Date: Sat, 22 Apr 2017 19:14:32 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Lake Desolation 7

Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/rural/lake-desolation/)
for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights
reserved. Includes sex between 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.

QUICK NOTE FOR THIS CHAPTER: Jacob writes bodice-rippers that barely skirt
the dread label of 'romance'. He THINKS on the edge of melodrama and this
is written from him *immediate* POV. If that's not your thing, you may want
to look elsewhere.

*****

With that, Logan just curls into me. It feels so strange to hold a young
man like this. In one way, it is like holding my son when he was just a
boy. Logan is now fully in my lap, curled around his knees as he cries. In
another way, it's like holding Maria when we were dating. There is a kind
of love here, and one that I cannot begin to understand. I curl my own
larger frame around the boy and just breathe in his scent as my jeans
absorb his tears.

*****
Lake Desolation 7: L-L-L... That Word

By Bear Pup

M/M; plot, a kiss and falling in love - Thursday Evening

Logan cries himself to sleep, or something close to it, and I carefully
roll him on the couch itself and start prepping dinner. I check the chops
and they're not thawed. No real trouble there since it's still early. I
make quick work of the supplies. Since Pigtails had just been here
yesterday, it's mainly some stuff that might be needful if the snow comes
back and they can't get through. Rice, beans, flour, canned tomatoes and
other veggies, pasta, red gravy (what other people call spaghetti sauce)
and, lastly, a giant tub of Last Resort.

Long ago, in the dim and murky past, in some dark and dank little
laboratory, a mad scientist worked. He toiled day and night to perfect
something that would remove all joy and interest from a healthy diet and
leave a chalky powder that would keep you alive (for a sad and depressing
definition of 'alive') and still be just as vile after years of storage.

The original market was, I believe, the starving masses of the third world,
but the UN declared production or distribution of the stuff a culinary war
crime. Since, they have found a niche selling to people who think that
drinking their reconstituted sludge is better than simple, clean, humane
starvation. I gratefully thank the Millers for providing it year after year
after year... after year. In the spring and summer, I fill squirrel feeders
with it, hence the complete lack of squirrels, rats, raccoons, possums and
other furry little buggers; I think I have a negative-three rating on Yip!,
the varmint version of Yelp!

I also find something I really do appreciate, fruit. Even with supplements,
the lack of fresh fruit can really take a toll over a hard winter, and
limes, pears, lemons and other goodies make a difference. Among them are a
dozen green apples. I look over at the thawing chops as I put the last of
it away. Hmm.

Logan rouses and I set him to trying on and de-tagging the clothes. He asks
where he can change and I give him A Look. "Seriously? Logan, I *bathe*
you. Just try the damned things on." First are undies. They're baggy in the
ass but otherwise fine. I collect them and into the already-sudsy sink they
go. As luck would have it, one of the sweatshirts (they fit well) is a
University of Miami logo and Logan smiles at me. Jeans are baggy but okay,
as are the sweat pants. The socks are fine and the house-moccasins are
perfect. We'll have to split use to the Wellies. Last are the long-johns
and the long-sleeved tees. He puts on the first set, a sandy colour and I
look up as he adjusts them.

My breath stops. The soft colour makes his slightly-darker skin glow and
the chocolate of his eyes becomes piercing. His cock is coiled in the pouch
which is a bit too tight, making his endowment look even bigger and meatier
than ever on his emaciated frame. I can see his nipples through the thin
cloth of the tee and even a hint of the aureoles, as well as the edges of
his ribs and abs. He looks at me and smiles shyly. I cough and turn,
realising that I am painfully cramped in my own jeans. "Those look really
great, Logan."

It's not surprising that I don't hear him as he comes up behind me and I
startle as his hand touches my shoulder. "Jake?" He voice is as soft as the
cloth, and far more fragile. "Jake, I, I..." He takes a long breath and
lets it out as a quavering sigh. "I'm sorry, Jake, but I... do I look... do
I scare you? Am I, am I that bad?" I don't turn, but I shake my head. "I am
so, so sorry Jake. I know it's wrong but I, I really liked it when you
l-looked at me like that. C-Can you, d-d-do it just a little more, Jake?
Please?"

I swallow, eyes prickling, and call up a mental image of Maria who simply
rolls her eyes in the way that always meant, 'why are you boys idiots to
the last?' I turn to face my firing squad.

