RMNP
Caleb had left town for the break first.
He’d rolled out before dawn two days earlier, the Audi packed tight and already dusty, tagging along with his ROTC friends on a road trip that pointed stubbornly southwest, Arizona, heat, desert, five days that had nothing to do with midterms, snowmelt, or Colorado. He’d sent one blurry Snap from a gas station somewhere past Santa Fe and then gone quiet.
JP was easier to account for. Spring break meant Fort Collins. It always did. His family was there, his room was still his own space, and no one had seriously expected him to stay in Golden when there was a perfectly good bed and more Brigadeiros than he could ever eat. Joey was home as well, not too far away in Longmont.
That left Ben and John with the Accord, the trunk full of borrowed camping gear from Ben’s garage in Lynnwood, with the Cat’s Meow, and a plan they hadn’t really explained to anyone because it didn’t need explaining.
A couple of nights camping. Rocky Mountain National Park. Just them.
Ben noticed the route first; they were still on I-25.
“This isn’t west,” he said, watching the exit signs slide past. “Did you miss the turn?”
John kept his eyes forward. Too casual. “Nope.”
They passed another black and yellow billboard. “See beaver, must stop. 22 miles.”
Ben squinted. “Are we… detouring to Buc-ee’s?”
John smiled, finally. Not sheepish. Proud.
“Oh my god,” Ben laughed. “You planned for this.”
“It just opened,” John said, as if that explained everything. “You don’t skip a Buc-ee’s. Especially not the first one in the state.”
“That is not a rule I’ve ever heard of,” Ben said.
“It absolutely is. My mom has family in Texas.”
The Berthoud exit was already jammed, the parking lot buzzing with the kind of chaos that only came from something brand new and wildly unnecessary. John slowed, circling the pumps and lot once, then again, while Ben leaned back in his seat, shaking his head.
“So this,” Ben said, watching a family pose for photos by the bronze beaver mascot, “is part of the camping experience?”
John finally pulled into a spot far from the entrance, grinning like he’d won something. “This,” he said, “is tradition.”
RMNP and the 1 PM site check-in time could wait.
Ben stepped out into the parking lot and let the door thunk shut behind him.
The air smelled like fresh asphalt and diesel, that hot, just-poured scent that clung to places that hadn’t settled into themselves yet. The building was enormous, too bright, too clean, and when the automatic doors slid open, it felt like walking into a county fair that had accidentally figured out logistics. It looked like all of Larimer County was there, two-tiered shopping carts overflowing, kids buzzing with sugar, people drifting in loose orbits with the stunned expressions of Broncos fans after being eliminated from the playoffs.
John didn’t hesitate. He took one look inside, clocked the food hall stretching halfway to the horizon, and veered hard for the merch wall.
“I thought this was just a gas station,” Ben muttered, already losing him.
Ben wandered instead, half-amused, half-overstimulated, leafing through shelves of t-shirts. Beavers in sunglasses. Beavers with flags. Beavers BBQing, He held one up: I Brake for Beaver Nuggets, and snorted.
“Oh no,” Ben said, without turning around.
John cleared his throat behind him.
Ben sighed, slow and resigned, then turned.
John stood a few feet away in a full Buc-ee’s beaver onesie: brown, plush, zipped all the way up, with the hood pulled over his head so the smiling beaver face hovered above his forehead. There was a tail. Of course, there was a tail.
It was ridiculous.
And, infuriatingly, it was working.
Ben stared longer than he meant to. Took in the sheer absurdity of it, the confidence, the way the fabric somehow clung where it absolutely shouldn’t have. He dragged his eyes up to John’s face and groaned.
“That suit,” Ben said carefully, “is doing you favors.”
John’s smile widened, slow and pleased. “Yeah?”
“I don’t think Buc-ee anticipated… the rear engineering,” Ben added, his eyes betraying him for half a second before snapping back up.
John twisted just enough to catch his reflection in a mirror. “Huh,” he said. “You might be right.”
