Lust is a very strange thing.
It transforms the body, if only temporarily. It takes one thing and turns it into something entirely different. It is shallow, it is emotionless, and it is purely physical, but without it, the most passionate, most amazing thing in the world can seem dull and boring.
Stan watches as Kyle's mouth opens and closes. He can't hear a word that is being said, although he is certain that noise is pouring out from the moving pink lips.
Kyle's mouth is breathtakingly unique. The lips are full, but not fat; reddish, but not crimson; soft, but not fake. The tongue is small and pink and darts around quickly when Kyle speaks. The teeth are off-white, not a fake movie star white that sparkles too vibrantly and glares in the sun. And everything fits together so delicately, so perfectly.
Stan wishes he knew more about its flawlessness. He wishes he can think about how amazing that quick moving tongue feels when it enters his mouth. He yearns to experience the rightness of those sweet, soft lips pressing against his. He longs to run his own ordinary tongue across those deliciously off white teeth and revel in the faultlessness of that extraordinary, perfect mouth.
But he controls himself. Because of love.
Love is a very strange thing.
It can take two souls and tie them together forever. It can twist bonds that run deeper than blood. It can capture a heart and fill it with the purest, most innocent ecstasy. It is the changing of an autumn leaf from a generic green to a vibrant orange. But if ignored or not tended to, come winter it is the withering of a vivid autumn leaf to a shriveled brown ghost, dead, cursed to blow around aimlessly in the wind, never finding rest.
Stan watches as Kyle talks fiercely, causing vibrant curls to bob up and down. The wind is blowing slightly, and the twisted locks of fire are fluttering. But Stan thinks that just makes them prettier.
They are the same color as autumn leaves, Stan reflects, as he continues to stare, fascinated. But they will never turn brown. They will never die. They won't wither as soon as winter rears its ugly head. Because the twisted, gleaming strands of hair are Kyle's, and therefore the twisted, gleaming strands of hair are perfect.
He has a sudden urge to tangle his hands in the curls, to swirl the red tresses around his fingers. If Kyle stops talking suddenly and asks him what the hell he is doing, he will just be honest and say that he is head over heels in love with him.
But he doesn't. He makes the sacrifice.
Sacrifice is a very strange thing.
It takes away arrogance and replaces it with purpose. It is the conquering of the selfish human nature. It is giving the ultimate gift, because it is the truest gift you can give in that there is no benefit for the giver. The giver will not gain anything from giving. And yet still he gives, purely for the receiver.
Stan's gaze falls upon Kyle's eyes and stays there. The bright green orbs are so innocent, so lively, practically brimming with hope and happiness. Stan suddenly notices thin gold flecks in the sea of green, sparkling like hidden treasure.
Is that how everything is? Does everything contain unnoticed, unattainable streaks of pure gold?
He continues to gaze, mesmerized, enchanted, as the eyes blink slowly. Thick, dark lashes flutter closed, and then open again excruciatingly slowly, as if trying to torture him into madness. Those eyes are so full of life….
Suddenly concern flashes in those glowing orbs. Stan feels his heart break. How can the unadulterated happiness dim out? He knows it's because of him, because of something he has done.
The perfect mouth opens, and sweet music comes out of it. It takes Stan a few minutes to understand what the words mean. Sluggishly he deciphers the sounds. Are you okay? You look sick. Is there something you want to tell me?
Those eyes… they look sad now…
Why?
Why?
Does Kyle want Stan to tell him something?
Kyle's worried expression fades and suddenly Stan steps into a vivid flashback. He is small, only five or six. He is peddling on his bike through the empty streets. The sky is blue and birds are singing. He is laughing as he rides at dizzying speeds.
Suddenly he slows down. He is passing the synagogue. Prayers are not in session; Jewish mothers are sitting next to each other on benches in the front, talking and giggling and playing with their many children, basking in the rare warmth of sunlight and enjoying the summer day thoroughly.
One little child catches his eye. It is always him. It is always the same little boy that makes him stare.
The boy looks younger than him, and happier, too. His bright orange curls bounce as he runs in circles, grinning face turned to the sun as if the light is a kiss from God.
His mother, a plump lady who shares the boy's red hair, says something to the other women, and they all turn, smiling at the boy fondly. Someone says something funny and everyone laughs. The boy, seeing everybody happy, lets out a particularly high pitched giggle and runs into his mother's arms. She embraces him, and at this point little Stan turns away, and something in his chest hurts.
He will become friends with this boy, he decides. He will be this boy's best friend. One day he will say something and this boy will laugh, and one day he will say something and this boy will be happy. One day he will join this boy and they will both run in circles with their faces turned to the sun.
But not now. Now is not the time. Now he is off-limits, protected by the synagogue and his mother and all the other laughing children.
Now he is in a different world. But one day that exclusive world will allow him in.
He is jolted from the seemingly random flashback and is painfully returned to the present.
Does Kyle want Stan to tell him something?
No, he decides. Kyle isn't like that. He is too pure. He is an angel, some human manifestation of God.
Stan can't ruin that. He can't. He won't. He never wants to see the happiness leave those eyes again.
Kyle repeats his words, his thin eyebrows furrowed. Are you okay?
Yes, Stan replies. Yes, I'm okay. I feel amazing. Only soon I will wither away and die, but I am willing to do it if keeps you bright and alive.
Only he didn't say the last part.
Relief floods the concerned face and Kyle smiles. When Kyle smiles his whole face smiles. It's the prettiest thing Stan has ever seen.
Stan smiles back at the face he knows so well, and at the boy he knows even better. He sees the face in his dreams and he feels the boy in his heart.
But the boy will never know.
Are you sure you're okay? Kyle asks, one more time. He's so cute when he's worried.
Stan gazes tenderly into eyes whose beautiful color he can tell apart from thousands of other shades of green. He smiles slowly, even though inside he is being ripped into a million little pieces, like an embarrassing diary entry.
Sacrifice is a very strange thing.
It defies logic, and survival of the fittest, and every man for himself. It is the victory of love and emotion over basic primitive nature. It is what sets us humans apart from animals. It is the realization that some things are bigger than us. It is complete; it is the quintessence of purity; and it is the hardest thing in the world to do.
Stan looks at the boy who has won his heart, conquered his dreams, and earned his love.
This is his chance to tell him how he truly feels. This is his chance. He can tell Kyle the truth….
No. He must forgo his personal feelings. What is best for Kyle?
And suddenly he sees Kyle's future stretch out before him, promising and inviting and full of hope and brightness. And then he sees his own future, and he sees only hiding, and pain, and double identities. But now he doesn't mind, not really. Because all he cares about is the receiver.
And then he makes the ultimate sacrifice.
Yes, he says. Yes, I'm fine. I've never felt better.
Will anyone ever know?