A Badger State Thanksgiving
Caleb’s BMW hugged the curve off Peña Boulevard, heater humming against the frosted windows. The Wednesday sun was just a pale bruise behind the clouds, barely morning, barely awake. They were heading toward the Frontier terminal, backpacks wedged between their legs, and caffeine still working its way into their bloodstreams.
Ben slouched in the passenger seat, hoodie pulled up over his head. “I still can’t believe we’re flying Frontier. Feels like a dare.”
John, in the backseat, snorted. “It was a hundred sixty-eight bucks, round trip. You’re not flying. You’re enduring.”
Caleb chuckled. “You two chose this suffering. Could’ve cruised down to Pueblo with me. Maria’s making quesadillas from scratch.”
John shook his head. “Yeah, how could we miss out on your blended Irish-American–Mexican Thanksgiving?”
Caleb smirked. “And the annual retelling of my dad’s Pilots Club adventures in Thailand. Real festive.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “So it’s just you and your folks?”
Caleb shrugged. “Me, Dad, Maria—my stepmom—my two sisters, and my aunt’s bringing her three girls down from Springs.”
John leaned forward between the seats. “So, girl city.”
“Total girl city,” Caleb said. “They’ll probably have me hanging Christmas lights and watching ‘Frozen 2’ by Friday night.”
Ben smirked. “You love that movie.”
Caleb ignored that. “Honestly though, kinda glad Sophie’s not coming. Would’ve been… a lot.”
John raised a brow. “Did she want to?”
“Nah. Staying in Denver. Two months in, didn’t feel like the move.”
Ben gave him a sideways look. “But she’s been feeling frisky, you said right?”
Caleb gave a cough that was almost a laugh. “Let’s just say I’m not exactly stuck at first base anymore.”
John let out a low whistle. “Damn, okay. Look at you.”
Ben grinned. “Just saying, girl hand’s got a steeper learning curve.”
Caleb shook his head. “Nope. Not touching that one.”
They pulled up to the Departures drop-off. Terminal East, second level. The curbside was already clogged with rushed parents and sleepy teens in oversized hoodies.
“C’mere,” Caleb said, jumping out, before they had a chance to collect their bags.
Ben laughed but let himself be pulled into a solid hug. Caleb held on a second longer than expected, then moved to John, clapping him on the back and pulling him in too.
“Text when you land,” Caleb said. “And don’t go turning into corn-fed Wisconsin boys on me.”
By the time they made it through security, the boarding zone was chaotic. The Frontier flight was overbooked, the gate agent looked dead inside, and somehow, despite checking in together, Ben and John weren’t seated next to each other.
“Middle seat, row twenty-nine,” John muttered, squinting at his boarding pass. “I’m gonna die between two Packers fans.”
Ben shrugged, adjusting his backpack. “Could be worse. I got twenty-three A. Window seat, baby.”
“Cool,” John sighed. “I’ll just cry alone into my ginger ale with my half charged tablet.”
Ben bumped their shoulders together. “See you on the other side babe.”
They split for boarding and John’s fingers brushed Ben’s, too quick for anyone to notice, and for a second, Ben saw it: the flicker of a boy who’d spent years folding himself into pews and polo shirts, now handing his parents a live grenade named Ben.
The Airbus landed at Dane County Airport with a jolt that sent Ben’s forehead smacking against the window. Outside, the tarmac was a study in Midwest November: gray sky, gray pavement, gray slush bleeding into dead grass.
Ben shuffled off the plane alone, nodded to the crew, and waited for John at the gate, jaw tight. “Joel’s texting from the cell lot,” John said as he rejoined him, thumbing his phone. ‘Black Silverado. Look for the dude who looks like me but only went to community college.”
Ben snorted. “So… you with a beard?”
John didn’t laugh.
Joel’s lifted Silverado sat at Arrivals like a bargain bin Hot Wheels car. He leaned against the passenger side, same height as John, same shoulders, but with a beard thick enough to deflect wind chill, and waved them over.
"Shotgun’s yours, Ben,” Joel said, recognizing him and holding out his hand. His grip was firm, his palm rough from pressure-washer recoil. “Welcome to the Dairy State.”
“Thanks, man,” Ben nodded, then opened the passenger door and froze. The floorboard was a Kwik Trip archaeological dig: at least nine empty iced-coffee cups, their lids gnawed and straws bent at stress angles.
“Couldn’t you clean up a bit? We have company over.” John shook his head.
“Yeah, yeah. You don’t need to remind me. Mom’s been on our case all week. I guess the truck slipped my mind, and no one has sat there since John in the summer.” Joel scooped as much of the trash as he could into a Subway bag.
