Archive of Our Own

1

It’s fucking hot out. That’s the only thing running through Dylan’s head as he falls victim to the summer heat. The sun is clearly out to get him, he decides. It sits directly above the grass field they’ve set up for the afternoon, almost mocking them, telling them what a bunch of stupid idiots they are for signing up to be camp counselors during the hottest summer in history. Maybe that was an exaggeration, but Dylan was upset and sweating like crazy. He had every right to be dramatic.

Kaitlyn and Jacob are standing next to him (paying no attention to the fact that they’re all being steamed like lobsters) talking to the kids with happy-go-lucky grins and bright, excited voices. He was never good at sports— never had been, never will be— so when he realized that the field activity for today was going to be games like Capture the Flag and definitely-most-likely dodgeball, he accepted his fate of ending the day as a dead man. But he bares a smile and fights through it. Like any other good camp counselor would. Because he’s the best, obviously.

Stay within the field boundaries, if you get tagged go to jail, if you’re lucky then a friend from your team can free you, and ultimately, try to steal the other team’s flag. His friends droned on, explaining the rules and guidelines of the game. The words melt together along with his brain and he wipes away sweat that’s built up on his forehead, already feeling another wave of it forming. He hopes that he had put enough sunscreen on, silently wishing that he’d brought a hat. Dylan squints his eyes, looking off into the field. Ryan and Nick are setting up brightly colored mini-cones to mark off the team lines and jail boxes. They both look miserably hot. In a sweaty way. Definitely just in a sweaty way.

In no way does Ryan look good with his t-shirt sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, showing off the slight muscle he’s gained from all that boat rowing he does. And in no way does Nick look good in that stupid sleeveless shirt that always hitches up when he raises his arms and shows off his stupid six pack abs. And his hair looks absolutely stupid being held back by a headband and Dylan never ever has thought about running his fingers through his dark curls. Never. Especially not now when he’s probably soaked in sweat.

He blinks, mentally shaking himself out of it and trying to focus on the crowd of kids staring up at them, showered in sunlight and sweat. Hands start going up and Kaitlyn starts answering questions like Can we tag two people at once? and Um, so, like, when we tag people do they go to our jail or their jail? Dylan finds himself tuning out again. He’s starting to get antsy, starts looking around and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He draws his attention behind him, where Emma and Abi are setting up a canopy tent just a few feet away as a rest area. Dylan’s eyes make a beeline for the watermelons sat on the ground, almost begging to be cut open. Field games first, delicious cooling treats after.

Once Ryan and Nick come back from setting up the boundaries, everyone begins to get sorted into two teams completed with red and blue jerseys. This time the counselors had the great pleasure of being a part of the game this time instead of merely watching and leading. At least he did. Dylan takes a blue shirt from Kaitlyn with a straight face, almost grimacing; all she does is laugh and stick her tongue out at him before handing the camper behind him a red one. Of course, she was one of the lucky two to referee the game. (“Because someone has to, Dylan.”) Her and Emma. What a duo.

Through the chatter of kids and the low buzz in his head telling him that this situation was already too much, an arm is suddenly thrown around his shoulders. Dylan startles violently, turning his head to face his violator— his best friend. Nick laughs at him, a sickeningly sweet chuckle that makes Dylan forget that he was almost mad at him. Damn his Australian charm. He leads him off to the right side of the field where the blue team was gathering with a stupid grin stretched across his face.

“Sorry for the scare.” He apologizes sheepishly.

“Yeah, you should be.” Dylan replies, rolling his eyes. “Nearly had a damn heart attack.” He thinks. “Although, maybe a heart attack would’ve been better than playing this stupid game in this stupid heat.”

“C’mon, Dyl.” Nick gestured to the blue shirt in his hand. “It won’t be that stupid.”

“Easy for you to say.” Dylan unwraps Nick’s arm from himself. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the physical contact— he does, especially coming from Nick— but the sweltering heat from the sun was enough for him to worry about. Combining high temperatures, cute boys directly in his personal bubble, and kids with way too much energy equals dead Dylan.

“You’re all… Fit… And sporty.” He continues to complain as they both throw on the blue jerseys. The camp has had them for years and it shows: the wear and tear, the faint mysterious stains across some of them, the absolutely disgusting smell of sweat and attic dust. Oh joyous he.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Nick reassures, looking around at the crowd of campers spread around the field. “They’ll do most of the work anyways, right?”

The blue team is scattered across the field, covering defenses and gearing up to sprint to the opposing side with determination in their eyes. They talk excitedly to one another, with wide, open gestures as they already begin to celebrate their unwon victory.

Dylan looks across the team line, seeing Jacob clad in a red shirt hyping up the kids on his side. He chants something and the kids cheer; it’s incomprehensible but the campers seem to love the energy. Dylan sees Abi, small and timid compared to the reeking levels of testosterone and toxic masculinity radiating from Jacob. She’s talking to a smaller group of kids, pointing across the field with a friendly smile and encouraging pats on the back.

Then Kaitlyn blows the whistle and the rush of kids screaming and running is all he can focus on.

Winning. Sure. Yeah. Easy. Anything so Jacob doesn’t do his ridiculous victory dance.

Dylan nods, bouncing on the balls of his feet, beginning to hype himself up. Capture the Flag. Easy.

The idea of tactic and strategy is something beyond the minds of kids. The three counselors watch as both teams swarm at each other, mixing past the middle line and weaving their way into each other’s territories. From across the field, Jacob is already chasing one of the kids from the blue team, leading them away from the red flag and back over into safety. Abi stands guard with a few other campers, playing defense, bright red hair swaying side to side as she watches chaos unfold.

Him and Nick stand in the middle of their side of the field, letting kids rush and sprint past them. He had seen Ryan join the group of kids behind them, helping guard the flag. There’s shouts of Tag! I tagged you! and Nuh uh, I didn’t feel it! Most arguments end in either Emma or Kaitlyn settling the score over the megaphones, an echoed Logan, go to jail! or She was over the line, that’s safe!

They both play outer defense, letting the kids run around and have their fun. The back and forth chit-chat makes Dylan forget that he had been complaining at all. There was something about talking to Nick that washed his bad mood away. He decides not to think about it too hard and his overheating frown cracks into a smile. Watching the campers sprint after one another, screaming and giggling was actually fun.

What was even more fun was seeing Jacob trying to sneak over the line inconspicuously and getting bombarded with several kids yelling TAG! while dragging him over to jail. Okay, so maybe he was starting to have a good time. Maybe he should put himself out there, a simple dash and sprint to win the blue team’s victory. Dylan grins over at Nick who’s making fun of Jacob for getting tagged, nodding his head towards the other side of the field.

He fakes a sprint across the line, making several kids jump forward only for him to twist around and run towards the other side of them. His journey is quick as he’s faced with more kids than he remembers there being and he nearly trips over himself turning around and heading straight back for safety. So maybe he lied about the whole simple victory thing.

Dylan contemplates his choices, his eyes scanning from the red team’s flag and its defenders to the kids piled up in the marked off jail area. He can hear them yelling from across the field: encouragement, the calling out of their teammates’ names (including his own) along with random screeches and squawks. There’s enough of the blue team still in the game for them to try and make and run for it to save some of the tagged players. If they planned it right then the distraction would make them able to run for the flag.

He rounds up some of the kids around him, guiding them on the new plan. Dylan looks over at Nick who’s creating his own mini army of kids— he’s hoping that they have the same idea. Usually they do. It’s a weird system they’ve created: the two of them miraculously being able to read each other’s minds, agreeing together on almost everything, being almost in sync. Maybe it’s one of the perks of hanging out with someone too much. Who could blame him? Nick was ridiculously fun to be with.

Nick looks over and they share a look. It’s a quick flash of the eyes flickering to the other team, vague hand movements and two nods. They’ve got it in the bag. Easy win, then goodbye Cocky Arrogant Jacob and hello fresh watermelon slices. Nick discreetly counts with his hands at his sides.

One. A few kids from the red team try to dash across the border, getting tagged in the process.

Two. Dylan counts back. A few of their own who weren’t aware of the plan manage to bolt to the other side, narrowly missing tags from the sparse defensive left on the red team and safely return with jailed members.

