For Kurt

[little_moons]

It's been a while since I've really been out on the water. Thankfully, it's not something you really forget. The way the board feels under you. The way you feel almost weightless, like you can do anything, all that power roaring beneath your feet. When I drag myself onto the sand, my muscles ache in the best possible why. I'm tired, drained, but I

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[highf]

Although I'd never really had an opportunity to test the theory out before the island, I can freely admit it now: I am, apparently, the world's biggest sucker for a nice beach. Strangely enough, it's not the bone white sand that gets to me, nor the sparkling cerulean of the ocean, or even the sun that beats down against my back. Things would, honestly, probably be easier if the sun didn't rear its head so often and so strongly; one of the drawbacks of having skin as fair as mine is that one burns easier, and following the burn is almost always a period of peeling, of red that doesn't go well with any skin color, especially not when it comes in the form of uneven blotches.

No, it's none of that which keeps me hidden as far back under the shade of a palm tree as possible. Instead, it's the crashing of the waves that keeps me rooted where I am, a lovely and perhaps not quite location-appropriate classic American novel, Gone with the Wind, propped in my lap. I'm distracted enough with Rhett Butler whisking Scarlett off to New Orleans that I almost don't notice the guy greeting me, but actually landing my gaze on him makes me rethink where my attentions ought lie. Let's just say that I have a feeling.

Not that I'm going to act on it.

"Hello," I greet with a small shrug, smile wide, probably the sort that glee club (back at McKinley) has teased me for a fair few times.

[little_moons]

"That's a big book," I say, and there's a hint of easy flirtation in it, but he's just a kid, and at first glance, he's prim and maybe a little effeminate and not at all my type.

Taking a swig of water, I toss the bottle back into my pack, pulling out an old Siouxsie and the Banshees t-shirt and tugging it on over my head. It's practically threadbare, one I probably found back when I was with Logan, but it's comfortable and I don't give a shit.

[highf]

I... honestly can't tell if he's flirting or not. I can't. I know, I know, for all the rom coms that I watch, for all of the classic Hollywood romances that I can recite line for line, when it comes to actual human interaction of that sort, I'm kind of inexperienced. I mean, I watch people court one another in McKinley all of the time, but honestly, given their lack of technique and an even greater want of longevity, I'm disinclined to use them as any sort of example set for myself. And, as the only out gay boy from McKinley, and as the only seemingly vocal (and I don't mean singing) gay boy in Dalton, where people are careful about how they breathe, there just hasn't been a lot for me to watch.

I figure that I probably shouldn't read too much in it.

"Gone with the Wind," I speak up, by way of explanation, holding up the novel. "One of my favorites. And yes, long, but you'll find that it's pretty deserving of all of its accolades. You can't really mince words when it comes to the Civil War."

[little_moons]

"Think I remember my mom watchin' that when I was a kid," I say, having only vague memories of Scarlett O'Hara in those big dresses, and that Clark Gable wasn't bad on the eyes.

"Think I was always a bigger fan of the old westerns."

Without any invitation, I sit myself down on the edge of his blanket, probably getting sand on it from the bottoms of my feet, but we're on the fuckin' beach. There's not much avoiding it.

"You're new," I say, a statement and not a question, "I've seen you, eating in my restaurant."

[highf]

"What a coincidence," I grin lightly, my gaze flickering down for a moment. "My mom also introduced me to the film. To many others, too. Which is why for me, classic western means less Dances with Wolves- though it was a great film- and more Stagecoach or High Noon." Belatedly, I realize that the statement is... more than a little pretentious, as talking about classic films is bound to do to any conversation that I'm invited to. Well, if I'm talking to anyone from my era, at any rate. It isn't even that I think the numbers or the years themselves make a difference; more that the era suits me more, my sensibilities, my tastes. Everything but the rampant homophobia.

I watch him sit himself down on my blanket, and admittedly, I wonder a little bit at how forward he seems, in a way that I doubt I'll be able to manage for years yet.

"And guilty as charged," I add, pressing my lips together in a smile. "I swear, I need to figure out if someone's taken a Sharpie and written 'new' all over my face, because you definitely aren't the first person to point it out."

[little_moons]

Snorting out a laugh, I say, "Dances with Wolves came out like, a year before I ended up here, so it's not exactly a classic for me. Stagecoach, though... That's a good one. I was always more of a John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Butch Cassidy kinda guy, anyway."

I always had a thing for tough guys. Brawn over brains and all that shit.

"You just got a look about you. I been here goin' on six years, you kinda start pickin' up on that kinda shit. For one, even the folks anal about sunblock aren't as pale as you." I don't mean it as an insult. The island, the elements, have a way of hardening a person.

[highf]

If the world was perfect, this moment would be the same as any other. It wouldn't matter. It wouldn't cause me to fall silent. The fact that I'm gay is, apparently, written all over my face, my mannerisms, my sense of fashion; face it, the only person I'd probably fool (and have fooled) is Brittany, and that's not saying much. The fact that this guy recognizes it isn't the major deal. It's the fact that he, I mean, there's something in his voice as he talks about Wayne, Eastwood; you could argue that the men had the better roles in all of these classic films, that's why they're taking up the whole list.