I never do look at him, at his body. My look never makes it past his
eyes. There is such pain there, such need and sadness and resignation, such
loneliness. What is not there -- and this shocks me -- is guilt, hesitation
or even lust. There is instead something I never thought I'd see. Actually,
something I'd gotten so used to seeing in Maria's eyes that I'd forgotten
it was even there. This poor, broken man-child looks at me with compassion,
with tenderness, with...

I cannot even think that all-consuming word. On average, my novels are
about 110,000 words each. Of that, perhaps 500 are that dreaded four-letter
monster that starts will 'L'. It is the essential core of every tale, of
everything I've ever written, even the trashy porn I write as
Mr.Kink.Daddy.1950. I became moderately-famous and relatively-rich because
I could describe that L-thing in deep and moving detail, could make the
bored housewives (and the secret masturbators of my porn) believe it, feel
it, need it. And now, faced with it...

I lean forward and press my lips to Logan's. With a strength I didn't know
he possessed, he drags me into him, curls my taller frame to keep our lips
together, teases and sucks my tongue into him, begging my own tongue to
plunder his mouth. He grabs my hands and puts one on his neck and the other
on his flank... his ass. He wraps his own arms under and up to clamp my
shoulders. I feel... I feel like the spider, trapped by the fly. Not driven
to take, but drawn into his own need to be taken.

And I relish it. I long to be the one taking/taken, to be the one
drawn/driven. To be... anything, anything at all other than what I am, a
shattered hulk of a man. An old, worn-out husk who has spent a lifetime of
love and longing on... trash books and, the bright spot of my world, now
gone, Maria. I live the kiss, I become the need and the hunger and the
terror and the compassion and the L--...

I pull back, opening my eyes for the first time in a lifespan. His eyes are
still tender and compassionate, sad and resigned, fragile and soft. But the
pain seems to have receded, taking with it a tiny fraction of his
loneliness; his eternal, unfillable need.  I am a wordsmith by trade, and
find myself at an utter loss. This hurts too much to be bliss, is too sad
to be joy, is too poignant to be... that 'L' word. I shake myself and put a
few inches distance between us. I steady my resolve. I cannot let this
happen. It is wrong to take advantage...

His brows furrow as his mood crashes in a wreckage of flames. I see the
tears well and flow as he spins and walks to the end of the cabin. "WHY?"
It is a wail of desperation. "Why, Jake? Why! Why do you, you give *just*
so much then t-t-take it-t-t-t---" he dissolves, like the witch in a
certain movie, melting into the floor.

Of course I have no answer. I stand, stabbed through the heart with my own
dagger, by my own hand. I don't cry because, frankly, I don't remember
how. I turn to the kitchen and begin to dice an apple, an onion, a shallot,
focusing mainly on not chopping off my own fingers through a haze of
wetness that cannot, must not, will not be tears.

When I finally turn, Logan has all of the clothes piled by colours, tags
and such in a bowl to the side. He is dressed in the same oversized clothes
he'd worn earlier. He doesn't look at me, but as I shift away from the prep
area, he moves to the sink and commences to wash the other light-coloured
items with the undies already in the cooling water. I move away and watch
as he meticulously extracts every bit of water he can, then gathers up the
sodden mass into a basket. He repeats the process with the greys, then the
blues (there are, oddly, no other colours).

Still with not a single glance even in my direction, without reproof or
rebuke, he dons the coat and gathers the clips and hangs everything from
the porch eaves just as I had done earlier.  He comes back in, returns the
coat to its place, and sits with a book in hand, staring at the embers of
the hearth.

I suddenly notice that the Amazon box is not empty. I'd ordered an air bed
and linens as well. A place for Logan to call his own. His own place. His
own bed. I take them out and look at them. We have no power, thus no way to
inflate the mattress. I look at Logan. He is staring at the mattress
thinking... I don't know what.

I pull a small iron skillet out and add butter and the chopped goodies, and
sit it on the embers, stirring quickly as the mixture pops and sizzles. I
pull the skillet out with the handle-lifter and add salt, stirring and
letting the residual heat cook the veggies. I make several more circuits to
the heat before everything begins to soften, at which point I add the
chopped sage and set the pan on the heath-shelf to slowly soften and
caramelise. A can of green beans is next and I simply remove the top and
nudge it into the edge of the coals.