Three. Nick finishes, and both of their groups charge into enemy territory with the ear piercing screeches of prepubescent teenagers.

As Dylan starts running, he watches as several kids from the other team take this opportunity to ambush their side and play a game of cat and mouse with the rest of the blue defense. He can hear Jacob cry out in victory as he’s been saved from their prison and takes a moment to crane his head around to see him and another kid run back from the jail to their side of the field. It was a passing glance, he swears, a quick three two one, you’re done, but when he turns back around he’s completely knocked off his feet and tackled to the ground.

It’s a blur of motion that Dylan doesn’t even register until his head hits the grass and the weight of someone comes crashing down on top of him. He wheezes out a breath, trying to regain his senses and opens his eyes to only be met with Nick’s face dangerously close to his. He can feel the puffs of hot air panting out of Nick’s mouth. Maybe they hadn’t had the same idea after all.

Dylan opens his mouth in an attempt to say anything, but then it registers in his brain that Nick is literally on top of him and his brain short-circuits. All witty, snarky, jokester responses completely evaporate from him and he’s stuck, stupidly gaping at his friend. His mouth goes dry. He can feel the blood rush to his ears, his cheeks flush with warmth and he knows that this time the sun isn’t to blame.

Nick is disgustingly hot: his skin gleams from the amount of sweat is dripping from his forehead; the headband that had been keeping his hair back neatly had been knocked off, letting gross, and not cute at all, damp curls hang and stick to his forehead; his eyes wide in shock, a deep dark brown that was definitely not attractive at all as they pooled with concern and apologies; his lips are alarmingly close, they’re chapped, he notices. He’s definitely staring. Dylan’s attention flickers from Nick’s eyes to his lips, and Nick has the audacity to smile at him. A tiny smirk gracing his lips and a curious look in the crinkle of his eyes.

What felt like hours of tension built up in a single moment was more realistically a couple of seconds, maybe even a minute.

Dylan crashes to the ground and Nick’s response is immediate.

“Oh my gosh,” Nick’s eyes go wide, mortified while trying to catch his breath and propping himself up while effectively caging Dylan in between his arms. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry,” His tongue peeks out, swiping his chapped lips. Dylan shamelessly follows the movement and then there’s that stupid quick turn of the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah.” Dylan manages. His voice cracks and he coughs. “Yeah, I just wasn’t looking where I was going, I guess.” He stutters, mentally kicking himself.

“You sure?” Nick asks. The eye contact is suffocating and full of questions exceeding You sure? Dylan doesn’t miss the way they flicker down, up, down, up. It’s his turn to smile back.

“I mean, maybe I’d be a little better once you get off me.”

Nick’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “Right!” He scrambles to sit up, his knees stained with dirt. Nick holds out a hand that Dylan graciously takes, hoisting him up. Dylan feels the same rush of nerves run through his veins when Nick holds his hand for just a second too long, when Dylan doesn’t pull away immediately, when their fingers brush awkwardly as they both find their grounding again.

Dylan brushes the dirt from his clothes, his head spinning. What if he had a stupid head injury from being knocked to the ground? What if he had a concussion? What if he was rendered useless for the rest of camp? What if—

“Doing better?” Nick asks again. Dylan loses his train of thought as soon as he hears Nick’s voice. He meets his eyes and holds a stare for a moment, the words in his head turning into fog.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

What if he had a stupid crush on his stupid hot best friend.

Dylan doesn’t get a chance to register the fleeting thought; a camper is running towards them both, leaving the game behind with erratic concern flared across her face.

“Are you guys okay? That looked like it hurt!” She exclaimed. “I was over there guarding the flag, and then I saw all of you running, and then I saw you two BANG! COLLIDE!” She claps her hands together while making a sound effect with her mouth. “It looked like you hit your heads, did you hit your heads? Maybe you should see Nurse Kaitlyn, she—”

“Sarah.” Dylan cuts in, stopping her mid word vomit and holds a hand out to calm her down. “We’re fine.” he says with a hopefully convincing smile. To be completely honest, Dylan has forgotten all about the game of Capture The Flag as he was caught up in his own gay crisis. Crisis averted, apparently.

“We’re okay, thank you for checking up on us.” Nick smiles, and Dylan feels a weird twist in his stomach seeing Nick being so gentle with the kids. It looks like a real genuine smile. Like he carries the love and admiration they have for him right back and then some. “I’m sure we’ll be good to keep going, no need to bother Kaitlyn.”

“Okay, good.” Sarah nods firmly. Dylan expects her to run in the other direction, continuing the game as is but she lurks over them, teetering back and forth on her feet. He almost asks her if she needs anything when her hand darts out to shove at his shoulder then immediately slapping Nick’s back.

“TAG!” She cheers with a devilish grin before running off.

2

Approximately a week goes by (not that Dylan was counting, because he definitely wasn't) without anything weird happening. Weird is a broad term when you work at a summer camp, though. Seeing kids mix their off-brand Lucky Charms with orange juice was weird. The amount of times the kids would repeat the words imposter and sus was weird. Dylan not being able to stop thinking about Nick was weird.

They both moved on after the incident, like nothing had even happened in the first place. Their team won and everyone celebrated with fresh cut watermelon. And if Dylan found himself staring at Nick’s fingers wet with water, juice dripping down his chin as he bit into the fruit, grinning at the kids who blabbered excitedly about the game; then that was his own business.

Nick was his best friend. His best work friend. They got along well; clicked together instantly when they met and have been nearly inseparable since. He was closest with Nick, finding comfort in his company when the great outdoors and chatter-box children filled his head with static. He was a grounding force, a constant reassurance of you’re okay. It was a boomerang effort, Nick being there for him, him being there for Nick.

The lost look Nick gets in his eyes sometimes, glazing over with whatever fog overtakes him. The reach for his sense of self buried underneath the different faces he plays, the search for a familiar feeling— for Dylan. The calming breath of relief and blinking back to reality when he smiles at Nick. The confession of I feel more like myself when I’m with you under the stars.

So sure, what they had was odd. It was confusing and vague and sometimes Dylan didn’t even understand, but all he knows is it’s comforting. To have someone be there for him, to be there for someone else. To have such a strange, close connection with someone he had just met at the beginning of the summer. To come to terms that he might have the biggest, dumbest crush on Nick and realizing it after being pinned down to the ground during a game of Capture the Flag.

It was summer camp, Dylan has to remind himself whenever his stomach flutters with nerves around Nick. Summer romances were a cliche that even he didn’t want to partake in— they always ended in the ditch, dead and buried anyway. He saw no point in taking the risk when the outcome is already crystal clear.

Although right now, Dylan is about five inches away from screwing that mindset and kissing Nick right here and now.

It’s no surprise that Dylan usually finds himself sauntering into the camp’s kitchen, scouring for leftover scraps or hidden snacks; what is a surprise though, is him in the kitchen with a bowl of buttercream frosting in his arms, helping Nick make cupcakes for tonight’s dessert. Dylan is no cook in any way shape or form. Most nights at home consisted of instant ramen or a cup of mac and cheese in tiny Mickey Mouse shapes. So he doesn’t know why Nick thought he’d be the perfect addition to the kitchen, but it’s not like he could say no to him.

Not when he smiles all sweet and innocent, his eyes sparkling with the word Please? Not when Nick looks so stupid cute in that cooking apron that he wears, covered in flour and cocoa powder (Dylan is weaker than he thought). It’s because Nick is his friend, he tells himself. He likes helping out his friends. Because that’s all that they are. Friends.

“I kinda thought that the desserts you made all the time came from box mix.” Dylan admits guiltily as Nick tidies the counter; stacking empty bowls, washing his hands, wiping down the counter, washing his hands, handing Dylan a bowl of frosting that’s beginning to slowly come together. Nick laughs, turning around and handing him a clean whisk.

“Should I be offended or honored?”

“I guess that depends on whether or not you fancy Betty Crocker or not.” Dylan starts mixing the frosting on Nick’s cue, fighting the urge to stick his finger in it and taste it.

