The two of you talked like you always did. More like bickered, waiting for one to shut the other up with a part distracted with want, basic pleasure a string to get closer, eventually all wound up and not to be spoken of when the night gave way; talking, nonetheless.

You excused yourself with going to the bathroom, returned to six feet stretching lazily from the headboard, shirt revealing skin above a denim waistband. His lips moved to say something as his head did the same, watching you walk back to the bed—and accidentally brush your bag with your forearm. He could think that, anyway, as the contents spilled out onto the carpeting and he moved as if strung to the bits and pieces themselves, kneeling.

You could practically hear the smile that tugged at his lips when his hands collected four small tubes, each with a colorful wrapping and unfamiliar against his calluses.

“When did you get these?” he asked, swaying one from two fingers. A pastel white wrapper: vanilla. You reached over for them, crouching to his level before he could read the fine print curved around their edges. They clacked in your hold.

“Last week,” you stated simply, removing the cap of the one he wagged with a soft pop and lifting it under his nose like some sort of charmed perfume written in the journal you knew was tucked somewhere in the room. “Thought they smelled good.”

It was an entertaining sight; Dean leaning in with enthusiasm, breathing in a scent you knew he would soon associate with your hand.

“Only four?” His brow quipped up.

You rolled your eyes at his almost boyish inquiry. “They were on sale.”

He hummed, handing over whatever else lay uninteresting and boring on the carpet: two pens nearly run out of ink, a pair of tangled headphones, two square tissues.

You thanked him, waiting for him to stand from where you were still both folded to the floor.

He gestured with his chin to your hand still grasping the other three. “What are the other ones?”

A smile dared to ache your cheeks. Instead, you furrowed your brows at him as you stood yourself, sending him a teasing glare from his position now at your feet. It was short lived; he was quick to follow.

“Why? Do you want to use them?” you joked, setting your bag on the table once more (though in the center, where there ought to be some fun centerpiece, anyway). Even with the remark, you let the vanilla tube fall in with the rest of the contents, the other three still in your palm as the backs of your knees met the edge of the mattress.

“C’mon, I’m bored,” he reasoned. “Besides, think of it more like a game,” he continued, denim stretching as he sat down next to you. The bed dipped, squeaked under his weight and he leaned the rest on an arm behind him. “You always love to see me lose, anyway. Brings you some kind of sick joy.” The light overhead delivered the words with a sly glow, one that dipped with his nose and settled at his cupid’s bow above his smile. At your delayed response, he added: “I’ll give you twenty bucks if I get one wrong.”

You didn’t need any more convincing, if any to begin with.

You told him to sit at the headboard once more while you sat in front of him, crossing your legs beneath you. Turning to the space of the bed behind you, you lay the three tubes of chapstick like a set of silverware away from his stare along aged plaid.

You picked one up—striped white and red, peppermint—and covered the tube with your hand. You faced Dean; there was an expression on his features you couldn’t quite name with the green of his eyes slightly lidded, relaxed and waiting.

Before you removed the cap, you met his gaze. “Close your eyes; no cheating.”

He scoffed but obliged nonetheless, crossing his arms across his chest, biceps stretching black cotton.

A soft pop, a line to the space just beneath his nose. He inhaled just a bit harder when the clear gel barely met the skin.

“Mint, easy.” His eyes opened immediately, confidence sure in his tone.

You nodded anyway, muttered a ‘good’ as you shoved the cap back on and threw it to your side. The next one was a light brown, coconut. You waited until he closed his eyes once more to put it to his nose, and couldn’t help but exhale a little laugh as his lips pursed in a near frown.

“Don’t laugh at me, sweetheart, this is serious.” He then mumbled a barely heard ‘what the fuck’ under his breath before his guess came next.

“... Coconut? Who even likes—” You swatted at his arm before he could finish; he let out a whiny ‘hey!’ as his eyes shot open. You ignored his yelp as you put the tube next to the previous one, the plastic meeting with a gentle clack.

