Work Text:
23 / 19
Greg is twenty-three and James is nineteen when they first meet as counsellors at a sleepaway camp in the Adirondacks. Eight weeks of sun and thunderstorms and a crisp blue lake. Greg is wasting away a summer before he starts med school in the fall, James has just finished his first year of pre-med in Montreal.
Greg is cutting off the sleeves of his mandated STAFF t-shirt when James pushes into the cabin, a thick duffle bag slung over his shoulder, his hair plastered against his sweat slicked forehead.
“I took the bottom bunk,” the taller man tells him, before turning back to his task at hand.
It happens quickly, a friendship forged firmer than Greg ever believed was possible. They were told tales at orientation of the bonds formed at camp, of the proximity and the shared days, the otherworldliness of the place they were in, but he didn’t believe it.
It only takes a few days for the tall, blue eyed lifeguard and the beautiful small crafts instructor to be joined at the hip.
They make their way down to the dock together in the mornings after breakfast, James breaking off to tend to the gaggle of tween girls waiting for their kayaking session. It wouldn’t make sense in the real world, this friendship, they both muse independently. Greg: older, cocksure and sarcastic, always itching for a challenge. James: kind, open faced and eager. They don’t question it.
They speak quietly in French together at night whilst the other two guys in their cabin snore, stumbling over the differences in the language from the places they learned it: James at High School and from his Quebecois classmates, Greg in Chad and Niger as a child.
There are subjects that are off limits: Greg’s father, James’ younger brother, the passage of time as summer slowly slips away.
On their days off they borrow bikes and disappear through the valleys with a pack of Parliaments and Greg’s walkman. They lie in the tall grass together, their heads resting a breath apart as they listen to Black Flag and the Psychedelic Furs. They pass a bottle of water refilled downstream back and forward until it gets too hot and Greg tears the clothes from his body and runs into the current, James ambling slack jawed after him.
There are sticky nights in their cabin where they lie still in the silence, James’ arm dangling down into the space above Greg’s head.
Greg flirts mercilessly with the female lifeguards, tells uncouth jokes to get under some of the stuffier counsellors’ skin, and whistles everywhere he goes. Everyone quickly comes to expect James in step with the older boy whenever they hear the familiar tune.
James makes friends with the other boating counsellors, plays cards with them on the docks every afternoon and sweet talks one of the kitchen staff into giving him extra cookies to share out to some of the kids. They settle into camp life so quickly it feels like six months have passed instead of just two weeks.
He doesn’t consciously do it, it takes a few days to realise that it is happening, but James watches the change in Greg’s body: the tan lines between his collarbone and the edge of his shoulder, the way his hair lightens golden brown in the summer sun, how it curls lower on his forehead as it grows out, the freckles on his back.
Greg watches the way James runs his hands through his hair absentmindedly when the younger female staff members flirt with him, the way his cheeks flush, the slight pout of his lips and how his eyes always seem to find Greg’s in those moments. They’re never far apart.
They jog together on mornings when James can rouse Greg from sleep before breakfast. He loves the way the sun splits open the skies, the early daylight shimmering on the lake. But the beads of sweat that disappear beneath Greg’s tank when they have stopped is why he insists almost every morning that a run is what they need to start the day. They always finish the same way, panting for breath, a shared water bottle to drink heavily from when they return to their cabin, James’ lips taking up the same space that his friend’s had moments before. He tries not to think about it too hard, because in his experience thinking about anything for too long leads to talking about it and he isn’t sure how to untangle the sudden urge to wrap himself around his tall, lean friend from his usual crushes on girls.
Greg sits behind the piano during the camp ‘talent show’ on their third week, a confident smile on his face before finding James’ deep brown eyes in the sea of kids to wink at him. He listens transfixed as Greg launches into a jaunty performance of a song he recognises to be by The Police. He didn’t know his friend could play this well. The kids start shouting out requests and to James’ astonishment it seems like there is nothing Greg can’t play. He cycles through the choruses of several pop hits and a few old standards for around ten minutes before he slams the lid down on the piano dramatically and rises to take a long bow.
James babbles 10 nonsensical questions all at once as they walk back to their cabin that night, trying and failing to keep the awe out of his voice. How did he learn? How can he play so well? Where does he pull the music from?
“No matter where I went growing up, there was always a piano.” Greg replies with a shrug.
They start a clandestine campfire in a clearing behind the staff cabins one night. There are cans of cheap beer, 15 or so counsellors huddled around the pit and some questionable weed. They play truth or dare, stupid dares coming out of the mouths of arrogant jockish young men and sweet freckle faced girls, buzzing with adrenaline and excitement. James shotguns a beer on a dare, using a Swiss Army knife that Greg produces somehow magically to pierce the can.
He spends most of the evening fighting every urge in his body not to react when Greg is constantly dared by giggling girls to kiss their friends. He joins in with the cheering and hollering every time a new girl comes to perch on his friend’s lap, and hopes that no one can sense the reticence in his tone, or notices the way that his hand clenches into a fist almost reflexively, or the fact that he looks down at Greg’s shoes instead of at his face because he can’t bear to see him trade sloppy kisses with these girls.
