Warning: This chapter contains explicit sexual scenes.

        The sun is shining, but it’s nothing like the sunshine back home. Even with the sunlight, there’s still cold in the air. The apartment is dark: all the curtains closed, always. When Ivana opens them, Birch shuts them again. She sort of understands why, and doesn’t say anything, but this is mostly because she’s just moved in and doesn’t want to anger him. This seems to be something that is easy to do. She’s not his friend. He doesn’t want friends, he says, because then he’d have to hang out with them. This is understandable, she thinks, for an introvert. Ivana is an introvert too.

        On her side table, there’s a note written in block letters on unlined paper. It’s so strange to look at. The writing came from her hand, but it isn’t her writing, and she certainly has no recollection of it being written. The handwriting belongs to Frane, who doesn’t come out often. Ivana suspects something must have gone on between the littles, for that’s really the only time Frane feels the need to intervene. Years ago, when she first began speaking to therapists, she learned to communicate with her alters, although it’s still certainly something to be practiced. Leaving notes around the house helps immensely with her memory lapses, and it eases her frustrations.

        Ivana’s room is a mess. Her boxes are half unpacked, scattered through the small bedroom, random things she’s gathered over the years. For those who don’t know about Ivana’s system, the items in her room likely look very strange. She keeps everything her alters make, or draw, or collect, for no reason other than her own understanding. Lina likes doodling, and dinosaurs, and animal pajamas. Ana enjoys reading, and board games. Luka wears eyeglasses, but Ivana has never worn glasses a day in her life. It’s very peculiar, the complexities of the human brain. It’s fascinating, sad, and frightening all at once. There are so many things that can go with wrong with it if you’re not careful. A brain can save your life one day and try to kill you the next. Ivana knows; she’s been there.

        Before moving to American, Ivana had never seen snow or anything close to it. Her first experience of the stuff was three years ago, the winter after immigrating, and she was startled by how cold it was. She’d seen it on television, and read about it in books, but it was for a long time just as made-up as any of the things in fairy tales. Ivana enjoys the snow, and all the things she can do with it. Lina enjoys snowball fights and building structures in the backyard. In foster care, her system was known by many, but understood by almost nobody. Ivana had had no answers until seventeen, when finally she was given an explanation to her strange behaviors. By then, she’d nearly aged out of care.

        It’s very difficult for Ivana, making friendships. Despite this, she had many friends she left behind in Croatia, and she has several in Alaska, too.

        Today is sunny, the warmest day of the week so far. In central Kodiak, Ivana sits outside the swimming center with some friends. Kirima is the name of her closest friend, whom she met at university a couple years ago. Kiri is Inuit: dark, curly-haired, pear-shaped. Ivana doesn’t look much different. Kiri wears a camera on a string around her neck, and looks through it. “Tell me about your crush! You mentioned you had one, but I haven’t gotten any details yet.”

        Ivana has always fallen for people quickly. It’s a bad habit of hers, but she can’t seem to stop. She feels at ease around Kirima, running her stumpy fingers over her cross necklace. “Oh! Yeah – one of my new roommates.” She says this bashfully, knowing she’s only just met the guys. Kirima knows this, too. “He’s so cute.” Her friend won’t judge her. That’s probably why Ivana finds it so easy to be around her.

        Kirima giggles. “Didn’t you just move like, a week ago? You’re already crushing? Jeez, Ivana, you really are a hopeless romantic.” She lets the camera fall, ignoring the group of young men who shout in her direction. Kirima is twenty two, but she looks seventeen. “Okay, then.” She nudges Ivana. “What’s his name?”

        Ten years ago, Ivana met Tin. He was fourteen to her eleven, and shouted at her brother after a particularly bad day of abuse. Ivana never shouted; she just let Carim do what he wanted. She’d tried to fight him off, the first few times. He was bigger, stronger, more determined, and he’d beat her if she didn’t stay submissive. Tin didn’t like this. He remains the persecutor, screaming and cursing at people who get in his way, but he means well. Tin hasn’t aged a day since then, and he hasn’t gotten any more polite, either. Carim was taken aback by the verbal attack, and he’d gotten angry, and he’d punched a hole in the wall. All Ivana could think at this time was: at least it wasn’t her. 

