Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. HMCS Aurora does not exist and the establishment described is purely a work of the writer's febrile imagination!
The story is set in 1976 when safe sex was not practiced. Please always ensure your safety and never have unprotected sex.
This story - although not this chapter - contains graphic depictions of same sex consensual acts between teenage males, and teenage males and adults. If erotic fiction of this genre offends you, please find a tamer site. If reading, downloading, or possessing literature of this type is illegal where you live, or if you are not of legal age, please move on.
Aurora Tapestry is the third book in the Aurora Trilogy. The first book, "The Phantom of Aurora" is available through PublishAmerica in print - two volumes. It is also available on Nifty in its original form, as is the second volume, "The Boys of Aurora". A list of characters is included in "Boys". I have updated the listing but have not had a chance yet to finish it. When I do, I will post it.
My thanks to all who wrote with your comments. I also appreciate those who have purchased a copy of "Phantom". Frankly, while the money would be nice, the knowledge that I have brought a little bit of fun into my readers' lives, and created a work that I am very proud of, is reward enough.
My thanks, as always to Peter, who puts up with my tantrums and makes what I write so much better.
Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 18
Death, reflected Chef as he stood looking out at the cadets eating their evening meal, affects different people in different ways. The YAG crews, who made up the bulk of the diners, had not known Sylvain, really. To them he was a tall, slim figure who paraded in front of the Bugle Band every morning. He was a familiar figure, and like all familiar figures, became unnoticed. The Phantom had felt much the same before he had endeared himself to many of the cadets. He had been, before he became a much beloved member of the Aurora Ship's Company, just the kid who worked in the galley and cleaned up in the dining room.
It had been the same with Sylvain, Chef thought, much like Father Brown's postman, always seen, but never seen at all.
Still, Sylvain's passing had had its affect. The Phantom, whose conscience was bothering him about the way he had thought about Sylvain, was very quiet and the Twins, usually the most ebullient of creatures, were subdued. Harry, whose open disdain for the young Quebecer had been well known, was also suffering pangs of conscience and kept asking himself over and over again if he had done the right thing by accepting the appointment as Chief Drum Major. He wondered if perhaps Sylvain might not have green-sheeted had he been appointed.
Chris, Jon, Kevin and Ray all felt badly. All four boys had sailed with Sylvain before, in the camp at Kingston. He was not, at the end of the day, such a bad chap, they told themselves. Two Strokes and Thumper maintained their professional mien. As Regulating Petty Officers they could not allow their personal opinions about any cadet affect the way they did their jobs. Besides, they had only met Sylvain this summer and, as he had not run afoul of their rules or regulations, they had had very little to do with him.
Tyler and Val, together with Rob, were also hard pressed to show emotion over Sylvain's death. Tyler, who had served with Sylvain, had always detested him. Val and Rob, like Two Strokes and Thumper, had only dealt with him on a professional level. They felt that they had lost a colleague, not a friend.
Brian felt much the same as Val and Rob. While he had served with Sylvain last year, and been on QUEST with him, the natural animosity between gunners and bandsmen had held sway. He felt bad about Sylvain's dying, but he simply did not feel a loss.
Of all the cadets, Sandro, Randy, and Joey seemed most upset. Randy had known death when his mother died. He had been very young, and the thought of Sylvain lying cold and still in a long wooden box surrounded by flowers was almost too much for him to accept. It brought back many sad, not to be borne memories.
Joey was at the age when death was, for him, inconceivable. He would live forever, as would all his friends. It was not that he had not known death. He had been present when Randy, hysterical, had been pulled from the ruins of his family's farmhouse, and seen the broken body of Randy's mother tenderly removed from the shattered home. Living as he did on a ranch, Joey had seen stock slaughtered, had seen the carnage wrought by marauding wolves, driven by hunger to raid the wintering herd of beef cattle.
For Joey, death came to the elderly, not to the young. He could not understand how the God his parents, and his parish priest, told him was an all-knowing and all-loving God, could take away a young man in the full bloom of his youth, before he had a chance to live.
For Sandro, who had never had a brother, Sylvain's death was devastating. He could not explain why he felt the way he did, he just did. He had known death, of course. In Russia death came every night it seemed, particularly in the winter, and always to the very young, the very old, or the alcoholics. Every morning the news would come that so-and-so had succumbed during the night to the cold, to the ever-present hunger, the deprivation, the indignities of life. Every morning the Militia truck would growl slowly down the street, the hard-faced militiamen checking doorways and alleys for their morning cull of derelicts and drunkards, men and women too far gone in an alcoholic stupor to find warmth and shelter from the plunging temperatures and the bitter cold that was the Russian winter.
Twice death had struck close to Sandro's home. First his grandmother, then his aunt, aged women who had laboured all their lives. Both had died in their own beds, with the dignity that death sometimes brings. Their deaths had produced an outpouring of grief that only Russians can understand, that only Russian Jews can understand.
