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The GreenMount Chronicles, Chapter 17 "Camp"

A summer morning is like no other kind of morning, because of several things. The sun is out very early, and the air is fresh and crisp, and the birds are singing.

None of those things were happening that morning. The other kind of summer morning is the rainy, dreary kind.

Roger stood in his bedroom, looking out the window with some disgust. It was his day off, and it was raining. No long rides on his bike, definitely no walking to the arcade. At least not without an umbrella. He liked rain, mostly, since it was water, and he had such an affinity for swimming. However, he would have preferred sunshine.

Of course, it turned out not to matter either way.

The next to his bed rang obnoxiously.

Roger picked it up.

"Hello," Roger said.

"Hey... it's Mike."

"Hi Mike. Sorry I couldn't come over the other night," said the tiger. Because of all of the things going on in his life, including his discovery of his love for another male, let alone someone so close to him, he had begun to shut the world out. He was sorry he hadn't gone to see Mike, though -- he'd been missing his rottweiler friend quite a lot, since they hadn't seen much of one another.

There was a moment of silence.

Finally Mike said, softly, "Can you come over?"

"What's wrong?" Roger asked him immediately. It wasn't like Mike to speak softly or to be quiet. He'd known him for more years than he could count on his fingers, and after a while a bond had grown between them.

"Something bad happened," said the rottie. "Just... come on over, okay? Do you need a ride?"

"Actually, I do," Roger said. "It's raining and all."

Mike let out a meek chuckle. "Yeah, the only guy on the swim team who don't wanna get wet."

"Blow me, muscle boy," he shot back absently. It was the same dialogue they'd been using on each other since grammar school.

"Twenty minutes?"

"See ya then."

"Bye," said Mike.

Seventeen minutes later, Roger watched Mike's blue jeep pull up in front of his house. It had been a birthday present for Mike, the day he'd turned eighteen. He had been at his party, and he still remembered how happy his buddy had been when he'd seen it.

Roger jogged out in the rain to the side of the jeep and opened the door, hopping in. His shirt and jeans were lightly spotted with raindrops, but he'd stayed mostly dry. He'd worn rubber sandals as well, since soggy shoes could be very unpleasant.

Mike immediately rode the jeep down the street. "Hey buddy," he said. He was looking straight forward at the road, his square, brown-furred jaw set. He was wearing a white muscle shirt, and black nylon shorts. It was a nice outfit compared to the casual clothes he normally wore. Roger studied him in a new light. He was beautiful, the tiger realized. He'd known it before, but he hadn't looked at Mike closely since he'd been with Calvin, and it changed things.

"How's it going," Roger asked him. "You sounded upset on the phone."

Mike sighed softly, his big shoulders shrugging, with some heavy weight. He turned on the radio, and immediately the trancy vibes of the Delirium's "Silence" remix flooded the car.

Roger rolled his eyes. "This is so overplayed."

Mike blinked. "But it sounds cool."

"Yeah, right. The original version came out like three years ago, and it got remixed. Now it's on the radio every five minutes. The original version sounds more like Enigma than something Paul Oakenfold would mix."

"Who's that?" Mike asked.

Roger smiled quietly. "Don't get me started on music or I'll never shut up."

"You always have the best music," Mike told him. "You know I like oldies, but your stuff is better for dancing and working out."

The tiger grinned. "Yeah, just don't try to dance to my Aphex Twin albums or you'll probably break both your legs."

"Umm... okay," Mike said, clearly not understanding. There was silence for a while.

Roger placed a hand on Mike's shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Mike pulled into the driveway in front of his house. It was empty, as usual -- his parents were out somewhere.

"Victor won't talk to me no more," Mike said softly as he turned the car off.

At the mention of the rabbit's name, Roger was silent. The only sound was the light metallic patter of raindrops on the car.

"He says he can't hang around me, 'cause of the paw stuff we did," the rottweiler continued. "And... some other stuff." He was playing with his keys in his lap, looking down dejectedly.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mike," Roger said. In a way, he could understand. He'd felt very strange after walking in on Mike and Victor. It had been difficult to accept.

"I told him we didn't have to do it again," Mike said. "But he said something about wanting it, how he couldn't trust himself around me."

Roger looked at his friend. He watched a tear roll down the square, dark-furred muzzle.

"Aww, Mike," Roger soothed, "It's okay." He rubbed away the tear with his thumb.

Mike looked at him with his soulful eyes, beautifully contrasted with the backward baseball cap he was wearing. One minute he could look so tough, and the next he was like a child.

