Though I was a keen, if I would not go so far to as say obsessive, spectator of A.J.'s cricketing when he had matches in and around London, it was rare for me to trail after him to the counties merely to watch him play. There was little reason for me to do so—little reason, at least, from an outsiders perspective; and those mattered. It would have doubtless raised a few eyebrows if Raffles had toted his useless little friend around the country each summer, from Manchester, to Gloucester, to Sussex, to no evident purpose; and the justification of "he just misses me something wicked when I leave him home alone," tended to become less convincing once it was realised that I was in fact Raffles' human pal and not his pet dog. And so the summer months in those halcyon Albany days were always chequerboard for me, marked in my diary as either Raffles Weeks, or weeks where I had to find my own amusements.

Nevertheless, aside from missing his company whilst he was away, in truth I had little desire to constantly follow Raffles around on his tours. London suited me perfectly well, with all its creature comforts for those who could afford them and were at liberty to put them to good use; the prospect of hours and hours aboard hot, stuffy trains followed by a week in the country mansion of folk I barely knew — if at all! — or, worse still, in some hotel or boarding house, little appealed to me. In any case, at such country house affairs the time I got with A.J. was usually limited, sought after as he was, and always compromised, frequently making me feel rather like the Ancient Mariner—water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink... As such, being at these places with Raffles often proved more frustrating than simply putting up with his absence and greeting him with according warmth when he returned.

Occasionally, however, Raffles saw fit to finagle a way into inviting me to join him on certain tours: usually for the sake of crime. He extended one such invite one hot, sultry August, after having been playing away longer and with more frequency than was usual — and after a particularly quiet period on the burglarious front. We had been quite looking forward to spending an uninterrupted week (or more) in one another's company when our plans were, irritatingly, and perhaps predictably, interrupted. Raffles had only just returned from two weeks of excellent play over in Middlesex, when he received a pleading invitation from an old college pal to come and fill in for a West Country Eleven who were a man down. This threw me into an instant dark mood, for I had missed my dear old Raffles a great deal those past few weeks—and I might dare be so conceited to say that he had missed me, too.

Now, as a rule, Raffles never played first-class cricket after July, but he was far too much of a sportsman to turn a deaf ear on the needful, even so late in the season, and even though it interfered with his plans with me. And, truth be told, even I had to admit that the circumstances were rather compelling: A first-class, though not terribly well-renowned, Somerset team had found themselves a man down after three of of their eleven had sustained injuries upon being attacked en masse by an unusually belligerent goat. And this had happened just as they were set to play their most important match of their year! It really was a freak tragedy, and Raffles' old friend made such an endearing case of it all that even I would have struggled to refuse it. But though Raffles' sporting spirit bound him to rush to the Someset lads' aid, he decided that there was no reason for duty to interefere with pleasure, and thus declared that he and I would make the week of it and go down together.

And a deliciously pleasant week it was, too.

There was one afternoon in particular that I look back on with fond affection, not because anything of note occurred, but rather precisely because it didn't. It was late in the week, after the full game had been concluded and won by Somerset—with no small thanks owed to Raffles and his brilliant bowling. This particular afternoon, A.J., in a fit of high spirits and rebelling against my hitherto persuasive indolence, decided that the countryside in those parts was deserving of more than only our distant attention. Instead of continuing our days of peaceful rest, he insisted, we must take an invigorating hike outside of the town and up into the rolling hills and dappled woodlands painted in all the colours of late summer.

My disinclination toward exercise for its own sake soon faltered in the face of A.J.'s exuberant energy, and before midday fell we were up and out, strolling along isolated footpaths and through verdant pastures as heavy with floral and faunal life as it was bereft of human—other than our own. Raffles had snatched up a cricket ball as we were walking out the door, and as we rambled he made a game of tossing it in all directions and sending me off to catch it, with the idea of improving my fielding. I had a few goes at throwing it for him, too, complaining that he was the cricketer, not I; but Raffles soon demonstrated that he was in no need of practice, as he caught my tosses every time. Even when I tried to catch him off guard by pitching mid-sentence, the sporting chap didn't even bat an eyelash, and was running across the meadow and back to me again, ball in hand, to finish his thought without missing a beat!

