Archive of Our Own ^beta

When I was down beside the sea
A wooden spade they gave to me
To dig the sandy shore.

My holes were empty like a cup.
In every hole the sea came up,
Till it could come no more.

‘At the Sea-Side’ (Robert Louis Stevenson) 

A kiss to Edward’s temple startles him awake. Sunlight makes cobwebs at the corners of his eyes as he blinks – what had begun as a mild day is now running to hot, and his mouth is dry. Waves hiss drowsily on the sand.

‘You dozed off.’ Thomas sits with one elbow resting on the wicker basket they had brought to the beach, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he toys with a fork, propping it in the sand and waiting to see which way it will fall.

‘Ate too much.’ Edward rolls onto his side, crumpling the blue cloth they had laid on the beach that morning, when the anticipation of the picnic sat like a slice of peach on his tongue. The half-eaten cottage loaf rolls with his movement, scattering crumbs. A clutch of fat strawberries sweat in the sun. Edward props himself against the short embankment that protects them from the wind, inhales salty air as he reaches for a rock biscuit, misshapen with currents. He sniffs it, takes a bite.

‘I thought you ate too much already?’

Thomas is laughing at him, but he’s pleased – he likes to know a job has been well done. Edward swallows, wipes a runnel of sweat from his nose as he watches the sea change its colours. No-one else comes to this place, and the world is as quiet and beautiful as a sigh.

A rustle. Lazily, he turns to see Thomas wrapping boiled beef and salted chicken in their brown papers. He fits them in the basket, then reaches for the honeypot, removing the teaspoon and putting it in his mouth so he can refasten the lid.

‘Can’t it wait?’ Edward says.

Thomas removes the spoon from his mouth, drops it into the basket. ‘I’m only neatening things.’

‘Too hot.’

‘It’ll only a take a moment.’

Edward lifts his foot. In the hot sun, with his belly pressing tight to his belt, it takes a great effort, but he gets the flat of his heel against Thomas’s hip and shoves. The fork Thomas had just picked up falls with a thud into the sand.

‘Edward…’ Thomas says warningly, though his lip is twitching.

He reaches for the cutlery again, and Edward repeats the motion, jolting him. Thomas keeps hold of the fork this time, waves it in his direction.

’Stop it.’

Edward shakes his head, grinning.

‘Very well.’ Thomas’s gaze turns sharp. ‘If you won’t stop…’

Thomas surges forward, putting his shoulder against Edward’s. Edward lets it happen. The beach is achingly hot, scalds the skin behind his ears as he lands hard on his back. Thomas straddles his chest, pinning his arms – his hands have a deft strength that make Edward shudder.

‘Ha!’ Thomas says, breathing hard. ‘What do you say now?’  

Edward shrugs, though he can feel the jolt of his heart against Thomas’s thigh where it presses against his ribs. ‘I’d say that you’re hardly able to pack things away sat here.’

Thomas’s teeth clip as he leans down to kiss him. ‘I might find a way.’

‘Mmf.’ There is grain of salt in the corner of Thomas’s mouth that makes Edward’s lip throb. He twists, tries to capture it, but Thomas pulls back, grinning.

‘Ah, ah.’ He presses hard on Edward’s shoulders. ‘Not until you say sorry for interrupting my packing.’

He could roll Thomas off him if he tried, but he doesn’t want to. ‘What if I refuse?’

‘In that case…’ Thomas tightens his grip, his thumbnail pressing into the knot of Edward’s collarbone. His pulse scampers close to his skin. 'I suppose I’d have to think of some other way to settle things.’

Thomas glances over his shoulder, and Edward knows what he’s going to do – he twists, but Thomas is so bloody quick, already on his feet and looking towards the sea, which breathes calm and green on the wet sand.

‘Race you!’ Thomas shouts, tearing over the beach. Edward stumbles upright, bruising his toe on a pebble, and lurches after him.

‘Cheat!’ he shouts, but Thomas is too fast – he leaps into the sea a half-step ahead, soaking his trousers to the knees. Edward hesitates, the frills of the waves brushing lightly over his feet. It would be sensible to remove his clothes, or at least his trousers, but Thomas is already shouting come on, come on, the words melting into the sigh of the ocean. The joy of it fills Edward up like wine, and he plunges, barefoot and gasping, into the sea. The water is cool beneath the surface, clouding as he kicks up sand. He wades deeper, to his waist.

Thomas calls again. ‘Come on!’ he shouts. ‘Come on!’

Edward waits until Thomas grows less wary, until he decides that Edward isn’t coming any deeper and rolls his eyes, wading closer to the shore. Waves lap his belly as he puts himself within reach.

Edward lunges, sending up a splash of saltwater, catches him by the waist.

‘No,’ Thomas shouts, then faster nononono, as he realises what is about to happen. Edward hauls Thomas around, delighting in the weight, spinning in a circle and sending water out in a white arc as he drags Thomas around, once, twice, a third time, until his arms are aching and he lets go. Thomas kicks away from him and comes up, gasping.

‘You…’ Thomas splutters through his laughter, hair dripping pearls down his neck.

‘You cheated first.’

Thomas shakes his head, shedding water. Edward steps deeper, intending to take hold of him and kiss him where his hair is wet and clinging to his temples. 

Something sharp digs into his foot.

He hesitates, waiting for the sting to pass - it's only a stone, surely, a rough pebble on the seabed. But it doesn't pass. His muscles twitch, and then a tide of pain works through his foot to his ankle, freezing him up where he stands. A cloud passes like a hand over the sun. He can’t move. The sand has an impossible grip on him, and it doesn’t matter that he can swim – the sky will get darker, and the sea will come higher and higher, wash over his head and into his nose and mouth. He’ll drown where he stands. 

‘Edward.’ A hand on his cheek, another on his chest – pearls of water balanced precariously between knuckles, fingers curled in his shirt. ‘Edward, stay with me. Look at me, come on.’

He looks. Thomas’s lashes are clumped, his eyes red from the salt. He wears a familiar, stern look, a look of understanding every thought passing through Edward’s head before he even knows it himself.

‘You’re safe, I promise you, just keep your eyes on me.’ 

The sea isn’t rising. The waves rustle, unhurried in the summer heat; the tide won't come in for hours. Edward blinks, and his foot shifts on the seabed, dislodging a rock and sending it spinning into deeper waters.

‘What happened?’ Saltwater clings to the back of his throat. ‘I don’t-’

‘Probably a spasm.’ Thomas takes his arm. ‘Better get back to dry land, though, just in case.’

They wade clumsily to the shore. The shallows are as delicate as molten glass, twisting and bursting on the rippled sand. Edward looks down at his foot as they emerge, half-expecting to see blood, but there isn’t even a mark. He sits, dripping, on the beach, feeling foolish as Thomas examines his leg.

‘It seems perfectly well. Very fine, in fact,’ Thomas says at last, putting a hand to Edward’s knee and squeezing. He looks over his shoulder at the sea as he does so. ‘Time to go home, I think.’

Edward swallows miserably. The day is still beautiful, and he doesn’t want to spoil it. He spoils everything. 

‘Come on.’ Thomas gets to his feet, putting himself between Edward and the sea. There is no arguing with his tone. ‘I'll examine both of your legs at home, and decide which is the best.’

Edward tries to put aside his guilt, focusing on the simple task of repacking the picnic things, the clinks and clatters as he bundles up cutlery and jars, fits a half-empty bottle of dark ale alongside the cottage loaf only to have Thomas swoop in an rearrange everything a few moments later. He doesn’t seem angry, at least.