        “Um…” She shrugs, leaning back on the rock on which she sits. “Lachlan. He’s really nice.” She feels bothered by something, and sighs. “I want to be friends with my other roommate, too, but he seems to hate me for some reason.” Ivana is still put off by this. Lachlan says she shouldn’t take it personally, but really, even he doesn’t know this for sure. “He hardly talks to me and he always seems annoyed.” Kirima would probably find this exciting. She enjoys men she has to chase.

        Kirima shrugs. “I’m sure he doesn’t hate you. He’s probably just like that.” A couple of days ago, Ivana would have denied this vehemently. She’s not so sure now. Birch does seem to speak to everybody with the same type of disdain. “Anyway,” Kiri perks up, giving Ivana a view of her red sealskin headband. “Your crush’s name is Lachlan? Do you spend a lot of time with him? My love life is dead – you gotta tell me all the details about yours!” The sun is shining, making the top of Ivana’s head very warm. Her sunglasses are purple and thick-rimmed, large on her small face.

        “Not really.” Ivana’s tired, hiding baggy eyes under the lenses of her sunglasses. These days, she finds it nearly impossible to fall asleep. “We just hang out at home, mostly.” He doesn’t know Luka, or Lina, or Tin… but Ivana knows the day will come for this. This is always something that gives her anxiety: for there’s no way to tell for sure how someone will react. She hopes they’ll be understanding, of course, and treat her the same way as anybody else. But this happens more and more seldom as she gets older. By now, she mostly just expects people to be afraid, or put-off, by her. Ivana isn’t dangerous. She isn’t going to go around hurting people, even as somebody else; she’d much sooner hurt herself. When people don’t want to understand something, they’ll do anything to not have to. This is something she’s had to learn the hard way.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

        Aura Lush is the prettiest woman Rome has seen in a while. She smiles a smug kind of smile, half of her mouth curved up, eyeing him from the stage. He’s never been to a drag show before tonight, and it’s nothing like he’s been expecting. Having helped Birch get ready, he now knows how much work goes into a performance like this, and it surely is not a simple task. Rome guesses it took around three hours to get ready, but the work is worth it. After leaving the stage, Aura approaches Rome, kisses him on the mouth, and marches backstage with the rest of the queens.

        This morning, Gray attempted to eat a prune. The problem with prunes is they’re wrinkly and dry, and Gray dislikes the texture. Prunes have been a fear food for Gray as long as Rome can remember: they didn’t like them as a kid, and they never learned to. Their father placed a plate in front of them containing a single prune, and Gray studied it for a long time before even attempting to pick it up. When they eventually put the prune to their mouth, they froze and had an anxiety attack, lapsing into tears on the kitchen floor.

        Not too long ago, Rome was held in a clothing store after he was accused of shoplifting. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, unfortunately; he’d gone to leave after collecting a small bag of items, and the storeowner confronted him. "Sir,” said the middle-aged woman, blonde and wearing too much jewelry. “Where do you think you’re going?”

        It was a different woman than the one who’d cashed him out. She had a serious look about her, eyeing him up and down, old enough to be his mother. “Well, I’m finished here, so I’m just leaving.” He thought this was self-explanatory – but Rome’s smart enough to know when he’s being racially profiled. When he was out with his fathers, this sort of thing was even worse. More than once, his fathers had been followed in a store, or questioned at the doors of their own home, or forced to provide proof of their parentage. 

        The woman’s arms were crossed. It was fortunate for her Rome knows how to keep his temper at bay. “I saw you shoplifting a necklace before you left.” She hadn’t seen shit, and she knew it. “I’m going to have to ask you to let me look through your backpack.” 

