Lapse

Watch.

Do you see?

No. Of course not. You blinked too long. In fact, you've held this blink for the last forty minutes.

I sigh and sit up from the ground, feeling my shirt clinging to my back from the melted snow I was perched atop. A breeze blows through and I shiver, the spot feeling like the pricks of needles digging into my sensitive skin. I turn my head and look over at you; Your mouth is slightly open as you snore, your disheveled blonde hair is wafting ever-so-slightly in the breeze. You look so casual, laying on your back with your hands behind your head, one knee folded up towards the sky.

I'll admit, it's cute, but certainly not what I was hoping for.

Why do I always insist on bringing you to places like this? Why am I so delusional towards what we really have? Maybe I'm just trying to get the most of what little the rest of the world seems to see.

I see it.

Do you?

They see us holding hands. They see us talking quietly, and in our own little world; no one else allowed. It's an exclusive club for us and us alone. I have to say, it's pretty awesome. They see us walking together down the hallways, practically oblivious to the rest of their gawking.

Practically. I can still feel them watching and you can, too. It's awkward, but we work through it anyways.

They watch as you play with my curls when you're bored or when you're teasing me. They see me when I glare into your dodger blue eyes when you take that teasing just a step too far.

They see our glaring height differences as we stand facing each other. My 5'8" to your 6'2". But they also see how I can send you cowering down below me if you tweak me just right.

They often either make a big deal of trying to ignore or full-out stare as we kiss. You've never minded the attention, and I've started to get used to it. Why not flaunt what we have?

Which is where I find our problem.

No one seems to get the depth of what we hold. No one sees past the surface. All you hear is 'Ken and Kyle are at it again', or 'There go the fags'.

I brush it off and so do you, at least on the surface. But I can honestly say it bothers me to an extent. I mean, I don't want them standing around with notebooks, though I believe some of them do. I just want them to see that we have more than just heated make-out sessions against the lockers. I want them to know that this is much more than just a fling; a mere phase that we're passing through. There's something more at work here.

Now I'll be damned if I ever figure out what it is, but there is something.

I wonder how they all feel. Some of them are disgusted at us. Some of them drool at the ideas of the school nerd and the hoodlum locking lips with no regards towards ethics and all that other shit we deal with. Some of them clap for us for 'standing for the cause' or whatever the hell they call it. Some are indifferent. Some don't care. Some want us apart and others are willing to come at us with glue guns if we ever decide to take a break.

But none of them get it.

They really don't.

We're not just the Jew and the Hoodrat. We're Kyle and Kenny. We're not just the fags. We're the boyfriends going nine months strong.

But that's all surface. My qualm is the fact that they just don't get it. They don't see what I see. What I hope that you see, too.

They can't tell when we're holding hands that our fingers are perfectly folded into each other; tightly enough that we could hold water between them should we try. They don't know that both our life lines and our love lines are perfect mirrors of each other, despite that your hand is about three centimeters larger than my own. They don't see the way your wrist clenches every now and then if you see people staring at us, as though your emphasizing that we are together and they can just try to fight about it. They can't tell that your fingers clasp around mine tighter if I sigh or if I'm just not in the best of moods. They don't know that you occasionally develop sweaty palms if I smile up at you. They don't know how my hand tends to tremor lightly if you smirk at me in that devious way that you've mastered. They can't see that this is the way we communicate. This is the way that if we're hurt or if we're scared or sad and we just can't talk about it yet, we reassure each other.

It's probably one of the best ways we can communicate visibly to others. But they can't see that.

They can see us talking, sure, but they have no idea what about. They probably think we're discussing our sex life.

...Well, sometimes we are, but that's not the point.

They can't feel the air when we talk closely to each other. My mint toothpaste-scented mouth co-mingling with the spicy cinnamon gum on your breath. The warm feeling of your breath bouncing off of my face; the way it feels for you to be so close to me.

It's quiet. It's private. You call it sensual. But I know you, you're just saying that for the mere purpose of getting me into a bed. I'm not stupid. And that's the beauty of it all: you know that.

You talk to me like you know I'll understand it all. You and I can see that we don't just joke about condoms and gay porn, we talk about what needs to be discussed. Our conversations are long and well-thought.

They're intimate, I'll give them that much.

What makes them like that is the way in which we talk. Your voice is low and husky, hushed just enough so that they can't make out what we say, but I can hear it; I can feel it reverberating off of my flesh and crawling down into my bones.

But they can't see that. They refuse to.

After all, we're just the couple with one of us being a total pervert. True, but they only see the surface. They don't get anything past the innuendos and dirty limericks you pull out of the air. They don't hear you discuss your problems like you do with me. They don't know that life isn't such a big joke to you. They don't know that the bad luck that constantly befalls you has taken such a toll onto your nerves. And they don't know that I'm there to listen and be your support. I'm not just your plaything, I'm your rock and you're mine.

But they don't know that. They can only see our lips moving.

