All That's Green Is...[Plato]

[Samson Krahn]

As it turned out, Samson absolutely did need some coffee to lubricate his throat, or at the very least, moisten the toast there enough to go down easily. And that was about the time he paused in his quest to get some bread toasted properly, because he found himself watching Plato at work. Apparently, it wasn’t just being a vet the man was good at, and Sam had to appreciate the skill and craftsmanship. It took him back to a time when he’d been younger, and watched his mama puttering around the kitchen. Of course, she had been cooking for an army, where Plato was cooking for an intimate breakfast. But Rebekkah Krahn had been mother to six sons, all of whom were about as tall as Samson himself. The shortest amongst them was six feet and four inches tall, the baby of the family, and nobody ever let him forget it. Breakfast in the Krahn homsestead had usually been fried corn pone and some very thickly sliced bacon from the most recent pig slaughter.

Samson decided what he liked about the little show was not just that he was going to get something good to eat out of it (though that certainly had its bearing in the matter), but that it was a window into Plato’s life. On his travels across the world, Sam had seen that a lot. Families and communities struggling through some sort of hardship coming together over a meal. But this was closer to home, and wouldn’t it have been nice to see that kind of thing every day? A nice little spectacle before breakfast. “Biblical.” He said as he took the block of Romano cheese, watching those deft motions, transfixed like a charmed snake. “Means ‘Sun’. Mama used to call us all by our family names unless we done somethin’ wrong. She’d call me ‘Light-of-my-Life’, and all my brother had somethin’ similar. There were six of us. Me, Silas, Salem, Sabbath, Samuel and Solomon.” He explained. Probably in too much detail, but he’d been asked a question and he aimed to answer it with more than the barely noticeable nod or shake of his head that was normally the bulk of his conversational abilities.

There was a noticeable pause after that, followed by a question which perhaps indicated that Samson was trying to be polite but wasn’t entirely good at it. “What about you?” He asked. “Plato, the great thinker. How’s a man get those shoes to fill?” He questioned, before scooping up the coffee once more in his free hand - the one not occupied by a block of cheese. He’d all but forgotten about the toast at that point, and he was hopeful the fresh brewed goodness would be the right kick to the *** he needed to really get his head in the game. What’s yer problem today? He asked of himself.

And the answer he got to his question left the gates to the field open so to speak. There were all sorts of ways to take what Plato said. Fortunately, Samson wasn’t afraid of the great outdoors - the problem was; was it a glen of little flowers or a mine field he was walking through those gates into? “Well I hate to be a bother, but if you ain’t got plans, I’d consider it a real treat if you’d have me around a while.” He decided. Maybe it was coincidence, but that was right around the time Plato reached around him to grab some bread, which Sam had basically left on the counter unnoticed. The move brought them close, nearly chest to chest. So close that he could feel the other man’s body heat and it made his eyes widen a little, made his pupils begin to gobble up the deep murky waters that were his irides.

“Sure.” He said with as much eloquence as he could manage (not much). Time for an experiment though. To see if he was just imagining things. So he quickly grated the Romano over the frittata. The delicate, pale strands fell over the mixture of egg and other delicious additions. The smell of the whole thing had his mouth watering like a dog’s begging for some scraps. But once he’d nearly covered the whole eggy surface, he slid closer to Plato, who was fixing the toast. He reached past him, holding up the small remainder, as if to say ‘Your cheese back, good sir.’ Except he was pressed very close against a back. His broad chest touched the back of the other man’s shoulders. There was just the narrowest space between hard abdomen and middle to lower back. And that body heat which Samson had felt before was back. One bicep brushed against Plato’s shoulder, bringing the ink leading from his elbow to his wrist into view once more. And he intended to stay right there until either shoved away or the cheese was taken back. Or. Well until he was told what to do with it.

Because he was getting some really strong vibes from the vet, and there was probably a really classy way of asking what he wanted to ask. But Samson wasn’t a classy man. He was, most of the time, a lot like an animal. And here he was, in another guy’s territory, sniffing things out with a frittata almost done and breakfast soon at hand. He leaned a little closer, nearer to those smooth, soft looking locks so he could give the lightest inhale. He was looking for that warming scent again. The one he’d noticed right when he walked through the door only a short time before. “Where you take your breakfast?” He asked. Dining room. Out on the porch, to watch the sun finish coming up. Or...somewhere else?

