Chapter One – The Starting Line
I was enjoying the break, sitting on a bench in a public park, remembering that for some unknown reason, I had decided to walk the entire length of the Trans Canada Trail. I remember sitting on a patch of coastal grass outside Truro, Nova Scotia, surveying the Atlantic Ocean, thinking, what a cheat I was, starting here, when some puritans would suggest, real trekkers start at Trepassey, but then again, absolute geeky puritans would say, the zero marker is Cape Spear.
"Did it matter?" I remember asking myself as I looked at my map. It was still fucking thousands of miles to Vancouver Island and Victoria, the ending point, and I was not even going to turn right at Fort Saskatchewan and take in the northern territories. People who did that were fucking mad, I had decided. Nope, I was going to do the simple trek, east to west. My plan was simple: average about twenty-five kilometres a day, enjoy the scenery, meet other idiots on the way and be at my mate's house in about 30 months. Simple, but before my departure, though, I would inaugurate my starting line with a wank or, as my colonial cousins would say, jack off.
I remember wondering why a nation would use two words when one would suffice. Jack off or jerking off was a waste of words, verses, a wank or wanking, but as I undid my shorts, releasing my cock through the fly of my boxers, I decided, who gives a flying fuck?
Needless to say, I enjoyed myself, shooting my load almost vertically skyward, only to land on my boxers in copious spurts of creamy liquid. When satisfaction I felt eventually faded, I tucked myself back in, enjoying the dampness and resolving personal release once a day at least.
"Thirty fucking months. I must be fucking mad?" I remember saying, as I found myself on a park bench in Banff, a town I had decided I liked very much.
Unfolding my map, I calculated I had another thousand kilometres to go, and then I could claim my prize. I chuckled again at the thought of my prize, the stupidity of the bet, summing up the idiocy of the challenge.
Taking a deep breath, I looked around. Banff, I really did like, located in the heart of the Canadian Rockies, is, I decided, a stunning location, with turquoise glacier-fed lakes, dramatic, snow-capped peaks, and abundant wildlife like elk and bears, which on more than a couple of occasions had almost been personally introduced to.
The charming, walkable town was lively with shops to replace essentials like walking boots and briefs, and not that I was going to, most visitors came here to hike the surrounding national park, enjoy world-class skiing in winter, and then warm up in the natural hot springs.
Natural hot springs, I pondered, "I might try those hot springs, but fuck the mountain hiking or skiing," I muttered. I'd had enough of hiking by now, having promised myself, never again, never fucking again. Next time, Steve, take the fucking plane.
My prize, though, was only four inches away on my map, and I felt immediately better. Just got to keep going. One inch a week and I'll be there. My prize, really, I reminded myself, was nice and simple, personal perhaps even manly and had started as a joke between Brian and me.
"Brian, you fuck, I can't wait to swipe the smile off your face when I collect my prize from you," I muttered, smiling at proving him wrong and what I had accomplished. Brian had laughed when I told him my drunken plan during a late-night chat about how bad my life was. Brian's initial reaction was rejection. “You’ll never manage it. You’ll never complete it. Are you fucking mad?” were the various supporting comments he made on Skype before eventually suggesting a bet.
"A multipack of Hanes briefs says you won't make it."
The bet had been classic Brian, half mockery, half genuine challenge wrapped in that dry humour of his, that always made me snort coffee through my nose during our late-night video calls. I leaned back against the sun-warmed bench, grinning at the memory.
Our whole friendship had started because of a particularly ridiculous smutty story I’d posted online years ago. A love story between a werewolf and a gay guy. Brian had been the only one who didn’t just leave a keyboard smash or a smiley face in the comments.
Instead, he’d dissected the storyline like a damn literature professor. "Your alpha’s pack dynamics are a chef’s kiss, but the knotting scene’s defy the laws of fiction, mate", he'd written in his message, and I’d known instantly this was my kind of unhinged human I could be friends with.
We’d never actually met. Not in person, anyway. Just pixelated faces over Skype, voice notes yelling over each other’s cooking disasters (his attempt at poutine had been a war crime), and that one unforgettable night we’d gotten piss-drunk on opposite sides of the world and tried to collaboratively write a pirate orgy chapter. Google Docs had never recovered, and only recently was I permitted to use the application again.
But somehow, over the years of swapping terrible jokes and worse life advice, he’d become the person I texted first when shit went sideways. Like when I’d drunkenly announced I’d hike the Trans Canada Trail on a whim, and he’d immediately upped the ante by betting me the world’s most depressing prize.
"Tighty whities?" I’d spluttered into my phone. "That’s your stake? Not even the good boxers?"
"Strategic," Brian had countered, smug as a cat with a stolen steak. "You’ll be chaffing so bad by the time you leave Nova Scotia, you’ll beg for the cotton comfort they provide. Besides, I think you'll look good in them."
Shame to say, Brian had been right, but I had made it out of Nova Scotia before succumbing to the need for less chaffing and more comfort, purchasing my first ever multipack of Fruit of the Loom briefs in some random hardware shop in some random New Brunswick town.
I never confessed to Brian about my purchase, but sending some photos of me swimming in some random, beautiful river had revealed my secret and much to his delight, he's been teasing me ever since. Still, I patted my backpack now, where the crushed multipack of my recent purchase lurked like a taunt. Previous purchases had been my emergency backup after a bear, not the fun, fictional werewolf kind, had trampled my laundry drying on a bush outside Thunder Bay.
