A cold arctic wind rose from the mountains at his back and caressed the nape of Jonathan's neck, drawing a shiver from him as he huddled a little deeper into his parka. "I can't fucking believe how cold it is," he moaned, blue lips cracking around the words. His tongue had the cold weight of an icicle in his mouth. "I can't feel my face anymore. I think it's gone."

Jordin chuckled deeply. "Lowlander," he teased, not without affection. He liked to tease the other boy about his Native background, claiming the Cree of Ontario and New York were too soft to handle the harsh landscape of the Yukon where the Inuits made their home. He himself seemed unaffected by the cold, despite the tiny crystals of ice clinging to his eyelashes; there was an enviable warm flush to his face. "Be quiet, you'll scare the caribou away with the shattering of your teeth." He grinned broadly.

"Mouthy Chinook." Jon rubbed his mittened hands over his face and sighed at the softness of the poallu. The insides of his gloves were lined with the fur of an arctic fox to keep his hands warm, as were his boots. Not that it made much difference. He'd lost feeling in both extremities hours ago.

"Fussy Indian," Jordin shot back playfully. He wiped ice from the lenses of his snow-goggles, flinty grey eyes scanning the tundra with a wolf's keen predatory instinct. "I thought you wanted to hunt caribou.” He uses the Innuk word for it, tukturaluk, spoken with a soft reverence for the great animal. “Now you only complain about a little snow."

"A little snow!" Jon snorted, wide nostrils flaring as he surveyed the frozen flatland that surrounded them. "This is not a little snow. And anyway, you're the one that wanted to hunt caribou. I wanted to make camp and eat dinner." Jordin turned to him with a sigh of the long-suffering. "If we make camp now will you be happy?"

"Yes."

"Fine." Jon grinned triumphantly. "But we're getting up early and coming back here. I'm not leaving empty handed."

"Early," Jon laughed, glancing over his shoulder at the sun that hung low in the sky all day and all night.



"Hungry?" Jordin asks, ladling soup into two bowls. The itsalik, the deerskin tent, is pitched behind them, a sturdy thing of wooden poles and thick hides, and a small fire burns at their feet. Jon pulls his hands from near the flames and accepts the steaming bowl.

"Starving," he affirms, lifting the bowl to his lips and drinking deeply of the rich soup. Jordin watches him over the rim of his bowl as Jon licks his lips, eyeing the soup thoughtfully.

"Blood soup," he says, and grins at Jordin's surprise. The dish is an Inuit speciality for the coldest months, made of seal blood and fat. "Not such a lowlander," he quips, taking another sip.

"Hn," Jordin grunts. They fall silent as they devour the soup, chewing at small pieces of soft seal blubber. Jon dips two fingers into the bowl to scoop up the last of the broth, sucking it from his fingertips as he sets the bowl in the snow. It leaves his lips invitingly red, Jordin notices.

They warm themselves by the fire for a few more minutes, then Jordin banks the embers and they head to bed. They hang their parkas and ilipikuk, the tough sealskin footwear that's worn outside their boots, outside to dry. Jordin holds the flap open as Jon crawls inside the tent, then follows and ties it tightly shut against the cold.

Inside the tent it is very dark. There is not much room, and the sloping floor is lined with furs, making the space feel smaller. Jon unlaces his boots and crawls between the piled furs, curling himself into a ball. There is hardly room for two grown men, but they manage not to touch.

"Tomorrow we'll hunt caribou," Jordin says decisively, "and then I'll teach you how to ice-fish."

"I know how to ice-fish," Jon protests.

"Not in the arctic. Everything is different up here."

"Just colder," Jon grumbles, shivering.

Jordin smiles in the dark. "Are you cold, Indian?"

"I'm fine. Who taught you to hunt? Your father?"

"No, it was Te-- it was my brother."

Jon hears the catch in Jordin's voice, the sudden hesitation. The quiet tent is suddenly alive with Jordin's rough breathing. Jon tries to backpedal, to lift the suddenly leaden air, but the chattering of his teeth weakens the words.

"I-I'm sorry. I forgot. I mean about y-your--"

"I don't want to talk about it," Jordin says, and they fall quiet. Outside it is perfectly still; inside there is only the sound of Jordin's breathing and Jon's shivering to break the silence.

"You're sure you're not too cold?" Jordin asks softly. Jon shakes his head, though the other boy can't see.

