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Michael is eleven when he hears the word faggot for the first time.
It’s used by a boy, at a glance probably fourteen, and it’s directed at his friend. He laughs as he says it, somehow dumbing down the severity of the word, and Michael doesn’t think anything of it. He adds it to his vocabulary like he learnt it at school but doesn’t use it, as if some subconscious part of his brain is telling him that it’s wrong.
He hears it again and again throughout the year and somewhere along the way it becomes so ingrained in him that it doesn’t even seem like an insult anymore. He doesn’t even know what it means, or the connotations of it, but if he’s being honest he doesn’t really care.
**
Michael’s twelve when he sees a couple being harassed on the street.
They’re two boys, one with bright hair that Michael wants to touch and the other who looks almost normal. At least, as normal as a gay person could be. They look nice enough, though Michael avoids their eyes as he passes them on the footpath.
A car passes them, emitting loud music and boisterous yells from the teenage boys inside. They jeer at the couple, yelling insults and slurs and that’s when Michael hears it again.
“Look at these faggots!”
Memories rush through his head, like the boys on their bikes or that girl on the swings playfully arguing with her friend. All this time, he never knew what it meant and now he does, or at least he has a vague idea. He researches it when he gets home, hiding the screen from his mother and widening his eyes at what appears. There’s no Oxford dictionary definition for it, though there is a Wikipedia page, and he reads through it shocked.
He reads more and more webpages, each one telling him the same information.
“Faggot, often shortened to fag, is a pejorative term used mainly in the Western world to refer to a gay man.”
Soon it’s time for dinner and he quickly erases the search history. It’s all he thinks about during dinner, and both of his parents notice that something is up with him. He shakes it off as a minor argument with one of his friends, though still both of them keep shooting him concerned glances. He won’t tell them, though. He doesn’t even know why he feels like this. It’s not like anyone has ever called him a faggot, or that they would have any reason to.
This sickly burn in his stomach stays with him all the way until he falls asleep, however, and he can’t help but be a little scared as to why.
**
He’s thirteen when he realises there’s more than one meaning to queer.
Before he’s always known it as a synonym to strange or weird. As thefreedictionary puts it, ‘Deviating from what is expected or normal; strange.’
But, there’s a piece on the news about a protest against same sex marriage. One guy, a burly man with a t-shirt that reads “God hates gays” is at the forefront of the crowd, yelling insults at the top of his lungs.
“Faggots don’t deserve this!”
“Homosexuality is a sin!”
“Get these queers out of Australia!”
His mother hurriedly switches off the television, though not before Michael hears the last statement. At the time he doesn’t think much of it, though sometimes late at night the guys voice replays in his head. He wants to ask his mum what he meant, but given the pained look on her face after she turned off the news he feels that this wouldn’t be the best course of action.
**
Michael’s fourteen and he’s fucking terrified.
He knows he likes girls, knows it like he knows 2+2=4 and when you mix red with blue it’ll make purple. But there’s a tiny part of him that wonders, just maybe, if he likes boys.
It’s scary. He’s scared. He doesn’t know what he is what he feels and it’s awful. He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know who he wants. He just wants to know if he’s gay or straight. He wants to know who he is. But he doesn’t.
He wishes there could be some way to know. A machine that scans you and tells you everything about yourself, like your darkest fears and your favourite colour. And your sexuality. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t work that way and Michael’s stuck with hundreds of questions and a constant ill feeling in his stomach. What if people know what he’s thinking? What if everyone hates him?
The main issue he has is the fact that he’s always struggled with segregating romantic feelings from platonic ones. The barrier blocking the two has always been a bit unclear, but with this new revelation everything’s just a blur. He hates it, he wants to crawl out of his skin and escape whatever this is but he can’t. He can’t, there’s no running away from this and so he buries it deep within himself, hoping that no-one, not even himself, will ever be able to find it.
**
He’s fifteen when he learns the word bisexual.
