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His boots kick the uneven sticks on the ground as he half-trundles half-pulls himself along the path. The sound of everyone else eating and laughing over god knows is muffled out by the silence of the night as he distances himself from the din, facing the water. He really doesn't want to cry. No matter how much he tells himself that men can cry, that it's normal, the unsettling feeling of cameras fixated on him from every angle pulls every doubt he had out again. In the moment, he doesn't feel like 24 year old Ginge but more like 8 year old Morgan. It's too easy to let his mind drift back to an image of his nan smiling fondly at clips of him on the TV, and his sister and mum... god, his mum.
As the sound of trickling creek water settles into the background of his mind, he lets the tears fall. It's shameful. Would his fans look at him the same if they saw him crying over something as stupid as homesickness? He shields his face from the cameras, letting his fingers soak up the tears, but he knows it's futile. Every angle of him is recorded now, up to show his weaknesses.
The cicadas croak and for a moment he wishes he'd been one so he'd be too dumb to understand anything past basic survival.
---
The fire is comforting and Aitch relishes in its warmth, even if some parts of his body feel like they're burning and others feel like they're lukewarm. Emu rump. Not bad for bush food. He's a quick eater.
"Where did Ginge go? His food's untouched." Tom gestures towards the empty seat.
"I was talking to him about his nan but he's just gone off. Don't know," Kelly mumbles through a mouthful of rice.
"Poor boy, probably homesick."
Aitch groans as he gets up. He doesn't know why. He just feels like he has to. "I'll look for 'im," he comments.
"Maybe give him some room?"
"Nah it's alright, eaten already."
---
Ginge doesn't know how long he's been sitting there. Him and the moon. His thoughts are interrupted by twigs snapping carelessly and leaves making way for someone. He hurriedly wipes the tears off (which form again straight after) and sniffs in a meaningless effort to cover his runny nose.
"Ya ginger bastard, how long've you been here?'
Ginge turns to the voice which emerges from the path. It's the terrible hat and lazy smirk that lets him know it's Aitch and not Tom with that Manchester accent of his. He forces out a laugh that wobbles and doesn't sound half convincing.
"Hey, eaten already?"
"Yeah, it's good. Emu rump's not half bad."
"Saved some for me?"
"Course not. Don't need any more red meat when you've got that nasty hair of yours." Ginge can hear the prodding tone in Aitch's voice as he sits down next to him, trying to cheer him up. He lets out a fake chuckle.
He knows Aitch can tell when he's faking shit. It happens now. Ginge turns his head away, pretending to admire the nature as Aitch leans towards him to get a better look at his face. "Ginge."
"Hm?"
"Come on."
Ginge says nothing. He hunches over and hopes that if he ignores him enough he'll turn around, go back to the campfire and tell everyone he's alright.
"Morgan." Aitch mumbles. He doesn't sound like the rapper Aitch anymore. His tone carries so much weight in it, the worry making something in Ginge's chest burn.
"What's wrong? We're best mates, talk to me," Aitch leans closer to his ear, enough for Ginge to feel the subtle warmth of his breath even as he blankly stares at a tree 50 metres away.
"Yeah 'm alright, just miss mum."
The moment he says it he regrets it. It's not about the cameras anymore. Ginge feels eyes memorise every part of his skin, scrutinising him, and he knows exactly what they'll look like if he turns around.
"It's hard, isn't it?"
He nods. They sit in comfortable silence for 5 breaths until Aitch dares to talk again.
"We're all missing our families... I miss Hattie 'n Gracie loads. Remember your family 'n fans are proud and you can talk to anyone at camp yeah?" Ginge nods, slowly turning back to face the creek.
"Thanks," he manages shakily. Aitch picks up on Ginge's puffy eyes glancing in the direction of the cameras. He takes his hat off, shielding them from the little red 'recording' lights as Ginge lets his head fall onto his chest. Aitch feels warm tears soak into his clothes but he couldn't care less, and nobody would have to know whether he pressed a few chaste kisses to his hair.