Brian had howled laughing when I’d sent him the photo of claw-shredded boxers and the scar I had incurred, trying to shoo the bloody thing away, saying, "Bears don't like tighty whities like the rest of the civilised world, so you should have washed your tighty whities out to dry instead."
I smiled at my memories, standing, feeling renewed, lifting my backpack over my shoulders, muttering, not far now. Goodbye, Banff, and only four inches of the map until I see the sea.
Chapter here – The Lake
As I left the outskirts of Banff, it was time to change into my normal walking attire instead of a t-shirt and shorts. I had found from personal experience that I was more comfortable wearing what was basically a men's nightshirt with a belt around my waist. I had three of them, two black and one burgundy, and to passers-by, it looked like a short kilt, but for me, it offered freedom of movement with valued ventilation to keep cool, but the flexibility to slip a jumper on if the weather changed.
Slightly eccentric, I knew, but I had got the idea from various hiking magazines that had been advertising men's hiking kilts, but I refused to pay the money for what I had essentially achieved for fifteen bucks instead of seventy or eighty.
Unlike a kilt, though, I wore my reliable tighty whities, sending any self-respecting Scotsman into an apoplectic seizure at the thought of wearing underwear. However, without my legs being restricted by shorts, my makeshift kilt allowed me a good pace, whilst maintaining a sense of modesty for the unsuspecting wildlife.
I was in the high Rockies now, the afternoon sunshine beginning to dip behind a mountain top, when I spotted a lake that wasn't on my map. But after months of walking, I'd learned that official trails missed the best bits, the glacial pools hidden like sapphires in rock, the meadows where Elk rolled in wildflowers. So, when I spotted that impossible turquoise through the pines, I didn't hesitate. My boots skidded on scree as I took the shortcut down, my backpack straps digging into sunburned shoulders as I fought to keep my balance.
Then I froze mid-step.
There was a man waist-deep in the water, sunlight glinting off his shoulders like he'd been dipped in honey.
He looked like a Greek god with flowing blonde hair, wearing nothing but a loincloth covering his front, except Greek gods didn’t usually have a faded “Save the Bees” tattoo on their bicep or a water bottle dangling from a carabiner on a belt wrapped around their waist. The sunlight caught the droplets sliding down his chest, turning them into liquid gold as he scooped water over his head with both hands. Then he froze, arms still raised, when he noticed me standing there like an idiot with one boot halfway to the next step.
I realised now, he was wearing what looked like a deer hide loincloth and absolutely nothing else. His campsite behind him was neater than mine had ever been: a canvas tarp strung between pines, a fire ring of blackened stones arranged with fastidious care.
"Christ," I muttered, just as a pinecone cracked under my boot.
The man whirled around, water sluicing off his chest. For one stupid second, we stared at each other like rival deer. Then he grinned, sudden and bright as a struck match and raised a hand in greeting. "You're like me," he announced, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Sorry?" I asked.
"Like me, the temptation of the lake called."
The man turned fully toward me, water cascading off his hips in silver ribbons, and I suddenly understood why Renaissance sculptors had obsessed over marble torsos. As I gazed at the young man, yes, young man, not as old as I originally thought, I could now see his face. He must have been in his early thirties. His body was a damn argument, not just against ageing, but against every bad life choice I'd made since 1998. My own hiking-weathered thighs suddenly felt like overcooked spaghetti in comparison to his sculpted everything.
"Come in," he said, spreading his arms wide like some aquatic messiah. "The water's perfect."
His grin revealed a slightly chipped front tooth that somehow made him more human, more real, as if this Adonis had ever face-planted into a bike rack as a kid. "Got to ask, though, what the fuck are you wearing? It looks like a kilt, but I know it's not."
The cheek, I thought, commenting on my attire. The loincloth he was wearing was even more ridiculous, I thought, than my nightshirt, but not in a bad way, just in a 'why the fuck is that even a thing' way.
It looked like someone had skinned a deer, tanned it poorly, and then tied it around his hips with what might’ve been old shoelaces but wasn't, just cut lengths of leather. And yet, against all logic, it worked. The way it clung when wet, the way it left exactly zero to the imagination when he turned. Christ, it should’ve been a crime.
"You’re staring," he said, still grinning.
"I'm... sorry," I stammered, my boot finally finding solid ground as I jerked my gaze up to his face. "I've never seen anyone wear one of those before. That’s all. And, in answer to your question, a converted men's nightshirt."
His laughter echoed across the lake, sharp and bright like the crack of ice breaking in spring. "What, the loincloth?" as he waded closer, water sluicing off his thighs with every step. "You’ve been hiking through the Rockies for weeks wearing a nightshirt, and you're laughing at what I'm wearing."
"I guess I am. At least my clothing looks... practical, though."
"Practical, hey? I found it in a First Nation shop outside Vancouver and decided it would be really practical for personal relaxation when camping," he said, like he was discussing a thrift store jacket.
"The old man in the shop recommends them instead of going naked to bathe. Apparently, it satisfies the nudity laws if a passing Mountie sees me and supports sitting for meditation and personal reflection. More natural as well. No microplastics or forever chemicals leaking when I swim."
