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It starts with a note.
Some freckle-faced, gap-toothed kid Kent doesn't recognize drops it off at his lifeguard stand in the middle of afternoon free swim with no pretense.
"Here," the kid says, presenting the note to Kent like it's some kind of royal correspondence. Kent half expects him to bow before he turns and runs off the way he came with a funny little hop-skip. Definitely not a major player in Camp Samwell Lake athletics.
Kent is working on his tan and watching the campers splash around in the lake, but he puts his lifeguarding duties on hold to frown down at the note before slipping up his Ray Bans and unfolding it. There, in loopy script it reads, "we should talk," and Kent could swear there's a little bit of glitter pressed into the paper. The next line reads, "meet by the haunted showers after lights out." And that's it. No signature. Nothing. Kent's frown deepens.
There's no way this is from the pretty CIT he hooked up with during the Fourth of July dance last weekend. One, it had been his birthday and you can do whatever you want on your birthday. Two, everyone knows he’s not exactly a stick around for seconds kind of guy. It’s not like she expected anything from him, he’s really fucking sure of that. Plus, girls are a thing he only kinda does sometimes. Sometimes like this summer, for example, because the person he really wants is always just out of reach. Which, well, he can dream, but this is not the kind of note he'd expect from Zimms, even though Kent had made his feelings plain after the very first Friday night service of the summer, taking Jack's hand as they walked back toward the Junior bunks, and whispering, "you look good, Zimms," before attempting to kiss him in the shadows of a large copse of Maple trees.
He'd been firmly brushed off, despite their history together and his continued ardour for too many summers now, and that had hurt. But there was time. And he’s Kent Parson, which means he’s really fucking persistent, regardless of the fact that Jack has another prospective suitor in the form of one Eric R. Bittle. Bittle is new at Samwell Lake and, in Kent's opinion, gayer than the day is long. Probably a gold star gay, too, which is. Well, kind of limiting, if you ask him. He'll try to explain that to Jack eventually. But again, there’s time: five more weeks. That’s like five months in camp time.
Kent crumples up the note and shoves it into his swimsuit pocket where it bulges inelegantly, ruining the line of his trunks. Ugh. He'll go to the haunted showers and meet his mystery correspondent, if only because the showers are a great place to catch campers mid-tryst, and Kent really enjoys ruining those opportunities. That puts a smile on his face.
Thankfully he looks up just in time to blow the whistle at a pair of roughhousers in the shallow part of the lake.
Kids, Kent scoffs, before settling his Ray Bans back on.
---
Campfire ends later than usual because Shitty “aka: Poops” Knight leads the campers in just one more round of “The Green Grass Grows All Around” than is really strictly necessary.
Kent loves campfire as much as the next Wellie, but for fuck’s safe, Shitty cannot play guitar for the life of him. The kids don’t seem to notice though, and Kent supposes that’s what really matters. After the singing finally ends and they all have too many s’mores, passed out by his ever cheerful nemesis Bittle, everyone rambles back to their bunks. Kent is itching to get to his “meeting” but due to Shitty’s incredible enthusiasm for campfire songs, he gets his campers settled in the for the night a little later than usual for a Sunday. He has a collection of rowdy tweens who have somehow managed to capture a frog between them and won’t settle for lights out without a ghost story, complete with a flashlight held beneath his chin. It lets him get the lights off, at least.
His campers are a funny group of little fuckers, and Kent adores them, not that he’d tell anyone. When the kids are sound asleep, or he thinks they are, he does a final bed check, counting sleepy mops of hair before he texts his co-counselor Johnson that everyone is in for the night. Kent lets him know that he’s going for a walk and will be back in a bit.
“Check on everyone when you’re done,” he sends, because Johnson is setting up the athletic field for the morning sport electives before bunking down.
“Alright man, do what you gotta do to push the plot forward,” comes the swift reply. Kent shrugs, Johnson is a really, really weird dude, then he pulls on a Polo sweater and starts off for the wooded path behind the theatre.
The haunted showers are considered haunted largely because they’re mostly out of use and situated along a trail that used to have a series of cabins before Samwell Lake was renovated in the mid ‘90s. Their current camp director, George, keeps hinting that the showers will be torn down soon, going the way of the buildings that used to be tucked into the woods around them, but so far the hut has held out in all its eerie glory. There’s a persistent rumor that George doesn’t actually mean it and is only adding her own touch to Samwell lore. Kent thinks that’s pretty likely. Samwell Lake is the kind of place that makes you want to leave a mark.
And everyone at camp seems to have some feeling one way or another about the haunted showers, which have lights that only work sometimes and showers that weirdly still turn on. A brave camper or two each summer will even use them when the normal, nice, bright shower hut is full and the line in his or her bunk is too long. The haunted rumor, largely correlated to the lights issue, is very effective at keeping people away, including some counselors (see: Justin “Ransom” Oluransi, who won’t even walk by them, going around what is one of Samwell’s best shortcuts to avoid the shower hut at all costs). Thus, the showers are a prime make-out location. Once upon a time, during another Fourth of July, Kent had even had the good fortune to use them for that purpose. But that was a long time ago, and he hasn’t managed to get Jack back there since.
It’s a little chilly for a mid-July night, even in Maine, and Kent rubs at his arms to get his blood flowing as he trudges up the dirt path to the appointed meeting place. It’s dark. It’s really fucking dark. He really should have brought a flashlight, but he’d been too preoccupied with just getting out here. The light from his phone does little to illuminate the path, because Maine is the darkest place on earth in the middle of fucking nowhere which is where Samwell Lake is conveniently located. The hut comes into view, and Kent breathes an unexpected sigh of relief that he can see a lantern sitting on the ground outside the entrance and a shadowy figure beside it. Well, someone thought ahead.
