Someone wild a m m adven.., p.1
Someone Wild: A M|M Adventure Romance, page 1
SOMEONE WILD
Stephen Elliott
Copyright © 2024 Stephen Elliott
All rights reserved
The characters, locations and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
MARK
For joining me on this adventure through life.
‘DO NOT FOLLOW WHERE THE PATH MAY LEAD. GO INSTEAD WHERE THERE IS NOT PATH AND LEAVE A TRAIL.'
Lao Tzu
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
INTRODUCTION
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
ONE YEAR LATER
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
DAY ONE
INTRODUCTION
The coach is loud. Too loud. An overwhelming combination of nervous laughter and excited conversations combined with the never-ending deep belly rumble of the coach’s ancient engine are an assault to my ears. Not only is the coach too loud, it’s also far too hot. The heaters pant out an endless fug of dog-breath warmth. I fidget, unable to find comfort on the concrete block of a seat, and I try my best not to elbow my sleeping neighbor, even though he probably deserves it. Why on earth he decided to sit beside me on a half-empty coach only god will ever know.
I can’t help but huff when all I manage to do is make myself even less comfortable. Fuck’s sake. I suck in an irritated breath, which according to a stupid app on my stupid phone is meant to bring me calm and inner peace but instead has me gagging on a sulfuric gas cloud. I glare across at my neighbour who meets my icy ozone blue stare and raises a thick, dark eyebrow, then shrugs. I shake my head. Fucking tramp.
Wrestling my phone out from my pocket, I swipe across the screen and delete the stupid inner peace bringing breathing app and then check the time. 5AM. I grimace at the prospect of another hour trapped on this coach and shove the phone back into my pocket, making sure that my gassy neighbour gets a sharp jab from the crook of my elbow. Then I close my eyes and will either sleep or death to come and bring me some form of respite from this never-ending hell-journey.
Of course, neither come and I end up trapped in my eternal discomfort, constantly being either jolted or jostled by both the coach and my now fidgeting, farty neighbour.
Turning slightly, I end up staring out of the dirty window, slick with condensation, and glare out into the murky slate-grey early morning gloom beyond. I try to pick out evidence that we might be getting closer to our final destination. The coach is currently rumbling slowly through a small village nestled between dark, rocky hills and shadowed by great dark pines that tower high above. Gnarled limbs reach over jagged rooftops and brush spindled fingers along squat chimney stacks.
I blink, and the village is behind us, the road beneath us becomes rough and it begins to feel as though I’m a small rock tumbling from a cliff, about to hit rock bottom and shatter into a million tiny pieces at any moment.
* * *
Excitement builds in my chest as we pass through another Welsh village and the road becomes harsher as the coach grumbles and groans as it bounces along the patchwork tarmac. We must be getting close now and I can’t help but grin. I sneak a glance across to my neighbor and he’s sat, stiff as a rock and frowning out of the window and into the semi-darkness of the trees beyond.
Somehow, despite the equally rocklike surface of the seats I’ve somehow managed to sleep for most of the journey and when I did finally wake up we make very brief eye contact. Then my neighbour had wrinkled his nose at me before turning away and shaking his head.
For a second I worry that I’ve been snoring and quickly reached up to wipe my chin, but the movement of my hand wafts up a far more rancid explanation to my coach mate’s now very clear disgust. Some filthy tramp has dropped the most pungent, rotten meat fart and it’s sitting heavy in the coach’s stuffy air. I wrinkle my own nose and quickly pull a packet of mints from my jacket pocket, popping one into my mouth before pausing, unsure whether to offer one to the man beside me. I shove the packet away and then twist, trying to find some form of comfort and failing.
My legs ache from folding all six foot four of me into such a narrow space for such a long journey and I’m desperate to stand and stretch and crack my back. Part of me even regrets choosing this specific seat when the coach has plenty of space I could of have to myself. It’s ok, though, I remind myself. Soon we’ll all be free. Free to start our own journeys. Free to start again…
* * *
The ancient coach continues to trundle along ever-narrowing roads as it inches painfully slowly towards the borders of Eryri National Park. Ancient trees reach towards the sky as a great lake spreads beneath. Rivers wind through thick, dark forests as they grow from gently babbling streams to roaring torrents and then thundering waterfalls cascading over towering cliffs.
Dark rocky ridges punctuate the horizon, and a bird of prey soars high above, tracking the coach like prey until it’s finally swallowed by a narrow, twisting valley.
ONE
PETER. I suck in a deep breath of fresh, albeit surprisingly cool August air and relish the crisp, earthy damp that fills my London lungs. The sound of birdsong trills from the trees and echoes all around. Tall pines border the carpark and thankfully drown out the chatter and clatter of the twenty-something people I’ve spent too many of the days early hours trapped with.
