Date: Sun, 16 Apr 2017 11:33:40 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Lake Desolation 6

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.

*****

I look up through my tears and see him crying and smiling at once. What the
fuck am I doing, I ask. Maria's voice answers unexpectedly, "Becoming
human, my love. All these years later, you're growing up."

*****
Lake Desolation 6: Who We Are

By Bear Pup

M/M; plot and falling in love

After our breakfast-of-penance, I bathe Logan again, a ritual more than a
necessity. Maybe an apology, a reparation? Regardless, I do it, ignoring
the inevitable youthful erection. Damn, I'm having the worst time lying to
myself. I send a brief prayer-slap to Maria for waking me from my
comfortable cocoon. I do everything I can not to derive or give sensual
pleasure for the act of washing and drying this frail and fragile -- and
perhaps beautiful -- young man.

When he is dressed in a new hoodie and sweats, this time with thick,
woollen socks, I cajole him into bed where he is quickly asleep. I set
about repairing the cabin. The wind has abated but the bitter cold and snow
is fully upon us. I pull a washboard [please consult that googly thing if
you don't know what that is] from the wall where it normally acts as a
piece of rustic décor and fill the sink with laundry suds. I proceed to
wash my own and Logan's clothes, including those in which I sent him to
die. I watch little ripples spread from where my tears disturb the bubbles.

His undies are terrible. Evidently, as he froze, he lightly soiled
himself. My jeans are sooty and caked with mud where I'd knelt and picked
him up. All of it get washed. I squeeze out as much moisture as I can and
am relieved to see the snow, at least for now, has been swept away by a
brisk, cold wind that seems to tease the snow drifts without moving them. I
pull a plastic basket out of the closet and load the sopping clothes into
them, grabbing a bunch of strange-looking clips as well. They are large,
metal, toothy things.

I don my gloves and second coat, and the Wellies I'd had Logan wear when
I... best not to think about that. One of the weird things of Northern
life, especially in winter, is that if it's not snowing, it is often
brutally-dry. The intense cold also makes laundry... interesting. I proceed
to use the metal clips, perfect for use with bulky gloves and bulkier
clothes, to hang the wet stuff from the outermost edge-board of the porch
roof, careful to avoid overlapping or folds in the cloth.

I move back inside the cabin after struggling with the last couple of
pieces; they'd already started to freeze. I check on Logan and he's having
a withdrawal nightmare. I pull away the covers so he doesn't tangle himself
after making sure he's hot and not cold.

I build a sandwich and eat, knowing that Logan is probably best left to
rest. I heat some chicken broth and take a cup over to the bedside, coaxing
him to sip some through the delirium. It's not wonderfully-successful, but
more goes into Logan than onto the blankets. He begins to shake so I bundle
him again and go about straightening the cabin for the umpteenth time. You
can't really tell from the light, but afternoon approaches.

After the last few days, I'm running low on chicken so I pull some pork out
to thaw, a nice pair of double-cuts that I leave off to the side under a
tea towel. I start to tip-and-strip some green beans. When done, I sliver
half an onion and toss that and the beans in a quick olive oil drizzle with
some herbs, salt and pepper then wrap it all in several layers of tin
foil. I see my ward stir. I move to him and wait for his eyes to flutter
open.

"You okay, son?"

Muzzily, he replies, "Yeah, but I, um, need to..."

I help him stand and get him into the bathroom where I let him take care of
things alone. I wait until I hear the flush and the faucet run before
donning my coat and going onto the porch.

This is when the magic of a Northern winter is revealed. I grab an
axe-handle kept in the vestibule for various reasons, head to the porch and
THWACK the first article of clothing. Ice flies in shards. You may have had
'freeze-dried' coffee? This is 'freeze-dried jeans'. The moisture is wicked
to the surface by the dry air where it freezes instantly in the
cold. Shatter that ice layer and brush it off and the clothes are only
slightly damp when they go back into the house.

It is also a wonderful way to work off the frustration of being stuck in a
cold, snowy, backwoods cabin. To work out the frustration of, frankly, not
knowing who I am any longer.

