Let's Do That

    "Dad...are you sure about this?"
    My father rolled his eyes as he stuffed random loose papers into his laptop case. How he ever found anything, I would never know. "It'll be fine, Dan," he said. "It's a school. Just a school. See you later." He ruffled my hair, which I hated, and then left. I sighed and grabbed my shoulder bag, running to the bathroom to double check myself in the mirror. At thirteen, I was slim and muscular from running track. My hair was white blond layered with lavender, my bangs choppily dropping into what I considered boring mahogany eyes. But I counter acted that with a fitted white v-neck under a three-button jean vest, and neon green skinny jeans. I had a bar in my right eyebrow, a ring on the right side of my lip, four piercings in my left ear, and three in the other. My black Converse High Tops thudded against the tile floor as I whirled around and rushed off for school.
  My dad had uprooted us halfway through summer vacation and, for a business opportunity, our little two-person household had moved from gay-tolerant New York City to questionable London.
  I just hoped they were ready for me, because I wasn't about to change who I was. I was gay, and that was that. Everything was going to be just fine.
...
  Then again, I was always wrong.
  I laid there after school, whimpering in the middle of the park as one of four seniors delivered another sharp kick to my stomach. I released a harsh sob as the wind was knocked out of me. I was blubbering like a baby, and had been since they'd managed to get their hands on me. Every hurtful word-homo, queer, poof-seemed to drip from their crooked teeth like venom, causing physical pain. I wasn't sure how much more I could take.
  "Oi! Sod off, you gits!"
  Those words, though rough and crude and heavily accented, may have been the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. I lost time, possibly blacked out, and then a face entered my slowly focusing vision. Bright blue eyes beneath a shock of dark, messy hair. "You with me?" The stranger spoke.
  I nodded. "Thanks," I said, and the boy looked amused.
  "Guess you're not from around these parts," he said. I blinked at him, and he clarified. "Your accent, mate."
  "Oh, yeah..." I nodded again, and tried to sit up. A surprisingly gentle hand on my back offered some assistance. I groaned.
  "That was more than a barney," the boy said. "Those blokes did a number on you."
  Now, I had no idea what a barney was, but judging from the context, I was pretty sure it was related to a fight.
  "Yeah," I replied gruffly. "I don't feel so hot."
  "Come on," he said, hauling me to my feet. "I'll get you taken care of. I can't be arsed to drag you to a hospital if you start bleeding to death."
  I chuckled a bit. "It's not that bad. Just some bruises. Feel like I've been hit by a truck...but, ya know, a small one."
  "Look like it, too, mate," he said, and I just smirked. "Oi, what's your name?"
  "Daniel," I supplied. "Dan, to my friends."
  "Well, Dan," the boy said, and I took that to mean that we were going to be friends, and that I really didn't have a choice in the matter. "I'm Oliver. Good to meet you."
  He dragged me to his house, after deciding that the address I provided as mine was too far to take me. His mom didn't seem all that surprised that he'd brought a random stranger home, even one who'd been beaten to hell. He took me up to the bathroom and sat me on the edge of the sink.
  "Shirt. Off."
  I obeyed without a second thought. My toned chest was mottled with fresh patches of dark black and blue.
  Oliver turned, first-aid kit in hand, and his jaw dropped. "Shite!" he exclaimed. "I reckon that smarts a bit, eh?"
  I gave him an awkward little half-smile. "A bit."
  "No offense, but this might not have happened if you weren't dressed like such a queer." I cringed, and he looked instantly apologetic. "Sorry," he said. "Just being honest."
  I sighed. "I know..." I muttered. "I just...kind of expected people here to be a little more tolerant than they are."
  Oliver smiled, showing off two rows of perfect teeth. "Well, some of us are, mate."
...
  Oliver fixed me up, and I stayed for dinner. His mom was a much better cook than my dad, who couldn't put together a bowl of cereal without burning it. (Don't ask me how you burn cereal, but apparently, it's possible.) Oliver's dad, though...I wasn't sure, but I didn't think he liked me very much. He took one look at me and brought his dinner into his office without a word. Oliver assured me that he was always like that. Very work oriented. Still, I couldn't help feeling like I'd somehow made a bad impression.
