Thorn

If you're gone- maybe it's time to go home

There's an awful lot of breathing room

But I can hardly move.

If you're gone- baby you need to come home

'Cause there's a little bit of something me

In everything in you

-If You're Gone- Matchbox Twenty

I was seven; he was six. I was outgoing, rambunctious, and annoying; he was quiet, shy, and wise beyond his years. He stole my swing while I went to use the slide.

"Why'd you do that?" I asked, unafraid to shove my face in his. He looked up at me, curious, and only slightly leery.

"Do what?"

"Steal my swing!"

"There was nobody sitting here. I thought I could." His tone clearly implied that he felt he had done nothing wrong. I knew that he had, and was insistent on proving so.

"Well, it's my swing and I want it back," I argued, crossing my hands over my chest and sticking out my chin indignantly. It was the end of the summer, with a cool breeze blowing up off the pond next to the playground. I was going to be in second grade. This boy, this intruder, was small enough to be in kindergarten. I frowned as he calmly stared at me.

"It's not your swing. If it was, it wouldn't be in a park for everybody to use it." He slowed the swing down, and it swung more leisurely. I decided I didn't like the boy. He was rude, and it was obvious that he was partially deaf too.

"I don't care. You should move because I was here first!" I stomped my foot impatiently, and the boy merely smiled.

"I'm Michael. Who are you?" He stuck out a hand, his skin the color of oatmeal. I looked at it suspiciously. People who tried to be friends with people who didn't like them were odd.

"I'm Ryan. Why do you care?" He shrugged.

"You seem like someone who needs a friend."

I scowled, not wanting to give the boy any ideas of friendship. Even if he was exactly right. Instead I just muttered, "Well, I don't."

Michael stood up, smiling. I felt some of my anger receding- his happiness and general good feelings were infectious. I looked at my feet, feeling slightly regretful for how I'd treated him. He gestured towards the swing.

"If you want, you can swing. I can go find another one." His friendly gesture had unbalanced me. I was used to kids pointing at my eye patch and teasing me about it, or at least asking repetitive questions about what had happened. Michael hadn't even mentioned it. I bit my lip.

"No. Stay here. We can share." I felt even better when he grinned at me again.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, we can take turns, right?" I smiled as he nodded. The rest of that fateful afternoon was spent with us taking turns swinging, and talking about popsicles, playgrounds, and whatever else came to mind. As the sun was beginning to set, Michael pulled me over to where his mother sat.

"Mommy? This is my friend, Ryan. Can he eat dinner with us?" Michael liked food, too. Somehow, I knew our friendship would last.

I was eight; he was nine. I was in third grade, having to deal with limited recess for the first time in my life; he was in fourth grade, having to deal with a teacher who gave homework on weekends. His mom stuck us in his backyard after we tried to feed a cigarette to his hamster.

Ryan was still laughing, despite his mother's firm reprimands and threats to sell the poor creature. Still, it wasn't like we knew better. We were just giving Smokey a chance to live up to his namesake. Chortling, we sat under what Ryan called his favorite tree- really, the only one in his back yard, a sickly cherry tree which tilted precariously to one side.

"That was awesome. Did you see her face?" Ryan gave me an energetic high-five, and I grinned.

"I thought she was going to ground you again, though. And I had to go all last week without seeing you outside of school!" Ryan was easily my best friend, but he got in trouble a lot more often then I did. He merely rolled his eyes.

"Nah, she wouldn't have grounded me over something like that. I mean, she smokes them all the time. It wasn't going to kill Smokey." I had to admit that he had a point, and pulled up some yellowing grass from the ground. Suddenly curious, I asked something I hadn't had the nerve to ever ask before.

"Ry?"

"Huh?"

"What happened to your eye?" My voice came out rushed and slightly slurred, but curious nonetheless. Ryan looked slightly surprised, but when he answered, his voice was calm and steady.

"Oh. That. Car accident when I was four. My dad drove into a fence on accident and the window shattered. One of the shards flew into my eye and the doctors couldn't get it all out." He shrugged. "They said that I could get a glass eye, but my mom didn't want me to grow out of it or something like that. So I just have a patch."

I laughed. "Well, I like your patch. You're like a pirate or something." He grinned.

"Duh!" He frowned slightly. "But my mom is going to make me get one when I'm old."

