Still Time For Us
I wake to a soft whirring sound. My heart slams against my ribs as I lie still, confused and disoriented. Then it hits me, last night with August. Shame burns in the pit of my stomach.
Blinking in the dim light, I slowly turn to August's bed. He's sitting cross-legged, wide awake, a shaft of early morning sun catching the red highlights in his hair. He's wearing the same vibrant red nylon Umbro shorts he wore with me last night, the ones I still can't stop thinking about.
He isn't looking at me. In his hands, he holds the small pewter windmill, carefully spinning the sails with his fingers. The squeaking sound is soft, almost hypnotic.
What is he thinking? His face is indecipherable. Is he content? Regretful? Is he comparing what happened between us to his life back in the Netherlands? Did I misread everything? Does he regret letting me do that to him?
I force myself to sit up, tugging at my sleeping bag. The fabric feels damp and clammy. The faint, lingering scent of our intimacy clings to the air, lighting up my cheeks.
"Morning," I manage, trying to sound unbothered, trying to pretend my stomach isn't twisted into knots.
August glances up, his green eyes meeting mine for a brief, fleeting moment. There's something… unreadable there. A hint of amusement? Pity? I can't tell. Then his gaze flicks back to the windmill. "Morning, Benji."
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. How am I supposed to respond to that? ‘Thank you for last night.’ ‘I had a great time.’ None of it feels right.
I shift uncomfortably, trying to ignore the memory of his uncut cock, the way his eyes turned to slits when he was close to cumming. The Nike soccer shorts cling to me, crusty in the front and damp with sweat, a tactile reminder of how he touched me and what it did.
"Did you sleep well?" The question sounds so trite, so empty. I regret it as soon as it leaves my dry lips.
August shrugs, a faint, enigmatic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It was okay. I was just thinking about… home. I haven’t talked to my parents since I landed in Seattle." His green eyes linger there, taunting me.
The spinning windmill reminds me of a world I don't know, a life August seems to be clinging to suddenly. It feels like it's pulling me out of my daze.
His words feel like a dismissal, a gentle nudge back into the friend zone. Have I ruined everything? Is this all because of me? How is he talking to his parents going to help here? Is he trying to tell me something without actually saying it? The voices inside me are screaming, pulling me away, and pushing me farther from August.
"You can use the wifi in the office, or you can call them inside here with my phone," I say, trying to formulate a helpful reply.
August nods slowly, his gaze still fixed on the spinning windmill. "Maybe later," he says quickly. "I think I need another shower first."
A shower. He's going to wash away last night, scrub me off his skin like a bad dream. I clench my fists, trying to control the jealousy that's rising inside me. It was a mistake that we went that far. God, I'm screwed, maybe I should just quit and go home like Ander did that summer.
Then I remember what I plan to do today. Laundry, and Ander, the Head Commissioner, expects all of us Commissioners to be in the mess hall when it opens for staff, "setting the tone" for the rest of the staff. I’m already not in the mood, but I can't exactly skip out on my responsibilities for now.
As August heads for the door, his towel draped over his shoulder, I force myself to my feet. Time to face the music and the stench of dirty laundry.
"I'm gonna head over to the laundry room," I say, grabbing my laundry bag. "I’ll see you in the mess hall.”
August pauses at the door. "Okay," he says, his voice carefully neutral. He doesn't look at me, just slips out of the cabin and closes the door behind him with a soft click.
The click echoes in the sudden silence, amplifying the emptiness already clawing at my insides. I let out a shaky breath and glare at my laundry bag, trying to summon up some enthusiasm for the task ahead. Dirty socks, sweaty t-shirts… it all feels utterly meaningless. I would have asked August if he wanted to wash some of his clothes, our stuff, together. The thought used to bring a thrill; now it just feels pathetic.
I slip on my uniform and then drag the laundry bag out of the cabin. The morning air is crisp and clean, a contrast to the stale, guilt-ridden atmosphere I'm carrying inside me. The laundry room is attached to the Kybo, and I try to avoid thinking of August’s naked body in one of the stalls.
As I get closer, I see Eddie leaning against the wall outside the laundry room, a mug in his hand and a relaxed smile on his face.
