Ben and John are almost at the end of Sophomore Year! If you’re still reading or someone new who wants to drop me a note, I reply to all emails at [email protected]
EOS Rebel T7i
Ben had been staring at the same paragraph for twelve minutes.
Fundamentals of Environmental Sampling and Analysis, First Edition. UV-Visible and Infrared Spectroscopic Methods. The words were technically in American English, but they’d stopped arranging themselves into meaning somewhere around page 302. His highlighter hovered midair, unmoving.
He dragged a hand down his face.
The apartment smelled faintly like burnt coffee and whatever all-purpose cleaner John had used on the kitchen counter that morning. Outside, someone was mowing. Inside, nothing moved except a rotating Woozo fan and the slow spiral of Ben’s frustration.
John reappeared from the hallway, wiping his hands on his shirt, the sound of a freshly opened garbage bag following him inside.
“You’ve been on the same page since I took that out,” he said gently.
Ben didn’t look up. “I’m almost done with this section.”
“Benji…”
He finally glanced over.
John leaned against the doorframe, barefoot, in his favorite royal blue Pressure shorts. His expression wasn’t teasing Ben. It was knowing him.
“You’ve been looking at that textbook all morning.”
Ben exhaled through his nose. “It’s 45 percent of my grade.”
“And your brain is already at 45 percent battery level.”
Silence.
Then, quieter: “Take a break.”
Ben hesitated, but the suggestion landed differently coming from John. It didn’t feel like criticism; it felt more like permission.
He closed the textbook.
The sound felt bigger than it should have.
John’s mouth tilted. “There. See? The world didn’t end.”
Ben leaned back in his chair. “Now what?”
John shrugged casually. “You could pick up your camera.”
That made Ben look at John properly.
“I haven’t touched that since Connor’s APO executive roster headshots.”
“Exactly.”
Ben studied him. “Okay. Then photograph what?”
John pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the bedroom. There was a faint challenge in his voice now. Something playful, but soft-edged.
“Me.”
Ben blinked.
John’s grin widened just slightly. “In your favorite shorts and the Jordans. I’ll just put on a clean shirt.”
Ben agreed and turned off the fan. They grabbed their stuff before walking the seven blocks down toward Parfet Park without discussing it. John's hand brushed Ben's once, twice, then settled against his own thigh. Public enough to be casual. Private enough to mean something.
The park opened up in front of them: wide lawn, mature cottonwoods just beginning to green at the edges, Clear Creek sliding past on the far side. A few students sprawled on blankets. A couple taking selfies with the dragon statue.
Ben stopped at the edge of the grass.
"Here?"
John looked around and just shrugged. "It's a park. There's light. You're the photographer."
Ben took off his backpack and unzipped the camera bag.
The DSLR felt unfamiliar in his hands for the first three seconds. Then his fingers found their old positions, index on the shutter, thumb braced against the body, and something ingrained settled in his stomach.
John waited patiently, watching.
"Okay," Ben said. "Just... stand there. By that tree. The one with the bench."
John moved into place. Leaned against the trunk. Looked at Ben.
Ben lowered the camera just enough to look at John without the lens. The royal blue Pressure shorts. The clean white tee. The way the afternoon light caught the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the slight swell of his biceps where they'd grown over two years of REC gym sessions and summer work. John wasn't posing. He was just... there. And Ben couldn't stop looking.
Ben's thumb found the shutter.
Click.
"Now what?" John asked.
"Don't move."
Click.
John didn't move. But his mouth curved, just slightly, like he knew exactly what Ben was seeing.
Click.
Ben lowered the camera. "You're doing that on purpose."
"Doing what?"
"Looking like that."
John pushed off the tree, taking a half-step closer. "Like what?"
Ben didn't answer. Just raised the camera again.
John laughed, bright, unguarded, and Ben caught it.
Click.
They moved through the park slowly. John on the bench. John against the railing overlooking the creek. John, with his hand on the trunk of a cottonwood, looking away from the lens, the tendons in his forearm slightly exaggerated.
Ben circled him. Crouched. Stood on a bench for a higher angle. John let himself be documented, patient, present, and utterly unselfconscious.