As you turned to get the last one, you kept your eyes on the green of his own. “Let’s see if you can go three-for-three...” You let your words trail off as he already let his lids fall and you held the last tube, a dark red wrapper concealed by your palm.

The same pop, the same path to just underneath the nose.

This time, it hit yours first. You bit back a smile as he sat patiently (if drumming fingertips along his arm meant patient) for the smell in the air to change while you glided the stick along your lips, pursing them together and applying a little more. When you let the cap click back into place, you caught the furrow in his brows, muttered an ‘open your eyes’.

He did just that, followed your pointer finger to your lips, eyes widening as they reached the sheen just noticeable across them.

“Go ahead.”

A hand on either side of your jaw, closing his eyes without the sound to tell him to.

He was gentle even with the eagerness in his pull. His lips were a little chapped, but with the way they were pressed against yours you knew they would be stained with a smeared shine, slightly swollen. You reveled in the hushed sound that fell from his lips in the otherwise quiet of the motel room. A deeper inhale, as if he were still guessing that way, and he pulled away slowly, though only for your noses to touch.

There was a bob to his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “Strawberry?” The guess was plush against your lips.

You placed a quick kiss to his lips with a satisfied smile, watched as he leaned in as you pulled back just slightly to say, “You owe me twenty dollars.”

“Let me guess again.” He barely finished his sentence, quiet and spoken through a murmur before his lips were back on your own, covered in a shine you hoped the lightbulb caught.

It wasn’t until his lips were sticky and the skin of his cheeks was flushed with a rivaling shade that he whispered ‘cherry?’ between desperate kisses.

You nodded. Not that it really mattered.

“you can just leave them right there...” he drawled with a slight raise to his eyebrows, eyeing your respective movement to the corner of his desk. “that’s perfect. thank you, sweetheart.” it was quick, thrown out of his lips with a charming crease underneath his eyes.

you nodded, reminding him with a routine phrase to let you know if he needed anything else. you hoped he didn’t exactly catch the brief glance to his hands atop his desk, baby blue sleeves, of course, rolled to his elbows.

delivering papers to the head of the company, whom they were intended for in the first place, was not unusual, not difficult.

michael was definitely making it so.

no matter if he was bickering with someone on the other line, scoffing at a file and marking another, only meeting eyes with a narrowing of his own if his head was still angled to the work atop his desk, whenever you came in with a new number of papers in hand, he made sure to offer you a smile, fiddle with the folded edges of his shirt around his arms. if there wasn’t anyone in the room or another voice registering through the phone, he would ask how your day was going with a low cadence to his voice, nodding regardless of what you said.

the days were much the same. you handed him copies and files; he muttered ‘thanks, doll’ in a lower octave, a tilt of his head. his actions were becoming less a friendly demeanor and more of an ease into whatever made a heat crawl to the skin of your neck, the shells of your ears, your eyes to wander to the slope of his nose or the way he shifted to spread his legs at his desk chair.

kitty, to no one’s surprise, left early one shift, leaving you to do more work than you knew she even had that day. the office was quiet into the later hours, save for the one sitting in the room behind you muttering under his breath.

you ended the last few minutes in the copy room, already tracking the path to michael’s desk, the elevator, your apartment. the fluorescent lights were a sore that sunk into the blacks of your pupils, and you might as well have kept track of the number they subconsciously flitted to the open door of his office.

but, he wasn’t at his desk. you rifled through the pages to check that you copied the right ones and he stood in the doorway of the copy room after having been looking for you, and you hadn’t noticed him until you were nearly chest to chest.

your apologies blended into one another, his hand already reaching out in belief the papers were to slip out of yours.

before you could ask, the dusty blues of his eyes broke contact to glance at your hands.

“i got ‘em, you can head on home.” his speech was tired, slow, punctuated with a small breath and his hand brushing against your own, gesturing with a wink to the door.

perhaps it was the sleep that strung itself in your figure, or maybe it was a simple itch that needed to be scratched, but you placed a kiss to his cheek as a thank you, not glancing back as you made your way to grab your stuff.

