Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/camping/canvas-hell) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between young-adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.
Could I follow through and open myself up to Karl and Jim. No, never. The consequences were too dire and the upside was, well, non-existent. Could I loosen up and ask for help? Maybe. Could I let them know that I was ready to be helped? I honestly did not know. It seemed so... alien to the Manly Code as I understood it. Would I think about it? Would I try. It took me a moment to realise, yes, I could should and would do that. More for my friends than for me, but so-be-it. I left Dr Eaglas office drained of energy but also buoyed by a new and strange confidence. Maybe his spell had been cast, and I thought about the next few hours and how to use this temporary power his spell had given me.
***** Canvas Hell 12: Whispered Truth
By Bear Pup
T/T; self-discovery; conflict
I made it back to Tent Canvas Hell just as Jim and Karl returned from Wilderness survival. They were both grumpy and obviously exhausted. Today was about starting fire without modern tools of any kind. This apparently involved one of two methods. Vigorously twirling one stick into a dimple in another piece of wood, or vigorously rubbing two rough sticks together. Apparently, both of them (as well as most of the group) vigorously failed for the entire hour allotted.
To compound the injury with insult, apparently both Karl and Jim thought the other had bumped or distracted him at the precise moment when each was about to succeed. Tent Canvas Hell was not a happy place. Residual magic or not, I decided to put off the "explain your most-shocking secret and trust everyone to help you" insanity for a better time (like when I turned 40).
The 30 minutes between last class and dinner were a penance. I was as nervous as a cat in a dog show; my session with Dr Eaglas left me absolutely convinced that everyone could see PERVERT written across my forehead. Jim was in whiny-teen mode complete with "nobody gives me a chance" sauce, a role to which his chatterbox speech style is gratingly well-suited. Karl was in surly-teen mode with a side of "I hate the world", and his tank-like body and fierce brows were perfect for that as well.
The clanking of the triangle at least gave us the impetus to move. So the three of us trudged our way to the Mess Hell in unabashedly-foul moods. We'd nearly gotten to the door when Jim reminded Karl of his appointment with Dr Eaglas, earning a ferocious scowl as we'd passed right next to the man's off minutes before. Jim smirked until Karl suddenly smiled wickedly.
"You're right. I forgot. And he said we was making steak tonight." As if on cue, Jim and my stomachs let loose with furious growls and our mouths dropped at the cruelty of such a remark on the threshold of food purgatory, but the looks were lost as Karl had already turned toward the Hygiene Hut. Moods certainly no better than they'd been, Jim and I went through the service line.
Chicken and dumplings were the primary option. There was a lot of chicken surrounded by what tasted like patties of dried library paste in a bright-beige sauce. The second offering was... unrecognisable and luckily unlabelled. Nothing that colour should steam. Jim and I grumped to a table and set about the task of chewing through the dumplings. In spite of the texture, the taste of the overall dish was pretty good, but our moods could have soured a candied apple. As soon as we could, Jim and I went off to Cabin 4* for the next-to-last singalong practice before the Sunday Campfire.
[*Author's Note: On rereading the previous chapters, it appears that I've had poor Jim living or singing in virtually every Cabin at Camp Sin at various points in this story. I'd like to say consistency is the hobgoblin of a mediocre mind, but it's more just plain lazy editing. Just think 'cabin that ain't Tent Canvas Hell' and leave it there. Hopefully, it doesn't detract much.]
Karl joined us just as grumpy as before and, without any comment, we started in practicing. Orson and Willie kept looking at us askance, apparently expecting an outbreak of civil war at any moment, but the rhythm of the song was too enthralling. City of New Orleans is mournful on many levels, and certainly dark, but it brooks no anger or self-absorption. To this day, in fact, I can use it to break me out of the foulest mood.
The first 15 minutes were spent in the huddles, reinforcing the unity of each group and our memory of the words themselves. Orson had stayed (more or less) in baritone which really thrilled him; two days without squeaking was apparently his personal best. Willie had gained confidence and strength and his high voice was clear and bell-like. The rest of the night was going through the verses again and again until the handoffs from group to group were relatively smooth and the rhythm of the rails remained unbroken. Tomorrow, our last practice, would insert the choruses.
We left sombre but not down, none of us willing to relinquish to sweet agony of teen angst, but also still moved by the melody and the harmony we've woven with our voices. We made our way to Tent Canvas Hell in silence. When we arrived, Karl had a surprise for us, and not one that went over very well.
"I think we should shift the bags around." He was frowning furiously and seemed very much on edge.
Jim and I looked at each other, bewildered. In near unison, "Why?"
"I think it would be best." He was glaring at me. My guilt flushed me face like a beacon.
Jim, not one to take a hint or let something go, "but I like it being between you. Why change it?"
"I think you shouldn't have to be next to Patrick, that's all."
Jim stared and stared, at a complete loss as I blushed and dropped my eyes from Karl's glare. Suddenly Jim gasped, drawing both our attention.
"You! Y, you, you're t-talking about last n-n-night." Jim could barely form the words.
