Chapter Text
There’s a boy at the retreat who is tall and gangly and all at once beautiful.
This same boy at the church camp Schlatt doesn’t recognize.
This same boy, nearly a man, is something hard to look away from.
He isn’t a part of the cohort that have long shared the same camps, Wednesday teen groups and Sunday masses. His family is not intertwined with the church. The last name doesn’t ring familiar. But still, he is here, at the ‘young men’s’ camp.
And Schlatt can’t help but notice him.
Schlatt is a good devout religious boy. He is a sheep, and he is proud of it. He has grown up with proud ram horns that have only recently began to spiral and fluffy sensitive ears and a bleat when he cries or laughs, and he’s been called affectionately a ‘lamb of god’ for as long as he can remember.
He is nearly 18 and this is not the first time a boy has caught his eye. Every time he feels a rush of shame and this deep longing. It mixes together into a long, thunderous river rapids ride in his head that’s forever going through its tunnel portion, dark and confusing and constantly chilling him.
He reasons it is because the boy is tall and holds himself odd that he’s caught his eye. There’s a confidence there despite the fact he is being given furtive and judgmental looks from the other boys. His chin is tilted up. He has a pencil behind his ear and a small journal Schlatt mistook for a bible in his hand. Unlike the others, his backpack is worn, and he does not have neat suitcase with him for the camp. His mouth is set in this small, sly smirk, as if he knows something they all don’t.
He doesn’t smell of fresh soap and ironed clothes. He smells of cinnamon and varnished wood and his clothes are rumpled, and he doesn’t wear a blazer or tie like he should. His button-up isn’t fully done and his shirt is untucked.
But Schlatt feels a sense of xenophobia for the outsider and draws his eyes away. It isn’t much of a final camp year before university if there’s an outsider. He’s unwelcomed. Even the youth leaders sense it.
Still, when they board the bus he sees the youngest youth leader, a guy in his senior year of university begins to scan the bus. He keeps a hand on the tall boy’s shoulder as he tries to find a way to slot him into this vaguely hostile closed-knit group. His eyes land on Schlatt and Schlatt feels his ears lower. It is not godly and welcoming and good of him to not want to be the one chosen to usher in an outsider, but yet he hopes the young youth leader’s eyes will keep going.
They don’t.
“Job Schlatt, come here for a moment,” Schlatt rises out of his seat, gnawing on the corner of his mouth as he tries not to think about what this means. But he does. It means he too now has to deal with being ostracized as he tries to feign friendship and drag this boy to all the events. The young youth leader beams at Schlatt and the boy.
“Wilbur, this is Job Schlatt." A pause. "Er...well, Schlatt; he prefers being called by his last name. Schlatt, Wilbur,” the young youth leader introduces. The boy, Wilbur, looks at Schlatt and doesn’t once look away. His eyes begin to burn into Schlatt even as Schlatt hastily returns his own gaze to the young youth leader. “Wilbur’s father used to be a regular donor to the church before he moved away.” That explains exactly why Wilbur is here. “And he still sends occasional checks, God bless him. He’s entrusting us with Wilbur’s care for the summer and I know how hard it is for newcomers to find their footing, so I’m trusting you to help him,” the young youth leader pads his words. He knows this is the last thing Schlatt wants.
Even the young youth leader seems hesitant to keep touching Wilbur. To show him welcome. There is something about Wilbur that is off-putting.
“Of course,” Schlatt agrees, “It’d be my pleasure.” It’d be anything but, but it’s not very good of him to think that. It is selfish and silly and so he shakes his head free of the thoughts.
“Good, good. If you have any problems or questions, Wilbur, be sure to ask. I will ask before you sit down, Wilbur, please fix your shirt and put on the blazer. We’ll get you a new tie.”
Schlatt immediately wonders what happened to the first. Wilbur’s stare finally leaves him and returns to the young youth leader, unimpressed. The man holds out the blazer and with a sigh, Wilbur shrugs it on. He fixes his buttons on his shirt with no real urgency as Schlatt returns to his seat, sliding over so Wilbur has room to sit.
