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Ted is stuck in the middle of a cornfield. He doesn’t know how he got there – there’s a high, lonely whistling in the air, and logic says that it’s just the wind but it sounds just like a song his dad said he liked.
Now, don’t hang on…Nothin’ lasts forever but the earth and sky…
He hasn’t been able to bear listening to that song since he was sixteen – was? He is sixteen. Isn’t he? No. No, he can’t be, he has a son. He didn’t have a son when he was sixteen. But it was only a moment ago that he lost his father’s hand in the cornfield, only a minute ago at most – or maybe two. (Isn’t that what people say when they misplace their kid, he thinks – I only let go for a moment and he was gone.) His watch isn’t on him, and time is slipping through his hands like the water of a great serpentine river.
Actually, he wonders where Henry is too - was he in here with them? He doesn’t remember bringing him, but he would never have left him behind, surely. (Henry’s always wanted to go around one of those corn maze things, and Ted’s been promising to finally take him to one now that he’s a little older – worried too much, when he was younger, because Ted got lost in one when he was six or seven, let go of his father’s hand and lost him around a corner faster than he could call for him to come back. When they’d found each other again his father’s face was the same as he thinks his mother’s had been when the dog bit him.)
The sky is becoming a darker grey, now, and he’s sure he must have left Henry here – something doesn’t feel right. Like there are voices shouting for him somewhere, struggling to reach over the top of the field like larks in a high wind, but he just can’t hear them. And where’s Nate? He remembers seeing him recently, but where? Has he lost all of them? Why wasn’t he keeping an eye on them? What’s he done?
At least Trent must be alright – he will be, as long as he’s got Lola with him, he’d never let her get separated from him, he’s a proper dad. But where is he, where are they? Maybe they’re at the road. Ted’s sure there’s a road, he knows it intrinsically, and he thinks he’ll be able to get his bearings if only he can get to it. He wishes he were wearing red trainers, because then maybe he could tap them together and say ‘there’s no place like home’ and have the job done for him, but his feet are feeling awfully heavy for that and he doesn’t know if they’d send him back to London or Kansas. He thinks he must be getting there when the corn rows get lower as he walks, but they’re changing colour at the same time and then they’re cropped green blades of grass, and he’s standing on the pitch at Nelson Road. He checks the crowd but it’s hard because they’re all moving and pointing all the time.
‘Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!’
He doesn’t know what the score is, doesn’t know what he’s done this time, doesn’t know much of anything except the urge to run away, feeling like a rabbit under the farmer’s gun. He’s losing the feeling in his hands again, until he hears one person saying something different.
‘Ted! Ted! Ted!’
It’s not a chant – it’s more like they’re calling out to him, a longer pause between each shout.
‘Come on,’ they say. ‘It’s me, you’re alright, come on.’ It sounds a little harried, like they’re urging him to do something, but he doesn’t know what they want him to do. He opens his mouth to apologise, feels like his tongue is stuck to the roof of it, chokes on his own terror. It is the choking that jolts him awake.
He still can’t breathe right, but the room is lit up amber from the bedside lamp, and Trent is leaning over him looking more worried than Ted’s maybe ever seen him before. Trent’s here, he’s here, Ted’s found him – or maybe it’s the other way round.
‘Ted, thank God,’ he says lowly, and yep, that’s the voice from the stands, it was him. He smooths a hand through Ted’s hair for a bit as Ted does his 4-7-8 breathing, fingers parting the strands, carding through them. When Rebecca’s comforting him she fusses, worries, talks more, and while it does just fine there’s something special about the way Trent does it, the way he lets the quiet lie in a way that Ted never can when he’s able to talk.
When he’s come back to himself (mostly, anyway,) he realises that he’s positioned oddly in the bed, like he’s been moving restlessly in his sleep, and Trent is sitting on his own legs near enough to Ted’s head that it’s nearly in Trent’s lap. This seems to Ted like something that needs rectifying, so he shifts until Trent gets the hint and moves forwards until his thigh is acting as a pillow. He weaves his left hand through the hair at the back of Ted’s head, and even though it’s damped down a little with sweat it seems like he doesn’t even mind. With the other hand he smooths broad, warm lines up and down Ted’s side, gentling him. His breathing has slowed down now and is deep enough to no longer be worrying, but he’s still trembling and feverish at once.
‘Hello, darling,’ Trent says now that he knows Ted will hear.
Ted’s still struggling a little to speak, something in his throat making him gag on words, but this is Trent, who came and found him, so he manages a weak ‘hi’. Even lifts his hand and gives a tiny wave for good measure, which makes a painfully fond look come over Trent’s face.
‘Want me to go and fetch you a glass of water?’
Ted shakes his head near-frantically, because he doesn’t want Trent to go where he can’t see him again – the rational, adult part of him that has a grasp of object permanence has turned tail and run for the moment, and it feels like if he can’t see him he isn’t there. ‘Don’t feel much up to walkin’,’ he manages. ‘And I’d rather you didn’t-’
Trent’s already nodding along. ‘Alright,’ he says. ‘Alright.’ His fingers twitch in Ted’s hair, giving his scalp a light scratch, making him close his eyes blissfully. They stay like that for a while, Ted feeling lulled by the heavy rise-and-fall of his own breathing and Trent’s steady gaze.