"Morning, Benji!" he calls out cheerfully. "Up bright and early, huh? Doing laundry already?"
"Yeah," I mumble, trying to avoid eye contact. "Gotta do it before other people remember they need to."
Eddie raises an eyebrow, his smile faltering slightly. "Everything okay? You seem a little… off."
I force a smile, trying to push my emotions aside. "Yeah, everything's fine. Just anxious for the first day, I guess."
He doesn't look convinced, but Eddie doesn't dive further. "Well, don't let Ander push you too hard, and hey, if you need anything water-related, you know where to find me." He winks, takes a sip of his coffee, and wanders off toward the waterfront.
I push open the door to the laundry room and step inside, the scent of detergent and bleach assaulting my nostrils. It's small and cramped, with two washers and two dryers crammed into the space. One washer is already running, its porthole window swirling with soapy water and a colorful mix of clothes.
As I start loading my laundry, my gaze drifts to the kybo, and I can't help but wonder if August is in there right now, scrubbing himself clean of any trace of me. The image sends a fresh wave of pain through me, and I grip the edge of the washing machine, fighting back the urge to run after him and beg him to tell me what he's thinking.
Stop it, Ben. Just stop. I tell myself, trying to regain some semblance of control. It's over. Just accept it and move on. But deep down, I know it's not that easy. And a small part of me, the foolish, hopeful part, still clings to the possibility that I can fix this somehow and go back to how things were our first week together.
In the mess hall, I find Ander, Brady, and Amir waiting for me at our usual table. As I sit down with them, Ander, with his clipboard out, starts doling out last-minute tasks like checking welcome signage, program area first-aid kits, and one last sweep of the campsites and bathrooms we are responsible for.
“Ben,” Ander looks at me, then presses his pen into the troop schedule. “579 is only coming in from Puyallup, so they might even be here right at the start of check-in. Your other troop is from Sacramento, so they’ll probably be there later in the afternoon. You’ll want to have everything ready to go well before 11.”
I nod, scribbling a quick note in the margin of my notebook. My brain registers the words, but the weight in my chest makes it hard to focus. Ander moves on to giving Brady and Amir their troop assignments. I know I should take this more seriously, but my mind keeps slipping back to August.
Did he even say anything to me before he walked off? I replay the moment in my head, but all I can remember is the sound of the door swinging shut behind him.
“Ben?”
I snap my head up. Ander is watching me, waiting.
“Are you good to go this morning?” he asks, and the way his voice dips tells me he’s actually asking, not just covering his bases as my supervisor.
“Yeah,” I say too quickly, forcing my lips into a half-smile. “Just thinking about what I need to get done.”
He watches me for a second longer, then nods. “Great. We’re counting on you to make check-in for everybody run smoothly.”
I nod again and force myself to eat breakfast, shoveling potatoes in without tasting them. Around me, camp is waking up. Other staff filter in and out of the mess hall, grabbing last-minute bites before the first troops start rolling down the main road. The air buzzes with anticipation: staffers who finished their prep early are joking around, a couple are placing bets on which troops will partake in the infamous water pier jump upon their arrival, and the kitchen staff is already moving fast, prepping for the chaos of the first full lunch and dinner service. It’s the kind of nervous energy that usually gets me excited, but today, it feels like I’m watching from a distance.
By the time breakfast is over, I’ve managed to push August out of my mind just enough to function. I head toward the parking lot, clipboard tucked under my arm, ready to set up the check-in station for the troops with Ander. The usual morning mist still clings to the trees around the Administration Office, and the sound of distant laughter drifts from the waterfront, probably Eddie and his crew sneaking in one last staff swim before the campers arrive.
My mind should be focused on schedules, campsite assignments, and how I’m going to introduce myself to the troops under my charge. Instead, I keep catching myself glancing toward the path that leads to August’s program area, wondering if he’s out there, wondering if he’ll even look at me today.
And then, just as I’m taping the camp map onto the check-in table, I hear my name.
“Benji.”
I turn around, and there he is.
August stands a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, his posture tense. His hair is still damp, the curls clinging to his forehead, and the sight of him looking like that, like he just stepped out of the kybo, freshly scrubbed and unreachable, makes my throat tighten.
“I need to talk to you,” he says, his voice low but firm.
