At 4:36 AM the country bus was mostly empty, rattling along a secondary road that passed through an unbroken series of poppy fields and roadside shrines. The windows stayed fogged from the night’s leftover humidity, blurring the lights that flickered at the edge of every town. Only the two 18-year-old rover scouts were awake when the bus left the city; by the time the sun started burning through the horizon, they were asleep and pressed together at the shoulder, Zétény’s head tipped into the hollow below Csongor’s collarbone as though he had located the one load-bearing point and committed to it entirely. Csongor, for his part, let his neck go slack and allowed his chin to rest atop the coarse cut of Zétény’s hair, not because he was tired but because it was the straightest line between point A and B. Csongor’s hair was blond and kept in a permanent state of chaos, like he ran his hands through it every ten minutes just to be sure it never resolved. In the glass, their reflection looked like a time-lapse: one upright, one collapsed, then reversed, then upright again. Their bodies synced and desynced in slow cycles as the bus ate kilometers in silence.
Somewhere past Kecskemét, the driver nailed a pothole with both axles. The jolt shot through the bench seats and flung Zétény’s hand straight onto Csongor’s thigh. Csongor grunted and lifted his head, but Zétény slept through it with impressive professionalism, fingers curling instinctively into the flesh just above the knee. It wasn’t until the bus took a hard right at a crossroad, slamming both of them into the aisle-side armrest, that Zétény finally startled awake. His eyes—an unsettling shade of green that changed from light to dark depending on what insult he was about to say—went wide, and his arm recoiled as if shocked.
“Shit. Sorry,” Zétény said. His voice was morning-hoarse, cartoonishly deep, like someone parodying the voice of a forty-year-old truck driver.
Csongor shrugged, one eyebrow barely arching. “You gonna buy me dinner first, or just keep feeling me up on public transport?”
“Bitch, your legs were already open.”
“That’s a medical condition.”
The bus lurched again, more gently this time. Zétény fished his phone from his lap, tapping the cracked screen to check the time while squinting at the GPS. Csongor took the moment of silence to look at him properly. Zétény’s face was too angular to be handsome in any classical sense, but the sharp cheekbones and narrow mouth fit together with a strange elegance. His hair—cropped military short on the sides, longer on top—stood up in a lopsided shelf where Csongor’s cheek had pressed it flat. The skin on his face was pocked and shiny, with a patch of old burn scar below his left eye that he picked at with a thumbnail.
Csongor’s own body, stretched out in the seat, seemed to belong to a slightly different species: longer limbs, narrower hips, pale enough to burn after ten minutes in the sun. Where Zétény was angular, Csongor was all soft corners. His hands were delicate for a guy who spent most weekends roughing it outdoors, fingers always moving—tapping, drumming, peeling at the label of a water bottle. In the present moment, Csongor’s hands had retreated to neutral territory: one on the armrest, one in his lap, pressing down with a flat, deliberate pressure that wasn’t doing much. The worn gray fabric of his sweatpants was stretched taut, tenting straight out from his hip in a steep, unmistakable angle. The shape was rigid and distinct, a hard line that ran uninterrupted from base to tip, pressing insistently against the thin cotton. It left nothing to interpretation.
He looked anyway—just once, a flick of the eyes. Zétény’s shorts were stretched into a second skin, the fabric pulled taut across his thigh where something thick and unmistakable curved upward and to the right, the ridge of the head pressing sharply against the inner seam like a promise. The shape of it was like a fat Hungarian sausage, the flared rim pressing a clean arc into the cotton, distinct as a thumbprint. His ankle was hooked over his knee, but it only made the angle sharper, more deliberate.
The road ran perfectly straight through the gold fields. Neither of them spoke.Zétény broke first, but not the way Csongor expected. He didn’t look over. He just said, very quietly, with the same tone he used to read bus schedules: “Jesus Christ. If anyone saw us right now, they’d think we were a couple of faggots on a honeymoon.”
Csongor’s mouth twitched. A snort escaped him, sharp and involuntary.
Zétény glanced over then, his face a flat mask, and added, “What? You think this is normal?”
“No,” Csongor said, the word catching in his throat. “It’s fucking weird.”
