“It’s foolish and shortsighted to think that everyone in this world is either a wolf or a sheep. What if I’m a hippo?” Marcus queried from his lounged position atop the limp, faux-leather beanbag on the floor. One could never quite tell which of his incessant questions were genuine or just for a laugh.

Wije sighed. It was a sound of long and exasperated suffering at the hands of his closest friend. With a few practised, nonverbal hand gestures and several pointed glares, he managed to regain his class’ attention.

“An astute observation from my star pupil. Many questions and contradictions can arise from attempts to generalise the entire human population into two anthropomorphised categories,” Wije drawled. “Had the said star pupil shut his gob and continued to listen, he would have heard me make that point and extend it further.”

He made sure to send a friendly wink to his friend to communicate goodwill as his students giggled. Marcus took the verbal jab like a champ… for about 3 seconds. Suddenly, he held a hand against his heart and swooned dramatically,

“Oh you slay me with your unkind words, Teach!” he wailed. After a quick peek upwards to ensure the class’ attention was now on him, he pulled his face into a mourning mask. “I make a profound observation and you make fun of me! What a wolf move! Much too vicious for a hippo such as myself!” he warbled.

Wije rolled his eyes as the final bell rang. He resolutely ignored Marcus’ shit-eating grin as he regained the class’ attention again and reminded them of homework expectations for the weekend. The English teacher dismissed the students and trudged to tower over his still-seated friend as the teenagers filed out of the door.

“Remind me why you’re in my classroom?” he grumbled. Marcus merely extended his arms behind his head as he stretched out his back.

“Well, you invited me in as a guest judge for their debates in Week 6. I wouldn’t have noticed that my free period clashed with this class every Friday afternoon if you hadn’t pointed it out to me,” Marcus teased. “Plus, your kids can’t get enough of me! Who am I to deny my adoring fans of absolutely brilliant English commentary from their beloved performing arts teacher?”

Wije once again rolled his eyes. Unfortunately, this particular eye roll seemed to catch Marcus’ attention. The brunette scoffed indignantly in response, “Oi! Don’t you eye roll me! You’re just jealous that I’m their favourite teacher!”

The English teacher bit back a grin as he maintained a droll tone, “Yeah, okay. Sure. Not like you’re gate-crashing my class or anything.”

Another indignant screech.

“I do not gate-crash!” Marcus defended. “I improve! I enhance! I was practically begged - if not explicitly invited - by your students to attend!’

Wije’s disbelief extended all throughout Marcus’ following scramble to turn his beanbag around. His all-knowing smirk lasted up until Marcus pointed proudly to a hand-drawn sign attached to the back of the beanbag that the noirrette had not noticed before.

‘Mr Day’s Throne. VIP Access 24/7’

“Are you - How - How long has that been there?!” Wije shrieked in amazement. What the fuck? The scratchy handwriting narrowed the culprit down to one of about five of his students, but it was certainly from a student and not Marcus. Wije attempted to swipe the paper from the brunet’s hands, but the performing arts teacher held it out of reach.

“Uh uh uh,” Marcus tutted. “You can’t just ignore or crumple up a VIP, 24/7 access pass. Imagine the riots if my adoring fans found out that this sacred signage had been dismissed…”

Wije glanced quickly out the doorway and surrounding hallways to ensure they were clear before turning to face Marcus, “You little fucker! You’ve weasled your way into the good graces of my kids!” Turning to hide his pout, Wije continued, “Keep going like this, and you’ll be asked to teach this class. They’d take you over me in a heartbeat… Then you’ll be in deep shit. You’ll have to actually read a book to the end.” His laugh was weak, even to his ears.

“Hey,” Marcus’ call was soft. “Firstly, I can read, thank you very much. I’ll have you know that I read the entirety of Pygmalion when I was in Year 11, and I still regularly read far too much fanfiction on nights I can’t sleep, so, there! Also, stop it with that ‘everyone hates me’, ‘my kids will leave me for you’ shit. Your students adore your class, dude. I’d say you’d have to be blind to miss it, but even Evan can tell how much you value your class, so that point’s moot.”

The English teacher smiled softly and turned around. Meeting his friend’s worried gaze again, he apologised, “I’m sorry to bring the mood down. I don’t mean to.” He cut off Marcus’ inhaled breath, “And I know I don’t have to apologise. You know me well. Too well, I think sometimes. I just - I’m probably just tired. Ignore me.”

The pair sat in content silence for a handful of long moments, becoming attuned with the hum of the air conditioner and the muffled waves of conversation filtering in from outside the classroom windows. Marcus was the one to break the contemplative silence with a chuckle, “You’re definitely appreciated by your students. Really appreciated by some… You’ve got a fanclub forming in the back row.”

Wije groaned, “Ugh, don’t tell me… Ronnie?”

“Spot on,” Marcus taunted. “She’s got the perfect angle to stare goo-goo eyes at you all lesson without you noticing. I don’t think she took a single on-task note for the entire period.”

