Date: Tue, 10 Jul 2018 13:18:33 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell 38

Special Note: I am starting to write again, but will not come close to the
pace I produced last year. Chapters will come months instead of days apart.

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. You
can also set up AMAZON SMILE so that your purchases on Amazon earn
contributions to NIFTY! It's a great, zero-cost way to enhance the support
you already give them.

*****

The idea that the only thing required to be "one of the cool kids" was to
not be a complete dick has spread like wildfire. The pattern of a younger
kid "adopting" an older one had become the defining characteristic of the
group and, we found out long after, had led to a number of lifelong
friendships. A somewhat creepy side-benefit was that anyone who hung around
with our group at meals was shunned by other "boss-types", a fact that
drove to us a lot of kids who'd been under their thumbs since the early
days of August. Burnham, one of those bosses, muttered with Jerry, Carter
and the decimated remains of his pack while staring bullets at the three
ringleaders, Karl, Jim, and most-especially... me.

*****

Canvas Hell 38: Pennies Drop

By Bear Pup

T/T; self-discovery - Friday/Saturday/Sunday

Leatherworking saw the three of us putting the finishing touches on the
wallets, all of us beaming with not-quite-suppressed pride. The last thirty
minutes of the session were the Reveal, as Land called it. Some of the boys
were frankly in tears and others were just plain lost and their projects
showed it. By acclamation, the absolute best was one by a kid named Frank
Vrbl (seriously; he had not a single vowel in his surname). On one side was
a sky filled with soft clouds and darting swifts; the other was a night-sky
with cloud-shrouded moon and flitting bats. When Land tilted the wallet,
you could see the acrobatic fliers dive and dash about.

To me (shock of shocks) nothing compared to those by Jim and Karl. Karl's
was a boldly-embossed and heat-darkened shield on one side and star
(complete with waving bands like a flag) on the other. It was beautiful,
both striking and arresting, forcing you to stop and think about the nature
of power. Jim's was a set of beautiful, flowing lines that he explained
were the waves and ripples of the river. Entwined were a stylized and
entrancing fish on one face and canoe on the other. A decade or so later, I
would learn that the style could easily be called Art Nouveau. It was
literally breathtaking.

I shyly held mine up and Land slowly smiled. I, naturally, thought it was
derision. Without opening it (he never showed the inner panels; those were
private), he held it aloft and said, "Gentlemen, *this* is how you really
remember Camp Sinnemahoning. You might think that camp is canoes and hikes
and trees and birds, and you're not wrong. Red knows, though, that what is
*really* important, the thing he and all of you will remember, are things
like," he looked down and read, "Karl. Jim. Nate. Trey." I was more than a
little taken aback when he handed it back to me with what looked
suspiciously like a moist eye.

Jim trooped off to his final Wilderness Survival in jittery worry over what
would await him as the second part of the test (the first had been to
rescue a stricken Leader). Karl and I moved to the central Fire Ring and
sat, joined by a few of the guys who were "in the club." We chatted and the
mood deepened quickly. What do you say to people who have suddenly become
friends mere days before they'd leave "forever" (as with all teens, any
period longer than a week fell into that definition, and certainly "all
school year" fit).

Jim didn't even look up at us as he trudged to the Hygiene Hut with the
rest of the obviously-exhausted Wilderness Survivors. They frankly looked
like the subject had been Bear-Attack Victimhood. Karl and I, along with
several of the others who had friends in the group, followed in their wake
and waited outside the Hut itself. Marcus confided the reason for the shape
of our pals.

"We were sworn to not tell about this one. It was a Wilderness Survival
obstacle course. Trees you had to go over, others you had to go under, one
you had to climb. A rope-bridge to walk, one low rope and one at chest
height that bucked and twisted and dumped you on your ass. A thicket that
you had to decide to crash through or run way, way around the
thing. Grueling man. I mean completely brutal."