I laughed a proper belly laugh. "You're kidding me. A passing Mountie out here?" as I symbolically looked around.
"You never know when a Mountie will jump out from behind a tree or rock. Besides, people stared at first if they saw me, but clearly, they weren't able to dial 911 up here to report me, so, no Mountie yet. Such a shame, though..." he admitted. "I like men in uniforms, and I'm also quite unconventional."
"I get the unconventional bit and... I must confess, you look... good in it."
"Thanks, buddy," the man said, tossing his damp hair back with a flick that sent droplets arcing through the air like scattered coins. "I'm Billy from Ontario, walking home, you might say."
"I'm Steve, and I'm walking to Victoria to meet a friend I've never met before. Been on the trail for... fuck, how long now? Twenty-nine months hiking. Left Nova Scotia in June 2023 but took a few breaks on the way, working here and there... hiding from the winter weather.
"Well, now we're acquainted, you going to have a paddle to cool off on this fine June day or not?" as he gestured toward the lake with an exaggerated sweep of his arm, as if presenting me with a royal banquet rather than glacial meltwater that would probably shrivel my balls into raisins.
I hesitated, staring at the water's surface where sunlight danced in fractals. The lake looked like someone had poured liquid sapphire into a giant stone bowl. Beautiful, sure, but my thighs still remembered the last mountain stream I'd waded into, three seconds of euphoria followed by fifteen minutes of whimpering as my nervous system rebooted.
"You first," I countered, nodding toward his submerged waist. "Show me how it's done, Mr Loincloth."
Billy's grin widened as I dropped my backpack and peeled off my sweat-stiffened nightshirt, while his eyebrows arched when I hesitated, standing there in my tighty whities. "Don't tell me you're shy now," he teased, flicking water droplets at me with his fingers. "After two years on the trail, you must've pissed behind every tree from Halifax to here."
I snorted, with exaggerated dignity. "Different when there's witnesses," my emergency backups, standard-issue Fruit of the Loom white briefs now tinged grey from too many creek washes. Billy's sudden bark of laughter made me cross my arms over my chest like a scandalised Victorian.
“What?” I demanded.
"Fruit of the Loom!" he exclaimed while slapping the water's surface, sending up a glittering spray. "Knew you were a man of taste. Best fabric for walking, like Hanes briefs. Holds up like armour but breathes like silk," as he arched one eyebrow at the state of mine, sun-bleached and fraying at the elastic. "Though yours look like they've marched through hell and back."
"They have, trust me, but you're right, and annoyingly, my mate, Brian, was right too. Just bought a new multipack in Banff so I look my best when I eventually arrive on Vancouver Island."
Billy smiled. “I wear the same style, but Hanes. Find them perfect in this terrain and the demands of the hike.”
Feeling more relaxed about the newfound company, I waded into the water, finding it wonderfully refreshing as I sat down, the icy shock giving way to a tingling numbness that somehow felt luxurious after months of dusty trails. The lake lapped against my chest, each ripple carrying away another layer of road grit and sweat. Across from me, Billy lounged like some aquatic deity, his arms spread along the rocky ledge behind him, water beading on his sun-bronzed shoulders.
"So," Billy said, flicking a droplet off his nose with an oddly elegant gesture, "how's your trip been now that the end's in sight? Besides the obvious chaffing issues," as his grin flashed that chipped tooth again as he nodded toward my clinging briefs.
I splashed water at him half-heartedly. "Like one long argument with my own poor life choices." The confession came easier than expected, maybe because the mountain air stole my breath or maybe because Billy listened like someone who'd heard worse. "Started romantic, sunrises, wildlife, that whole 'finding yourself' bullshit."
I gestured at the faint scar from the Thunder Bay bear incident still visible on my thigh. "Found out I'm terrible at bear etiquette."
"That's quite a scar you've got," Billy said, reaching out to trace the jagged white lines with fingers still damp from the lake. His touch was massively arousing but clinical, like a medic assessing battlefield damage rather than a stranger touching another man's thigh. "But hell of a memento from your trip."
He leaned back, sunlight catching the water droplets clinging to his chest hair. "I lived with a partner in Vancouver once. Went pear-shaped spectacularly. So, I decided, fuck it, and left to walk home."
The way he said it, so casually, like discussing a cancelled gym membership, made me blink. Billy scooped another handful of water over his shoulders, the movement effortless, as if his body had been designed specifically for this alpine tableau. "Six months now. Started with just a weekend hike to clear my head. Then, kept going. Working in various places on the way. No rush, just enjoying my freedom," his grin flashing across his entire face, equal parts mischief and something darker. "Turns out Canada's fucking big when you're walking across it."
I snorted, shifting in the water that was somehow both numbing and electric against my skin, the feel of the water and his touch from feeling my scar, forcing a reaction from my body. "Tell me about it," I responded, my fingers finding the scar without thinking. Three parallel grooves where claws had grazed just deep enough to leave a permanent reminder. "At least your ex didn't try to eat you."
"That bastard did try to eat me... well, to eat my soul and freedom, I guess, is a better description. All he wanted was my submission and sex on demand, and nothing deeper than that. No substance or intellect, just submission to his will and sex. I haven't had sex since I left him. Hopefully, he's been jerking off regularly, on his own, not able to find someone decent. I just jerk off for the release and relaxation, and the view to entertain me."