“I’d like to think I’m much better than Betty Crocker.” Nick quickly winks at him before turning around and setting out two cupcake pans. Dylan almost misses it, too occupied on whisking to perfection but nearly seeing it out of the corner of his eye as he goes to look at Nick again. He feels his face blossom with heat, turning around and working on the counter space. Just in case he drops the bowl of course. Not because he’s trying to hide his upcoming flush from his friend.

But then Nick sets up right next to him, pans, liners, batter and all. Their arms brush once and his skin feels hot to the touch. Dylan’s eyes flicker between Nick prepping the cupcake tray and his own bowl of frosting. The liners are a woodsy green color, matching the whole summer camp vibe.

“What, uh, flavor is it?” Dylan asks, his throat strangely dry. Nick perks up at Dylan’s voice, grabbing the bowl of batter and presenting it to him. It’s a deep, dark brown with chocolate chunks stirred in.

“Give it a guess.” His friend teases, swiping a clean finger through the mix and holding it right up to Dylan’s face.

There’s an expectant look drawn across Nick’s face, along with a playful smirk. Dylan’s brain might as well be fried if not short-circuited. His eyes are fixated on Nick’s finger covered in cupcake batter, his head racing with the implications of the simple action. Intrusive thoughts are buried under common sense, because it would be stupid of him to lean forward take his friend’s finger into his mouth. They were close, but not that close.

Dylan gapes at him for a moment before swatting Nick’s hand out of his face, earning an overdramatic pout. He reaches over, pulling his own finger through the batter and tasting it himself. Nick puts the bowl down, watching for Dylan’s opinion. It’s chocolate cake, Dylan is expecting it to be good— but in no way was he expecting it to be that good. Not from Chris Hackett’s own supply of ingredients that were far from bakery quality.

“Did you put fucking crack into this?” Dylan asks, finger licked clean and shining with spit. Nick smiles, eyes darting from Dylan’s mouth to his eyes before sticking his own chocolate covered finger into his mouth.

“Did you want me to?” Dylan tries not to look at the way Nick’s lips wrap around his finger, his teeth just slightly nibbling on his nail, tongue swirling away the batter; but he’s always been a weak man. He spins around, shoving his hands under the sink, burning himself clean with soap and water. He can feel Nick’s eyes on him.

“I don’t think Chris would approve of that very much.” Dylan dries his hands, vowing himself not to look at Nick again. His eyes are up there, Dylan.

“But it’s good, right?” Nick joins him by the sink, scrubbing at his hands.

“Uh, yeah.” Dylan keeps his eyes pinned on the walls, on the various kitchen supplies, the left out bag of flour. “Where’d you learn how to bake like that?”

Nick returns to the batter, starting to fill up a tray. “My mum.”

“Mum.” Dylan instantly mocks, causing Nick to whip his head back to glare at Dylan.

“My mom.” He says back in an ear-grating American accent; they both share a laugh. “Yeah, my mum. We baked a lot when I was younger… And I guess it just stuck with me.”

“Well,” Dylan leans back on the counter behind him, watching as Nick carefully and precisely scoops batter into the pan, “I’ll make sure to give your mom a thorough thank you.”

“Ha ha.” Nick rolls his eyes, pushing the completed pan to the side and turning around. “Wanna come and do this other tray?”

“You sure you trust me with that?”

“I have faith that you won’t screw up spooning batter into a cupcake pan.”

Dylan steps forward, taking the small scooper out of Nick’s hand and standing next to him. “You’d be surprised at my ability at screwing up the simplest tasks.” He dips the spoon into the batter, tapping out its remains into a cupcake liner.

“Need me to hold your hand?” Dylan’s heart skips a beat, the spoon almost slipping out of his fingers. He squeezes it, knuckles going white as his brain fills with cotton.

“I’ll manage.” His voice is tight and he starts speeding up. He tries thinking about anything other than Nick; the cupcakes, the campers, the freedom he’ll have once he’s not in the kitchen suffocating in tension.

Nick is standing close to him, watching over his shoulder as he fills up the cupcake pan one by one. The heat of his body radiating into his side, their arms brushing every time Dylan moves to scoop up more batter. He thinks about saying something along the lines of personal space, but he finds himself enjoying the closeness.

It’s comforting: the close contact and silent concentration that’s blanketed over them. During the free-time before dinner, Dylan would usually be out with the kids, following them through the woods as they collected rocks and sticks, chasing bugs and birds, listening to them tell stories of their lives back at home. Or maybe get some well deserved alone time in his cabin, in the radio shack, a good hour to himself without kids and the sticky summer sweat. But maybe hanging out with Nick would be his new usual. He glances to the side, catching Nick’s eye and earning an encouraging smile.

He’d like it to be.

Nick maneuvers around him and for once, Dylan doesn’t follow his movement, continuing to focus on evenly dividing the rest of the batter into the pan. He hears the sink go off, and his first assumption is that he’s washing his hands; something that he’s noticed Nick does frequently, whenever he can. Then comes the clinks and clangs of dirty dishes, then comes soft humming. Dylan doesn’t recognize the tune, but strains to hear every note over the running water.

It feels oddly domestic— a thought that Dylan scraps immediately. Two friends multitasking is nothing, a friend helping out a friend is nothing. It’s friendly; the two of them working together. The smile Nick gives him after he’s finished using up all the batter is friendly. The way their hands brush against each other as Dylan hands Nick the filled pans to put in the oven means nothing. The high-five that lingers in the air for just a second too long is questionable. But Dylan ignores it.

“So how’d I do?” Dylan asks once the cupcakes are in the oven and a timer is set. Nick looks at him thoughtfully, humming in thought as he taps his foot against the tile. Bowls and utensils are set out to dry beside the sink, the smell of baking chocolate is slowly starting to seep into the air, and surprisingly there’s bags of ingredients lined up on the counter despite everything else being put away.

“You did alright.” Nick shrugs, crossing his arms. He’s still wearing his apron, Dylan notices, but he’s more distracted by his average grading for the amazing work he did.

“You mean I did great.” Dylan mimics Nick’s crossed arms, raising his brows.

“I mean, sure. You did great.” Nick says unconvincingly. “But the thing about baking is…” He trails off, stretching his words out as he scans the kitchen, slowing walking over to the counter littered with various bags. “No baking session is complete…” He reaches his hand into the flour, and dread fills Dylan’s stomach.

“Stop.”

“No baking session is complete,” Nick repeats, turning around with a fistful of flour. “Without a flour fight!” He exclaims, throwing it across the kitchen as it explodes against Dylan’s chest in a puff.

Dylan freezes, looking down, up, down from his shirt to Nick’s wide spread grin. “You…” He side-eyes the flour. “Are so dead!”

It’s a quick motion between the two of them as Dylan launches himself towards the flour, shoving his hand into the bag while Nick takes cover from across the room, crouched behind a counter— just a second too late. Flour hits him in the face, falling down his neck and clouding up into his hair. Dylan laughs, a full, loud, head-tilted back laugh that fills the room. Nick can’t help but grin, his eyes bright as he stares at Dylan covered in flour.

The bag of flour eventually moves to the middle of the kitchen, knocked down and spilt over the recently cleaned counter. Flour is everywhere imaginable; the countertops, where finger and hand prints streaked through the dust; the floor, where there were distinct footprints trailing the tile as they chased each other around. Exclamations of These were my favorite jeans! and Dude! My hair! along with their laughter dancing together filled the kitchen. It might’ve been the most fun Dylan’s had all camp.

“What happened to you liking to have a clean and tidy workspace?” Dylan teased from behind a counter, peeking his head out— once, twice— before standing up and throwing a dusting of flour at Nick who had been hiding on the other end. Nick sputters, shaking his head, flour falling from his curls. Dylan almost felt bad but, honestly, he deserved it. Nick started to gather flour from the counter into his hand, hiding it behind his back and sauntering towards Dylan with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I do.” He says, and Dylan can feel what’s about to happen next, but his feet stay glued to the floor, staring at Nick. There’s flour everywhere: spread across his face, his hair, his clothes. His hand goes flying up to throw flour into Dylan’s face, his fingers sprawling against his neck and jaw.

“But I like messing with you more.”

Nick’s hand stays there, warm against Dylan’s skin, cupping his jaw. Dylan doesn’t get time to react to the flour explosion that hits his face, because the red-hot burn of Nick’s fingers is the only thing he can focus on. He swallows, his mouth dry and lips dusted with flour. They’re oddly close again, the temptation to close the distance is overwhelming.

