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You meet a boy so beautiful that it scares you, so you’re mean to him. Even though he’s alone and scared, you’re enamored by his paperback novel eyes, and the way his rosy mouth hangs open. You’re scared and lonely too, so you stay mean. You claim the bed next to you with a sneer, you watch him clean oil drums like a construction foreman. He glares at you, he stays away from you, but you keep him in your view. He stands next to you on the barge for the invasion. You don’t know what to do, so you throw up on his boots and assume one of you will be dead by the end of the day.
*
The beautiful boy is soft; on the outside and the inside. The war is going to scorch that beauty until he becomes as gnarled and ugly as you. You tell him that he needs to learn to be mean. If he doesn’t it won’t be a bullet that kills him.
*
Even though you’re mean--to him and everyone else--you keep an eye on him; how can you not? In this humid hellscape, there isn’t anything else beautiful that crosses your path. Caught in the high noon sun, his hair burns like a flame and you want to touch it, despite the pain that you know will come with such an action. His eyes are the color of the deep jungle at night, his mouth like the inside of a conch shell. You can’t stand to look sometimes, so, for now, you stay mean and dream about kissing fire.
*
You’ve been in this war for so long, you don’t know what it’s like not to be scared. It’s a part of your soul now, deep down. It doesn’t make you special, everyone is scared, everyone cries about wanting to see their mommas again. You still jump at the sound of mortar rounds and you know that you’ll feel bullets in your molars until you die. Being scared is part of the war.
But one day, after weeks of being mean, as you all sit at an airfield waiting to advance, you notice the beautiful boy shaking more than the others. He takes deep breaths and exhales slowly, changing the current of his lungs. You take the cigarette from your mouth and hand it to him, the only panacea you can offer. He accepts, even though he doesn’t smoke.
Later, you’re thrown off your feet by an explosion and you think you’ve been flung back through time. You land on your back, your helmet is gone, and you’re sure that you’re dead. Any sane person would have left you there, even the medic. But that beautiful boy kneels at your side and grabs you, hauling you to your feet and the two of you run; you can feel his hand on your back and you know that he’s going to be trouble.
*
In the dark, you begin to talk, exchanging thoughts and secrets. You tell him things you’ve never told anyone, and you reckon it’s the same for him. Sometimes a flare goes up and you catch a glimpse of his cheeks and see them turn pink.
You a virgin? You ask.
Those high cheekbones flush as you expected, and he answers, Yeah.
You snicker and knock knees together. You’re a gentleman, you say, flicking ash from your cigarette. I like that.
Yeah?
Hmm. Yeah.
It surprises you when he leans over and grabs you by the collar. He trembles like the day you offered him that first cigarette, delicate as a butterfly’s wing.
Is this...is this…?
Embrasse moi, you say. Kiss me.
He does, still shaking like a lamb, and you’ve never tasted anything so sweet as his pipe tobacco and rationed gum.
The cigarette has burnt down to your fingers and you don’t care, welcoming the orange calacine against your knuckles.
*
Somehow you make it through that night and the next and the next. You make it the whole way back to where pretty girls serve you lemonade. You hardly notice them. You have your beautiful, tired boy.
The two of you walk into the ocean with your friends. It’s cleansing and pure like a baptism. You watch him float in the waves, a lilypad, his eyes dull and unfocused on the expanse of clouds in the sky. The water is kind and warm. You whisper sweet French words into his ear and even though he doesn’t understand, he nods, tears in his eyes.
That night, it’s just the two of you in the tent. You kneel in front of him, hands on his thighs. He bends down to kiss you. He lets you undress him and feel him. He holds onto you like he’ll fall off the face of the earth if he lets go.
Let me take care of you, cher.
Yes, he says, yes.
There’s nothing more beautiful than that beautiful boy laid out underneath you. Except maybe later when he falls asleep against you, despite the sweat and the the mess, and the heat that makes the bayou seem mild. You kiss the mop of his copper hair, tasting the ocean.
*
Before you know it, you’re back at war, worse than before. Mud, rain, blood, bodies. The enemy, your friends, sometimes you can’t tell. You’ve been so detached from the violence you barely register it anymore. The things you see, the things you do. Like tossing stones into the open skull of a dead soldier. You do it mindlessly, just passing the time, as everyday as skipping stones on the swamp. You don't know when you stopped being shocked.
But then you see your beautiful boy grabbing his knife and cracking open a dead man’s mouth like a dentist, going for gold. You panic, dropping your pebbles. You knew the war would hollow him of his goodness, but you care too much now. He’s dug his way into your cold, dead heart, so you stop him from looting the dead man’s mouth, from becoming like you.
Bad germs, you tell him.
Bad germs, he echoes, leaning back on his heels.
Keeping his heart safe is your secondary mission. The first is keeping him alive.
*
Nights in dark foxholes become your favorite time despite the mortars. At least with the flares lighting up the sky, you can see his face. You lean against each other, you touch each other. He’s an old country song in the back of your head, the sluggish summer morning that seeps into your skin.
You read his palm and promise him a long life which makes him laugh.
Stick with me, you tell him, it’s worked so far.
Always, he answers as the sky lights up again. You see his eyes. It’s a promise he’s willing to keep. He kisses you when the light fades. This beautiful boy is yours to keep.
*
And then the war is over and no one knows what to do. You never thought it would be over, you expected to die first. But it’s over and you’re shipped off to China, your beautiful boy at your side. You live domestically and in secret, though no one sees a change in your interactions, already an old married couple.
At night in darkness you fearlessly learn every inch of his lithe body. A scar here, a mole there, freckles everywhere. He maps out your body finds part of you he loves to touch, like the back of your neck and the insides of your wrists, the spaces between your ribs, playing them like an instrument. He threads his long fingers through your hair and you oft fall asleep like that; head on his chest, fingers in your hair, listening to an uneven heartbeat.
*
Then you’re back in America and on a train, stopping by every state to send worn marines home. You start to feel unsure about going home with your beautiful boy. You’re still mean and sharp and not easy to love. Your beautiful boy deserves the world, happiness, a life without obstacles. How could you give that to him?
The train stops in your hometown and you stand up, grabbing your sea bag. You’re balancing on a tightrope, ready to fall.
Your boy is sleeping soundly, in a way you’ve never seen, still as a pharaoh. You step forward, you chest aching like it has an ax in it. Leaving him is what’s best for him, after all, you promised him a long life.
As you turn to depart, heart in your teeth, you feel his fingers on your wrist. Don’t leave me, he says, having read your mind. Please.
You choke on your heart as you sit back down, unable to deny him anything. He still holds your wrist and gives you a smile, sweet as a sunset.
*
There’s a beautiful boy in your bed and he’s all yours.