Still dripping saltwater, they carry the basket lopsidedly between them as they hurry over the rough grass away from the seashore, towards the track that leads to home. The cottage is an old stone building with sloping thatch and faded shutters, set half in a grassy slope so that the kitchen windows only peep two-thirds over it, glinting in the sunlight. The garden is awash with lavender and bright geraniums, the dog-rose climbing its coral flowers over the fence. Edward is not much of a gardener, but the weather has been kind, and the flowers are not difficult to maintain now that he’s begun. Thomas likes them, and that is enough for him to make every effort.

Inside, chilled in their damp clothes – the sea had not felt cold, but Edward supposes it must have been – Thomas fetches linen and they dry off in the hallway. Edward flicks water, laughs at Thomas's outraged expression. The sand clinging to his feet and ankles makes a rough, ugly sound and he swipes it away.

‘You’d better light the fire,’ Thomas says, folding the linen over his arm as he heads towards the kitchen. ‘It’s going to be a cold night.’

The evening is already creeping in, the light eking to a pale, robin-egg blue, and Edward does as he is told, crouching by the hearth in the living room. The flames crackle, casting ink-blot shadows on the walls. Thomas emerges briefly from the kitchen to bring him a nip of brandy, but it only warms his chest temporarily – the air is truly cold, considering the heat of the morning. He can’t remember now what the sky had looked like on the beach, whether it had threatened rain. He forgets things, sometimes.

To keep away the chill, he settles himself near the hearth with a book and puts his stockings up on one of the small tables, until the heat of the fire crawls up his legs and makes his skin itch. Thomas is busy in the kitchen, pacing and tidying, and Edward knows better than to disturb him.  

The smell of bread drifts into the living room. His stomach grumbles.

‘I heard that,’ Thomas says, and Edward starts – he hadn’t heard him come in. Thomas’s cheeks are pink from the stove, flour under his nails, and he slides easily around the tables as he approaches the fire, tapping Edward’s leg as he does so. ‘Feet off.’

‘They’re cold.’

‘Any closer and you’ll catch fire.’

Edward turns his eyes back to the book, keeping his feet stubbornly in place.

‘Edward…’

Edward clears his throat, pulls the book so close to his face that the words blur. Footsteps rustle. The urge to peek is almost too much, but he waits, waits…

The table is whipped from beneath him with a scrape. His feet hit the floor hard and the book drops, thudding half-open onto the rug. Thomas settles in his lap, a familiar weight that still makes him huff.

‘There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?’

Edward sniffs, though he’s delighted to have him so close – Thomas is warm, smells of bread and salt and sweat. He wraps one arm around Thomas’s waist and leans forward to retrieve the book, but it's just out of reach. His fingertips brush it, causing it to tilt precariously, the pages sliding.

‘Could you…’

Thomas sighs, bends and picks it up – glances briefly at the page, then makes to close it.

‘Wait,’ Edward says. ‘The marker.’

‘You’re on number-’

‘Please.’ He won’t remember – he knows he won’t remember. ‘The marker.’

‘Where is it?’

Edward looks around, but there’s no sign.  

‘No matter.’ Thomas reaches for the leaf. ‘I’ll fold it.’

‘What?’

‘To keep your place.’ Thomas’s finger brushes the corner of the page, lifts it gently.

‘You can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s…I was always told not to.’

Thomas shrugs, licks his finger and folds the corner down. 'There.' He closes the book with a snap and sets it on one of the tables, then leans back, putting his head into the curve of Edward’s shoulder, heavy against his chest. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it? You’re quite spoiled about these things, sometimes.’

Edward puts both arms around Thomas and squeezes. He can see grains of sand still caught in his parting. ‘You spoil me now.’

‘Yes, well.’ Thomas wriggles, and Edward can hear him smiling. ‘That’s different. How’s the leg?’

Edward shifts experimentally, feels nothing but the press of Thomas’s weight, the liquid warmth of the fire. ‘Fine.’ He tilts his head, resting his cheek on Thomas’s hair. ‘All well.’

Edward wakes to the smell of lemon, a lively sweetness that demands attention. He has turned in the night, and is facing the window that looks over the sloping garden. Sun reaches through the curtains, turning the chintz flowers from white to gold and laying fingers over his arm. The left side of the bed is empty. Thomas is always awake before him. 

‘Habit,’ he says, whenever Edward huffs that he is too much of a morning-lark. ‘What’s the point of staying in bed when I can something useful?’

‘Me,’ Edward has tried, which only makes Thomas grin more.

‘Just call me back,’ he says. ‘If you truly want me.’

Thomas will come if he calls, but the smell of lemon means that he’s busy in the kitchen. Edward’s stomach, well-conditioned, rumbles curiously. He twists, tangling the sheets, pulls on his trousers and shirt and pads down the stairs. The boards are chill under his bare feet, but not unpleasantly so.

The source of the smell does indeed prove to be Thomas at the wooden table in the kitchen, rubbing flour and butter with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, the fine hairs at the base of his neck already damp. A single bald lemon rests next to the bowl, the finely-shaved peel waiting in a pile of yellow curls.

‘Morning,’ Thomas says without looking up. ‘Can you pass me a spoon?’

Edward fetches one, then sits on a spindly chair and watches Thomas scrape the lumpy mess of butter and flour from his fingers. He’s wearing a pair of Edward’s woollen socks, which have rolled down to his ankles because they are too big for him.

Edward reaches for some of the lemon peel, but the spoon raps lightly on his knuckles, shedding flour.

‘No,’ Thomas says, rolling an egg towards him. ‘I’m not finished with it yet.’

Edward attempts putting out his bottom lip, but Thomas is cracking eggs into a jug and affects not to notice.

‘What are you making?’

‘You’ll see.’ Thomas smirks, a boy up to mischief, and plunges a fork into the pulpy yolks. ‘There’s tea if you want it.’

Edward considers a second attempt on the lemon peel, but judges Thomas too fast for him. Instead, he fetches tea and watches Thomas beat the eggs until they froth, making the jam jar of white daisies in the centre of the table shake. Edward doesn’t ask if he needs help – Thomas is childishly protective of kitchen activity, and tends to call any offer of help an interference. Edward knows it makes him happy, so he sits quietly and allows his tea to cool before drinking it. His teeth are sensitive these days, adverse to extremes of hot or cold.

Sunlight creeps orange over the slates. The heat from the little Oberlin fills the kitchen, and Thomas is so close, so safe...

Thomas touches his shoulder, and he blinks. ‘Hm?’

‘I wanted to show you these.’

Thomas holds out a hand, a half-dozen small items gathered in the dip of his palm. Edward thinks for a moment that they are stones, then realises they’re shells – a half-dozen snail shells of varying sizes.

‘I was awake early.’ Thomas smiles. ‘Found them in the garden.’

Still damp – had it rained in the night? - the shells shine in the morning sun, yellow, chestnut and black. The smallest one is no larger than a fingernail, neatly conical, the largest the size and roundness of a sovereign.

‘They’re…interesting.’

‘I like them.’ Thomas lays them out on the table, six mounds in a perfect line. ‘I don’t know why.’

Edward picks one up. It’s lighter than he expects, the delicate cream of new cheese, and he lets his eyes follow the whorls of it, tiny grooves that give the colour a fluid quality, though it’s undoubtedly solid. He tests it, squeezing. Surprisingly strong.

‘I know why you like them.’ Edward is no naturalist, but he appreciates the comfort in something so well-made for its purpose. ‘They’re…orderly.’

Thomas flushes. ‘I suppose they are.’

‘We could get some more from the beach today.’

‘Hm?’

‘Cockles are very neat.’ He sets the shell back into its line with the others. ‘Or periwinkle. They would match.’

‘Yes,’ Thomas says, ‘but I don’t know how you expect us to get any of those.’