  Oliver's beautiful smile and infectious laughter soon helped me relax, and when I sat down to play a board game with him and his mom, I felt like part of the family.
  From then on we were inseparable. We realized we had about half of our classes together, and whatever time we were apart, we made up for on weekends and after school.
  And slowly but surely, I began to fall in love with Oliver.
...
  Four years later, Oliver crawled in through my bedroom window at two o'clock in the morning, both eyes red and puffy, one of them black and blue. I gasped and flew off of my bed, running to him. "Oliver, what happened?!" I asked, panicked as he stumbled into my room and I grabbed him under the arms to support him. He slumped onto the edge of my bed with a trembling sigh.
  "Nothing," he murmured. "Just got into a little row with my dad."
  I crouched in front of him and inspected his eye. "He hit you?" I said, confused. Oliver's father had always seemed cold and somewhat distant, but I'd never expected violence. "And...you were crying...?"
  "Yes..." Oliver hiccuped. "And...absolutely not." He averted his eyes, blushing a bit.
  I tried to smile, despite the situation. "You were," I said. "What happened? Why did your dad hit you?"
  "He thought I was spending too much time with that bloke from the movie-house..."
  "Thomas?" I asked. "You two are good friends. There's nothing wrong with that." What I didn't voice was the fact that I was absolutely murderously jealous of Thomas for taking up some of my Oliver time. Not to be selfish, or anything.
  "No, Dan, you don't understand," he said. "I...I fancy him."
  "What?" My heart practically stopped.
  "I fancy him," Oliver repeated, obviously missing the rhetorical aspect of my question. "I've been trying to catch his fancy, too. He's like me."
  "You're gay?" I asked, incredulous.
  His expression twisted with guilt. "Yes."
  "You've been gay this whole time?" I said, my voice rising a note in frustration. "Four years we've been friends and you didn't think to tell me?"
  "Dan, I'm sorry, mate, I just..."
  But he couldn't finish, because I pressed my lips to his, and oh, God, he tasted so sweet, and his lips were so smooth, and his hair was so soft as I twined my fingers through it.
  And then he pushed me back, and his eyes were horrified. I felt the sharp sting of his palm across my cheek before the bed shifted and he fled.
  I sat there, numbly, staring at the wall. I shouldn't have done that. I knew it was wrong. Too sudden, too abrupt, and way too forward. But I couldn't help myself. I loved him, and he'd presented the perfect opportunity, the ideal moment. I don't know why I thought he'd return my feelings just because he was gay like me. After all, I'd found out because he'd told me he liked another guy. Of course he wouldn't return my feelings. He had feelings for someone else!
  Well, damn, didn't I feel like a jerk? Not to mention a terrible friend.
  I called his cellphone at least a dozen times. No answer.
  I didn't sleep. I waited out the night, hoping he'd return my calls, or even better, come climbing back through my window. But I didn't see him or hear from him for the rest of that day, or Sunday. My heart clenched and sunk. How was I supposed to apologize, to explain myself, if he ignored me? But there was hope on the horizon. Monday, at school, he wouldn't be able to avoid me. Not unless he skipped, which he would never do. Oliver was a straight-A student, and he wouldn't risk messing that up because of our little mishap.
  Okay. My little mishap.
  I was certain that I'd just be able to approach him on Monday and talk things out. Oliver and I had had arguments before. Who hadn't? We were always able to work through our rough spots. We were best friends. We understood each other. Still, I was so dead set on walking right up to him, that what actually happened on Monday felt like another slap to the face, and a sharp punch to the gut, to boot.
  Oliver was kissing someone.
  Not just someone. A lanky, tall, honey-blond girl!
  They pulled apart, and he smiled at her. She giggled and batted her mascara-laden eyelashes. He took her hand and leaned in to kiss her again, and I saw his tongue flick out and slip between her lips. I was filled with anger and confusion and outright misery. I also had a very strong urge to vomit. When they pulled apart again, and a thin string of saliva trailed between their bottom lips, I turned a bit green, and actually gagged. Then Oliver caught my stare. I couldn't read his expression, but I was beyond sure he could see the hurt and disgust in mine. But he just turned his head sharply away and started to kiss the girl again, even more deeply and, to me, repulsively, than before.