Jim came out looking about like he had going in, and not just from the
ragged clothes that had clearly lost battles with thorns and scrapes. He
looked at us both sidelong and jerked his head minutely, then set off to
Tent Canvas Hell. Karl and I shared a look and followed him. He had the
screen down which cast the tent into gloom where you could just make out
vague shapes inside.

We got in and he whispered, "Don't say anything. I think someone has been
listening at the tent-side." Karl inflated like a furious balloon. "Both of
you, hush. Apparently, someone overheard part of the discussion that you,"
he nodded gravely to Karl, "had about you and Nate choking the chicken
and..." Jim's voice trailed off but he resumed quickly when he saw that
Karl was about to explode. "And you said something like, 'but we're not the
same kind of friends that you [me and Patrick] are', and something about
'not that way'."

Karl's eyes had gone huge in that dark, bearish face. Realization crashed
that he, Karl, was the reason this was slipping out. His lip started to
quiver. I leaned forward and whispered where only he and Jim could possibly
hear. "Stop it, Karl. Jerry was already on the scent and got it out of
someone snooping that night. This isn't about you, okay, buddy?"

Have you ever heard a low and rumbling growl hissed? It's... pretty
unique. "No. It is *not* okay." He turned back to Jim. "How do you know
this?"

"One of Jerry's goons -- no! hush! I am not saying which because you'll
kill him and get sent to Juvie -- tripped me on an out-of-the-way section
of the course and whispered, 'So apparently there's *one* normal guy in
that tent since he's not that way, and not the special kissy-friends that
you and Red are.' He was off after that like a shot and no one else saw the
tripping or heard him."

Karl looked ready to explode, like an honest-to-god meat bomb. I whispered
again. "Jim, that doesn't mean anyone overheard Karl that night. You know
that. Think about it for a minute. It isn't specific. It's exactly what any
bully would make up on his own. It does, probably, mean that someone heard
you," I nodded to Karl again, "and Nate either jacking off over girls or
talking about it later, but it doesn't mean Jerry's goons know anything
real about me and Jim. Pretend it never happened and it won't go
anywhere. Freak out, either of you, and you're confirming what are only
suspicions right now." Jim was glaring and Karl glowering, but I knew I was
right.

"I'm heading out. When you are *both* back under control, leave one at a
time and we'll meet at," I gulped with revulsion, "dinner."

I felt far less confident than I looked as I left the tent, walking toward
the Hygiene Hut, trying to act as if it was just another lovely afternoon
at Camp Sin. I kept it up really well until I got to Dr Eaglas' office just
as the door opened and I caught the horrified face of one of the younger
kids in our late-forming group. Eaglas' voice was calm, soothing and
mock-stern. "You write like your mother told you to. She says she's
'frantic with worry.'" He warbled the last part and the penny dropped for
the young man, Russ or Rusty or something. Russ (I think) shot him a look
of gratitude that belied the fiction and fled in escape.

"Come on in, Red." I followed and he shut and latched the door. "Good
'nothing to see here' mask, Patrick. Almost convincing. You need some more
lessons from Karl, though." He motioned me to the couch and took the nearer
armchair. He looked at me for a long while as I stared at everything except
him. "Well, it's clear you're not going to start. Let me take a shot at
it. Someone made a 'gay' sneer and you think it's written on your forehead
now? Am I close?"

I suddenly looked down at my clenching hands. "No, but not that far
off. One of the goons that hangs around with Jerry MacMillan -- Jim won't
say which one because he thinks... well, he *knows* that Karl would
literally kill whoever it was -- tripped him on the Wilderness Survival
course and whispered something that, well, he might well have heard Karl
say the other night. It... it would make it obvious that, that I, that, um,
Jim and I..." I snatched at the tissue that appeared in my narrowing field
of vision.

"Okay," his voice was actually very like one of Karl's growls. "How precise
or accurate was what the young... person said?"

"Not very, but both Jim and Karl are seriously freaked out, and I, I'm, uh,
I'm not doing much better. I told them to stay in the tent until they could
both cool it, because reacting is confirming something that they can't, you
know, actually KNOW."