Sandro could not understand why he felt the sadness that seemed to consume his soul. He felt the loss of a brother, although many of his fellow cadets would not agree with him. Perhaps it was, as Chef said, emulating John Donne, that no man is an island, entire of itself, and every man's death diminishes one. Perhaps it was the shades of the six million who had gone into the camps and never returned. Perhaps it was the unfairness of it all.
To Sandro, Sylvain was a vibrant, handsome young man, albeit of uncertain disposition. True, Sylvain could be a dickhead when he put his mind to it but he had been a brother. Sylvain had stood on the steps of the Mess Hall as the other cadets hurried to the buses that had taken them away, had heard Todd's sweet voice as he recited the lines from Henry V. Although Sylvain had died not knowing it, he had been a brother, one of the Band of Brothers, proclaimed by Shakespeare, and echoed by Nelson. Sylvain had been a brother to be mourned, for he would never again stand on the parade square, tall and proud. No more would his laughter be heard in the School of Wind, or in the mess he had shared with his buglers and drummers.
Sandro had gone to the small library and found a battered volume of Shakespeare's works. He found the lines and as bitter tears marked his grief he read through the words spoken by the King, the words that Todd had not spoken, the words that gave rise to Henry V's immortal Band of Brothers:
"This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, 'Tomorrow is Saint Crispian':
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say, 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day,'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day . . ."
As he closed the book, Sandro decided that Sylvain, for all his faults, was his brother, and would not be forgotten. Each year he would be remembered, if only by a young Russian Jew.
Of all the cadets the least affected by Sylvain's death were Nicholas and Matt. Nicholas had never cared for Sylvain, and the French boy's treatment of André before he was transferred to the Band still rankled. Sylvain had been as much a taskmaster as Harry, but where Harry used humour, and his deep understanding of the mood swings and fits of cadet distemper that seemed to infect all the cadets from time to time, to get his charges to do what he wanted them to do, Sylvain had been vicious and sarcastic, filled with his own sense of self-importance, and arrogant, relying more on his authority as a Chief Petty Officer than his ability as a leader.
For Nicholas, André was love, affection, and partnership, everything he wanted and felt he needed. The dark-eyed, dark-haired French Canadian was the love of Nicholas' life, and Nicholas would never forgive or forget a slight, or wrong done by anyone against him.
Matt had no feelings, one way or the other about Sylvain. He had barely known him, had had no communication with him, and had never considered Sylvain to be anything more than an acquaintance, a cadet with whom he had attended a camp. Had he bothered to think about Sylvain's death, and his feelings, Matt would no doubt have considered himself to be cold and unfeeling, which he was not.
Once Matt had loved, loved deeply and passionately, and had that loved snatched away, and destroyed in a fiery pyre on an anonymous stretch of asphalt on a nameless road. Matt had loved his older brother, Marcus, a tall, handsome, caring young man who had returned Matt's love a hundred-fold, a young man who had been driven from the family home because he would not bow and scrape to their father, or stare wide-eyed with awe and wonder at the hatred and bigotry the old man spewed. Marcus had gone south, to the States, and driven the rigs. He had died in a rig, burned beyond recognition when the tanker truck full of gasoline he was hauling jack-knifed and exploded. Marcus had been Matt's first great love and his death had been a blow from which Matt had never recovered.
From the day he had stood in front of the Base post office, paralysed with grief, Matt had vowed to never again allow his emotions free reign. He had not dared to mourn Marcus, and he would not allow himself to mourn Sylvain. Matt had also vowed that he would never allow himself to fall in love again. But he had and no matter how hard he fought against the feelings that coursed through him, Matt had given his heart, his soul, his being to Todd. To Matt, Todd was the ultimate in male beauty, a creature so devastatingly desirable that Matt was all but breathless whenever he was in Todd's presence. A smile, a word, from Todd was enough to send Matt flying into the ether, to cause him to tingle and grow warm all over. Matt had fallen deeply, desperately, in love with Todd and Todd had spurned him.
Todd's rejection had changed Matt. He was now a young man who was determined to never again allow personal feelings or emotions cloud his judgment or rule his life. He would never again dream of a life with Todd, with love and affection paramount. Matt would stand alone, as he always had, depending on his true friends when he needed them, asking little, but giving much. Todd could go his own way, without Matt, and Matt would hide his true self and suppress his true feelings. Matt would accept Todd's friendship, but nothing more. He would accept Nicholas' friendship, and their new relationship as fuck buddies, which was all Matt thought he needed or wanted. Nicholas was in love, and would return to André. Matt and Nicholas would fool around, enjoy each other, give pleasure to each other and when the time came they would walk away. It was all they wanted, and all they asked of each other. Matt was satisfied.