"I'm fine," he insists, but the truth is he's so cold he can't take in a proper breath of air, and the words emerge as a trembling whisper. "Maybe a little cold," he admits sheepishly.

A brief pause; there is rustling in the darkness. "Here," Jordin says, startlingly close to Jon's ear, his body sliding over to fill the space beside him. "I know an Inuk trick to stay warm."

"Shinny?" Jon guesses.

Jordin laughs. "Not quite. Take off your clothes."

"What! You're crazy. I'll freeze my dick off, I'm no eskimo!"

"Just trust me," Jordin insists. Jon grumbles as he shimmies out of his clothes, cursing the snow and the wind and every ancestor that Jordin has until the other boy laughs. "Come here," he says.

Jon moves cautiously forward, pressing himself to Jordin, surprised when he feels the full length of Jordin's naked body against his own. "Ke'kwa'n to 'taman?" he asks in Cree. Jordin ignores the unintelligible words.

"Be quiet," he says, wrapping his arms around the other boys' shoulders. "I'm just keeping you warm." He holds Jon a little tighter and feels his reaction. "If that's all you want."

"Shut up," Jon mumbles, mortified, hiding his face in Jordin's neck. "Cocky Chinook," he grumbles, and then winces as he hears his own words.

He can feel Jordin's deep chuckle in his chest. "I could say the same of you," he murmurs, pressing his mouth over Jon's neck, "cocky Indian."

The combination of Jordin's lips on his skin and the way he breathes the words makes Jon shiver, and for once he isn't cold. "Think you're so funny," he grunts. "I thought you were going to warm me up."

"You're not warm yet?" Jordin asks carefully, turning his head and pushing the words across the frozen inch of air between their mouths. Jon licks his lips and tastes blood.

"Not yet," he says.

No one makes the first move; they are simply kissing, where a moment ago they were not. Jordin drags his hands down Jon's body, and everywhere he touches is warm. The blood spreads to both their lips as they touch and kiss, rubbing warmth into each other's skin until the cold melts away and all that is left is skin and fur and heat. Jonathan reaches blindly for Jordin's hand, weaving the slim fingers with his own, but Jordin twists free of his hold and pulls away.

"How do you want to do this?" Jordin asks, all business.

"I want...to be inside you," Jonathan says. He reclaims Jordin's lips with a fervent passion, his hand settled carefully on the neutral territory of Jordin's hip. There are boundaries here, he's beginning to realize that, and Jordin is not someone he can push. He wants to, a little; like a curious child, probing for answers, sensing there is something deeper than what he can see. But desire overcomes his curiosity. He sinks into the scalding heat of Jordin's body and loses himself in sensation, touching, tasting, until he's not sure how but he’s inside of him, and Jordin is shaking and keening beneath him. He breaks their kiss with a gasp, staring down at Jordin in concern.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

"Just do it," Jordin orders, and Jon doesn't ask again.

There is no softness to it; it's hard and fast, an animal response to cold. Jordin claws and scratches at Jon's back, trying to pull him closer, to crawl inside his skin. He hisses words every now and then in a language Jon doesn't understand. Once or twice he thinks he hears his own name, but he can't be sure. Release comes violently to him, like a hot knife searing his stomach, toe-curling jerks and waves that leave him gasping for breath. He can't quite kiss Jordin hard enough, but he tries, gulping down air between bruising kisses that leave his lips bruised and raw. He leans up on one elbow and looks down at Jordin, who is cooling off quietly with his eyes rolled closed. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and his face is flushed, and Jon thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful. Without a thought he brushes his lips over Jordin's cheek, and it is only when Jordin pulls free and rolls away from him that he realizes his mistake.

"Go to sleep," Jordin says quietly. "We have a long day ahead of us."



Oh, but he wished he was back in bed. The bitter wind tore through his many layers like wet newspaper, leeching the warmth from his bones. It was a dry cold, sucking up moisture and heat until his skin was a thin, brittle paper, and his lips cracked on every word. He breathed in measured counts, warming the air between his gloves before taking it into his chest. Too impatient a breath and he could inhale whole crystals of ice; almost certain pneumonia. He'd known cold before; he made his home in snowy Toronto; but he'd never known a cold like this, where danger lurked in every breath. Jordin instructed him in words and motions, the Inuit bundled from head to toe so that only the grey of his eyes showed through.