“have a nice night, michael.”

Practically every chore you were assigned to was with his name written right next to it. Your group of campers would want to join with his for an archery competition or a game in the lake, to which he’d shrug and stand by your side until they were collectively coming over, groaning about lunch.

One of the counselors had chosen some sort of scary movie to watch for movie night last week, the scenes enough to keep their eyes either glued to the screen or hidden behind their hands. You were glad they were preoccupied; the creaking of the door would have definitely ruined the mood, even if it had made them jump.

There hadn’t been many spots left towards the back, save for one right next to him. He had given you a small smile as you sat down, mumbling a ‘hey’ under his breath and letting you know you didn't miss much of the movie. He had shuffled his legs so as to give you more room, his posture shifted a bit straighter. He had walked you back to your cabin once it was over, whispering a ‘good night’ you returned at your door.

Every past year you were at Camp Nightwing you had considered him a friendly face, one you were almost relieved to see when you stepped off the bus the first days of camp—it was only a matter of time before you found yourself aware of where he was—and perhaps what he was in your mind—in regard to you.

He didn’t seem to mind the seemingly constant pairing, to your relief. If anything, he was eager to offer company if you wanted it, and his energy was infectious once it dwelled. All the more reason to wonder if perhaps your eyes were consciously looking out for him in the mornings to when it was announced lights were to be put out.

A clearing of his throat made you glance over at him. The only two counselors in sight whose names might as well be carved into the adirondack chairs that stuck to whatever skin it touched.

“Who d’you think’s gonna win?” he asked, looking at his hands in his lap. If you were supposed to see the sly smile at his lips, you didn't point it out.

You tilted your head to give him a look of faux consideration. “Well, given we’ve already seen three-quarters of Shadyside brought over here, you tell me.”

“Hey, they could pull it off,” he said, putting his hands up in defense. “Maybe they’ve got some tricks up their sleeves.”

You smiled at that possibility; he was ever the enthusiast. “Maybe.” Your voice trailed off as one of the campers donning a blue shirt snuck behind one of the cabins in your line of sight. “Kids do have great imaginations.”

The night stretched on as campers were escorted by opposing teams to the designated areas reserved for the ‘jails’, some rescued with serious hushes and sneakers flattening grass with the pace they kept. A few would come up the steps asking for a bandaid after having tripped in the woods or scraped a hand, to which Tommy told them to stay put as he left; you would ask them how they felt about their position in the game, nodding along to whatever elaborate plan they had in mind, wished them good luck once Tommy returned with a bandaid and a generous smile, repeating your words with a hand to their shoulder.

As he sat back down, he looked around the grounds, tucking his hair behind his ears. You could barely hear him when he spoke after a while of quiet company.

“Are you hungry?”

With patient silence he walked you to his cabin, just a few feet from your own. When you went past a few kids hiding, he put a finger to his lips as to zip them closed and toss the key into the bonfire, no matter if they were wearing red or blue.

He let you in first, wooden steps just giving in to his boots, and closed the door softly behind him. He didn’t turn the lamps on, so the inside wore the same blue as the moon gave the campgrounds. He brushed past your waiting figure, a hand briefly meeting your elbow.

“I’ve got some stuff stashed from the kitchen earlier,” he whispered, gesturing with a nod of his head to follow him to a bed at the farthest end. “Hopefully it’s still here, anyway,” he added with a biting of his bottom lip, though more so to himself at his hand pulling the drawer to the table beside the frame open.

It wasn’t anything fancy. A few pastries in napkins he unraveled with a small hum of relief, a few bags of chips, two root beers near the AC. He gave you first pick, tips of his fingers brushing along your own.

You ate in between talk of plans over the fall, stories of instances at camp when you were at opposite ends that made you laugh as you drank from the rather lukewarm can and he recounted with low chuckles. You didn’t mind the warmth, welcomed it as you settled alongside him on his plaid sheets.

