Date: Sun, 11 Apr 2004 04:42:32 -0700 (PDT) From: rob Subject: Similar Differences 3 Standard warnings apply. Actually, the site already has warnings. Just to make sure, here're more. ^_^ Most of this is actually fiction but some situations have been taken from real life. The names of the characters are made up/fictional - if there are people with the same names somewhere out there, that is purely coincidental. As with most stories, the author retains all rights to this story. Without the permission of the author, no reproductions or links to other sites are allowed. This deals with male homosexual love. If you are not of legal age (18 or 21, it depends actually where), or if you live/are in a place where material such as this is illegal, or if you are simply offended by homosexuality and/or homosexual themes, please leave. This story has no sex scenes in it. ^_^ -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 3: Similar Differences And so it was. Every day, I'd drive up to Kyle's mansion and we'd go to school together. It surprised me at times, the way he'd let me take the wheel. It was his BMW after all. If something happened with me in the driver's seat, I wouldn't possibly be able to pay for whatever damage I'd cause. Of course, I tried explaining that to him but he just waved away my protests. It made me feel proud. But when we'd get to school, and when we'd usually park at a secluded corner, I'd will myself to think that it's for the security of his car. Then again, something nagged me. If it were for that reason, all the more he should park it where everyone could see. Maybe he wasn't comfortable being seen with me. Understandable. But since I didn't have any claim on him, I didn't have any right at all to feel what I was feeling. So I just tried to understand something I couldn't understand. Understandable. In the afternoon, on our way home, we'd meet up separately at his car. Sometimes I'd get there first and start reading beside it. Sometimes he'd be there earlier, with a door open, puffing rings of cigarette smoke into the air. In the car we'd talk about little things - how was your day; this professor is so unfair; org work was hell; was invited to a party on Saturday. Things like that. Whenever we'd reach his house, I'd usually hop out, say thanks and drive home. Sometimes though we'd continue with our little talks. Other times we'd continue with our psychology project - soon I was able to get a little to work around about his earlier stages. Of course, I learned even more about him when I'd not hop out and drive home immediately. When he started interviewing me in his room - me in the black bean bag; him on his bed, on his belly, facing me - he didn't have a notebook or anything. "Are you actually getting down everything I'm telling you?" "Of course." "Really?" With a sigh, he sat up, reciting as if there were a microphone in front of him. "You're Osmond Chan, 19 years old. When you were a baby, you were just like any regular baby. Your mom used to pick you up a lot and your dad doted on you being his firstborn and a son at that - it's a Chinese thing. That's your Trust versus Mistrust in a nutshell. Then, when you were a toddler, you picked up after yourself. You were a weird kid. Then," "Okay, okay. You do remember." I grinned - picturing him in a little kids outfit (button down plaid shirt, short shorts, suspenders, loafers with knee-length socks), hands behind his back, on a stage. But it actually amazed me, how many details he could stuff into his head. If only he used that memory space for listening to lectures at school. So the project was coming along pretty well and we were getting pretty close. I was happy with the way things were. I couldn't expect much after all - I didn't want to. If I did, I could've been setting myself up for another bad fall. I just had to live like foam and air. Preparing myself to feel lonely, inconsequential. Like nothing. There was always that cloud hanging right above me, ready to fall like rain. