That was absolutely the last thing I would have liked to hear coming out of my mouth. But it actually has Adam's interest piqued -- if only because he thinks I've gone crazy -- and it will take me to the point I need to make, so I figure I'd better run with it.
"Your polo shirts. I hate them. I hate the way you pop the collar. And I especially hate the peach one. I hate that you wear peach at all."
He tilts his head and opens his mouth, as if he's about to speak, but thinks better of it. He doesn't move, though, and I am further emboldened.
"I hate the way you gesture when you talk about your latest hockey play; I'm always afraid to get close to you, for fear you'll hit me in the nose…again," I can't resist adding, almost as if to slightly reassure him that I'm not going to go off on an angry rant. A smile flickers across his lips -- for just an instant, but I catch it.
"I hate the way your closet is a complete and total mess but everyone thinks you're clean and neat because the disaster is confined to that unseen, three-by-five space." Adam has to suppress another smile, and I don't know if it's because he finds this particular flaw amusing or because he has an idea of where I'm going with this.
"I hate the way you write your sevens. I hate the way you make your bed with hospital corners, and I hate the way you like to sleep in a room as cold as the Arctic."
Adam chooses to speak now. "If this is some kind of…justification for yourself, a way to make it easier to move on -- "
"Oh, Adam, I don't think I'm ever going to move on from you. But that's okay, because I don't think I'll ever want to."
A smile -- pleased, bashful -- lights his face again, and the sheer sentiment behind it almost makes me blush. He continues, "Then what is this, Dwayne? What are you doing?"
I'm not finished with what I have to say, and I don't want to explain myself, I don't want to break everything down, at least not yet. I'd thought Adam was catching on, I'd thought he understood. Maybe he does, but he's too afraid to believe it. Maybe he doesn't want to be disappointed by me again. This time, I won't let him be.
"I hate the way you're so cheap and you comparison-shop like my mother. I hate the way you eat pretzels with honey mustard. I hate the way you scratch your wrists when you're nervous." Adam's hands clench into fists at his sides, and I realize that he was doing that exact action just now. Adam's nervous, he's anxious, and I feel a fluttery thrill in my stomach at the realization.
"I hate when you talk to me while you're brushing your teeth and you let the toothpaste drool onto your chin. I hate the way you do seventeen push-ups before anything else in the mornings and the way you end every practice by skating half a lap -- just half -- backwards, then slamming the ice with your stick. I hate the way you like cats better than dogs…and the way you keep the remote control in your pillowcase. I hate the way you conjugate Spanish verbs when you're trying to make yourself fall asleep. I hate the way your favourite candies are those old-lady strawberry things, and the way you eat hamburgers without the bun. I hate your collection of rubber bands and the fact that you won't just put them all together into a rubber band ball. I hate the way you can recite passages from Lord of the Rings to entertain yourself." I take a deep breath, sort of shuddery and spent.
Adam's quiet…so quiet I can hear my heart thudding against my chest. He's staring at the ground, and I'm staring at the top of his head. There are no words, there is no movement, for a good three minutes. It's as if a spell has fallen over us, making the atmosphere thick and heavy, making time slow. Both of us know that Adam has to be the next one to speak.
He finally does, his voice ringing out suddenly, clear and loud -- more maybe it just seems that way, maybe he's whispering but I'm so tuned into him, so aware, that I still hear every word perfectly.
"I hate the way you don't think you're as smart as you really are." He pauses and looks up to meet my eyes. His statement is powerful -- much more meaningful than my trivial objections to Adam's candy, hospital corners, push-ups, and conjugation.
"I hate the way you think you have to be perfect, because no one is, you know." There's another pause, but I know to stay quiet.
"I hate that you never realized how much I wanted to help you, so you were always afraid to ask." He's right.
"I hate the way you didn't realize that there's so much about you -- just you, just the way you are now -- that's wonderful and amazing and…loveable." He scratches his wrists when he emphasizes "loveable" with a significant glance, his eyes like melted sapphires, soft and glittery.
"I hate that you didn't know just how much I loved you -- how much I love you." He clenches his hands into fists again. "I hate that I was too much of a coward to tell you flat-out, and I hate that you couldn't tell me." Oh, how things could have been so different. But I don't know whether it would be a good different or a bad different. Would we be happy together? Possibly. But would it all be a farce, a "perfect" lie waiting to be exposed? Probably. I don't really know, and maybe that's why this messed-up route we took will end up being the best.