‘At the beach. We could go for a walk.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Thomas nudges the shell Edward had replaced into line with the others. ‘What’s gotten into you?’

Edward doesn’t understand the joke, though he’s sure there must be one – he misses these things, sometimes. He gestures to the windows, where the sound of the sea still whispers like a visitor in the garden. ‘Just yesterday…’ He hesitates. Was it yesterday? ‘The picnic.’

‘You do get some funny ideas.’ Thomas goes to the stove, wrapping a cloth around his hands and pulling out a tray of sweet-smelling lemon biscuits. ‘Now, tell me what you think of these.’

Edward is already walking past him, into the hallway and out to the garden, remembering that his feet are bare only when he feels the damp grass between his toes. The breeze is cool, the sky gauzy with clouds. He climbs the slope of the garden.

‘What are you doing?’ Thomas’s voice, muffled behind him. ‘Edward? Edward!’

Edward doesn’t look back. He comes to the fence where the dog-rose has its domain, and blinks. The gate is the same, worn under his fingertips, but the path leads, not to a line of blue water, but through a thick, green wood. Ash and oak; a mottle of bark and furling leaves that rustle in the breeze like waves.

‘Edward!’

He turns – notes, dazedly, that Thomas is in the doorway, pulling on his shoes. Beyond him, behind the cottage, are more trees. The wood stretches all around the house, wrapping it in a shroud of green shadow.

‘Edward!’ Thomas runs to meet him, His voice comes slowly, as if through honey. ‘What are you looking at?’

‘I…’ There is no joke behind Thomas’s eyes. He swallows. ‘Do you remember the beach?’

Thomas sighs. ‘I think you must have dreamed it.’

Edward looks behind him, as if the view will have changed, but there are only the trees, old and solid as a ship. He knows that if he were to go and touch them, they would be real.

Dreams can feel real, sometimes. can’t they? Can become memories, seeming true. A mere imagining of sun and waves, strawberries and brown paper and sand in Thomas’s hair.

‘Come on.’ Thomas takes his arm. ‘Come back inside.’

Edward lets himself be pulled towards the cottage, Thomas chastising him gently for running out – in your bare feet, really – and by the time they reach the house he is certain that it must have been a dream. Unusually vivid, perhaps, but nothing more.

Later, as he kneels amongst the nasturtiums, the wind in the wood still sounds like the sea, but no matter how times he glances through the fence there is no sign of water. A patch of white yarrow wavering amongst the thick roots, a foxglove showing off a cascade of bruise-purple flowers; it all looks perfectly normal.

He sighs, digs at a particularly stubborn dandelion. The house may be Thomas’s domain, but Edward has made the garden his own. Digging and weeding were always someone else’s job when he was growing up, but he keeps the flowerbeds small and manageable. There is a vegetable patch near the fence where the light is best, and other places where he lets the wildflowers come up without interference. He has found, with a childish sense of delight, that he likes digging. It’s rhythmic and soothing, and there are no great consequences if he does it wrong. It is good to feel useful, when Thomas is so efficient with everything inside the house; to be outdoors after so long at sea.

He glances at the wood again, unable to stop himself. Leaves whisper, and the foxglove shudders. He squints, though he’s not certain what he’s looking for – only that he has the unnatural sense of something missing, something changed…

‘Edward.’

He starts, dropping his trowel into the dirt.

Thomas has a glass of something cloudy in one hand and a cloth in the other. He frowns. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘What?’ Edward shakes himself, wipes his hands on his trousers. ‘Did you need me for something?’

Thomas shakes his head. The sunlight strikes his hair like the sheen of a magpie’s wing. ‘I just wanted to see how you were getting on.’

‘Well enough. I'm no expert, but…’ He smiles, points to a patch of marigolds. ‘When they’re ready, I’ll pick you some. For the kitchen.’

Thomas smiles, hands Edward the glass. His fingertips leave circles in the moisture gathered on the rim.  

‘Thank you.’ Edward takes a sip. Lemonade, crisp and a little bitter.

‘It’s no trouble.’ Thomas leans down, kisses his forehead. ‘Come in soon, won’t you? It’s getting late.’

Edward looks up at the sky. ‘Not that late.’

‘Ten minutes, or your supper will spoil.’

Thomas wags warning a finger, then heads back inside. Edward takes another drink of the lemonade, but the cold makes his teeth ache. He sets it down by the nasturtiums, reaches for the trowel, and hesitates.

Ten minutes is long enough, isn’t it? Thomas will be cross if he is late, but only a little, only out of principle. He glances behind him. The front door is closed. Thomas will be in the kitchen, busy. He won’t see.

Edward straightens, slips through the gate and into the forest.

He loses track of time quickly. The trees are dense, but sunlight falls in bright, confusing dapples through the branches. Knuckled roots sprawl the path. The wild garlic is flowering, a sweet-sharp smell heavy in the air. He steps around eyebright and sorrel, brushes a fern curling in the shadow of a knotty oak. His breath is loud amongst the silent trees. He knows he’ll be late home, but he can’t stop. Thomas must be mistaken about the beach, or sporting with him. Edward doesn’t mind, if it makes Thomas happy, but it seems like a strange sort of joke. Sweat runs into his collar. He pushes aside a patch of hogweed, stems ridged like teeth beneath his fingers, ducks under a low-hanging beech.

There. A strip of blue dead ahead, shifting beyond the trees. It’s not quite how he remembers it – he was certain there had been sand, and an embankment, and scrubby, dry grass – but he hurries towards it all the same. He stubs his toe on a root, panting, until he stumbles out of the line of trees and into…

Bluebells. A lake of bluebells, sweeping across a wide glade. Beyond them the trees march on, dense and solid as a wall. The flowers sway in gentle tides around his ankles.

He is sluggish when he wakes, joints heavy – perhaps he had done too much yesterday, though he’s not certain what it might have been. He remembers walking, staying out too long. Thomas had been waiting for him when he returned, prickly that supper had gone cold.

Thomas is awake already, as usual. He sits at the small table by the window with a bowl of water at his elbow, drawing a razor with startling accuracy over his chin. They only have one small mirror, cracked at the edges, but this never impedes him.

Edward shifts on the mattress. ‘Morning.’

‘Morning.’ Thomas keeps his concentration on the razor, but the reflection of his eye glints like sea-glass in the mirror. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Mmf.’ He stretches, winces. ‘Still tired.’

‘You are overdoing things in that garden – you should rest, now the weather’s turning.’

Edward opens his mouth to say that the summer has barely begun, but then he catches sight of the sky through the little window, and is startled at how grey and cold it is. Clouds bundle over the sun, which has barely begun to rise, and the air is heavy with the promise of autumn. He must be mistaken, again.

He shakes the feeling of summer away, then climbs out of bed and puts his arms around Thomas’s shoulders, pressing his cheek to the top of his head. Thomas tuts, adjusting his grip on the razor, but doesn’t shake him off. Edward studies the pair of them in the spotted mirror – the hint of stubble still clinging to the right side of Thomas’s jaw, the tangle of his own hair around his ears. His head rises in rhythm to Thomas’s lungs as he breathes.  

‘Go on,’ Thomas says after an indecipherable number of minutes. He twists, making Edward’s teeth click gently together, gestures with the razor. ‘Let me finish, and I’ll do you after.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of shaving myself.’

‘You’re sloppy. And you prefer me to do it anyway.’

Edward grins. ‘Maybe.’

‘I think you’re slovenly on purpose, just so I can’t resist offering to help.’ Thomas twists again, hair rasping Edward’s cheek as he pecks him on the lips. ‘Go on now.’

