Where the Powder Horns Lie

The coarse wool of his scarlet tunic chafed against James's neck, already sticky with sweat, each fibre a tiny needle against his sun-warmed skin. He squinted, trying to make out the 'enemy' through a cloud of grey smoke that billowed from the line of British muskets just ahead. His own musket felt heavy, an unwieldy extension of his own tired arm. Sergeant Davies, a man whose real job involved spreadsheets but whose soul was clearly tethered to 1812, barked an order. "Load! Present! Fire!"

James fumbled with the cartridge, his fingers slick. The powder tasted like ash and grit on his tongue as he tore the paper with his teeth. He remembered the instructions: ram, prime, pan. Each movement was rote now, a summer of practise turning clumsy efforts into a half-decent imitation of a soldier. His mind, though, felt miles away, caught on the shimmer of a blue uniform in the distance, a flicker of dark hair that wasn't quite right for the period, but somehow made it more so for him. Pavel. Always Pavel.

He raised the musket, the heavy barrel wobbling slightly. The kickback jolted his shoulder, a familiar thud, and another puff of smoke obscured everything. The roar was deafening, a visceral, glorious chaos that made his ears ring and his teeth ache. He loved it and hated it all at once. The smell of black powder, musky and sharp, clung to his clothes, seeped into his hair. It was the smell of summer, of pretend war, of something strangely real that he couldn't quite name.

"Hold the line!" Sergeant Davies bellowed, his voice raw. James reloaded, his gaze drifting again. The 'Americans' were pushing, a wave of blue against their red. He saw Pavel then, just for a second, ramming his own charge home, a smudge of dirt on his cheek, his brow furrowed in concentration. Their eyes met, across the manufactured battlefield, through the haze of smoke and the din. A flash, a quick, almost imperceptible dip of Pavel's head, like a nod. Or was it just the smoke? James felt a strange, electric current run through him, an absurd intimacy in the midst of the staged violence.

A sudden, sharp whistle cut through the air. The 'British' line began to fall back, a strategic retreat that James knew meant they'd be marching through the tall, prickly hayfields for another ten minutes before the next 'skirmish'. His legs already burned. The sun beat down, a relentless, heavy presence that promised heatstroke and sunburn. He stumbled over a loose rock, nearly twisting his ankle, and caught himself with a gasp. This wasn't graceful, heroic combat. This was just hot, sweaty boys in itchy uniforms, pretending.

The Stillness After Thunder

The 'battle' concluded with a theatrical surrender from the 'Americans' at the edge of the woods, a concession James knew Pavel found particularly annoying. Back at the encampment, a fragile truce descended with the setting sun. The air was still thick with the lingering scent of powder, but now mixed with the aroma of roasting meat and damp earth. James sat on a splintered wooden bench, painstakingly cleaning the residue from his musket, his hands grimy and smelling faintly of metal and oil. He watched the other re-enactors, older men mostly, laughing loudly, their voices echoing across the camp. A few of the younger ones, like him, were off by the creek, splashing water on their faces.

He felt a familiar ache, a yearning for something he couldn't grasp. The re-enactment felt like a bubble, a strange pocket of time where he could be someone else, a soldier, a part of something grander than his ordinary summer. But even here, in this meticulously reconstructed past, he couldn't quite escape himself, or the confusing currents that pulled him towards Pavel.

The afternoon sun had begun its slow, orange descent, bleeding streaks across the canvas tents. A mosquito whined by his ear, a tiny, irritating buzz. He needed water, desperately. His throat felt like sandpaper. He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting, and headed towards the camp's hand-pump, its rhythmic creak a constant feature of these weekends.

Pavel was already there, his back to James, pumping water into a dented tin canteen. His blue uniform shirt, damp with sweat, clung to his broad shoulders. He still had the smudge of dirt on his cheek, a streak like war paint. James hesitated, then kept walking, the dry grass crunching under his boots. He cleared his throat. Pavel flinched, turning sharply, sloshing water over the ground.