"I hate that you thought I was perfect, because I know there are so many things about me that aren't and I know that none of it truly matters on the long run. I hate that you thought that it truly did." He shakes his head, like he's clearing his mind, like he's clearing the air. "I hate the way you don't realize how sexy your accent is." He can't hid this grin, and doesn't bother trying, even letting it widen when he sees the bright red blush that's burning my ears and cheeks. "I hate the way you own the same pair of cowboy boots, in two different colours." He's lightening the mood considerably, but we're not moving past what he really wants me to know, not permanently; we'll come back to the heart of this conversation eventually. "I hate the fact that you sleep in a room as hot as the Sahara at noon. I hate that you steal the sports section from the newspaper I get from the student lounge before I get the chance to read it and fill in as much of the crossword as you can, too! I hate that you count sheep when you can't sleep. I hate that you roll out of bed five minutes before practice and don't mind that your hair is sticking up. I hate that your sheets don't match your pillowcases and that you eat ketchup on practically everything. But, Dwayne," he pauses, but only for a moment, "I love you."
I close my eyes, because those words are coming from the lips -- coming from the heart -- of Adam, the one I've most wanted to hear them from. I feel unsteady, and I need to hold on to something before I fall. I step forward and wrap my arms around Adam.
He returns the hug firmly and warmly, resting his head on top of mine; my face is buried in the crook of his neck.
"I'm sorry," I whisper into his skin. "I'm so, so sorry."
He rests his palms flat on my back and splays his fingers to pull me even closer to him.
"Don't apologize, Dwayne. Don't apologize; I understand."
"Do you? Adam, I…I always thought that I was imperfect and that there was a way to…a way to fix that, to fix me. And I met you, and you were so different from me, and you were everything I wanted to be…and everything I wanted, only I'd never realized it before. So you had to be it; you just had to."
"Dwayne…" His voice is slightly confused, mostly warning. I'm treading the same waters I've tread in all our past similar conversations.
"I'm not gonna lie to you. The realization that that can't possibly be true is still a new one. For over three years, I had the notion that you were perfect and I wasn't, that we were opposites who were meant to match. I took that stand when I was thirteen, and I thought of you as perfect for so long that it was impossible to see you any differently."
"Oh, Dwayne…" Adam pushes my hair off my forehead, and it's a quiet, tender move. It makes my stomach clench and my heart leap.
"You couldn't have done anything to convince me you weren't perfect. I overlooked, or I dismissed, everything I hated, because they didn't fit. They were perfect in their own way, and you maintained your exalted position. And it didn't help matters when I fell in love with you." Adam blushes and looks away. I wait until he ventures to meet my eyes again. "By then, I was so far gone that there was no going back. And it was never going to matter anyway, whether you were perfect or not, because I was sure you'd never look at me the way I looked at you, sure you'd never return my feelings. I was free to keep you on your pedestal, free to keep you perfect, because there was no way I'd ever find out otherwise."
Adam's listening, scratching his wrists, his tongue unconsciously poking out of his mouth.
"But this is even better, Adam. This realization -- this knowledge that you're," and I still have a hard time saying it, even now, "that you're not perfect -- it hasn't hurt me. Not that I haven't been hurt these past few weeks; they've been torturous, honestly. But now…now I know that it's okay that you're not…because the imperfect person you are loves me. And I love you, anyway. Just because you wear those polo shirts…and just because I hate those polo shirts -- " And Adam laughs here, loudly, like he used to months ago, before drama had a permanent fixture in our lives, "-- doesn't mean that I don't love you or even that I love you any less. You know, after I realized that you're not this blindly, blandly perfect person, I was worried that I didn't know the real you. But I do -- I know you, down to your favourite candy and your slob tendencies, your nervous habits and your strange food preferences. And I love every imperfect part of you." I want to punctuate my words with a kiss, but some part of me is still holding back.
"I…"
"Adam," I interrupt him, only because if I don't keep talking, I'll never get out everything I really need to say. "I love the way you can solve a math problem that takes a page and a half and that you think it's nothing special or extraordinary. I love the way you scrunch your nose and squint your eyes when you're trying to remember something in the far reaches of your brain. I love the way you smooth imaginary wrinkles out of your pants and fix the part in your hair for minutes upon minutes until it's just right. I love the way you check all the locks on the door and windows before we go to bed at night and the way you'll turn on the heater because you know I like to sleep in a warm room. I love the way you stop everything to explain something to me…even when I'm reluctant to ask."
"Dwayne…"
"I love how you tell completely stupid jokes and then laugh at yourself, even when no one else is. I love how you eat TicTacs in threes and how you only eat sandwiches cut diagonally. I love the way you move on the ice, how you glide so…so beautifully, so effortlessly, like the ability to skate is just naturally ingrained within you. I love the six pillows on your bed, I love your strange fascination with math and history and your even stranger love of football. I love the way you always answer the phone after two rings, the way you laugh, the look on your face when you step into the rink. I love the way your tongue pokes out of your mouth when you're concentrating or listening really hard." He's still doing that. "And, Adam, I really do love how you scratch your wrists -- I do, because it is a part of you…I love your stupid old-lady candy and your Arctic temperature and your toothpaste drooling and bunless hamburgers."
"Just like I love your sports section stealing and your identical pairs of boots," Adam says.
We're finally on the same page; we're finally at the same place in our lives, in this roller coaster of a relationship.
I step close again, resting my forehead against his, and when I speak, I am so soft I don't know he can hear me, but his eyes are closed and he's listening.
