Independence Day
I wake to the weight of August’s arm draped across my chest, his slow, steady breath warm against the back of my neck. The nylon of my sleeping bag traps our body heat, making the small room feel even closer than it already is. For a moment, I just lie there, not moving, soaking in the quiet. His knee is hooked over mine, his chest pressed against my back. If anyone walked in, it would be obvious what we’d been doing, or at least that we’d been sharing more than just a bed.
I glance toward the window, half-expecting to see the faint gray of dawn, but instead the first hard rays of sunlight are already cutting through the glass, sharp and bright. My stomach drops: I’m late.
Before I can untangle myself from August, the pounding starts.
“Ben! You up yet?” Brady’s voice booms from outside, followed by three hard knocks against the door. “Ander’s about to start looking for you!”
August stirs beside me, groaning as he buries his face into the pillow. I freeze, pulse hammering, the weight of where we are rushing back all at once. If Brady comes barging in…
Another round of pounding rattles the door. “Come on, man, you guys are late!”
I glance at August, who finally cracks one eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips despite the situation.
“Guess you overslept,” he mutters, his voice still husky from sleep.
I scramble upright, shoving down the panic. “No shit.”
I throw back the sleeping bag and start yanking on yesterday’s uniform right in front of him. My shirt is halfway buttoned, neckerchief dangling loose, when it hits me: today isn’t just any morning. It’s the Fourth of July. Special flag-raising ceremony. Ander will kill me if we’re late.
“Get up,” I hiss, snatching August’s shirt from the chair and tossing it at him. He catches it against his chest, still half-smiling.
“You Americans and your flags,” he teases, dragging his uniform shorts on, socks bunched halfway up his calves. “Always a parade.”
“This isn’t funny,” I snap, though part of me wants to laugh at his nonchalance. We’re both still fumbling with belts and neckerchiefs when Brady yells through the door again. “You’ve got, like, two minutes!”
We don’t bother lacing boots, just shove them on and bolt out the door, shirts wrinkled, hair sticking up from sleep. By the time we reach the parade ground, scouts and staff are already lined in neat rows, the flag waiting at the pole. Steve gives me a quick once-over as we slip into line, his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t call me out.
August sidles in beside me, stiff as the pole itself. When the Pledge of Allegiance starts, he mumbles a half-beat behind, clearly watching my lips to keep pace. For the anthem, he stands ramrod straight, eyes darting around, trying to copy the others. When Steve launches into a booming speech about sacrifice, freedom, and the meaning of the flag, August glances at me sideways, his brow raised just enough to say, Really? I keep my eyes forward, fighting the urge to smirk.
By the time the ceremony ends, scouts scatter toward the mess hall for breakfast. I barely let out a breath before Ander appears at my side, hands behind his back.
“Site inspections right after breakfast,” he says evenly. Not angry, not jovial either. Just business.
“Yes, Ander,” I reply quickly.
His eyes flick briefly toward August before returning to me. He gives a small nod, then turns to the next task.
Beside me, August leans just close enough for me to hear his whisper: “All that for a flag.” His smirk tugs at me again, but this time I don’t let myself smile back.
The mess hall hums with noise, scouts crammed shoulder to shoulder at long tables while their troop waiters hustle back and forth from the kitchen windows, balancing trays of pancakes and pitchers of milk. Every table’s been set with paper flags and cheap red, white, and blue napkins, Steve’s idea, no doubt.
At one of the staff tables, I slide onto the bench with my tray while August drops across from me. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, even some sad-looking watermelon slices, it’s all there, plus the pièce de résistance: Jell-O, red and blue cubes wobbling on a plate. Patriotism at its finest.
August eyes the spread, fork hovering. “So this is your independence? Maple syrup and gelatin.”
I shoot him a look. “Don’t start.”
He grins, unbothered. “No, really. Ten minutes ago, you saluted a flag, now you eat it. Very patriotic.”
I set my fork down, leaning closer so only he can hear. “It’s not just about the flag today. It’s the Fourth. Not every scout gets to spend it at camp. It’s special. It matters to me, to them. You don’t have to love it, but please don’t make fun of it.”
For once, he doesn’t fire back. He studies me across the table, smirk fading as he takes me in. Finally, he nods. “Okay. I get it. Where I come from, a flag is… just there. But if it matters this much to you, I’ll respect it.”