"One what?" I asked, confused.

"A glass eye. She wants me to fit in or something stupid like that. I think that glass eyes are dumb." He pointed his finger at his head and made circles with it. "Crazy, you know?"

"Yeah." I did agree, even though I wondered what Ryan would look like without his eye patch.

"Most people don't know how I hurt my eye," Ryan said, lazily leaning against the tree. I already knew that, but didn't say that. Sometimes Ryan got offended when I argued with him, because he's older than I am. I think that's kind of stupid but I don't say anything about it.

"One day," he continued. "One day, when I'm older, I'll tell a girl I hurt it when I was picking thorns off roses for her. And then she'll feel even more sorry for me." I wasn't quite sure that would work- it certainly wouldn't with any of the girls I knew- but once again, I didn't say anything.

I was starting to grow taller; he was still stuck in pre-growth mode. He was starting to have girls flock to him for his personality; I was stuck trying to explain missing homework to my teacher. His fourth grade teacher recommended he be moved up to sixth grade instead of fifth.

I was not surprised in any way when Mush was sitting in my classroom on the first day of sixth grade. Well, I thought I'd walked into the wrong room, and spent ten minutes wandering about learning otherwise. After finding out that his classroom had indeed been the right one, I sat next to him curiously.

"What…Mike, what the heck are you doing in here?" I asked. He grinned at me, and explained that his teacher thought he'd do better in sixth grade then with the other fifth graders. I was shocked, but happy.

"Well now you and me—"

"You and I," Michael muttered absentmindedly. I grinned- that was exactly the type of thing that had gotten him bumped up a grade. I continued as if he hadn't interrupted.

"You and me are going to be in the same classes from now until forever, then!" It sounded slightly more awkward then I had intended it to be, but Michael didn't say anything about it. After being best friends for five years, we'd both gotten used to the other one and I wasn't the one who'd just skipped a grade. Later that day, we had to go to our first band class, which would precede an orchestra class. We were supposed to choose one of the two to play in for the next three years- I thought it'd be a ton better if we could just choose and instrument and take it home.

"What instrument do you want to play?" Michael asked me, upon seeing everyone else already looking at the various instruments set up in the front of the room. I grinned at him lopsidedly, surprised he had even asked.

"Guitar! Did you never notice the fact that I have tons of guitar posters on my wall? Or that my mom keeps not giving me one for Christmas?" I punched him on the shoulder jokingly. "You're apparently not all that bright mister Meyers."

He laughed. "Okay. I guess you're right. But still! Wouldn't it be cool to play something else?"

"Alright," I said, now curious. "What were you planning on playing?" Mike, always slightly more reserved then me, though he'd grown out of some of his shyness, turned pink.

"I wasn't going to be in band," he confessed, slightly pink. "I want to play the violin."

I had to admit, I thought any instrument that couldn't be used to play lots of loud music had to be classified as boring. But for Mike…it just made sense. He was sweet and classy, complementing everything I was, there to be anything I wasn't. So when he chose to play the violin, I had to congratulate him. And remind myself that our differences were our strength.

He was struggling to maintain a minimum grade; I was passing with the best marks in the class. He was taking more interest in girls and dating; I was noticing him more and more as something other than just a friend. Our freshman biology teacher assigned us a project on flowers- roses in particular.

"Remember that time when we were little and you said you'd woo a girl with sob stories of injuring your eye picking roses for her?" I teased Ryan as we flopped down on my bed after school. It had been years since that conversation, and as far as I knew, Ryan had forgotten it ever took place. However, he rolled his eye and faked a laugh.

"Har, har, har. I was a little kid. Give me a break." Ryan flipped his textbook open to a section about floral life. I snorted.

"It was cute."

"Yeah, yeah. Next thing I know, you're going to be talking about the simile between that and how now we're studying them."

"It's irony," I corrected mildly. Ryan shrugged it off, taking it in stride. Instead of commenting, he folded up a piece of notebook paper into a slapdash plane and lobbed it over at me. It veered off course and flew into the middle of the room. I laughed.

"Four years and you still haven't perfected your technique." He scowled and stuck his tongue out. That act just made my grin wider. I glanced at his textbook. "What are we supposed to be looking up, again?" He shrugged.

