by Aiden Bates
“No, Zachary,” Ian said with a laugh, looking at Zachary as if he were mentally impaired. “Like a date. You know, we get dressed up, we go to dinner, then the dance, and then maybe hanging out after.”
They did have that date—dinner with friends, dancing, and hanging out afterward at White Castle until four in the morning, even though Zachary knew his parents were going to be pissed—and then a few more, and soon they were the hot couple on campus, boyfriend and boyfriend, alpha and omega, Ian and Zachary.
Zachary’s parents were excited for their son, but also concerned. Zachary’s alpha-father wanted to make sure his boy was being treated right, but he found no room for complaint. Ian was attentive and sweet. He insisted on paying for all their dates, held doors open for him at every chance, and gave him heartfelt letters filled with painfully sappy poems. Zachary’s omega-dad joked that he himself had never been wooed so thoroughly. They were happy for their son.
It was clear: Ian was smitten.
Zachary was smitten, too.
They made love for the first time over spring break, about five months into their courtship.
A group of friends went upstate together to camp out on someone’s parents’ property. It would be five days of cooking over a campfire, swimming in the lake, and hiking in the lush greenery.
Zachary’s omega-dad knew, of course, that there was a chance that the boys would have sex, and he pulled his son aside for that most horrifying of all conversations. The public school sex-ed curriculum was notoriously lacking, and it left alphas and omegas out of the books completely. So like most alphas and omegas, Zachary’s parents taught their son on their own. And now it was time for Zachary to understand how to protect himself, body and mind. In his backpack that weekend, tucked in with his camera, clean socks, and toothpaste, were condoms.
“Take care of each other,” Zachary’s omega-dad said, and Zachary mumbled that he would. His face was hot with embarrassment.
He ended up being glad that he was prepared, though, when Ian gave him that look the first night, a mixture of love and hunger—desire—and pulled him close inside their tent. They were both virgins, both clumsy and unskilled, but both filled with the yearning to make the other feel pleasure and joy. It was over quickly, but when Ian cuddled up to him and whispered his love into Zachary’s ear, Zachary thought he would split from happiness.
Despite being teased on a daily basis that they were “two peas in a pod,” there was one way that Ian and Zachary differed. Ian was a thrill-junkie. He’d been rock climbing since he could walk, scuba diving since he was able to get his license at fifteen, and was already saving up for a trip to Nepal to climb Everest. Even on their camping trip, Ian was constantly seeking little thrills. Zachary preferred to watch through the lens of his camera, holding his breath when his handsome alpha boyfriend—and new lover—climbed trees or swung from a rope into the dark lake below.
It was the Friday of spring break, and they were heading back home the next day. Like everything back then, the days were filled with meaning and emotion. The last day of the last year of their high school careers, and they knew they’d never forget a moment. The group decided to hike to Neville Peak, the highest in their mostly flat state, where a stunning waterfall and clear, cold pool awaited them. They left camp at eight that morning, as it would take two hours to get there, and they’d have time to eat lunch and swim in the sun before heading back to make their last spring break dinner.
As Zachary hiked, he watched Ian hiking in front of him, holding out his arm to warn Zachary of rocks or a low bough. Zachary couldn’t believe how lucky he was sometimes. He found his eyes landing on Ian’s cute butt more than once, his tight swim trunks showing off every muscle. Zachary would look away quickly, and then think, Wait, I’m allowed! and take in the glorious sight again with a little shiver of sweet lust.
The waterfall was everything they were promised: about thirty feet tall and cascading over black rocks covered in lush green moss with a deep pool below. Horny kids, every one of them, they all stripped to nothing within a matter of minutes, and jumped into the cold water with shrieks and whoops. Zachary put his camera—an expensive thing that he’d mowed about fifty lawns to afford—into a plastic bag as he gathered the courage to take off his clothes in front of his classmates.