Wilbur does after a moment, dropping his backpack on the ground between his feet and opening the journal. Schlatt is a good boy, he doesn’t pry.
But he does peek.
It’s not a normal journal. There’s lines for notes— musical notes. Wilbur is composing music. Oh, that’s interesting. He looks to the lyrics scrawled beneath in crisp, but slanted handwriting and immediately he feels color rise to his cheeks.
Wilbur catches him looking.
Those are not holy lyrics of any sort.
“Squeamish aren’t you, lamb?” Wilbur asks.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate to bring with you here,” Schlatt says, fiddling with his rosary in his pocket. His ears twitch down, and he finds his eyes drawn to the other teens. The other boys side-eye, Wilbur, but as the bus pulls out, their attention slides away. Conversations rising to a quiet, but constant lull.
“Oh, that’s exactly the point,” Wilbur says, and Schlatt with a start realizes exactly the kind of person Wilbur is. He is the kind sent to a church camp, because he is lost. Someone in his life has realized he is going down a dark road and they have thrown him into what they must hope is a holy refuge to cleanse him.
Schlatt is sure by lyrics alone, a month will be a hard bargain to cleanse Wilbur of sin, let alone get him to atone.
Despite what must be far too much sin in Wilbur’s hands, Wilbur switches to a fresh page and resumes. He hums under his breath and Schlatt despite his wariness finds himself drawn to listen. Wilbur’s voice is not unpleasant. Whoever he is, this is something he does well. Sing. If only he used it for less…vulgar…ideas.
The bus ride passes in silence. Schlatt leans on the window, his eyes scraping the familiar countryside and rolling hills for something of interest and beside him Wilbur’s eyes remain glued to his journal. He pencils in notes, lyrics and occasionally erases or recomposes a melody. Schlatt would like to say he takes no interest, that his eyes remain on God’s yellow and green plains.
But no.
Wilbur’s hands keep drawing his eyes. They’re calloused at the fingertips, lanky, long and bony fingers that don’t grip the pencil tightly, but with a detached artist’s poise. He writes from the elbow. Schlatt watches him draw the slanted ovals for notes, fill them in, or go over the line a second time when he’s sure. He’s unsure a lot. The pencil’s eraser is nearly worn away.
Only once does Wilbur glance to him, and Schlatt can feel his ear’s heat up, pink beneath the wool as he turns his head back to the window.
Schlatt is grateful when they leave the bus, and he can put mild distance between himself and Wilbur. He's even more thankful to God when they're handed itineraries and he sees his roommate isn't Wilbur. Wilbur seems like trouble and he isn't sure he wants to be involved in any way with him.
Still, he notes the receptionist's smile, the wife of one of the outreach members, brightens at him, but dies off when Wilbur tries to dodge taking his itinerary. Schlatt grabs it for him. He apologizes on behalf of Wilbur.
Schlatt drops his suitcase on the cart with the others—they'll not be allowed to go to their dorms until later—and notes Wilbur's lack of a suitcase. He almost wants to ask but decides better. It's not right to pry. Most all the boys keep a backpack, Wilbur isn't an exception there.
Schlatt yearns to join the clusters of guys talking about the programming and which priest is leading mass or which groups, or which of their youth leaders returned, but instead he follows after Wilbur who without polite social graces does not stay around in the lobby. He drifts off, hands in his pockets.
He glances at the vague personal information on Wilbur's itinerary. Wilbur is his age according to the paper and although his dorm room is a few down, they'll be on the same floor. They're in the same group, which Schlatt expected seeing as he was told to help "welcome" him, but besides that, no more about Wilbur is revealed.
"You don't seem like you want to be here," Schlatt says. He's honoring the request to be Wilbur's buddy. At least until it expires. Hopefully it will by the end of the day.
"I don't," Wilbur says. He keeps straying further and further away, examining the architecture and decorations. Schlatt sighs.