“Do not,” Ben said, lowering his voice as a woman with an overloaded cart barreled past them, “do a spin.”
John did a spin.
Ben pressed his lips together, fighting a laugh and the growing awareness of exactly where they were. “You cannot wear that in public.”
“Why?” John asked, teasing.
Ben stepped closer, just enough. “Because I’m trying not to look at your ass in an oversized gas station off I-25.”
That finally broke him. John laughed, bright and uncontained, earning them a look from a teenager holding a Stanley mug the size of a milk jug. John reached out, fingers brushing Ben’s wrist, grounding and familiar.
“So,” John said, still grinning, “is this a yes?”
Ben glanced at the price tag. Then back to John.
“It’s a no,” he said. “And if you ask me again, I’m gonna snatch your wallet away from you.”
John sighed theatrically and started unzipping the suit. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll just get some pajama pants.”
Ben smiled and wandered over to the hoodie rack, the buzz still humming between them.
John reappeared a few minutes later with a folded pair of red pajama pants tucked under his arm, Buc-ee’s logo stamped all over the legs.
“Happy?” he asked.
Ben glanced at them, then back at John. “Ecstatic. Caleb’s gonna be jealous. I’ll get him a keychain.”
John grinned like he’d won anyway and drifted off again. Ben lingered, eventually landing on a plain heather gray hoodie, soft, understated, just the simple beaver logo over the chest. It felt like something he’d actually wear, something that wouldn’t scream tourist trap souvenir every time he pulled it on. He slung it over his arm and went looking for John.
The food section was worse.
Lines braided into each other. Voices overlapped. The smell of sugar, grease, and coffee pressed in from all sides. Ben hovered at the edge of the counter, scanning options, then immediately regretting all of them.
“I don’t care, I’m not hungry yet,” he said finally. “This is like Disneyland without driving all the way to California.”
John squinted at the menu boards like he was considering a major life decision, then nodded. “It’s okay, babe.”
He reached down and grabbed a bag of Beaver Nuggets from a stack near the register. Default Buc-ee's mode engaged.
By the time they paid, Ben felt tight behind the ribs, overstimulated in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with too much input. He adjusted the hoodie in his hands, then veered away.
“I need a minute,” he said, already heading for the bathrooms.
The bathroom opened onto a space so large it felt ceremonial. No doors, just a wide tiled mouth that swallowed sound and light. Rows of sinks gleamed under bright fluorescents, mirrors stretching so far they blurred at the edges. The place hummed constantly: water running, paper towel dispensers coughing, footsteps echoing as people drifted in and out in steady waves.
Ben headed for an open sink and washed his hands even though he wasn’t ready to eat anything. Someone bumped past behind him with a stroller. Another guy slid in beside him, already scrolling on his phone while the faucet ran. The air smelled faintly of citrus cleaner, sharp and artificial.
Ben kept his eyes on his reflection until his shoulders dropped a fraction.
He didn’t hear John come in over the noise, but he saw him in the mirror.
John paused a few sinks down, waiting for a elderly man to move past before stepping into an open spot. Their eyes met through the reflection. John’s expression softened immediately, like he’d clocked the tension in Ben’s jaw without a word being said.
“You okay?” he asked, quietly, careful not to project.
Ben nodded, then shook his head. “Yeah. Just… a lot.”
A group of guys laughed somewhere behind them. A hand dryer roared to life and then cut off again. John washed his hands slowly, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world despite the constant traffic flowing around them.
He stepped closer when there was space, stopping at the sink beside Ben. Their elbows brushed, brief, unmistakable, before both of them adjusted, giving the moment plausible deniability.
“Want me to make it worse?” John asked under his breath, teasing, but there was care underneath it.
Ben huffed a laugh and leaned forward onto the counter. “Please don’t.”
John smiled, shorter this time. He rinsed his hands, and as he reached for a paper towel, his fingers brushed Ben’s again. Not hidden or obvious. Just enough.
They caught each other’s eyes in the mirror.
“Not here, we have 4 whole days for that,” Ben said, barely above the noise.
