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The first person Scott came out to was Martyn. His closest friend; the only person he would even consider sharing a secret as big as this with.
The realization came a few months earlier, in class unsurprisingly. One of his peers, he can't remember their name, had been talking about girls, and who they'd ask out of they worked up the courage to do so. Scott nodded along, figuring that that was what he was supposed to do in that situation.
He was eleven, at the start of puberty or whatever, and he was supposed to start finding girls attractive at some point or another; agreeing with the boy speaking to him, despite the fact that it was a blatant fib, it would come true eventually.
Right?
Either way, he wasn't really bothered, if these so-called feelings for the opposite gender came so easily to his classmates, why wouldn't they come to him? So, he pushed away the stray thoughts of shame at lying to this kid and just believed that one day, he wouldn't have to worry about it.
But then came the defining factor, he didn't like girls.
It was an idea that popped into his head in the middle of the night, when he had been mulling over the conversation in his head, wondering why he hadn't just said that he didn't find the girl the least bit interesting to him. Thinking to himself, why? This girl, whom he also doesn't recall the name of, had all the traditional qualities of general attractiveness; long blonde hair, a pretty face, and so on.
And yet, nothing, not even a skip of the heart when he looked at her, or the weird glazed-over looks he'd seen in movies when the guy sees the girl for the first time. That grossly lovesick face honestly made him want to curl into a ball and die.
Scott continued to ponder these thoughts, tossing and turning in his bed until well past midnight, bleary eyes staring blankly at a ceiling he couldn't even see in the darkness of night.
He was tired, and sleep deprivation always led to more unhinged or unfiltered thoughts and with this lack of a filter eventually came the idea that maybe, just maybe, the reason he refused to look at a woman in an even remotely romantic way, was because he didn't like girls at all.
But rather, boys?
His eyes widened at the thought, peering into the darkness around him, as if he could ask the void for an answer. This realization sprung forth one-to-many memories.
Staring too long at the male protagonists in superhero movies, the disproportionate amount of comments he'd made towards the athletes at school instead of the cheerleaders, and shamefully stereotypically, the way he had always leaned a bit more to the girly side of things. Pinks and purples never had the ability to make him cringe like it did other boys his age.
Scott pulled the covers over his head as if to hide from the world; he wasn't embarrassed or ashamed of this realization. Moreso scared.
What if he lost everything? Family? The few friends he had? What if they all hated him? As far as he could remember no one had ever been outright homophobic, but people could hide their true nature well enough to not seem bigoted, this is something he knew well.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blank out all the negative ideas that had just pushed their way into his mind like poison to wine, using his blanket as a shield and finally succumbing to the greedy hands of sleep.
He missed his alarm the next morning.
-
With the weeks between his discovery and his coming out, he had plenty of time to think it over. Dutifully analyzing anytime he so much as looked at a guy rather than a girl, staring at these poor women and trying to figure out if it was just his sleep-deprived mind that was just playing tricks on him. Sometimes he would stare so long that they looked back at him, and he would have to break eye contact so fast, turning around blushing, and probably looking like a creep the whole time.
This whole situation was nerve-wracking; he wanted to tear his hair out.
It was a normal night when he told Martyn, sitting on the older’s bed while he stared confusedly at his math homework from where he was laying on the floor; he would've offered to help if he wasn't also useless when it came to mathematics, plus the other was in the grade above and the work was undoubtedly more difficult, so any help he could offer was probably more than unhelpful.
It must've been their millionth sleepover, having had at least one each month since they were kids. It became a habit when their parents would take turns babysitting their respective nephews for date night, a work trip, or whatever. Eventually, the pattern just stuck and as they got older they began to request the slumber parties, just to see each other.
Martyn was Scott's favorite cousin, his best friend, he would trust the other with his life if it came down to it; that thought was what eventually led him to spill the beans.
"Martyn?" His voice cracked as he spoke, cutting to the peaceful silence like a knife, his heart beating in his throat as he wrung his hands together to rid them of the nerves.
"Yeah?" The other said looking up from his homework, obviously grateful for the distraction from the dreaded subject.
"I have something to tell you."