They can observe all they want as we stroll down the halls of the school together; it won't make any difference because they're still oblivious to us. I bet they never noticed how our footsteps fall into sync perfectly every time. Our inconsistent shoe sizes clapping against the cold tile beneath us in a steady rhythm. My green Converse to your orange making their way down the hall, marking out the beat of our own drum. They don't know that we always stand exactly the same distance apart. One division of the tile between us, our feet straddling their own division lines on the ones surrounding it. They don't know that we walk completely equal, that should I have been taller, the tips of our noses would have been lined up perfectly.

But do they see this synchronization from mere staring? No. They see two boys who happen to be dating walking together. And they let the cooing ensue. Coo all they want, they don't understand quite the reason it seems so cute to them. It's the hidden things that tend to be the best part of the whole picture.

You shift over, turning and facing me, curled up a bit onto the hard ground. I can't help but smile a bit at you. You're damn adorable if you're not trying. If you are trying, you look like your thirteen again and it's kinda creepy. Oh well, I love it when you do it anyways. It's another part of us that maybe only I can see. I automatically scoot over closer to you, feeling your warmth hit me like a bonfire. You breath deeply through your nose and it blows my hair back a bit. I smirk and watch your unknowing form for a bit, letting my mind wander.

I wonder what you're dreaming about. Is it about me? Is it about us? Or are you having another dream about the goat people eating your pants?

I'm really hoping for one of the first two.

You moan softly and your eyes creak open just slightly. Our eyes lock and you smile, taking your arm and wrapping it around me before you drift back off again. You tend to do that a lot. I know what that means; you were dreaming about me again. I can't contain my happy sigh as you pull me closer and mutter my name almost incomprehensibly.

Almost.

I feel your fingers lightly toying with my hair and I find myself spacing again. I wish other people understood this. I wish they could see you when you're messing with my hair. I know what you're like, you love it. You say it makes you think of carrots, the only vegetable you ever eat. You always tell me that you wish it could be a pillow because you think it's so soft. You slip your fingers around it as though you were playing with strands of silk, gently and lovingly. You know that I don't let anyone else mess with it, so it's a personal thing for you, too. It's one more part of me that I've allowed you to share and you alone and you take full advantage of it. You know I don't like sharing my things too often.

You find playing with my hair to be a sort of comfort for you. Once you said it was because it was so close to my brain and you felt like you were an idiot. You were hoping that maybe some of my smarts would transfer to you and you wouldn't feel so stupid being beside of me.

One kiss changed your mind on that, didn't it?

But I know that's not the only reason. You just like it because it's a way for you to keep my attention. You know that if my locks are intertwined through your slender fingers, I can't just pull away if I want to, I have to wait for your permission so as to avoid having it ripped from my skull. You also know that it means I'll lean back into you eventually and you love that. You hold me closely and lean your head atop mine, playing with the side of my curled mess.

I can't say that I don't love it, too. It's one of the demonstrations that only I receive of just how gentle you can be. I know that you're not just a tough little hoodrat that everyone else sees. You're not my protector, you're my lover, and I like it like that. I get to experience the sides of both of your worlds without you hiding from me.

I wish they could see it, too. But all they see is you tugging on my hair. They think you're sniffing it like the perv that you are. But I know better, and I guess that's all that really matters, right?

Right.

After all, what do they know about you? Or me for that matter? Neither of us are very open with anyone but each other, so what do they know? Probably couldn't even tell anyone what our eye colors are if it smacked them in the face.

But I know.

Oceanic. Perfectly shaded light blue, darker spots speckling your iris'. I bet that they don't know that they light up to almost sky blue when you get excited. They've never seen how they glisten guiltily if I'm lecturing you, or if you somehow hurt my feelings. The guilty puppy-dog expression that you have down pat, how often do they get to view it? How often do they get to see that there's more to you than just a pervert?

They don't know how dark they get when you and I are alone, how you have a tendency to bat your lids once they turn that shade, if only slightly. They don't know how your pupils widen after we kiss, how they fade perfectly into the navy that outlines the azure. How they sparkle if I tell you I love you or vice versa.

Course, I'm glad they don't know that. We'd have some problems if they knew what you looked like after a kiss.

I can feel my mouth curling into a smile as I think of that. I'm the first person you ever kissed fully. You said that if I let you be my first everything, you'd have no qualms with me being your first real kiss. And that came long before we got any farther.

I remember it...it was almost awkward. Neither of us quite knew how to breathe. Neither of us knew what the correct time to pull away was. Were it not for Stan turning the corner and throwing up all over the place, we probably would have stayed together for hours.

Though, I can't say I'd complain about that.

I hate how people talk about the way that we kiss. They say we're slobbering on each other or that we're just a couple of whores who decided to hook up. Well who the fuck asked them?

