Lesser Evils, Part 2

2 – Greetings From The Great North Woods

Holden was correct about him knowing Jessie, only when he knew Jessie, Jessie was still on the street – and still a man.

Now Jessie was a social worker of some kind, and a very hippie-ish woman who favored granny glasses, long skirts, and peasant blouses, very much someone he’d describe as a crunchy granola type. Her transition was an impressive one; you barely noticed her Adam’s apple.

He pulled her aside and told her he was worried about the girl because she was so quiet, acquiescent, and never scared. Some people took silence or meekness for fear, but he could smell the difference. As he told Jessie this, she canted her head like a parakeet, looking at him curiously, and when he was done, she said simply, “You were abused, weren’t you?”

He just shrugged. “Who wasn’t?” Now, if she’d ever asked if he’d ever been hit with a crosscut saw, he might have had an emotional moment, but now he no longer cared. Nearly everyone had a “smacked around as a kid” story, and he wasn’t as bad off as Katie. He got scared, he got hurt and scarred, but he never got broken. That had to wait until Paris died.

At least Katie was in good hands now. Even though Holden gave him a funny look, he agreed to take him home, and when they were in the car, he said, “You realize you’re stone cold sober now.”

“Uh huh. I hurt like fuck.” It was a shame to be back to normal, but the partial change had caused him to fully metabolize the pills and the booze. But at least he’d been fucked up enough to keep a handle on the beast for the whole time (more or less). Maybe that was the way forward from now on – get super fucked up and keep in control during the change.

“And yet you’re so cavalier about the violence.”

“Child rapers are the lowest of the low. As far as I’m concerned, whatever they get, it’s not as bad as they deserve.”

Holden stared at him for a moment, before putting the keys in the ignition. “At least we’re on the same page there. Which kinda bothers me.”

What was there to say to that? So he said nothing, and searched his pockets for any pills. He found a couple, and when he was sure Holden wasn’t looking, he dry swallowed them.

By the time Holden dropped him off at the Magnolia place they currently called home, the pain had ebbed to a dull roar. The house was dark and he knew Dylan was upstairs asleep, because he caught his scent still in the air. He must have come home within the hour.

Roan glanced at the only clock in the house with a readable time on it, and wondered how it got so late. It hadn’t taken that long to beat those guys up and get Katie out of there. Maybe it was the drive.

As for the clock, it was designed as a fishbowl, and the minute hand was a goldfish that made the slowest rotation in history, with the hour hand the type of underwater castle you see in a goldfish bowl.  There were no numbers, merely lines, but he could still figure out what time it was. In the living room was a huge clock the size of a hubcap, shaped like a starburst. Did it have any hour markings of any kind? No. It had hour and minute hands that pointed at nothing; you were supposed to guess the time by position. He wasn’t an idiot – he didn’t like to think of himself as an idiot, at any rate – but he found it impossible to read that fucking clock. What was the point of it? It didn’t even look that good as an object d’art.

Staying in this expensive, archly decorated house, it seemed to emphasize the differences between him and Dylan. Roan knew his lower middle class roots were showing in the fact that he found this house almost appalling on several different levels, while Dylan just shrugged and chalked it up to different tastes. But as different as he and Dyl were, he thought this was a good thing. They had separate lives, they weren’t in each other’s business all the time, they had different interests and time apart, all of which was good. He didn’t know how couples who were  together all the time ever made it. You needed your own space. Just because you were married (or civil partnered, or whatever the fuck you wanted to call it) didn’t instantly turn you into conjoined twins.

He took a shower in the absurd downstairs bathroom (this house had three, all absurdly decorated, and large enough to be spacious living rooms) washing away any lingering traces of blood (okay, only he could smell them and barely, but why take the chance), wondering what was so wrong with him that he wanted to take a sledgehammer to this place – because he was sure you could feed all the homeless of Seattle for a year if you sold the furniture? Actually, you could probably feed Tacoma’s homeless as well. And why even have them? The couches were ugly! And uncomfortable. The ninety dollar one he picked up at a thrift shop was comfortable enough to sleep on, and didn’t look like a drunken leprechaun had thrown up psychedelic mushrooms on it.