The officers tried their best to explain Sylvain's passing, to no avail. Andy, of all the officers, was most familiar with death. He had seen it on a daily basis in Vietnam and knew how young men could, and did feel when someone close was snatched away. He also knew that every man reacted differently to the death of someone close. His friend, his lover, Marty, had died in the Tet Offensive and Andy had mourned long and hard, drowning himself in drugs and alcohol and sex after his discharge from the Marines. Andy now realized that this descent into the mire had been his way, initially, of dealing with Marty's death. Others had raged when a friend, a barracks mate, a foxhole buddy had suddenly been blown away, smashing everything that they could lay their hands on. Others had been consumed with a killing rage, rampaging about the boonies killing and killing and killing, exacting a kind of revenge that would never bank the fires that burned deep within them. Others - the majority - simply became quiet and, being marines, being men, would not allow any outward expressions of grief. This was, in Andy's mind, the worst kind of mourning. Every man, Andy reasoned, needed to let go. He had held in his anger, his frustrations, his fears, and then, on a unnamed beach on a godforsaken island, he had let go. His catharsis had been a bottle of black Navy rum, some cigarettes, and a shoulder to cry on. He had not expected it to happen, but it had, and he had finally let go. He knew that somehow the quiet ones, Tyler, Val, Stuart, Steve, Mike, the older boys who had been convinced that boys never cried, needed a catharsis, needed a way to accept Sylvain's death, and to let go.
Kyle, barely older than some of the senior cadets, agreed with his lover. His feelings for Sylvain had been ambiguous at best, but he did feel badly. He should have at least tried to connect, somehow, with the moody, arrogant young man. He had not, and guilt drove him to his cabin where he had cried unabashedly, although he had been very careful that no one saw, or heard him. Andy had found him, red-eyed, and dolorous, held him, and told him that this was exactly what he needed to do.
After lunch, when the cadets had a make-and-mend, both young officers had tried to scare up a scratch game of soccer and while they had managed to inveigle the cadets into a game, none of them seemed all that interested, merely going through the motions and even Harry, the most happy of creatures, did not crow when he scored a half-hearted goal defended by an indifferent Steve.
Rather than continue the agony, both Andy and Kyle dismissed the boys and returned to the Wardroom, not knowing that before the day was ended events would take a turn that would lead them into a maelstrom of perversion and iniquity.
Matt and Nicholas had participated in the soccer game and were disappointed when Andy called it a day. Both cadets enjoyed sports, and played with enthusiasm and vigour. That the others were not all that interested was a bummer, but then both Matt and Nicholas knew that after the game they would be engaging in sports of a different kind.
In the Flag Locker, where Matt and Nicholas had gone after the game, they stripped off, settled onto a makeshift bed of signal flags and began making out. They were fuck buddies, and it was assumed by both of them that they would have sex. Neither questioned the motives of the other, which was exactly the way each boy wanted their relationship to be.
For Matt, Nicholas was an ideal partner. He made no demands, was always eager to have a little fun, and was always honest in expressing himself. What Matt and Nicholas had was sex, nothing more and nothing less. They were two guys who happened to like each other, happened to like being with each other, and happened to like having sex together. Neither wanted anything more from their relationship and in a few days Nicholas would return to Montreal, and André, and Matt would return to an uncertain future in Ottawa. That was the way of it, period.
As they always did, after fondling and rubbing each other, Matt and Nicholas positioned themselves. Matt was about to take the classic head of Nicholas' penis in his mouth when the Yeoman giggled and said, "Drink ye the spiced wine of my pomegranate."
Matt gave Nicholas a look that made very plain his doubts about Nicholas' sanity. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked. He gave the deep pink glans of Nicholas' penis a lick. "This sure ain't no pomegranate!"
Laughing, Nicholas pulled away and told his lover about the signal from the gate vessel. Matt, who had avoided what passed for a church service back home whenever he could, and who freely admitted that his knowledge of Biblical texts was next to zero, refused to believe that such a passage existed in a book that he had been conditioned to believe was the literal word of God.
Nicholas, on the other hand, was somewhat of a scholar. He had endured Bible lessons almost every day of his school year, religious training being part of the curriculum of the school he attended, and had attended Bible study every Sunday. One of the prizes given every year to the students of the Cathedral School had been a small bursary for the student who could quote the most verses of the Bible. Nicholas, at first curious, and later mesmerized, had poured over the two books of Christendom's Bible. He assured Matt that while the Bible did contain some very edifying and spiritually uplifting passages; it also contained some damned salacious passages, particularly in the Old Testament.
When Matt refused to believe, Nicholas had crawled from the grungy pile of flags - he really had to add them to his list of things to clean - crawled over his desk and opened the drawer where he had hidden the Bible that he had filched from the ship's office. This he handed to Matt. "Read Leviticus, Chapter 15, Verses 1 and 2," he instructed.