Ben climbed in, his shoes crunching on a Dairy Queen Blizzard cup. “What do you do again, Joel?” he asked.
Joel turned the key. The truck groaned to life, smelling faintly of chemical lemon and wintergreen dip. “Pressure washing for most of the year, then snow removal in the winter.”
John stared out the window after they reached the interstate, Luke Bryan’s ‘Most People Are Good’ blaring on the radio as the highway signs blurred past: Wis Dells 52.
Joel veered off for a quick detour down Veterans Memorial Highway as they got into The Dells. The town felt half-asleep in the off-season: parking lots empty, neon signs unlit. They passed the looming wooden statue outside Paul Bunyan’s Cook Shanty, arms frozen mid-lumberjack swing. A Marquee sign with mismatched neon letters said “CLOSED FOR THE SEASON. SEE YOU IN 2024!”
“I was gonna bring you here,” John said, nodding toward the log cabin–style building. “Breakfast comes in a tin bucket and the waiters dress like flannel elves.”
Ben grinned. “That’s so camp, I would’ve eaten that up.”
Off the Dells Parkway, the skeletons of Noah’s Ark and Mt. Olympus rose from the frozen concrete like monuments to a louder season, waterslides idle, roller coasters locked down in the frost.
“Summer, this place is shoulder-to-shoulder with screaming kids and Midwestern dads in sleeveless tees,” Joel commented. “Off-season? Just security guards keeping homeless guys from camping in the parking lots.”
John rolled his eyes. “Still better than Six Flags.”
After looping back home to Lake Delton, they pulled into the driveway of John’s childhood home: a yellow three-bedroom nestled in a row of tract houses that hadn’t changed since 2004. No fences, just bare saplings and neighbors’ Christmas inflatables wilting in the wind. A pressure-washing trailer with a huge tank occupied a third of the driveway, and next to it sat a Toyota Sienna sporting faded “Choose Life” bumper stickers.
Joel parked with a groan from the brakes. “Welcome home. Give it a few months, once the Christmas lights come down, the Trump signs’ll go back up,” he muttered.
Ben stepped out, hands buried in his jacket, and tried not to stare at the Sienna too long. John was already grabbing his roller bag from the truck bed when the front door swung open.
Joan stood framed in the entryway in a long cardigan and clogs, holding a coffee mug like a badge of maternal command. She zeroed in on Ben immediately.
“Ah, you must be Benjamin.”
Ben managed a polite nod. “Hi, Mrs. Schroder. Thanks for having me.”
“Do you know what your name means?” she asked, before even ushering them in.
Ben blinked. “Um… not really?”
John, still in the driveway, froze. “Oh god.”
Joel snorted from beside the Sienna. “She’s doing the name thing.”
Joan pressed forward. “Benjamin was one of the sons of Jacob. One of the twelve tribes of Israel. His name means ‘son of the right hand.’ A place of honor. Of strength.”
Ben tried to keep his composure. “Cool,” he said, because it was the safest available word.
“Biblical names are powerful,” Joan added, holding the door open like a gatekeeper to a higher calling. “They carry legacy.”
John muttered, “And a little guilt.”
Inside, Peter, John’s dad, sat in the living room recliner, legs crossed over wool socks, eyes skimming the Wisconsin State Journal. “They make names mean more than they should,” he called out without looking up. “Welcome, Ben.”
Ben gave a grateful smile as he stepped into the warmth of the house. “Thank you, Mr. Schroder.”
Peter folded the paper and looked up. “So, you two are still sharing that place near campus?”
John gave a small nod. “Yeah. Just a block off campus on Jackson Street. Still holding up together with two other guys.”
Peter hummed. “Well, it should be saving you some money. Must beat the dorms, I’ll tell you that.”
Joan chimed in from the coat closet, just a bit too chipper. “It’s nice you have each other out there. I know Colorado’s not exactly cheap.” She glanced between them with that pointed Midwestern curiosity that tried to sound supportive but always came with a subtext.
Ben smiled, polite but cautious. “Makes the late-night labs a little easier.”
John didn’t say anything, but Ben caught the twitch in his jaw: half tension, half don’t make this weird.
They settled into the living room after dropping their bags. Peter was back in his recliner, newspaper tucked into the magazine rack now. A muted local news broadcast murmured from the TV in the corner, mostly ignored. The house smelled like apple cider and crockpot onions.
Ben sat stiffly on the edge of the loveseat, flanked by a decorative pillow that said Family: Where Life Begins in curly script. John took the floor next to him, legs stretched out, his Red Nike Elite socks standing out in contrast to his khaki pants.
