God, Ohio was boring.

Actually, that's what I tell most people when they ask. It's the kind of response that I wheel out automatically. Sort of like when someone asks 'how are you?' Most of the time the truth could fill pages, but what's the textbook reply? 'Fine, thanks.' It's just easier that way. Especially for me. I'm not really prone to confiding.

Nor am I what you'd call an open book… I'm the kind of tome that you'd find cowering in the dim vaults of any given National Library. My pages aren't quite crumbling, but the secrets I hold are powdered with dust and long forgotten. Don't get me wrong, this isn't the image I project, but it's the truth behind my broad smiles and avuncular winks. I tend to encourage the opposite of that old adage 'don't judge a book by its cover.' Where I'm concerned, that's exactly what I want people to do.

I sometimes find myself ashamed by how much of me is surface. I have so many friends and acquaintances (a handful of which could dare call themselves my confidants without their noses growing) though not much in the way of indispensible company. I really am just Blaine Anderson, the ex-Warbler to most of the people I know.

On the other hand, I try not to worry about my duplicity. It's quite harmless after all. If this wasn't the way I wanted things to be then I'd change. I can be a little… calculated, sometimes. Calculating even, if only in regards to socialising and interacting.

Prime example?

I didn't really leave Ohio because it was boring.

See? I lie. Little whites lies for the most part, but lies all the same. Never big enough for anyone to really give them a second thought. That's why I get away with them, and that's how I ended up driving into this small Liberal Arts college in Southwest Vermont on a Saturday morning near the new term's beginning…

I'd hate for you to come into this in the middle though, so bear with me.

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I'd lived in Ohio my whole life. Westerville to be precise. As a child it was a place that I indiscriminately adored. I adored our big two story baby blue house nestled in the cul-de-sac of a glossy, treeless suburb. I adored my school and the way everyone seemed to know each other. I especially adored getting up at seven o'clock every morning and riding around on my red BMX before breakfast, the world my oyster. There's an effortless fitness and an absurd ability to voluntarily rise at early hours that I've noticed is the sole province of the very young. Once I reached high school and had to start working to maintain a 'respectable'physique, it was one of the many things from that age that I missed.

What I missed most of all was the way that I'd loved my parents then. I still do love them I suppose, but I can't ever seem to muster that unquestioning love I had as an infant. It's a truth that most children will automatically agree with and believe anything their parents lay before them. Their word is gospel, and when young we would follow them to the edge of the world. To be certain of any less at such an age would be torture. Even when they scolded me, or argued with each other over money or family or whatever it is that married couples always seem to argue about, I would unhappily submit, if only so I could go on loving them so profoundly. I, like almost all others, allowed them to mould my mind and shape my introductory ethics and morals without question. Any poorly formed opinions I spouted in class were not my own, but a regurgitation of theirs. And that was fine. I was absolutely fine with that.

Unfortunately, even as I continued to love them as deeply as I did, my young self seemed to realise that such depth of love was finite. It may have even been on a purely subconscious level, I won't pretend to remember exactly, but I knew that that purest of feelings had a shelf life. One that approached even faster than I could have ever been prepared for.

I grew into a bright, studious, but surprisingly headstrong teenager (I say headstrong, my many superiors maintain that a more appropriate moniker would be belligerent) and my faith in my parent's infallibility began to crack and peel like old paint. I was no longer a miniature extension of their personalities, but my very own creature, equally flawed and opinionated.

That's the word though, isn't it? Flawed. I was marginally prepared and groomed to deal with my own faults, but I struggled to come to grips with my parents' ones which now lay stark before me, veil drawn back. How can one suddenly comprehend their creators' now glaringly obvious inaccuracies? It's too much for any fresh faced teen.

I really wish I'd been the exception to the trend.

So, there I was, public school and rushing hormones and wide, wide eyes. I couldn't possibly open them far enough to take in all that seemed to be blossoming in front of me. I realised that I loved the arts and music, and had a proficiency for writing and prose, excelling in all of my literature classes. I paradoxically enjoyed physical education and I was also prominent in our school's Glee club. Remarkably I wasn't ostracized for that latter activity. I usually kept my head down, still managing to cultivate a curious level of respect and popularity amongst my peers. By then the mask I wear now was only just beginning to form, but my current preoccupation with outer image was breaching.

At this point my parents and I continued to love each other, even as certain of their views would sting and grate against my steady social enlightenment.

