Date: Wed, 18 Jan 2017 21:23:15 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell 8

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.

*****

The other transformation was the perception of depth. The cots had been
about seven feet long, leaving a little room for our kit at the back. The
lumpy green mattress, though, was less than six feet in length and pushed
back against the edge of our kit, leaving a foot or more of 'balcony' at
the front of the tent. As one, we pivoted and sat, asses on the mattress
and legs just sheltered by the tent, staring out into the dreary rain, Karl
on the far side with Jim between us. Without conscious thought, Karl and I
draped an arm each over Jim, who seemed to bask in our attention. We said
nothing, watching and oddly content with what had brought us to this point.

***** Canvas Hell 8: Storms Break By Bear Pup

T/T/T; self-discovery; kissing

The triangle rang out for the start of afternoon sessions. Jim and I had
Leatherworking, then Jim and Karl had Wilderness Survival. Karl, at a loss
with a free period on a rainy afternoon, decided to walk with us toward the
Activities Pavilion. It looked like most of the other FP boys had done the
same. The adults and leaders took it in stride, apparently used to an
influx of guys on rainy days. Karl was surprised that Leatherworking was
actually kind of neat as we started our first actual project, a coin
'holder' (purse being a word that the adults knew would freeze any
enthusiasm out of teen males).

We were each given a rectangle of tanned leather and a leader came around
with a finished object. It had a wide, square body that tapered at the top,
stitched along each side with a snap-fastener holding the narrow mouth
closed. Beautiful stamp-work with singed accents made it a pretty cool
object. The first task was to shape the leather. A stack of thin boards,
shingles, actually, had been cut into a sort of long octagon. Jim and I
each took one and laid it over the leather. Leaders circulated, showing us
how to use the chisel and small mallet to score then cut through the hide.

It was curiously-absorbing work as the leather slowly yielded to our
cuts. About halfway through the session, all but a few boys were done and
we moved to a much more delicate job of punching the holes through which
we'd thread the stitching later. Leaders showed us exactly how and where to
draw a line in pencil on the rougher 'inside', along each long edge and
then along the angles; only the very ends were spared. We then carefully
measured and marked off distances between the holes. He explained how
important it was to be close but not too close to the edge, and to make
sure that the holes would line up perfectly when the leather was
folded. Another showed us how to use the punches. Karl helped each of us
throughout, not having a piece of his own.

By the end of the lesson, most of the class (including Jim and I) were
about halfway through the punching. Karl, smarter than I by far, suggested
that we fold the leather over each time we punched. It saved both of us at
least once from having holes that didn't *quite* line up. When the triangle
rang, Karl and Jim went up to one of the leaders.

"We missed the meeting this morning. We have Wilderness Survival next. Are
they holding it here?"

The leader laughed, obviously relishing the opportunity to deliver ugly
news. "No! Don't be silly. It rains in the wilderness, and today you get
first-hand experience in dealing with it. Same clearing as Monday,
boys. Have fun." The look of stunned horror on both their faces was too
much and the leader and I both broke into gales of laughter. This was,
shockingly, not well received.

With murderous looks for the both of us, Karl and Jim trudged of toward the
forest edge. No "boardwalk" here!  Oh, dear. The leaders were setting up
for sessions on Taxidermy and Trapping, both of which frankly disgusted
me. There was no way that I was going to accompany Karl and Jim, so I made
my way back to Tent Canvas Hell.

I wanted to put the time to a use that would really make me more
comfortable, so I decided to beat [you have a dirty mind, you know] out the
lumps in the mattress and get the sleeping bags arranged. I then decided it
wold be a good time to do some washing, since I knew we'd need every dry
article of clean clothing we could get. I got my own ready, then went
through Karl's and Jim's kit.

There is something disturbingly-intimate about another boy's stuff,
especially clothes, and I didn't really like how it felt. I was intrigued
(and hard) when I found that whilst Karl (and now I) used a bandana, Jim
was a white-sock kind of wanker. The one he obviously preferred was so
stiff it could have walked to the laundry on its own. Chuckling, I managed
to look as little as possible at their undies as I gathered everything up
and trooped over to the ubiquitous Hygiene Hut.