The admission hit me like a splash of that glacial lake water, sudden, bracing, and leaving me blinking. My fingers stilled against my scar.
Billy's casual mention of sex, not just sex, but demanding sex, with that same tone someone might discuss their coffee order, made my throat unexpectedly tight and my arousal harder.
I'd only known this man for twenty minutes or so, most of which had been spent staring at his loincloth's dubious structural integrity, and here we were discussing his ex's jerk-off habits like it was trail weather and then the fact that Billy was open enough to say he jerked off regularly.
“I guess you like jerking off too? All men do but very seldom openly confess to the most pleasurable act. You open to discussing personal pleasure?”
I was feeling slightly shocked as any self-respecting Englishman would. "You just..." I cleared my throat, watching a water droplet slide down Billy's collarbone like it had all the time in the world. "Say that stuff outright to strangers?"
Billy's laugh was a short, sharp thing, bouncing off the rockface behind us. "Why not? Sex is just another hike, mate. Sometimes it's a gentle forest stroll, sometimes it's scaling a cliff with your fingernails," as he arched one eyebrow, the one with a tiny silver scar through it I hadn't noticed before. "Unless you're one of those puritans who think talking about it is worse than doing it?"
"Well, I'm no puritan, I can't assure you. English, yes. Gay certainly. Sex starved definitely," I declared, slightly shocked by my newfound confidence in the young man's company. "How old are you exactly, Billy?"
"Thirty-four last birthday," Billy said, stretching his arms overhead in a way that made the muscles in his shoulders ripple like water over stones. "Old enough to know better, young enough not to care," as he flashed that chipped-tooth grin again, and I noticed how the sunlight caught the faint stubble along his jaw, gold where mine had gone grey years ago.
I snorted, sinking deeper into the water until it lapped at my collarbones. "Try forty-five with the knees of a seventy-year-old dockworker," my admission coming easier than I expected, maybe because Billy's laugh didn't have an ounce of pity in it, just the bright, sharp sound of someone who'd heard worse.
"Bullshit," he said, flicking water at me. "You've walked halfway across a continent. That's not old-man knees. That's fucking endurance."
The way he said it, matter-of-fact as commenting on trail conditions, made something warm unfurl in my chest despite the icy water.
"So, forty-five, walked a fucking long way, looking fit and better for the experience, gay and sex starved, sitting by a beautiful lake in the high Rockies with a complete stranger who might be the BC Axe Murderer," Billy summarised.
“BC?” I enquired.
“British Columbia,” Billy answered.
"Oh. So, are you the BC Axe Murderer?" I asked, feeling slightly nervous all of a sudden.
Billy threw his head back and laughed, the sound ricocheting off the surrounding peaks like startled birds taking flight. "Christ, Steve, you're fucking stupid," he wheezed, wiping lake water from his eyes. "There hasn't been an axe murderer in BC since..."
His grin turned wicked. "Well, technically last Tuesday, but that was a misunderstanding about maple syrup quotas."
Chapter Three – Certainly No Axe Murderer
I splashed him, relieved despite myself that he didn’t appear to be a typical axe murderer. The water hit his chest with a satisfying smack, droplets catching the sunlight like scattered diamonds. Billy retaliated by dunking himself completely, surfacing with his hair plastered to his skull, looking like a soggy golden retriever.
"Seriously though," he said, floating on his back, arms outstretched, "if I were the axe murderer, would I be hiking in this?" as he gestured to the loincloth, now translucent and clinging in ways that should've required a permit. "Practical killing attire is cargo pants. Pockets for weapons, blood wipes right off."
Something happened, something that made heat rush to my face so fast I might have actually blushed for the first time since puberty. Billy's gaze dropped pointedly to my lap, where the cold mountain water did absolutely nothing to hide the obvious, transparent tenting of my Fruit of the Looms.
"Well," Billy drawled, his voice dipping into something low and amused, "looks like someone's enjoying the connection," as he tilted his head, water sluicing off his shoulders. "Or is it just the glacial water doing weird things to your circulation?"
I opened my mouth to protest, to deflect, to say anything, but Billy leaned in before I could form words. His lips brushed mine, gentle as a breeze across the lake’s surface, and just as unexpected. The kiss tasted like mountain air and something faintly metallic, like he’d been chewing on a pine needle. It lasted three heartbeats, long enough for me to freeze like a spooked deer, before he pulled back, grinning as if he’d just won a bet I didn’t know we were making.
"You’ve got the situational awareness of a concussed moose," Billy said, flicking water at my chest. "If I were the axe murderer, you’d be dead six times over by now."
The kiss ended before I could decide whether to lean in or pull away, leaving my lips tingling like I'd licked a battery. Billy's smirk told me he knew exactly how off-balance I was, my briefs clinging obscenely in the glacial water, tented fabric betraying every pulse of my heart.
"You," Billy announced, flicking water at my chest, "are exactly as gullible, honest and attractive as Brian described."
I blinked, water dripping from my eyelashes. "Brian. You know Brian?"
Billy's grin widened as he reached behind a shoreline boulder, producing a waterproof satchel I hadn't noticed. "Met him at a Christmas party in Vancouver. Been friends since, and just before I left, I told him about my plan and told me to keep an eye out for some forty-odd-year-old idiot from England, hiking across Canada.”
