An Orange Coloured Sky

“Almost there!” You call back to me, a few paces ahead. The wind is whipping your hair into a frenzy; salt mist tangling it playfully into a halo of platinum curls that bounce and shift with each step you take. It seems to be having the opposite effect on me; I didn’t know my hair was even long enough to get stuck in my mouth and nose before today.

“I don’t believe you!” I managed to choke out, between laboured breaths. The straps of my backpack are beginning to bite into my shoulders, gnawing deeper with every step. My clammy hands are finding it increasingly more difficult to keep hold of my hiking poles, which I’m not sure are even doing anything of benefit because my knee has been threatening to buckle for the past two hours. You had assured me they would help take the weight off.

To think I’d actually been excited to go on this walk when you first pitched it to me. I’ll be the first to admit that the great outdoors and I have no real relationship to speak of; but you’d painted such a picture of your hometown that I couldn’t resist.

“We can spend the morning at the beach, and look for seals. You ever seen a seal?” 

I’d shaken my head.

“They’re insane, man. You’ll never get sick of seeing them. Spot one and you’ll spend the rest of your life looking for the next, honestly.”

You’d pulled up your phone and started showing me pictures of some shady cove on Google, different angles of the same small horseshoe interjected occasionally by block squares of blue with low-res black blurs peppering them. Those, you told me, were the seals.

You have a way of describing things that could fire up even the most misanthropic of city rats. Despite my reservations, I couldn’t help but picture the two of us somewhere on that stretch of sand, pairs of binoculars at the ready. It’s stupid that you can make something so inane sound so exciting. You waxed lyrical about just how blue the water was, how warm it would be at this time of year, recounted childhood memories of sandcastle contests with cousins at family barbecues, to the point that I almost swore I could feel the wind soft on my face, smell the burning sausages.

“Around lunchtime we’ll head up and out onto the coastal path. There’s a café along the way so we can grab something to eat, and a cornershop so we’ll be sorted for drinks and snacks.”

“What’ll we need those for?”

You’d grinned.

“Because then-” You pulled up more pictures, this time of a craggy outcrop of rocks towering over a small coastal town; “We’re gonna climb this bad boy. We can watch the sun go down from the top, get pissed, maybe we can get a pack of straights to smoke at the top too? We’ll play it by ear. I’ll bring my speaker!”

Again, stupid, but the mention of smoking forced a smile through my lips before I had time to pull it back. You only smoked cigarettes on special occasions.

I could do with one right about now. I don’t even know how long we’ve been walking at this point, and you’ve insisted that any break longer than a minute will do us more harm than good. My eyes are focused only on the path ahead of me, and whatever obnoxiously optimistic indie-pop that's crashing through your portable speaker is drowned by the sound of my boots on gravel and my breath ringing between my ears.

“No I mean it, look! You can see the top from here.”

I look up.

My stomach drops.

I’m confronted by a cascade of boulders, far more steep than anything we’ve climbed thus far, that look ready to fall at the next strong breeze. Above them, a scrum of larger sheets of rock, somehow more severe, piled atop one another in a precariously jagged formation. Above that, the slope begins to look more subdued, rolling out into a hill that looks like the summit. I think. Touch wood. I’ve already thought that twice so far, and I’m not about to get my hopes up a third time.

“See?”

You look back at me, all smiles. Your face falls quickly when met with my own, which I can only assume looks like shit.

“It’s only another hour from here, I promise. We’ll just have to pick up the pace a bit.”

“Pick up the pace? This is the pace!” I wheeze. The idea of walking any faster is almost physically painful.

“I just want to make sure we make it in time for the sunset, is all.”

“Can we not just- I dunno- watch it from here?”

You raise one eyebrow, a know-it-all smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“You’d kick yourself for saying that if you knew how good the view was from the top. Trust me.” You don’t wait for a response, just turn around and keep going. My cries of protestation fall on deaf ears.

“Stay here if you want,” You call without looking back, “But I’ve got the beers.”

No arguing with that. I begrudgingly follow.

That’s us in a nutshell, I think. You ‘re always looking for the next big adventure, obsessed with making memories. The idea of doing nothing is an insult to you. I think I’d be perfectly happy with a life spent doing nothing, if at least some of it was in your company. So, despite myself, where you go I follow.

My plan had always been to keep my head down at uni, work on my skills as a designer, network, and develop a beautifully tragic addiction to cigarettes (preferably some other substance too, for the added mystique). I imagined myself outside coffee shops in thrifted leather jackets adorned with patches of only the most obscure of punk bands, smoke clinging to my fingers as I furiously scribbled my next masterpiece on a bus ticket. An artist.