“I know,” John said, just as quietly.
Someone squeezed between them to reach the trash, muttering an apology. John stepped back a half-step, then bumped Ben’s shoulder gently, an anchor more than a flirt.
Ben straightened, steadier now. The noise and brightness pushed back to arm’s length.
“Okay,” Ben said. “I’m good.”
John nodded. “Good. Let’s hit the road.”
They dried their hands, merged back into the flow of people, and walked out together.
Before they stepped off the curb, John stopped. "Actually…. I forgot to get a picture for Julie."
Ben blinked. "What?"
"She made me promise. The beaver statue." John was already pulling out his phone. "She said, and I quote, 'If you go to a Buc-ee's before we get one in Wisconsin and don't take a picture with the mascot, I'm telling Mom about the time you backed the minivan into a pole and blamed it on Joel.'"
Ben laughed. "How long ago was that?"
"She's been holding it for two years. I'm not testing her." John handed Ben his phone. "Take it for me. This is going on the Schroder family group chat."
He jogged back toward the bronze beaver, now mercifully free of posing families, and crouched next to it with the easy athleticism that still caught Ben off guard after all this time. One arm slung around the beaver's shoulders. A grin that was somehow both self-aware and completely sincere.
Ben watched him through the phone screen, framing the shot, and felt something loosen in his chest.
He deserves that onesie, Ben thought, but I want to surprise him.
"Got it," he called, snapping the photo. "You want another one?"
John checked his phone, nodded. "She said 'more candid.' Whatever that means."
Ben took three more. John pretending to whisper to the beaver. John offering it a Beaver Nugget. John laughing at his own ridiculousness, head tipped back, sunlight catching the edge of his jaw.
I’m definitely buying the onesie for him, Ben thought again.
"I'll be right back," Ben said, handing John his phone. "We forgot to grab Caleb a keychain."
John raised an eyebrow but didn't question it. "Want me to help choose one?"
"No, no.. you send the photo. It'll be two minutes."
John shrugged, already turning back to his phone. "Don’t get lost. Meet you in the car?"
"Yeah. Perfect."
The onesie was still there, re-hung on its hanger, the beaver face smiling vacantly at nothing. Ben stared at it for exactly three seconds too long. Long enough to register the plush texture of the fabric, the way the hood would frame John's babyish face, the memory of how confidently he'd zipped it up and turned to face him.
What am I doing? Ben paused.
He grabbed it anyway, quickly selected a keychain, and took a red reusable shopping bag off the hook to hide everything from John.
The fabric was absurdly soft under his fingers, almost velvety, and he folded it quickly before he could change his mind. At the register, Ben showed his receipt for the hoodie, and the cashier didn't even blink. Just scanned the brown plush, the keychain, folded it into the red bag, and said, "Good choice, man. These are flying out of here."
When he walked back out into the Colorado sunlight, John was leaning against the Accord, phone away, the Beaver Nuggets resting on the hood. He glanced up and clocked the red bag in Ben's hand.
"Find one?"
"Yep." Ben held it up. “Big ass beaver head. He's gonna love it."
John smiled. "Perfect."
Ben tossed the red bag into the backseat, next to John’s duffel bag. He'd find the right moment to give it to John. Eventually.
They merged back onto I-25 briefly, then peeled west toward Loveland, the land flattening and then subtly beginning to rise.
The sky widened first.
Colorado always did that trick where the horizon seemed to pull back a step the moment you turned toward the mountains. The Front Range sharpened ahead of them, blue and layered, still streaked with late-season snow that hadn’t surrendered yet.
Loveland passed in low buildings and chain restaurants. Then the signs changed.
Estes Park: 29 miles.
John rolled his window down halfway once they got out of Loveland. The air shifted almost immediately: colder, cleaner, pine threaded faintly through it. The road began to curve along the Big Thompson River, the canyon walls slowly drawing closer.
Ben leaned his elbow against the door and watched the rock faces rise.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Now this feels like camping.”
