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My thoughts, as they often did, returned to the Greeks. I recalled the group of men I overheard when I was perhaps seventeen, engaged in a lively discussion about the great legends of mythology. Achilles and his lightning stride. Achilles and his strength. Achilles and Patroclus. My mind lingered particularly on these two men. The curious case of a relationship that left most who encountered them with a sense of faint confusion. With nagging questions of whether their devotion may have stemmed from an alternative source. However, as was routine, my mind was jerked over to the memory of the men I had seen hanging from the gallows, the rumours that had preceded their fates. At least Achilles was a hero, Patroclus the best of the Greeks. There wasn't any semblance of a chance for people like me. In the eyes of the church, the village, the world, I was just a sinner.
I shook my head at myself, tethering my thoughts back to reality. I hurried through the streets, avoiding the cobbles embedded in muck. I may have been raised on a farm, but I was no sloven. Besides, these boots had at least another season left in them. As seemed to be the case whenever I dared to frequent the town, my neck prickled with the presence of what felt like a hundred eyes on me. As if I had a sign hanging around my neck that proclaimed, "William Byers is a sodomite." Of course this was not the case, but that didn't make the stares and whispers any less real, and the fear pulsing through my veins any less justified. I continued weaving through the stream of people towards the market.
“Your usual, Byers?” yelled a gruff voice from my left. Instinctively, my hands formed a V just in time for them to cushion a coarse loaf of bread, fresh enough from the oven to warm my hands pleasantly.
“Ah, John. You know me too well,” and with a brisk nod thrown his way, I was off again. Little did most know, despite my less-than-favourable status, I was able to read and write just fine, and I prided myself on my thriftiness. I had worked out a beneficial deal with John: milk from my sheep for a hunk of bread every week. I respected John. Liked him? Perhaps not. Regardless of our deal, I knew for a fact he wouldn’t hesitate to turn me in to the church if it benefited him. But it didn’t serve me to hold that against him. I needed him as much as he did me, and he was community. Besides, as of late, the number of pale-faced dangling corpses at the hanging post had slowly waned. But some things weren't worth taking chances on. Other things, however... if a few apples and pears went missing from the next stall along, who was I to blame?
DONG. DONG. The sound of the bell declaring the time prompted me to hasten my pace to a gentle jog. I exited the marketplace, the bustling centre spitting me out into a quieter street. As I progressed towards the upper-class suburbs, structures of clay and wood morphed into multi-storey monoliths of brick. Glancing up, I felt a jolt of disdain. Stupid fancy houses with their real glass windows and too many chimneys.
In all honesty, I didn’t mind my life. I knew I enjoyed certain freedoms afforded to me by a lack of many social expectations. But I couldn’t help but want the life I saw reflected in those homes. It was naïve. I knew full well that the people inside those mansions had their own issues. The thought spurred me to break into just short of a run, and I was suddenly grateful for my farmhand’s stamina.
Just as I was about to pass the last of the brick behemoths, a burst of vivid red from the corner of my eye forced me to a stop. Jogging over, I lowered my face, closing my eyes and greedily inhaling the sweet scent of the roses. After a quick glance around, I gathered a modest bunch. A sudden sharp pain echoed from my hand, causing me to flinch and drop the bunch. In my haste, a wicked-looking thorn had snagged the flesh of my palm. After the initial shock had worn off, I wrapped my hand in a scrap of fabric to staunch the bleeding. Uttering words I could not in good faith repeat, I carefully rearranged the recovered, doing my utmost to ignore the dull throbbing that persisted.
As I proceeded, the houses became more familiar: dirt floors scattered with hay and asymmetrical clay mounted on wood. A light breeze wafted away the overbearing London smell as I followed the well-worn path leading towards the forest.
Spying two bell-shaped silhouettes in the distance, I slowed my pace to an amble, smoothing my probably irredeemable tawny hair. “Did you hear about William Proud’s engagement to the Nottingham girl? Rather hasty, I hear.” The prim young blonde accompanies this inquiry with a suggestive raise of an eyebrow. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Londoners were the worst gossips. However, for my entertainment purposes, they were fortunately terrible at keeping their voices down.