They don't get it like we do. The warmth of our lips together, the gentle clicking of our teeth as they collide occasionally in the midst of our passion. The sultry ballet that our tongues tend to engage in...they're jealous, that's what they are. They don't know that no matter the length of the kiss, it's infused with just as much passion as the last. We don't kiss for show, we do because we want to. It's as close together as we can get without being fined for indecent exposure.

Those poor, ignorant oglers. They really just don't know who we are. Who you are. What we've become in these past nine months.

They don't get to see us as we fight, the pure fury that we drive towards each other with. They don't know how we've come so close to breaking apart, how we've shoved each other down into tears on more than one occasion. They don't see that just because you're bigger than me, you're just as sensitive to certain things as I am; that a few delicate subjects can send you spiraling downwards. They don't know how I've once screamed them at you in the throe of anger and sent you into tears and on the brink of being suicidal. They don't see that we're not all roses and poetry.

After all, that's just too gay.

We're a couple. We have a strong relationship, but it's not perfect and they don't get that if they just look at us as we walk side-by-side. We're two teenage boys...we're not the brightest pair of minds around. We're immature and sometimes short-sighted; we yell and scream and we've thrown things at each other in our private brawls. All they see out of us those days is complete, stifling silence between the both of us.

But that's not everything that they don't get to view. You wouldn't mind, but you know I wouldn't be okay with it.

The way we are when we're alone, in the privacy of a room... they only wish they could feel what we feel. Complete peace mingled into the feelings of our hearts pulsing rapidly alongside each other. The gentle caress of hands and fingertips, the burning heat emitting from our forms. The way our skin tones, your almost golden to my apricot, clash against each other in the shape of tangled limbs. Our eyes half-lidded as we breath deeply and almost desperately, trying to fight for the air to whisper I love you as we're thrown into the moment. Your breath hot on my neck, almost scorching, as you bring us together before nipping tenderly on my skin. They don't know the complete sensualness of us behind closed doors; they're not worthy enough to even know about the complete connectedness we feel.

What they wish that they could feel.

You shift again and start to stir. "What time is it?..." you half-mumble.

"Dunno," I whisper back.

You yawn and nuzzle into my forehead. "Okay...," you smile a bit. "Why are we here?"

"We came up here to talk, Ken."

"Oh...what about?"

I laugh softly and kiss your nose. "Nothing important."

"No...no...it must have been...," you finally open your eyes, giving me access to gaze into those crystal orbs of yours.

"We came to look at the stars," I half-shrug. "We were just talking and you passed out."

"Oops...," you look at me sheepishly.

"Don't worry," I smile. "We were just ranting. Nothing life changing or anything."

"You sure?"

I nod. "Yeah, I'm sure."

You sigh and pull me in closer, letting me snuggle into your chest, inhaling your musky scent of aftershave and dirt from your house. It suits you. Down to Earth and simple; yet another thing that only I know.

"Whatcha thinking about?" you ask sleepily.

"Us."

"Good things?"

"What else is there?" I smirk.

You snort a bit and kiss my head, "a lot more. But more good than anything else, right?"

I look up at you and smile. "Right," I nod. You lean forward and I press back into you, our lips softly mingling in the frigid night air.

I don't know why I questioned you, it's not like I didn't know that you can see all this just as easily as I can. After all, for us to be together after all this time, through all the crap that we've had to deal with time and time again, you would obviously have to have at least some extent in your observations as well, right?

It's not like I'm just the easy little fuck that everyone seems to like to call me; that everyone likes to tell me I am so I can 'find someone who'll treat me right'.

I'd love to know their definition of right. Because if how you treat me is wrong, then I can't even begin to fathom anything being better.

I suppose that maybe they're just not meant to understand. Maybe the way that we interact with each other is unique to ourselves just based on the fact that you and I are so different from that of our peers. We're polar opposites, we're difficult to read and to get along with. But we're trying. We're trying and we're succeeding.

They just don't see that.

I guess that all we can do is continue strong, walking hand in hand down the halls as they point and stare and yell that what we're doing is wrong. But really, is it so bad? To know that we have witnesses that one day can look back and remember us as we are together as opposed to just the thick-headed hoodrat and the opinionated, short-tempered Jew?

The world continues to turn as we stay steady and hold our ground through their accusing gazes and snide remarks. We find time seeming to stop as we hold each other and talk amongst ourselves, as they watch us and blink slowly but steadily. They keep on going, passing us with their noses upturned or twisted towards us in pure curiosity. Time seems to be lapsing around us as we stay with our fingers intertwined, continuing in the simple knowledge that what we have is more than meets the eye, that we are together in more ways than just boyfriends. Our connection runs on a deeper level, one that only you and I have access to as the rest of the world continues their own lives, only occasionally poking their noses into us and what we do on our personal level.

They can do what they want and say as they wish, in the end, all you and I can do is laugh at the pure ignorance that they show. Their skewed views will continue to pulse throughout our time together, however long or short it may be. Until then, all we can do is ride it out, content in our own world consisting of merely you and me.