John smiled without looking at him. “Told you the detour would be worth it.”
The canyon narrowed as they climbed. The river flashed silver beside them, fast with snowmelt. Granite pressed close on either side, striated and sun-bleached, scars still visible from the floods years ago: reshaped banks, rebuilt stretches of road, guardrails that looked newer than the rock behind them.
They drove mostly in silence.
It wasn’t the heavy kind. It was the good kind, the kind where the road does the talking.
By the time they crested into Estes Park, the town felt like a threshold. Elk-proof fencing. Taffy shops. Outdoor outfitters with fleece in the windows. Tourists were already moving in loose clusters even this early in the season.
John slowed through town.
“Last stop for civilization,” he said.
Ben glanced at the gas gauge out of habit. “We’re good.”
They passed under the wooden entrance sign to Rocky Mountain National Park, paid at the booth, and just like that, the tone shifted even more starkly, fewer buildings, more sky, and the mountains were no longer distant but immediate and immense.
The Beaver Meadows Visitor Center sat low and modern against the slope, all clean lines and glass, designed to disappear into the landscape instead of competing with it.
John pulled into the lot.
Ben reached into the backseat and grabbed the hoodie before stepping out.
The wind hit harder here: colder than Estes, edged with altitude. He didn’t hesitate this time. He pulled the gray Buc-ee’s hoodie over his head right there beside the car.
It was warmer than he expected. Soft. The bright, smiling beaver defined against the granite backdrop.
John watched him, hands shoved in his pockets.
“That looks good on you,” he said.
Ben tugged the sleeves down over his wrists. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” A beat. “I should’ve gotten one.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Too late. And no, you can’t have mine.”
John reached out and rubbed the hem of Ben's sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. "Soft," he said. Then, lighter: "So it only works one way? You get to wear my hoodies, but I don't get to wear yours?"
Ben smiled and kept his tone light. “You made your choice. I’m sure Caleb will get jealous of your new pants.”
They headed inside. The relief map dominated the center of the room, a massive three-dimensional sweep of the park carved in miniature. Longs Peak jutted up dramatically, the valleys carved deep and shadowed. Trail markers dotted the terrain like careful pinpricks.
Ben circled it slowly.
“There,” he said, pointing. “Moraine Park.”
John leaned in beside him, shoulder brushing shoulder, both of them studying the miniature version of where they’d sleep.
“Not too far from here,” John said.
“We’re not hiking in,” Ben replied.
They drifted through the exhibits after that: taxidermy elk, black bear silhouettes, plaques about alpine tundra and fragile ecosystems. Rangers moved easily through the space, answering questions, handing out trail maps.
Near the back windows, a cluster of people sat on benches with their phones out.
John checked his.
“Two bars of LTE,” he said. “And free WiFi.”
Ben laughed. “Last call.”
They both instinctively pulled their phones out: a quick Snap post, a glance at notifications, and John checking his sister's reaction to the beaver photo. Ben resisted the urge to scroll too long. The signal felt temporary, borrowed.
After a few minutes, he slid his phone back into his pocket.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m done.”
John nodded, already pocketing his own.
Outside, the sky had shifted slightly, clouds building over the higher peaks, light moving faster than it had down in town.
They climbed back into the Accord and followed the signs toward Moraine Park Campground.
The road dipped and opened suddenly into a broad meadow: Moraine Park sprawling wide and golden, ringed by mountains that felt close enough to lean on. Snow clung to the shadowed slopes. The grass hadn’t fully greened yet, still winter-pale and wind-combed.
Elk dotted the field in the distance, small and unbothered.
John slowed instinctively.
“This is nothing like where we camped in Idaho,” John observed.
Ben glanced over. “No,” he said. “It's not.”
After a few seconds, the elk hadn't moved.
“I don't think I've ever camped this high,” Ben added. “For an Eagle Scout who grew up in the shadow of Mount Baker, that's saying something.”
John smiled, surprised. “Yeah?”