I shiver in nervous excitement and then pull my jacket closer before bending to hoist my preposterously huge pack up and onto my back, then cry in surprise as the weight of it pulls me back and I almost tumble to the ground.
“Steady on, fella!” A strong hand catches my shoulder and keeps me from collapsing to the floor. I take a moment to make sure that I’ve regained my balance and then paste a smile across my face before turning to meet my rescuer as he releases his grip from my shoulder.
“Thank you,” I begin to mumble, my smile faltering slightly as I meet a pair or piercing blue eyes that I quickly realise belong to my coach seat neighbour. Stood up straight he’s tall as hell with a broad chest that tapers down sharply to a valley of rippling abs which in turn meet sharp hipbones that sit atop thick, muscular thighs. My heart leaps out from my chest and I quickly force myself to look back up into his kind face, noting his strong jaw before once again meeting his intense blue stare.
“Not a problem,” he flashes a bright white smile before offering a huge hand. “Darius.”
“Peter,” I struggle to reply as I take his warm hand and then shake. We stare at one another for a moment too long and I have to force myself to release his hand, glancing around awkwardly. The seconds tick by and I struggle to think of anything to say. The seconds become a minute which could easily even become an hour.
“That’s a pretty big pack you’ve got there, Peter.” Darius winks. “I honestly thought that I would have the biggest pack here, but I think you’ve beat me.” I blush and look down to the equally huge bag Darius has abandoned on the floor beside his exceptionally huge feet.
“How many days are you out here for?” Darius cocks his head slightly and juts out his chin. I’m absolutely crap at judging height, but I assume that Darius is about seven feet tall, possibly even more. Not only that, but literally everything about him seems, well, massive. Everything I can see, anyway, I think to myself before blushing a deep shade of red.
“I’ve not decided, actually.” I swallow. “A couple of days, at least.”
“Cool,” Darius nods. “Me too.”
I glance around the carpark and realise that very quickly the crowd has dispersed and we’re the last two standing here. The coach rumbles back to life behind me and I jump. Darius laughs. I resist kicking his ankle. The trees around us whisper secrets in the gentle breeze that rolls down from the hills and above us a bird sings louder than I’ve ever heard before.
Inside, my heart beats out an unsteady rhythm against my ribs. I smile, a proper smile, something I rarely do these days. The air between us is still.
“So, where are you heading first then, fella?” Darius is the one to break the silence with his deep voice and I have to think for a moment before replying.
“That way,” I reply quickly, pointing over his shoulder. “You?”
“I’ve not really decided, if I’m going to be completely honest. I’ve got all the time in the world, and I thought it would be fun to see where the wind takes me.” Darius shrugs and his bright smile widens. “Maybe that way is a good place to start, though…”
&nb
DARIUS. Standing back, I look down at the slim man before me in his pristine, obviously brand-new shirt and jacket and grin as a light breeze ruffles his otherwise neat blond hair. Peter stands at around five foot seven and probably walks to work but has definitely never set foot in a gym. His skin is fair and well cared for, and I bet he uses at least three hundred different moisturisers every day.
When Peter smiles, it’s hesitant and awkward, much like his stiff body language and statue like posture. Peter, with his too-big pack and standoffish, reluctant nature, has me intrigued.
Stooping down, I haul my own pack up and onto my shoulders and then fasten it across my chest before testing my balance and then nodding, pleased to note that I appear to have packed everything just right. Not that I have any reason to doubt my packing skills. It’s not that I’m a cocky smartarse, but I’ve spent weeks preparing for this day and months, years even, dreaming about this very moment.
And now, standing here, I wonder whether I might actually prefer to share this adventure with someone after so many years planning this journey alone.
“Well, thanks for, you know, saving me,” Peter interrupts my thoughts. “I’m, er… I’m gonna walk now.”
“Good luck, Peter with the big bag!” I wink and nod before raising my hand and waving as he turns away, then laugh as I catch the flush creeping up Peter’s neck.
“And you, Darius, with the big bag envy.” Peter smirks over his shoulder, and it’s my turn to blush.
“Call me Daz!” I call after Peter but he’s already striding across the carpark, his straps too loose and causing the pack to bounce against his firm little bum. I stand and watch Peter for a moment and only start after him as he vanishes into the shadows of the trees, keeping my steps slow to give him a decent head start.
I had been honest when I’d told Peter that I’d not yet decided my route, but suddenly I feel sure of the path that I need to follow.
* * *
PETER. The road is quiet save for the unsteady slap of my boots and I’m glad to note that those who left the carpark while my pack was trying to kill me are nowhere to be seen. It’s just me, the tarmac, and trees. My first planned stop isn’t far away, assuming of course that I’ve got my planning right. My bag straps slip and slide uncomfortably on my shoulders, and I regularly have to heave it higher onto my back. I mutter curses under my breath for not having done the practice hikes all the guides suggested, but ultimately, there’s no turning back now.
