Chapter Text
”So?! Who is it?!” asked Carly. “Who’s your crush?”
Carly gasped.
“Is it Jenna?” she asked quietly.
“What?! No!” said Sasha.
“You sure?” probed Carly.
Sasha thought for a moment. Should he tell her?
“I... fine. Yes, I like Jenna!”
“I knew it!” Carly exclaimed.
Sasha smiled, but wished he could tell her the truth. Jenna was the only one who knew about it. Although most people didn’t, Sasha trusted her. He would never tell anyone about her distant father, or her dysfunctional family life, so he trusted her to keep this a secret.
Jenna had freaked out when he told her about Beckett. Not about the whole gay part, but about the fact that Sasha, Keaton’s gossip queen, had a crush on the most self-indulged dancer to walk the earth, whose toxic masculinity could kill thousands.
“He’s not self-indulged!” Sasha had said. “He’s just...confident.”
God, was he crushed out. Sasha hadn’t been this infatuated since Steven Oakwood from eighth grade. That was back when Sasha had first started to question his sexuality. He had never felt anything “special” towards girls, just that they were cool people, way easier to talk to than boys. When Steven came around, the realization hit Sasha like a truck. He’d always liked boys, but he hadn’t realized that he liked them as more than just friends. Sasha didn’t find it too hard to accept himself, but he wasn’t ready to come out to the whole world yet.
Beckett sat alone near a big maple tree in Keaton’s courtyard. He was staring into space, deep in thought. His brow was furrowed, and his lips were pressed together. He was feeling emotions he didn’t know, and that pissed him off. Beckett hated emotions. Emotion was weakness, his dad had always told him. He hated the man, but he was at least right on this one. Emotions made Beckett feel weak—no, they made him weak. For some reason the word “feel” invalidated it all. Made his statements meaningless. Most feelings, Beckett could deal with. Sadness and fear could be masked with anger and rage. Anxiety could be shoved deep down under his steel exterior. He had his own ways of covering up his emotions, his own methods of seeming masculine. It was hard enough being a male dancer. He had to play it cool, be tough, have muscle, or else people would think he was gay. As a kid he was always afraid that he would end up being gay, as he was a late bloomer when it came to crushes. He was deeply relieved when he started to notice girls in that way. But now, he wasn’t so sure. His father always demanded that he man up, that he couldn’t dance the female part, couldn’t dance with other boys. His mother and father used to argue all of the time about his dancing, his father always yelling about masculinity, masculinity, masculinity. His father had wanted to pull him out of dance, but his mother had refused. He would never show it, but he was eternally grateful for his mother’s persistence. His father yelled at him when he cried, so he replaced tears with choreography and danced. That was the only way he knew how to express himself. The only way he knew how to deal with the emotions that he hated so much. But this? This was a new feeling, some kind of warped combination of shame, longing, anxiety, sadness, terror, and embarrassment. This would be hard to shove down. He couldn’t just dance it away. He couldn’t deny it any longer. He was past denial. He was done hiding everything. He had to face the confusing reality. Beckett wasn’t gay. But he wasn’t straight either.