Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Toby
Our next few days follow a pattern.
Harry and I continue to follow the river downstream, stopping to fish whenever we need food. We talk about everything and anything, sometimes leading to debates because I don’t think Harry and I can coexist without finding something to disagree about.
Oh yeah, and the sex. I can’t forget that part.
Harry and I continue to have sex that redefines the word spectacular. I guess for Harry, it is the breaking of a long dry spell. And we’re definitely in monsoon season now.
It’s understandable. Besides fishing, making fire, and walking, there’s not much else to occupy ourselves.
Blowjobs and hand jobs definitely help pass the time.
All Harry has to do is look at me in a particular way, and I know he’s in the mood.
Which nearly always gets me in the mood because, for some reason, having Harry Matheson want me is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Harry is so steadfast. I used to despise that in him as an opposition politician, how calm and composed he always is. But it’s been my crux out here, knowing Harry is here to steady me when I need him to.
And when I get to see under his composed mask, see the pent-up passion that’s inside him, it feels like it’s worth so much more because no one else gets to see Harry like this.
I’m the only place where Harry’s impeccable control of his emotions seems to lapse. And I love it. I love seeing his breath hitch when I run my nose along his collarbone. I love reducing the articulate, formal man into a blabbering mess.
If we survive this, I’ll have to look myself in the eye and come to grips with the fact I’ve had the best sex of my life with Harry Matheson.
But there are no mirrors out here, so that is Future Toby’s problem. If Future Toby gets a chance to exist, which is not certain given our current circumstances.
As the days go by, it’s like we’re lancing every bit of civilization from ourselves. Every pretense we’ve wrapped ourselves in, every artifice we’ve clung to in our lives, is rendered meaningless in the face of our struggle for survival.
Because there’s no room for anything superfluous out here. There’s no space for our egos. No space for our ideologies, for the petty squabbles and political point-scoring.
There is simply Harry and Toby. Two men who need to eat. Who need to keep warm. Who need to keep themselves safe from injury.
Everything boils down to that.
Today, I’m pulled from my musings by the sight of a familiar plant growing near the base of a tree. I crouch to inspect it more closely.
“Hey, here’s some more of that moss to put in your shoes,” I call to Harry as I scoop up some of the precious spongy moss.
I’ve been keeping a close eye on Harry’s feet because if I don’t, he still has the tendency to walk until his heels are ragged and bloody. While I now understand where the part of him prepared to press through pain comes from, it doesn’t mean I allow him to indulge it.
Luckily, after some experimentation, we found the solution to keeping Harry’s feet blister-free is to stuff a thin layer of fresh moss in his shoes.
Harry comes back to me. “You know what they say, the road to survival is paved with good intentions and great improvisations.”
Harry has proven to be remarkably adept at creating his own idioms since I told him about the ones my mother and I used to make up. Of all the people I expected to carry on the weird tradition my mother and I used to have, Harry Matheson is the last person I ever expected.
But it provides us with entertainment, and in a weird way, it gives me a source of comfort. I like that traces of my mother’s humor now echo around the Nordic wilderness.
“I think it’s more: a moss a day keeps the blisters away,” I counter.
Harry snorts.
“Fortune favors the bold, and the bold favor a well-cushioned sole,” he quips back.
It’s my turn to snort-laugh, and Harry offers me a smile as he stuffs the moss into his shoes.
“Necessity is the mother of invention, and in this case, the mother of blister prevention,” I say.
Harry huffs another laugh. But then his smile fades into something more serious as he puts his shoes on and stands. He doesn’t start walking again but instead fixes his blue eyes on me. “How old were you when your mother passed away?” he asks.
A lump forms in my throat.
“Nineteen,” I say.
“You must miss her,” Harry says quietly.
The grief surges up, threatening to choke me. I avoid looking at Harry, scuffing the toe of my shoe in the dirt where I’ve just dug up the moss.
“Yes, well, there’s nothing quite like being left an orphan when you’re not quite out of your teenage years. Although Orphan Toby doesn’t have quite the same ring as Orphan Annie, does it?”
“Toby,” Harry says.
I refuse to look at him, continuing to blather on. “It’s a good thing they haven’t made a film out of my life because my rendition of ‘Tomorrow’ is subpar, I must admit. I struggle to hit those high notes.”
“Toby,” he says again.