That dream was quickly dashed once I realised just how much cheaper it was to make instant coffee at home, and that bus tickets are a lot more difficult to work with than sketchbooks, and who can afford to take the bus, anyway? 

We shared a house in our second and third year, along with a couple of law students who were nice enough, if not quietly judgemental. After one or two awkward attempts at nights out together, we all quickly realised we had nothing in common with one another and stayed out of each other’s way for the most part, passing ships in the kitchen waiting in silence for late-night cups of black coffee before trudging back to our rooms.

I was at a friend’s gig, a cobbled together attempt at an alternative night in a pub cellar; sweat and beer dripping from the ceiling, when I caught you out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t not, you were like a labrador among a murder of crows. Everyone else was making their best attempt at looking nonchalant, even though we all secretly knew we’d meticulously planned these outfits at least a day in advance, but you really did look like you’d put in zero effort. You were wearing a pair of dungarees and a baggy t-shirt that I knew for a fact you used as pyjamas. You’d waved me over.

You were talking to a gaggle of goths who, it turned out, were on your course. They looked just as surprised to see you as I was.

“Holy shit! What are the odds? Guys, this is my housemate.” You began to introduce me to them one by one, Liz who was into arthouse cinema, Joe made short-form slasher films, Annie who was getting into documentary filmmaking.

“I didn’t know you were into hardcore.”

“I don’t know either!” You’d laughed, “So I thought I’d find out. Do you smoke?”

I’d followed you out into the smokers, where you’d grilled me about the bands playing that night, and what exactly was the appeal? Could I actually make out the lyrics over all the shouting? How were you meant to dance to it? 

I found myself laughing about an hour and a few beers later when you’d thrown yourself into a mosh pit and inadvertently punched some poor bastard square in the jaw. You spent the next hour slurring apologies into his ear; “M ssso sorry maaaan ‘s my first time n’ I di’n’t meeean to-” before I decided you needed to go home. We spent the next day watching trash TV, nursing twin hangovers.

In the few weeks that followed we no longer waited for our coffee in silence. You’d come downstairs to moan about your coursework, you’d linger in the kitchen and ask about my day, which eventually graduated to sitting at the table. Over time I began to recognise the sound of your bedroom door opening, and knew to prepare an instant coffee with two sugars and a splash of oat milk.

Coffee turned into sharing the kitchen as we made lunches and dinners, occasionally making them together once we learned of each other’s love for Mexican food. Sometimes we’d eat in front of the TV, where we bonded over a mutual love for A24 films, and I learned about your unbridled hatred towards Quentin Tarantino. I’d show you pieces I’d been working on, you’d usher me to your room for “a fresh set of eyes” on whatever new project you’d been editing. It’s a strange domesticity we’ve fallen into, and I’ve been quietly mourning having to let it go all summer. Our tenancy runs out in two months, and we’ve been trying to make the most of it before reality rears its head. It was your idea that I come with you back to your hometown for the weekend. 

And so here I am, in the arse-end of nowhere, hiking. The craziest thing is; despite the discomfort, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

You’re already far ahead, leaping from rock to rock like a mountain goat, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Nothing about this, I think to myself, is natural. Human bodies surely weren’t designed for places such as this. Yet, there you are. Proving me wrong. 

Bastard.

My progress is slow; each step carefully considered as I gradually ascend. You try to let me set the pace, but keep running on ahead, forgetting yourself. I allow it. I’ve resigned myself to this now; I’ll get there when I get there and you’ll just have to deal with it. I get into a rhythm, almost trance-like; making peace with the pain in my legs and the harsh push and pull of my breath; my full focus on the path ahead. I just need to keep moving.

It’s getting harder and harder to see in the dim light. The trail seems to have a little more definition now, boulders give way to gravel, which gives way to soil. Before I know it we’re back on more solid ground.

“One last push! We’re so nearly there!”

To my surprise, you’re actually right. I allow myself to look up again. Not a boulder in sight; all I see now is grass and sky. My body suddenly feels half its weight. It takes us all of ten minutes to reach the top, propelled by a shared giddiness. We’re chasing the sun now, the light beginning to shift and deepen in colour with the passing of each minute. We throw our backpacks to the ground, and I suddenly feel so light that I’m convinced I’d blow away with the next strong wind. The pain in my back and shoulders are gone with an instant, suddenly they feel like water, and any tension I’ve been holding over the past few hours rushes from me in a matter of seconds.