The tightness in my chest loosens. I reach for the syrup again, drenching my pancakes. “It’s not just me. This is the scout’s first full day here; it sets their expectations for the week. The Fourth is a big deal in America, especially for Boy Scouts. I’m guessing there’s nothing like it in the Netherlands.”
August stabs a cube of Jell-O, holds it to the light like it’s a jewel, then pops it in his mouth. His face twists at the sweetness. “We have Koningsdag, King’s Day. We wear orange and cheer for the King’s birthday. You celebrate by telling yours to get lost. Opposites, isn’t it?”
I can’t help it, I laugh, shaking my head. “You Dutch are something else.”
Around us, the rhythmic clatter of trays and scraping of benches builds as scouts finish eating and start drifting toward the dish pit and their program areas. The moment is over, the camp schedule pulling us apart. August gives me a final, quick smile before standing and peeling off to join the other instructors heading toward Scoutcraft and the waterfront, his staff neckerchief swinging loose as he lopes down the trail. I watch him go for half a second longer than I realize, then shake it off. Ander’s command is a timer in my head: inspections, now.
With the merit badge sessions starting, the campsites are deserted: a perfect time to make the rounds.
Sacramento’s site comes first. Their tents are squared up, duffel bags and rucksacks stacked neatly by their tent flaps. I duck into one of the canvas-walled tents, the smell of sun-baked Gore-Tex and sweat still hanging in the air. Two cots, a pile of uniform parts on one, socks dangling from the ridgepole. Nothing out of place, nothing worth noting. I jot “satisfactory” on the clipboard and move on.
Puyallup’s site is further along the loop, tucked deep among the trees. With the troop gone, it’s eerily quiet, just the creak of guy lines in the morning breeze. I step into the first tent and freeze.
There before me: a North Face Cat’s Meow sleeping bag, the kind Evan had, blue and gray, sprawled across a cot like it had followed me here on his rucksack. My hand hovers before I even realize it, brushing the smooth nylon. The sound it makes: soft, slick, the faint crinkle when my knuckles drag across, pitches me backwards in time. I wasn’t in this tent anymore. I was inside Evan’s sleeping bag, our knees and shoulders pressed together, the bag and its soft nylon interior sealing us into our own world, the two of us sharing breaths in the cocoon we made.
The memory knocks the air from my chest. It’s just a sleeping bag, I tell myself, lots of scouts have one. Boy’s Life pushed it for years. But it doesn’t matter. The sight and feel of it drag up everything I thought I’d tucked away after I last saw Evan at graduation: the confessions I never told him, the ache, the sharp edge of missing him, even though he’s probably just across the Sound running his rowing camp.
I stand too quickly, the world tilting for a second as I escape the tent. My throat is dry, my pulse hammering in my ears. I clutch the clipboard like an anchor and scrawl “satisfactory,” the word looking meaningless and small on the page.
But as I step out into the indifferent sunlight, the cool shade of the tent seems to cling to me. I can still feel the ghost of that nylon, the echo of Evan’s breath. It’s just a sleeping bag.
So why can’t I shake it?
I hover there too long, the urge hitting me fast and hard. Before I can talk myself out of it, my phone is in my hand. One shaky bar of service, but enough for iMessage. My thumbs hover. Don’t. Don’t open that door.
Still, I type.
I lean against the rough bark of a cedar tree, its shade doing little to cool the heat under my skin. My thumbs hover over the keyboard. What do I even say? Hey, I just found a North Face bag that reminded me of when we... No. Absolutely not.
Me: How’s the coaching going at the club? Did you get your first paycheck yet?
The dots appear instantly.
Evan: Day off, holiday. Just getting ready for a BBQ. It’s been good, though. Exhausting. You? Still surviving Parsons? 😂
My thumb hovers. I can’t tell him the truth, seeing that sleeping bag here feels like a punch to the gut.
Me: Yeah. Just saw something that reminded me of Fire Mountain. Total chaos here, same as then. When you’re back on the river, we should FT: show each other our camps.
Evan: Deal. Talk soon.
I shove the phone back into my pocket. The conversation is over, but the echo of it lingers. I just reached out to my oldest friend from the shadow of a memory, while still carrying the warmth of August’s body from this morning. The contradiction presses heavily in my chest. I press the heel of my hand against my sternum, trying to ground myself, but the weight stays.
