Thirty Two Faces - 8. Trust

I was born into this world twice: first by my Mom, then by my brother.

At two, my parents realized something was wrong with me. I hadn’t learned to talk yet. My earliest memories, though fuzzy and confusing, were not about words. I vaguely had the impression, instead, that I was in a kaleidoscopic dream, full of colors, movements and sounds. Contorting faces and moving bodies were no different from the rotating blades of a fan or the hanging toy above my crib.

The outside world didn’t make sense and didn’t interest me mostly.

Loud noises and unfamiliar sights overwhelmed me, like they’re trying to invade my head. Imagine growing up with a cacophony of white noises, like ten radios tuned to no specific stations, and perpetually lost in the swirling patterns of a psychedelic disco ball. Welcome to my world.

Professor Hoffman told Dad that I would never speak. And I never did – until I was three.

My earliest coherent memories were of my brother’s voice.

Babe, Babe.

Somehow, I knew the sound was calling me. My first word, when I learned to speak, wasn’t dada or mama; it was ba-da, which I think was trying to say ‘brother’. He was the first to exist in my awareness.

At three, I vaguely remember my fascination with how light was refracted through my father’s glasses. It was one of the few things that caught my eye. The glasses created a spectrum of colors, like a rainbow, when held under the light at certain angles. I would stare at the lights for hours and hours, tilting and shifting, entranced by their beauty.

I came to recognize my brother’s voice, because every time I heard,

Babe, Babe,

I saw the entrancing lights. Soon, I associated that voice with beautiful lights.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, the voice brought the glasses, and the glasses brought the colorful lights. It became a familiar routine. Some of the white noise, contortions and movements even started to make sense. And I realized he was the one who brought me the glasses. The outside world felt less overwhelming and more interesting.

Through this daily ritual of calling my name, bringing me the glasses, and playing with the lights, I learned that I could interact with him. He understood my intentions and responded to me. For example, when he didn’t bring me the glasses, I would knock my head on him or tug his sleeve, and he would steal them when Dad was not watching; then he’d come running to me, waving the glasses in his hands, saying,

Babe, Babe.

Then he became more interesting than the lights, because he was like me, which is different from the moving fans, the hanging toys, the plastic spoon that shoveled food into me, the bottle that dripped milk – because he was another living soul.

We communicated with our bodies and gestures, and sometimes I would invite him to watch the lights with me. Sometimes, he watched and made some noises, sometimes he went away, and sometimes he brought new things for me to play with. Mostly, I didn’t like changes to our rituals, but occasionally the new things sparked my interest. To tell him what exactly I liked and didn’t, I had to make sounds.

That’s how I learned to communicate.

If I hadn’t learned to speak, I would have an IQ of 25 today. And I wouldn’t have beaten my brother at cards eight games in a row.

 

# # # # #

 

“You know, I really should bring you to Vegas when you turn 18.” Samuel throws the cards down and says, “Fuck college.”

“But I want to study with you.”

I pick up the cards and stack them neatly into the box. He seems pleased by my declaration until he catches me staring at the bulge underneath his boxers. Leaning forward, he pinches my nose and pulls it left and right.

“You just want to get into my pants, dirty boy.”

I slap his hand off my nose and say, “That’s not true. I want to cook for you as well.”

He laughs, apparently amused by my domestic aspiration. He says, “So now you want to be my wife! Just great, Mom will be thrilled. Grow a pair of boobs, and we’ll talk.”

Immediately, I scramble for my bag, whip out my iPad and start googling.

A smack lands loudly on the back of my head. My brother points the rolled-up magazine at me and says, “I’m joking.”

At that point, I don’t know what I want from my brother. To marry him? 52.9 percent of all marriages end up in divorce. I’m not even sure what marriage means other than making babies, which I can’t do for him, and staying together for life, which I can. Sex? Yet it seems much more; I want to be with him all the time.

Are brothers allowed to live together when they grow up? Is he allowed to hold my hand when he has a wife and kids? I have never seen Mom hold Uncle Rob’s hands, but they hug at holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. There are so many things I don’t know, and Google and Wikipedia provide no clear answers. No definitive authority to say whether it is allowed or not.

I’m also not sure if I’m even allowed to ask such things. I test my luck by asking, “Samuel, is it inappropriate for us to hold hands?”

“No.” He picks up the guitar and starts strumming.

“Then why do your friends make funny faces when we do?”

“Cos you’re supposed to stop when you grow up.”

“Isn’t it wrong then?” I ask. Without looking up, he says in a casual voice, almost like he’s humming to the guitar, “Who gives a fuck what they think.”

“Then why don’t you hold my hands anymore in front of Mom and Dad?”

The tune ends abruptly. Putting the guitar aside, he looks irritated when he says, “C’mon, get changed. Time to pick Mom up.”

