AM

    It felt peculiar standing before him, now, almost as strangers–strangers with one horrible, tragic secret between them that abashes any sense of pure anonymity. The paths of time seem so impossible to cross until you stand on the other side. We knew each other, and yet did not. I suppose I'm being a bit overdramatic, but when you offer someone your love, only to have it all but reviled, it really does feel like the end of the world; especially when that love conspires against the norm.

    I made the mistake of falling for my best friend. Of course in the complete cliché fashion, I didn't realize it for the longest time. When we were young, I all but depended on him. I didn't make friends easily, which I suppose I could chalk up to the fact that I was an only child, painfully shy, lonely, too fearful of rejection to risk anything in the slightest. No matter the reason though, I found myself drawn to him. He had a winsome personality. Not outgoing necessarily, but he commanded attention, made people laugh.

    In third grade, I was invited to his birthday party, out of politeness since the whole class was. As it turned out though, his family took to me right away. I never had a proper one of my own, but surrounded by them I felt more at peace than I ever remember feeling. The years passed, and we remained close, almost inseparable. He'd get me in trouble, I'd help him get good grades. All this time I never felt anything for him but friendship, pure devotion to that end. We'd have our ups and downs of course. I knew I could be too needy at times, and he was always a creature that required its own space and independent life. He wouldn't forsake me, though. He'd call me up out of the blue and tell me, not ask me, to come over to play video games; I'd smile and the thought of refusal didn't register in my mind for an instant.

    I'm unsure exactly when it changed, when my attachment deepened. I became possessive. Whenever he would spend time with other male friends it would anger me, irrationally. In my mind I was supposed to be the only one, for I had been there through it all, stayed by his side despite his harsh words, his teasing, his neglect. I never felt love before, not even desire. The time comes though when our bodies and minds betray us, forsaking the cocoon of youth for the ungainly wings of maturity. Once I started suspecting it, I did my utmost to kill that emotion from proliferating like unwanted weeds. In such matters, however, it seems the inner truths of one's wants always win out: my tenderness for him only grew.

    And yet, nothing really opposed me, beyond my own fear and self doubt. He never dated. I'd watch him carry on with women to my pain of course, but such trysts lived and died with alacrity. Perhaps it's my own imposed viewpoint, but they never came across as entirely sincere. More like a desperation on his part, to fit in, to make sense, to be correct. His family was traditionally Catholic, and he for whatever reason also took up that mantle. The time eventually came when we had more disparity than anything in common. He became engrossed in athletics, which in all fairness was his disposition even when we were children. (As much as I had no patience or like for fishing I let him drag me along.) Schoolwork appealed to him less and less, while I strove to the top of the class. The few times we spent together anymore we usually disagreed–whether on politics or music or television shows. Nevertheless, he was my home, he was my sun; and vainly and childishly I hoped that light would never die, could somehow only be mine.

    Was I even his best friend, too, looking back? How seldom you mean as much to others as they do to you. Spurning advise to the contrary, I didn't let him go.

---

    I still remember that May afternoon, so close to the end of our time together. I knew already that I was going away for college, and that he would remain. He used to joke about becoming a garbage man, since you needed no formal education and got paid pretty well. Of course, I'd deride it–not understanding how someone could aspire to a career so menial and degrading. The decision, however, had its foundation in a lack of ability to pay, and a loyalty to his father's business. After his mother passed away right before we began our freshman year, his father went downhill, and as such he himself had to work two, sometimes three jobs to support them both. One of them included being manager of their motel. Academics never interested him or came easily to begin with, and it took a great deal of effort to remain afloat.

    He never spoke of her death. I was there with him, at the funeral. The service at the local church couldn't have been more immaculate. The woman herself approached sainthood–never uttering an unkind word, always eager to support or help anyone, a superlative cook. He didn't shed a tear; his anger grew instead. He'd toss various belongings around his room, swearing to drop out. Year after year I'd convince him to tough it out, that his mother knew he could do it, reminding him of how proud she was when he got his first A, in biology. He'd look at me coldly at first, displeased of my invoking her name, but then he'd calm down, nod, rest his head on my shoulder, and it'd be all right.

    We were in his room, he at his modern, plastic'd wood desk, and I sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, late afternoon rays casting warmth upon my back, setting his auburn hair ablaze. He played some new music he discovered and was eager to share, not so much for my benefit but the pleasure of relishing one's own taste. Some somber but pulsing alternative sound. I don't remember the band's name, though I wish I did. Even the words don't come to me, only the feeling, as so goes the case with memory. He bobbed his head, strumming his long yet still masculine fingers against his lightly haired, angular knee, and let a vulnerable look drift into his eyes. At moments like these there was a closeness between us, because to my knowledge no one else saw him in such a way. There was no frustration, no fighting, just the comfort of one another's presence. I let my gaze linger on him but also endeavored not to be obtrusive, so I'd avert it, turning my attention to shadows the blinds cast against his sheets and the floor–how some of his underwear and socks lay strewn near the closet. The music and his mood drew my inner emotions from me. I thought about how it was entirely possible I'd never see him again. How rocky our friendship had grown to be, and if it could weather the forbidding distance. As much as it made me melancholic it made me bold.

