Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/rural/lake-desolation/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.
QUICK NOTE FOR THIS CHAPTER: Jacob writes bodice-rippers that barely skirt the dread label of 'romance'. He THINKS on the edge of melodrama and this is written from him immediate POV. If that's not your thing, you may want to look elsewhere.
With that, Logan just curls into me. It feels so strange to hold a young man like this. In one way, it is like holding my son when he was just a boy. Logan is now fully in my lap, curled around his knees as he cries. In another way, it's like holding Maria when we were dating. There is a kind of love here, and one that I cannot begin to understand. I curl my own larger frame around the boy and just breathe in his scent as my jeans absorb his tears.
***** Lake Desolation 7: L-L-L... That Word
By Bear Pup
M/M; plot, a kiss and falling in love - Thursday Evening
Logan cries himself to sleep, or something close to it, and I carefully roll him on the couch itself and start prepping dinner. I check the chops and they're not thawed. No real trouble there since it's still early. I make quick work of the supplies. Since Pigtails had just been here yesterday, it's mainly some stuff that might be needful if the snow comes back and they can't get through. Rice, beans, flour, canned tomatoes and other veggies, pasta, red gravy (what other people call spaghetti sauce) and, lastly, a giant tub of Last Resort.
Long ago, in the dim and murky past, in some dark and dank little laboratory, a mad scientist worked. He toiled day and night to perfect something that would remove all joy and interest from a healthy diet and leave a chalky powder that would keep you alive (for a sad and depressing definition of 'alive') and still be just as vile after years of storage.
The original market was, I believe, the starving masses of the third world, but the UN declared production or distribution of the stuff a culinary war crime. Since, they have found a niche selling to people who think that drinking their reconstituted sludge is better than simple, clean, humane starvation. I gratefully thank the Millers for providing it year after year after year... after year. In the spring and summer, I fill squirrel feeders with it, hence the complete lack of squirrels, rats, raccoons, possums and other furry little buggers; I think I have a negative-three rating on Yip!, the varmint version of Yelp!
I also find something I really do appreciate, fruit. Even with supplements, the lack of fresh fruit can really take a toll over a hard winter, and limes, pears, lemons and other goodies make a difference. Among them are a dozen green apples. I look over at the thawing chops as I put the last of it away. Hmm.
Logan rouses and I set him to trying on and de-tagging the clothes. He asks where he can change and I give him A Look. "Seriously? Logan, I bathe you. Just try the damned things on." First are undies. They're baggy in the ass but otherwise fine. I collect them and into the already-sudsy sink they go. As luck would have it, one of the sweatshirts (they fit well) is a University of Miami logo and Logan smiles at me. Jeans are baggy but okay, as are the sweat pants. The socks are fine and the house-moccasins are perfect. We'll have to split use to the Wellies. Last are the long-johns and the long-sleeved tees. He puts on the first set, a sandy colour and I look up as he adjusts them.
My breath stops. The soft colour makes his slightly-darker skin glow and the chocolate of his eyes becomes piercing. His cock is coiled in the pouch which is a bit too tight, making his endowment look even bigger and meatier than ever on his emaciated frame. I can see his nipples through the thin cloth of the tee and even a hint of the aureoles, as well as the edges of his ribs and abs. He looks at me and smiles shyly. I cough and turn, realising that I am painfully cramped in my own jeans. "Those look really great, Logan."
It's not surprising that I don't hear him as he comes up behind me and I startle as his hand touches my shoulder. "Jake?" He voice is as soft as the cloth, and far more fragile. "Jake, I, I..." He takes a long breath and lets it out as a quavering sigh. "I'm sorry, Jake, but I... do I look... do I scare you? Am I, am I that bad?" I don't turn, but I shake my head. "I am so, so sorry Jake. I know it's wrong but I, I really liked it when you l-looked at me like that. C-Can you, d-d-do it just a little more, Jake? Please?"
I swallow, eyes prickling, and call up a mental image of Maria who simply rolls her eyes in the way that always meant, 'why are you boys idiots to the last?' I turn to face my firing squad.
