Page 37 of Canned & Coated

“You need it bad, don’t you?” he whispers against my skin.

The slight brush of his nose, his lips teasing at the edge of mine.

A dozen comebacks die in my throat. I manage only a jerky nod, embarrassingly eager.

Tanner chuckles. “Thought so.

The sound of breaking twigs and shifting stones draws our attention to the entrance as Milo’s shadow reappears.

“Here,” he says. “Tanner, lube up.”

He extends his hand into the tent, palm cupped. In the darkness, I can’t see what’s coating it. I can only hear the faint, wet squish as he curls his fingers.

Tanner’s eyes narrow. “What is that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Milo replies with suspicious haste.

Tanner rises to his knees, his body silhouetted against the tent wall. Milo’s hand finds him without hesitation.The moment contact happens, Tanner’s entire frame goes rigid, jolting like he’s been tased. Breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

“Christ,” he gasps. “That’s fucking cold. What is that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Milo repeats, his voice forcibly casual as his hand continues its slow motion.

I lever myself up, straining to see in the dimness. “What is it really?”

“It’ll work. Don’t ask questions, Nate.”

“If it’s going in my ass, I’m going to ask questions, Milo.”

The tent fills with tense silence until Tanner breaks it. “Why is it so...”

“So what?” Milo’s asks defensively.

“Gelatinous?” Tanner’s face scrunches in bewilderment.

The word lingers between us, ominous and unsettling. Tanner can likely feel my unease in the tension of my body, because he glances back at me, face instantly transforming into something reassuring.

“Not that it won’t work. It’s still very... smooth. Glideable, if you will.”

“Glideable,” I echo, deadpan.

His attention shifts to Milo, eyes narrowing. “Seriously, why is it cold? Is it from the cooler?”

Milo releases a measured breath through flared nostrils, “It’s... a substance.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s soothing,” Milo offers. “Technically.”

“Did you say technically,” I ask, eyes narrowed.

“Yes... technically.”

“Milo, tell me what it is,” I demand. “Please don’t make me beg while your hand is full of mystery goo.”

His shoulders drop with his deep exhale. “Do you trust me?”

I’ve shared birthday cakes and broken bones with him since we were six. Trust isn’t even a question.