Page 2 of Beneath the Surface

A cold knot formed in Quinn’s gut. Heat prickled at his neck. “It isn’t,” he said quietly. “I’m just trying to be kind to the Earth.”

“Whatever.” The second guy laughed. “Still sounds faggy.”

The first man cocked his head, menacing curiosity in his eyes as he sauntered closer. “You, uh… you afag, friend?”

Quinn’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard, remembering every story he’d ever heard about gay men beaten or worse in places just like this. “No…” His voice came out hollow. His heart pounded against his ribs like a drum.

The broad-shouldered man huffed, dropped to one knee, and snatched up Quinn’s notebook that he’d placed on top of his backpack. A sick knot twisted up his guts; Emily was the only one who ever read his writings, and it scared him to death for these men to peer into his inner self.

The man scanned the page and snorted. “Yousureyou’re not a fag?” he taunted, his voice dripping with derision as he tossed the notebook to the other man and grabbed up the backpack with a swift, aggressive motion. “Let’s see what other faggy shit you got going on,” he sneered, his fingers deftly yanking the zipper open, its metallic teeth parting with an ominous hiss.

2

Quinn stood immobilized in the frigid water, the chill seeping into his bones and rendering his legs numb. Meanwhile, the eel—or whatever kind of creature it was—had made a return, displaying an unsettling familiarity as it slithered up his leg once more, winding around his knee with a serpentine grace. Its flesh seemed to pulse with a life of its own, and tiny suckers latched onto Quinn’s skin, adhering briefly before popping free, creating an unsettling, seductive rhythm as the creature ventured further up his thigh.

Quinn swallowed hard, the pressure in his throat a reminder that the water creature entwining his leg was the least of his immediate concerns. Yet, a reflexive instinct propelled him to reach underwater and attempt to brush it away. His fingertips grazed the creature’s sinuous body, which was slick and slippery, like a ribbon of living silk. The curious entity paused, its movement halted as a shiver quivered through its length—a shudder of anticipation or intrigue. The tip of its appendage gently unfurled from Quinn’s thigh, weaving through his fingers with an eerie yet delicate touch, as if exploring him in return.

On the shore, the broad-shouldered man rifled through Quinn's pack, casually tossing items onto the ground without a second thought while his tall friend flipped through the notebook, disgust pinching his face. Quinn wished for the lake to open up and swallow him when he recalled theintimate scene he’d written last night—in much detail—of Thomas’ fantasies about another boy.

With a swift motion, Quinn shook the creature from his numb fingers and withdrew his hand from the icy water, his arms bent awkwardly at the elbows, fists clenched tightly. His entire body quivered, not solely from the biting cold that seeped into his bones. Among the scattered items was one other thing that laid bare his sexuality: the well-worn copy ofTomcat,a gay porn magazine—tastefully presented yet undeniably explicit.

Quinn typically kept his “private life” well-concealed within the confines of his apartment, away from the world. He’d believed it was okay to bring the magazine on his camping trip since the wilderness and its creatures were indifferent to his attractions. He hadn't anticipated encountering any “hostiles” in the remote forest.

“What'd I tell ya?” the broad-shouldered man sneered at his companion, extracting the porn magazine from the pack with a triumphant flourish. The centerfold flopped open, revealing a stunning young man in all his glory—the very image that had fueled Quinn's creativity the previous night in his tent… as well as his fantasies. “Fuckin' fag shit,” the man spat with disdain, the words hanging in the chilly air like a bitter echo.

Quinn was only half aware of the water creature slithering along his inner thigh as he watched the men with the intensity of a prey animal eyeing its predator. And these men were indeed predators. Quinn had encountered their kind before—unpredictable, dangerous, and relentless in their pursuit.

The broader man stood up abruptly, the rustling sound of the magazine slicing through the tense air as he shook it, the centerfold flapping like a flag of disdain. “You really get offto this disgusting shit?” he sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

There was nothing disgusting about the centerfold boy, Quinn’smuse—he was a vision of beauty, not even posed provocatively or engaging in anything explicit. He simply lay there, sharing his flawless form with the world, a masterpiece on display, pretty as a fucking picture. But to these predators, he was just another target, another “filthy faggot,” not even human... like Quinn.

