Chapter Text
Ramiz Rafi Mirza had kissed a boy before.
Well, no. That wasn’t entirely true.
Ramiz Rafi Mirza had kissed many boys throughout his teen years, and even more after that. For all of the boys he had kissed in the past, he had only ever kissed two girls in that time, and hadn’t fancied either of those kisses much.
The first boy he ever kissed was when he was eleven years old.
He didn’t leave the Wilson house often at that age, and when he did he always stuck close to whatever chaperone accompanied him.
It was on one of those rare occasions that he found himself separated from that chaperone, stranded alone in the streets of Calcutta with no knowledge of where he was or what to do. And so, he wandered. He walked the streets, looking for a familiar face, or a familiar landmark.
What he instead found was another boy.
He was Ramy’s age, if a little shorter and stockier, and had a beaming grin full of crooked teeth, a gap between the two front ones that Ramy could not help but be drawn in by, endeared by.
He was sitting on the doorstep of someone’s, likely his, house, kicking at the dust that puffed gently over his bare feet.
He looked up at Ramy as he passed, with a cheerful “hello!” and a bright, gap toothed grin.
Ramy, ever the performer, tacked on a wide smile and responded just as enthusiastically.
The other boy waved him over, and Ramy sat down next to him, propping his chin in his hands with an eager smile.
It wasn’t often that he got the opportunity to speak to children his age, and he was nothing if not determined to let this one go to waste.
The other boy took on the role of interviewer, asking Ramy about his family, his childhood, his friends, his toys, until eventually he asked, out of nowhere,
“Have you ever kissed anyone?”
Ramy, caught slightly off guard, coughed.
“No, no. Never.”
The other boy nodded slowly.
“Hm. That is a pity.” He told him seriously, and Ramy couldn’t help but lean on closer, eyes sparkling, enraptured by this forward and abrupt new friend. He looked him up and down, assessing. “You’re quite pretty.”
Ramy felt the tips of his ears heat up, and he sniffed indignantly. “I’m not a girl.” The boy frowned at him. Wrong answer.
He shrugged. “You don’t have to be a girl to be pretty!”
Ramy paused and chewed on his lip, contemplating.
“I suppose so.” He conceded at last. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”
The boy grinned, sharp and gleeful. Right question.
“I have.” He scuffed at his boots as he spoke.
“I kissed a boy in my class at school once. Well, I suppose he kissed me.”
Ramy jolted. A boy. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. There was a right answer to this.
“Was he pretty?”
The other boy beamed again, and Ramy’s ears were still red hot.
“Yeah, actually.”
Ramy nodded and grinned at him.
He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Ramy’s. They were hot, and dry, and a little chapped. Ramy kissed him back, feeling hot all over, his brain cycling through thoughts and scenarios faster than he could keep up, until the other boy pulled back with a grin lighting up his face.
“Dinner time for me.” He breathed out, pink cheeked and gap toothed. “Bye!”
And as he ran up the street leaving Ramy behind, disoriented and hot, he realised they had never even exchanged names.
— — — — — —
The second boy he kissed was a white boy, and he was thirteen.
He understood better then, the hierarchy of white versus brown, and the importance of white men in the world he lived in.
This particular white boy was the son of one of one Horace Wislon’s many guests. A poet, if Ramy recalled correctly. He was short, at least a head shorter than Ramy, who had recently had another growth spurt, all too long limbs that he hadn’t quite grown into yet. He had blond hair and blue eyes, lined by thick black lashes that made him look more doll-like than human. He had rosy cheeks and pouty lips, and Wilson’s guests cooed and fawned over him, without sparing a second glance to Ramy.
He was curious about Ramy, unnervingly so.
He prodded him with questions about languages, he himself spoke several, French, German and Spanish, he told him with a smug sort of pride, but Ramy, equipped with the new understanding of race and social class, was wary of this inquisitive white boy.
It was when they were in the kitchen together, Ramy to pour himself some water and the other boy who had followed him in, for some reason or another, that the blond boy began to brag about the girl he had been seeing.
She was blond and very pretty apparently, and as he droned on and on about the girl, who from the stories he told seemed to have no interest in him, Ramy finally snapped at him.
“I doubt you’re seeing anyone, though.” The white boy laughed, his voice snobbish.
“No.” Ramy told him, pouring himself a glass of water. “Last time I kissed someone was a couple years ago.”
The other boy laughed again and didn’t say anything. He shouldered past Ramy to pour himself a glass of water, and Ramy let himself be pushed aside.
“He was pretty cool, I liked him.”
His words were casual and off hand, infused with just enough of a challenge that the other boy coughed, spilling a drop of water over the edge of his cup.
“He? You’ve kissed a boy?”
His blue eyes were wide, lashes fanning across his cheeks as they fluttered in surprise, his plush lips slightly parted.
“Yeah.” Ramy said with a shrug.
And then, because his blood was rushing in his ears, and his face was hot, and he was so, so angry, for reasons even he could not fully explain, and he had already messed up so many times, really, what was one more to the list, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against the other boys.
If his first kiss was dry, and a little clumsy, this one was awkward and angry and not very enjoyable for either party.
The blond boy kissed him back briefly, before seemingly coming to, and recoiling with disgust in his eyes. Ramy drew back, and leaned against the table, taking a sip from his cup. The only indication he was alone came from the slam of the kitchen door.
He hated himself for a long time for that kiss.
— — — — — —
From Ramy’s third kiss onward they began to blur together. He kissed many boys, some once offs, some a recurring tangle of limbs and lips. He kissed two girls in total, before deciding their soft lips and long hair were not for him. His parents never found out he kissed boys. It wasn’t that he kept it from them, per se, simply that it never came up and never needed to. He was too wrapped up in his studies to need a lecture on marriage and children and besides, he was on a boat headed to England before they could ever broach the topic with him.
He never chooses to make a huge fuss out of it. For him, it is simply a part of him. He likes boys, and that is that. It does not change his perception of himself, it simply is.
Well, until he meets Robin.
— — — — — —
Robin was the only other boy that mattered, really.
Robin carried meaning, he had a purpose, he loved Ramy. That, Ramy is sure of. His own love for Robin is the catch that throws him off.
You see, Ramy had never loved anyone like Robin.
Before, it had always been a fleeting rush of butterflies and kissing, before the eventual nothingness of the end.
Robin was different.
Robin was something concrete, something real. And, sometimes, that was something that scared Ramy.