"Hey, umm... do you wanna go in the back yard?" Mike asked him. "I have the camping tent set up, so we could talk in there."

Roger could not quite contain his excitement. "You have The Castle set up?"

"The Castle" was their nickname for the camping tent. For the past five years, it had been their tradition for Mike to set up his tent in his back yard, and for he and Roger to camp out in it every other weekend or so. Sometimes they had friends over, but often it was just the two of them.

Mike's parents had bought him the tent for his thirteenth birthday. It was huge -- tall enough for Roger to stand in, though Mike had to hunch over slightly -- and almost completely waterproof.

"I set it up last week," Mike told him. Despite his sadness, he shared Roger's enthusiasm for their weekend hobby. "It's ready to go. Nobody's been in it this year but me."

Roger smiled. "Let's go. We can talk more in there."

They opened the car doors, and after a brief jog through the rain, and a few frantic moments of Mike struggling with the zipper on the blue canvas tent, they stepped inside.

The familiar scent of the canvas and the sleeping bags was in the air, along with the summer rain. It immediately brought back a flood of images from their past. Card games. All-night talks about life and dreams. Dirty jokes. Music. Laughter. Friendship. It was the symphony of their past.

They both kicked off their sandals when they walked in, rather than spread mud on the sleeping bags that functioned as their carpet. They were much softer than the canvas bottom, and much easier to sleep on.

Mike sat down, with his legs stretched out in front of him. Roger sat next to him.

"Why won't he talk to me, Roger?" Mike asked, looking down at his big feet. "What did I do wrong? I musta done something bad."

Roger sighed, looking at Mike. The rottweiler was so innocent and gentle; he never imagined his actions would harm anyone. Least of all someone who was enthusiastic about what they were doing.

"Maybe it wasn't bad," Roger said. "But it bothered him."

Mike was idly running his left foot over his right, as if trying to hide it.

When he didn't say anything, Roger continued, "It was just... experimenting. Guys do it sometimes. We get curious about things. If something feels good, we try doing a little more, and a little more. Eventually we're caught up in something we don't understand, and it scares us."

"But why?" Mike was pleading. "Why does it scare him? We were just playin'."

"Yeah but you were playing with each other's dicks."

"So what? If I gave you a backrub, it would feel good, right? You'd say I had big strong hands, and you'd moan and stuff while I was rubbin' your back. It's the same reaction with what we were doing."

Roger didn't respond. He could have explained that touching the sheath was somehow different from touching anywhere else. He could explain that sometimes, even if you weren't touching a guy's dick, that it could be sexual. Or that, even if you did touch it, it might not be sexual. But he also knew there were no simple answers. What made it okay one day and not the next was something personal to Victor, and nothing Mike, or anyone else said, could change that.

"Do I ever make you feel bad like that?" Mike asked, wide-eyed. Puppy-dog eyes.

Roger let his foot rest against Mike's, noticing the size difference, the contrast in colors, just as he'd noticed it so many times during their long friendship. "No, buddy," he said. "You never make me feel bad."

Mike smiled a little, in a sad way, and flexed his big toes. Then his eyes grew faraway. He wasn't even seeing Roger. He wasn't seeing anything but whatever was in his thoughts.

"He... he thinks I'm gay," Mike asked quietly.

Roger sighed again. He didn't respond. He didn't need to.

"Awwww... I ... I can't believe it." Mike was woefully distraught.

"What made you figure it out?" Roger asked. "After so long?"

Mike shook his head. "I don't know. I just started thinkin' about it. Sometimes... sometimes it's like a part of my brain doesn't see stuff. I'll hear a joke, and it'll make me laugh, but I don't get it for like a month." He whimpered. "I'm so stupid."

Roger actually felt moved to tears himself. He slid close to Mike, and put an arm around him. "No! No Mike you're not stupid!"

"It's okay Roge... I know I am. I always knew. Big muscles, small brain."

Roger rubbed his back. "No Mike. You're a little slow to figure some things out, but you know what? There are ways that you're smarter than anyone I know."

Mike looked doubtfully at the tiger.

"I'm serious. You're innocent, you trust people, and you try to make them feel good. You don't let anything get in the way of that, do you?"

"Not really."

"Hey, you see? That beats most people I know who are too self-centered to care about anyone else."

Silence for a minute or so. And then, "Does Victor hate me?"

