Chapter Text
The next day was awkward.
And not only in the damn, the attractive counselor who I’m supposed to hate also likes guys way, but also in the damn, the attractive counselor who I’m supposed to hate also likes guys and also definitely thinks I’m homophobic now way, which was, arguably, far more inconvenient.
Ilya wasn’t at breakfast or at lunch, and Shane was honestly afraid that he was going to be a no-show at paintball too, even though they were supposed to be running small team matches.
Shane set up for the first block by himself. It was double the work without the extra set of hands, but he worked meticulously, jaw set and hands moving on autopilot. He counted masks twice, tightened air tanks three times, and lined up guns with a precision that made no real difference. But if he kept moving, he didn’t have to think about the fact that Ilya had avoided him for nearly twenty-four hours now.
Ilya didn’t show up until 2:29, exactly forty-one seconds before the first block was scheduled to start. Not that Shane was watching the seconds tick by on his wrist, of course.
Shane swallowed down the lump of embarrassment in his throat before he tried to speak. “Rozanov—”
“Who’s ready for paintball?” Ilya addressed the campers instead, not even glancing in Shane’s direction. His voice was bright and animated, and the campers responded instantly, cheering and shoving each other in excitement.
The remainder of the activity block passed similarly. Shane tried to initiate a conversation two other times, and Ilya expertly avoided them both. He even sidestepped him physically once, like Shane was just another obstacle on the field. By the time the second group appeared, Shane had given up on trying to talk to him at all.
The only time Ilya acknowledged Shane even existed was when he shot him, sending vibrant blue exploding across his shoulder. It had definitely been shot within the “no-shoot” distance, and it hit right where the strap of his vest ended and only a thin exercise shirt sleeve remained. The impact had stung instantly, and Shane knew he’d have a small, circular welt by the next morning.
For a split second, Shane thought about calling it out, reminding Ilya of their own rules. He didn’t. He just locked eyes with the other across the field instead. Ilya’s expression was unreadable behind the mask, but the tilt of his head said enough: he meant for it to hurt.
Ilya wasn’t at dinner, either.
☀︎ ☀︎ ☀︎
The only camp activity that Shane refused to participate in was white water rafting. He tried it once as a camper, when he was fifteen and fearless and thought it couldn’t be much different than his tubing experiences with his dad, but he had been very, very wrong. He was flung from the raft enough times that even the guide no longer thought it was amusing, which was when Shane realized maybe he wasn’t built for being tossed around like loose cargo in the back of a truck.
And honestly, he really could use the peace of an empty campground to clear his head.
So he happily stayed back at camp with the other Camp Cowards—as named by Wyatt—who didn’t feel like having their molecules rearranged on a random Ontario river on a Monday morning. The buses left right after breakfast. All of the other male counselors had gone, but Cassie and Lisa stayed behind, along with five campers. They would be playing board games and watching movies in the lounge all day, per Lisa’s suggestion.
Shane had to assure the two other counselors that he absolutely, definitely, without a doubt would join them later to be granted permission to head in the opposite direction, toward the cabins rather than the lounge. Cassie narrowed her eyes at him like she knew he was lying, but he just threw his hands up and promised, again, that he wouldn’t disappear for the entire day.
He really just wanted to swim.
Camp was tranquil without its usual foot traffic. It was a cloudless day with a light breeze that brushed his hair back and rustled the leaves, and a flock of birds flew overhead with a collection of chirps. He changed into swim trunks and coated himself in sunscreen before beelining for the lake, which was sparkling beneath the sun, warm and inviting. He was underwater less than a minute later.
It was quiet down here, where the world was limited to the muted thud of his own heartbeat and the bubbles of air that slipped through his lips. He stayed under until his lungs burned, then surfaced with a gasp, shaking out his hair and wiping water from his eyes. Then he went under again. And a third time.
He told himself that he just needed the quiet and that the absence of people would help reset his mind. But even underwater, his brain refused to shut up.
The thing that his mind kept snagging on was that he hadn’t meant to react the way he did. Ilya had just said it so casually. I also like guys. And Shane had just… short-circuited. Not because there was anything wrong with it, obviously, but because it shifted something in Shane’s head that hardly existed forty-eight hours prior.
He kicked further out into the lake, the light blue shore transitioning into a deeper murky green.
It wasn’t that he even cared. Not in a bad way, anyway. It was just so… unexpected. Shane didn’t do unexpected well. Unexpected meant variables, and variables meant a loss of control, and Shane liked control.
His chest tightened, and he surfaced again, dragging in air.
Now, Ilya probably thought he was a jerk. Or a homophobic, bigoted asshole who couldn’t handle a simple statement without malfunctioning.
A hand scrubbed over his face before he dove again.
From day one, Ilya had always been sharp edges and unimpressed, disinterested glances and loud commentary that no one asked for. Shane had slotted him into a category that first year—arrogant, irritating, not worth the energy.
But Rose had been right. He doesn’t hate Ilya. That realization had come quietly ever since Rose said it, creeping in when he hadn’t been paying close enough attention. He didn’t hate his obnoxious laugh or biting sarcasm or stupid, smug smile, but it took losing those things for Shane to finally notice.
He especially didn’t hate the way Ilya looked at him. If anything, that part bothered him for a different reason entirely.
And fine, yes, Ilya was attractive. That wasn’t an illegal thought. Shane’s eyes worked. Anyone else with functioning vision could see that. But when someone is straight, attraction is theoretical. Something abstract, safe, and unattainable. When someone isn’t, there’s a shift. Suddenly, it isn’t just you doing the observing; you’re potentially observed, too.
His lungs began to ache again. He stayed under a second longer.
He just needed to act normally. And maybe apologize. Stop overthinking, be normal, and stop replaying that moment in the paintball shed. If Ilya thought he was homophobic, he could fix that. He just had to figure out how. Maybe he should apologize twice.
He broke the surface one final time, breathing hard. He continued to swim around the lake in lazy circles until his fingertips ached from pruning and the muscles in his shoulders screamed. He clambered back onto the dock and sprawled out on the wood, drying himself in the sun, staying long enough for his skin to be warm to the touch and tinged pink.
He needed a shower. And then he needed to go to the lounge, so he didn’t break his promise. He peeled himself from the dock and padded across the grounds to grab his toiletries and a change of clothes from the cabin before heading to the bathhouse.
The sound of water running made him pause in the doorway. There shouldn’t be anyone here—he had watched all of the other male counselors board the buses with his own two eyes.
But sure enough, a shower was running on the men’s side of the bathhouse, sending steam curling up toward the ceiling and water smacking against tile.
For a second, he considered backing out quietly and pretending he wasn’t even here. Maybe one of the maintenance guys had popped in, thinking no one would be around. His mind ran through counselors automatically, flashes of faces disappearing up the steps of the bus with lifejackets slung over their shoulders. The longer he stood there, the more he thought that he should leave. But he didn’t, instead clutching his toiletry bag a little tighter while he waited. For what, he wasn’t really sure. There were other stalls. Something kept him from moving.
The shower shut off with a loud squeak of the handle. Shane had about forty-five seconds to stop staring blankly at the closed curtain before it was yanked open to reveal Ilya, who was actively tying a towel around his waist.
How could he have missed the fact that Ilya hadn’t gotten on a bus?
If Ilya was surprised to see Shane standing there, he didn’t show it on his face. In fact, he didn’t show anything on his face, and his expression held the same indifference as it had for the past thirty-six hours.
Shane stood there like a deer caught in headlights for a good minute before he cleared his throat awkwardly. “You, ah… You didn’t go rafting?”
Ilya just stared at him. Water ran in slow lines down his shoulders, dripping steadily onto the tile below.