"I think we're supposed to diagram a rose and all it's parts, write a report on it, and make a poster. You know. Typical school stuff." I nodded. Ryan was quite intelligent, able to memorize dozens of facts about things he was interested in. His problem was just that few things directly involved with school did that.

"Ryan, if you were a rose, what part of the flower would you be? The stem or the roots?"

Ryan put his hand over his heart in a sign of mock indignation. "I prefer to think of myself as neither."

"C'mon. Pick one," I urged. He laughed.

"Well, if you were a rose, you'd be the thorn. Pain in the ass, and the ugliest part." I feigned shock.

"Ryan! How could you say that? I'm obviously the petal. The pretty part that everyone loves to admire." I opened my own book, laughing as Ryan mimed gagging.

"That's so me, though. I mean, gorgeous, the part people pay for… not the part only used as defense against lady bugs." He pushed his bangs out of his face, something he always did when he was trying to focus and not succeeding.

"You whore," I teased. Then, more quietly, "But if you're the petals, then I'll gladly be the part that protects you." Ryan looked up from the text, a faint smile apparent near the edges of his lips.

"That makes me happy, Mike. No one else could make me feel this protected."

I was sick of football and quit; he became amazingly muscled without ever participating in a varsity sport. I was sixteen and had just gotten my first car; he was still fifteen and wasn't allowed to even take driver's ed. The idiots who ran our school still had us in the same homeroom.

"What's new today?" Mike asked idly, as he flipped through his sister's copy of Seventeen. I rolled my eye.

"How the hell can you stand to read that stuff?" I replied, my distaste plain. Magazines geared to teenage girls appealed to me in no way, shape, or form and I didn't understand what it was in them that Mike found interesting.

"They're fucking hilarious!" he said. He turned to a page. "Listen to this: Get amazing abs in fifteen minut—"

"Mikey!" I laughed. "You're such a dork. I'm surprised that no one has accused you of being gay yet, given how much time you spend with your nose in those and how you of all people has yet to get a date to the winter dance." To my great astonishment, Mike's ears turned a brilliant shade of pink, and the color began to creep into his face. He stuttered when he spoke.

"Y-yeah, Ryan. A-about that." He stared at his thumbs, something he'd always done when we were little when he got embarrassed. I searched through my words, trying to figure out what I'd said to cause this reaction.

"About what?" I asked blankly. He bit his lip, glancing at me quickly and then averting his eyes again.

"About me being— being gay." By this time his face was quite pink and I was glad nobody ever paid attention to other conversations in homeroom. This would have been one of the times when I quickly found an excuse to change the topic- for his sake as much as my own. I knew what was coming, and yet somehow, I still wasn't ready for it.

"Yeah?"

"I am. Gay, that is." Mike kept looking at his thumbs as though expecting them to catch fire. I felt myself look away from him. Mike was gay. I'd never thought of that possibility. Sure, I'd considered the concept of me being gay- I think at one point everybody does. But I had never thought that Mike might be. He was just so attractive to girls, and I couldn't name a single one in school who would've turned him down. I started laughing before I could stop myself. He stared.

"What's so…funny?" Clueless, he gaped at me as I brought my laughs to a grinding halt.

"It's irony," I explained, using a term I'd heard coming from his mouth many times before. "All those poor girls will never understand why you don't like them back." To my pleasure, he cracked a slight smile.

"So you're okay with it? Like, the fact that your best friend is—gay?" I nodded emphatically.

"Mike, are you kidding me? Of course I'm okay with it. You're the exact same person you were before you told me, and you were gay then, too. Unless this is some sort of spur-of-the-moment decision?" I grinned as he laughed nervously.

"No, it's definitely not that kind of thing."

"Alright, then," I said, smiling. My mom had discovered that her best friend was bisexual in college, and it hadn't broken them up. I like to consider myself a better person then my smoking, slightly alcoholic mother, and if she had no problems with her friend, I definitely wasn't going to have any with Mike. "Now that we've cleared that up, what was that about getting amazing abs in no time flat?"

He was the lead guitarist in what he liked to refer to as his band-in-progress; I liked to sit and listen to them because they'd be good- if they could find a singer. He was dealing with his first dramatic break-up, his first where he didn't do the breaking-up; I was dealing with the fact that he still appeared to see me as nothing but his best friend. He came to me for advice and counseling.