“Not a fag, huh?” The tall man’s grin stretched wider as he waved the notebook, a sinister curve that promised trouble. “Is that your final answer?”

Beneath the surface of the water, the creature continued its curious exploration up Quinn’s inner thigh, slinking further inside one leg of his damp boxers. The tip of its feeler gently brushed against Quinn’s numb, retracted testicles, causing his breath to hitch, startled by the unexpected and intimate intrusion. He grasped at his wet boxers, fidgeting his leg in a desperate attempt to coax the creature to retreat. Quinn cautiously took a few steps toward the shoreline, rising slightly above the water's surface. The creature, sensing the movement, retracted, sliding smoothly out of his shorts, leaving only ripples in its wake.

Quinn became acutely aware of his white boxers clinging to his crotch like a second skin—a verytranslucentskin. The fabric, soaked and plastered against his body, seemed to amplify his vulnerability. His eyes darted longingly to his trousers lying abandoned on the grassy bank, their promise of modesty and protection just out of reach. He didn’t want to be here, exposed to these men in such a humiliating manner.

The broader guy, with a smug grin, shook the crumpled porn magazine in his hand. “You beat off to this trash?” His heavy stare dragged up and down Quinn’s nearlynaked form, each glance leaving a trail of discomfort across his gooseflesh-pebbled skin. “Betcha fantasize about him sticking it to you with his big cock, don’t ya?” The man's voice dripped with derision, each word a sharp jab.

Quinn did harbor those fantasies, but admitting it was out of the question. It didn’t matter anyway; the question was rhetorical. The man had already crafted his narrative, and nothing Quinn could say would alter his preconceived notions.

“Of course, he does,” the tall man scoffed, rattling the notebook. “It’s all in here. Fags rubbing all over one another and stickin’ it to each other.”

Their laughter broke the stillness of the forest, harsh and mocking bursts that reverberated off the surrounding trees like a cruel chorus. The sound seemed to twist the tranquility of the woods into something sinister.

“Fags are so fucking gross.” The tall one, with a sneer etched across his face, stepped right up to the waterline, his presence a looming barrier that blocked any possible escape. His stance was aggressive, each step a silent threat. “Seriously—what the fuck is wrong with you queers?” His voice oozed with contempt, each syllable dripping with hostility as he waved the notebook at Quinn—then threw it out into the water. Quinn flinched as it struck the surface, floated for a moment, then sank.

He felt painfully vulnerable standing before them in his soaking wet boxers, the thin cotton fabric clinging tightly to his skin, outlining every detail of his anatomy. The dampness made the material nearly transparent, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. As he considered how he must appear to them, the idea of trying to reason with them in an adult, educated manner seemed absurd. Yet, what other choice did he have? The ominous vibes emanating from themwere unsettling, sending chills down his spine and making his heart race with a depth of fear he hadn’t experienced since...

They stood isolated in the middle of nowhere; even if he screamed until his lungs gave out, there would be no one around to hear his cries.Like before.Quinn clenched his throat to keep from vomiting; he was so fucking scared.

“I don’t want any trouble.” Quinn attempted to infuse his voice with strength, but it was a struggle as his teeth chattered uncontrollably from the cold, and his words hitched; the chill in his body constricting his throat even tighter. “Can’t you… just go your way… and let me… go mine?” A violent shiver coursed through him, his body shuddering under the icy grip of the air. “I’m not… hurting… anyone,” he managed to utter, his voice barely above a whisper, yet laden with desperation.

Please, God… don’t let it happen again…

3

Quinn’s pulse thundered. The forest, which had been so peaceful just minutes ago, now felt like a trap. The ripples at his thighs developed a slight pressure, as if a sudden current had formed, trying to draw him away from the shore and deeper into the lake. Quinn’s blood chilled as the men just stared, cold eyes flicking between him and the lake’s smooth surface. Quinn felt each heartbeat echo through his limbs, and he clenched his fists, water sluicing between his fingers. He glanced down at the water slipping around his thighs, at the trash he’d risked to clear, and wondered just how far these men would allow their hate to carry them.

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