The first hours of the journey passed almost in silence.
The horses walked at a measured pace; the morning gradually gave way to day: the mist dissipated, and sunlight broke through the tree branches, dappling the damp earth.
Anastas held himself in the saddle with habitual confidence. His back was straight, the posture of a born aristocrat. From the side, he looked calm, one might even say cold, but inside, everything was different. Every mile took him further from home and simultaneously closer to the unknown, in which he sought his person. Or perhaps, he had long been seeking not only him.
Thomas rode slightly behind, at times catching up, at times falling back again. He tried not to intrude on Anastas's thoughts, sensing that right now he needed space. Anastas looked ahead at the winding path, at the line of hills in the distance. Thomas asked no questions. He had long understood that there are questions Anastas would either open up about himself or never open up about at all.
They rode through sparse woodland, where the air smelled of damp bark, rotting leaves, and cold earth. From time to time, they passed farmlands: neat fences, fields where people worked. Some raised their heads, following the travelers with their gazes—two young noblemen, unaccompanied, with light luggage. It was intriguing.
At night, the road sounded different. By day it was noisy—sounds of the day, voices, wind—but now it seemed to lie in wait. They stopped for the night at the edge of the forest, built a small fire, and covered the horses. The fire crackled quietly, not striving to illuminate everything around, merely keeping the darkness at bay.
Thomas sat leaning back against his saddle, twirling a twig in his fingers. Anastas checked the straps on the bags. Everything was in its place.
"Strange," said Thomas after a while. "When I imagined the road, I thought it wouldn't be so calm."
Anastas chuckled barely noticeably.
"Fear and tension come later. When there is something to lose."
Thomas looked at him.
"And do you have something?"
Anastas fell into thought. He sat opposite, closer to the fire, stretching his hands toward the warmth.
"I am not sure," he said honestly. "I imagined everything for a long time as if I had nothing. It is easier to move forward that way."
"But you still took me with you," Thomas noted.
"You left me no choice."
"That is not true," Thomas objected gently. "You could have said 'no' and gone alone."
Anastas was silent.
"I could have."
The fire crackled; sparks rose upward and extinguished before reaching the branches.
"I sometimes think," said Thomas, "that you look at the world as a temporary stop. As if everything might disappear tomorrow, and therefore one should not get too used to it."
Anastas raised his gaze.
"You are observant."
"You just rarely talk about yourself," Thomas shrugged. "So one has to learn to understand you without words, merely noticing glances and changes in your face."
Anastas ran a hand over his face, wearily.
"I do not want losses again," he uttered quietly. "I do not want to become attached… and then regret it."
"And if one does not attach—does not regret," said Thomas, "is that really living?"
The question remained unanswered. Anastas looked into the fire for a long time.
"You are too young, that is why you speak so," he finally said.
"And you are too young to look as if you have already lived through everything," Thomas replied calmly.
This time Anastas truly chuckled—a little warmer.
"Did your family worry much?" he asked after a pause.
Anastas nodded.
"Mother and sisters cried and hugged me. Father and brother supported me, but it was clear they were worried too."
He sighed.
"But they knew that if I stayed, I would be thinking about leaving all the time."
"And wouldn't forgive yourself," Thomas finished.
"Yes."
They fell silent again. Such silence happens only between people who are not afraid to be silent together.
"If it becomes difficult," said Anastas without looking at him, "you can go back. At any moment."
Thomas smiled, looking at him through the fire.
"And you?"
"I will go on," replied Anastas.
"Then I will go beside you," said Thomas simply.
Anastas nodded.
The night slowly deepened. The fire burned down; the road waited.
Morning came unnoticed. First, the cold crept under the cloaks, then pale light seeped through the tree branches. The fire had long gone out, leaving behind only warm ash and the smell of smoke absorbed into their clothes.
Anastas woke earlier, as always. He rose quietly so as not to wake Thomas, extinguished the fire completely, and then went to the stream to wash.
When he returned, Thomas was already sitting, wrapped in his cloak.
"You got up first again," he said sleepily, stretching and yawning.
"You snore," Anastas replied imperturbably.
Thomas snorted.
"Not true."
"True," Anastas allowed himself a barely noticeable smile.
They ate in silence. Bread, cheese, cold meat. Morning required no words, and yet the silence was different, not like yesterday.
"It is about half a day's journey to the city," said Anastas, folding the map. "If we don't delay."
"And if we do?" asked Thomas.
"Then we'll have to spend the night under the walls," he shrugged. "Not the best option, but bearable."
Thomas nodded, looking thoughtfully toward the road.
"Have you been there before? In such cities?"
Anastas froze for a second.
"In similar ones," he replied cautiously. "Always the same. Noise, smells, people who think they know where they are going."
"And do you know?" asked Thomas quietly.
Anastas looked at him.
"Fate leads me."
That turned out to be enough.
Thomas stood up, began to gather his things, but suddenly stopped.
"Listen…" He hesitated. "…thank you."
Anastas frowned.
"For what?"
"For becoming more open to conversation," Thomas said simply. "Usually you don't do that."
Anastas sighed.
"Just not used to talking."
"I know," Thomas smiled gently.
They met gazes in which understanding could be read.
The horses snorted, as if hurrying them. The road was already calling—bright, damp with dew, stretching forward between the fields.
Before setting off, they decided to water the horses. While the horses drank, Thomas stroked his own on the neck, encouraging it. He wanted to say something to Anastas and turned, but his foot slipped on a wet stone. Everything happened too fast: a short gasp, a sharp lurch forward, and he lost his balance.
Anastas lunged instinctively. Without thinking, simply stepped forward and caught him. One arm wrapped around Thomas's waist, the other gripped his shoulder, holding him. Thomas almost crashed into his chest, reflexively clutching the jacket with his fingers.
Both froze from the sudden closeness.
Anastas distinctly felt the weight of his body, the warmth, the tension of muscles under his palm. Everything was familiar to an unpleasant sharpness. But this was not that body, not that world, yet the gesture itself and the sensation itself were painfully familiar. A fragment from his past life instantly flashed in his memory.
Yunsheng holding Jihua, sharply pulling her close, preventing her from falling on a slippery stone. The same movement. The same fraction of a second when breath hitches, and hands catch another body.
Anastas exhaled heavily and sharply.
Thomas looked up at him, stunned, as if not fully understanding what had happened. His lips were parted, his breath warm and uneven. He still held onto him, as if not sure the ground under his feet was reliable again.
"I…" he began and fell silent.
Words seemed superfluous.
Anastas realized how tightly he was holding him. His fingers tightened slightly more, then he immediately unclenched them, as if coming to his senses.
"Be careful," he said quietly and took a step back.
Letting go was unexpectedly difficult.
Thomas straightened up, rose awkwardly, lowering his gaze. He ran a hand along his side, where Anastas's palm had lain a second ago, as if trying to erase the sensation or, conversely, hold onto it.
"Thank you…" he said quietly. "I didn't notice."
"Watch your step," replied Anastas, too sharply for such a trifle.
He turned away, pretending to be busy with the gear again. His heart beat faster than it should have, and it was irritating.
"It is just an accident," he repeated to himself.
Thomas stood a little way off, feeling warmth slowly spreading inside—strange and painful. He knew it was just a moment, but this moment imprinted itself clearly within him. Deep in his soul, he wished Anastas hadn't let him go. But he immediately got angry at himself for this thought. Anastas never saw him as anyone more than a friend.
When they finally mounted their saddles and rode out the gate, silence hung between them. For the first time—awkward.