Oh shit, was he turning into some bitter old queen? (In his mind, he could hear Dee snort and say, “Turning? Try have been and get back to me.”) Bitter, cynical … vicious. That trafficker who took a shot at Holden was dead. Maybe not this second, but he would be. There was no way you could use a man’s skull to shatter a sink and not kill him. He didn’t feel bad about it – he was selling the girl; she had simply been one in a series – but he thought he should. He was hardening, becoming more of a predator by the day. Or was that a convenient excuse?

He went upstairs, to the insanely large master bedroom with its round bed (ludicrous – who had a round mattress, and most importantly, why? Even Dylan admitted he had no idea how they ever bought the sheets for the thing), where Dylan was curled up on one side of the spacious bed. He remembered how the bed was all white when they first moved in – white sheets, white blankets, white shams, whatever those were. (Both he and Dylan found that weird. “We’re just not all white people,” Dylan had said, and Roan ran a hand through his red hair and replied, “Speak for yourself. If I was any whiter, I’d be translucent.”) In a spare bedroom closet, Dylan found a comforter that was a very gay shade of lilac, but at least it was a color, so he moved it to this bedroom and was currently huddled beneath it. Roan crawled into bed carefully, so as not to wake him up.

His eyes were adjusted to the dark, so he could see Dylan’s shoulder, the delicate latticework of bones beneath taut olive skin, and he carefully traced the scapula with his fingertip.

They were a relationship of two different worlds. But it wasn’t the divide people expected. It wasn’t that Dyl was an artist and he wasn’t, or that Dylan was younger than him, or that he was Hispanic and Roan was clearly a whiter shade of pale, or even that Roan was infected and he wasn’t.

It was that Dylan was totally Human, and he wasn’t. He wondered if that would ultimately tear them apart.

****

When his bladder finally forced him awake, Roan found himself confronted with the punishing bright accusation of the sun, streaming through the gauzy white curtains like a stream of curses. He squinted and grumbled as he made his way to the bathroom, which was all white marble and gold colored fixtures, and it took Roan a moment to realize what was wrong: the birds. At home, he could hear the birds chirping sometimes very loudly, as if they were right above his head. Here, the landscaping kept them in the ornamental trees some distance from the house, and perhaps the building materials also kept the outside sounds muted. It was a shame, as he actually had gotten used to the noise, of birds and wind and branches scraping and slapping against the side of the house. He was a city boy and he knew it, so he had no idea why those sounds made him feel better.

Since it was such a sunny, pretty day, he decided to just go ahead and stay in bed with the covers pulled up. He seemed more accustomed to rain, fog, and gloom. Still, he smelled toast, and wasn’t surprised when the door opened and Dylan came in, eating toast and carrying a mug of tea. “So, when were you gonna tell me about the video?”

Roan sighed as he pulled the sheet off his face. “When I found the right moment. I never did.”

Ultimately he compromised with Bolt, and while it didn’t involve him compromising on personal principals, he still felt dirty. He shot a quick video that would be on Divine Transformation’s page and in general on YouTube. It wasn’t much really, just a statement of intent: he would resist any registry, and encouraged any and all infected to do the same. He doubted they’d arrest them all, but he kind of hope they tried, because then the registry would be revealed for what it was. He encouraged them to all stand together, and promised them, the infected viewing audience, that he would fight this as long as he could. There was nothing radical on it, nothing saying he loved the church or even liked them, it was simply a statement of fact. One that might get him investigated by the FBI, but fuck it. Playing it safe didn’t appeal to him.

He sat up as Dylan sat on the edge of the bed, and offered his tea and toast to him, possibly because he thought he might have a hangover. He didn’t, but he was starving, so he accepted them with a nod and helped himself to a bite and a gulp. The toast was at least sourdough, and the tea some weird green tea berry combination that was actually pleasant. “So are you leaving me?” he asked between bites of toast, mostly just curious.

“No. I must say you sounded very reasonable. I have no idea why some people are losing their shit over it.”

“Because I am encouraging the armed rebellion of infecteds against the normals. It’s the apocalypse, and I’m God or Satan, depending on who you ask.”

“I missed the armed part.”

“I think it’s implied, me being me and all.”

“I see.”