He takes the last few yards at a brisk pace, trying to keep quiet and maintain the element of surprise just in case. He thinks he can see the cherry of a lit cigarette and there might be a whiff of smoke in the air, but he can’t think of anyone at camp who smokes. Hmm. Kent narrows his eyes against the dark; he has literally no idea who he’s about to end up meeting. It sends a little thrill through him, unexpected and pleasant. Maybe someone has a crush on him. That would be a nice surprise. Maybe he’s about to be murdered, less nice, but thankfully less likely. His heart rate picks up regardless and he takes the last few steps up to the hut as silently as possible.
“Parson,” exclaims Eric Bittle on a choked off little cough. He drops the cigarette he was absolutely just smoking. What the hell.
“Bittle,” says Kent, brought up short. “That was your note?”
Bittle stubs out his interrupted cigarette with surprising nonchalance, then he shrugs with one coy shoulder.
“What do you want?” Kent eyes at him critically. Bittle is...cute, with his dumb side shave and big eyes. And he looks good in his cutoff jean shorts and his blue hoodie, Kent is willing to admit that. He’s also one of the only other counselors who isn’t semi/deep in the closet, and Kent has a begrudging respect for him, that he chose to be out right away, despite not having any kind of history at Samwell Lake like he does, like Jack does.
Bittle crosses his arms over his chest, fiddles with the string on his hood. “I thought we ought to talk.”
“Talk?” Kent repeats. He’d forgotten how thick Bittle’s Georgia accent is. Guess they haven’t had too many occasions to speak one-on-one. Kent’s mostly been too busy glaring.
“I thought we should talk like civilized men, because.” He swallows. Kent can see his adam’s apple move. “Because we have a mutual interest.”
“Zimms,” Kent says at the same time that Bittle says, “Jack.”
“Right.”
“A mutual interest?” Kent raises an eyebrow. “I guess you could call it that.”
Bittle huffs out a laugh. “Well, it’s certainly not a mutual reality, because I’m not getting anywhere.”
“You’re not?”
“Lord knows I’m trying,” Bittle says a little wistfully, and Kent feels an embarrassing surge of relief. If Jack isn’t getting with anyone then he might not be the problem. For once.
“So what, we both have a….” Crush, Kent’s brain supplies unhelpfully. “Thing for the same guy. So what?”
“I just think we could.” Bittle pauses and gestures between them. “Help each other out?”
“You want to pool resources? You realize that’s crazy, right? You don’t even know Jack.”
“He’s my co-counselor, I live with him.”
Right. That could be… useful. “So what do you propose? Swapping notes?”
“Let’s call it a may the best man win scenario, if you will.” Bittle grins, all perfect white teeth in the lantern light. “We’ll stay out of each other’s way and report back on any progress made in the interim, share anything of value. When one of us gets there first” —the innuendo in Bittle’s voice makes Kent smirk— “the other has to back off gracefully.
“What if Jack ends up messing around with someone who’s not us?”
Bittle gives him a look like, “not very likely, pal,” then he shudders. “I guess we’ll have each other then.”
That makes Kent laugh outright. He might not actually mind that. If he weren’t so fucking hung up on Jack Zimmermann and his repressed Canadian heart.
“Alright, Bitty, I’ll stay out of your way and you stay out of mine. I look forward to the gory details, if you get that far.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Isn’t it always?”
“You’re on,” Bittle says. He offers his hand, his slender wrist ringed in about 100 friendship bracelets.
They shake, and Kent would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little electric charge go through him at the contact. Five weeks is certainly a long enough time for things to get interesting.
---
Nothing changes, though, not really.
He still tries to catch Jack in the rare moment alone. He still beats off in the shower late at night thinking about Jack, and a relationship that never really was, and some stolen kisses that have meant far too much to him for far too long.
Mostly he watches Bittle.
Mostly he stays out of the way completely, and watches Bittle try, and fail, to get Jack to do anything but occasionally sit with him during camp activities. He has no idea what goes on in their bunk at night, and based on Bittle’s unflagging good mood, it’s hard to tell what he’s actually feeling; but Kent has caught him staring meaningfully at Jack enough times to know that nothing of serious concern can be happening between them. Bittle is just as hard up as he is, and Bittle is working for it. He’s all kinds of flirty sass, and Oh, Mr. Zimmermann!, and frankly it’s insane that Jack isn’t falling for it, because if Kent were on the receiving end of that much attention, he’d have had Eric Bittle on his back by now. Or on his knees.
Not that Kent has considered that possibility.
Much.
---
It takes almost a week, but Kent finally spots Jack alone the following Friday.
It’s early evening, and Jack is wandering down Lake Samwell’s uneven shoreline, edging along the the rocky few feet between the water and the tall pines trees. He's got a bag with him, and his camera, and Kent can see him idly taking pictures of the lake, and what looks like a regatta off in the distance. He can see Jack considering each shot, the way he adjusts his lens and then looks out at the water once more before taking a photo. Everything about him seems cautious and thoughtful, like he’s afraid nature will notice him.
Jack hadn’t always been so skittish.
As campers, they had been notorious pranksters of the first degree, and inseparable. He and Jack shared the same bunk all the way from their Frog year (age 8) to their Junior year (age 16), and they always stayed the full eight weeks. They were Color War captains together. They were best friends. But between 16 and 20 something changed. Kent still doesn't know what exactly went wrong, why Jack withdrew from him, why he didn’t enroll at McGill like he’d planned.
Truth be told, he’s surprised Jack came back to Samwell as a counselor; he’s surprised Jack came back to Samwell at all.
