WARNING: This chapter contains some content and language that may be considered inappropriate for younger readers. Following chapters may contain content that is suggestive or sexual in nature. If you are uncomfortable with this, I advise you to seek entertainment elsewhere.

Author's Note ~

'Thank you for taking the time to read this, my first story to be published here. I encourage you to review and supply constructive criticism, good or bad, being I am not used to writing fan fiction. I have written many original stories before but this is one of my first works to include the ideas and characters of another.

The protagonist is Pierre, an overconfident, slightly snobbish food critic. This story is about realizing that one is gay - about dealing with the denial, shock, depression, and (sadly, in only a few cases) eventual acceptance that comes with it. I'm not going to lie and say this all came out of my imagination; most of the events and dialogue - sometimes down to the exact quote - came from my own experiences, what I went through in a similar period in my life. Though there may be some sexual material in later chapters, I assure you that I only included it to portray realistically what a person goes through in times like this.

This story is more for myself than anyone else. I hope you enjoy it - or not. In the end, you are the only one that can make that decision.'

~Tobi


Jerking violently awake and smacking his hand painfully on the nightstand, Pierre uttered a sharp cry, followed by a few quick labored breaths. Sweat beaded his forehead and chest, causing his pale skin to glisten in the moonlight that streamed through the window above his bed. His eyes were rimmed with tears as he brought his slightly bleeding hand up to his mouth to suck on it. He had hit the corner just right, tearing a small gash on one of the fingers. He lay back down with a thud, blonde hair matted with the sweat on his neck and face. 'That didn't just happen... not again,' he thought, closing his eyes as relief washed over him. 'It was just a dream.' A chill spread through his entire body, and he sat back up the pull the drapes over the window before laying back down. Pulling the covers over his head, he couldn't help but think, 'But it had felt so real...'

He began to shudder uncontrollably, and wiped desperately at his eyes. Why was he having these feelings? He hadn't had a dream like this since he was fourteen... Did Natalie have anything to do with it? Burying his head in his pillow, his mind drifted back to the starry night festival last week.

Natalie had knocked on his door the day before, asking if he had a date - he had shifted from foot to foot, his mind racing, trying to think of possible excuses. Before he could answer, she had said, "Great, I'll be here at seven!" and ran back home, eyes sparkling. As if that hadn't been bad enough, as she was leaving his house after their dinner she had leaned in close to him, eyes closed. Instead of kissing her as she expected him to do, Pierre stammered something about having to get back to work and slammed the door in her face. Afterward he slumped with his back against the door and slid to the floor, hands covering his face. She had been giving him all the signals, but why didn't he feel anything towards them? Her hand on his made him jerk back. Her leg touching his almost made him want to retch. There was no way this could be normal for a man his age. Hell, most guys his age were chasing any girl that came their way.

Maybe he'd just been alone too long. Yeah. He was focusing too hard on his cooking, that was all. All he needed to do was give it a rest; take a break for a week or so. Then it should be all better. Yeah. He wouldn't have to worry...

Why was he doubting all this? He was trying his hardest to persuade himself that there was nothing wrong with him, that he was perfectly normal. Deep down, he knew he was lying to himself.

_____________

Pierre thought back to when he was in seventh grade, attending a top-notch private school to "sharpen his already hereditary intellect", as his father used to say. He remembered Ryan... his best friend and fellow classmate, with his soft green eyes and short, spiked red hair. Not long after he met Ryan he had the dream. One not too different than the one that was plaguing him right then.

In the dream, they were both sitting on Ryan's bed, laughing about something a girl in their class had worn to school a few days before and playing on Ryan's new Playstation. Suddenly, the room went dark and the system shut down. A power-out. "Damnit," Ryan muttered, putting down his controller and grimacing at the blank television. "What are the odds of this happening ten minutes after I turn the damn thing on?" Pierre was fighting back laughter, his friend's irritated expression nearly cracking him up. Ryan had a tendency to get angry easily, then get over it almost as fast. True to his nature, Ryan began laughing too, and smacked Pierre playfully on the shoulder, knocking him onto his back.

