Wax

  Chapter 5

  The night was as dark as obsidian, and I remember the street lamps whizzing by like blinking stars in the night sky. I felt as if I was riding on the Milky Way, with my feet drenched in the onyx substance of the endless galaxy. Wind and leaves alike caressed my face as I rode on.

  I wanted to see Claire again.

  Honestly, school didn’t seem to hold that much of an interest in me anymore. After meeting her, all I ever wanted to do was to write music, and sing songs. It was an odd obsession, as technically anyone can do it. However, I was doing it because I actually like the miracles music can produce, and after all, music is for people who can’t handle their own thoughts.

  That was a quote by Matty Healy, the lead singer of The 1975, who’s basically my idol in a way.

  But it wasn’t only that, music served as sort of a symbol for my self-proclaimed reckless rebellion against society. However, I did only want to do it because I wanted to do it, so I guess in the end it all works out.

  As soon as I got home, I realized something was wrong. It was dark, 8 PM I think. But as soon as I got to my little street, Primrose, where lamp posts once lit up the streets, it was pitch black.

  There were no gleaming streetlights, nor the backlit gleams of little lights in kitchens. I realized, with a horrible start, that something was terribly wrong.

  It looked like a scene straight out of a horror movie, the Purge even.

  Power outage, maybe?

  I thought about calling my parents for a second, but the streets were so deafening with the trumpet of silence that I decided against it after some thought. My imagination started going wild as well, as I always had a terribly hyperactive imagination.

  “What If’s” ran through my head with the speed of a bullet train.

  What if my parents left me to fend for my own?

  What if the monsters lurking under my skin actually came to be?

  What if I was in the middle of a supernatural phenomenon?

  My feet pushed against the worn out pedals of my rusty bike like my life depended on it. It was my grandfather’s bike, all the way from the 1950’s. It was a light Daphne blue, which I thought was rather quite cool.

  Suddenly, I heard the sound of a pencil scratching recklessly against paper.

  And then a light, brilliant and true, shone out from the darkness.

  My head whipped up to gather information about the source of hope in the dark.

  It was her.

  “Claire?” I called out from my position on the ground, hoping my voice was loud enough to reach her since I’ve always had quite a quiet voice in my opinion.

  Claire looked up from whatever she was doing; her light dyed brunette hair danced in the wind as she gazed at me. Even in the dim light of her cell phone, she still looked breathtakingly angelic. As soon as she recognized me, and for this I felt really happy, her expression brightened and she immediately beckoned for me to join her.

  “Merci, come up here!”

  Up here?

  I looked closely. She was sitting on the roof again, and this time, since it was night time, I could see the night sky twinkling with millions of stars, like a sea of galaxial residue against the backdrop of the Milky Way.

  I had no clue what was happening, and so, I climbed.

  I left my bike lying down on the ground like a fallen cripple, and I sat down besides her. Claire was writing something in a notebook, and I observed her for a while. There was silence, but not awkward silence. It was the silence of the appreciation of each other’s company.

  In school, I had to put up a façade to enjoy the company of the group and other people. But as I sat besides the girl who changed my life, I silently enjoyed her company for real as I laid my head back against my backpack.

  I lay down next to her as she held up notebook against the backdrop of the brilliantly lit night sky, a sweet juxtaposition from the pitch darkness of the streets themselves. And it was ironic in a heavenly way that couldn’t be explained, but I knew it just was and I knew why it was.

  “What are you writing?” I finally asked her after several minutes of peaceful silence.

  “A book.”

  “Hmm.”

  My curiosity was peaked, but I didn’t pry. I knew how things were with artists, if they wanted to share with you they would. It was the same with me, I only shared things that I could be proud of, which I guess created a mismatching image between my façade and the real me.

  “Do you wanna hear the plot?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s about this girl who lives in a world that’s so messed up beyond belief, that she doesn’t want to live anymore. She’s forced to play tennis by her parents and she hates how society is closing in around her like a glass system, or a snowglobe. And honestly she just wants to attempt suicide. But one day, she meets this boy who shared the same outlook on life about her, and this boy changed her life.”

  I swallowed a lump in my throat.

  That hit hard and it struck so damn close to home.