        In situations like this, Rome used to call his father. Most times this didn’t work anymore, because people like this woman aren’t willing to put their racism aside for even a moment. Once or twice he had called Gray, but Gray is shy and not very good during confrontations. He’s taken to calling Avalon, who’s not only forward, but also knows the law quite well. He sighed. “You didn’t see me do anything. All I have in my backpack is schoolwork and an extra sweater.” He hadn’t needed to explain this, but he’s learned how best to handle a situation like this. “Look,” he’d said, and pulled his pockets out. “I didn’t steal anything. I’m just trying to go home.”              

        Several other employees had noticed, and some had gathered around. It always happened like this: employees believe their superiors, even without a hint of proof. Rome tried to continue walking, and the storeowner blocked his way. “Sir, I need to check your bag.” He knew denying her this would make him seem guilty, even though he’s never shoplifted a thing in his life. Everybody says innocent until proven guilty. But no one really means it. . And so he’d handed over his bag, reluctantly, for it to be searched. Many people watched, but not one stepped forward, which Rome had learned to expect. Unless you confront a person by name or gesture, nobody is willing to help.

        “Can I go now?” Rome received his backpack back; all of his school papers had been ruffled. “Since I clearly didn’t steal anything?”

        He remembers the police being called, at one point. He remembers the owner closing the store, locking the doors, and keeping Rome inside: this was degrading and humiliating. Rome knows he’s not a criminal. Everyone else knows it, too, but they won’t admit it. When he called Avalon, she was on her way home from work, and turned around instantly to come to his rescue. Rome hates being rescued. He isn’t a helpless child, and he isn’t a shoplifter.

        It’s disheartening how differently Rome and his sibling get treated. Gray has never once been stopped and accused of something, or followed around a store, or racially profiled. Rome knows, that’s just how the world works, but it doesn’t make it any better. He remembers once, his fathers were accused of kidnapping Gray, and were questioned by the police. It’s lucky they’ve kept their children’s adoption information, or who knows what would have happened? The world is fueled by hatred. Rome doesn’t have time for that. 

        “Hey, dipshit.” Birch has changed back into his everyday clothes and stands in front of Rome, tapping his painted nails on the older boy’s shoulder. “We’re done here. What should we do now?” He sees the drag queens leaving, though he hasn’t officially met any of them. Rome could never dress up like this. For him, it’s just too much work.

        He stands. “Want to come over?”

        Birch always wears suspenders. “I guess.” He walks quickly, hunched over like an old man, and he shuffles his feet. “You’re driving.”

        “Why do you dress like that, anyway?” Rome follows, almost becoming lost in the crowd of people.  “You look like a ninety year old man. I think my grandpa has extra suspenders if you ever run out.”

        “Oh, whatever.” Rome has parked near the entrance, and finds his car easily. When he and Birch get in, the boy throws his feet up onto the dash. “At least I don’t dress like a douchebag.” He wears sunglasses, which are round and white, and don’t suit his face. “Isn’t your dorm a fucking mess, Rome?”

        His dorm is not that bad. Sure, it’s cluttered, but it could be much messier. “Some of us own more than three things, asshole.” He pauses, thinks through his next words for a few moments before saying them. “Come on a road trip with me.”

        The sun is bright. Birch puts his visor down, pushes up his sunglasses on his face. “Where?” 

        “Canada.”

        “Why?”

        Rome shrugs. “Why not? It’s summer vacation and I have money from sports.” 

        A moment passes. Birch pushes his glasses up to look at Rome suspiciously, and then he lowers them. “Fine.” 

