Camp Canoa // Luke Hemmings

The One Where Luke Makes A Sweat Angel

[Day +56]

The sixth of July is the hottest day that Texas has seen for more than fifty years. News helicopters whirl in slow, lazy arcs like wasps, filming the effect of the heatwave on the beaches. Radios warn parents to keep very small children indoors and recommend abstaining from intense physical exercise. Camp Canoa is closed for the day.

All activities have been suspended until further notice due to the risk of overheating and dehydration en masse. We are sprawled on the kitchen linoleum in Michael and Luke's apartment, wilting slowly with all the drama and fanfare of dying swans. Ashton is perching on the inside edge of the mini-fridge, a privilege for which we had all valiantly fought.

"I'm dead," Michael moans for the hundredth time. "I've died and this is my eternal punishment for stealing money from my mum to buy weed." From his position on the floor, he lifts his arms skywards. "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned!"

"Armpits down!" Nora yelled. "Jesus, Mikey – give a girl some warning.

Mikey jerks his arm feebly towards her in the hopes of smacking her but misses. He flops; it's too much effort to try again.

"Why is there no air-con in these dorms?" Ashton wailed.

"Shut up – you got the fridge!" Calum says, tipping his head far back against the tiles so he can see him.

Luke sits up from where he was lying on the floor. He looks revolted and slightly pained. "Oh god this is disgusting." He says unhappily, wiping a fingertip through the dewy film of sweat he has left on the floor.

I look over and laugh. "You made a sweat angel. That is so gross."

Luke makes a face and rolls carefully away from it to lie on his stomach. This puts him in much closer proximity to me than before – so near that if he uncurled his fingers from where they curve back into his palm, he would brush my thumb or index finger. I notice this.

I also notice the white smear of fog that his breath leaves on the tiles next to his cheek. I notice the gentle slope of his back, the dip and hollow at the base of his spine, the pale sheen of sweat where his shorts ride low on his hips.

The only thing I didn't notice was that he was watching me from under his sweaty muss of hair. When I look up, our eye contact is a train wreck and I flush red, awkwardly shifting to look at the ceiling.

"Have we got any milk left?" Danni calls.

Luke pulls a half-empty carton seemingly out of his ass and tosses it over. Danni catches it one-handed and retrieves her glass from nearby.

"This is so degrading." She mutters as she pours, trying hard not to slop over the edges.

Thanks to Michael being weirdly picky about hygiene, we have all been forbidden from drinking straight from the carton, and the only glasses that could be found in the whole block of dorms were some weird guy's shot glasses. So here we are. Downing shot after shot of cold milk, like the real cool kids we are.

Danni knocks the milk back and holds up the carton, shaking it so that the contents slosh noisily. "Anyone else?"

Luke twist around where he's lying to take the milk carton from her and then pushes himself up to pour it. He tips his head back lazily, open-mouthed and swallows once, neat, the bob and pull of his Adam's apple smooth under his skin where it stretches taut and tan. It's too fucking hot in this room.

"Whoa, what are you doing?!" Calum said loudly, his voice cracking as I lifted my shirt over my head.

"Oh relax," I scoffed, adjusting my bra strap. "It's freaking boiling in here! You've all got your shirts off – why can't I?"