1.
When Ms. Petersen announces she’s assigning partners for the semester project, Martin's stomach drops. He prefers to work alone. He hopes for one of the smart girls, but Ms. Petersen is already reading last names alphabetically. His comes right after Owen's.
Owen. A cheeky-faced kid with glasses like the O of his name, sitting under a mop of dark curls. Martin passes him a thousand times in the halls without really seeing him, mostly because he usually has his nose in a book. He doesn’t think they’ve ever spoken before.
At least it’s not one of the jocks Martin would have to manage or dumb himself down for. He’s vaguely aware that Owen is in track and field. Martin is a distance runner himself, a solitary sport. Owen does something involving throwing heavy metal balls. An odd sport.
The school library is almost empty during study hall when Martin arrives ten minutes early. The extra time gives him an edge in navigating the situation. Owen arrives in a drab oversize hoodie and drops his backpack on the table. Three paperbacks spill out, all Star Trek novels. Martin braces himself for something about warp drives and aliens. Instead, Owen just opens his notebook and gets to work.
Their second and third sessions are the same. When Owen talks, it's about the project. When he doesn't need to talk, he doesn't. There’s something wholesome and uncomplicated about him. Like a glass of milk. For once, Martin doesn't feel the need to hide how easily the work comes to him. Owen doesn't seem to notice, or care.
Martin prefers to move through school unseen, a desire reinforced by the one time he inadvertently stepped into the spotlight. One accidental debate performance earned him unwanted attention he's been managing ever since, blurring the lines between his ability and his desire to go unnoticed.
On the way home, Martin stops at a corner store to buy a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Walking by the magazine racks, he catches himself mid-step at the sight of a face on a cover. It’s a man with black ridges of eyebrows over piercing, ice-blue eyes, with thick dark lashes, a strong jaw, and dense five o'clock shadow.
His masculine beauty puts to shame the boys in school, even the ones Martin fantasizes about—covertly eyeing them for glimpses of hair on their tummies or armpits, or even just the sweaty napes of their necks in gym class.
It’s a men’s fashion magazine. The man’s stare, the contrast of his eyes to his hair, the composition of his face—all of it makes something in Martin ache. He pays for a copy at the counter, afraid he’ll be carded as if it’s pornography. It’s deeply embarrassing to buy it, but he knows if he can't have this image to gaze at, he will surely die.
Martin squirrels the magazine away at home, in the sanctuary of his bedroom. There he jerks off, and afterwards studies the mirror behind his locked door. He has lanky but reasonably shaped limbs. Slim and long-waisted, with downy chest hair trailing downward.
When the project wraps up, Owen asks Martin if he wants to see Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan, and Martin says yes without thinking about it. He doesn't even like Star Trek, but he has nothing else to do but occupy his own time, and he’s gotten comfortable having quiet Owen by his side.
In the dark movie theater, there’s a tremor in his chest when Spock dies, separated from Kirk by a thin pane of glass. And later, at the funeral, when Kirk's voice breaks, something in Martin’s heart catches—a distinct ache in his chest that echoes in his briefd. He sneaks a glance at Owen in the dark theater, watching him put popcorn in his mouth, and wonders if he feels it too.
They start hanging out on weekends, sometimes after school, at Owen’s house. Never Martin’s, with its constant swirl of aunts and uncles and cousins. Owen's family is like something from TV—mom, dad, older sister. They have a wood-paneled rec room with a foosball table, board games clearly much used, and a home gym obviously unused. For Martin, it's both boring and intoxicating.
Owen’s family even has a summer house at the coast where they spend the season. It fits perfectly with the image of game nights and starched laundry. But when Owen leaves in June, Martin feels a dull ache at his side.
He's always been comfortable alone, but now his days stretch impossibly long, even filled with his usual routines—reading, running, watching movies, and jerking off.
He picks up a copy of Dune at the library to discover what Owen sees in it. It's impenetrable at first, but he sticks with it.
In August, with their last school year together approaching, Owen calls Martin to ask if he'd like to spend a long weekend with him at the coast. His parents and sister will be at a family wedding, so the house would be theirs alone. Martin shrugs and says sure.
2.
