Get Loud

Anyone that thinks change is exciting is a psychopath. Oscar’s always thought that, and by god he’ll stick to it until his untimely end, probably due to humiliation at the hands of Noah, his eternal best friend and eternal nightmare. The epitome of farting sunshine and laughing in the face of danger. If he were to compare them just in terms of similes, Oscar would say with confidence that regarding his own personality, he’s more likely to fart rainclouds and cry in the face of slight adversity. He’s not known for his courage.

He’s not known for much at all actually, and he’s always liked it that way. He likes living unobserved, quietly, in a haze of tranquillity only disturbed by Noah’s occasional outbursts of deafening enthusiasm. Opposites attract, right? Every light needs its shadow, and Oscar is more than happy being Noah’s shadow. They compliment each other, even when they don’t. Noah is quick to anger, quicker to forgive, while Oscar is slow to rile, but can hold a grudge like it’s his only purpose. Noah speaks as though he’s performing in front of a distant crowd, even when it’s just the two of them alone, working side by side on university assignments in the comfort of a dorm room. When Oscar is given the gargantuan task of presenting in front of a class, his voice comes out reedy and weak, barely audible to anyone past the first row. Yet Oscar never tells Noah to be quiet. Noah always claps and cheers at the end of Oscar’s presentations, even if he’s been sat in the back row and has no idea what was being presented.

It’s become routine, the two of them, living apart but together, two halves of the same person. Not exactly the good and the bad, but the brave and the shy. The loud and the quiet. The popular and the subdued. It’s how Oscar likes his life to be. They’re a pair, and amongst friends and strangers, they’re always known as Noah and Oscar. The ‘and’ is imperative.

“You’re really handsome, you know that?” Noah says above his red solo cup, almost drowned out by the volume of the party.

Oscar blinks. He looks down at his water and wonders if Noah had traded it for something else, but when he takes a sip, he’s decidedly more hydrated, so the answer to that is no, he really did just hear Noah compliment him. About his looks. His face. The face that he has. “Um. Thank you?”

Noah just smiles, eyes creasing at the corners as they always do when he’s especially fond. “When you get a girlfriend, don’t forget about me, okay?”

Oscar can’t help himself; he laughs. A girlfriend? He’s more likely to fall down a hole and be attacked by feral badgers. Girls make him more nervous than badgers. Girls make him more nervous than public speaking. “How much have you had to drink, Noah?”

“Just enough,” Noah says, so oddly quiet by his usual standards. He’s still smiling, but it’s softer now, more subdued. He looks fond and warm, still Oscar’s sunshine, but lower now, like the summer evenings full of golden light that warm you just enough to stare into the deepening sky with no sense of passing time. “How would you feel about ditching the party and watching a terrible film in my dorm room? I’m getting kind of tired.”

“Can I pick the film?”

“Of course not, you’ll pick something artsy with meaning and I’ll fall asleep. I want action!”

And just like that, he’s back. Noah wants an action film, just like he always does. The argue about it all the way back, just like they always do. Oscar hates action films, enjoys watching something with a plot to follow, secrets to unfurl a satisfactory ending instead of chase scenes and explosions. He hates action films, but half of the time he ends up watching them anyway, often just to get Noah to stop whining. The other half of the time he watches something more complex, Noah asleep on his shoulder, shining in the dim light from the laptop screen. Either way he enjoys it, not that he’d ever say it aloud.

“If you let me pick the film tonight, I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow.”

Noah just smirks. “You’ll buy me lunch tomorrow anyway.”

He’s right and they both know it. And still, when they reach Noah’s dorm and change into his clothes; Noah in his pyjamas, Oscar in a borrowed shirt and his boxers; Noah passes over his laptop and gives Oscar free rein of the film selection.

Oscar picks something deliberately boring, already tired enough to sleep, but unwilling to be the first to give in.

Noah groans less than ten minutes in, already having given up in their silent, stubborn game. He snuggles down into his sheets and presses close to Oscar, nose grazing the side of Oscar’s neck as he sighs. “I know you did this on purpose. Why do you hate me so much?”

“You looked tired,” Oscar says, eyes on the screen. Noah is a touchy person by nature, he doesn’t seem to be comfortable unless his arm is over Oscar’s shoulder or their legs are pressed together. Like this, in a bed barely intended for one grown adult, they’re stuck together whether they like it or not, and Noah makes the most of the contact. It shouldn’t surprise Oscar after so many years of the same, but he still jumps every time Noah’s breath warms his skin so pleasantly. “At the party you didn’t look like yourself. You need rest more than you need a good movie.”