The chops are infinitely easier. I use the bellows to blow off any ash from
the glowing coals. I salt and pepper the chops and throw them onto the
actual embers. A billow of succulent smoke erupts as they sizzle. I count
out three minutes, regularly turning the can with the beans, and flip the
chops to other coals. Three minutes later, I pull them out and flick away
those few embers that adhered. The meat is charred and crisp as I slide it
into the apple-onion mixture and move the pan to the hang-rack over the
heat.

I pull the beans and drain them, then plate them. I use my little probe
thermometer and the chops need a minute of two more, so I toast some stale
bread over the fire. I pull the chops onto the toast and spoon the chutney
into a bowl. I set a timer for five minutes as the chops need to rest.

"Logan? Logan, I'm sorry. Will you, um, will you eat dinner with me?"

He looks at me for the first time and the utter confusion in his features
reopens my gaping, self-inflicted wounds. He almost whispers, "Yes,
Jake. I'll eat if that's what you want."

He smiles at the food, but never at me. His voice is still soft,
unutterably tired, "You are a great cook, Jacob." The
onion/shallot/apple/sage jam turned out brilliantly, balancing the sharp
spike of char on the chops, all of it mellowed by the simple green beans.

We finish, my eyes rarely leaving Logan and his never once leaving his
plate. "Jake, how do I inflate the bed?" Not we, but I. Not whether, but
how.

"Uh. Well. Er, without power, Logan, we can't inflate it. Uh, well..."

He sighs, "I'll make up the couch. I know..." He chokes and moves away to
the cupboard where the sheets are.

"Logan. Logan?"

He turns to me, still not looking at me. I stand and move to him and he
shrinks into himself.

"Logan. I'm damaged goods, Logan. It was... selfish of me to kiss you
before. I. Well, I. It's wrong, Logan, for me to take advantage of
you. You've been through so much, and I keep, I keep... I don't know what
or who I am anymore, Logan." And just like that, I'm clutching his shirt
and crying into it, half bend over into him. For the first time, there is
no hand at my shoulder, no kind word. He waits until I am recovered and
walks to the couch and sits, staring ahead.

I stumble over and sink into 'my' chair, feeling Maria in the chair next to
me but focusing on Logan. I sit for... for a long time. "Logan, I am. I'm
sorry, Logan. You have been through hell and my... whatever it is, it's
just making your world worse. I, I am sup-supposed to be the one with
answers. I, I."

He looks at me full in the face for the first time. "Why, Jake? Because
you're what? Older? Famous? Rich? Successful? WHITE? Why should YOU HAVE
THE ANSWERS, JAKE? WHY?"

The last part literally shakes the windows and I pull back in shock. My
mouth works and nothing comes out. I want to turn to Maria's chair for
guidance, but I feel a smug satisfaction there, not compassion or
assistance.

Logan loses patience with my plight. In a sentence that is ejaculated,
phrase by phrase, he vomits out, "I'm a LOWlife, WETback, DRUGgie, USEless,
CRIMinal NOBODY! EVery TIme you LOOK at me I FEEL it, I KNOW it. I keep
DYing. I keep FINishing. And you KEEP, you keep BRINGing me BACK! WHAT did
I DO to YOU? And WHY do you THINK that YOU should KNOW how to
FIX... EVERYthing?!?"

Throughout, his molten chocolate eyes are locked to mine, captivated and
captivating. Desperate for an answer that he knows, somehow, does not
exist.

The words are not mine but the voice is. "Because I love you Logan. Because
I love you and it's killing me. Because I love you and know how b-b... how
bad I'll hurt you. Because I love you. Because I don't know what l-l-l-ove
MEANS!" I find that, for the first time since I was a child, I am curled
into a foetal ball, crying at the loss of something that, in truth, I never
had. Like a candleflame in a gale, the world snuffs in an instant and I
am... gone.

<eof>

A short chapter, and I'm sorry for that. Logan and Jake could just take so
much.

*****
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can make me a better author, please e-mail me at orson.cadell@gmail.com

Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 21 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 13 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 14 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Off the Magic Carpet: 8 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/
Lake Desolation: 7 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
Dear John Letter: 2 chapters .../military/dear-john-letter/
Brother Bear: 2 chapters .../incest/brother-bear/