I never do look at him, at his body. My look never makes it past his eyes. There is such pain there, such need and sadness and resignation, such loneliness. What is not there -- and this shocks me -- is guilt, hesitation or even lust. There is instead something I never thought I'd see. Actually, something I'd gotten so used to seeing in Maria's eyes that I'd forgotten it was even there. This poor, broken man-child looks at me with compassion, with tenderness, with...
I cannot even think that all-consuming word. On average, my novels are about 110,000 words each. Of that, perhaps 500 are that dreaded four-letter monster that starts will 'L'. It is the essential core of every tale, of everything I've ever written, even the trashy porn I write as Mr.Kink.Daddy.1950. I became moderately-famous and relatively-rich because I could describe that L-thing in deep and moving detail, could make the bored housewives (and the secret masturbators of my porn) believe it, feel it, need it. And now, faced with it...
I lean forward and press my lips to Logan's. With a strength I didn't know he possessed, he drags me into him, curls my taller frame to keep our lips together, teases and sucks my tongue into him, begging my own tongue to plunder his mouth. He grabs my hands and puts one on his neck and the other on his flank... his ass. He wraps his own arms under and up to clamp my shoulders. I feel... I feel like the spider, trapped by the fly. Not driven to take, but drawn into his own need to be taken.
And I relish it. I long to be the one taking/taken, to be the one drawn/driven. To be... anything, anything at all other than what I am, a shattered hulk of a man. An old, worn-out husk who has spent a lifetime of love and longing on... trash books and, the bright spot of my world, now gone, Maria. I live the kiss, I become the need and the hunger and the terror and the compassion and the L--...
I pull back, opening my eyes for the first time in a lifespan. His eyes are still tender and compassionate, sad and resigned, fragile and soft. But the pain seems to have receded, taking with it a tiny fraction of his loneliness; his eternal, unfillable need. I am a wordsmith by trade, and find myself at an utter loss. This hurts too much to be bliss, is too sad to be joy, is too poignant to be... that 'L' word. I shake myself and put a few inches distance between us. I steady my resolve. I cannot let this happen. It is wrong to take advantage...
His brows furrow as his mood crashes in a wreckage of flames. I see the tears well and flow as he spins and walks to the end of the cabin. "WHY?" It is a wail of desperation. "Why, Jake? Why! Why do you, you give just so much then t-t-take it-t-t-t---" he dissolves, like the witch in a certain movie, melting into the floor.
Of course I have no answer. I stand, stabbed through the heart with my own dagger, by my own hand. I don't cry because, frankly, I don't remember how. I turn to the kitchen and begin to dice an apple, an onion, a shallot, focusing mainly on not chopping off my own fingers through a haze of wetness that cannot, must not, will not be tears.
When I finally turn, Logan has all of the clothes piled by colours, tags and such in a bowl to the side. He is dressed in the same oversized clothes he'd worn earlier. He doesn't look at me, but as I shift away from the prep area, he moves to the sink and commences to wash the other light-coloured items with the undies already in the cooling water. I move away and watch as he meticulously extracts every bit of water he can, then gathers up the sodden mass into a basket. He repeats the process with the greys, then the blues (there are, oddly, no other colours).
Still with not a single glance even in my direction, without reproof or rebuke, he dons the coat and gathers the clips and hangs everything from the porch eaves just as I had done earlier. He comes back in, returns the coat to its place, and sits with a book in hand, staring at the embers of the hearth.
I suddenly notice that the Amazon box is not empty. I'd ordered an air bed and linens as well. A place for Logan to call his own. His own place. His own bed. I take them out and look at them. We have no power, thus no way to inflate the mattress. I look at Logan. He is staring at the mattress thinking... I don't know what.
I pull a small iron skillet out and add butter and the chopped goodies, and sit it on the embers, stirring quickly as the mixture pops and sizzles. I pull the skillet out with the handle-lifter and add salt, stirring and letting the residual heat cook the veggies. I make several more circuits to the heat before everything begins to soften, at which point I add the chopped sage and set the pan on the heath-shelf to slowly soften and caramelise. A can of green beans is next and I simply remove the top and nudge it into the edge of the coals.