Joan hovered nearby, mug refilled. “So, you boys still like living with those other two?” she asked, tone neutral, but brows just high enough to suggest curiosity veiled as concern.
John shrugged. “Yeah. It works. JP’s quiet. Caleb’s loud. Ben keeps them from killing each other.”
Peter chuckled. “Good luck with that.”
Ben smiled, trying to play it cool. “It’s a lot of frozen meals and fights over the remote on the weekend. We manage.”
Joan folded into the armchair opposite them, knees crossed, sweater draped just right. “Well, it’s nice that you have a stable setup. Not all students get that. Especially… out of state.”
Ben wasn’t sure if she meant in Golden or something else. He nodded anyway. “Yeah. We got lucky.”
John looked over, just a flick of the eyes, but enough for Ben to read it: You’re doing fine.
Joan didn’t press. Not yet.
The lunch table was set with placemats and a woven cornucopia centerpiece. It wasn’t the big Thanksgiving dinner yet, just a warm-up: ham sandwiches, kettle chips, and carrot sticks on mismatched plates.
Ben was reading for the mustard when Joan casually dropped it.
“Oh, and we’ve got the air mattress all set up in John’s room for you to sleep on. Those were the rules for having people over, remember John?”
Ben froze for half a second. “Yeah, totally. Thanks.”
John swallowed a bite of sandwich too fast and coughed. “We’ll figure it out.”
Peter glanced up briefly but didn’t comment. Just sipped his iced tea.
Joan smiled like she’d done her part, folding her napkin with surgical precision.
After a painfully cordial round of the Road to Bethlehem board game, with a scorekeeper board that looked suspiciously like repurposed cribbage, they killed time in the living room until dinner passed in quiet, polite increments. No big questions or house rules. Just apple cider and small talk.
Joan lingered in the hallway as they finally headed upstairs, her voice trailing after them like a shadow. “Don’t stay up too late, boys. Big day tomorrow.”
John’s grip tightened on the banister. “Yeah, Mom. We know.”
Ben could feel her eyes on his back until the bedroom door clicked shut behind them. He stood at the foot of John’s bed, where the air mattress lay like a second-class citizen on the floor, fully inflated, floral sheet barely hiding its plasticky hospital-blue skin. Not even a cheaper nylon sleeping bag, which, honestly, Ben might’ve appreciated more than the thin floral blanket Joan left instead.
John rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine,” Ben said, pushing his foot into the air mattress, listening to it strain under the force. “Honestly. She said I had to sleep on the floor. You didn’t hear anything about you not being in your bed.”
John gave a tired laugh, the kind that held both affection and fatigue.
The room looked exactly like Ben remembered from the FaceTimes: a black computer desk, old monitor, the big “Saturdays Are For the Boys” flag sagging slightly in the corner, and the high school basketball banner over the bed: Schroder #12, arms up in a jump shot, frozen in Bobcats’ spirit.
Ben toed off his socks. “You know she’s not dumb, right?”
John exhaled, turning on the bedside lamp. “I know.”
Ben waited until the sounds in the living room faded again, lamp on, house humming with dishwasher noise, before he finally asked.
“So... Can I see it?”
John raised an eyebrow from where he was digging through his roller bag. “See what?”
Ben pointed to the banner. “The jersey.”
John snorted. “Seriously? Right now?”
“You said it was still here,” Ben said, crossing the room. “Back in Freshman year, remember? You only had your practice stuff because you said your mom wouldn’t let you take it to Colorado because it smelled like glory days.’”
John rolled his eyes but moved aside, sliding open the closet door. Inside: a neat row of forgotten flannels, an old fleece jacket, and, sure enough, his white UA Bobcats #12 jersey hanging near the back, with Schroder printed across the back like it was a household name. At least in Wisconsin.
Ben reached out and touched the mesh fabric like it had just been signed by Luka Dončić.
“You were what, a Point Guard?” he asked, even though he already knew.
“Yeah, of course you remembered, Intramurals weren’t that long ago.” John smiled.
John opened the top drawer of his dresser hoping to divert Ben’s attention and a wave of mismatched boxers and worn socks puffed up like laundry ghosts. Cotton briefs from middle school, a few novelty pairs his mom probably thought were hilarious, back when Angry Birds still counted as a love language.
“Wow,” Ben said. “You’re lucky you even made it through sophomore year with those boxers.”
John smirked. “Everything you’d actually want me to wear is already at school. This is just whatever my mom hasn’t Marie Kondo’d yet.”
The second drawer down was slightly more promising, mesh shorts in varying states of wear, a few Chicago Bears t-shirts, and toward the back, a folded pair of shiny black AND1 basketball shorts with an embroidered black logo on the leg. They shimmered like plastic but moved like silk.