"We're supposed to wait in the lobby," Schlatt says.
"Go ahead," Wilbur suggests. "I'm a big boy. I don't need you to hold my hand."
Schlatt scowls. "Maybe you didn't hear me, Wilbur. We have to wait in the lobby." He doesn't think before he grabs Wilbur's arm. He's surprisingly cold. Even with the blazer, Wilbur feels like gripping a frozen branch in the dead of winter.
Wilbur looks at him, his lips upturning and revealing fleshy pink gums and pronounced, sharp teeth. Schlatt recoils. He isn't the only one with animal biology here. There's a boy with a deer nose, ears and antlers, there's a guy with jackalope ears and there's the second youngest youth leader has colorful pigeon wings.
But those are all prey animals.
Maybe the passage that's been largely retconned about men born with blood of wolves or fox, blood of animals that consume flesh and consume carelessly...maybe it holds some weight. The passage intones they're closer to Cain than others; that's why the developed the characteristics of predatory animals.
Cain's bloodthirst and abhorrent thoughts still run through them.
Schlatt swallows his fear and retightens his grip on Wilbur's arm. He is a ram. He is a sheep. And he is not scared off in the House of God.
"Brave little lamb; do you want us to stay with the shepherds? Scared of what lurks beyond the lit fields?" Wilbur taunts. He speaks with his teeth showing as much as he can. His odd poeticism and lyrical tones echo of his hobby, of the journal Schlatt can see in his front trouser pocket.
"If I have to guide you around you're not getting me in trouble," Schlatt hisses.
Wilbur lets Schlatt pull him back towards the clusters of boys. For a moment his gut tightens with Wilbur behind him, but it passes. Wilbur slides his hands into his trouser pockets again and Schlatt let's go of him, brushing off his hand.
He adjusts his cuffs and his own clothes. Wilbur stares outward, unbothered. It can't start soon enough.
The first day is like any camp's first day, rules, expectations, prayer, and worst of all, "getting to know one another" exercises. The teen boys, or as they kindly put it, young men's meeting room is small, but not so bad they're bumping knees under the table. It feels confined compared to other grand rooms of the church.
The church the camp takes place at is bigger with a seminary nearby and some of their camp takes place in the lecture hall nearest. The technology is a little outdated, and by a 'little'...Schlatt winces as the projector is wheeled in and he recognizes the manilla yellow old thing that's hooked with an adaptor to what must be the youngest youth leader's own laptop, since it was made in the last year.
One year they'd rolled out a box-TV on a cart with a VHS.
All of the boys had agreed to pull aside a youth leader and beg them to consider more recent technology. They'd succeeded. The youth leaders themselves weren't too keen to operate a VHS of all things.
Schlatt finds a seat near the front, hoping secretly it'll deter Wilbur. It nearly does.
It's that damned young youth leader that gently nudges Wilbur and asks he still accompany Schlatt. He sees Wilbur sigh, sullen and dejected and join him near the front.
Wilbur sits too close. His leg brushes Schlatt and Schlatt waits until he's unseen to flash a scowl at him and pointedly move a few inches away.
The pigeon-winged youth leader takes his place at the front of the room, the youngest beside him.
"You'll need to take notes and I hope, this year, no one forgot their bible or heavens forbid," a look to one of the guys who sinks in his seat as his buddies laugh and clap him on the shoulder, "brought their sister's 'Bible stories for girls' edition." The
"She thought it'd be funny to shove it in my case," the boy cried.
"Let's have none of that again," the youngest leader says.
Schlatt pulls his own bible out and a notebook he's already scribbled a few notes in here or there and glances to Wilbur. He half expects Wilbur won't have one, so when Wilbur drops unceremoniously a bible with a neat maroon case and a prim bookmark he's a little taken aback. The mystery ends when he catches the name on the leather case.
"Your dad or brother's?" Schlatt asks quietly, spinning a pencil idly in his hand.