He feels more than sees Noah’s answering smile, small and intimate. “You know me too well.”

“You know me just as well as I know you,” Oscar says, flustered. “It comes with being best friends for so long.”

Noah sighs again, and when he closes his eyes, his eyelashes tickle Oscar’s neck and make his skin itch. He doesn’t move, doesn’t want to disturb Noah’s sleepy haze. “Yeah. Best friends.”

“Forever,” Oscar says.

“Of course,” Noah replies. “Unless you get a girlfriend and leave me all on my own.”

It would be unsettling if it had come out possessive at all, or accusatory, but instead it sounded neutral. Like Noah was stating a fact. Like Oscar was going to get into a relationship and leave Noah by himself. Like Oscar was the one out of the two of them more likely to survive without the other half of his soul. It would be laughable if it weren’t so painfully insecure. Noah, who heals everyone’s open wounds just by smiling, seems to be showing some fracture lines around the edges of his wide grin.

“Noah,” Oscar says, quiet and intent. He doesn’t take his eyes from the bad film, knowing he’d never have the courage to say something so honest while holding eye contact, “I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”

“It would be cruel to make you promise that,” Noah whispers. “But I want to hear it anyway. Aren’t I selfish?”

“You’re the most selfless person I know.”

“Not with you, Oscar. I’m entirely selfish when it comes to you.”

There’s a long moment of silence where Oscar doesn’t know what to say, what to do to bring Noah out of his unexpected sombre mood. Five years of friendship has never prepared him for these moments, and he detests unexpected change, though more than anything he hates that he doesn’t know how to help Noah when he needs it.

“I promise,” Oscar says finally. “Whether you want me to or not, Noah, I promise you.”

They’d been friends for around three months when Noah blurted out over dinner, “Oscar, you know I’m gay, right?”

Oscar had blinked over the top of his noodles. “…Right. I’ve been to clubs with you. I’ve seen you kiss dudes. I know.”

Up until that point, Noah had seemed unwavering, invulnerable in his pride. His confidence, his sense of self, his demeanour and presence. He’d never looked weak before. He’d never looked scared. “You don’t mind?”

Oscar had frowned, confused and blissfully ignorant before the full reality of commonplace homophobia had become evident to him in the sly sneers, offhand comments, rude gestures and then, sometimes, outright violence. “Why would I care?”

“I’ve seen you naked. We’ve slept in the same bed. Shared drinks and food and people know about me. I don’t want you to get dragged into something that isn’t your fault. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

Oscar poked at his plate with his fork. “You know what makes me uncomfortable? Public speaking. When lecturers make us do those stupid case study presentations and I stand there like a totem pole waiting for people to read my detailed slideshow and then spend ten minutes copying down what I’m just going to email them anyway. Then afterwards – that’s the worst part. When I have to stand there and wait for the lecturer to let me sit down, and the room is quiet and tense, and it feels like someone should clap but no one ever wants to applaud those kinds of presentations because they’re universally boring.” He cleared his throat. “That’s what makes me uncomfortable. Not being your friend. Not you.”

Noah’s eyes had started to shine, and for a horrifying moment it looked like he might cry. He laughed instead, loud and contagious. “Oscar, you’re something else.”

“I’m very aware,” he said, fighting down a blush. “Eat your burger before it gets cold, Noah. Don’t waste my hard-earned money.”

Noah took a bite dutifully, and Oscar couldn’t help but return his smile despite the cheese dripping down his chin. Noah just has that effect on people. He made you want to smile.

His mood doesn’t seem to improve over the following days. He still smiles constantly, laughs at every awful joke, greets half of the university’s population like long lost family. He acts like Noah almost entirely, but something is missing. His shine has dimmed, the bright behind his eyes not bright anymore, but diluted. Golden ink dripped into water. He’s spread too thin, worrying about something he refuses to voice. If Noah is quiet about something, that’s usually when it’s something big.

Irene, ever practical as she helps Oscar with his literature essay, simply shrugs. “If he doesn’t want to tell you, there’s not much you can do. Leave him to feel what he needs to feel, and I’m sure he’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”

Oscar bites his lip. “I think he’s…” he lowers his voice to a whisper, wary of eavesdroppers in the library, “insecure.”

