Free Quillon's Covert by Joseph Lance Tonlet, Louis Stevens

hopeless.
    “I drew the line when I woke up to discover a pair of my Nikes were missing. I knew he’d taken them the night before ’cause he couldn’t wait to get home after our make out session.”
    “You’re killing me,” Martin said with a laugh.
    Marty smiled, thankful that a bit of their easy camaraderie had returned. If there was one thing Marty should have learned over the years, it was to never underestimate the healing powers of Quillon’s Covert.

    Martin / 37
     
    “The fire out?” Martin asked through a yawn and pulled the covers back on the bed.
    Although the air conditioner was working just fine, the small window unit couldn’t match the 102-degree day they’d just had. At some point during the night, they’d need a sheet, and perhaps even a blanket if they were lucky, but right now Martin just bunched both down to the foot of the bed. The campfire wasn’t for warmth, but rather a moderately successful attempt at keeping the mosquitoes at bay.
    “Yep. It’s out. And the fishing poles are put away, and there’s no food left out to attract critters, and the seat is down on the outhouse stool, and—”
    Martin punched the pillows to fluff them up, tossed his cap onto the nightstand, and pointed a finger at his son. “Look, you aren’t too old for me to bend over my kn…” His son’s lifted brow and subtle smirk kept Martin from finishing his words.
    “Yeah, ’cause we both know how well that went over last time.”
    Marty nudged his father’s shoulder. “Get into bed, Old Man, I’m beat! Next time the roof ‘only needs a few shingles replaced’ I vote we hire someone.”
    Martin climbed into the bed and schooched over to take his customary spot next to the wall. “Well, so long as your vote comes with the cash to back it up, I’m good with that.”
    Martin lifted his arm and Marty snuggled down next to him, resting his head on his father’s firm chest.
    Martin was so glad the weirdness, which had begun near the end of last year’s trip—after the shower—and that had kept them apart, now seemed behind them. During the first few days of this trip, he’d felt sure the change would be permanent; Marty had seemed as distant as he’d been since the end of last year’s trip, if not more so. Martin understood the catalyst that had caused Marty to pull away. And perhaps Martin had pulled back too. He vividly remembered trying to avoid any contact in last year’s subsequent showers that could be misconstrued as more than bathing. And, after they got home, Marty had started sitting in one of the living room chairs, instead of on the sofa next to him, when they’d watch movies or games. While he’d reluctantly chalked their new dynamic up to last year’s shower, he also tried to reason that Marty was getting older and a growing distance between a parent and child was natural. The thought had made him sadder than he’d imagined, but it seemed every time he got remotely close to discussing the subject, Marty would change topics. Now, after more than a week at Quillon’s Covert, it seemed things had miraculously returned to the way they’d once been. Perhaps Marty finally understood they could be close—very close—without things veering into a direction he was sure neither of them really wanted.
    “Not gonna be too hot is it?”
    Martin yawned. “Nah, it’s never too hot to snuggle.”
    He was once again relieved that Marty was gay, particularly now that they’d fallen back into the familiar, comfortable habit of lying with each other at night. Martin knew most fathers and teenaged sons didn’t snuggle together. But, with Marty being gay, it somehow lessened the need for Martin to put on some sort of hyper masculine front. Not that throwing fictitious fronts up had ever been part of their relationship. But without a doubt, Marty being gay made it easier to be physically close.
    “Not that I didn’t enjoy it, you know.”
    Martin picked up the thread of their earlier spanking