  “Say, what do you think I should use for the boy’s name?”

  I thought about it for a second.

  “Well what are you using for the girl’s name?”

  “My own.”

  I chuckled ruefully. So it was a roman a clef.

  “You should name him Eric.”

  “Eric? Why?”

  I shrugged. “No reason.”

  I felt Claire’s eyes linger on my prone form for a brief second.

  “All right then.”

  We went back to the comfortable sound of silence as I stargazed for the first time in my life. The stars shone like millions of diamonds in the night sky, and I never actually had the chance to appreciate their beauty.

  Can you believe that?

  I’ve been on this Earth for 16 years, and yet not once have I stopped to even glance fleetingly at one of the most beautiful sights of my life.

  There are 5840 days in 16 years.

  And in all those days, not once, have I ever appreciated natural celestial beauty.

  But tonight, as the reflections of the 10 million fireflies lit up of the night sky shone like hope in Claire’s chocolate eyes, I finally understood what I thought meant to an artist.

  “Are we awake?”

  The sound of guitar tapping, and synthetic perfection harmonized from The 1975 floated gently throughout the air. I realized with a start that Claire was playing “Change of Heart” from her phone, the same song that I sang to her a couple days ago.

  “Am I too old to be this stoned?”

  I relaxed into my backpack, and thought about everything that I’ve actually ever done in my life. If I had to list it all, I’ve actually done nothing that’s meaningful to me, and that made me incredibly sad beyond belief.

  All my life I’ve been controlled, manipulated even, by a system that doesn’t even care where I end up as long as I end up somewhere. I found it sad that we look down upon the denizens of the lower class, the people who are forced to be janitors, or clerks, or work minimum wage. I found it sad that even though these jobs are essential and necessary for the system, it’s still frowned upon.

  I frowned. Everything was really unfair.

  “Was it your breasts from the start, oh they played a part.”

  “For goodness sake, I wasn’t told you’d be this cold.”

  “Now it’s my time to depart, and I just got a change of heart.”

  Claire turned to face me and grinned at me, as she ended the song right there. I grinned internally because I realized that I ended songs too early as well. It was an odd habit, but I’ve had it since I was little.

  “Hey didn’t you say you would write me a song?”

  I sat up.

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Wait really?” Claire stifled a laugh.

  I glared at her half-heartedly.

  “Ugh, don’t laugh at me
.”

  She chuckled underneath her breath.

  “So?”

  “Yeah. Anyways. I can try to wing it and improvise it right now if you want. We singers call this freestyle.”

  She laughed at the ironic joke.

  Just as I was about to sing though, Claire held up a hand to stop me.

  “Actually, I think we should wait.”

  I looked up, confused.

  “For what?” I said, a little bit hurt and insecure that she might not have wanted to hear my singing, which wasn’t half bad in my opinion.

  She noticed my expression, and chuckled in exasperation. “It’s not because of your singing dude. I just don’t think you’re ready yet.”

  I was even more confused now.

  “Ready for what?”

  Claire didn’t answer for a few moments, and so I just lay back next to her and stared at the stars in a confused manner. Was this a test or something?

  She suddenly seemingly changed the subject.

  “Have you tried waxing a curb yet?”

  “Um what?”

  “For skating, have you ever tried skating on a curb with wax?”

  “No…” I replied. My confusion levels were ceiling high as I stared at her.

  She looked disappointed at something, maybe it was me, maybe it was the universe, and maybe it was the system. I wanted so badly to understand, it vexed me so much that I wanted to ask her. However, I held back from doing so because I just knew that the time wasn’t right.

  “Well,” Claire continued, her voice suddenly back to her normal tone. “You should give it a try sometime, hopefully soon.”

  I nodded, vowing to myself that I’d try it sometime. Things with Claire always happened to amaze me, and so I always give her the benefit with the doubt.

  “Anyways, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Hm?”

  “Do you want to come to my tennis match this weekend?”

  “Your tennis match? I thought you hated tennis.”

  She grimaced lightly, a frown marring her pretty features.

  “I do hate tennis, but not the sport but because-”

  She broke off and looked at me.

  “Well, you understand.”