“Urgh,” Wije repeated. “Gross. Fuck, I’ll need to record that and update her folks… She needs to grow out of that, ASAP. Did I tell you that she gave me a handwritten, and handmade, note on Valentine’s day?”

This seemed to pique Marcus’ interest. Oddly concerned eyebrows furrowed in the English teacher’s direction, “Oh?” Wije noted that his friend’s voice was strange; thin, almost.

He sighed and leant against the front side of his desk. “Yeah. Nothing too bad, but I still found it odd that I got it. I flagged it with leadership, so we’ve been monitoring the situation. She’s about one subtle unwelcome advance away from being moved from my class. I’m just glad I flagged it early and have her parents informed - apparently this isn’t new behaviour, but they’re grateful that I’m so active in recording it and alerting them.”

Marcus released a long sigh, “That sucks, man. Hopefully she will grow out of it soon. It can’t be easy being on alert all the time like that.”

The English teacher slumped further, “It’s the future part that gets to me, really. If she’s already ignoring academic reprimands and rules to seek this unhealthy one-sided relationship, what does that mean for her future? If she doesn’t grow up and learn how to identify healthy and realistic relationships, where is that going to leave her in 20 years? This is probably the thing that terrifies me most about teaching highschool - after us, we release them into the outside world. The outside world is fucking ruthless, and sometimes I feel like we’re sending our unprepared kids into their early deaths - or at the very least, a lifetime of being miserable… They deserve better than that.”

Marcus was eerily quiet. Wije, knowing his friend thoroughly, thus knowing that he sometimes needed extra time to process before responding, decided to use the silence to begin packing his bag for the end of the day. When his friend spoke again, his tone was determined, “Your students are lucky to have you, you know?”

The English teacher tried to brush the comment off, but Marcus was relentless, “No, Wije, you need to hear this. Your students are lucky to have you. You’re a fantastic teacher. They’re lucky to have an educator that cares about their wellbeing so deeply - who sees them as humans and not just bodies in seats. You actually give a fuck about their futures. You make them feel smart while ensuring they stay humble and just. Your students are so fucking lucky to be taught by you. And if they can’t recognise it now, they will when they’re older and think back on the educator who got them back in a time when they didn’t yet know themselves. They’re so fucking lucky to have you.”

Then, whispered so quietly Wije almost missed it, “I’m lucky to have you. In whatever way I can.”

Wije observed, rather than felt, his head swing sharply to face Marcus’. What…?

The brunet quickly laughed it off unconvincingly and powered forward, “I MEAN..” Marcus cleared his throat. “I mean, sure, I know that students can be quite vocal with their adoration of me. I consistently hype them up and egg them on, after all. I’m as openly queer as I can professionally be - I mean, my classroom theme is ‘rainbow’, for fuck’s sake! In high school! The students that admire me, admire me to my face and sing my praises - when safe - behind my back. But I also know that my openness intimidates some students. The sheltered, prejudiced, closeted, and those with toxic conceptions of masculinity and gender can find me intimidating or challenging.”

Marcus’ eyes were closed as he talked. Wije stared openly at the operatic plot that played itself out silently in his friend’s facial features.

“That’s something I acknowledge and take in stride. I don’t push my defensive macho boys to take non-explicitly-masculine roles if they don’t want to. I call out homophobia in my classroom in the same way I call out racism - we define slurs, how they’ve been used to hurt groups of people in the past, and how we can be better than that. I use my deep, macho voice in parent-teacher meetings to dispel doubts and communicate my masculinity. I participate in sports day to dispel the athletics-allergic gay myth. These things are also slightly fueled by internalised homophobia, but, hey, no-one's perfect. Like you, I’m hyper-aware of my actions and how third-parties, including conservative third-parties, could misconstrue my professional and safe interactions with students… And it’s fucking exhausting.” Marcus sighed. “It’s so fucking exhausting, and that’s all while excluding the students I concede defeat to reaching.”

Before Wije could jump to his dear friend’s defence, Marcus cut him off, “Sure, I’ve got my strengths as a teacher. I do a fucking great job bringing performing arts culture to this school, but I’ll forever admire how you manage to meet all of your kids’ needs, wherever they’re at. I’d sit here on my throne and watch your classes all day, if you'd let me.”

A soft blush flushed the performing arts teacher’s cheeks, “You’re in your element, here. Anyone who walks in here knows that learning is happening. You assign essay homework tasks, but - and I don’t know if you’ve noticed this before - your kids all attempt them. I see them in the library, or my classroom if they’re feeling particularly brave, having a fucking go at analysing the goddamn themes of 'The Wave' or 'Chinese Cinderella'. The same kids I have to drag through script writing or performance analysis! What they create for you may not be good - may not even hit the criteria - but, god, do they try. And that’s the one thing we can’t teach: effort.”

The silence that enveloped the pair this time was tense. Wije, flushed with embarrassment from the praise; Marcus flushed with embarrassment from oversharing, and fear of having overstepped.

It was Marcus who broke the tension moments later, much to Wije’s initial relief. He did so with an unsubtle throat clearing and abrupt conversation diversion.

“So, uh” the brunet stammered, “Did you, um, get any other deliveries on Valentine’s Day?”