I was so busy learning about the environment around me, but it was nothing compared to the things I was realising about myself. Over a period of a couple of years my world expanded and exploded. Everything became brighter, yet more chaotic as I relaxed into myself with perfect clarity.

I liked boys.

I was gay.

Previous to what felt like my perfect sexual illumination, I had suspected this very fact. My only attraction to girls was a rote one. Seven Minutes in Heaven and Kisschasey, played simply because everyone else was playing them. It took the glorious plunge into puberty for me to actually question my urges though. Like I said, any interest in the childish idea of 'sex' that I'd had before the age of fourteen was always just a sad imitation of the adults around me as opposed to an actual curiosity.

But, now… God, I loved boys.

It came at me so fast and was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. Was there anyone I could tell? Did I know anyone else who was gay? What would my family say?

Well, I knew the answer to that last question. This, I was certain, was the greatest of many new things that my parents and I would fail to see eye to eye on. You can't be raised in a house where your dad has been known to tell 'fag' jokes and feel at ease with coming out. Despite this, I was still unsure how serious my father's homophobia was. For all I knew the jokes weren't made in hate, but in ignorance. Perhaps he just didn't quite realise how offensive they were. Nonetheless, It would be a while before I gained the confidence to tell him I was gay.

I continued as I had, albeit with a slightly altered perspective of things. It bothered me that I remained in the closet, but the thought of coming out without any kind of guaranteed network of support was too much to comprehend. Instead I kept my ears perked and tried my best to blend in without compromising myself too much. The payoff to this arguably cowardly tactic came just before I turned sixteen when a new boy transferred to my school and joined the Glee Club. An openly gay boy.

His name was Malcolm. He didn't announce to the school that he was gay or anything like that, but offhand comments about ex-boyfriends and the like alerted the majority soon enough. High school gossip is currency after all. Malcolm was a metaphorical heaving suitcase of cash. He copped a fair bit of abuse, mostly verbal, some of it physical, but always held his head high. I desperately wanted to approach him and confide in him, ask him for every scrap of knowledge and experience he possessed, but for a while I contented myself with merely observing. Watching what it was like for him and how he handled himself in what seemed to be a hellish and lonely situation.

To see what he went through every day simultaneously made me even less eager to come out, yet shamed me bitterly for hiding. I would feel a hot wave of guilt and anger at myself whenever I thought about it and steeled to at least reveal myself to him if no one else.

It was after Glee club one day that I finally introduced myself formally. He was polite and well-spoken and a little bit abrasive. I suppose he'd learnt the hard way that he couldn't afford to be one without the other, even if he'd rather not have been. A kind of learnt defence mechanism. I asked him if he'd join me for coffee and he seemed quite happy at the invitation. We talked about small things for a while out of common courtesy. Where had he last gone to school? How was he liking Westerville? After a while I picked up on a warmth in his eyes that I took to mean that he felt at least marginally comfortable in my presence, and breached the subject that had been gnawing on my mind for weeks.

I wasn't sure how to do so without sounding rude or unacceptably forward, so I simply dove in head first.

"Malcolm… I don't want to make you uncomfortable, and I'm sorry if I offend you, but… are you gay?" I kept my voice low and held his gaze, trying to project openness and trust.

His eyes widened a little at the question, but otherwise he seemed unfazed, "Yeah, I am. Is that a problem?"

I stammered, "No! No, god no. Not at all. It's just…" I swallowed hard, my stomach churning, "… I… I am too. Gay, that is."

I'd finally said it.

He cocked his head, "Oh?"

"I've never told anyone before." I whispered.

"OK. That's kind of rough."

"I know."

He sat back and peered at me, "Why are you telling me? We only just met Blaine."

I sighed, "I know, it's weird and I'm really sorry to put you in this situation. I know it's not fair, but… I don't know anyone else who's gay. I was… I don't think I could have coped with hiding it much longer. I think I just needed to tell someone. I thought if I told you there was a pretty big chance you'd… I dunno… understand. Maybe empathise…"

He twisted his mouth a bit, "Well, that's pretty presumptuous."

I didn't know what to say. I don't think he was really mad at me, but I felt like an idiot and my face must have been a picture of misery. I could feel blood filling my cheeks and I covered my eyes with a hand and breathed deeply.

"I'm sorry." I whispered, "You can go. I'm really sorry Malcolm."

Thirty seconds must have passed, and though I assumed he'd left I kept my eyes closed. Behind my lids was an unpleasant prickling feeling that I resolved to resist at all costs.