  I gave her a barely perceptible nod, but Claire got it. She was stuck in the same situation with me, a practical parallel of my life I think. With me it was grades, school, and everybody’s expectations. With her it was tennis, school, and everybody’s expectations.

  I wanted so badly to give her a hug, to let her know that she wasn’t alone. But she knew she wasn’t alone, and I realized I’m the one who actually needed the hug because she was just that much stronger than me. In a way, she was like my idol.

  I held a deep respect for her, and a fascination for the way she did things.

  “Um yeah.” I responded with a nod of my head. “Yeah, seems fun.”

  Her gaze darkened for a brief second, almost unnoticeable, in fact.

  “Yeah.” She muttered dejectedly. “Fun.”

  I winced.

  “I mean-”

  “I know what you mean.” She cut me off with a stormy expression. “Just promise me one thing before this weekend gets here okay?”

  “Sure,” I replied wholeheartedly. I wanted to do anything to get her out of her funk. “Anything.”

  “Promise me you’ll wax a curb and try to skate it.”

  I gaped in disbelief. Usually, when people tell you to promise them something, it’s a sort of calamity and the promise is really big as well. But with Claire, well, I guess I probably would’ve expected it.

  “Um sure. Yeah. I’ll do that.”

  Claire laid back and relaxed.

  She mumbled something underneath her breath that I just couldn’t hear for the life of me.

  “I’m sorry?” I said, to try to show her that I didn’t understand.

  “Hmm? Oh nothing. I just said thank you.”

  I wasn’t convinced, and my expression probably didn’t convince her otherwise either.

  She chuckled at my indiscretion. “Look don’t worry about it. How about you tell me what’s going on in school? You know I’m homeschooled so I don’t get enough of this drama stuff that everybody else gets. And plus, we have loads of time anyways. They say the power outage isn’t going to be fixed until 10.”

  I shrugged my shoulders ruefully. “Sure.”

  And so I told her.

  I told her about how the school system was so fucked up, and how I thought everybody was so goddamn brainwashed by the system and set up on a blind path they follow just because everybody else does. I told her about how there was a lack of appreciation for the pretty things in life, like art, music, masterful literature, and I told her how depressed I was when I realized I couldn’t do anything to stop it.

  I told her about dreams, and The 1975, and what I thought dreams were meant to be in our world. I told her that I sometimes rewind dreams just to keep sane in life and the fucked up world that we lived in.

  I told her about Eryk, and they were so alike it was scary. I told her about how he was gay, and how he was proud of it. I told her about how proud I was that he was able to stand up for himself, and not follow the beat of the drum of the system. I told her about how I thought he was a role model for gay people everywhere, and how much impact he could make because he wanted to and not because people forced it on him.

  And as the morning came, I didn’t even have to rewind my dream to live in the past for a little while longer because the memory of Claire nodding and agreeing was still inked in my mind like a fresh hot brand.

  The next day, after school ended, Aileen approached me near the bike racks with an apologetic expression on her face.

  I didn’t pay her much mind, because I was too damn focused on my bike. It was my grandfather’s bike from a long time ago, and it was really precious to me because it was one of the last possessions my grandparent’s ever left in my possession.

  You see, I’m Canadian. Well, technically, I have a duo citizenship with America, but that’s beside the point. When I was born, my parents were barely able to scratch out a living in Vancouver because my parents were still both in school.

  Since they didn’t have enough money to raise me, they sent me to the States to live with my grandparents, and as a result of that. I spent of my “First’s” with my grandparents instead of my parents like I should’ve. It was odd, really, because I couldn’t be sure whether my first word was “grandma” or “grandpa” instead of “mama” or “dada”.

  And since they raised me and my brother for the first 7 years of my life, I was closer with them than perhaps even my parents. My grandpa and grandma were the ones to secretly encourage me to pursue guitar, even when my parent’s iron rule over me forbade me from playing any instrument besides piano and violin.

  In a way, I suppose my parents thought they could control me through my hobby.

  It failed, I’m glad to report.

  Anyways, when my grandparent’s died, they didn’t leave us much with their inheritance, just a couple thousand dollars of money and a house and the bike. The bike was special to me because it was the first bike I’ve ever ridden.