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Hu'lo?" I was lucky to pick the phone up that early morning. It was Saturday - sometime between 2 and 3 am - and, as usual, Lara was at some party, mom was asleep and dad was somewhere I didn't know. I was busy typing things up for the Student Council. Naturally, I wondered who it could be. Receiving calls at that early in the morning is never good. Coupled with heavy trance or heavy metal (I couldn't tell the difference), Kyle's voice came slurring through the receiver, each syllable was heavily oiled, as if viscuously flowing out of the phone. It scared me. "Hu'lo? Osh?" "Kyle?" "Yahh! Yahh! Boy! You're really smart!" "Kyle? What's wrong?" I heard a hiccup followed by a loud bang. "Kyle?" "Oops," he chuckled then tried to speak while chuckling, "Fell over. Heh heh. So stupid. Heh heh. Tripped on shoelaces. Heh heh. Can't breathe." "Try to stop laughing. Maybe then you'd have less problems breathing." I answered, starting to worry. Apparently my advice wasn't so good. He started laughing hysterically, "Stop laughing?! HAHA! You're HA! right! But, HAHA! I can't! You're funny! Don't HAHA! make me laugh! HAHAHA!" This was bad - I knew it. He was drunk. Badly drunk. I didn't really know the effects of alcoholic beverages but I did know they lowered inhibitions. Kyle's must've hit rock bottom. "Kyle, control yourself." He still didn't stop. "Kyle stop it." I said, dead serious, almost angry. To my surprise he did stop. Silence reigned on the other end of the line, except for the loud music I could hear in the background. I didn't know whether to be relieved that he stopped or to be even more afraid. "Kyle? Kyle?" A whimper. "Kyle? Kyle, what's wrong?" "You're angry." His voice was small, almost desperate. "No, Kyle, I'm not." Again he didn't talk. "Kyle, please talk. Say something. Please?" I was aware of how wretched I sounded, but at that point I didn't really care. He was potentially dangerous to others - and possibly to himself. Again, the small, desperate voice came through the receiver. "You're not angry?" "No. I'm not." I said as gently as I could, "What's wrong?" He suddenly started sobbing. "I just wanted to hear your voice." Even in his drunk state, even from a distance I didn't know how far, he still had this innate ability to move me. I had to swallow a mounting lump in my throat. "Kyle, where are you?" "In a party..." "Where?" There was just no way I was letting him drive home. He tried to give the address, broken by interjections he himself would make like "oh no, it's..." I think he corrected himself five times. "Okay. Got it. Now stay there and wait for me. Don't do anything. Just sit down. Okay?" "Okay." He sounded like a child. Vulnerable. I didn't want to put the phone down - but I had to eventually, suppressing the blaring music in the background. 17 Orchard Street. That was roughly forty-five minutes away from where I lived. I made it in twenty-five. When I got there, the party seemed to be braking up. The music was shut off, numerous cars were departing - I hoped with sober drivers. Kyle's wasn't there. What if? Oh no. Praying that somehow he'd be inside, I quickened my pace, looking frantically around. There weren't many people inside. There weren't many people who were awake at least. The small townhouse groundfloor was an absolute mess. Confetti everywhere, cigarette smoke everywhere, beer cans and bottles (a few broken ones) everywhere. Three guys had collapsed on the couch, a girl and a guy were asleep on the dining table - arms folded, heads down. Just like in class. Even Ciara was there, awake, babbling like an idiot. "Ossie?! Why're you here? Got news for you! I failed my calculus test!" How could anyone miss that luminous face? It literally glowed green and blue. Must be some strange new make-up. But I didn't really pay her much attention. I was busy. Thankfully, I finally found him. He was seated on the floor, dressed in black denim jeans and a black bomber jacket. His arms were hugging his knees, his head between them. Next to him was the telephone. "Kyle?" He squinted up to look at me. "Os? Ossie?" "C'mon Kyle. Let's go home." He mumbled something about being tired and I just hushed him, "Shhh," trying to sound as soothing as I could. I pulled him up, put his arm on my shoulders and lead him out. He smelled like alcohol and smoke. "Did you bring your car?" How was I going to drive two cars? Actually if he did... it wasn't there anymore. In his slurred speech, I could only make out, "Nope. Rode with Mike." Whew. That solves the problem. Carefully, I laid him in the passenger seat, tucking him in behind the seat belt. A familiar scene: me leading him out, tucking him in; him asleep. Or some version of it at least. Since there weren't many cars on the road, I took long glances at him as he slept. As the lights from the lampposts flew across his face, one after the other, I felt worse and worse. He looked like an angel. An angel I couldn't have. Once in a while he'd snore lightly. Even his snore was adorable - I laughed in spite