A Burden Shared

By Jamie F. Bell

A misstep on treacherous terrain leaves Peter injured, triggering his deep-seated fear of being a burden. But in Terrence's fierce, unyielding resolve, Peter finds a profound and unexpected trust.

The river, a hungry, churning beast of gray-green water, clawed at the narrow banks, forcing them higher, into a treacherous climb over slick, moss-covered rocks and crumbling shale. Every step was a calculation, a gamble against the current’s relentless pull and the unpredictable give of the earth beneath their worn boots. Terrence moved with a grim efficiency, his body a taut line of muscle, testing each foothold before he committed, occasionally glancing back at Peter, whose own breath was growing ragged, the steady rhythm they’d established earlier beginning to fray.

Peter felt the exhaustion settle deep in his bones, a dull ache that resonated with every jarring landing. The air hung thick with the smell of damp earth and the cold, metallic scent of the rushing water. His focus narrowed to the patch of ground directly in front of his feet, his mind a quiet hum of warning against the slippery surfaces. They’d been at it for hours since the pale dawn, pushing hard, driven by the unspoken understanding that every meter downstream was a meter closer to… something. A road. A town. Rescue. Or at least, away from the immediate, overwhelming threat they’d left behind.

He watched Terrence’s back, the way his shoulders flexed under the weight of his pack, the subtle shift of his center of gravity as he navigated a particularly steep incline. Terrence made it look effortless, even when it clearly wasn't. Peter, on the other hand, felt the strain in his knees, the burn in his calves. He’d slipped twice already, catching himself both times, a jolt of adrenaline cutting through the fatigue. He could feel the slight tremor in his hands, a sign that his body was protesting the relentless pace.

“Careful here,” Terrence’s voice cut through the drone of the river, low but clear. He’d paused, one hand braced against a gnarled tree root, looking down at a section of loose, broken shale that sloped sharply towards the water. “Loose.”

Peter nodded, sucking in a lungful of humid air. He aimed for the more solid-looking patch of dark soil beside the shale, his eyes glued to it. But his vision swam slightly, a brief flicker from exhaustion. He placed his foot, not quite as firm as he’d intended, on the edge of the shale, instead of the dirt.

It gave. Instantly. A tiny, grating shift under his boot, a sound like dry bones cracking. His weight, already unbalanced from the downhill slope, pitched forward. His other foot scrambled for purchase, finding only air. He felt his ankle twist, a sharp, sickening pivot that sent a white-hot spear of pain shooting up his leg. A choked gasp tore from his throat. He hit the ground hard, tumbling onto his side, a fresh wave of agony blooming from his ankle.

The world tilted. The roar of the river seemed to amplify, a mocking sound. He lay there for a second, breath knocked out of him, the sharp tang of dirt and fear in his mouth. His ankle throbbed, a relentless, insistent beat that overshadowed everything else. He pushed himself up, propping on an elbow, his face contorted. His boot, angled unnaturally, screamed silent agony.

Terrence was there in an instant, a blur of motion. His hand was on Peter’s shoulder, a firm, grounding pressure. “What happened? Are you okay?” His voice was urgent, devoid of any frustration, but Peter barely registered it. All he could focus on was the fire in his ankle, the sick twist in his stomach.

“My… my ankle,” Peter managed to grit out, trying to pull his foot back, a pathetic, useless movement. He felt a tremor of shame already building. This was it. This was the moment he became what he always feared: a liability. A burden. He could already picture Terrence’s exasperated sigh, the tightening of his jaw. He could feel the weight of unspoken resentment, the way he would suddenly be slowing them down, holding them back.

“Don’t move it,” Terrence ordered, his voice sharper now, but still calm. He knelt, his eyes scanning Peter’s leg, his fingers already reaching, light but purposeful. Peter flinched, pulling back. “Don’t touch it, it’s fine, really. I just… I just twisted it. It’s okay. I can walk. I just need a second.” He tried to push himself up, a frantic, desperate effort to prove he wasn’t useless, to stem the rising tide of guilt that threatened to drown him.

“Stop,” Terrence’s voice was low, a rumble of controlled power that cut through Peter’s panicked excuses. His hand was on Peter’s knee, holding him still. His gaze, when it met Peter’s, was not angry, not frustrated. It was something far more potent: a fierce, absolute resolve. It was a look that dismissed Peter’s apologies before they even fully formed, an intensity that silenced the shame bubbling in Peter’s chest with its sheer, unwavering presence. There was no room for Peter’s self-reproach in that gaze; it was swept away by a wave of unyielding purpose.

“Let me see.” Terrence’s fingers were surprisingly gentle as they probed around the boot, a brief, excruciating pressure. Peter bit down on his lip, a silent whimper escaping him. Terrence pulled a small, sharp knife from a sheath on his belt and, with a quick, decisive motion, sliced through the laces of Peter’s boot. He didn’t ask permission. He just did it. The leather peeled back, revealing Peter’s sock, already swelling ominously around his ankle bone. A faint bruise, a dark bloom of purple and yellow, was already starting to form.

“It’s a twist,” Terrence said, his voice clipped, factual. “Maybe a sprain. We need to splint it.” He stood, scanning the immediate area. His eyes landed on a thin, sturdy branch of a fallen sapling, then on the torn fabric of Peter’s spare shirt, still in his pack. He moved with a speed that left Peter breathless, pulling the shirt out, tearing it into strips with practiced, brutal efficiency. The sounds of tearing cloth were loud in the sudden, taut silence between them.

