I've been listening to the songs you gave me.
They bring back memories of things we said we'd do, and things we did. For instance, the time you called me at three in the morning to tell me that you'd dreamt of me. I should've realized then what you meant. That you wanted to be with me, even though we were apart.
Do you remember the first time I touched your face?
I was fifteen. You were on my kitchen table, on your back. I was eating cereal out of the red bowl I bought from your garage sale. You had been reading The Great Gatsby again, even though it was a school book. I asked you what the cover meant.
"The eyes of God," you told me.
I put my thumb on your cheekbone and let my hand slide down your face. I meant to tell you that they looked like your eyes, but you got up and left. I thought you hated me.
Two days later, you came back around. Your face was bandaged; you couldn't smile. That was the day that my brother stopped being gay. I realized that I was the gay one. I asked you about the bandages; you wouldn't tell me. I thought you had gotten beat up. But you're too cool for that, aren't you? They were tattoos. When you could take the gauze off, you showed me. I thought they ruined your face, so I didn't talk to you for a week. You borrowed Larxene's makeup to hide them, and you sat outside my door for an hour. I don't even remember being angry, at that point.
Do you remember when you turned 21? I thought you were going out with all the older guys, but you went back home and invited me over. That was the first time for a lot of things. As drunk as we were, I won't forget. Neither will you, I think.
I'm still listening to the songs you gave me. Did you know you gave me over eight hundred? I listened to all of them. I memorized the good ones.
Sometimes I wish I'd been born earlier, so that you wouldn't be gone. I would be gone, too, and that would make it less hard. Christmas is rolling around again, and that means you'll be coming home. You don't have to buy me anything this year.
o0o
You bought me something anyway. You always do. It was another book this year, because I'm still in school. This is harder than any paper I've written. This is your present, and it's going to be late.
But you don't mind. You never do.