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.
"Dad, Mom," Jim's voice came calmly from my side, "I think he's more than that. This is Patrick. Mom, Dad, he's the best person I've met and it would mean a lot to me if you, um, well, if..." there was a catch in Jim's voice, "if you liked him?"
Canvas Hell 25: Invictus
By Bear Pup
T/T; self-discovery - Sunday night
Mrs Conner beamed at me, then hugged Jim. "There is no way we wouldn't like anyone you did, Jamie, uh, Jim." As she hugged my friend, Mr Conner has his hand on Jim's shoulder and a slight smile, but the look he gave me was... calculating? She introduced herself as Betty and hugged me as well.
Jim dragged Karl over, then Nate and his family and a round of handshaking ensued. Tex and his dad sauntered back about that time, our friend absolutely glowing with pride and happiness. The ten of us joined one of the roving tours led by a Leader. It turned out to be one of the two from Cabin 4, the clean-cut-by-mischievous guy. He laughed at the fact that he had almost his entire 'star group' from City of New Orleans, plus Nate who had done a stellar job in his own crew.
The three boys beamed with pride. The Leader, Isaac (I blushed, not a one of us knew his actual name), drew us over the Cabin 4 Fire Pit and used a log to beat the rhythm of the rails. The five of us performed the choruses, first and last (only a word apart) to the absolute delight of the parents. "Good morning (Good night) America how are you? / Don't you know me I'm your native son? / I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans. / I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done."
It turned out that the song was the personal favourite of Caroline Dardeau, an anthem of freedom that also recalled the city she'd called home at the time she met and married Jack. She was dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex to keep the mascara from running and gave Nate a bone-crushing hug. Then, to Karl's mortification and Nate delight, did the same to our stoic friend.
Mr Bryant just stared at Orson (who, to his obvious and immense relief, had stayed in the bass register throughout) in simple astonishment, watching this changeling who had replaced his little boy with a near-man. Jim was basking in the love of his family. Me? I was watching them all and my heart was about to burst. I caught Roger Conner's eye; I was not the only one watching the whole group. Our eyes met and he smiled and I realised where Jim had gotten that look that melted me so easily.
After touring the cabin to the horror of the moms, the hooting laughter of the dads and the chagrin of the guys, the tour proceeded. The two women were united in a chorus of 'oh, how can boys live like this' at virtually every stop and the men chatted dreamily about their own camp days. The Hygiene Hut might well have been chamber of horrors to hear the moms talk. Tex was glued to his dad's side, but Jim, Karl, Nate and I grouped together as sort of a mutual-parental-affection-protection team.
When we got to Tent Canvas Hell, Nate's mom immediately reversed her negative opinion of Cabin 4. She made her view very clear that a tent would have been just short of child abuse for her baby. I watched from the corner of my eye as Roger nudged Betty before she could join the chorus. He nodded significantly at Jim who stood between Karl and me, radiating pleasure and contentment. Betty smiled and sighed, but Roger, with that beautiful and enigmatic half-smile, kept looking at Jim+Karl, then Jim+Patrick, lingering so long on me that I blushed and looked down. It was clear I was the only one who noticed.
At the dock, Nate regaled the group with a highly-spiced version of our canoe race. By his telling, Karl had singlehandedly raised a wake that swamped the other paddlers. I had never seen Karl blush so hard and had to laugh aloud. He finally joined in as he grabbed the exultant Nate in a mock headlock and gave his hair a noogie. At the activities pavilion, Nate shyly/proudly gave his mom the swallow-design coin 'holder'. She declaimed over its perfection and Nate just smiled.
Jim's beautiful flower was also a major hit with his parents. Betty and Roger beamed, asking how he had gotten such fine lines in the stamen of the spiky flower. Jim basked in the words and if he had smiled any wider the top of his head might have fallen off. Nate and Jim coaxed me and Karl to show our own creations. My abstract design teased the eye but Karl's made me gasp. This was the first any of us had seen of Karl's work; he'd hidden it from us as soon as he'd finished.