"Oh. James. Didn't hear you." Pavel's voice was a little rough, breathless. He wiped his hands on his trousers, then nervously ran a hand through his dark, slightly too-long hair. A few strands stuck to his forehead.

"Sorry," James mumbled, feeling his cheeks grow warm. He wished he could just disappear into the growing shadows. "Just… thirsty."

Pavel nodded, his eyes scanning James's face, lingering for a fraction too long. "Yeah, me too. That last push… nearly got winded. You good? You looked a bit… lost, out there."

James shrugged, reaching for the pump handle. "Just trying to remember my orders, eh? Lots of yelling." He didn't mention the way his gaze kept finding Pavel's, or the dizzying lurch in his gut when their eyes had met across the smoky field. It felt too private, too strange to articulate.

"Yeah, well. Davies likes his dramatics," Pavel chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through the humid air. He offered James the canteen. "Here. Finish this. I'll get more." The metal was cool against James's fingers. He took a long, grateful swallow, the water tasting faintly of rust and something else he couldn't place, something clean and necessary. He handed it back.

Their fingers brushed. Just for a second. A quick, accidental contact. But James felt it, a small spark, like flint meeting steel, and quickly pulled his hand away. Pavel didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't show it. He started pumping again, the rhythmic squeak-creak-squeak filling the awkward silence. James watched the water splash into the canteen, then spill over Pavel's hand, running down his forearm. He noticed the strong line of muscle, the faint scar just above the wrist. Details he shouldn't be noticing.

"So, uh, British still think they won, then?" Pavel asked, his voice casual, but James heard the teasing undertone. He grinned, a genuine, unforced smile. "Someone has to win, right? And it's not always the ones in blue, is it?" He knew it was a cheap shot, a playful jab at their 'roles' in the re-enactment, but Pavel just laughed, a deeper, richer sound this time.

"Nah, we usually let you win the small ones. Keeps your spirits up." He winked, then lifted the full canteen. "See you around, James. Try not to die in the next big battle, eh?" He turned, walking away into the deepening twilight, his footsteps crunching on the dry grass, leaving James standing alone by the creaking pump, the water still dripping from its spout onto the parched earth.

Echoes from the Edge of the Woods

James leaned against a gnarled oak, its rough bark digging into his shoulder, and watched the last sliver of sun disappear behind the distant line of trees. The campfires flickered to life, casting long, dancing shadows that stretched and swayed like ghosts. The sounds of distant chatter and the twang of an old banjo drifted on the evening air. He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from the water pump, and felt the lingering grit of powder on his scalp. Everything felt a bit blurry around the edges, like an old photograph fading in the light.

He thought about Pavel's laugh, the way his fingers had brushed his, the casual challenge in his eyes. It was more than just a re-enactment, wasn't it? More than just playing soldier. It was… something else. Something that felt like the summer itself: hot, vibrant, confusing, and utterly temporary. These weekends were a break from everything else – school, the endless questions about what he wanted to do, the way his parents were always hovering. Here, he was a soldier, a part of a collective history, even if it was pretend. But with Pavel, it felt like something new was starting to form, something that didn't fit neatly into red or blue uniforms.

He traced a pattern in the dry dirt with the toe of his boot, his thoughts sprawling, untidy. Was this what growing up felt like? A constant state of not knowing, a confusing mix of the past you were trying to re-create and a future that felt utterly unpredictable? The idea of Pavel, an American re-enactor, a 'foe' in their staged battles, but a friend, or perhaps something more, in the quiet moments between, was a knot in his chest. A good knot, but a tight one. He found himself wishing the summer, and these re-enactment weekends, would never end, even as he yearned for something new to begin. The musket, still leaning against the tree next to him, felt less like a weapon and more like a prop, a heavy, silent witness to a battle he was fighting entirely within himself.