Edward unwinds his arms, returns to the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress. He shivers as he pulls on his socks. It’s a cold day, clammy at the edges, and he can hardly believe he woke thinking of summer. He finds a thick wool jersey and pulls it over his head, emerging just in time to see Thomas set down the razor. He inspects the result with a satisfied turn of his lips, then turns and beckons Edward towards him.

As he does so, his sleeve lifts, rising above his wrist. There is a bruise on his arm as wide as a saucer.  

Edward is vaguely aware of Thomas tutting at him, saying that he hasn’t got all day, but he can’t take his eyes from the mark. Black at the edges, the rich colour of hellebore in the centre. Fresh. 

'What are you looking at?' Thomas examines his hands, turning them over. 'What is it?'

Edward is already moving, reaching for Thomas’s sleeve and pulling it up sharply to reveal…

Nothing. Thomas’s skin is pale, soft. A line of dark hair reaches from the back of his arm to his wrist, creeping up his thumb. There is a burst vein in the crook of his elbow and a small scar on one of his knuckles that Edward is yet to learn the origin of, but apart from that the skin is unblemished.  

‘You are daft.’ Thomas is smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He kisses Edward’s hand where it rests against his rumpled sleeve. ‘No games – I haven’t got time if you want me to do this.’

He moves to pick up the razor. Edward tries to unclasp his fingers, step back, but his body won’t obey him. The blood moves sluggishly in his veins, and something like hunger rushes through him, a lightheaded pulse that makes his stomach churn. The room blurs. Thomas must be here, but Edward can’t feel him – his hands are cold, and all he can hear is the shriek of the wind outside, reaching out for him across a great bleaching nothing.

Something beneath his thighs, sharp and hard. Thomas’s hands on his arms, gripping as if he is trying to stop them from falling, though Edward is sitting on the bed now, and Thomas is crouched in front of him. They are not falling. They are in their little room in the house, with the grey sky casting shadows on the floor and the wind breathing in the woods outside. 

‘Edward.’ Thomas’s voice is gentle, but firm. ‘Lie down.’

He can’t obey. He is brittle and aching – if he moves an inch, his joints will snap.

Thomas puts a hand on his chest, pushes. The mattress hits his back like stone, sending a judder through his lungs, but he remains surprisingly intact. There is a moment where he hovers between the house and a yellow light, a wide, wide nothing, and then Thomas fits himself onto the bed beside him, fastening his left arm tight over his shoulder and squeezing until Edward is sure that he will suffocate. He doesn’t care – he feels on the edge of fainting, a heavy sensation of sinking into the earth. Thomas is the only thing keeping him afloat.

He becomes aware that Thomas is whispering, a constant stream of reassurances (there love, you’re safe here with me, you’re quite safe, I promise, just stay with me) but he can’t gather himself enough to form a reply, even something as small as a nod. He is as dry and faint as a wrung-out cloth.

‘What’s happening?’ He manages at last. His voice cracks – he sounds afraid, and a ripple of shame runs through him.

‘You’re just dizzy.’ Thomas’s forehead presses against the knobs of his spine, the heat of his breath gathering damp at the base of Edward’s neck. ‘I’m here, though. I’ve got you.’

Edward nods. He fumbles for Thomas’s hand, grips it.  

‘That’s more like it.’

Thomas kisses his shoulder blade. Edward draws the hand to his chest, smelling lemons and sugar and sweat.

They stay still for a long time, until the room no longer feels on the edge of shattering and he’s able to sit, with Thomas’s help, and drink a cup of tea – very sweet, and so hot that it makes him wince.

‘You overdid things yesterday, that’s all,’ Thomas murmurs, rubbing gentle circles on his knee, a crease of worry between his brows. ‘You must be more careful.’

Edward takes another sip of tea, gulping. 

‘Not so fast,’ Thomas says. ‘Gently.’

His lips sting, and he presses a finger to them, wondering if they are bleeding, but of course they’re not. Only burned, and the pain soon fades.

When he finishes the tea, Thomas brings him a piece of honey cake. It’s too sweet as well, but good, and it takes the edge off his sudden hunger. Thomas sits opposite him on the bed, legs crossed, toying with his own piece of cake but not eating it, until it is nothing but crumbs on the plate.

‘I’m sorry,’ Edward says at last. He feels steadier, though foolish – the warmth of the room has seeped back into him, and he can’t understand how he had been so cold only a few minutes before. ‘I didn’t mean to worry you.’

‘I don’t mind.’ Thomas sighs. ‘But you’re not to go outside today, do you understand? You need to rest.’

So, Edward rests upstairs whilst Thomas tidies the bedroom around him, not that there is much to tidy. He knows that Thomas is keeping close because he is worried, and he feels guilty for it, but grateful. He doesn’t want to be alone. Later, the day wasted, they head downstairs, sit together in the kitchen. Thomas produces warm bread heavy with yellow butter and a sweet-sharp raspberry jam which he spreads so neatly that Edward can’t help but watch him. He has always been fascinated by the small things Thomas does.

‘Stop it,’ he says at last, when Thomas tries to press a third slice of bread at him. He puts his hands on his stomach, now rounded under his shirt. It expands as he breathes, like something not wholly his own. ‘I can’t possibly eat any more.’

Thomas flushes. ‘I only-’

‘I know.’ Edward leans over the table, though he is almost too full to do so, and kisses him. ‘You’ve taken very good care of me, and I’m sorry for frightening you, but I’m quite  recovered. I promise.’

Thomas looks at him, eyes liquid in the firelight. ‘You’ll stay inside, though. Please?’

Edward hesitates. He feels perfectly well, if a little strange. But Thomas looks so worried, shadows clinging at the corners of his mouth, sleeves rumpled. There is something about his arm that Edward should remember, but can’t.

He nods, is rewarded with the press of Thomas’s hand against his own, reassuring in its relief.

In the end, it’s easy to heed Thomas’s request to rest. The weather turns shockingly quickly, an endless grey sky and a wind so cold that the very thought of leaving the house is enough to make Edward's teeth hurt. He keeps himself occupied – repairs on the windows to stave off drafts, the odd spot of paint applied where it has begun to fade. He goes where Thomas directs him, and the rest of the time he reads, or eats the things Thomas makes – scalding hot stews and almond cake and apples soaked in ginger and whisky. They play dice and cards in the kitchen, get tipsy with negus and tangle with the bedsheets as the light fades early and plunges the house into silvery dimness. When the cold seems almost too much, they draw a bath close to the fire, argue over who will use it first until it seems easier for Edward to take hold of Thomas and pull him into the water with him. The tub is too small for them both, and Thomas protests about making the floor wet, but at last they settle with Edward at the back, the rim digging into his shoulder-blades, and Thomas against his chest, folded so that his knees peep above the surface. Edward puts his hands on them to keep them warm, watches the dark hairs on Thomas’s arms and legs as they drift in the water, until he doesn’t know which are his own breaths, and which are Thomas’s against his chest. It’s a wandering sort of daze that drags him towards a deep, deep sleep, until Thomas elbows him in the ribs as he reaches for the soap, and he startles awake.

The next day, or perhaps the one after – it’s easy to unravel a skein of days so cold – there is a fall of snow that covers the garden and turns the bare trees white. Sounds turn muffled, blunted. The dog rose gives way to hips, scarlet berries capped with ice. 

‘Have we got enough coal?’ Edward says, two, three times, until Thomas, who is seated by the fire and mending a stocking with quick, clever fingers, sighs and says that there is plenty, quite enough for them to manage.

Even so, the weather makes him uneasy, puts him in mind of things he would rather not remember. He tries to keep away from the windows, keep his thoughts occupied, but as the days grow longer and the snow doesn’t melt, it gets harder and harder, until it seems that he can do nothing but stand and stare at the sleet swirling outside.