At the creek, Ben asked him to sit on the low stone wall. John did. Ben framed the shot with the water sliding past behind him, the mountains hazy in the distance.
"You're good at this," John said.
Ben kept his eye on the viewfinder. "I'm out of practice. The last time I did something like this was with Evan back in high school, when we’d go downtown and line up shots of things with our cameras."
"Doesn't look like it."
Click.
"I mean it," John said. "You see things, shame you haven’t posted anything on Instagram since 2021."
Ben lowered the camera. John was looking at him now, not at the lens, at his boyfriend.
"I see you," Ben said. "That's not the same."
John's expression did something complicated. Soft, pleased, a little bit wrecked.
Then he stood, crossed the few feet between them, and pressed his forehead against Ben's.
The camera hung at Ben's side, forgotten.
"Keep seeing me," John said quietly. "Okay?"
Ben's throat tightened.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay."
They crossed back over the creek by the Buffalo Bill statue on Washington Avenue. The sound of water faded below them, replaced by the low hum of early afternoon in a small Rocky Mountain college town: conversation spilling from patios, the occasional car, someone's speaker playing something Ben almost recognized.
Historic Downtown Golden opened in front of them: brick and storefronts and the kind of warm light that made even the tourist shops look intentional.
Ben raised the camera before John could ask.
Click.
John mid-stride, looking toward the mountains at the end of the street.
"Did you just take that?"
"Keep walking."
John walked. Ben followed a few steps behind, framing shots as they moved. John against the brick of the old hotel. John pausing in front of a gallery window, hands in the basketball shorts pockets, the reflection layering over the art inside.
At an alley between two buildings, Ben stopped.
"Here."
John glanced down the narrow space. Brick on both sides. A string of cafe lights overhead, not yet lit. A single metal door painted faded red.
"In the alley?"
Ben was already crouching, finding the angle. "The light's good. Trust me."
John stepped into the alley.
The brick absorbed the afternoon sun, warming everything it touched. John leaned against one wall, then the other, following Ben's directions with the easy patience of someone who'd long stopped questioning where this went.
"Look back toward the street."
John looked.
Click.
"Now at me."
John looked.
Click.
Ben lowered the camera. John was watching him with that expression again: open, undone, entirely his.
"What?" Ben asked.
"Nothing." John pushed off the wall, crossing the alley in three steps. "I’ve just never seen this side of you before.”
"The side that takes pictures of you?"
“The side that sees me like this." He gestured at himself: the Pressure shorts, the clean Mines tee, the alley, the whole setup. "You're not just documenting. You're…" He stopped, searching.
Ben waited.
"You're telling me I'm worth looking at."
The words hung between them.
Ben set the camera down on a windowsill. Slowly. Carefully. Then he crossed the remaining space and pressed John against the brick.
"I've been telling you that for two years," he said. "You're just now listening?"
John's laugh was breathless. "I thought I was just a guy from Wisconsin. Maybe I needed you to see beyond that."
Ben kissed him.
The brick was rough against John's shoulders, the alley was still public enough to matter, and neither of them cared.
When they broke apart, John's hand was fisted in the fabric of Ben's shirt.
"We should probably get some pictures on campus before we head back," he said, not letting go.
Ben glanced at the camera, still sitting on the windowsill. Then back to John.
"Okay," Ben said. "But you're carrying the bag this time."
John raised an eyebrow but grabbed the backpack without complaint. They left the alley together, shoulders brushing, the afternoon sun warming the brick as they emerged onto Washington Avenue.
The walk to campus was familiar. They'd done it a hundred times. But something about the camera in Ben's hand, John in his shorts and a Mines tee with the backpack slung over one shoulder, made it feel like a different route entirely.
Guggenheim Hall rose ahead of them, its gold dome catching the afternoon light. The building was the Mines landmark: formal, slightly absurd, beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with practicality.
Ben stopped on the small lawn.
"Here."
John looked up at the dome, then back at Ben. "You want me in front of it?"
"The dome's the point." Ben was already kneeling and framing the shot. "Drop the bag. No, keep it. Put it on. Both straps."
John slid the backpack onto his shoulders. Adjusted the straps and gazed at Ben.
Ben's thumb froze over the shutter.