The campground loops were quiet: a few scattered tents already up, a van here, a Subaru there. Early season meant space between sites, no wall of nylon yet.
They found their assigned site, a simple rectangle of packed dirt, a picnic table slightly crooked, a metal fire ring darkened from last season.
John cut the engine. For a second, neither of them moved.
No highway noise. No phone to check. Just wind sliding through grass and the faint clink of someone adjusting gear two sites over.
Ben exhaled.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s build our house.”
They worked easily together.
The Cat’s Meow came out first, then the tent poles, snapping into place with familiar resistance. Ben handled the footprint; John shook out the rainfly, the fabric snapping once in the wind before settling.
A couple walking past nodded at them. Somewhere nearby, a cooler lid slammed shut. It felt communal but distant; everyone in their own small orbit.
John staked the final corner and stood back.
“Home for three nights,” he said.
Ben stepped inside to unroll the sleeping pads, the air already warmer within the thin walls.
He laid the Cat’s Meow out beside one of the REI Lumen bags they had in Idaho and froze for half a second.
It was nothing, he told himself. Just nylon. Just camping gear.
But the angle of it, the way the zipper fell open, the way the bag curved slightly where it had been stored, hit him wrong.
Five years ago.
Camp Fire Mountain. Different boy.
Same tent. Same sleeping bags.
He could see it too clearly for a second: two bags side by side, too close together, an invitation for something that violated every principle he'd learned in scouts, but felt so right.
His chest ached. Not from longing. Not from regret. Just... remembrance.
Memory lived in objects. Ben had thought he’d outgrown that.
Outside, John laughed at something, probably wrestling with a stubborn stake, and the sound cut clean through it.
Ben blinked. This wasn’t Boy Scouts anymore.
He smoothed the Cat’s Meow flat with both hands, deliberate, grounding. Adjusted it so there was a fraction of space between his and John’s. Not distance. Just intention.
Different trips. Different reasons.
He stepped back out into the sunlight to help John with the rest of their bags from the car.
Tent's up. Pads unrolled. Bags staged.
Ben straightened the last stake and stood back. The wind had picked up, sliding across the meadow in visible ripples.
"We have maybe three hours of decent light left," he said. "You want to see the river?"
John nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
They followed the dirt track west, away from the loops, away from the few scattered tents and the faint smell of someone else's early dinner smoke. The meadow opened around them, pale grass bending in gusts. No more windbreak. Just exposure.
Ben kept his hands in his hoodie pocket. John walked beside him, close enough that their elbows brushed every few strides. The wind stole their breath before they could speak.
A family passed them heading back: dad carrying a toddler, mom with a map she didn't need to look at. They nodded. Ben nodded back. Kept walking.
Longs Peak had emerged from the afternoon haze. Enormous. Still. The kind of still that made you feel like you weren't moving at all, even though your legs were burning.
"It’s cold," John stated as a matter of fact.
"Yeah."
The river appeared slowly: first the sound, then the cottonwoods, then the water itself, fast and swollen, sliding over rocks the color of old bone.
They stopped at the bank. Ben watched the current for a long time.
"Have you ever been in a place like this alone?" John asked.
Ben didn't look away from the water. "Sometimes. In scouts." His voice was quiet, almost carried off. "I'd go out before reveille, didn’t tell our Scoutmaster or Evan."
"How far?"
"I don't know. Not far. Just far enough."
John waited.
"Far enough that I could escape the responsibility of being 17 for a second," Ben said. "Far enough that I didn’t feel trapped in that closet anymore."
The river was louder here. It filled the space between them.
"What did you think about?" John asked.
Ben was quiet for a long time. The wind pulled at his hood, his drawstrings, the loose threads on his cuffs.
"Mostly, that I’ve learned more about life out here than in any lecture hall or church pew."
John didn't ask what he meant. Just stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, watching the water.
The light started to go out. Not fast, but noticeably, the meadow shifting from gold to gray, shadows pooling under the pines, the peaks losing their detail and becoming silhouettes.
Ben pulled his hands out of his pockets and blew into them. His knuckles were red.