[Plato Albany]

Every question deserved an answer. An honest one. Something about Samson asked for it from beginning and that was exactly what had Plato thinking over where to start. Somehow between an early shake and rattle of his door and the eruption of breakfast scents he went from a canine creature in need to entering a meaningful conversation he had difficulty matching in his recent memory. Deciding on completing the delivery of a breakfast that the man beside him was expecting gave him the time needed to organize his thoughts. Knowing the names of Samson’s family meant it was time to mention his. Granted it wasn’t anywhere close to the warmth and cohesive vibe that Samson’s revelation left once it was shared but Plato had one. Family that is. His lip twitched subtly at the topic. Then again Plato could still be holding onto some of the resentment that both sides of his equation generously shared.

Steaming fresh peppers reoriented Plato to what was keeping them together in the shared kitchen space. The merging of their joined task brought them closer and a colorful sleeve once again brought his eyes upward to locate the heavens tall owner. What Plato couldn’t take in fully with visual pinpointing, due to lacking eyes on the back of his head or his ***, he certainly could with a casual step back. This well executed move answered a question. Samson was closer than the Typical pet owners or neighbors got to him. Okay, so more than one question was answered. A slow ease of the knife in hand spreading the butter allowed the shifting from left to right to accept the leftover cheese being offered. He stayed his ground gained and figured the stance was an answer if Samson was asking anything. Body language was hardly limited to the wild kingdom and Plato was a bit of a practitioner beyond his given work. As soon as the space between them became a shift of the sweater against his skin he could count the small spaces in the loose weave. Each gap permitted the heat of the one behind him to kiss the surface of his.

“Breakfast is a bit of ritual as to where it is most often enjoyed. I have something to share with you.” Plato finished up the toast more than comfortable with where they were headed. Plates were covered with fresh protein and nourishment which would be soon experienced. It was all part of what started Plato’s day. Add to that Samson asking about the name he was given, the shoes he perhaps was expected to fill and a nudge towards divulging just where he came from had Plato prepared to serve more than frittata for the hungry man towering behind him as he took the lead. “Follow me.”

The bare soles that supported him appreciated the sensation of cool flagstone beneath his feet far more than an hour earlier when he traveled the modest distance to answer the door. The current route taken had him giving a visual tour of an interior that revealed a preference for minimalistic modern. Much like the bedroom he passed by, open to view thanks to the lack of a door, the rest of the home was uncluttered and more space than furniture. A left turn down a narrow hallways opened to the choice of straight ahead or right. Right it was on all accounts. His hand shifted the stacked plates in his hands and turned the knob to the heavy wood door carved far more ornately than the others but consistent with the rounded top that all carried in their custom design.

“After you, Mr. Krahn.”

It was said with the same air and formality that accompanied the fluid pull of the door to give generous room for the one intended to move through. At first sight not a whole lot could be selected as unusual or exceptional to a set of eyes familiar with an untouched Canadian wilderness setting. It was likely what Samson took in many mornings on his neighboring property. They shared a view after all.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Plato still held the plates in hand, silverware tucked in a back pocket because sometimes people would miss such things if forgotten. The nearby visible set of hard wood chairs were low and deep enough to support a giant were clearly up for grabs. “Take your pick.”

Obviously there was little to no real difference between the two possible seats unless one was to notice the set of binoculars on the side of the chair to the right. The veterinarian nodded to Samson’s property and handed the man his plate and silverware once he was settled.

“The view always seems to stir an appetite.” Of course Plato was missing the distant view of the inspiration but for now up close and personal would have to do. “Two sisters I would kill for.” So the topic of family was a bit short and to the point when it was addressed and for good reason. “I am the oldest. Kelsey and Ruth are their names. Both reside on the east coast. Kelsey is a pediatrician and Ruth is an editor for a publishing house.”The steam from his plate was appreciated the closer it came to his face courtesy of an expected rise of his hand that did an adequate job of supporting it. “My father chose my name and my mother was great at telling him how wonderful it was. Naming a kid Plato says a lot. No one was thinking more than my father about the shoes he expected to be filled.” And despite the continued explanation Plato neglected to give in to the hunger that gripped him or the breakfast waiting to be sampled. His utensil would not touch the plate or the contents for a reason. Instead his eyes settled on Samson. “My father wanted his first born to take over his private practice and he ended up with me instead. There is more to it but he isn’t here to tell it.”