The clipboard in my hand suddenly feels heavier. Around us, camp hums with movement, but in that moment, it’s like the whole world narrows down to just him.
“Yeah,” I say, pulse hammering. “Okay.”
August jerks his head toward the trees behind the Camp Museum or Fort Duckabush, away from the growing activity in the main parking lot. I follow without a word, my stomach twisting with anticipation. He doesn’t stop until we’re far enough that the sounds of the hub of the camp fade into the rustling trees, then turns to face me.
“I should have told you before,” he starts, his accent thickening slightly, a sign that he’s nervous. He shifts on his feet, looking down for a moment before meeting my eyes. “You weren’t the first.”
It takes me a second to understand what he means. My chest tightens. “Oh.”
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his unruly red hair. “Back home, there was someone. His name was Abraham, well maybe I already mentioned his name, but we called him Bram. He was my best friend in Scouts. We did everything together.” His voice softens, eyes distant. “And then he moved to Germany when we were thirteen. I didn’t—I didn’t understand what I was feeling at the time, but when he left and we lost touch, it was like—” he clenches his jaw. “Like something had been ripped out of me.”
I swallow, unsure what to say. The pain in his voice is raw, real.
“I didn’t want to feel that again,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “And I knew I would with you.” He shakes his head. “I’m leaving at the end of the summer, Benji; we both know that. I’ve tried to think that those same feelings I had for Bram weren't the same as now.” His eyes flicker to mine, searching. “But I think they are, and I don’t know what to do.”
The weight in my chest shifts, not disappearing, but changing. Because now I understand. Because now, it’s not rejection; it’s fear. A fear I know too well from leaving Evan behind at home and us going to college in different states, never admitting to him about how I felt about him.
I step closer. “August,” I start, my tone soft. “I don’t know what happens when summer ends either. But I do know that right now, we’re both here for each other.”
His breath hitches slightly, and I take another step, closing the space between us. “And I don’t want to waste that.”
August sniffles, then grabs my hand.
I squeeze his fingers back, grounding him, grounding myself. He looks at me like he’s trying to immortalize this moment, like he’s terrified it’ll slip away the second he lets go.
“I’ve never been good at this,” he admits, his voice still near silent. “Letting people in, knowing we have to say goodbye.”
“Me neither,” I say. “But maybe we don’t have to think about goodbye yet. We just started the camp season.”
August’s lips twitch like he wants to believe me, but isn’t sure how. Then, after a few seconds, he nods, squeezing my hand back. “Okay, Ben,” he says, voice steadier now. “Okay.”
“August!” I hear someone yell at us. I look toward the boathouse and it’s Ryan, the Scoutcraft Director. I haven’t talked to Ryan much yet, but he’s a 20-something substitute teacher for the Tacoma School District. August said Ryan has the same patience as I when dealing with him, so I haven’t formed an opinion of him beyond that. “What are you doing over here?” Ryan asks as he walks closer.
August stiffens slightly, but I squeeze his hand once more before letting go. “Just talking to Ben,” he says, his tone casual.
Ryan eyes us for a moment before shrugging. “Well, we’ve got to do the last inventory of tools in the scoutcraft area. Didn’t expect to find you way over here.”
August nods. “Yes, Ryan. I’ll be there soon.”
Ryan glances at us again curiously but doesn’t say anything. As he walks away, August exhales and gives me a small, almost apologetic smile. “I should go.”
I nod. “Me too. I’ve got check-ins to handle.”
With one last look, August turns and follows Ryan, and I make my way back to the main camp road, shaking off the lingering emotions.
The morning flies by as I guide Troop 579 from Puyallup through their tour of camp. They’re eager, asking questions about the trails, Archery, the Shooting Range, and the camp rules. By the time I’ve finished getting them settled into their campsite and handed them the rest of their paperwork, I barely have time to grab a quick snack before the Sacramento troop arrives.
Troop 441 from Sacramento is more reserved, their long trip evident in the tired faces of the scouts and leaders. I walk them through the same tour, pointing out key landmarks and making sure they know where everything is before leaving them to settle in.