"We should head in."
"Yeah."
They turned together. The wind was at their backs now, pushing them toward camp.
Dinner was heated quickly on the small stove. Backpacker meals eaten at the picnic table, jackets zipped to the chin. The last color bled out of the mountains. John's cheeks were still pink from the wind.
"It’s gonna be cold tonight," he said.
Ben scraped the last of his meal pouch. "You’ll survive. The Cat's Meow is rated for twenty, so is yours.”
A pause.
"What if I don't want to just survive alone?"
Ben looked at him. John held his gaze.
"Then don't," Ben said.
They cleaned up in silence. Stove packed. Food bags sealed and stowed in the bear box, locking the car, the small rituals of evening.
John went in first. Ben heard him shuffling inside the tent, the nylon rustling, the pads compressing under his knees.
Ben stood at the picnic table for an extra minute. The wind had died down. The meadow was silver now, the mountains black silhouettes against a sky that hadn't yet decided to
show stars.
He moved the tent flap and crawled in.
John was already in his bag, the REI Lumen zipped to his chin, only his face visible in the dim glow of Ben's headlamp. He looked younger like that. Vulnerable.
Ben sat back on his heels and pulled off his hoodie. Then his long-sleeve thermal. The air inside the tent was cold, but not as cold as outside. His skin raised in goosebumps.
John watched him. "What are you doing?"
Ben didn't answer. He unbuttoned his hiking pants, shimmied out of them, and folded them neatly beside his bag. Then his socks.
He was down to his gray Patagonia boxer briefs. Gray. Worn soft.
"Benji." John's voice was quiet. "You're gonna freeze."
Ben unzipped the Cat's Meow and slid inside. The nylon was cold at first, shockingly cold, but he could feel it warming already against his skin.
"I want to feel it," he said.
"Feel what?"
"The nylon of the bag." He pulled the hood up and cinched it loose around his face. "First time I've used it camping. Feels right."
John was quiet for a long moment. Then his bag rustled.
"Okay," he said.
He unzipped his Lumen and sat up. His movements were slower than Ben's, more deliberate. He peeled off his thermal and folded it. His chest was pale in the dim light, his shoulders broad. He met Ben's eyes once, briefly, then looked away.
Adidas boxer briefs. Navy blue. A small hole near the waistband that Ben had never noticed before.
John slid back into his bag and zipped it to his chin.
They lay there in the dark, two bags, four inches of cold air between them.
Ben listened to John breathe.
"It's still early," he said.
A pause. Then the sound of a zipper.
John's bag opened. He crawled out, across the tent floor, and Ben unzipped and lifted the edge of the Cat's Meow, then he folded himself in together.
It was snug. Too snug. Their legs tangled immediately, knees knocking, feet searching for space. John's shoulder pressed into Ben's chest. His breath was warm against Ben's collarbone.
"Okay?" John muttered.
"Yeah." Ben's voice came out rough. "Just... tight."
"We can….."
"No. This is good." Ben paused. "This is what I wanted."
John settled against him. His hand found Ben's under the nylon.
They lay like that for a minute. Two minutes. Ben could feel John's heartbeat through his ribs, or maybe that was his own.
"There's something I never did," Ben said.
John waited.
"In scouts. With Evan." The name came out easier than he expected. "We did... other things. In the sleeping bag. At Fire Mountain. But never…." He stopped. Started again. "I always thought about it. Being inside the bag with someone in the woods. Not just feeling it around us, about him being inside me at the same time." His throat closed.
John's thumb traced slow circles on Ben's knuckles.
"Did you want to now?" John asked.
Ben closed his eyes. The nylon was warm now, soft against his bare legs, his stomach, his chest. It held them both, close and dark and separate from the world.
"Yes," he whispered.
John shifted. His hand slid from Ben's, traveled down his chest, his stomach, and hooked into the waistband of his boxer briefs.
"Okay," he said. "Then we should."