Matt opened the Bible and read, his eyes widening. "Wow! It says here that if a man 'hath a running issue out of his flesh, because of his issue he is unclean'. What the hell does that mean?"
"It means if you shoot your load you're unclean," responded Nicholas. "Everybody is unclean until they wash." He snickered. "Since I haven't had running issue today, I guess I'm still clean!"
"I'll fix that later," replied Matt absently as he returned to scanning the onionskin pages. "What else is in here?"
"Well, you can basically look in just about any book of the Old Testament and find something that they don't preach about in church. For instance, in Genesis 24:2-3, 9, you're supposed to put your hand 'under the thigh' - cupping his dick and balls - of someone when you're swearing an oath."
"You're kidding," declared Matt. "If that was the case the Twins would never leave the ship's office!"
"It gets better," responded Nicholas. "When you read it, the Bible is really filled with hypocrisy. It's filled with sex, and bestiality, and pissing and shitting. Everybody has a dozen wives and concubines, and in one part sex is allowed, in another sex is forbidden. There's murder and incest, lots of good stuff. Not to mention some very strange ways of getting something you want."
"How so?" asked Matt, intrigued.
"Well, look in I Samuel. David wants Saul's daughter big time. Saul isn't all that hot to trot about David, but he figures what the hell, if David is that horny he might as well take care of the Philistines, who'd been making trouble."
Matt quickly flipped through the book and read. He started to laugh. "Well, I'll be damned!"
"Good job you weren't a Philistine," replied Nicholas. He took the Bible from Matt's hands and read. "Samuel 18, 23-27, abridged. 'And Saul said, Thus shall ye say to David, The King desireth not any dowry, but an hundred foreskins of the Philistines, to be avenged of the king's enemies. But Saul thought to make David fall by the hands of the Philistines.'"
"Did he get them?" asked Matt.
"He got two hundred of them," replied Nicholas. "He took them to the King and in return Saul gave his daughter to David."
Snickering, Matt said, "Old David would have been shit out of luck around here if he came looking for foreskins." He ran his fingers down the smooth, soft length of his penis and toyed with the pale pink head. "Nicholas, have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a dick with skin?" he asked.
Nicholas thought a moment. "Nope. Never had it, never wanted it. I like the way my dick looks. Neat and clean." He reached out and twiddled head of Matt's penis. "Yours, too."
"But you and André, I mean, André isn't . . . he has skin."
"Yes, he has," agreed Nicholas. "But I have to admit, and you'd better not say anything, there were a couple of times when I wished he didn't. I love him, and I've made a commitment to him, but two or three times he was, well, he hadn't had a shower and . . . well, anyway it doesn't matter, because I love him."
Matt leaned back in the chair he was sitting in and suddenly blurted, "I envy you, you know."
"Why? Because I love André?"
"Yeah," admitted Matt. He saw the quizzical look on Nicholas' face and added hastily, "Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking for anything other than what we have." He shrugged dejectedly. "It's just that you have André while I . . ."
Nicholas hurried to Matt's side. "Look, Matt, I care for you, and I like being with you. I'm just somebody to fool around with. You'll find someone," he finished confidently.
"I thought I had," replied Matt. "But . . ."
"Todd's a jerk!" Nicholas snapped. He sat on the desk directly in front of Matt with his legs spread, with his soft genitals invitingly close. "He couldn't see a good thing if it came up to him and smacked him in the balls!" He leaned forward and gave Matt a quick kiss. "And you are a good thing, Matt."
"So everybody keeps telling me," returned Matt with a grin. He looked pensively at Nicholas. "Are you going to tell André about us?"
"Nope," said Nicholas promptly. He saw the look on Matt's face and continued. "Matt, I'm a guy, I like sex with guys. It's nothing more than sex between us, and what André doesn't now won't hurt him." He fixed his gaze on Matt and continued, "If I told him, I'd only hurt him, and that I don't want to do. I know that I'm being a dickhead for screwing around on him, but like I said, I'm a guy, and a guy needs sex. I hope André has found someone, I really do."
"But you don't think he has," Matt replied. "And you really don't want him to."
A long, low breath of air escaped Nicholas' lips. "No, I guess I don't. He's, well, he's so sweet, and adorable, and I . . ."
"Love him," finished Matt. His blue eyes bore into Nicholas. "You want to stop?"
Slowly, Nicholas shook his head. "I want us to be together. It's just sex, Matt. We're friends and all, and sex is just something two friends do."
"Yeah," replied Matt glumly. "But then, that's all I wanted, isn't it?"
"You said it, Matt, remember?"
"Don't rub it in." He leaned forward and ran his hands up Nicholas' bare legs. "Maybe one day I'll find my 'André'. Until then I've got some good buddies." He grinned salaciously. "Want to fool around?"