Roger shook his head. "No, Mike. He doesn't hate you. And I'm sure he doesn't think you're gay. I don't know if you realize this, but everyone you know, all of your friends, they know the same thing I do about you-- that you're just a friendly guy who does what he wants. We all know you'd do anything for your friends, and that you never mean any harm. We know that you're a little slow, Mike, but we like that about you. That's why you're our friend."

Mike looked at him, with his liquid brown eyes. Then he looked down at his feet. He was grabbing the toes of Roger's foot with his own. "But it hurts that Victor won't talk to me. And Calvin doesn't hang around with me, either; I don't see him around anymore. Scott always hangs around with his new friend, and I don't see him either. Are you gonna stop talkin' to me too?"

"Oh Mike, of course not." He got to his knees, opening his arms. "Come here."

Mike looked at him. "Is it... okay?"

"Who cares," said the tiger, and he grinned.

Mike was teary-eyed, too. He smiled back as he climbed to a kneeling position. The two of them hugged, arms wrapped around one another, warm body tightly holding warm body.

"I would never do anything to hurt you, Mike," Roger whispered. "You're my best friend." The feel of Mike's muscles around him, the heat his body generated, the sleek fur and the masculine smell were all so familiar, it surrounded him like a blanket of security and affection. He held on, not just to be hugged back, but because he wanted to be near this, inside of this.

Mike nodded, his muzzle buried in Roger's neckfur, breathing warm air into it, which spread out through the fur. He whispered something into Roger's ear softly. "I love you, buddy."

He didn't say it like a secret, or like anything monumental. It was just something he would say to someone he'd been friends with for ten years, who knew him better than anyone in the world.

Roger sighed. He was trembling inside because of his secret, the thing he had discovered with Calvin. He was aware of having an erection, and Mike's pressed against him, through their shorts. He thought this was the cruelest joke of the psyche, to arouse a person after they've had their feelings crushed. But there it was.

"I love you, too," Roger whispered. "I love you so much." He had never spoken those words aloud to anyone, and here he was, holding the only person he ever wanted to hear them. He held Mike, as the big dog held him, hearts beating next to one another. He ran his hands up and down the big rottweiler's back, over his shirt. Mike did the same.

Then he slid back enough to touch his chest again. Mike watched him do this quietly. Roger's fingers traced over the big pecs, and down, to his stomach, toying with the thin fabric of his muscle shirt.

"What are you doing," Mike asked him softly, large eyes watching him calmly.

"Trying to tell you something," Roger replied.

Mike tilted his head. He responded in kind, placing his big hands on Roger's slim body, gliding them up his sides, the concave curves above his hips, ruffling the orange and black fur along his arms.

"You know it feels like we've been friends forever," Roger told him. His fingers traced down to the bottom of Mike's shirt. He felt tingling inside himself, a heightened nervousness as he slid his fingertips underneath.

"Yeah, just about," Mike said. He gave no reaction to what Roger was doing. He just looked into his eyes, gently touching with his large hands. They were close enough that their noses were nearly touching. Neither gave any natural resistance to this.

Even when Roger's hands came to rest on Mike's bare stomach, under his shirt.

Roger felt a lump in his throat, and the words he wanted to say seemed impossible to form. It was as if the air itself would not leave his body.

"I l... I love your body, Mike," Roger murmured.

Mike spoke softly as well, though perhaps he was only following Roger. "I know, you always wanted to look like this."

The tiger shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "I don't want to _be_ you. I just _want_ you."

Mike took the bottom of his shirt in his hands and pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the sleeping bags beneath them. His exposed, muscular body was slightly moist from the rain, but perfectly formed, from his large, cut shoulders, to the V-shape of his latissimus dorsi, to his abdomen.

"You always got me," Mike told him, easily. He was saying all the things he would say in a friendship context, but it was clear, he could see there was something more to this. Exactly what, however, he did not know.

"Do you know what I mean, Mike?" Roger asked him. He cupped the rottweiler's chest in his hands, and his thumbs found the small firm buds of Mike's nipples. Immediately Mike's chest expanded as he inhaled more deeply. Roger continued talking, gazing into his eyes. "I want to be with you. Not just as a friend, not just for what you did with Victor. I want to love you."

Mike was breathing faster. This was evident. And his voice trembled slightly. "I can do that," he said.

The realization that Mike knew exactly what he was saying hit Roger like a ton of bricks. He swallowed once. "Are you sure," the tiger asked. He felt something tugging at his shirt and he realized Mike was pulling it over his head.