“...I love you.”

    I couldn't stop the words that slipped from my mouth. My breath hitched; my heart stopped. What had I done? I was being so foolish. The time we had left was too precious to endanger in this way, but I'd done it just the same. He simply sat there, focused on his music, and I hoped he hadn't heard. The seconds that passed without response were all but unendurable, for he offered no clue to the contents of his most private self.

His head turned toward my direction but not his eyes, “Are you saying you're gay for me...?”

    I had no answer, I couldn't answer. My vocal cords were all but paralyzed. I felt depthless humiliation. Innumerable times I played this scenario in my head, and this was exactly how it ended. Such a particular and excruciating pain, to have one's greatest fear enacted before his eyes, powerless to take any action besides waiting for the axe to fall. I wanted to die. The pause grew and he came to the conclusion I wouldn't offer a response. He made a sort of sigh or something imperceptible and continued,

“I'm sorry, I don't feel the same.”

    So to the point–a mercy in retrospect I guess. His attention returned to the computer and I took the opportunity to make a hasty exit before I debased myself more. He may have uttered something, but I'm not sure. He never called, though I wished he would have. Until I lacked it completely in my life, I didn't realize how much I loved his voice. Composed, but expressive. He chose every word to be as clear and concise as possible. And his tone with me...unless you knew him well you'd miss it. But there was a gentleness, a sense of patience. It's hard to explain, but it soothed me to my core. I didn't have the nerve to say anything after that. The day we graduated, only two weeks later, I remember feeling so proud of him despite it all. In the face of his numerous hardships, he persevered. We were toward opposite ends of the alphabet, so after I crossed the stage and left to collect my actual diploma, I ended up seeing him head toward the table to retrieve his. High, midday sun shone behind him, creating a silhouette as from a dream. I wanted so much to look at him, to give him an idea of how much I cared, how sorry I was, how... But I couldn't. I couldn't even lift my eyes from the floor. I wondered if he, though, looked upon me–and with what sort of sentiment: as a scared little fag he once knew, as a friend he missed, as nothing at all.

---

    I never laid eyes on him again, until half a decade later.

    I had come home from up north to visit my mother for Thanksgiving break. Never did I expect to pursue a Doctorate (in philosophy of all things), but that's exactly what I did. There's something special about a southern fall, though. The air changes to crispness a bit more precisely, rather than from oppressive summer heat to winter chill in one fell swoop. Time slows, and everything has an aura of fond nostalgia. I had found a cheap but attractive motel and booked a room. When I arrived to check in, he was behind the desk. I made the realization first, as his eyes were buried in a book. I stood motionless several feet away. The door closed with a brief, punctuating chime and he looked up. I don't know exactly how I could have forgotten the name of his parents' motel. Perhaps my subconscious duped me into making the mistake, in hopes of achieving some sense of closure. In any case, there we stood, face to face. His once vibrant, viridescent eyes radiated a tiredness and resignation that cut into me. He hadn't shaven in a several days, and the stubble that dusted his jaw and neck aged him, though favorably. His body had matured even more, his once lanky frame now anything but. I think it took him a while to register who I was, for the, I imagine habitual, glaze that washed over his face dawned into recognition.  

“It's really you...”

    He spoke first, his voice alone almost brought me to tears. For the rest of my days I thought it would be denied to me; a sinner offered the promise of Heaven, I rejoiced in its sound.

“Yes.”

    Absentmindedly he set his book on the high wooden counter, quit his stool, and crossed to my side. Our gazes remained locked, as though the slightest reprieve would cause the other to return like Brigadoon into the Highland mist. I knew not the nature of his movement. Would he demand I leave, perhaps deck me in the face? The last of my expectation was his arms to wrap tightly around my now shaking body. How I had missed this warmth that only he could offer. In fact, the last time I felt the embrace of another man was before our parting ways. As naïve and pathetic as it might seem, I couldn't bring myself to touch any one else, to be touched by anyone else. I moved on, but in that sense, I never could. I didn't want it. To me, it was the equivalent of the desecration of a temple, the forfeiting of one's highest value.

“You're being silly...” He murmured into my ear, as much to himself as to me, for upon my neck fell his hot tears. With impossible force I clutched him in return,

“Yes...”

---

    “I thought you'd never forgive me. And you had every right to refuse me that comfort. I hated myself for letting you leave like that, for not trying harder to... I didn't even leave my chair. Not until the sun set and I realized I hadn't moved at all.” He scoffed slightly, “I was a shit friend to you. I know it. I took everything out on you, and you gave everything to me. It wasn't fair, but you stayed. I took that for granted. In so many ways you were better than I. And as fucked up as it is, I resented you for it. You were smarter, nicer, more capable... you had so much potential, and didn't even know. Sometimes I hated that you wouldn't give up on me. I'd want to scream at you to leave, that I wasn't worth it, that I was a lost cause. I remember when you hugged and consoled my father at her funeral, and I just watched. I should have been doing that...but I couldn't bring myself to do anything. That's who I was. I never felt, I never was grateful, I never let anyone in. You know that, to some degree.”