Most people learn what to say and what not to say by observing how others react: their expressions and gestures. Kids like me have a hard time growing up when no one bothers to explain what’s going on. Mostly, my family is patient enough to explain things to me. Except for certain things you’re supposed to know but not supposed to ask about. Samuel calls them taboos. They are like secret codes to crack, except that all the clues, those subtle innuendos on their faces, are inaccessible to me.

And one of them is death.

Everyone I know reacts as if death only happens to someone else -- our neighbors, a TV character, a colleague – but never anyone we know.

But we all die.

It’s as if people believe it won’t happen to them if they don’t talk about it. Like when you are having a sweet dream, you get annoyed when people wake you up.

Also, I think it’s important to ask about death because it happens in everyday life. We need to know how to deal with it. I’m sad that Mom has cancer, but I’m not shocked like Dad and Samuel are.

Dad got upset when I told him Mom only has a 1 in 5 chance of living beyond 5 years. He says I’m being morbid. I don’t want Mom to die; I just want Dad to take her recovery very seriously. For example, he mustn’t have sex with Mom for at least a month, because she will go through a forced menopause after her ovaries are removed. Her vagina will be dry and surgically shortened. She also has to cut out sugar from her diet; we can’t let her eat anymore Jell-O and potato chips. But he doesn’t want to hear any of this.

“Go with your brother. I need to settle the hospital bills.” He dismisses me summarily and walks to the hospital counter.

Another thing I’m not supposed to talk about is sex. When you don’t understand social cues and faces, figuring what’s sexually inappropriate becomes a dangerous guessing game. Kids who are like me usually need to be told specifically what to do. We don’t learn things the same way as others do. So it becomes a problem when people don’t want to talk about sex or talk about it vaguely and get upset when you ask or say unhelpful things.

Talking about it brings me a great deal of humiliation and grief.

Most kids are expected to figure out two things on their own during puberty. One is that you are not supposed to masturbate in public. Two is that you need to know how to masturbate the ‘proper’ way.

When it comes to taboos such as sex, my parents are very good at telling me what not to do. Sometimes, if I push the issue, and if they don’t get upset, they will tell why I shouldn’t do certain things. The real problem is, they never actually tell me what exactly to do, instead.

Just like tying shoe laces, I needed to be taught and shown step by step, sequence by sequence. It’s simply how I learn.

When I was fifteen, just a few months before Samuel left for college, puberty hit me fast and furiously like a speeding train. It all started when I realized it felt good to rub myself against cylindrical furniture like the wooden display case in the living room, the pillar in the dining room, and the heavy curtains in Dad’s study when they are all tied up.

Mom got mad at me for doing it. At first, I thought it was because I broke the display case by toppling it over or because I left gooey stains on the curtains and pillar. Samuel laughed at me, so I thought I was doing something funny. But since it upset Mom, I tried to be gentle and careful not to break things and to clean up myself after creating a mess. But she still got mad when she caught me doing it.

It puzzled me. If you can scratch your head or touch your face, why can’t you do the same thing between your legs? Even if I made a mess in my room, she shouldn’t get mad if I cleaned it up later. To me, she was being unreasonable.

I understood why I shouldn’t touch other people’s privates, because I may give them unwanted reactions; it might make them feel good. Some people just don’t like to be happy, like Mrs. Fields, our English teacher. She always punished boys who said things or did funny stuff to make the class laugh loudly. I always got thrown out of the class when I rubbed my groin against the legs of the desk. Kids laughed, and I laughed along.

It made her angry, but I didn’t do it to provoke her or to make the other kids laugh. Sometimes, the feelings between my legs are like a full bladder. Sometimes, it feels like a scab you simply can’t stop picking at.

Samuel was having his final exams at that time, so he wasn’t very patient when I asked. He simply told me to do it in my room, which I did. But no one explained why. I thought it was one of the many things that you simply didn’t do in front of Mom and teachers, like playing when you’re supposed to be sleeping or doing homework or paying attention in class.

For a week or so, I thought I was becoming popular because people laughed and smiled when they saw me. They reacted exactly how Samuel did. One day, I rubbed myself against a girl called Elaine, who wanted to be my friend because she hugged me. She smelled nice, and she was soft to touch, and my hug got carried away. Then she slapped me in front of everyone in the hall.

Teachers yelled and pointed to my face. It felt like they wanted to poke my eyes, so I hit them back. Some kids laughed, some kids shouted, I was terribly scared, and I didn’t know why they were mad. I wasn’t doing anything different; I saw some boys and girls rub against each other behind the gym after class during the times I waited for Samuel to finish his football practice. Samuel did that to the girls he brought home, too. So I was horribly confused and upset.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch other people’s privates, but no one told me my privates couldn’t touch other people. I couldn’t see the connection. Just like I’m not supposed to take other people’s belongings, but I’m allowed to give things away as gifts. Rules don’t always apply both ways.