Dinner passes in a whirlwind of introductions, lively conversations, and the excited energy of scouts eager for the week ahead. During staff week, we had full access to the dining hall’s spread, but now, with over 500 scouts and leaders packed into the space, the system has shifted into something more controlled. Each troop designates a waiter for their tables, responsible for collecting and serving food from the kitchen, a method that keeps the chaos somewhat manageable, but I find myself eating smaller portions than before.
After dinner, the opening campfire ceremony feels like a roaring success. The evening begins with a grand parade through the towering trees, scouts and staff winding their way to the campfire circle by the water. A short, traditional verse sets the tone, welcoming everyone to the week ahead. Eddie lights the fire with deliberate care, a reflection of his deep pride in the T'Kope Kwiskwis OA lodge. The staff delivers a mix of skits—some rehearsed, others hilariously improvised—filling the night with laughter and energy. At the end, Steve steps forward, delivering the same speech generations of staff before him have given: about adventure, brotherhood, and making the most of every moment. As the final song fades and the fire crackles softly, the whole camp seems to hold its breath, just for a moment, letting the magic of the first night settle over us all.
As the fire burns low and the scouts return to their campsites, I find myself drifting toward the long pier that juts into the canal. I spot August there, leaning against the railing, looking out over the darkening water.
I join him, standing close but not touching. “Any orcas tonight?” I ask, my voice quiet.
“Not yet,” he clears his throat. “But maybe soon.”
We stand there in silence, watching the horizon together, the night settling in around us. I peer off into the dark, then I look at August to finally ask. “Can you tell me what Bram was like?”
August hesitates for a moment, his gaze fixed on the darkening water. The sky is now a canvas of deep purples and blues, the last streaks of sunset fading into the horizon. The only sound is the gentle lapping of the waves against the pilings below us.
"Bram…" he begins, his voice soft, almost a whisper. "He was… bright. Always smiling. Always making people laugh." He pauses, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "He had this mop of blond hair that always fell into his eyes, no matter how many times he tried to brush it back. Everyone liked him".
He looks out further, almost in a daze. And when I look, I see nothing. Just pure ocean water, nothing more, and nothing less.
“We met in Scouts when we were about ten or eleven,” he continues. “We were buddies right away. He was always up for anything and eager to try new things, especially when we were alone in our tent. He was the kind of guy who would dive headfirst into a freezing lake without even thinking about it."
I want to reach out and touch August again, but I don’t. Not yet.
“When he left, I thought it was fine at first. We sent messages on Instagram. Texted. But then… it got harder. He made new friends. So did I. And after a while, I realized,” He swallows. “I realized I was the only one still wanting to talk.”
The words settle between us, heavy but familiar.
“I get that,” I say quietly.
August turns to me now, eyes searching mine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Evan, my best friend back home, we were like that. We did everything together, and when I started feeling something more… I convinced myself it didn’t matter. That I should just keep things the way they were. Then COVID hit, and I don’t see him every day anymore. We were still best friends in high school, but at the beginning of this year, we already knew we were going to have separate lives, with me having already aged out of scouts and him getting a rowing scholarship at UW.
August studies me for a long moment. “Does it still hurt?”
“Sometimes,” I say honestly. “But not like it used to.”
August nods, considering that. He shifts slightly closer, just enough that our arms and uniform sleeves brush. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make my skin buzz with awareness.
“You want to talk more about him?” I ask, my voice still low. “About Bram?”
August hesitates, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his scout uniform sleeve. For a moment, I think he might brush the question off, but then he exhales softly and nods. “Yeah. Later, though, in our room, Eddie might see us out here.”
“Of course,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the knot in my chest. “I just need to check in with Ander and my troops before lights out. But after, we can… talk.”
“Okay,” August agrees, his tone softer, almost relieved. His arm lingers against mine for a beat longer before he pulls away, “I’ll wait for you.”
I swallow against the warmth rising in my throat and nod. “I won’t be long.”
By the time I step outside the office with Ander, the sun has completely set, leaving the camp bathed in moonlight and scattered glow from the windows. The air is cooler, carrying the sharp scent of salt from Hood Canal. I head out alone toward the troop campsites near Mystery Beach, my boots crunching softly against the gravel as the distant sound of the laughter of the scouts showering and getting ready for bed echoes through the camp.