Wije’s confusion was a harsh contrast to his earlier emotions. Why was Marcus bringing this up again?

“What? From students?” he queried slowly. “No, thank god.”

Finally making eye contact with his friend as the other’s head rose, Wije was surprised to register frustration in Marcus’ expression.

“Thankfully no student ones,” Marcus concurred. Then, “Any other ones, though?” he questioned in a carefully-light tone.

Wije was completely lost. “What?” he asked, absolutely befuddled. It was Friday afternoon after a full teaching week; this was not the time for mind games and needing to read between the lines.

When he finally responded, Marcus’ voice was uncharacteristically tentative.

“Like, maybe a - um - a nondescript card in a pale yellow envelope?” Marcus whispered, his eyes glaring holes into the floor as his hands fidgeted restlessly.

Painfully slowly, the pieces in Wije’s mind began to fit together. Did Marcus really…? That would mean that he was the one who… How long had…?

As Wije completed his mental puzzle with the speed and agility of an arthritic great grandmother, Marcus began to implode. The English teacher was too slow to respond to his friend’s shut down before the emotional shutters he hadn’t seen since their middle-school days separated Marcus from him.

The performing arts teacher curled himself inwards, making himself impossibly smaller. A ludicrous feat for a 6’2” man, yet one he pulled off with a tragic grace.

“Never mind,” Marcus mumbled. “It was stupid. Sorry to bring it up.”

Wije watched his friend wallow in self-hatred and regret for approximately ten heart-wrenching seconds before he could kick his vocal cords back into working order,

“It wasn’t stupid,” he began. Wije watched Marcus’ shoulders tense and freeze, as if waiting on the precipice of despair for a shred of doubted hope.

“I - the whole thing sort of fell on the wayside after I had to begin the reporting process for Ronnie, but I still read it, I -” floundering for words that persistently escaped him, Wije decided to use his actions. Without warning, he turned on his heel to rifle through his backpack determinedly.

He muttered to himself as he searched main and side pockets, unzipped zippers, ripped open velcro, until he stood again - triumphantly clutching the (now tattered) yellow envelope in his right hand.

“I have it!” Wije declared proudly, “I still - I still have it. I read it a few times. I just - it was so mysterious! I mean, ‘signed Your Secret Admirer’ really? I couldn’t tell if it was a prank or not. I - I hoped it wasn’t, because the actual contents of the note seemed heartfelt, but I couldn’t dismiss the possibility of a prank and I just - I didn’t have time to investigate this!”

Marcus was listening now, at least. He still hadn’t rid the kicked-puppy expression from his face, but he wasn’t as crumpled as before. Filled with slightly more confidence, Wije continued,

“In the rare moments this term that I’ve allowed myself to exist as a human being and not a ‘teacher,’ I’ve returned to this card time and time again. I haven’t known why, really…” Then, with all the confidence of a first-year theatre major, Wije added, “Until now…”

At this, Marcus’ head whipped up. His deep brown irises drilled into Wije’s own emerald ones. This… This was a life-changing conversation. The kind of one that had usually been held in the dead of night at their countless sleepovers growing up; the soul-bearing sharing of secrets backwards and forwards that had guest-starred in their friendship through puberty and beyond.

This conversation, though? This one was different. This involved both of them. Both of them… together? Maybe? This wasn’t just a ‘coming out.’ It wasn’t a confession about loss of virginity, and how ugly human penises truly are, like that from Marcus at age 13. It wasn’t a suicide plan, like that from Wije at age 14. It wasn’t a relay of brutal self harm, like that from Marcus at age 15. It wasn’t a confession about grief or mourning for a person known only to them, while their families didn't know that friend even existed, like that from Wije at age 17.

Even for childhood friends, this was unchartered territory.

Deciding to be the one to break the silence, for once in their long friendship, Wije ventured forward, “I didn’t know it was you,” he confessed. “But I’m actually - I’m actually glad, to be completely honest. I’ve always said you’ve known me better than myself.”

Strangely, Marcus had not perked up further. Instead, alarmingly, he appeared to lose his structural form and slump forward.

“Yeah,” came his hollow response. “I’ve always known you better than yourself. What are friends for?” Marcus’ tone was bitter. Defeated.

It simply would not do.

Wije crossed the short distance between the pair, crouching to meet Marcus’ seated level. He guided the brunet’s head up gently by elevating his chin with his left hand. He ignored the nervous trembling from both parties.

“Did you,” Wije whispered, “Did you mean it? All of it?”

Marcus’ reply was whispered at the same volume, yet seemed to boom around the four surrounding classroom drywalls. “Every word. However it ends, I need you to know I meant, and mean, every single word.”

What more was there to say? Nothing that could be put into words, at least.

Wije allowed a grin to overtake his face as he clasped Marcus’ face gently between his two hands and leaned in for the first kiss of many.

There weren't ‘fireworks’ or ‘toe curling.’ No choruses of angels were heard. It didn't cause a monumental shift in either man's world view;

Instead, it simply felt like coming home.
© O.M.A

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