All Shane could do was stand there, one meter away from a towel-clad Ilya, helplessly trying not to watch the rivulets roll down his chest.
Trying, and failing, as his gaze followed a droplet that dropped from the other’s jaw and slowly started to fall, following the line of his chain across his collarbone. It curved over the swell of Ilya’s pec and grazed along his stomach until it was eventually absorbed by the towel. Shane’s eyes lingered on the sharp line of his Adonis belt disappearing beneath the fabric for a fraction of a second too long, and he swallowed as he looked back up.
Ilya’s expression hadn’t changed, but his eyes had darkened, and his head had tilted a fraction of a degree, as if he were studying something. It made Shane’s stomach flip as a spark of arousal shot through him.
“I’m not homophobic,” Shane blurted. Stupidly. He resisted the urge to smack himself.
Silence.
Ilya blinked at him, caught off guard. “What?”
“I’m not homophobic,” Shane repeated, quieter, eyes darting around helplessly. “And I don’t like girls. I mean—” God, he sounded like a teenager. He huffed out a breath. “I’m gay.”
Ilya nodded slowly. “You are telling me this while I am half-naked, because…”
Shane’s face went scarlet. “I didn’t— That wasn’t—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. It was way too hot in the bathhouse. “I didn’t want you to think I was homophobic.”
An amused smile started to form on Ilya’s face, more mocking than friendly. For a horrifying second, Shane thought he might laugh at him, but all he did was nod slowly. “Yes. You have mentioned.”
Shane dragged a hand down his face, mortified. “Right. Covered that. Good. Glad that’s, uh… clear.”
Ilya assessed him for a long moment, one eyebrow lifting. “You think I have been avoiding you because of this?”
“I thought that you might think I was judging you,” Shane corrected, more defensive than he meant to be. “You barely spoke to me. You shot me, Rozanov, I don’t know. I figured I said something wrong. Or, like, didn’t say enough. Or—” He cut himself off with a frustrated exhale. “I don’t know.”
Ilya watched him for a long moment, eyes unreadable. “I did not think you were judging me,” he said simply. “And I do not think you are homophobic."
Relief flooded through Shane, and his shoulders sagged slightly as the weight was lifted. “Good.”
“You are, however, very dramatic.”
Shane huffed out a dry laugh. “Yeah, I know.”
“Good.” Ilya reached for the pile of clothes folded on the bench, his tone shifting into something lighter. “Now, if you are finished announcing your sexuality, I would like to put on pants.”
Shane actually laughed then, a short exhale that made his lips curl up into a smile. “Yeah. Sorry. I’ll—yeah.”
He stepped off to the side, into an open shower cubicle, and yanked the curtain shut. He was acutely aware of Ilya’s presence across the room as he leaned his forehead against the cool tile and took several deep breaths, willing himself to calm down. On the other side of the curtain, fabric rustled, and plastic bottles banged dully against each other.
A few minutes later, the door to the bathhouse opened and shut again, and Shane finally undressed to shower.
☀︎ ☀︎ ☀︎
Shane first met Rose during his final summer as a camper. He was freshly seventeen and arrived at the campgrounds optimistic and determined to make the absolute most of this final summer. School was done, and there were no distractions. The kiss of the sun and the caress of the lake water were waiting for him.
And then Rose got off the bus.
He hadn’t even been paying attention at first. The buses always arrived in a blur of dust and duffel bags and crying goodbyes, and Shane just wanted the summer to officially start. Rose stepped off the bus with her dark hair tied back messily and sunglasses shoved up on the top of her head, dressed in some old band t-shirt and cut-off jean shorts.
She laughed loudly at something a counselor said, and it carried across the gravel lot. Shane glanced over without meaning to. And then he kept looking.
She caught him staring within seconds. She raised an eyebrow at him, like a challenge. His cheeks flamed quickly, and he looked away first.
Rose introduced herself at swim checks the following day. As it turned out, they had a lot in common. She also loved swimming, had several awards from competitions, and she had grown up spending her summers at her parents’ lakeside cottage. She was more extroverted than Shane, but that was fine. In every instance where he didn’t feel like talking, her voice would fill the silence enough for them both. She asked questions he wouldn't have thought to ask and offered opinions without any hesitation.
They were inseparable for the summer. They did everything together: every activity, every meal, late-night trips out to the dock to stare at the still lake. Five weeks in, he carved their initials onto his cabin wall with a knife he smuggled from the Coop, surrounded by a heart.
They kissed on the last night of camp. It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing either; Shane had actually been working up the courage to kiss her for the entire two weeks leading up to it. They disappeared into the woods, far enough from the bonfire pit where they could no longer feel the warmth of the flames, and Shane had gently pushed her against a tree trunk before kissing her. And he felt… nothing.
He registered the mechanics of it—the softness of her lips, how she smelled faintly of bonfire smoke and something floral, the way her fingers had curled into his shirt—but there wasn’t that spark. There was supposed to be that moment where his stomach flipped, or his heart started to race, but it never came.
He kissed her again, but there was still a definitive absence of something.
The next morning, prepped to leave and about to load onto the buses, she looked at him like she knew something he didn’t. She asked him, “Do you like kissing me?”
And Shane, as unsure of himself as always, just replied, “Sure.”
Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t the right answer. She had laughed at him, well-natured and friendly.
He learned a lot about himself before the next summer rolled around.
She was the first person he sought out that first year as a counselor and sat her down to explain himself, but she had just grabbed his hands and told him everything was okay. He tried to come out after that, too, and she smiled at him, sweet and understanding. As it turned out, she’d had a lot of gay ex-boyfriends in her life. “I’m in theatre school,” she said by way of explanation, squeezing his fingers lovingly.
At this point in Shane’s life, Rose knew him better than anyone. So it shouldn’t have surprised him when she automatically knew something had happened since their previous midnight outing on the dock. She sat across from him at breakfast on Tuesday with a pointed look.
“Okay. Spill it, Hollander.”
He avoided eye contact as he cut into a pancake with the side of his fork. She only called him by his last name when he was really in trouble.
“There’s nothing to spill,” he said after a moment.
There was, of course, but what was he even supposed to say? Ilya is bisexual, and you were right. I don’t hate him, and actually, I think I’m really attracted to him.
Pass. Hearing it in his own internal voice was nauseating enough.
“Oh, come on,” Rose huffed. “Something has changed in the past three days, I can tell. And I always share all of my drama with you, so now it’s your turn. It’s only fair!”
It may be fair, to Rose at least, but this wasn’t drama. Not in the same sense that she meant. This wasn’t you’ll never guess what this person did or I heard so-and-so say such-and-such. More importantly, this wasn’t even his to share. It was something personal that Ilya had trusted him with, and he didn’t know Ilya well enough to know if he was out publicly.
Absently, Shane’s thumb brushed over the paintball-shaped bruise on his shoulder. Since Sunday, it had morphed into a deep purple mark right over the joint. If he pressed on it with just the right amount of pressure, it would send a jolt of pain through his body. A reminder of his embarrassment and also the truth. He dropped his hand. “I can’t tell you.”
Rose’s eyes widened a fraction, like she was shocked that she was right. As if she wasn’t always. “But something did happen?”
Shane nodded.
“And you can’t tell me?”
He nodded again.
Rose chewed on her lip in thought for a second, gaze calculating as she stared at Shane. “With… him, right? Ilya?”
Shane hesitated. Rose was smart, especially when it came to people. If he disclosed anything to Rose—if he even hinted at something—she would piece it together.
So he didn’t say anything. Instead, he folded in on himself, rested his forehead on the cool wooden table, and sighed deeply. The Coop continued to buzz around them with scattered conversation. He could feel her watching him, patiently waiting for information he would never give.