The thing about Jack, is that he comes from a camping family, and everyone had expected him to go work for his father when the time came and they aged out of Samwell. When they were kids it made sense; it would have been strange if Jack had gone to Camp Walden, where his father, “Bad Bob” Zimmermann, was the fourth in his line to own and operate the camp. And Walden was a nice camp; plusher than Samwell by far, the major league of sleepaway camps, idyllic and lovely on a stately Adirondack campus. Kent knew how beautiful Walden was because he’d visited Jack there one winter when the Zimmermanns had come down from Montreal for off-season maintenance. Kent and Jack had played a game of pick-up hockey on Trout Lake, whooping in the cold air, and falling exhausted into a snow bank after. But that feels like a very long time ago now.
Kent knows this: Jack loves camp, it’s in his blood. He’s serious and kind and one of Samwell’s best counselors. But Jack should be at Walden, he should be more than the waterfront activities manager, more than Bunk 15’s co-counselor. Kent would have followed him to Walden in a heartbeat; in fact, he’d planned to. But he didn’t hear from Jack after their last summer as campers, and when Kent came back as a counselor himself, Jack was at Samwell. His hair was shorter, and his eyes were sadder, but he had the same indomitable spirit that Kent remembered. Their relationship was what changed the most, and he’s still not sure why.
Kent swipes a hand through his hair and breaks into a jog as he heads down from the great lawn to the shoreline. Jack is standing still, camera cradled against his chest. His head is tilted to the side in contemplation. His posture is perfect. Jack is frustratingly well-formed.
“Hey Zimms,” Kent calls out, as he gets closer. “Who you posing for?”
Jack turns around and smiles at him with half his mouth. He lifts up the camera and snaps a photo of Kent coming towards him.
“Not you, that’s for sure,” Jack calls back, easy.
“Can I see?” Kent asks, nodding at the camera when he reaches Jack’s side.
“Sure, when they’re developed. Haven’t you ever seen a real camera before?”
Kent rolls his eyes. “Give me instant gratification over a darkroom any day.”
“You would,” Jack says, and he sounds unmistakably fond.
Kent feels a familiar tug at his heart. The worst (best) thing about Jack is how easy it is to fall right back into it with him, how easy it is to just pretend everything is exactly as it was, as it should be. That is, until Kent slips up and says the wrong thing and Jack shutters away all of his friendliness, before his face becomes a guarded mask, and Kent loses him again like summer slips away. But he has always been pragmatic; he’ll take what he can get right now.
“I appreciate art,” Kent says with mock offense.
Jack just looks at him.
Kent nudges him with his shoulder and Jack nudges back, and for a moment it seems like they’re gearing up to get into a full-on tussle before Jack laughs and says, “stop, jerk.”
“Fine, I appreciate your art,” Kent amends, and doesn’t even try to keep the innuendo out of his voice. That makes Jack snort, and he throws an arm around Kent’s shoulders, slinging his camera over his free one. Jack is warm, and he smells so familiar, like sunscreen and Polo Sport. Kent has to stop himself from creepily inhaling as much of him in as he can. Together they look out over Lake Samwell, which sparkles in the waning daylight.
“How’re your campers?” Jack asks, tone serious. Some of the ease between them ebbs away.
“Bunch of little shits.” Kent shrugs.
“Bunch of little shits,” Jack echoes. “Like we were any better, eh?"
“Oh, they’re much better than we were. They’re angels in comparison.”
“In comparison to you, you mean.” Kent can hear the smile in Jack’s voice and he glances over at him against his better judgement. And there it is, Jack’s smile, rarer than the rarest birds these days.
Of course Jack turns to look at him at that exact moment, and then their faces are so close together that they’re sharing the same air. He can see the flecks of yellow in Jack's pale blue eyes. Kent reaches out and takes Jack’s wrist in his. They’re right in the open, and Jack leans in closer still. Kent can feel the warmth of his breath. Jack is going to kiss him, and Kent drops his wrist, Kent steps away. He fakes a yawn. Jack’s arm pulls across the top of his t-shirt as he steps back again, and stretches his arms above his head, his torso extending. He makes a show of rolling his shoulders and shakes off Jack’s touch.
“You just pretend to be good,” Kent says, grinning through a deep breath when he's got it together.
“Yeah…” Jack says quietly. “I guess I kind of do.” He frowns down at the lake.
Fuck.
“Jack?”
“Hmm?”
Kent can feel whatever was building between them dissipate completely, like fog after rain.
“I didn’t mean anything—”
“Drop it, Parse.”
Kent inhales sharply. “You don’t have to shut me out, you know. I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s not the point.” Jack shakes his head tersely.
“Then what are you so afraid of?” He can’t help himself, he’s back at Jack’s side, a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“Kenny, stop—”
“Jack, I miss you.” Kent cuts him off and Jack’s mouth twists into a grimace.
“We talked about this,” he says.
“No, you talked, I tried other tactics.”
That gets a quiet, helpless laugh out of Jack, and Kent squeezes his shoulder, feels the muscles and sinew there.
“Listen,” Jack says, making eye contact. “I miss you too. You have to know that.”
Kent shrugs.
“I do.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
“Kenny!”
Jack sounds so exasperated that Kent can’t stop the hint of a smile on his face. He turns and puts both his hands on Jack’s shoulders, puts his own back to the lake. Jack is especially taller than him on the rocky, uneven ground, but having to look up at him has never really bothered Kent. Jack is eyeing him pretty warily for someone he was just about to kiss.
“Zimms,” Kent says, shaking him just a little, “you know what I want. You know where to find me. Okay?” He tries to sound confident, reassuring, but mostly it comes out kind of smug. That’s his curse.
“Alright, Parse. Alright.” Jack nods, unfazed.
“Good.” Kent leans up and in, and when Jack doesn’t shift away he presses a very gentle kiss at the corner of his mouth. It’s probably the most self-control he’s exercised in his entire life.
Jack sighs heavily when Kent pulls away, his eyes have fallen shut.
“Time to round up the runts,” Kent says softly.
“Yeah,” Jack says. “It is.”