Troop 579 from Puyallup is already winding down for the night. Their Senior Patrol Leader, a lanky kid named Jordan, meets me halfway up the trail, a flashlight swinging loosely from his wrist.
“Everything good here?” I ask, my flashlight scanning the site for any signs of chaos.
Jordan shrugs, his face half-lit by the dim glow. “Yeah, we’re fine. One of the tenderfoots is homesick already, but his Patrol Leader is helping him through it.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” I offer a reassuring smile. “If you think of anything overnight, I’ll be by the first thing in the morning.”
Jordan nods, already turning back toward the cluster of tents. “Thanks, Ben.”
I move on, weaving my way through the darkened camp. The second troop, 441 from Sacramento, is quieter; their campfire has reduced to a glowing heap of embers. I spot the Scoutmaster, a burly man in a faded red fleece jacket over his uniform, standing near the fire pit.
“Evening, Mr. Vanduren,” I greet him. “How’s your troop settling in?”
“Not bad,” he says, his voice low. “The long drive wore everyone out, I think. Most of them have already started to turn in.”
“Glad to hear it. If you need anything, I’ll be back at the staff cabins.”
He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder as I turn to leave. “Appreciate it, Ben.”
By the time I make it back to Banting, the camp has settled into that familiar nighttime rhythm—distant voices murmuring from a few lingering staff members, the occasional owl calling from deep in the woods. I push open the door to our room, feeling the warm, stale air wrap around me.
August is already there, sitting cross-legged on his bed. He’s still in his staff uniform, though he’s partially unbuttoned his shirt and kicked off his boots, leaving him in the olive green BSA uniform crew socks he purchased at the Trading Post to match mine. He glances up as I step inside, his expression open but slightly guarded.
“You made it back alive,” he jokes, but there’s a slight tension under his usual teasing.
“Barely,” I reply, dropping onto my bed with a sigh. I unlace my boots slowly, stalling as I gather my thoughts. “Thanks for waiting.”
August shifts, drawing one knee up to his chest. “You wanted to know about Bram.”
“I do,” I admit, leaning back against the wall. “Only if you want to tell me, though.”
“I told you we did everything together,” he begins, his voice low but steady. “Inside our tent together was a completely different world.”
“Oh yeah?” I give him a slight chuckle.
“Yes, it was.”August's words trail off as he glances at me, his eyes searching for some sign of how I'm taking this.
"We'd explore each other's bodies in the most intimate ways," he continues, his voice slightly cracking. "We'd touch every inch of skin, from the curve of our necks to the soles of our feet."
My heart is racing now, and I try to process what August is telling me. It's one thing for him to admit that they were close, but this... It's like he's sharing their secret with me.
As I listen, I feel my own body responding in ways I can't explain. It's as if hearing about Bram and August's intimate moments has awakened something within me, reminding me of the desire I have for August now.
“Did you kiss, too?” I ask, trying to hide my slight jealousy.
"Yes," he says quickly, his eyes locked on mine. "We kissed often when we were alone. And...we also did other things." His voice drops to almost a whisper again as he adds, "He kissed me down there too and liked putting it in his mouth." He almost hesitates after revealing that, perhaps noticing my slight discomfort.
"It's okay," I say gently. "You're sharing this with me because you trust me, right?"
August nods, his eyes still fixed on mine. "Yes, I do. And I want to ask you something."
I nod for him to continue, feeling a sense of trepidation about where this conversation is going.
"What was it like being in love with your best friend?" August asks, his voice still low.
My heart skips a beat as I process what he's asking. It's not just the intimacy of the question that throws me off guard, it's also the fact that he seems genuinely interested in understanding my feelings for Evan.
I take a deep breath and try to gather my thoughts before responding. "It's...complicated," I say slowly, unsure how much more to reveal.
August nods sympathetically, but I can tell he wants more information. He leans forward, his green eyes burning with curiosity.
"Please, Ben," he says softly. "I want to understand."
I hesitate again, unsure if I'm ready to open up about my feelings for Evan, especially in front of August. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me, his green eyes steady beneath the messy curtain of his red hair, the freckles dusting his nose and cheeks catching in the dim light. It makes me feel like I can trust him.
