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Playtime as a nine year old, little do most children know, would become wild moments that find a place deep in the heart. Some memories fade, but if the person that helped to create them sticks around, so do the emotions the memories hold: trying not to fall from the oak tree that the two of you had deigned just high enough to climb; the field three blocks from his house not a field at all, but a vast desert in the middle of Western Australia. Bikes dropped at the base as you prepare yourselves to scale the path up the mast of Queen Anne’s Revenge, the dry land suddenly an ocean. He’s ahead of you, as usual, but you follow close behind, aware but not even thinking about that if you were to slip he would grab you before you knew what had nearly happened. Reaching the top, the sun just beginning to move towards the horizon, you both sit on a thicker branch and shout at the top of your lungs, because you know no one else is around to scold you. For years, this tree is a safe haven. Secrets and dreams are shared. Everything is a new adventure.
But the time would always come that he had to go home. He would watch you walk into your own and stand at the corner, waiting for you to run up the second floor to the balcony, where you would look at him and send out a silent wish for his safety. His young face would look back like he knew what you were thinking. And then he’d go on his way.
Other days were lazier, where you’d poke around the yard where his father fixed up boats, then go back to his house, where you’d to sit down at the table and play with his dad’s bottle caps as if it were all a sport game, ignoring the small problems that would only grow in that small house.
He had always been one step ahead, excited by anything and everything. And he wanted to share it all with you. Sometimes he would put his hand to the back of your neck to make sure you were witnessing whatever it was that he needed you to see; put his arm around you and steer you away from the empty bottles and to the pile of wood you could use to later make a bonfire. A sheet was never a sheet, but the sack in which the pirate captain kept you both hostage. You and he would jump around beneath it on his bed, like the bag were being jolted aboard the Jolly Roger; five minutes later he would jump out and return with lobster monster finger puppets you had gotten from a machine with him at the arcade. He’d watch you, both of your fingers wrapped around each other’s, while you poke at your green lobster, as if it were the most interesting thing. You didn’t notice this.
Another favorite would have to be the beach. Well, before that one Saturday. He arrived with a pirate hat, sword, and his father, the plan to head off to explore with you starting off well. For the moment, his father was steady on his feet, smiling at his son’s bright and animated face. The boy runs into you for a quick, adrenalized hug; his dad greets the other men there, looking uncomfortable. You don’t notice, because his son is adjusting the strap of the eye patch he had brought with him, as it makes your ears and the hair behind them stick out; he laughs, smiling at you with a skull-and-bones hat atop his blond hair. Prepared now for your endeavor, you follow him to the woodsy area of the shore, your eye patch and plastic sword in place. The dead squid he holds above your heads has dangling arms that drip onto the sand; you laugh at the discovery with him. The late afternoon swimming break leads to tag, the chase to get him oftentimes the reason for a tangle on the sand, caused by a tackle. Covered in sand, you run for the pier, standing at its edge with eyes on each other. You wait for someone to dare and make the first move. He smiles and puts a hand to your naked shoulder, giving you a look of assurance, before jumping for the water. Without letting another second pass, you do the same.
Exhausted after hours of splashing and breath-holding contests, you drag yourselves out and over onto the sand, grinning at each other before pulling shirts back on. Neither want the day to end. The shouts, then, become evident, and the two of you run for the spot where the adults are. His father is making a scene, grabbing at the others, and the nine year old boy at your side is forced to push his father away from yours. Pulled to your dad’s side, you have to watch him walk away.
Some memories are better off forgotten.
But it was a harder task to forget his brazen smile, the way he’d pull at your shirt and drag you off to only he knew where. His admittance to his feelings for you after a long day of drunken scorn from his father at age fifteen. First kiss not a moment after because, without a strand of uncertainty, you were sure that this is what was meant to happen, all this time.
A complicated relationship, viewed as wrong by some. But you would ask anyone with that belief how that could be true. A best friend, a soulmate, you had watched grow into a beautiful soul. Wrong? Not possible.
It was a turn when his father became aware of your altered bond. He had fallen asleep in your bed, both of you convinced that he could crawl into his at home through the window. But his dad was waiting in the doorway there, eyes glazed and red. He jumped up from the bed, hoping to calm the man down, but there was no way to do that anymore. He demanded to know where his son had been, but why hadn’t he lied? What a fool, believing his father would listen to the truth: I was with Troye. I’m with Troye. I… We love each other.
His father’s angry brow became confused, only to revert in a flash. Is that what you’ve been doing all these years, sleeping at that faggot’s place? Are you a fag? Tell me. He assured his dad, red-faced in upset, that it had never been that way as kids, that they’d only just realized how they felt. There was nothing wrong with it. But it only made his father angrier, working him into a rage. You like rolling around with boys? He shoved him onto the mattress. He’s never coming here again, Matt, you hear me? I won’t have that shit in here. If he’s back here one more time, I’ll kill both of you.
Matthew sat up on the bed, shouting. He isn’t shit! He’s the only person in my life I’ve ever felt safe with.
His dad grabbed Matthew, holding him against the mattress, the boy’s hands held down to his sides so he wasn’t able to defend himself. He yelled even as he beat him against the bed. I swear to God, Matthew, I swear to fucking God if you see him again– Matthew took a blow to the eye and spit in the face, but was ultimately hurt the worst because of the verbal and mental abuse he’d received in that ten minutes.
He always calls when he gets home from your place. Without that call and left wondering, you head to Matthew’s, becoming worried at the sight of his father in the yard examining his knuckles with a bottle of Tanqueray in hand. You go to knock quietly on the window of Matthew’s bedroom, but it’s already open. Inside, you see a boy with a face wet from tears gripping his pillow. Disbelieving, scared, you push into the room. He sits up at the sight of you on his bed, says your name with fear and heartbreaking relief. How had the two of you been brought to this? When had trees and ocean breeze turned to clutching each other like you were the only thing left to hold in the world?