Flushing, shoulders tight and arms clenched in front of him.
"Yes. And it's wrong that he made you do that. It's wrong he made you do anything, especially that. I won't have it. I won't!" His stance left zero doubt of his feelings and commitment. He intended to protect Jim at all costs, including from me, no matter who it made mad or what it may cost.
Jim's jaw was on the floor but his eyes blazed and the fury rolled off him in waves. "Made me? MADE ME? He was frigging ASLEEP you moron. And you didn't seem too worried when you were watching, now, did you? Patrick was the only one who WAS asleep during it and you sure w-w-watched close enough and don't deny it. And now it's wrong and evil? And it's PATRICK'S fault? Well, f-f-f-f-FUCK YOU, asshole!"
With that, sobbing like a broken child, Jim rammed his way past us both and stormed off, not running, just stomping like an enraged bull. Karl was openly in shock. He looked at my blushing and horrified face before turning and walking in the opposite direction from Jim. Jim has stormed off. Karl slunk.
"Well. That went well," I said to the empty tent.
I briefly considered following one of them, but the complications were insane. If I tried to comfort Jim, Karl would take it as proof of my villainy. If I tried to talk to Karl, he'd either lose it and dissolve in self-loathing... or simply murder me; neither outcome really thrilled me. With a deep and despairing sigh, I lit the tiny lantern and settled in to read, back propped against my kit.
I had hidden away a copy of the banned (at least from my home) Jonathan Livingston Seagull. It was, apparently, heretical and corrupting... thus completing and obsessively intriguing. I'd come across a dog-eared and dingy copy on a book-exchange table at the library and smuggled it home. It lay hidden until now.
I was a good way into the slim volume when Jim returned. I'd so closely related to ostracism of Jonathan and his yearning to be something more than he was that it rocked me to the core when I looked up and realised just how perfectly, and how differently, it applied to young Jim. He glared at me, his earlier fury completely unabated and perhaps even stronger.
"You agreed with him, didn't you!" His voice shook with barely-restrained pain and anger.
I couldn't look at Jim. I just couldn't. "No. No. But in a way he's right. It was my f-fault for yesterday afternoon, and if I hadn't done that you n-never would have... you know... last night."
"You are as fucking stupid as he is." I saw tears on his face and he crawled into his sleeping bag, pulling the whole thing over his head, then drawing the opening inside and bundling up as if for a winter storm. I could hear muffled hiccoughs as he cried, and sat frozen and unable to even breathe. I stared at the blurry pages of the book I held, mentally unable to process through the turmoil and physically unable to read through the thick, unshed tears. I sat like that immobile for perhaps twenty minutes before Karl returned.
He was flushed and upset, but utterly silent. He looked at me and started to speak several times. He looked at Jim's entombed form and seemed to long to reach out. He wavered like that for long minutes before he took several deep breaths, each released as a soul-wrenching sigh, then burrowed into his own bedding.
I dowsed the lantern but could not force myself into the sleep sack. I really couldn't move much, it just seemed wrong somehow. I sat staring at their dimly-illuminated forms; the moon was not yet risen, but enough light leaked in that I could see the dark outlines of where they lay. I sat for perhaps another half-hour before I heard the muffled clang that signalled official lights-out. I was certain that both were long and fast asleep and realised that the cowardly route would have worked for Karl that first night if I hadn't been faking, and decided to try it. I spoke in a low, not-quite-whisper.
"Dr Eaglas th-thinks you both want to help me. I d-don't know why. I sure don't know how. But I do, do, I do know that you are, you're the best f-friends I've ever had and it rea, really, um, hurts so b-bad that I can't talk to you. I don't understand what I'm feeling, what I keep wanting. I know it's wrong and whatever he says I know it's sick. But I just want to, to, oh God I don't know, to be with you both. I promise to fight it. I know it can't happen. I know it shouldn't happen. I know I'll work so so so hard to make sure it doesn't...
"B-b-but... I s-still want it."
I was a bit shocked that I didn't sob or cry at all. Mr Weepy seemed to be out of the office right then. What I said meant a lot to me, and took a lot out of me. I just sat breathing, rethinking each word and honestly decided I didn't want to take any of the back. I dragged a camp blanket around me, still leaning against my kit with feet pointed in the direction of everyone else's head. I turned and listened to the forest at night, sounds that slowly wove into dreams and dreams into deep sleep. I don't know what those dreams were, but they had a peaceful tension to them that floated me clear to morning.
Another short one, but a necessary segue into the tensions of Saturday morning. As always, let me know your thoughts.
Active fantasy storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 12 chapters, more coming, .../camping/canvas-hell/ Karl & Greg: 14 chapters, more coming, .../incest/karl-and-greg/ The Heathens: 3 chapters, more coming, .../historical/the-heathens/ Beaux Thibodaux: 3 chapters, LOTS more coming, .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ Mud Lark Holler: 3 chapters, more coming, .../rural/mud-lark-holler Turntable Rehab: 4 chapter, more coming, .../authoritarian/turntable-rehabilitation-services