The laundry was opposite the offices we'd been in earlier. It was a bit
archaic but serviceable, through a door at the end of the sinks. They had
all the clothing-torture implements like a mangle and a washboard and
stretching racks. Frankly, I didn't know how to use any of them but I did
have a basic understating of laundry. Separate light from dark, add blue
stuff and pink stuff then start the water.

Here at Camp Sin, I was not really surprised to find that the blue stuff
and pink stuff were both the whitish-grey. I couldn't decide if the one
marked 'soap' was any different than what was in the showers. BIG signs
told how much of each to use and the horrendous consequences that would
befall anyone who used too much. It went on to explain how long the washers
and driers took. The lumbering, clunking and amazingly-loud washers went
into action and I had 30 minutes to kill, and certainly not there!

Back at Tent Canvas Hell, I decided to reorganise my kit, a nice, simple
and mindless task. I upended my pack and pulled everything from every
pocket. All the oddments got sorted and put back, but the 'map' for
like-is-like changed now that I knew more about life at Camp Sin. I glanced
and saw I'd successfully killed 20 minutes and sauntered down to the
Hygiene Hut. With great trepidation, I opened the washers to hove the
contents into two enormous dryers. My fears were unfounded. No pink or blue
undies and no purple jeans. SUCCESS!

The dryers would purportedly take 45 minutes. With the wet and all, I set
them for an hour. Back to Tent Canvas Hell and my dog-eared used-bookstore
copy of 'The Moon is a Harsh Mistress.' I'd read it through a couple of
times, and found a very odd sensation. I would gradually start to speak in
the odd sentence structure Heinlein uses for the main character, dropping
articles entirely and using inflexions in strange ways. I knew more than
hour reading would in pattern lock me for day. AAGGHH! I'm already doing
it! A quick jump to my much-abused 'The Two Towers' got me back to English
before the time was up.

I took a camp blanket with me to the Hygiene Hut and folded the clothes
onto it as I took them out. Wrapping that into a bindlestiff to keep the
clothes (relatively) dry from the ever-increasing rain. There were lots of
boys around when I came out; apparently, the racket of the dryer had made
me miss the triangle announcing the end of the second session.

I got back to Tent Canvas Hell to hear a breathy, high-pitched voice. "Oh
god oh god oh god." Jim.

Karl replied, "Take a deep breath, Jim. Everything is fine."

Dismay dripping from every word, "But we left my SOCK, the sock that I, you
know, USE. At the CABIN. It has my NAME on it!"

I came around the corner and found Jim and Karl a perfect study in
contrasts. Karl was blushing furiously and trying not to laugh; Jim was
ghost-white and trying not to cry. Where they matched was that both were in
soaked the undershirts and y-fronts; their clothes laid in a sodden and
mud-drenched pile just inside the tent proper. Both were scrambling to find
dry clothes.

"Deep breath, Jim. Your secret sock, accompanied by the infamous bandana,
just took a side-trip to the Hygiene Hut. I did laundry."

Karl folded over in hysterics and Jim flopped back on his sleeping bag like
a felled tree, bouncing slightly.

Jim's whisper-mantra had changed, "I hate you I hate you I hate you oh god
I hate you..."

I dropped the camp blanket and started handing Karl his stuff and just
piling Jim's on his inert form, chuckling. Being a cruel prick (aka
teenager), I got the most horrified look on and said, "Oh, my God! There's
a SOCK missing!" Jim slugged my leg and I knew he was over the shock; Karl
was now hiccoughing with mirth.

As I finished handing out clean and dry clothes and my tent-mates were
dressed, we heard someone approach the tent. We all stiffened, but with
different agendas. Frankly, I think we all believed it was one or more of
The Buggers not yet shipped off, or perhaps a confederate bent on
revenge. Karl swelled up and his fists clenched; he was going to take them
down.  As he inflated, Jim deflated, clearly terrified. I moved a little
forward, intent on stopping Karl and/or the intruder from going at it.

Unexpectedly, we heard a gruff, "Ahoy, the Tent!" It was the voice of Dr
Eaglas. We all relaxed as he came round the front. His practiced eyes
immediately took in our poses and postures. "Can I speak with you men for a
minute, please?" We nodded at his grave countenance.