Maybe you welcomed it a little too much, because the next second you were a coughing fit, reaching over to place the drink blindly on the table. Tommy immediately took it out of your hand to do so himself and readjusted so he sat right in front of you, as close as he could without being practically on top of you with how small the mattress was and gently put his hands under your forearms.

“Hey, hey, arms up,” he whispered through a crooked smile, hands following suit as you did as he said. “There ya go. You ok?”

You nodded despite the burn that now crept along your throat. If he believed you or not he didn’t pry, instead waiting patiently for your breathing to even. This close you could smell the firewood in his hair.

The door then sounded with a crude creak. You both turned to the outline that stood blue and plain before it made itself known.

“Tommy, you sly dog, I didn’t think you had it in you,” Arnie’s voice crooned. “And during color war, too. Hell yeah.” With Tommy’s back to him and you sitting against the wall, you would have rolled your eyes if it wasn’t you he was referring to.

The pull of your features was involuntary; a curious half-smile at his state, a raise of your eyebrows and a clearing of your throat from the root beer. Though you could practically smell the weed that clung to Arnie’s clothes and tone of voice, you wouldn’t lie and say his words didn’t pique your interest.

There was a sigh from Tommy, his eyes dropping shut as his head was still angled away from you. A low ‘oh my god’ stumbled from his lips. “Arnie, shut up.” The slices of moonlight that lay upon his skin from the window showed his cheeks and ears flushed a ripe red, an afternoon sunburn in the late hours of the night.

He just giggled, stumbling into the cabin as he went over to his own bed, leaning over with loose limbs to slide a hand under his pillow. If he wanted to say anything in retaliation, it was slurred into the cool blue as he got whatever it was he came inside to get. It sounded more like an improvised tune, one made up as he went back to the door not without nearly tripping over his own feet or whatever lay on the floor, which Tommy had steered you clear of.

You did catch his last words, delivered with a childish whistle and whisper.

“The night is still young, Tommy!”

The door rattled at his departure, the scene returning to that of before. This time with a smile that tugged at your lips and a warmth not from the root beer. Your eyes glanced at his shifting at the head of his bed, rustling the sheets as he moved.

He let out a low groan at his quip, rolling his eyes before leaning back to sit against his headboard like before, lulling his head along the wall, his voice spoken through a sigh.

You glanced over at him with suspicion in your glare, his eyes already on you. You responded with a shrug. “You tell me.”

After a moment he gestured with a nod of his head for you to meet him on the other end of the couch—you did, though not without an almost disbelieved smile you wondered if he could catch with the little light that slipped through the blinds.

Once close enough, he eyed you expectantly, light blues waiting for whatever you would say or do. He took notice of the way you sat—maybe you were waiting for him to move. He spread his legs.

Denim to cotton. You reassured him he didn’t have to do this if he didn’t want to.

“No... no,” he sighed—too quick, and a smile briefly tugged at your lips. “I don’t mind.” His upper half relaxed against the back of the couch. You caught the drag of his eyes along your figure in his lap, half lidded in a daze.

An ‘ok’ left your lips as you reached over to put your hands atop the couch. He leaned his head back so they were at either side, Adam’s apple flinching with a shaky breath that barely disturbed the space between his lips. You liked his hair this way, messy, strands weaving over blushed skin.

He watched as you moved, not wanting to disturb you—this was for your pleasure, after all. “Feels good?” he asked, though the cadence was barely audible, hands sliding to your hips; he doesn’t guide, just follows your movement. Metal circling his fingers left a cold tinge against your skin that you welcomed.

You nodded, breathed out a ‘yeah’. Tommy mumbled a ‘good’ under his bitten lip, not entirely realizing he’d adjusted his legs until your breath hitched at the reciprocating drag of his thigh. He paused for a second for your response, good or bad.

He could barely hear you when you muttered “do that again, Tommy”, but you didn’t have to ask him twice.