A Road To Hope | ls au

II.

The next two days in Harry's farm feels completely surreal.

Louis doesn't grasp the concept of time. He wakes up in a warm bed, although his limbs shake like he's in pain; he bathes properly and has the best meals he's ever had for the past five years, and yet, he finds himself in random spots of the farm sometimes, sweating as if he just ran a mile in seconds.

He spends hours sitting in the front porch of the house, watching Harry cross the front yard every couple of hours while doing farm work, a wave and a smile on his tired, flushed face. Louis always waves back, weakly. Jack pops out of nowhere every hour, a different toy in his hand every time, as if testing for what will capture Louis' attention.

And still, Louis feels like he can't move a muscle. When he does, it's around night fall, after Harry recoils the cattle and tugs vegetables out of their garden for dinner, Jack trailing behind with smaller fruits in his grip. Only then, he shivers and shifts, when his skin doesn't feel like rusty iron locked in place any longer, not until the next day rolls around.

He doesn't try to understand it, and neither does Harry, although he often looks like he already does understand it. There's something in the depths of his features that holds comfort, comprehension and patience, and Louis almost can't handle how kind the farmer has been to a complete stranger, to a soldier, out of all people.

Louis feels useless, and in the few times he speaks, is to apologize, or to thank him about a dozen times. Harry is always polite enough to smile and tell him that it's alright, before he pokes a dimple into his cheek and puts food in his plate.

On the third day, Louis wakes up before sunrise, and when he sits up on the mattress, he spots Harry outside. He gets a rush of adrenaline, maybe it's the warm tones of the sun peeking through the horizon, maybe it's for a chance to show Harry that there's not reason to pity him, no space for shameful sympathy.

The soldier puts on his boots for the first time again since the day he got there, and he forces his mind to remind himself that he's going to work on a farm, instead of stepping in blood and guts again. He'll be alright.

The thick soles thump like thunder in the fragile flooring, and he steps carefully in attempts not to disturb Jack's sleep, where he rests just in the room next door. Once he's outside, met with sounds of animals and rustles of leaves, licked by the morning breezes, he makes a beeline to the place where Harry stands. The chicken coop.

The tall farmer holds something like a basket in his hands, and he's curved over the short entrance of the coop. His overalls stretch over his shoulder blades and it takes Louis a few seconds to find his voice.

"Harry," He calls, softly, but it startles Harry anyway. The man knocks his head on the ceiling of the coop, a few chickens cheep and hoot at the noise. "Oh, sorry,"

"Louis?" He asks, turning around, a palm over his head. "Are you alright? What are you doing up so early?"

"I want to help." The soldier states, leaving no space for questioning or doubts, either for Harry or himself.

The curly-haired man grins, glaring at the shorter soldier as if searching for a contradiction. Louis fidgets with the edge of his shirt, waiting for the farmer's verdict. Even a negative answer now feels better than seconds in silence, stuck underneath Harry's attentive gaze.

"We're collecting eggs." The farmer tells, and Louis breathes relieved, feeling the sunlight bathe his skin warm. "First, you throw this to draw them out of their nests. You go in and fetch while they eat."

The soldier listens attentively as Harry explains the simple steps. He pushes a small cotton bag into Louis' hands, long pale fingers undoing the knot at the top to expose crumbs of dried-up corn and ground sunflower seeds.