‘We shan’t be seeing anyone in a while if this weather continues,’ he says, desperate to break the silence. ‘We’re so out of the way to begin with.’

Thomas is mending shirts now, a thread between his teeth, and he only hums. Edward shivers. It suits them not to have visitors, to be hidden, and they don't need anyone except themselves. But the world is so quiet in the snow – silent, apart from the crackle of the fire and the creak of cotton as Thomas sews.

‘What about your brother?’ He stumbles over the words. ‘Do you think he might visit, when the weather is better?’

Thomas shakes his head, not looking up. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I wouldn’t mind. I can go for a walk. Make myself scarce.’

‘He won’t come.’

Thomas’s expression brooks no further enquiry. He forces the needle through a damaged sleeve and the thread catches the light, shining like gold.

Thomas is awake first again, his side of the bed neatly made when Edward hauls himself from sleep. He contemplates the smooth sheets for a moment, wondering how Thomas manages it without rousing him, before realising that the sun is shining onto the mattress, and that means…

He scrambles out of bed, pulls the curtains open. The snow is gone, leaving only a damp glisten on the grass.

The smell of cocoa drifts from the kitchen as he pads down the stairs. He knows that he should go in, say good morning and take a little breakfast, but something holds him back. It’s not that he thinks Thomas will try and stop him – he’s well-rested now, and the thought is ridiculous, of course it is – but…

Thomas will worry. He will say that he is concerned for Edward’s health, that doesn’t think he should be outside, that it is still too cold. He’s probably right. The passage is dank from the poor weather, and Edward can hear the wind playing roughly amongst the trees. But his legs are aching to be stretched, and so he tiptoes down the hall, pulls on his coat and boots and softly, softly, slips out, into the garden.

He thinks at first that he will stay behind the fence, watching the snowdrops shiver in the crisp breeze, but it’s cold, and he is restless – restless, suddenly, to find bluebells in the wood, though he knows the season is too early for them.

His footsteps are loud amongst the damp roots and twigs, dead leaves worked into mulch by the snowmelt. Yellow crocuses nestle like egg-yolks in the roots of an ash. The sun comes bright through the bare branches, making sparks at the corners of his vision, as if the air is full of broken ice. He has been too long inside, in the comfortable light of the fire, and his eyes water. He swipes his coat sleeve across them, presses on.

He walks until his legs ache and the tip of his nose is numb. Hunger happens upon him like an old friend. The wood is an endless maze of oak and ash, but he has the strongest impression that if he keeps going, he will find the sea - only, as soon as he has the thought the light becomes even sharper, until he can’t see more than a few feet in front of him and has to stop and press his face into his hands, waiting for it to pass. Something hisses in his ears, tidal. He tastes salt.

When he looks up, he’s certain that he’s lost his way – he is dizzy, and he doesn’t know how long he has walked for, searching for something he can’t now remember. The wood is dark, tangled with brambles and brown moss. No sound but the gentle twist of leaves in the breeze, no smell of salt. He’s lost. He must be lost. He turns and sets off at a brisk pace, angry with himself – it will be hours before he finds his way back, and he is tired and thirsty. Thomas will be frantic. He pushes through ferns and sedge with unnecessary viciousness. A hazelnut crunches under his boot. His breath comes hard in his ears, light sparking at the corners of his vision.

His ankle turns on a stone and he stumbles, putting a hand to a beech to steady himself. When he looks up, the cottage is ahead of him, nestled quietly amongst the tees.  

He frowns. He had walked miles – miles and miles. Has he been going in circles the whole time? Surely not. He would know if he had. He would know. 

When he looks back at the trees, they don’t offer any answers.

His fingertips sting as he enters the house; the air has a pearly chill, and he is colder than he had realised in the wood. He peels off his boots, hangs up his coat. The smell of cocoa has faded, and the light is dim. He has been gone a long time, and Thomas will be angry. The living room is dark and empty. There is no light under the kitchen door, so he goes upstairs, but Thomas is not there either. Perhaps he has gone looking for Edward in the dark.

'Hallo?'

No response. His spine prickles. The stairs are freezing cold through his stockings as he descends. The thought of going back outside makes his heart sink, but he only has himself to blame. He should never have left.

The kitchen is dark, but he checks it anyway. He’s not looking properly, convinced that Thomas is gone, and he almost misses the shadow, until it moves.

‘Thomas?’

Thomas is hunched over the kitchen table, a mere shape in the darkness. He doesn’t startle, or turn. He keeps his back to the door, shoulders rounded. Edward waits for Thomas to chastise him, but he says nothing. There is a cloying smell, like fruit on the edge of a sweet, blue rot.  

‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’ he says at last, not able to bear the silence any longer.

Thomas doesn’t turn. ‘I lost track of time.’ He sniffs. ‘Go warm yourself up. I’ll come through soon.’

Edward frowns, reaches for one of the lamps. It flares, feverish in the dim kitchen. The skin under Thomas’s eyes is swollen, lashes clumped, and there is a damp patch on his sleeve where he has tried to wipe away the evidence.

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing.’ Thomas scrubs his sleeve across his face again, only making the redness worse. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Please.’

‘It’s silly,’ Thomas says, but Edward can sense him wavering – can see it, even, the shift of his body with the shadows of the flickering lamp.  

‘Nothing is silly that has you so upset.’ Edward sits on the edge of the table, gathers Thomas’s hands in his own. His fingers are still damp with tears. ‘Tell me, please.’

‘It’s…’ Thomas nods at the table. ‘It’s them.’

Snail shells like a row of teeth, glinting in the lamplight.

‘What-’

‘I was thinking how neat they were, and then I realised that they’re…empty.’ Thomas’s body gives an involuntary spasm, and his elbow knocks one of the shells. It skitters to the floor, bounces. ‘They died, or something ate them, and all that’s left is…empty shells. And then you were gone, and I got to thinking this place, and how empty it would be without us.’

‘Thomas…’

‘Don’t leave.’ Thomas twists his hands, nails stinging Edward’s palms. ‘Don’t leave me.’

Edward wets his lips, baffled. ‘I only went for a walk.’

‘Promise me.’ Thomas lets his hands fall and drops his head against Edward’s hip. ‘If you must go out, don’t go so far.’

‘But-’

‘Please.’

Edward puts his hand on the top of Thomas’s head, curls his fingers in his hair. ‘Of course. Anything.’

Thomas exhales, but there is a fatigue to it that seems to draw every shadow in the room towards them.

Edward doesn’t leave, but he can’t help going back to the woods. He will be good for days at a time and keep to the garden, which is bursting with pansies and daffodils in the spring air, but there is something about the trees that compels him with a hazy dream of the sea, of sand hot under his bare feet.

Thomas knows about the walks, tries to keep him from it.

‘Don’t go out,’ he will say – from the kitchen, the living room, the mirror in the bedroom. ‘Stay inside today.’

‘What’s the harm?’ Edward replies, sometimes. Thomas looks after them both beautifully, but he can’t understand why he is so stubborn about the woods. Or: ‘Come with me.’ But Thomas always presses his lips closed, gives no answer. He’s a puzzle these days, though never angry. There is a melancholy about him that leaves an oily taste in Edward’s mouth.

Most times, Edward does stay, but not always. The yearning comes in fits and tides, rolling about him like a wave until he can’t hold it back, despite Thomas’s urgings, despite his sadness – he must go towards it, or choke. Every time he goes, every time he doesn’t find what he's looking for, it only makes him more eager to try again. It’s strange, but the wood never seems to grow more familiar, no matter how often he walks its paths.

