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As most things involving their group of friends, it starts as a dare. After enough of them have been on the swings that the entire play area is starting to make some seriously concerning creaks and squeaks, they turn their attentions to other ways to entertain themselves, drinking and kicking the ball around until Mikey mentions having wanted to build a treehouse when he was younger and Jack makes a joke about having had a treehouse when he was younger and how his and Conor’s parents had had to tear it down when Jack had been caught up there being naughty, as Jack says, with that stupid grin and waggling his eyebrows, just in case someone hadn’t cottoned on to his meaning.
Everyone’s ragging on their South African crew, jokes about living in the wild and being little monkeys running rampant, until Oli points out that Joe’s from the west country and had spent his entire childhood finding ways to keep busy outdoors.
Caspar catches Joe’s hand and holds on tight, already laughing before he’s managed to get a sentence out. “I bet I can climb higher than you can.”
And it’s not like Joe’s going to take that laying down, five drinks in him, surrounded by his mates. A crack about his age, and another about his slight frame, and he’s downing the rest of his drink before dragging the plastic play slide over to the bottom for a leg up, since he doesn’t exactly trust any of the lads to be sober enough to help him.
They’re all hooting and trash-talking, and it doesn’t even stop when it becomes evident that Joe really can climb a tree, friendly hollering and jeering ringing up through the branches and thick leaves. Joe scrapes up his hands and one of his shins, but he gets pretty high pretty fast and then wraps a hand around a sturdy enough branch that he feels like he can lean down and make faces at Caspar who’s watching, mouth hanging a little open.
“Looks like you’ve got a ways to go if you don’t want to let old man Joe win, Caspar,” Jack says, because he really is the best kind of prat, and the hooting starts up again the way it always does when a good competition is brewing.
Caspar, baby giraffe limbs and all, almost topples the slide when he tries to stand on it, so one of the lads pull it away. Caspar’s cheeks are already pink from the alcohol, and he’s tall enough that he can sort of jump to reach the lowest branch, and watching him struggle and then figure out how to pull himself up is at once hilarious and endearing, and Joe alternates between cheering him on and heckling him viciously, still leaning dangerously low so he can keep watch.
Caspar’s picked a different vein of branches to follow, which means he’s able to get higher than Joe by sheer virtue of his branches staying thick enough long enough, and when he gets up there, he straddles a branch and pumps his fists in the air, cheering loudly enough that he’s heard over the lads on the ground who are laughing and clapping good-naturedly.
When it becomes apparent that that’s the end of the competition, that Joe’s not going to change the rules or Caspar’s not going to suggest something else, the lads quickly lose interest, and Caspar and Joe are left up a tree in Mikey’s backyard.
Caspar keeps his legs wrapped tight around the branch he’s straddling and hangs upside down so his face is close to Joe’s and Joe laughs, lets go of his branch to try and steady Caspar by the shoulders, even as he teases. “Quite the little monkey boy, aren’t you Cas?”
“You’re one to talk,” Caspar says, eyes crossing a little with the effort of looking at Joe while hanging upside down. “It was like I blinked and you were up here.”
“Roof thatcher,” Joe says, shrugging modestly, and Caspar sways a little bit so he can press a sloppy kiss to approximately Joe’s cheek. He sways back, and Joe’s grin smooths into something a little softer.
“That was really cute, I’m sure,” Joe says, doing a good job at keeping his voice casual. “But we’ve all had far too much to drink for tree gymnastics.”
“That would be a good challenge video,” Caspar says, like always, and Joe laughs, wrinkling his nose a little.
“Come sit by me,” he says. “Upright.”
It takes some finagling for Caspar to pull himself back up, Joe putting on one of his old man coach voices and telling him to work those core muscles, sonny making him laugh enough that it’s nearly impossible to work his core muscles, and then he has to swing around until he can find a good place to drop down on so he can scoot and clamber over to where Joe’s sitting, legs swinging, eyes bright and steady on Caspar’s every move.
“Here I am,” Caspar says, unnecessarily, when he manages to sit his bottom down next to Joe on the thick branch Joe’s taken up residence at, a littler branch shooting up between them.
“There you are,” Joe repeats, and he’s smiling again, and it has been such a good day, and Caspar can’t help but wrap a hand around the branch that’s separating them for balance as he leans forward into Joe’s space again.
As always, Joe’s entirely okay with having Caspar in his space, and the warmth curling in his belly is almost nothing to do with the alcohol he’s drank. He trusts the lads not to post anything incriminating, so it’s easy to lean forward and kiss Caspar properly, wrapping one hand around Caspar’s on the branch and using the other to cup around Caspar’s jaw, pulling him closer and angling his head how Joe wants.
They kiss until it’s time for the game to start, and when the lads come to separate them, filming Caspar’s ridiculously unsteady descent back onto earth, the ribbing is at a minimum until Caspar slings an arm around Joe’s shoulders and bends down to kiss him again, easier now that they’re not possibly going to drunkenly fall out of a tree.
“Alright, you boys aren’t sitting next to one another for the game,” Jack says, getting between them and throwing his arms around both of them, the rest of the boys good-naturedly wolf-whistling, and that’s okay too.