Jon flexed his fingers inside the heavy mittens and took a more comfortable grip on his spear. Caribou covered the hills below like dark stones on an empty beach. There had been more, once, long before he was born. In the stories his mother told they were uncountable as leaves or stars. Now they were like fruit on the tree: seemingly limitless at summer's start, and yet by autumn the tree is almost bare, and the stomach pangs with the anticipation of winter.

"We kill only the sick and the old," Jordin said. He stood only a foot away, but the wind whipped the strength from his voice. "That is how we keep the balance." He drew a line with one mittened finger from his brow to his lips, held his palm open and blew out a hard breath to send the falling snow swirling, muttering, "Aquetaq," a word to keep the evil spirits at bay.

The blood thrummed in Jon's throat as they hefted their spears, studying the herd below for an obvious straggler or weakling. Jordin touched the top of his head, gesturing silently to his candidate. 50 yards or more from the rest of the herd an old bull was lying in the snow, his health clearly waning by the wide hoop of his ribs and the prominent jut of his haunches. Jon nodded minutely in agreement. In perfect unison the hunters split up and began to circle their prey, careful to keep upwind. A few cows at the edge of the herd lifted their heads and shuffled their feet nervously, but the old bull did not mark their approach. Jordin flashed a signal to him across the snow and Jon gripped his spear hard, bent his knees, and ran.

They were ten yards apart when the old bull heaved himself up from the snow and by then it was too late. Jordin's spear licked out to taste a flailing leg and the bull screamed in fear. It galloped slantwise and tried to return to the herd, but Jon was there, spear in hand, ready to drive it off. It twisted in mid-stride and slipped in the heavy snow, bellowing its despair as the two hunters converged upon it. Jon's spear caught it in the vulnerable belly as it lunged to its feet once more, and Jordin rammed his weapon home in the muscular neck for the killing blow. The two hunters knelt in the snow beside their conquest, their chests heaving, and exchanged an unseen grin.

"How do you feel?" Jordin asked, wiping the sweat from his brow before it had a chance to freeze. He drew his hunting knife from his belt.

"Tired," Jon said. "Alive."

"Good," Jordin said. He contemplated the knife in his hand, then offered it handle-first to his companion. "I think, since you struck the first real blow, you should have the honor."

Jon's chest was warm with pride as he accepted the knife, turning his attention to the slain bull. Bowing his head momentarily and offering a prayer of thanks, he sunk the knife hilt-deep into the bull's chest, just below the ribs, and tore viciously upwards. It was hard work, but he opened a hole large enough to fit his hand, and through this he pulled out the old bull's heart. A spurt of blood sprayed his face and stained the snow around him as he cut the organ free, lifting it to the sky. His lips moved again in prayer, then he lay the heart on the bloody snow in offering.



It may be hunger, or the satisfying exhaustion numbing his limbs, but Jon swears that nothing has ever tasted so sweet as the caribou spit-roasted over a hot fire. The bulk of the meat has been butchered and buried in the snow to keep it safe from predators; the boys eat only the choicest pieces tonight, feasting on liver and the tender short ribs as they laugh and drink their fill. Jon feels himself growing pleasantly sleepy; he is warm and full and tired, and perhaps a little drunk on hot mulled ale. Jordin watches his eyes drift closed and laughs, startling his friend awake.

"You were about to fall asleep in the snow, my friend," he tells him, eyes bright with amusement. "I think it is time to go to bed, before you spend the night outside and wake up a polar bear!"

Jon laughs, nodding in rueful agreement. "I think you're right." He buries the last of the meat as deep into the snow as he can dig while Jordin banks the fire, then the two friends stagger to bed.

Jordin stumbles slightly and falls; he is a little drunker than he would like to let on. Jon laughs uproariously as he falls upon him. "You," he says between shallow kisses, "are so totally..."

Jordin laughs as he breaks off. "What?" he asks. He pushes himself up on his elbows, tilting his head back to look Jon in the eyes. "What am I so totally?"

"Sad," Jon says, unexpectedly. "You're sad."

The warmth of the moment is shattered. Jordin offers a jerky shrug, as if struggling to break free of the intimacy that still clings to them. "You're a morose drunk, you know that?" he asks angrily.