Dylan follows the spray of flour down Nick’s face to his lips, watching as he darts his tongue out, wiping away the flour. He looks back up into his eyes, dark and lidded as he stares back at Dylan. His hand suffocates him, locking him in place, open and vulnerable. Nick’s thumb traces against Dylan’s jawline and a shiver goes down his spine.

His heart races and he’s almost ninety percent sure Nick can hear it too.

“Uh— ” Nick’s voice shakes nervously, stuck at the back of his throat.

There’s the loud creaking of the kitchen door swinging open and the two of them jump in surprise, quickly tearing away from each other to the opposite sides of the room. Looking at their intruder, their faces simultaneously go red with embarrassment and pale with oh my fucking god.

“Dylan.” The voice is clearly trying to say steady. “Nick.” The man nods at both of the boys.

“Hi, Mr. Hackett.” Nick greets awkwardly, not looking the camp leader straight in the eye. Dylan clears his throat, waving a short hello.

Chris chews his lip, assessing the situation and scanning the complete mess of the kitchen, connecting the dots with two flour covered counselors. He takes a short breath, wiping a hand across his face.

“Clean this up before dinner.” Is all he says, the look in his eyes far from stern and more leaning towards disappointment.

“Yes, sir.”

3

Dylan has been stranded in the middle of the woods with the burden of taking care of a wildly feral group of kids for approximately three weeks. Maybe more, maybe less— the days start to blur once a routine begins. In those three weeks, he’s endured the hands-on wilderness experience and learned that kids are strange enigmas with tricks (absolutely no treats) hidden under their sleeves.

Art class with Abi proved that kids are menaces when it comes to craft time. Especially when they’re given glue. Dylan had spent a great amount of time picking dry macaroni off of several surfaces where dry macaroni shouldn’t be. Boating with Ryan somehow ended with Dylan kayaking with the one kid who was miraculously good at catching frogs. Of course, he hadn’t known that until halfway through their journey to the island when something suddenly lunged towards his face— slimy and croaking out a loud noise.

But not all hope was lost for Dylan, for soon he’d be counting the days, hours, minutes until his birthday. And what better way would he want to spend it if not at Hackett’s Quarry Summer Camp in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. He loves his birthday, really he does. When he used to be a camper, there used to be a whole celebration with a special campfire rendition of Happy Birthday, s’mores, and even a freebie from the camp store. Having a summer birthday at Hackett’s Quarry truly felt like hitting the jackpot at ten years old.

It was Nick’s birthday the first week of July. The detail had slipped on orientation day among the chaos of playing the name game and standard Get-To-Know questions. It was an opportunity Dylan wasn’t going to miss: messing around with Nick while simultaneously getting the kids to laugh and play along. He had started the morning announcing loud and proud that it was Nick’s birthday, causing commotion to unravel at camp with storms of off-key Happy Birthday to you!’s. It was worth it for how many times Nick stared playful daggers in his direction, pretending to be mad. It was also worth it throwing his arm around him and singing loudly into his ear at any given moment.

(The s’mores were good too, he guesses)

Dylan doesn’t know where he and Nick stand now. If there was one thing Dylan wasn’t good at it would be talking about his feelings directly. He would much rather keep playing the close call game than have to admit that he caught feelings when he specifically told himself not to. It’s more fun that way, anyways. The passing glances, the charming smiles, the closing distance between them every now and then. That day on the field was one thing, but the phantom feeling of Nick’s hand against his cheek left his skin burning.

Neither of them said a single thing after the incident, just like the first time. Chris Hackett of all people had to be the one to interrupt them— it was mortifying to think back on. They cleaned the kitchen in silence, wet rags swiping across countertops and mops sweeping back and forth beneath them, cupcakes baking in the oven. Dylan left with an awkward wave, leaving Nick to his own devices while he went back to his cabin: to change and to sit on the creaky bed thinking about how deep in it he was.

So sure, maybe he did have a crush on Nick. And through the not-so-subtle stares and lingering touches, maybe Nick even liked him back.

Summer fling, Dylan repeats to himself over and over again; like a mantra to keep his head on straight. Starting something in the summer was never a good idea. Especially before everyone fucked off to college again. The idea of long distance lingers for a second before dissipating.

Dylan enters the radio hut for the morning and takes a deep breath. Clear thoughts, clear minds. He erases any image of Nick away and sits at the station. Kaitlyn’s left a schedule for the day, left on the desk, written in clear, neat letters. Dylan skims it, tapping his foot against the floor as he jots down a note or two of his own as he prepares the morning announcement. He talks under his breath, rephrasing and practicing until he gets it right.

“Good morning, Hacketteers!” Dylan sing-songs cheerfully into the old microphone, hearing the feedback of himself rattle through the woods. “Today is July 19th, a beautiful, sunny, Monday— a perfect way to start the week if you ask me…” The rest of his speech comes naturally, his wits and charm shining through the camp speakers as he announces the plans for the day (including but not limited to: boat racing, cooking with Chris, and a campfire).

Dylan’s focus is on his announcement , making sure everything’s working, reading the camp activity list, speaking loud, clear, and slowly. The last thing he expects is for the hut door to swing open suddenly and hit the wall with a loud bang and squeak of the hinges. It scares him. It scares him enough that he jumps in his seat and yelps right into the microphone, sending a shrill screech of feedback across the camp.

He doesn’t process it at first, he’s too preoccupied trying to catch his breath and still his heart, but Nick is barreling towards him, placing something on the desk and planting his hands on either side of the mic.

“Hello!” Nick greets, panting slightly. “Good morning, everyone. Hope everyone’s having a delightful start to their day, I just had a very important announcement to make.” He looks over his shoulder at Dylan, who’s now standing off to the side with a look of What the hell are you doing? Nick only bares a smile at him before speaking into the microphone again. “It is our dearly beloved friend Dylan’s birthday!”

Dylan’s eyes widen instantly, rushing over to push Nick away but his friend reaches his hand out to defend himself. “And I just wanted to wish him the happiest birthday and remind everyone to show him the same courtesy.”

“You’re the worst.” Dylan says, giving up the fight and shaking his head. Nick only smiles wider.

“Dylan seems a bit upset that I’ve ruined his announcement.” Nick says, and Dylan can hear the devilish plot brewing in his head right now. “But I know what will make him feel better.”

There’s a beat.

“Happy birthday to you!” Nick all but sings into the microphone. Dylan takes back everything he’s ever said about liking his birthday, because this might be the worst thing to happen to him ever. Or the best. Because Nick looks so happy to cause Dylan this much distress— it’s friendly distress of course. Nick is beaming, filling the dingy, dusty, radio hut in sunshine and his horrendous singing.

Nick swings with the tune, making faces and gestures at Dylan which he responds with a singular middle finger, causing Nick to laugh mid-performance. It’s an addictive sound. He wants to hear more of it.

“Happy birthday, Dyl—lan! Happy birthday toooo youuuuu!”

“Are you done?”

“Thank you, everyone.” Nick then says over the intercom, “Let’s make this day awesome, don’t forget to wish Dylan a happy birthday, and remember—” he motions for Dylan to join him by the mic, and who would he be to decline?

“What doesn’t kill you, will make you stronger!” They both say, Nick’s cheerful demeanor countered with Dylan’s flat, monotone voice.

Dylan reaches over and flips the radio system off, staring at Nick. There’s a jungle of emotions he’s trying to navigate, vines of disbelief, branches of bewilderment, maybe even a bear just to freak him out. He’s confused, he’s speechless, he’s in awe. But never does one of those emotions read as mad.

“You kind of look like you’re about to kill me.” Nick says sheepishly.

“You’re the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.” Dylan feels bubbly; his fingertips itch and he wants to laugh. He wants to laugh and laugh and be buried in the feeling of sugar sweet stupidity. It scratches up his throat and he can’t help but giggle. “Promise me you’ll never pursue singing as a potential career.”

Nick throws his hands up in protest, gasping in offense. “I was not that bad!”