The strokes were delicate, thin and spare. It was a dove with wings spread wide, but not really a picture of a dove at all. The flowing, graceful lines gave just enough that your mind filled in the details. It was dove-ness distilled, glowing with the freedom and peace and comfort that a dove embodied.
Betty and Mrs Dardeau raved over everything as mothers are wont to do. Mr Dardeau smiled and praised each of us. Roger...
Roger looked for a long time at the dove, then at Karl. "For your mother?" Karl blushed and nodded. "She must be a wonderful woman, son. This is really beautiful, really special." Karl stammered and I knew that my buddy was close to tears. He thanked Roger and turned away. Jim's dad gave mine a similar study and I fidgeted as he did. When he looked up and handed it back to me, the crooked, knowing smile was back. "You, son, are a fascinating and complex k-- young man and no mistake. I am truly impressed."
Jim was over the moon and hugged his parents long and hard. That they praised his work made him proud; that they praised ours made him elated. Roger noted this, too, and again gave me a thoughtful and penetrating gaze.
The tour ended at the Central Fire Ring, designed to seat all the parents as well as the kids. Major Bachgen made a presentation about what the campers had achieved to earn awards. Pretty much everyone had gotten something, so he didn't single anyone out, just told stories that any of the kids could adopt as their own when they got back home. He introduced the adults and the Leaders, then announced that there were several missing, but everyone would meet them momentarily.
The triangle pealed forth as if on cue, and we trooped to the Mess Hall. With chef's day off, all the boys were straining to see what wonders George and Lloyd had cooked up. We were not disappointed. First was a monumental salad of greens and radishes, carrots and celery, peppers and scallions. The dressing (to the side instead of turning it all into lettuce soup) was garlicy and creamy and hinted at herbs and spices.
Sides were jacket potatoes cooked directly in the coals of a fire, charred outside and fluffy as a cloud inside, with all the toppings you could imagine. Next was something uncommon in those days, and a rare treat even for many of the adults: Asparagus spears grilled over an open fire, oiled and seasoned just enough that you never noticed.
The star, as it should have been, was the meat. Massive, Flintstone-sized slabs of striploin, fat crisped and crackly, insides red and warm, was carved slide by slice to everyone as they came through the line. There were two at the end, carved separately, called "Black" and "Blue", the former juicy but clearly well-done throughout with no trace of pink. They most have cooked it slowly for most of the day. The latter was charred viciously on the outside but cool and bloody within, so rare that raw was not an unfair description. I frowned as I realized, not a single woman did Blue nor a single man do Black. As expected, though, the overwhelming majority did the perfect medium/medium-rare.
Instead of bottled steak sauce, there were two that the men had cooked up. One was dark and redolent of Worcestershire and the other was white and creamy with wafts of roasted garlic and mustard-seed. About half the adults and a quarter of the kids used either. The beef, unadorned, was simply perfect. Nate pulled out his bottle of hot sauce, blushing but beaming. His mother liberally doused the asparagus and Mr Bryant put shots of it everywhere else, steak, potato and salad alike. The clatter of silverware of the stainless trays and the wash of 'mmms' and 'ahhs' made conversation difficult, but there were a lot of whispered asides and broad smiles throughout the tent.
When everyone was full and peach cobbler served out, the Major spoke again, inviting everyone who could stay to join us at the campfire for... and his next words froze every boy in the room... singing and skits from the campers. Karl and I instantly had our faces in our hands staring at each other in horror. Jim had banged his head down on the table and Tex sat with wide, dismayed eyes. All of the parents in our group turned to the only one who appeared able to speak and Nate summed it up for all of us, "Oh, God. This is going to be sooooooooo bad."
Without lifting his head, Jim added, "Don't you guys have to, like, you know, leave early?"
After a quick shared look, all of the adults burst into laughter. Mr Bryant slugged his son in the arm, "Come on, Tex! It cain't be that bad!"