“He even mentioned to watch out for him wearing a fucking nightshirt with worn-out briefs underneath. Think he mentioned eccentric fucker a couple of times,” as he tossed the bag at me.
Inside, neatly folded beneath trail mix and a first aid kit, lay three pairs of Hanes with the tags still on. "He told me to tell you, this is the down payment on his bet. You get the remaining balance when you arrive."
"Oh, fuck you," I managed with a smile, "You could have told me sooner instead of putting me on edge with mention of axe murderers and such like," I said while staring at the underwear, as if it might bite me.
The packaging crinkled in my grip, fresh, untouched, absurdly pristine against my calloused fingers. "What else did he tell you about me? My preferred brand of granola? The exact shade of pathetic, my tent looks at sunset?"
Billy's laughter bounced off the water as he crawled closer, his buttocks visible above the water line, droplets catching in his eyelashes. "He said you'd be the kind to pack four books but forget a fucking compass," he admitted, reaching out to tap the dog-eared paperback sticking out of my backpack onshore. "Also, that you'd argue with trail markers like they personally insulted your mother."
I groaned, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. Brian had narrated my entire goddamn life to this stranger. "Did he mention I cry at wildlife documentaries?"
"Only the ones with baby Sea Lions," as Billy's fingers brushed my wrist as he pulled my hands away from my face. "And that you once tried to fight a raccoon over a bag of trail mix in Algonquin Park…and lost," his thumb tracing the faded scar along my knuckle, the raccoon’s parting gift.
The intimacy of the touch sent a jolt through me. Not just the warmth of skin on skin, but the realisation that Billy knew me in fragments, assembled from Brian’s stories like some bizarre collage. "Christ," I muttered, "did he give you a PowerPoint presentation too? Highlighting my greatest failures?"
“Not quite, but he did mention you’re super intelligent, not that I get that part, considering you’re walking across Canada instead of flying.”
“Well, that’s nice of him, I guess,” as I huffed at his comment.
"I'll tell you, Steve. Brian and his partner, Rob, are terribly proud to call you their friend, and Brian greatly admires what you are trying to achieve. Very few folks manage the whole distance, and here you are, probably the first gay Englishman to do it, with what? Nine hundred kilometres to go."
"Anything else he said?" I demanded, bemused by this accidental meeting.
"Funnily enough, yes. You like a good fuck but haven't had one since London and the lockdown," Billy said casually, spinning the waterproof satchel between his fingers. “I think he also suggested you haven’t had even a bad fuck since then. In fact, no fuck at all.”
I felt heat rush up my neck so fast I might've spontaneously combusted right there in the glacial water from shame.
My brain was working overtime now, wondering what else Brian had told him. You wait, Brian, I said to myself as Billy moved slightly closer.
The memory surfaced unbidden, to that cramped London flat, the Danish grad student whose name I'd forgotten by morning, the way we'd fucked against the radiator while rain sheeted against the quarantine-era plexiglass barriers outside. Two days before, the flight cancellations started.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered, sinking deeper until water touched my bottom lip. "Did Brian livestream my fucking Tinder history as well?"
Billy's grin widened as he tossed the satchel onto shore. "Nah. Not that I’m aware. Must have missed that. Just said you'd been, quote unquote, 'sexually frustrated since before' when you started plotting this escapade," as his fingers trailed through the water between us, disturbing the reflection of cliffs above.
"Would've kept the Hanes if we'd missed each other, though. Not gonna hike back to Victoria to return three pairs of briefs for some stranger. Celibacy is the life for me, it seems.”
The realisation hit me like a sudden thunderclap, Billy's lips still warm from mine, his breath mingling with the alpine air, before instinct took over. I gripped the back of his neck and pulled him in again, this time with none of his earlier restraint. My other hand found the curve of his arse, my fingers digging into firm muscle as I hauled him against my chest. The loincloth might as well have been tissue paper for all the modesty it provided now, his erection pressing against my thigh with unmistakable intent.
Chapter Four – My Release
Billy made a sound halfway between laughter and a groan, his teeth scraping my bottom lip. "Fucking finally," he muttered against my mouth, hips rolling forward in a slow, deliberate motion that sent sparks up my spine. His hands were already working at the waistband of my briefs, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin below my navel. "Been wondering how long you'd play the flustered Englishman act," as he slipped my briefs off, tossing them onto the grass bank.
The cold mountain water did nothing to dull the heat pooling low in my belly as I flipped our positions, pinning Billy against the submerged sand and gravel with my body. His thighs bracketed my hips, heels digging into the backs of my calves as if daring me to come closer. "Not an act," I growled, nipping at his jawline. "Just haven't had a man's hands on me since... fuck knows when, and you, you tease, ain’t getting away from this frustrated Englishman as you put it."
"Five years, by the way, remember Brian told me," as he arched beneath me, his erection dragging against mine. "Christ, you're worse than I thought," he gasped when my thumb found the head of his cock, tracing the outline under the soaked hide. "All this way with just your right hand and some...ah...fucking Wordsworth to read?"
I tore at the loincloth's knot with more force than necessary, the deer hide giving way with a satisfying rip. The sound bounced off the surrounding cliffs, louder than it had any right to be. "Keats," I corrected, tossing the scrap of leather toward shore where it landed with a wet slap on granite. "And you talk too much."