When I realise that I have beaten the clothes into submission far longer
than necessary to remove the ice, I gather them and the clips and go back
into the house. Logan had been standing by the window, watching me. He now
has a wary and worried look on his face, a mix between fear and
resignation. I realise I was still holding -- brandishing -- the axe-handle
cudgel I'd used on the clothes. I set it carefully to the side and drop the
bundle on the rug in front of the hearth before shrugging out of my coat
and gloves.

Two more hanging 'ornaments' now resumed their lives as implements. I
attach the two objects at the corner and set the resulting drying rack
about two feet in front of the hearth. I drape the heaviest items (jeans)
on top-centre and the rest of the meagre wash load further down or to the
sides. It isn't long before you can feel a lessening in the tightness of
the skin as the warmth of the hearth leaches the last of the moisture from
the cloth and into the cabin air.

I see Logan glancing again at the axe-handle and I snag it and another
couple of items and move them to the vestibule where they normally live. I
can't blame the kid for his concern; from his perspective, I have not
exactly been predictable so far.

"How are you feeling, Logan?"

"Fine." He drops his eyes but keeps a side-glance on me as I move to the
sofa.

"Can we talk? Please?"

Logan does not as much sit as perch on the other end of the couch, eyeing
me as I would watch a dog that I'd been bitten by in the past but currently
*looks* friendly. I wonder if I can fix this.

"Logan, I snapped yesterday. My wife died six months ago and it, it, it
d-destroyed me, Logan. I hadn't written more than a paragraph since. I just
sat here and grieved. I went back to the City and our... my condo, but that
was even worse, so I came back here."

The young man doesn't move or attempt to interrupt, and his
molten-chocolate eyes scan my face as I speak. The fear is receding with
every word I speak.

"I was here for over two months when I found you out there, about to kill
yourself." His eyes dropped then, shame and pain vying for supremacy. "And
I brought you back and cleaned you up and got you warm and... I was able to
write again." Logan's tear-wet face pops back up, now clearly confused.

"You did... you do something to me Logan that scares and confuses me,
badly. When I, well, you know, that morning in the bathtub," and it was my
turn to blush and stammer, "and then when you, well, returned the favour,
it, it, uh, it was like I was..." My voice trails off. I was about to say,
'young again' and the very idea shocks me to the core. I stare as the
steaming clothes in front of the hearth.

"And then Pigtails tells me there is criminal on the loose that looks like
you, and you tell me that, that you... And it was like Maria's death all
over again. I went mad, I guess. I realised what I'd done, and was almost
too late. I was al-almost a m-m-murderer, Logan. I may never forgive
myself, and fully understand that you can certainly never forgive me. But I
am s-s-sorry." I am fighting back a crying jag that would likely undo me.

I feel his hand, trembling slightly, on my arm. "I forgave you, Jake,
before I even woke up." His voice is low and soft and filled with an
emotion I cannot fathom. I look and find his eyes thick with ready-to-shed
tears, obviously as lost and crippled as I feel myself. "So, uh, what now?
Wh-What do I d-d-do, Jake?"

"What do WE do, Logan. Not you. Not me. We." I look at him long and hard,
and find myself drowning in that pool of chocolate in his eyes.  I pull him
to me. He resists for only a second before he curls into my chest. We
simply hold each other for the longest time.

If the weather holds, the Millers will be here late today or tomorrow
morning. "First, we need to make you safe here. You can't grow a beard,
obviously, you're even smoother than I am on the face." I can feel the
lightest hair on my cheek. I tended to shave once a week at most. Logan
keeps looking at me in curiosity. "The haircut helped a lot, but you still
look a lot like the picture Pigtails had in the paper.  She believed what I
told her but her brother Josh might not. And if their father, Joshua, comes
here there is no way he won't cotton on if we aren't very careful."

"Jake, stop, please? Why fool them? I don't understand. You kn-know what I
did. I should tell them who I am and let them take me to the police. Why
get involved, Jake? I don't get it. Why?"

I sighed long and deep. "I had a, a dream about Maria. She told me things
that I knew already but didn't want to. You deserve a chance, son, a real
chance. And you won't get that in a Saratoga County courthouse, son, not by
a long shot." He still stared at me, brow furrowed as if trying to
understand a strange dialect that might or might not be English, like
Glaswegian.