“Well then, isn’t that convenient?” her companion giggled, leaning in. “You wouldn’t believe this. Jane Hopper is looking to marry this season. You'd never believe who is rumoured to court her…”
Their voices faded as we strolled in opposite directions. Jane Hopper was one of the most beguiling women in London. Her father was highly influential and highly intimidating. I wouldn't have minded hearing who was set to court the insouciant beauty. In my distraction, I failed to note the figure approaching from behind until I felt hands alight on my shoulders. I must’ve jumped a metre into the air.
“Mike! I’ve told you not to scare me like that!” I admonished, the lecture made less threatening by the fact that I was out of breath from the fright. Almost as quickly as they had appeared, the hands were nowhere to be seen. Always careful.
The culprit’s only response was an amused laugh. “Who are you, my father? Just admit you’ve missed me, Byers.”
I felt the coolly pleasant mask that I instinctively adopted drop, a soft smile stealing across my face. I had missed him. A lot. And I had wanted nothing more than to drag him by the lapels into the nearest bush and prove exactly that. But we were still very much in public. Those two walking women could decide to circle back, and this trail was popular for young men to practise their horse riding. My smile slipped. I nudged his slightly taller shoulder with mine and walked through the scrub to a smaller, hidden trail, confident that he would follow.
✴︎
Anyone could see that I was the more outdoorsy of the pair, but it was in fact Mike who had stumbled on our hideaway. The way he recounted the story made it out to be some perilous exploit, and to someone like Mike, who would rather be caught dead than break a sweat over anything more strenuous than a game of tennis, it most certainly was.
The tale went: one day, Mike was walking along the larger path that we had just walked together. He had sneaked away while he was supposed to be attending a meeting about finances, never one to enjoy being talked at, especially about something so dull. Suddenly, he was attacked by a swarm of bees (Mike only revealed this fact to me after relentless prodding), causing him to flee through the bush. That’s when he found our house.
It was a modest abode, even more threadbare than my own, which was truly a feat worth noting. We reckoned it must have been erected at least as early as the 15th century. It looked as if it had survived all manner of things. But it was secluded. Secret. Mike had been frequenting it for a few months before he made it our secret.
✴︎
The light had faded to an intimate glow, blanketing us in warmth. My arm had begun to tingle and lose feeling from where Mike's head rested. But it was worth it to see the rays of light dance in his hair, extracting glimmers of chestnut from the dark strands. To study the full lips parted against his slow breaths, the long eyelashes fanning across his cheeks, embellishing the constellation of freckles dancing across his face. My fingers yearned to draw him, to attempt to capture even a fraction of his beauty. I settled for just looking, relishing in Mike's presence while I could. My heart ached. I was uncomfortable and cold and filthy. But it was all worth it to be with him. He made me feel worth it.
As if he could tell I was thinking about him, Mike's eyes lazily blinked open, and his eyes crinkled as his lips crept into a sleepy smile.
“My love.”
“My dearest," I replied, "Were you sufficiently comfortable?” My arm had only just begun to regain some sensation.
“Hmmm. I've slept better.” He shot me a playful wink.
I returned his smile but couldn’t help the pang that shot through my chest. I was selfish. As much as these moments meant to me, I couldn’t help but yearn for this to be the reality every day. To fall asleep with him nestled against my side. For him to recount his dreams in the morning. To walk together, in town, unafraid. I slipped my hand into his hair and nestled my fingers into the curls, reminding myself that we were here, together. For the moment.
However, my emotions must have been written plainly across my face, as I felt his cool, soft hand slip into mine before he asked, “What’s the matter?”
I let out a breath, surprised at its shakiness. “Nothing, really. It’s stupid, but I was just thinking about how much I’d like to be able to be with you all the time.”
