What Happens at Camp Eglarest, Stays at Camp Eglarest by polutropos

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Daeron

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The wholly unwelcome sound of rain falling on the tent greeted Daeron as he drifted out of a heavy sleep. He pulled his sleeping bag over his head and pinched his eyes shut, desperate to return to a state of blissful ignorance. Oh, to be lost in the realm of the subconscious, unaware of the weather, of inevitable social collapse, of a mid-life sexual orientation crisis (yes, he would die at 60, just look at the way things are going), of the hunger cramps in his stomach and the insistent press of his bladder. He sunk deeper into his cocoon, preparing for the extreme but now unavoidable discomfort of emerging and scrambling for his sweater, his socks, his boots, his raincoat. Who could say where that was, if he’d even packed it.

He drew a long, gasping breath like someone about to dive underwater and squirmed out of the sleeping bag, frantically dressing himself.

Then he was out, umbrella-first, cataloguing his basic needs in order of priority: bathroom, food, Maglor. No, he thought as he sloshed through mud towards the outhouse, that was definitely not a basic need. It was extremely irritating, then, that for the last forty-eight hours he had thought about it – him – as often if not more often than the other two. ‘Ridiculous,’ he mouthed as he hooked his umbrella around the outhouse door handle and yanked it open.

He’d never been like this with a girl. Women were easy to talk to, women made him feel comfortable, women were… boring. Not as people, no he didn’t mean that, he corrected his own train of thought as he finished and lowered the toilet seat, turning to poke the door open with the tip of his umbrella. They were boring as girlfriends. Not that he’d had many of those. Actually, only two, really. The first one hardly counted –

“Good morning,” said the voice belonging to his third-most-basic need. Daeron looked up to see him emptying his second-most-basic need from a tiny cereal box into a silver bowl and froze.

“Hi,” he said, suddenly feeling grateful for the rain because it meant he could say, “Shit weather, hey?”

“I don’t mind it, it’s just a bit of water.” Maglor shrugged as he splashed milk over his cereal.

“No, yeah. Me neither. I love rain.”

Maglor looked Daeron over and smirked. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I hate it.” Daeron said lamely, before he completed the journey to the picnic table, casting aside his umbrella and tossing back his hood under the protection of the tarp.

“Have you had breakfast?” Maglor asked.

“No,” Daeron answered, already rummaging through the box of food.

Maglor produced a tiny box of frosted flakes from behind the camp stove and set it on the table in front of him. “I saved the last box from Celegorm.”

Daeron drew back and furrowed his brows. “How did you know–”

“I live with you?”

“But I never buy it.”

“You did one time.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, it was just after you moved in. I only remember because I thought it was cu– curious.”

This made Daeron think to look at what cereal Maglor had chosen. If Maglor knew his favourite, he’d not be much of a friend if he didn’t know–

“Raisin bran?” he said aloud. “Really?”

“What?” he said defensively. “The raisins are coated in sugar.” Daeron puckered his lips in distaste and Maglor shoved the bowl towards him. “Here. Have you even tried them before?”

“I’m not eating your food!” Daeron said. “Your mouth was on that spoon.”

“Are you seriously bickering about cereal?” Lúthien asked, coming up to the site with Huan padding happily behind her. Both of them were wet and dusted with sand.

“Oh, great,” Daeron grumbled and stooped protectively over his bowl of frosted flakes. He was just starting to think he could like the loud, slobbery animal when Huan had decided to make a scene and tear around after some sleek black, pointy-eared thing with a horrible howl. It turned out the black dog had been terrorizing the whole campground and was now cowering in the owner’s trailer after Huan’s assertion of dominance, but still – none of it would have happened with no dogs at all.

“You know, Daeron,” Lúthien addressed him using his full name in that way that made every muscle in his neck tense at once, “I was thinking you should learn to drive.”

A spray of milk droplets flew out of Daeron’s bowl as he threw his spoon down. “No!”

“Why not?” she persisted, taking a seat beside him and leaning against the tabletop. “It’s a skill you should have. You could have saved us from that whole incident with Celegorm yesterday.”