But you do it, allow him to rest his exhausted head on your shoulder and whisper what his father had said and done. His searching eyes glued to yours, face held between your hands, you reassure him that it will be okay. He isn’t sure, but is somewhat calmed down and has nothing else to say. Hand to his neck, you press a kiss to his lips; somehow you have become the one followed. The kiss is returned in desperate fervor, softer before you go. He whispers goodbye; you think nothing of it.
But days pass and nothing happens. You go to the pier and remember only last week, sitting there with him, laughing as he ruffled your hair in the setting sunlight. The slow kiss on the empty sand. The last time you had been apart for so long was when he’d gotten the chickenpox.
You walk to his dad’s workplace, prepared to confront him about what had happened; when you arrive, you see that Matthew is there as well. You smile, happy to see him after three days, but his face when he approaches you doesn’t reflect yours. His eye is healing, you can see. You are about to say some sort of hello when Matthew pushes you towards the pavement. You grasp at his shirt, try to reach and cup his cheek or hold his neck as you had so many moments before. Ignoring you, he insists that you have to leave, get the hell away from him, please; unbalanced, the words homo and disgust hit you like darts. Why was he doing this?
He leaves you there to return to work; you can’t do anything but stare as his dad claps him on the neck for a job well done dealing with the trash, not so much as a glare sent your way. Unaware of Matthew’s wanting to turn to see you leave, his stomach twisted, you stumble for home. You feel sick, again asking yourself how this could have happened.
It’s over. For him, at least. The next time you see him is walking down the pavement. He’s with a girl you recognize from school. The last thing you expect is for him to pass you by without a glance, only see that he had entwined his fingers with Julia’s. Had Matthew already forgotten the week past, Troye’s running after him on the sand, the stars winking from the sky and his arm around his shoulders? The quietly promised plans?
Some memories are better off forgotten.
The following year and a half slogs by at a snail’s pace. You’re sure he can’t give a damn if he’s managed for so long to act like you never existed, after everything. He’s careful to not be in the same vicinity as you, but if the situation arises in which this happens, he makes sure not to look your way or let you catch his eye. He’ll look away if you accidentally do.
His father dies in September, the third day into senior year. You aren’t surprised, but you cry. Not for him, but for his son. Even though it’s been two years, you go to the funeral. He’s adopted the douche-bag hairstyle he had laughed at forever. Still unwilling to look at you, or too distracted by the event at hand, his eyes remain on the newly packed grave. He’d never been one to cry with others there to see. With faithful Julia by his side, he cries in front of everyone. You refuse to do the same. His aunt and his father’s sparse friends filter away from the grave, and Julia tries to do the same to Matthew. He kneels down to the ground and she keeps her grip on his hand; he shakes her off. Matthew’s grandfather leads her away; Matthew doesn’t notice.
You walk through the cemetery, thoughts consumed by late-night kisses and pirate swords. Matthew cries at his father’s new place in the ground, remembering the recent memories with him that were far brighter than they’d been before. It made him forget that his father had loved him for the lies, the face he showed the world, the loss ten times what it could have been had he only remembered the abuse instead. That smile at him months ago hadn’t been for his good work on the boat. It had been pride at his ruining the best relationship in Matthew’s life.
But you can’t control that. Beneath a cloudy sky, you head for the stairs that lead up into the other side of the cemetery. You have nowhere to be, not these days. Unaware of how any minutes had gone by, you feel tentative fingers graze your shoulder. Your head whips to the side in surprise, but it fades away when you see Matthew’s face looking down at you. You stand slowly. He looks from you to the ground, back again, again. He says that he’s sorry, that he wishes he knew what to do. You can’t believe, after so much hoping, that this is real. A hand lifts to his neck; instinct moves him away from the contact. You feel hurt, but then hear the crying. You pull him against you and he collapses against your body, gripping your waist as you cradle his head. Maybe it isn’t over.
But you hear an indrawn breath and turn to see Julia standing there; she had returned for her boyfriend. You release him, and his eyes widen when he notices the reason why. She is looking at Matthew as though she’d caught him doing something unseemly; you’d come out to the school as soon as Matthew had dumped you. You know she must be wondering what the hell her boyfriend is doing, hugging a known homo. But even then, you hope that he won’t walk back to her, back to that life. But with his clenched fists stuck inside his pockets, he does. She grabs his arm and drags him away, and this time, Matthew does look back to see you. You stand there, dumbstruck, heart aching but again, unsurprised.
You don’t know that Julia is a mess on the ride home, convinced that Matthew is into you, demanding to know what he was doing hugging you like that, after so long, if that weren’t the case. He tries to defend himself, but it’s almost like his father his alive in front of him; he can hear it in his head, over and over: no son of mine piece of shit no-good fag fucking kill you trash don’t you dare disrespect
You don’t know that Matthew runs back to the cemetery to see you, even after being dropped at his aunt’s, but is too late because you’ve already gone home alone. That he goes to the cliff edge near the beach, knuckles white while nails press into his palms. His father’s voice grating inside his ears as the sea breeze blows around him and the waves break nearly 17 meters below.
You don’t know that his last thought is of you. He looks out at the water and then closes his eyes. He pictures the kisses, sparring with plastic swords, the adventures, you running after him across the sand and taking him to the ground in your arms. In his head, he tells you he loves you, that he always had and never stopped. In his impeccably unspotted suit, Matthew takes a breath, the roaring in his ears beginning to lift as he imagines your eyes behind his. He sees himself looking over at you on the pier, ready to take the plunge.
You know that he jumps. They tell you that.
Some memories are better off forgotten.