My parents were called to see my principal. There was a lot of yelling, crying and begging from Mom. The principal thought I shouldn’t be in public school. Dad was upset, but he was calmer.

Some things are private, Keith. Just like going to the toilet.

He explained to me clearly, in his firm and steady tone, after coming out from the principal’s office. We pee in a toilet because it’s a shameful act, unhygienic, and we get arrested if we do it in public. Only then did they tell me I’m doing something very serious and wrong. It unnerved me a great deal, and I got paranoid about other public shames that I was expected to know but no one was telling me.

Many kids in school hated me after that. But the problem didn’t end there.

They told me what not to do and why I shouldn’t do it. But I didn’t know what I should do, instead. It’s like I’m supposed to go to school with a full bladder and hold it till I get home. For days, I didn’t want to go to school because of that.

The only things in my room that were remotely cylindrical are the memory foam pillows in my room. It was the best I had, but it came to a point that they got unbearable to sleep in because of the stains and smell. Mom got mad because the pillows were very expensive.

I thought of asking Professor Hoffman, since he’s the expert on kids like me. Dad’s only a shrink for businesses. But because what I did was shameful and illegal, I didn’t dare to ask. It’s like how Samuel downloaded movies from the net. He would get arrested if people knew. You are supposed to do it secretly and not tell anyone.

For a few weeks, I got really cranky and ill-tempered. I threw a tantrum when Samuel told me he was leaving me behind for college. He chose the worst time to ditch me. And then I freaked out and disappeared into the woods.

Puberty was a nightmare. To think I looked forward to it because Samuel said I would understand many things when it happened. But I paid dearly with lots of shame and anguish.

Mom and Dad didn’t know why I turned psycho. But somehow, my brother figured what was wrong with me and came into my room.

Pull down your pants.

He locked my door, throwing down a pile of magazines full of pictures of naked women on my bed. I had seen him stroking to a dirty magazine once when I was ten.

He finally decided to show me how kids masturbate using hands. That’s why no one makes a mess, breaks anything or rubs themselves against pillars publicly. With hands, I can do it in the room, in the toilet, and no one knows. I tried to imitate him, but it was hard because my hands got tired very quickly. So the first time he tried to teach me, we went on for more than half an hour. Nothing came out except for a muscle cramp and a very irritated brother.

Then he resorted to using what he calls visual aids: his stash of dirty videos. At home, I was supposed to watch them in my room and wank off. It didn’t quite work because movies are like detached, moving pictures to me. Most people can watch them and believe they are real, but it takes me a lot of effort to connect to them because of my stilted imagination. I can’t focus on connecting to them and getting myself aroused at the same time. It’s like getting Samuel to wank off while solving a math problem.

So finally, he resorted to a demonstration. And I came within five minutes under his hands.

Don’t ever make me do that again.

He shook his head and wiped off his hands. It was a lot clearer on what I did wrong when he showed me. I’m not supposed to grip so hard, and I’m supposed to fondle the head even though it’s all sensitive.

Go slow. You’ll get used to it.

In the end, I solved this embarrassing and inconvenient problem, like how I overcame my handicaps – through practice and repetition. Like reading faces, like understanding metaphors, like expressing my feelings through writing, like running, like swimming, like Parkour: it got better eventually with practice.

After some time, kids in school forgot what I had done. Even so, it made me more scared of strangers than ever, especially other boys. They give me the worst hell.

It was sad and ironic because discovering masturbation was supposed to be one of the best things about puberty. At least, that’s what Samuel made me believe. If only life would come with a detailed instruction manual like the ones that always come with TVs and computers. Some kids simply need them. Just like how they build ramps in schools for kids who can’t use the steps.

The silver lining is that it bonded Samuel and me deeply. I learned that only my brother can be trusted not to judge or add to my shame. Just like how he deals gently with my inappropriate love for him now.

Thinking back, it might have been very erotic learning to wank from my brother if the whole ordeal wasn’t so traumatic and humiliating. I just wanted life to get back to normal as quickly as possible.

Or perhaps because I used to find his scent pungent, especially after football practices. He didn’t smell nice, not like Elaine, who reminded me of fruits, flowers and honey. But after he left for college, the familiar musky scent on the clothes he left behind made me miss him terribly. When I got bullied, I would go into his room and hide in his closet. The lingering scent reminded me of his guidance and protection. I wouldn’t allow Mom to wash his clothes.

Dad said to Mom, Leave him be. He will get over his separation anxiety eventually.

I don’t know when it started, but at some point, I realized I was wanking to the old shirts he left behind in the empty room.