As he slid to the deck, his penis rising, Nicholas grinned. "In the words of the esteemed Lieutenant Colin Arnott, 'Betcha Ass!'"
"God I stink," declared Matt as he sat up and stretched. He looked down at Nicholas who was smiling back at him, his body pink and flushed from a session of plain, old-fashioned, good sex. "And you are not exactly the freshest smelling thing in the neighbourhood."
Nicholas slapped his stomach and grinned. "You bring out the worst in me, Matty. Nothin' like a good piece of ass to get the old juices flowing."
"You flowed," returned Matt with a grunt. "Now get your buns in gear. It's getting late and it's time we weren't here."
Groaning with from the exertion of sitting up, Nicholas nodded reluctantly. "I sure am going to miss you," he said. "I doubt I'll have much time with André after I get back."
"How so?"
"Matt, I'm an Anglo, André is Canadien. His folks aren't too keen on us Roundheads. And to be honest, my folks aren't too keen on the Frenchies. They think them peasants, speaking an appalling corruption of a beautiful language and backward." He shrugged. "Not to mention there are no hidey holes or armoury offices in Montreal that I can think of." His face brightened suddenly. "But hey, André mentioned about us going to the Gaspe. I wonder . . ."
"Don't wonder, go!" replied Matt firmly. "You love him, he loves you. Be together any way you can."
Nicholas scratched his chin. "He was going to check it out and let me know, but I haven't heard a word."
"He's only been gone a few days, for cripes sake," returned Matt. "Give him a chance."
"I am," replied Nicholas. "But Matt, I leave on Thursday with the rest of the guys. Even if he's mailed a letter, I might not get it."
"Ya know, for a smart guy like you, you sure are dumb," said Matt with a slight sneer. "You're supposed to be the Yeoman, the expert in signals and flags, and communication and all that shit, and you ain't never thought of using the telephone?"
"Huh?" Nicholas looked around, a silly look on his face.
"That instrument," said Matt, pointing at the telephone sitting on one corner of the desk. "It's called a telephone. You dial a number and if somebody answers at the other end, you talk. It was invented by Alexander Graham Bell a hundred years ago and gosh, Nicholas, almost every home has one!"
Nicholas grimaced, not appreciating Matt's sarcasm. "Funny, Matty, funny." He looked at the telephone, looked at Matt, and then asked, "I don't know, Matt . . ."
"Of course you know!" returned Matt. " First you dial nine, and then the number. It's very simple." He reached down for his briefs and shorts. "I'll see you later."
"Hey, you don't have to go," said Nicholas as he reached for the telephone.
"Nicholas, I really don't want to be here if you're getting all smushy with André!"
"How can I get smushy?" countered Nicholas. "He's in Montreal and I'm here! You can't get smushy over the telephone!" He began dialling and motioned for Matt to remain seated.
As it was just past suppertime in Montreal, André answered the telephone on the third ring.
"Nicholas!" André hooted joyfully. "I have so missed you!" He spoke in English, the better to keep his conversation private, and incomprehensible to his parents and siblings, who had very little English.
"And I have missed you, petit," returned Nicholas, smiling. "How are you?"
"I am fine, and so is Le Grand André, although he misses Le Petit Nicholas very much," replied André with a giggle. "You are coming home soon, yes?"
"I am coming home Thursday," said Nicholas. "Then we see each other, yes?"
"Oh, oui, yes, I will see you. I am so happy, Nicholas. I dreamed of you last night! My petit souris, I made him very happy thinking about you."
Rolling his eyes, Nicholas snickered. "I promise I'll make him happier when I get home!"
A long giggle rolled down the telephone wires. "I have spoken to my friend Marc. He is a student at the College? We can use his room, but only on Friday. Thursday you must be with your parents, yes, and I am very busy burying Sylvain that day . . .?"
"Burying Sylvain?" queried Nicholas, his brows furrowing. "I thought he lived in Chicoutimi."
"He did, and you know he has died?"
Nodding, Nicholas replied, "Chef got a call from Base. He had his Sea Cadet ID on him so the cops called the local Area Officer, and he called Ottawa. They called us."
"It is very sad," said André. "The priests, they are already saying prayers for him. Thursday there is a big Mass, with the Rector and everybody, to memorize him."
"You mean a memorial Mass?" asked Nicholas, trying not to laugh.
"Oui, yes. All the students, we must attend, because after all Sylvain was a student and the priests, they have not had a good funeral in ages, not since the Bishop died, and that was ages ago. So we have hymns and lots of incense. I shall be very bored, I think."
Nicholas attempted a lame joke. "Maybe it will get the Devil out of you!" He snickered at André's muted giggling, then continued on. "So it's just a memorial mass. When's the funeral?" he asked.