Because John, in the royal blue shorts, the collegiate apparel, with an Under Armour backpack on, standing on the Guggenheim lawn: It was him in freshman year.
It was Geology 102, the first week, Ben noticing him across the lecture hall and then again on the quad, those same shorts, that same easy posture, John laughing at something someone said in a dining hall while Ben stood thirty feet away pretending to check his phone.
Ben hadn't known his name yet. Hadn't spoken to him yet. Hadn't spent a night in a Super 8 motel in Utah, held hands at the M, or said the word ‘ours’ into nylon in the dark of a moonlit sky.
But he'd seen him.
He'd seen him, and something in Ben's chest had cracked open just enough to let the wanting in.
John was watching him.
"You okay?" he asked.
Ben blinked. Lowered the camera.
"Yeah." His voice came out rough. "Just…" He stopped. Started again. "You look like you."
John's mouth tilted. "That's usually how it works."
"No, I mean, " Ben shook his head, almost laughing. "You look like you did. Freshman year. When I first noticed you."
John's expression shifted. Softer. Curious.
"In these shorts?"
Ben nodded. "Same shorts. Same light. Same campus." He lifted the camera, just slightly. "Same me, watching you."
John didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, backpack on, gold dome above him, royal blue shorts glinting in the sun.
Ben raised the viewfinder to his eye.
The frame filled with John: two years older, infinitely closer, still wearing the shorts that started everything.
Click.
Ben crossed the lawn in four steps and pulled John into him before John could react. "I miss you," he choked out, tears already falling.
The camera pressed between their chests. Neither of them cared.
"Whoa, I’m not going anywhere," John breathed into Ben's shoulder. "I see you every day. Why are you crying?"
"I don’t see you like this." Ben pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "Not like freshman year, when you didn't know you could have me yet."
John held his gaze for one more breath. Then he let his hand drop from Ben's jaw, caught Ben's fingers instead, and pulled him gently away from the gold dome and the lawn and the ghost of who they were before this.
"You do now. Come on," he said. "Let's go home."
They walked back to Jackson Street in the kind of silence that didn't need filling. John's hand found Ben's somewhere between Coorstek Center and Arapahoe St., and they stayed that way, fingers laced, unhurried, until the apartment building came into view.
When they got upstairs, Caleb's boots were inside the door.
John glanced at them, then at Ben. "He's back."
Ben nodded. "Detachment thing. He said he'd be home by late afternoon."
They let themselves in quietly anyway. Didn't seek Caleb out. Didn't call his name. Just stepped into the common area, quiet and unhurried, the way you move when you're still carrying a moment and don't want it to spill.
The living room was empty. Caleb's shoulder bag was parked by the couch, his windbreaker thrown over the arm, but no sign of him. Shower running, maybe. Or already crashed in his room.
Ben didn't check.
He crossed to the big window instead, the one that looked out over the Safeway and South Table Mountain. Late afternoon light slanted through, warm and golden, cutting across the low pile and the back of the couch.
Ben lifted the camera.
"Here."
John raised an eyebrow. "Right in the living room?"
"The light's good."
It was. John by that window, in those shorts, in that light…
Ben raised the viewfinder.
John leaned against the wall beside the window. Let his head tip back slightly. Didn't pose, just... was himself.
Click.
"Good?"
"Don't move."
Click.
John's mouth curved. That expression again: soft, pleased, still a little bit undone from the park.
Ben lowered the camera just enough to see him properly, and that's when Caleb's bathroom door opened.
Caleb stepped out in a cloud of steam, hair still damp, wearing gray house pants and a faded orange Broncos shirt. He stopped mid-stride.
Looked at Ben. Huge camera in hand.
Looked at John. Against the wall. In the favorite Pressure shorts.
Looked at both of them.
"What the hell are you guys doing?"
The silence that followed was approximately the length of the common area and exactly as absurd as it deserved to be.
Ben lowered the camera. "Photoshoot."
Caleb blinked. "A photoshoot."
"For decompressing," Ben added. "Needed air before finals."