I was on my bed, thumbing through the latest thick text our AP literature teacher had given us to annotate when I heard my door open. Figuring it was my sister, I didn't look up and kept my eyes trained on the tiny print. Then a rose was dropped- thrown, really- onto my bed. I looked up.

"Ryan!" I definitely hadn't been expecting my best friend to be at my house on a Friday night when he was supposed to be taking his girlfriend out to dinner. Uncertain of why he was there, I asked slowly, "Um, what's up?"

"She fucking dumped me." Ryan flopped dejectedly onto my bed. I wasn't sure what to say.

"Oh." That probably hadn't been the best thing to happen to him. Sure, Ryan had had his share of girlfriends, but he'd always been the one to dump them, but not the other way around. And Lisa had been Blink's favorite by far. After me. But he didn't seem to consider me like any of his girlfriends- which shouldn't have surprised me at all. Yet, there was always that small part of me that hoped, maybe, some day, Ryan would realize that he would seek more than solace in his best friend.

"Yeah. And that's so perfect, because I finally told my mom I was dating someone else and now she's going to want to meet her." He picked at a hole in my blanket moodily. I reached over and patted his hand consolingly.

"I'm sorry, Ryan. I really am."

"Yeah, well, it's not your fault is it? It's that stupid…" As Ryan ranted, I let my thoughts stray slightly, nodding and quietly agreeing with whatever he said. He didn't seem to notice my inattentiveness. After a span of several minutes, his tirade seemed to be slowing to a halt.

"…And that's really all that mattered in the first place, you know?" He stared blankly at me for a moment, and I realized he had stopped speaking altogether. I started slightly, and nodded emphatically.

"Right." He grinned, and I felt the edges of my mouth turning up as well. Anything that made Ryan happy made me happy, too.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Mike," he said, still smiling. I assented- it was true. Without Ryan, I didn't know what I would do. There was no way I could go to a different college than him; I wouldn't last all four years. He stood up, making his way towards my door.

"Thanks for listening."

"Any time." Still smiling, he left and I rolled over onto my stomach. The rose that he had brought in with him was still lying on my bed. I picked it up, examining it. Deliberately, I began picking off the petals as I'd seen my sister do many times when we were younger.

"He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not…"

I was celebrating the fact that I had finally graduated and was going to go to college in Colorado, far away from New York; he was silently rejoicing because he'd been accepted to some Ivy farther north. I used the graduation parties to my advantage, planning on getting absolutely smashed; he was my designated driver, using the parties as a chance to say his good-byes. We both realized that this was it, when we were finally going to have to say farewell.

I am not a very sentimental person- never have been and probably never will be. But when it came time for the last graduation party, after which everyone would finally leave, go their separate ways for good, I couldn't help it. Some idiot brought that one song, about going on and remembering all the good times and shit, and I made the mistake of trying to talk to Mike during it. The big mistake.

I had no idea what to say. We'd been best friends, inseparable, for almost twelve years. There was no way to sum that up in a few weeks, let alone a couple minutes. From the look on his face, he felt exactly the same way.

"Ryan," he started, but I cut him off before he could keep going.

"Mike." God, how to say everything I wanted to say. All those times making fun of my fat next door neighbor, all those times sitting under my tree, every time he watched the band practice and the time he found us a vocalist- there was just no way to say everything.

"Yeah." He smiled sadly. "I guess this is kind of the end of forever isn't it?"

I knew right away that he was referring to the time we'd joked about being "BFF's"- best friends forever. But I shook my head. "No way. This isn't the end. Just think of it as…a new beginning. We'll still talk."

Before I could say anything else, he had me in a tight hug, and I returned it. I thought I was crazy- how could I have decided to go to college across the country from him? The one week he'd been away the last summer alone had been pure torture. Four years was two hundred times as long. And I wish I was exaggerating about that number.

"Ryan, you're my roots. And I'm your thorn. And I'm not going to let a thousand miles change that." Remember that part about me not being sentimental? Yeah, it's pretty much not a good way to describe myself in that moment. I cried. I was standing in the middle of a graduation party, crying because my best friend was reminding me of all the small moments we'd shared. Despite my tears, I managed to smile.

"Always. Keep prickly, Mike."

"Stay grounded."