Martyn sat up fully, the lighthearted expression dropping from his face when he saw the dismay written all across Scott's features; shoulders dropping when he saw the worry splayed out and on display in the other’s body language, "What's up, dude? You okay?"
Scott almost broke down crying right then and there, he wasn't sure out to go about this, he sucked a heavy breath of air; trying, and failing, to calm himself down.
"I think I'm gay."
Scott watched as Martyn's eyes widened, but he couldn't quite read the expression on the other's face. His brain immediately recognized it as rejection, years of friendship down the drain and he would be all alone. If his own family wouldn't accept him, who would?
The previously held-back tears came through like a waterfall, flooding the space between them and threatening to drown him on the spot.
Martyn continued to stare at him as he cried seemingly frozen, whether in shock or disappointment, Scott couldn't tell, but that didn't make the silence hurt any less.
"Im sorr-" He tried to apologize, voice fighting through his hitching sobs, but he was stopped by the other jumping forward and scooping him into a hug, math homework completely forgotten on the floor.
"Hey, what? Calm down there's no need to cry," Martyn tried to soothe, pulling his cousin close and slightly rocking them both, "There's no need to apologize, bud. I'm not mad at you, I don't care who ya' like, okay? You're okay."
The thoughtful words washed over Scott like a wave, relief spread throughout his body and he slumped forward further into Martyn, his sobs now coming out even harder.
But, it was okay, because he wasn't alone.
-
Months passed, the school year ended, and summer came and went, now he was in 7th grade and Martyn in 8th.
Scott still hadn't told anyone else, but that was fine, he was okay with silently admiring the superheroes in movies and staring a little too long when they had to inevitably take off their shirts. He was okay with Martyn occasionally sending him gay memes over text, and he was ok with the fact that he deleted them the second he was finished laughing because he was still a little worried about what would happen if he didn't.
He was fine. Scott was fine.
He wasn't sure how the rumor started; it was probably his fault honestly, one too many jokes or a sly comment that slipped through his lips without him realizing, middle school brains tended to lack the filters necessary for self-preservation. But, he does know that however it began, it didn't matter now.
A normal day, gym class, another very stereotypical thing about this whole ordeal. He was being corned in the locker room by some kid he's never even met. He has just enough common sense to realize that he was in Martyn's grade and not his own. But the whole school shared elective periods, so it's not a shock that this kid had gym class with him.
Why was he always the last out of the locker room?
He had just finished changing into his gym uniform, halfway through retying his sneakers when he was roughly shoved, read: kicked in the back, off the bench, and onto the ground.
He cried out, confused, landing hard on his knees and hands that had just managed to fling out ahead of him and save himself from slamming his nose into the concrete.
He whirled his head around, about to question the reasoning of the rough treatment, before he was kicked again, sliding across the floor in a way that shouldn't have been possible considering how coarse the material was.
His shoulder took the brunt of the force this time, now with scrapped knees and palms, and at least three different bruises blooming on various parts of him, he mustered the energy to call out to the bully.
"Hey, what gives?"
Now that he was actually facing the kid, he could tell that he was much bigger than he originally thought, towering over Scott's position of half-laying down on the floor.
Not even a second later the dude was bending down and scooping him up by the collar of his shirt and roughly slamming into the wall behind them, his own hands shot up to grab the other’s wrists, trying to pry them off; his previously uninjured shoulder clipped the edge of the lockers and sent a wave of pain down his spine like lightning.
He cried out again, trying to shove the guy off of him, but he could barely reach the floor from where he was pinned, and without leverage, he was left completely and utterly helpless.
It was then that the kid finally spoke, spitting in his face as he did so, "So you're the fag of the school, right?"
Scott paled, eyes widening at the other's words, a spike of fear running through his mind. The other continued.
"I've been waitin' to get a moment alone to teach you what being like that does to people, it's wrong." His words were punctuated with another shove against the wall, Scott's head slammed into the rock behind him and sent stars dancing across his vision.
Then he was falling, or more specifically dropped and sent crumpling to the floor like a house of cards. He hits the ground with a heavy thud, barely having enough thought to once again throw his hands out in front of him to catch himself.