Warmer weather brings rain, which shakes the garden to life in a torrent of startling greens and yellows and sets the cottage windows leaking.

‘Oh dear,’ Thomas says for the third time, clutching a rag as Edward kicks a bucket under a runnel of water dangerously close to their bed. ‘I thought the place was sturdier than this.’

He’s cheerful, despite the mess. ‘I like the rain,’ he says as they huddle in front of the fire that evening, blankets around their shoulders, surrounded by the steady drip-drip-drip of water into pots and pans. ‘Providing I don’t have to go out in it.’

Edward huffs noncommittally – the longing has no care of the weather, and, though he hates himself for it, he is thinking about when he might slip away and go to the wood. Thomas has a tight grip on him as they sit together, his chest pressed against Edward’s left side, their fingers threaded together. It’s not unpleasant, but it is close. Possessive.

After a blurry number of days, the downpours ease into mists and showers, unpredictable in their comings and goings, but less violent. Thomas works a miracle cleaning the damp patches on the walls and floors, and Edward returns to the garden, pulling up the chickweeds that have fought their way between the violets and velvet-faced pansies. Poppies spread bloodstains near the now-barren dog rose and there is a smell of earth in the air, a thick clay-stink of rain and vegetation that keeps his thoughts from the wood for hours at a time. Mud works under his nails, becomes engrained in the whorls of his fingertips, and his trousers are constantly damp and dirty, but Thomas only laughs at the mess, helps wipe the mud from his face and hands, and performs his usual magic on his stained clothes.

Today, as Edward pulls a nettle out of the damp earth by its roots, someone calls his name.

He jumps, and the nettle snaps, leaving a stickiness on his fingers. He turns to the house, but the door is shut. No sign of Thomas at the windows. Besides, he knows Thomas’s voice better than his own, its rises and falls, the clipped emphasis he puts on his syllables, a compensation Edward wishes he didn’t feel the need for. No, it hadn’t been Thomas’s voice, though he’s certain he’s heard it before.  

If it didn’t come from the house, then there is only one other place he will find it.

He looks into the trees. ‘Hallo?’ he calls. Perhaps there is someone just beyond his sight, hidden amongst the knotty oaks. ‘Is anyone there?’

Water drips, a melodic patter on the forest floor. The nettle stem creaks in his grasp. There is a vinegar taste at the back of his mouth, sharp enough to make his eyes water, and his heart pounds and uneasy rhythm between his lungs.        

‘Made a friend, have you?’

Edward starts, dropping the nettle in a forlorn crumple. Thomas stands at his elbow, the fine rain speckling his hair silver. As usual, Edward had not heard him coming.

‘Did you hear that?’ He looks back towards the wood. If Thomas heard it as well…

‘What?’

‘The…’ He frowns. ‘What do you mean, a friend?’

Thomas gestures at the flowerbed. Edward looks down and sees a slug on his boot, its body shiny as a black cherry, eyes waving as it makes its painstaking journey towards his big toe.

‘Your friend.’ Thomas smiles. ‘A fine conversationalist – you two are well suited.’

Edward stares at the slug for a moment, then looks back out at the wood. Panic makes the edges of the world bright and his nose stings as he sucks in air.

Thomas touches his shoulder. ‘Edward?’

He tears his eyes from the trees. ‘What?’

‘Supper’s ready. It’s getting late.’

He looks up. What he had taken for only a cloud passing in front of a sun is in fact dusk; the sky is moody in its colours, an agitated rush of ink and indigo. He had been certain it wasn’t so late.

His gaze, as if jerked by a hook, returns to the wood. ‘Will it keep for half an hour?'

‘Oh no.’ Thomas’s tone is playful in its chastisement, but Edward can see the hardness in his jaw. ‘Not now – you’ve been out for hours already.’

‘Just ten minutes.’ He catches hold of Thomas’s hand. His skin is damp from the rain, almost soapy. ‘Come with me. Ten minutes, a stroll before supper.’

‘It’s already set out. Come in now.’

A shudder of anger goes through him. Ten minutes is not long, and the rain is very mild, the light not yet gone. A walk will warm him up before supper, work some of the restlessness from him. If Thomas agreed to come with him, he might stop being so stubborn about them going more than a few feet from the front door.

He is certain someone had called his name.

‘Please,’ Thomas says, tugging on his hand. His grip is too tight. ‘Please come with me.’

Edward knows that Thomas is being unreasonable. He could pull away – he knows with a certainty he cannot place that Thomas will not be able to stop him if he does, though his fingernails are digging hard between Edward’s knuckles. But Thomas is looking at him with the same, brittle set to his shoulders that Edward had seen at the kitchen table, and he can’t bring himself to argue.  

When he nods, Thomas tightens his grasp for a moment before letting go, as if expecting a trick. Edward hates it – hates even more that the thought does occur to him that he could pretend to agree, and run. He looks at his hands as he steps into the auburn light of the house. Despite his firm grip, Thomas has left no marks on his knuckles.

He remains inside for a time after that, sticky with guilt and something else; anger, or fear, bobbing on the narrow line between the two. He closes his ears to the forest and keeps to the house, as if by not looking at it, the wood will cease to exist, cease to call him. He goes out only once, to collect a handful of daffodils, cutting them sharply from the earth.

‘I brought you these,’ he says when he enters to the kitchen. It’s not an apology, but he’s aware he’s holding the flowers with unnecessary firmness.

Thomas looks up from the plate of perfect jam tarts he’s been arranging, and smiles at him. ‘Thank you,’ he says, taking them and setting them in the jar in the centre of the table. ‘You can have one of those.’

‘You’re not saving them for later?’

‘Yes. But you can have one.’  

Apricot jam, thick and sweet. ‘I love you,’ he says, and his tone is as needlessly firm as his grip had been, as if by saying it aloud he can ignore the wood, the voice.

Thomas beams – he doesn’t usually smile with his mouth open, but he does so now. Edward sees a trickle of red between his teeth, as if his gums are bleeding, but then he reaches the centre of the tart, where the jam is thick and burning, winces, and the vision passes.

The sound of the ocean crashes into the room like music, and Edward sits up sharply. It’s late, sunlight pouring through the curtains, though they are tightly drawn.

‘What is it?’ Thomas murmurs.

‘Do you hear that?’ He forgets for a moment how strange it is that Thomas is still next to him when the sun is already high, reaches across the bed to touch his shoulder. His skin is papery, warm from the night.

‘Hear what?’ Thomas worms into the touch, pressing his forehead against Edward’s hip.

‘The sea.’ Waves wash around them, lapping the windows. ‘Can’t you hear the sea?’

Thomas yawns. ‘Of course not.’

‘But-’

‘You probably sat up too quickly.’ Thomas rolls on his back, winding the sheets. The sun falls in a perfect line across his chin. ‘Lie back down.’

Edward hesitates. He wants to go to the curtains, open them and make certain there is nothing beyond the window but the wood.

‘Please?’ Thomas’s hand rubs soft circles on Edward’s thigh as he rucks up the hem of his nightshirt, and the hiss of the sea fades, melting into nothing more than the hum of the breeze in the woods.

They doze afterwards, loose-limbed and lazy, but every time Edward drops towards sleep he is surrounded by the crash of the ocean, so loud that the bed seems to sway beneath him, startling him back to consciousness. It refuses to be ignored - it speaks of everything on the sea, and in it and beneath it; unlit caves and snapping bowlines, storms and sand and ice-clear waters; of sun dogs and violent winds and bones with threads of flesh still upon them. Breathless, he tries to wait it out. Ten, twenty minutes, an hour, laid in bed with Thomas next to him, pretending that he doesn’t hear the tide beating against a beach that does not exist. The sound only gets louder, until he thinks he might spit saltwater, if he tried.  