If I'd known that would be the last time I spoke to Mike in two years, I probably would have said something a bit more profound as he walked away. But I couldn't predict the future. There was no way I could go a month without calling him- not the way I figured. So as Mike walked virtually out of my life, the most I could say was,

"Talk to you later!"

I was well on my way becoming one of the tops in my major and loved college; he had transferred after his freshman year to a school even farther away. I had my first boyfriend, who I then proceeded to dump two weeks later because he didn't compare to my high school crush; he, from what I'd heard, had become a member of a fraternity. It was pure luck that our summer jobs after our sophomore year in college brought us together again.

When I first saw Ryan again, I can't say it was immediate recognition. The glass eye and the much tanner complexion, coupled with the fact that I'd finally grown and was now actually taller than he was, threw me off. But the smile, the laugh, the way he walked, all made me think the other lifeguard at the big pool who caught my eye was my old best friend.

To be sure, when we were on break, and he was in the lifeguards' room, I called, "Ryan, you're needed on deck." I wasn't ready to come face to face with him again.

"Michael?" he asked upon seeing me, as if he could hardly believe his eyes. "Michael Meyers?"

"Yeah," I replied, trying to play off the slightly awkward moment. "Long time no see."

"I'll say. You've, um, gotten taller." He hadn't changed much either, and looking at him brought back every feeling I'd ever had for him. Damn that old crush, and damn him for still being straight. He pulled his USC t-shirt on, and was obviously waiting for a reply.

"You've gotten—" No, I couldn't say that he'd gotten better looking, even if it was true. I didn't want to chase him away again, not after barely getting to talk to him. "Fitter." Damn it all to hell, that hadn't come out sounding like a compliment. Ryan took it in stride thankfully, and grinned.

"New work-out program for swimming. It's about the only time I do anything other than work or school these days." I smiled, trying not to say something stupid. Ryan being Ryan, he continued talking. "Look, I'm really sorry about never calling you or anything. Freshman year sucked and then when I transferred I lost your number when I got a new phone and stuff and I really didn't just forget about you and—"

I cut him off. "Don't worry. I didn't forget about you either." He grinned even more widely.

"Awesome." So we worked that entire summer together, and by the end, it almost felt like old times again. But then we had to go back to school, and though we kept in touch this time, life really can be a bitch.

I was working at my god-awful, dead-end job in New York, a college degree apparently meaning nothing in the real world; the last I'd heard, he had gone on to graduate school and was still there. I lived in a tiny apartment where the rats were more comfortable than me; he was somewhere in the country, undoubtedly with a hot girlfriend- except that's impossible unless his sexuality changed. Out of the blue, after five or six years of little to no contact, he invited me to his graduation.

Don't get me wrong. Mike and I, we were close when we were kids. But the last time I actually saw him was at that summer lifeguarding job six years ago. And eventually, our weekly phone calls dropped off to monthly ones, and then even once a month became often. The only reason I knew he was at grad school is because I spotted his name somewhere- don't ask where though.

Unsure of what to bring- hell, I'd never been to any graduation before, let alone one where the person had done four years of extra study to get there- I bought a rose. Sadly, I can't even honestly say that I bought it for old time's sake. I didn't even remember until he looked at me with a fond smile.

"You remembered," Mike said to me, as if shocked by the fact. I blinked.

"Huh?"

"Roses. About each of us being…well, never mind." He grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. "I'm glad you made it, Ryan."

"Me, too." And I was. Seeing Mike made me remember tons of fun and happy times when I didn't have to worry about making ends meet. I could be a kid again. And honestly, I had missed him badly, wishing he would move back to New York. I guess it's just the whole 'old habits die hard' concept. It took me a second to realize that he was talking again.

"…But I'm pretty sure I'm moving back to New York for a while until I find a job somewhere else."

"You're moving back to New York?" I asked, trying to suppress the slightly inexplicable excitement that was building up inside me. Mike laughed a bit.

"That's what I just said, dummy. You really haven't changed, have you?" I felt myself go a bit pink, and he must've noticed, because he hastily added, "But since you were always one of my best friends, I don't think that's at all a bad thing." Good old Mike, always considerate. Trying to come up with something constructive to say, I motioned towards the flower he was still holding.