 

# # # # #

 

But right now, I wish someone could tell me how to deal with all these feelings that I’m not supposed to have for my brother: Other than the obvious fact that I’m not supposed to have them.

Because this time, I doubt Samuel has the answers for me.

Hey, Beth, I missed you, too.

What? I can’t, I’m at the hospital now visiting my mom.

What again? Oh, you’re busy.

Is that Mark’s voice? Why are you with him?

What do you mean I don’t trust you?

Fine. I’ll call you another time. Have fun.

Samuel hisses the last two words like he’s spitting on someone’s face. He ends his call and shoves his phone into the pocket, like he’s slamming down a receiver. Jaws clenched and nostril flared – I’d better stay away from him – it’s that steely look. Perhaps it’s the wrong time to ask about inappropriate love.

From the corner of my eye, I feel his head turning towards me a few times inside the elevator. Somehow, I manage to distract him from his foul mood. He must have seen the burning question on my face.

What am I supposed to do?

“What’s wrong, Babe?” he asks when we step out of the elevator.

I shake my head quietly.

“Then why weren’t you looking at me the whole morning?” he asks.

I didn’t know what to say, so I don’t respond.

“You’re supposed to acknowledge when people talk to you.” He puts a hand on my shoulders to slow me down.

Still looking ahead, I say, “I don’t know what to s-say.”

We pause for a moment outside Mom’s room. He puts a hand on the door, sighing. “All right, we’ll talk when we get back.”

Mom is all dressed and ready, sitting on her bed with her bag packed and zipped by her side. She extends her arms as I run over to hug her.

“You lost weight, Babe. Haven’t you been eating?”

She cuddles and kisses my forehead.

I tell her I haven’t had hot chocolate in a week without her around since I’m not allowed to make it at home without her permission. Therefore, I have been running a calorie deficit since her hospitalization.

Mom looks at me as if she doesn’t understand. I don’t know how to make it clearer, but Samuel comes to my rescue and tells her what I’m trying to express.

“Babe misses you Mom, he even wrote you another get-well card.”

Dad comes in shortly after a chat with the doctor outside. His eyes are sad, but he is smiling at her. I haven’t seen him in a good mood for days.

“Ready to go?” He extends a hand to Mom.

Meanwhile Samuel takes her bag in one hand and takes my hand in another. I am surprised. He looks at me smugly, like he’s proving a point about what I said this morning – about him not holding hands when our parents are around.

One family, two pairs of hands holding and four troubled faces reflect on the hospital windows. Surprised, I turn to look at the strange expression on my face. It isn’t my usual blank look.

Being led by my brother, who is walking one step ahead of me, my hand feels small compared to his thick gruff arms. Mom doesn’t throw a second glance at us, like she’s used to seeing us holding hands, as if I’m still ten years old. What if she finds out the way I stare at my brother is different from the way I stare at her face? She finds my social cues incomprehensible as much as I find everyone else’s incomprehensible. What if she knows how I really feel? What if one day, despite all my wishes, she begins to fathom the significance of my esoteric expressions?

I feel a sense of foreboding and confusion.

What should I do with all these feelings, Samuel?

She will be upset, even if I don’t break any furniture or leave any stains.

If I could have verbalized these questions, I would have asked my brother when he appeared in my room a few days later in the late afternoon.

He leans on the doorway, watching me arrange my tee shirts according to different fabrics, from softest to the roughest. I don’t wear regular shirts because I hate buttons, even if it’s a polo shirt. I don’t even like pillow cases with buttons on them. Anything that’s comes into contact with my skin needs to be soft. So I don’t understand my obsession with him. He wears shirts most of the time, buttons everywhere. Not only that, his body is hard and hairy. Hugging him is like hugging a moss-covered rock.

You may not want to hug a moss-covered rock to sleep, but when the world feels dangerous, you will want to hide behind one. It will keep you warm, keep you safe and protect you from the elements.

You can trust a rock. They are steadfast, and they don’t bend with the winds.

He seems to be waiting for me to say something. But all my thoughts are stuck in a tight knot, swirling like a maelstrom in my gut, undigested and chaotic. He narrows his eyes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s on my mind even when I am not very sure myself. I stare at his face, trying to figure out his; he seems troubled after the phone call from Beth at the hospital. No one knows about it but me, but his face has hardened like a mask of steel.

After a moment of silence, both of us get tired of the charade, and he leaves my room. Hours later, I hear him shouting over the phone in his room. Then I don’t see him for the rest of the day and night.

 

# # # # #

 

“Babe, wake up.”

My brother leans over my bed and rocks my body.

I stir and look at my phone. It’s five in the morning.

“Hurry up and get dressed.”

He’s wearing a red-checked­­ shirt and jeans. He isn’t thinking about jogging.

