Cole pressed his hands to his face. The shame spiked so hard it made him shake.
Ethan’s voice was quieter now, as if afraid he’d scare Cole off. “I wanted you from the second I got here.”
Cole didn't trust himself to look up. He felt the air thin out, like the earth itself was going to collapse under them if he breathed wrong. Part of him—the part that had been suffocating for decades—wanted to reach for Ethan's hand, to say he understood that kind of courage, to admit how much he admired it. But the louder voice, the one that sounded too much like his father's, screamed that real men didn't feel this way, that whatever was stirring in his gut was shameful, disgusting. He'd spent a lifetime building walls around these feelings, and now they were threatening to crack open. His body betrayed him anyway, cock already half-hard in his jeans, the physical need cutting through years of practiced denial. He could feel the wall inside him cracking, hairline fractures spreading through the foundation of his carefully constructed self.
Ethan hesitated, then said, “I’ll leave tomorrow, if you want. I’ll get up before sunrise, pack out alone, and you’ll never haveto see me again. But I’d rather stay, if there’s any chance you can forgive me.”
The wind bit harder. Cole wanted to shatter something, wanted to throw Ethan off the ledge for being so fucking honest, wanted to hold him so tight he’d never breathe again. He did none of these things. Instead, he whispered, “I can’t be what you want.”
Ethan’s hand slid over his, gentle and persistent. “You already are.”
Cole jerked his hand away, but not fast enough. The warmth of Ethan’s skin lingered. He didn’t know if he hated or loved the feeling.
For a while they just sat. Cole heard the whistle of the first night hawks spiraling over the basin. The sun was half gone, slicing the meadow into bands of orange and bruised blue.
Ethan shifted closer, almost imperceptibly. “Can I show you?” he asked. “What I learned?”
Cole opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His mind raced between two impossible choices—the raw, animal need to say yes, to finally feel what he'd denied himself for decades, and the crushing weight of shame that had been drilled into him since childhood. He stared at the sunset, hands gripping his knees so hard they ached. Before he could decide, before he could run, Ethan leaned in and laid a hand on his thigh, feather-light, eyes steady and determined. Cole’s first instinct was to swat him away, but the urge fizzled quickly.
“I want to touch you,” Ethan said, eyes never leaving Cole’s face.
Cole gritted his teeth. “You shouldn’t.”
“Maybe not. But I want it.”
Cole said nothing.
Ethan moved his hand higher, to the thick of Cole’s thigh, and started tracing little circles with his thumb. Each spiral sent ajolt of electricity up Cole’s spine, right to the root of his cock. He knew he should pull away, should say something, but the urge was stronger than the fear.
“You can stop me anytime,” Ethan said. His voice was gentle, but it vibrated with need. “But I really, really want to.”
Cole's mind waged war against itself. The decades of denial, the shame, the fear—all of it crashed against the raw, primal need throbbing between his legs. He'd spent his whole life building walls against this exact moment, but now his body betrayed him with every heartbeat. The shame was still there—would always be there—but suddenly it felt distant, drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears. He didn't know if he forgave Ethan, he didn't know what any of this meant for tomorrow, but right now, with his cock straining against his jeans and his whole body electric with want, he couldn't remember why that mattered and he couldn't bring himself to care. Tomorrow could sort itself out. All he knew was that he needed release, needed to use Ethan's mouth, needed to stop thinking for just one goddamn minute. Cole let out a shaky breath. "Fuck it. Do what you want."
Ethan’s smile blossomed with pure joy. He slid his hand up to the crotch of Cole’s jeans, palmed the bulge, and gave a little squeeze. Cole gasped, hips jerking involuntarily. His cock was already half-hard, the humiliation of being so eager nearly knocking him flat.
Ethan leaned in, lips brushing Cole’s jaw. “You have no idea how hot you are,” he whispered. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”
Cole closed his eyes. The rush of blood in his ears almost drowned out the world. His heart thrummed so hard it made his teeth buzz. He wanted to bolt, to throw Ethan’s hand off and run until he couldn’t feel anything—but he sat there, panting, trembling, all the stories in his head about how this made himless, weak, a fraud. But the truth was that he’d never wanted anything this badly in his fucking life.
Ethan worked the zipper down, slow and careful, then slipped his hand inside, fingers tracing over the waistband of Cole’s boxers, stalling for a heartbeat as if asking permission. When Cole didn’t slap him away, Ethan pressed on, finding the thick heat of his cock, soft but swelling fast. The sensation was electric, just the touch was enough to make Cole dizzy.
They moved off the ledge and repositioned themselves to face one another amidst the wildflowers. Ethan settled in front of Cole, nestled between his thighs, and with a deliberate motion, he tugged down Cole’s jeans just enough to free his cock, letting it spring forth into the open air.
Cole heard himself moan, a sound he hadn’t known his throat could make, guttural and raw, ripped straight from somewhere below the stratum of shame. The noise shamed him, as did the heat blooming in his cheeks, but nothing—not pride, not regret, nor even the shadow of his old man, growling in his ear that this was a perversion—could overpower the animal pull of Ethan’s hand and mouth on him.
Ethan cupped the shaft in his hand, marveling at it. “Fuck,” he said, awe in his voice. “You’re perfect.”
Cole wanted to argue, but the sight of Ethan’s hunger killed any protest. Ethan bent down and slowly licked from the base to the tip, catching Cole’s gaze the entire way up.
He wasn’t expecting the reaction. The contact—hot tongue on skin, the drag of lips over the crown—was so much more intense than he’d ever let himself imagine.
Ethan held the cock at the base, twisting slightly, then worked his tongue under the ridge, then circled the head, as if tracing the outline of a new country. “You’re uncut,” he said, delighted. “I’ve never held an uncut cock before. I love the way the skin moves.” He sounded like a man discovering a hidden artifact, a lost relicin the dust. He thumbed the foreskin forward, rolling it over the head, then back, the exposed head glistened in the dying light, veins bulging along the pulsing shaft.
Cole was moaning now as he gripped the wildflowers at his side, crushing the stems. The care and precision—the way Ethan seemed so fucking grateful for every inch—made it impossible for Cole to keep his old self together. He could feel it fracturing, sloughing off like dead bark, leaving him soft and new and terrified.
Ethan grinned. “You’re beautiful.” He licked the tip, then swirled around it, lapping up the first drops of precum that leaked out. “God, you taste amazing,” Ethan said, voice almost reverent, I’m already addicted”. He milked the head with his lips, then tongued the slit, coaxing another drop, and this time he moaned. He dragged his mouth back down the shaft, hand working the length, stroking up and down the shaft, using both hand and mouth, worshipping every inch. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. To have you in my mouth, to taste you.”
The rhythm was hypnotic. Ethan worked up at a steady pace, mouth and hand in perfect sync. Every few strokes, he would pause, his eyes sparkling as he focused on the delicate foreskin. With a reverent touch, he would draw it back, revealing the glistening head beneath, then lean in to kiss the sensitive skin before flicking his tongue across it, savoring lick. Each playful caress sent shivers through Cole.