But it also comes across as being open about one's preferences. I would... practically have killed for that back home, without fear of repercussion, and while on the island the impact isn't the same, I find myself wanting to match it. Work myself to a point where it's not something I'm afraid to talk about, even if just by reflex.

"All big screen legends; I wouldn't blame you. Though I'm more of a Cary Grant and Fred Astaire kinda guy, myself," I reply, my voice a little thinner than it should be, kicked up a couple of notches. "As for the sunblock, you can never be too careful about the health of your skin. Especially not when you burn as easily as I do."

Pausing, my smile practically wavering in strength, I hold out a hand. "I'm Kurt, by the way."

[little_moons]

I don't know him, can't say for sure whether or not that awkward little smile of his is normal, but I do know that I could see the shift from relatively easy confidence to uncertainty.

I must've said something wrong but I don't know what, and having just met the kid, it's not something I feel compelled to immediately fix.

"Neil," I say, reaching out to shake his hand, and it's thin and fine-boned, but then again, for the most part, so is mine. And there's still that wedding band on my finger, that I haven't completely allowed myself to get rid of, yet.

[highf]

I tell myself to pull it together, pull it together, the entire time the guy shakes my hand. It's a little bit different than the way that I felt over at Dalton. That school was a safe place, that much goes without saying, but there was always something about the school that felt... constructed. Walls put up for my benefit, walls built by parents who cared enough, who had enough of an influence and a voice to actually pay for that protective wall separating us from the real world. (I always knew that I'd have to face it again, the bullying, the intolerance, but the hope was always that I'd get to learn in peace, then face it again once I'd climbed up too high for anyone else to reach.)

It's funny, that a magical island feels more real in some ways than Dalton ever did.

"It's nice to meet you, Neil," I grin, managing that thin layer of calm again as I nod, shifting over on the blanket in case he wants to sit, my eyes falling on the shine of a band on his finger when I move over. Let's face it; I'm nosy. The question was bound to come up sooner or later. "Married, huh?"

[little_moons]

"Oh, uh, yeah... I mean, I was," I say, feeling something that's unusually close to embarrassment, at having the kid notice. It's a story that folks seem to pity, and I get a lot of looks and I'm sorrys, and that's nice, it's nice coming from friends or people who know what happened, but it always feels strange, telling strangers. There are too many details, too many things I feel like I have to explain. It's too much. It's like I can't make sense of it for people who weren't there.

"He's gone. They're both gone. I was married to two guys-- It's kind of a long story."

[highf]

I don't know how much it'll really mean, if I tell him that I'm sorry. Because I am. I can't even start to imagine how much it must hurt, having two people that you care enough for just taken away without warning. At least, I assume it's without warning. Everyone that I've talked to on the island seems capable of telling me how it works, the sense of loss, the way that they don't even have the time to blink before people are gone, just like that. But I haven't lost anyone quite like that, haven't lost anyone to this indefinite ether, not a certain shroud of death so much as it's just there, in all of its uncertainty. So, to apologize, to try and empathize, it'd probably just feel like platitudes, one stacked on top of the next.

Then again, what else can I say?

"I'm guessing that means that you'd rather not hash it out one more time," I reply, almost sheepish, just because I don't know how else to react, what else to say. "If you need a ready and willing audience, though, you've got one."

[little_moons]

Coughing out a laugh, I say, "No, man, it's fine. Already plenty of folks stuck listening to me."

Twisting the ring on my finger, I say, "It's one of those things I wish could be over, that I could just quit thinkin' 'bout it and just move on, but... then I feel guilty for feelin' that way, you know?"

[highf]

I do know how it feels. So much that it makes me stop for a second. I don't know if mentioning her to a stranger like this would be doing my mom justice. Not that she'd mind- she always said that the worst thing to happen when people were sad was for them to think too much, and then never say anything at all. That there's a reason why we were made to cry. I didn't really understand it back then, back when I was avoiding the act of crying with every bone in my body, because big boys didn't cry, but... I get it, now.

"Yeah," I nod, closing my eyes for a second. "I don't know if that ever really goes away. I... lost my mom over ten years ago, and I still think of her when I'm upset, or- you know. Get upset in the first place when I haven't thought of her at all for a week. Vicious cycle."

[little_moons]

"Probably doesn't get any easier," I agree, offering him a lopsided smile. "You'd think you'd get used to losin' people, especially here, but it just... I dunno."

I think everybody understands, in a way, what it's like to lose someone, but it always feels like it must be different when it happens to you.

"What happened to her? Your mom, I mean."

[highf]

"I guess it's different," I say, quietly. "When people here disappear in the island way- not that I've experienced it, so I'm probably just talking up a storm and if I'm totally wrong, just hit me upside the head and I won't take offense- but I imagine it must feel different. Than if you know someone's... passed away. Because at least with the former, you can hope that there's something better to come. Death, though, that's pretty final. At least, if you're like me, and not especially inclined to believe in an afterlife, even now."

Again, I feel myself pushing on with facts that don't really matter, things I don't want to discuss, but. It's better than talking about mom. I still can't... I don't know. I still can't.

"Anyway. My mom was... she fell ill. You think that it's just a small cold or something, and my mom kept on pushing forward, like she was fine. But it progressed, and she died of pneumonia. It's still not something my dad or I really saw coming. Not something you expect."