of myself. I just ended up consoling myself with the thought that angels didn't reek of alcohol or cigarette smoke. At the end of Weeping Willow Drive, I did the arm-on-my-shoulders maneuver again. Ed and Maria's eyes became as round as they could be when they saw me and my charge. "Hullo." Ed quickly took his other arm and both of us half-supported, half-carried Kyle up to his room as Maria fretfully ran ahead, opening the main door and the door to Kyle's room. Kyle woke up, albeit partially, "Where am I?" "In your room, Kyle." "How did I get here?" He slurred then, as if suddenly remembering, "Oh. You." He tried to smile - I think - but ended up grimacing instead. "Thank you. You may leave now," with a wild wave of his hand, he asked Ed and Maria to go. I thought he had asked me to leave too but as I was about to turn, a bit hurt, on my way out, he shouted, "Os! Wait!" A mess. That's what I remember: he looked like a mess seated on the side of his bed, hair disheveled, clothes all rumpled. Pushing himself up with both hands, he tried to walk, wobbling towards me. "Kyle, rest. You..." "I can handle myself." Ironic. As he said it, he crashed on to me. "Well, I can't. Haha!" He laughed. So he was still drunk. I tried to push him up, and to get him to lie down and sleep, but he wouldn't lie down. I did manage to sit him up on his bed though. "Kyle, get some sleep. It's almost 4 am." With a grunt, he threw his jacket to the side, and tried stripping off his white shirt, almost tearing it. "I can't sleep dressed like this." Staring at him then, I knew I was blushing. Furiously. I mean, he was stripping! Or, at least, trying to. "Os, help me." He looked up. I didn't know whether or not to. "Os, I can't sleep like this." He tried unbuttoning his pants since he gave up on removing his shirt - lying down flapping like a fish out of water trying to push the denims off. It was quite a scene really. In light of what was happening, I stopped myself from laughing. "Okay, okay. Hold still." Slowly, I peeled his pants off of him. "Up," of course I had to command him to lift his hips up to get them down. Thank goodness he had on a pair of boxers underneath. As soon as I said "done," he sat up and raised his arms. Carefully, I got his shirt off of him, too. "There." I wasn't even done saying 'there' when all of a sudden I found myself in his arms, him nuzzling my neck. He was fast for a drunk guy. "Kyle, what are you doing?" For some reason I found myself laughing, shakily. "Don't you want me?" He whispered huskily, while trying to undo the buttons of my shirt. Not this way. "Kyle," again I didn't realize it. He somehow managed to position me so that when he fell (or collapsed), I'd be under him on his bed. That's what eventually happened. All of a sudden, there I was, pinned under his weight. After a moment, it didn't even register as frightening anymore. It was downright comical, like something out of a silent film, a slapslick show. Maybe he was expecting me to pull out a halibut and start slapping him around. As soon as we flopped down onto his bed, he fell asleep. Again. On me. Gently, I rolled him off. Sprawled on his bed, dressed only in his boxers, again. I knew I was blushing like anything. I probably wasn't red anymore. I must've turned violet. He was drunk. Maybe even drugged. I checked his pulse - it was normal. His breathing, though, was erratic. I read somewhere that taking in a large amount of alcohol does that. Or was that taking in certain types of drugs? Anyway, he was safe. As safe as I could make him - at least he was home. How funny - there he was, just days ago, advising me to tell Lara to take care of herself. Spreading a thin blanket over him before walking out, I finally realized that he was going through much more than I thought. Mrs. Vergara told me about it but I didn't really understand. I asked Maria to keep an eye on him before driving home. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I was worried on my way to school the following Monday. When I got to Kyle's, Maria said that he had left earlier for school looking upset. For one thing, I didn't want to run into an upset Kyle. For another, he'd usually call me the night before to tell me if I'd have to drive straight to school - something he didn't do that Sunday night. Something was wrong. And I had a sinking feeling that it had something to do with Saturday night - or morning as the case was. Partners were supposed to sit beside each other for the rest of the summer term for Psychology, just in case we'd have seatwork. Kyle wasn't in class. And we did have seatwork, which I ended up doing all by myself. What if Kyle did get drugged in that party? And what if suddenly he was hooked on the stuff? I tried scouring the parking lots for his car - no luck. It was a bit absent-minded of me, but it only occurred to me to look at our secluded parking slot at 4 pm. As luck would have it, there he was, about to climb into the driver's seat. Seeing that, relief ebbed through me. He was in school and not in some dark alley sniffing stuff. "Kyle. Hey, Kyle!" Jolted by the sound of my voice, he sprang up from his bent position. "Oh, hey." He said, almost inaudibly, not looking up from the bag in his hands. His school things. "What's up? You weren't at Psych this morning." "Oh. Had to do something." Still not looking at me. Though he was a good charmer, he was a bad liar. "What's wrong?" At that question, he dropped his bag and stood straight, staring at an imaginary fixture somewhere in the distance. "Kyle, what's wrong?" "Nothing," he sighed, finally looking at me for a split-second. "You know, if this is about last Saturday," I began. He didn't let me finish, cutting in with an edge. "Look, I didn't mean to. Really. Okay? Happy?" "Kyle, it's okay. I know you didn't mean to. You were drunk, you didn't know what you were doing or even saying." I had to muster a lot of courage to say each word. "And it's okay." He muttered something under his breath. I thought I made "it isn't," out but when I asked him what he said, he didn't answer. I didn't want to assume. "Now let's pretend that nothing happened. We have to finish the project soon." Nodding, still looking at the imaginary thing somewhere far, far away, he quietly answered, "Yeah." "Kyle, just let it go." Finally, he turned to face me, gave a weak grin and nodded in assent. "Actually, it was funny. You fell asleep again on me. Am I that boring?" Chuckling a little, he shook his head. "So, we on for tonight? Final touches?" "Yeah. Meet you there." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I practically tailed his car on the way back to his place and we settled into a very businessy, formal-like atmosphere - at least from my perspective. Kyle looked almost contemplative, miles away at times. I'd end up calling his attention more than twice every five minutes. "Os, I don't think we've done my Identity versus Identity Confusion." Satisfied that somehow maybe he got over whatever was bothering him, I got my pen and notebook out. "Os, I told you before that I'm not really as confident as I am." I nodded, scribbling each word nicely down into my notebook. "Well, I'm not. Really. Like what happened last Saturday," I opened my mouth, ready to stop him but he continued, "let me finish. This isn't easy, you know." Looking back down at my notes, I waited for him to start again. "Os, what I did to you then was really - I don't know. And like I said before, I'm not good with apologies and I don't really think I've said sorry to you. So, sorry." It sounded so earnest that I was scared of looking up at him. I just kept writing. "And thanks. Thanks for bailing me out." "You're welcome." I managed to croak. "Anyway, back to the project," he sounded like me just then, "there are lots of things about me I still don't understand like, I don't know, why I care so much about what people say about me and why I do things." He stopped for a while, I thought to gather his thoughts, but I was wrong. When I looked up at him, he was practically glaring at me. "Will you listen to me?" Yes. He was irritated all of a sudden. "But I am listening." "No, you're not. You're too busy." I suddenly felt ashamed of holding my pen and notebook. Still dressed in his walking shorts and polo shirt, he suddenly stood up and walked out the door. Dumbstruck, I didn't know what to do. No one's ever walked out on me before. And I was in his house at that! I just sat, the bean bag starting to get intolerably uncomfortable. After those few moments of stupor, my senses suddenly waking, I jumped and ran after him - down the staircase, out the front door, down the gently sloping cobblestone path and out the gate - into the Weeping Willow orchard. I could see his back, slowly getting smaller and smaller, a trail of smoke floating at his side. Once in a while, the faint glow of his cigarette would cut through the distance. It was like a horror movie, night had descended and the willows' swaying branches were eerily blue under the moonlight. Though he was taking quick strides, I was