mpreg jackrry, camping

[ferryboatpeak]

this takes place fourth of july weekend. idk how aneurin acquired a dog, it just happened.

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Any day that starts with waking in the clean grey light inside a tent is going to be a good day, and this one has already delivered. Jack’s already had an early morning swim and an egg sandwich from the camp stove. With the first beer of the day in one hand, he shakes open his camp chair with the other and digs the legs into the gritty sand at the edge of the lake. He stretches his feet into the water, situates his can of Budweiser in the pocket on the arm of the chair, and closes his eyes to bask in the morning sunshine.

He opens them when something heavy lands in his lap. It’s a roll of duct tape. Jack looks up at Barry, who’s situating himself on a log next to Jack’s chair. “What’s this for?”

“Sparkler bomb.” Barry pulls a box of sparklers out of a plastic bag that Jack can see contains many, many more boxes of sparklers. He remembers the roadside fireworks stand they passed at the turnoff to the lake yesterday. He and Tom hadn’t stopped. Clearly, Barry and Fionn had. The two of them had left the city first thing in the morning to secure Barry’s preferred campsite, the one at the far side of the lake with no other sites in earshot.

Barry empties the first box into his hand and bunches the sparklers together. “Hand me the tape.”

Jack does. This is probably a terrible idea, but he’s interested to see where it goes. Barry pulls out a length of tape and winds it around the sparklers. He rests them in his lap, still attached to the roll of duct tape, and opens a second box of sparklers. By the time Barry’s got three boxes taped together, Jack realizes this is going to go on for a while, and closes his eyes again.

He doesn’t bother to open them when he hears Tom splash out of the water and spread his towel out next to him. “Great day,” Tom says.

“Yeah.” The lake laps gently at Jack’s ankles. A heron squawks somewhere on the far side of the water. The duct tape unspools with a sticky ripping sound as Barry adds box after box of sparklers to his project.

Jack’s lazily considering whether to get another beer or give in to a midmorning nap in the sun when a car crunches up the gravel road behind them. The engine cuts off, and a moment later furious barking announces Gibson’s arrival. The German Shepherd tears down the beach and splashes into the shallows, waiting until Aneurin throws a toy out into the lake for him to retrieve.

“How was the drive?” Jack doesn’t bother to lift up his head from the back of his chair, just rolls it to the side to look at Aneurin.

“Just fine.” Gibson plunges toward the toy with great galumphing splashes until he hits depth and starts to paddle. “Was yesterday a bitch?”

“Fine for us,” Barry says. “These guys got the traffic, though.”

“We left too late.” Tom closes his book, keeping a finger in his place. “Took us five hours.”

Aneurin makes a sympathetic noise. Gibson turns back toward the beach, toy in his mouth. “Where’s Fionn?”

“Think he’s walking around the lake.” Barry abandons his sparkler bomb on the log and wades into the lake to catch Gibson’s attention. “Looking good, wolfdog.” When Gibson reaches shallow water, Barry catches the rope end of the toy dangling out of his mouth. He tugs it back and forth as the dog growls and splashes.

“Hey, Barry, keep him occupied while we unload?” Aneurin turns back toward his car when Barry gives him a thumbs-up, his other hand still engaged in tug-of-war with Gibson.

Jack follows Aneurin up to the campsite and retrieves a beer from the cooler. Barry’s Kiss Me, I’m Irish koozie is sitting unused at the end of the picnic table, so Jack appropriates it. He climbs up to sit on top of the table, feet on the bench, and watches as Lucy spreads out their tent.

“Mallet, babe?” Lucy turns around. “Oh, hi, Jack.”

“Hi, Luce.” Jack waves. “Want a beer?”

“After I get the tent up, thanks.” She slides a hair tie off her wrist and wraps her hair up in a bun.

“Mallet’s in my bag.” Aneurin shoves their cooler into the shade under the picnic table. Maybe Lucy brought deviled eggs. She usually brings deviled eggs. Jack can’t think of a polite way to ask without making it too obvious that he would like a deviled egg now, please.

Lucy unzips a duffle bag sitting to the side of the collapsed tent and digs through the contents, coming up with a rubber-headed mallet. She efficiently stakes down the corners of the tent while Aneurin sets up two more camp chairs and adds a bundle of firewood to the supply by the firepit. As she starts snapping the tent poles together, he joins her. “I think the orange one goes next.”

“No,” Lucy says. “They match the pockets, see?”

“But it’s orange on top.”

“OK,” Lucy says tolerantly. “Give it a try.” She steps back a pace and watches with her arms crossed.

Jack suspects that Lucy’s right, but things seem to be moving along fine without his input, so he keeps his mouth shut. Aneurin’s trying to flex one of the poles into a clip on the side of the tent. He bends it far enough that it looks in danger of snapping, and then the entire pole assembly twists over itself and smacks Aneurin in the face.

Jack holds back laughter, but Lucy’s got no reason to show any restraint; she laughs so hard she has to sit down. Aneurin walks over to her, trying to maintain some dignity, and offers her a hand up. As soon as she meets his eyes, he’s laughing too. Lucy pulls herself to her feet and kisses him.

From his spot on the picnic table, Jack thinks -- unaccountably -- of Harry. Which is stupid. It’s been more than a month, and he’s got no reason to think he’ll ever see Harry again. But when he thinks about him, which he probably does too much of, it’s mostly not even about the sex. (Mostly.) It’s more about the rest of the night, the sense of possibility, how much they laughed. That’s what he wants. Somebody to laugh with all the time. Somebody to be that fucking delighted with.

Aneurin and Lucy are on opposite sides of the tent now, slotting the poles neatly into place. Jack reminds himself that Harry left, that Harry doesn’t have any interest in him. He got his test results last week, confirming that he doesn’t have any unpleasant reasons to remember Harry. It’s time to move on. He needs to stop thinking about Harry. He needs to stop looking for Harry in every bar he walks into. And he definitely needs to stop jacking off in the shower to the memory of Harry’s gravel and molasses voice saying “I want you to fuck me.”