"First, you are Larry Mallory. Your real name is Lawrence. Your middle is
Logan so if one of us slips up, we can cover it." His eyes have gone wide,
disbelieving, utterly bemused. "You grandmother was Ruth, she was my wife's
cousin. I have no clue if she ever even married, the nasty old bat -- she
never liked me -- but no one else will either. Use your parent's first
names to make it easier, but their last name is Mallory."

His voice was shaky with confusion, "Okay, I'm L-Larry Mallory. My
g-grandmother was Ruth. But I don't underst--"

"Listen, son, we might not have a lot of time. If they come this afternoon,
it could be as soon as a couple of hours. Larry Mallory. You went to school
in Miami. University of Miami. First year since you can pass for 18. You
got hooked on pot, booze and some pills. Make that part up because I don't
have to know so I won't trip up. Your grades went to shit and your dad sent
you up here."

I hear a deep bass rumble that nearly shakes the cabin. "Damn it to HELL!
That's the diesel that Joshua Miller drives, which means he'll be curious
and persistent and here in maybe five minutes. What's your name?"

"Um, uh, Larry Mal-Mallory. I go to U of M in Florida. Go Hurricanes." I
jump a little at the quick embellishment. "Dad f-freaked out because they
saw a Facebook pic of me with a joint and shipped me to this frozen hell to
straighten me out. H-He knew how c-close Nana Ruth was to Maria and you
were the best bet...?"

"BINGO! And your 18, much too young to be the guy in the newspaper. And you
got here almost two weeks ago. If they ask, say a nice couple you can't
recall drove you up. I'll figure out who. Okay, they're almost here. You
ready?" He nods maniacally. If nothing else, the scared-shitless kid look
makes him seem even younger than 18. This will work, I repeat in a strange
mantra as I pull on my heavy coat and put 'Larry' in the
ludicrously-oversized second coat I normally would wear. It makes him look
even more childlike.

We're standing on the porch when the big Sierra comes around the edge of
the clearing and slowly climbs the hill. I look close and see Joshua has
clamped on the Track N Go's that turn the truck into a tractor-tread
monster. Smart, I think, since the ground under all this snow isn't nearly
frozen enough to be confident driving across.

They pulls up and Joshua Miller pops out of the passenger side (surprise)
and Josh (technically Joshua Jr) climbs down for the driver's side, flush
and excited that he got to drive the monster. 'Larry' and I shake their
hands and I pull them inside, all of us stomping and stamping in the
vestibule. When we're all in the cabin proper, Josh starts to regale me
with teenaged enthusiasm over getting to drive on the treads. I have to
smile, Josh is a pistol. Joshua, though, is very carefully examining all he
can see of Logan.

I turn and say, "Sorry, guys. My manners are shot to hell since,
well... you know. Josh and Joshua, this is Larry Mallory. He got, well,
into some trouble in college and his dad sent him up here for a
spell. Larry, this is Joshua Miller and his son Josh, they keep me
alive. You recall meeting Pi-- I mean Sarah the other day? These are her
father and brother."

'Larry' shakes their hands again with a shy 'glad to meet you'. "So, Larry,
how do you know Stettler?" I start to answer by Logan beats me to it.

"My Nana Ruth was Maria's cousin. They were real close, and I was so sad
hearing about her, uh, passing. My dad thought I needed to get away from
some, well, um, bad influences." He and Josh share the ubiquitous teen
eye-roll clearly saying, 'Parents, what the fuck do you do with them?'

"And mom, um, thought it might be, uh, good for Stettler to, you know, have
company?" He looks at me uncertainly, which plays perfectly. It looks for
the world that he's worried I won't take to being coddled, not that he's
worried his lie won't wash.

"So you related to the Malloy family over in Saratoga?"

"No sir, I'm sorry but you might have heard the name wrong. My grandfather
and dad and I are Mallory's." A very nicely laid trap, and Logan had played
it perfectly.

"So what did you say Ruth's name was?"

He looks at me bewildered, "Uh, Ruth Mallory, sir?"

"No, her maiden name?"

He looks at me again, this time approaching panic, "I, uh, um, never asked
Nana's old last name, sir...?"