When Owen comes to pick him up, Martin almost doesn’t recognize him. His curls are gone, shorn for the summer like a lamb, leaving just a scalp-hugging buzzcut. He’s tan too. A sort of tawny color. His whole face seems changed; still full-cheeked, but there's a jaw there. A neck.
It surprises Martin that Owen drove all the way from the coast to get him and is ready to drive all the way back. Martin would offer to drive, but he doesn’t have his license. He doesn’t like to owe anyone anything, but the debt will have to stand.
"No big deal," Owen tells him, already loading Martin's bag in the trunk with an easy strength Martin has never noticed before.
On the way, they talk about what they've read since school let out. "Well, not Star Trek," Martin jokes, and immediately regrets it for being a little too barbed. But Owen laughs.
They drive through a series of tiny towns and stop in one at a little burger place, The Hum-Dinger. Owen says it's his family's usual stop, and has been since he was a little kid. He orders a cheeseburger, and Martin asks for the same and pays for both. They eat in comfortable silence at a picnic table next to the small parking lot. The burger has a crispy char on it Martin had never noticed on fast food before. Salty grease lines their lips.
After lunch, Martin studies Owen as he drives. He’s wearing a t-shirt instead of his usual shapeless hoodie, and Martin realizes he's never actually seen Owen's arms before. They’re summer-golden up to the line of his short sleeves. There are muscles that twitch and flex from time to time as he steers. It makes Martin wonder how much those hoodies concealed.
The summer house is perched on a bluff, with wooden steps descending almost straight down. At the bottom lies a barrier of sun-bleached driftwood, then rounded rocks, sand, crashing waves, and finally the long dark flat of the ocean. Though only hours from home, Martin has never seen it before. It stretches endlessly.
The house itself is perfectly ordinary, with three bedrooms, a living room and dining room, a full kitchen, and even a laundry room. The only unusual aspect is that the whole front consists of tall windows, so wherever you are inside, you can see the ocean.
It's isolated, surrounded by trees for miles with only a few homes dotting the bluff. There's no phone, no TV reception, and only an occasional flicker of a radio signal. The nearest grocery is an hour away. “I had to drive to Forks to call you,” Owen notes.
Other than the constant rolling sound of the ocean in the background, it's the quietest place Martin has ever been.
There’s only one home nearby, and they share the steep path down to the waterfront. Unlike the seasonal residents, the Egans live there year-round.
On their way to the path, they encounter Pam Egan and her three blond children—two girls and the youngest, a boy. She has a soft, pretty-enough quality face—like a receptionist.
The father, Mike Egan, is another matter. Martin first spots him jogging up from the beach in nothing but shorts and sneakers. His broad shoulders taper to narrow hips, the lean definition of his body carving a sharp silhouette against the sky.
As he gets nearer, Martin sees the tight swirls of sun-bleached hair on Mike Egan’s torso, accentuating the hard lines of his build. Sweat traces the grooves between the solid muscles of his chest and abs.
Closer still, his features are sharp and angular: a hawk-like nose, eyes an unexpected pale blue that contrast starkly with his burnished tan. His hair is cut in a military shave, more gray than dark, though he's only in his thirties.
Martin can't help but stare at him, and he knows Mike Egan sees him do it. Mike locks eyes with him, holding the stare a beat too long before turning to shake Owen’s hand. He has a way of jutting his jaw, and when he does, his square, block chin mottles.
When Mike turns to go inside and shower, the play of muscles across his back and the fine white hairs on his shoulders are easily seen. He turns to say if Owen wants to use his garage gym again, he’s welcome to bring his friend. But the way his eyes linger just a fraction too long on Owen, then flick to Martin, leaves Martin feeling less than welcome.
Martin doesn’t understand what passed between them all, but he recognizes a challenge in Mike Egan’s gaze, and something inside him stirs.
3.
Owen asks if he’d like to walk to the river, which is down the beach from the summer house. It’s not as if Martin is in a position to know what to do here, so he says fine.
The walk takes only twenty minutes or so, during which they sometimes chat, but more often don't. At one point Owen has to pee, so he steps aside to relieve himself on the wall of driftwood logs. Martin looks away, at the ocean.