[Samson Krahn]

There were two conversations ongoing between the men. There was the one at the surface level, which could be picked up by anyone with ears, though with every passing moment, it threatened to dig deeper. To sink beneath that point of polite discussion and enter a realm more intimate than Samson was known to be comfortable with. Except the second conversation was already there. Already in that primal place. Where one was spoken in a modern tongue with the exchange of information, the other was spoken in a language that was as humanity. It brought to mind the first cavemen, who huddled together for warmth, in fear of the storms and the cold, and the dangerous monsters outside of the darkness. And so, the way Plato responded was an answer. The man didn’t go rigid, didn’t push Samson away. He didn’t close himself off. If anything, it seemed almost as if he made himself more open to that exchange of heat and humanity.

Samson couldn’t help but think about his journeys around the world. He had been there to dispense aid, to make food for those who had nothing. To help rebuild homes or rig up electricity, or make people feel just a little bit more human. A little more civilized. More often than not, what he saw was that people needed contact. They needed touch. Someone to hold them, a shoulder to lean against. People in the modern world, in cultures dependent on technology, he had learned liked to surround themselves with these artificial bubbles. They liked to pretend they could cut themselves off from that thing inside of them that craved closeness.

And now here he was, craving everything Plato had to offer. It was, without a doubt, shaping up to be one of the best meals he’d had in years.

He very nearly tipped his head down to find the source of that warming scent again. Instead, his hand slid back when the cheese was taken so both palms could rest against Plato’s hips, dragging them backwards with firm enough a grip that it threatened to derail the entire morning when the space between them lost its shape and form.

Not that he got to linger there for long. They had places to go and breakfast to eat. So Samson gave a wordless nod when he was asked to follow. And follow he did, until they were passing through the home and out into the cool morning. He still didn’t seem to notice that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, though that might have been because he was like a living furnace. Both seats looked equally comfortable to him, so he picked the furthest and dropped into place, so that Plato didn’t have to walk around or over him to get to a seat. And that was when he noticed both the binoculars and the gesture to his property. He soaked in the words, and they didn’t really seem to register at first.

See, when he saw the binoculars, the first thing he thought was that Plato must be a bird watcher, because that was normally what he associated those instruments with in the great out of doors. It didn’t actually sink in until an embarrassing amount of time later exactly what the vet spent his mornings looking at. By that time, the conversation had moved along, as Sam took one of the plates and some silverware. Normally he would have turned his head down to say some grace. Usually, he was the only one in the room doing that, so he’d learned to do so quietly. Yet he noticed that Plato hadn’t touched his food. So he took that as his cue and reached across the space between them to take the man’s hand in his own. “Dear Lord, we thank thee for this bounty thou hast provided. We ask humbly that it give us nourishment, strength, and wholesomeness in these trying times. We dedicate this and every meal to thy name. Amen.” It was a short blessing, but one that had been very common around the table when he was growing up. Except for when papa decided he was going to make a point with his prayers and turn them into sermons. And if that happened, God alone could help you if you touched your food before he was good and done.

Then it was time to eat, and his reputation for being a wild animal seemed well earned. He wasn’t ravenous, but his table manners, which had been honed as a youth, seemed to have dissipated somewhat. He cut off a large chunk of the frittata and ended up stuffing it into his mouth, only to give a slow chew. It was, as he had thought, delicious and before he knew what was happening, almost all of it was down his throat and in his stomach. Not that he didn’t want to savor it, but sometimes a man couldn’t help himself. “Your father sounds like a tough man to please.” A vet, a pediatrician, editor, and lawyer. It didn’t take much to figure out that Plato had come from a different world than Samson. And yet they had ended up in exactly the same place at the same time. He didn’t mean to pry. He was just curious because his father had always been the type of man who had very simple desires for his children. To be good men. To protect their families and land. His concern had been in raising them up right, and Samson had never thought that offered him any measure of freedom before. But maybe it had.