Rose’s foot tapped against his beneath the table, tentative. “Shane?”
“I’m okay,” Shane muttered to his lap. He wasn’t even sure if it was loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise of the Coop. “It’s just… not mine to share.”
“Okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”
He lifted his head slowly. Rose gave him a small, understanding nod and reached across the table to squeeze his hand.
“You don’t owe me everything,” she said. She pursed her lips, as if she was really trying not to pry further. “Even if I want it really bad.”
This was why Rose knew him better than anyone else ever would. Not because he told her every detail of his life, but because she let him choose when to share. She never considered withholding information to be betrayal. She trusted him to come to her when he was ready, and that trust made him want to.
Shane smiled at her, and she returned it, soft and warm. Then she stole the last blueberry from his tray.
“You’re dead to me,” he said, but there was no bite to the words.
☀︎
Several hours later, there was an incident at the pool.
The beginning of the shift had been slow, with only a dozen or so kids scattered in the water and lying out on pool chairs. It got busier as the day morphed into late morning and the sun grew hot and relentless, the pool filling steadily with children hoping to beat the heat.
Only fifteen minutes before they were to close the pool for lunch, the argument started. What it was about, Shane wasn’t sure, and he frankly didn’t care to know. It was between two boys from different cabins, thankfully not his.
It ended with the older boy forcibly holding the younger underwater.
Shane was rotated off, sitting at the covered picnic benches with a book in hand, but he snapped upright at the first blow of Rose’s whistle. From his spot at the table, Shane could only hear the indistinct sounds of too-loud conversation. Rose called for them to calm down. Then there was a shout, followed by frantic splashing and several panicked voices.
Another whistle sounded, but Shane was already in the water by the time the noise faded, pulling the older boy away as Rose scrambled to maneuver the other out of the pool. His hands locked under the aggressor’s arms automatically, training taking over as he hauled him back with a sharp command to let go. The boy struggled for half a second before freezing, eyes wide like he hadn’t expected to get caught at all.
The younger was conscious and weakly coughed up water for a minute before flopping onto his back on the hot pavement. His elbow was busted and bleeding from where it bashed into the pool wall when the other had forced his head down.
Shane had to march the two of them across the campgrounds, heart hammering nearly the entire way. The younger boy clung to a towel wrapped around his shoulders, sniffling; the older stared stubbornly at the ground with his jaw clenched. He deposited one at the nurse’s station, and the other followed him toward the main office.
The paperwork was extensive. There was the lifeguard incident report, then the fight report, then he had to call the victim’s parents to inform them, and then he had to call the aggressor’s parents to inform them that he had violated camp policies and needed to be picked up as soon as possible. He repeated phrases like “handled immediately” and “safety is our top priority” until they felt hollow in his mouth.
By the time all the red tape was dealt with, the paintball blocks were about to start. He made a pit stop at his cabin for a change of clothes before trudging to the fields, still smelling of chlorine and sunscreen. His stomach grumbled angrily at him.
He hadn’t eaten since his singular pancake and handful of blueberries at breakfast, and the adrenaline crash was starting to weigh down his limbs. His shoulders ached from hauling a body out of the water and then guiding two of them across camp, and his head throbbed faintly from the sun.
Thankfully, Ilya had set up for their first block without him.
Campers were already clustered near the staging tables, masks pushed up to their foreheads, talking loudly over one another. Ilya stood off to the side with his arms crossed as he waited for the chatter to stop.
“Sorry I wasn’t here to set up,” Shane said in place of greeting as he approached.
Ilya waved him off. He was staring at Shane with his eyebrows scrunched, almost in worry. “You were not at lunch.”
Shane sighed, a bone-deep exhale that left him feeling more worn down. “No. There was… an incident. At the pool. Had to deal with all the reports. You know how it is.”
He knew Ilya knew, because last year he had to spend several hours in the office filing reports and calling homes regarding an archery mishap that landed several children, and also Wyatt, in the nurse’s station.
“No broken bones,” he added at Ilya’s questioning look. “Just a scraped elbow and wounded ego. The other one’s getting picked up.”
Ilya’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at that, gaze flicking briefly toward the campers. There was an understanding amongst counselors, built on shared near-misses and chaos wrangling, that it was never easy when rules were broken, and protocols had to be followed.
“You okay?” Ilya asked quietly, low enough that the campers wouldn’t hear.
“Yeah. Part of the job.” Shane shrugged one shoulder. “Just annoyed, I guess. The parents were being… parents about it.”
He forced a smile that probably looked as disingenuous as it felt. He didn’t add that the victim’s mother had implied negligence in a tone that still bounced around in his head. He had to keep his voice level while explaining, again and again, that the situation had been handled promptly and procedures were being followed. Her voice had just gotten louder and louder through the receiver.
After a moment, Ilya said, “There are chicken tenders in the shed.”
Shane’s stomach clenched in hunger, and he gave Ilya a strange look. “Okay?”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “For you, Hollander.”
“You brought me chicken tenders?”
“Yes.” Ilya paused, then added, a little drier, “Now go eat them before I eat them myself.”
Shane smiled slightly as his cheeks reddened. He could almost picture Ilya at the Coop, expression flat and disinterested as always, snagging an extra paper tray of chicken from the line and ignoring whatever comment Troy inevitably made about his food rationing. Saving them. For him.
The thought landed warm somewhere deep in his chest, and it was a little disarming.
“You’re a saint,” Shane said, already turning toward the equipment shed.
“I am not,” Ilya called after him, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice.
Shane found the crumpled paper tray in the middle of the table. The chicken tenders were lukewarm now, more chew than crunch, but they may as well have been from a Michelin-star restaurant.
He ate quickly, grease and salt sating the gnawing feeling in his stomach and stilling the slight tremor in his hands. He hadn’t even realized they were shaking until they stopped. He leaned back against the wooden wall for a moment, listening to the muffled thud of practice gunshots and continued conversation. When he finished eating, he wiped his fingers on his pants, grabbed a mask and his marker, and walked out of the shed.
Ilya glanced at him as he stepped back into the sunlight, and Shane gave him a small nod before sliding his mask on.
He barely caught a glimpse of a smile on Ilya’s face before he put his mask on as well.
☀︎ ☀︎ ☀︎
Field Day was actually a two-day event, with water games on Wednesday and field games on Thursday. Everyone dressed head-to-toe in their assigned colors for both days, and the battle for points was extremely competitive.
Following lunch on the first day, the campers were clustered by cabin along the shoreline in their assigned colors. Bandanas were tied tight around heads and wrists, and streaks of face paint were already smudging in the heat. The air smelled like sun and lake water, thick and familiar, warmth pressing down hard enough to make everything ripple beneath the heat haze.
Shane stood with his blue-clad cabin near the water’s edge, helping apply sunscreen to faces and shoulders. “Remember, these are water games. That means you will get wet. That does not mean you drown Hayden or me, okay?”
Sam and Owen shared a look that suggested their plan for the day had been thwarted.
“But you guys are lifeguards. Can’t you just save yourself?” Liam asked, then stumbled as Hayden shoved him forward lightly.
“Don’t even think about it.” Hayden’s tone was serious, but he threw a grin Shane’s way over the campers’ heads.
The first event was a sponge relay. Each cabin was lined up at the lake, and color-coded buckets were stationed up the hill. The campers had to dunk oversized sponges into the water, sprint uphill, and wring them out into the bucket. Water streamed down children’s arms and splattered onto the ground. Halfway through the challenge, the length of the hill had turned from dirt to mud, and the distinct sound of wet sneakers on packed earth filled the air. A couple of kids took tumbles in the mud, streaking their clothes with filth.