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

We go into the garage, but instead of getting into the car, he takes out the old bicycle he used to ride before Dad bought him the RX8 for his 18th birthday.

I sit behind him while he cycles, with both my hands on his shoulders. Up the hill, down the slope, he pedals forward as we leave our neighborhood of spacious lawns and fancy pools. We ride past the cemetery and the church, and by the time we reach the deciduous woods, down the long lonely roads, the first light appears.

It is a familiar route, even though I haven’t seen it for almost three years. We are heading towards our ‘Eden’, as he calls the portion of the river by the old railway track. Cool morning mist hits our faces as he picks up speed. He knows I like this stretch of the road best – the smell of dew and woods – as we soar past like we’re racing with the birds.

He half turns his head and smiles, as if he can see my rapture. I am totally awed. Perhaps he feels it from the way I tighten my grasp on his shoulders. Not in fear, but in disbelief, like when you’re totally blown away and you just want to make sure it’s really happening.

“You like it?”

“I like it.”

He likes the way I like things. Familiarity breeds contempt for most people, but for me, every act of love feels like it’s being done for the first time. He never grows tired of bringing me Dad’s glasses, and I’ve never stopped loving them.

“You’re easy to please. Just keep doing the same things.”

Just keep doing the same things, Samuel. One day you will need a crowbar to pry me off you.

He rests the bike against the railings on the railway bridge that crosses the wide, roaring river, a hundred feet below. Each of us balances on the narrow railroad tracks like an acrobat on a tightrope. He waves a chocolate bar, the purple one with marshmallow fillings inside,

“Same rules,” he says. Whoever stays on the rail the longest gets to keep the candy.

I could’ve walked the entire length of the track without falling off. Parkour has made me very agile, but it doesn’t make me any sneakier. So, I lose the bet when Samuel suddenly goes, “BOO!”

I fall off the track [‘rail’?], startled by the loud noise. He laughs when I pounce on him, groaning like a beast and flailing at him for cheating.

“Hey, hey…” He shields himself with one arm and surrenders the chocolate bar with the other.

Even though we’ve played this game countless time and he’s always won, he usually shares the candy bar with me. So I take the candy from him, peel off the wrapper, break it in half and hand him his share.

“What’s the point of winning if you don’t get the booty?” He doesn’t take the candy from me. But I still hold out my hand.

“I get to be the one who shares it.”

We are too busy roughhousing on the bridge to notice the sky has darkened, and dead leaves have begun rustling. He leads me to a hatch on the bridge, and we climb down a ladder to seek shelter from the now-pouring rain. We are in a space below the deck of the bridge. Imagine standing on top of a very large, rounded arch held in place by two colossal columns more than three hundred feet apart.

I’m afraid of heights, so I stay away from the edge. From the faded graffiti on the wall, I figure this must be an old haunt for some kids who discovered it before us. The rain pours outside, constantly drumming on the concrete around us. Drenched and cold, I read the graffiti to distract myself – from obscenities to proclamations of love to unfamiliar names declaring their first kisses here.

“How is it like to kiss? On the lips?” I ask my brother, tracing a crudely drawn lip with my finger.

“It’s like CPR. You haven’t forgotten have you?” He sits down, leans against the wall and lights up a cigarette.

I blush. “Really?”

“No. Lovers secretly play with each other’s tongue.”

“Is that supposed to be fun?” I turn over and find him staring at me.

“Perish the thought. I’m not making out with you.”

Funny that he said it, because I am not thinking of that. He usually knows about my intentions. But since he mentions it, I become curious about my attraction for him. Other than wanting to rub myself against him, I’m not quite sure what else I want.

Taking out a large transparent Ziploc bag, I crawl up to him and put it over my head. I tug his sleeve to get his attention and then stick out my tongue, indicating that he should do the same.

“What the fuck?” He laughs and chokes on his smoke.

“This won’t count as kissing,” I explain, since our tongues will be separated by the plastic.

Snuffing out the cigarette, he pulls me in and tongue-wrestles with me through the sheet of plastic.

“Satisfied?” he says after pulling the Ziploc bag off from my head. I wipe my tongue on the skin of my hands, trying to get rid of the powdery, plastic taste. Then I take out my pocket knife and etch my name on the wall.

Keith had his first kiss here.

The morning rain doesn’t seem to relent, so he unbuttons his shirt to let it dry. I wring out my tee shirt and watch the water roll off the curved floor. I yawn, which is interrupted by a sneeze. He thinks I’m funny.

“Get some sleep. I’ll wake you when the rain stops,” he says.

“What if I roll off the edge?”

The rain splatters loudly outside. I almost can’t hear him say, “Don’t worry, I’ll hold onto you.”