It’s fun what they have. The playful banter, the shining glee in their eyes, the closing distance between them as Dylan leans against the table. Nick looks at him with a certain admiration he can’t place, something bordering fondness, before perking up slightly and grabbing something he’d put down earlier.

“I made you this.”

Nick hands him a small box. It’s covered in colorful construction paper acting as makeshift wrapping paper, complete with a ribbon tied into a bow.

“A little early for a proposal, don’t you think?” Dylan quips, raising a brow at Nick, who rolls his eyes.

Unwrapping the paper and opening the box, he’s met with… Something. He pulls the item out to inspect it closer. It’s a popsicle stick figure. In the shape of what he can only assume is supposed to be some sort of animal. It’s wrapped in pipe cleaners, including a tail and tiny little ears. Dylan’s favorite part has to be the googly eyes glued to the front.

“What the fuck is this?” There’s a smile twitching at his lips.

“A cat.” Nick says as if it was supposed to be obvious.

Dylan holds up the arts and crafts monstrosity, looking back and forth between it and Nick. “This? A cat?”

“Yeah, it’s your cat.”

“I hate you.” They’re both smiling.

“I worked hard on that!”

“This is a disgrace on Schrodinger’s name.” Dylan holds out the cat-figure, watching the googly-eyes shake.

“I’ll just take it back then—” Nick starts, reaching out to take the bundle of popsicle sticks from Dylan, but he pulls it towards him, cradling the cat to his chest.

“No. I’m cherishing her with my life.” Dylan pets the cat’s head softly and Nick looks at him expectantly. “Thank you. For the wonderful, ugly as fuck gift.” It’s his friend’s turn to flip him off this time. “You didn’t have to make me anything though.”

The sentiment is heavy. Nick had gone out of his way to make something for his birthday. Even if it was a stupid ugly cat. Maybe it was growing on him. Nick had made it. Maybe it was cute after all. That’s what friends do, right? Give their other friends birthday presents. There was nothing to read into.

“I remember you mentioning your birthday was coming up a while ago.” Nick’s fingers drum on the table beside them, fidgeting slightly. “And I wanted to get you something— uh, make you something. I was hanging out with Abi in the art cabins and I thought it’d be fun to make your cat. Since you talk about her so much.”

“I talk about her a normal amount.”

“And I wanted to get back at you for my birthday. Hence the whole,” he makes a vague gesture to the radio equipment, “singing thing.”

Dylan smiles. “So we’re even then?”

“We’re even.” Nick smiles back and that feeling overtakes Dylan again. The one that's thick with tension as they burn under the spotlight of wondering what the next move is. The moment feels like deja vu, something's happened to him over and over like some curse that the gods above put on him. They’re alone, Nick is right there, and the perfect chance lingers in the air as they stare at each other. Because staring seems to be the only thing they know how to get away with at this point.

“Thank you.” Dylan says, breaking the quietness. “I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course. Anything for you.”

Nick’s voice rushes through with a slight stutter. There’s a moment where his eyes dart around the room, and Dylan’s heart pounds in his chest. He tries filling in the missing pieces, the missing phrase of anything for a friend or of course, it’s your birthday, but then Nick is looking at him again and for a second it clicks.

“But I think there’s something else I want for my birthday.” Dylan says, playing it off casually and ignoring the heat already rising to his cheeks. Nick’s eyebrows raise slightly in surprise, murmuring a quiet oh?

The distance between them starts to close, as it always does when they’re caught alone. Then there’s the staring. The flicker of down, up, down. Nick’s hand creeps its way across the table to where Dylan had his resting and he takes it. Maybe too eagerly. Nick huffs out a small laugh, tangling their fingers together, and Dylan almost feels lightheaded. He looks down, just to make sure it was real, he almost wants to pinch himself. He looks back up at Nick.

“I really wanna k—”

Dylan begins to think that there is an actual god up in the skies making sure he loses any chance with Nick, because before he can finish his sentence— before he can even process the thought— the door to the radio hut swings open for the second time that day. Nick takes back his hand, shoving them both in his pockets and Dylan feels cold.

“Dylan!” Kaitlyn directs at him, with a certain edge to her voice.

Of course it was Kaitlyn. Dylan turns around to face her. She’s staring up at him in disbelief, not acknowledging the life-changing moment she had just walked into.

“Kaitlyn!” He greets cheerfully, but his voice is tight and all he can think about is how he wants to kiss his best friend already. “What’s up?”

“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday.” Kaitlyn strides into the cabin, accusatory with her head held high.

“I should get going.” Nick says, all awkwardness seeping back into his skin as he looks between the two. “I’ll catch you later, yeah?” His movement is hurried, nearly tripping over himself trying to escape failed attempt number two. Dylan can only give a quick wave before he’s gone. The door slams shut on his way out.

The false grin drops and Dylan tilts his head back groaning. Kaitlyn looks at him with puzzled brows.

“Have you ever heard of knocking?” He asks, nearly glaring at Kaitlyn. She only begins to get more confused.

“What? Why would I knock?”

Dylan only blinks, staring at her and waiting for the gears to start turning. He knows she’s smart. He knows that it’s easy to put two and two together. Kaitlyn stares right back, and Dylan thinks that he could earn a reward with how many staring contests he’s been. This time it’s not full of shy, waiting eyes and hesitant touches. It’s playful annoyance and the underlying, teasing I hate you said to a close friend.

Kaitlyn looks at Dylan, trying to put it together. She notices the present sitting on the desk, looks behind her where Nick had just exited, notices the faint redness dusted across Dylan’s face.

“Oh my god.”

“Oh my god.” He mocks, before covering his face in his hands. Kaitlyn rushes over to him, grabbing his arms trying to pry his hands away. “You and Nick?” Her voice is hushed, but Dylan doesn’t know why. They’re the only ones in the room.

“It’s complicated?”

“Oh my god.” She repeats, and Dylan isn’t looking but he can feel an ear to ear grin plastered on her face.

“Not a single word.”

“My lips are sealed, birthday-boy.”

4

There’s a week left of camp.

Dylan doesn’t know how he did it, but somehow he managed to survive two straight months deprived of technology, replacing it with non-stop babysitting and the joy of being covered in mosquito bites. If he did it as a kid, he could do it as an adult. He gives himself a pat on the back with the hands that twitch and ache for his phone back. He tries to remember if he even left it fully charged (he definitely didn’t).

Most of the counselors are antsy, counting down the days, hours, minutes until they’re back on the road to civilization and home. On the other hand, the kids are dreading the end; complaining that they want camp to last forever as they try to cram activities and games into the time they have left. It’s bittersweet. Dylan can admit that he’ll miss this. There’s always next year, but next year doesn’t guarantee the same group of kids he’s become attached to. Next year doesn’t guarantee the same group of counselors; co-workers— friends.

There’s already promises of exchanging numbers and social medias once they all get their phones back along with plans of hanging out before they all part ways for college. Dylan makes notes to himself. Listen to the paranormal podcast that Ryan always mentions, maybe convince him to break into an old, abandoned haunted house with him. Check out Emma’s youtube channel and hold himself back from leaving jokingly mean hate comments— maybe find a seven year old bootleg of her starring in a local production of Seussical: The Musical (she had mentioned it quickly in passing, but Dylan is never one to forget the small details). He tells Abi that he wants to commission her, to see her art put up in a gallery, to see it displayed worldwide. She tells him that an Instagram post with up to two hundred likes is as worldwide she’ll get. Him and Jacob shake their heads with the promise of never talking outside of camp. They push and shove each other with grins that say otherwise.

Kaitlyn has already started a bucket list for the both of them. It’s covered in different colored crayons reading things like revolving sushi and skydiving??? The arrangement they’ve created is a mix between the utterly mundane and the absolutely insane. Kaitlyn tells Dylan one day that she’ll actually miss him, and he doesn’t know whether or not he should be offended or flattered.

Were you planning to tell me you missed me even if it was a lie? He had asked

Probably. But don’t worry about it, because I’ll be blowing up your phone everyday from now on. You’ll never get rid of me.

Surprisingly, I think I’m okay with that.

There was something electric in Kaitlyn that Dylan found comfort in. She was the static and he was the mildly annoying balloon. She had natural confidence and wit, something hidden under her tongue no matter the occasion. She was everything that Dylan pretended to be, yet the caring side of her didn’t go unnoticed. The reassuring, easy looks she threw his way; his personal hype man.