The older didn't even give him the chance to try and retort, sending another kick careening into him like a freight train, this time into his stomach. He fell further into the floor, trying to curl into himself for protection and shutting his eyes so tight he saw shapes.
But even that was thwarted by the bigger kid, who reached down and grabbed one of Scott's wrist and yanked it upward, forcing him to open up from his fetal position on the ground and aiming another kick into his gut.
"This is what you get, ya' pervert, we all see how much you talk about your little cousins. ‘You some kind of pedo? With how much you ‘adore’ them I wouldn't be surprised!"
Another kick. He couldn't think.
Why didn't he call out for help?
"I bet you are, all you guys are sickos!"
And another, followed closely by a deafening crack. This time he threw up, whether from the pain in his abdomen or pure and absolute disgust at the accusations. He would never, ever, even think of doing that. The thought of something like that happing to anyone in his family sprung tears to his eyes, but to Scar or Joel? Or worse; Bdubs or Jimmy?
They were so little; Scott continued to empty his lunch onto the ground in front of him. Whoever decided to place gym right after lunch period was an idiot.
"Scott!"
And then it was over, the hand gripping his wrist let go faster than he could process, he had to fight the fog in his mind to avoid dropping into his own vomit.
He lay there on the floor for a few more seconds, clutching his stomach and still crying, trying to muster up the energy to open his eyes.
There was a hand on his head and he flinched, hard; tears coming out even harder, he almost threw up again.
"Coach! I need you in the locker room now!" That was a familiar voice.
Martyn?
He opened his eyes; in front of him was his best friend’s crouched form, staring at him with a worried expression and desperately trying to avoid touching his stomach as the hand not on Scott's head attempted to check for other injuries.
If Scott could see more than a few feet in front of him, if his eyes weren't so blurred with salty tears, he'd see the knocked-out form of his bully, with a deep bruise forming on his jaw. Maybe he'd be able to focus on the split on his cousin’s knuckles.
But he couldn't focus on anything else besides the pain, and the unsavory thoughts still flicking around in his subconscious; so he shut his eyes again, cried impossibly harder, and blindly reached out for Martyn's hand on his head.
Martyn didn't speak, or if he did Scott didn't hear him over the ringing in his ears, but either way, the older pulled him close, gentle enough to not hurt him further and narrowly avoiding the vomit on the ground.
Scott didn't hear the footsteps of the coach running into the room to assess the situation, or the pounding sound of the rest of the class rushing forward to watch and guess what had happened.
Because at that moment he passed out.
He was okay, Scott was fine.
-
One hospital trip later, he was diagnosed with a broken rib, a thankfully not-concussion, and instructions to go home and rest for a least a week before returning to school.
He didn't speak to his dad in the car, knowing that the older man had definitely heard the reason for the fight in the parental debrief; so he stayed silent.
His father was quiet too, but the reasoning wasn't out of disappointment like he assumed. No, Skizz was trying to give his son the space he definitely needed.
They arrived home, his dad helped him to his room, and Scott collapsed onto his own bed for what felt like the first time in months. He fell into an exhausted and fitful sleep.
Then the morning came, birds chirping annoyingly and the sun breaking in through his window like a burglar, stealing away the last hope for a good night's rest and shining brightly like it was innocent.
Scott groaned, rolled over, and winced as a twinge of pain emanated from his stomach. The bruises had yet to fade, still standing angry and purply yellow against otherwise pale skin. But they were covered by his t-shirt, so it's not like he had to look at the sickening color.
He sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes with another wince and wave of pain, and getting out of bed as slowly and carefully as he could.
He made his way through the house with ease, heading straight to the kitchen and intending to get a glass of water, he was parched; maybe he’d even grab some painkillers, but instead was stopped in the doorway at the sight of his father making a cup of coffee.
He stood there for a moment, stock still and silent; holding his breath in a way that definitely wasn't healthy, for a concerning amount of time. Then his dad turned around, nearly dropping his cup in surprise, obviously startled.
"Woah, kiddo," Skizz spoke, trying to hide his shock by placing his fresh and still steaming drink on the counter and leaning on it, be casual, "What’re you doing up, you're supposed to be resting!"