It is late morning when the rain stops. The ground is still slippery, so he holds onto my hand as we climb down the slope towards the river below. We have to battle through some thick undergrowth before we reach our special spot: an enclosure of luscious greens and colorful flowers, teeming with life as equally vibrant – life fuelled by the river: bright dragonflies, butterflies and sometimes at night, even fireflies. You won’t find this place easily unless you travel down the riverbank far enough.

 

# # # # #

 

We discovered this place five years ago, when we first moved here and Samuel had his last big fight with Mom and Dad. They made him go to a public school while I remained at home. Being a freshman in high school is bad enough – worse, when you’re new from the big city and everyone in this redneck town has already formed their cliques.

He ran away from home that day, dragging me along on his bike. I didn’t know what was going on, except that he pedaled on and on until the bike broke. I just followed him without question. Then we walked on foot aimlessly until we found this place. I was scared of seeing so many new things at once, but would have been more scared if he had gone and left me behind.

Even though we were cold and hungry, we had a great time. It was here that I learned to swim.

He laughed when I hugged the tree, refusing to get into the water.

Come on! It’s not that deep.

He emerged from the water, came back to the bank and swept me off my feet like a bride, except for the fact that I was wailing and kicking.

Trust me.

He said that when he lowered me into the water, giving me instructions step by step, and finally letting go his hands when he saw that I’d surrendered my last shred of fear – my body pliant, trusting him completely when he said that I wouldn’t drown.

After that, we kept coming back to this place whenever he didn’t feel like talking to people. He’d drag me down here, and we’ll spend hours together silently. Often, we would lie on the grass, as we are doing now, with our toes pointing to the clouds.

He would be lost in thought, whenever I turned to look at him. But mostly, I was lost in my own world as well, hypnotized by the bright flowers and colorful insects. We liked it because it was our own secret garden where no one else existed. It was our refuge from the outside world.

 

# # # # #

 

“The sky is getting dark,” he says.

But he doesn’t say it in the way that it’s time to go home. He sounds as if a close friend is leaving him soon. Hands behind his head and eyes lost in the sky. One knee bends, and, as if he’s asking the clouds, he whispers, “What is trust?”

Trust is a confusing thing.

Like masturbation, like sex, like death, like incest, like all the things I’m supposed to know but not supposed to speak aloud.

But trust isn’t just confusing. It seems so simple, but when you try to define it, it feels so abstract.

I think of how my body feels going to a place that’s new and unknown. And how my muscles remain tight, anticipating surprises, and I’m constantly aware of every sound, face and color. Over time, after I gain familiarity, I can trust and lean back. Just like how I trust routines, familiar places and Samuel.

I don’t know how to verbalize all that, so my answer is to crawl up, lie on his abdomen, and let his hands feel my body.

Feel my trust.

“You’re so soft… and unguarded,” he says, running his hands up and down my sides. But his abdomen is hard, not just because of his taut muscles, but it’s as if he’s bracing himself for danger. I often feel this in Mom and Dad, too; they don’t breathe deep into their bellies.

“Why are people always so tense?” I ask.

“They spend too much energy calculating, reading signals in people, preparing for the worst.”

“What’s the worst?”

The air is silent except for the soft summer breeze.

“To be disappointed.”

I listen to him quietly. He talks about trust as something you build, like a building or a muscle.

While it takes time to grow trust, I say it feels more like letting go; you lose the tension, but you don’t really gain anything.

But Samuel disagrees. “Trust is a luxury that allows you to stop thinking. You don’t have to worry that someone won’t catch you if you fall.”

His eyes seem to be searching, as if he’s seeing something in the darkening clouds.

“I will catch you, even though you are really tall and heavy,” I promise.

He looks at me, gently stroking my hair. He says, “I know, Babe.”

He talks about a lot of things that I do not understand: the world of normal people. How they constantly scan for inconsistencies, wondering how other people act when they are not around. Their minds are rarely relaxed, and they do not focus on what’s in front of them.

“You’re lucky. Ignorance is bliss.”

“It’s not. It’s scary. I don’t know whom to trust.”

“Really? You trusted Peter so easily. He’s like your new best friend.” He frowns.

Then he talks about trust like its money; not everyone can accumulate. Because a betrayal can make you think of all other betrayals that are waiting for you – in things you haven’t thought of, in people you rely on. Once you spend all of it, you might end up trusting no one.

“I don’t get it. If it’s so bad, then why do people want to betray others?”

“So that they won’t be the first to get betrayed.”

Vaguely, I understand what he’s saying. It’s just like when a boy corners me; I’m tempted to hit him first so that I can make a run. Sometimes, I want to believe that their aggressive gestures are due to bad manners and rough playing. If my trust is misplaced and they hurt me, I won’t want to talk to strangers anymore.