Ben pulled them out, eyes lighting up. “Okay, wait. These are actually amazing.”
John made a face. “Seriously? You want those?”
Ben held them to his waist, half-serious. “I’ve been waiting to be in this room for over a year. I knew you were hiding more than just the jersey.”
John shook his head, trying to stifle a laugh. “You’re nuts.”
“It’s part of the deal when you have me as your boyfriend,” Ben said, already peeling off his hoodie and jeans.
He slipped into the jersey first; it fit perfectly, showing off Ben’s slender form in comparison to John’s body now. Then he put the shorts over his gray Nike boxer briefs. They were loose and shimmering, swishing wildly when he moved.
John turned, caught the full image, and paused.
“You kinda look like Cam with that on,” he said, voice dropping. “From when we fooled around back in high school.”
Ben’s fingers stilled on the hem of the jersey. “Wow. So that’s where your head’s at?”
John blinked. “No Benji, I mean… not like that.”
Ben didn’t move. “Do you still think about him?” The question came out quieter than he meant, but it was sincere.
John crossed the room in two steps. “Ben, come on. You know it’s you now. Cam was just, ” he hesitated, “high school. You’re the one I wake up next to. The one I want to come home to.”
Ben looked at him, searching. “Okay.” Then, with a half-smirk to defuse the moment: “Still… if I remind you of him, that better not mean he’s hotter.”
John grinned, easing the space between them. “Nah. You’ve got him beat in the looks and brains department.”
There was a pause. Then John added, more casual now, “He’s home from Marquette too. I was thinking, if you’re cool with it, you could meet him while we’re in town.”
Ben let the tension drain. “Fine. But if we meet him, and you’re weird about it, I’m flying home alone.”
John put his hands on Ben’s waist, brushing the mesh of the jersey. “Then I’ll just have to behave.”
Then, as if on cue, John stepped back and peeled off his shirt, followed by his jeans, revealing a pair of snug black Nike boxer briefs, distinctly familiar.
Ben laughed. “Are those one of the ones Caleb gave me?”
John shrugged. “The black ones are technically mine now.”
“That’s where they went.” Ben shook his head.
They moved toward each other without speaking, the mattress squeaking slightly as Ben sank down, the jersey riding up just enough to show off the waistband of the shorts and some of Ben’s waist. John followed, kneeling beside him, then leaning in, hands braced on either side of Ben’s shoulders.
John’s fingers brushed the mesh fabric at the sides, his expression blank. For a few seconds, Ben looked like the boy in the banner, all coiled energy and unresolved want. Then Ben tugged him closer, and the present snapped back into place.
The kiss was slow at first. Familiar. Not hurried or greedy, just anchored. They knew how to find each other now, when to press forward, when to pull back. Ben’s hand slid to the back of John’s neck, pulling him closer, until John shifted, lowering himself onto the air mattress beside him.
The jersey rustled between them, the mesh sliding over bare skin as they kissed again, deeper this time. Outside, the wind hissed across the roof. Inside, the bedroom stayed still, sealed in warmth and teenage relics and the weight of everything unsaid but understood.
Ben broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Do you think they’ll hear us?”
John smiled and shifted into the space between Ben’s legs. “No, my mom's too engrossed with Jesse Waters.”
Their eyes locked as John wrapped his hand around Ben’s dick through the black basketball shorts. Ben grew increasingly hard as the soft material of his Nike underwear was stroked across his cock through the shorts by John. The thought of him wearing the shorts and jersey John had on in high school was sending him to a climax quickly and he didn’t know if he could hold it back any longer.
Just when Ben thought he was getting closer to the edge, John let go and pulled the AND1 shorts off Ben in a smooth motion, leaving him clad in just his gray underwear and the basketball jersey. Ben let out a deep sigh as John lifted Ben’s legs and slipped his hand through the leg hole of the boxer briefs. John looked for Ben’s approval as he pushed a finger into Ben’s hole, and all Ben could do was nod.
John's eyes never left Ben's face as he pushed his finger deeper into Ben's hole, feeling a slight resistance give way to a soft, yielding pressure. He knew that Ben was getting ready for him, his body preparing to take John inside.
Without another word, John shifted forward, his fingers still moving inside Ben as he aligned his own cock with the opening of Ben's boxer briefs. With a slow, deliberate motion, John pushed himself into Ben's hole, feeling a rush of pleasure as their bodies connected.
With a guttural moan, Ben lifted the jersey over his stomach, revealing his shallow abs and the treasure trail leading to his erection. The mesh fabric clung to his skin for a brief moment before he fished his dick out of the other leg hole of his briefs and grabbed hold of his uncut cock to begin to jerk himself off in time with John's steady rhythm.