---
Bittle’s favorite CIT (Kent knows because he’s seen how intensely Bittle dotes on the kid) brings him the next note, and this one is actually covered in glitter. It gets all over his wet swimsuit, and Chowder has the nerve to laugh.
“Not cool,” Kent says, but Chowder just shrugs and pulls his Sharks hat down lower on his brow.
“See you around, Parson,” he says, before heading back the way he came, presumably towards the Arts & Crafts yurt which is Bittle’s domain.
Heard about the lake. Same place, same time, tonight, reads the note. Kent attempts to brush some of the offending glitter off his lap, but ends up with a sparkly chest instead.
Lame.
---
Despite being pretty far north, Maine gets sticky on the brink of August. The air thickens up, the mornings are hazy, and Kent is uncomfortably sweaty even several hours after nightfall. It’s terrible. A storm will come, and the heat will break, but until then he’ll suffer through completely unmanageable hair and general discomfort.
Because of the heat, the walk to the haunted showers starts to feel like a trudge, and Kent slaps at an errant mosquito on his forearm. He makes a disgusted noise at himself. Sure, he could have ignored Bittle’s note, it’s not like they have a binding contract, and all’s fair in love and war...but. Some part of Kent has a hardon for sportsmanship, and heeding Bittle’s summons feels like part of the game they’re playing. And he’s curious. He hadn’t expected their “deal” to extend to actually meeting up again.
While he may not like Bittle much, Kent certainly finds him intriguing. Especially standing in the shadow of the shower hut in short shorts and a loose necked tank top with another cigarette dangling from his paint-stained fingers. Kent can see his tan lines where his shirt rides up and a thin sheen of sweat across his chest. It’s a good view.
“Where do you even get those?” he asks, startling Bittle once again (much to his satisfaction).
“Lardo.” Bittle looks down at his cigarette. “You know, Bunk 8.”
Kent knows. Lardo is Larissa Duan. She’s a head shorter than him, and scares the living crap out of him; has since they were campers together. Jack loves her, though.
“I don’t smoke,” Bittle adds, exhaling.
“I can see that.”
Bittle pulls a face and stubs out his cigarette on the concrete outside the shower hut door. He hooks a thumb wordlessly toward the woods and they both hunker down on a mossy log set slightly into the trees.
"So?" Kent says expectantly. "You rang?"
"Didja like the glitter?" Bittle bites his lower lip like he's trying not to smirk.
"Yeah it was a riot. I think I've still got some on me. Asshole."
"Glitter is a occupational hazard when you're a figure skater and the arts counselor," says Bittle airily.
"You skate?" Kent gives him a more focused once over. He does have nice calves, toned thighs. Huh.
"Mmmhmmm, you're looking at a South Atlantic Regional champion," Bittle drawls.
"I used to skate," Kent offers. "Hockey."
"No one is shocked. Jack told me about playing a pick-up game with you once." His expression turns a little lecherous as he gazes off beyond Kent. "Hockey players. You can tell Jack used to play. You, too."
Kent knows Bittle is talking about his ass and that's...amusing. He coughs against his fist and Bittle comes back from wherever he went.
“You and Jack talk a lot?” He tries not to sound too eager, but Bittle lifts an eyebrow at him anyway.
“Sure. Late at night, after all the kids are down. We sit out on the steps sometimes. Jack, um, Jack doesn’t sleep very well.”
Kent remembers and he can’t believe he hasn’t noticed them outside Bunk 15 in the middle of the night. He can’t believe he missed something so obvious.
“Talk about me a lot?” he ventures, and immediately regrets it.
“Some.” Bittle shrugs. “I know you’ve gotten just about as far as I have.”
“This summer,” Kent says, then: “Wait, you’ve kissed?”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, Mr. Parson. Tsk, tsk.”
"Isn’t that the point of this little tête–à–tête?”
Bittle looks momentarily annoyed, then he smiles that sunny grin he’s got, all sugar sweet. “There’s been kissing,” he allows.
“Kissing plural?”
Bittle blushes, color high across his freckled cheeks. “Just the once.”
“Ok.”
“Ok,” Bittle repeats and they sit in silence for a minute, until Bittle opens his mouth and then abruptly closes it.
“What?” Kent asks, watching him fidget.
“Listen... Do you. Do you know why Jack isn’t at his dad’s camp?”
Kent’s mouth thins into a line, he looks at Bittle, whose expression is open and not unkind.
“It’s just,” Bittle continues, “he’s talked about it a little, with me, and. I thought you might want to know?”
“Did he.” Kent’s mouth feels suddenly dry. “Did he come out and...? Did they….I mean, the Zimmermanns always seemed like they knew. About us.”
“No, no. Nothing like that. They do know—” Bittle laughs a little awkwardly and looks away, “maybe not about ‘you’, but they know Jack’s queer or whatever.”
“So?”
“Strict no addicts policy,” Bittle mumbles into his lap. “He, um, he went to rehab, I guess.”
“Oh, oh.”
Kent feels a sharp twinge of self-hate because he’s not...he’s not shocked. Jack had always been reckless, they had always been reckless. The ropes course with no belay kind of reckless. In the end it seemed like Jack’s recklessness was really about something else, something deeper, but Kent only saw a hint of his anxiety their last summer. The whole eight weeks Jack had been in a state; unpredictable and even more aggressively teasing than they usually were with each other. Kent had assumed it was stress about going to college, about aging out of Samwell. But then he’d noticed the pills in Jack’s shower caddy and he wasn’t so sure any more. He’d never thought to ask. Maybe he should have, especially when one tree-hidden make out session had turned into a full-blown panic attack for Jack. He’d been… stupid. He cannot believe he had to hear this from Eric Bittle.
“I have to go,” Kent says, and stands up so fast blood rushes to his head.