I almost imagine trust like reaching out our hands in the dark, looking for each other to hold onto, like the way we try to feel each other as we try to find our way back to his bike.

“Be careful, Babe.”

He finds my hand, and we intertwine our fingers. We use our phones to light the way, hardly seeing anything beyond our feet.

We walk for a bit until we realize we went the wrong way. Suddenly he stops and turns to the lake that the river flows into. I follow his eyes and draw in a breath when I look.

The moonlight glimmers on the surface, casting a silvery halo as it reflects the starry night. When the water is perfectly still, you can almost get stunned by the whole visage: a perfect mirror of the night sky, stars everywhere. It’s like you’re suspended in outer space.

“It’s been a long time, shall we?” he asks.

“I didn’t bring my trunks.”

“Who’s going to look? We can’t even see our own fingers.”

We undress by the lake, which is way brighter because of the reflections from the water. We keep the backlights of our phones on, so that we can find our clothes easily later. The reflected moonlight casts a silvery glow on my brother’s naked body.

I can see him clearly: muscles, sinews and fur. But his posture and his face aren’t hardened and steely. Instead, I see some of that freewheeling brother I knew way back in Portland – in his light shoulders, in his lively gait and his easy, spontaneous grin. Not even his large dangling penis distracts me from the carefree look on his face.

“Stop staring, you perv. Get in the water!” His hand beckons to me, a wide, decisive gesture that demands my immediate compliance.

He is so beautiful.

I pull down my boxers, hands pressing on my erection like I’m holding down a spring, and I walk in an awkward, clumsy manner, like I’m holding a ball with my knees.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he says between his guffaws.

“It’s rude to point at people.” And that includes the penis, as well.

He splashes water at me suddenly and repeatedly. Shocked by the cold, I hardly realize it turned flaccid until he says, “See? It’s not pointing anymore.” He grins and cries out as if he just solved a quantum-physics equation.

Trust is about baring your shame and knowing the person will be gentle with it. Even if he’s laughing, you know that he’s not laughing at you, but with you, instead. Like he’s trying to say, you don’t have to take it seriously.

We play in the pristine, silvery lake, chasing each other and splashing icy cold water. You can scream, shout and laugh at the top of your lungs here. There’s no need to hold back or be inhibited. No one around to care or to judge.

After exhausting ourselves, we crawl back to the bank and catch our breath, lying on the grass. My voice is hoarse from screaming and pleading for mercy. His breath is still heavy when he rolls over and looks at me, smiling.

“That was fun.” His grin looks silly, wild with abandon, unlike his usual stoic bravado.

I look away because his eyes are too intense, and I am becoming conscious of being stark naked. He doesn’t seem to care. It’s just the two of us in the dark. To him, it’s just like the old days, how we always played with each other in the river, how he taught me to swim, how he showed me to wank.

But I feel shy. Guilt and shame do funny things to you. Just like in school, they say Adam and Eve ate an apple, and suddenly they needed to wear a fig leaf. I thought it was utter nonsense, but it makes sense now. No wonder they keep serving us apples at the school lunchroom – so that kids don’t lust after their siblings.

Things felt different two years ago when I didn’t have the same feelings for Samuel. The awareness of sexual tension complicates things. So I turn my head up to the sky and look at the stars and the moon to avoid his gaze. And then suddenly, it is all dark because he is on top of me; only the silhouette of his face is visible.

“Hey, it’s rude not to look at people when they talk to you.”

“You’re blocking the stars.” I push his face away.

Offended by my unceremonious dismissal, he renews his offensive of tickle tortures. We struggle, wrestle and laugh like children.

He laughs like a child.

I choke between screaming and laughing.

He enjoys my pleas, because he doubts I will submit to his tortures, no matter how much I plea for mercy. He just wants to torment me again. And we go on and on.

The shivering cold doesn’t matter or the fact that we’re tumbling naked. We don’t care if our dicks came into contact – hard, semi-hard, flaccid. Something more compelling connects us at that moment.

We are back in Eden.

Even when both of my arms are pinned beside my head and I feel totally helpless, I strangely feel completely safe. That compelling connection comes from a deep, unbounded trust, which lets us lower our guard completely, and for an instant, we suddenly feel like we can fly. Just like when I train by carrying a bag during a run; I fly like the wind when the bag is taken off.

From that moment, I understand what he means by trust. Complete ease with each other, emotionally and physically. We are playing and connecting as we always have been since we were kids, as if I’ve never fallen for him and he’s never left for college. It’s as if we came out of a time capsule, and floating down the lake we continue uninterrupted, as if the missing years when we were not around each other were only a hazy dream.

He sits on me, pinning down my hands, all breathless but smirking over his victory. “Say you’re sorry.”