Daeron groaned. “That was an exceptional circumstance!”

She ignored his protest. “This is the perfect place to try. The roads are quiet, no traffic lights.”

Daeron caught Maglor looking between them, smiling around pinched lips with a lump of cereal coagulating on his spoon.

“What’s funny?” Daeron snapped at him.

“Oh, no, I just think it’s not a bad idea.” He slipped the bite of soggy bran between his lips.

“Great!” Lúthien clapped a hand around Daeron’s shoulder. “We need more ice, so you and Maglor can drive to the store to get some, and squeeze in a little driving lesson.”

She flashed an exaggerated grin at Maglor and his expression fell completely flat while his eyes widened into two huge circles.

“Oh, come on!” Daeron defended against what could only be unmasked terror about the prospect of him operating a motor vehicle. “Thanks for your confidence. I know how cars work. Better than most drivers, I bet.”

Maglor’s expression now flipped, eyes narrow and mouth curled in confusion. “What? No, no, I mean, I am sure you would be a safe driver.”

“Then why did you make that face?” Daeron asked.

“What face?”

“Oh, please.” Lúthien kicked at the ground. “Stop it! Just… go get ice. I don’t care who drives, as long as you’ve worked out your shit by the time you’re back.”

She stood up with a huff and headed for her tent.

“What does that mean, ‘work out our shit’?” Daeron said, and she waved her hand at him. “We don’t have any shit.” He looked at Maglor and the next words came out far more hopefully than he’d intended: “Do we?”

“Uh…” Maglor moved his now fully saturated cereal around the bowl, grimaced, and put it down on the ground for Huan to finish.

“See?” Daeron said. “You don’t even like it.”

Maglor folded his arms on the table. “No, not really. I like frosted flakes.”

*

In the time it took them to clean up their dishes – about double the time it took them to eat the food, of course – and for Maglor to change (Daeron’s insistence that no one cares if you wear pyjamas to the store here had been met with a glare), the rain had mostly let up. Celegorm was also back from the beach or the woods or wherever he went at the crack of dawn and hanging from a tree branch doing chin-ups, so Daeron was anxious to go. Actually, just all-around anxious, he noted, with a keen awareness of the swollen feeling in his throat.

“God, I’m such a mess,” he muttered to himself.

“So, you want to take us out of the campground?” Maglor made him jump, suddenly in front of him, dangling a set of keys.

“Uh, um,” Daeron stammered, “I, uh, I guess.” He reached for the keys so tentatively that they fell to the ground when Maglor released them.

“Crap, sorry,” they both said at once, simultaneously bending to pick them up.

“That doesn’t bode well, huh?” Celegorm smirked as he strolled by, shirtless in the drizzle. “Good luck.”

Daeron marched over to the driver’s side with a huff and plopped himself into the seat as Maglor slid into the passenger seat.

“Okay,” Maglor said. “This is where the key goes–”

“I know what a key hole looks like!”

“Right, sorry. But I thought maybe you wouldn’t know, because it’s a slot.”

Daeron looked down at the keyhole. It was indeed just a slot. How had he not noticed this before?

“Yes, I have been in your car. I know where the key goes.”

They proceeded to talk through the process of starting the car, which in Daeron’s opinion involved an excessive number of steps, and then panic struck as he realised he’d have to begin by backing up. Bicycles do not go backwards, he lamented, gritting his teeth and shifting into reverse.

“No, no, turn the wheel the other way,” Maglor instructed.

“What!” Daeron said, hitting the brakes too hard. “That makes no sense! Ugh, I hate this.”

“It’s okay, it’s fine.” Maglor was being unusually compassionate. Or maybe he was always this nice, maybe Daeron was just a jerk to him for no reason. Honestly, why did Maglor even talk to him?

With a few deep breaths and after Maglor gently reminded him that side mirrors existed for this very thing, Daeron managed to get them out of the campground. A harrowing left turn onto the main road – empty of traffic but no less intimidating – and Daeron was finally feeling reasonably comfortable.