‘What is it?’ Thomas says, shuffling closer and fitting his chin above Edward’s collarbone, so that Edward feels the motion of his jaw as he talks.

‘Nothing.’ No brine comes between his lips, but the lie is bitter all the same. ‘Just sleepy.’

Thomas grins. ‘I like tiring you out.’         

Edward puts a hand on Thomas’s head, feels the petal-softness of his hair, the rough skin of his parting where the skin is white as bone. Slowly, relaxes his grip, slows his breathing. It falls in time to the waves, but Thomas can’t know that. He closes his eyes, and waits.

Thomas is slow to leave him. Perhaps he suspects, or perhaps he is simply happy and sleepy, indulging in a moment of rare idleness. Both possibilities leave Edward hollow, but the sea is so maddeningly close.

At last, Thomas gets up. The bed shifts, and his feet sound on the stairs. Edward stays quiet, listening to the hum of the waves, until he is certain that Thomas will not come back.

He swings his feet over the bed silently, careful to avoid the familiar places where the floor creaks, pulls on his stockings. He feels heavy and stupid, and his knees twinge as he makes his way down the stairs. He opens the door, hopping foot to foot on the front step to put on his boots. The garden is damp, the dusty smell of rain rising from earth. White hyacinths shiver like foam in the breeze. The foxglove has cast aside its flowers in purple splashes on the grass.

He walks to the gate, opens it. He doesn’t trust himself to look back.

The wood is dim, but its usual silence is broken by the crash and churn of waves. Edward moves quickly, though he knows that Thomas won’t follow him, even once he understands what has happened. It is a certainty he feels deep in his sinews, inevitable as a tide that rolls out and must come in again.

He tramps doggedly through warped roots and clusters of jelly-ear mushrooms. The undergrowth releases a viscous, brackish smell as he wades through it. He loosens his collar, more out of habit than anything else – despite his pace, he is chilled. There is no birdsong. He can’t remember if he has heard birds in the wood before now. There was a time when he was young, that he knew many birds their call – nuthatch and robin, wrens and mistle-thrush, larks. Today, there is only the sea rolling through him like a second heartbeat. 

He becomes aware, slowly, of changes in the wood. The trees are thinner, more scattered, their leaves curling brown and brittle. Knotweed and dock become violets and harebell; oak and ash give way to beech and hawthorn. He is dazed with the taste of salt, mouth dry. Tightness pinches at his temples. He feels feverish, though he isn't sweating. 

The trees end so suddenly that he stumbles. The sky is a sheet of cloud, plunging the world into a liquid greyness that he seems to sink into as he steps from the wood. The air is somewhere between twilight and daylight, an unsettling temperature that makes the hairs on the backs of his arms stand to attention.

A storm is coming, he hears Thomas say, though he knows it’s impossible. Hurry home now, before it breaks.

He knows the rain won’t fall yet. It’s waiting. The whole world is waiting, poised on a fraying thread.

The sea is a soft line that beckons him through the rough grass. He is afraid that it will retreat from him as he approaches, but it only grows clearer as he drops down the small bank onto the clammy beach. The wind snatches his breath and rolls it playfully away from him. Waves race up the shore, wash over his feet and then, exhausted by their own efforts, crumple into milky foam on the sand. He wades deeper, not bothering to remove his boots, until the water rises above his ankles to his knees. Mist and seaspray cling to his hair and clothes, catch the grey light like eyes. Salt coats his tongue. This is a beautiful place – it reminds him of somewhere they had visited when he was a child, a nook with a name he can’t remember, but which had brought infinite delight whenever it was mentioned. He can’t understand why Thomas has tried to keep it from him.

A change in the sand, as if the earth has taken a breath. The waves judder, become a shifting, crunching mass, and when he looks down there is only shale – bleached white stones that stretch to the smooth horizon. The taste of salt becomes stringy and rotten. The stones shift, the roll of them fatally familiar, and then there is only an ocean of rock, crushing and bruising as it reaches eagerly to bury him.  

He waits. For two or three awful seconds, he waits for the illusion to fade, for Thomas to take his arm and ask if he is well, tell him that he’d better sit down before he falls. But the stones writhe mercilessly up the shore, and Thomas is not here.

The clouds burst, a keen of water that fogs the sky like a cataract. Edward drags his feet from the shale, staggers backwards – turns, stumbles, flees.

The rain comes over everything in an roar, plunging Edward into confusion as he races through the wood, stumbling over roots, slipping through silt and rotting flowers. He trips and falls. Pain goes through him like broken glass; he gets up, stumbles on. The edges of the world are pinched and tender, closing tight around him as he runs on, terrified that he won’t find the cottage now – that the very curve of the sky will founder and crash down on him before he reaches it. 

A light in the trees. He swerves towards it, is rewarded by the comforting beckon of a window with a candle lit. He quickens his pace. The house will run away from him, surely, or will be empty, nothing but a shell. But Thomas is there, knuckles white against the fence where the dog-rose straggles, reaching for him as soon as he opens the gate, gripping his elbow and all-but dragging him, limping, through the sodden garden and over the threshold, inside. He slams the door hard behind them. Edward knows that it won’t be enough.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, keeps saying it as Thomas tends to the cuts on his face, bathes his bruised knee in cold water and kisses the skin when he is finished. He wants Thomas to say that he is forgiven, that it doesn’t matter – that all will be well – but Thomas only puts a hand over Edward’s, running a thumb over his knuckles, and says nothing. He doesn’t ask what had happened, no matter how much Edward wants him to, wants him not to already know. Instead, Thomas fetches warm cloths and dries Edward’s hair, brings tea so hot that it makes his teeth hurt, yet does nothing to combat the chill spreading through him. Neither of them suggests going upstairs that night – it is an unspoken agreement, as the rain shudders against the windows, that they will not go to bed. They stay tangled together on one of the chairs in the living room, Thomas putting his stockinged feet over Edward’s to keep them warm, head on Edward’s shoulder as they gaze into the sputtering fire in silence.

All night, and all day, the rain pounds. Edward has known bad weather, but nothing like this. The sheer sound of it is inescapable, pervasive as smoke. It comes without mercy, dashing the violets pieces, bending the daffodils until they snap and turning everything to mulch and mire. Even as the forest bows under its weight, the windows start to leak, then the roof. The walls sweat. Edward hauls himself to his feet to attend to it, but every time he plugs a gap a new one appears, until he has employed every pot, pan and jug they own. They ripple, tiny, self-contained lakes that eventually swell and overflow. He tosses the water outside, flinging it into the already sodden garden, but they only begin to fill again. The whole house reeks of salt.

‘I can fix it,’ he keeps telling Thomas, as he forces rags against runnels of briny water, his knee throbbing and his blood moving like gravel through his veins. ‘I promise, I can fix it.’

Thomas doesn’t say that he can, or that he can’t. He only looks at him, with a twist of grief like a knot at his mouth.

Edward’s head aches, pulsing in time to the relentless storm. Damp makes the floor constantly slippery, the boards turning soft and rotten. Neither of them goes outside, or suggests fetching help, even as the garden suffocates under the weight of the rain. The dog-rose bursts into red hips, then shell-pink flowers, then shrivels and dies. Bindweed clogs the grass, sprawling white trumpets that slowly melt into the earth. Heather and bilberry tumble against pimpernel and milkwort, thyme and cherry and beautiful, impossible orchids. Then, like a breath, it is gone, and beyond the windows there is only the grey storm, the rain. Now, it sounds like hail – like white stones beating upon the walls. 