Eventually we reached the top of a rather steep hill with a magnificent view across the countryside, whereupon Raffles suggested we sit down for a bit and take a rest — though of course he was as cool and unruffled as ever, whilst I was red-faced and panting before we had got even halfway up. We settled in the shade of an ancient and impressive oak tree, spreading our jackets on the ground and leaning back against the gnarled old bark. Up on the hill there was a refreshing breeze, and the meadow before us was littered with wildflowers. For a pair of dedicated metropolitans such as ourselves, the place was a breath of fresh air, and peaceful as asphodel. Better in fact, for there wasn't another soul in sight; we hadn't so much as set eyes upon another person from the moment we'd left the quaint little village in which we had taken a holiday cottage. Raffles and I found ourselves quite alone with the birds, and the bees, and the breeze, and the trees, and the butterflies which fluttered by beneath the summer sun.

I was contentedly contemplating my happy state when suddenly, just behind my right shoulder, I heard a noise which sounded not unlike how I'd imagine a dying were-wolf or staked vampyre to sound; or, more prosaically, almost exactly like the foxes which used to screech outside my window keeping me awake half the night as a boy. Needless to say I nearly leapt out of my skin.

'What in the name of—! Raffles? For God's sake! What are you playing at?'

Though I could not yet prove that A.J. had been the source of that unholy wailing, the fact that he was now near rolling over from laughing suggested that he'd had a hand in it.

'Oh, your face, Bunny!' he spluttered. 'I'm sorry; I didn't think it would be so loud. It's been years since I've tried to grass-whistle, I didn't think I'd remember how!'

'Grass whistle?'

'Don't say you never learned as a boy!' Raffles exclaimed, expression piteous. 'Oh, my dear chap, it's practically a rite of passage! Come over here closer to me and I'll show you what to do.'

'You made that noise with just a piece of grass?'

'Yes, and so shall you ! Pluck yourself a bit—no, no, not a little straggly bit like that; you want a nice fat blade like this one. There you go, that's more like it! Now, pinch it between your two thumbs—see? Like this. That's it, Bunny; keep it as taut as you can without breaking it, and then you simply—' He pressed his lips to the grass and blew, recreating that demon-call and breaking out with an irresistibly joyful grin afterwards. 'You try.'

And try I did, several times, breaking several blades of grass in the process and not coming anywhere close to replicating the whistle which Raffles had so effortlessly produced.

'I can't do it,' I huffed, throwing down my blade of grass and feeling only further annoyed when it fluttered gracefully to the earth rather than being properly hurled in irritation as any sporting foliage would.

'It's easy!'

'It's not easy! If it were easy, I'd have done it!'

'Try again.'

'No.'

'Oh, don't sulk, Bunny,' Raffles said, pinching my arm. 'All right, let's just get you to do one good whistle and then we'll drop it. Here, I'll hold the grass and you blow into my hands, how about that?'

'A.J…' I said, my traitorous lips threatening to smile against my will at his boyish enthusiasm. 'I'm not using you as a whistle...'

'Why not? Come on, Bunny! You know how I hate to be beat!'

With a sigh I inevitably gave in to him. Shooting him an exasperated frown which only made him smile all the more mischievously, I pressed my lips up against the knuckles of his thumbs. With the taste of chlorophyll from the slightly crushed grass intermingling with the cricket-ball-leather-and-salt scent of his skin, I took a breath and blew through his hands, and, to my great surprise, finally succeeded in producing that irritating whistle! Which, I admit, didn't seem half so irritating when I was the one creating it.

'I did it!' I cried happily, turning to A.J. in surprise.

'Well done that rabbit!' he laughed, clapping me on the shoulder and gracing me with such a proud and affectionate smile that I would have sat for a hundred hours pointlessly blowing on blades of grass if one look like that from him was my promised reward at the end. 'I told you you would! Perseverance and creative problem-solving are the bywords of the day, Bunny! A round of applause for my grass-blowing rabbit!'

'Such an achievement,' I said, shaking my head and laughing. 'Not exactly something to write home about, is it?'

'I shouldn't need to write home about it,' Raffles shrugged, 'you're here.'

'What do you mean?''

But rather than answering, Raffles settled back once more against the old tree and gazed out across the landscape before us with an artist's eye. 'I should have brought my sketchbook,' he said, more to himself than to me. 'I always think I won't want it.'

'It is beautiful countryside,' I agreed, sitting back myself and joining him in his pondering. 'We should do this more often.'

'Mm.'

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, and twisted a piece of torn grass between my fingertips. 'Although…'

'Hm?'

