Smores now. Sex later, he tells himself sternly, trying to wrestle his attention away from thoughts of Justin’s mouth and what it could be doing so that he could focus on the smore in his hands. There would be plenty of time for physical intimacy later, and it isn’t as though he’s gone for a long stretch without it. They’d just spent a month in Belize together, for Christ’s sake. He could go an entire night without sex.

He has to remind himself that he’s gone a hell of a lot longer than one night – try two years – without it when Justin starts rubbing the lotion on his fingers, and in an effect to distract himself, he shoves the whole smore into his mouth. It is good, and despite the fact that he’d been born and raised in cities all his life, he is enjoying this. Mostly, he thinks, because of the company he’s keeping.

“How many do you think we can make?” he mumbles, his words getting clearer halfway through as he swallows the last bit of food. “I mean, if we made them all. Obviously we can’t do that. We’d get sick. But from a purely professional curious standpoint, I mean.”