Breathe
I can't breathe. My lungs feel deflated, and there isn't enough air to refill them. Am I supposed to be feeling my heartbeat in my fingertips? Is that even my pulse, thrumming so rapidly? There's no heart beneath my constricted ribcage, only a trapped hummingbird. It darts up my throat. Its tiny wings beat against my ears.
Reluctant lips form the syllables of his name.
"Danny?"
The slow, thick, clumsy way it slides from my mouth reminds me of those sticky animal things we used to get from vending machines when we were little. We'd fling them at walls and watch, giggling, as they clung there and then gradually started to peel away, rolling a little, still clinging, making their unpredictable, lurching way to the floor where they'd ultimately end up covered in dust and thrown away.
Danny guffaws and snorts at the Will Ferrell movie on the television. I've never understood his sense of humour. He's been laughing his ass off and shoving handfuls of popcorn into his mouth, dropping pieces everywhere. His shirt is littered with snowy bits of half-chewed kernels. What a slob. A slob and a moron, that's my Danny. I remember him all the way back to the first grade, slow-witted, clumsy, a walking hurricane. Is it despite this, or because of it, that I've always found him so relentlessly lovable?
He looks at me, realizing I've made a noise. He shoves the popcorn bowl in my direction, making an assumption as to why I'm trying to get his attention.
"No, thank you," I mumble, gently pushing the bowl back.
"Well then whaddya want, dingus?"
He's already focused on the movie again. He laughs another braying laugh, and whaps a meaty fist against his broad chest as he nearly inhales some half-chewed popcorn.
Look at me, you unbelievable idiot. Open your eyes. How many hints have I dropped? How many chances have I given you to connect the dots?
Danny's never been good at connecting dots.
Sighing, I hit the Pause button.
"Dude, what the fuck?" Danny bursts out.
He finally looks at me. His broad brow, initially scrunched with annoyance, gradually relaxes, and his eyebrows drift upward. Now I know he finally sees the moisture gathering at the corners of my eyes, the flush of my cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of my chest.
"What's wrong?" he whispers.
I blink rapidly. "Nothing at all. I just... need to tell you something."
He waits.
I swallow my cowardice and force a little air into my constricted lungs. "I... I kept hoping you'd figure it out. I'm... gay."
He gapes, giving me that same dumb ox expression he used to have when I'd try to explain a math problem to him. I gape back at him in burgeoning panic as he fails to give any response to this revelation. There are dozens of hummingbirds swarming in my chest now.
He looks at the TV again, though it's still frozen. I drop my head, starting to numb over in the excruciating silence. Danny presses the Play button.
He's not eating anymore, not laughing. Two tears trickle down my cheeks.
Minutes later, his hand creeps across the small gulf between us, and enfolds mine. My lungs finally inflate, bigger than I'd ever imagined they could be.