The trouble began when Ruslan turned twenty-three.
Until that morning, he had been the youngest member of the Twin Peaks throuple, a distinction he had regarded as both a personal achievement and an important component of his romantic identity.
At 12:01 a.m., however, Gaius entered the bedroom carrying a soy candle.
“We need to talk,” he said.
Ruslan, who had been watching a documentary about regenerative agriculture, paused the television.
“About what?”
“Your transition.”
Ruslan blinked.
“My what?”
“Your transition out of your twink years.”
From the other side of the bed, Auberge began to sob.
It was going to be a very long birthday.
By nine o'clock, the living room had been rearranged into a circle. Three sustainably harvested meditation cushions had been positioned around a low table containing a bowl of ethically sourced river stones, a bundle of locally grown sage, and a cake.
The cake was a peculiar shade of beige.
It had been commissioned from a holistic bakery in the Castro and contained no sugar, no conventional flour, no animal products, and, according to the baker, no calories.
Ruslan had requested chocolate.
The bakery had explained that chocolate was a complicated colonial commodity.
They had instead provided a ceremonial confection made from carob, monk fruit, and something called activated botanical essence.
It looked like a building material.
Auberge had insisted on having twenty-three candles.
Gaius had objected on the grounds that burning twenty-three candles for a cake that contained no calories was an unnecessary expenditure of resources.
They had compromised on one beeswax-free candle made from sustainably sourced soy.
Ruslan was not permitted to blow it out until everyone had completed their emotional check-in.
“Before we begin,” Gaius announced, “I want to establish that this is a space of radical acceptance.”
Auberge was already crying into a piece of organic cotton.
“We are gathered here today,” Gaius continued, “to honor a chapter of Ruslan's life that has brought joy, meaning, and considerable aesthetic value to this household.”
Ruslan looked alarmed.
“I've just turned twenty-three.”
“Exactly,” said Gaius.
Auberge made a strangled noise.
“Twenty-two was your last full year of twinkhood.”
“Is there a statutory age limit?” Ruslan asked.
“Not legally,” Gaius replied. “But we must acknowledge the sociocultural implications.”
Ruslan looked toward the window.
He briefly considered escaping down the hill.
Unfortunately, they lived in Twin Peaks, and the walk down the hill would have required him to pass three neighbors who knew about the household's ongoing commitment to conscious communication.
He returned his attention to the circle.
“Would anyone like to share what Ruslan's twink years have meant to them?” Gaius asked.
Auberge raised his hand.
He had prepared remarks.
“I remember,” Auberge began, “the first time I saw Ruslan.”
He stopped.
He covered his face.
Gaius handed him a reusable handkerchief.
“He was twenty-one. His cheekbones were extraordinary. His skin had that luminous quality that comes from youth, hydration, and an appropriately balanced gut microbiome.”
Ruslan stared at him.
“I was standing in line at a coffee shop.”
“You were radiant,” Auberge whispered.
“I had just run up the hill because I missed the bus.”
“You were incandescent.”
Auberge dissolved into tears.
“I knew, in that moment, that we had so little time.”
Ruslan looked at Gaius.
Gaius nodded sympathetically.
“We all knew the transition was inevitable.”
“I AM TWENTY-THREE,” Ruslan shouted.
The circle fell silent.
Gaius took a measured breath.
“I'm hearing anger.”
“I'm hearing that my boyfriends have organized a funeral for my face.”
Auberge began sobbing harder.
The second phase of the ceremony was called Honoring the Body as It Changes.
Gaius had prepared a short presentation.
The title slide read:
FROM TWINK TO WHATEVER COMES NEXT: A NONLINEAR JOURNEY THROUGH QUEER MASCULINITY.
There were forty-three slides.
The presentation covered changing beauty standards, the social construction of age, the ethics of anti-aging products, and the environmental impact of cosmetic procedures.
Ruslan interrupted on slide seven.
“Are you suggesting I need Botox?”
“Absolutely not,” Gaius said. “We would never impose an aesthetic expectation on you.”
“Then why is there a slide about preventative Botox?”
“Because we must create space for the possibility without attaching judgment.”
Auberge raised his hand.
“I would like to disclose that I have been privately researching collagen supplements.”
Gaius stared at him.
“Are they vegan?”
“I don't know.”
“Are they sustainably sourced?”
“I don't know.”
“Are they clinically supported?”
“I DON'T KNOW, GAIUS. I WAS GRIEVING.”
The circle adjourned for eleven minutes.
At noon, Ruslan was finally permitted to approach the cake.
Gaius lit the single candle.
Auberge began singing “Happy Birthday” in a minor key.
Halfway through the song, he started crying again.
Ruslan closed his eyes and made a wish.
“May I eat it now?”
“Before you do,” Gaius said, “we should acknowledge the labor involved in producing this confection.”
Ruslan opened his eyes.
“The baker was paid fairly,” Auberge offered.
“The ingredients were ethically sourced,” Gaius added.
“And it has zero calories,” Ruslan said.
There was a pause.
“Allegedly,” Gaius corrected.
Ruslan cut a slice.
The cake had the consistency of a compressed yoga mat.
He chewed.
He swallowed.
He looked at his partners.
“It's horrible.”
Auberge gasped.
Gaius reached for his notebook.
“Can we sit with that?”
Ruslan put down his fork.
“No. We cannot sit with that. I am twenty-three years old, I have just attended a memorial service for my youth, and now I am eating a cake that tastes like a cork yoga block.”
Auberge covered his face.
“Please don't say that. I can't bear it.”
“YOU'RE NOT THE ONE WHO HAS TO EAT IT.”
Gaius began writing.
“I'm hearing a rupture in our shared emotional container.”
Ruslan stood up.
“I am going to the bakery.”
Both men looked horrified.
“To purchase a different cake?” Auberge asked.
“A real cake.”
“Ruslan, darling, what about the calories?”
Ruslan put on his jacket.
“Let them happen.”
He returned forty minutes later carrying a chocolate cake from an ordinary bakery.
It had sugar.
It had flour.
It had buttercream.
It had twenty-three candles.
It had absolutely no documentation concerning the environmental footprint of its ingredients.
Ruslan placed it on the table.
Gaius stared at it as though it were a dead rat.
Auberge whispered, “Is that conventional chocolate?”
“Yes.”
“Conventional sugar?”
“Yes.”
“Dairy?”
“Yes.”
Auberge sat down.
“I need a moment.”
Ruslan lit the candles.
“I'm making a wish.”
He blew them all out.
For the first time that day, nobody interrupted him.
He cut three enormous slices.
Gaius looked at his portion.
“We should discuss this.”
Ruslan took a bite.
“No.”
Auberge picked up his fork.
He hesitated.
He took a bite.
His eyes widened.
“Oh.”
Ruslan smiled.
“Exactly.”
Gaius looked from one boyfriend to the other.
He picked up his fork.
He took a bite.
The three men sat in silence, experiencing the profound spiritual revelation that sometimes the ethical alternative was simply not as good as the original.
Then Gaius swallowed.
“We should research whether we can make this recipe with ethically sourced ingredients.”
Ruslan put his head in his hands.
Auberge began crying again.
And somewhere in Twin Peaks, the neighbors heard the sound of three men convening another resolution circle.