"Kent, wait—" Bittle tries to halt him, but he's already long gone.
---
Then, a week later, Bunk 15 goes on a canoe trip with the outward bound counselors. And that leaves Bittle and Jack with an empty cabin all to themselves. For four whole days. That won’t do at all.
Kent sends the note this time.
---
Bittle is smug as hell when he meets Kent up at the showers the next night. He’s fucking skipping like the tiny wood nymph he looks like, and he’s carrying a little bag with him that he offers to Kent with a flourish.
“Trail mix?”
“It’s apple pie flavored. I made it for my campers before they left.”
“You brought me trail mix?”
“It’s hardly a good enough consolation prize considering.” Bittle smiles real big at him. This time neither one of them brought a lantern, but it’s a clear night and Kent can see the glint of Bittle’s teeth in the moonlight through the trees.
“So this is gloating trail mix.”
“Hey, you sent the note, Parse. I’d wager you’re a little nervous I’m about to pull ahead.”
“I’m not,” Kent says right away.
“Four days is a long time,” Bittle sing-songs.
“Not when you’re bluffing about your progress. Which you are.” Kent leans back against the worn shower hut siding and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Well, maybe I am. But four days is still a long time.”
It is, thinks Kent. And what a shame for four days worth of empty bunk time to go to waste. What a crying shame that he’s spent the last few weeks paying almost as much attention to Bittle as he has to Jack.
“Shouldn’t let it go to waste,” Kent says after a long moment of staring each other down has passed.
Bittle takes a step closer and nods at the bag in Kent’s fist. “It’s good, you know. It’s really sweet, but not, you know, too sweet.”
“I’ll bet,” Kent says. Then he reaches out with his other hand and hooks it into Bittle’s hoodie pocket, pulls him in. Bittle goes easy, which isn’t surprising at all. Between the two of them there must be enough sexual frustration to fuel a bonfire.
“Guess what else isn’t too sweet,” Bittle says, real close, one hand falling on Kent’s shoulder. Kent shifts to wrap his arm around Bittle’s absurdly small waist.
“Don’t have to,” he says.
Bittle tilts his pretty face up and kisses him, which is a nice change of pace from always having to be the one to make the first move. He’s not much shorter than Kent, but he’s short enough that Kent would much rather have him up against the wall, would much rather be bearing down on him than have Bittle trying to press him into scratchy wood. Kent drops the trail mix, and Bittle makes a muted noise of protest against his mouth, but quiets when Kent flips them around and gets both of Bittle’s wrists, and all of those stupid bracelets, into one of his hands and above his head.
“Oh my goodness,” Bittle drawls, high pitched and breathy when Kent eases a knee between his bare legs, and slides a hand up the back of his shirt.
“You play that Southern belle card pretty well,” Kent says against his neck, taking a moment to nip at his earlobe, which makes Bittle squirm and press down against his thigh.
“You play the asshole card pretty well.”
Bittle’s reply is far too quick and coherent for Kent’s liking. That’s ok, he can fix that. He kisses Bittle again, keeps his wrists tight in his fist, and keeps kissing him until they’re both panting and his lips feel swollen and wet. Bittle is grinding against him, and the friction is certainly doing things for Kent as well. And it’s hot, if a little desperate. Bittle is hot. He’s responsive and the way his back keeps arching has Kent full of ideas. It’s not love, but it’s something. It’s worlds better than nothing.
“Parse, Parson,” Bittle says against his mouth, and pulls back.
“What?”
“We should stop.”
Kent drops his wrists almost immediately and Bittle rubs at them for a second before adjusting his shorts around his erection. Kent watches unabashedly and smirks when Bittle has the audacity to blush.
“Ok. We stopped.”
Bittle rolls his eyes. “Just. Come by tomorrow, ok? We have the same free periods. I checked.”
“Who knew you were a such a creep.” Kent is legitimately a little bit thrilled.
“I’m observant.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Lord above,” Bittle says huffily, tugging his shirt into place. “See you tomorrow, and eat your trail mix.” Then he takes off down the path on his apparently very fast little legs.
The trail mix is really good.
---
After lunch the next day, Kent redoes his hair and attempts to smooth his cowlick into submission to a chorus of Parse has got a girlfriend, Parse has got a girlfriend from his shithead campers as he very obviously primps.
“There’s nothing wrong with looking your best,” he tells them. “You’ll figure that out at some point.” It’s hard to get them to shower most days, so he’s not going to press the issue.
It’s Tuesday, which means he has a two hour CPR certification class for the Junior campers, and then. Then it’s off to Bunk 15. Kent changes into a fresh pair of swim trunks and a crisp blue oxford; thankfully he won’t be back in the lake again today. He takes one more look at his hair before rounding up his kids and hustling them off to their afternoon electives. From the great lawn the kids disperse to the theatre, and the docks, to tennis courts, and the stables. Kent watches them go; Johnson will get everyone to Flagpole before dinner.
Then he heads down to the lake. Two more hours until who knows what. The expectation makes his stomach flip over.
He’s demonstrating CPR on a dummy and all he keeps thinking is that Bittle must want to make out again. Why else would he invite Kent to his empty cabin. Why else would he know when Kent’s free periods were. Or maybe Bittle had been keeping tabs on him as well. Kent wouldn’t put it past him; Bittle has been surprising at every turn. He’s especially surprised that he chose to tell Kent about Jack’s...issues. Kent’s glad of it, even if it smarts that Jack hadn’t told him himself. It’s not like they’re as close as they once were. Bittle had called himself observant. Maybe Kent hasn’t been observant enough for a long time. He can feel himself getting distracted and concentrates on the rubber mouth beneath his, on his chest compressions.
He wonders how the Zimmermanns found out about Jack’s problem.
The question stays with him until he’s on his way up from the beach, his Ray Bans firmly in place, his whole body tingly with nervous energy.