‘Come away,’ Thomas says, touching his elbow. His grip is so light that if he hadn’t spoken, Edward wouldn’t have known he was there. ‘You don’t have to watch.’

It’s hard to look away.

They’re in the living room, Edward attempting to sop up a leak with a cushion because they have run out of rags, knowing Thomas is watching him without being fully certain where he is standing – he’s harder to keep track of, now – when the roof caves in. They haven’t gone upstairs since the rain came, but they hear it; the groan of something giving in. An tea stain of damp soaks through the ceiling. Leaks become waterfalls.  

‘Leave it,’ Thomas whispers. His skin is wet, and Edward has to strain to hear him. 'There's nothing you can do.' 

They retreat to the kitchen, huddle on stools by the empty hearth. The fire will not light, the chimney a river of saltwater and stone. The daffodils in their glass jar are dead. Edward’s thoughts keep going to the snail shells, their perfect spirals. There is no sign of them now.

‘Could we leave?’ he says, but if there is a reply he doesn’t hear it. Thomas can’t seem to sit straight, tilting in his seat like a painting knocked in its frame. Edward can see the branches of veins under his skin, the blotch of purple bruises through his clothes. Watercolours, running thin. Hadn’t he known someone who liked painting, once? He can’t remember their name. 

The pots overflow, spill across the floor. Edward doesn’t get up to empty them. Rain is bursting through the very stones, now, and he’s tired. So he sits, watches water drip from the ceiling onto Thomas’s head, eventually starting to pass through him, rippling under his skin. He wants to ask him not to go, but it would be useless. Thomas isn't the one leaving.

‘I’ve kept you here too long.’ Speaking seems to cost Thomas a great deal of effort - his voice is as weak as the rest of him, damp paper and salt. Edward hadn't thought he'd hear it again. ‘I thought it would be kinder…I thought…I thought we might stay here. Together.’

Thomas's voice cracks, gives out. Edward knows it would be easier to sit, to hold himself in place and just wait for it to end, but he makes himself stand. He sways, uncertain which way is up – the world is tilting, cupped in a palm – then presses on, through mud and shale, through the flood rising over them. Thomas is on his feet too, though most of him is taken by the water now. His lips move, but no sound comes. By the time Edward reaches him there is nothing to hold on to.

The sea sweeps in.

He had forgotten what it was, to ache so much.

He pries his eyes open, expects to hear running water; goes lightheaded when he realises that the world is silent. The rain had come down so hard, and so long, that being without it is a loss. Sickly light seeps through the canvas, sunlight stretched to the thin colour of tobacco. His stomach contracts. He’s hungry – from his guts to his fingertips and every lank, wasting piece of flesh in-between, he’s hungry. He licks his lips, tastes rot.

‘Edward?’ A boot in his side – more curious than rough, but his ribs are fragile, and they hurt. ‘Edward!’

He gaps. His lungs burn.

The boot explores more forcefully. ‘Are you with us?’

He blinks in response.

‘Christ.’ Le Vesconte crouches next to him, a rustle of dirty fabric and matted hair in the yellow light. ‘I thought you were gone.’

Gone. Edward’s spine itches. He knows what it means, dizzy and sick as he is, to die here, now. He had not given the order – he doesn’t remember giving an order in a long while – but he hadn’t stopped the men. They were hungry. He was hungry too.

They had been waiting for him. Wondering which way things would go.

‘A fever,’ Le Vesconte says, as if Edward had asked. ‘Maybe. I’m not a surgeon.’ 

‘How long?’ he croaks.

‘Two days.’  

Two days. It feels like more. It felt real, though he had known that it was not, long before the sea came up – from the moment Thomas had helped him to the shore, had built a forest between him and this terrible place.

I’ve kept you here too long.

‘Did you fuck him?’

Edward starts. It’s easy to forget he’s not alone, now.  

‘What?’

‘Jopson.’ Le Vesconte gives him an unreadable look. ‘You talked, when you were…you kept talking to him.’

Slow footsteps outside the tent, dragging. Men with tired joints and tired voices and empty, empty stomachs. 

Le Vesconte sniffs. ‘I don’t care if you did. Fuck him, that is.’

Edward’s memory is so poor these days – it has been bad for weeks, months perhaps, and he’s still tangled in the cottage, the warm kitchen and the deep, dark woods. But he would remember that.

‘No.’ He tries to sit up, put his back against the canvas for support, but it has been poorly set-up and leaves him at a sad, slumped angle. The men should have discipline, he should be able to make them take more care, but he never had the knack for it. One of too many tricks he’s never learned to perform. ‘Only loved him.’

It’s a slow heartbeat before he realises what he’s said. It seems impossibly vulgar now, and he can see the shock in Le Vesconte’s face. Notes, dimly, that the man’s eyelids are starting to scab.

‘He didn’t know.’ The confession lifts no weight, but he presses on. ‘You watch someone for long enough, it becomes…easy.’

A warm fire, a bedroom with sunlight spilling into it. Empty snail shells, a warm sea, a dog-rose with scarlet hips. There had been a book on Terror, with engravings of flowers – lavender and yarrow and poppies in a detail so intricate each one seemed like a maze, inscribed Latin names and meanings. He’d read it more than once, that long second winter when he was at his worst with Thomas, because it made him think of home, kept him distracted. Thomas had caught a glimpse of it over his shoulder, once, pointed to a drawing of a snail - nothing more than a decoration on an engraving of a foxglove, an afterthought - and said doesn't that look neat, sir? 

Edward wonders if the book had been brought with them, and if it has now been discarded. Inedible, and therefore useless. He hadn’t told Thomas that they were leaving, had consoled himself by thinking it would make no difference, one way or the other. He had a duty, and there were men who might yet be saved. He wasn’t afraid of being left with the dead, but the others expected him to lead. Thomas was dying. His duty was all he had left. 

‘You left him behind.’

A sting in Le Vesconte’s tone. Disgust, perhaps.

‘It was what you wanted. What you all wanted.’ He realises that he’s crying, the tears sluggish – he’s too thirsty for grief. ‘What was best.’

There is a spectre in Le Vesconte’s gaze, now, a shadow beyond the gauntness of his cheeks, the loose skin of his neck where the flesh had melted away. Something has changed, and Edward realises that Le Vesconte will never look at him without contempt again, for whatever time either of them have left.

Not long, now. 

Le Vesconte runs a tongue as white as chalk over his dry lips. ‘You must lead these men, Edward, or they will consume you.’

Edward says nothing - his tears have already dried. When Le Vesconte gets to his feet, he rises with the slowness of a sick man, but still leaves the tent with the bearing of an officer. Edward hates him for it, admires him. That he can make it look so easy, even now.

Outside, an exchange of muted voices. Are the men disappointed, not to have him supplement whatever scraps they had remaining? His ribs are too tight around his lungs, and there is a throbbing in his head at odds with his heartbeat. He wonders why Thomas had kept him alive for this, then remembers that Thomas is dead. The garden, the beach, the touch of hands and knees and breath, are already crumbling from him. He tries to fold them like the corner of a book, keep them for later, but his thoughts slip, unravel. The pain in his chest rises to an exquisite ache. He claps a hand over his mouth to muffle the inevitable howl from the men outside – and, just as suddenly, realises that he had no strength to make such a noise. It takes so much effort these days even to speak. Grief is an extravagance.

He drops his hand with a thud, the remnant of his breath still sticky on his palm. Shale crunches beyond the canvas. Soon, he will have to go out – no choice but to press on, pretend. Keep trying. Get the men home, if he can, what men he can. Not all of them, but some, perhaps. He has a duty to try. 

One of the tears reaches his lips, burns amongst the chaps and sores. He closes his eyes, lets it sting like brine in a cut.