I sigh and grumble "Like teenagers care about heritage." I shake my head
then grin, "To tell you the truth, Joshua, I'm not entirely sure
myself. You know how families are. Maria was a Rabinowicz, but I know her
aunt married outside, um, the community. Ruth was, I think, a Russell or a
Ruskin, something like that. Does that sound right, Larry?" He shrugged
then nodded mutely.

"So Josh here is 16. You're what, 20, 22?"

"Oh, no sir. I'm just 18. I am, uh, er, *was* a Freshman at the University
of Miami. The one in Florida, not Ohio. And I have to tell you, sir, I
can't see how people live up here with this cold!"

Josh laughs and gives Logan a fist-bump. "We'll, we can fix some of
that. Papa McKay ordered a passel of stuff from Amazon and we've got it in
the truck. Maybe you'll finally have something that fits!" Logan blushes at
the comment and looks down at himself, the picture of what he is, a scared,
out-of-his-element and embarrassed young man.  "Come on! Let's unload."

They head out, already chatting in the effortless way of youth. "Stettler,"
Joshua's voice has a worried, paternal growl, amusing as he is easily young
enough to be my son. "what do you actually KNOW about this young man?"

"Actually, Joshua, not a whole lot. I got a letter from his parents with a
very carefully-phrased hint about 'trouble at school' and 'the wrong crowd'
and if I 'could use some company' while the boy 'straightens himself
out'. They also explicitly asked that there be no 'intoxicants' in the
house, so it must have been booze, pot or pills, maybe all three. I didn't
ask. I'll say this, though, he's got a damned fine mind in there. He's
going through my library like a fire." I say, pointing to the massive
breakfront.

Joshua eyes me carefully, but I've played poker with fellow con-arti-- I
mean 'authors' for decades and I can out-stare the sphinx. Finally he gives
up, but lowers his voice, filled with concern and worry, "Okay, Stettler,
but be careful, okay? I'm begging you, don't take in any strays. It's
dangerous. There's a serious criminal, a Mexican druggie who shot someone
in a convenience store, out there and they think he's in the area."

"Oh my god, Joshua! Really? What does he, well, look like and all?"

"Just don't you be getting close enough to look, Stettler, or Maria will
haunt me to the End of Days. Like I said, he's a Mexican, around 20 or 22,
long hair. Other than that, he looks a lot -- an awful lot -- like
Larry. Be careful, old friend, and don't give in to compassion for some
random stray that turns up."

"Joshua, stop worrying. It was Ma... Maria... who took to strays and lost
causes. I'm just a crotchety old grump, so I'm sure I'll be safe."

The boys -- I can't think of them as anything else when Josh is so keyed up
and chattering at Logan -- come in right then with a couple of very large
boxes, then go back out for the rest. These next two boxes are a lot
heavier; they must be the supplies and the first ones hold the Amazon
order. Joshua shakes my hand and everyone says their goodbyes. It's pretty
clear that Josh is thrilled to have a new friend (supposedly) close to his
own age and they fist-bump before the two get back into the truck.

They tilt the plough that had been flat for travel and clear the path to
the woodshed and another to the barn/garage. With a blast from their air
horn, they rumble off towards home.

I turn and go back into the house. Logan is sitting ramrod straight on the
edge of the sofa. His voice is breathy and terrified, "J-Jake, did I d-do
okay?"

I sit next to him and pull him into a fierce hug. He's quaking enough that
I can't tell which is driving it, fear, cold or withdrawal. "You did better
than okay, son. You'll be safe now, alright? It's fine, son. Relax." I
start to pet his back and head, trying to calm him. He finally starts to
relax and gives a long, shuddering sigh.

"I'm so sc-sc-scared, Jake. I fucked up so bad. Josh was telling me how
worked up the county is over what I d-d-did. They, Josh says they got
footage of me on a security camera at a factory that I skirted so th-they
know I came this way!"

"No, son, a drugged-out criminal came this way. YOU are not that
criminal. YOU are a good kid who fucked up badly and now gets another
chance."

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.

<eof>

If you want to get mail notifying you of new postings or have ideas on how
I can improve my writing, e-mail me at orson.cadell@gmail.com

Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 20 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 12 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 13 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Off the Magic Carpet: 7 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/
Lake Desolation: 6 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
Dear John Letter: 1 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/
Brother Bear: 1 chapter .../incest/brother-bear