        The man is so hard to impress. Rome hasn’t known him that long, and he’s already aware of this fact. He drives the rest of the way to the university in silence, and claims his parking spot. Rome hates paying for parking. Even with a student pass, it isn’t free. During the summer, he doesn’t spend a lot of time at home. Even today, he’ll probably back out on the road before too long. “So, my house is over here…” He enjoys having his own space. The dorm has large windows, but they also have blinds. This comes in handy when Rome brings people home to have a good time with. His father likes to check in: make sure he’s being safe and responsible. He always does. “It’s a bit messy-”

        “A bit?” Birch snorts, sliding a pile of clothing out of the way with his foot. “It looks like an explosion went off in here. Do you ever clean?”

        They’ve got a strange relationship. It isn’t hatred, and it isn’t quite love. The man drives him crazy, but somehow, he still can’t seem to leave him alone. “Okay, Mr. Perfect, sorry I’m not a neat freak like you. Why don’t you clean my room if it bothers you so much?”

        “You wish.” Instead of cleaning, Birch tosses his bags onto the floor, adding to the mess. “Your room’s kinda cool. How often do you use this workout stuff?”

        Rome’s door has a lock, for some reason. He’s never had a problem with it. “Almost every day.” It’s obvious Birch doesn’t work out. He’s scrawny, short; it’s almost too easy for Rome to pick him up. He’s a bit horny. “Do you like to be dominated?” He knows the answer to this, already, but he wants to hear Birch say it.

        The smaller boy stands against the wall. “You know the answer to that.”

        When Rome takes him by the throat, he doesn’t object. “Do you like to be degraded?”

        Birch really is beautiful. His eyes are small, downturned, always sad. “Yes.”

        “What about pain?” Rome drags his fingers down the boy’s cheeks, which are pink with color, and warm to the touch. “Do you want me to hurt you?”

        This time, the words are a whisper. “Yes.” Rome loves being dominant, and he’s good at it. The only time he’s seen Birch willing to be obedient is during sex, and this is a refreshing change of pace.

        He whispers, raspy and impatient, his mouth lingering atop Birch’s, not quite touching them. “Choose a safe word.”

        “Pamplemousse.”

        This is not what Rome was expecting, but he goes with it. “You’re a dork.” Birch is pressed against the bedroom wall, arms on either side of him, his head back against the wall. “Take off your clothes.”

        Although Birch smiles, there’s a twinkle in his eye. “And if I don’t?”

        His skin is soft, and tastes like cotton candy. He lets Rome bite his neck, and ears. “If you don’t, I’ll have to punish you. Would you rather I use my hand or a paddle?” He has some paddles. Juni never let him use them, but things might change now. She was never adventurous enough for Rome, anyway. Birch begins to undress, letting his clothes fall to the floor by his feet, nearly bumping his glasses off his face. “Good boy,” says Rome, sliding his hands down the boy’s body, which is cold. “You’re hot.” After removing his jeans, Rome grabs Birch, throws him onto the unmade bed, straddles him.

        It’s been a while since Rome has done anything really kinky. He’s missed it, but he’s also forgotten a bit how to do it. He holds both of Birch’s arms behind his back, quiet until the man mutters. “Are you going to fuck me now?”

        “Mhm.” He touches slowly, softly, preparing himself with the lubricant on his bedside table. He doesn’t need a lot. “Hold still, slut.” He adjusts, shoves himself inside with vigor, listening to the quick exhale from a sub who just can’t keep quiet. “You’re going to do what I tell you, and you’re going to be good about it. Aren't you?"

       For such a small man, Birch is well-endowed. You’d definitely never be able to tell this by looking at him. He grumbles. “Yes.” He squirms, getting comfortable, letting Rome resume his nibbles and bites. “Are you going to let me cum this time?”

       "We’ll see.” Rome knows what he wants, and he’ll do anything to do it. “Now shut up. You’ll do as I say.” He moves quickly, unkindly, holding his sub tightly so the boy can’t move. “Louder.” He grumbles, breathing in Birch’s ear, “I want to actually hear you making noise.” Rome isn’t the loudest in the world, but he doesn’t try to be quiet, either. “Don’t be such a prude,” he says, and slaps Birch on the ass. 