Mike's eyebrows furrowed slightly, a nervous habit that only I would probably notice. "It’s not stupid at all. I want that, too. More than anything.” He sat upright, closing the gap between us to press our lips together lightly. With my hand still where it was against his head, it was easy to pull him in again, deepening the kiss. When my tongue brushes the seam of Mike's lips, the small noise that escapes him makes me even less willing to ever part ways from him in any sense. An indefinite amount of time passed before he pulled away, pressing a tender peck to my forehead.
I sighed and looked out the window towards the horizon, trying to make out what lay beyond the trees in the depleting light. “I just want to get out of here. More than anything."
Mike nodded at this. "I wholeheartedly agree. If I had it my way, I'd be out of here before Henry can marry his sixth wife." He grins at his attempt at a joke, making me roll my eyes almost aggressively.
“Ha ha. But seriously, I don’t want to spend my whole life labouring. I love my mother, and I'd do anything to help her, but I don't want that life. I can't stand to think that I would live and die all within London. Don't tell me you want that.” I searched his brown eyes.
An unreadable expression crossed his face. He cleared his throat. “Of course not.” His hand lifted to caress my jaw. “I’d spend forever here with you, if I could. But I don't think I have that choice. My duty lies in London."
As much as I hated to admit it, a deep and unwilling part of myself knew this to be truthful. Like Jane Hopper, Michael Wheeler was wealthy. He had explained to me on numerous occasions her father’s insistence on him recognising the responsibility of the Wheeler household. With this came the expectation of marrying a respectable woman with a considerable dowry and producing enough heirs to secure the family line. Ted Wheeler would probably drop dead at the thought of the likes of me even talking to the son that he's spent the last twenty years molding into his image. I’ve learned not to bring it up to avoid feeling Mike's shoulders tense up and seeing his expression close off.
“My idea still stands.”
Mike huffed a breath, rubbing his eyes as if the very notion gave him a headache. “Will…”
I cut him off. “I know, I know. But we can do it; we can get away. I’ve heard of people like us, Mike.” The Italy discussion was an old one, a fantasy that we liked to indulge in on occasion. I had hoped that it would cheer him up slightly. God knows how many long days on the farm I had endured solely because of the possibility of a place where I could be free. Preferably, with Mike by my side.
“It’s a good idea, Will.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He sighed heavily. “I have to go now. We’ll talk about this later.” Making my way onto my feet, I extended my arm down, helping Mike up.
His hand carded through my hair, and I savoured the touch. After all, there was no guarantee of when I would next feel it. The space between us dissipated as our lips met. I was acutely aware of the fact that I would love him forever, no matter what hand fate had to play.
His muttered “Goodbye” was hardly audible as he turned to leave. I lingered in the doorway of the house, watching Mike slowly become a smaller and smaller figure in my vision. My stomach dropped as a thought came unbridled to me. I realised that it felt an awful lot like between our last meeting and this, he had drawn away from me in spirit, too.
✴︎
"Mother?"
"Yes, Will?" She offered me a gentle smile as her hand stilled from where it was tilling the earth. For any passerby, the sight of an older woman attending to farm work would conjure, at best, shock, and, at worst, outrage. However, since my father left in my youth, my mother was forced to take on all the responsibilities of the farm, as well as traditional homemaking roles. My brother Jonathan had become akin to a second parent. At this thought, I could feel my cheeks heat in shame at the thought of potentially leaving the two of them. God knew they had enough to shoulder already.
"Did you ever think of leaving London? Moving somewhere else?"
Her brow furrowed as she considered the question. "Of course I did. I may have, if I had not met your father." Anger roiled in my stomach. My father, whose true nature emerged after he came back from the tavern reeking of cheap ale. Who insisted that the purple bruises on my mother's cheek were somehow of her own doing.
"Would you leave now if you had the choice?"