"I won't lie. Tonight is going to be rough, certainly for Jim but also for
both of you," nodding to Karl and myself. "Nights can be bad and it may
storm again which can really trigger bad dreams. My office is a safe
zone. It's always unlocked unless there is someone in there who is getting
or needs help. If you, any of you, get overwhelmed, go there and throw the
lock from the inside. Either the Major or I will come as quickly as
possible; the lock buzzes whichever of us in on duty. Tonight that's
me. It's not imposing or causing problems or silly or wussy; your health is
my job. Promise me you won't hesitate to take me up on that, okay?"

We nodded as one. Right then, the triangle rang for dinner. All four of us
shared a look that clearly said, 'this is going to suck but not as bad as
going without.' The doctor managed a huge sigh, "I'm sorry men, I know
you've had a rough day, but I can't protect you from what Chef does to poor
innocent food. Let's get it over with."

The three of us smiled, enjoying the 'cool adult' shtick. The rain was
coming harder, but was still basically just pissing on us, not a deluge. We
went down with him and we got in line whilst he went to the adults'
table. The menu of cruelty tonight was a choice between a 'Salisbury steak'
(a floppy disk swimming in what looked for the world like mud) or 'garlic
chicken' in a sauce the colour of heartburn, either served over rice. We
fought each other over the salad and fruit. Jim, ever adventurous, got a
helping of garlic chicken; the smell was enough to make our eyes water.

The rain had picked up and invited some wind to the party as we
finished. The Major told us that the campfire practice would still occur,
but in the Cabins instead of around the fire rings. Jim, Karl and I headed
for Cabin 4 to continue learning the song. We had three night and Saturday
afternoon to prepare.

Were remained grouped with Orson and Willie. Apparently, Orson had managed
a 'chat' with Willie because he at least looked at us occasionally before
blushing and examining his trainers. He also sang loud enough to hear,
actually, and he had a really sweet, delicate voice. The weather had a
disastrous impact on Orson, though; his voice was changing practically from
one word to the next. Though a small kid, he'd end up a pretty confident
bass one day. Right now, though, he was what I'd have to call a
sopratrebaritenobass.

We did manage, our group and the tent as a whole, to learn the choruses. I
have to admit we sounded pretty good overall. Orson was not the only one
under attack by the Puberty Monster, but even those voices were swallowed
into a relative harmony. The leader then came round with slips of paper. We
were designated Group 4, and would sing two lines after getting the handoff
from Group 3 and then turn it over to Group 5 who would close each verse,
then we'd all join the chorus.

The leaders didn't play the tune tonight. They stomped the railroad beat as
the circled. They got each group to huddle, face in, so we could watch each
other's mouths and hear a little of our own piece. Everyone stomped in
time. Heard from outside, I expect it was like a cat fighting a bulldog
inside a kettledrum, but it actually worked pretty well. By the end of the
evening, all five of us could stay in sync with each other, keeping the
rhythm and, as instructed, not thinking about the tune at all. A sort of
reading-with-a-beat thing. Of our three couplets, the middle one really
seemed to resonate with us, "...Ride their father's magic carpets made of
steel. / Mothers with their babes asleep..."

When we finally broke, Orson and Willie went off to bed and us to Tent
Canvas Hell, we were in a fine mood, laughing and humming snatches of the
song. The wind was stronger and whipped the raindrops at unexpected angles,
apparently quite adept at hitting eyeballs. We sat for a short while on our
bags, talking about nothing, everything, anything and nothing again. Before
long we were all yawning. It had been a long and difficult day and the
raindrops tapped out a smooth lullaby. We snuggled into the bags, Jim
between us. I could see Karl look protectively at him, obviously making
sure that his charge was snug and secure.

It might have been an hour later when Jim punched me, HARD, bringing me to
startled wakefulness. He was moaning and thrashing. The rain was a steady
tattoo on the tent walls. He seemed desperate but unable to shout or form
words as he fought... something. I reached over and grabbed him in a hug
and his eyes flew wide, with no sense of self or thought. At first, he
exploded in an attempt to free himself, but my urgent whispers of concern,
protection and assurance quietened him. Jim had already kicked his own bag
down below his knees, and I pulled him into my arms as he struggled and
moaned, cradling him much as I had Karl the previous night.

Jim's head suddenly jerked back and he realised who held him. His
shuddering breaths became more even and he just stared into my eyes. I
could actually see Jim come back into those eyes as his heart slowed. My
face and my words and my touch seemed to sooth him. Recalling last night
and the conditions of my limbs in the morning, I shifted slightly. Jim
grabbed my tee shirt and whisper, "Please, please let me stay here..."