I was surprised when warm, kind fingers took hold of my own and pried them gently from my face. I looked up warily to see Malcolm exactly where he had been, watching the whole time with a sad look. I shudder to think there was pity present, but maybe it was.

"Blaine…" he said.

I shook my head lips pursed. He didn't have to stay. I'd embarrassed both of us enough. I even tried to pull my hand away, but he held tight.

"I'm sorry." He said.

I wasn't sure how to take that. How many different meanings could those two short words project? The only inflection in his voice was one of cheerlessness, which could also have been interpreted any which way.

"Why?" I tried to say it soundly but my voice cracked and it kind of hissed from the back of my throat. This wasn't how I'd intended to react. The best laid plans of mice and men, I guess.

"For… being alone. I know what that's like." He looked down, just for a second.

I rubbed my eyes, "This isn't a cry for help."

God, I was such a liar.

He breathed out through his nose, "Then what is it?"

For a second I contemplated anger, but it ebbed as soon as it had come when I remembered that I had backed him into this situation. I had no right. I'd given him permission to ask me questions like that when I'd invaded his own privacy.

I looked up, "It's a scream."

His eyebrows knitted briefly, nodding slowly, "You just needed someone to talk to..."

"Someone who might understand."

He squeezed my hand a little, "OK."

My mind began racing, "This isn't… I'm not looking for charity. I don't want to be… coddled. Or babysat." I flailed, "I just want to talk."

He stared at me, "Blaine. I do understand."

I finally extricated my hand from his and put it back over my eyes. My aim to not cry was now a lost cause. It wasn't like me to wear my heart so blatantly on my sleeve and I would hide what I could from him. Even so… breaking down like that, in front of him… it did something to me. Us. From then on I saw him differently from how I saw others. It was probably because of what I'd allowed him to glimpse in me. He'd not seen the worst of me, but it was the closest that anyone had come to doing so for a long time. I could allow myself to fall in his company. I could stoop lower than was my custom because he'd already witnessed it to an extent, and vice versa.

All traces of defensiveness that he'd exuded in our first meeting dissipated in the light of my own wretched honesty. He confided in me and tutored me. He didn't talk down to me or frown upon me for my still closeted existence and he made an effort to make me strong. As inwardly sturdy as I appeared outwardly.

After a month of this, plum with a tenuous contentment that I'd not felt for a long time, I found myself viewing him in a different way. To me his brown hair became a warm chestnut, his green eyes, emerald. His protectively large hands became gorgeously carved objects and his off kilter smile sowed impure thoughts in my very existence. I'd lusted before, but this felt like it had a deeper root. This felt tangible. We'd be swaying next to one another in Glee Club and I could just reach out and take his hand in a display of my platonic dedication to performance, only for him to smile back at me and wink. We'd be sitting in the same coffee shop where we first 'met' each other and he'd brush an eyelash from my cheek carelessly in that way that friends do.

The difference was that when he did it, it rocked me to my core.

I'd feel myself blush a little and look down with a grin, quickly segueing into any harmless conversation to take my mind from the stirring of testosterone I fought on a daily basis. I had fallen for Malcolm like I'd never intended. I knew the absurdity in the fact that I'd fallen for the first gay guy I ever met, but my heart failed to care. Clich� or not, I was smitten.

One afternoon, some three months into our vital friendship, he came around to my house for a sleepover. My parents still didn't know I was gay, neither of us letting on that Malcolm was either, so to them it was simply a boys night. We'd watch DVDs and talk about whatever it was they thought teenage boys talked about these days. Football, cars, whatever.

At first we did just watch DVDs. We put on Slumdog Millionaire and sat against the headboard of my bed, commenting every now and then, and I tried to still my slightly shaky hands.

An hour in Mal turned to me, "OK, don't get me wrong, this movie deserves all the praise in the world, but oh my god it's depressing!"

I laughed, "I was thinking the exact same thing."

"Want to turn it off?"

"Kay."

I shuffled to the end of the bed and grabbed the remote, pressing stop and turning to ask Mal what he wanted to do next.

He was so close behind me that I felt his breath on my face and I swallowed hard, my eyes darting between both of his. He put his hand on my cheek, really just barely grazing it with his fingertips.

"Is this OK?" he whispered.

I was frozen, "Uh huh…"

His other hand crept to my waist, "Tell me to stop if you want."

The feel of another person's touch on my flesh was such an unfamiliar sensation that I flinched a little and he paused. I put my own hand over his encouragingly and pushed it back against my midriff.

