Date: Sun, 12 Feb 2017 10:23:34 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell 12

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.

<eof>

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