They held each other’s gaze for half a second too long before Zétény cracked, a harsh laugh bursting out of him like a cough. Csongor’s own laughter shook through him silently, his shoulders trembling. Just as quickly, the humor vanished from Zétény’s face. He shook his head once, slowly, with the disgust of someone who’d just stepped in something. “Fucking weird,” he said again, to no one. Csongor said nothing, just pressed his palm harder into his lap and watched the fields blur past.
When the bus finally pulled into the stop outside the village, Zétény stood and yawned, then jabbed Csongor’s side with two fingers just above his hipbone. “Up. You’re here for manual labor, not a fucking field trip.”
Csongor slid out of the seat, one hand still hovering casually over the front of his pants. Zétény led the way down the aisle, pushing past the seats with a confidence that bordered on contempt. The morning light outside the bus door was blinding, and the heat already building. As they stepped down, Csongor glanced over his shoulder at the empty seats, thinking how much easier it was to sleep next to someone when you both pretended you were alone.
He blinked, adjusted his pack on his shoulder, and followed Zétény into the rising dust.
The sun on the Alföld was not fucking around. By the time Csongor and Zétény had shouldered their packs and picked their way down the dirt track from the bus stop, the temperature had already climbed from refreshing to stupid, and the early morning light had gone from gentle gold to blinding white. Csongor let his eyes burn rather than squint, taking in the expanse: endless open fields, low farm buildings with roofs like battered helmets, a windbreak of poplars in the distance marking the property line. He’d been here once, years ago, but his memory was a blur of heat, the vague shape of a barn, and the overpowering smell of horses.
They followed a rut-carved path through an empty pasture, both sets of boots kicking up chalky dust. Zétény’s stride was a little longer, and he didn’t seem to care that Csongor was carrying the heavier bag. The house came into view: a single-story, whitewashed box with a battered metal roof and a rain barrel listing to one side. The yard was already humming with insects. At the front gate, a shirtless man waited, leaning against a post with the flat-footed patience of someone who did not recognize time as a limiting factor.
The man—Zétény’s uncle, if the family tree Csongor had pieced together was accurate—was built on an entirely different scale than the boys. He was broad, with shoulders that looked like they'd been built up hauling things too heavy for most men, and a stomach that looked both rock-hard and out of control. His arms were latticed with ink: black horses rearing in mirrored profile, flames, a series of cryptic tally marks. His face wore a permanent five o’clock shadow and a birthmark like a thumbprint above his eyebrow. Sweat slicked his chest and gathered in dark patches under his arms, but he didn’t bother to wipe at it.
He watched the boys approach with a stillness that would have been unsettling if it wasn’t so complete.
“About time,” he called as they crossed the yard. His voice carried the accent of someone who had never lived in a city and would punch anyone who accused him of it. “I thought maybe you’d both gotten kidnapped. Or worse, joined a youth group.”
“Isn’t this a youth group?” Csongor muttered, too low for the uncle but not for Zétény.
Zétény shot him a look. “We made good time. The bus was early.”
“Must be nice,” the uncle said, not moving from the post. “Come here. Both of you.”
They shuffled into the shade, grateful and not showing it. The uncle scanned them from hairline to shoelace, pausing briefly on the badges stitched to their packs: the red-and-blue of the Magyar Rover Scouts, the smaller chevrons for first aid and orienteering. He grunted. “Put your things by the wall. I need you out back.”
The yard behind the house was a patchwork of trampled dirt and weeds, fenced off from a much larger, impossibly flat pasture. A weathered gate marked the boundary, and beyond it, three horses grazed in the distance—two mares, and a monstrous black stallion with a white blaze on its nose. The animals moved slowly in the already-intense heat, tails swatting lazily at flies.
The uncle led them to the fence, where a thick rail ran at chest height. “Watch,” he said. “You’ll learn something.”
It took a second for Csongor to realize what was happening. The stallion, all corded muscle and dark, furious energy, was herding one of the mares hunger, corralling her toward the fence where the boys stood. The mare resisted at first, trotting sideways with ears pinned back, but the stallion circled, head low and neck arched. His intentions were not ambiguous.
