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carcar 19/summer camp au would hit so hard. rival cabins, rowdy kids, Oscar and Carlos annoying the hell out of each other. a treasure hunt. maybe somehow getting lost in the woods together.

this was one of the most fun i had writing a prompt, thank you! maybe it's because i did work with teens/kids for a long time and used to go to summer camp every year when i was a kid! my original draft turned out to be so long that i am now considering posting it on ao3 as well...i hope you like it: 19. summer camp au, carcar, 2.6k words

The whistle shrieks across the lake and the whole camp vibrates.

“Okay, team eighty-one,” Oscar calls, flipping his clipboard shut and holding up the map he’s folded into a talisman. “Remember the plan. Rhea and Vic, left flank. Zeke and Anika, with me. Mikey—under no circumstances do you eat leaves you find on the ground.”

Mikey, twelve and permanently chewing something, gives a solemn thumbs-up.

Across the field, Cabin 55 assembles in ruthless silence. They even line up by height. Their flag—red bandana on a fishing pole—flutters in its own smug breeze. Carlos strolls in front of them with his hands clasped behind his back like he’s conducting something official, not a briefing for pre-teens. Sun-bleached staff tee, “55” scrawled in fabric marker that somehow looks nice. He tips his chin, catches Oscar’s eye. One corner of his mouth curves. Not kindly.

Oscar tilts the map instead of waving. A challenge.

Everyone knows they’re the most competitive; the camp would list without their daily tug-of-war. Junior counselors take bets and call it “tracking morale.” The kids trade legends: Carlos once swam across the lake at midnight to steal 81’s flag; Oscar trained a squirrel as a courier. Dubious.

Today’s capture the flag has the bright, metallic charge of weather even though the sky is clear. A chalked field unfurls between cabins and woods. Far end: 55’s base, guarded by hulking fourteen-year-olds rumored to be licensed to drive farm machinery. Near end: 81’s base, a nest of milk crates and a lifeguard chair that makes an excellent throne.

Oscar climbs the chair with a megaphone and a whistle. The head counselor raises a red flag. “No tackling, no tripping, no weapons that aren’t foam,” she drones, while both cabins nod emphatically and palm fistfuls of grass.

When she lowers the flag, the world tilts.

Eighty-one fan out. Rhea and Vic tear down the left boundary; Zeke, small and fast, becomes a blur. Carlos whistles, low, and 55 rearranges mid-charge like sliding gears. They’re good. Oscar knew they’d be good. It still stings to see them intercept Rhea’s feint that cleanly.

He hits the grass running. He shouldn’t be this invested in a game for 13 year olds. It’s not about the score. (It’s absolutely about the score.)

“Eyes up, 81!” he calls, cutting toward the tangle around 55’s flag. “Zeke, now.”

Zeke erupts from a shrub like a goblin from a log. He snatches the flag in a grubby fist. Carlos moves—chooses the angle, the step, the swoop of his arm to tag—surgical. Oscar’s mouth outruns his feet.

“Ah-ah—no shoulder contact, Counselor Sainz,” he sing-songs, sliding between Carlos and Zeke like a half-shut door. Carlos’s palm grazes Oscar’s hip instead of Zeke’s shoulder. Zeke squirts past like a bar of soap.

Carlos huffs, amused. “Flimsy call, Counselor Piastri.”

Oscar grins despite himself. “Take it up with the ref. Oh wait, that’s me.”

“Already stained with corruption.” Carlos’s eyes are hot and bright. Sweat darkens his back; the tee clings and shows winged shoulder blades. Oscar has never once considered biting a name off a shirt before today.

Zeke becomes a streak going home. A 55 defender misses by inches. Zeke lifts the flag like a torch; 81 erupts as if they won the World Cup. Oscar lets the scrum swallow him, shins knotted with friendship bracelets, hair mauled by sticky hands. When he surfaces, dazed and victorious, Carlos lounges on the boundary rope, sighing like 55 scored for 81 out of boredom.

“Congratulations,” Carlos calls, voice smooth, carrying. “First to five?”

“Ten,” Oscar shoots back.

“An optimist.”

“A winner,” Oscar says, and winks, petty and triumphant.

The game becomes a bright loop—feints, rescues, wrists caught and released before tags land. Rhea outmaneuvers a taller guard by pretending to tie her shoe, then bolts; Oscar’s thighs ache; the sun leans like a watchful eye. Points trade like shards of glass. The kids shine with focus that melts headaches. Even the head counselor yells herself hoarse for 81 when Zeke pulls a truly outrageous back-door move possibly inspired by Oscar telling him. Possibly. Oscar says nothing.