"Yeah," Mike whispered, tilting his head slightly, so one floppy ear swayed slightly back and forth. "You mean... like touching you. Like, taking off our clothes and holding each other. I wanna do that with you, Roger. I wanna be with you too."

Roger was speechless. He gazed into Mike's eyes, the face of the one he'd been in love with, the one he'd known for so long.

They came together then, in each other's arms, their naked torsos pressed together, arms bonding them as their intense emotions. This time Roger yielded to Mike's strength, to the firmness of his muscle. How many times he had wanted to do this! The code of males though, is to be tough, to joke around, to grab and wrestle in jest. This was not jest. He slid his arms around Mike's neck, letting his chest, tummy, and his manhood -- though the tight cloth of his pants -- press passively against this tall, dark canine whom he loved. When Mike's arms slid around his waist and ran over his back, he breathed a sigh of ecstasy.

Then Roger kissed Mike on the side of the neck. A moment later, Mike responded, kissing his neck. He did it again, and eased back, kissing the corner of his jaw. Then his cheek. Then the side of his muzzle, on his whiskers. They were slow, deliberate kisses. And then they found the corner of Mike's mouth, where the smooth lips began. Mike was kissing him, too.

They stopped and looked into one another's eyes. Roger had one hand on each of Mike's cheeks. Mike no longer looked sad, or afraid. His was the face of a man, one who was expressing love for the first time.

And suddenly it occurred to Roger that Mike was two years older than him, that Mike may have been a little compromised in the mind, but his body was quite alive, and knew exactly what it wanted.

"Mike, do you want to kiss?"

Mike gazed at him. "Yeah," he said. "What... what do I do?"

Roger remembered asking this question to Calvin. "Just part your lips and lean toward me," he said.

Mike licked his lips with his big tongue, and he parted his lips.

"I would never hurt you," Roger whispered, running a hand over Mike's face.

"I know," Mike whispered back. "I trust you."

And then they kissed, and it was different from any kiss Roger had ever had. Mike's lips were smooth and big, firm but pliable, and they sealed over his lips, nearly frictionless. They pressed them together, sharing the experience as they embraced with all the openness and desire of new lovers. Roger gave himself to this, and as he felt the hot tickle of the rottweiler's tongue slide over his own, he accepted this, sucking gently on it, listening to Mike moan quietly through his nose. It felt so familiar, and yet so new. He knew the sounds Mike made when he felt good from massages, relaxing, even tickling. Now he was hearing those sounds from physical intimacy which he was providing.

Outside thunder struck, and its force shook the ground. The rain was in full downpour by then, and it showered on the roof of the tent, sounding like a thousand drummers wailing on Tupperware. In the grass it was more of a hissing sound, wet and filling the air with a humid coolness.

They pulled back to look into one another's eyes. They were quiet, save the sound of their breathing. Roger was unused to the heat he felt where his body touched Mike's. He knew the smell of his body, though, and it had never been as full, or as welcome as it was then. It was a scent which had been a part of his life since he was very young, and now it was like a companion, something to wrap himself in like a blanket. He buried his nose in Mike's neckfur and began to laugh softly.

Mike backed up and bumped his nose against Roger's. "What's so funny?"

Roger grinned. "This... you and me. I didn't even know I felt this way until recently."

"How can you feel like this for me?" Mike asked. "...with me not being as smart as you."

"You are as smart as I am. Just in different ways. We've talked about this," Roger told him. And they had, several times over the years.

Mike nodded. "I'm not sayin' I'm stupid anymore. I'm just thinking, how can you like me so much?"

"It's hard to explain. It's just you, muscledog. It's who you are. It's your gentleness and your eyes."

"What else," Mike asked, curious.

"Your smile. Your warmth."

Mike smiled. "What else?"

Roger started to smile, too. "Your strength and size... big muscles and all."

Mike grinned. It was becoming a game. "What else?"

Roger grinned back, and he giggled a little. "This," he said. "How you always make me laugh. How you know me, all the way through."

Mike suddenly pounced on the tiger. He shoved Roger back onto the sleeping bags, pinning him down with two big rottie hands. "What else?" he asked, his tail was wagging as he stared down into Roger's eyes.

Roger raised his eyebrows. "How you're ticklish as anything!"

He suddenly began tickling the big rottweiler's sides, fingers scrabbling over muscle and fur, along his abs, under his ribs. Mike, who was well known for being ticklish, burst into laughter and retaliated, tickling Roger on his tummy as well, pinning him down.

