Chapter 8

They set off around 7 o'clock, as Michael walked, he looked at James, who wore an unusually glum look. He moved over next to him and asked, “What’s wrong? Are your ribs hurting. Tell me if you want a break.”

“No.” James replied, bluntly. “I feel guilty.”

Michael gave out a burst of laughter, then asked. “About what.”

“That I didn’t run fast enough, and you got hurt. And I delayed us. And I’m not carrying anything.” He said sheepishly, well knowing these were all poor reasons, but he felt guilty, nonetheless.

“Come on James. You don’t have to feel guilty about that.” Michael gave a little laugh. “I’m fine carrying the bag. And if anything, it’s my fault for telling you that we should take that alley, it was risky.”

“I know I shouldn’t feel guilty. I’m sorry.” Said James.

“Don’t apologise.” Michael replied, bewildered by the guilty nature of James.

“I’m sorry.” James giggled, and Michael gave a hearty laugh.

“Stop it.” He chuckled. “Trust me. Most people aren’t angry with you, especially not me, so don’t do it. It is kinda cute though.”

“Why do you say all my annoying traits are cute. You don’t need to flatter me.” James responded.

“Cause they’re not annoying, they’re cute. They make you who you are.” Michael laughed, and jokingly flipped the question. “Don’t you love all my annoying traits.”

“What annoying traits?” Said James, in a comedically confuse tone.

“Correct answer.” Replied James, and they continued walking, through the quiet fields of England, only occasionally interrupted by a distant car, or the cheep cheep of the sparrows and thrushes. All was tranquil.

They sat down for a break because James’ ribs were aching. And they looked out over the countryside in blissful silence, upon a bright green hill, sheltered by a hawthorn tree. The hills rolled over and over, with a few twining country roads weaving between the fields, and the roads stretched up and down over the undulating terrain, towards the occasional farmhouse, or the small quiet village, the kind that is seen everywhere in rural England, that was just left to the direction they were facing. The fields were a mix of the green of spinach and potato leaves, and the bright, vivid, piercing yellow of the rapeseed plants, all parted by neat hedgerows, creating that grid that you always see from the sky, an odd iconic countryside theme. All was so calm, James began to feel sleepy and alienated from the world, he wanted to keep things like this.

So, they sat there, for a long time, and their hands interlocked, and they lay down and watched the shapes the clouds made. With James placing his head gently on Michael’s chest and grew accustomed to the rhythmic, constant beat of his warm heart, as it breathed life around his body. This body, which itself breathed life into James which in return breathed life back into Michael. They were connected. They were one. And James longed he could spend the rest of his years with Michael, going on adventures together, building a life together, and growing old together, sitting by a fire, reminiscent and grateful of all that happened. That was the dream. The fantasy, that James was building. And James fell asleep, smiling with his fantasy, while Michael stroked his soft hair and kissed him repeatedly.

It was some time before they woke up again and James had shed his negative demeanour, and was almost skipping as they travelled, through the yellow and green fields, over the roads, through the quaint village, past farmhouses, between hedgerows and through the small woods. Their hands met and sealed together each finger interlocking, in a strong pact. And they looked into each other’s gleaming eyes and smiled.

They made progress that day, despite James often having to take breaks, when his ribs hurt. But they managed to travel a good couple of miles. They set up the tent in a small green patch on the edge of the field praying that no angry famers would wake up early and tell them to move their tent. Then they ate a boring dinner, of some random non-perishable tins, bags, and cartons, that Michael had found the bottom of his bag.

They slid into their sleeping bags and zipped up the tent flap. A moth had entered the tent and James tried to clap to catch it and he missed time and time again, James laughed at him, and caught the fly between his hands first try, and looked over to James with a cheeky grin upon his face, whilst he flicked the moth out of the tent. Michael put his hands on James’ soft cheeks and stroked his face gently, leaning in and kissing him, their warm lips pressed together, and they shared that moment, then rolled over to sleep. “Don’t hit my ribs in the night.” Reminded James.

“Coming from the guy who roles around in his sleep. Try to stop that tonight, the doctor said you can’t put too much strain on it.” Replied Michael, in a sleepy.

“I can’t control that.” Yawned James. And he softly wrapped his arm around Michael’s stomach and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.