They end at nine-nine, the only civilized score, everyone raw-throated and grass-stained. Dinner is a roar. The mess hall thrums with victory and defeat stories. 81 and 55 intermix over spaghetti, swapping garlic bread and drawing arrows on napkins for the next match even though tomorrow is hiking and then archery. These kids hold grudges like relics. Jasper from 55 balances a fork on his nose and declares 55 played with honor, unlike 81 who colluded with squirrels. Oscar flicks a crumb at him and reminds him to hydrate.

Carlos appears by the industrial lemonade jug and pushes a plastic cup into Oscar’s hand. “You looked good out there,” he says lightly. “Interesting interpretation of the rules.”

“Thank you,” Oscar says, mouth cotton-dry despite endless lemonade. “You looked like you considered tackling a child.”

Carlos puts a hand to his chest. “I would never. My lawyers would never allow it.”

Oscar decides not to ask. There’s a green smudge on Carlos’s cheek—grass or face paint—and Oscar has the physical sensation of his hand moving before he hears himself.

“You’ve got—” He lifts two fingers to wipe the smudge, stops just short. Hovers. Carlos goes very still, then tips his face that fraction closer so Oscar’s fingers could find skin on an exhale.

“Do I?” Carlos asks, soft.

“Never mind.” Oscar withdraws with a hand that shakes. “It’s your natural glow.”

Carlos’s smile curves slow. “Maybe I should see the referee after all. I feel robbed, no?”

Oscar flees to the dish return with grave dignity.

-

Night drops fast. Camp hushes in the particular way it only does after flashlight checks: fire pit a scatter of embers, the lake licking shore like an animal asleep. Counselors meet, murmur schedules and sunscreen, then split to patrol shadows. Oscar does his rounds, counts heads, untangles a sleepover pile where three boys fell asleep mid-UNO with cards glued to their cheeks. He’s writing a note to teach actual knots tomorrow when the knock comes.

Maya from 55—tiny, fire-eyed, hoodie zipped to her nose. “Counselor Piastri—sorry.” She bounces on her toes with panic that spills into the hall. “We can’t find Jasper.”

Every nerve in Oscar draws tight. He stands so fast the chair creaks. “What do you mean? Where was he last seen?”

“Bathrooms. He said he forgot his water bottle after campfire and—” She swallows. “We looked, but—”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and Noah and Sofia—Carlos sent me to get you because you know the east trail and—” Fear tumbles her sentences.

Easiest decision in the world. “Stay with 55,” Oscar says, already grabbing his flashlight, hauling on his hoodie. “Make sure everyone’s accounted for. Tell Counselor Sainz I’m on my way.”

Outside: damp air, pine, moon a scrim behind cloud. 55’s cabin is a hush of silhouettes. Carlos on the steps, speaking low into his walkie like service might be conjured. Relief flashes across his face when he sees Oscar, then steadies into something that steadies Oscar.

“I checked the bathhouse and path,” Carlos says. “He is not answering. Batteries on those radios are—” He spreads his hands. The green smudge is gone. Humidity curls his hair at the temples. “Mierda…You know the east loop.”

“I do,” Oscar says. “We’ll sweep it. How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Then we catch him.” Oscar swings his beam like a sword. “Bathrooms to east trail makes sense if he wanted a shortcut and got spooked.”

They move fast. Protocol says wake the head counselor and file an incident report before stepping past lantern light. Oscar knows. He also knows the window between scare and problem is slim. Fence, rule—he knows when to step over.

“Left,” Carlos says at the fork just as Oscar says, “Right.”

They stop. Look at each other. He has the map in his pocket as a joke of competence. He hates the thought of a kid frightened in the dark; he hates how every shadow sharpens.

“Right is shorter,” Oscar says. “Hooks to the creek. They hide there sometimes. He could be sitting on a rock feeling extremely sorry for himself.”

“Left is wider,” Carlos says, calm. “If he twisted an ankle, he’d choose it. And the creek is noisy—he would answer.”

“Not if he’s embarrassed. He’d pretend to be a tree.”

Carlos’s mouth twitches. “Your campers do that often.”

“They’re committed to the bit.”

“Fine. Right first.” He yields, and Oscar is absurdly grateful for the small win.

The woods eat the camp in three steps. Light gets swallowed. The path is damp; sneakers skid on old needles. “Jasper!” Oscar calls. The trees give the name back wrong.

They walk. They call. Every minute presses at Oscar’s ribs. He inventories moods and memorizes allergies and plans games in his sleep—he is good at this—he does not lose kids. That phrase tolls inside his head: I don’t lose my kids.

“Maybe he went left,” Carlos says quietly after ten useless minutes.

