Black and White – Chapter 2: Why?
Author's notes: Part two of the series.
Contains homosexuality, ice cream parlor, mild rivalry, and playtime discussions. As with my other stories, don't be afraid to show me some love. Exercise this with the usual rate-comment protocol. You know the drill. I send you all my thanks. Oh, there's no yiff yet, but there will surely be some in the future.
Black and White - Chapter 2: Why?
This had to be our favorite spot. We'd meet before classes, between classes, after classes. It was as though we'd date here more than any other couple we knew, and I know it isn't much to say, but Douglas is particularly fond of this spot, as much as I am. At least I would like to think.
The ice cream parlor, at the time, was really empty with the exception of my best friend, Douglas, and the Friday scooper, Tuesday. Of the many people who'd scoop for us for nearly seven days a week, Tuesday had to be our favorite.
We emptied our pockets, and got ourselves a tub or two each. Douglas started dogging his green-colored pistachio, while I licked the New York cheesecake off the small spoon I held.
"Can I have some?"
"Sure."
This time, Douglas leaned away from his half-empty tub, and found my own. He'd beat me to an ice cream downing race any time. He murred pleasantly, tasting the real chunk of strawberry that clung onto my chin, but I let him kiss me like that.
"My best friend is gay, and is secretly in love with me." I sent an air nudge to my favorite otter, and Tuesday retorted with a soft chuckle.
"Think you should do something about it, sweetie." Somewhere in the process of saying this, she inserted a wink.
"He does!" Interjected my closest friend, an arm now around my frame, as my own coiled around his neck, pulling him close to me.
It might not be much, but I'm keeping myself from tearing things apart. How long has it been since we were friends? Small town. He moved in not too long ago, guess about a little over a year and a half, and as for me, that's where I've always lived. He's not really a next-door-neighbor of ours; he lived all the way across our street. I mean, I like Douglas, but we're friends. And I want him happy, but never hopeful.
How we became friends, I do not know. It was in school when we first paired. Stand-and-deliver, Mr. Flighter would call the activity. We'd take turns, literally standing in front of our partner, and delivering a small speech.
What Mr. Flighter asked the first half to discuss was what they want in a potential mate. And apparently, it was good for my ego. Even though of all the class, I only heard Douglas. Of course, he didn't say how he wanted his mate to be wearing thick plastic-framed glasses. They can be sexy, but you just don't secretly hope for your mate to have horrid eyesight.
"I want myself a passionate other, one so driven, one with a direction in life. I want them to be casual, never mechanical, and live life without fear. I want someone to take me high. Higher. To places I could never reach on my own. Excelsior. That would have to be the general side of things, really. Should I go down to the specifics? Ideally, I want them to be the silent, yet assertive sort. Maybe a husky. I like the contrast of black and white. I like the fickle green on one eye, and the calming blue on another. I like hygiene. Good set of teeth, that soapy smell, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't like some musk. I want them to be able to carry themselves in sensible conversations. Timid, yet confident at the same time. I want them to shine even without trying. The way you're smiling. I want them taller than I am. They don't have to be Adonis, but of course, I don't want them not to care about how they look, either." As pensive as he was, he said much for the two minutes allotted to his part.
"There aren't many of your sort of people in the world, are there?"
Yep. Definitely good for my ego.
As for the other half of the dyad, we were asked to share what we can do to change the world. I talked about how literature has been the The Great Tradition for most of my family. It's not only my uncle, Isaac, but most of the Asimovs were prolific writers. I'm working on becoming one, I recall myself saying.
Anyway, we're still at the parlor, and I fished out my gilded notebook. I wanted to show Douglas and Tuesday the bit of prose I did write. But there was the bit of truth I did not write. I dropped the book, and I was suddenly pale.
Pages of my notebook had been scrawled on. The handwriting, I do not know whose. Certainly, it wasn't mine. Elegant would be a way to describe it; vignettes beautified the unfilled corners of every leaf. It could pass for a creative short, but I knew it was familiar. It had to be. Because the last lines just read: "My life, forever changed. This coach of mine, the way he would slide his finger along the crack of my rear... remains to be a violation I occasionally relive by stuffing a cold hotdog inside my tight pucker. Occasionally."
Familiar enough? This recollection of what I narrated in class yesterday seemed to disturb me more than anything. And Douglas was confused. And Tuesday's mouth was set agape. She knew what Douglas had gone through; we were half-drunk with ice cream when he shared this, and there was only the two of us who knew about it, other than his coach.
Magic stirred me. I held the open book in my paw, then, and watched silently. Black ink etched the leaf with intricate design. Celtic knots and unruly, yet exquisite, vines bordered the page, as a single sentence horizontally arrayed itself across.
"My best friend is gay, and is secretly in love with me."
No one knew about this. Only Douglas, and I. And Tuesday had always been bickering how we'd make a cute couple, but now she was convinced. Because somehow, the book knew, and it demanded an explanation as to how it could possibly know.
We went to school, and got through it like we always did. Friday was a school night, but we'd be responsible citizens as a part of the school's outreach program. We debated whether it was to go to juvenile hall to school minors who have killed, raped, or something of similar nature, or to look after special children. As much as I wanted to do the former, my friend insisted on the latter. And looking after special children was the one thing to culminate a school week of six days.
We spent the sunset. The two of us, Douglas and I. In my room. His duffle bag prepared with all the things we need for tomorrow. He slept over at my place, and sometimes I'd go over to theirs. Tonight, he was staying in. We told each other stories. Some true, some out of creative whim. The book had a habit of selecting what it wanted written on it. It doesn't matter how shallow, nor how dark it was, as long as they were secrets.
"I like myself a twat," Douglas said. Nothing.
"I jack off to treat my insomnia." This had summoned the invisible pen. I blushed vividly.
"Who or what do you think of, when you do?"
"Tuesday Cummings."
Before the book could react, Doug had his back turned to me. It was as though he had lost interest, so he made his way to the bottom bunk of my bed. I sealed my book shut, and joined him. Arms around his waist. He turned slightly, removing my glasses, and setting them aside. I could see nothing apart from the dim light of the glow-in-the-dark stars he stuck underneath my top bunk, and his dark silhouette.
"Why not me, Evan? Why not me?"
It was the first night I fell asleep on the same bed with my best friend. Like, literally. We were warm in embrace, and I was perfectly fine. His soft kisses on the side of my maw bothered me little, much less than his restlessness. And I had hoped sleep would find him well.