The crescent moon is casting shadows over cheekbones and flickering flame. Beach bonfires are commonplace over the summer and as charcoal and cheap wood burn into the scorched-out grains of sand the air around them becomes almost unbearable. The light breeze casts flickers of spark and smoke into their faces and their eyes sting hot, skin offended by the waving, burning air.

Duncan swallows hard – although there's nothing in his mouth – craving release from the pressure that presses on the back of his swollen throat, dry and dusty like he has inhaled the flame. Next to him Logan watches with casual interest borne from a lack of anything else to look at, the flask in his hand is a favorite and his throat burns for a completely different reason.

The sand is hard and punishing behind Duncan's back and there is a girl between them, buffering their actions. They have both been a little in love with her at some point but she has never touched them like this and god they both wish she would, but it's unlikely so they touch each other with the ferocity that makes them believe they could be the flame. They wouldn't be burned that way. Logan doesn't delude himself as much as Duncan, but Duncan's always lived in a fairytale and he can fantasize anything to normality, even another boy's hands around his cock, even another boy's mouth around his cock.

When Duncan comes he pretends that he hasn't, retracts into the gloom that his painkillers produce. Logan just shrugs a little, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand and pulling his pants closed quickly. Soon the taste of Duncan is being replaced with the contents of his flask and Logan steals a glance at his best friend, pale and heavy-eyed beside him.

Duncan doesn't look back. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?