running, practically sprinting (I didn't want to be stuck alone with those trees). I easily caught up. "Kyle, what's wrong?" It seemed like he effortlessly tuned me out. "Kyle? Kyle?" Still no response. He just kept on inhaling his smoke, his cigarette soon turning into nothing but ashes and a butt. He walked, I followed - not saying anything more. It was useless to talk, after all. We soon came to the playground. Taking a swing beside his, I sat, wondering what this was all about. Everything was bathed in moonlight - the monkey bars, the seesaws. Everything. Even the willows at the fringes of the lot. Their rustling leaves sounded like waves. For the first time, I looked at the willows fondly. The stars glimmered far in the distance, white against the dark backdrop of the night sky. It should've been peaceful. "You don't have your notes." His voice came so suddenly, so abruptly, I almost fell out of my seat. "Kyle, we have to finish this." He looked sad. "I don't want to," he whispered, staring straight ahead. "Kyle, almost all the stages are fixed. All we need is your adolescence and we'll be done." Everything went silent again, except for the sound of the trees, the sound of the waves. "Os," he started, sounding quietly exhausted, as if he just ran a mile, "Os, I think I like you." The waves I was hearing - they suddenly washed over me, pulling me into a crazy, 'insaning' whirlpool of reds and violets. I didn't know what to feel - what to say. "Os?" he asked, carefully, almost shyly, turning a bit towards me. "That doesn't make sense!" I burst out. It was all too sudden, all too confusing. I found myself on my feet, in front of his swing. So this was what he was feeling a few moments ago. "It doesn't have to," again he looked vulnerable from where he sat. Like he was about to cry. I couldn't stop. I was just too caught up in the flood of emotions that I started yammering, "Then why'd you call me a fag behind my back? And why'd you treat me like dirt before? Why," It was his turn to shout, not letting me finish. "You're the smart one, why don't you explain?!" He was crying now. Shouting and crying. They snapped me back to reality. I felt exhausted myself, slumping down into the seat beside him again. "Look, I think I liked you even before, but since I couldn't, I started hating you and making you look ugly." He said. Closing my eyes, I leaned on the chain, grasping it with my right hand. It was cool. Reaction Formation. A Freudian defense mechanism. Changing a socially unacceptable impulse into its opposite. Feeling a warm hand close over my left hand, I flinched away. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" "A bit." For a while we were quiet. Each of us lost in his own thoughts, on our own swings. He broke the silence again, softly. "Sorry, Os. I'll just tell ma'am that it didn't work out. And if we could do it individually." He was about to stand when I said, "No, no. It's not like that." The chains for his swing became taut again. "Then what?" I couldn't think of an explanation so I just came out with a question of my own. "Are you gay?" Since I wanted an answer, I looked directly at him. Eye-contact. He broke it. "I don't know. Maybe," he stopped for a while, continuing shyly, "I only liked you." Softening, I asked, "What about Sara?" Thoughtfully, he looked up, then to the right. "Her? I was only playing around with her. Getting the guys to like me. I mean, everyone else did it." So. We were not so different after all. "Kyle," I didn't know how to phrase it, "do you know the consequences of a gay relationship?" He could've been riding on an impulse. A potentially disastrous one at that. At this question, he got a little annoyed, "Yeah. Sort of. But it doesn't really matter now does it?" After a while he softened, as if suddenly realizing. "Unless..." He wasn't dumb - I did ask the question after all. "We'd better think this over really well." For the first time that day, he beamed, smiling the way he was really supposed to. Wistfully, maybe. Still, it made me happy. "So you do like me, too." "... yeah. Kinda." I mumbled back. If it were any more possible, his smile widened even more. "So, you'll still be riding with me to school even after the project?" "Yeah." Standing up from his swing and offering me a hand, he said, "Let's go back. We have a project to finish." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It was only on my way home that I realized it: He just wanted to know he'd be seeing me again even after the project. I guess I'm not so smart after all.