  Whenever I think of my grandparent’s death, a shot seemingly goes through my skull and my heart aches and threatens to claw its way out of my depressed state. It was a dark and humorless melancholy, one that was spurred on by nostalgic moments and the smell of cheap cigars and baked cookies. I’ve always had to choke back a sob whenever I thought of my deceased care givers.

  Honestly, sometimes I wish they were my parents instead.

  And I told myself I would take very well damn good care of their inheritance. I didn’t like scratching my bike, and every weekend I would clean it to make sure it maintained its Daphne Blue color scheme, just like how it was all those years ago when I first saw it.

  And yesterday, when I left the bike on the
ground to climb up to Claire’s roof, I accidentally left a small scratch on the wheel guard of the bike. I cursed myself internally as I knew I would have to repaint it, and carefully so in order to not mess with the rest of the design.

  Just as I was formulating the plan to buy the materials and equipment necessary to refurnish the bike, Aileen tapped me on the shoulder.

  I turned around, startled.

  “Um Merci?” She said shyly, with a light tint of pink adorning her face. She looked pretty, I noticed with less enthusiasm then I would’ve a couple weeks ago before I met Claire.

  I grunted at her.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “What’s up?”

  She twirled her hair, a nervous tick of hers if I remembered correctly.

  “Um, can we talk, like privately?”

  I looked around. There was nobody within earshot distance of us. But I suppose she wanted to go into a secluded place or what not, and I shrugged. There really was nothing wrong with that. I didn’t have that much to do that night anyways. All I had to do was fix my bike, and I really had no homework either way.

  “Sure.”

  She led me to Chipotle, the same damn restaurant, from our first “date” if you could even call it that. I was sort of confused, because I never imagined why she actually wanted to come back. Chipotle just held bad memories for me, and I remember vividly because I was so damn disappointed with her decisions. Or maybe it was just disappointment in myself that I believed she would be different.

  We sat down at a table near the back of the oval shaped room. It had a nice view of one of the twin lakes that resided in the Woodbridge community. Aileen looked nervous, and I could tell because she kept touching her hair, or her face, or anything to distract her hands from an awkward nothingness. The silence was so different when I was with her than when I was with Claire, it was almost polar opposites.

  “So I just wanted to say sorry about last time.”

  I looked up, my confusion level once again reaching the ceiling.

  “What for?”

  “For, well I dunno. You just looked really unhappy. And I want you to give me another chance, because I really like you.”

  I was floored.

  What the hell was this chick talking about?

  I think, if I look back on it, I would’ve been really happy if she told me this before I met Claire, however after I met Claire, all girls and people in general seemed to just fade in comparison.

  “Umm…” I mumbled.

  However, Aileen continued on without a pause.

  “And I know I messed up last time, I could feel you were really unhappy. So that’s why I asked you out on a date instead of you asking me out this time. But only just this once okay? I mean, you’re still the guy, you still need to do most of the work.”

  I’m sure she meant that last little bit as a joke, but honestly it still struck a chord in me. Claire would’ve never said that, because she wouldn’t have cared what person does the most work in a relationship or whatever you wanted to call this pathetic and superficial thing Aileen and I shared.

  In all honesty, I had no real intention to give her another chance, but I wanted to test her one last time to flush whatever remaining affections I’ve ever had for her out the system. In the end, all she and I could be are friends, and that’s what I aimed for.

  “Well,” I said. “I’m not quite sure where all this came from, but would you like to go Pokemon hunting with me?”

  You see, Pokemon Go just recently came out, and everybody was playing it. It was a virtual reality game on phones that allowed you to capture Pokemon and evolve them. Pretty much, everybody was obsessed with the game and the nostalgia it brought from their childhood memories.

  And the thing is I knew Aileen secretly loved Pokemon. I’ve seen the app on her phone, and she’s told me about how she used to play Pokemon games for hours on end when she was younger.

  “Um, well, I don’t really like Pokemon Go.” She said with a light nervous chuckle.

  I pretended to be confused, but I already predicted what was going to happen. I had hoped she wouldn’t do what I thought she would do, so that maybe I could be closer with her, but in the end she was just like everybody else, albeit a tiny bit better.

