the movement with the notes of her song so he could be swift and sure.

In the morning he would fill it with that wide caliber, that whole, hard bullet - the primed explosive over and over again until it could hold no more. That his rough fingertips would touch, in the heat of battle, that portion of her that held his salvation until it was empty -

She didn't know what she was doing. Didn't know - that she was creating a Belt of Penetration. She didn't know he'd eventually be able to see it's name - If she'd but tried it on she'd feel it, know there was more to it then denim cloth and thread, elastic straps - a simple solid silver buckle...

She didn't try it on, instead, wrapped it only with a kiss and she went to deliver it to him. She thought it would be difficult to find him, was just going to leave it at the bar, she needn't worry because as she was driving a beam of light appeared.

It was a vortex of color in tight lines and it reminded her of a piano's strings, and it was close to that - but only because she'd never actually seen a loom before - she didn't know that the threads used to bind the cloth, to make fabric by weaving strands - would have such a similar appearance.

That something could be both?

The crowd was gathered, and May heard their amazed muttering as she approached, heard the notes - a child banging on an instrument similar to a piano and she was correct - it was similar to a piano in size, in relative shape and purpose- a Grand Piano - with the top bare, but there the similarities ended.

It was too beautiful. It was made of a single massive pearl and retained the roundness of the jewel, that to be shaped it had been polished with silk instead of scored with any metal tool. All the keys were seamless and supple, amphora, tall vases and shallow bowls were a part of the curvy design where it appeared one could adorn it, fill it - there was currently a handful of grass shoved into one of the recesses - a few blades of it scattered across its perfection like forgotten litter.

That May had rushed forward - at seeing it, hearing the banging, seeing the handfuls of grass! She'd rushed forward to stop - Hickory. He banged on it in brutish fashion, his fingers hitting that one note over and over again and watching -

Fabric. Made of - grass, almost. It looked scratchy, like a green scrubbing pad and it was falling at his feet like a roll of toilet paper, tugged and forgotten, and it was just not acceptable, for him to be so - so vulgar, the way he was fondling this instrument -

"Hickory!" She slapped his hand.

There was a gasp.

He turned to her in surprise, grinning still with his enjoyment -

"May!" Hickory shouted, looking up - and it was suddenly like before, he didn't seem reluctant but all daring with just a varnish of sweetness - as he looked into her stern expression. His eyes were at war, both glued to her face and fighting against his propriety to delve down her depths in inappropriate examination - he was losing the battle -

She heard his breath, heard him breath again and realized how long she stood above him, as she'd stared back, her hand still on his because her slap hadn't ended - she held it there, on that spot, that note -

It was a G.

And then May remembered where they were - a crowd, gathered. And Hickory blushed as well, went to stand up but froze, sat back down and blushed harder, scooting closer to the instrument - but by then May had composed herself.

She'd reminded herself as to who he was - it was his instrument. He could play it how he wished, and - he noticed the present.

"Is that for me?" Hickory whispered.

May looked at him - as if to say, what use would I have for a bandolier, if not for you?

And he accepted it from her, he held it up and admired it, felt it between his fingers and turned to her -

"Thank you, May." Hickory whispered, but it wasn't with the excitement she'd hoped, no - no that wasn't it.

It was back to reluctance -

She watched him unsling his own cloth attempt at one, saw it was a folded t-shirt with just holes poked, his shells deftly transferred - but he did it without smiling, for all he admired the gift, held right there and close his eyes were far away - looking for something else -

And May finally realized, finally understood - what he wanted, or rather what he didn't -

"I have something to ask you." May said, in her lowest, softest whisper - and Hickory slowly turned to her, trepidation, like he held a candle out to her and the next words she said could blow it out - would in fact -

His gaze was resigned -

How many times had she looked at his reckless flirting, his - impossible purpose, as safe? Because he'd been too innocent. He didn't have a chance. And now it was her - he looked at her as though she were the child. And she realized what she'd been missing -

He doesn't want to be worshiped. He doesn't want to be perfect. He doesn't want it to be easy -

"Will you stop banging on my instrument." And she scooted, she pushed him off the bench. In front of everyone - it was terribly forward, if he understood such things, terribly impolite - and again the crowd gasped but Hickory popped up grinning - she didn't look at him, she played.

She put her hands on the keys and played, because - what did Hickory want? The impossible. He wanted - he wanted a woman he could never have, a woman he could throw himself at, would nearly drown just to have a peak at - would study, hating school, hating reading - but study enough to pass classes just to ask her to a dance -

Ask knowing Weston was courting her, not just handsome but also the wealthiest, the most popular, the most eligible - and then even after her refusal still pursue a fight to win her affection, a fight he knew he couldn't win - only to not want it the second she was ready to return it?

It meant Hickory was an Idiot. He was a Man. And he was already hers - all she had to do was pretend she wasn't interested. She played music and ignored him - she didn't play the song in her heart, or even a religious melody, she played Beethoven, filled with sharp keys and misdirection, and she played it as perfectly as she would play him from now on -