Chapter Text
First grade with Ms. Johannsen wasn’t so bad. His best friend Rosie was here, even though she was a year older than Will. She sat on the far side of the room, though, because Will had gotten too many red cards for whispering to her when they sat side by side. And ever since the new program started, Will saw Rosie less and less. She was there at judo, and he could always go see her sled dogs after school or hang out with her in the woods like he was now, but during class … half the time Will was being pulled out to sit with the high school students, and half the time Rosie was being pulled for speech therapy or remedial reading lessons with Miss Dorie.
“I hate Miss Dorie,” Rosie told him, her voice laced with venom. She was a big girl, the same height as Will — but more broad, more strong — and as she spoke, she grabbed a fallen branch from the forest floor and snapped it over her knee. With some difficulty, sure, but Will was still impressed.
“Why do you hate her?” he asked.
“She thinks I’m stupid. Everyone thinks I’m stupid.”
Will waffled on that. It was true, everyone did. And it wasn’t fair, because he knew Rosie was smart. But he didn’t know how to fix it. He scuffed at the broken branch with his shoe. It was green on the inside, and still pliant.
“Let me show you something cool,” he said. He crouched down and pulled out his pocketknife. “If you strip the bark back, you can make a flower.”
Rosie still had a storm cloud in her eyes, but she squatted next to him and watched, even holding the branch in place when Will needed her to. With the sharp side of his blade, he cut the bark away one piece at a time and then dug a little deeper, into the tender green flesh. Strips of it peeled away in clumsy curves, still attached to the branch at the base. Will went around the branch in a circle, peeling strips off all along the stem.
“They look like petals,” Rosie said after a while.
“See? You try.”
She looked around for another piece of wood. Instead of going for a branch, she found a little twig with buds still attached to it and dug her thumbnail into it. It wasn’t green, but it was wet from the melting snow and still flexible.
“This one,” Rosie said. She had her own pocketknife, so Will pocketed his and watched as she stripped the bark away. “Where’d you learn to do this?”
“Mr. Shugak,” Will said proudly. Mr. Shugak was quiet, and lots of people in the village thought he was slow. But he could make any piece of wood become … whatever he wanted it to be. The Shugaks’ home was filled with homemade furniture, hand-carved spoons, statuettes and wooden puzzles. And the scent of wood shavings and sawdust filled the air, probably Will’s favorite smell in the whole world, outside of the ocean. Rosie chipped at her twig a little longer, first forming a flower with some difficulty, then blithely chopping the petals away when she was done.
"Yours was better," she said.
"Just cuz I've done it before. Mr. Shugak is better than me."
“Why do you call him that?” Rosie asked, shooting him a strange glance.
“Mr. Shugak?”
“Yeah.”
Will hitched one shoulder up and shifted his feet. He gave her a narrow-eyed squint.
“He’s your uncle, isn’t he?” said Rosie. She tossed her butchered twig away. “You should call him Uncle.”
“He’s not my uncle,” Will muttered.
“Mrs. Shugak is your mom’s aunt. So that makes Mrs. Shugak your double-aunt. Or something.”
“My mom’s dead.”
“You still have aunts and uncles,” said Rosie simply. She didn’t push it, and the tension building in Will, the hot flush of embarrassment, faded away. Left him cold and drained. If Mr. and Mrs. Shugak were his aunt and uncle, then Dad would have mentioned it to him. They would have mentioned it to him. And besides, Mr. and Mrs. Shugak were Unangax̂, and Will’s mom…
He couldn’t picture her. He turned to the river and chucked his flower-branch inside.
“Do I make you feel stupid?” he asked, facing the water. “Like Miss Dorie?”
He could sense Rosie turning to study him, but he pretended not to notice. He just watched the branch bob beneath the surface and come back up again, the wood a little darker than before.
“You never make me feel stupid,” said Rosie softly. “That’s why we’re friends.”
Tentatively, Will sneaked a glance at her. She looked half-earnest and half-mortified, ready to punch him if he made fun of her. Will waggled his eyebrows and remembered something his dad had said once when they had guests over.
“You just like me for my body.”
“Ew! Don’t joke like that.” Rosie made a face, which just made Will laugh harder.
“Admit it. You think I’m cute.”
“No,” Rosie insisted. She brushed past him, pretending to gag, but Will bumped into her and they both stumbled. In the slippery mess of wet grass and melting snow, they tumbled to the ground, half-wrestling and half-laughing. He knew Rosie would beat him — she usually did. But he still liked to fight her. The bruises afterward — he liked to study them, to touch them. Different than other bruises. And sometimes, he couldn’t say why — he wasn’t mad at anyone, he just wanted to fight, liked the grip of someone else’s fingers on his hip or shoulder, driving him to the ground — legs twisting, hands pinching, bellies pressed together.