The mare relented, and the stallion mounted her in a single, balletic lunge. Csongor could hear the wet slap of their bodies even over the buzzing insects. The stallion bit down hard on the mare’s neck, teeth digging into the gray hide, and began to thrust with a rhythm that was less animal than industrial. The mare’s hooves dug furrows in the packed earth; at one point, she bucked hard enough to make the fence shudder, but the stallion held fast, hips pistoning, nostrils flared and eyes rolling.
Zétény and Csongor stood side by side, both gripping the fence rail. Neither spoke, but Csongor felt the wood creak under his tightening grip. He chanced a sideways glance: Zétény’s face was expressionless, jaw set, but his right hand had shifted along the rail until it was maybe two inches from Csongor’s. Neither of them moved it. Csongor became very aware of those two inches, and somehow that awareness seemed to go both ways.
The uncle watched the horses with complete disinterest, but when the stallion gave one last, brutal drive and the mare went slack, he turned his gaze on the boys. His eyes were colorless, or just so light that they reflected everything in front of him. He gave Zétény a thin, unsmiling nod.
“You ever see anything like that in Budapest?” he asked.
Zétény’s reply was immediate and monotone: “No.”
Csongor shook his head. “We get more poodles.”
The uncle snorted, then looked back at the horses. The stallion slid off, the job done. The mare stood for a few seconds, then started grazing again like nothing had happened.
“Lot of work for a few seconds,” the uncle said. “You remember that, you’ll go far.” He spat into the grass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned toward the barn. “Go on. It’s cooler in there. You can rest until I need you.”
Neither of the boys argued. They peeled away from the fence, Csongor letting his hand linger on the splintered wood until the very last second. As they walked, he could feel a pressure in his own hips, a low-grade ache that echoed the raw energy he’d just seen in the pasture.
They crossed the yard without looking back. The uncle’s voice carried after them: “Don’t get into trouble. I mean it.”
The barn door was propped open, a heavy rectangle of shadow on the bright morning. Zétény was the first to step inside. Csongor followed, boots crunching over stray hay, the dust rising in golden clouds behind him. The air inside was as advertised: cooler, but thick with the smells of old wood, animal sweat, and something darker underneath.
They stood just inside the entrance, both blinking in the dimness, waiting for their eyes to adjust. Outside, the field was white-hot and infinite. Inside, everything narrowed to a single, low-ceilinged space.
Csongor dropped his pack on the floor and sat cross-legged beside it. Zétény stayed standing, arms folded, eyes scanning the rafters for god knows what. They didn’t talk, and didn’t need to.
The silence was total, except for the buzzing of flies and the muted, satisfied noises from the pasture. Csongor let his mind empty out, focusing only on the cool air against his skin and the charged quiet that hung between him and Zétény.
The barn was barely cooler than the yard, but stepping inside felt like slipping into another dimension. The moment the door groaned shut behind them, the outside world vanished. The blinding light contracted to thin blades cutting through the boards, and the incessant buzz of insects was replaced by a heavy, waiting silence. The only illumination bled through the gaps in the warped boards, carving the interior into stark bands of gold and shadow. The air hung thick with the scent of dry hay, layered beneath with something older: the musk of sweat, the rot of wood, the faint, lingering ghost of manure. In the dimness, every shape seemed to press closer than it was.
Csongor gave it a full minute before Zétény moved. He’d braced for a lecture, a jab to the arm, or at least one of Zétény’s razor-sharp remarks. But Zétény just leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply through his nose, as if testing the air for the right tension, the perfect angle—like he was tying off a knot, adjusting for the exact right give. He didn’t speak. He waited until Csongor met his gaze, then arched an eyebrow and smiled, a look that was neither kind nor cruel, just *precise*.
“Come here,” Zétény said.
Csongor scooted forward on his ass, knees bent, the concrete rough and unyielding beneath him. He knew how to follow orders, and Zétény had never been unclear. When he got close enough to catch the sharp, synthetic tang of Zétény’s deodorant—something expensive, something that didn’t belong in a place like this—Zétény reached out and pinched Csongor’s left nipple through his shirt. Not playfully. *Deliberately*. The pressure was exact, like the first tug of a rope being tested for strength.