“Before I go on, I wanna say you won’t be needin’ them binoculars anymore. You want a look just ask.” It was to the point, but that was how the mountain man worked in nearly all aspects of his life. After consuming almost the entire half of the frittata, he was careful to pick away at it with his fork so he could actually enjoy the last bit for a little while. “And that said, I think people ask each other out for coffee in these situations, but we already had some coffee. I’m bound to be a proper gentleman but I won’t lie and say I’m good at it, so how about you tell me what you do for fun and we’ll figure somethin’ out?”

[Plato Albany]

In the wake of the warmth left in the palm of his hand Plato’s eyes settled on the source of what captured him. A fresh early morning breeze flowed over Samson’s shoulders and delivered the scent of the man to where Plato sat. It was rare for the wilderness settled veterinarian to be at a loss for words but there it was. It finally happened. His hand joined the other supporting the plate and he felt compelled to do something more than indulge in his food when Samson had taken his hand in prayer and made sure for the day they would be alright with God. It said more than Plato was prepared for and the result was heavier than the hunger lining his empty gut. What he took in needed no assistance of binoculars, second or third glances.

Minus shoes, shirt and formal invitation a man arrived to him in the most unexpected and humble way. What would it say about Plato in such a moment if he took care of himself before the one in his company? Not a hell of a lot. The cool arrival of fall was covering them as they sat and it added to his focus on the wonders of the bare torso across from him. A prayer was worth more than the sweater off his back but wasn’t it considered a start in some places?

“I lost my manners somewhere along the way between a knock at the door, the cracking of eggs and…” He set his plate down on the rough ground and scooted forward in his seat enough to manage unbuttoning and slipping out of his knit covering. “Finding out my good neighbor's hands can thaw out any case of hunger I woke with.”

The sweater was in Plato’s hands and moved with him while he stood up and made his way around the space where Samson was sitting. His eyes drifted to the neighboring property and a tug of unwanted distance was magnified which was incredibly new to the one who enjoyed his solitary space up until that point. The view below him offered a glimpse at what he would have otherwise never had a chance to take into account once Plato was situated behind Samson and the chair that supported him.The top of the man’s head held more than he expected to see. The mane of hair shimmered in the rays of the rising sun and reminded him places they could be. Beneath the fall leaves, weathered and still holding their gold. There was more than one color in the mix of what could blend with the deep woods that towered around them. He wanted to touch, to get lost in the hues. A gentle placement of the nearly too small sweater on Mr. Krahn’s bare shoulders had Plato’s hands moving towards the spot that most would go for in a move of dominance. The neck. It was beautiful for all it’s fragile vulnerabilities. The cords of muscle currently under consideration were perfectly proportioned and difficult to refuse the trace of his warm hands.

All of it had Plato’s lips needing a subtle sweep of his increasingly dry tongue. Risk was in play and hope for a reward was the goal. Patience was one of his many strengths. Willpower used to be until about six a.m. Plato slipped a hand beneath the rich lengths of hair in his hands to free it from being trapped beneath the dark loose woven knit. A temptation to not let go found him and had his fingers surrounding the bulk of silken strands pausing with a choice needing to be made. His eyes widened with the realization that Samson asked him about making plans to do something fun. His appetite just grew tenfold. He caught his breath knowing eggs and peppers was going to have a hell of a time touching it. The lengths of silk slid through his fingers as he spread them while retracting his hand.

“No need to always be the gentleman, Mr. Krahn.” Plato spoke with a tone that offered assurance and directness all at once. The lacing of anticipation influenced the next breath he pulled in slowly as he rounded back to his empty seat. “Something can be said for the most basic forms of communication. In the end words sometimes just tend to get in the way.” He settled back into his seat and leaned over to retrieve his plate once more. As he did his barefoot extended a bit forward and found a place to rest beside Samson’s so that they connected. He didn’t move it was he leaned back. The cool wood kissed his back and reminded him there were warmer sources to be in the chairs place. “I could suggest we explore the distance between us.” His eyes drifted to Sam's property briefly before returning to take in the sum of the man sharing breakfast with him. “But why walk away when we are already here? I could skip the pleasantries and suggest we spend the night figuring out what each other considers fun and have a goal of agreeing on working towards unforgettable.” Samson may be a gentleman but Plato lost most of his manners the second a set of larger than life hands took their place on his hips and held them in such a way he forgot what it was like to have their newly added weight missing. “Missy would be far more comfortable and so would I.” The binoculars were tapped with his foot farthest from connecting to Samson’s. They tipped over and went flat. “Your choice, Mr. Krahn.”

