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No begging had to be done to prove Vincent and I were capable of moving in together after highschool. After many completed chores and pleas from Madison (she wanted my room), my parents gave me the blessing to move in with my best friend. My mother was reluctant, reminding me to not give up on my (their) basketball dream. And so I was off, set free into the oblivion of adulthood. Insecure, confused, and an adolescent--I was no one. No one knew my name, no one cared, and no one knew me, nor wanted to. I was a phantom climbing the stairs up to the apartment, face hidden awkwardly by the box of knick knacks my father insisted I took with me. With each step forwards to an awaiting Vincent, my heart pounding furiously in my chest, I knew there was something big to come. Something wild, and exciting. Exhilaratingly sinful: college. Who was I to pass up the opportunity to be myself? In an open flame of my deepest desires, I craved to be sought. Stared at by the envious and looked up at by the admiring. I wanted to conquer this chance, take it by it's throat and tell it, it was mine and had to abide by my rules. Afterall, I was living under a roof no longer owned by my parents. Scarlet Ibis encountering the very first trodden steps on the muddy territory, thin legs, dying in a foreshadowing event. The hallway smelled like soggy cereal and cigarette smoke, but I wasn't complaining because it was better than inhaling the scent of PineSol and freshly pressed suits for Sunday.
Vincent clapped joyously from the top of the steps. "You look like you're having trouble."
I laughed because he was right. I was nearly to the point of falling backwards, and a concussion wasn't the best housewarming present, but it was quite possible with my foot slipping beneath my weight. He relieved me from the box with no trouble, smiling happily at me. I walked up the steps besides him, exhaling deeply. The feeling was odd to not be under the supervision of my parents. A singular moan of pain escaping my room could be misinterpreted into a PornHub frenzy. My father would very well kill me. Soft pat on my back.
"Dude, I can't believe your parents actually agreed to this."
I nodded along, because I hadn't caught what he said right away and I didn't want to worry him if I spaced out like I do in my room. Years of highschool and puberty and hormones teaches you to masquerade your emotions so no one will ask questions. Dealing with the pain is hard enough, but to talk about it? To say words outside of the four walls of your room? To present yourself in front of your caretaker and shout vigorously for forgiveness? This was abusrd. The stairs creaked beneath my feet, the ceiling looked prepared to crumble, and the apartment itself wasn't exactly Barbie's DreamHouse, but with a deep breath--it was Home. Or so, it had to be for a long while. Living on my own was out of the question. I didn't trust myself. I was destructive. He would prevent me from secondhand mistakes at two a.m with a crave for pain. Who craves pain? People who experience no other emotion besides dread. Dread to get up in the morning, dread to eat, dread to breathe, speak, live; goddamnit, I dreaded every waking moment. We stood in the middle of the kitchen. The faucet dripped monotonously and the tile made noise. He set the box down onto the counter.
"What do you think?"
"We need a plumber." I said quietly.
"I know." He replied with a glance at the expanse of the room. That faucet would cost us a fortune if we didn't get it fixed soon. His dark hair swept over his blue eyes--which crinkled adorably when he smiled. I swallowed. Vincent giddily squealed. "You love it!"
His exclamation was an assumption but I let him have his moment of joy because a week prior, his parents kicked him out early with the knowledge of his sexuality. Our families went to the same church and each time I'd visit Vincent in his home he'd beg his sisters to hang out with their boyfriends. Vincent forced himself to play videogames he hated just to spend time with older guys. I felt sorry for him. His father called him a faggot and said he never wanted to see him again. I don't think I ever saw him the same again at church services where he preached at the front about how God loves all.
Why didn't God love Vincent then? Because he likes men? I think God had more to worry about than the gossip of who-shagged-who in the town, and he was most definitley not pondering the thought of Vincent Morales from Ohio being a homosexual. And here is one of the reasons Vincent's parents were leniant. I was pansexual. Completely open to the idea of me only caring for certain traits, my parents practically swooned upon the knowledge that I still spoke to Vincent at school, and months of sneaking around with my best friend were wasted. Eventually, Vincent grabbed the white board from the knick-knack-box, stuck it to the fridge and wrote 'Vyler's Crib!'
I smiled. He then helped me carry my mattress up the steps and sink it into the bedframe. As I spread the sheets he knocked twice on my room and asked if i was in the mood for chinese. I said sure, man, and pulled out my cellphone. I flipped it open, reading over the pixel-like letters on the blue screen of the flipphone.
ZACHARY: [5:00pm] it's been five hours and Dad has bought Maddie blue paint. I already miss you.
I grinned to myself and shut my phone off, taking in the air around me. It wasn't cold, nor was it hot. Warm september wind blowing in through the window, Frank Sinatra playing on Vincent's record player, and my cold duvets beneath me. Starting anew. Turning over a new leaf. Becoming myself, with a homosexual boy from the church clergy at my side.