Irene looks up at that, one perfect brow raised. “Noah? Insecure?”

“He seems to think I’m going to get a girlfriend soon and ditch him.”

“Good luck with that. You’d have a better chance of ditching something glued to your forehead.”

“I tried to tell him that he has nothing to worry about, but he isn’t listening to me.”

Irene taps her pen against her lips, pondering. “You’re a quiet guy, Oscar. You hate confrontation and attention alike. Maybe he’s just worried that he’s too much for you.”

“Oh. You think so?”

“Mina sometimes asks me the same thing. Stuff like… I don’t know, like if she drains me or something. If I’m as invested in the friendship as she is.”

“Oh,” Oscar repeats, disquiet. “How do you reassure her?”

“The way I see it, we all have our own love language. I’m sure there are things Noah does for you that shows how much he cares, and vice versa. You must have your own quiet way of loving him, right?”

“Yeah.”

“When you need it, does he quieten?”

Oscar thinks back to some of his weakest moments; bad exam results, family disruption, essay stress, acne, anxiety, insomnia – and Noah, present through it all. Not necessarily speaking, but just being there, offering his shoulder, his dorm room, his film selection. Sometimes, even when Oscar could sense the need to speak writhing within him, he would keep silent anyway. For Oscar.

“He does,” Oscar says.

“Then maybe this time you need to get loud.”

Anyone that thinks change is exciting is a psychopath.

Be it relearning the routes across campus to new classes, studying a new syllabus, meeting a fresh crowd, opening your eyes to stare at your new, horrifyingly short haircut, or standing in front of a lecture hall full of disinterested students, knowing you’re about to humiliate yourself to death.

Anyone that enjoys the sheer adrenaline, the concoction of excitement and terror, regret and hope – anyone that enjoys the mix is a psychopath.

Oscar stumbles through his presentation as quickly as possible, hands shaking behind his back as his lists the literary devices in The Moonstone. He hated the novel, but he’s far too distracted to put venom into his analysis. He’s too distracted by Noah, sat in the audience as he always is, ready to applause through the awkward period of tense nothing that scares Oscar so much.

Oscar swallows down his fear and gets ready to make a change. He gets ready to get loud. “In conclusion, I hated this novel and while technically it follows literary guidelines, I found the prose boring and difficult to follow.” He raises his voice. “Also, Noah is my best friend and I love him.”

The lecturer blinks, barely awake. “Thank you, Oscar. Who’s next?”

Noah doesn’t clap at this time, and for a long, daunting moment, Oscar stands in front of the projector and think’s that he’s ruined everything. That he’s in the wrong class, the crowd already hates him, the haircut is way too short. That this isn’t what Noah needed.

Then Noah stands up, red in the face and tearing up. “I love you too!”

The lecturer sighs. “Can you take this outside, boys? We have another six presentations to get through before lunch.”

Oscar stares firmly at the ground as he hurries out past the other students, whose facial expressions range from soulless to confused to vaguely supportive. Not that he would know, because he doesn’t lift his head until he’s out of the room, stood in the hallway and trying not to hyperventilate. He can feel the blush on his neck and cheeks throbbing painfully as he breathes.

The door creeks, and Noah’s dirty sneakers come into Oscar’s view.

“Hey,” Oscar says weakly, still staring at the ground. “You don’t hate me, do you? I tried to be impulsive. Actually, I’m lying, I planned that extensively. Not well, apparently, but I tried. I made an attempt.”

Noah’s voice is almost silent when he speaks. “You hate public speaking.”

“I do,” he agrees. He looks up, finally, and sees Noah’s lost expression. His eyes are wide and uncertain. “I hate public speaking, but I love you more than I hate embarrassing myself.”

Noah’s eyes fill again. “Oscar,” he says brokenly, “You’re such an idiot.”

“I know,” Oscar says. “Do you want to watch a film tonight? I’ll let you pick.”

A tear spills over, but Noah is quick to wipe it away. When he smiles, it’s like staring directly into the sun. Oscar should be blind, should be something more worthy of seeing something so bright, something that shines so beautifully. “You can pick the film again if you buy me lunch.”

“I was going to buy you lunch anyway.”

Noah shakes his head, still smiling. “I know.” The clouds behind his eyes have parted, and for the first and maybe only time, Oscar might be willing to admit that change isn’t always terrible.

It might be worth it for the sunshine.