Csongor flinched, but not away. A sharp heat bloomed in his chest, and his cock, already half-hard, went rigid in an instant. Before he could react, Zétény’s hand slid from his nipple in a slow, methodical path down his ribs and over his stomach. The touch was measured, controlled, like a scout mapping a trail, and stopped just above the drawstring of his sweats.
“You’re already leaking,” Zétény murmured, voice low.
Csongor glanced down. He hadn’t noticed, but the evidence was unmistakable: a slick, dark stain blooming over the tip of his cock, stark against the light grey fabric.
Zétény didn’t hesitate. His fingers hooked under the waistband and yanked, stripping Csongor’s sweats down in one smooth motion. His cock sprang free, wet and glistening, the head already beaded with pre-cum. Zétény’s grip closed around the base, his hand moving with the same economy of motion he used when securing a knot—no wasted effort, every stroke purposeful. He ran his thumb over the slit, smearing the slickness, then stroked again, faster this time.
“Jesus,” Csongor gasped, not really protesting.
Zétény just shrugged, half-dismissive, and reached over with his other hand, catching Csongor at the hip and pulling him closer. His hands were rough, callused, but they moved without hesitation—no fumbling, no second-guessing, just the steady certainty of someone who had never needed to ask permission from his own body.
Csongor’s own hands fumbled for purchase. One landed on Zétény’s thigh, fingers digging into the denim. The other hovered for a second before settling on Zétény’s stomach, feeling the hard plane beneath his shirt. He let it rest there, then slipped lower, hesitating at the waistband.
Zétény didn’t make him wait. He undid his own pants, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock—thick, blunt, already flushed at the tip. Csongor wrapped his hand around it, feeling the heat radiating off it, hotter than anything he’d ever touched on Zétény before. It pulsed in his grip, alive. Zétény inhaled sharply, then set his jaw and matched Csongor’s rhythm, stroking him with the same relentless precision.
They worked each other like it was a test of endurance. Zétény increased the speed, his grip tightening, his thumb pressing into the sensitive head every third stroke, drawing out slickness with each pass. Csongor mirrored him, adjusting his pressure, his pace, refusing to let Zétény outmaneuver him. Their eyes locked, but it wasn’t about intimacy—it was about control, about not breaking first.
When Zétény’s free hand slipped under Csongor’s shirt and raked up his back, nails dragging across skin, Csongor gasped. The sensation was sharp, deliberate—like the bite of a rope under tension. Zétény’s nails weren’t long, but they were *exact*, leaving behind stinging lines that made Csongor’s spine arch. He squeezed Zétény’s cock harder, feeling it twitch in his grip, thick and unyielding.
“Fuck,” Zétény breathed, the word barely audible.
Zétény pulled him back off the cold concrete, and they fell together into a pile of loose straw. The world narrowed to sensation: the prickle of hay against Csongor’s ass, the burn of the scratches on his back, the wet, obscene sounds of their hands working, the thick scent of sweat and sex and dry grass filling the stagnant air. Every time Csongor thought he was close, he eased off, but Zétény just gripped him tighter, forcing the pace back up. They jerked each other off with a kind of ruthless efficiency, each refusing to yield, to let the other finish first.
In the end, they came within seconds of each other. Csongor lost by a hair, his orgasm hitting without warning, his cock jerking as he spilled onto his shirt and the waistband of his sweats. Zétény followed with a guttural grunt, his cum flooding over Csongor’s fingers, splattering onto the straw below. For a moment, neither moved. Then Zétény’s grip loosened, and he let out a sharp, barking laugh.
“Good job, city boy,” he said.
Csongor wiped his hand on his shirt, then on Zétény’s thigh for good measure.
They collapsed onto the hay, flat on their backs, chests heaving. The scratches on Csongor’s back stung, but it was the kind of pain he wanted to keep—a mark of something *earned*. The afterglow hit fast and bright, pooling through him like heat trapped under canvas.
They lay there in silence, breathing in sync, the barn quiet except for the distant sounds of horses outside. Csongor traced the pattern of the roof beams with his eyes, feeling his pulse slow.