"Please, don't stop."

His eyes blazed a little and he moved in slowly, brushing my lips with his own. After a few seconds I leant in and applied more pressure to the kiss, a signal he seemed to have been waiting for. His touch became more desperate and I gasped into his mouth, daring to let my tongue venture past his lips. I'd kissed girls before, but those experiences were immediately buried beneath the passion I felt in that moment. What was a girl again?

His hand found the small of my back and he lay down, pulling me on top of him. That night our clothes stayed on and we didn't make it any further into physical intimacy than each other's mouths, but our emotional, intellectual closeness… it ventured into a place I'd hitherto been unaware of. The mere indication of his attraction to me, and my compliance, was enough to break down any barriers that may have been preventing us from admitting the lure we felt for one another.

That night I lay nestled in the taller boys arms, breathing against his heaving chest and smiling until I felt my face would split. His hands, those beautiful hands, wandered up and down my torso and tangled in the back of my hair as I clutched his axis. He smelt like wool and soap and Imperial Leather, made more evocative by the natural warmth of his hard body. The feelings that bloomed in me that night were like nothing I'd ever experienced. Whispering into his sweater and hearing the hum of his voice through his sternum… I felt I'd up and melt away.

There was never a point when we formally decided with one another that we were in a relationship, but from then on we were unequivocally each other's boyfriends.

Boyfriends.

I could hardly believe it.

In hanging out with Malcolm so often I'd already garnered a bit of negative publicity. Regardless of any previous standing I'd had in the school, I was best friends with 'That Gay Kid.' I must have been gay too. They treated me thus. To the great majority gay was bad. Gay was a sin. To them I was a sinner. We were sinners. If that was what they assumed then I was going to be that fucking sinner.

I came out at school first. No big fanfare, but holding hands in the halls and making eyes in the cafeteria. Regardless of what anyone thought, I was proud to be Malcolm's boyfriend. To have him on my arm was all the armour I needed. Or at least that was the case for a while.

With Mal as my brace, I decided to finally come out to my parents. He wasn't with me when I did it, but that day he'd slipped a note into my locker, scrawled on a scrap of paper.

Good luck beautiful. If they don't accept you they don't deserve you. Call me when you're done.

xo

As I read it I felt I might be sick. It may seem fickle, but at that moment I realised that any love I'd lost with my parents over last few years had now been supplemented by Malcolm. He filled the empty cracks that had whistled and groaned as I grew.

I approached my parents in the kitchen and asked to talk to them, clutching Mal's note in my jacket pocket. I made my announcement short and sweet. You know, 'mum, dad, I'm gay.' I could tell they didn't expect it. My mother asked very few questions, and hugged me once I'd choked it out. My father… well, he didn't disown me. I watched him intently as the news sank in and I swear I saw his eyes dim a little. They also misted over as he approached me and patted me on the shoulder with a, 'that's OK… that's fine.' I'm proud of him for not reacting in a more dramatic way… I think it's admirable that someone of his generation, obviously brought up with homosexuality cast in an unfavourable light, could accept me so willingly, but never again did we quite click like we once had. We weren't really that 'father and son' duo that so many aspire to… we were flesh and blood who'd somehow lost track of one another along the way, wandering down separate forks in the road, seeing and hearing each other from a distance. It would have been heartbreaking if I'd not fortified myself to it long ago.

So, that's what I mean. My small family was still a family, but an odd one. Drifting along next to each other on different tectonic plates.

After that blessedly subdued confrontation I made straight for my room and dialled Mal's number in a haze. He picked up on the second ring.

"Blaine? How did it go? Are you OK?"

"I love you." I gasped.

There was a brief silence which I was in no state to analyse.

"I love you too." He croaked.

"Can I come over?"

"Of course. Hurry."

I jumped in my car and drove the few suburbs to his house, meeting him at the front door and heading straight up to his bedroom on the strength of a glance.

We closed the door and slammed into each other, losing clothes periodically between door and bed. We were a force of nature, not quite like either of us had ever been before. In that moment there was no such thing as self-consciousness or insecurity. I felt as if I watched from above as we tumbled onto the mattress and clawed at one another, fingers finding contours we'd not known existed. Lips explored every surface and mouths sighed and gasped for air, desperately supressing moans as backs arched and knees crooked.

That evening we lost our virginities to one another and sprawled in the dark, sheathed in sweat and somehow made whole for a moment. It remains one of the most important experiences of my life thus far.