None of them were even looking at him, though. The single guys were horseplaying, swimming and diving, chasing each other; and the paired couples were already attached to each other, enjoying the thrill of being naked together in the sunlight with nary a parent to panic. The only person looking at Zachary was Ian, waist deep in the water, his eyes intense and his beckoning finger telling Zachary that he was desired . . . right then, right there. Zachary stripped, ignoring his embarrassment, and joined his alpha in the water. They bobbed and floated together, lips exploring lips above the surface of the water, their hands exploring bodies below. Zachary tried not to make a sound when Ian’s hand brought him to orgasm. No one seemed to notice.
A loud whoop broke the silence. They looked up and saw one of their friends at the top of the waterfall. It wasn’t the rainy season and the guy was able to stand right in the medium flow without difficulty. He looked pleased with himself.
“Get out of the way, you chicken-shits!” he called jovially. They swam away from the deepest, darkest center of the pool, and watched in awe as their friend took the first plunge. When he reappeared a few seconds later, they cheered and then the next divers made their way to the top.
Ian was too polite and attentive to leave Zachary, but Zachary could tell that Ian wanted to join the others.
“Go ahead,” Zachary told him. “I’ll get my camera.”
That was how it came to be that Zachary captured Ian on film during his deliriously happy last moments alive. The camera caught him entering the water, but Ian didn’t come up.
In disbelief, Zachary continued to snap away, thinking that his boyfriend would surface at any moment, shaking his hair out of his face with a yell. Perhaps he swam down to try to touch the bottom. Ian would come back up any second, reporting whether the pool was lined with silt or stone. Zachary would scold him for being a show-off.
Zachary kept snapping, even as the other kids started to panic, to yell, to dive under to find their friend. One of the girls screamed, and another swam to the shore and fumbled in her backpack for her cell phone.
No one knew what was going through Ian’s mind when he jumped, of course, but everyone knew Ian pretty well. He was a smart kid who loved to have fun, and when he dove from the top of the thirty-foot waterfall, he must have been an inch or two off the mark, too excited to notice or to think it mattered. When his friend finally found him, grabbing him by his arm and hauling him to the surface, Ian was already gone. The boys took turns giving him CPR, while one sobbing girl spoke to Emergency Services on the phone, and another girl put her arm around Zachary. He had dropped his camera and just stood there, shaking violently, until someone made him sit and put a random t-shirt on his naked body.
The helicopter landed about thirty minutes after they called, but by then, it was all over.
Zachary still thought of Ian often. After a few years of therapy, they were now almost entirely happy memories, thinking of his smile and his zest for life. Zachary still had plenty of pictures of him, and occasionally, a photo that he had taken of Ian would pop up on Facebook, especially on Ian’s birthday or the anniversary of his death every March. Ian’s parents had told Zachary, through tears, that his photos made Ian’s life so much more poignant for them.
When Zachary was feeling particularly sentimental and spiritual, usually after a glass or two of wine, he considered the idea that perhaps that’s why he had been invited into Ian’s life, that a “higher power”—God or the Borg or whatever he thought he might believe in that day—knew that Ian wasn’t long for this world and wanted Zachary to document his short time. Zachary usually snapped out of those moments quickly.
When he wasn’t feeling spir
itual or sentimental, he was just grateful to have known the boy, and that his first alpha had been so sweet. Zachary’s standards for future lovers were almost unrealistically high because he was constantly comparing possible relationship candidates to Ian. It wasn’t fair, he knew that.
There was one quality of Ian’s that Zachary was decidedly not looking for: that reckless spirit of adventure. No more thrill-junkies. It was actually difficult, in Zachary’s line of work, to meet men that were not into jumping out of planes and swimming into underwater caves, but Zachary didn’t take risks any more. He was looking for a handsome, kind alpha who treated him like a king, and who was happy to stand safely away from all edges.
As it turned out, that was a tall order. Zachary hadn’t met anyone promising in a while. He had dates and lovers, but no one that he liked enough to settle down with yet.
Zachary was happy, though. He had a well-paying job doing something he loved, he traveled the globe, and he had friends and family waiting for him whenever he headed back home. And he had days like today, filled with fascinating characters and his own art.