Ben nodded. John pulled the gray fabric down, over Ben's hips, his thighs, past his knees. Ben helped him work it the rest of the way off with his feet. The nylon of the bag rustled against his bare skin.
John's boxer briefs followed. Navy blue, with a small hole near the waistband. Ben watched him push them down and kick them free, and then they were both naked in the close dark of the Cat's Meow.
"How do you want…" John started.
"Side," Ben said. "Like we just were."
Ben turned onto his side, facing the wall of the tent. John pressed against his back, his chest warm, his breath hot on Ben's shoulder. His hand found Ben's hip, squeezed once.
"Ready?"
Ben nodded.
John reached down, guided himself, and pushed in slowly.
Ben's breath caught. His hand flew to his mouth, teeth pressing into knuckles. The stretch was sharp, a bright ache that radiated through his pelvis, his stomach, his spine. He forced himself to breathe, slow and deep, and after a few seconds the ache began to soften, to open, to become something else.
John didn't move. His forehead was pressed against Ben's shoulder blade. His breath was ragged.
"Okay?" he whispered.
"Yeah." Ben's voice was barely audible. "Yeah. Move."
John moved.
Slow at first, shallow, each thrust a question. Ben pushed back against him, once, twice, and John understood. His rhythm deepened. His hand slid from Ben's hip to his chest, pulling him closer, anchoring him.
The nylon whispered around them. Ben's cheek pressed against the hood of the Cat's Meow, the fabric soft and warm against his skin. His hand found the cinch cord and held it.
He thought about Fire Mountain.
Not in a way that hurt. Not in a way that pulled him out of this moment. Just... recollection. Five years ago, in a different tent, in a different sleeping bag, fumbling in the dark with a boy who didn't know what he wanted and a boy who wanted too much.
This was different. This was chosen. This was John.
John's thrusts grew faster, less measured. His breath was hot and uneven against Ben's shoulder. His hand slid lower, found Ben's cock, and Ben gasped.
"You're close?" John's voice was strained.
"Yeah. Don't stop."
John didn't stop. His hand moved in rhythm with his hips, and Ben came with a choked cry, his whole body tensing and releasing against the nylon, against John, against the warm dark of the bag.
John followed a moment later, a shuddering exhale, his hips pressing deep and holding there.
For a while, neither of them moved.
Then John slowly pulled out. Ben felt the loss of him immediately, the cold air rushing in where warmth had been. He shivered.
John shifted, rolling Ben onto his back. The top of the Cat's Meow fell away. Dim light from the tent ceiling, the faint glow of stars through nylon.
"Let me…" John started and dipped his head.
Ben caught his shoulder. "You don't have to,"
"I want to."
John kissed down Ben’s smooth chest, his stomach, the soft skin below his navel. And then he stopped.
Ben watched him pause. Saw John's gaze travel to the side of the sleeping bag, where the nylon was wet and dark and cooling.
John looked at Ben. His expression was untraceable for a second. Then his mouth curved, small and private.
He lowered his head over and licked.
The sensation was electric, unexpected, unbearably intimate. Ben's breath caught. John's tongue traced the damp fabric, slow and deliberate, tasting him through the nylon.
"Johnny…."
John looked up. His lips were wet. His eyes were dark.
"I didn't want to waste it," he said.
Ben laughed, a breathless, broken sound. He pulled John up by the shoulders and kissed him, deep and thorough, and he could taste himself on John's tongue.
Savory. Intimate. Theirs.
Later, they would untangle. John would find his boxer briefs in the dark, and Ben would wipe down the side of the Cat's Meow with a camp towel and try not to think about what his mother would say. They'd brush their teeth outside, shivering, the stars fully visible now, sharp and infinite.
But for now, they lay in the warm dark of the Cat's Meow, foreheads touching, breathing each other's breath.
John's thumb traced the damp spot on the side of the bag.
"This Cat’s Meow is yours now," he said.
Ben was quiet for a while. Then his hand found John's under the nylon, laced their fingers together over the warm, wet fabric.
"Yeah," he said. "It's ours."
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