I finish my clipboard notes and set off on my loop, cutting across camp to check in at the program areas. It’s part courtesy, part responsibility, making sure the staff have what they need, keeping an extra set of eyes on safety.
The archery range is busy, arrows thudding into hay bales in uneven rhythms. Natalie is in her element, hair pulled back, her voice carrying as she strides up and down the shooting line. She spots me before I can retreat.
“Benji!” she calls, waving me over like I’ve just volunteered myself. “Perfect timing. Come here.”
I raise a hand in a half-hearted greeting. “Just making my rounds…”
“Nope,” she cuts me off, already thrusting a recurve bow into my hands. “Show us your form. Let the scouts see how an Eagle Scout and Commissioner does it.”
A few scouts glance over, curious. I sigh, but there’s no easy way out. I step to the line and set my feet. Natalie is instantly circling me, eyes narrowed in mock-seriousness.
“Not bad,” she says, moving behind me. “But straighten this elbow… drop your shoulders…” Her hands hover close, occasionally brushing as she adjusts my stance. “Yeah, you’ve got good lines. Strong frame.”
Her voice dips lower, more for me than the scouts. “You must have done this before.”
The compliments land heavily, not flattering. I feel heat crawl up the back of my neck. I just want to be anywhere else.
“Okay,” I mutter, drawing back. The string bites at my fingers, the bow creaks, and I sight down the arrow. One deep breath. I lose it. The arrow sails clean and thuds right next to the center of the target.
The scouts clap, impressed. Natalie grins like she just proved her point. “See? Natural.”
I hand the bow back to her too quickly. “One time’s enough. You’ve got it handled.”
She gives me a knowing look as I step off the line, but I don’t slow down until I’m halfway up the trail again.
At the road that splits the northern tip of the camp from the main area, I spot movement out of the corner of my eye: two scouts creeping down the gravel shoulder. Before I can call out, they’re already halfway across.
“Hey!” My voice cracks sharper than I wanted it to. I stride forward and snag both by the straps of their daypacks, tugging them back to the ditch. “What are you doing?”
They both freeze, wide-eyed. One mutters, “Just trying to get to the Trading Post faster.”
“Absolutely not,” I snap. “You never, ever cross this road. You use the culvert. Every time. Got it?”
They nod quickly. I point to the dark pipe that runs under the road. “Through there. Go.”
They crouch and start crawling into the culvert, voices echoing inside the metal. The shorter one glances back at me briefly before ducking in. I notice his shoulder, Troop 579, the Puyallup Troop. One of the troops I’m responsible for, the one I found with the Cat’s Meow.
I shake my head, adrenaline still buzzing: another close call.
At lunch, the mess hall smells like smoke and grease, a haze of summer clinging to the rafters. The menu is pure Americana: BBQ hot dogs, potato chips scooped from industrial-sized bags, apple pies cooling on the counter, pitchers of lemonade sweating in the heat. Scouts cram shoulder to shoulder at their tables, waiters hustling trays of food back and forth from the kitchen windows. Up front, Steve has a bugler picking out “Stars and Stripes Forever,” leading the room in stomps and claps.
I slide into my usual spot at the staff table, my tray rattling as I sit. August drops across from me, already reaching for the ketchup like it’s the only thing grounding him here.
“Hot dogs. Apple pie. Lemonade.” He ticks each item off with his fork. “If you put fireworks on the table, it would be complete.”
“Don’t tempt Steve,” I mutter, unwrapping a hot dog.
We eat in relative quiet, the noise of scouts filling the space for us. A few seats down, older staff are trading glances at photos on their phones, maybe memories of summer’s past, and before I can stop myself, I’m thinking of the one I never delete.
I pull out my phone and tilt it toward him. “This was me and Evan. Back in Webelos.”
On the screen: me, Evan, on a log, both in sweaty hiking shirts and oversized shorts. A pot of water teeters on a camp stove between us. Evan is chubby, round-cheeked behind his wire-framed glasses, grinning like he can’t help it. My hair is shaggy, lighter than it is now, my face still boyish.
August studies it for a long moment. “Your hair was almost blonde,” he says, tapping the screen. “Like Bram’s.”
Before I can react, he pulls out his phone, scrolls, then turns it around.