"Good advice." His voice had returned to the soft, professional grumble it
had always been. "It sounds like someone is suspicious and fishing
around. Any idea why that might be?"

I sighed tremulously and my voice sounded years younger than I actually
was. "That Jerry kid saw me and Jim, um, sitting together? We played it off
that I was getting a thorn out of his leg, but I think he..." what had
become a whisper simply faded to nothingness.

"Clothes on or off?"

My head snapped up to his. "No! Nothing like that. Jim was sit-sitting in
my lap and I was... k-kissing him?" Back to a whisper. "Jerry came from
behind us so there's no way he saw anything except my shoulders and Jim's
legs."

Eaglas blew out a deep, cheek-puffing breath. "Okay, first things first. No
one is going to seriously harm Jim. For one thing, I doubt Karl lets him
out of his sight for more than two seconds between now and the end of
camp. Second, you both have to be very careful. There are a lot of people
in our country who would be... indescribably vicious and brutal over what
you and Jim are lucky enough to share. Third, you have to know that someone
will eventually figure this out. It probably won't happen here unless you
are insanely foolish and do something obvious, but it will happen
sometime. You and Jim, and Karl, too, need to talk that through."

"But *how*?" It came out more like the voice of an anguished kitten than a
young man.

"After campfire practice tonight, come here. If I'm not with another young
man, you three can use my office and I'll have a pipe. If there is someone,
I'll slip you the key to my cabin where you cannot be overheard."

I literally launched myself into him and hugged him hard, crying
throughout. He cooed and petted my hair until I quieted. "Now, go on. Chef
will have someone truly awful since we're quickly approach the end of the
season. For the next nine months, he has to cook according to real, edible
recipes." I pulled back and stare at him in bafflement. "Didn't you know?
His winter job is as a sous chef in a Florida resort for the wealthy called
the Vinoy. Very posh."

"B-B-But aren't they worried he'll kill the rich people? I mean, oh Lord!"
He laughed as he watched the horror flash behind my eyes.

"I have it on first-hand account that, when forcibly prevented from
improvising, he's actually rather good chef!" He laughed again as the
dismay painted on my face. "Now, go on. Git." He shooed me out and I caught
a kid, maybe sixteen, peeking around the far corner then scuttling to
Eaglas' door when he thought I was out of viewing range. He looked exactly
as terrified as all three of the Tent Canvas Hell crew had been at various
points of our Camp Sin Summer.

I frowned as I felt something tug inside my pocket. I reached in and found
three Snickers bars that, apparently, the good doctor had slipped in
unnoticed, probably while I was distracted by the imagined carnage in an
unsuspecting Florida resort. I hid them quickly as the triangle
sounded. Jim, followed closely and obviously by Karl, met me at the door
and we went in.

Fish stew, noxious and overpowering, filled the air with a bleak
miasma. Jesus, save me from faux-Catholic Fridays! He had a rice-and-beans
dish that reeked of cloves (cloves? In beans?) and a bland, sad salad that,
apparently, had no dressing at all. All of us chose that option and I
sneaked a Snickers to each of my best friends, shushing them quickly.

Karl and Jim sat near the middle of a table, and I perched far away,
earning a glare from Jim and a nod of approval from Karl. I wedged myself
between Willie and a massive guy my age that I found out was named
Rocky. He whispered, "Bryce, really." He was about my height but a study in
thick. Thick lips, thick face, thick arms. Tree trunks for legs. An
impressive belly for a guy our age, but not fat, as such, just... big.

I nearly chocked on my Snickers when I heard him tell another kid, "Yeah,
I'm not really happy. Brand new school for senior year, no friends around,
don't know any of the girls or anything. And in a town named for freaking
candy bar no less."

I nudged him, akin to nudging wall, and he turned to me. "You're going to
be a senior at Hershey High?"

He frowned slightly, "Yeah, Red. Why? Is it a bad place?"

"No! Not at all. It's where I'll be a senior this year, too."

His face lit up like the guest of honor at a surprise party. "Really?
What's it like? Who's on the team and how good are they? What about --?"

