Rome’s birthday is the ninth of August. He wakes up on this day earlier than most days, rolling over in bed and flopping his arm lazily onto Birch’s chest. He’s always looked forward to his birthdays, but Birch thinks this is stupid: it’s just another day. Rome smiles, pulling the blanket down to reveal his toned chest. “Good morning! Guess what day it is!”

       Birch has been up for hours. He passes the time reading and watching documentaries, wondering how someone could possibly waste their entire morning in bed. At first, he wondered what he was doing here. why he possibly agreed to a trip with a man he’s been dating for only two weeks. But maybe that’s exactly the reason to do it. Rome would say life is too short, and seize the day, and some other corny quote you’d hear in a corny movie. It’s bizarre, really, how easy it is to love someone you used to hate. If you think about it, hate and love aren’t actually very different at all.

       “Morning.” It’s very humid, and Birch’s curls are more wild than usual. At this point in his life, he’s pretty much given up trying to tame them. “Happy birthday, dork.”

       “Thanks, Four-Eyes.” Rome sits up, stretching, nearly pushing the blanket off the bed in the process. “Can you actually see me right now, or do I just look like a blob?” Birch’s glasses are on the nightstand, atop a large novel he’s reading. The room is dark; the only light comes from the dim lamp on the television desk, and the curtains are always drawn. Rome doesn’t hate the dark, but it isn’t his preference. 

       “Blob.” Birch shuts off the television, rubbing his eyes. It’s a hassle having bad eyes, but he’s had bad eyes his whole life. He’s been called many things, but most of them have never bothered him. Birch is easily irritated, but he isn’t easily offended. How many fingers am I holding up?! his friends would exclaim, giggling as if they were some sort of evil mastermind. He’s never responded to this. It’s pointless, and stupid, like most things are. “What are we doing today?” Knowing Rome, it’s something social and boring.

       Celebrating your birthday is stupid. Nobody asked to be born, for one thing. People act like birthdays are a huge deal: like making it another year is an accomplishment. But there’s nothing to accomplish. You’re born for no reason, and you die the same way. A completely unprepared, uneducated person can bring another person into the world against their knowledge or will, and then proceed to mistreat them. If you’re going to force someone to be alive, the least you could do is be nice to them.

       Rome grins. “I want to go to the beach, and then do an escape room. I already have it booked.” Of course he does. The man is so childish, so careless, he seems so young. Birch supposes not everyone had the upbringing he did. “Is that okay? I mean, I want you to come, obviously.” Birch hates the beach. Well, more realistically, he hates the sun.

       He sighs, gets out of bed, picks up the ugly glasses from the nightstand. “I guess.” He gives Rome a lot of shit, but he really does care about the guy – which feels strange to admit. He won’t say anything more about it, though, because emotions are arbitrary and often mean nothing. “If I must.”

       “You must.” Rome stands, and kisses the other boy on the mouth. “Put some sunscreen on and get ready, loser. We’re going to the beach.” 

       When Birch was little, he had a good relationship with his parents. He’d play soccer, baseball, even dance, and they’d happily pay for it. In the three years he was an only child, he was quite spoiled. Nowadays, only the littlest get spoiled. He hates to think what will happen if they get older and realize they’re gay, or trans, or even just atheist. In the eyes of Birch’s parents, these are all things that are despicable. Birch knows there is no God, no sense of “creation” of the world. He doesn’t know about Rome, but Birch thinks religion is stupid, and he’d never get involved with it.

       He wears a lot of sunscreen. Even in the spring, when the sun isn’t even out from behind the clouds, he’ll put it on. When he was younger, he always refused, even when his sunburns got so bad they’d be peeling from his skin. His mother made all of his siblings wear sunscreen, and even when they didn’t, no one ever burned as bad as he did. “Put some on my back.” He holds out the bottle, which was bought brand new for the trip. “Make sure you don’t miss a spot.” Without his glasses on, the room is blurry. He can make out what things are if he looks at them long enough, but this gives him a headache. Birch has worn glasses since he was four years old. Once he considered contact lenses, but he hates the way they feel, and refuses to wear something that will make him uncomfortable.

       “Got it.” Rome takes the bottle. “Do you have a hat?”

       Birch has a large, straw sunhat. He’s a light packer, but he knows what’s important. Rome rubs sunscreen down his back, and then around his front, probably just looking for an excuse to be touchy. Birch doesn’t mind this, as much as he’ll grumble and pretend to be annoyed. Rome’s hands are cold and slimy from the sunscreen; he’s thorough, careful not to miss a spot. The night before, they’d taken a bubble bath together, and stayed in the tub until the water was cold. Birch doesn’t normally take baths. After a little persuading, Rome had managed to get him to agree to it.    

       “Why are you so tense?” Rome rubs his shoulders, massaging the stuff into his skin. “Chill out, Four-Eyes.” He moves his lotioned hands slowly down Birch’s chest and stomach, as the boy wears nothing but underwear – he sleeps like this, and Rome has no complaints.                                                         

       Birch has a genital piercing. Rome was surprised by this, and impressed. The ring is in a sensitive spot, and Rome has admitted he thinks it’s kinda hot. He reaches around: from Birch’s chest to his waist, and slips his cold hands down his boyfriend’s underwear. That’s a strange word: boyfriend. It certainly isn’t one Birch thought he’d ever use to refer to his worst enemy. Though, he supposes they were never really enemies. Rome annoys the shit out of him, but he always makes up for it.