Finally, Zétény spoke, his voice rough but not unkind. “That was a one-time thing.”
Csongor didn’t look at him. He just watched the dust motes swirl in the slanted light. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
After a moment, Zétény rolled onto his side, facing him. He reached over and flicked a piece of straw off Csongor’s face.
“We should clean up before the uncle comes back,” he said.
Csongor nodded. He glanced at Zétény, whose skin had already settled back into its usual pallor. There were red marks on his back—Csongor’s doing—and a streak of drying cum on his stomach.
Csongor smiled. Not because it was funny, but because it was *perfect*.
He sat up, stretching, and winced at the soreness in his lower back. “You think there’s a badge for this?”
Zétény rolled his eyes and stood, tucking himself back into his pants without bothering to wipe up. “Only if you can do it while tying a bowline one-handed.”
They dressed in silence, brushing hay from their clothes, pretending not to notice the evidence left behind on the barn floor. When they were ready, Zétény cracked the door open, peering out before motioning for Csongor to follow.
The sun was higher now, the heat pressing down like a physical weight as they stepped back into the yard. The uncle was nowhere in sight, but the memory of what they’d done clung to them, invisible but undeniable.
They didn’t speak as they crossed the dirt, but when they reached the house, Zétény smacked Csongor’s shoulder—harder than necessary. It stung, but Csongor didn’t mind. He just smiled, imagining the scratches on his back, how they’d look in the bathroom mirror later.
It was a feeling he knew he would want to remember.
Csongor stepped into the yard and the light hit him like a physical blow. He squinted, the scent of hay and sex still clinging to his skin beneath the heavy summer air. Zétény followed, his face already set in its standard mask of bored contempt, but the angle of his shoulders was looser, easier, as if he’d just shed a heavy weight.
The uncle was waiting, naturally, because he had a sixth sense for exactly when you’d rather not see him. He stood in the shadow of the rain barrel, wiping his hands on a rag that was already stained beyond hope. He didn’t move as they approached, just narrowed his pale eyes and gave them a look that went from hair to shoes, pausing for a fraction of a second at the faint sticky patches on their shirts and trousers. It was a perfect, surgical read of the crime scene.
“Well,” he said, voice totally flat. “That’s a performance worthy of a medal.” His eyes lingered on Zétény’s untucked shirttail and Csongor’s dust-smudged collar. “Seen worse stains in my day.”
For a moment, the words just hung there. Zétény coughed into his fist, and the look on his face was a perfect mix of pride and fuck-you.
Csongor met the uncle’s gaze, unblinking. He felt the prickle of the healing scratches on his back, the sticky memory of what was drying beneath his waistband. He imagined for a second that he could taste the barn air on his own breath.
He said, as evenly as humanly possible: “This wasn’t in the badge book.”
The uncle gave a snort, one corner of his mouth turning up. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “We used to call that one ‘hayloft hospitality.’” He tossed the rag onto the barrel and walked past them, motioning toward the far end of the yard.“We’re burning the brush before lunch. Grab a rake,” he said, as if nothing at all had transpired.
From the porch, their cousin Ákos watched them approach. He didn’t speak, just tracked their movement with a quiet, curious intensity that made Csongor feel suddenly exposed. As they passed, Ákos pointed a chin at the Rover Scout badge still pinned to Csongor’s backpack strap.
“That the eagle one?” he asked, his voice low.
Zétény didn’t break stride, but Csongor slowed just enough to nod. “Red and blue.”
Ákos whistled softly, his gaze lingering on Csongor for a beat too long before flicking to Zétény’s back as he stalked toward the shed.
Csongor found himself smiling again. The uncle’s verdict, the badge book line, even the way his body ached a little from the back scratches—all of it felt like a souvenir you wouldn’t want to show off, but would keep anyway.
He picked up a rake and spun it once in his hand, then followed Zétény and the uncle to the next job. The sun was high, the air close and hot, and for the rest of the morning, the only thing sharper than the hay in the barn was the memory of Zétény’s nails against his skin.