He’s fucking around in the ‘restricted’ part of the library with his mates, laughing at the shitty romance novels and reading bits aloud. He’s stroking the spines, looking for one which he thinks would be funny when a title catches his eye.
‘The Bisexual’s Guide to the Universe: Quips, Tips and Lists for those who go both ways.’
He stares at the words for a long time, reads over the words again until they’re almost burned into his brain.
Bisexual.
Bisexual.
Bisexual.
The word sparks something in him, as if he was somehow destined to discover this book and that word and everything that it could lead to. His hand stretches out to reach it but he suddenly becomes aware of the eyes on him so he retracts his hand abruptly as if it had been burned.
Eventually they leave, but one day he comes back and stares at it again, willing himself to take it.
He does.
**
He’s sixteen and he feels slightly better.
He’s come to terms with the fact that yes, he’s not heterosexual. The thought still scares him slightly, and he hasn’t got the nerve to tell anyone yet, not even Calum.
(There is sort of a reason for that, but out of all the things Michael needs to hide that is number one on the list.)
It’s been months and he’s bored and he’s scared and mostly, he just wants to meet people like him. He wants to know that there are other people like him, other people who have gone what he went through and know how he feels. So, while he’s home alone he quickly researches to find any LGBT groups in Sydney, and sure enough there is.
He meets a boy called Finn and a girl called Emily and someone who’s neither named Hunter. They all quickly become friends and he discovers that Finn’s known he was gay since he was eleven and Emily’s father kicked her out of the house after finding out she was a lesbian and it took Hunter eighteen years to figure out who they were. They make him feel a little more safe, a little better.
His voice stills shakes when he says “I’m bisexual.” (He knows it does this because of the countless times he’s tried to say it to himself in the mirror, the countless times where his voice wobbles on the bi or even worse if nothing comes out at all.) He manages to say it, though, and Finn’s fingers trace the inside of his wrist and maybe, just maybe, he’ll be alright.
He kisses Finn under the bright light of the headlamps in a deserted Sydney street and maybe he should be freaking out because it’s his first kiss with a boy but-
He isn’t.
For the first time in months he feels calm. For the first time in months he lets himself breathe and he’s lets himself go and he kisses this beautiful boy on this dark street because if he’s not going to do it now, when is he?
He gives Finn his number and sometimes they talk but they don’t kiss again and it’s surprisingly okay. Michael’s fine for the time being and he wants this feeling to last but he knows it won’t so he holds onto it for now, because at some point he wants to look back on his life and know that there was a period of time that he was happy, however fleeting it was.
**
Michael’s seventeen and unsure of his place in the world.
The word bisexual rolls off his tongue a little easier than it did last year and his voice is pure steel when he says it, though it’s not that often. His band knows and his family knows and some of his friends know, and he thinks that they are the only people who need to.
It’s not like they’re wildly famous, so coming out wouldn’t entail some gigantic scandal but it’s still personal. He doesn’t feel comfortable showing that side of him to the world so he won’t, at least not yet. He feels better about himself, at least, more comfortable in his own skin. He read something on the internet recently, the term ‘eggshell fine’. It supposedly means that you’re okay at the moment but fragile like an eggshell, and one wrong move could cause you to break. He thinks that’s him. Eggshell fine.
He’s still loud and boisterous and slightly rude, and with time it becomes less of an act and more just him. He still talks to Finn sometimes, and he’s a welcome calm in a world of wild storms. He has sex with a boy for the first time, a British boy whose name evades Michael’s mind and his hands were rough but his actions were gentle and Michael felt secure wrapped in his arms afterwards. His bed is cold the morning after and Michael knows that maybe he should be sad but he isn’t. He doesn’t know what would be worse, actually feeling sad or this cold emptiness in his chest.
He carries on like he always does because the world he lives in can’t afford to wait for him, and he writes music and fucks boy and fucks girls and talks to Finn and maybe his life is good but it’s not great. It’s not terrible either, though, and he knows he shouldn’t complain but he does anyway for all the good it does him.
