Boys will always have a propensity towards grabbing each other where they shouldn't, especially if you keep a bunch of them together without enough females. It doesn't matter if it's the back of a swing club where you trade a pretty girl back and forth like a kiss, or a dark, cold, wet, cold, hard, cold camping trip at way too late in the night.

They'd been lying there for a while, listening to each other breathe.

"We could have gone to a club," Peter said, finally.

"Shut up."

"We could have gone to a real swinging club and then gone home to our own beds."

"Would you shut up?"

"What does camping have to do with the Fatherland anyway?" He knew, but he didn't want to vocalize the connection between the games they play and the real possibility of going out to shoot a bunch of people he'd never met for some reason he wasn't sure about.

"If you don't shut up, I'm going to punch you in the face."

This remark is a little violent, even for Thomas. Extra violent Thomas can mean he's anything from pissed off to scared to death to feeling guilty, but it's some sort of excess emotion that needs to come out in his fists. He might even just be horny.

"But it's cold," Peter said.

Thomas huffed a sigh, but raised the side of his sleeping bag to allow Peter underneath. His arms slid around Thomas, feeling the tight muscles of his back. Peter smiled slyly and pressed closer, his thigh touching something that made Thomas gasp.

"We could have gone dancing," Peter remarked slowly, bringing his knee up between Thomas's legs.

They grappled in the dark, palms sliding down each other's body, muffling groans into the skins of each other's necks. Peter wormed his fingers into Thomas's pants, felt the soft hot skin, heard Thomas's gasps.

A stick broke.

Peter froze.

Something rustled.

Thomas pressed insistently against him.

"Wait…" Peter whispered.

With a strangled moan, Thomas lunged at him, pinning his arm above his head and rolling on top of him.

Terrified, Peter heard the sound of someone staggering into the woods behind their row of tents. Something brushed against the canvas, phantom shapes out of the corner of his eyes.

Thomas switched his grip, one hand holding Peter's wrists, one reaching between them, grabbing himself roughly. Peter wriggled beneath him, straining up in hope of contact. Thomas gasped and groaned and tensed, muscles in his arm standing out by Peter's head. Peter felt a cold hand shove up his shirt, exposing his chest to the cool night air.

Peter heard Thomas mumble something, though he couldn't be sure what, as Thomas came with a shudder all over his stomach.

The weight rolled off him and Thomas's slick hands grabbed him roughly. Peter found himself pressing his head into the ground, his hips arching up.

His right hand reached out and threaded into Thomas's hair. When he came, his hand tensed, scratching scalp and pulling hard.

They lay in the darkness, listening to each other breath.

Someone stumbled back from the woods, the hand trailed against canvas again.

"You know what I hate the most?" Thomas asked as he ran a rag over his sticky skin and tossed it to Peter.

"Cutting off your whips?" Peter guessed, cleaning off his stomach and shoving the rag into a corner of the tent.

"Yeah." Thomas stared at him moment, then awkwardly ran his hand through Peter's hair. "They suited you."

"You too." Peter rearranged his pajamas and settled down under his sleeping bag. "Goodnight."

Thomas darted forward and lightly kissed him.

"Goodnight," Thomas said. They each rolled away, turning backs to each other.

Peter fell asleep with a smile on his face and dreamt about dancing.