Billy's laughter cut off into a choked moan when my fist closed around him properly, skin sliding against skin made slick by lake water and precum. His hips jerked forward into my grip, his blunt nails scoring my shoulders as he clung to me. "Fuck... your hands..."
His words dissolved into panting as I worked him over with rough, impatient strokes, the way I'd been fantasising since watching him emerge from the water like some woodland god earlier.
"Knew you were joking about the celibacy thing," I said against the shell of his ear, revelling in how his body shuddered at the contact. “You won’t be fucking celibate after this,” I said as his cock throbbed in my hand, leaking against my fingers in a way that sent a fresh wave of want crashing through me.
Billy's teeth found my collarbone, biting down just shy of breaking skin. "Not... ah....joking," he managed between gasps. "Just... Christ....picky about who fucks me against a... fuck....against a goddamn mountainside."
“Too late to be picky now,” as I flipped us without warning, my back hitting the submerged rock shelf with a splash that sent water sloshing over the shore. Billy’s legs hooked around my waist instantly, his heels digging into the small of my back as I lined myself up. The first press of my cock didn’t breach his defences, but as he relaxed, I edged slowly into him, the feeling electric...tight and marginally dry from not enough prep, but neither of us cared.
Billy threw his head back with a noise that echoed off the cliffs, his hands scrabbling for purchase on wet stone and then my chest as he straddled my frustrated, demanding hips, sliding down my agitated, hard cock, demanding a release that somehow had avoided my attention for too long.
"Brian didn't... oh fuck...mention you'd be this rough," Billy panted, arching up to meet my thrusts. His thighs trembled around my hips, the water sloshing violently with every movement. “Fucking hell, man, you’re like a fucking animal on heat.”
I braced a forearm beside his head, the other hand gripping his hip hard enough to leave bruises. "Brian," I growled, "doesn't know half of what I'm capable of," the words coming out guttural, foreign even to my own ears. Something primal had taken over the second Billy's lips met mine, some long-dormant hunger unleashed by months of solitude and frustration.
Billy's answering laugh turned into a whine when I changed angles, hitting that spot that made his toes curl against my spine. "Prove it," he challenged, his pupils blown wide with want. His fingers tangled in my hair, yanking my head down to capture my mouth again. The kiss was all teeth and desperation, our bodies moving together in a rhythm as old as the mountains around us.
The cold water did nothing to dampen the heat between us...If anything, it heightened every sensation. Billy's skin felt like fire against mine, his cock leaking against my stomach where our bodies met. I could feel every twitch, every gasp, every time his nails dug into my shoulders when I thrust particularly deep.
"Christ, Steve," he moaned, head falling back as he changed his pitch to feel me even more inside him. "Sort of been fantasising about this since Brian described you," as his hips rolled up to meet mine, forcing me deeper. "Knew you'd be gorgeous when you finally let go."
Billy's grin was wicked even as his breath came in short bursts as he arched on top of me, taking my length deep inside himself, his body tightening deliciously around my cock, trapping me inside, taking control of my thrusts. "Fuck... right there...don't stop..."
I didn't. Couldn't. Billy was in control. Months of pent-up frustration poured into every thrust, every bite along his collarbone, every rough drag of my hands over his body. The cold mountain air burned in my lungs, contrasting sharply with the molten heat of Billy on top of me, his nails scratching down my chest and stomach, driving me mad with anticipation and desire.
His fingers scrabbled at my shoulders, blunt nails leaving crescent marks as he clung to me. "Gonna...fuck...."
We became one as our bodies tensed, the words dissolving into a choked moan as his body tensed, my cock brushing his spot, forcing his cock to explode between us, pulsing hot, creamy cum onto my face and chest. The sight of him unravelling... head thrown back, throat working, sent me hurtling over the edge as my entire body climaxed with a scream escaping my mouth.
Months and months of jacking off were not the same as my body detecting its freedom to explode from a sex induced climax. Explode it did, pumping so much cum into Billy, I thought it would never stop. I howled with relief at my release, my body tensing so much I thought I might actually break as Billy continued to ride my cock, through the climax, past the point of no return.
"Wow, big man," Billy exclaimed as he collapsed onto my chest, his breathing ragged and urgent. Mine was just urgent, as I tried to catch as much oxygen as I could, and then, Billy rolled off my body, against the rocks in a tangle of limbs as he partially took me with him, the water lapping at our chests as we continued to struggle, catching our breath.
The wind down set in as Billy's fingers traced idle patterns across my shoulder blade, his heartbeat thundering against my ribs. "You really needed that, Steve and frankly, so did I," Billy said after a long moment.
He tilted his head to catch my eye, smiling all the time. "I owe Brian twenty bucks," he said, voice rough with satisfaction.
"Twenty bucks. Why?" I asked, still trying to catch my breath, the water cooling around us as our sweat-slicked bodies separated.
Billy grinned, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied groan. "Bet him you'd fuck like a man who'd been alone too long," he said, rolling onto his side to face me, elbow propped on the rock beneath us. His fingers trailed lazily through the water between us, stirring ripples that distorted our reflections. "Brian thought you'd be too polite. Said you'd probably apologise."
I barked out a laugh, splashing him lightly. "Christ, I knew he was an asshole, but that’s just rude. I know I'm an Englishman, but don't forget, Marine Biologists never apologise."
