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David’s world is governed by two principles: First, the idea that all things will go wrong if given the opportunity; second, if something is important, it will break and disappear.
As a boy, David learned to love many things: the air he breathes, a warm embrace, the way the sound of phonetics get stuck and lost between his teeth. Xander. X(Z)an-der. Isn’t it funny, the way the letter x sounds so strange? Xander. X(Z)an-der. If he says it enough, like everything he preaches, the word will lose its meaning.
David. Da(y)-vid. David likes the way Xander draws out the syllables of his name, the way it sounds on his lips, that charming, half-real accent. He likes the broadness of his shoulders and his funny, somewhat abhorrent sense of taste. (He can’t break his heart and tell Xander that even David could cook a better stir-fry).
And David’s heart now has a yawning, empty center, a universe governed by a hopeless black hole, one that’s already given up. When David tries to fill that chasm, as if enough love could overcome the event horizon, it sucks up all that emotion and corrupts it, an inky film of black on his fingers, please accept this gift, my dearest, your words mean—
He picks up a bottle of $40 Pierre Scotch and thinks about crashing his car into a river.
Xander’s world is governed by two principles: First, the idea that there will always be more good than bad people in the world, thus making it worth fighting for; second, that enough willpower can overcome anything.
David does not know what Xander was like as a boy; it is the one aspect of himself that Xander does not give to him. Xander’s eyes are somehow warm and soft and overpowering all at once. He’s like the sun in the summer, too bright, too pure, searingly hot. Xander makes David want to run away. He hates that optimism; it would be better if Xander fell and learned his lesson now, when he can heal like a broken bone, and David could kiss his scars clean of the blood when Xander learns to hate even better than he loves.
But Xander never does.
David wonders what he’s waiting for. For Xander to fall apart in his arms? To tell Xander I hate you, I hate that way you look at me like a shining star, I want to take you apart. I want you to realize you are not loved for who you are, just the role you play. Get on stage and smile. They would like you a bit more if you wore these tacky hair clips. When you are an inconvenience, you should disappear, Mr. Samsa. That’s trauma. That’s reality.
His manager brings him flowers again. A tired gift. A fly lands on a petal and nibbles on its fat cells. The corolla drools from the wound like the spittle of a dying man. David swats the fly away. He does not think any further of the issue.
Xander Matthews truly believes he is being kind when he is cruel. He tells David he loves him with all of his heart, but David knows this: David is only capable of loving one thing, while Xander loves everything. He smiles at the useless bribes David receives and tells him that it’s because so many people hear his words and feel hope.
How asinine. Xander hurts him in so many ways, with that golden happiness, that naïveté, that way he makes David want to wake up in the morning, those perky, pink lips that David likes to think of—
Oh, nevermind.
David wonders if Xander understands that hurt doesn’t always have a purpose. When David lies, it’s a curse disguised as kindness, but if the disguise is never peeled off, isn’t that kindness, in its own way? Just the way David is to Xander.
The one thing David never lies about is how much Xander makes him feel. At some point his obsession turned into something else entirely, beastly, swimming in his blood, compelling him to act.
When he kisses Xander, he tries to be overly-sweet, like in the movies. This is the kind of person someone as wonderful and important as Xander deserves after all, a person that lavishes their attention on him and not someone that secretly hates him a little.(A lot)
They’ve been together for too long even as just friends, and Xander still foolishly tries to see the human. Xander jerks back when one day, David whispers a bit too sweet, and David thinks this is it, finally, you see?
But to his surprise, Xander isn’t repulsed by him. There’s no animosity in his voice when Xander says, “It’s okay if you hate me. You don’t have to pretend.”
David Chiem’s one true, firm belief is that he does not believe in anything. But he understands that he has emotions, and loving Xander is like his first time being on stage, terrifying, blurry, and exhilarating all at once.
He takes from Xander, takes his love and the foul side of David flourishes under it. Watching Xander cry at the cemetery, a row of mud encrusted stones from last night's rain, is like the sensation of being violently drunk; it’s dizzying, empathetic tears thought long gone build in his eyes, and every inch of his body hurts for Xander’s pain.
When he hears Xander’s story, David thinks Xander is even stupider, even nobler, even stronger than ever. David wants to shake him. David wants him to wake up. David wants to ask him why? Why are you still in love with a world that hurt you this badly?
Did I delude you in this way with my words?
But what matters is Xander keeps going in spite of it all, and even if David doesn’t understand it, isn’t that hope what really matters? Even if Xander has crushed all of David’s life work towards nihilism under his proud, powerful form, Xander has convinced David to give living and caring a terrifying chance.
Xander tells him that David is just fine the way that he is, even if he is totally hopeless some days; Xander loves the David of the present, not the past, the one that likes dumb card games and cats and cheap, two-dollar cans of soup and oatmeal. The one that nibbles Xander’s bottom lip and kisses him like he wants to eat him alive.
But David knows one thing Xander doesn’t: it’s not okay to settle like that if you love someone.
So he thinks, I will, I promise, even if it’s just for the sake of that world that hates you, because you love it, I’ll try to be better.