"Potentially. But I won't let you believe that I am unhappy here. It is true that I could use about a week's worth of sleep." She chuckled to herself, and I couldn't help but notice how much younger she looked in her mirth. "But I have built a life here. One that I am content with. That being said, I have heard Italy is nice this time of year. It seems like it might suit you." I felt my eyes widen involuntarily. She couldn't mean what I thought she did. But I glanced into her eyes, the mirror image of my own, and saw nothing but knowing in them. Except, possibly, a glimmer of acceptance.
I cleared my throat. "Perhaps. I would not wish to leave you, though."
"We would manage. Jonathan is good to me when he isn't working at that... I forget the name of what he's doing. You know how fancy business like that escapes me."
"The newspaper? Regardless, I'm glad to hear it. You both deserve happiness, however that may appear."
"You too, Will. As much as I would miss your presence, it brings me ever more joy to imagine your freedom." I swallowed. I did not feel worthy of such blind trust and love.
"I'm not saying I would leave."
"I know, Will. I know." I studied my mother's face, the delicately carved lines, and I knew that the phrase contained multitudes.
My mother knew. And nothing had changed.
Trepidation rose within me. Could I leave? My situation was not completely ideal—it's not like I had any desire to eternally harvest potatoes—but I could recognise how fortunate I was. We did alright for ourselves, and I could not have asked for a kinder family. Additionally, I was not of high standing by any means; it wasn't as if I would be expected to produce heirs or preserve any sort of legacy. Not like Mike. Could I leave, knowing that the life I dreamt of might be just that — a fantasy? The question still haunted me when I departed for the marketplace hours later.
✴︎
My satchel thumped against my leg; our dinner of bread and carrots waited expectantly within. I surveyed the market to give the spread of foodstuff and artisanal goods another consideration.
And then I saw him.
Mike's black curls were tucked behind his ears, looking uncharacteristically tamed. His black shirt had trimmings of vivid blue that set off his complexion wonderfully. He was engrossed in conversation with some other men who could probably afford to eat venison caught fresh that very morning. I longed to approach him, but I was logically very aware of the fact that that would be entirely impossible. I realised with a start that that was only the second time we have seen each other in public. Ever since we first met.
✴︎
Funnily enough, I met aloof, formal Michael at London's dingiest tavern. What caught my eye was not his looks (though I did note those with appreciation), but his out-of-place demeanour. Unlike women, men of all stations were permitted, even expected, to frequent the many drinking establishments that London had to offer. However, it was rare for a gentleman's son to appear in such a sinful, dirty place as The King’s Head, especially alone. It intrigued me that we had a thing in common, and this, coupled with a decent amount of ale, silenced any internal protestations about why I shouldn’t approach him. I swaggered his way, my chin tilted high, exuding false confidence and bravado. Upon my reaching him, his eyes surveyed me from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head. My cheeks heated at the frank assessment.
“Here to kick me out? I wasn't aware that this venue was so... exclusive.” His brown eyes blazed from his perch on his stool, and I was embarrassed to note that he was almost as tall as me sitting as I was standing up.
“What? Of course not. I just thought you looked…” I squinted at him, trying to think of something to say, something witty, maybe? “Lonely.”
His eyebrows shot up, the corner of his mouth twitching into a reluctant smile. That was certainly not witty. But I couldn’t risk telling him the truth. That he looked entirely intriguing, and I wasn't sure if I would forgive myself if I didn't at least try to talk to him. A surprisingly hearty laugh loosed itself from his rosy lips. I was mesmerised by him.
"Why don't you join me, then?" I didn't have any desire to deny him anything. So I sat.
Conversation flowed easily and freely, and it felt as if we had known each other for years. As the number of people at the establishment decreased and the number of glasses crowding our table increased, we gravitated ever closer together until we were near enough for me to appreciate the smattering of freckles across his cheeks.
I was at the point of inebriation where I was as shameless as a jester, attempting to crack jokes, at which Mike would laugh, as much at the jokes as at the fool telling them. But I was drunk. From the alcohol, yes. But I was also intoxicated by Mike. His smile, his presence, everything about him seemed to enrapture my senses.
