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The grass is soft underfoot. It clearly is due a mow given the length of it, but it at least means that Nick can press his feet down without a sound as he treads the path carefully. Ahead, he can see his target; a mother deer and her fawn gently chewing on a patch of cock’s-foot. He makes a mental note to thank Darcy for their dedication to knowing all of the silly names for Kent plants.
They haven’t noticed him yet. He crouches down.
Bzzzzz!
The vibration of his phone is loud enough to spook the pair of them, and Nick watches as their eyes widen before they flee – past the mound at the edge of the path and into the woods.
He shoulders his camera and sighs, plucking his phone from his pocket.
“Yeah, Tara?"
“Nick! Where are you?”
He straightens up, wincing at the sound of his bones clicking as he moves. Years of rugby have wrecked his joints and crouching down to get the best possible photo probably wasn’t the best idea.
“Knole Park. Thought it might be quiet now that the schools are back.”
“You should have called! Darce and I would have come with you.”
He doesn’t want to tell her that he’d prefer to be on his own right now. She’d think it was about Imogen and the breakup, or the fact that he’s had to quit rugby because everything hurts all the time now.
It’s not not about those things, but he also just wanted a bit of peace and quiet. He loves Tara and Darcy, but their insistence on parenting him through what has turned out to be a fairly dull and uninspiring phase of life is starting to grate.
It’s not helped by the fact that his own mother – with the help of Auntie Diane – has committed to trying to solve all of his problems by his twenty-fifth birthday. She was the one who suggested a new hobby – calling up Uncle Rich and demanding he lend Nick his camera the second Nick shrugged and said ‘I guess I like taking photos.’
He likes taking photos of people, generally. Snapshots of his loved ones that he can look back at and reminisce over, but wildlife works too.
If he weren’t so bloody awful at it.
He thumbs through his offerings for the morning. A couple of blurry photos of what might be a butterfly in flight; a mirror selfie where he looks drunk; some shots of trees that might have been arty if you had the benefit of nepotism and a single jaunty photo of his own foot.
The fresh air is nice, though.
He’s scrolling through Amazon for a book that he hopes is called Nature Photography for Dummies, when a sound pierces the quiet. A footstep crushing some dry grass up ahead. Nick’s face whips up, just as someone tumbles out from the bushes and crashes into the little ditch at the edge of the path.
Unfortunately, the shock of it causes Nick’s finger to slip and he hears the click and sees the flash before he can stop it.
“What the fuck?”
“S-Sorry, I—” Nick scrambles with the camera. The man is dusting himself off from his grassy landing place and glaring at him. His curly hair is in disarray and there are bits of cock’s-foot sticking out like a crown. It would be comical if Nick weren’t so deeply embarrassed.
“Do you think that’s funny?” the guy snaps. When he plants his hands in his hips and fixes a serious look on Nick, Nick feels a laugh bubble up inside.
“No, I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean to— it’s not my camera. I’m not used—”
“You’re laughing!”
“I’m not!” Nick protests, despite the evidence. “I mean, I am, but I promise it’s just a reflex!”
The man dusts himself off: big pats against the knees and arse of his jeans before he jabs his fingers into his curls and fluffs them up. Bits of grass and debris careen off of him. Nick can’t help but smile.
“I’m Nick, by the way,” he waves. The guy raises an eyebrow at him.
“Charlie.”
“Nice to meet you, Char—”
“Is there mud on my arse?” he asks, suddenly, twisting his hips in a way that displays both said arse and his flushed face. Nick makes a show of looking, despite his embarrassment.
“I— Er— No.” He pauses. “You’ve got cock’s-foot though.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s—”
“Is that a gay joke?”
Nick feels himself getting hopelessly flushed.
“No! It’s— There’s a type of grass called cock’s-foot,” he stammers. “My friend knows a bunch of dirty wildlife words. They keep making me learn too. I wasn’t implying that you look… you know… gay.”
Nick’s diatribe doesn’t earn him much good favour, it seems, because Charlie steps forward and fixes a strange look on him. It might be amused, if Nick were feeling generous towards himself, but more so it looks a little bemused.
“And… what exactly does a gay guy look like?”
Okay, Nick has officially floundered this conversation. He’s met new people before. Why is meeting this one so hard?
“I don’t really know,” he says eventually, resigned to fucking up this interaction and moving on as a weird anecdote in Charlie’s Tuesday. “I don’t think I’ve met any gay guys before. My best friends are lesbians. Well… one is non-binary. And one’s a ballerina. But I— Those aren’t the same things.”
For some reason, this is what breaks through the facade and Charlie chuckles merrily.
“Nick, I’m messing with you.”
“Oh! Okay. Sorry, I’m not very good at… at this…”
“Flirting?”
The word hits Nick full in the face and he nearly drops his camera.
“Oh! I— I’m not—”
Another look. Nick lets the strange feeling settle in his gut before he smiles.
“Yeah, I guess not.”
Charlie grins, before turning up the path and glancing back over his shoulder.
“See you around, Nick. Tell Tara and Darcy I said hi.”