"Whoa! Hold on big fellah. Slow down. I've been there since I was a
freshman. My dad works, well, for the candy company. I don't, you know, DO
sports. The football team is, well, not exactly championship
material. We're the Trojans, so we can't really suck *all the way*." My
waggled eyebrows got a laugh. "What do you play."

"Football. I used to wrestle but I'm too big for the high school
limits. I'm more of a bench-warmer for baseball, but don't suck too bad as
a backup catcher or a batter. Why don't you 'do' sports?"

"Because neither blushing nor tripping over things earn points in any of
them." We laughed and fell into the eternal rhythm of tentative teen
maybe-a-friend conversation. I was something of a novice, but he didn't
crush me like a bug or look at me like I was a centipede, so I guess I got
passing marks. Until... "You're friends with Jim? And Karl, right?"

 "Yeah, I met them both here at camp, but, yeah, they're, well, the best
friends I've ever had."

"Wow, that's fast!"

I sighed deeply. "Yeah. Yeah it is. And Karl lives in Scranton so I won't
see him at all over the winter." His face lit up when I mentioned
Scranton. In seconds we were standing next to Karl, Jim and an
extremely-intimidated Nate who looked at Rocky with stark terror and huge
eyes.

"Guys, this is Rocky. He's moving to Hershey so he'll be in High School
with me and.." there was a catch in my voice and I cursed myself, coughing
to cover it. "--and Jim. He's from Scranton. Do you know him Karl?"

Karl's eyes slitted like a viper. "Yeah. I know him. This bastard has put
me on my ass at least one game a year since ninth grade."

"Karl... Mueller?!?" Rocky's eyes popped. "Mueller the mule? Dunmore? You
snuck your weaselly ass past me for a sack more times than I put you
down. I never even thought it was you without the pads and stuff!" With
that, they were in the famous sportsman's attack-hug thing where both
seemed intent on putting a fist through the other's spine, but with a
smile.

Light dawned in Karl's eyes and he pulled me, Jim and Nate into his and
Rocky's wake.

Rocky was pleased as punch but still puzzled when Karl said, "Rocky, this
is Nate. He's a great guy. Who do you know at that rathole called Scranton
High who can, well, keep the assholes off of him?"

Nate's face was... fascinating. He had managed to drain completely of color
while simultaneously blushing furiously. He was scared of the enormous
newcomer, mortified at being made to look weak, and had a look of basest
betrayal for Karl, who noticed.

"Nate, listen to me. I know you're man enough to take care of yourself. But
this giant pile of brainless brawn is a great guy. Having his buds keeping
an eye on your back is... a very good idea, buddy. You with me?" It was
clear that Nate was far from 'with' Karl on this, but he also would not
defy his idol. He nodded slowly and turned his terrified gaze to Rocky.

"Which sports do you do, Nate?" I hated (still hate) the automatic
assumption that anyone with a pair of balls is into sports.

"R-R-Running, medium and long. And, um, wrestling but not that
good. Baseball, but I just warm the bench."

Rocky looked like he had just been given a present. "When you get to
Scranton, you find Brian Weldon. He's on the wrestling team and a defensive
end in football. Shit at baseball, though so you can bench-warm
together. You tell him Shorty says to treat you right, and you him ask
about wrestling." Nate looked thoroughly lost. "Brian was all-state last
year in Light Middleweight. Unless he gets stupid or hurt, he's likely got
a free ride to either Indiana or Iowa." This news made Nate's jaw drop like
a rock; apparently both were good?

"And no one, *no one* messes with him. He can beat my ass if he tried, and
*don't* tell him I said so. Also, pal up Paul Wojciechowski -- no, nobody
can pronounce it or spell it, call him Wo-Jo -- who is a great guy as well
as a good baseballer." He winked, "Yeah, my ass has polished a lot of
baseball benches, Nate."