He and Bram, maybe twelve, standing at the edge of a lake in swim trunks. August looks almost the same, freckled, wiry, but Bram is exactly as August once described: a mop of blond hair, a skinny frame, a grin bright enough to light the photo.
I stare at it for a few seconds. It’s not just that Bram looks alive. It’s that he seems easy, like joy comes naturally to him.
“He could make anyone laugh,” August says quietly. “That’s what I miss most.”
I nod and glance back at Evan’s photo. “Funny. He doesn’t look anything like that now. He changed. A lot.”
“Rowing, you said?”
“Yeah. University of Washington scholarship. He doesn’t look like that kid anymore.”
Around us, scouts jostle for pie, watermelon seeds flick across tables, and Steve is still stomping his march. But between us, it feels still, both our pasts glowing from our screens, ghosts of people that meant everything in the world, still alive in our pockets.
I lock my phone and slide it away. “Eat your pie,” I tell him. “Most American thing you’ll do all day.”
August grins, fork diving into the crust.
Later in the afternoon, the Silver Marmot Grill smells faintly of coffee and pine cleaner, the hum of the camp day muffled through the open doors. Inside, the long tables are crowded with clipboards, pencils, and half-drunk water bottles as Ander runs through the leadership agenda. The Senior Patrol Leaders sit upright in the mismatched chairs, each trying to look older than their years. A few Scoutmasters line the back wall, arms folded, nodding along.
I take a seat off to the side with the other Commissioners, listening as Ander reminds the SPLs of their roles: punctuality at merit badge sessions, campsite organization, and making sure their scouts show up in uniform for flags. The usual tune-up for the first full day.
Jordan, Troop 579’s SPL, sits near the middle, long legs stretched under the table, jotting notes in sharp strokes. Ander loves kids like him: efficient, steady, already practicing adulthood.
When Ander pauses to let the SPLs compare notes, my eyes flick toward Jordan’s clipboard. Just columns: rosters, schedules, sleeping arrangements. I shouldn’t care, but one line tugs at me.
The tent I’d walked through that morning. Two names penciled in: Asher and Jayden.
My pulse ticks up, but not because of the scouts themselves. It’s the bag in that tent, sprawled across a cot like it was waiting for me: a North Face Cat’s Meow. Evan’s bag. Our bag. The nylon that zipped us into something private, sealed and unspoken.
I lean back, force my eyes away. The names don’t matter. Not really. It isn’t about them. It’s the gear, the memory. And the echo of it is still sharp in my chest when Ander clears his throat and pulls us back on script. “Commissioners, make sure you keep checking in with your SPLs. Smooth communication is what makes a troop’s week go smoothly.”
Jordan closes his clipboard with a snap, pushing his hair out of his eyes. The meeting dissolves into movement, SPLs standing, Scoutmasters stretching. But all I can see in my mind is that familiar blue nylon, glowing faintly in the dark of the tent, like a ghost.
Before dinner, I loop back toward 579’s site. The light slants lower through the trees, making the canvas tents glow like lanterns. Jordan meets me near the fire pit, clipboard still tucked under his arm.
“Everything good?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, Mr. Smeadtstad. We’re fine. Just making sure the waiters rotate tonight and everyone gets to badge sessions on time.”
“Good man,” I tell him. “Keep it up.”
He grins, a little too proud, then jogs toward the kybo.
I keep walking until I reach the tent I’ve been circling in my head all day. Inside, two cots, both messy. On the right: the Cat’s Meow, blue-and-gray, spread open across the canvas like a memory waiting to spring.
A scout sits on top of it, dark hair falling into his face, rolling a scratched Tech Deck in his hand. His buddy, lankier, sits opposite on the other cot with a merit badge pamphlet open across his knees studying it like it’s a lifeline.
“Hey, guys,” I say. “Commissioner Smeadstad, you can call me Ben. Just checking in.”
They both straighten quickly.
“You were the ones I stopped at the road earlier, right?”
“Yeah,” the pamphlet kid blurts. “We weren’t gonna…”
“I know,” I cut him off, raising a hand. “Just remember: culvert, not the road. Every time.”
They nod. The one perched on the Meow adds, “Thanks for not making it worse.”
“What merit badges are you working on this week?” I ask.
“Archery, Motorboating, Wood Carving,” the pamphlet kid says quickly.