Tex let out a tiny, "Ow," then turned to his dad, "Whadaya wanna bet? I got two bits says it is."
I'm not sure how prayers work. I know as a given that every boy there was praying to any and all wandering deities and forest spirits NOT to have to go first. Did Cabin 5 not pray hard enough? Somehow offend the God of Bad Singing? Forget to sacrifice a virgin to the volcano god (Lord knows there were plenty to choose from!)? What? Anyway, they went first.
Apparently, Our City of New Orleans had sparked their own idea and they did a not-bad rendition of Battle of New Orleans which started brilliantly. Obviously, Nate's parents were utterly delighted and sang along. Sadly, a half-dozen of the kids didn't. They got tongue-tied someplace around 'Packingham's a-coming' and never caught up.
Cabin 3 got called next and looked petrified, but they belted out a very passable version of Kumbaya and retired to their seats with an almost-comical mass sigh of relief. The youngest kids, Cabin 1, came next with This Land is My Land, and did fine. One boy, never knew his name, had the sweetest treble I think I ever heard. Next was... us.
It was perfect, extraordinary, inspiring! In other words, perfectly-horrible, extraordinarily-embarrassing and it inspired several of us to fervently pray for death. I was fascinated that the exception was Orson-now-Tex. His bass anchored his section and Mr Bryant's chest, already massive, swelled near to popping buttons. The rest of us slunk back to our seats, but I was close enough to hear him whisper to his son, "I want that quarter, young man. You just lost yourself a bet!" I think Tex nearly cried from pride.
I know for a fact that I didn't 'almost' and Karl gave me an eyebrow at a small tear working down my face. I shook my head and mouthed, "Later". Cabin 6, the older boys, were singing a prefect Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, with several basses and baritones to anchor that mournful chorus and enough mid-tenors to carry the rest. Cabin 2 came last, and ended the thing perfectly with If You're Happy and You Know It (Clap Your Hands). They had everyone clapping and laughing by the end.
The awards went in the almost-opposite order. The youngest kids took first (Happy) and third (Land) with the oldest (Chariot) in between. We happily thanked all the miscellaneous gods that they didn't rank the rest of us.
Major Bachgen gave another little speech of thanks, and the Leaders gathered to give what amounted to a benediction of sorts. In pairs, they recited each line of Invictus handing it from left to right across the group in a verbal ripple, then as a single voice repeated that last, wondrous couplet, thundering and declaiming, "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul." It was sombre and powerful, and the perfect capstone to the evening.
Everyone hugged each other, boys frequently batting (unsuccessfully) at motherly attempts to 'get that one spot clean' and others trying desperately not to cry. I had a feeling that Dr Eaglas would be a busy man that night and in the morning, treating an epidemic of homesickness with his special brand of medicine.
When Jim was busy trying to defend himself against a tearful Betty, Roger pulled me aside. I realised that he was actually a bit shorter than me, no matter the power of his gaze or body. He looked deep into my eyes, those same clear pools of water, perhaps a deeper blue than his son's, capturing me. "Patrick, take care of Jim." I started to protest and he shushed me. " And... and don't hurt him, please. Just, well, thank you, son, for... everything you've done." There was a deep sadness in his smile, but a 'knowing' as well.
I was poleaxed, unable to move or even breathe as he turned and hugged Jim, then left with Betty and Mr Bryant, Nate still chattering to his own parents. Jim was radiant, but both Karl and I were subdued as we went back to Tent Canvas Hell. After we closed the flaps, he turned and asked in a very small, worried voice, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," the instant reply from each of us, was rejected before we got to the second syllable. Karl broke first.
"Do you think that's true?" his voice deep and thoughtful, almost reverent.
"What?" I asked.
"That poem. There at the end. Are we?"
"Are we what?"
"The captains of our souls and the masters of our fates? That the soul is... unconquerable."
