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“Remember the first time you smoked up?” Travie’s voice is a purr, from the smoke and the late hour.

“Sure,” Gabe says. “I got invited to a high-school party by this guy I knew, and it was awesome, beer and girls and people making out in the corners.”

“And you watching them,” Travie says, not a question.

“Shit, yeah. And then somebody passed around a joint, and I wasn’t gonna say no to that, right?” Gabe stretches out a little more on the cool grass, willing the heat of the day to dissipate faster.

“Fuckin’ right.”

“Didn’t do much, but I got the hang of it after a few more parties.” Gabe had been invited to a lot of parties, in high school.

“My brother showed me,” Travie says. “Said he might as well.”

“And look at you now. Bet he’s proud.” They both giggle, and Gabe takes another hit, eyes drifting shut. “You ever get off with your friends, high? Back then?”

“Too young to get laid, you mean?” Travie asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer. “Couple of times, sure. Like—we’re here, we’re horny, we’re stoned, what the fuck.”

“Miss that,” Gabe sighs. Travie doesn’t reply, and then the joint is plucked out of Gabe’s hand. He starts to sit up, and Travie pushes him back down.

“Shh,” Travie says. “God, bro,” and his voice is different, lighter, “this shit is great, but it’s all—you know.”

“Please tell me I’m not playing your actual brother in this scenario,” Gabe says, and Travie punches him in the arm, glaring, before they both crack up. “Okay, okay, again from the top.”

“God, man,” Travie says, “don’t you feel a little, you know, hot under the collar?”

“Horny,” Gabe says, “what are you, eighty-three?”

“Eighteen,” and Gabe can hear the lie.

“Yeah, right,” he says, “I ain’t buyin’ it.” Gabe slips into his teenage slang fast, like shedding the years.

“Sixteen,” Travie says, and Gabe still doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t care, either.

“Yeah, me too.”

“So? You—horny?”

“Sure, but it ain’t the weed. I feel like this all the time, like I could pound nails. Too young to fuck, but my dick don’t know it.” Gabe remembers that feeling, being almost afraid of his own dick, a benevolent overlord with power over his life. He couldn’t get it to sit still in class no matter how much of a workout he gave it in the bathroom between classes. He’d loved and feared it, and sometimes he kind of still did.

“Yeah,” Travie agrees, fervently. “Yeah, I feel you.”

Gabe lets that lie for a moment, then, “You wanna? Feel me?”

“That’s gay,” Travie says, and he’s laughing as he says it but Gabe pretends not to notice. “You some kind of fag?”

“Maybe,” Gabe says, because at sixteen he’d pretty much gotten there, or he likes to remember it that way, at least. “So what?”

“So—so you should do me, then,” Travie says, “if you’re the queer.”

“All right,” Gabe says, affable from the pot, and not unwilling to get his hands on whatever’s down this kid’s pants. “I’m Gabe, by the way.”

“Good for you,” Travie says, and then, rolling his eyes, “Travie.”

Gabe rolls towards him, one eye on their surroundings, but he’s pretty sure no one else is in this park at three in the fucking morning. “I’m not sucking you,” he says, although his mouth is watering, because that’s not what this is about. That can wait. “And you gotta do me after.”

“Maybe,” Travie says, and Gabe snorts and sticks his hand down Travie’ loose cargo shorts.

“You will,” he says, “you’ll be overcome with gratitude for my gracious and skilled handjob … skills.”

“Smooth,” Travie says, but his hips are bucking up towards Gabe’s hand, fingers already curling into the ground. “Shit, I’m not gonna last long.”

“Sixteen my ass,” Gabe says, and Travie gasps, “Fifteen then,” but Gabe wants the real number, strokes him a little rougher, reaches down and tugs on his balls.

“Tell me,” he says, “tell me or I’ll stop.”

“Thirteen,” Travie says, “please don’t stop, fuck, man, fuck.”

Gabe bucks his own hips into the ground, thinking about it, about him and Travie meeting at a party, thirteen and stoned, getting high and horny and off together. They could have, if they’d run in the same circles, if they’d been in the right place at the right time. “Me too,” he says, and, “no more lying.”

“Promise,” Travie says, and then he grunts, coming all over Gabe’s hand and the inside of his shorts.

Gabe watches Travie lying there, panting, for a good solid thirty seconds before he pushes Travie’s right hand down his own pants. “That was the deal,” he whines, teenage brattiness a close and present memory, and Travie digs his nails into Gabe’s stomach, too close to his cock.

“Watch it,” Gabe says, and Travie just smirks at him.

“Don’t be a douchebag, then.” Gabe leans in and bites Travie’s jaw, and Travie turns his face until they’re kissing, softening it as he starts to jack Gabe off.

“Now who’s a fag,” Gabe mumbles, and doesn’t let Travie have enough space to respond, kisses him harder, messily, unpracticed. He lets himself thrust into Travie’s hand without regard for Travie’s wrist or anything else, just follow his instincts. It’s good, so good, nothing like jerking off, and he can’t believe he’s not supposed to have this, that he’s supposed to wait years before he can—”Jesus,” he says, spilling over Travie’s hand before he even feels it coming.

“Definitely thirteen,” Travie says, “but if I really were, I’d punch you now and run off, so let’s be done with that.”

“Good plan,” Gabe says, sighing and tucking his face into Travie’s collarbone. “Wish I’d known you then, though.”

“Maybe. You know me now, anyway. That’s good enough.”

“We have the best ideas when we’re stoned,” Gabe says. “Note to self, smoke up with Travie more.”

“We should get William next time he’s in town,” Travie muses. “Did you ever do a circle jerk as a kid?”

“Fuck, I love your brain,” Gabe says, and lets himself drift.