    He paused for a moment. We sat in his private room, drinking some coffee. His eyes turned to the window, as did mine, just in time to watch a cardinal languidly twirl through the air. The forest which surrounded the building on three sides appeared all but burning in autumnal shades of crimson and ochre. Only my car sat in the graveled parking lot, as if silently giving credence to his account. He refocused on his mug, still unable to face me again.

    “For five years I've heard your words reverberate in my mind. And every one of those years I promised myself I'd call. I'd stop this. I'd spare you from the pain you must have felt. But I didn't.” He smiled ruefully, and it hurt to watch. “I really failed you. Time and again. And I began to think it was better off that way. To just sort of...fade away like an unwanted memory. Maybe that would be the merciful thing. Once more, I did what was best for me.” He at last looked up, and his eyes were laced with such regret I didn't believe it at first. It's like I never knew him. In a twisted sense, I was glad that he suffered through this too. The idea that his life carried on without impediment would haunt me at night. The idea that he could simply forget me, get married, have a few children, lead a fulfilling life. While I had this hole in me. It was surreal to hear him admit to his treatment of me. At the time, and even now, I would have endured anything, and it couldn't change my view of him. I always believed in his good, and it's not as though there weren't times when he'd show it. You can't damn someone for struggling. You can't forsake them because they haven't reached the same actualization you possess.

    “For what it's worth though, I love you, too. I did then, and I do now. Nothing can make up for letting you down as I did, or for the years I've wasted.” He shook his head at his own internal enemy, “I couldn't...I couldn't even say it out loud. I could barely... My parents, they always had this expectation for me. And as much as I didn't care, I did. When she died, I felt like I couldn't shatter that. I'd be spitting on her grave, you know? She hated no one, not a soul, but she saw me as her beautiful boy who'd marry a sweet girl and give her grandchildren. And my father, well. Was a typical father. I'm not making excuses,” I did not doubt his sincerity, “but if anything I owe you an explanation. I convinced myself I wasn't. I dated. I imagine that wasn't easy for you to witness. I did everything possible to live this false life. And then you said what you said. I wanted to tell you how I felt. Really. You proved you were better than I again. You were so brave. ” He looked back at the window, crying now. As was I. “You have no idea...no idea how many times I thought about holding you, not as a friend, but as a lover. You were the only person I ever even considered like that. Sometimes, when you'd just lay there on your stomach, on my bed, when you weren't paying attention I'd steal glances at you. You'd be so dreamy, and I'd wonder what you were dreamy about. I'd usually hope it was me, then damn myself for it. Anyway, in my braver moments I'd entertain the idea of laying next to you, surprising you, lightly rolling you onto your back, and kissing you. I knew it'd be your first, and I wanted to memorize how you looked in that instant, as I took that from you.” I almost wanted to laugh, because word for word he recounted my own fantasies as I had lain there. “When I asked you if you were 'gay for me' it was me once again taking out my own insecurities on you. I had to stop myself from telling the truth. You were going off to do amazing things, things I could never do. I would have just held you back, or worse, made you miserable. It's taken me all this time to even be able to admit I like guys. Or more accurately, one. You. I suppose it doesn't mean much now.”

    Suddenly the reality of the situation hit both of us. We were discussing the past as if it could affect the present. We were two different people, strangers, who've had five years to build their own lives. What good would this do, in fact? It was just self-indulgence, the cleaning of consciences. At least, that's how I tried to convince myself, to just say, 'Thank you,' and leave. All I ever wanted was to know why, why he walked away. Now I knew; I could walk away.

“There was only you, there was only ever you...” I hushed it, sacredly, as I took his hand in mine, pressing our palms together, with all the devotion of which my soul was capable, and never lost. So swiftly as to compensate the lost years, his free hand cradled the crown of my head, and brought our lips together, at last. It wasn't a just a kiss: it was absolution, it was freedom, it was joy.

“Are you saying you're gay for me?” His mouth curled into a familiar smirk.

“Yeah, I am,” I conceded with a chuckle, long overdue.

“Good. Because I am, too.”

---

    Can any human being ever truly know or understand another? It seems there's always a gulf of experience that one is unable to cross–a dark forest of secrets, regrets, loneliness. A tragedy, really, because in the end we strive our entire lives to find completion and solace. Perhaps we can't. But what I know for certain is that he makes me want to try my damnedest. I love him. I would do his any wish, fulfill his any demand–if it meant seeing him smile.  

    I'm not a religious man. I don't think there's some predestined order in our stars, unfurling day by day as we continue to breathe and derive succor from this Earth. I do think, though, that we may reflect upon our choices, and the choices of others–which weave together into the past–and gain wisdom.

    We were children, stumbling through a dazzling garden. And before us stood the unfettered and imposing plain of life. Fear cripples us, combating our inherent desire for joy. It takes such power of will to be able to stand alone and walk that expanse without the comfort of the familiar. One way or the other, our paths came together again, both of us more full versions of ourselves. As they say, to everything there is a season. Ours came a little later, and for that I am grateful.

    He is my eternal dream from which I need not wake.

    He is mine.  

    He is.