Ilya’s cabin took that game in a burst of bright red celebration, and Troy kicked the bucket over to further drench the ground. Laughter carried loud over the hills, sharp and bright, as the water spread.
The next game brought the counselors into play. They had to stand braced at the edge of the dock and hold slightly smaller buckets overhead while their campers sprinted back and forth from the lake to fill the buckets with cups that were littered with holes.
Shane rolled his shoulders before stepping into position. He could already feel where he’d be sore later. It was actually grueling, an awkward half-crouch so that children could reach to dump water in, but straight enough that water wouldn’t come pouring out.
He was balanced right on the edge of the dock, feet positioned just so to prevent himself from flying into the water if a camper ran into him. Which was, unfortunately, exactly what happened to Zane, as a camper lost his footing and barreled into him, sending the counselor into the lake with a startled yelp. Cassie laughed so hard at his misfortune that water went flinging out of the yellow bucket perched on her head.
Chilled lake water splashed against Shane’s forearms as cups were dumped in, most campers going for speed rather than accuracy, and a low burn had settled into his shoulders as he fought against the ever-growing weight above him. He bent down a little more as Liam approached with a cup, but the kid just gave him a wide, mischievous grin before dumping the water right onto his head, bypassing the bucket completely. Water cascaded down his face and into his collar.
Shane sputtered, blinking lake water out of his eyes. “Hey!”
Liam was already halfway down the dock as he called back a “Sorry!” that sounded completely disingenuous, if the laugh that followed the apology was any indicator.
Across the dock, Ilya stood in the same stance, red shirt clinging unfairly to his torso, shoulders shaking uncontrollably as he laughed at Shane’s misfortune. Water sloshed over the rim of his bucket and soaked him further, but he just kept laughing.
“Shut up, Rozanov!” There was no bite to the words, only a slight whine, but Shane didn’t care how petulant he sounded.
If anything, it just made Ilya laugh harder. “Hollander, you look like a drowned kitten!”
The permanent sunburn on Shane’s cheeks served to hide his blush, though he could feel the heat spike anyway, spreading beneath already overheated skin.
Owen came running up then, cup spewing water from its holes, and Shane bent down to receive it. But instead of dumping it neatly into the bucket, Owen paused, squinting at Shane like he was assessing him. “You do kinda look like one,” he said thoughtfully. “Like the sad ones from the commercials.”
“Owen,” Shane warned. Water was continuously leaking from the holes in the cup.
Owen shrugged and tipped the cup. The remaining water streamed down Shane’s nose and dripped from his chin. Several others started laughing at his misery, too, and he resisted the urge to throw his entire bucket of water directly at Ilya in retaliation. Instead, he straightened to relieve the cramp in his leg and cursed under his breath.
Shane tried his hardest to focus on the rhythm of it. Bend, brace, hold steady, repeat. The breeze cooled the soaked fabric plastered to his skin, and whenever he risked a glance down the dock, he caught Ilya already looking at him, grin wide and unapologetic, almost like he was waiting for Shane to look back. Shane dropped his gaze back down to the wood every time, because it felt a lot easier to focus on the grain of the dock than the way his stomach flipped in tandem with the strain in his thighs.
After several more involuntary showers, Rose’s cabin won the game.
Shane was grateful to drop the bucket onto the dock. His arms trembled as soon as the weight left, muscles protesting from the sustained hold. He rolled his neck, water dripping from his hair down the back of his shirt, and took a second to breathe. His legs felt unsteady after so long locked in the same position, and he widened his stance slightly to keep from tipping sideways like an exhausted flamingo.
Rose waltzed up to him while he was desperately trying to wring water from his shirt. “So, kitten, huh?”
“Fuck off,” he bit back.
“You totally blushed!” she teased, pushing his shoulder playfully.
“You’re seeing things. I’m sunburnt.”
Rose leaned in, lowering her voice into a teasing tone. “He hasn’t stopped smiling in, like, ten minutes. And he keeps looking at you.”
Shane refused to look down the dock to confirm that. “He’s only smiling because his cabin is tied for first,” he said flatly.
“Sure,” she hummed, clearly unconvinced. Then she plucked at the edge of his soaked shirt sleeve. “You know this thing is basically see-through, right?”
His head snapped down. “What?”
It wasn’t, but it did cling to the curve of his chest and across the line of his abs like a second skin, outlining more than he would have preferred, especially right now.
Rose laughed and skipped away from him, leaving him glaring after her while simultaneously tugging the fabric away from his skin. He glanced toward Ilya to see if he had noticed. The other was mid-conversation with Harris, but when he caught Shane looking, his mouth quirked up in one corner. Shane’s pulse jumped, and he looked away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.
The final event of the afternoon was a slip-and-slide relay race. It was an intense obstacle course that ended in a long tarp laid down the slope of the hill beside the lake, positioned just so where the campers would be released unceremoniously into the water.
Shane and Jackie stationed themselves in the knee-high water near the bottom of the slide to catch campers before they could skid too far into the lake, because they often went flying off the end of it and bounced across the surface like skipping stones. In Shane’s honest opinion, it was a concussion waiting to happen, but the kids loved it, which, historically, was exactly how most camp activities were justified.
One kid launched herself onto the tarp and flew farther than expected. Shane barely had time to brace before she collided into his legs, forcing him to tumble backwards into the water with a surprised laugh. He pushed his hair out of his face as he resurfaced, and the girl was standing right in front of him, cheeks beet red as she apologized profusely.
“Don’t worry, I’m okay.” Shane smiled as he stood and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Next time, let's go for a little less speed, though.”
The girl nodded quickly and mumbled another apology before she splashed her way back to shore. Shane watched her rejoin her cabin, making sure the panic drained from her posture before he allowed himself to relax as well.
Jackie snorted beside him. “You good, drowned kitten?”
“I actually hate all of you,” he replied, but he was smiling. Another camper came barreling down the tarp with a loud battle cry, and Shane braced himself, arms out to catch him.
The afternoon morphed into early evening in a blur of shrieks and splashes and the constant slap of water against skin. He was knocked down several other times, and every time he surfaced, he sputtered and laughed despite himself. By the time the whistle blew to clean up for dinner, Shane felt wrung out in the best possible way.
He trudged back toward his cabin with lake water squelching in his shoes and mud drying in tight, uncomfortable patches along his legs. His shoulders ached, and his throat was raw from yelling over the noise, and there was dirt in places he didn’t want to pinpoint.
The next day, Shane was grateful for a set of games on dry land, especially after how thoroughly soaked he was the day prior. The rec field had been transformed with cones marking lanes, coils of colored rope stacked on the side, and long folding tables with plastic bins of equipment. It was another cloudless day, and the air was already simmering with early afternoon heat.
The events went by quickly: a sprint relay, tug-of-war, and potato sack races that ended in more than one bruised ego and plenty of grass stains smeared across knees and elbows.
Shane’s entire cabin nearly toppled on top of him during the tug-of-war when they surged backwards too quickly, rope burning hot against palms as they scrambled to regain footing. Hayden tripped spectacularly during the sack race and took a camper out with him, and they were both sent on to the nurse, despite Hayden’s squawking that he couldn’t abandon the team.
After everyone was coated in a sheen of sweat and dirt and flush from the sun, Wiebe, Zane, and Evan brought in hundreds of rainbow-colored water balloons, filled until they were near exploding already, stacked up in large plastic buckets.
The first balloon hit Shane square in the shoulder before Wiebe had even finished explaining the rules of the water balloon dodgeball game they were supposed to be playing. It burst on impact, drenching him from collarbone to hip. Shane stared at the dropping remains of latex at his feet and slowly turned his head toward the direction it had flown in from. He spotted Ilya immediately, standing there with a smug grin, another balloon already loaded in his hand.