“Environmental Science,” the one with the Tech Deck adds. “Scoutcraft too. Mr. Fransen said he’d show me how to splice rope, the way they do in Holland.”
That makes me smile faintly. August is already making an impression on his first day of work.
I jot my notes. “Remind me of your names?”
“Jayden.” The pamphlet closes.
“Asher,” says the other, balancing the Tech Deck on his knee.
“Good to meet you both,” I reply. “And remember, culvert, not the road.”
They nod, the moment already over. But as I step back from the flap, my eyes drag once more across the nylon spread open on the cot. Asher sleeps in it now, probably without thinking twice. To him, it’s just fabric and fill. To me, it still embodies everything I shared and didn’t share with Evan.
Dinner slides by in a haze of red, white, and blue. Burgers, corn on the cob, and baked beans filled every tray, with apple crisp in industrial pans at every table. The mess hall buzzes with the kind of barely-contained energy that only comes when kids know Independence Day is for fireworks, but they’re banned here at camp.
At the staff table, Eddie leans across toward Ander and me, his voice low under the clatter of dishes. “After the evening campfire, head down to the main pier. Trust me. You’ll see why.”
Ander gives him a measured nod, nothing more, but Eddie’s grin tells me it was something worth paying attention to.
The evening program is exactly what you’d expect on the Fourth of July at a scout camp: patriotic songs led by Steve, poems about freedom shouted into the dusk by trembling Tenderfoots, and a reading of the Declaration of Independence so long even the mosquitoes seemed to lose interest halfway through. The campfire circle by the water glows bright against the falling dark, the flames crackling as skits and songs filled the night.
When the final verse of “God Bless America” echoes across the canal, Steve dismisses the troops back to their sites. Scouts scatter up the trails in laughing, shoving packs, their voices fading into the trees until the camp settles into a rare, still quiet.
August and I don’t need to speak; both of us turn and walk along the shore toward the waterfront, boots crunching on gravel in near-unison.
The main pier stretches out into the glassy canal, the water reflecting the last of the light. We’d barely reached the end when the first crack splits the sky across the water.
Fireworks bloom from the adjacent shore, where some houses sat by the country store. Bursts of red and white scatter their reflections across the canal. Another line thunders after, gold this time, streaks falling like sparks over the dark treeline. More houses down the beach join up and down Jackson Cove, tiny bursts at first, then volleys, whole horizons alight.
August tilts his head back, his face lit in strobing flashes. “So this is your Independence,” he says quietly. “Bombs bursting in air, no?”
I nudge him with my shoulder. “You got King’s Day. We got this.”
He smirks, eyes still on the sky. “Funny thing? The Netherlands was the first to recognize your independence formally. Maybe without us, you wouldn’t even have your fireworks.”
I blink, caught off guard. “You’re kidding.”
He shakes his head, still watching the sky flare and fade. “1782. We were first. Small country, big risk. Seems I might know more about American history than you.”
The fireworks keep coming, louder, closer, their echoes rolling across the water. Around us, a few other staff trickle onto the dock, their silhouettes quiet against the flares. But it feels, for that moment, like it was just me and August, standing side by side, both looking up, carrying our countries in different ways but sharing the same burst of light.
After a few minutes, the water below us swallows the last echoes of the fireworks, leaving a ringing quiet in their wake. The dark feels heavier now, the scattered lights from houses across the cove seeming farther away. August doesn’t move, his profile still tilted toward the sky where the colors have faded to smoke.
Boots scuff on the weathered planks of the pier behind us. We both turn around.
Eddie stands there, hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts, a wide grin splitting his face. “There you two are. Figured you’d have the best view in the house.” He comes to stand beside us, following our gaze to the empty, darkening sky. He nudges August with his elbow. “So? What’d you think of your first Fourth of July, man? Proper American freedom show, huh?”
August is silent for a moment, taking it in. The water laps softly against the pilings below. I watch him, curious what he’ll say, how he’ll filter the spectacle through his dry, Dutch sensibility.
He finally turns to Eddie, a faint, thoughtful smile on his lips. “It is… loud,” he says, and Eddie barks a laugh. “But also… quiet, in a way. You celebrate your freedom by making noise together, looking at the same sky.” He pauses, choosing his words. “Where I am from, on Koningsdag, we wear orange. We drink and dance in the streets for the King. It is… messy. Everyone is on top of each other. This…” He gestures out at the dark water, the silent, watching trees. “This feels bigger. More… space to breathe inside the noise. It is like the whole country is having one big birthday party, but everyone is just… watching the same lights, alone together.”
