The second person he’d told was his Aunt.

Sitting across from her in the picture perfect sitting room, he had been nervous.

It had been incredibly awkward. There was no handbook on how to come out. If there had been, Christian would have read it, and flipped straight to the chapter that covered ‘How to come out to family members that give you somewhere to live but don’t like you very much.’

But there wasn’t a book like that, so he sat on the floral print couch feeling out of place and jittery. Although that wasn’t a completely unusual feeling for him, especially in his aunt’s house. Which, technically, was his house too. But sleeping under its roof had never made it feel like home.

Sitting across from each other, his Aunt watching him laconically, he’d told her. The words had dropped from his mouth like stones.

She had taken a deep drag of her cigarette, her painted eyebrows pulling together ever so slightly. Seated, one arm holding her elbow and gazing out of the window, there very little reaction. After a few minutes’, which had been a lifetime, long enough for Christian to imagine every possible negative response, she tapped her ash into the ashtray next to her.

“Don’t tell your mother.”

And that was it. Though he had hardly needed to be told not to tell his mother.

That had been just before he left for college. The fact that his aunt hadn’t appeared remotely surprised or affected by the information hadn’t worried him. He didn’t think he had ever seen any expression on her face that wasn’t bored or mildly annoyed. She just didn’t care enough.

So feeling a little lighter, he had made his way to college, gladly leaving little nowhere Binkytown and everything that was there, behind.

∞

He walked out of the library, pausing at the bottom step to stretch.

It was the last day of classes before the Thanksgiving break, and his Wednesdays were always packed solid with classes, all in the same building. The only way he could have gotten a break was if he had skipped, and there was no chance of that. So at the end of a six hour day, his muscles felt cramped and achy, and he considered jogging home, just to shake some life back into his body. But as he walked down the two steps to level ground, his foot caught on an edge and he tripped.

As luck would have it, a cyclist was passing by just as he took his inelegant leap into the air, and they collided painfully. The air got pushed out of Christian’s lungs by the handle bars and something hit his lip hard, leaving a sting in its wake. After an embarrassing moment trying to untangle himself from the biker, he, the cyclist and bike clattered to the ground.

“What the fuck!” He heard a voice curse.

He had landed awkwardly, on his side, his hip taking the brunt of it. Pushing his hood off his head, he turned so that he could see his unintended victim.

“I am so sorry…” Christian started, then saw who was swearing.

Before he moved, before college, Christian hadn’t had much opportunity to indulge in his sexual preferences. Or at all. But he had eyes in his head and he used them.

The man he had hit was obviously upset at being knocked over by a wild pedestrian, but in spite of that Christian wasn’t blind to his poster boy looks. His jeans were tight, and dark. He wore a black leatherette jacket, with a high wool collar, and red scarf. As he stood up, analysing his hands for damage, Christian’s eyes caught the thick silver bands on each middle finger, as well as the series of silver loops and studs in his ears lobes. He was Asian, but not the kind who was round and soft, but all hard edges, black hair short at the back but long on top, swinging in his eyes.

Christian became aware that he was still staring.

Holy mother…he thought.

His unwilling victim noticed Christian then, and the annoyed look in his eyes vanished. He straightened.

“Hey there.” He said, grinning wide as the Cheshire cat, the horrible bicycle ballet forgotten.

Christian was still sitting on the ground, but he had brought himself up on his hands.

“That was fun. You ok?” he went on jokingly when Christian didn’t reply.

Christian found his voice. “Uh, yeah.” He said, even though his ribs still throbbed and his hip felt bruised. “I’m sorry, I just tripped…”

The poster boy shrugged his shoulders and held out a hand. Christian took it, letting himself be pulled up. When he tried to pull away, he instead found his hand being turned over within wider, tanned ones. Christian felt all the hairs on his arm stand on end.

“Hmmm.” The rock star mused, still looking at the grazes. He was of a height with Christian, and Christian was looking at the dark, inky hair swinging over his face, wondering if that just happened. “No blood.”

Poster boy looked up at him then. “But it looks like my ring got your lip.”

Christian brought his free hand up to touch the stinging on his lip, and was slightly surprised at the blood that came away on his finger. “Oh.” He said, frowning

The guy grinned a rock star grin. “I’m Jazz.” He introduced himself, carefully freeing Christian’s hand, who immediately put it away in his jacket pocket.

“I’m Christian.” Christian replied, amazed his voice didn’t wobble.

Jazz the rock star’s eyes widened and glittered. “Christian.” He repeated in a low voice. “Perfect.”

He stepped away then, and Christian realised just how close they had been standing. It felt like suddenly moving away from a flame. Jazz moved to pick up his bike, checking it over lazily for damage. Belatedly, Christian thought that maybe he should’ve done that. Swinging himself on, he gave Christian a last, singeing look.

“I really hope we see each other again, Christian.” He told him, like he fully intended this would be the case.

Christian stood silent, and watched him ride away and out of sight, feeling like he had just been hit by something. Not a bicycle. A bus maybe.

Then his ribs throbbed again and he remembered he had been heading home.

∞

“Do we have anything like tiger balm?” he asked Laurel, putting his satchel down in his room. She had been sitting on the couch, already fully involved with her vacation and reading a book in her sweats. This may not have seemed like a fun time to people like Brendan, but to introverts like them, it was heaven; having nothing to do but read and binge-watch Netflix.

