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The trees of the Montagu estate are alive with birdsong as the sun shines through their vibrant leaves. A gentle breeze brushes through the grass, rippling the overgrown stems as it moves. Butterflies flit lazily through the warm air, one coming to rest on the edge of a soft checkered picnic blanket.
Charles had visited Monty’s home before, a grand townhouse far too big for just one man to live after his wife and children were evacuated. He had taken to staying there, excused as convenience, as Monty’s house was far closer to the office than his flat, nights spent wrapped in each other's arms in the grand double bed. But his family’s estate? That was a far different matter.
Charlie knew Monty’s family had money, but his jaw still dropped at the time it took to get up the driveway. A servant had packaged them a picnic upon arrival, consisting of sandwiches, fresh fruit, and a platter of cheese that Charlie’s sure doesn’t quite follow the rationing guidelines. Still, he’s not one to complain as his glass is refilled with a bottle of the Montagu’s fine vintage wine.
A small creek runs through the end of the garden, framed by hydrangeas blooming a shade to rival the cloudless sky. Dragonflies dart in and out of the reeds, and a gunnera shades them with its umbrella leaves.
Charlie runs his fingers over a patch of moss absentmindedly, “The soil here is alkaline.”
“Yeah?” Monty leans back to admire the flowers, a fond smile pulling at his cheeks.
“It’s the hydrangeas, you can tell. They’re pink if the grounds acidic, blue if it’s alkaline.” He grins, “One of nature’s indicators.”
Monty whistles through his teeth, “Impressive, my boy. Me and Ivor used to bring them in ‘bouquets’ to my mother when we were children. She went hysterical at us after a frog hid in a bunch, hopped out at her when she was taking tea.”
He chuckles at the way Charlie’s eyes light up at the mention of one of ‘his’ animals, “You could probably find some down by the river if you look.”
The younger man grins, and with a scramble and a trip, he gets to his feet and half-runs down to the water's edge.
The stream is a tiny thing, a few feet across, shallow and quick running. A cloud of midges swarm a few meters downstream, where the water slows and stills. What looks to be a bent and rusted gate lays mangled in the riverbed, catching sticks and leaves as they float past. Crouching close to the mossy ground, Charlie gasps, and squeals in delight.
“Monty, come look!”
The blonde grins and trots over to his partner. Charles gestures at the dirt, and whispers in a low voice, “Stay still, I think he’ll move again.”
Monty is about to speak up, say that he doesn’t see anything, when something moves in his peripheral. His eyes snap over to where Charlie is pointing, and he squints.
Something small, so tiny it would sit happily on the tip of his little finger, leaps across the soil.
A brown frog, an eighth the size of the ones Monty’s used to, moves quickly across the grass, jumping straight into Charlie’s awaiting hand. The brunet cups it gently in his palm, gazing down at it with loving eyes, “It’s a midwife toad, I think. Still a froglet, which is why it’s that size. My sister called them wart frogs, because of the lumps on their backs.”
Monty hums, leaning in to look at the creature, “I didn’t know they could be that small,” he glances back up at Charles, “Sister?”
“Yeah, I’ve three of them. Bet this little guy has far more, though.” Charles shuffles closer to the riverbed, “Look!”
And sure enough, perched on a fallen branch, four more froglets bask in the dappled sunlight. Their toad leaps off Charlie’s hand, landing in the water with a splash. It sits there for a second, before swiming off and clambering onto the wood to join its siblings.
“Do you reckon they eat strawberries?” Monty muses, watching as their toad lays down on top of two others, eyes closed with satisfaction.
“Don’t see why not.” Charles hums, pressing into his side. He runs his fingers through the loose hairs at Monty’s nape, and presses a warm kiss into his neck.
The two sit like that for hours, kicking their shoes off and dangling their feet in the freezing water. And so what if the froglets get more of their fruit than they do?