The Dare and the Dock

The storm rolled in over Black Lake like a bruise spreading across the sky. Arlo watched it come through the big picture window, the whiskey in his glass glowing amber in the last of the afternoon light. Rain lashed the glass in sudden, vicious gusts.

"Fuck me," Benji laughed from where he was sprawled across the ancient floral sofa. He’d been tossing peanuts into the air and catching them in his mouth until the wind kicked up. Now he just stared out at the seething lake, the playful spark in his brown eyes sharpened by something else. "Guess we’re stuck here for the night, huh?"

The cabin belonged to Benji’s uncle. Decades worth of fishing gear and old pin-up calendars cluttered the walls. A wood stove hunkered in the corner. It was usually Arlo who came here to fix things - the sagging porch steps, the leaky sink. Benji just brought the beer.

Arlo took a slow sip of whiskey, feeling the burn trace a path down his throat. "Told you that weather radio wasn’t lying." His voice was low, rough from years of working outdoors. He’d known Benji since they were kids chasing fireflies in the dark, but sometimes the weight of everything left unsaid between them felt heavier than any toolbelt.

Benji rolled off the sofa and padded over to the window on bare feet. He was lean where Arlo was broad, his dark hair perpetually messy. "Think we’ll blow away?" He didn’t sound particularly worried. He sounded… electric. Like the storm had lit something inside him.

"Roof’s held this long," Arlo said. He watched Benji’s reflection in the rain-streaked glass. Watched the way his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders when he leaned forward to peer out at the dock. That goddamn dock. It had been creaking like a dying man for months, the wood gone soft and treacherous at the edges.

Benji turned suddenly, a grin splitting his face. The whiskey had done its work, painting high color on his cheekbones. "Bet you can’t fix it by morning."

Arlo raised an eyebrow. "What’s the bet?"

The grin turned sly. "If you can make that death trap safe to walk on by sunrise…" Benji took a step closer, close enough that Arlo could smell the whiskey on his breath. "I’ll let you top me."

Arlo’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. For one dizzying second, the world narrowed to the heat in Benji’s eyes and the reckless curve of his mouth. Then reality crashed back in. This was Benji. His best friend. The guy who’d held his hair when he puked after his first heartbreak. The guy who knew all his secrets, except the one that mattered most.

"You’re drunk," Arlo said hoarsely.

"So are you." Benji took another step. They were almost chest to chest now. The wind howled outside, shaking the cabin walls. "Scared you can’t do it? Or scared you *can*?"

Arlo’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He could already feel the weight of his toolbox, the heft of the hammer. He’d been wanting to get his hands on that dock for weeks. Wanting to test its limits, to make it solid again. Just like he’d wanted to reach for Benji every time he laughed a little too loud, every time their shoulders bumped in the narrow kitchen.

"Fuck it," Arlo rasped. The words felt like they’d been ripped out of him. "You’re on."

Benji’s smile was pure fire. "Better get started then, *Ace*. Sun’s gonna come up whether you’re ready or not." The old nickname - the one Benji had given him in high school when he’d fixed their busted-down ride in five minutes flat - landed like a taunt. Like a challenge.

Arlo drained his whiskey in one burning gulp and set the glass down hard on the windowsill. The storm snarled against the glass as he grabbed his jacket and his toolbox and stepped out into the rain.

The rain hit Arlo like a slap, cold and stinging as he made his way down to the dock. The wood groaned under his boots when he stepped onto it, the whole structure swaying precariously. He dropped to his knees and yanked open his toolbox, the metal gleaming wetly in the fading light.

He worked with single-minded focus, tearing up rotten boards with his bare hands, the splinters biting into his palms. Every swing of the hammer was a punctuation mark to the thoughts rattling around in his skull. *Benji. Top him. Fuck.* The dare echoed in his head like a mantra, equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.

He could see Benji’s face in the window of the cabin, a pale smudge behind the rain-blurred glass. Watching him. Waiting.

Arlo’s muscles burned as he wrestled a new support beam into place, the wood scraping against his rain-slick skin. He’d stripped off his jacket and flannel shirt, leaving him in just his white t-shirt, now plastered to his chest like a second skin. Every time he looked up, Benji was still there. A silent witness to his desperation.

Hours passed. The rain kept coming, turning the lake into a churning cauldron of grey. Arlo’s hands went numb from the cold and the strain, his knuckles scraped raw. But the dock slowly began to take shape under his hands, the new wood solid and strong.

He lost track of time, the world narrowing to the thud of his hammer and the rasp of his own breath. It wasn’t until the last nail was driven home that he finally stopped, wiping the rain and sweat from his eyes with the back of his wrist.

The dock didn’t creak anymore. It stood sturdy against the storm, the new boards a stark contrast to the weathered grey of the old ones.

Arlo found Benji in the cabin’s small kitchen, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a pair of chipped mugs. The air inside was thick with the smell of wet earth and woodsmoke from the stove.

“Took you long enough,” Benji said, sliding a mug across the counter. His voice was carefully casual, but Arlo could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers tightened around his own mug. “Thought I was gonna have to come rescue your ass.”

Arlo drained half the whiskey in one go, the burn doing little to warm the chill that had settled deep in his bones. “Dock’s fixed,” he said hoarsely. He couldn’t look at Benji, not yet. Not with the dare still hanging between them like a live wire.

“Yeah?” Benji leaned his hips against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. His t-shirt rode up slightly, exposing a strip of smooth, tan skin above the waistband of his jeans. “Guess that means you win.”

Arlo’s grip tightened on the mug. “Didn’t know we were playing a game.” The words came out sharper than he intended, edged with something raw and jagged.

“Aren’t we always?” Benji’s laugh was brittle. He pushed off the counter and crossed the small space between them, stopping just inches away. “You’ve been looking at me like you want to swallow me whole for years, Ace. Did you think I hadn’t noticed?”

Arlo’s breath caught. He could feel the heat coming off Benji’s body, smell the whiskey on his breath. “I didn’t want to fuck things up,” he said finally, the admission scraping his throat raw. “You’re my best friend.”

“Yeah,” Benji murmured, his eyes dark and unreadable. He reached out, his fingertips brushing the damp collar of Arlo’s t-shirt. “But maybe that’s not all we could be.”

The touch seared through Arlo like a brand. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears, feel his heart trying to punch its way out of his chest. He wanted to reach for Benji, wanted to crush that lean body against his own and never let go. But fear held him back, cold and insidious.

“What if it doesn’t work?” he asked, the words barely more than a whisper. “What if we try and it’s… wrong?”

Benji’s hand slid up to cup Arlo’s jaw, his thumb sweeping over the stubble on his cheek. “Then we go back,” he said simply, his voice steady despite the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “But I’m not gonna spend the rest of my life wondering what it would be like to have you inside me, Arlo. I want to know. Even if it’s just once.”

Arlo groaned, the sound ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands came up to grip Benji’s hips, pulling him closer. He could feel Benji trembling, or maybe it was him.

“Say it again,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to rest against Benji’s. “Say you want me.”

Benji’s breath hitched. “I want you,” he whispered, the words hanging in the charged air between them. “I want you to fuck me, Arlo. Please.”