Who’s been trying way too hard to become his personal wingman.

Ever since the Radio Hut Incident, Kaitlyn makes sure that Dylan knows he’s being watched. A sneaky glance with an all knowing smirk. He hasn’t outright told her anything about him and Nick, not that there was much to say anyways, right? She gave him sneaky glances, eyes flickering back and forth between the two of them anytime they were together. Dylan would look away each time, ignoring the devious, knowing smirk. There was only so much Kaitlyn could communicate with just her face before he knew that he would have to confess at some point.

So naturally, he cracked.

Dylan tells her about his growing feelings for Nick (paraphrased in her own words into “big fat crush”). She asks him how serious it is, how long he’s liked him for, if he’s going to try and make a move. Questions that he has no answers for— it’s still a blur in his head and the only clear thing he can make out is Nick smiling out at him. Dylan tells her he’s playing it by ear; whatever happens happens. Jokes around a little, flirts a little, almost kisses him on a weekly basis a little. She never lets him hear the end of it after that.

Kaitlyn thinks back and vaguely remembers him and Nick taking a tumble out on the field that one day, pokes and teases him for almost getting it on in front of the whole camp. Dylan is quick to defend himself and his dignity, sputtering out We did not almost “get it on”! She laughs to herself and he rolls his eyes. When he tells her about the kitchen incident her jaw drops in realization. When Chris had told them that there might be a delay that night for dinner due to some sort of incident, he looked awkward and rushed through the announcement. She had wondered for so long what had happened, and the answer had made her squeal and throw her head back in more laughter.

So that’s why you two were gone for so long… I was wondering where you wandered off to that day.

Well. There’s that answer.

Making out with your little boyfriend in the kitchen, apparently.

Shut up.

Kaitlyn does everything in her power to try and get them to make moves on each other. From awkward nudging and budging to targeted innuendos, it leaves Dylan more embarrassed and flustered than smooth and confident. She tells him to stop beating around the bush and put a label on it already. He mumbles a lame excuse and his cheeks go warm.

It’s almost embarrassing to have his emotions put on display. Kaitlyn reads him like an open book and the teasing tone she sports as she pokes at him makes him realize how deep in it he’s in. The fluttering in the pit of his stomach whenever the name Nick comes into conversation, the awkward trying-not-to-stare lingering eyes when he enters a room, the warm feeling that spreads in his chest when he captures Nick’s attention.

A week left of camp. It almost feels like they’ve made no progress.

One of the end of camp activities takes place in the recreational lodge, just a little ways from the art cabin. It’s set up like a makeshift theater: with log benches for the audience and a years old red curtain strung across the ceiling, splitting the room in half.

It’s tradition for each cabin to create their own skit to perform in front of the entire camp, creative freedom was set upon dozens of kids along with hand-crafted props and costumes made from whatever they’d found in the closet; unused bedsheets, old camp shirts from over the years, a strange cowboy hat that no one quite knows where it came from. The counselors were in charge of supervision, but ultimately the kids spiraled into brainstorming all on their own, scribbling ideas and scripts onto paper. The pattern that Dylan notices the most is the campers taking what had been popular that summer and recreating it. From popular tv shows and movies to strange internet trends that sometimes he doesn’t even understand.

The chatter in the lodge feels bittersweet. It’s nearly the end of an era; the campers talk excitedly to one another, bragging about how their skit will be the best, they look around at the lodge’s decorations and Dylan can’t help but feel his own joy. Fairy lights are strung around illuminating them in warm gold, the curtain hangs down, leaving the other side of the room to be a mystery to all, and every log bench is filled.

He should’ve known Nick would take the seat right next to him.

Dylan thinks he might overheat. He’s cautious about every move he makes, hyper aware of every time their arms brush or their knees knock. He almost makes an effort to not look to his left, eyes wandering everywhere but to the obvious.

“Are you excited?” Nick asks, his voice clear against the roaring chatter filling the room. Dylan turns his head, looking past him to avoid eye contact. He’d blame it on the nerves.

“Oh, totally. These kids are actually hilarious, it’s gonna be great.” He thinks about the hours of freetime specifically designated for creating the skits and thanks the Camp Gods for giving him kids with a sense of humor.

“Better than mine, you think?” Nick says. It sounds like he’s fighting back a grin.

Dylan looks at him with raised brows. He was right about the smile, he could practically hear it through his teeth. Nick suppresses a teasing smirk, biting his lip and Dylan does everything to keep eye contact.

“So it’s a competition now?” He pretends to think about it, tilting his head back and forth. “I’m pretty sure my cabin will win.”

Nick releases his lip from his teeth. “How sure?”

“Like, ninety-five percent sure?”

“Enough to bet on it?”

That fuzzy, cotton feeling comes back to fill Dylan’s head, and his hands feel much more sweatier than they were before. Nick is looking at him with curious eyes, deep brown and surely hiding something mischievous if he looks far enough (like a handful of flour behind his back).

“Winner gets what?” Dylan challenges.

There’s an unmistakable spark in the air between them, the rush of nerves tasting like peppermints, something chilling and sweet at the tip of his tongue. Dylan watches as a knowing smile creeps onto Nick’s face as his eyes flick down to his lips and back. He finds himself mirroring the motion and huffing out an exasperated laugh. Dylan shoves Nick slightly and shakes his head, trying to rid of the blooming red painted across his face.

They’re both thinking about it though.

The rest of the night continues without either of them mentioning it again. They sit in a comfortable quietness as the performances start to begin, kicking it off with Cabin One. There’s a routine of gathering all the campers behind the curtain and retrieving the handmade sets and props to set the stage. Most of it is made of cardboard, painted hastily and clearly done by ten year olds, but the effort shows through their excitement and who’s Dylan to start critiquing a child’s art skill?

The first few performances set the mood for the rest of the night— the kids are loud and giggle through their lines, making laughter erupt through the audience as the counselors encourage them to continue on. They sit through childish renditions of classic Disney movies like Tangled (“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” then cue multiple thrown objects that aren’t the makeshift bed sheet Rapunzel wig), popular songs that are sung off-tune along with off beat and messy choreography, and Dylan’s personal favorite: acting out their favorite video game (“This skit is called… Among Us”).

Dylan and Nick turn their heads to whisper into each other’s ears, cracking jokes and witty comments. It’s close proximity, and his brain spins every time he can feel Nick’s breath hot on his skin, his lips barely grazing his ear. Throughout the entire thing, there’s the constant pressure of Nick’s arm pressed against his. Dylan could scoot over if he wanted, Nick could scoot over if he wanted— but they stay glued practically at the waist. Dylan thinks about biting the bullet and holding Nick’s hand. They’re resting clasped in his lap as he pays no attention to Dylan, eyes straight forward and watching the performance. Dylan’s fingers tap against the log chair, trying to do the same.

He listens as the kid on stage fumbles over his words between laughs, burying his face in his hands as his face turns red as his friends laugh along. Dylan smiles. He remembers being a kid up there, not giving a care in the world if he looked like an idiot. All that mattered was he looked like an idiot with his best friends. Best camp friends. His eyes flicker to Nick, who still hasn’t looked back. Dylan shifts in his seat, straightening up a bit and feeling the strain in his back. He accidentally nudges Nick in the process, brushing it off as nothing but watches as one of Nick’s hands moves to rest on his knee.

Dylan copies the movement, putting his own hand on his knee. It’s dark in the audience, the only illumination coming from low lit string lights and the glow of the stage lights. He stares down at their hands, willing himself to make some sort of move. He’s set up the perfect opportunity, his fingers twitching with hesitation. He grips his knee, looking back up at the skits, tapping his foot quietly, anxiously.

Cabin Dylan-Already-Lost-Count finishes their skit, and the obligatory applause fills the room along with whoops and cheers from the kids. The group bows and sits back down as the claps begin to die down, Kaitlyn stands to help reset the stage and the period between skits begins as the room is filled with chatter again. Before Dylan can flop his hands back into his lap, Nick reaches out to grab one.