'Nothing.'

'All right.'

'It's just— Well, the thing is, Raffles, we've been here six days already, and the cricket has been done for two, and you haven't even hinted at what your plans are!'

'My plans, Bunny?' Raffles said, finally tearing his gaze from the horizon and skimming it over me with a slight frown. 'Plans for what?'

'Crime! Burglary! I don't know! Whatever it was that you brought me down here for!'

'Ah,' he said. 'Those plans.'

'I don't mind,' I added hurriedly. 'I'm used to you springing things on me last minute, but if you could let me know—'

'If it makes you feel better, Bunny, my plans are already well underway.'

'They are?'

'Right now, in fact.'

'What?'

Raffles held me with his piercing stare for a handful of moments as I sat, mesmerised, before he broke out in laughter once more. 'Oh, you rabbit,' he chuckled with a shake of his head. 'These are my plans! This!'

'What?'

'Simply to enjoy your company, Bunny. No burglaries required.'

'Oh!'

'Yes, oh,' he sighed, still smiling at me, still shaking his curly head. 'Why? Is this week lacking enough excitement and drama for you, Bunny, my boy? Is my incorrigible rabbit already pining after diamonds and pearls and the thrill of the midnight chase? I hate to disappoint you; we shall have to rectify this situation post haste, Bunny, before you tire of me completely.'

'That's not what I meant!' I cried. 'If I could spend the rest of my life as we've spent these past few days you wouldn't hear a peep of protest from me!'

'Until we ran out of money.'

'...Well, yes, there is that,' I admitted beneath his knowing eye, and he shook his head at me with a sardonic grin before leaning back against the old tree and pulling his straw hat over his eyes.

Soon we both fell back into a companionable and contemplative quiet. I was almost on the verge of dropping off into a half doze when Raffles suddenly sat bolt upright, jolting me and the afternoon alike out of our peaceful daze. He now had one hand outstretched towards the other, in which he was brandishing a piece of grass, his eyes wide staring at it in horror, his mouth hanging open around a quiet gasp.

'A.J.? Are you all right? What is it?'

'Is this…?'

'What!'

'Is this a dagger I see before me? The handle toward my hand?'

'Oh, for goodness' sake…'

'Come, let me clutch thee! I have thee not, yet I see thee still!' As he spoke, Raffles snatched at the plucked turf between his fingers, theatrically missing as though his hand had passed through it like fog. Or at least I assumed that was the impression he intended to make.

'What are you doing?'

'It's a blade of grass, Bunny,' he said, turning to me in his own voice again.

'Yes, I can see that. I ask again, A.J.: What are you doing? '

'A blade, Bunny. Like a dagger. Use your imagination, old chap!' He turned back to his "dagger" with an anguished expression: 'Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind—'

'You're mad!'

'Obviously, Bunny; I'm Macbeth! Do keep up. I thought you wanted more drama in your week! Now where was I? Ah, yes: Art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation—' Raffles halted with furrowed brow and an exaggerated pout. '… Line?'

I sighed, knowing full well he knew exactly what the line was; knowing full well he was doing little more than dragging me, complicit, into his ridiculousness. And knowing full well that I would always let him drag me wherever he wished.

'...A false creation proceeding from the heat-oppressed—'

'—proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain—Thank you, Bunny.'

'You're welcome.'

'—I see thee yet, in form as palpable as this which I now—'

'Ding!' I chimed in. 'Ding, ding, ding, ding...'

'What's that?'

'The bell.'

'The bell doesn't come in yet.'

'Does it not? Ding, ding, ding—'

'Wait! I haven't finished my soliloquy! The bell comes after! In form as palpable as—'

'Ding, ding, ding—'

'Bunny!'

'Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!—I can keep this up all afternoon—ding! Ding! Ding!—'

'Lady Macbeth, stop ringing that blasted bell! I haven't finished being dramatic!'

'My Lord, the King's guards are sleeping; I believe they got drunk of their own accord and, alas, cannot hold their liquor. It's not my fault they are reprobates who fall asleep before their cue. Anyway, sticking to the script is hardly in your line, A.J… Ding, ding, ding, ding! Hurry up, Macbeth!''

'Fine, fine! Ah, mine eyes are made fools—bloody business—Tarquin's ravishing—ah, here we are;' Raffles cleared his throat, 'I go, and it is done! The bell invites me! Hear it not, Mackenzie—'

'Raffles!'