“Maybe.” The path dips toward the gossiping creek. Moon drags a rag of cloud over its face. Oscar steadies himself on a trunk; moss is cool under his palm. Part of him could dissolve into this night—the held silence, damp earth rising. Another part is wire.

“You okay?” Carlos asks. Not pitying; present.

“I’m fine,” Oscar says, and hears the falseness. “Kids pull pranks. It’s part of it. He’s twelve. He—he cried at flying ants.”

“He did,” Carlos agrees softly.

They reach the creek. A log bridges it. Earlier in the week five campers named it King Crunch and swore fealty by handfuls. It glistens dark. Oscar shines into the water. “Jasper?” he calls. “Buddy, we’re not mad.”

The creek continues being a creek.

They turn. The trail forks, then forks again. When Oscar looks up, the space between trees is wrong—not daytime-wrong with bark scabs and a tilted pine, but wrong like the world has slid half a foot sideways.

Carlos stops. “That tree was there before, no?”

“That’s not comforting.”

“You are right.” He smiles, dry. “We’re lost.”

“No,” Oscar says reflexively. His chest cinches. “We’re not—”

Carlos lifts his hands. “We are temporarily uncertain about our position relative to camp.”

“Better,” Oscar grinds.

“Oscar.”

The way Carlos says his name in his accent is like a hand on the inside of a wrist. Oscar exhales and hears the high whistle of his own adrenaline.

“I don’t lose them,” he says. Low. “That’s my one thing, all right? They can steal my whistle and paint a face on a melon and call it Counselor Oscar and make him a little hat. I can coach the entire planet through the existential despair of learning fireflies are just bugs. But I don’t—” The flashlight’s circle trembles. “I don’t lose my kids.”

“Hey.” Carlos steps into the soft edge of light, his daytime performance stripped away, leaving earnest bone and intent. “We have not lost anyone. If this is a prank, they will clean every canoe with a toothbrush. If it is not, we keep walking and shouting until he answers and then carry him home. Okay?”

A reckless laugh catches in Oscar’s throat. “A toothbrush.”

“And the canoes will shine,” Carlos says solemnly.

“You’re annoying.”

“Thank you.” He glances left-right. Oscar’s shoulder bumps his as he gestures, and the bump becomes something else because Carlos’s hand catches his sleeve. Not pulling. Anchoring. Contact as compass.

Oscar startles like he’s been caught stealing. Which he has, all summer—glances, moments, the warm chew of envy when Carlos high-fives his cabin and their faces turn like sunflowers, the buzz under Oscar’s ribs when both of them end a day grinning. He thinks of the almost-touch by the lemonade and feels like a coward.

“You don’t have to—” he starts.

“I want to,” Carlos says, and before Oscar can do anything, Carlos steps closer and the dark folds around them like breath held. He smells like grass and cheap soap. His eyes look almost black. His hand on Oscar’s sleeve tightens in a question.

Oscar answers with his mouth.

They grin into it first—misjudge angles in the dark, collide lightly with their noses—then Carlos’s palm finds Oscar’s jaw and Oscar’s fingers slide into Carlos’s hair and the kiss deepens, lemonade and summer bright on his tongue. A small laugh vibrates in Carlos’s throat; Oscar swallows it greedily. The woods hush, attentive. The creek slows to listen.

Gentle and greedy at once. Exactly the thing Oscar has loudly pretended not to want.

Carlos breaks first, resting his forehead to Oscar’s. “I might,” he says, voice rough, “have wanted to do that since week one.”

“Week one?” Oscar manages. “Coward.”

“Hypocrite,” Carlos murmurs, smiling. “Obviously terrified of you.”

Oscar snorts—and the world snaps rudely back into the frame. “Jasper.” Responsibility is a cold fist. “No. We have to—this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me because I don’t lose my kids, and I’m not—God—I refuse to be kissing people in the woods while one of mine is—”

“Hey,” Carlos says again, warm as a palm to the nape. “You are right. We find him. Then you can kiss me again while we make him clean a canoe.”

“Two canoes,” Oscar says, trying to gather his dignity off the forest floor. He squeezes Carlos’s arm, quick, secret, then steps back. “Right path to the bend, then loop. If not, we double back left and—what?”

Carlos is aiming his flashlight at a low branch. Tied to the twig with a care that makes Oscar’s heart do an ugly leap: a white friendship-bracelet string. Placed at kids height. Behind it, fresh scrape in the dirt.

“Oh,” Carlos says, mouth twitching.

“Subtle,” Oscar says, fury and relief crashing through him. He wants to strangle and kiss half the camp. “They breadcrumbed us?”

Twenty paces later: a fluorescent orange string. Then pink. The trail curves; camp lights begin to seep through trees like a warm spill.