It was fun. Why the other kids didn’t like it so much, Will didn’t know. He craved it. Couldn’t sit still in class, thinking about recess, about judo. Rehearsed in his mind what he would say to so-and-so on the playground to goad them into a good-natured fight. Sometimes the other kids didn’t understand that it was just pretend, but Rosie always knew. Rosie—
“What the hell are you doing?” said a voice that made Will’s blood run cold.
The wrestling stopped. The laughter died. Rosie shifted sideways, no longer straddling Will, and both of them turned to stare silently at Kyle Riker. He was still wearing his Federation sweater with the little insignia on the shoulder pad. Must’ve just gotten off the transport. Will was suddenly vividly aware of the wet ground soaking through his clothes, the flush on his cheeks, the dryness in his throat.
“I asked you a question,” Kyle said, his eyes lasering into Will. What was he doing here? How had he found them? “Rosa, go.”
Rosie pushed slowly to her feet. She glanced at Will, a question in her eyes, but she was smart enough to keep her face mostly blank. He swallowed hard and avoided her gaze.
He heard her walk away.
“Aren’t you a bit young for that?” Kyle demanded when she was gone, his voice ringing out in the forest, sharp like a slap across the face. “Get up. Up. Look at your clothes…”
Will put his palms flat in the stinging snow and stood. “We were just playing,” he said, his voice shaky. "She..."
“How old are you, Billy?” Kyle cut him off. He clicked his fingers together and pointed to his own feet, the way he always called Will to stand before him. Will shuffled forward and fought the urge to put his head down.
“Six,” he said.
“Six,” Kyle repeated. His eyes were flinty and dark. A hint of revulsion circled his lips in a sneer. “Old enough to know better. And don’t tell me you were just playing again.”
Will clamped his mouth shut, cheeks burning. With a sigh, Kyle dropped down to one knee, careful not to actually sink his trousers into the snow. Level with Will, he searched his son’s face. Then his gaze tracked lower, down Will’s wrinkled shirt and rumpled jacket to the front of his jeans. Slowly, telegraphing every movement, Kyle rested his broad palm on Will’s hip and smoothed his hand over — down — until Will’s eyes squeezed shut and his jaw tightened, and his father cupped him through his jeans.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” said Kyle softly, his breath warm against Will’s hair. “This. Billy, your friend Rosa … she isn’t like you. Other kids are not like you.” He released Will and wiped his hands clean in the snow, even though there’d been a layer of denim between his skin and Will’s. Kyle shook his head in thinly-veiled disgust. “Do you ever fight with other boys?”
“Yes, sir,” said Will, close to tears now.
“I know you do,” Kyle snapped, as if Will had denied it. “Do they ever react like that? Like you do?”
Will blinked, his vision blurry. He swallowed against a tight throat and shook his head. With trembling hands, he covered himself, hiding the small tent between his legs.
“No,” Kyle agreed. He sighed. Hands clean now, he touched Will on each shoulder, boxing him in. And despite himself, Will swayed a little, anticipating a hug, longing to lean into his father’s chest. Kyle held him upright and in place. “Rosa is too young for wrestling,” Kyle told him firmly. “You need to leave her alone. No more play-fighting. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Will, voice broken. A flash of sympathy crossed Kyle’s face. He shook Will a little — gently — and then finally, mercifully, pulled him into a tight, warm hug.
“You’re not bad, Billy,” he said, sounding exhausted. He ran his fingers through Will’s hair and Will closed his eyes, burying his face in his father’s chest. The unfamiliar scent of starships, all titanium and canned air, pervaded Kyle’s clothes. “You’re just different,” he said.
“I know.” He wasn’t supposed to say ‘I know.’ Will twisted his fingers in Kyle’s sweater and leaned closer. “Yes, sir.”
“You have different needs,” Kyle said, as if Will hadn’t spoken. He stood, looping an arm under Will’s backside to pick him up. Will melted into the hug, arms around Kyle’s neck, face hidden. His father’s palm drifted to Will’s thigh and boosted him up a little, then stayed. “We know how to take care of those needs appropriately,” Kyle said, rubbing Will's back. “In the privacy of our own house, without forcing other little kids into it where they don’t belong. Like you tried to do with Rosa. Yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what are we going to do?”
Kyle’s hand was like a branding iron. Will kept his eyes closed. He wasn’t hard anymore; where his briefs had been too tight before, when Kyle touched him, there was now a comfortable heat.
“Take care of it,” Will whispered, hiding his face against Kyle’s sweater. His father held him a little closer, turned his head, pressed his lips gently against Will’s scalp. His thumb rubbed a circle on Will’s thigh.
“Exactly,” he said.