"I know." Jon bobs his head in acknowledgment. "But you're sad all the time. Why are you so sad, Jordin?"

"I don't want to talk. Go to bed."

"But I--"

"Good night, Jon."

He sits stunned in the darkness as Jordin feigns sleep. He knows he's not asleep because his breathing is erratic, and he can't quite stop fidgeting; he's making sounds now, almost as if he's speaking, or...

Jordin's crying.

"Jordin, are you--what's--what's wrong? Why are you crying?" Jon asks softly, touching Jordin's shoulder and sigh when the Inuit flinches away.

"I'm not fucking crying," Jordin says, making his voice low and mean. "Just go to sleep, okay?" He tries to shove Jon away, but his voice cracks on 'okay,' and something thick and terrible stuck like a bone in his throat is coming loose, and he can feel the tears well up and fall.

"Jordin, Jordin, don't cry, I'm sorry," Jon pleads with a child's fumbling sincerity. He worms his way beneath the furs and wraps his arms around Jordin's shuddering body, hugging him tightly when he tries to throw him off. "You don't have to tell me, you don't have to talk, I'm sorry, just please don't--"

"He killed himself." The words are forced out on a sob, choked but defiant. "My brother, Terrence. He killed himself. Because of me."

"Because of--?"

"We--he day before he--we argued," Jordin says. His voice is choppy and not always understandable; Jon tips his head so that Jordin's lips rest near his ear. "He'd been gone all summer, and he was going away on another trip. I was...hurt. We used to be so close. Even when he was home he wasn't the same, he slept all day and stayed out late. It hurt. I told him...I told him he didn't love me."

"Oh, Jordin," Jon breathes, but Jordin is deaf to anything but his own memories.

"That was the last thing I ever said to him. So many times I've wanted...but I can't change it. The next morning I went to his house to apologize. I found him...I couldn't...it was my fault," Jordin whispers, tiny and frightened. "He's dead because of me."

Jonathan hugs him helplessly and listens in the darkness as Jordin sobs out a grief he's never known. He wants to say something to ease a pain bigger than the winter, but he can't think, so closes his eyes and lets himself say whatever comes to his tongue. Almost of its own will his hand finds Jordin's hair, stroking the other boy's head rhythmically as his lips press to the shell of his ear and words spill from his mouth.

"Shh, quiet Jordin, shh, it's okay. How long have you been carrying this inside? It wasn't your fault. How many times in their lives do brothers fight? It wasn't you, it wasn't you. Don't you see, he had already made up his mind. There was nothing you could do. Jordin, Jordin, Masak, please don't cry. Let it go, Masak, let it go."

Jordin's sobs slow as Jon speaks to him, until finally he runs out of tears. He feels strangely hollow inside. There was a weight to his heart that is missing; and while at first it frightens him, he realizes that he can breathe deeply again. The pain is not gone, but it is no longer a black hole eating at his life. He turns in Jon's arms and presses a kiss to his lips.

"You called me Masak," he whispers. "That's my Innuk name. How did you know?"

Jon shrugs. It was not he who spoke the words; he hardly knew what he said. "I don't know," he admits quietly. "It's a beautiful name. How do you feel?"

"Tired," Jordin answers. He closes his eyes, and there's something soft alive in his face, something vulnerable and clean. "Tired and alive."



"You're sure you can find your way home?" Jordin asked, his voice full of misgiving. Though they were back in what one might call 'civilization', Jon was still a long way from Toronto, and the drive was tedious and at times treacherous.

Jonathan smiled at the other boy's concern. He clapped his friend on the shoulder in reassurance and threw the last of his bags into his jeep. "I'll be fine," he assured him. He locked up the car and then stood by the driver's side door blowing on his hands and shuffling his feet with uncertainty. It had been an intense two days, to say the least, and he was no longer entirely sure where the two of them stood. Did he embrace Jordin? Did he offer him a manly back-pounding hug? Before he had too much time to wonder Jordin's arms were around his waist and Jordin's mouth was covering his own, and Jon gave up thinking and surrendered to the moment.

"We should do this again," Jordin said when they finally parted, and Jon nodded. Both of them knew that they never would, but it didn't matter. They would see each other again, somewhere; and whether they were friends at that next meeting, or more, or less, was unimportant. The arctic would be there, keeping their secrets safe in the bitter, glittering cold.