Shane dodged the second one easily and quickly grabbed his own, lobbing it across the field toward the sea of red. Ilya ducked, and the balloon exploded against the back of Troy’s head.
“Oops,” Shane muttered, eyes wide.
Troy turned, hair dripping and smile dangerous. “Okay, Hollander. It’s war.”
Everyone took action immediately. Balloons arced through the air in glittering, sunlit trajectories before bursting against backs, shoulders, and unsuspecting heads. The grass grew slick underfoot, rules disregarded, shrieking laughter blending with sharp pops of latex and the smack of sneakers in mud.
Somewhere across the volley, Shane caught a flash of a red bandana and a grin aimed directly at him. He grabbed another balloon without thinking, a traitorous smile finding his face as well.
☀︎
There was a folded piece of paper in the middle of Shane’s bunk when he returned from the bathhouse that evening, finally scrubbed clean of dirt and grime from the rec field. His name was written on the top in crude, childish handwriting. He glanced around before picking it up, turning it over twice, then unfolding it.
Meet at the dock. 10 pm.
He flipped the paper over, then back again. There was no signature.
For a split second, his stomach dropped the same way it always did when ominous music started playing in a horror movie. The handwriting looked like it belonged to a camper—blocky, uneven, letters pressed into paper so hard that it left faint indentations on the back. He scanned the cabin automatically, half-expecting one of the boys to crack under the pressure and start laughing, but they were all occupied, and no one looked guilty.
Shane folded the note back slowly and slipped it into his pocket. His brain, ever unhelpful, supplied only one person who would request a 10:00 dock meeting without explanation. And only one person was bold enough to do it without signing their name.
So after lights out, as his watch ticked from 9:57 to 9:58, Shane slid out of bed silently. He tugged on a hoodie and shoved his feet into his sneakers before slipping outside.
Shane’s pulse ticked up as he approached the lake. It was windy, surely a sign of an incoming midnight storm, and he hugged his jacket tighter around him, eyes trained on the dock. There was a figure perched at the far end, broad shoulders and a familiar stance. But it wasn’t who he was expecting.
“Barrett?” Shane couldn’t help the surprise in his voice.
Troy turned, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Even in the dim moonlight, he looked unimpressed, dark eyebrows pinched tight in annoyance. “You’re late.”
Shane glanced down at his wrist. “It’s 10:01.”
“That’s still late.”
“Forgive me for not sprinting here,” Shane shot back quickly. “What’s with the secrecy, anyway? Is this a hostage negotiation?”
Troy rolled his eyes and turned back toward the lake. “Relax, Hollander. If I was gonna threaten you, I’d do it to your face.”
How comforting.
Shane moved to stand a few feet away from him, close enough to talk without raising his voice but far enough to preserve some semblance of personal space. The water lapped gently beneath them. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. At one point, Troy gestured to the edge of the dock, and they both sat, letting their feet dangle from the edge. The familiar position brought a microscopic amount of ease to Shane’s chest.
Finally, Troy asked, “What’s going on with you two?”
Ease gone. Shane blinked. “With—”
“You and Roz.” Troy didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed fixed on the water. “Don’t play dumb.”
Shane exhaled slowly. “I’m not playing dumb. I just don’t know what you think is going on.”
Troy huffed a quiet laugh. “He’s been in his own head since Saturday. Keeps looking at you, like he’s waiting for something. And you’ve been…” he dropped his head back to look at the stars, “less of an asshole.”
Shane frowned. “Oh, I’m the asshole?”
“You are to him.”
“I—” Shane cut himself off, jaw tightening. Maybe that wasn’t entirely wrong. “Okay, well. I’m trying not to be.”
“Yeah,” Troy said. “That’s the weird part, Hollander.”
Shane opened his mouth, then closed it. He considered pointing out that personal growth was, in fact, a positive development. He also wanted to deflect by saying that he’d never been more of an asshole than Ilya himself was, but that felt nonproductive. Instead, he just stared at the water.
Clearly, silence wouldn’t suffice, as Troy pointedly cleared his throat several moments later. “So?”
Shane huffed out a breath and leaned back on his hands. “Nothing’s going on.”
Troy made a noncommittal noise that very clearly meant try again.
“It’s just been a long week,” Shane added.
“For him too?” Troy asked immediately.
Shane almost said yes on instinct, before he realized that agreeing would basically be him admitting that something was going on. He settled on a quiet, “Maybe.”
Troy’s jaw tightened. “Okay, that’s not an answer.”
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Shane snapped, staring out at the water. The moon’s reflection fractured with every ripple caused by the wind. He could feel Troy’s stare like a weight on the side of his face. “I’m not going to spew his business.”
“I didn’t ask for his diary,” Troy shot back. “I’m asking if something happened.”
Shane glanced at him. “That’s basically the same thing.”
“It’s not.” Troy sighed then, a sharp puff of air that sounded more defeated than irritated. “He won’t tell me. Which means it’s something he thinks I’ll get pissed about.”
Shane winced internally. That narrowed it down quite a bit, considering Troy was known to let most things slide.
Troy leaned back, mirroring Shane’s posture. “Look. I’m not trying to interrogate you. But he’s my best friend. When he gets like this, it’s usually because something’s off, and he won’t say what.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and awkward. The wind picked up slightly, rippling the water below.
Shane could almost feel the air getting stuck in his throat as he weighed his options. He could deflect again. He could pretend he had no idea what Troy was even talking about. But as annoying and brash as Troy could be, he definitely wasn’t stupid. If he noticed Ilya had been acting weird, there was no use lying.
“It’s not bad,” Shane said carefully. When Troy narrowed his eyes, he continued, “There wasn’t like a fight, or anything. It’s just… a thing.”
“A thing,” Troy repeated flatly.
“Yeah. A thing.”
Troy studied him for a moment. “Did he tell you something?”
Shane’s pulse jumped, but he kept his face as neutral as he could manage. “Well, yeah, he tells me a lot of things. We work together.”
Troy didn’t blink. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I can’t—” Shane stopped and exhaled slowly. “It’s not my place to share details.”
Troy’s gaze sharpened like Shane had just handed over the last piece of a puzzle he had been trying to solve. He shifted his weight. “Okay. Then tell me this: Did you hurt him?”
“No,” Shane said instantly. Then, quieter, “At least… I don’t think so.”
Troy’s eyebrow lifted. “Those are two different answers.”
Shane’s stomach twisted, and he stared out at the water again. He could picture Saturday’s confession, the way Ilya wrung his fingers together, the flicker of an expression change that Shane hadn’t been able to define, the lingering look before he left for dinner. He didn’t really know what the correct answer was.
In his hesitation, Troy continued, “Roz doesn’t open up like that for fun. If he said something, and you didn’t respond the way he thought you would…” he trailed off, jaw flexing.
Shane swallowed. At this point, he knew they were talking about the same thing, both carefully beating around a particularly thorny bush.
“It wasn’t like that. I just—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Needed a second to process.”
Troy tilted his head. “And how long is a second?”
“Longer than it should be,” Shane confessed.
Troy held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once. “Okay.”
Shane blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Troy shrugged. “I think he’ll live.”
Shane let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You’re not mad?”
Troy snorted. “Why would I be mad? I just needed to make sure you didn’t do something actually shitty.”
Actually shitty could have been a lot of things. A cruel word. A gross comment. A fight. He could have laughed, or walked away, or said something he couldn’t have taken back. Any of those options probably would have ended in Troy punching Shane, considering he was gay himself. And situationally volatile.
Shane shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.”
Troy studied him for another second, like he was deciding whether to believe him or punch him anyway. Then he pushed himself to his feet, stretching his arms overhead. “Good.”
“That’s it?” Shane asked.