He glances at me, then back at Eddie. “And I told Ben today that without the Dutch, your country might not have its big birthday. So I suppose I feel… involved.”
Eddie stares at him, his smartass grin softening into something more genuine, more impressed. “Damn, August. That was almost poetic. ‘Alone together.’ I like that.” He claps him on the shoulder. “You’re alright, man. For a European.” He says it with a warmth that takes any sting out of the words.
“Thanks, Eddie,” August says, a real smile finally breaking through. “I think.”
“Alright, I’ll leave you two to get home,” Eddie says, already starting to back away. “Don’t stay up too late. And Ben,” he adds, pointing a finger at me, though his tone is light, “Ander will have your ass if you’re almost late for flags again.”
And with that, he turns and ambles back down the pier, his whistle fading into the night.
The silence he leaves behind feels different now. Lighter. Easier. I look at August, his face pale in the moonlight, the freckles across his nose like faint constellations.
The walk back to Banting is quiet, our footsteps on the gravel path the only sound. The camp is dark and still, and everyone has finally settled after the long, loud day. The energy between us has shifted from the quiet contemplation on the pier to something charged, a current humming under my skin.
We slip inside our room, and the door clicks shut, sealing us in our own private world. The familiar smells of worn wood, damp socks, and the faint, clean scent of August’s soap wrap around me. He turns to face me, his eyes dark in the low light.
A nervous, impulsive idea forms as we take off our shirts. “Can I wear your red Umbro shorts?” I ask, with a hint of mischief in my voice. “To sleep in?”
August’s eyebrows raise, a slow, teasing smile spreading across his face. He doesn’t question it. He just nods and starts to unbutton his uniform shorts. “Only if I can wear your shiny blue ones,” he says, his tone playful. “You want to carry the patriotic theme to bed, yes? Red, white, and blue?”
A laugh escapes me, nervous and eager. “Something like that.”
We don’t turn away. We just change right there, a slow, deliberate exchange. I step out of my uniform shorts and hand him the soft, well-worn blue Champion C9s with a white stripe down the side. He hands me the new, vibrant red nylon Umbro shorts. The fabric is cool and slick against my skin. They smell like him.
He looks me up and down, now wearing my blue shorts, his gaze hot and approving. “They look better on you,” he says.
Then he kisses me. It’s not like the frantic kisses from before. It’s deeper, more certain, like we’ve crossed a bridge today and there’s no need to rush back. My hands find his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the familiar shape of him through the thin fabric of my own shorts.
We stumble toward my sleeping bag, never breaking apart, and lower ourselves onto it. The nylon of the bag is cool beneath us. We’re a tangle of limbs and quiet gasps, kissing until we’re both breathless. We start moving against each other, a slow, building rhythm. The slick nylon of his red shorts grinds against the soft, shiny polyester of my blue C9s, the friction building a desperate heat low in my stomach.
He breaks the kiss, his breath hot against my ear. “Do you want me to suck?” he whispers, his voice rough. “I want to.”
“Yes,” I gasp out, the word barely more than a breath. “God, yes.”
He moves down my body, his kisses trailing a burning path over my smooth stomach. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of the red shorts, pulling them down just enough. He doesn’t take them off. He just exposes me, pushing the waistband just below my balls, the vibrant red nylon framing my hips, a stark contrast against my skin. He looks up at me for a long second, his green eyes dark with intent, before he lowers his head.
His breath is warm against me first, a teasing ghost of what’s to come. Then his tongue, a slow, flat stroke from base to tip that makes my entire body jolt. He does it again, slower, savoring it, before finally taking me into the wet, incredible heat of his mouth.
He sets a rhythm that is agonizingly slow and thorough, each movement deliberate. He explores me with his tongue, tracing every vein, swirling around the head before sinking down again, deeper each time. One of his hands slides under me, cupping and squeezing, while the other rests firmly on my hipbone, pinning me to the sleeping bag, keeping me from thrusting up too desperately.
I fist my hands in the nylon of the bag, my head thrown back, a string of broken gasps and pleas falling from my lips. I am completely lost in him, in the sensation. The world narrows to the feel of his mouth, the softness of his lips, the firm pressure of his tongue, the gentle scrape of his teeth, the incredible suction that threatens to unravel me completely.