They rolled around on the bed, nearly falling off, each wrestling for the top. Mike, of course, had the advantage. With one hand he grabbed both of Roger's wrists and held them behind his head. He pressed his hips firmly into the tiger's, holding his slim legs down with his larger, more powerful ones. With his free hand he tickled Roger under his arms and along one side, while the tiger squirmed and yelled underneath him.

He stopped then, giving his friend a break, and looked down into his eyes.

Roger's laughter tapered off quickly, and he did not struggle under Mike's grip.

The big dog slid his arms under Roger's, and laid on top of him.

"Are you okay," Mike asked him, panting.

Roger gazed into his eyes, laying there beneath him, feeling the weight of his friend, and he slid his arms around Mike's body.

They kissed, not just timidly, but with tremendous heat, lips locking, then parting as their mouths fit together.

They were in an embrace, not of tickling and joking, but rather of intense emotion and sexuality. Mike had very quickly learned how to kiss Roger, and the tiger was limp under him, submitting to his strength, the brute force of his lust. He felt the object of Mike's masculinity pressed hard against him, urgent, wanting.

Outside the rain rushed onward, surging as of triggered by their lust. Lightning flashed outside, and it showed even through the blue wall of the tent. Then the thunder boomed, and he held onto his friend more tightly.

Mike was trembling. At least, Roger thought he was, and he pulled out of their kiss. He frowned, puzzled, and looked behind Mike. The rottweiler's stubby tail was wagging -- that's what caused the vibration.

Mike looked at this. Then they looked at each other. Then they burst into soft laughter.

They hugged and tickled some more, rolling together on the makeshift blankets. Finally they fell into a pile of fur and muscle, arms and legs and colors.

"So... what do we do now?" Mike asked, laying on his side, gazing at Roger.

The tiger shrugged. "How should I know?" He smiled. "Mike... I need to ask you something."

Mike grabbed one of Roger's hands and started looking at it. "Okay," he said.

"Do you want this? I mean, you're going along, but you went along with Victor, too. What do you feel?"

Mike climbed over Roger, kneeling on all fours over him, looking down at him. His form was large and imposing, yet by the look in his eyes, totally innocent and gentle. "You know," he said. "I never kissed a guy before."

"Never?" Roger asked, quite liking his position beneath Mike.

"Nope. I got jerked off, and I played with Vic's paws. But that's like... dumb guy stuff."

"Think so?"

Mike nodded. "Yeah. It hurt my feelings when Vic didn't wanna play no more, 'cause I lost a friend. But that's all he was."

Roger ran his hands over Mike's chest, still amazed at being able to touch him so freely.

The rottweiler continued. "I never said this to nobody before," he said quietly. Then he paused, looked at Roger and said, "I love you."

Roger murmured, "I love you, too."

Mike smiled lopsidedly. "I don't have problems touchin' guys. It's just like touchin' girls, except more muscle."

"Yeah, and most girls don't have dicks."

"Yeah. I've known you since we were kids, you know? I always knew I felt something for you... didn't know what it was, being dumb and all. But when you said 'I love you', I figured it out. That's what it is. I love you." Mike smiled. "I wanna kiss you like we did. Only, I wanna do it in different places. I wanna touch you and play with you. Like you said, I wanna be with you."

Roger was nodding to this, and he whispered a soft affirmative response. He was overwhelmed with all of it. He asked, "Are we still friends?"

Mike looked at him as if he were crazy. "Hell yeah! I was just gonna go in and get the camping stuff."

"Actually," Roger said. "Do you think we could camp _inside_ tonight?"

Mike grinned. "You afraid of a little rain? Pussy."

"Steroid boy!" Roger cried.

Mike rushed out of the tent then, into the rain, and Roger rushed out behind him, giving chase. Before long, the two of them were rolling around in the muddy grass, in the rain, wrestling and laughing.

Roger understood why he had experienced so much confusion, why he had felt so strange when he walked in on Mike and Victor, and then Mace and Rock. He understood why he had been with Calvin. It had all been building to this. Michael. His life-long friend. The oldest story in the book, really, though they were both males. And that's why he had liked his experience with Calvin, but he couldn't repeat it with him. It wasn't meant for Calvin. He couldn't care less what Mace was doing with Rock (which wasn't quite true, but at least he wasn't in love with him). He was in love with Mike, and that was all that mattered.

Well, that, and getting their camping stuff into the tent.