He set the tea down on the end table, and put a hand on Dylan’s naked back. He was wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, pale blue with white and red snowflakes on it, and Roan found himself once again entranced by the long lean line of his spine. “I’m just gonna apologize now for all the shit that’s gonna come ’cause of this, okay?”

It was Dylan’s turn to sigh. “You do realize if you start doing that, you’ll have to keep doin’ it forever.”

“Oh, I know. Thanks for not killing me before now.”

He glanced at him over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “I married the gay Die Hard. What did I expect? I have no one to blame but myself.”

“Did you just compare me to Bruce Willis? I’m insulted.”

He patted his thigh comfortingly. “I meant the character, not the actor. We all know you’re better looking. Even with all the ink.”

“Hey, some of this is yours.”

“The best, yes.”

“That’s right, hon, embrace humility. Speaking of which, how’d the show go last night?”

He seemed to perk up at the very mention. “Pretty well. I sold a few paintings, and someone wants me to do something on commission. Normally I don’t do that kind of thing, but I was intrigued, so I took his number. I figure if I don’t like the idea, I can just back out.”

“His number? Are you sure someone wasn’t just trying to pick you up?”

Dylan smirked at him. He liked it when he showed a little jealousy. “He wasn’t my type. Oh, and a couple of people wanted to buy the photo montage of you. I turned them down, because how could I part with that? It’ll be nice to have a reminder of when you had a rockin’ bod after you get all old and saggy.” He was now grinning like a smart ass at him.

“Old and saggy? You bastard,” he said, and pounced on him, pinning him down to the bed as Dyl laughed. There was something curious about that joke, though – old and saggy. Infecteds didn’t live long enough to get old and saggy, unless they were infected at an advanced age. But since his infection was weird and his body seemed to be adapting to things he never should have been able to adapt to, maybe he did have a shot at becoming old. What would that be like?

It suddenly occurred to him that he never really contemplated the future. He simply lived for the now, because he assumed that was all he had left. Maybe that wasn’t true anymore. How weird would that be? Should it cause him to feel a brief spasm of pure dread? “I will never be old and saggy,” Roan proclaimed, with sarcastic vanity. “I will be beautiful forever.”

“Wouldn’t that require you being beautiful now?” Dylan retorted, smiling.

“Asshole.” He then tickled his ribs, knowing he was ticklish and hated that. He bucked under him, laughing even as he grabbed his wrists and rolled over, pinning Roan beneath his body.

He liked the weight of him, the feeling of his skin against his skin, and Dylan seemed to be aware of that. His smile became playful and sensuous, and Roan returned it to him before they kissed, with the odd sensation of stubble scraping against stubble (neither of them had shaved yet, apparently). Roan’s cell phone, still tucked in the pocket of his jacket on a chair across the room, started to buzz, and since it was right up against the chair’s metal frame, it was hard not to notice. “Ignore it,” Roan said between kisses, wrapping a leg around Dylan’s leg to hold him down. That made him laugh, suggesting he was never even tempted to answer it.

Well, why would he? They had something better to do.

****

Dylan eventually reminded him he said he’d be into work today, and that Fiona would be waiting, so after a quick shower (he didn’t bother shaving) he headed out.

He arrived at the office ten minutes later than usual, but he had a good excuse for being late, although he didn’t need it. After all, he was the boss – who did he answer to?

Fiona was there when he arrived, but so was a stranger. As he came in, she stood up, but so did the stranger. “There you are,” she said, giving him a look suggesting she didn’t find his lateness amusing.

“Sorry. Traffic.” He could have told her he was having sex with his husband, but that was too much information. Besides, he knew that when she watched porn – rarely – she preferred gay porn for some reason, and he didn’t want to give her any kind of mind fuel.

She gestured to the stranger, and said, “We had a walk in.”

“I see.” The walk in was a boy who looked barely old enough to shave. He was a boy of average height and average weight, although tending towards a bit pudgy, a situation not helped by the fact he was wearing two shirts (a long sleeved black shirt beneath a sleeveless white one) and a coat on top of all of that, one of those Army surplus coats in olive drab. He had a floppy haircut, one where his heavy bangs threatened to obscure his eyes, dyed a bottle blond and highlighted with blue and purple streaks. A buckshot of acne highlighted his weak chin, but his pale blue eyes were open and friendly. It looked like he was trying to grow out some stubble, but could only manage a few wispy hairs that were hard to see until you were up close. His mouth was thin and uncertain, like an anxious cartoon character, and as Roan extended a hand towards him, his lips seem to recede further into his face. He looked about fifteen, but the smell of a cologne that wasn’t Axe body spray made him push his age up further. “Hello, I’m Roan McKichan.”