Along the way there are sand dollars, washed-up anemones, seagulls. The tide is far out, leaving a wide stretch of wet sand marked with their footprints. There are a few precarious shelters made of driftwood logs by unseen strangers—lean-tos and windbreaks that will be swallowed by the night’s high tide.
As they approach the mouth of the river, the air grows cooler and a fine mist drifts around them. Owen tells Martin they’ve crossed into Native land, a place mostly off-limits, but says it’ll probably be fine.
The river widens here, spilling into a vast basin—a churning, restless pool where freshwater meets salt. Pelicans wheel overhead in lazy circles, darting down to catch fish too close to the surface.
As Owen watches them, Martin notices how the back of his friend's neck has reddened over the time he's been gone, and how the walk has made him sweaty enough for his thin t-shirt to cling to his back.
Owen’s breath catches. He whispers, “Elk.”
Martin follows his gaze to where three elk have emerged from the tree line, stepping delicately through the marsh grass. They’re so much larger than Martin would have guessed, but before he can process even that, they’re joined by a fourth—an even larger male, with a rack of antlers that seems impossibly wide.
Owen’s eyes lock on the stag, even as Martin glances back and forth between the animals and his friend.
“Are they—” Martin begins, but Owen raises a hand to stop him.
At the sound of his voice, the male turns his crowned head to face them. He snorts, just once—a chill runs down Martin’s spine—and his breath pours out of his nose like smoke.
Then, as slowly as they emerged, they turn back into the forested area, the females followed by the stag.
Neither of them speaks for a long time. The pelicans continue their dives as if nothing extraordinary has happened. But Martin can still feel his heart hammering in his chest, though he’s not sure why.
"It’s almost their rutting season," Owen says in a flat tone, still watching the spot where the elk had been. He turns to Martin to add that it’s when the males are most dangerous, intoxicated with desire and the instinct to protect what’s theirs.
They turn back toward the house, the image of Owen’s quiet intensity watching the elk playing on Martin's thoughts.
After a long silence, Owen says it’s so quiet here, except for the roar of the ocean. So unlike the din of his house, the intrusions, the never-ending arguments.
“Is that how you got so good at debate?”
“Well. Sink or swim I guess,” Martin answers.
It’s a funny comment. Not because Martin isn’t good at debate. He is. But because it hasn’t been part of their companionship to compliment each other.
The truth is, in that first debate, something unexpected surfaced. He spoke not from preparation, but from something deeper. A competitive impulse he didn’t know was there until it was tested. A refusal to yield.
As they near the house, Owen says the tide is coming in. He asks if Martin would like to go mushroom foraging. It’s almost the turn of seasons, and there may be chanterelles. No, Martin thinks, he’d rather read his book, but he says sure, to be a good guest.
They drive to a nearby strip of forest just off a logging road. It seems for the longest time that they’re wandering pointlessly. Martin can’t see anything that looks edible.
But he’s aware of Owen's quiet focus as he stops at intervals, scanning the ground, then moving on again. At one stop he bends down and points out the particular apricot shade of a chanterelle. He cuts it at the base with a special knife, then brushes it free of soil.
Martin studies the mushroom in Owen's hand, the way the afternoon light catches its delicate structure.
He finds another and another—they often show up in batches—cutting and dropping them into his basket, and moves on.
By the time he says they have enough, Owen's t-shirt is dark with sweat. The wet cotton molds to a chest and biceps that have no right belonging to a boy who reads Star Trek novels. Martin sees with certainty what he's been slowly discovering all day: his bookish friend is, secretly, a jock. He thinks back to the home gym in Owen's family rec room and realizes it must be used much more than he guessed.
They drive back to the summer house, the basket of chanterelles between them filling the car with an earthy scent. Mike Egan is sitting on his front deck, looking out over the ocean. Shirtless, still.
"You're sure these won't poison us?" Martin asks later, as Owen sautés the mushrooms.
"Yeah," Owen replies, sprinkling in what he says is thyme, and a chunk of butter. "They're only chanterelles. Nothing else looks too much like them, except false chanterelles."