We collapse on a small mound of grass, panting. I feel as though the earth could swallow me whole, and I’d be okay with it. I turn to look at you, the dusty pinks and oranges of the sky above painting your face like a watercolour. The light dances around your hair, spinning blond curls into strands of gold. You’re transfixed by the clouds, a network of pulled cotton and mist, their hue and intensity shifting in the changing light.

“Beer and cigs?” I pitch, tentatively. I’ve been dying to have a drink that I don’t have to monitor or ration for the last two hours. You bolt upright.

“Beer and cigs.”

 You scramble to your bag and produce two cans, while I fish around in my jacket pocket for an unopened pack of straights, only slightly squished. I hand one to you, and take a beer in return. We take it in turns to shield each other as we each attempt to use the lighter, battling against the coastal wind. Finally you sit back, balancing a can and a cigarette in one hand so that you can lean back on the other. I do the same, allowing myself to appreciate the view at last.

I get it now. 

Below us are increasingly indiscriminate outlines of trees and bushes, the occasional bat flitting between them. Further still lies your hometown, a modest sprawl of twinkling lights and cars with glittering windows drenched in sunlight. Tiny, stick-figure kids are playing volleyball on the beach, their cries occasionally carrying up on the wind. The sea is lit up like a mirrorball; scattering brilliant shards of light in all directions. Everything in sight is awash with that hazy almost-orange-not-quite-pink glow, and I stretch out a hand to see how this strange new light colours it.

“So what do you think?” You exhale smoke and look at me with a grin that tells me you already know.

“I mean…” I’m at a loss for words. 

“Right?!”

“Right.” I laugh. “Yeah. Right. I see it.”

“You see the vision?”

“I do!”

“You like hiking now?”

“Oh, fuck no.”

“How? How could you not love this?”

“Don’t get me wrong, this is beautiful. I just think I’d like it even more if we’d been able to drive here.”

You shake your head.

“I’ll never understand you.”

I smile, and take a drag.

“Good. You don’t have to.”

We sit in silence for a moment, listening to the distant sound of waves crashing on the rocks, cut through by the occasional car. The sky has shifted again, this time to a brilliant orange. The sun has crept about halfway below the horizon.

“You hear back from that flat you wanted to look at?” The question takes me by surprise. I shake my head.

“No. How about you, still looking for a house to share with Liz and Annie?” 

You nod. My stomach drops a little.

“Yeah, but we’re coming up empty. Turns out three people is a really awkward amount for landlords. We either need a massive house-share, which means living with strangers again, or a three bed, which are surprisingly hard to find.” You shrug. “I dunno. We’ll figure it out.”

Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s where we are, or the cocktail of endorphins I’m currently experiencing. Maybe it’s the way you look in the light, the way the sun is shining into your eyes, turning them liquid amber, or something about the way that cigarette is balancing lazily on your bottom lip. Whatever it is that moves me to say it brings up a feeling so strong, so guttural that I have no choice but to voice it before it eats me alive.

“Move in with me instead.”

The silence hangs in the air between us, tangible.

I can’t read your expression. Is it surprise? Confusion? Both? I find myself having to look away.

“Like..” You begin, steadily, “With Liz and Annie? The four of us-”

“No.” 

The word falls out before I have a chance to think, but there’s no putting it back now. 

“No, like just you and me. The rent will be way cheaper if we get a flat, there’s two-beds going up online all the time. We can keep going like we always have.” The words suddenly sound so pathetic as I say them. “Nothing has to change.” 

My throat dries. I run out of words. I still can’t bring myself to look at you, but I hear you move a little closer. I keep my eyes fixed on the sea, as though focusing on it enough might somehow carry me away from this moment, into that glittering mass and below the surface, never to be seen again.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice is soft.

“I don’t- I don’t know just-”

“Because obviously the answer is yes, but I-”

“Huh?” Just like that I’m back in the moment, whipping my head round to face you. “What do you mean?”

You laugh, stubbing out your cigarette.

“I mean yes; what other way could you interpret that? Yes, of course I’ll move with you. I’ve been waiting on that for so long-”

“You were waiting?”

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t want to rush you. You’re like a cat,” You take a swig of your beer, “Everything has to be on your terms. I was kinda hoping this weekend would make the penny drop.”

My head is reeling. This is so you; only you would plan something so elaborate to make me come to this conclusion instead of asking me outright. I can’t even be mad; if anything I love you more for it.

Hold on.

Is that it? Is that what this is? What? No, surely not. But then, I suppose-

I’m an idiot. I’m in love with my best friend, and a total fucking idiot.

And worst of all; the look you’re giving me tells me that you already know.