Billy shrugged, unrepentant. "To be fair, he hasn’t seen you pin a man against a rock and fuck him like you were trying to win a gold medal," his grin turning wicked. "Though I’m sure he’ll appreciate the details when I tell him....Did you say, Marine Biologist?"
"Got something against Marine Biologists?" I chuckled.
Billy's grin widened as he pushed wet hair from his forehead. "Marine biologist explains the Sea Lion tears," he teased, fingertips tracing the old scar along my ribs, the one from the bear encounter near Lake Louise. "Bet you apologised to that grizzly too, but you don’t have to apologise to me, I can tell you that much."
"Fuck off," I muttered, but my lips twitched. His touch sent fresh sparks across my skin despite the water's chill. "I did yell sorry while running, but that's survival instinct, not manners."
Billy laughed, the sound echoing off the cliffs, before suddenly twisting in the water. "You must have looked fucking silly, naked, your cock swinging left and right, legging it into the woods," as he straddled my lap again with effortless grace, knees bracketing my hips against the smooth rock.
"Ha ha," I responded, looking up at Billy up close. His eyes were flecked with gold, like sunlight through whisky, and his thighs gripped me with a strength that made my breath hitch. "Prove it," he challenged, nipping at my jaw. "Be rude to me."
The words ignited something low in my belly. I gripped his waist, rolling us until his back hit the submerged sand and gravel again. Water sloshed over the shore as I pinned his wrists above his head. "You're insufferable," I growled, biting down on his collarbone just hard enough to make him gasp. "And your fucking loincloth was hideous."
"Oh, you beast, you're so rude," Billy teased, sending us both into fits of laughter.
Chapter Five – The Camp
If a Mountie had ridden past that afternoon, he would’ve seen two sunburned idiots standing naked on the shore of Moraine Lake, water dripping from their bodies as they stared at the sunset staining the peaks crimson. Something unspoken passed between us, less a decision than a gravitational pull, as Billy picked up his spear gun with a grin. "Make yourself useful, Marine Boy. Go and find some suitable firewood. We're camping here tonight, and I might make you my dessert if you’re not careful."
The spear gun was absurdly overkill for alpine fishing, but watching Billy stalk bare-arsed into the shallows, muscles flexing as he loaded it, made my throat go dry. He moved like he’d been born in the wilderness, all predatory grace and effortless precision. The first trout never stood a chance. Billy’s shot pinned it to a submerged log in a cloud of pinkish water. "Told you I was good with my hands," he bragged, wiggling his fingers at me.
I snorted, gathering firewood, naked, muttering, two can play at the naked game as my flaccid cock swung between my thighs. The evening air raised goosebumps on my skin, but the freedom of moving unencumbered, no sweaty polyester or cotton, no chaffing waistband, the nudity was intoxicating.
Billy whistled appreciatively when I bent to grab a log, his gaze hot enough to counteract the mountain chill. "Brian didn’t mention you had such a nice arse," he called, reloading the spear gun one-handed.
"Brian’s never seen it in the flesh," I shot back, tossing a pinecone at his head. “Only in the photographs I sent him during this adventure,” as the pinecone missed by a mile, allowing Billy to duck dramatically, nearly losing his footing on the slick rocks. The resulting splash doused us both, and suddenly we were twenty years younger, laughing, shoving, slipping on wet stone until we collapsed breathless on the shore.
Dusk found us sprawled by the fire, skin tingling from sunburn and scrapes, wrapped in Billy’s threadbare blanket. The trout sizzled on a flat rock near the flames, its skin crisping perfectly as Billy turned it with a stick. "Pro tip," he murmured, pressing a hot flake against my lips. "Spear fishing’s illegal in most national parks."
"Let's hope for a passing Mountie in his red uniform sees us," I responded. Then I asked, "What do you do when not murdering fish? You seemed reticent to mention it earlier,” as I admired his naked body and beautiful cock, swinging between his thighs.
Billy's fingers paused midair, trout skin dangling between us like some bizarre fishing lure. "I paint things. Lost my mojo when things went pear-shaped and haven't found it until...today."
The trout skin fell into the fire with a hiss as Billy's admission hung between us. The flames cast shifting shadows across his face and body as he stood in front of me, highlighting the way his jaw tightened, like he'd revealed something dangerous.
"You paint," I repeated, watching a bead of fat drip from the fish onto hot coals.
"I’m assuming not houses or fences. Are you any good?" I asked, trying to break the unnatural pause in our conversation.
Billy snorted, flipping the trout with unnecessary force. "I don't think so, but some folks disagree," as he moved his body toward the dying light on the peaks. "Got a wall in the National Gallery. Folks apparently mention me by name as 'the most important young artist in a hundred years of Canadian art.'"
The way he air-quoted the phrase made it clear he'd heard it verbatim many times.
I nearly choked on my trout. "You're joking," as the fish bone I'd been picking from my teeth fell into the fire with a tiny spark.
"I decided to reconnect with myself by walking back to Ottawa. Rediscovering beauty in everything I see and experience. I lost it. I lost my vision. I became artistically blind, you might say, and today.... Sorry, it's not about me, Steve. It's about you today."
"Fuck off, Billy, this is about you, now. What? What happened today?" trying to coax the 'what' from him.
