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It was dark already as I looked outside. My phone said nine o’clock. We’d recently had dinner and we were catching up on a bit of work before going to bed.
I sighed as I scrolled down the comments under one of our recent videos. And like every time I read a comment hating on Ian; pointing out how fat, or ugly, or unfunny he was, my stomach churned.
I don’t know why I did this to myself. Some people can be so cruel.
I shifted my gaze towards him where he sat on the couch in front of me, oblivious to the mental torment I was currently in. He was working on our next script, in deep concentration―something that didn’t come easy to him― pouring all his genius humor and creativity into it.
Ian didn’t know how precious he was.
I hate Ian. He’s so ugly and stupid. Anthony is better.
Back when we started and until just a couple years ago, the hateful comments towards Ian were a lot more in number…and awfully harsher. People would often compare us, saying how hot, handsome, cute, and funny I was ―which was weird because I always thought Ian was the funnier of the two― …and how Ian was not.
I knew it affected him. I knew now at least. But I also knew that he would never tell me how much. Ian was excessively reserved at times.
It destroyed me to think back on the times when myself―Ian’s so called best friend and current boyfriend― joined in the hating. I called him ugly, I laughed. I was joking. Ian didn’t think I was.
About three years ago, in the weirdest, most amazing night of my life, Ian broke. At first I thought it was one of his many, crazy jokes―until I saw the tears.
I remember it as if it were yesterday. We were opening some mail and recording Ian is bored. Piles of drawings and letters scattered across the floor. Among the many letters sent by our fans, one of them said: Anthony’s hot; Ian is ugly. And I laughed. I mocked him. It was a game, but Ian didn’t think it was.
First, came the silence; then, the avoidance.
It was never easy for me to read him, and in spite of our many years of friendship, Ian still remained a mystery to me sometimes. But I could tell when he was upset, and he was that night; very much so. I went after him, and though he kept assuring me everything was fine, I pushed, and pushed, and then I pushed some more. And when I had him cornered, Ian broke.
I stood there, frozen as I witnessed it.
My first reaction was to laugh when Ian brought his hands towards his face and covered it completely, hiding it from me. But Ian didn’t laugh and I got worried. I grabbed his hands and forced them away from his face. That’s when I saw the tears.
Ian is ugly. He’s getting fat. Anthony is better.
I was very immature back then, and it was flattering, of course, to learn how much these girls appreciated me. So I never, not even once, thought how much those comments affected Ian. They were harsh. And I laughed.
But that night, the laughter died on my lips when I saw Ian’s tears. And I almost broke as well.
I hugged him and he resisted, but I didn’t relent and hugged him tighter.
Ian broke down.
I didn’t realize right away what was affecting him so much. This was new to me. I’d never seen him like this. I didn’t understand. Luckily, he explained.
I love you.
Soft spoken words came out, muffled against my chest. I almost didn’t hear them.
You…what?
And again, Ian uttered those three, simple, but immensely powerful words.
I love you.
You love me?, I asked. A nod was my answer. And dense as I was back then, I didn’t get it immediately.
As a friend, I thought.
You don’t love me.
Ian said those words―anguish clear in his voice― and then I understood. Not as friends, no… but as something more.
You think I’m ugly.
And then, I felt the blunt weight of my own stupidity fall on my shoulders.
It stunned me, of course. Ian always joined in the jokes, laughing at himself, acting aloof, like it didn’t affect him; like he didn’t care. Oh, but he cared…a lot.
Ian loved me. He loved me and I called him ugly. I mocked him, but he still loved me.
I dried his tears with my shirt and held him even tighter against my chest. That night, we lay down side by side in my bed. I didn’t sleep. Instead, I caressed his soft hair, whispering reassuring words as he slept peacefully in my arms.
I didn’t think he was ugly. Not really. How could I? How could anyone?
Everything in him was beautiful. It was natural, and it was there for anyone to see. His smile, open, and honest, and unbearably cute, brought joy to me like nothing ever could. I kept running my fingers lazily through his brown locks. His hair was the softest I’ve ever touched. I had secretly longed to touch it the way I was touching it that night for years; to run my fingers through its silkiness, to bury my nose in it and drown in its scent. Perfect. His skin was too. Soft and flawless, almost delicate to the touch, as I found out that next morning when we made love for the first time.
I kissed his inviting lips tenderly, softly nibbling his bottom lip, feeling its fullness between mine. It was our first kiss and it was perfect.
Gently grabbing his hips, I pushed inside and groaned as his tightness and heat enveloped me. Then I knew it. I belonged with Ian. He belonged with me.
It was strange, our first time, but heavenly so. Being my first homosexual experience, I was surprised how natural and spontaneous it was, how easily we synchronized together. But then again, this was Ian, and Ian meant everything to me.
As I moved inside him, I huffed as many compliments as my foggy, pleasure loaded mind could elaborate. I wanted him to feel loved; I wanted him to feel beautiful.
I love you too, I said, as I came undone inside him. Did I realize it before he confessed? Probably not…or I did, but chose to ignore it.
Ian was everything to me. So how could I not love him?
Ian is so cute! I love him!
I looked over my laptop again and the most beautiful smile greeted me. Smiling back, I got up from my sitting spot and approached the other couch to sit by my boyfriend. I hugged him to me and kissed his temple.
I love you, I whispered.
The ratio had balanced over the years. It was less often that I had to cringe while reading comments, and more often when I had to beat down the jealousy. Had the fans realized as well how beautiful and unique Ian was? Had it all been a collective awareness? For as I looked at the man in my arms, I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried, find the ugliness I mocked once. Ian was beautiful. There was no question to it, and now the fans saw it too.
As if sensing the intensity of my stare, his eyes―the most amazingly beautiful blue eyes on earth―met mine.
You are beautiful, I repeated for the millionth time that day. He smirked bashfully and dropped his gaze back to the scrip; a slight blush spreading over his cheeks.
It took a while for Ian to believe me, but I succeeded in the end. I thought he was beautiful. He thought so as well.