Caleb's gaze traveled from Ben to John to the camera to John again. Back to Ben. His expression shifted through approximately fourteen micro-expressions in two seconds: confusion, recognition, amusement, something that might have been ‘I should have known’, and finally landing on a grin that was trying very hard not to happen.
"A photoshoot," he repeated. "In the living room. Of your boyfriend. In basketball shorts."
"They're my signature," John said, utterly unbothered.
Caleb's grin broke free. "You're both nuts."
Ben shrugged. "You're the one who walked in on us in house pants."
"These are my house pants. In my apartment. That I help pay for." Caleb retorted.
"You mean your dad helps pay for?" Ben snickered.
John pushed off the wall, crossing to stand beside Ben. Close enough that their shoulders brushed. "You want Ben to take some pictures of you, too?"
Caleb's eyebrows shot up. "In the fucking apartment?"
"That's what I said," John replied.
Caleb looked at Ben. Ben looked at John. John looked perfectly serious.
Another beat of silence.
Then Caleb crossed the room and held out his hand. "Give me the camera."
Ben hesitated. "Why?"
"Because John probably has enough solo shots." Caleb's voice was muted now. No tease. "You get in the picture for once."
Ben looked at John. John nodded.
Ben handed over the DSLR.
Caleb turned it over in his hands, familiarizing himself with the weight. "Okay. Both of you. By the window."
John moved first, pulling Ben with him. They ended up against the wall, John's back to the glass, Ben facing him. Close. Not quite touching.
Caleb raised the camera. Looked through the viewfinder.
"Closer," he said.
Ben stepped in. His chest against John's. John's hands found his hips.
Click.
"Good. Now," Caleb lowered the camera slightly. "Johnny, lift him."
John blinked. "What?"
"Lift him. Against the wall. Bet you've done it before."
Ben's face went warm. John's hands tightened on Ben’s hips through his sweatpants.
And then John lifted.
Ben's back met the wall, John's forearms braced on either side of him, their faces inches apart. Ben's legs wrapped instinctively around John's waist. The position was intimate, ridiculous, utterly exposed.
Caleb raised the camera.
Click.
"Don't move."
Click.
Ben was acutely aware of everything: John's breath, the wall against his shoulders, Caleb watching through the lens, the afternoon light turning everything gold.
"Look at him," Caleb said quietly. "Not at me. At him."
Ben looked at John.
John was already looking at him.
Click.
"Benji," Caleb's voice was careful now. "Kiss him. Like he’s the love of your life."
Ben kissed John.
Not urgent. Not performative. Just... there. John's mouth soft against his, John's body holding him up, John's hands steady on his hips.
Click.
When they broke apart, Caleb was lowering the camera. His expression was unreadable for a second. Then it eased.
"Those are gonna be good," he said quietly.
Ben didn't know what to say. Neither did John.
"You should see these," he said quietly, trying to scroll through the previews. "The light through the window. The way it's catching both of you."
John's hands were still on Ben's hips, and Ben was still wrapped around him against the wall. Neither of them moved.
Caleb took a step closer. "Our bedroom window gets the same light this time of day; yours must, too."
Ben's breath caught. Just slightly. Just enough for Caleb to notice.
John looked at Ben with a question in his eyes. Permission.
Ben nodded.
Caleb followed them into their side of the apartment.
The bedroom was smaller than the common area, more contained. The window faced east, same as the living room, and late afternoon light poured through, painting the sheets gold.
Ben and John crawled up onto the paired beds. John’s back hit the comforter, Ben hovering above him, the royal blue Pressure shorts at eye level.
Caleb climbed onto the bed with them. Raised the camera.
"Keep going," he said. "Pretend I'm not here."
John laughed, breathless. "That's gonna be hard."
"Good. Because I already am." Caleb chuckled.
Ben's hands found the waistband of John's shorts. Pulled at the drawstrings. Not taking them off, just tugging, a reminder of what was underneath.
John's hips shifted forward involuntarily.
Click.
The sound was different here. Closer. More intimate.
Ben's fingers traced the outline of John through the nylon. The AE waistband of John’s underwear was visible now, gray against his skin, the letters stretched slightly from movement. Ben's thumb hooked under it, just barely, then pulled the underwear down beneath the shorts.
"Benji," John breathed.