It’s a silent action, and all Nick does is stare at him and smile like an idiot. Dylan can feel his heart race, blood rushing to his ears and warmth enveloping him in a tight hug. He readjusts their fingers so they’re properly interlocked, and smiles back.

“This okay?” Nick asks.

“Really okay.” Dylan responds, his head reeling.

Their hands stay intertwined for the rest of the performances. There’s no way Dylan’s hand isn’t sweaty and he almost wants to let go to wipe the grossness off onto his jeans, but at the same time there isn’t any universe where he wants to be detached from Nick. The ever constant pressure of his slim fingers against his skin, the reassuring squeeze from both of them every now and then, the idea of being with Nick rather than being with Nick.

Dylan feels cold walking back to the cabins, slipping his hand away from Nick’s to shove into the pocket of his hoodie. Kids are ruthless and nosy, unafraid to call out anything they see. He doesn’t want to risk anything. Even if he sees Nick’s face drop just the slightest, his lips falling into a frown for a millisecond. The woods are filled with life as the campers’ voices echo through the trees, their flashlights searching every patch of darkness while they trip and stumble over tree roots.

Nick sticks by Dylan’s side trying to gain every bit of closeness he can. They bump shoulders and stare at their feet as they walk in sync. Neither of them talk. Not about the elephant in the room, anyway. In fact, they try to talk about anything other than the obvious: what are we doing? The what are we?

He knows that the topic is inevitable, bound to come up sooner or later, because at this point they’re well past the line of just friends.

“I wanted to ask—”

“So about that—”

They both say at the same time. They laugh it off, like they do most things.

“You go first.” Dylan says, happily weaseling himself out of humiliating confrontation.

“Well I was going to ask you if that bet was still on.” Nick says, kicking a rock along the path in front of him. Dylan kicks it back at him.

Enough to bet on it?

Winner gets what?

“We never shook on it… But I’m pretty sure that my cabin’s skit had to be the best one there.”

They’re back at the cabins, most of the kids funneling into their respective rooms and getting ready for lights out. The woods quiet down as everyone settles down, muffled chatter and the clicks of light switches chime through the air. Dylan stares at Nick expectantly. The stars twinkle above them, the moon washes over Hackett’s Quarry like a spotlight, and his heart skips a beat.

“Okay.” Nick agrees with a shrug.

“Really?” Dylan shifts slightly on his feet with a nervous laugh. “Not gonna fight me on that?”

Nick shakes his head. “No. Who do you think I am, Jacob?”

The tension breaks as their laughter floats skyward.

“So. Winner gets what?” Dylan repeats. He feels himself take a step closer to Nick, swaying back and forth. Waiting.

“Whatever he wants.”

Dylan feels Nick take his hand again, shyly playing with his fingers rather than holding it. It’s cute.

“I think you already know what I’d ask for—”

“Nick!” Their hands drop instantly as the door to Cabin Five swings open with a bang, accompanied by several shrill screams. Dylan has to stop himself from hanging his head in utter disappointment. It’s almost laughable how many times they’ve been interrupted. If he was religious, maybe he would’ve had a stern talking with god himself.

“What’s going on?” Nick shifts into counselor mode, immediately on alert, voice filled with concern.

“There’s a spider in the cabin, can you get it for us?”

Nick looks back at Dylan with a sorry smile that he returns with a nod.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

+5

The week flies by and next thing Dylan knows it’s the last day of camp.

The days leading up to it are full of sparking nerves and the bittersweet feeling of goodbye. The clock ticks by while the campers slouch in their seats whining I don’t want summer to be over… On the other hand, some kids are itching to finally get on that bus and return home, sweet, home, and most likely internet, sweet, internet.

Chris is definitely a sucker for tradition, because nearly everything they did when Dylan was a kid was the same now. The camp skits, the last field day on the island, the goodbye campfire with s’mores and t-shirts decorated by the campers to give to each counselor. It was a giddy feeling being on the receiving end of things: having kids tell him they’ll miss him, being given gifts and trinkets, a snotty hug goodbye.

The kids have their final go at the ziplines, screaming gleefully all the way down and excitedly begging for another turn. Some of them admire the scenery one last time, floating across the lake and blabbering about life back home. They scatter the island, running around the woods, walking along the dirt paths, stomping around the treehouse.

The campfire is warm and everyone crowds around, sitting on logs or on the sand. They all take turns singing cheesy camp songs, their voices echoing through the night. The smell of burnt marshmallows and bug spray fills the air; everyone talks over one another, asking for crackers and chocolate, yelping when their marshmallow is set ablaze, complaining when the wind sends smoke into their eyes.

Dylan looks around, soaking it all in.

Of course he misses home; he misses his cat (knowing that she probably spent every night sleeping in his bed), he misses his computer and his music ( he doesn’t want to sound like a teenager stuck glued to his phone, but he’s guilty as charged). but he might even miss camp even more.

Don’t you mean you’ll miss a certain someone from camp? Kaitlyn had said when Dylan brought it up.

Yeah, yeah, I’ll miss you very much, Kaitlyn.

I don’t mean me, dumbass. She rolled her eyes. Nick, you idiot.

Dylan pretends to brush it off like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and despite putting on an act for a majority of camp, sometimes he was the worst liar in the world. Sometimes he’s obvious when it comes to the guy he’s been crushing on for the past two months. He tells himself that it was all fun and games, nothing would ever come out of it and summer flings were never a good thing.

That was before they stuck together like magnets, slowly gravitating towards each other like a second nature and becoming two peas in a pod; a package deal. That was before the flirting went beyond cheesy lines and subtle looks and became close friends confiding in one another, stripping themselves of the people pleaser acts they put on. That was before they almost kissed about ten million times.

Dylan tells Kaitlyn almost everything. He thinks that if they were in a horror movie, they’d be the two characters talking on coiled wire phones, gossiping in polar opposite rooms before all power goes out. Kaitlyn is a great motivator when she wants to be, when she genuinely wants to. She usually pokes fun at Dylan and his big gay brain, and gives advice like just talk to him which really doesn’t help him at all, but he loves her anyways.

He wonders if he should ask someone else for an opinion. He thinks about who his other options are: said boy he has a crush on, emo loner boy who likes ghosts a little too much, egotistical jock that absolutely gets no bitches, internet star sensation with a massive crush on the shy quiet artist who definitely likes her back. Dylan’s options are limited. He wonders if Nick had confided in one of them. He hopes he has. He wonders if Nick had bottled his feelings up, and prays that that’s not the case.

“Dylan, I’ve told you.” Kaitlyn paces around her cabin, stripping the sheets from mattresses and throwing trash into the bag Dylan holds open for her. “He likes you. You like him. He’s not gonna reject you.” She repeats it like a mantra, the words bouncing around in his head, trying to believe them.

“And I’m not just saying that.” She pauses, sitting next to him on a creaky bed. The morning sun filters in through the windows, filling the room with bright hope and blinding both of them. “He cares about you like I do. He trusts you enough to be himself around you. You guys have almost kissed. Like, multiple times. You guys held hands.”

Dylan listens numbly, knowing that she’s right. But everything seems to be easier said than done. It’s a conversation they’ve had more than once.

“Ask him for his number. Ask him if he wants to continue… Whatever the hell you guys are after camp… Then boom, happy ending— and don’t say anything like What if he doesn’t want anything after camp because you and I both know that you guys are head over heels for one another.” Kaitlyn jabs at him with her fingers for emphasis and stands back up.

“And we’ll kiss and ride unicorns off into the sunset?” Dylan teases.

“Yes, exactly.” She turns around and starts shoving random articles of clothing into her bags, clearly having no mind for spacial awareness. “And if he doesn’t want you then he’s a stupid Austrailian dick who doesn’t even have a chance with a kangaroo.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Now are you gonna just stand there or are you going to help out here?”

The morning continues with kids bumbling around the camp with their bags, some of them gearing to leave already while the rest are already planning what they want to do next year. The lodge is packed, campers taking up every table shoving forkfuls of pancakes into their mouths as the counselors take up their own tables, watching over what had been their lives for the past two months.