"I love the way you sigh in your sleep and murmur sometimes -- "
His eyes fly open. "I do no--"
"-- and the way you deny it if someone ever points it out."
He smiles and closes his eyes again, tilting his chin up until our noses bump.
"I love the way you say my name," my voice is softer still, and the corners of my mouth turn up slightly and I think I feel rather than hear him say it, "and the way you used to look at me all the time and the way you would pretend you weren't looking at me."
He laughs. "I did do that. How did you not know…?"
"I've been thinking about that. I didn't know what I was looking at. I saw it, but only in a fantasy could I ever think it meant anything. As I was firmly situated in the real world, I thought…oh, how much I've missed. Remember the hours you spent teaching me algebra and the vigil by my bedside after you nearly broke my nose and the fact that you trust me about your wrist? So much. Adam, I thought I was being realistic, but I was blind."
"You had to know somehow. I mean…you did eventually kiss me."
"Mmhmm…" I'm kind of distracted by the word "kiss." I think it would be hard to not be distracted with Adam Banks this close to me.
He looks mildly amused and very pleased with himself. "Dwayne, you did…"
"I know I did. But that was only because I was finally getting everything out there. I was finally relieving myself of the burden of a secret I'd carried for so long. I had no idea the reaction I would get, and if you remember correctly, I bolted. I assumed the backlash would be instant and negative, so I left." I smile wryly. "It was the moment that changed everything, and it was an impulse."
"Best impulse you've ever had then."
"I think so." I tilt my head thoughtfully. "I think that as horrible as this experience has been between that kiss and this conversation, it was all worth it."
"I'm not surprised. I agree. It took us a long, tough time to get here, but we are here now, and that's what really matters."
"You're still my opposite, Adam," I tell him. "But we are actually very similar. And you're still my match."
"You know what we have in common that I like the most?" He asks cheekily, and I know the answer is probably going to make me blush. "We both love each other." I was right; I'm blushing, but I'm also happy beyond belief. This is it; this is the conversation, this is the moment. This is the real moment where everything changes.
Adam pulls away suddenly, and about seven thousand things fly through my mind at a million miles an hour.
He holds up his finger, and I remain silent and still. He walks over to the door and waits a few moments before shaking his head knowingly. "You'd better not have heard what we said, Connie; that was private stuff." He's speaking loudly through the door, and I hear Connie's giggle on the other side.
"I didn't," she calls back. "But Orion might have heard everything."
Adam opens the door a crack. Connie's alone, and she barges her way into the locker room.
"I couldn't hear a thing," she announces. "What did I miss?"
"Connie?" Adam stares at her. "Perhaps we were in the middle of something."
"You opened the door; you would have ignored me completely if you were in the middle of a deep conversation or an important sentence or, you know, a make-out session."
I roll my eyes but am finding it quite difficult to suppress the laughter.
"So what happened?" she asked.
"We're happy," I answer briefly. Adam looks over at me in surprise, but nods. Connie squeals. "I'm happy, he's happy, we're happy. So Connie?" She raises her eyebrows expectantly. "Get out." She huffs, but it's totally in jest. "Now."
She does so, flipping her hair over her shoulder exaggeratedly.
"Adam," I say as soon as the door closes; he reaches out and turns the lock. "I'm sorry I told Connie about…well, everything."
"Don't worry about it."
"You're not mad? I mean, I had to tell her about you…I mean, there was no other way; nothing would have really made sense." I do feel really bad.
"I'm not mad," he assures me. "If Connie was there for you when you needed her…well, I'm glad you had someone to talk to. Besides, it won't be long now before everyone knows anyway. The Christmas party is only five days away."
That's when Adam was planning on coming out to the team; I had almost forgotten. It was only five days away; Christmas vacation started in just a week. Mama and Luke would be pleased to see me home in a dramatically, amazingly better mood than over the last break. I smile and nod.
"Won't be long now," I agree.
"And it will just be the next step. It's the logical next step. And everything will work out."
"I hope," I can't help but add nervously.
"Our friends will be fine with it." Adam sounds totally confident about this, and I think carefully for a few long moments before deciding I do agree with him. I don't know if it's wishful thinking, but I can't think of one Duck who would have an issue with our homosexuality. Adam continues, "They know us, they love us; that's not going to change. We'll be out in the open, and everything will get even better."
"If that's possible," I grin before hurriedly changing the subject. I come off as such an awkward flirt, and I'm so lucky Adam doesn't seem to mind. "I'm so glad you're not mad about Connie," I say. "I was worried you would be, but I had to tell her…I needed someone to confide in, and Connie's always been th -- "
"Dwayne?" Adam closes the distance between us in two long steps. "I'm not mad. And I don't want to talk about Connie right now." He leans forward, and we bump noses again.
"Oh," I mumble.
And finally, finally, Adam kisses me.
And, yeah, it's pretty perfect.
07-29-05
11:46pm