Chapter Five
Bastian stared up at the textured ceiling, his eyes searching for accidental designs that looked like faces. He had done that ever since he could remember. There was a small water stain up there, an ugly thing from a long ago pipe leak, and it looked like a smiling monkey.
While Bastian was able to speak about Seasonal Affective Disorder in very clinical terms, the truth was that he suffered from it along with many of the residents of Stellar Landing. Days like today, when the snow was banked up against all of the ground floor windows and no sunlight got through the flurries at all, caused him to feel unmotivated and mildly depressed. As much as he would love to use a “snow day” to get a ton of research done, he could barely find the desire to leave his cozy apartment. The television and a new show on Netflix tempted him, and there was a frozen pizza in the freezer. It would have been easy to stay in all day.
Instead, Bastian pulled himself out of his comfy, warm bed, got ready, and headed down to the school. He was observing and testing elementary school kids today, and as always on bad-weather days, he was curious about how the stark whiteness outside would affect their demeanor and behavior inside. He had a box full of puzzles and worksheets, and highlighters that smelled like bubblegum and grapes.
The third-, fourth-, and fifth-graders that he was working with today were a bright bunch of kids. Bastian had taught them about analogies last time he worked with them, explaining how to draw connections between one set of words and apply them to another word in order to fill in the blank. It was advanced work for kids their age, middle-school work, and the younger kids were thrilled with the chance to show off how smart they were. Today they were going over analogies again as a group, to see how quickly they could each come up with the right answer when Bastian tested them individually.
“Okay, okay, smarty-pantses. That last one wasn’t too hard. But this one,” Bastian said, holding a big white flashcard behind his back, “this one is seventh-grade level. So . . . you probably won’t get it. Don’t feel bad, okay?”
He was teasing them, of course. The kids jeered, and he pulled the card out and read it to them. Before he finished speaking, hands were in the air.
“Flour is to cookie, as egg is to . . . what?” Arms waved violently in the air like palm trees in a hurricane, and Bastian laughed. “Who should I pick? Who, who, who?”
He finally called on Andrew, a freckled, handsome kid, the eldest son of Aaron and Denise.
Andrew jumped to his feet. “What’s the thing, that thing, with the eggs? Oh, man! It’s . . . flat . . . and my mom puts onions and sausage in it! Oh, man!”
“Omelet!” screamed Zoe from the back, a normally shy little girl who turned fiercely competitive during academic exercises.
The class went wild. Andrew pouted for about a second, but then he was clapping Zoe on the back with the rest of them. It was all the kids against Bastian, always. Bastian laughed as the kids broke into a cheer: Zo-wee! Zo-wee! Zo-wee!
The group scored well on the individual tests, and Bastian would have to compare the results later with some of the “sunny day” results. It would be close, but even if there were only minute differences, if those differences were consistent, it would still point to a cognitive impairment during poor weather. For now, though, he passed out markers and then moved on to test the four-to-five-year olds on similar tasks.
As always, at the end of a school day, Bastian was content. The kids energized him and put him in a positive mood. Their smiles were contagious, and more than one gave him a warm hug goodbye.
Bastian was in such a good mood, in fact, that he thought he might head to the café for dinner instead of eating his frozen pizza on his own. The café was usually crowded during snow days, filled with people desperate for good conversation, and sometimes certain residents with the gift of storytelling would regale the other diners with tales. It was only four o’clock though, so he went to his apartment to analyze his research for an hour or two.
Unfortunately, that’s when those snow-day blues grabbed a hold of him. He wasn’t sad, actually, just complacent. He put his work on his desk but sat on the couch instead, clicking on the TV and turning on Netflix. Just one hour-long episode, he promised himself, and then he’d work a little before heading up to dinner.
But the weather seemed to be messing with the internet connection and Netflix wouldn’t load.