---
The Middie cabins are located at the furthest edge of camp, up and away from the lake, and well past Flagpole. It’s the longest walk to the mess hall on the other side of camp, but the Middie cabins, in their pleasant half circle, have a quietude the rest of Samwell Lake lacks. Bunk 15 is at the end of the curved line, closest to the lake, trees to its back. Kent's heart is truly racing by the time he gets there, and the cabins are blessedly still, all the campers taking part in their activities elsewhere.
He's lifting up a hand to knock when the door opens before his fist makes contact.
"Parson," Bittle says by way of greeting, one eyebrow raised.
Kent smirks. The game is on.
"Glad you came." Bittle gestures him inside and closes both the screen door and the wooden one behind it. He goes to rummage around in a big trunk at the end of a plaid covered bed and Kent is left standing in front of the door. He shifts his hips and tucks his hands in his pockets, concentrates on looking as relaxed as possible. Fake it 'til you make it.
Bunk 15 looks exactly like his bunk. Looks exactly like every other bunk, with a line of beds on each side, two of which are bunk beds. The counselors' beds are against the interior wall, and Jack's bed is instantly recognizable and not just in contrast to Bittle's. He can see a picture of Jack and his parents, standing in front of Trout Lake when Jack was younger, tacked up above his pillow. And Jack's infinitely stupid "Be Better" poster is hanging there as well. Kent hates that fucking poster, especially now.
Bittle's bed is an entirely different story. He's got way too many pillows for camp and the whole thing is covered with a canopy. How the hell he gets away with that fire hazard is beyond Kent.
"Is that mosquito netting?" he asks, when Bittle turns around with a sneaky little smile.
"This southern boy does not fuck around,” Bittle says. He parts the gauzy fabric and pats the bed, an invitation which Kent will happily take and he crosses the bunk in two long strides, only struggling with the netting for a moment.
“Pick four colors,” Bittle says matter-of-factly, and offers him a plastic hobby box full of embroidery thread
“What?”
“Pick your colors, we’re testing out patterns.”
“Wait, what?” Kent gapes.
Bittle rolls his eyes. “We're making friendship bracelets. You can help.” He leaves a long pause between each word, like maybe Kent’s forgotten English, and pats the comforter a little closer to his bare thigh, so much skin visible beyond his shorts that it’s distracting. Kent scoots closer. He must be wearing an exceptionally put out expression, because Bittle hands him the hobby box with a shit eating grin as annoying as it is alluring.
“Why, whatever did you think I’d invited you over for?” Bittle wonders, his accent so thick Kent thinks he could taste it. If they… well. Nevermind.
Ok, fine. Kent smiles gamely. “Show me the ropes.”
Bittle sets him up with four long pieces of thread in Samwell red and white. He folds them in half, and attaches the knotted top loop to a safety pin, which he pokes into Kent’s swimsuit.
“These are my good trunks,” Kent protests.
“It’s a tiny hole,” Bittle says dismissively and pins a much more complicated series of threads to his own, practically threadbare, gym shorts. “Okay, ready?”
Kent nods down at his ruined bathing suit.
Friendship bracelets are a complicated series of tiny knots. Bittle’s fingers are deft and quick and 20 minutes later his threads are quickly taking the shape of a series of diamonds. Kent has barely managed to get through three chevrons, and even though Bittle keeps pausing to tell him how well he’s doing, he knows it is a lost cause.
“You know I fucking suck at this,” Kent grunts, after taking out a whole row of backwards knots.
“I like watching you try, though.” Bittle looks at him sidelong, and Kent could swear he’s trying for seductive.
“Oh yeah?” He reaches out and tugs on Bittle’s strings, leaves his hand at the hem of shorts.
“Yeah,” Bittle whispers, before practically lunging at him.
Kent's hand ends up caught between their bodies, palm against Bittle’s thigh as Bittle presses him into the thin mattress. He catches Bittle’s mouth with his, slips his hand just slightly to the left, and bites down hard on Bittle’s lower lip. Bittle stutters out a gasp, and clutches at Kent’s shoulders, before chasing Kent’s teeth with his tongue. Eventually the hobby box is upended onto the floor by the force of them shoving each other toward the pillows at one end of the bed.
They end up with Kent against the wall, his shirt unbuttoned and his shorts untied, and Bittle in his lap. He has his hands on Bittle’s ass, and they’re kissing sloppily, wet, and loud. Kent knows he’s making rough sounds each time Bittle circles his hips and he couldn’t give a shit because the friction is so, so good. Bittle pulls back for a second, and cocks his head at him. His mouth is berry bright, and slick, and his eyes look glassy.
“Fuck,” Kent groans.
Bittle’s eyes widen, and Kent tips him onto his back, and shifts over him.
“Fuck, you’re hot, you know that?” he says, and that makes Bittle smile at him so full of sunshine that it’s out of place, and fills Kent with another rolling wave of lust. Then he’s kissing down Bittle’s slender neck, over the dusting of freckles on his shoulders, shoving his shirt up, and continuing his way down the lithe, tanned expanse of Bittle’s chest and stomach, and Bittle has one hand thrown back behind his head and the other on Kent’s shoulder, little fingers digging in.
Kent’s mouth and fingers just reach the waistband on Bittle's shorts, and Kent is slipping his fingers beneath the band, his mouth sucking lightly at the soft spot below his belly button when Bittle pushes his hand away.
Kent looks up. Bittle is bright pink all the way down his neck. It's adorable. Ugh.
"What?" He asks, more forceful than he means to be.
"I haven't done anything like this before."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously." Bittle frowns, and his arm drops down by his side. He props himself up on his elbow.
"Hey, hey man, that's cool. This is easy," Kent says, and takes Bittle's hand. “Can I call you Bitty?”