"Of course, Jim. I'm not going anywhere. I am going to keep the bad dreams
away and Karl is going to protect us both from bad people. Okay, little
hero?" A deep sigh was all I got and I was stunned to see Jim slip slowly
back into sleep. After all that, he was OUT.

I looked over his shoulder and saw Karl's eyes locked to mine. I have never
seen a fiercer expression on any face, human or otherwise. His look made it
clear that, had I rejected Jim or even HINTED doing so, he would have
ripped off my arms and beat me with them. I petted Jim's hair and murmured
and Karl and I both gradually joined the younger boy in dreamland.

It could have been minutes or hours when the universe burst into white
light accompanied by the trump of doom. The storm was back, worse even than
the night before. I sat up, disturbing Jim, to see the frozen-wide eyes of
Karl. There was no consciousness behind them. Another strike fell behind me
and Karl leapt away from the flash, clawing at the fabric at his back. In
that instant, another explosion of light and sound hit near that side of
the tent. I suddenly had a ball of unconscious and hysterical boy trying to
bolt.

Jim scuttled to the back corner of the tent and watched in fascination as
Karl tried to find an escape, any escape. He was thrashing, landing blows,
slap and scratches on my in his desperation to free himself. I finally
found a way to trap his legs and arms and held him tight. I repeated his
name, soothed and calmed him with my voice, but nothing worked. Unlike the
previous storm, this one moved fast and the strikes quickly got farther and
farther away, especially when they finally crossed the hills into the other
side of the peninsula.

Jim continued to fight like a beast, even without new lightening. I tried
anything and everything to bring those beautiful eyes back into focus and
nothing worked. I can't honestly say why I did it. Fear? Desperation? Lack
of other options? ...Urgent, wretched, forbidden desire?

I leant forward and kissed Jim. He struggled then started to huff into the
kiss. I could feel his body unclench. I opened my eyes (so I closed my eyes
when I kissed him; I'm a wuss) and saw Karl calming, a spark coming back
into those amazing, captivating orbs. As with Jim, I watched Karl
re-inhabit his body. The deep pools pulled to me. Unlike Jim, however,
Karl's expression when he came fully aware was one of abject horror and
humiliation. He exploded into frenzy and was out of the tent before I knew
what had happened. He actually ripped off one of the ties off the tent
flaps.

I met Jim's wide, terrified eyes and could hear my own question echoed,
'Now what do we do?'

Jim and I grabbed our trainers and ran after Karl. I don't really know how
I guessed his destination in the dark and damp woods; the rain was now
merely dripping off the leaves as the short and powerful storm had moved
past. Jim followed as I ran to the Hygiene Hut. I grabbed his arm as he
went toward the main door and dragged him past to the centre office, that
of Dr Eaglas. As I guessed, it was deadbolted from inside. Jim and I
pounded on the door until we were abruptly lifted aside.

Dr Eaglas was rumpled and grumpy as a bear, but he got a very odd look when
he realised that it was me and *Jim* outside, not me and *Karl*. He shoved
a key into my hand, "Both of you wait in George's office," he pointed
left. Sensing the objection that we were about to hurl, "NO! This is NOT
the time. Go NOW!"

He slipped another key into the lock and moved into the pitch-dark room. As
I saw the light flip on, then the door closed and locked with a horrid
finality. We stared for minutes at the door until Jim yanked my arm enough
to get me to move. We went into George's office. In contrast to the rustic
den of Dr Eaglas, George's space was clean and clinical.

There were several stools on wheel and an exam table. Glass-front shelves
on three walls held books, powders, potions, splints, sticking plasters,
ankle-wraps, crutches, slings and everything else that a person would need
when a patient is, as The Major put it, "not bleeding excessively and able
to move under his own power." One, however, held treasures. Big fluffy
towels and robes. We instantly availed ourselves to both, warm and dry for
the first time in, like, ever.

Jim stared at me with a speculative frown, obviously not mad but certainly
puzzled by something. Other than my occasional nervous glance at his face
or the door, I studied the knot in my shoelace. I made it my universe and
shut out everything painful, upsetting or puzzling. I slammed my mind shut
on all of the things that had happened. I jumped a foot when the door
opened and Dr Eaglas came in.