“Evan and I were just like you and Bram,” I start confidently. “Fooling around in our tent and inside his sleeping bag. I’d give him a blow job almost every night when we slept together, but it was a while before he finally gave me one back. The night after our OA ordeal, we finally kissed, but it never happened again after that. Then we got older and had more responsibility in the troop, and the fooling around stopped. We still went to high school together, but I never admitted I still had feelings for him because I was still in the closet.”
August's eyes widen as he listens to my words, his expression a mix of surprise and understanding. He nods slowly, taking it all in.
"I see," he says softly. “Are you still not out?”
“Only out to a small number of friends, not even Evan. You? You said you had girlfriends, too?” I ask.
“Two,” August admits. “But with them, it wasn’t anything close to what I did with Bram, you?”
“Not one girl!” I laugh. “I went out discreetly with a Senior from school when I was a Junior after hooking up on Snapchat.”
“You can ask Natalie if you want one. I think she really likes you!” August teases.
“Oh, be quiet! She’s older than us!” I groan loudly and throw my pillow at him.
August collects my pillow and brings it with him as he sits with me on my bed. “Seems that didn’t matter with that guy at school, but do you want to know what Bram liked to do that those girls didn’t?” August bumps my leg with his.
“What?” I grin at him, knowing he already told me Bram worked wonders on his cock.
August smiles mischievously as he reaches down and pulls off one of his olive green crew socks, sticking his bare foot out towards me. "Bram used to love doing this with me," he says, wiggling his toes. "It was like a secret game we had. He'd suck on them after a whole day of hiking together."
August’s smile widens as he wiggles his bare toes in my direction. My gaze drops to his foot, noticing the pale skin contrasting with the olive green of the discarded sock lying on the floor. Then, I see them, tiny bits of lint, undoubtedly from the relatively new uniform socks, nestled between his toes. It’s an oddly endearing detail, a sign of our busy day on the job with relatively no time to catch our breath.
My eyes flick up to meet his, and I see a mixture of playfulness and something more vulnerable in his green gaze. He's offering me a glimpse into a past intimacy, a secret game with his childhood best friend, Bram. This feels significant, another layer being peeled back between us.
A wave of curiosity washes over me, mixed with a hesitant thrill. This is unexpected, more intimate than the foot massage from the previous night. Part of me is still processing the intensity of our encounter before Eddie interrupted. But there’s also a pull, a desire to understand August better, even through something as unconventional as this.
"Bram liked stinky feet, huh?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intend, trying to mask the flutter in my stomach.
August nods, his smile softening. "It was... our thing. After long hikes, our feet would be sweaty, and he’d just… offer to clean them." He shrugs, a trace of shyness edging into his usual confidence. "Sounds weird, I know."
"No," I say, the word slipping out quicker than I expect. "It… it sounds intimate." My gaze falls to his foot, the way his toes curl slightly as if waiting for my reaction. The thought of his skin, his taste, it’s more tempting than I want to admit.
I lean forward, the playful grin tugging at my lips. "Well, if it was Bram’s thing…" I pause for a heartbeat, checking for any lingering hesitation. But the desire to know August in every way wins out. "…then maybe it can be our thing too."
Without waiting for his response, I take his foot gently in my hands. His skin is warm against my palms, the faint scent of leather from his boots lingering. I bring his toes to my lips, brushing them softly before sliding his big toe into my mouth.
August lets out a quiet gasp, surprised but not unwelcome. My pulse pounds in my ears as I focus on the feel of him: the roughness of his skin, the warmth beneath it, the way his toes twitch slightly at my touch. This is new, unfamiliar, but there’s a raw intimacy in it that makes my stomach twist with want.
I swirl my tongue around each toe, taking my time, tasting the salt of his sweat. A shiver runs through me when he pulls me closer, guiding my head back to his foot. He watches, his chest rising and falling beneath his scout shirt, eyes dark with something I’m sure isn’t just curiosity anymore.
The air between us thickens as he shifts, unbuttoning his uniform shorts. My breath catches when I see the outline of his erection pressing against his black Hugo Boss boxer briefs. Without a word, he adjusts his position, giving me better access as he palms himself through the fabric. The sound of his hand against the smooth material, the faint musk of his arousal, consumes every part of me.