They stumble tipsily back to their cabin, the silence uncharacteristic of their friendship thus far. James always fills the silences so its surprising when an accusation bursts out of Greg.
“You’re jealous!” He remarks stopping in his tracks, a smug, assured smile on his face.
“I’m what?”
“You’re jealous!”
“I’ve kissed plenty of girls before Greg.” James replies, performatively rolling his eyes.
They’ve come to a complete stop now in the forest, James’ arms crossed protectively in front of his chest.
“Not of me.” Greg’s response is clipped. “You didn’t watch me.”
“Yes I did! Wait this is weird, why do you care? And how would you know?” James argues back, trying to hide the fact that the conversation is making him increasingly flustered.
“I was watching you.”
“You were kissing them!” James spits back.
“I was watching you,” Greg replies.
“Why?” James asks.
There’s a beat of silence and then Greg turns and kicks some branches under his feet, they are no longer making eye contact when he replies, quieter than the commanding tone that he had opened the conversation with. “Maybe I wanted to be kissing you.”
James doesn’t allow himself time to process what his friend has just admitted to him, immediately jumping on the defence. “Shut up”
“I’m serious,” Greg replies, turning to look at James once again.
“You’re drunk”
“You’re beautiful.”
“I’m not a queer!” James exclaims, feeling the shame reaching his cheeks.
“You watch me.”
“You’re my friend.”
“Admit it!” Greg shouts exasperatedly.
“Admit what?”
“You want me to kiss you!”
“I…” James starts, and then stops. They’re both breathing deeply, red in the face, and finally James has no rebuttal. He tries again, his mouth moves but no sound comes out. Then suddenly the breath that had been stuttering in his lungs catches in his throat in a gasp because one of Greg’s hands is on his shoulder and he is being walked backwards until his back hits a tall pine tree.
“You want me to kiss you,” Greg repeats again, his hand squeezing James’ shoulder softly.
James can only gulp in a shallow breath and stare back into the piercing blue eyes of his friend. “I…” he manages, but the next word is lost on his tongue because suddenly there is light stubble pressing against his chin, a nose tucked against his cheek, as Greg presses their lips together.
He looms over James, one hand still gripping his shoulder, the other braced on the tree trunk and he continues to move his mouth against the other boy's. It takes James a few passes to respond before he opens his mouth and kisses Greg back.
He doesn’t know how to do this, where his hands are supposed to go. He knows he probably isn’t supposed to be letting out the high pitched moan that just slipped from between their lips. He presses both of his palms into Greg’s chest, feels the warmth of his skin through the thin t-shirt, and suddenly their bodies are flush together, their mouths moving in tandem, his head tilted back as far as it can go, the pressure of the tree against his back, the softness and strength of the man in front of him.
They break apart slowly, the hand that had been on James’ shoulder now rests next to Greg’s other palm against the tree trunk, his head falls to James’ neck as he catches his breath.
“Admit it,” he whispers.
“I wanted you to kiss me.” James whispers through gasping breaths.
.
They don’t talk about it, they don’t question it, they dive headfirst, buoyed by endless summer days and the seclusion of the mountains around them.
Greg steals the key to the small crafts shed and they take some paddle boards out on the lake for sunrise, falling into the still water laughing like little children when they both lean in for a kiss and miscalculate their balance at the exact same moment.
They keep taking the bikes on Sundays and disappear into the mountains together, James lies with his head resting on Greg’s chest, and admits quietly that he’s never felt like this before.
It is winking and stolen glances across the lakefront during the day as they man their respective stations, nights under the stars breathless and tousled, hands reaching and exploring and groping, chests flush together, hair mussed, lips tingling. They fall asleep in their respective bunks, muttering in quiet French; Greg telling James how soft his lips are, a perfect secret code for a perfect secret vulnerability.
The last few days of camp come upon them so startlingly that they don’t quite know how to detangle themselves from the mess of testosterone and emotions that have swirled around their cabin. They know that this is where it ends. James back to McGill, Greg to Hopkins. They don’t trade numbers, or new addresses, just a few last kisses pressed up against their tree, unshed tears in James’ eyes and a tightness to Greg’s jaw that speaks volumes.
Greg is twenty-three and James is nineteen when they say goodbye.
- -
30 / 26
He sees him during one of the early morning talks, the years haven’t changed James Wilson one bit. It’s startling and comforting in equal measure. The sun shines through the conference room windows and the glint reflects against the gold wedding band on James’ left hand. Greg keeps his distance. He is good at not being seen.
Until he spots the divorce papers clenched against his former lover’s clipboard.
He follows him into the bar at a distance, nurses a beer in the corner trying to work up the nerve to face the man he could never shake.
Then the mirror shatters.
House is thirty and Wilson is twenty-six when their eyes meet again across the police precinct.
“You? I? What?” Wilson stutters, staring into blue eyes he never thought he would see again. He feels dizzy, still a little drunk.
“Can’t a man bail an old friend out of jail?” House replies with a smirk.
“Do you want to?” “I missed you.” Are spoken at the same time, they both laugh, blushes dusting their cheeks.
House opens the double doors and they walk out of the station together and into the night.