'What?' he laughed. 'Stop interrupting, this is my grand finale. The bell invites me! Hear it not, Mackenzie; for it is a knell which summons thee to heaven... or hell!'

Upon the end of his performance, Raffles flourished an ostentatious half-bow, lifting his eyes at the lowest point of his dip and looking up at me from beneath his dark eyelashes, from beneath his inky curls. His expression was filled with innocent mischief and teasing delight, and there was but the smallest glimmer in his brilliant grey eyes which searched my own for a share in his amusement, for a reaction to his action, and, so I thought, for proof of my approval.

'Bravp! Bravo!' I laughed, giving him the resounding ovation I knew he always secretly desired. 'Quite possibly the best Macbeth I have ever seen!'

'Possibly, Bunny?'

'What am I saying? Definitely! Unequivocally! Without even a sliver of a shadow of a doubt the best Macbeth to ever tread the boards. Or, the grass, I suppose.'

'Thank you, thank you—no; no autographs, please.'

'None at all?'

'Oh, well, maybe for you. You have been such a good audience, after all, and a very convincing bell. Who should I make it out to?'

'...Queen Victoria!'

'As you wish, Your Majesty—and might I say, that particular brown suit suits you magnificently, Your Highness; really brings out the green in your eyes. How's the Empire, by the way?'

'Oh, ticking along, you know how it is. Lots of paperwork.'

'Yes, yes, not unlike the theatre, I imagine.'

'There's paperwork in the theatre?'

'Scripts are paper.'

'I hadn't thought of that.'

'Well, you aren't a thespian like I am, my Queen.'

'Court Jester more like,' I replied with a grin, making him laugh again.

'For you, I'll be anything,' Raffles smiled back, the warmth in his eyes lighting a fire within my chest and sending a shiver down my back. 'So, has that sated you, Bunny? Have I provided you with enough dramatic entertainment to see you through the rest of the week without you getting bored of me, or must we go and commit some felony to keep you occupied, hm?''

'A.J.?' I said.

'Yes?'

'Shut up.'

With that, I reached out and pulled him toward me, burying my fingers in the mass of black curls at the nape of his neck, hot beneath the rays of the summer sun and soft to the touch. Tilting my face up toward his, now barely an inch from mine, I paused catch his eye. To my intense gratification, I found his playful expression deepened into something much softer; his bright eyes darkened; the dazzling smile faded from his lips, now slightly parted. And, as my gaze lingered, his mouth quirked wickedly, and I was undone. I kissed him with a reckless passion, and Raffles replied in kind.

'What was that for?' he asked, appealingly breathless, once I finally relinquished my grip.

'Why do you think?'

'To stop me reciting Shakespeare?'

'No.'

'Why, then?'

'Because I love you.'

'Love me, rabbit? I thought you said I was mad?' Raffles replied, cynical eyebrow raised, the corners of his mouth quirking into yet another teasing grin, ever making fun—though his pinked cheeks and the glimmer in his eyes spoke volumes.

'You are,' I answered. 'I love you anyway.'

'Do you, really? Seems foolish, Bunny.'

'Then I'm a fool.'

Raffles shook his head at my words and stared at me a moment, his flippant smirk wavering. Then, throwing his arm around my shoulders, he tugged me to sit up close against him, settling back to lay once more propped up against the grizzled old oak, nestling my head beneath his chin. My shirts sleeves were rolled up, and Raffles tickled my forearm with a blade of grass as he rolled it between his fingers.

'Why the devil do you put up with me, Bunny?' he said at length.

'Because,' I replied, reaching for his other hand and weaving our fingers together, 'you are A. J. Raffles, and I am Harry Manders. I was born to put up with you, I think. It's Fate, it has to be. There is no-one else I would rather put up with in all the world.'

'And you have the audacity to call me mad!'

'I think that maybe we're both a little mad,' I said, tucking myself in closer to him, nuzzling my head against his chest until I was in just the right place to feel his heart beating beneath his shirt. 'But I should rather be mad with you than sane with the rest of the world.'

For a while Raffles made no reply, simply holding me close to him, his one hand still in mine, the other drifting up into my hair, stroking and twisting out the little knots which the breeze had tangled into it.

'I love thee to the level of every day's most quiet need,' Raffles began reciting a poem we both knew well, speaking softly and distantly as he stared out over the land before us, 'by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use in my old griefs and my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life, and if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.'