[Samson Krahn]

He watched it the same way he had watched the sunrise for years, with a sort of reverence for that which gave life to all things. He felt glued into his seat as Plato moved to stand, and as the man moved to free himself of that loose-knit sweater. It was immediately one of the most compelling mating displays the mountain man had ever seen, and he couldn’t take his eyes away from the slow movement. From the gradual reveal of flesh. Sure. He’d been able to see most of that same skin through the little windows provided by the design of the garment, but it was impossible to deny the allure of the shifting fabric. Samson frankly didn’t even hear what the other man was saying. Something about losing his manners. Well if Plato had lost his manners, then Samson had lost his jaw somewhere on the floor around the time that bit of clothing tugged past the Vet’s hair, forcing it to bunch all at once, and then bounce back into place against shoulders. And with that little bounce, the very same scent he’d become intrigued by when he’d slipped under the doorframe into Plato’s house hit his nostrils once more, forcing them to flare. Intrigue was certainly turning into intoxication quickly wasn’t it?

Then the sweater descended over his shoulders like a warm halo, and Plato moved to pull his hair out from under it, which was honestly the most intimate thing anyone had done with him in a long time. The arms of the little garment hugged around his shoulders, and they were still warmed by body heat. He reached to grasp one of the sleeves to lift it as he turned his head, inhaling against the material. And right as the Vet’s hand was about to draw away, Samson’s cheek pressed into it so the other man could feel the thick, fresh growth of soft facial hair. Every man had certain buttons. Some of those buttons he didn’t want pressed, and doing so was likely to earn someone a fight. Other buttons though...were sensitive in another way. And Plato had stumbled upon a secret of Samson’s, which was that he loved feeling fingers move through his hair. Even briefly. His scalp itself war warm, and all of his hair (the length of which was similar to the man for whom he was a namesake), had that same heat. The same rich masculine scent. His brain was swimming with thoughts that raged like the ocean. There were so many of them and they just kept forcing their way to the top of his mind, threatening to drag him into the undertow. There were any number of things he wanted to do right then. Especially when Plato said he didn’t have to be a gentleman. He wanted to defy his baser instincts and treat Plato the way his mother would have wanted. Take him somewhere nice. Do something kind for him. But he also wanted to take that advice at face value and kiss him so deeply and so intensely that Plato would be unable to taste anything but Samson for a week.

He was paralyzed for a moment, as he felt a foot touch against his own. He felt connection there, in that brief touch, like electricity. And he listened as the other man spoke, carefully processing all of his words. He felt like he probably looked as if he’d been struck dumb. In the end, he decided that one thought was more important than all of the rest. A single phrase that trumped all of the others, and grew louder, in chorus and crescendo in his head. Samson moved to stand then, watching to make sure the other man ate at least a few more bites as he stood over him, that sweater draped over his broad shoulders like a mantle. He leaned closer, his hands resting on either wide arm of the wooden chair so he could stare right into those warm, giving eyes. His own were like the waters of the rivers back home - deep and dark, and perilous blue. “You know. All I keep thinkin’ is that God is good.” He admitted immediately in that grizzly bear rasp of a voice. “That I’m awful lucky bein’ where I am right now.” He continued before one of his hands moved so he could curl his fingers against the back of Plato’s neck. His hands were strong, the kind that could crush walnuts without really even trying, because he’d chopped wood growing up, and knew how to handle just about every tool made by man, under the sun. He pulled one way and got closer the other until they finally met in the middle, his head tilted to one side. He finally got a taste of something better than the breakfast Plato had worked hard to make. The man himself. And he was delicious. Not just the flavor of him, but the thought of him. How gentle he had been, and how kind. It was like there was this fire inside of the vet, and every primal part of Samson wanted to get closer and touch it, even though he didn’t really know him. Even though there was danger in not knowing. But where was he going to get without trust? And it wasn’t just the taste or the thought, but the feel as well, of warmth when he invaded. Of a wet muscle warm against his own and inviting in ways that made the Paladin growl from deep in his chest. By the time he pulled back, his teeth were bared in a grin, and his eyes were lidded a little more heavily. His breath was slightly off rhythm.

