I feel like I'm in a dupstep music video.

Lights glare down at me like a football pitch on acid. The music could be excused if it didn't sound like the result of a cat attacking a vinyl record, and judging from the revolting smell of body odour, we're all going to drown in sweat. There are no cute guys here either, and that sucks – not literally, which is the problem.

Let me just briefly confirm this: I am gay. It was a realization I came to at the age of fifteen, at a time when it was purely a nuisance since it was another thing to worry about on top of sneaking into the country. Since then, I've come to terms with it and have dated casually, however in six years I've never fallen in love. I'm not sure that it's something I want to do.

"Edilio!" The sharp yelling voice of my best friend, Mary Terrafino, breaks through the metaphorical wall I've built between me and grinding heterosexual couples. "You look like you're at a funeral. Come and dance with me!"

Mary knows full well that the last thing I wanted to do tonight was go clubbing. She knows I can't stand places like this or people like these but she dragged me here, regardless, claiming I needed a break. Needed a night away from being the rock of the family.

She's partly right. I am fucking tired of being the rock of the family. But I can't take a break from being it. You take the boulder out of the wall and it crumbles, everything smashing into the ground. Being away from my family for just one night does nothing to help either; I can practically see the wall shaking right now.

I live in a family of five – formerly six – illegal Honduran immigrants, hidden away in a caravan park where we seem to be on a constant, careless holiday, although our reality is far from it. My older brother, Alvaro, is twenty-three years of age and has serious mental issues but point-blank denies them and refuses to be diagnosed. He's a ticking bomb. Dealing with him whilst my two younger brothers hide outside our static caravan is challenging to say the least.

My younger brothers. At thirteen and fourteen, Aurelio and Guillermo are small and immature, as you'd expect two young boys to be, still affected by the death of my father, an extremely temperamental man. The same goes for my mother, who can't tear herself away from the thought that he is never coming back, and lives her life wishing she didn't have one.

They haven't seen what I have. I watched my father commit suicide. I watched the life being knocked out of his body at 120 kilometers an hour as he ran out onto the highway.

So here I am, Edilio Escobar, tying the knots that become continually undone, trying not to tie the knot around my own neck.

"Dil. Hey. Stay with me." Mary digs one bitten fingernail into my palm and I snap back to reality, back to the club where everyone is living. "Come on, dance with me." She starts jumping up and down to the rhythm, merrily bobbing her head. I try to replicate her moves on a smaller scale for the duration of this shitty song, before Astrid spots us and waves, clip-clopping over to us in her ankle-snapping heels.

Astrid Ellison, more commonly known as Astrid the Genius, or Sam Temple's girlfriend, is like a hawk. She has earned her nickname. Astrid goes against the golden blonde stereotype by applaudably acing every exam thrown at her. She's also studied me like a textbook, and she's very familiar, in that distant shrink-like way, with the expression I'm wearing on my face.

"Hey, Astrid," Mary grins, throwing her a hug full of shoulders and fingertips.

"Hey, you two," Astrid greets us, beginning to nod to the music. "Edilio, fancy getting me a drink?"

"I'd love to, Astrid, but I have no money." I shrug an embarrassed apology and look down at my battered sneakers.

"God, you think I'm inconsiderate." She laughs, flashing her immaculate teeth, and produces ten dollars from the pocket of her jeans that are practically a second skin. "Get us all something. I want a Malibu and coke."

"Lightweight," I tease, and she lifts one corner of her mouth.

"When I'm the only one that's not staggering out of this club, you can say that again."

"Sure." I roll my eyes jokingly. "Mary?"

"Just get me water," She requests, attempting a casual tone.

"Are you sure?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Yeah. I don't feel like getting drunk."

"Whatever you say," I shrug again and turn away, attempting to push my way through a sea of drunken college students.

"Escobar!" I hear a yell from someone I can't locate. "Over here, Mexico!"

This can only be one asshole: Quinn Gaither. The person who, although I have no idea why, everyone seems to either like or tolerate. When we had the misfortune of meeting each other, his first sentence to me was, I directly quote, "I thought South Americans weren't allowed to be gay?", and his nicknames for me usually ring two bells - one that screams "Racist!" and another that cries "Homophobe!"

Now, Quinn doesn't strictly know about my sexuality. He says he 'reads between the lines' and I would call bullshit on this, and everything he says, thinks, or does, but in this occasion he is right.

I inwardly groan and turn to face him. "You're getting drinks, right?" He sneers. "Buy me something that'll get me pissed enough to make me like you."

"I'm not in the mood for your shit, Quinn. Get your own drink or get the fuck away from me."

"Lighten up, Eh-deel-ee-oh," He over-emphasizes, attempting to mock my accent. "Get me something you drink with tacos." I shoot him as belittling a look as I can manage without him laughing at my lack of height, and push the bastard away with a palm on his chest. "Woah, Mexico, not cool. No homo."

"Oh, don't worry, Quinn. Hondurans don't go for insulting dicks."

"Tell me what kind of dicks you do go for -"

"In your fucking dreams!" I shout, my look escalating to a glare. I turn on my heel before I see or care about his reaction, and make my way toward the bar. I lean my elbows on the bar, attempting to block the sound of the music out, when someone else grabs my attention.

