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They live off the greenwood in their own way, although they don't disappear as completely as Maurice had dreamt. It's foolish naivety, to play at Robin Hood and Little John, as though men could live off acorns and nostalgia alone- but within the dream they’ve found a freedom he could never have dreamt of by himself. Their interactions with the rest of society are solid but limited; they disappear back to their idylis, joyfully untethered, joyfully free.
They’re bound to each other, that's what Maurice says. Not like husband-and-wife, with the unhappy facade of holy matrimony, but better, bound by choice, like equals, by love. He’s not like Mr Durham, hiding guilt and weakness and loathing in pretty Greek phrases about self-restraint and purity; he loves Maurice, mind and body and heart, and is loved in return the very same.
It means no more messing around with girls for him, although a grin and a wink occasionally does no harm, but it's not so much restricting as joyous. A tethering, a binding- the tie that binds - the comforting pressure saying here, you and me, we belong to each-other in our hearts, even though nobody else can see it .
Maurice is a romantic, in both senses of the word.
He’s an idealist, a dreamer, forever building- not castles, but shelters of wood and moss in the sky. It's easier to live in the clouds for toffs, even ones of their- what was the word, Maurice, half-blushing, had used, once? of their inclinations , that's it, so many words to avoid calling a spade a spade, in a sense. The law comes down harder on men like him, for one thing, although he supposes the reputational damage leaves them harder to fall; but it's difficult to keep dreams of paradise alive when faced with the harsh reality of the world as it is. He isn’t resentful, mostly; they make their own prisons anyway, or so it seems, spinning them out of words and status and expectations. He’d tried to explain how he’d seen it, once, one soft hazy summer when the air itself hung heavy like a blanket. It looked like being forced to wear boots all your life; you’d be warm, and comfortable, and your feet would hurt a lot less, but you’d never feel the cold dewy grass beneath your feet in the summer or the powdery dry leaves crunching softly in the autumn. Maurice had laughed then, and taken him by the hand, and they’d galloped through the glenn, toes curling into the damp moss, and they’d ended up in each-others arms, tired and happy, as they always did.
Sometimes, he whispers snatches of Wordsworth and Shelly, half-remembered recitations stumbled over in the morning light. His voice is more feeling than sound, a soft murmur imbued with the confidence of a gentleman. Maurice is no poet, has never had a gift for oration, exactly; but Alec likes the cadence, and the intimacy of it.
Sometimes they watch the sunset together, streaks of red and orange across the pale blue sky like burning flames, or like ribbons in a young girl's hair. They find a patch of flowers that summer, violets and bluebells and marigolds and buttercups, and he puts them behind his ear, and winds them through Maurice’s hair, and when he goes to the market the next morning to try and sell some charcoal, because the greenwood did look after them, in its own way, and you couldn’t just live off of acorns and dreams, he gets strange looks from all the ladies, and scornful looks from all the men. And he grins at them, and whistles cheerfully, and gives a daisy to a little girl who’s staring at him curiously, because unlike them he’s here only by choice. Unlike them, he’s free, and his freedom makes him as light as a ghost in the moonlight.