"Nah, it's silly," Billy responded.
"It's not silly. Tell me," I demanded, "otherwise, no more sex for you, young man," I said, deciding to be light-hearted.
Billy looked at me, the firelight catching the gold flecks in his eyes. "You," he said, voice quieter than I'd ever heard it. "You, Steve, and what you've accomplished, walking all this way, and you still had the most marvellous smile and laugh when we met. Like the trail hadn’t beaten it out of you."
Billy knelt between my legs, his fingers tracing the sunburn on my shoulders, following the strap line where my backpack had worn through the skin. "That’s what I saw today. Not just a hot, exhausted hiker. Someone who..."
He broke off, shaking his head like the words were stuck.
The trout fat sizzled violently as I looked at him. Billy wasn’t teasing now. His expression was open in a way that made my ribs ache. "Someone who what?" I pressed.
"Who remembers how to fucking enjoy things?" he burst out, gesturing wildly at the lake, the mountains, the stars beginning to prick through the dusk.
"I’ve been walking for months, too, but I was just... going through the motions. Sketched the same goddamn pine trees a hundred times. Then you come stumbling out of the bushes with your ridiculous nightshirt, your worn and frayed tighty whities, bear and Racoon scars and you..."
Billy grabbed my wrist suddenly, pressing my palm against his chest where his heartbeat thudded. "You laughed when I said I might be an axe murderer, like it was the best joke you’d heard in weeks."
I could feel the rapid flutter under my fingers. "It was the only joke I’ve heard in weeks and, sadly, it was funny," I admitted.
Billy's pulse hammered against my palm, wild, untamed, like the rapids downstream after spring thaw. That's when I saw it: the way his fingers trembled around my wrist, the slight flare of his nostrils when he inhaled sharply, the fleeting shadow that crossed his face before he could mask it with that practised grin. Not just an artist who'd lost his muse, but a man who'd forgotten how to see, but I also recognised a glint, a sparkle like a slowly igniting fire.
I leaned in slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. Our lips met with none of our earlier urgency, just the faint taste of trout and pine resin, the warmth of shared vulnerability. Billy made a small, broken sound against my mouth, his fingers twisting in my hair like he was afraid I'd vanish if he didn't hold on.
When we broke apart, his eyelashes were wet. "Fuck," he whispered, swiping at his face with the back of his hand. "Didn't plan on crying over a guy I just met wearing my dead grandfather's blanket for warmth."
The fire popped, sending up a shower of sparks that illuminated the scar cutting through his eyebrow, the one he'd joked about earlier. Now I traced it with my thumb, following the raised tissue down to the curve of his cheekbone.
I shuffled across a bit and forced him to sit next to me, sharing the blanket between us, draped across his shoulders as I wrapped my arm around him. In silence with the reflection of the fire on the water, we looked into the distant mountains illuminated by the stars that appeared to be shining even brighter since his confession.
"I have a small confession, Billy, to share," I muttered, breaking the silence of the evening beauty before us. "When I saw you today, my heart fluttered, and I felt something. Something I can't explain. Something that suggests someone had planned we meet, here, in the high Rockies, and I'm not talking about Brian or a passing Mountie."
"Billy looked at me. "The old Indian guy who sold me the loincloth had looked at my hand and had said, kā-wī-nawacihtat."
"What the guy in the First Nation shop. What does it mean?" I replied.
"Yes, him. Neither did I until I asked him. He looked me in the eyes, his eyes looking old but filled with so much wisdom as he said, he will be found by you. At the time, I didn't understand, but as we sit here now, I get it. I actually get it."
"Do you think it's possible, he knew," I asked.
"I think it's possible that the spirits spoke to me through him, if you believe that stuff. Maybe we were guided. Why did I stop here today? Why did you see me? Of all places to meet?"
There was nothing to say as I resumed my comforting cuddle with Billy, the silent enjoyment of the lake, embracing us as if we were just pawns in a greater game.
Throwing the last logs onto the fire, Billy snuggled down into my lap and fell asleep. I remained there, playing with his hair as his breathing eased to a gentle rhythm, as I pondered questions and thought about Brian, Vancouver, Billy and where the shooting star I had just seen would end up.
The blanket settled over Billy's shoulders like snowfall, quiet, inevitable as I made sure he was warm. He murmured something unintelligible against my thigh, his breath warm through the thin fabric of my nightshirt, which I had donned to keep myself warm, covering myself with another blanket from my own backpack.
Above us, the Milky Way sprawled across the alpine sky with an audacity that made my chest ache. I'd seen these same stars from a dozen campsites across Canada, but tonight they felt... arranged. Deliberate. As if some cosmic stagehand had adjusted their positions just for this moment.
"Thank you," I whispered to the darkness, not entirely sure who I was addressing. The old Cree guide who'd taught me to read animal tracks near Jasper? The Park Ranger who'd discreetly slipped me extra firewood when my tent collapsed in a hailstorm? Or something older, wilder, that had been watching from these mountains long before either of us stumbled into its domain.
Billy's fingers twitched against my calf, his nails, still faintly trout-scented, digging lightly into my skin even in sleep. I resisted the urge to stroke his hair again, afraid to wake him. Instead, I watched his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones, counting the star reflections in the lake until my own eyelids grew heavy and I slipped into the best sleep for months.
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