I turn to my left to see a tall, dark girl with cornrows and an extremely intimidating look on her face, bordering on murderous. She leans nonchalantly against the bar, propped up by two sharp elbows. Her mouth moves to form words as she looks at me, but I can't hear her, which means I have to get closer to her and actually socialize with this stranger.

People, so many of them. Why do they breed?

I shuffle along the bar, closer to the girl, who leans into me and whispers seductively, "you're cute as fuck. Give me your number."

I find myself stammering in response. "I, um, I d-don't -"

"Hey, Dekka," I hear another low, chuckling voice say. "Give the guy a break."

I turn half of my body around to see a smiling barman, one hand positioned on the bar, supporting his body weight, his shoulders hunched carefully forward. His grin is contagious and I start laughing – at myself? – as I discreetly admire his carelessly curly blond hair and the curve of his muscles. I could call my instant attraction to him simply casual, until he starts speaking again.

"Sorry about Dekka. Just consider yourself lucky that she hasn't killed you yet." His lips curl at the edges as I dig my nails into my palms and the girl, Dekka, raises a threatening eyebrow. "Anyway, what can I get you?"

Your number, maybe? I force myself to look at the stock of drinks behind him, and attempt to remember what the girls requested. "Um, one glass of water, a Malibu and coke, and, er..." Between being distracted by Quinn and then by this possible couple, one-half frustratingly irresistible and one-half probably Satanic, I haven't yet considered what I'm drinking.

"I'm afraid we don't stock 'Er'." He teases, smiling with half of his mouth. "How about I get you a beer?"

I said number. Not beer. I agree and nod along with him anyway.

"I know what the kid wants," Dekka says, grinning like an animal about to tear my throat open with her bare teeth. "He wants you."

My eyes dart down to my hands as they twist into each other nervously. In the dark light I'm unsure if they see my tanned skin redden but the boy laughs it off regardless. He leans over the bar, his head stopping next to mine, his breath warm and unsurprisingly regular against my cheek. "Don't let her intimidate you," He murmurs as I force myself to gulp oxygen. "And even if she's right, it wouldn't be such a bad thing."

Holy shit.

He turns around to retrieve some bottles with labels I don't recognize, and starts quickly pouring drinks. He turns again to pick a seemingly specific beer from the fridge behind the bar and, and cracks the lid off then places it next to my slightly trembling hands. He looks up and gives me a preoccupied smile, then scribbles something on a Post-It note and hands it to me, exchanging it for Astrid's money.

"Keep the change," I blurt out as I convince my cheeks not to blush again, shove his note into my pocket casually and balance the three drinks between two hands. By the time I look back at him, he's already distracted by Dekka's quiet muttering. Smooth, Edilio. Smooth as sandpaper. I turn away with the drinks and force my way past a swarm of people that seem to have become more pissed since I saw them five minutes ago. Quinn is out of sight, thank God, and when I return to Astrid and Mary, Sam is with them, one arm thrown around his girlfriend. I pass the girls their drinks and nod to Sam in greeting. "Hey, brah," He nods back. He clinks the beer bottle in his other hand against mine as a sign to drink, and the three of us with anything alcoholic comply.

I throw my head back and let the bitter liquid slide down my throat, nearly choking and trying not to show my distaste. Apparently I fail, since Astrid smirks and shouts, "look who the lightweight is now."

"What took you so long by the bar, anyway?" Mary asks me as loudly as she can without the happy couple hearing.

I shrug, resisting a smile. "I ran into a couple of people."

"People you know?" I shake my head. "Oh," She says, her mouth rounding off the syllable. "People you want to know."

"Maybe."

The rest of the night is almost enjoyable, knowing the hot barman's note is crumpled safely in my pocket. By the time I've struggled to finish my beer, Sam presses another into my hand which is a bit nicer than the last. By the time I finish that beer, the flashing lights dim a little and the music is a bit softer and blurred, and I'm almost willing to dance to some kind of rhythm with Mary. She grabs me by the wrist and drags me to a relatively open space as I drink my third beer, which plasters a grin to my face. The fourth triggers Astrid to mutter worriedly in Sam's ear. Before I get to see the barman and his not-girlfriend again, Mary and Astrid are assisting me in my staggering state out of the bar, proving Astrid correct once again.

I wake up on Sam's familiar sofa, with Mary's hair flaming behind her rounded, spotless face in the mid-morning sunlight. She smiles gently, a welcoming greeting compared to the blinding headache that almost knocks me off the sofa. "Good morning," She says softly.

"Mm," I groan in reply.

"I've got you some tablets and water for your head." She nods toward the coffee table. "You never drink, Edilio. The barman must have been a charmer."

You could say that. I'm suddenly reminded of the Post-It in my pocket. I mumble thanks to my best friend and she takes this as a signal to leave. "We'll all be in the kitchen when you come around, Dil."

Once Mary leaves the room I stuff my hand into my pocket, smoothing the scrunched paper between my fingers before unfolding it. An unhastily written mobile phone number boldly sits on the paper. My eyes refocus as I stare and squint upon realizing that there's a word scribbled underneath it.

Not a word. A name. Roger.