“That’s it.” Troy started back toward the shore, then paused. “Oh. And Hollander?”
Shane looked up at him.
Troy nodded his head to the right, in the general direction of the cabins. “He likes you.”
Shane felt like he had plunged into ice-cold water.
“Like, actually likes you. Which is incredibly inconvenient for me,” Troy added, almost casually, already turning away again. “Because now I have to care about you, too. Please don’t make that my problem.”
And then he walked off the dock, hanging a left at the fork to go to the cabins.
Shane stayed where he was. He replayed the conversation in his head—every look, every word, every implication.
He likes you.
It was so high school, but it made Shane’s chest tighten anyway. Not in the same panicked way it had on Saturday with paint smeared on his palm and a racing mind. It was lighter, quieter, and it left Shane a little breathless. Troy had said it like a fact. There was no might or probably.
He likes you.
And that meant Saturday hadn’t just been a one-off moment. That had been Ilya trying to tell him something without actually saying the thing outright. It wasn’t just a throwaway comment. He asked if he was dating Rose for a reason. He came out for a reason.
After a while, Shane found himself lying fully back on the dock, staring up at the stars. The wood was cool beneath him. The sky stretched on, endless and indifferent to him. The wind skimmed over the surface of the lake and brushed his hair to the side. Somewhere in the distance, a screen door creaked open then slammed shut.
For the first time in his life, camp felt small and very far away. It was just him and the open sky and the echo of three stupid little words that had lodged themselves behind his ribs. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if that might steady the spinning in his head. It didn’t.
☀︎ ☀︎ ☀︎
The alarm for breakfast rang too early. It always rang too early, but this morning it ricocheted through Shane’s head like a bullet, even though he had been awake long before it.
It did end up raining that night, sometime after Shane peeled himself from the wood of the dock and returned to his bed. He’d drifted in and out of sleep, caught up in the sound of splashing water and snoring, the conversation with Troy still looping through his head.
He likes you.
It shouldn’t have mattered, honestly. Technically, it wasn’t even new information. Ilya had practically handed him the truth on Saturday, standing just far enough away with that look in his eyes. But hearing it from a third party, stripped of the nerves and vulnerability of a confession, turned it into something less hypothetical. It felt too real.
Shane swung his legs off the bunk and rubbed a hand over his face. The cabin smelled like damp towels. One of the boys was still snoring softly from a top bunk. Theo was sitting up, hair sticking straight out in about six different directions.
“Do we have to go?” Sam asked from across the cabin, rubbing his eyes with the flat of his palms.
“Yes,” Shane said automatically, even though he wished he could say no and curl back up under his sheets.
There was a chorus of groans, but they started moving slowly. Shane tugged on a clean camp shirt and ran a hand through his hair in a vague attempt to look presentable. He caught his reflection in the crooked mirror that Hayden had nailed into the wall last summer. He looked normal. Tired, but normal.
The doors to the Coop were propped open, and the thick, rich scent of syrup enveloped them as they approached. They were a few minutes late to the start of service, so the line snaked halfway through the hall. Fruit cups glistened in little plastic bowls beside mounds of French toast sticks dusted in far too much powdered sugar. Shane grabbed a tray and slid along the counter after his campers, nodding thanks as one of the women plopped a serving of berries onto his plate.
Cabin Two had set up station in the far corner of the Coop. Shane didn’t look toward their table. He made it almost all the way to Cabin One’s table before curiosity won out.
Ilya was already seated, elbows on the table, laughing at something Troy was saying. His hair was damp from a rushed morning shower, curling tight at the ends. He was waving around a French toast stick as he spoke, animated and bright.
Shane forced himself to keep moving. The Cabin One boys were already in a heated debate about the optimal syrup-to-toast ratio as he sat down. He allowed himself to get lost in the conversation, his focus stuck on his campers. He even asked a follow-up question like he genuinely cared about the engineering of fried bread. For a few blessed minutes, the noise of the table drowned out the noise in his head.
But there was a magnetic pull from across the room. Every few minutes, his gaze drifted.
Once, he caught Ilya mid-bite. Their eyes met, and for a split second, neither of them looked away. Ilya gave him a careful, closed-lip smile.
Shane’s heart flipped in his chest. He dropped his gaze back to his tray and stabbed aggressively at a strawberry. He zoned out through the remainder of the light morning conversations, so much so that Hayden had to nudge him several times to respond to a question being directed at him.
Breakfast ended in the usual scrape of benches and eruption of noise. Counselors stood, herding campers toward the exit and toward the cabins to prepare for the day. Shane lingered just long enough to stack a few stray trays together before heading outside.
The morning sun was bright, filtering through the trees to fall onto the grounds in broad patches. He had just finished counting his camper’s heads when someone stepped into his peripheral vision. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was, but he did anyway.
Ilya stood there with a paper cup of coffee and an expression that was trying very hard to be neutral. There was something stiffer about him, shoulders squared, and chin lifted just slightly, like he had only barely worked up the courage to approach him. “Morning, Hollander.”
“Morning,” Shane replied. His voice came out a touch higher than intended. He cleared his throat. “Sleep at all?”
Ilya huffed a soft breath through his nose. “A little. You?”
“Fine. Normal sleep,” Shane muttered. “Super normal night.”
“Ah.” The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitched. “Good. I am glad you had super normal night.”
Shane huffed a laugh, then immediately looked down at the gravel. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. There was a brief pause. Not awkward, just a little strange. A heavy, unspoken question hung in the air.
Ilya took a slow sip of his coffee, then shifted his weight. “Barrett did not, ah… bother you last night?”
There it was. Shane licked his bottom lip, mouth suddenly dry. “Oh, you mean the secret dock meeting in the middle of the night? No, yeah. Not a bother at all.”
Ilya at least had the courtesy to wince. “So he actually did that.”
Shane nodded slowly, and Ilya dragged a hand down his face, mumbling a curse. “I told him not to make it weird.”
“It was a little weird.”
“He means well,” Ilya assured, staring down into his cup. “He just does not know how to mind his business.”
Shane hesitated, rocking back on his heels. Clearly, Troy had checked with Ilya before the interrogation, but it was hard to deduce exactly how much Ilya knew about how their conversation actually went.
Shane opted for a quiet, “He was worried about you,” because it was true and had the least amount of impact.
Ilya’s fingers tightened slightly around the cup. “Of course he was.” There was a short pause as Ilya hesitated. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him that nothing bad happened,” Shane said. “And that I, you know. Didn’t say anything shitty. To you.”
Some of the tension left Ilya’s shoulders at that. “He was concerned because I would not tell him anything. But he notices things. Sometimes. He could tell something happened.”
“Sounds like Rose,” Shane said with a huffed laugh.
The comparison was moderately funny. Shane had thought he was being subtle about the whole thing, and he clearly had not been, but it made him feel better that Ilya was also not being subtle about it. That he was equally, if not more, affected by this shift between them.
Shane shifted his weight and cleared his throat awkwardly. “And he, uh… he also told me something.”
Ilya went very still. “Yeah?”
“Yeah…” Shane’s pulse ticked up, and suddenly the speck of dirt on the toe of his sneaker was very appealing to stare at. “He said you, uh, like me.”
“Oh.”
Shane refused to look up. “Do you?”
For a grown man, Shane suddenly felt very childish. Like he was back in high school, passing notes in class with Do you like me? Check yes or no scrawled in pen. His heart was thudding for no good reason other than the fact that, suddenly, this mattered so much. Almost too much. He could feel Ilya’s gaze on the side of his head, but he kept staring down at his shoes.
“Yes,” Ilya said after what felt like forever, but was maybe only one second. “I do.”
Shane’s stomach flipped so hard that he suddenly felt off-balance. He shifted his weight again.