It was the bartender who ripped me out of my stupor. “Oi! We’re closing; get lost!” A jolt of fear burst through me. I realised how Mike and I may have appeared from the outside and found myself torn between the impulse to jerk away and the deep desire to stay as close as physically possible while I still had the chance. I met his eyes, trying to communicate all of this osmotically.
I suddenly felt the pressure of a hand in mine, and I was surprised by its softness. A hand that hasn't touched dirt in its life. “Come on.” He tugged me towards the direction of the door. “I want to show you something.”
That was the first time we ever went to the house together. Two years ago.
✴︎
“Fine quality bread! Freshly baked!” the bellows of John advertising his goods broke me from my reverie as I blinked, hard. My eyes wandered to the right, and I let out a relieved puff of air at the sight of Mike. I wanted nothing more than to talk to him. I’d even settle for him to look at me. But that was impossible. An idea struck me. I would just have to settle for the next best thing.
I crept along the outskirts of the market, feigning interest in the merchandise stands. Stopping at an aromatic store full of soap I couldn’t afford, I was positioned so Mike's back was to me, yet I was close enough to clearly make out his conversation without appearing too suspicious.
"I heard her dowry was quite considerable." This came from a stout man wearing a heavy cap to cover his receding hair. This garnered nods and murmurs of agreement from the rest of the gathering.
A tall blond piped up. "I would be careful around her father. I have heard word of his overprotectiveness of his daughter. I would not want to be on the receiving end of that!"
"Michael Wheeler, married at last!" The first man chimed in. What? Mike chuckled, a hollow sound that none of the pretentious bunch around him noticed was utterly fake. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hand worrying his sleeve absentmindedly. I was frozen in place. I thought I must have misheard, despite the deep, rational part of myself that reluctantly recognised the statement's truth.
"And to Jane Hopper, no less!"
Oh. Oh no.
I stumbled back a step, my sweaty hands knocking over a carefully arranged display of soaps. The two women on the path talking about Jane's engagement. It was to him. My breath came in short, ragged pants.
“What on earth?” murmured one of the men, accompanied by the whoosh of heads whipping and the prickling weight of several narrowed eyes. What on earth, indeed. Without a conscious input, my legs began to pound the cobbles, carrying me away.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“Will!”
I didn’t stop.
✴︎
We made our way out of town, down a familiar path. Suddenly, he led me down an unfamiliar path through some bushes. After the first time I stumbled over some concealed roots, he took my hand in his. They had remained that way for the rest of our trek. I could feel plants snagging the bottoms of my trousers, but I couldn’t care less about thorns and brambles at that moment. He was all that mattered.
We stumbled through the doorway, the high from the alcohol in no way comparing to the intoxication of proximity. With actions that barely felt like my own, I pushed Mike against the wall. Our lips met, and I forgot what his father might think or people in town might do. I lost myself in the push and pull of his kiss. Forget ambrosia. Mike's hands pushed up the layers over my torso to stroke down my chest, and I couldn't help but groan into his mouth. I could have died right there and then. Our hands drifted lower and lower. After I had kissed up the column of his neck, I leaned back, searching his eyes. He nodded, drawing me in again for a bruising kiss. We were unconquerable.
✴︎
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t walked up to him that night. That we had remained strangers. Because losing him, it just hurts too much.
✴︎
William,
I am so incredibly sorry you had to find out in that matter. My father insists that I must marry Jane; it has been arranged with her father already. To retract this offer would not only reflect poorly on me but on my family as well. She is a kind woman. I would not do so badly with her.
Meet me on Sunday. Please. Bring supplies.
Michael.
I glanced at the slanting letters staring at me from the crumpled slip of paper. I was grateful for my older brother, who learned to read and bequeathed these skills to me. And for Mike, who would read aloud passages as I followed along the text. Mike. I wonder if he had known the skill we had nurtured together would eventually be used for this.