**
Michael’s eighteen and in love with his best friend.
He really should have seen it coming. As sure as the sun rising in the east and the days are long, he was sure to fall in love with Calum. He didn’t so much fall into it as walk headfirst into it. It wasn’t a sudden realisation, more of a long build-up of events which lead to the finale. The finale being Michael’s life possibly ruined.
He’s coming up with spent clichés as if this was some shitty romance movie and he sits beside Calum, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. The heat from his body is nothing compared to the way Michael’s stomach is burning at the touch, and he wants to say something but his throat seems to close and he can’t. He can’t. He can’t do this to himself, or Calum, or anyone, so he keeps his mouth closed and his eyes open.
This cycle repeats for an endless amount of days and Michael hates that this is what he’s become, a coward who hides behind weak excuses and can only use words if they’re in song lyrics. He hates Calum for doing this to him, though he doesn’t really. An ‘I love you’ still burns at the back of his throat like acid. He wonders if Calum would be able to taste the poison on his tongue if he kissed him.
He still fucks boys and he still fucks girls and he still writes music, though he doesn’t talk to Finn as much anymore. He tries to fix the broken bit in him with distractions, with alcohol or people or anything, but he knows that the only one able to help him is the only one he can’t ask. So he doesn’t. They still talk, about everything and nothing, about the universe and the galaxies and the shining constellations that swirl around them. In Michael’s opinion, none of the stars in the sky could replicate the beauty in Calum’s eyes.
**
Michael’s nineteen and he’s tired of it.
He’s tired of this bullshit young adult romance he’s got into his head and he’s tired of pretending to be someone he’s not and he’s just plain tired. He sees two options: tell Calum he loves him or keep hiding himself until the day that Calum becomes unavailable. Humiliate himself or be forced to live a life of ‘what if.’ He doesn’t know what is worse.
When it does happen, it’s not how Michael would have planned it. It just kind of bursts out. He borrows words from places unknown to try and fill the silence but nothing is working and Calum just stares at him, not saying a word. So he runs, because he’s scared and he’s young and he’s potentially lost his best friend. He runs.
His legs are burning and his chest is heaving and a few salty tears run down his cheeks and all he can think is “He didn’t say it back.”
He isn’t in a car with a beautiful boy, and the fact that Calum said nothing will not mean that he loves him, rather that he doesn’t. He won’t tell Michael that he loved him because he didn’t, because romance novels are for the young and the innocent and nothing that happens would ever reflect real life. Poetry is simply empty words to fill a blank page and love songs are nothing but fairy tales put to music.
Life is not a song, Michael remembers, and this is the day he learns it.
There’s a hand on his shoulder and he wantswishesneeds it to be Calum but he knows it’s not, and he folds himself into Ashton’s chest and cries. He’s not even sure why he’s crying but he does, and his chest aches and his throat struggles and the tears flow and it feels good. Not good, per se, but it’s a relief to just cry and let everything out and be able to rid himself of all the bullshit that’s been occupying him for the past year and a bit.
He avoids Calum for the next few days, at least as much as he can. They dance around each other without even meaning to it, both playing a game neither of them remember choosing to participate in and Michael knows now that a lifetime of wondering what if is nothing compared to losing his best friend.
One day, after the fifth accidental glance (not that Michael’s counting) Calum pulls him away and sits him down. And tells him that he loves him.
Michael says he doesn’t want Calum’s pity, so if this is what this is then he can fuck right off and Calum pleads and begs him to listen and the words that spill out of his mouth sound genuine enough that maybe Michael believes them. And so they talk.
Calum’s scared, for one thing. He’s never known himself to like anyone other than girls, but Michael’s words did something to him, or at least that’s what he says. His voice is shaking but his hands are steady when he takes Michael’s in his. “I love you.” He says, looking Michael directly in the eyes and there’s no trace of insincerity in his tone. And maybe, Michael thinks, maybe they’ll be okay.
Maybe they’ll work.