       Things have changed between them. Rome isn’t sure when, but all of a sudden he feels the need to please Birch during sex, and not just fuck around to get his rocks off. He wouldn’t say it’s love, or even overt affection, but things feel different now. Birch is very mysterious, and Rome enjoys puzzles. He’s good at them, too. He rolls onto his back, pulling Birch on top of him, clutching the boy like he wants them to mold together. Rome isn’t sure what’s come over him. “You’re my bitch,” he mutters, and touches his lover all over until he squirms.

       . . . . . . . . . . .

 

       The trip from Kodiak to Vancouver, British Columbia, takes fifty nine hours. Rome insisted on driving, and God knows why, it’d be so much faster to fly. “I want to see the scenery,” he claims, “and you can’t see it from an airplane.” Rome wants to drive through the mountains and over the ocean, and he’s determined to make the most of the long trip. “I’ll do most of the driving,” he promises, lugging the last of their suitcases into the trunk. “You can just sit and relax and enjoy the ride.”

       Birch wouldn’t have volunteered to drive, anyway. At least not at first. He’s missing Gracie, and he’s irritable from sleeping in too late. Birch is not usually one to sleep in, even if he has the opportunity. Unlike Rome, he’d rather get up with the sun, and he gets quite grumpy if he stays in bed too long. Rome, in comparison, would sleep until sundown if he had the chance.

       "So, why Vancouver?” Birch settles himself into the passenger seat, resting his feet up on the dashboard. He does this more than the average person. “What does it have that Kodiak doesn’t?” He’s never left the island. Judging from the way he asks the question, he’d be perfectly content never leaving at all.

       “I dunno.” Rome is a fast driver, reckless, a thrill-seeker to Birch’s calm. “It’s a bustling city and not a tiny island. There are things to do there and people to meet. Haven’t you ever wanted to just travel?”

       The day is already half over. So much could have been accomplished by now. Birch shrugs. “Not really.” Rome knows Birch is only here because he asked him to be: and this is a good enough reason, but he can’t help feeling frustrated. Birch removes his feet from the dash to turn on the stereo; he plays an old soul album he brought along. Aside from classical music, this is all he listens to. “What are we doing once we get there?”

       It’s bizarre. How can someone so young be so old? It’s hard to explain, a little. Birch has the personality of an eighty-something-year-old grandfather, and he dresses the part. When people say you’re an old soul, they mean you’re a loner, and they don’t want to deal with you being withdrawn. Maybe he’s been reincarnated too many times, he’s become stuck in the ways of the past. Rome wonders if the boy believes in an afterlife, or any sort of spirituality at all. This is something that can be discussed later. 

       “Exploring.” Rome has so many plans, so many ideas that it will be hard to fit everything in. “Maybe go to the beach, or hang out at the hotel. We’ll think of something.” In the back of his car, there’s a bag just for summer supplies. Hats, sunscreen, sunglasses, sunburn lotion; Rome never packs this much when he’s travelling with his family. Even just sitting in the car, Birch wears sunglasses, which are large and cover much of his face. This seems to be his style when he heads outdoors. “I know you don’t like the sun. Maybe we can just hang out inside the hotel.”

        Birch closes his eyes. He won’t sleep; it’s past noon. He always feels he’s wasting the day if he sleeps in past sunrise. “Kay.”

        It’s nearly Rome’s birthday. He’ll be twenty years old, and nearly have passed enough time to become High Priest. This is something that means a lot to him. “I did have one idea, though.” Rome wants to drive all the way to Canada without stopping to sleep. They’ll switch out, he’s said, so the other can eat and rest. This might not happen, but he wishes it would. “I was thinking we could go to an escape room, for my birthday. I’ve never done one before.”

        The song on the stereo ends; a moment of quiet ensues. Rome expects Birch to agree reluctantly, or not agree at all. Instead, he surprises Rome by nodding. “Okay. Might be fun.” After this, they drive in silence, taking in the scenery and the sunshine accompanying them on their trip.