"We do not know," replied Andrwe presently. "The Rector, he says that maybe next Saturday. Some of the priests will go I think, because they liked Sylvain. Me, I stay home!"
"André!" said Nicholas, shocked at his friend's tone of voice. "I am sorry, Nicholas, but I did not like him!" replied André firmly. "And I do not wish to go to the basilica of Saint Anne de Beaupré. The priests from the college, who are Jesuits, will complain that the priests of the basilica are not doing it right, because they are Redemptorists, and then there will be a big argument. The General, he will be there, and I do not like him either!"
Nicholas' mind was reeling. Redemptorists? The General? "Uh, André, what are you talking about?" he asked.
"The Rector told my Papa that Sylvain would be buried from the church in Ste Anne de Beaupré, because the General, he lives there. Sylvain was his favourite nephew - he gave Sylvain the car, after all."
"Car? What car?" Nicholas looked at Matt, who was getting a gleam in his eye. Nicholas shook his head fiercely, "No", as André's voice came down the wire.
"Oh, Nicholas, such a motorcar," enthused André. "My friend Marc, he saw it, and he says it was beautiful, so red, with an open top, and he loves it so much he says he squirt in his pants!"
"What is it with you Frenchies always squirting in your undies?" asked Nicholas, remembering the afternoon in the Base Photo Lab when he and André had been choosing photos for the albums that Nicholas was making up for all the participants in the sailing trip. André, confronted with photographs, in full, naked, living colour, of the Twins, The Phantom, and Harry, had become so excited that his little souris became a big souris and produced a spontaneous, unexpected, but most pleasant eruption.
André was not amused by Nicholas's question. He remembered the day, and peeked at the album that Nicholas had prepared for him. Matt, on the other hand, raised his eyebrows when Nicholas spoke the word "squirting" and then grinned and reached out for the waistband of Nicholas's shorts.
"I could not help it," Andre was saying as Nicholas tried to push Matt's hand away. "My souris, he was very happy that day!"
"Yeah, I remember," replied Nicholas as Matt undid the button of his shorts and pulled down his zipper. He shook his head emphatically, "No" and was just as emphatically ignored. "So this General, who is he?"
"He is Sylvain's uncle, and he gave him the new car. It was a Corvette, which was red, and the Rector, he said the car was the instrument of the Devil! He is a silly old poop!"
"A Corvette?" Nicholas could feel Matt tugging at his shorts and half-heartedly tried to push his hands away. "I think I'd squirt if someone gave me a Corvette!" He slapped his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and glared at Matt, who was now on his knees. "What are you doing?" Nicholas asked harshly, fully aware of what Matt was doing.
By this time, Matt had managed to tug Nicholas' shorts down to mid-thigh. He leaned forward and began licking the soft pink glans of Nicholas' penis. Nicholas squirmed but raised his hips slightly to allow Matt to pull his shorts all the way down.
" . . . Well, I did not see it, so I did not squirt," André was saying when Nicholas returned to listening to his young lover. "But Marc, he is always squirting! I think maybe if the wind blows on his petit souris, which is tres petit, he squirts!" returned André.
Nicholas could feel Matt's warm mouth engulfing his souris and stifled a groan. He was beginning to regret having mentioned to Matt that one could not have sex over the telephone. Obviously one could have sex while talking on the telephone!
"Um, André, hold on one minute, um, Matt just came into the office," Nicholas said. He looked down at Matt, who was tickling Nicholas's testicles and suckling like a baby. "Matt, what the hell are you doing?" he asked in a whisper, hoping that André could not hear.
Matt pulled away from Nicholas' penis and smiled. "Blowing you," he growled and plunged back down, burying his nose in Nicholas' pubic hair.
Unable to prevent the inevitable, Nicholas tried to concentrate on his conversation with André, all the while squirming and wiggling. "Um, so . . . um, you and Marc are good friends, huh?" he asked as the familiar tingling began to spread outward from his testicles.
"Oh yes. He is very nice," replied André happily. "Of course he is not as nice as you, Nicholas. But he is my friend and he likes me. Of course, his souris is like mine, but then he is laines pures, like me, and Nicholas, he says we can use his room, and Nicholas, are you all right?"
Nicholas, who was beginning to pant and thrust his hips instinctively into Matt's warm mouth, was very all right. "Uh, hold on," he managed between gasps. He could not help himself. Matt was so damned good at what he was doing. He again slapped his hand over the mouthpiece and grumbled, "Shit, Matt, you bastard!"
A low rumbling laugh seemed to ripple up from Matt's throat and through Nicholas' erection. This was an entirely new feeling for Nicholas and his eyes flew wide. "Holy Shit!" he grunted as his penis twitched, throbbed and his orgasm engulfed him. He thrust his penis as deep into Matt's mouth as he could and grunted as pulse after pulse of his semen . . .