He pulls off slowly, with a soft, wet pop, and looks up at me, breathing heavily. A string of saliva connects his lips to me for a second before breaking.
“You okay, Benji?” he whispers, his voice rough.
I can only nod, desperate, my chest heaving. “Don’t stop. Please.”
A smirk plays on his swollen lips before he dips his head again. This time, he changes his pace, faster, more urgent, taking me all the way to the back of his throat. I can feel the muscles working, the gentle pressure, and it’s too much. The pressure coils tight and white-hot deep in my core, a spring wound to its breaking point.
“Auggie… I’m gonna…” I choke out, a final, ragged warning.
He doesn’t pull away. He just hums in acknowledgment, the vibration shooting through me like lightning, and redoubles his efforts. That’s all it takes. I cry out, a strangled sound as I come into his mouth. He stays with me through every pulse, swallowing, until I’m trembling and utterly spent, collapsing back onto the bag like a puppet with its strings cut.
August finally pulls away, breathing heavily, and rests his forehead against my thigh for a moment before crawling next to me.
I’m still catching my breath, my body humming and boneless, when I turn my head on the sleeping bag to look at him. He’s lying on his side, facing me, propped up on an elbow. A faint, satisfied smile plays on his lips, but his eyes are dark, watching me. The evidence of my release glistens faintly on his chin.
My hand, which had been lying limp on the bag between us, moves almost on its own. I slide it across the rough nylon, my fingers finding the prominent, hard shape of him straining against the soft, well-worn, blue shiny polyester of my Champion shorts. The fabric is already warm.
He lets out a sharp, hitched breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a second at the contact.
I don’t rush. I just rest my palm over him, feeling the heat and the solid length through the barrier. I apply the slightest pressure, a slow circular rub, and he bucks his hips up into my touch with a low groan.
“Your turn,” I whisper, my voice still catching.
I keep my hand on top of the shorts. There’s something incredibly intimate about this, about feeling him through the soft fabric of my own clothing. I start to move my hand in a slow, firm stroke, up and down the length of him. The blue fabric shifts and slides effortlessly over his dick, creating a whisper-soft friction. His breath hitches, and he drops his head back onto the sleeping bag, his eyes squeezed shut.
I find a rhythm, the heel of my hand applying pressure at the base of each upstroke. The polyester quickly grows damp and warmer under my palm, the fabric clinging to him. I watch his face, mesmerized by the play of emotions, the tension in his jaw, the way he bites his lip, the faint flutter of his eyelids.
My other hand comes up to rest on his hip, feeling the muscles there clench and release with each stroke. I can feel the tension coiling in him, a mirror of my own from minutes before. I lean in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his freckled stomach, just above the waistband of the blue shorts. I can smell my own laundry detergent on them.
“Benji…” he breathes out, a warning and a plea all in one.
I don’t stop. I speed up the motion of my hand, the non-existent friction through the fabric becoming faster, more urgent. I watch his abs clench, his back arch slightly off the bag. His breathing is ragged now, coming in short, sharp gasps.
“Cum for me, Auggie. In my shorts,” I whisper.
His eyes flutter open, glazed with pleasure, and lock onto mine. The connection is electric.
His climax isn’t loud. It’s a silent, intense shudder that seizes his entire body. His hips stutter up against my palm one last time, and I feel the hot, wet rush spread inside the blue shorts, a sudden warmth blooming under my hand against the shiny fabric. He holds my gaze through it, his expression utterly vulnerable and open, until finally, the tension drains from him and he collapses back onto the sleeping bag, spent.
My hand stays on him for a moment, feeling the gentle aftershocks and the warm, damp patch through the fabric. Then I slowly withdraw it.
We lie there in the quiet, the only sound of our mingled, slowing breaths. The patriotic exchange is complete, a mess of red, blue, and creamy white.
“Happy Independence Day, Benji,” he grins.
A laugh bubbles out of me, quiet and real. “Yeah,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Happy Fourth.”
And as I drift off, the slick nylon of August’s Umbro shorts against my skin, the memory of another sleeping bag, that blue and gray cocoon of a past life, finally feels like it’s letting me go. Together, August and I share my REI bag, even if it’s only for another six weeks.
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