The chops are infinitely easier. I use the bellows to blow off any ash from the glowing coals. I salt and pepper the chops and throw them onto the actual embers. A billow of succulent smoke erupts as they sizzle. I count out three minutes, regularly turning the can with the beans, and flip the chops to other coals. Three minutes later, I pull them out and flick away those few embers that adhered. The meat is charred and crisp as I slide it into the apple-onion mixture and move the pan to the hang-rack over the heat.
I pull the beans and drain them, then plate them. I use my little probe thermometer and the chops need a minute of two more, so I toast some stale bread over the fire. I pull the chops onto the toast and spoon the chutney into a bowl. I set a timer for five minutes as the chops need to rest.
"Logan? Logan, I'm sorry. Will you, um, will you eat dinner with me?"
He looks at me for the first time and the utter confusion in his features reopens my gaping, self-inflicted wounds. He almost whispers, "Yes, Jake. I'll eat if that's what you want."
He smiles at the food, but never at me. His voice is still soft, unutterably tired, "You are a great cook, Jacob." The onion/shallot/apple/sage jam turned out brilliantly, balancing the sharp spike of char on the chops, all of it mellowed by the simple green beans.
We finish, my eyes rarely leaving Logan and his never once leaving his plate. "Jake, how do I inflate the bed?" Not we, but I. Not whether, but how.
"Uh. Well. Er, without power, Logan, we can't inflate it. Uh, well..."
He sighs, "I'll make up the couch. I know..." He chokes and moves away to the cupboard where the sheets are.
"Logan. Logan?"
He turns to me, still not looking at me. I stand and move to him and he shrinks into himself.
"Logan. I'm damaged goods, Logan. It was... selfish of me to kiss you before. I. Well, I. It's wrong, Logan, for me to take advantage of you. You've been through so much, and I keep, I keep... I don't know what or who I am anymore, Logan." And just like that, I'm clutching his shirt and crying into it, half bend over into him. For the first time, there is no hand at my shoulder, no kind word. He waits until I am recovered and walks to the couch and sits, staring ahead.
I stumble over and sink into 'my' chair, feeling Maria in the chair next to me but focusing on Logan. I sit for... for a long time. "Logan, I am. I'm sorry, Logan. You have been through hell and my... whatever it is, it's just making your world worse. I, I am sup-supposed to be the one with answers. I, I."
He looks at me full in the face for the first time. "Why, Jake? Because you're what? Older? Famous? Rich? Successful? WHITE? Why should YOU HAVE THE ANSWERS, JAKE? WHY?"
The last part literally shakes the windows and I pull back in shock. My mouth works and nothing comes out. I want to turn to Maria's chair for guidance, but I feel a smug satisfaction there, not compassion or assistance.
Logan loses patience with my plight. In a sentence that is ejaculated, phrase by phrase, he vomits out, "I'm a LOWlife, WETback, DRUGgie, USEless, CRIMinal NOBODY! EVery TIme you LOOK at me I FEEL it, I KNOW it. I keep DYing. I keep FINishing. And you KEEP, you keep BRINGing me BACK! WHAT did I DO to YOU? And WHY do you THINK that YOU should KNOW how to FIX... EVERYthing?!?"
Throughout, his molten chocolate eyes are locked to mine, captivated and captivating. Desperate for an answer that he knows, somehow, does not exist.
The words are not mine but the voice is. "Because I love you Logan. Because I love you and it's killing me. Because I love you and know how b-b... how bad I'll hurt you. Because I love you. Because I don't know what l-l-l-ove MEANS!" I find that, for the first time since I was a child, I am curled into a foetal ball, crying at the loss of something that, in truth, I never had. Like a candleflame in a gale, the world snuffs in an instant and I am... gone.
A short chapter, and I'm sorry for that. Logan and Jake could just take so much.
***** If you want to get mail notifying you of new postings or give feedback that can make me a better author, please e-mail me at orson.cadell@gmail.com
Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 21 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 13 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 14 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Off the Magic Carpet: 8 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/ Lake Desolation: 7 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/ Dear John Letter: 2 chapters .../military/dear-john-letter/ Brother Bear: 2 chapters .../incest/brother-bear/