"False ones?” Martin is not reassured by the idea of an imposter so adept it’s named for its deceit. “How do you know if you have the right ones?"
Owen shrugs. "They look similar, but a little different. There are signs. You just get a sense for it."
These nearly invisible cues seem highly suspect to Martin, and risky. Through the windows, he can see the tide has nearly reached the driftwood. “And what if you're wrong?”
Owen's eyes meet his. He holds Martin's gaze for a long moment. "Sometimes you have to trust your instincts.”
They share a dinner of leftovers Owen’s mother left, topped with the chanterelles. They're about the best thing Martin has ever tasted. They’re so many things—fruity, nutty, earthy—all at once.
After dinner, Owen washes dishes and Martin dries. Their hands brush each other in the passing of the plates. The domesticity of it is strange to Martin. Intimate in a way he hadn't expected.
Outside, the sun sets over the ocean. The tide is almost fully in now, waves crashing and rattling the driftwood logs beneath them.
The house grows darker. Owen asks, “Should we turn in?”
4.
"Let's take my parents' room," Owen says, leading the way upstairs. "It has the biggest bed, and you can hear the waves on the driftwood."
His voice is matter-of-fact, like everything else he's shared today—the burger place, the elk, the chanterelles.
Martin follows, feeling a flutter of uncertainty.
Like the living room, the master bedroom has a wall of windows. Moonlight pours in, turning the white sheets silver. It should feel strange, sleeping in here, but Owen's quiet certainty makes everything seem as natural as the tide coming in.
Owen drops his shorts. He’s wearing white boxers that cut across his hips. He casually pulls off his t-shirt. His torso is all supple muscle—the swell of his chest, soft ridges along his arms and shoulders. The sharp contrast between his tanned arms and the paler skin beneath catches Martin’s breath. When Owen turns away, his back arches softly, leading to the inviting curve of his rear, bathed in the silvery light.
Oh God. He’s beautiful.
Martin strips down to his white cotton briefs. He’s taken his clothes off with other boys in the locker room at school, but this is different. He slides into the sheets and picks up his book to focus on Dune. He reads the same paragraph three times but can’t retain a word.
Owen flops down beside him. When Martin glances over, his eyes catch the subtle definition of Owen’s abs and the dark curls trailing into his boxers. His shoulders are solid, his chest rising and falling, nipples pale pink—their softness a striking contrast to the firm muscle beneath.
As Owen settles, his muscles shift beneath impossibly smooth skin—not pale, but creamy, with a faint blush, blue veins barely visible under the taut surface. The contrast with his sun-kissed face and limbs makes him luminous. He props his weathered copy of Lord of the Rings on his chest.
Martin tries to read but he’s restless. Being so near Owen in his underwear makes Martin hard, and he wonders how he'll get through the weekend.
“I’m going to read,” Martin says, as if to rein in his own impulses.
“Okay.” Owen nods.
"Isn't your neighbor kind of weird?" Martin asks a moment later, the words hanging between the pages of his book.
Owen doesn't look up. "How so?"
"The way he's always shirtless. How he seems to watch everything."
A slight pause. Owen turns a page. "It must be strange. Living here year-round."
The silence stretches. Martin can hear the ocean outside, a constant background murmur.
"I used to think about him," Owen says finally. Not a confession. Just a statement. "About how isolated someone could get. How desperate."
Martin's fingers grip his book's edge. "Desperate how?"
"Like maybe if Pam had had enough and didn’t want more kids. And he might look for... other opportunities." Owen's voice is neutral. "Even ones he wouldn't normally want."
Martin's throat feels dry. "What kind of opportunities?"
"The kind a boy might provide. If he was willing.”
The air in the room shifts. The space between them feels weighted.
"I used to write stories," Martin responds. It’s the biggest secret of his life. "About men. About boys at school."
Owen watches him with that inscrutable face, but his eyes are alert.
"I'd write them in notebooks. And then destroy them." Martin's voice is soft, almost lost beneath the sound of waves and driftwood. "After."
"After what?"
Martin feels heat rise to his cheeks. "After I'd... finish."
A wave crashes. Driftwood clicks.
“I guess I’ll read,” Martin announces a second time, leaning back against his pillow, taking his book in hand.