  “Why not?”

  I almost dreaded the answer.

  “Because everybody else plays it, and I wanna be hipster.”

  The thing is, she would totally play if she thought it wasn’t mainstream. It annoyed me so damn much that she wasn’t playing it because it was too popular, which was the opposite of what I usually rant about. But the difference between her and Claire, between I and Claire, is that Claire only did the things she actually wanted to do, not because she feels like she has to be different or because she feels like she has to be normal.

  Trying to be something you’re not, well, I hated that.

  I gave Aileen the most polite smile I could muster. “Well, I guess we can find something else to do some other time then.”

  At the end of the date, Aileen reached over and gave me a quick hug. But honestly, I didn’t even register it in my brain as something that mattered.

  That night, when I got home, Cyrus was getting yelled at again.

  I didn’t even want to know what it was about, and I didn’t even want to know why, and so I just tried to go to my room as quietly as possible while still keeping an ear out for the conversation.

  “Come on Cyrus! Listen to me! You will go to college, and you definitely will get a GPA as high as your brother, or you are never going to hang out ever again with your friends, do you hear me?”

  My father’s stern, and gruff voice echoed over from the dining room as soon as I stepped in through the garage door.

  My brother wasn’t even fazed, and instead just scoffed and nodded to continue eating his dinner calmly and quietly. I was in awe of the way he handled things, he looked so cool just sitting there and letting their threats breeze over him like he didn’t give a crap.

  However, as soon as I took a single step into the dining room to go to my room, my father’s beady angry eyes rounded on me.

  “Merci!” He practically yelled.

  I steeled myself. “Yes father?”

  “Why weren’t you home by 4 o clock like you’re supposed to be?”

  I chose my next words carefully.

  “I was helping a friend.”

  My parents both snorted in slight revulsion. “Look Merci. You’re doing really well, you have a high GPA, a good chance of getting into college, and you have good tests scores. But just remember you’re not quite done yet. You need to freaking study your ass off even harder now, as senior year is literally right around the corner, got it?”

  I trembled, in whether anger or fear or both. I don’t know why exactly even to this day, but I snapped for the first time in forever. And I mean, in all my years of living in this household, I’ve never talked back to my parents even once. Perhaps it was the week of revolutions and exciting new ideas I had formed after meeting Claire for the first time, or perhaps it was the stress that had just built up over me for the past 16 years of my life, for whatever reason it was actually was, I can’t believe that I had actually decided to talk back to my parents.

  “Why?”

  Everything froze. A feather could’ve shattered the deadbeat silence that surrounded the house. I could tell, even the crickets that usually encompassed my house stopped chirping, and the only sound there was existed in the form of the uncomfortable thunderstorm of silence.

  My father breathed out through his nostrils.

  “What did you say?”

  Honestly, by this point I was already fed up with everything, and everyone. If I couldn’t ask a burning honest question that I had, then I didn’t even see the point of doing anything in the house anymore. All of a sudden, I just got so goddamn angry. What used to be a tacit and circumstantial fear of my fa
ther turned to anger and indignant rage for the first time in forever.

  I suddenly felt a sense of belated calm wash over me. Everything became sharper as my breath narrowed to a razor edge point focus, sharpened by years of pent up emotions.

  “I asked, why.”

  My father spluttered in rage.

  “Because!”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Because?”

  He collected himself, and thought about his answer for a few seconds. I could tell he was still incredibly shocked and probably angry about me talking back to him. Actually, in the heat of the moment, I didn’t think I was doing anything extraordinary or anything. However, as my brother would tell me later, I looked so cool rebelling that I looked like James Dean.

  It’s rather funny because, a lot of people have told me that I resembled James Dean looks wise for a long, long time. But I’ve never really actually taken the compliment to heart. In fact, I was ashamed because although I may have looked like him, I thought I was the opposite of everything he stood up for, and symbolized. He was a symbol of strength and will- the strength and will to be able to stand up for what you believe in and not be swayed by society. He was the ultimate rebel without a cause.

  And I’ve never really felt like him either, until tonight.