“Um, check in the bathroom, under the sink. I bought a medi-kit when we moved in.” she replied without looking up.

He found the kit, a small canvas bag with a red cross on it. Inside were some very basic provisions, and a small tube of balm. He looked at it wryly, thinking he would end up using of all the meagre supply on just these bruises. Instead he stood up, lifting his shirt and looking in the small mirror that hung over the bath, assessing the damage. He let his fingers probe the area; not too big and the pain was already fading. But since he bruised so easily, like overripe fruit, he knew that by the next day it would look much worse. It wasn’t unusual for him to find bruises from minor bumps that he only discovered after the fact. He shrugged internally; at least it would easy to hide.

He saw Laurel in the reflection and let his shirt drop quickly. But she had seen.

“Chris what happened?” she asked, her eyes on the cut on his lip.

Chris shook his head. “I ran into someone. Literally.”

But Laurel still looked serious. “Chris, what really happened?” she asked again, coming into the room and pushing into his space.

Christian was confused at her concern. “I told you. I ran into someone. I was coming down the steps, and I tripped and I didn’t see this cyclist…” he trailed off, remembering Jazz’s hands on his and felt a blush start. He could always feel when he blushed, like a thin, prickling wave flowing over his cheeks. Since Laurel was standing so close, it was impossible she hadn’t noticed. Her face went from concern to curious.

“Oh?” she said, obviously expecting him to elaborate.

He felt the blush deepen. Ugh, he had no control.

“His name is Jazz.” He offered in small explanation.

Laurel gave him a leery look but didn’t press further, though he suspected she was delighted. The fact that he had never been kissed at this stage in his life bothered her.

“Anyway, why did you ask? Did you think I was lying?” he said, in an effort to change the subject.

She pulled away then, and fetched an ear bud from the bathroom cabinet. She dipped it in some disinfectant from the medi-kit and handed it to him so he could start to clean his lip. The cut wasn’t bleeding anymore, and once it was clean he could see that it was long, a diagonal line across his lower lip. It would take some time to heal, and the scar would look livid for a bit. Laurel leaned on the counter beside him, where Brendan had been that morning.

“There have been some...rumours going around. People getting jumped.” She told him.

Christian looked at her in surprise. “Really? Like some guys just going around and beaten on people for fun?”

She shook her head. “No, like guys going around and beating on gays for fun.”

He stalled, and felt a small hollow space open inside his chest. Laurel put a hand on his arm.

“It’s not like you’re wearing a sign that says ‘Hi, I’m homo.’ But from what I’ve heard these guys don’t need much reason. It’s just a rumour, but I got a fright, just now.”

Christian’s hand had dropped without him realising. He looked at his face in the mirror. Everything about him looked washed out. Pale skin, which made permanent shadowy pouches under his eyes, hair still in a school boy’s short cut, powder white and untidy. The gel never lasted since he was always running his hands through it without thinking. Even his lashes and eyebrows were an off-white, drifting towards dirty blonde-grey. The only colour in his face was the diluted blue of his eyes and the pale pink of his mouth. And now a livid red slash.

When he was younger, his aunt had told him that he looked like he had fallen into the flour.

Laurel had asked him once where his ancestors had come from, and when he answered that he had no idea, she had postulated Scandinavian origins. They even went to google Albinism, but it didn’t fit since he wasn’t sickly or sensitive to light. Since finding out more would mean either asking his aunt or his mother, it would remain a mystery.

He didn’t think he looked like anything really. But when Jazz had locked eyes with him earlier, it was like he had known that Christian was checking him out. Was that Gaydar? He had certainly made it clear that he wanted to see him again, and it hadn’t sounded like a ‘Hey, let’s be friends,’ kind of invitation.

“Hello? Chris?” Laurel said, waving a hand in front of his face. He had drifted off.

“Yeah, sorry.” He said, shaking himself. “I’m ok though.” Not sure what to say, and now distracted with thoughts of Jazz.

“Just be careful, alright?”

Chris smiled a little. “Look at you, worrying about me. Very cute.”

Laurel didn’t react, only said. “I always worry about you Chris.” And left on that enigmatic note.

He dropped the blood stained ear bud into the little bin beneath the sink, looking at his reflection again. Though he himself saw nothing special there, Jazz perhaps had. He remembered the warm roughness of hands against his, the slanted gaze in his dark eyes, like he was looking for trouble, or causing it.

A shy smile snaked its way onto his face at the memory. Laurel’s warning was pushed back in his mind. It was hard to be wary when there were warm bubbles in his chest.

He did attempt to wipe the smile off his face when he followed Laurel into the kitchen.

“So what’s for dinner?” she asked, going to the fridge. It wasn’t well stocked. They had yet to master the art of feeding themselves.

Christian pulled a hand through his hair. “Noodles?” he suggested, even though they had already eaten that three times that week. “I’ll have to go do some groceries tomorrow.”

Laurel closed the door, resigned. “Yeah. Oh well, noodles it is.”

Then the sound of the metallic scratching of a key in the lock made them turn. They watched the door open to reveal Brendan, carrying three large pizza boxes. He saw them looking at him and grinned wide.

“Pizza?”