"Nicholas! Are you all right?" came André's demanding voice. "You are sounding just like Marc does when he . . ."
The silence that followed André's outburst held a wealth of meaning. "Aha!" thought Nicholas as he came down from a very satisfying experience. He began laughing again.
Nicholas's laughter evoked a maelstrom of fractured verbs and mangled syntax in three languages as André attempted to explain in English, French, and Jouel how he had arrived home with Le petit André feeling very lonely for Le Grand Nicholas (Nicholas did not fail to pick up on the demotion of the one and the promotion of the other) and that when his friend Marc had invited him to his room and somehow Le petit André had met le Tres petit Marc and well, Le petit André had somehow insisted and . . .
"Oh, André is it any wonder why I love you?" declared Nicholas when his young French-Canadian lover finally paused for breath.
"You do, still?" asked a very surprised André. "But Nicholas, I was unfaithful to you!" he wailed.
"And I still love you," responded Nicholas magnanimously.
Matt had to leave the office.
"You are not angry that I said hello to Marc's souris?"
"André, you are a very lovely, sweet, boy," replied Nicholas. "I would not wonder that Marc's souris wanted to meet you. I am only surprised that there are not others!"
"He is not as beautiful as you, and his souris, it is very small," whispered André, "and I only did it once. My souris, he was so lonely."
"Well, I'll take care of him when I get home," replied Nicholas. He heard a thumping outside the office door and opened it to see Matt all but prostrate with laughter. He glared at the young gunner and returned to his conversation. "So, a big memorial Mass on Thursday."
"Oui. After that, I do not know," responded André. "I only know that the funeral, it is later on, and then they take Sylvain back to Chicoutimi."
"Funny, him getting killed outside of Quebec City," offered Nicholas almost absently.
"Oui. No one can understand that at all," replied André. "It is very strange!"
"How so?"
"Well, Sylvain, he was visiting his uncle, who bought him the motorcar," began André. "No one can understand why he was driving to Quebec City when he lived in the other direction. And what was he doing on the road to the airport?"
"Haven't a clue," said Nicholas. "And I don't think we'll ever know."
"No," agreed André. "Still, it is very strange. Very strange, cher Nicholas."
The Phantom had lain for what seemed liked hours in that half-world between sleep and awareness, hearing, yet not hearing, the small noises that disturbed every night, the sound of mattresses and springs groaning as one, or another, of his messmates stirred in sleep, the sound of Harry's Stentor-like groaning as he coaxed the Pride through a live fire exercise, the door to the outside being opened and then closed as first Nathan and Fred returned, and then Nicholas.
With sleep refusing to come, The Phantom left his bunk and went outside to sit on the steps. The sky above was clear, a carpet of bright stars, and the night was very quiet and for the first time The Phantom appreciated the silence and calm that until then had seemed to elude him.
Clasping his hands together, The Phantom looked up at the stars, wondering if there was, as his church had taught him, if there was a Heaven. He hoped there was, and he hoped that Sylvain was there. He also hoped that when his time came he would meet the French-Canadian Drum Major and be allowed to apologize. His treatment of Sylvain still weighed heavily on The Phantom's mind. He recalled that Sylvain was the second boy he had visited this summer. He recalled that Sylvain had been wearing boxers, a silly point, but still he remembered.
It then occurred to The Phantom that had he had his investiture as a Candidate Knight - forgotten in all the excitement and sadness - he would have had to make a "General Confession", asking all those he might have harmed for forgiveness. Had he harmed Sylvain, he wondered? Had he harmed any of the boys he had visited? Certainly none had ever complained, and Ray and Brian had responded in kind.
Engrossed in pondering the might have beens of his life thus far, The Phantom did not hear the door to the Staff Barracks open and close, and was startled when he felt a firm, strong hand grip his shoulder. He looked to see Tyler smiling back at him.
"Are you all right?" asked the devastatingly handsome, copper-haired Master-At-Arms, seating himself beside his messmate.
The Phantom needed to be held and he wrapped his arm around Tyler's firm, trim waist. "I was just thinking about . . . things," responded The Phantom. He noticed that Tyler was wearing only his tighty-whiteys. "You should have put on some clothes, Tyler," he said, his voice mixed with affection and concern. "It's not that warm."
Placing his arm around The Phantom's shoulders, Tyler gently kissed The Phantom's ear. "And so should you," he replied, looking pointedly first at The Phantom's bare, smooth and hairless chest, and then his boxers. "Aren't you afraid L'il Phantom will catch cold?"
Giggling, The Phantom embraced Tyler closer. "God, wasn't that a horror show!" He looked pointedly at the prominent bulge in Tyler's underpants. "And what about L'il Tyler?"
"He's sleeping soundly," said Tyler with a grin. "And so, thankfully, is L'il Greg."