"Father's." Wilbur glances at him. He doesn't pull out a clean notebook, but that journal again. He clearly isn't going to be paying attention. A wry smile on Wilbur's face as he flips his journal back to the page he left off. "I would have tried chucking this too in the river,” he taps on the bible, “if I knew he wouldn't make me swim for it," Wilbur says and there's a story there Schlatt finds himself desperately wanting to hear. He tells himself it's not worth it.
"While I get the projector up and running feel free to chat among yourselves," the pigeon-winged leader says. "So, where does this cord go..." his talking fades to a mumble as he and the other youth leader fret over the technology situation. Every year it always took them fifteen minutes or more to figure out what plugged into where.
Schlatt tells himself he isn't going to ask. But curiosity has been his biggest temptation towards sin his entire life. "What do you mean?"
Wilbur doesn't look at him, but he smiles. He glances furtively to the side, as if he's telling a dirty secret then, "I threw my suitcase in the river." A dramatic sigh. "To try and avoid being dragged here. Clearly, it didn't work."
Schlatt stares at him in disbelief. "You have to be kidding me? That's insane."
"Nope," Wilbur pops the p. "I was halfway to stripping and going into the river myself when I was told either I'm going or he'll find somewhere more military to send me."
It sounded like Wilbur needed somewhere more military. "You're really something," Schlatt says.
Wilbur snorts. He glances at Schlatt. "And what about you, lamb? Do you eagerly look forward to these? Daily mass? Constant discussion about theology and remaining pure?"
"Yes," Schlatt says honestly.
"Droll," Wilbur sniffs.
Schlatt shakes his head. Normally, it'd be easy to say, "I love God; that's all there is to it." But a wave of self-doubt and shame from the doubt wash over him and he grinds his pencil into the notebook's paper.
Schlatt stares at the mess of graphite on the paper then with a sharp intake of breath straightens. "You know, Wilbur. I have a name. I'd greatly appreciate it if you used it."
"I frankly forgot. I wasn't paying attention when he said it," Wilbur says. It doesn't even sound like a lie.
Schlatt laughs in disbelief, covering his mouth. This son of a... this son of a sinner. "It's Schlatt."
"Schlatt?" Wilbur tries in his eloquent tone. "For someone so fragile it seems too harsh."
"I'm not fragile," Schlatt hisses. He brushes the graphite off his paper. "You're a piece of work."
"I'd much prefer to be that than a sheep," Wilbur says.
The projector finally lights up with a slide show that someone's clearly already went animation heavy on and plastered far too many images. They may have finally used the technology, but graphic design had a long way to go. Wilbur stared at it like it personally spat in his mother's face.
"Oh, that's horrid," Wilbur whispers.
"You should be thankful they aren't still using a chalkboard or whiteboard," Schlatt says, flipping a page on his notebook to hide the graphite scar from the pencil.
"I'm going into video production and editing," Wilbur says. "And I can't say graphic design is my passion, but...I can certainly say it isn't theirs."
Schlatt rolls his eyes. "Fitting someone like you goes into something so..." He wants to say 'useless' or another unkind word, but he swallows. Mary. He's being a little too much of a jerk. It's not particularly godly of him.
"Oh?" Wilbur doesn't sound offended; on the contrary. He sounds delighted by Schlatt's negative opinion. "What's your plan after this lovely camp?"
"Seminary college," Schlatt says.
"How droll," Wilbur mocks.
Schlatt's hackles raise, but he taps his pencil hard against his leg. Don't let evil thoughts take hold. Turn the other cheek. He's saved from further torment when the presentation begins.
For the duration of it all, Wilbur continues taking "notes" in his music journal and when called on, infuriatingly, gives passable answers. Schlatt had for a moment thought he'd know nothing. He'd be utterly clueless, and he'd be shamed. But his answers suffice. Sure, most of the questions aren't deep and troubling, but Schlatt feels a lick of a forbidden emotion. Loathing.
When lunch comes, the youngest youth leader flashes him an encouraging smile. It's clear he isn't freed from being Wilbur's buddy.