Dylan is all too aware of the hand that’s holding his under the table. It’s discreet and casual; fingers brushing against his and intertwining them with no hesitation. He looks at Nick, searching for any sign in his face. He looks back at him, smiling sweetly before swirling his fork-stabbed pancake in the lake of syrup on his plate and offering it to him. Dylan gets deja vu, remembering chocolate cupcake batter and a smirk. He shakes his head and Nick shrugs, eating it himself. There’s a bit of syrup on the corner of Nick’s lips and Dylan squeezes his hand.

Emma is in the middle of telling a story complete with loud, wide gestures, occasionally bumping into Abi who innocently sits next to her. Dylan notices the fond look they share when Emma stops talking to gently lay her hands on Abi’s shoulders with a Sorry! They made a good pair, Dylan thinks. A good couple, even. He thinks about the heavy weight of Nick’s hand in his. Couple.

Dylan plays it over and over in his head, mentally writing an entire essay on what he’s going to say to Nick before it’s all over. He bids last minute goodbyes to campers as words like I wanted to talk about… Us and Did you want something to happen? float around him. He thinks about what they could be, what he wants, what’s possible. What’s rational.

He likes Nick— fact.

Nick likes him— fact. (He pushes away his insecurities that tell him otherwise, he knows the truth.)

Long distance wouldn’t hurt, he’s willing to try anything for Nick, even if it was seeing his face on a tiny screen instead of being able to hold his hand all the time. They could visit each other and end up on those cheesy reunion videos he’s seen on the internet. He could hear Nick’s stupid accent everyday and be able to call him his.

There’s an angel and a devil on Dylan’s shoulders. One tells him to save himself from rejection and summer fling heartbreak, the other tells him to shoot his shot, that there’s no way Nick would say no. He thinks about what Kaitlyn told him: he can either take a chance and get his happy unicorn ending or he can go home and be a single loser for the rest of his life. Her words were harsh and overexaggerated, said with a smile that felt more comforting than anything else he’s ever experienced.

The bus is loaded with bags and packed with kids eager to go home. The counselors all wait scattered across the front of the lodge, hollering out goodbyes and waving to the kids with their heads poked out of the windows.

Bye! See you next summer! Peace and love! Hackett’s Quarry forever!

Dylan watches from the porch of the lodge as Emma throws dramatic kisses to the barely in view bus while the rest of the counselors drop their arms from their lingering waves. The engine is a distant rumble and the sounds of the woods are back at peace. Rustling leaves, birds chirping, his heart beating loudly in his chest.

“We should probably help clean, huh?” Nick says, still looking over the camp. Jacob and Kaitlyn are talking by the car, yet everyone else seems to be missing.

“Right. Yeah.”

It’s oddly quiet as Dylan and Nick move around the lodge collecting plates and silverware into dish bins. The silence is different than it usually is, charged by tension and the overbearing will-they-won’t-they situation. It’s almost the opposite of comforting— it’s awkward and neither of them can find a single thing to talk about, so instead they work wordlessly with the soundtrack of clinking glasses and shuffling feet.

Dylan’s hands are sticky with syrup as he scrapes leftovers into the trash and hands plates over to Nick to wash. He bites his tongue, waiting for the right moment, begging for an opening in the silence to say what’s been on his mind for months. All he gets is water running and the screech of silver against porcelain.

“I’m gonna miss it here.” Dylan tries. His throat is dry, threatening to break. He hands Nick the last plate and maneuvers around the kitchen to start putting the dishes away.

“Me too.” Nick says, his eyes super glued on the sponge in his hand. Two words weigh more than that. Dylan doesn’t miss the subtle side glance.

“Do you think you’re gonna sign up for next year?” The small talk is killing him, he decides. It holds him to the ground, chained at the feet. The sink water stops running and he vaguely wonders how Chris pays the bills for this place.

“Maybe.” Nick shrugs, wiping his hands off on a towel and finally looking at Dylan.

They stare at each other with a sense of knowing. The subject is right in front of them, scared to reach out and take it.

“Should we—”

“I wanted to talk—”

Dylan feels his cheeks flare and Nick nods at him to go first. He feels dizzy.

“I wanted to talk about… us.” He fumbles, stuttering and avoiding eye contact. It’s out in the open now.

“Us.” Nick repeats. It’s full of warmth and he smiles sweetly. Dylan wants to kiss him.

“I’ve had a lot of fun this summer,” Dylan continues, needing to get it over with before he chickens out. “Especially with you. A lot of fun. With you.” His sentences are choppy and awkward and not at all what he rehearsed in his head, but Nick is listening and staring at him with a fondness that makes him want to melt.

“Me too.”

“And we’ve never talked about anything, like anything, that’s happened between us.” Dylan fidgets with his hands, twisting and wringing out his fingers, cracking his knuckles. “And I wanted to know… Where we stand.”

“What are we?” Nick supplies the age-old question and it shouldn’t send butterflies fluttering in his stomach, but it does. Something about the idea of we and the possibility of an us. Dylan nods. “I’d like to be something.”

It feels like he’s floating.

“I mean, I know it’s only been two months but— you’ve been one of the best things about this place. I really like you.” Nick continues, stumbling over himself. Dylan is glad he’s not the only one who’s a mess right now. “And… We can’t really be sure what’s going to happen after camp, but I’d like to stay in touch if you do too.”

“I do.” Dylan interrupts maybe too quickly. “Y’know. Wanna stay in touch… And be something.”

“Boyfriends?” Nick offers once again, slow and hesitant, almost wincing as if he’s about to be burned.

Dylan can’t help but grin stupidly at the thought, giddy at the idea of them being boyfriends. “I like the sound of that.”

“Okay, Boyfriend.” Nick takes his hand, slotting their fingers together like a puzzle piece. They fit perfectly. “What’s next?”

“There’s been one thing I’ve been wanting to do for ages, actually.” He takes a step forward, wavering close by to give Nick enough time to step back. Nick’s hand moves up his wrist, gently caressing his arm and grinning.

Both of their smiles drop as a loud fist bangs against the front doors of the lodge. Jacob’s voice is muffled from the outside.

“I’m starting to think that this place is out to get us.” Nick jokes. Dylan steps away from him, groaning his frustrations before leading them out of the kitchen.

“The Hag of Hackett’s Quarry has to be homophobic, I’m calling it now.”

Dylan swings the door open with a fake smile. “Hi.”

“Are you guys gonna help with the bags or what?” Jacob complains, moving to walk into the lodge before Dylan blocks him further. He’s waited too long for this to be ruined by Jacob of all people. He thinks for a moment, slowly swinging the door back and forth as he comes up with a lie.

“Uh, I was actually just… Fixing the door.” He hears Nick snort behind him. It was a bad lie, but did it really matter at that moment? Jacob rolls his eyes, huffing in exasperation. “It’s uh, broken.”

“Dylan, c’mon. Please?”

“Sorry, I can’t, I dunno, it’s just—”

“Dude, I have to get the last bags, c’mon.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with this thing, it’s just closing— it’s closed!” Dylan pushes the door closed, locking it once again and even going further to deadbolt it. He hears a noise of complaint from the other side and stifles a laugh.

“Sorry, bro!” Nick apologizes, grinning widely at Dylan. “You’re an idiot.”

“I thought it was funny.” Dylan mumbles with fake hurt. His cheeks hurt with how much he’s been smiling recently.

“Well, I say that we finally take advantage of being alone. Finally.” Nick reaches out to grab Dylan’s arm and he feels like he’s been shocked by lightning, warm and electrifying.

Before anyone else can interrupt them, Dylan pushes forward, pressing his lips against Nick’s. He almost expects fireworks to go off with how long they’ve been waiting for this, for champagne bottles to pop open along with party crackers— but there’s nothing; yet it’s far from underwhelming. His lips are chapped and he’s nearly tempted to murmur an apology but Nick kisses him back, his fingers trembling against Dylan’s arm.

They stand in the doorway, pressed against each other softly. The windows stream in golden warm light, making the floorboards glow. If they were a few feet to the left, maybe they would’ve had their own spotlight. But Dylan would do nothing to redo it. He can feel Nick smiling against his mouth; it’s contagious, even if Dylan can’t see him. He pulls back, smiling gleefully.

Nick laughs, shining like the sun and Dylan wants to soak in every bit of starlight he can.

“Fucking finally.” Dylan’s voice cracks, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Finally.”