"I saw him," replied The Phantom. "No Jimmy Collyer tonight?"
Sighing, Tyler shook his head. "Greg is confined to barracks until he flies home. Sean read the Riot Act to Collyer and threatened him with charges if he so much as sets foot outside of the Dockyard after secure."
"And Chef is replacing the three bottles of vodka that Greg took from the Wardroom Spirit Locker," advised The Phantom. "At least that way we spare Greg a theft charge." He laid his head against Tyler's shoulder and rubbed his cheek gently against Tyler's soft skin. "Greg is our brother, Tyler. We have to look after him."
"I know," agreed Tyler reluctantly. "What bothers me is that we may never know in the future when he's in trouble."
The Phantom, who was feeling very warm and comfortable, nodded and in doing so rubbed his cheek along Tyler's warm skin. "We can only hope that someone will be there for him." He raised eyes and looked at Tyler's handsome features. "Just as you were there for me, you and Val . . ."
"And the Twins," completed Tyler. He laughed quietly. "Now that was a night I'll never forget." Impulsively he placed his free hand on The Phantom's stomach and rubbed gently. "You gave me my first kiss."
"Yeah."
"It was pretty good, you know."
Snickering, The Phantom replied, "I'm a good kisser. I even have testimonials."
"Yeah?" Tyler leaned forward slightly. "And Val appreciates it!"
Laughing, The Phantom pushed Tyler away. "You know, I envy you, Tyler. You have someone who cares for you deeply, and is there for you." He laughter changed to a rueful chuckle. "I thought I was as lucky." Staring into the darkness The Phantom's voice was low, and filled with sincerity. "When I did Little Big Man, you were there. Tonight, when I need to be with someone, you're here, and Tyler, I don't deserve your love or your compassion."
Resting his hand gently on The Phantom's shoulder, Tyler asked quietly, "And why is that?"
The Phantom's green eyes seemed to take on an ethereal light as he looked directly at Tyler. "The Gunner spoke to you about an Order?"
"Yes. When we were on the ranges."
"When he came back from Vancouver he talked to me and I asked to become his Liege Man. I asked to become a Candidate Knight in the Order."
Smiling, Tyler recited, "Qui descendunt mare in navibus facientes operationem in aquis multis." He gave The Phantom's shoulder a slight squeeze. "They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters."
The Phantom smiled knowingly and recited, "Si consistent adversus me castra non timebit cor meum si exsurgat adversus me proelium in hoc ego sperabo."
Tyler's eyes widened. "Gosh, Phantom, we're . . . hell, we're more than brothers!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, Tyler," agreed The Phantom, "and I cherish you as my brother." He looked thoughtful. "Have you seen the Proctor?"
Shaking his head, Tyler replied, "No. Harry and I saw The Gunner and he said that the Proctor would contact us." He gave The Phantom a spontaneous hug. "Gosh, Phantom, you're my brother!"
"I always was," said The Phantom. He returned Tyler's hug and then looked evenly at the Master-At-Arms. "Did The Gunner explain the next step, the step after the Proctor speaks to you?"
"He said that we, Harry and I, would be considered as Candidate Knights and that he would sponsor us. There would be a ceremony of some kind."
"As part of the ceremony there is something called a 'General Confession' and the candidate has to ask forgiveness for any sins he may have committed against his brothers."
"What sin could you possibly have committed against me?" asked Tyler, confused. "You haven't done anything to me, or against me, and hell, Phantom, you're the most steadfast guy I know! You're upright and a straight shooter."
Rising, The Phantom looked toward the darkened, star-studded sky, inwardly praying for the strength to do what he knew he must do. He turned slowly and shook his head. "I have sinned, Tyler, against you, and Val, and . . ." He began weeping softly. "Tyler, I have to do this. I have to do something to make up for hurting people that I have come to love so very much." He sniffed loudly. "My 'motto' says that even though I'm surrounded by enemies, my heart shall not fear, but Tyler, I'm afraid. I am so afraid that when I tell you what I've done you'll never want to be my brother."
Tyler left the stoop and walked the few paces to stand behind The Phantom. He wrapped his arms around his friend's chest and gently murmured, "No matter what you did, Phantom, you've more than made up for any 'sins' you might have committed."
A smile played at the corner of The Phantom's lips. "You might not say that after I tell you what I did to you," he said, suddenly calm. Then he added, "Or Val, or Thumper, or Steve, or Anson, Rob, or, God help me . . ." His voice skipped as he added, " . . . Sylvain."
"Sylvain?"
"I did things, Tyler, things I should not have done," The Phantom blurted.
Tyler tightened his hold on The Phantom. "Look, I can't recall anything bad that you've done. It can't have been that bad, anyway, because whatever it was . . ."
"Tyler, I am Todd's spectre, I am The Phantom Wanker! I am The Phantom of Aurora!"