I didn’t know if I could stand seeing him again. Part of me was bitter that the note was not signed off with so much as a "from," any affection that he felt towards me notably absent. But such thoughts were in vain. That was not allowed. Not by his father, not by the church, not by anyone in this godforsaken town. But if we could get out…
I shook my head at myself. Ridiculous. But they do say love makes you crazy. I couldn’t give up on him. Not just yet.
✴︎
My bag thudded to the ground with a severe thwack. He whipped around. The first thing I noticed was his beautiful black hair, harshly molded into a side part, the curls almost flattened straight. My stomach soured.
“You got my note?”
“Yes,” I bit out. I felt a flood of regret upon seeing a flash of hurt mar his icy mask.
“Will, I’m sorry.” The candles dotted around provided just enough light to see his glistening tears.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The fight had gone out of me, and the words came out more exhausted than I would have liked.
Mike looks away, swallowing. "There was no way you could understand. We live in completely different worlds."
"I could try! You know I wanted nothing more than to be a part of your world, not some escape." At this, I poked his shoulder, perhaps more roughly than was strictly necessary.
"You were never an escape. I love you!"
"But you can't. Not anymore. Not when you have a wife, and children, and duties—"
"I will. Nothing can help that."
"You can't be mine. You are to be married."
“Will. I don’t want to. You know I don't—"
A wracking sob cut him off. I dropped my cold act, running forward to gather my lover into my arms. My shoulder grew moist.
Drawing back, he cupped my face in one hand. “Let’s go to Italy.”
“Mike…”
“I’m serious. I wasn’t sure earlier, but I am now. I want to be with you. Forget Jane. Forget my father. Forget London! Please say you will." He implored me, his brown eyes wide and beseeching.
A delusional, desperate part of me had known that he would propose this. Why else would I have packed my bags at his request? So why wasn’t I relieved? Hadn’t I proposed the very same idea last time we met? I shoved these feelings down. He chose me. We could be together.
I pulled him into an ardent kiss. His lips parted against mine, and his hands dived into my hair. All doubts evaporated. Those could wait. I pulled him down to our bed of hay, next to a pile of wilted roses. Had I gathered those just last week? It felt like a lifetime ago. Tasting salt, my thumb gently brushed away an errant tear.
“I love you, Mike.”
“I love you, too.”
I detested the fact that I knew, deep down, that that would be the last time I heard those words.
✴︎
From my vantage sitting against the wall, I could see the first rays of light announcing a new dawn. I was lingering, attempting to delay the inevitable. But I had to do this. I glanced around for a piece of paper, an old newspaper, anything, but my search yielded no such results. Suddenly remembering, my hand plunged into my pocket, retrieving Mike's note. I stifled the sobs that arose, roughly swiping a hand across my eyes. I didn’t want to use it. A selfish, petty part of me wanted to keep the note, keep this part of him. A physical reminder that he existed, that we existed. I tried to seek consolation from the fact that if I made this tiny sacrifice, Mike would at least have something to remember me by. At least nothing and no one could ever take my memories of him. That would have to be enough.
I tried to memorise every detail of the sleeping figure a final time. He looked more peaceful than he had in a long time. It dawned on me that the pressure of him hiding his engagement from me was likely responsible for a lot of his stress. I couldn't help the sob that escaped me. I should have been there for him. Comforted him when he needed it most. Relished the time we had left together. Instead, I made him feel like he had to keep things from me.
I laid the note on the ground. This was for the better.
Loitering in the doorway, I succumbed to the urge to look back a final time. Final. Forever. I would never see the love of my life again. He would be married to a woman whom he couldn’t love. He would hopefully, painfully, forget me and try to move on. And me? Where would I be? On my farm, stuck, despite everything? Italy?
A cool gust of air blasted my face as I stepped outside. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tilted my head skywards, letting a tear escape down my cheek. I hoped he could forgive me.
✴︎
Mike,
You were right. You will be happy with Jane, and I wish you all the best for the future. It was all worth it.
Please do not look for me. Try to forget; it isn’t possible for it to hurt any more than this.
Love, Will.