       “What are you doing?” He grumbles, but doesn’t stop Rome. “You’re not finished putting sunscreen on me yet.” He can do it himself, obviously, and might prefer to – but he can’t pretend he doesn’t enjoy the distraction. “Stop.”

       Stop isn’t the safe word. This is how Rome knows if Birch is serious. As soon as the man says pamplemousse, he’ll know to back away.  “Come on,” says Rome, moving his hand up and down, “Can’t a guy just give his boyfriend a handy once in a while?” Their bodies are pressed together: warm against cold, in the middle of their hotel room. Birch has never stayed in a hotel before. He didn’t even have a passport, until a week ago.

       “Shouldn’t I be doing that to you?” Birch closes his eyes, letting Rome work his magic. He’s such a tease, that man. “You’re the one having a birthday.” He has plans, for later on, that he won’t bring up just yet. Birch hates birthdays. But strangely, he enjoys seeing Rome’s dorky smile.

       “So?” Fuck, this feels good. He wriggles, a little. “I want to get you off.”

       “Since when?”

       “Shut up.” Rome makes a snarl sound, quiet and actually very sexy. “Why do you always have to be so difficult?” He moves a hand up, over Birch’s mouth, so that it’s hard to speak. This is likely what he was going for. "We're not going to the beach until you cum, understand?" Birch can’t speak. He nods, instead.

       He still isn’t sure why he’s with Rome. He’s hot, everyone can see that. but there’s got to be more to it than that. Maybe it’s because he’s athletic, or confident, or even funny, in a stupid way. It doesn’t really matter now; he can’t think straight, and he can hardly stand straight, either. Rome moves his hand faster, steadier, until Birch can’t keep himself quiet anymore. When he groans, Rome whispers in his ear. “Good boy.” It’s hard to explain why being dominated is so exciting, but it is. Normally, Birch hates being told what to do. Different circumstances, he supposes.

       When Birch was eleven, he watched porn for the first time. It was with a friend, at a sleepover, long before he ever realized he was different. As he got older, his focus began to shift, and so did what he watched. He used to be ashamed of this, and ashamed of being different. It gets lonely sometimes, adolescence, especially with no friends who are like you. After a while, he found the drag scene, and this helped – keeping a secret isn’t hard if you never speak to people anyway. In a way, drag saved him. It sounds corny to say, but it’s sort of true, he would have been overcome with depression without it. For a long time, it was hard to feel comfortable holding a man’s hand in public, or dressing up in drag and going out. But Birch doesn’t care now, what people have to say or think, if they like him or not. He wishes he hadn’t spent so many years worrying about it.

       Rome bites his ear, and the side of his neck, leaving a stinging feeling. “Cum for me, slut.” It’s a demand, and it sounds so hot in his gravelly voice. He’s nearly there. He feels tense, a pit of pressure pushing inside his abdomen. His head always feels fuzzy when he comes, and it always leaves a mess.

       When Birch was about five, his father took him fishing for the first time. As a kid, nobody suspected anything, even when he begged his mother for dresses and dolls. Oh, he’s just having fun, they’d all say, and think nothing of it. At five, six, seven, this type of exploration was just fine. At nine, ten, eleven, it began to get concerning.

       Rome wears a gemstone around his neck: it’s yellow-white, and cold when it presses against Birch’s shoulder. At times, he wonders what the point is of all these gemstones, all the random crystals Rome has scattered around everywhere. Someday, he’ll surely bring it up. He comes, loudly, which is unusual for him. “Shit. You got me.”

       “Knew I would.” Rome cleans the mess, smug, his gemstone necklace slamming against his chest when he moves abruptly. He grins wickedly, adjusting the baseball cap on his head. “Want to get some food? I’m starving. Let’s hit one of the restaurants along the beach.” From the television stand, he takes the room key, slides it into the pocket of his loose-fitting shorts. Birch needs shorts, but not a swimsuit; he’s perfectly fine wearing mesh shorts into the water. He takes the other boy’s cold hand afterward, following him out of the room.

       It still feels a bit strange, being in Rome’s company without wanting to try and get rid of him. He’s toned and tall, always walking in front. He fidgets with his necklace once in a while, closing his eyes briefly or taking a deep breath. Birch hates to admit it, but the presence of the athlete makes him feel at ease, even safe, when he lets his guard down long enough to feel the aura. “What’s that gem?” He brings it up finally, pressing into the stone with one slim finger. “You’re always wearing a different colored gemstone. What’s that about?”

      “Oh.” The beach is populated and hot, and Birch is well-protected. This doesn’t always help, though. “This one’s citrine, for happiness. What should we eat?” He seems distracted, eager to change the subject, for whatever reason. Rome isn’t usually secretive like that. “No hot dogs. I’m a vegetarian.”

      “You are?” This is news to Birch, but he doesn’t think much of it. “Okay. Don’t get a hot dog, then. Just because you won’t eat meat doesn’t mean I can’t.” They separate, and meet up later on, each with their own plate of lunch.

      Later that evening, they’re doing an escape room, with some friends Rome already made in the lobby of the hotel. It doesn’t sound like an enjoyable time, but it’s his birthday, and he practically begged for it. Hopefully, time will pas quickly, and Birch can go back to sitting in his room, reading or being a loner. This is what he likes most.