By the time the sun’s fire bled out on the horizon, the yard was stripped bare, the bonfire reduced to a smoldering pit, and every muscle in Csongor’s body throbbed with pains he’d never catalogued before. His uncle had slapped together cold sausage and raw onions for lunch, and the afternoon slipped by in silence save for the snap of onion skins and the slow collapse of the brush pile. Zétény didn’t grunt or gripe once, and Csongor mirrored his deadpan calm, their quiet spar turning into a standoff neither wanted to lose.
They scored their own room that night—a luxury compared to scout-camp bunks—two cots, a shared nightstand, and a single window framing the last strip of daylight and the smell of singed weeds. From the other end of the house came their uncle’s pan-rattling and low mutters at some TV game show. Csongor peeled off his sweat-damp T-shirt and studied his back in the mini-bathroom mirror: the scratches had opened into clean, parallel lines—almost decorative. He dabbed them with a wet cloth, then splashed water on his face until the stinging eased. The cool water was a relief.
Back in the bedroom, Zétény lay sprawled on his cot, arms folded behind his head, eyes locked on the ceiling. He hadn’t changed, dirt crusting his skin in patterns that echoed their uncle’s tattoos. His face gave nothing away in its usual lines and angles, but the flush hadn’t left his cheeks, a redness he seemed determined to wait out rather than explain.
Csongor sat on his cot’s edge a moment, then lay back, hands folded over his stomach. The room settled into a hush of two guys daring the other to speak first—each pretending they hadn’t just jerked off together, each unwilling to admit how oddly alive it made them feel.
Finally Zétény’s foot thumped against the cot frame. “So.” He sounded casual, but his throat clicked.
Csongor rolled his head. “So.”
Zétény turned his jaw sideways. “About today. In the barn.”
“What about it?”
Zétény let the question hang a beat before snapping, “You’re not ratting anyone out, right?”
Csongor shrugged, arching his back. “Who’d believe two dudes jerking off in a barn? That’s like a farmyard myth.” He gave a short laugh, as if branding it too ridiculous to worry about—and too ridiculous to admit it felt weirdly thrilling.
Zétény cracked a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “People jerk off everywhere. That’s why they lock fucking bathrooms.” He paused, as if going to add something about it being “gay” didn’t even cross his mind.
Csongor laughed up at the ceiling. “I’m basically providing a public service. A technical demo.” He shook his head, like this could never be anything but purely academic.
Zétény exhaled a short, sharp chuckle. “Fuck off.”
“Cost extra,” Csongor teased, then caught himself. “Not that it’s… you know. That kind of thing.”
Zétény’s foot stilled, and the room grew quieter—less loaded this time. Csongor tuned in to the uncle’s distant TV, the night insects, the pulse in his own ears. He felt hollowed out, but in a good way, like he’d traded something heavy for something lighter.
Zétény finally swung his head. His gaze landed on Csongor. “Ever done that before? With another guy?”
Csongor considered. He braced himself not to say yes. “Not in a barn, at least.”
“Anywhere?”
He thought about lying but couldn’t be bothered. “Nope. You?”
Zétény looked away. “Not… exactly.” His voice was rougher than before, like he was denying something he almost believed.
Silence stretched into something nearly comfortable, then Zétény flicked a flake of dried mud from his arm to the floor.
“It doesn’t count unless you, you know, actually put it in,” he said flatly, like he’d read it off a contract—and like that detail saved them from any deeper confession.
Csongor let the logic sink in. He briefly pictured what “putting it in” might feel like—then shoved the thought aside. He didn’t feel labeled, just shockingly alive. Definitely not gay.
“We’re not getting locked up for it,” he said, with more relief than he’d expected.
Zétény’s lips twitched. “Heard the worst is community service.”
“Perfect,” Csongor said. “We’re practically specialists.” He gave a quick shrug, as though denying any emotional stake.
They lay still as the sheets cooled their sweat. Eventually Zétény rolled over and drifted off with slow, even breaths. Csongor stayed awake longer, tracing the faint lines of his scratches on his stomach, watching the last sliver of light die at the window.
Just before sleep claimed him, he glanced at the backpack slung over a chair. The Rover Scout badge—bright red and blue—caught the dying light and gleamed like a beacon. He thought, again, that if there were a badge for this sort of thing, he’d have earned it twice.