“As for the rest.” He rumbled, his voice having dropped into an even deeper, rougher register. “How about I go and check on the other pups. Maybe help you out around here. Let me cook you somethin' from back home. Spend the night watchin' the stars.” His gaze seemed to grow more intense with every passing second, because he refused to break eye contact, and he had essentially boxed Plato into that seat. He was so close, all of that raw power and radiant heat. “But first.” He finally released the back of a neck as if he had just realized he had been holding it, but in doing so, his fingers slipped through hair slowly, and never really left, choosing to get tangled in there near a scalp. “I want you to take me to your bedroom so I can show you how a mountain man wakes the day. Howling at the sun to rise.”

[Plato Albany]

And here Plato thought he wasn’t going to be getting back to his bed anytime soon. Talk about the best part of waking up. It had nothing to do with that familiar and overplayed coffee jingle. It had everything to do with the one who had their hand in his hair once his neck was released. Nearly every part of the wilderness vet was protesting that. The execution was spot on. How did his neighbor know he loved the sensation of a confident hand taking hold of him, of taking the initiative and the neck was a weakness? Did the man know it was incentive for him to rise to the occasion? He loved to rise. It was a dance of sorts and Plato loved to move, step in, slide and sway.He knew the boxed in move and sized up the one who was a tug away from finding out just how bold he could really be. Samson was starting off on the right foot so Plato wasn’t about to start stepping on the man’s toes. Instead he dragged his bottom lip flavored with Samson through the pinch and hard line up of his teeth. He could hear the flesh thread roughly between the compressed space before it finally popped free.

“It would be my pleasure, Samson.”

Yes, he called him Samson. Why not? There would be lengths of hair that were not his own lingering on his sheets later, a scent he would wear and appreciate long after the mountain man was done howling. It was safe to call him by his first name. Though with the way Samson Krahn just kissed him there was something to be said for the sound of ‘Mr. Krahn’ slipping past his lips. No man had ever kissed Plato quite like that. But Mr. Samson Krahn certainly did. And if Plato had anything to say about it he would do so again before the new hour arrived.

“Before I do…” Plato’s hand released the plate in his hand and set it down with all the grace and ease of a very relaxed man in his own space. While he did he was eyeing up the guest who somehow was turning the tables and inviting him back to his own bed. “There is something to be said for the first time and luck. But if I were a bettin’ man I would say It isn’t about luck at all...is it?”

Plato edged his backside to the end of the seat which brought him even closer into that wall of masculine perfection that hinted of something far more primal, carnal and inviting than he had been privy to in a hell of a long time. Correction. Nothing could come rightfully close to what had him reaching out and slipping his fingers into the back of the most fierce and tempting head of hair he had come across. As soon as he did he collapsed his fingertips purposefully towards his palm so that there was no mistake on just where he was heading.

“Kiss me like that again and you won’t make it in the door.”

A firm pull of the hair in his hand had his lips fixing over Samson’s. Soft and deep, the search for what he didn’t taste before, the intent to claim what was left out the first time. All of it leaving no question as to how serious he was about what he said and even more so about what he was intending on doing. Mr. Krahn had a hell of proposition delivered to his mouth.

Plato rose to his feet and as he did he eyed Samson the entire way. Standing beneath him given the height difference allowed him to brush the bristly lengths of his beard at Samson’s chest. It didn’t end there. The resident vet slid his free hand to the small of the mountain man’s back and bravely cupped what barely fit with his fingers stretched wide. It was just right.

“I will take you where you want to go.” His hand delivered a firm squeeze where it was intending to be placed. A kiss to the bare chest in front of him was followed with a firm but playful nip at the warm flesh beneath his lips. “I can't promise to be gentle but I am more than confident we will both enjoy it. And howl you will.” Nothing more needed to be said as he took that mountain of a man and guided him through the door.