Summary: My life is quite simple. I have a girlfriend who I love, I have two fathers whom I love and I have this classmate that insists on raping me. It's nothing, really. Yeah, yeah, it's...fine. (slash)

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of sex, explicit language, slash, straight, underage (he grows up, don't worry)...uh that's all.

Misc info: I'll post a chapter every week (hopefully). Written to make myself write again. Enjoy dammit and don't frickin forget to REVIEW!

Let's pretend

My mother was a very proud woman. She liked to believe herself superhuman, and in a way, I guess she was. Whenever I think of her, I see a woman in a gold dress with a boa, singing in a cabaret. The light is always dim and she sits herself beside the piano-man and leans back on him with the glitter on her eyelids dusting his shoulder. Dad says she had black hair, as black as mine. In my fantasy she has red hair though. Maybe she dyed it. But I can't see her face. The light is too dim. Her features float into each other and the only things I see are the high heels and the red paint on her nails.

I lie in the sofa with my hands stroking my stomach and my eyes closed and I think about her. I don't do this often. But I bite my lips when I think about her. I must've inherited my lips from her. Dad's lower lip is much more plum than his upper one, but mine are just the same size. Tris knows that I'm thinking about her when I bite my lips. He says they look like his favourite film star's lips; Sophie Marceau. I still have no idea who that is. He never answers when I question him. Instead he sees it as an opportunity to escape house chores for another few minutes. He sits beside me and pulls me into his arms, takes my shirt off. Maybe it's because I'm not his. I don't open my eyes.

My mother was a very proud woman. Although she knew who my father was, she didn't hand me over to him. She left me in a blanket to dry in the freezing cold beneath the E15 highway near Parc de Bercy. The breeze of those parts of the city still send shivers down my spine.

Dad has various stories about how he got me back. None of them are logical. They all contain some kind of supernatural force, and he likes to think of himself as a hero. My Dad still lives in a fantasy world.

He had only been sixteen at the time, half my mother's age. I remember that we lived with Grandma for a few years. Until Dad met Tris.

Tris presses me against his bare chest and buries his face in my raven hair. I can feel his five o'clock shadow through my scalp as he kisses it. I can feel his smile. His strong, hairy arms hold me against his chest that swallows mine. My underdeveloped, too pale body and his sunkissed firm muscles. He isn't too manly, he has long brown hair and he isn't really that big. He is just a man, an adult. A year younger than Dad, who is thirty.

I bite my lip again. Mother is probably dead by now. Overdose. Corpse eaten by dogs in an alley. Red lipstick smudged out. I had nightmares about it. They planted this interest in me to become a doctor, but I couldn't sleep properly until I turned six and Dad bought me a small humanoid robot toy for my birthday. It worked. The silvery robot rolled around the apartment and said it's phrases from morning till dawn. Occasionally it got stuck behind a piece of furniture. It could be stuck there for months. One warm autumn day Dad got fed up with it. I was nine at that time and he decided that I should get rid of this obsession. He took the robot, put his beige leather jacket on, wrapped me into too many layers of clothes and took my hand in his.

We had gotten on the metro, all the way to Notre-Dame. The metro was full as always. Dad stood and looked at me and I looked out the window from the one empty seat we had found. I could see how the women looked at him. He is the Brad Pitt type; wheat-colored hair to his chin, black eyes. He always manages to look worn down. I guess he is.

The rustling of my jacket echoed in the grand area of Notre-Dame. The greatness of the rose windows, the size of the place, made me awestruck. I swirled around in confusion until my head hit the altar. Dad looked at me, his brow wrinkled in sympathy, and placed the robot on the altar. And picked it apart. Piece by piece.

Requiem in pace, dear Mr. Robot who is "with God now". I didn't learn much about human anatomy from it, unfortunately.

I got feisty for a good while after that, until Dad met Tris. Grandma had a hard time with me. I hated school and Dad worked at the magazine most of the time. I was quite grumpy and didn't say much, especially about the things that bothered me. It turned into a game, making me talk. I created these fantasy worlds that I cherished more than anything. I'd rather do nothing and just stare out the window or lay in my bed for as long as I could, or hide under it so no one would find me and I could be in my own world. They became my everything. I daydreamed as I walked to school, I didn't listen in class and as soon as I got home, I went to bed. When we ate, I said nothing; I stared out the window at the clouds and daydreamed.

And one day, after work, when Dad went to his regular cafeteria where he ordered his regular cappuccino just before coming home, he was met by an irregular person behind the counter. They became friends. Forever.

"Must've been a damn good cappuccino," Grandma said. We moved out a month after that. Grandma couldn't stand their relationship and late nights. She insisted on keeping me, but with whatever logic Dad had, he convinced Grandma that a child needs two parents.

After that it was me, Dad and Tris in an old apartment in Montmartre. Tris helped the new place to feel like home by smoking indoors. He always winks at me when he does that, when Dad isn't home. Dad always gets mad at him. But in winter, I give him right. It's really cold in the balcony. In the summer Tris doesn't object. He gets an excuse for lazing in the sun. He's really lazy. The only time I see him do anything with interest is when he's on the sofa with my dad doing things I'd rather not see, or when had drowned in a new painting. It's his dream; to paint.

I used to hide his cigarettes or throw them in the trash. It was futile.

I entered a new school. As usual I had no friends. The only topic my classmates spoke to me about was my two dads.

When I was ten I thought I would menstruate soon. So I skipped school for two weeks. My stomach hurt. Turned out it was my appendix. Tris babysat me until I got well. He also developed a habit of taking our shirts off. He has a thing for skin against skin. I can see the envy in his eyes when he sees mothers breastfeeding their children. It all started to feel weird when I entered puberty. I got hair under my arms and on my legs and felt icky. I was thirteen then, and for the first time I realised that I wasn't a girl. Dad started bugging me about getting a girlfriend and loosing my virginity. I hated it. They still haven't stopped nagging about it, although I'm fourteen now. Well, I'm still a virgin. It feels like I should just hurry up and get rid of it, but I have thoughts about how I would want it to be like, thoughts I've had since the time I daydreamed all the time. It has gotten better now. Tris is always there to pull me out of them and into the balcony where he insists on me straddling him, with out shirts off. He likes it when my skin gets warm and red. He says that I don't look sick then. One time he kept me outside for so long that it got irritated enough to peel. He laughed about the matter until we all forgot about it. Dad forbade Tris to ever do that again. Tris didn't listen. I like sunbathing with him, but not for long. The warmth gets suffocating after a while. But my skin remains pale. My manly pride is crushed by that and the way my body looks in general.

Once, when I was taking the metro to go meet with Dad at his work, a man put his hand into my pants. I was so shocked that I couldn't utter a sound. He continued to squeeze my buttocks until he reached his station. I didn't speak for the rest of the day. The next morning Tris came to wake me up with breakfast on a tray. I refused to move until he had given me massage and pecked my cheek. He laughed until he cried when I told him about the previous day.

"See it positively. At least a part of your virginity is gone."

That didn't make me feel better at all. The old man had ruined my dreams.

I was starting to have problems with the whole virginity thing. How to lose it. With who. When. I guess that's when it all started. That morning when I was eating my breakfast without appetite, crunching on my krisprolls, I started to actually think about the matter.


"Yeah?" He turned from watching the TV in my room.

"Am I gay or straight?"