He shook his hand limply; his grip was almost nonexistent, and his hand was cold. “I know, I recognize you from your picture. I’m, um, Oliver Jephson.”

“Nice to meet you. Shall we go into my office?” He didn’t ask where he recognized him from, mainly because he was afraid of the answer.

Not waiting for the kid’s response, he headed into his office, aware of his phone continuing to hum in his pocket. He checked his phone after he got dressed, and discovered it was Seb asking him if he just wanted to make his life harder and cursing him out, showing an uncharacteristic burst of emotion. Maybe because if the registry did become law, it would be Seb that would have to arrest him. He was expecting to get a similar, if more profane, call from Dropkick. It was probably her, so he didn’t answer.

Only when he came in and shut the door did Roan see Oliver was carrying a man purse beneath his coat, adding to his bulky appearance. Since he didn’t smell gun oil on him – just cologne, acne cream, detergent, deodorant, and a smidge of body odor – he wasn’t concerned about its contents. “Can I ask how old you are?” Roan asked, taking a seat behind his desk.

“Um, yeah, I’m twenty two,” he said, taking the seat in front of his desk. He didn’t smell a lie, although the kid was clearly nervous. Was it about this whole scenario, or being alone in a room with him? “I know I look younger, though. I can show you my ID if you want.”

“I’m not selling you booze, kid, don’t worry about it. So what can I do for you?”

The kid settled in his seat uncomfortably, and for a moment didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Once he stopped fidgeting, he said, “This is kind of, um, weird. I’m not sure where to start.”

“The beginning’s always good.”

He nodded convulsively. “Yeah.” He scratched his face, clearly considering his options, and just dived in. “So I’m from Milford, Delaware. When I was eight, my dad went missing. He went to work, and he was supposed to come home, but he never did. I remember it was fall, ’cause, like, I was worried about going back to school and junk, you know? I did okay in school, I was just picked on a lot. I was small for my age.”

Was that all? Roan was getting a gay vibe from him, and it had nothing to do with his black painted thumbnail or somewhat high pitched voice, although those helped. There was an undefinable something that just set off his gaydar.

“So anyways, it was really hard. It was big news for a while, and when his car was eventually found in Wilmington, in a vacant lot with its door open and the battery dead, everybody feared the worst. The police never found much, though, and I think by Christmas of that year we figured he was probably dead. Mom didn’t make it official until the summer I turned fourteen though, she had him declared legally dead, then married my step-father Ken.” He rolled his eyes, easily implying that they didn’t get along. “He’s a nice enough guy, I guess, but he and I just couldn’t stand each other, and when I graduated high school, I applied to every college I could think of on the West Coast, to get as far away from him as possible, and I got accepted to the you-dub first.” U-W, otherwise known as the University of Washington. Roan wondered when he was going to get to the point of his visit. “Anyways, just a couple of weeks ago, I was getting photos for a photo essay, and I was on Flickr. You know what Flickr is?”

Was that a veiled old crack? “Photo sharing software and site.”

“Yeah, right. Anyways, there’s this one guy, Rearadmrl42, who takes great photos, and I was looking through some of his shots, and one caught my eye and I wasn’t sure why.” He moved his man purse to his lap and started scrabbling through it, finally pulling out a photo print. Although the photo had a nice composition, it seemed like an otherwise unremarkable street scene, of three men standing and smiling. Two had their shirts off and a third was wearing a too tight tank top in an oddly pastel orange color; all three men had their arms around each other’s shoulder. Roan recognized the building in the background, knew it was taken in Seattle, and the rainbow bedecked float slightly out of focus off to one side indicated it was taken at the pride parade.

Oliver put his finger on the very edge of the left side of the photo and tapped it. “See him?” He was indicating a man in the near background, almost completely out of the shot, but he was in focus, and his profile was visible as he was on his way out of frame. Roan nodded once, just to let him know he had. “This is my dad.”

Oh, okay. Now he knew why he was here.