“I was going to tell you myself. On Saturday. But you looked like you were going to pass out when I told you I was bisexual,” Ilya added, a hint of teasing in his voice.
Their gazes met for the first time that morning, and it made Shane’s breath catch in his throat.
“I just—” Shane started, then stopped. He dragged a hand through his hair.
“You are freaking out.”
“I am not freaking out.”
“Okay.” Ilya shrugged, though his fingers flexed slightly around his cup. “Not freaking out. But you seem… I don’t know. Surprised.”
Shane scuffed his toe through the dirt, just to have something to do. “I think I just need a second… to process everything. That’s all.”
“How long is a second?”
Troy’s voice echoed in his head immediately, layered over Ilya’s identical question with an identical tone. It felt coordinated, in a way, though Shane doubted it actually was, and Shane suddenly felt like he was being cornered, unable to answer a question that desperately needed one.
Shane’s mouth opened, then closed, and his eyes shut as well, pinched at the corners. He didn’t know.
“I don’t know,” he said aloud, feeling like the answer was absolutely worthless.
Ilya didn’t say anything at first, and when Shane opened his eyes to glance at him, he found Ilya to be smiling—soft, a little sheepish, but not worried.
“That’s okay,” he said quietly.
The quiet confidence in that caught Shane off guard. Ilya looked nervous, sure, a faint pink dusting his ears while his fingertips went white against his cup, but there was a steadiness in his voice. Like he had made peace with his side of this and was just waiting to see if Shane would meet him halfway.
“And you are… still taking that second?” Ilya asked after a moment.
Shane met his eyes fully this time. Now, looking at him, Shane could see the slight heaviness under Ilya’s eyes and the way his posture held just a bit too much tension. He looked as tired as Shane felt.
“I’m… yeah, I guess,” Shane said, internally cringing at how inadequate that sounded. “Sorry. I’m not very good at this.”
“At what?”
Shane waved a hand in the air, hunting for an answer. Every individual option felt too real, so he opted for a quiet, "All of it.”
Ilya huffed a quiet laugh. Another pause passed between them. Despite neither of them moving, they somehow felt closer now.
“We are okay, though,” Ilya said, more a statement than a question, but there was a flicker of vulnerability beneath it.
Shane’s nerves sparked again. He supposed they were, but there was a hum of anxiety that had settled under his skin, not yet unbearable but still unrelenting. He kind of felt like a skittish animal, like one more word or sudden movement would send him running away.
Instead of speaking, he just nodded once.
Ilya studied him for half a second longer, like he was deciding whether to push further. Then he nodded once, satisfied. Across the field, a whistle shrilled to signify the start of the first activities. Campers started forming messy lines. Shane needed to get to the pool, and Ilya definitely had to get to the archery field.
Shane stepped away first, hands slipping from his pockets so he’d stop clenching them. “We should, uh. Do our jobs.”
“Probably,” Ilya agreed. He hesitated, took the last sip of his coffee, then turned away to toss the cup into the trash. He lingered for a moment, like he was debating saying something else.
He took a step toward Shane. “For what it is worth,” Ilya said, voice lower now, “You can take your second.” His mouth twitched. “Or minute. Hour. Whatever. There is no rush. I will be here.”
Shane’s pulse jumped. “Yeah. Okay. That’s—” he swallowed, saliva thick. “That’s good. I mean. Not good that you’re waiting. Just… Good that you’re… here.” He winced at himself. Maybe he should have sprinted away when he had the chance.
Ilya’s lips pressed together like he was fighting a grin. “You are very eloquent this morning, Hollander.”
“Shut up,” Shane muttered automatically, ears burning. “I’m surprised you even know that word.”
“I know a lot.” Ilya shrugged, already stepping backwards. “See you at paintball.” He finally turned, heading toward the archery field.
Shane dragged a hand down his face, attempting to collect what remained of his composure. His heart was still racing, a rush of blood in his ears. He exhaled slowly, shook out his hands, and jogged back to his cabin to change.
☀︎ ☀︎ ☀︎
Teaching children to gamble was, in hindsight, moderately ridiculous. It wasn’t as fun as teaching them to swim, or how to play paintball, or how to track down a mouse that wandered into their cabin, but it was definitely entertaining. And entertaining was enough for Shane because it kept his brain occupied, instead of circling the same three thoughts over and over again. And that’s what casino night was all about.
The Village courtyard had been completely revamped late Saturday afternoon. Eight folding tables formed a crooked U across the open space, with green plastic tablecloths secured over each one, giving the impression of bright, fresh baize. There was a hand-painted sign tacked to each table, crude drawings of cards, chips, and one really shit roulette wheel identifying each game.
The Snack Shack window stood open, ready to distribute each camper’s buy-ins in plastic cups: fun-sized candy bars, neon glow-in-the-dark bracelets, and monopoly money with no real value. The air already smelled like sugar, plastic, and that little sense of hope that every gambler held before they got completely wiped out. Music pulsed from the Snack Shack speaker, some playlist of clean pop music that vibrated the tables slightly.
Shane was standing at the blackjack table with a small crowd already gathered.
“The goal is to get to twenty-one without going over,” Shane explained, shuffling a deck as he spoke. “You aren’t competing against each other, you’re competing against me. Which means you’ll probably lose.”
A girl in the front frowned. “What happens if you go over?”
Hayden appeared in that moment, slinging his arm over Shane’s shoulders. “You explode.”
“No, you don’t.” Shane drove his elbow into Hayden’s ribs, pulling a sharp gasp of pain out of him. He waited for Hayden to stagger away before continuing, “You just lose whatever you bet.”
Liam squinted at him from the crowd. “Are you good at this?”
“Not really.” Shane actually was, but a teenager didn’t need to know that he was rather good at counting cards. “That’s why I’m controlling the deck.”
Initial bets started hitting the table: a half-melted Hershey’s bar, a few packets of Smarties, a bright pink bracelet, and a painted rock that Shane recognized from the scavenger hunt. He didn’t question it. It was from a returning camper who definitely knew the risk. And, to be fair, he was pretty sure Evan painted that one, and it wasn’t like it belonged in a museum.
He dealt slowly at first, exaggerating the motions for his captive audience. While he dealt, he explained the value of each card and what it meant to bust. Their eyes tracked every movement like it was a magic trick, and they didn’t want to miss the grand reveal.
From across the lot, someone screamed, high-pitched and victorious. Shane glanced up instinctively. At the makeshift roulette setup, which was really just a thrifted spin wheel, Harris had both hands in the air while a camper bounced in circles, clutching two full-sized candy bars in her hand.
Once the shout dissolved back into music, he meant to look back at his table. Instead, his gaze swept across the line of tables. He didn’t mean to look for Ilya; it just kind of happened. He was standing a few tables down, running a poker game. His sleeves were pushed up, one hand braced on the table as he leaned toward a camper, probably explaining a rule or two. He laughed at something that Shane couldn’t hear, and the sound carried just enough to make Shane’s stomach turn.
At his table, a camper hit the table with a flat palm. “Hit!”
Shane startled but recentered quickly, passing the kid a card. He busted. The boy groaned dramatically, collapsing forward onto the table like he had been shot.
A ripple of laughter went through the crowd, and Shane swept the small pile of candy toward himself. “The house always wins,” he said, earning a chorus of boos.
“Rematch!” someone shouted immediately, already digging into his plastic cup for another bracelet to throw down. Shane shook his head fondly and reshuffled, cards whispering together between his fingers. Rounds passed by easily, and Shane explained the rules several times over as campers rotated between the different stations.