He still seemed like a grumpy bear but a perplexed one. "Who starts?"

Eyes still on my shoes with glances to the doctor and Jim, I mumbled, "Jim
had a bad dream and I got him calmed down and back to sleep. Karl had, the,
um, lightening thing and I had to hold him down so he wouldn't hurt himself
much. Nothing worked. It was like he wasn't even there, just, gone." My
eyes finally risked direct contact with the doctor. "I, I don't kn, know
why, sir. I, I... nothing worked! So I, I... {aksmt}."

"I didn't catch that last part, son. Please try again."

Taking a deep breath, I stared at the doctor's eyes. I'd failed Karl,
scared Jim to death and kissed another boy. My life was already over, so
why not? "I kissed him." I steeled myself for an outburst that didn't come.

"And then...?"

I stared at him, utterly bewildered. "Um, then?" My voice was utterly
inaudible, even to me.

Jim's voice now, "Once Patrick got Karl breathing and not, like, jerking
and punching the hel, um, heck outta him, Karl looked like he'd been shot
and ran outta the tent, sir."

"Jim, can you go next door and sit with Karl, please? Your friend needs you
right now and I need to speak with Patrick for a minute. We won't be long,
and no one is in trouble, okay?" Jim didn't buy the 'no trouble' line any
more than I did but reluctantly withdrew.

The doctor sighed deeply, twice, then looked back to me. "First, George is
going to be along after a bit. Karl really took you to town, son. You look
like Muhammed Ali's last victim." He saw the surprise on my face and
chuckled, "I know you don't feel it now, Patrick, but tomorrow is going to
be hell for you.

"Second, you probably stopped Karl from really hurting himself or
others. As scared as he was, he may have launched himself into the storm
and been killed, or really hurt Jim or other campers. I'll admit the method
was... unorthodox, but it did work.

"Which brings us to the question circling your head like an electron: Why
did you kiss Karl? Are you sick? Perverted? No. *Absolutely* not. Tell me,
Patrick, had you thought of kissing Karl before?"

I nodded mutely.

"I hate to break this to you, but plenty of boys do that." My neck popped
up so fast I got a cramp. "Truth. You're becoming a man and the people
around you, the ones that matter, are also guys. Finding out what kissing
is like with a guy before moving to girls isn't strange."

"Iduntwntebegrl. Iwuntdedtbkarl."

"Try that again, son."

"I didn't. Want it. To be a girl. I wanted. It. To be Karl."

Dr Eaglas was silent for long enough that I looked up. I don't know what I
expected. Disgust, rage, revulsion, vindictive-glee. What I saw was one of
the softest looks I'd ever seen. "That just means you have twice as many
people you can love, son. You shocked the hell out of Karl, I'll grant
that, but talk it through and see what he thinks about it." Utter
mortification must have glowed from me and I started shaking my head
convulsively.

"We're going to go next door," the doctor reached out because he saw I was
about to tumble off the stool. "Steady there, partner. You're fine. We're
going to go next door, make sure that everyone knows that everyone else is
fine and no one is in trouble. Then Karl goes back to my cabin where I have
a cot set up for men who need some quiet time, and then you see George."

He steered me out the door and into his office. Karl was on one end of the
couch. Jim sat next to him, cross-legged. Neither were speaking. Dr Eaglas
rephrased what he'd told me and pulled Karl to his feet. As they moved to
the door, Karl stopped dead and looked at me, genuinely confused.

"But why?"

Why did I kiss him? What could I say? My lip trembled like a five-year-old
and I dropped my eyes. I knew that they were leaking. I whispered, "I don't
know," as the doctor and Karl left. I don't think either could have heard
me. I looked up to see Jim's eyes on me as well.

I was just barely holding it together when he asked, "Why, Patrick?"

All the fear and humiliation gushed out like a fountain, "I DON'T KNOW!"

I felt Jim walk up to me and grabbed my chin, angling it to his face. "No,
Patrick, no. Why didn't you kiss me?" His eyes were bright with unshed
tears.

<eof>

So, to the folks who wanted Karl and Patrick to kiss (especially Roger with
the heart-eyed emoji in his request), I know is not what you expected, but
I hope you liked it anyway. And no, I am not leaving them here.