  I whirled around and ran to the nearest bathroom, hunching over the toilet and puking.
...
  The rest of my day was hellish. What now? What did I do now?! Oliver was gay, and I knew it, but he'd been making out with that girl! Obviously it was a cover. Really, I didn't blame him. If his old man was going to hit him for admitting he was gay...then Oliver was just looking out for himself. Ensuring his own safety by using that skank to fool everyone.
I shuddered as I grabbed my homework binder from my locker. I understood. It was a good cover. But did he really have to shove his tongue down her throat like that? I mean, seriously, they'd been practically eating each others' faces. Nobody wanted to see that. That I was sure of.
  I walked out the double doors, only to jump back inside, startled by a clap of thunder. I looked up. "Damn!" Malevolent gray clouds hovered in the sky, leering down at me and laughing at my misfortune as they let bucket after bucket of rain come crashing down to Earth. They were doing this on purpose. They knew I had to walk home.
  Hunching down into my sweatshirt and pulling the hood up to cover my head and half of my face, I sprinted out into the torrent. I'd never seen so much rain before! But of course today, the shittiest day ever, was the day Mother Nature decided to screw me over! I kept up a quick, constant mantra of various curse words as I ran. The sweatshirt was useless by this point. I was already soaked through to the bone. To most people that was just an expression, but at the moment, to me, it felt extremely literal. I was soggy and shivering, and felt like just sitting down and crying and giving up. Still, I hurried on. I could cry when I got home, and I was pretty sure I would.
  And I did.
  My homework was smudged and messy from the warm, wet salt of my tears. I hiccuped and sniffled every few seconds. My dad asked me numerous times what was wrong, until I broke down and told him, blurting out the entire story in a rush of words which I was sure were nearly unintelligible. My father, always understanding, pulled me into his lap and held me like he hadn't since I was just a little boy. Because of my dad, I never really resented the fact that my mom had left us. Dad took care of everything for me. His embrace, I was sure, was just as warm and comforting as any mothers' could ever be. I loved my old man. That gave me the courage to allow him to rock me back and forth and soothe me long into the night, until I finally fell asleep.
...
  The next morning, I woke with a sneeze. I should have expected it, really. My immune system was as flimsy as a sheet of wrapping paper. Still, with my life being incredibly cliché at the worst of times, I had a big test, so I couldn't stay home and recover.
  I rolled out of bed and onto the floor with a thud and a groan. I sat up, then stood, and shuffled to the bathroom. An hour later I was trudging to school, armed with an umbrella over my head, two Tylenol making their glorious way through my blood stream, and a wad of tissues shoved into my pants pocket. I deposited my umbrella in my locker and hurried off for class, neglecting the tissues and wiping my already raw and red nose on my sleeve.
I hadn't felt so sick since the day before, when I'd seen Oliver kissing that bimbo.
  Crap. And now that I'd thought of that oh-so-pleasant scene, I felt even more nauseous.
  I crept into my first period Trigonometry class and took my new usual seat. My old usual seat was next to Oliver, but he was now sitting with that thing. The one with the curves and the curly hair. I really didn't see the appeal. It was pretty much disgusting.
  The bell rang, and almost instantly a thick test booklet was dropped onto my desk. The sound made me grimace, though I was sure my headache was just amplifying the noise, because it didn't seem to cause anybody else significant agony. I wrote my name on the cover of the booklet and opened it to get started. After twenty or so multiple choice questions, words and numbers started to blur and shift and swirl. Wow, I needed to hurl. Maybe if I set my head down, just for a moment...
  A hand slammed against the desk in front of my head and I shot up straight with a yelp, which drew stifled laughter from my classmates. My teacher was leering down at me, and I suddenly realized there was drool smeared across my cheek. I hurriedly wiped it away. Had I fallen asleep? Damn it.
  "Was my test so uninteresting to you, lad?" the teacher drawled, somehow managing to sound unamused and absolutely menacing at the same time.
  I quickly shook my head. "No, sir," I said.