“Those little—” Oscar starts, then clamps down. He is the adult; his job is to shepherd chaos, not be devoured by it. “They’re grounded.”

“It’s camp,” Carlos says cheerfully. “We can assign…enriching chores.”

“Enriching,” Oscar repeats faintly.

The final marker is a rainbow scrunchie with a note pinned in a dozen chaotic handwritings: SORRY OSCAR DON’T BE MAD WE LOVE YOU <3 and, in aggressive block letters, IT WAS A SOCIAL EXPERIMENT.

They step out of the trees to a semicircle of campers under the porch light, all attempting chastened and failing. Jasper stands front and center with a towel around his shoulders like a TV trauma victim. Maya vibrates at his side. Zeke has his guilty squirrel face on. Behind them: a poster board that reads 81 + 55 and a truly awful stick-figure drawing of two counselors holding hands in front of the canoe rack.

Oscar stops dead. His mouth opens.

Jasper steps forward, then flinches at Oscar’s face. “We didn’t really go into the woods,” he blurts. “I was behind the woodpile the whole time and Maya told you so you would—um—because—” He rubs his neck. “Because you two needed to talk.”

“Talk?” Oscar says, hollow.

“Or have a movie moment,” Maya whispers. “You know.”

“We watched that romcom night,” someone adds helpfully. “With the rain and the yelling.”

“And the kissing,” Zeke says, very quietly, like offering evidence.

Oscar presses his hands to his eyes and counts to ten in three languages. When he lowers them, he is still the counselor with a flashlight and a jittering heart and a job.

“You gave me a fright,” he says, and the word lands truer than anything else inside him. “A real, bad fright. You do not fake emergencies. Ever. If something had gone wrong while we were—if we were elsewhere because of a prank—” He shakes his head to disperse the leftover adrenaline. “Never again. Do you understand me? Never.”

A ragged chorus of yes, Counselor Piastri rolls through the group. A few kick at the dirt. Jasper’s eyes shine. Maya looks close to truly crying. Oscar feels mean for exactly a second; then he reminds himself firmness and kindness are not opposites.

“The bracelet string was a nice touch,” Carlos says mildly into the silence. “You will still get chores.”

Heads lift with cautious hope. The edge of Oscar’s anger eases; of course Carlos is already diffusing, redirecting, putting things back in boxes. He leans against the porch post, hands stuffed in pockets, half-grin in place like none of this rocked him. Oscar wants to shove him. Oscar wants to kiss him again. Both simultaneously, perhaps.

“It was a trap for your own good,” Zeke offers, footnote-style. “But it worked, right?”

“The goal of camp is not to trap your counselors,” Oscar says with the dignity of a man who will lie awake later replaying the soft give of Carlos’s mouth and cannot hang that on a bulletin board. “It’s to trap memories. Or something. I don’t know. Go to bed.”

“It did work, though,” Maya breathes to the air, like a wish.

Carlos laughs, low and warm, and the sound ripples through the kids like wind. “Maybe,” he allows, and all heads swivel like owls. “But you are still cleaning canoes. And the mess hall floor. And you are apologizing to the head counselor in the morning.”

Groans. Biblical in scope.

“And,” Oscar adds, because he is himself, “you’ll come to a talk about safety and accountability and ‘movie moments’ that will be, I promise, extremely boring.”

They drag feet, but they go. One by one the porch empties. Maya lingers to blur a tearful sorry into Oscar’s shoulder, then scuttles off. Zeke, last, pauses at the top step, glances between them, and says, very conspiratorially, “We also have a collage,” before bolting when Oscar makes a strangled noise.

Silence folds back over the cabins. The porch light hums. The lake breathes. Oscar stares at a knot in the railing until his vision blurs, then exhales everything he’s been holding.

“Are you going to write me up for protocol violation?” he asks, not turning.

“Absolutely,” Carlos says gravely, stepping close so their shoulders touch. “Under the section about kissing on duty.”

“Oh my God.” Oscar lets his head tip to thump lightly against Carlos’s. “We’re going to hear about this for the rest of the summer.”

“For the rest of our lives,” Carlos corrects, like that would be fine.

“Don’t,” Oscar says, because his smile is coming and it will be humiliating. It comes anyway. He is—unavoidably, finally—happy. He’s not trading it for pride.

Carlos’s hand finds his, quiet and unperformed. Warm. “Next time,” he says, promise-soft, “we choose the left path.”

Oscar considers left and right and the fact that every path, miraculously, has led here. He squeezes Carlos’s fingers once, a small oath.

“Next time,” he says, and for once he doesn’t feel competitive about how many next times there might be.

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