Then my stomach growls out a reminder than I’ve yet to have breakfast and my mind wonders to the trek bars stashed somewhere in the jumbled chaos of my bag. Last night it had felt as though, no matter how hard I tried, everything refused to fit and, in the end, I’d shoved everything down as best as I could before giving up and trying to get a few hours’ sleep which, of course, also refused to come.
It's fine, I tell myself. Everything is going to be absolutely fine. I’ve spent years reading about great walking adventures and wild camping, and about people who pack away their entire lives and vanish for months, sometimes even years, before returning with a whole new outlook on life.
This has been something I’ve thought about doing for the longest time and, honestly, never actually thought would become a reality. Nobody would ever expect boring Peter to pack up his job and disappear into the mountains. When I return to London I’ll be a better man. A less boring man…
* * *
DARIUS. Finally, the sun peeks over the horizon and casts long shadows across the valley as Dolwyddelan Castle looms in the near distance. I take a breath and close my eyes as my feet carry me forward and I enjoy the first rays of weak sunlight on my skin. Then I spread my arms out wide and turn on the spot, laughing. I’ve dreamt of this freedom for years and I never expected it to smell or taste or feel this so god damned good.
Suddenly I find myself running forward, my bag bumping gently against my back as my boots crunch down on the tarmac beneath. I spot Peter struggling in the distance and have to force myself to slow down, although something deep down inside urges me to keep running and wrap an around his slim neck.
Even from my distance I can tell that he’s packed badly and desperately needs to tighten his straps. It dawns on me that Peter probably doesn’t even know how to, but I doubt that he’ll be willing to accept my advice. He has a stubborn air about him.
I shrug and try to keep my pace slow and steady as the castles crumbling keep towers closer. I find myself pausing for a moment and then I drop my pack to the ground and rummage inside before pulling out a small tub of fresh fruit that I’d made sure to prepare before leaving. Popping off the tight lid, I shove an entire strawberry into my mouth, and I swear it’s one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted.
As I follow Peter’s footsteps, I find myself wondering if he’s ever done anything like this before, whether he has ever even left the city I assume he both works and resides in. London, I guess, because he has that sort of air about him. I’d place a bet that the closest to nature Peter has ever come is a Sunday afternoon strolling around a National Trust garden. I doubt he’s ever spent a night in a tent.
And then I find myself wondering what Peter is running from and have to remind myself that not everyone is running from anything. Hell, even I’m not running, not anymore.
TWO
PETER. My feet are red hot flaming firepits in my boots and feel as though they’ve been walking for hours and my back and shoulders, even longer. Then my stomach growls as though I’ve not eaten in years and turns uncomfortably when I pull out my phone and realise that I’ve barely been walking for an hour, possibly even less. I didn’t check the time when departing the coach.
I glare ahead and can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. I always knew the castle staring down at me would be a ruin, because all castles are ruins, aren’t they? I guess I’d just expected there be more of it or, I don’t know, that it would maybe be more impressive. Clearly, from the state of it, this castle isn’t trying to impress anyone.
Then I try to remind myself that I’m only passing by, and this is simply a landmark to be ticked off a long list of landmarks, although I do hope that what’s to come is a little more impressive and tries just a little harder than Dolwyddelan Castle. Unfortunately, the castle also serves as a somewhat bitter reminder that even after just one hour of walking, I’m already falling behind and struggling with just about everything.
Sighing, I let my pack fall to the ground and try not to think about getting it back onto my back, then drop down beside it and begin to fumble inside for my breakfast. I pull out a brand-new stove, sticker still firmly pasted on the bottom, and then my badly rolled up raincoat and a pair of thick socks, and then a first aid kit I hope I’ll never need. My Swiss army knife comes out, and then a package of those meals you just have to add hot water before I finally reach my stash of trek bars. Then I shove everything away again before tearing open the wrapper and shovel the bar into my mouth.
I chew, and chew, and chew, and then I chew some more and eventually I think that I’ve been chewing for an entire hour and the texture of the bar seems to be getting worse, so I try to swallow, and it ends up sticking in my throat and then I gag and choke up the claggy mulch my endless chewing has created.,
Frowning down at the remnants of the bar in disgust, I throw the rest into the hedge behind me and crumple up the wrapper in my fist before hugging my knees against my chest and then resting my forehead against them in defeat. I absolutely cannot do this, I begin to tell myself as I spiral, before literally jumping out of my skin as someone coughs nearby. I glare up at Darius’s grinning face with absolute daggers.
“You ok there, fella?” his voice is deep and gentle, and I can hear his stupid smile wrapping around every single world. I sit on the verge and will the earth beneath my bum to open wide and swallow me whole. Once again, I feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment, but I force a smile onto my own miserable face and hope it doesn’t come out a grimace. I’m screwed, because it definitely feels like a grimace.