I listened to him, quietly, lulled by the sound of his voice as it resonated through his chest, vibrating against my cheek as I lay with my head upon him. Then I jabbed him in the ribs.

'Ouch! What's that for?' Raffles yelped.

'Why do you always have to make things morbid?'

'What do you mean!' he laughed. 'That sonnet is inexpressably beautiful, Bunny. You heathen!'

'I didn't say it wasn't beautiful, I said it was morbid - and it is! Why must things always have to end with death with you? It is depressing.'

Raffles shrugged. 'Well, I like the poem. If you have any complaints, I am afraid you will have to take them up with Mrs Barrett-Browning.'

'I like the poem, too,' I relented with a chuckle, gazing up at him, framed as he was by the leaves far above him, looking even more Greek God-like than usual. 'It is perfectly romantic, and yes, quite inexpressably beautiful, you're right.'

'You will often find that I am, my boy,' he teased.

'What you are is a soft old fool, A. J. Raffles,' I grinned, poking his side, 'whatever you might want the rest of the world to think.'

'Less of the old, Bunny! We aren't all blessed with your perpetual youth, you know, and for some of us it is a sore topic,' he said, tapping me on the nose.

I laughed. 'But soft and fool are acceptable adjectives, hm?'

'Ah, well, you know I have never been one to deny my faults, Bunny!' he replied with a teasing grin; and for some reason him making light of himself like that unexpectedly cut me to the quick. I suddenly felt the need to hold him more tightly, and could not keep from throwing myself into his lap and burying my face in his shirt.

'They're not faults,' I murmured against him. 'You are soft, Raffles. Soft, and ridiculous, and beautiful, and mad, and impossible, and completely perfect.'

'Are those compliments or insults, Bunny?' said he, scruffing up my hair and pinching my ear; though I noted that I didn't receive the lecture against villain-worship with which he usually graced me whenever I waxed too lyrical over him. If anything, I couldn't help but think he sounded just a little pleased.

Something had changed between us over the course of that summer. It was as though A.J. had finally accepted, or perhaps understood, that when I said I loved him, I meant it. Not that he'd thought me lying, before, but it had seemed as though he had been always waiting for me to see the light; always waiting for the scales to fall from my eyes and for me to see him for what he really was.

As though I hadn't already seen him at his best and his worst, boy and man, fair and foul, right and wrong, hero and villain all a hundred times over! As though I were merely yet another sycophantic fool like all the rest, seeing only that which I wished to see rather than that which was truly there. He was half right, though, I did see only what I wished to see: but all that I wished to see was A.J. Raffles in his entirety, for better and for worse.

As we lay together beneath that ancient tree, dappled sunlight pouring through the leaves and casting all our world in dancing golds and greens; as I looked out across the rolling landscape which shifted and rippled as the wheat fields billowed in the breeze; as the sun-soaked hills of the far distance slid unfocused into the endless cerulean sky, an overwhelming sense of privilege and gratitude washed over me, and made me feel quite dizzy. For I had seen Raffles at his best and at his worst. I had seen him brilliant and dazzling and ingenious, in cricket and in crime and in conversations which continued long into the small hours. I had seen him cocksure and full of himself, confident and wicked and dripping with charm; I had seen him angry, and vulnerable, and petulant, and afraid. I had seen him serious, brooding, sulking, snapping; bright, silly, boisterous, and blithe. I had watched him sleep and slept beside him, and I had sat up with him when sleep would not come. I'd taken joy in him merry and gay, and had worried over him withdrawn and melancholic. I had caught for myself his infectious spirit of adventure - and suffered its penalties, too. I had seen A.J. Raffles as few ever had opportunity to see him, each glittering facet of him set against every shadowed depth, each all the more beautiful for the other, and all the more complicated, and all the more impossible not to fall in love with.

And he wanted me with him, for no other reason than for the pleasure of my company! I couldn't understand it. I couldn't comprehend what someone as remarkable as A.J. Raffles ever saw in someone so unremarkable as me. I couldn't even begin to fathom my good luck.

I rolled over to lay on my back, my head still in his lap resting heavy upon his strong thighs. And when I looked up at Raffles, my Raffles, I found him already gazing down at me, watching me carefully with a strange, serious, soft expression. And he smiled.

'We should do this more often, rabbit,' he said.

And I agreed.