My Funny Valentine

He has paint on his hands. I like it. It’s strange, the affinity I felt for the boy’s dirty hands. It seemed as if they were perpetually stained, scratched, or otherwise disfigured. Fingernails eternally chewed down to nubs, palms always bearing some kind of scratch or scrape, as if he regularly jumped hands-first onto concrete. It’s strange how appealing I found this scruffy, unkempt boy.

Me, Brendon, the perfect boy. Always early, never rude. I could see it reflected in my classmates’ eyes when they looked at me. As if I was perfection personified. That didn’t bother me, not much at least. They didn’t know me, they could assume all they wanted.

What hurt most was my family’s assumptions. My parents’. It was as if I had been born into a world of their assumptions, and I had no choice but to appease them. Even as a child, I always felt a strange sort of guilt, as if I owed them something for my mere existence. So I took extra classes over the summer, instead of going away to camp like all the other kids my age. That’s how I skipped my way up to senior year this year. My parents had never been so pleased.

But of course, that satisfaction quickly ebbed into the inevitable questions.

“So what colleges are we looking at, honey?” My mother.

“You gonna go to ol’ Notre Dame like me, sport?” My father.

I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I had no intention of going to college after this year. Just like I had no intention of telling them that instead of going in for extra science classes every Friday afternoon like they thought I did, I was actually getting stoned with Jon on the railroad tracks, talking about how we’re going to hop on one of these trains one day after graduation and just go.

On a similar note, they also have no clue that I don’t plan on ‘marrying off’ as my mother so bluntly puts it, any time soon. Because, as far as I know, the only kind of marriage I would be interested in (if any), is still illegal. That’s right. Brendon the perfect boy is a little faggot. I wonder what they would say if they knew. I’ve never told anyone besides Jon before, but he doesn’t count because we’re practically brothers. He would never abandon me over something so small. Unfortunately, I can’t speak with the same confidence about my parents. I wish I could, but I just don’t know how they would react. So I keep it to myself. Besides, it’s not like I have boys swarming my yard. Dating of any sort hasn’t actually become an issue yet.

I would very easily change that for this boy. He never fails to surprise or amaze me from day to day. Today, it’s his paint-stained hands. They are strong hands, but delicate. His fingers are long and spindly, dancing across the paper on his desk. I have a feeling he’s not taking notes on the Seven Years War, though. I wish I sat closer to him, so I could try to see what he’s writing so animatedly about. But then I wouldn’t be able to fully admire him.

His eyes shot up suddenly, staring at something outside the window. The sun shines in his eyes, and their color is lightened, turning them a warm, caramel color, almost glowing with the radiance of the sunbeam gracing his face. His eyelashes fan out around his eyes, creating a delicate frame around the illuminated brown spheres, staring so intently on something I can’t see. His eyes catch on something in particular, and a small smile spreads across his usually pouty lips. He runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head knowingly, causing his tousled espresso brown hair to stick up at odd angles. It was adorable.

The bell rang abruptly, and the class dispersed quickly, save for me and a few other people. A few other people including him. My paint-stained vagabond. I always gather my things slowly, but I always make sure I’m not late. As I walked to the door, I sensed someone not too far behind me to my left. Him. We both attempted to walk through the door at the same moment, creating an awkward sandwich of bodies and backpacks in the small doorframe. I stepped back quickly, and let him go first, mumbling “sorry”. I found it hard to look him in the eye through my embarrassment, but I lifted my eyes to his. He was looking at me with a bemused smile as he walked out of the classroom and started down the hall. “See you later,” he said. I watched him walk down the hallway, his slim hips swaying in a way that made it impossible to look anywhere else. I jumped as I heard my cell phone ring, and I grabbed at my pockets frantically, embarrassed at the noise, so disruptive to the beautiful boy’s natural rhythm. I walked quickly to my desk and picked it up, checking who texted. It was Jon.

hey man, we’re still good for today?

I texted back quickly, tucking the phone in my pocket. A swift motion outside the window caught my eye and I looked out, now seeing what he had seen before. Another boy, almost as beautiful as mine, sitting on the sidewalk on a bike, smiling at nothing in particular. My boy approached him quickly and smoothly, fluidly, hopped on the handlebars of the other boy’s bike. He tugged at the sleeves of his flannel shirt and his face lit up as the boy driving the bike started quickly down the sidewalk. The boy’s feet pushing the pedals were bare, toes curled over the edge of the pointy plastic. My vagabond boy laughed as they rode away, the sun resting gently on their shoulders.

Of course. A boy of such artistry and perfection would already have a boyfriend like that. Of course he would be the type to ride a bike barefoot and not care about the people around them, staring. He would never be interested in uninteresting, straight-laced Brendon Urie.

“Bye, Ryan,” I said, to no one but the windowpane and the beautiful, laughing boy.