Schlatt sits next to him. The food was home-cooked here, by a lone couple of women who Schlatt tolerates. He's a picky eater and he's been told it. Their food isn't his favorite.
Wilbur might be pickier because he's eating only an apple and bread. Schlatt stares at him. Their table is desolate. No one, even boys Schlatt likened himself friends with join their table and he's stuck with the silent and infuriating Wilbur.
His sharp teeth crunch into the apple, pieces of its red skin wedging between his teeth. Juices wet his lips and Schlatt tries to draw his eyes away as he realizes contempt has given way to something worse. A pain scalds him. Shame. It doesn’t feel like loathing or plain curiosity. The emotion brewing in him spits at God as Wilbur's tongue sweeps across his lips and then teeth as he tries to dislodge bits of apple.
But something rises in Schlatt's stomach and chest and he turns his eyes to his food and eats quicker, his ears feeling warm.
"You're quite a ravenous eater," Wilbur notes.
"You eat like a bird," Schlatt says, as he scoops the last of his gravy over his potatoes and shovels it into his mouth.
Wilbur giggles. His voice is light. He doesn't even eat his bread, instead pulling from his pocket a tube Schlatt stares dumbly at before it clicks it's chapstick. Plenty of guys and priests use it, but it smells strongly of...
"Is that cherry chapstick?" Schlatt questions without thinking.
Wilbur pops the cap off, rolling it over his lips. "Mhm. I like my lips soft."
They look good soft. Schlatt flinches at his own thought. He's not gay. He can't be. Wilbur's a very...aesthetically composed young guy, but Schlatt's a holy man. It's been easy to resist women because he's given his heart to God.
It has nothing to do with how his pulse quickens at Wilbur's slick noises as he rubs his wet lips together.
"Why cherry?" Schlatt asks, desperate to cleanse himself and slow his breathing.
"Why not?" Wilbur retorts. He shoves the chapstick back in his pocket.
Schlatt snorts. He finishes his food and sighs. He takes Wilbur's plate and his own to the sinks in the back out of learned kindness more than any desire to be nice. Wilbur glances at him, but returns to his journal, chewing on the pencil.
"You could try and learn a thing or two while you're here, Wilbur," Schlatt says. "Your father clearly cares about your soul and your wellbeing."
"No, he doesn't. He cares I'm, as they say kindly, 'fruity,'" Wilbur says.
Schlatt shifts uncomfortable. It—It's awful to say, but Wilbur might be the only gay guy he's talked to before. Sure, he's seen them. Or at least he thinks he has. Sometimes in school outings a fellow guy might jab him in the ribs and gesture to a guy in feminine clothes or make up or talking in that high voice and Schlatt would cringe. Maybe, Wilbur doesn't mean it that way?
"Fruity?" Schlatt asks hesitantly.
Wilbur stares at him, his eyebrows slowly raising higher and higher until Schlatt ducks his head. Wilbur laughs. Regardless, he entertains Schlatt's question. "I'm not particular on gender, Schlatt. I've had my tongue down many throats."
Schlatt has to bite his tongue to keep from saying anything, but his face goes bright pink enough Wilbur covers his mouth as he laughs louder. He leans back as laughs, his lean frame fluid and loose in its movement and Schlatt shrinks down. People stare.
"Stop," Schlatt begs.
"Lighten up," Wilbur says.
"You can't just bring up—you should take that to confession," Schlatt says, leaning forward so they're not as easily overheard.
"I don't care," Wilbur says, humoring him and leaning forward. Their elbows brush. Schlatt narrows his eyes and tries to give Wilbur a stern look, but Wilbur is unfazed. "If you and my father and your 'kind' want to save my soul, so be it, but don't expect my cooperation."
Schlatt gapes at him, mouth open like a stunned fish and he only closes it after Wilbur's stood and walked off. He practically struts. There is no dignity. No regard for being well composed and godly and right.
Wilbur has no shame.