I lift my head, sliding my hands up his thighs. With deliberate slowness, I unbutton the bottom of his uniform shirt and push the undershirt higher, revealing the taut muscles of his stomach and the trail of red hair leading down to his waistband. Hooking my thumbs into his briefs, I pull them down, freeing his uncut cock. It springs free, thick, flushed, and already leaking. I can’t resist leaning in, pressing a kiss to the already exposed tip, tasting the salt of his pre-cum as my eyes stay locked on his.
August’s hand stills in my hair, his breath catching. "Benji," he whispers, his voice strained and soft.
I take that as encouragement, wrapping my lips around him again, letting the warmth and weight of him fill my mouth. His fingers flex against my scalp as I deepen the motion, hollowing my cheeks while keeping my pace slow and deliberate. His breath quickens, the tension in his body curling tighter with every pass of my tongue.
Suddenly, he pulls away, his grip shifting to my chin as he tilts my face toward his. "I’m gonna cum," he warns, his voice rough and broken at the edges.
I sit back, watching him, taking in the flush of his skin, the tension in his muscles as he strokes himself with an urgency that makes my stomach tighten. His freckles stand out even more against the heat of his skin, a beautiful mess of red, pale, and flushed pink.
Then it happens, his body tenses, his hips jerking forward as a deep, broken moan spills from his lips. Thick ropes of cum spatter across his freckled stomach, streaking across his pale skin, settling in the dips between his abs. He rides out the aftershocks with slow, shuddering breaths as the tension drains from his body.
For a beat, the room is filled only by the sound of our breaths. Then, with a soft smile, August swipes a stray drop from his stomach with his thumb and brings it to my lips. "Swallow," he says, and I obey without hesitation, my tongue flicking against his skin as I lick his seed off. The moment feels heavier, like something between us has shifted even deeper, binding us even closer.
With August finished, I roll onto the small bed beside him and unbutton the top of my uniform shorts, shifting closer, my heart still pounding. August watches me, his gaze softer but no less intense.
His smile curves into something more playful. "Don’t worry," he says, leaning closer. "I didn’t leave Bram… how do you say? Hanging? After he did that." His hand slides between us, brushing against my thigh before resting there.
His touch burns through the thin fabric of my shorts, and I press into his palm instinctively.
“I wanted to touch you like this last night,” August whispers, fingers teasing the waistband of my underwear before slipping beneath. He starts by rubbing his thumb over the tip of my foreskin, then slowly pulls the head out. His touch is steady and patient, like he’s savoring every reaction and every tremble.
When his hand wraps around me, I can’t hold back the soft sound that escapes my lips. His grip is firm, his thumb sweeping slowly over the sensitive tip, sending waves of heat curling low in my stomach.
“You’re so stiff,” he whispers, almost to himself, wonder and want mixing in his voice. His strokes grow bolder, his rhythm smooth and deliberate, each movement drawing me closer to the edge.
I bite back a moan, my head falling against his arm as he works me over. Every brush of his fingers sparks through me until the rest of the world fades away.
“Is this okay?” he asks softly, but there’s no hiding the hunger in his voice.
“God, yes,” I gasp, my hips bucking into his hand.
He presses a kiss to my temple, grounding me as the tension inside me coils tighter. "I like touching you," he says softly, his voice rough against my ear. "I like knowing it’s me making you feel this way."
The warmth in his words pushes me over the edge. “Auggie—I’m close,” I warn, my voice breaking.
“Let go, Benji,” he whispers, his grip tightening just enough to send me spiraling. My body tenses as release crashes through me, his hand guiding me through every shudder and pulse, unleashing my load onto my crotch.
When I finally come down, August lingers, his hand warm and steady against me before he gently pulls away. He grabs the edge of my scout shirt and wipes me clean, his gaze never leaving mine.
He chuckles softly, breaking the quiet. "How’d you know what Bram called me?"
I blink, still catching my breath. "What?"
“Auggie,” he says, his smile widening. "You called me that."
I feel the heat rise to my face as I laugh quietly. "Oh… it just came out. Don’t know where I got it." I hesitate for a moment before adding, "Will you stay here tonight with me?"
“Okay, Benji," he says, and when I pull the sleeping bag over us, he doesn’t get up.