Mal only lived with his dad, and unlike I'd just boldly done, he wasn't out under his own roof. I'd met his father and he cut an imposing image. He was a lawyer, suited and booted and tall like his son. The few conversations I'd had with him, perfunctory as they were, were none the less intimidating. He didn't talk about it, but I gathered that Mal's relationship with him was a fragile one to say the least.

We were together for another four months, happy with each other if no one else, when I began to notice a wear on Malcolm. An almost imperceptible strain. Hallway and school yard confrontations were becoming more frequent and his bruises more pronounced. I don't know why, probably just luck, but I somehow evaded homophobic jocks for the most part. I think Mal was always just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was around this point that he finally decided to alert his dad to his sexuality too.

It wasn't good.

One night we lay in my bed and my hand slid under his t-shirt, pushing it above his ribs a fair way. He winced and made to pull away, but not fast enough for me not to notice the fierce purple bruise that growled on his lovely tan skin. To me it was as if someone had taken a Stanley knife to a Rembrandt. My breath caught and I swatted his hand away as he hastily tried to pull his top back down. My mouth turned to sandpaper and my eyes filled with tears as I looked up at his stricken face, gaping and speechless.

My fingers ghosted over the welt tenderly and he recoiled from my touch, causing me to do the same as I let out a sob. I never thought that I'd meet someone who would cause me to act so sensitively and so outwardly, but now that I had, to see him harmed was like a blade being twisted and I wept.

"Who did this?" I whispered.

He just shook his head, eyes terrifyingly wide. It was such an unfamiliar sight.

"Malcolm! Who hurt you?"

Tears leaked from his eyes as his face grew red, "My dad." He gulped.

A moan wracked me as the complete reality of Mal's home life sank in and I lay next to him, holding him close, completely forgetting the sorry state of his ribs as we openly cried. I'd felt the high of love, and here came the low. I could never have been prepared to feel someone else's pain so acutely.

When we met, Mal had been a crutch for me. He'd lifted me up and supported me as I limped through my youth, and exuded a strength that had been vital to me all those months ago. Bile rose in my throat as it occurred to me that, though he'd not asked, Mal needed help as much as I had. Quite possibly more. His proud, outward homosexuality had blinded me to this from the beginning and, knight in shining armour, he'd continued to shade my eyes. He was far more brave than I, but he was equally vulnerable and equally scared.

I hated myself.

Really, really hated myself.

I wanted to fucking kill his father. Rip him limb from limb. Did other people feel this sort of anger? The intensity of it scared me. A boiling rage that caused me to shake as I clung to him and tried to stop his own grief fuelled convulsions. It became hard to tell where my fury ended and his pain began.

I think I alarmed him just as much as myself. He viewed it as unbearable enough that his father had beaten him, the thought of me behaving in a way that would result in me getting hurt too was beyond. He wouldn't let me go to his house anymore and forbade me from trying. As far as he let me know, the physical abuse ceased, but his increasingly brittle mental state alerted me to continued psychological torment. I urged him to leave, to come live with me and get away from his father's volatile fists. He wouldn't though. He too still felt obliged to stick by his family, even if his family consisted of one poisonous man, determined to wear him down.

I recalled his note to me on the day I came out.

If they don't accept you they don't deserve you.

It burned that his own words had no effect on him.

I don't know how he stood it. I felt constantly sick at his predicament and I wasn't even the one at risk. He lost weight and withdrew, no longer quite there, proceeding to shut down, recoiling from me. For a couple of months I tried my hardest to make him come back. To become my beautiful saviour again. Eventually I grew just as distant, unable to continue at such an emotionally break neck pace. I was ashamed by my inability to make things better for him. Humiliated that I couldn't deal anymore. I was such a coward.

Our relationship ended rapidly.

I don't like to talk about it. Ever. In fact, I never have done. I will though, eventually. I just hope it's understandable that I need to take my time in doing so.

Those events led to the disintegration of my life at that school. It had become our school. I couldn't be there and not be with him and I needed to get out. My parents noticed this too, more than I expected, and in observing my spiralling despondency hastily enrolled me in the place that would form the next chapter of my life. A prestigious private school where I was to board. They wanted me to be around other boys, you see? Learn to thrive again.

I finally realised why I couldn't ever stop loving my parents completely. They'd come through. Their eyes were open.

It was through their decisions that I came to spend my senior year at Westerville's Dalton Academy.

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TBC