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He never thought they'd live forever.
He wasn't a fool, he'd seen enough of the world to know what it was like. He knew how short life could be - his own personal motto was memento mori carpe diem, a blend of two Latin terms together. Remember you'll die, so seize the day. Live in the moment, because it won't last forever.
But he hadn't been.
He kissed Judy, because he knew he was supposed to. She was pretty, young and clever, she had a future, they had a future together, she was nice enough and not too foolish, she liked him, and most importantly, she was a girl.
But back then everytime he let her touch him, all he had thought about was Plato. He pressed his lips to hers, and remembered how he had kissed Plato's forehead. He let her touch him, anywhere she wanted, and he slipped away inside his mind, imagining the other boys hand in place of hers, the other boys lips on his body.
She tasted too sweet. Like the coppery taste of blood, like the sickly saccharin. She smudges lipstick on him and it's sticky and he hates it. Plato's lips had always looked chapped and dry, and when James thought about kissing them he always thought they'd be dry, not the sticky dampness that Judy's are.
When he looked at Plato, he felt like his world was crashing down. He knew it was wrong, but it didn't stop him from feeling that way. There was a part of him that longed to tell the other boy how he felt, but his past experience told him he'd be better off dead.
He remembered the last time he'd kissed a boy. A foolish spur of the moment thing, just like everyone else kissed their girls.
He remembered his father screaming at him.
He remembered being called a dirty fag, he remembered his father pushing him to eht floor and kicking him, over and over, leaving bruises that marred his skin for weeks.
He remembered being dragged to the church, remembered the cold hands of the man of God, remembered the whispers in his ear that this would teach him a lesson, that this is what he wanted, wasn't it? Why else would he kiss a boy if he didn't want this?
He remembered blood staining the seat of his pants and bruises in his hips.
So he didn't tell Plato how he felt. They went to the cinema together and they went out driving, they brought meals at the diner and snuck out to meet after dark, just like him would've done with any girl he dated.
But they never held each other closer than a hug, never kissed except when Jim pressed his lips to Plato's forehead, never knew each other in the way that Jim wanted to. He didn't even know if the other boy even liked him, after all Plato had always seen Jim as being superior, and Jim didn't want that in a relationship, he wanted them to be equals, as much as was possible.
He never told Plato how he felt.
Plato's body grew cold, and he didn't say. Not until the day after the funeral, a quiet affair with few people in attendance, when Jim was left alone. It rained, so hard the mud turned to sludge beanth him, but he knelt down by Plato's grave and wept till he threw up then wept some more.
He didn't believe in eternity, wasn't even sure if he believed in God.
But he knew he couldn't go in like this anymore. He was tired of being alone, of forcing himself to kiss women who made him feel sick, of crying himself to sleep every night and screaming into his pillow til his throat was aching. He was tired of pretending to be fine, and tired of everyone who pretended to understand but couldn't possibly know how he felt.
He was tired of feeling cold hands on his body and blood on the floor and the feeling of being used. Few people knew what had happened and it wasn't like he could tell anyone, so he boggled it up but he felt like he was exploding.
He was tired of seeing Plato dead. He was tired of feeling like there was a whole in his heart, he was tired of spending every day wishing that he could change the past.
He leaves in the night.
He always said the world would end at dawn, because inside him, he believed the world would begin in the night. It would begin with the stars in the sky and moon shining down and the darkness concealing him as he ran from everything that haunted him.
The world would end with white gates and red coats and blood stains. It would end with empty mansions and screams and the sound of police cars. It would end with empty graveyards and quiet funerals and green carnations placed by headstones.
The world would begin with the taste of liquor in his mouth and the smell of cigarettes mingling in the air with the smell of gas. The world would begin with darkness and sorrow and the knowledge that every Phoenix must burn before he can be reborn.
So he runs.