“Who’s stopping you?”
“We don’t have to do anything, Bitty.”
“But I want to. I just. I thought you should know.” He nods seriously.
“Well that’s good,” Kent says. “Just…” he hooks a thumb under Bitty’s waistband, “stop me if I go to far.”
“I can do that,” Bitty says, and continues to watch as Kent mouths at his soft stomach, at the tight muscle beneath tanned, supple skin. Jack is missing out. Eric Bittle with his face all flushed and his shirt rucked up and his mouth dropped open is one of the hottest things Kent has ever seen. And he’s no stranger to sexy shit. He nips at Bitty’s hip bone, and Bitty gasps. Oh yes.
Then the cabin's interior door slams open.
Kent startles, he’s scrambling off of Bitty, backing off of him, before he has a chance to think.
“Oh my gosh,” Bittle says.
Kent looks toward the door, holding his undone swim trunks together at the waist, to find Jack, Jack fucking Zimmermann, standing on the threshold with his beach towel in one hand, and his other hand gripping the collar of his t-shirt, the bro’s pearl clutch.
“Hey Zimms,” Kent says.
“I’m so sorry." Bittle is right on his heels.
“What the fuck,” says Jack, barely audible, staring.
“Um….” Bittle trails off. He pulls his shirt down.
Jack is shaking his head, his whole body is practically shaking, and he’s turning to go. “Maudit marde,” he mutters, and Kent just catches the tail end of the curse, but it’s impossible to miss Jack’s erection, visible in his swim trunks.
Kent frees himself from the embroidery thread tangled around his legs, and he's up before Jack has his hand on the door handle.
“Don’t go,” Kent says, one hand on Jack’s forearm. He’s still breathless from kissing.
Jack looks at him, really really looks at him. He makes this helpless sound, half a sob and half a moan, and Kent is pretty sure horrified arousal is going to break Jack two. He takes the towel gently from Jack’s hand and sets it down. He takes both of Jack’s hands in his.
“Kenny,” Jack says, “what the hell?” But he lets Kent pull him past the gauzy curtains around Bittle’s bed and down onto the mattress, Bittle on Jack’s other side.
Bittle is biting his lips, and he’s still so flushed from making out and embarrassment, and Kent is shocked to find that even with Jack’s hand in his, and Jack’s thigh pressed against his thigh, he still wants to eat Bittle whole. Jack keeps looking between them with his brow all furrowed and his eyes about as wide as they get.
"I can explain," Bittle stammers out, all the bravado he apparently stores up for Kent evaporated. Kent takes a different avenue.
"We like you," he says over him. "Right, Bitty?"
Bittle colors even further at the look Jack gives him, like he can't believe Bittle has thrown his weight in with Kent in the weird sex Olympics.
"We do," Bittle says after visibly collecting himself.
"Okay."
"This whole thing." Kent gestures between the three of them. "Is only happening because we like you."
"Ah." Jack's expression turns mischievous, a little bit of patented Zimmermann snark sneaking back in. Kent can feel the joke coming. “So you got together for strategic purposes and accidentally wound up with your shorts half off, eh?”
Bittle snorts inelegantly.
“Actually not far from the truth,” Kent says consideringly.
“This is absurd,” Jack adds.
“Oh my gosh, I know,” says Bittle.
Jack rubs both of his palms over his face and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He laughs to himself, that tiny self-deprecating laugh that Kent has become too familiar with lately.
“Stay,” Kent says. “Stay and make it more absurd.”
Jack peers at him between his fingers.
“You’re not scared, are you?” Kent turns his smirk up to 100%. Just like old times, just like they're still kids and those are still the magic words to get Jack to give in.
Jack’s pupils dilate. “I’m not sure," he says, like someone who wants to be.
“Zimms, stay,” Kent tries again.
“Kenny.”
“Stay and watch, at least? Things were just about to get good.” Kent reaches out behind Jack and puts his hand on Bitty’s bare knee, his forearm pressed against Jack’s lower back. Jack takes a shaky breath, and offers up a half smile, and Kent knows they’ve got him.
Bitty looks like he’s visibly restraining himself from cheering when Jack makes himself comfortable against Bitty’s frankly obscene number of pillows.
“No one needs this many pillows, Bittle,” Jack grouses, even as he arranges two of them behind his back, propping himself up against the wall.
Kent grins wolfishly at him, all teeth, and says to Bitty, “so where were we?”
“You, um.” Bitty looks at Jack and Jack nods at him, permission granted. “You were going to go down on me,” he finishes off quietly.
“I have a better idea,” Jack says, surprising both of them, and from the look of it, himself. “C’mere Bittle.” He reaches out and Bitty scrambles over Kent to get to him, settling himself astride Jack’s lap.
“You’ve been plotting against me?” Jack says. He brushes Bitty’s bangs off and away from his forehead, and smoothes his hand over the back of Bitty’s head, down to the nape of his neck. Kent watches the movement covetously, feels a sharp pang of jealousy at how familiar Jack is with Bitty.
“You know I’d never….Yes.”
Jack shakes his head, and laughs quietly. His expression is so fond, and he cups Bitty’s cheek in his palm. Bitty leans into it, Kent can tell. So he placates himself by scooting in close to them and putting his hand on Bitty’s lower back. It’s awful of him, but he loves how tiny Bitty is, loves that he’s completely bitesized. And to be fair, Kent likes not being the small one for once, and he can’t take his eyes off Bitty with Jack, can feel the charge between them. It’s hot and bright, not the worn path of affection and desire he can sense from Jack when they’re alone together, nor the sluttish desperation he and Bitty shared today (or the day before).
“We haven’t even gotten to kiss properly,” Jack says, and Bitty lifts his head up, eyes saucer wide, to press their lips together. Kent could swear he hears another muffled laugh, and he stays put rubbing circles on Bitty’s tanned lower back while Jack and Bitty gasp into each other’s mouths. Bitty wraps his arms around Jack’s neck and holds on.