  "Then why, pray tell, did you fall asleep?" He sneered.
  I hung my head, cringing. "Sorry..." I muttered. "I didn't mean to. I don't feel well."
  "Then I suggest you go to the infirmary, and cease wasting my time."
  His tone brooked no room for argument. I stood tiredly and picked up my bag, the room tilting ever so slightly as I took my first step toward the door. The teacher seemed to notice. "Oliver! Come here and escort your classmate to the infirmary!"
  I looked at him sharply. "Oh, no, sir, I'm fine," I said hurriedly. "I can make it! I don't need any help."
  The teacher simply rolled his eyes and beckoned a clearly reluctant Oliver over with a sharp crooking motion of his pointer finger. Oliver got up and strolled toward me, looking nearly as unhappy as I was nervous. Oliver hesitantly, and not at all gently, grabbed my arm to keep me steady, and we proceeded slowly out of the classroom. This situation was doing nothing to placate the churning of my rebellious stomach.
  "Why in the bloody 'ell did you come to school?" Oliver growled from beside me, and I stumbled in shock. He tightened his grip on my arm and held me up.
  "W-what...?" I gasped.
  "You heard me, you prat."
  Now, I still wasn't an expert on the odd little quirks of British English, but I'd heard Oliver say 'prat' enough times over the course of our friendship that I knew it wasn't a compliment.
  "The test," I answered dumbly. It was the only answer I could think of. That was why I had come to school, plain and simple. If I hadn't had a test, I would've stayed home.
  He snorted disdainfully, but when I glanced at him, I could have sworn he looked the slightest bit worried. Huh. Must have been my imagination.
  "Well, you're running a temperature, in case you weren't aware," he said.
  "I wasn't," I replied honestly, and we fell into tense silence.
  He deposited me on a bed in the nurse's office, and the nurse bustled out to fuss over me. I looked to the door to thank Oliver, but he was already gone.
...
  Weeks passed, and Oliver kept up his facade with frequent, over-the-top public displays of affection with his little blond companion. I was starting to get over it. Or, at least, I tried to tell myself I was. But my feelings for Oliver were as true as could be. I'd done enough thinking about it over four years to know that, and I didn't doubt it in the slightest. I was honestly in love with him. In my eyes, he was perfect, even if he was currently lying to everybody about who he really was.
  Finally, when I heard a rumor about the crazy sex that Oliver had had with his blond thing, I got fed up. Oliver probably hated me, despised me, but I loved him, and he was still my best friend. I couldn't let him continue to live a lie. He was going to destroy himself.
  Now, after Oliver had saved me on the day we first met, I'd started dressing much less flamboyantly. Jeans and regular t-shirts. My hair had been allowed to grow out and, though it was the same cut, was now its normal, boring, sandy blond. I was living just as much of a lie as Oliver was. I couldn't tell him to change his ways and own up to his homosexuality if I was hiding my own. That would be hypocritical. And hypocritical was something I just wasn't.
  Therefore, the first day back to school after the Christmas holiday, I wore pink skinny jeans, yellow high tops, and a yellow fitted v-neck. My hair was once again white blond with lavender. I wore all of my piercings to school for the first time in four years.
  As I strolled into school, as confident as a peacock, which I surely resembled in more than just my attitude, I couldn't possibly have counted the stares I got. But I noticed one in particular. Oliver had stopped kissing the blond thing to gape at me. Gradually, his expression shifted from shock to a hard, almost warning look. I just flicked my head to the side to banish my bangs from my eyes and sauntered on, ignoring him. Hopefully, I'd sent my message. And if I hadn't, hopefully I would.
  I felt better than I had in ages. I loved being myself. Nothing could beat it. If people couldn't accept me for who I really was, then they weren't worth my time. It was liberating. Really, nothing bad could come from being an individual.
...
  Then again, I was always wrong.
  But you already knew that.
  In fact, I'm willing to bet you saw this coming.
...
  I coughed harshly and curled up, trying feebly to protect multiple parts of my body simultaneously as the five seniors closed in around me. My breathing sped up and I felt claustrophobic. I was going to start freaking out in a few seconds. My lip was bleeding, and so was my head, from somewhere beyond my hairline, judging by how my bangs were plastered to my forehead. Though, that may have been due to the cold, fearful sweat I'd broken out in.
