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The story they tell is that neither of them remember the camping trip, and that story is mostly true.
They arrived separately, they set up the tent, and they made a nice little fire. Alex remembers that. And they started drinking; Alex remembers that as well. Greg can drink a lot, which makes sense given his size and level of practice, but Alex kept up with him throughout the evening, which was perhaps a mistake but only seemed polite at the time.
So, to say that he doesn't remember the camping trip is mostly accurate. He was absolutely hammered. So was Greg, presumably.
When he tells the story a few months later, recycled into a chat section to introduce the sleeping bag task, he makes it up entirely, and gives Greg an opening to riff; Greg, of course, takes him up on it and joins him in pretending that they were doing something very sexual and very weird.
It gets a good laugh.
When he tells the story over the next few years, on a chat show or among a group of friends, Alex always does so with a few sexual innuendos; if Greg's in the company, he throws in a few extra, because they always make Greg smile, and sometimes even make Greg blush, just a little. Once, he tells people at a party that they had a lovely time, wrestling bare-chested in the firelight, and Greg gets all flustered, smiling and shocked and red-faced, for at least six seconds before he manages to say something obscene in response.
Alex loves when he manages to fluster Greg. He would make it an Olympic sport if he could.
When he tells the story just to Greg, when they're reminiscing together in private, after a taping, or while they're on tour in America, or on the rare occasions that they have each other over for dinner, Alex sticks to facts, but makes a joke of them. It's not hard, because what he does remember is absolutely ridiculous.
"And you tried to get me to dance, at one point, do you remember?" he asks, sitting in Greg's hotel room, drinking wine from a box.
"Did I?" Greg always pretends not to remember as much as Alex, until he stops.
"To waltz, specifically, if I recall. You seemed to think that I needed additional training in basic life skills."
"Well, I always think that. Do you remember how you sang to me?"
"Did I?" Alex parries back.
"Camptown fucking Races. As if you were afraid of singing something not royalty-free! On a fucking camping trip! Your mind truly astonishes me, Alex."
"Well, it is a bit of a strange place, I suppose."
"Finally, after ten years, he admits it," Greg laughs, throwing his arms up to the heavens. His wine sloshes over his wrist a little, and he licks it off without a thought. Alex watches him do it.
"You were warm," Alex says. "In the tent. Like a great big space heater."
"Well. I do have that advantage, I have been told. Good for a chilly winter's eve."
It's winter right now, in New York, frigid and biting cold. And Greg's hotel bed is mussed, as if he had a lie down earlier, before the show, and then draped the blankets back up without bothering to make them too neat. They hold his shape, where he slept, just a little.
Greg likes to sleep on the left side of a bed. Alex knows that.
He doesn't know why they always reminisce about the camping trip, but never go on a camping trip again. Or else he does. He heads back to his own room after a few glasses of wine—not enough that he won't remember this night—and he sees Greg the next day, when they head out to the airport together.
When he tells the story to himself, late at night, or when he's drunk, or when he's dreaming, he remembers a lot more; none of it good chat show fodder or a good story for a party; none of it recyclable into a chat section. None of it even anything he would say to Greg. But he remembers: the gentle warmth of Greg's hands while they tried to waltz; the way sparks flew up behind him when he accidentally kicked the campfire; the way Greg's head fell onto Alex's thigh, at one point, when he was laughing uncontrollably at some joke that Alex can't recall.
He remembers Greg telling him something personal; he remembers Greg crying. He doesn't remember what was said, but he remembers the shape of a tear tracking its way from Greg's eye down to his temple (he was lying down at the time, they both were, looking up at the stars). He remembers touching it, feeling it wet and warm under his fingertip.
He remembers the crisp night air, remembers the way Greg felt, pressed against him, when he laughed, the way his laughter shook his body and Alex's body too. He remembers, because of course you would remember, wouldn't you, falling in love.
The camping trip is a worn memory now, a haze of sensation amid a couple of decent anecdotes. But Alex has not forgotten how it felt to sleep in that tent together, how Greg pulled him into his warm, dozing embrace and kissed the top of his head. He has not forgotten lying there, in the dark, loosely contained in Greg's arms as he slept.
But he doesn't tell that part to anyone, even Greg. He wonders, sometimes, if Greg, too, remembers more than he tells. But Alex doesn't ask.
The story they tell is that neither one of them remember the camping trip. That story is mostly true.