He doesn’t feel left out. Kent wants more, wants all of it.
When Jack and Bitty come apart, Bitty’s face is downright blotchy and his lashes are fluttering, and Jack is looking at him with those heavy lidded bedroom eyes like Bitty is something else. He really is.
“Jack. Jack, can I….” Bitty blinks a couple times, and Kent presses the palm that isn't feeling Bitty up, down on his dick through his swim trunks. “Jack, can I blow you? Would you let me?”
Kent’s dick jerks against his palm. He’s 20 years old. He’s had threesomes before (University of Nevada, Las Vegas campus is a hotbed of sin, but who’s complaining?), but this is different. Jack kisses along Bitty’s neck until Bitty makes a broken sound and whispers “please?” and Kent thinks he might die, sitting here watching Bitty slide down Jack’s shorts with shaky hands. Jack tenderly runs his fingers over Bitty’s scalp, strokes through his hair where it’s long and sun bleached on top.
Kent knows. He fucking knows Bitty’s never done this before and God help him that makes it even hotter. Makes watching Bitty shimmy down Jack’s legs with his ass up even hotter than it might be otherwise. He feels feverish, a little bit dizzy from it, the tips of ears feel like burning.
“Hang on,” he says before he means to. Bitty looks over his shoulder and bites his lip questioningly.
“Kenny?”Jack sounds unsure. "You okay?”
“I am fucking great,” Kent says, and he means it. He really, really means it. “Lemme just…” He slides off the bed and moves to stand next to the propped up pillows Jack is leaning against.
“Scooch forward,” he says, and Jack obliging moves down the bed a little and lets Kent climb in behind him and bracket Jack’s legs with his own. Jack settles back against him, perfect ass right up against Kent’s erection, and Jack must feel it when Kent gets his hand between Jack’s back and his groin. He grips Jack’s hip with the other, gentle pressure.
Bitty looks up at them and exhales unsteadily.
Jack is staring intently at Bitty as he tugs down Jacks' swimsuit, and Kent has to press his face into Jack’s neck to keep from losing it right then. He can feel Jack’s groan when Bitty gets his mouth on him. One of Jack’s hands grips Kent’s thigh, and Kent finally gets a fist around himself, his erection jutting up under Jack’s shirt, flesh on flesh. The sounds alone are brain melting, because whatever Bitty lacks in experience he’s clearly making up for in enthusiasm. Jack’s thighs keep tensing and relaxing, and when Bitty stops to whisper, “is this okay?” Kent says, “fuck yes.”
Jack tilts his head to look at him as incredulously as he can, and Kent just grinds against his ass, and kisses him, and kisses him until he freezes in Kent’s arms. He can tell when Jack is about to come. Has only seen it twice, but will never forget the strangled Quebecois swears, or the way his whole body tensed up. The hand on Kent’s thigh gets even tighter, and Kent starts working himself over in earnest.
“Bitty,” Jack bites out. “You should—”
But instead of moving, Kent watches Bitty fix his eyes on Jack and swallow down as much of his dick as he can. Jack shudders hard. One of Bitty’s hands lands on Kent’s thigh, fingers tangling up with Jack’s.
“Jesus fucking christ,” Kent mutters unintelligibly, and follows Jack all over his own fist.
Bitty sits back on his heels, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. He looks eager, a little unsure. His shorts are pulled down just enough. Jack may be boneless and heavy against Kent’s chest, but he says, “C’mere, Bits. Get over here,” and reaches for him, hauls Bitty up over both of them with his hands on Bitty’s hips.
Jack touches Bitty’s mouth, rubs his pointer finger along his bottom lip, and Bitty laps at him, kittenish. Jack looks awestruck.
“Jesus,” Kent says again and leans over Jack’s shoulder to kiss Bitty’s hot, bruised up mouth. He tastes like Jack, salt and spit, and if he hadn’t already finished he would be coming now. Bitty whimpers.
Jack says, “I've got you. I got you, Bits. Thank you.”
“Bless your heart,” Bitty mumbles against Kent’s lips, so Southern and so relieved.
Kent can feel Jack start to work him over good. He kisses Bitty deeply and holds him tight to Jack’s chest by the sweat-damp small of his back. Jack is sucking at Bitty’s neck, jerking him off, and brokenly whispering thank you, thank you, thank you against his skin.
---
"What the fuck happened to you three?” Shitty crows the moment he sees them at the counselors’ firepit the following night. Lardo is at his side, a beer in hand, and she looks at Kent like she can see right through him. She probably can
"What?” Jack feigns confusion. Classic Zimmermann.
“You motherfuckers are covered in fucking glitter.”
It’s not like they hadn’t tried to clean up—it’s just, most surfaces in the Arts and Crafts yurt were covered in glitter and Bunk 15’s campers had come back that morning.
Kent shrugs. “It’s hard to get off.”
"What? Did you get into a fight with a bunch of pixies?" Shitty laughs. "Oh my god, did you lose a fight with a bunch of pixies?"
“Shits,” Jack says monotone. “This isn’t a fantasy novel. This is camp.”
“Still.” Kent ruffles Bittle’s hair and smirks. “You could kind of say that.”
Bittle squeaks and turns bright red. For a second it looks like he’s about to turn tail, but Jack catches him around the waist and pulls him in tight between them. He leans down and Kent can hear him whisper, “you’re not going anywhere, Bits.”
Kent wraps an arm around Bittle’s shoulders to do his part, and when he catches Jack’s eye over Bittle's head Jack smiles full-on.
“Are you beautiful fucking weirdos wearing friendship bracelets too?” Shitty asks, gleeful.
Alright, Kent thinks. Alright.