"I'm sure your best friends got you much nicer stuff and all but—"

He cut me off, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly. "You are my best friend, Ryan. All these years…nobody ever came along who could change that."

"Wh—What?" I stammered, quite sure that I hadn't actually heard what I thought he'd said.

"You are my best friend," Mike repeated, smiling. I felt as if everything I had accomplished in the past four years meant nothing, because I was still Mike's best friend. Everything I had ever done to him that could've changed that fact hadn't mattered to him. And he was moving back to New York. I think my shitty job just got slightly better.

I was still working in New York, despite my silent promises to leave that I'd been making for three years; he had managed to get a slightly better job and visited me every couple of weeks. I lived by myself in a small house, with an elderly neighbor who thought I had kids; he still lived in that horrid apartment with a landlady desperate for a little action. He came to me when he needed a place to move to.

"Ryan?" I asked, slightly taken aback. It was Father's Day, and I had just gotten rid of the woman who lives next door. She'd brought me a bouquet, and made me keep it even though I had assured her I had no children and probably never would. (Of course, I didn't explain why that was, because she seemed like the strictly religious type.) Ryan was supposed to come on Sunday, but I motioned for him to come inside nonetheless.

"Mike," he started, a mixture of anger and embarrassment on his face. "I uh, need a place to stay for a little while." He sat down in one of the chairs in my living room, eyeing the bouquet with some interest.

"Okay…" I replied hesitantly. Ryan was not the type to do things without any reason whatsoever, and so I was slightly confused. "Um, do you mind if I ask, you know, uh…?" I motioned with my hands lamely, and he let out a short bark of laughter.

"Landlady kicked me out this afternoon. Said I had a day to pack up and get out."

"Oh." I'd met Ryan's landlady and she didn't seem like the type to up and make someone move out. I thought there was part of the story that Ryan wasn't telling me. "So is it because you're late on your rent or what?"

Taking my rather unsubtle hint, Ryan looked me straight in the eye and said tonelessly, "Because I'm gay." It was as if someone had shattered a piece of glass in my brain, the loud sound ringing in my ears. Oh, wait. I had dropped the two beers I had been holding in my hand.

"What?" I asked in disbelief, ignoring the brown liquid slowly soaking into (and ruining) my white carpet.

"I'm gay. I kind of realized it a couple months ago, but I didn't ever tell anyone," Ryan replied, somewhat pink in the face. I couldn't believe my ears. My best friend, the one I had daydreamed about through high school and never forgotten in college, the one whom I had used as the standards for all my other significant others, none of which could come close to matching him, the one who had always been most assuredly straight, was gay. And in my house. Looking like he needed some cheering up.

"Mike?" I started. Ryan was looking at me in a concerned way. His face made me want to kiss him right then and there.

"Um, well, how did she—how did she find out?" I asked, forcing myself to talk in order to distract my brain- which was currently doing cartwheels around my skull in glee.

"Apparently the person I thought was also gay was bi and sleeping with her as well." My brain stopped in mid-wheel. Oh.

"Oh."

"Yeah." Ryan was now examining the flowers in front of him.

"I'm—I'm sorry." I thought my brain had just fallen over and bruised itself. I couldn't think of anything to say other than, "Well, if you want, you can crash here. You know, until you find somewhere else to stay, that is. Um. My bedro—There's a guest bedroom upstairs." He looked visibly relieved.

"Thanks, Mike. I figured you'd help me out."

"That's what I'm here for," I said, managing to shrug fairly nonchalantly. My brain was now doodling on the inside of my skull, and most of the words it was writing were not clean. Damn that stupid thing, encouraging me like that. I swallowed nervously.

Ryan stood up, and walked towards the stairway. Before going up, he turned back to me and smiled somewhat sadly. "And Mike?"

"Huh?" I looked up at him from where I'd been staring at the carpet.

"I'm sorry."

I knew he wasn't talking about his sudden arrival on my doorstep.

I am celebrating my thirtieth birthday tomorrow; he is a couple months away from his twenty-ninth. I am currently employed managing a florist's shop in Manhattan; he works for some snooty businessman in downtown. I bring him a rose every day, to remind him that's he's my protection and I'm his source of stability.

I realized I was gay when I was twenty-eight. It took me nine more months to figure out that I was in love with my best friend. He's known for half his life.