‘Thank you,’ he says, eventually.
Trent tilts his head. ‘Whatever for?’
‘In the – in the dream,’ Ted says, even though it’s already fading into memory, silt filtering into the river-water clarity of those first waking moments. ‘I was lost. Real lost. And I couldn’t – I couldn’t keep hold of – I don’t know. It was just…wrong. And you found me again.’
Trent smiles, partly sad and partly like he thinks Ted is being endearingly strange, but never pitying. ‘I don’t know that I can take credit for something I didn’t know I was doing, but I’m glad it worked, in any case.’
‘Thanks again, Kimiko Glenn.’
‘You are feeling more yourself.’ Trent removes the hand from the back of his head to push that one pesky lock of hair from Ted’s forehead, smooth it all back.
‘Yes, sir.’ And he does, actually – they’ve barely done much of anything, but it’s put him at ease nevertheless.
‘Do you want to – talk about it, or…’
He shakes his head. ‘Thanks, but – I think I’m happy to let that one slide right outta my brain. If I remember it in, say, a week, maybe I’ll bring it up at my next appointment, but – there ain’t much to talk about.’
Trent tilts his head, the familiar look of intrigue in his eyes, but Ted knows he won’t chase it down like he would a story. ‘Oh?’
Ted shrugs, rolls onto his right side so he can press nearer, face against Ted’s side, curled partway around him. ‘It was about – well. Y’know.’
Trent nods, grave.
‘But – I don’t know, it was weird. Like one of those abstract anxiety dreams you have the night before a big test or when you’ve left your window open while you’re asleep or you’ve got something kickin’ around in your brain that you had not unpacked as well as you thought you had.’
‘I get what you mean, actually. I’ve had them around big deadlines. I was trying to hand my article in, but my boss was in an ice-cream van that kept rapidly driving away as I ran after it with a printed copy, and then the player the piece focused on hit me with his car and then threw a Solero at me.’
‘Ooo, Solero? Sounds like a kind of sunhat. Or a singer from Cats. Or – don’t tell me, don’t tell me – that wizard fella from The Tempest.’
‘That’s Prospero.’ Trent rolls his eyes.
‘Potato, potahto.’
Trent doubles over and muffles a snort of laughter against Ted’s shoulder. ‘I bloody love you, although God knows why.’
‘I find it’s sometimes best not to question a good thing.’ He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat, and luckily Trent’s close enough to cup his face and kiss the smile off him.
‘I suppose not. But you’re sidestepping my point.’ The look he gives Ted is mock-severe as he lightly taps his side to punctuate the sentence.
‘You’re right, you’re right, m’sorry. I’m glad you know what I mean, though. Ain’t much to talk about because it’s impossible to describe, but – sure was unsettling.’
Trent nods. ‘Yeah. I can see why it would be. Do you want to call Henry, or anything?’
‘Nah, nah, s’fine. Must be- what, eight there? He’ll be watching his cartoons before bed.’
‘You sure?’ he nudges gently as Ted shuffles to sitting up. ‘You’re not a bother to him, Ted. He loves talking to you. Just gets easily distracted, is all. I think they all do at that age.’
‘Nah, nah, really. I think this one’s gonna be fine on its own.’
Trent puts an arm across his shoulders, squeezes the left one gently. ‘Not all on its own.’
Ted smiles tiredly. ‘No. Maybe not.’ He remembers the time again. ‘Shoot – I must’ve woke you up, I’m sorry-’
‘No, no Ted.’ Trent’s using the high-pitched voice he uses for reassuring, usually for when his parents’ dog is frightened of thunder or Lola’s spilled something or Ted’s worried he’s being an inconvenience. ‘It’s fine. I wouldn’t mind if you had woken me up, but I was – well, I hadn’t actually gone to sleep yet. I was keeping an eye on the Twitter feed.’
Ted notices the laptop put to one side, confirming it, and raises an eyebrow. ‘You sly dog, you agreed to try and get an earlier night.’
Trent shrugs. ‘Sometimes it just happens. Besides, I wouldn’t have been up otherwise, would I? Silver linings and all that.’
‘Now that one you’ve got from me.’
‘I suppose I have.’ They both settle against the headboard, pillows propping them up. ‘You thinking of going back to sleep?’
Ted shakes his head. ‘Not just yet. I’d rather not go through that again too soon.’ He leans into Trent’s side as Trent pulls the laptop back over.
‘Want me to put something on here?’
‘Nah, you’re fine, just-’ He muffles a yawn against Trent’s shoulder, ‘jus’ keep doing what you were doing, s’fine.’
‘Alright then.’ He carries on scrolling, reading any funny tweets he finds, and he’s halfway through reading a short article aloud in that smooth, even voice when the weight against his shoulder increases and he realises that Ted’s fallen asleep again. He chuckles softly and turns the bedside lamp off, kissing Ted’s forehead as they settle back down on the pillows.
‘Sleep tight, T.H. White.’