“So,” Maglor said, “is there anywhere to get a coffee around here?”

“What?” Daeron said, not daring to take his eyes off the road for a second. “If you wanted coffee there was still some at the site.”

“No.” Maglor sighed. “I mean, just somewhere to go and chill. Talk.”

Daeron was immediately no longer comfortable. He started to rifle through a dozen reasons Maglor would want to talk. First, of course, was that he knew that Daeron had been thinking about him nonstop for two days straight and was going to reject him before he’d even had a chance to figure out for himself what was going on. Or the dream he had – no, he could not think of that dream now. Maglor couldn’t know his dreams, obviously not. But maybe he’d said something in his sleep? That would be extremely humiliating.

Maybe he was just going to tell him his dad was kicking them out and they had to find a new place. That would be for the best, really. He could live with someone else. Maybe Maglor was even leaving Beleria, Daeron thought, swallowing down on the lump in his throat. Or what if it was something with his family? There was always something wrong with one of them. Maybe he just needed someone to talk to about them – yes, it was probably about his family.

“Um, I don’t know,” Daeron said. “I think there’s a new little café just past the store. I haven’t been.”

“Great, we’ll go there. And you can slow down a bit, no rush.”

Daeron glanced at the speedometer, reading 60 kph. How? he thought. It did not feel that fast.

“You’re actually a pretty good teacher,” he admitted.

“I do work for a school, if you’d forgotten.”

Right, he did do that. Though Daeron wasn’t sure he’d realised that Maglor actually taught at the school. He filed that information in a rapidly expanding database of Facts about Maglor. Why was it that suddenly everything he did, or liked, or said was utterly fascinating?

*

The café – Foam Riders – also served breakfast, which was a relief, because Daeron was already starving again. He ordered scrambled eggs for protein, but couldn’t resist the icing-slathered cinnamon buns, and also felt he deserved a large mocha as a reward for not dying on his first driving lesson.

“I’ll get it,” Maglor said as the cashier rang up the order.

“What? Why? No, I ordered too much, don’t pay for it.”

“I want to.”

Daeron was too flustered to protest, and he supposed he could justify accepting the charity based on the uneven distribution of wealth between them, even if it had just been an accident of birth that they ended up that way.

Maglor fiddled with his cutlery while they waited for the food to arrive, and Daeron picked at his cinnamon bun, thinking he should leave it until after the eggs, but battling with the hollow feeling in his stomach and the intoxicating smell of hot, dripping sugar.

“So,” Maglor began in the same tone he’d used to first introduce his desire to Talk. Daeron snapped to attention. “I hope this doesn’t change anything – well, I guess that’s inevitable… between us.”

So it was about them. But it could still be something else, right?

“I guess, actually,” Maglor continued, “I guess, really, I want it to change things. But it’s also okay if you don’t want to, um, change anything. Obviously, whatever you feel is okay. I’m not going to pressure you to be something you’re not, or even if you are, but you’re not… like, just because you are – if you are – obviously doesn’t mean that you would be for just anyone. I won’t be offended if it’s just me, personally, that you’re not–”

It wasn’t something else.

“For Maelor?”* The server approached their table with two plates of food.

“Uh, yes, that’s me. Thanks so much.”

“Maglor,” Daeron corrected, and Maglor glared at him.

“And Tifanto?”* She held a plate heaped with bacon and potatoes.

“No, that’s not me,” Daeron said, anxious for her to leave so Maglor could finish what he’d been saying, and equally anxious to get his actual order.

“Why are you so rude?” Maglor asked when she’d left.

“What? It’s not rude. I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, but your tone.”

Daeron scowled and tried to change the subject. “What kind of name is Tifanto any way?” No, that was also rude. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Nevermind,” Maglor said, slicing his avocado toast into strips with a fork and knife.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m an ass when I’m hungry. I want to hear.” Daeron heard the desperation in his own voice and winced.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to apologise. I just don’t think now is a great time, after all.”

“Oh my god!” An enthusiastic, shrill voice cut through the buzz of the café and Daeron and Maglor turned towards it together.