I am not sure that Nate had inhaled since Rocky started talking. Karl's
large, thick hand came down on Nate's shoulder and the smaller boy sucked
in a massive lungful of air. "B-B-B-But I'm. I'm gonna be a
*freshman*. They'll crush me like a mosquito!"

Rocky crouched. "Wrong. Both of them were bullied near to death in grade
school before they hit their growth. They don't tolerate it, and if I ever
hear that they have, they know for certain-sure that I will be Death Come
Knocking. You see," Rocky dropped his voice to a soft growl, "I got big
really early and was one of the ones who protected them." Nate, speechless
looked like a cross between an open-mouthed Pez dispenser and a bobble-head
doll. Karl leaned in and whispered something that none of us could hear,
and Nate turned purple.

Karl yanked on the arm of the mountain gorilla until he could whisper to
him as well. Rocky's smile grew wide, sly and lascivious to Karl. "Oh, you
have no idea." He looked down and the slowly-thawing ice-sculpture called
Nate. He pulled a Camper Contact Card from his pocket and scrawled
something on the back. "Nate, you write me when you get settled in the new
school. There is a young, well, certainly-not-a-lady named Charlene
Novotny. A sophomore, or will be next month. I'll give you a few
pointers. And, um, Nate?" He leaned down and in his gruffest voice said,
"You burn that letter after reading it, buddy. It is NOT for parental
eyes."

I, frankly, lost it. Jim was close behind with Karl trailing. The cascade
of mirth was unstoppable. Nate's face was priceless. Recipe: Take a quart
of teen hormones and add a hint of sexual fulfillment, a tablespoon of
existential dread, a cup of abject mortification and a pint of desperate
lust. Shake well until it explodes. Rocky, chuckling, put a hand under
Nate's arm until he regained what, with a teen boy, might be called
consciousness.

 Tonight would be the first of two practices combining all the Camp Sinners
into a single unit around the central campfire. First, the Leaders grouped
us by vocal range and it... didn't suck at all. For the second run-through,
they lined us up alphabetically and all of us were shocked that it sounded
even better. The third attempt had the Leaders try (comically) to arrange
us with one each of a treble, countertenor, baritone and base, then repeat
the cycle. That was pure disaster, not least because most of the trebles
and countertenors couldn't even see the Leaders, blocked by and wedged
between older boys. They then put us in the original, vocal-range groups
and tried again. It was... really, really, good.

They released us and we were all on a sort of high from the performance. An
odd group header to Cabin Four's fire ring: our "core" -- Karl, Jim, Nate,
Trey and me -- joined by Rocky (to Nate's mortification), Willie and Larry,
and finally Mark and Marcus with their shadows, Quinn and Sam. Karl pulled
Rocky and a deeply-reluctant Nate to one side and they started to talk
about (what else) sports. Nate was suddenly, like a switch throw,
completely into the conversation.

Trey, Willie and Larry started an in-depth argument about a movie that had
just come out in May called "Star Wars". I wouldn't become an addict to
that particular drug until months later when the last raft of seventies
geeks got into the club.

The three... I squirmed at the word... couples started to talk Tolkien and
we joined, Jim reluctantly. We spoke for a while until the conversation
turned to the two Ent-enhanced hobbits, Merry and Pippin and also got a
bit... ribald. Specifically, what does Ent-draught do to, well, *those*
parts. Jim and I faded to the background seamlessly and I looked deep into
his eyes.

"This will work, Jim. I swear it."

I have never seen such a furious glare from the guy who had become the
center of my universe. "You can't 'swear' that, you frigging idiot. You
have no clue what happens next, what Jerry does, what the others are gonna
do. You can't 'make it right' no matter how much you want to, Patrick. I
love you, asshole, but don't lie to me or lie to yourself."

"We have to hide this, Jim. We have to pretend that... that we don't,
d-d-don't *need* this. AND I CAN'T FIX IT!" a whispered wail is a unique
and eviscerating thing.

He stroked the side of my face in a way that nearly made me purr. "We have
to hide it, but we don't have to deny, it Patrick. We *never* have to deny
it, at least between us."

*****