His apartment was furnished for comfort and certainly not for style. It hadn’t made any sense for him to bring anything except his clothes and books to Stellar, so he rented a fully furnished place from one of the longtime tenants. The old leather couch was actually fantastically comfortable, as was the bed. But it was all brown—the couch, the comforter, the cabinets, the blinds, the carpet. It was good for sleeping and for focused work, but he wouldn’t want to entertain here.
Bastian lay back on the couch and held up his phone in front of his eyes. He rarely used Facebook, except in times of extreme boredom. Too many of his old friends and family members posted inflammatory political crap; too many of them posted mindless religious stuff; and way too many of his former classmates from high school and college were getting married and having kids. He scrolled quickly, his right thumb feeling warm from the repetitive movement against the screen, when he stopped suddenly and backed up.
There was a face he hadn’t seen in years: Sam, Bastian’s ex-boyfriend from his first two years in post-graduate school. Bastian hadn’t seen or spoken to the guy in more than four years, but there he was. A mutual friend posted the pic from a recent get-together at a pub near their old university.
Bastian pinched and flicked his fingers, zooming in on his ex’s face. He was smiling brightly, with familiar dancing eyes and dimpled cheeks. Bastian felt a flutter in his chest. Sam. Pretty, happy Sam.
Sam had been getting his PhD at the same time as Bastian, but not in the stuffy ol’ psych department. No, Sam was an anthropologist, and he hung out with the exciting anthropology people. Psychologists wore khakis and loafers; anthropologists wore tribal print harem pants and sandals . . . or even better, bare feet. Psychologists listened to Bach and Mozart, maybe Coldplay if they were younger; anthropologists listened to Afro Celt Sound System and played bongos on the beach. Sam and Bastian ran in completely different circles, and they only happened to meet when they both had to be at a university cocktail party, held to thank their mutual benefactor for funding social science research.
Bastian noticed him from across the library. It was a beautiful old room, and it looked like libraries should—none of those stark lines and bright lights from modern school libraries. It was filled with dark wood and had green-shaded lamps on every table, giving off a romantic, low glow. The library was a perfect place for a cocktail party. Bastian stood with a drink in his hand and his back against a wall, and saw this gorgeous guy with a huge smile, his glossy chestnut curls spilling over his right e
ye every time he laughed, which seemed to be often. Bastian stared, and suddenly the guy was looking back.
Normally, Bastian would have acted like he was just glancing around the room and quickly looked at something else. But for some reason, Bastian was feeling bold. Maybe it was the wine. Bastian held the stranger’s eyes until the stranger smiled deliberately at him, and Bastian smiled back. By the end of the night, they were deep in passionate conversation about the many ways that their respective subjects intersected.
. . . and by the following morning, they were tangled in the sheets and each other’s limbs.
As Bastian thought of Sam now, lying on his couch in far-away Stellar, Alaska, he had to admit that the one way that the two of them were completely compatible was in the bedroom. Their sex was passionate, lusty, and borderline obscene, in a way that even now caused Bastian’s blood to flow below the belt.
Bastian would die before he’d ever admit it, but there were certain moments with Sam that Bastian still thought about when he was alone. Like now. Bastian put his phone down and undid the top button of his pants, then slid his hand down the front.
They were running through the park. Physical exercise was essential when you did stressful academic work all day. They needed to get away from their computers and books and stretch their legs. Bastian and Sam both had ridiculously busy schedules, and they grabbed quality time when they could.
Bastian couldn’t stop staring at Sam’s ass in his nylon running shorts. It looked positively bitable. Bastian licked his lips. It seemed like every moment with Sam was charged with erotic energy, like any situation was posed to devolve into a dirty little fuck-fest, if only they’d let it. They often did.
They both had their earbuds in. It was hard to talk during the end of their runs, when they were winded and just trying to make that last mile back to the gym. The music Bastian was listening to was designed to keep him pumping away—Nine Inch Nails, Led Zeppelin, Peaches—but it also put him in the mood; the thumping beat that kept his feet hitting the path was the same that made him want to thrust into the sexy omega that was running in front of him.