Peter watched him, stunned. He expected… he didn’t know what he expected. Yelling. A lecture. Anything but this cool, detached competence. This unwavering focus. It was as if Peter’s injury was simply another problem to be solved, not a personal failing, not a hindrance. Terrence’s hands, strong and calloused, worked quickly. He broke the branch into two lengths, one for each side of Peter’s ankle, then positioned them carefully. Peter winced, but Terrence’s grip was firm, holding his ankle still. The strips of cloth were wrapped tightly, securing the makeshift splint, making it snug, stable. The pain was still there, a dull ache now, but contained, muted.

When Terrence finished, he looked Peter in the eye. “Can you stand?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost a query. But his expression remained fixed, determined. Peter tried to move, but the pain, though lessened, was still too much to bear weight. He shook his head, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over him. “No. I… I can’t. I’m sorry. I really am. This is… this is bad. I’m sorry.” He hated the tremor in his voice, the desperate plea for forgiveness.

Terrence merely grunted. He reached down, unzipping Peter’s pack, pulling it off his shoulders with a quick movement. He then swung it over to his own shoulder, adjusting it alongside his own pack. The additional weight made him stumble for a bare second, his posture shifting, but he quickly found his balance. He didn’t say a word, just looked at Peter, a silent command in his eyes.

Then, without another word, Terrence knelt. He positioned himself, turning his back slightly, then reached for Peter’s arm. “Put your arm over my shoulder,” he instructed. Peter hesitated, the implications of this action hitting him like a physical blow. To be carried. To completely surrender his body, his agency, to Terrence’s strength. It was too much. Too vulnerable. Too… dependent.

“No, I can’t,” Peter started, shaking his head. “I can hop. Maybe… maybe I can find a stick.” His voice was thin, desperate. He was searching for any alternative, any way to avoid this complete abdication of his own will, this profound acceptance of his helplessness.

Terrence didn’t argue. He simply reached out, his hand closing around Peter’s arm, his grip like iron. He pulled Peter up, forcing him into a standing position, a grunt of effort escaping his lips. Peter cried out as his injured ankle took a momentary, involuntary weight, then collapsed against Terrence’s side, his arm instinctively wrapping around Terrence’s neck for balance. Terrence’s other arm, strong and unyielding, wrapped around Peter’s waist, locking him in place. It was a vise, a cradle, a cage. Peter’s entire weight, or at least a significant portion of it, now rested against Terrence’s body.

The heat of Terrence’s skin, even through his layers of clothing, radiated against Peter’s side. Peter could feel the hard ridge of his ribs, the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat against his own chest. The metallic tang of sweat, not just from the exertion of the carry, but from the raw, concentrated effort that emanated from Terrence, filled Peter’s nostrils. Terrence shifted, testing Peter’s weight, then took a step, a slow, deliberate movement. Peter gasped, the pain a fresh bloom, but Terrence held him tight, absorbing the shock.

“Alright,” Terrence murmured, his voice rough. “Left. Then right. Just keep moving that leg for balance. Don’t put weight on it.” His instructions were curt, but the strength of his arm around Peter’s waist was a language all its own. It said: *I’ve got you. You’re not falling. We’re doing this.*

They began to move, a slow, arduous, almost grotesque dance down the riverbank. Peter’s good leg dragged, the splinted ankle swinging uselessly. Every lurch, every slip on the loose gravel or damp roots, sent a fresh jolt through Peter, but Terrence’s arm never wavered. It was a constant, solid band, an anchor against the unforgiving terrain. Terrence breathed heavily, each exhale a strained puff of air. Peter could feel the tremor in his own body, but he also felt the subtle tremor in Terrence’s muscles, the sheer force of will it took to propel them both forward.

The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by Terrence’s labored breathing, the scuff of their feet, and the ceaseless roar of the river. Peter kept his face buried against Terrence’s shoulder, the rough fabric of his jacket scratching against his cheek. He could feel the slight dampness of sweat there, the scent of pine and something distinctly Terrence. The shame, which had been so sharp, so suffocating just moments before, began to recede, replaced by a strange, overwhelming current of sensation.

He was a dead weight. A literal burden. And Terrence was carrying him. Not with resentment, not with a word of complaint, but with an unyielding, almost desperate determination. This wasn’t just about getting Peter to safety; this was about something far deeper. This was Terrence’s 'Not us' pact, made physical. This was him pushing his own body past its breaking point, enduring pain and exhaustion, to keep Peter moving, to keep Peter *alive*.

Each of Terrence’s heavy steps was a testament. Peter felt the swing of Terrence’s chest against his back, the friction of their bodies. He felt the involuntary clench of Terrence’s arm around him as he stumbled, the way Terrence adjusted his grip, pulling him tighter, closer. It was an intimacy born of sheer, brutal necessity, a forced proximity that stripped away all pretense, all boundaries.

Peter had always prided himself on his independence, on his ability to handle things, to never need help. Needing help meant weakness. It meant being a problem. And yet, here he was, utterly dependent, his body a dead weight against another person, his survival entirely in Terrence’s hands. And instead of the suffocating shame he’d anticipated, a different emotion began to bloom in the barren landscape of his fear. It was a quiet, almost terrifying recognition.

This was trust. Not the easy, casual trust of friendship, but a primal, absolute trust. The kind that bound two people together in the face of oblivion. The kind that said, *I will not let you fall. Not on my watch.* Peter closed his eyes, his cheek still pressed against Terrence’s jacket. He could feel the strong pulse beating against his temple, the rhythm of Terrence’s life, now inextricably intertwined with his own. He was surrendering, completely and utterly, to this man, to this moment. And for the first time in a long time, the weight of his own existence didn't feel like a burden, but like something precious, something worth carrying.