Snowshoe hike with my best friend

It's snowing again. As soon as the first big flakes fall, he texts: "When are we leaving?" I reply with just a thumbs-up emoji and the time.

At 9:30 we're standing at the edge of the forest, both of us in thick hiking boots that have seen a few winters. The snow crunches under every step, the air is so cold and clear it almost hurts our lungs. We talk about all sorts of things – his wife finally got them the new couch last week, mine started again on about how I spend too much time in the basement with the old stereo system. We laugh about it because we both know perfectly well that we'll be back here next week anyway, as soon as there's enough fresh snow.

The path climbs gently, the spruce trees bending under the white weight. We mostly walk side by side, sometimes single file when the path narrows. No one needs to talk much. After almost two hours, we reach our small clearing – the one with the fallen tree trunk that's always our spot. We drop our backpacks, tamp down the snow, and simply sit down. Our shoulders lightly touch. It feels like coming home.

We take out the thermos. The steaming tea smells of cinnamon and orange. He pours me some first, then I pour him. Our fingers brush against each other briefly on the mug – not intentionally, but not entirely by accident either. We both smile in the same direction, towards the falling snow.

"I like this place best," he says quietly. "When everything is quiet and yet you know for sure that the other person is there."

I just nod. I don't need to say anything. Instead, I scoote a little closer until our thighs rest perfectly still against each other. The snow continues to fall, settling on his hat, on my shoulders. We watch as the flakes melt on our hot teacups, circling in little patterns.

At one point, he leans his head ever so slightly against my temple. Just for a moment. Then he lifts it again, as if he's caught himself doing it. But I place my hand on his forearm, just briefly, and give it a firm squeeze. He exhales deeply. We say nothing. We don't have to.

The fire is now burning. Small, hot flames lick above the dry brushwood we found under the fallen tree. The smoke smells spicy, almost sweet. We sit close together on the sleeping mat, our knees now constantly touching.

He pulls the zipper of his jacket down a little. I can see his pulse beating in his neck, faster than before. My own heart rate adjusts, without me being able to do anything about it.

"Come here," he murmurs.

I slide even closer until there's not a sheet of paper between us. His hand finds mine, our fingers interlocking slowly, almost cautiously. His glove is already off, my skin touching his warm palm. We're both staring into the fire, but I can feel his thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand.

Then he turns his head. Our noses are now only a few centimeters apart. His breath smells of cinnamon tea. I see the tiny snowflakes melting in his eyelashes.

“May I?” he asks almost inaudibly.

I respond by closing the last two centimeters. Our lips touch—very gently, very slowly. Just one kiss. But it lasts a long time. A very long time. When we break apart, our cheeks are burning, and the fire has almost become irrelevant.

The second kiss is different. Deeper. Hungrier. His tongue seeks mine, finds it instantly. I taste cinnamon and him. My hands wander under his jacket, over his thick sweater, until I feel his warm back. He breathes softly into my mouth.

We pull each other's hats off, gloves fly into the snow. His fingers dig into my hair, pulling my head back so he can kiss my neck. I moan as his teeth lightly scrape against my skin.

I slide his jacket off his shoulders and unzip his sweater. My cold fingers on his hot chest—he flinches, laughs softly, and immediately pulls me close again. Now he kisses me as if he wants to devour me. My hand slides lower, over his stomach, until I feel the hard bulge in his pants. He presses himself against me, moaning into my mouth.

"Fuck... I want you so much," he whispers hoarsely.

I just grin, slowly unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. He does the same to me. Our hands find each other simultaneously—hot, hard cocks that had been waiting impatiently for much longer. We masturbate each other, slowly and pleasurably, while we continue kissing like there's no tomorrow.

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