Worried father mode slipped on like a glove.
"I couldn't sleep."
Plain, simple, good excuse, and true! Nice going Scott, avoid the conversation.
His dad's eyes widened, immediately glancing around to try and find where he put the hospital meds when they arrived home the night before.
"Oh! Let me just, um-"
Scott stayed leaning on the doorframe as his dad rushed to grab the medication from the opposite counter to himself, plucking out the bottle from the bag and portioning off the correct dosage of pills along with a quickly made glass of water.
Skizz handed the good to his kid with a reassuring smile, also not quite sure how to go about the conversation that was bound to happen.
"Thanks."
He popped the medicine in his mouth and downed the water with a graceful swig, then he handed the empty glass back to his father, who set it down gently by the sink.
"Of course, kiddo."
An awkward silence spread between the two of them, the air so tense it could be used as rope.
"So," it was Skizz that interrupted the silence, desperately racking his brain for the right words to say, "I heard what that kid was saying to you, he admitted it. But I wanna hear what you have to say before I-"
Wrong choice.
Scott's shoulders tensed, another sting of pain, and he interrupted with tight-lipped words, "Don't dad, I don't want to talk about it."
"Scott-"
"No!" Scott's voice was breaking, and he was almost crying, again. "I don't want to hear you-"
He didn't finish his sentence, the unsaid words hung heavy between them.
'I don't want to hear you say it. I don't want you to hate me.'
Scott turned around and went back to his room, barely avoiding slamming it shut behind him.
He stayed there for hours, swapping between light, almost silent sobs, to trying to listen to music or watch tv or something to distract him from the inevitable. But, he eventually settled on the only possible option.
He reached for his phone, which had been shut off to avoid the many notifications he was probably getting, plucking it up from his nightstand and hitting the power button.
It took longer than he would've liked for the device to turn on, but eventually, it did. Scott barely gave it the time to boot up before he was pulling Martyn's contact up, clicking the call button, and waiting.
Ring. Ring.
Ring. Ring.
Ring. Ri-
"Hello?"
"Martyn, I-"
"What's wrong?" A pause, staticy breathing filled the line, "Stupid question. Talk to me, buddy."
Scott sucked a breath, one hand holding the phone to his ear and the other digging crescent shapes into his already scuffed-up knees. There was silence for a good few long, moments, but Martyn was patient.
Then Scott was spilling everything, telling the other exactly what the bully had said to him, how disgusted it made him feel. He spoke about how helpless he felt, being kicked and pinned and unable to do anything about it. He spoke about the fear of being outed like he was, and what others would think.
He spoke about his dad, and how he was worried about how the others would react.
The entire time, Martyn listened to his woes, offering support when necessary and staying quiet when not. Martyn had always been a good listener.
"Oh, Scott, bud," Martyn said when Scott was finished, a reassuring, soft tone coating his voice like honey, "No one hates you, besides maybe that jerk."
Scott stayed silent, and Martyn continued.
"Everyone at school is on your side over this whole thing, if you hadn't passed out you would've seen the way the class stood up for you. There's even a petition to get that jerk expelled instead of suspended."
"And, I spoke with your dad while you were out."
Scott's breath caught in his throat.
"I know I probably shouldn't have, but I figured you had enough crap on your plate."
"Scott, your dad loves you no matter what. You're okay, man."
Scott was okay. He smiled, Scott was okay.
-
Later that day, around dinner time, Scott left his room to the smell of his favorite food, his dad had taken the time to call his Uncle Tango and request his famous red velvet cake, usually only made for family gatherings.
It must've been brought over when he was sulking.
The cake was accompanied by Scott's favorite dinner his dad could make, casserole.
A bittersweet smile spread on the teen's lips, Martyn was right.
When his dad spotted him, the older stepped forward and scooped his kid into a hug, being careful to avoid aggravating his injured ribs. No words were spoken; apparently Scott's expression had said it all.
Then, words were spoken.
"I love you, kiddo, no matter what."
Scott smiled into his dad's chest.
"Love you too, dad."
Yeah, Scott was fine.