  I was almost sure one of my ribs was broken. If not, it was cracked, because my chest hurt, and God, every breath burned, liked I'd swallowed magma. Everything was blurry. Colors ran together in a sickening blur. That meant I could probably add a concussion to the injury tally. I'd twisted my ankle running away. Otherwise, they never would've caught me. I would have been on the other side of the city by now. Not-as I surely was-dying in an alley way that was silent but for the horrid sound of skin hitting skin, and my labored breathing.
  "Oi! Sod off, you gits!"
  Oh, and if those weren't the most wonderful, familiar, nostalgic, relieving, beautiful words I'd ever heard!
  My vision blacked, just like it had in a very similar situation, such a long time ago. This time, though, it didn't return. Not for a long while.
...
  When I woke, I heard a steady, continuous beeping that I knew could only be the rhythm of my heart. I was in a hospital. The clean, chemical smell was enough to confirm that, even without the beeping, and the prick of an IV needle in my wrist as I shifted ever so slightly.
  "You're awake!" The tone was so full of stress and concern that I...had no freaking idea whose voice it was. Rough fingers with a very gentle touch curled around my hand, and I sighed. That felt so nice. I almost wished it was...
  "Oliver!" I exclaimed as I opened my eyes. I started coughing moments later. Damn, that was painful!
  "Shh, Dan," he said. "Don't speak too loudly. It's going to smart a bit."
  "A bit...?" I rasped, my dry humor lost in my weariness. I sighed again, this time, not in happiness or comfort. "Why are you here?"
  Oliver arched an eyebrow. "Because I found you getting your arse kicked by seniors, again, and this time I did have to drag you to the hospital?"
  I rolled my eyes, tiredly. "Yeah, but why are you still here? And why are you worried about me?"
  "Why did you dress like a poof when you knew what would happen?" Oliver shot back. His attempt to dodge my questions was embarrassingly obvious.
  I scowled at him. "Because, Oliver, I am a poof. I'm gay. I'm homosexual. I like guys! And I got sick and tired of hiding it, so I decided to start being my damn self again! And that's what you should do, too!" I started to cough harshly again, and I brought a hand to my mouth. When the fit subsided and I looked at Oliver, he was frozen. Shell-shocked. I felt hope rise in my chest.
  "You did this...to coax me into coming out of the closet..." he murmured. His brow furrowed in contemplation.
  I nodded. "I thought...maybe if I did something drastic, and showed you it was okay to be yourself that you'd...you know, realize you were being a moron."
  Oliver looked a little taken aback by being called a moron, but after a moment his lips pressed together in distress.  "You're right..." he muttered. "Even though what you did was bloody idiotic, you're right." His hands rested in his lap, and he twiddled his thumbs anxiously. "I just...my old man. I was frightened, you know?"
  I nodded. "I know, Oliver," I said. "But we can fix that. He hits you. He's not fit to be a parent. Call the police or something. You can come and stay with me for a while. And then your mom can take care of you, okay?"
  Oliver nodded slowly, then fixed me with a gaze that I couldn't riddle out. "Why did you kiss me?" he asked.
  I groaned. Of course, this had to come up. This was what had started the whole mess!
  "I like you," I croaked, my throat feeling tight. God, I was such a girl! "I like you a whole lot, Oliver."
  His eyes widened a bit, and he looked almost scared. "Dan, I...I fancy you, too."
  "W-what?!" I gasped. "But...t-that girl!"
  "Obviously a cover," he scoffed.
  "Thomas, from the movie theater!"
  Oliver was silent for a moment. "Me trying to deny that I fancied you. I still fancy you."
  I smiled, weakly, tiredly, but I was so happy! Oliver smiled, too. His gorgeous, beautiful, perfect grin. Dear Lord...Oliver was an angel.
  "So...?" I whispered.
  Oliver reached out and took my hand. "So...I suppose we should give it a go..." he said softly, fondly.
  "Yeah," I said. "Let's do that."