The sky above them shifted from dusky blue to full dark without them noticing. By the final round, Shane’s voice had gone a little hoarse from repeating the same explanations over and over, and the pile at his elbow had grown into an absurd mountain of sugar and neon plastic. A few campers had managed to beat him, and they strutted away with cups overflowing and grins wide. Most, however, left his table with lighter cups, accusing him of cheating. He only smiled at them.
After lights out was when the real fun began.
The final whistle had sounded around 9:30, and counselors herded their campers toward bathhouses and bunks quickly. By 11:00, the cabins were quiet. Shane walked back toward the rec room, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket. The Village courtyard had gone dark, but the rec room lights still glowed faintly.
Inside, the couches had been shoved to the side to make room for two folding tables that sat in the center. They had been stripped of their green tablecloths, and brand new decks of cards sat on each one. The overhead lights were turned off. Several lamps had been relocated near the tables to cast the room in a soft, warm glow. Evan had brought his Bluetooth speaker, and low music hummed through the room with soft, steady bass and long lyric lines.
Hayden was already there, having left Shane to do the last all-clear for their cabin, leaning back in a folding chair.
The door clicked shut behind Shane, and Hayden sat up quickly. “Finally!”
“Alright,” Zane said, rubbing his hands together. “Now we play for real.”
They all settled into place quickly, taking positions at either of the two tables; one for blackjack and one for poker. They did this every year, and it felt like routine at this point. Shane fell into place across from Rose at the blackjack table, and Hayden took the place to his left. Wyatt and Troy sat down as well.
“Dealer rotates every other round,” Rose said, already shuffling a deck. The cards snapped crisply beneath her fingers. Ilya ended up taking the final seat at the table at the last moment, directly to Shane’s right, as the poker table had filled before he could claim a spot there instead. Shane glanced up at him as he sat and offered him a small smile when they made eye contact.
The games passed by quickly with quiet, easy conversation and the snapping of playing cards. They rotated the dealer every two rounds, deck shifting from Rose to Wyatt, to Troy, then to Ilya.
It had gotten to the point of the night where the pile in the middle thickened with ridiculous wagers: Hayden’s watch, a packet of instant ramen, a piece of gum, an IOU for an activity swap. Even a single navy blue flip-flop was smacked dramatically onto the table by Troy after a split went bad. The stakes were stupid, but they were all tired, and that made them feel higher.
Shane’s next hand came down in front of him, ten and six. Ilya’s dealer card was a seven.
Shane swallowed. Sixteen against seven. He tapped the edge of his cards against the table, once, twice. He should hit, he knew that. Statistically, it was the right move. Usually this part was easy. He had explained this very thing to a fourteen-year-old less than five hours ago, but his logic faltered under Ilya’s gaze.
The other leaned forward slightly, forearm resting on the edge of the table, and the squeak of his chair made Shane glance up from the cards. Ilya was close enough now that Shane could spot a new freckle on his jaw. Close enough that the thoughts in Shane’s head fizzled into white noise. He couldn’t remember what had already been played. In fact, he couldn’t track anything past the seven lying on the table, and the fact that Ilya was too close.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Ilya said.
Shane’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to mess with me?”
“Depends.” Ilya pouted in thought. “Is it working?”
Shane was too busy staring at Ilya’s lips to respond to that, which was a brand new problem. They curved up slightly at the corners, as if his lack of response answered the question anyway. Shane dragged his attention back down to the table.
“You could stay,” Ilya supplied unhelpfully.
Shane glanced back up to glare, but the look faltered as he realized Ilya had leaned even closer. Their noses were within an inch of one another. Shane didn’t move back. “That’s really shit advice.”
“Maybe.” Ilya shrugged, just a microscopic jerk of his shoulder. Then, almost as an afterthought, “But it might be more interesting.”
“What are you getting at?” Shane asked.
Ilya’s gaze flicked down briefly, sliding from the cards, to the table, to Shane’s hand, then back up. “Means you do not always have to play it safe.”
Shane’s stomach tightened involuntarily at that. It would have been easy to brush it off as a joke. The whole night had been a joke, with sticky fingers fumbling over cards and the victorious shouts of campers scoring an extra candy bar, but Ilya wasn’t smiling, and it didn’t feel like a gag.
Actually, it felt like a different kind of gamble entirely. One that he hadn’t decided if he was playing yet.
Hayden shifted beside him, huffing. “Are you seriously still thinking? I want that gum, man.”
Shane barely registered the words. He still hadn’t moved away from Ilya, and his pulse had crept up, steady and insistent. He knew what the right choice was, but he wasn’t sure that was the choice he wanted to make. For a second, he wondered what it would be like to choose wrong on purpose.
His hand hesitated in mid-air for a moment before he tapped the table once. Ilya’s expression flickered, something quick and unreadable, before smoothing back into indifference. He slid a card over, and Shane flipped it immediately.
Five.
Twenty-one.
Shane set the cards down carefully, and Hayden swore loud enough for it to echo.
There was the ghost of a smile on Ilya’s face as he flipped his hidden card. A ten, for seventeen. He pushed the pot toward Shane with exaggerated reluctance, already complaining about blackjack being rigged. Shane rolled his eyes, but there was a smile on his face. It didn’t falter when Hayden reached over and snatched the piece of gum from the pile, either. He stacked the crumpled bills neatly, something to do with his hands.
Later, as the night dwindled down and only a few counselors remained, Shane found himself sitting on the floor against the couch, legs outstretched in front of him, while he counted through his earnings. The room was quieter now, music softer, conversations reduced to murmurs. Ilya dropped down beside him a minute later.
“You always do that,” he said quietly.
Shane kept his eyes on the money, pretending that it took intense focus to organize the ones from the fives. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Pick the safe option.” Ilya tapped his foot against Shane’s, just once, almost like it was an accident. “Hit or stay… Run or stay…” He shrugged. “Same thing, I think.”
Shane frowned slightly. The attempted shift in topic was evident. “That’s not—”
“It is,” Ilya cut in gently. His tone was certain. “You already knew what you were going to do before I said anything.”
Shane’s fingers stilled on a wrinkled dollar, gaze flicking toward their shoes. Ilya had moved his foot away, but the touch seemed to linger. Shane looked up, meeting the other’s gaze in the dim light. “It was the right move.”
“I did not say it wasn’t.”
Shane exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze dropping back to the money in his hands. The edges of the bills were soft from use, crumpled and uneven. “You’re reading way too much into a card game,” he muttered.
“Am I?” Ilya asked, but there was no mocking bite to it, only curiosity.
Shane huffed a quiet breath. “I just don’t like losing.”
“You didn’t lose,” Ilya said matter-of-factly, gesturing toward the stack of money.
“That’s not really the point.” Shane folded a few of the bills in half, debating a new way to organize, then immediately flattened them again. He searched for something that didn’t sound like a confession. “I don’t like losing, so I always try to know what I’m doing.”
Ilya watched him for a second, expression unreadable in the low light. “And when you do not?”
Shane let out a short, humorless laugh. “Then I… stall. Or overthink. Or I…” He trailed off, then shrugged. “Run.”
A small silence settled between them, full of more words that went unspoken. Shane shifted slightly against the couch, shoulder brushing Ilya’s for half a second before he stilled. He didn’t move away.
“You could’ve stayed,” Ilya said after a moment, almost absentminded, but it was clear that they were no longer talking about a stupid card game. They were in the paintball shed last Saturday. The bathhouse on Sunday. Outside the Coop on Thursday.
Shane just kept running. He could’ve stayed every time. But every time, he didn’t.
He glanced over at Ilya. He wasn’t looking back; instead, he was staring at a random spot on the far wall.
“Yeah. I could’ve,” Shane said to the side of his face.
Ilya turned, then his mouth curved upwards, slow and knowing, and it made Shane’s stomach clench.