Jim answered instantly and with utmost conviction. "Yes. Absolutely. You're proof of that, Karl." Our friend just stared. "Karl, you've been through things no human should ever face, and you're the strongest, best guy any of us has ever known. Nate wasn't blowing smoke. All of us see it. Why can't you?"
I watched Karl's lip begin to tremble, the mask showing a network of fractures. He nodded once, convulsively, and turned. "Do you mind if I walk for a while guys?" He didn't wait for an answer but slipped out of the tent. We could hear his slow walk for minutes afterwards. When the last leaf-crackle died, Jim turned to me, "And you, Patrick?"
I had to sit or fall, and Jim sat in front of me, concerned. "Your father... he thanked me. He said..." I couldn't wrap my head around what he said, much less repeat it. I shook my head. "I think he knows, you know, about you and me?" My voice dripped with dread. I was losing Jim as quickly as I had found him. Camp would be over in a mere two weeks and I'd never see Jim again, not if anyone -- especially his father! -- knew.
Jim relaxed visibly, almost sagging. "I'm positive he knows. Patrick, my father always knows what people are feeling, needing. I'd be stunned if he didn't."
I stared, slack-jawed. "Does he know you, I mean that you?"
Jim shrugged. "I doubt it. Maybe. I didn't know until last week, Patrick. What the B-B-Buggers did, what they said, it hurt so bad but it made me wonder, too. And later, well, later I realised that it... that I'm... That I l-love you." His voice trailed off and he reached out to me. I took his hand.
My voice was as fragile as his, crystal awaiting the shattering blow that kept not coming. "How did you know? When...?"
He laughed and smiled suddenly. "When is easy. After you scared the shit out of us that night in the woods. When you said 'sq-sq-sq-squirrel!' I wanted to kill you so bad that I knew you were special. Otherwise I would have, I dunno, ignored it like when guys have pranked me before. Laughed, maybe, but nothing else. But I was so mad, Patrick, I went nuts!" His chuckled, then sobered so quickly it was literally shocking.
"And that's the 'How', too. When you, you know, let go? After the tickling? And I knew I'd caused that. Thought I'd really upset or humiliated you. I wanted to die thinking that. I wanted to scream at the idea I'd h-hurt you. And when you laughed and shushed me, it was like, I dunno, like this huge weight I never knew I had was suddenly gone. I know it makes no sense, Patrick, but that's the when, and the how."
I was silent, staring at him for so long I thought he'd crack. I did instead.
"The same night." Jim frowned and shook his head, lost. "That's when I knew, but earlier. When you let me cry and then told me I was too stupid to live. I thought I was broken and you didn't care. I hated myself and you didn't care. Karl wants to save everyone, Jim, I think I already knew that. But you, you wanted to save me. I never wanted to be away from you after that.
"Then the shower. I almost puked when I saw what those b-b-bastards did. If you hadn't been hurting so bad I'd be in prison now, Jim. I would have gone back and killed them both, and Karl would have helped. And then, then, then that Sunday? A week ago today? That kiss? I don't understand it, Jim, but you... I..." I shook my head. "I don't have words!"
"You don't need them." He leaned in then and kissed me long and hard. There was no sex there at all. Jim was kissing my soul. And I simply gave my soul to him in that moment. I knew, as deeply as I knew how to breathe, how to blink, that from that moment, his frown would wound me; his smile heal me; his harsh word break me; his kind word save me... And his rejection kill me without chance of recovery or rebirth. This thing, this creature, this being named Patrick was now Jim's, utterly and irretrievably, to wound or heal, break or save, to kill or love.
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 25 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 16 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 17 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Off the Magic Carpet: 11 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/ Lake Desolation: 10 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/ Dear John Letter: 3 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/ Brother Bear: 2 chapter .../incest/brother-bear/ Shark Reef: 3 chapters .../adult-youth/shark-reef/
Special collaboration with Brad Borris: In God's Love .../incest/in-gods-love/