  The pumping of blood through my veins, and the adrenaline threatened to overwhelm me. Everything became so damn sharp, and my vision tunneled on my father’s look of unexpected and nervous concentration. He honestly looked more shock than anything, but I realized there was the slightest hint of another emotion in his mirrored eyes as well.

  Was it anger?

  No.

  Pride?

  I stared on in confusion as he composed the last of his sentences mentally.

  “You need,” He spoke with a hint of anger tinting his seemingly calm voice. It resembled the eye of an angry howling storm. “You need to focus on your studies for your future!”

  Without a beat, I continued.

  If time could’ve frozen until eternity’s end, and if I died like this, I think I would’ve died happy, finally realizing one of my dreams.

  “And what if,” I said, through the most calm expression I could’ve ever mustered. “I don’t want to?”

  My father had no words of retaliation for that, and even if he did, I don’t think he would’ve been able to say it in that particular moment because it was my moment.

  I walked up the stairs, feeling better then I’ve felt for a long time. Honestly, I should’ve been tired, and I should’ve been scared, I’ve should’ve been every other emotion that wasn’t the one that I was feeling.

  I was elated.

  It was a calm elation, and it was calculated as well.

  I felt like I finally had a purpose in life.

  I wanted to do so much.

  I wanted to write songs, I wanted to sing at the top of my lungs. I wanted to walk on the moon, to yell on the roof. It was the most amazing feeling ever.

  Since the night was still young, and I still had moon time to burn, I decided to keep trying to write that song for Claire. I thought about the wax, and I thought about the promise, and suddenly everything felt so damn clear to me and it was as if I knew the lyrics to the song already.

  I meticulously pulled out a beaten up and worn out notebook, one much like the one she had, and started writing.

  In big bold letters at the top of the seemingly blank page that was filled with potential, filled with promising dreams and the fantasy world in my dreams, I carved out the 3 letters slowly and meticulously.

  I’ve never written a song before in my life, and I’ve had no idea what to make of it, or how to do it. I contemplated using Google to aid me in my efforts, but since I felt like I was living in a movie scene at the moment, I decided to just go with the flow and see what churns out of my hyperactive imagination.

  The beginning was slow, and I tried to put my words and feelings into paper and lyrics. However, it was harder than it seemed because I wanted this song to be a direct translation of my emotions, while sounding beautiful at the same time. I wanted it to be the harmonic syncopation between the ballad waiting to be born in the crevices of my mind, and the atheistic lyrics that I wanted to speak out from my mouth.

  But most of all, I wanted it to be real.

  It took a while, but eventually I started writing lyrics, and I formed the start of a chorus. Of course, I tried to make it as original as possible, but I won’t lie when I said I took some of the melody ideas from The 1975. It was a good tribute in my opinion, because I respected them and liked them for their style and their willingness to say whatever they had to in order to get the point across.

  However, as I was writing the bridge of the song, my pencil scratching furiously against paper as my inspiration ran rampant in my mind, I heard a soft 3 step knock at my door.

  I won’t lie; that same old regular fear I had of my parents washed over me for a brief second. It was almost a habit, no matter how sad that sounded, because every single time my parents have knocked on my door, I’ve always been scolded or yelled out for my grades. Honestly, I can’t think of one time they’ve come to my room to talk to me about anything other than grades. Actually, now that I think about it, all I’ve ever talked to my parents about are grades, and literally nothing else.

  They’ve never given me the sex talk, or ever complimented me when I went to Formal or anything. Hell, I think on the fucking ride to the dance itself, my father was asking me about my SAT preparations, and if I needed more classes in order to boost my score.

  You know, in the grand scheme of things, I realized that I really shouldn’t have been scared after I told myself I wouldn’t be scared in my moment downstairs a couple minutes ago, but I think I was just too caught up with the moment to remember.

  Anyways, I hesitantly rose out of my chair and smoothed out my clothes. Once I had stuffed my notebook into a tiny drawer in my desk, I composed my face into the normal calm façade it always maintained, and opened the door.

  I found my brother standing there instead, looking quite confused.

  “Cyrus?” I whispered, as my parents had probably already gone to sleep judging from the dimly lit corridor he stood in.