Images of Mike Egan on Owen creep into his head, the older man’s chiseled muscles grinding against Owen’s, the rough hair of his torso scraping against smooth skin. It’s thrilling, but it strums at something else deep in his core he can’t name.
"Night," Owen says. He leans in and kisses Martin, quickly and softly, on his exposed shoulder.
The faint, soft warmth of Owen's lips lingers on Martin's skin. But almost immediately, the image of Mike Egan intrudes—mounting Owen, pulling his legs over the broad, muscled shoulders, his thick cock ramming deep. In rut. Owen’s lips part, soft gasps ripped out, Mike Egan’s hungry mouth clamps onto one perfect pink nipple—sucking hard, claiming it.
Martin shifts. Resolute. He turns to Owen. He kisses him on the lips. And then again, lips slightly parted. There’s the heat of Owen's breath and a wet flicker. Their mouths open, tongues meeting without hesitation.
Martin wriggles closer to Owen and then on him. Owen’s body is solid in ways Martin had never imagined. His fingers trace Owen's sides, the curve of his ribs, down the waistband of his boxers, and then into them.
Owen's hands move too, sliding down to the thin cotton of Martin's briefs, finding his cock. His fingers slip in beneath the waistband, cool around Martin’s erection. Martin makes a sound—half gasp, half moan—that gets swallowed by their kiss.
When Owen withdraws his hand it’s to slide out of his boxers, and Martin does the same with his briefs. Their bodies press together, hard with urgency. Martin feels the entire length of Owen’s cock against his own, hot and smooth, smearing precum, grinding together.
Martin pulls Owen's arm up over his head, exposing the pale hollow of his armpit. The hair there is soft and dark. He presses his face against it, breathes in Owen’s scent—sweat and salt and something underneath that is purely Owen.
His cock surges at the sensation. He’s overwhelmed by the things he wants to do, but so unsure of what’s permissible, unsure how to read the signs. But Owen's hands are everywhere now, clutching at Martin's lean arms, drawing him close by his hips.
For a moment, Mike Egan surfaces again in Martin's thoughts, but fades just as quickly. What a fool he was to not see what was right in front of him all along.
Martin rises up to straddle Owen’s waist, claiming the space, feeling the thick rock-hard cock beneath him. He strokes himself and feels Owen’s arm slide under his leg to do the same, his hips thrusting to match the rhythm of their hands.
The sight of his friend's boyish face against his athletic body makes Martin’s cock throb. There are things he wants to do, but it shames him for his desire to be so exposed. Martin reaches for Owen’s glasses, but Owen stops him.
“I want to see you,” Owen says, his eyes fixed on Martin’s face.
The unexpected assertiveness makes Martin’s cock swell. He lets his hands graze Owen's chest, what he's longed to touch most. The firm swell of muscle, the tenderness of the pink nipples—another revelation—makes him dizzy with wanting. When he grasps at a mound of muscle, Owen grins up at him so openly that Martin loses control.
"Oh fuck," Martin moans. His cock stiffens and pumps jets of hot cum that splatter on Owen's chest and belly, the white liquid stark against Owen's tan skin. Overcome, Martin drags his cock through the mess, smearing it across Owen’s perfect chest.
Owen's hand moves faster, his breath growing ragged to match the pace. He groans as he shoots his load against Martin's ass; the heat and Owen’s gasps make Martin shiver, wanting even more.
"Oh my God," Martin whispers, sliding back to drop onto Owen, kissing him again, fingers on his shorn scalp, their cum smearing between them.
They finally wipe themselves off on discarded t-shirts and underwear, and pull the blanket over their naked bodies, their books still where they dropped them.
"I like how you read," Owen says to Martin, grinning.
They share a murmur of laughter and kiss again.
Martin turns onto his side to sleep, and Owen pulls up behind him, wrapped around him, kissing the back of his neck.
Martin realizes suddenly that what he'd taken for aimless wandering had been a careful mapping of Owen's world—sharing the things he cared about. The Hum-Dinger with its perfect char, the river, the foraging for treasures there for those who knew where to look.
Even years later, chanterelles will still be precious to him.
END
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