“Are you Daeron?” The speaker was a lanky person in thick-rimmed glasses, ankle-length plaid pants, and combat boots.

“Yes?” Daeron said.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m running into you here.” They held out a hand for Daeron to shake. “I’m Pengolodh. Penny.”

“Hey, Penny,” Daeron said. “Are you, uh, a music fan?” Daeron both hated and loved being recognised for his music. Hated, because he didn’t like attention, but loved because he craved validation more than he craved sugar. Despite what Celegorm seemed to think, he only had a handful of fans and one crappy 5-track ‘album’ that was only available digitally and which no one except his parents paid for.

“Oh, um, no,” Pengolodh said apologetically. “I mean, yes, I do like music, but I watch your history videos. I’m a student at Ondolind University. I don’t get out much, actually, too much studying, ha ha ha – but I love your videos! I actually have my own channel, I’m trying to put together a series on all the neighbourhoods of Beleria. It's called ‘Of Beleria and its Communities’.”

That sounded extremely dull, Daeron thought, and then chided himself for once again being a judgemental ass.

“Oh, that’s cool,” he said flatly.

“That is cool!” Maglor contributed with masterfully-feigned excitement. Or maybe it was genuine.

“Thanks!” Pengolodh said. “So sorry, that was rude of me! Penny.” They held out a hand for him.

“Maglor Finvesen.”

“Oh, what, seriously? I listen to the recording of your musical all the time.”

“Really?” Maglor’s musical – a satire about the futility of millennial ambition, or at least that’s what Daeron interpreted it as – was admittedly good. But he had no idea anyone outside of the few people who’d seen it live knew about it, or even that there was a studio recording of it.

He instinctively filed that bit of information, though he was currently mired in confusion and despair over the Maglor File.

“Yes, I saw it when it premiered!” Pengolodh looked sheepishly back to Daeron. “That was when I first moved here, before everything was so busy–”

“It’s fine,” Daeron said, trying his best not to look totally despondent, “if you like his music and not mine.”

Pengolodh beamed with evident enthusiasm at having met two of their idols in a single stroke. “I didn’t know you were friends! That’s so cool.”

“We’re roommates,” Daeron said, suddenly uncomfortable with the word ‘friend’ applied to Maglor, but finding he liked ‘roommate’ even less.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Pengolodh asked, already pulling up a chair. “I have so many questions. For both of you!” They took out a notebook and Daeron and Maglor shared a moment of surprise and amusement across the table.

*

It was at least an hour before they managed to get rid of Pengolodh, though the young student’s eagerness did seem to have lifted both their moods. Daeron nearly forgot about the aborted Talk until they were outside joking about Pengolodh thinking Lúthien, who occasionally appeared in his videos, was Daeron’s girlfriend, and his stomach flipped over at the sound of Maglor’s laughter. He fell immediately silent, his brain like a hot tub of roiling emotions with all the jets at full pressure, which could in theory be a relaxing experience, but some old guy in a speedo was doing lunges at one end, making the whole thing extremely awkward.

“You want to keep driving for a bit?” Maglor asked, apparently not drowning in a jacuzzi of feelings.

“Sure,” Daeron said against his better judgement – then he was struck with inspiration. “Actually, there’s another place I want to go.”

Just like that, the lunging old man of crippling insecurity had left the building! He blew out a long breath and grinned. Daeron didn’t often take decisive action, but once he got it in his head that he would, there was no stopping him.

“Oh?” Maglor asked while they both hopped into the car.

“Yeah,” Daeron said, “just a nice spot we used to go to when we were kids. A little island you can walk to at low tide.”

Daeron didn’t know if it was currently low tide or not, but that was a minor detail. He’d fantasised about kissing someone on those ragged, wave-beaten rocks since he was a teenager. This was it, this was his chance. It would be perfect.

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Chapter End Notes

Maelor = an alternate version of Maglor in some of Tolkien's writings.
Tifanto = an early name for Daeron's character in the Tale of Tinúviel.