Caleb circled on the bed slowly. Found the angle. The way the light cut across John's chest, across Ben's hands, across the place where fabric met skin.
Click.
Ben pulled the shorts' waistband up. Just an inch. Just enough to leave the top of John's hipbone exposed, the soft skin there, the trail of hair disappearing back under the blue fabric.
Then he leaned forward.
His mouth found John through the shorts. Through the nylon. Through the heat of him. His whole dick free of the underwear.
John's head dropped forward. His hands fisted in the comforter on either side of Ben's shoulders.
Click.
Caleb's voice was steady. "Meet each other’s eyes."
John looked up. Eyes dark. Mouth parted. The late light caught his jaw, his throat, the pulse jumping there.
Click.
Ben kept going. Mouthing him through the fabric, deliberate, unabated. The nylon went damp under his lips. John's breath went ragged above him.
Caleb moved again. Crouched at the foot of the bed. Found the angle that showed both of them: Ben's devotion, John's surrender, the mile-high sun making everything sacred.
Click.
"Benji," John's voice was barely there. "Ben, I'm…."
Ben adjusted his hand and took John deeper into his mouth. That was enough. The softness of the nylon, the wetness of Ben’s mouth, and the expertise of his tongue through the fabric were too much. John clutched the comforter beneath him as he exploded a wet, hot mess beneath the royal blue shorts, groaning “Fuck, fuck, fuck” under his breath.
Click.
Slowly, Ben pulled back. The contrast of the wet shorts was obvious, a dark mound of fabric over John’s spent cock, some dribble that made it through the fabric but not into Ben’s mouth.
Caleb got in closer for the detail shot.
Click.
He looked at the preview screen, then turned the camera off. He was breathing as heavily as they were.
“Okay,” Caleb said, breaking the silence and leaving the camera next to the pillows. “I'll be in my room if you need me.” He climbed off the bed and left the two of them to clean up.
Around twenty minutes later, John knocked on Caleb's door.
Softly. The kind of knock that said I'm here if you want me, but no pressure if you don't.
Caleb's voice came through a beat later. "Yeah?"
John pushed the door open. He had changed from the wet shorts to the Buc-ee’s PJ pants.
Caleb was at his desk, laptop open, flight sim keyboard pushed away. The usual evidence of late afternoon studying.
When he turned, Caleb's eyes dropped to John's hand.
To the navy blue Pressure shorts folded neatly in his palm.
Caleb's highlighter stopped moving.
"What's up?" he asked. “JP’s still at his study session if you’re looking for him.
John crossed the room and sat on the edge of Caleb's bed. Close enough to be present, far enough to give him space. He held out the shorts.
"I want you to have these."
Caleb looked at the dark blue shorts.
"For the summer," John said. "To remember us by. When you're in Alabama for your field training camp. To sleep in when it's hot and miserable, and you're lonely."
Caleb's expression did something complicated. Aperture. Recognition.
"John." His voice was rough. "Those are yours and Ben’s."
"They're Pressure shorts," John interrupted gently. "They're comfortable. You’ve worn them a couple of times with us anyway.”
Caleb didn't pick them up; he didn't move. Just looked at the pockets like they contained more than he could ever imagine.
"You sure?" he asked finally.
John nodded. "You deserve them, at least temporarily."
Caleb reached out. Picked up the shorts. Looked on the inside, the ‘J’ in laundry marker on the tag, size large. He ran his thumb over the waistband, the same way Ben did after waking up next to John hundreds of times. "They're soft," he said quietly.
"It’s the nylon,” John said. “Ben says it’s like nothing he’d ever experienced before.”
Caleb huffed a laugh. Looked up at John. His eyes were doing something complicated too: grateful, overwhelmed, a little bit lost.
"I don't know what to say."
John shrugged. "You don't have to say anything." He stood. Crossed to the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.
"Just wear them," he said. "When you're down there or still here. And think of us."
John didn't wait for an answer.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Caleb didn’t put them on. He just held them, tracing the silver-stitched hem with his thumb, the room suddenly too quiet.
It hit him — painfully, stupidly — that this was the closest he’d ever come to saying he didn’t want them to leave.
And the closest John had ever come to asking him not to.
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