I finally raise my gaze to his. The look in Harry’s eyes causes the next lighthearted words I was brewing to die in my throat.
He reaches out and pulls me against his chest. And I allow myself to rest there for a few moments, soaking in the solidness of Harry.
It’s annoying and frustrating how Harry can see through my attempts to cover up my feelings with humor. But it appears one part of me doesn’t actually mind.
However, there’s only so much sentiment I can take from Harry Matheson before my chest tightens.
Harry lets me withdraw from him, but not before he places a light, lingering kiss on my forehead.
My skin tingles where he kissed me.
I swallow hard. “We better get moving.”
Harry sends an apprehensive look at the sky. “I’m not so worried about the sun coming out tomorrow. I’m more hoping it’ll come out today.”
It’s a gray, raw day, and the temperature has definitely plummeted in the last few hours. The sky is starting to look ominous.
I seize on the change in topic. “Do you think it’s going to snow?”
“Perhaps,” he says.
The thought sends shivers down my spine. We haven’t coped with snow yet. Snow has the potential to turn everything catastrophic.
“Are you going to tell me if you’re thinking about whether we should take shelter, or are you hoping I’ll develop psychic powers?” I ask.
“Well, I’m always supportive of you developing your skill range,” Harry says with a small smirk.
I quirk an eyebrow. “You seemed fairly happy with my range of skills this morning.”
A hint of a blush treks up his cheeks.
This is good. This is back in my comfort zone.
I love how unsettled I can make Harry with just a reference to our sex life, how a few innuendos can sometimes have him turning pink like a flamingo with a bad case of stage fright.
It’s something I allow myself to indulge in often.
“I’m just wondering whether it’s best to keep plowing on or if we should stop to take shelter. Because if we get really wet and it’s too damp to make a fire, we’ll have no way to dry our clothes,” Harry says.
My stomach churns at the thought.
Harry nods at a rocky outcrop on a ridge on the skyline. “If we aim for that, those rocks might provide better protection than we can find in the open forest. What do you think?”
This has been a development over the past few days: Harry asking my opinion rather than expecting me to follow along.
“Good idea,” I reply. “We can do some skin-to-skin warming up when we get to the rocks if you like.”
Harry flushes, and I give another triumphant smile.
My happiness fades quickly as we start walking again because the wind kicks up another notch.
Fuck. It really looks like the weather is about to turn feral.
We’re only halfway to the rocks when the first spots of rain splatter my face. The wind whips around me, driving the icy droplets into my skin like tiny daggers. I squint against the onslaught, my vision blurring as the rain intensifies.
Our survival blankets are more waterproof than our coats, so we get them out and wrap them around ourselves. They’re not designed for easy motion, though, and trudging up a hill with a survival blanket wrapped around me is definitely not an experience I’ll cherish.
The rain changes into something more like sleet and fear ripples through me.
Can we survive a proper snowstorm?
We’ve been catching fish nearly every day, so we’ve still got a supply of energy bars. We can huddle under a rocky outcrop with our survival blankets, maybe make a small fire to keep us warm. But do we have time to gather wood before the snow sets in?
Harry glances back at me, squinting through the rain. He must see the fear on my face.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be all right once we get to the shelter.”
The hill turns steep, and I have to use my hands to climb, which means exposing them to the elements.
In the Shakespeare play, Richard III was prepared to give up his kingdom for a horse. I’d happily trade my two-bedroom flat in Westminster and my entire savings account for a pair of gloves right now.
The rocky outcrop looms ahead of us, its promise of protection an irresistible draw.
The sleet batters against me, numbing my face.
I finally make it to the top and give a cursory glance at what’s on the other side of the ridge, where the forest slopes into a valley with a small lake. But my main attention is on these rocks and whether they will provide enough shelter for us to survive a snowstorm.
That overhang there should protect us from some precipitation, at least, but there’s no way to completely protect ourselves from the elements.
But Harry isn’t joining me in evaluating our potential shelter. Instead, he’s standing on the ridge, his eyes transfixed on the lake.
Now doesn’t seem like the right time to enjoy the view.
“Toby,” he calls urgently.
“What?”
He points. “Look.”
I follow his gaze into the valley. And although we’re standing in freezing, driving rain, I can’t help the enormous smile overtaking my face.
Because on the shores of the lake is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
A cabin.