  “No shit.” He snorted expectantly, as if he was already bored by our conversation. But I wasn’t fooled; he had been like this for a long time. “Lemme come in.”

  I opened the slightly cracked door to my room a little wider and let him slip through under my arm.

  The thing is, he was my younger brother, and he was much, much shorter than me. I stood at a resolute 5”11 if I stopped my slouching, while he stood at a measly 5”2 compared to my height. But for some strange reason, he’s always looked quite a damn lot bigger and taller than me.

  I knew that he worked out, and when I found out a few days ago, I was so ready to be disgusted by his willingness to abide by society’s standards that I had written him off. However, I soon found out that he worked out not to fit the standards of society, but instead to be healthier and to stay in good shape because he was never an outdoors kid. He loved video games, and he was damn good at what he did. And doing that, he needed to stay in shape so that he wouldn’t become unable to handle the stress 13 hours of video games can put on a person.

  I had done a little research, and I found out that he was already being scouted by teams in the LCS, which was like the major leagues for the pro gaming scene of League of Legends. I played the game myself once or twice, but I was more interested in reading the lore and the unique stories of each champion or character rather than the actual game play. And I think I’ve always respected the pro players because they were labeled “nerds” playing “a fake sport”, and yet they had the dedication and the passion to stick with it and become legends.

  There are idiots in the world, I realized as I stared at Cyrus shoving his hands in his sweats and sitting down on my bed, that just don’t want change, eve
n if it is for the better for the system over all. I noticed that trend with the annals of history as well, as each major revolution seemed to be a conflict between more modernistic ideals and traditional archaic ideals. And fortunately or unfortunately, the modern and more radical ideals win out in the end, because if not for them, we wouldn’t have progressed as nearly as much as we did.

  Cyrus heaved out a great sigh, as I sat down beside him.

  I had to mentally remind myself that I was the older one sometimes, because he just seemed so much more mature and stronger and bigger than me.

  He wrung his hands out in a nervous fashion; at least, I thought it was because he was one of the only people whose emotions I just couldn’t get a solid grip on.

  “What,” He finally began, and I resisted the urge to poke him on the cheek like I used to do when I was younger. “What the hell was that downstairs?”

  I winced internally, while composing my façade externally to remain just as bored and calm as it always was. I had a feeling he was going to say that, because he used to despise me as the poster child of my parents. I was the obedient son, the dutiful and hardworking student, and the person that would never question authority. Well, at least, I was that person externally.

  I nodded slightly, to show that I heard the question, and chose my next words carefully.

  “I’ve felt that way,” I began slowly, carefully, “for a very long time now.”

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  “What-”

  “Let me finish.” Steel entered my voice.

  He looked shell shocked.

  I used to be the older brother, I think, back before high school started. I used to be able to play with him, and teach him lessons and give him advice and help him, and do all the things that I wish that I could do now with him. I used to possess a certain steel in my voice that made him listen to me, no matter what he felt.

  And for the first time in 3 years because of my own stupid denial of the facts, and because of my obsession with trying to fit in and because of my own goddamn weakness, I finally reused that same tone.

  “I was an idiot. For the past 3 years I was an idiot. I’m scared that you’re going to go through the same things that I’m going through, all the pressure- Damn it all! Look Cyguy, you’re my brother, and I don’t think I’ve been a very good brother to you. However, you’ve always been stronger than me in this sense, so I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t let them take you like they took me.”

  It sounded ominous, and without context, like something out of a fantasy story, or a movie. But he understood, I knew he did. Because after all, he’s my brother.

  “Sometimes,” I finished in a strong tone, “I think you actually are the older brother.”

  I had told him this once before, and this time, it held a deeper intricate meaning.

  It was only then did I actually look up, because I had kept my head down the entire speech. Call me a coward, whatever, but I needed my time. Cyrus was crying, no, he was smiling. Mixed emotions ran across his face as he punched me on the shoulder as hard as he could.

  And it hurt man, it really did. I felt lava and pain erupt in my shoulder socket as his fist made contact with my arm, but I kept grinning at him through clenched teeth and a single tear drop stain on my left cheek.

  We both knew what it meant.

  He had forgiven me, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I finally felt like the older brother again.