I try to get up but I can’t, which makes me glad because I’ve never seen him smile so widely before. If he hadn’t trapped my hands, I would reach out to feel his face, just to make sure the darkness isn’t fooling my eyes. He hears my thoughts or feels them through my body, through the stirring of my hand. He relaxes his hands enough to let one of mine slip free.

I love the way we communicate with our bodies. Visceral and raw.

There is no room for misinterpretation. One spasm, one twitch, one touch says whatever our voices couldn’t say. I feel the bristle of his chin as my finger outlines his lips, widening his curve as water drips down from his face.

Satisfied that he has my full attention and curiosity, he watches me study him with my fingers. I study the contour of his face and his body, like how I studied the lights refracted through Dad’s glasses years ago.

And for the same reason.

Because, just like the refracted lights, he is so beautiful.

Still above me and on all fours, I trace my hand down his neck and shoulders, feeling every taut contour and sinew shiver under my touch. Maybe he’s feeling shy, being undressed again, but this time my touch seems to strip away something in his heart, something that makes his face hard like a mask and his eyes steely.

“Babe…”

Babe, Babe.

My curiosity leads my hand to feel his heart, and indeed the thumping beats sound like the hoofs of a racing stallion freed from years of captivity. His eyes are curious, fascinated, and amused, as if he’s watching me perform a magic show, waiting to see what tricks I have up my sleeve.

My hand moves down at a glacial pace along the hairy trail between clefts of taut abdominals. It stops below his belly button, where the hair thickens to a tuft. I am not supposed to go any further below. So I made a detour to the side along his pelvic bone, feel every hair on his thighs, circling to the softer flesh of his inner thighs.

What is he thinking all this time when I touch him?

I prop myself up with one elbow to see his face more clearly. He doesn’t move in time to make way for me because our lips brush and I feel him poking below.

He is hard.

But it isn’t the horny face he’s wearing. I don’t understand what his expression means.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” I ask.

“I want to see if you have the guts.”

When we stand up, I suddenly realized how hilarious he looks. The insolent way he points his stiff cock around, shameless and unapologetic, is exactly how he points his middle finger at people and says fuck you. It is my turn to laugh at him.

Instead of being embarrassed, he plays along and clowns about by hanging his red shirt on his stiffened dick, swaying his hips left and right like he’s a matador waving a red flag. Still laughing, I head-butt him like a bull. He gets my double meaning; we knock our heads as a sign of affection before I learn a less painful way is to simply kiss and hug.

I feel amazingly fearless when I go home that night. It’s like I’ve developed a rapport with the unknown. Even with the sensory overload – the intoxicating musk, the dizzying laughs and chases, the electric touch of the skin, entrancing starlight, the stinging cold and a gazillion hues of emotions – I somehow managed to not freak out.

Everything feels so okay. The adrenaline is okay, lying there watching the sky is okay, the hard-on is okay, creepy-crawlies are okay. It’s like you are moving in the eye of the cyclone, the circular core of a storm where there are 20 to 40 miles of calm in the middle of a chaotic storm. It’s also like when you reach the ‘zone’ during a run, the point where a certain deep calm settles in, and your body simply moves itself.

We put the old bicycle away back into the corner where junk and relics of sweet memories are kept. It feels ominous, like tonight is only an interlude, a nostalgic dream visit from our childhood.

Our hands are still holding up to the point where we are supposed to return to our own rooms. We pause outside for a moment, unsure of the sleeping arrangements tonight. I want to sleep with him, but he seems to have decided before I did. Fingers part reluctantly as he kisses my forehead goodnight before going into his room. I stand outside his room for a moment and look at my own door. But instead of going in, I go upstairs instead, heading towards my parents’ room.

They are already sleeping, lights off and breathing heavily. I crawl up in my parents’ bed, snuggling between Mom and Dad despite them telling me not to do so after we moved here. But for the first time, I break a rule willingly – and happily as well.

I finally understand that trust and love are the same thing. You just do what your heart compels you to do, trusting that even if it breaks, it will still be worth it. If my Mom does die, and the odds are stacked against her, I would regret not holding her in her sleep and let her feel my love from every pore of my skin. I can almost imagine myself mimicking my brother's voice and saying,

Fuck the rules.

“What’s wrong, Babe?” Mom stirs as I crawl up their bed.

Silently, with my usual blank look, I lean my head and body against her. Close enough to let her feel my warmth but not pressing against her stitches and needle holes. She puts her hand on my face and kisses my head. My parents don’t drive me off the bed this time, and I sleep huddled between their warmth.

They must have put me back in my bed at some point because I wake up in my own bed close to noon. At first, I thought my Dad had brought me back to my room. Then I realize that there is only one person in the house who’s strong enough to lift me and knows how to do it without waking me up.

It is my brother.