The sight was intoxicating for John, who felt his own excitement build as Ben's hand moved in a fury beneath him. The room was filled with the sounds of their hushed panting and the slap of flesh on flesh.
Despite the setting, the nostalgia of their surroundings only added to the erotic intensity for Ben. Each thrust from John brought him closer to the brink, and as he stared into John’s eyes, the reality of their reunion in this space only served to amplify his desire.
Ben’s hand tightened around his shaft as he watched John's muscular body claim him, feeling every inch of his cock fill him completely. The air mattress beneath them squeaked in protest, but the pleasure was too great for them to care.
John felt his climax approaching, his breath growing shallower as Ben's body tightened around him. He pulled out with a groan and continued whacking off, his cock slick with pre-cum and Ben's ass juices. Ben watched with bated breath, his hand still working his own erection vigorously.
With a final stroke of his dick, John erupted, spurts of hot cum landing on Ben's gray boxer briefs and painting the bottom of his chest beneath the jersey. The sight sent Ben over the edge, and he too reached his climax, his cum spurting upward to mix with John's on the fabric of the waistband of the briefs and his skin.
They lay there for a moment, panting, bodies slick with sweat and release, the warmth of their shared passion enveloping them until John removed the soiled briefs from Ben and pulled the AND1 shorts back on him. The couple both fell asleep for a while, then got back up to shower and change for bed, Ben putting on the AND1 shorts once again.
Thanksgiving Day arrived layered in cold light and a quiet ceremony. Joan ran the kitchen like a 3-star general, timers chirping in rotation, casserole trays swapped in and out with surgical precision. Peter carved the turkey with the weary expertise of someone who had done it too many times, and Joel handled rolls like they might explode if stacked wrong.
Ben met Julie mid-morning: John’s older sister by about five years. She had her toddler son on one hip and a Casey’s tumbler full of spiced cider in the other. Sharp, slightly scattered, and dressed in boots that screamed Cabelas’-core, she clocked Ben immediately.
Lucas, her son, took to Ben faster than expected. By pie time, he was shoving toy trucks into Ben’s lap and calling him “Uncle Ben” like it was a name he'd practiced.
Julie noticed.
She sat next to Ben on the couch later, asking about Seattle, Washington, rain, and whether people really “just hike” for fun. She mentioned her husband, Cash, the quiet guy Ben had seen hovering by the fridge earlier, making small talk with John’s dad, and confessed they’d been quietly looking at moving to Portland.
“Just thinking about it,” she said, half-laughing. “Somewhere a little weirder. More mountains. Less snow.”
Ben caught John watching the exchange from the kitchen doorway. Not jealous, just quietly aware. A soft reminder that Julie might already be auditioning him for the family.
By the time they curled up together that night, post-dinner cleanup barely finished, neither spoke. No pressure. No expectations. Just John’s chest against Ben’s back on the twin mattress, their breaths slow and syncing as they drifted under the quiet hum of the house.
Black Friday arrived in layers of frost and fluorescent lighting.
They hit Kohl’s first. Joan needed new towels. Peter wanted a toaster oven that wasn’t a fire hazard. Ben tagged along with John through the crowded men’s section and snagged a six-pack of gray Nike crew socks that worked out to $5 with a door coupon.
Walmart followed. Even more chaos, more caffeine. John bought a discounted Bluetooth speaker. Ben vetoed a matching flannel pajama set that Joan tried to talk him into.
Back at home for lunch with cold turkey, store-brand soda, and one too many leftover pie slices. John sent Cam a quick text:
Hey, you around tomorrow? Wanna lift at the Y?
Cam replied almost instantly:
Yep. Anytime after 2. You wanna hang after?
John flashed the screen at Ben. “That cool?”
Ben took a sip of soda, then nodded. “Sure,” he said. “I had Evan. You’re allowed your high school nostalgia too.”
John just nodded, understanding.
The rest of the day passed in quiet comfort. They helped Joel hang Christmas lights, dodged Joan’s suggestions to rewatch ‘Sound of Freedom’, and fell into another round of board games after dinner. Ben held Lucas while Julie sipped sparkling grape and asked more questions about Seattle.
Later, curled up on the air mattress in John’s childhood bedroom, Ben couldn’t stop thinking about Cam.
Not jealously, exactly. Just the space between then and now. What hadn’t happened in that motel room? What might tomorrow?
John rolled closer in his sleep. Ben stayed still, eyes open in the dark, the jersey folded beneath his head like a second pillow, warm with memory, and maybe, anticipation.
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