He fell over himself laughing so hard, and the two of them rolled around on the bed, neither of them sure what they were even laughing about. Pierre accidentally elbowed Ryan in the ribs, and before long that turned into an all-out wrestling match. After a few minutes Pierre rolled off the bed and, not willing to let go, pulled Ryan down as well. After a few more moments of chuckling, the room grew silent. Ryan was lying on top of Pierre, their chests pressed together, each feeling the warmth of the other's breath on their neck. They stared into each-other's eyes, and Pierre felt an odd, warm sensation spread through his entire body. The rest happened so fast; Ryan's lips pressed up against his, their hands exploring each other's bodies. Up until the point where Pierre began to fell an unpleasant tightening in his pants that made him squirm uncomfortably. His next breath shuddered out of him as he looked down and noticed a bulge between his legs.

It was at this moment that he remembered waking up, sweating and panting, just like that night. He lifted up the covers to see that the unusual bulge in his pants hadn't been just a dream; he had gotten his first "morning wood," as some of the older boys in his class would have called it. Of course, since no one had ever taken the time to explain such things to young Pierre, he proceeded to panic and called for Sebastian, the family servant. "Yes, Master Pierre?" called the familiar voice from the doorway. Pierre began to blurt out that he had woken up with it, not mentioning the dream. The look on Sebastian's face almost made him want to laugh even in a time like this. "In a moment, Master Pierre - I'm off to get your father. I feel he should be the one to explain such things to you."

His father explained it, all right. In fact, went into such detail that Pierre began to squirm around in bed, getting more and more nauseous the more his father talked. Surprisingly, his father asked him about the dream. As Pierre opened his mouth, his father cut him off, saying, "Now now, I guess you don't have to explain if you don't want to. It's perfectly normal for a young boy to have dreams about girls," He laughed, and clapped his son on the back. "Now get back to sleep. You still have about two and a half hours before you have to get up, might as well use it. Sounds like you've had quite the night as is, hah!"

As his father closed the door behind him, Pierre thought, 'Girls?'

Confused, he brought the question up at breakfast. His mother dropped her fork and uttered a small cry, before regaining her composure and excusing herself. His father stared wide-eyed at his son, mouth slightly agape, the hand clenching his spook shaking uncontrollably. "What?"

Pierre bit his lip and looked down. He knew he shouldn't have said anything.

"What!?"

His father stood up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before grabbing young Pierre by the hair and dragging him upstairs to his study. Once there, he sat down in his patent leather reading chair and forced Pierre to stand before him, scared and whimpering. A hand on each of his son's shoulders, he spat, "What did you just say, boy?" When he didn't answer, he shook him violently. "I asked you a question!"

"I said R-Ryan was in my dream, n-not any g-"

His father shook him again, harder this time. "Listen to me!" he shouted, then bit his lip and lowered his voice, moisture collecting in the corners of his eyes. "Listen to me... it doesn't matter what or who you dreamed of, son. We are not going to talk about this ever again. We are not going to tell anyone about this, okay?" A stray tear broke free and rolled down his cheek. "Okay, son?"

Pierre nodded, the sight of his father crying forcing him to burst into tears himself. He had done something horribly, horribly wrong - it was written all over his father's face, and would forever be burned into his memory. He started sobbing, and his father pulled him in close, wrapping his arms around him in a bear hug. He relaxed his hold, and gave his son a kiss on the forehead - the only time Pierre could ever recall his father kissing him. "I'm sorry, dad, I-I-I'm sorry-" he sniveled through the tears.

"It's okay son..." he said softly. "I-I... I love you. Don't you ever forget that. Every time you feel... these things towards another m-m-m-m..." he sighed, and looked away. "another man, just do whatever you can to ignore them. They're unholy. They're unholy, and they'll be the end of you. No son of mine is gonna be a damn fag, okay son?"

Pierre looked up, two matching pairs of purple eyes gazing into one another. "I promise."

_____________

He was crying now, the tears rolling silently down his face. He rolled over in bed and covered his head with the pillow, burying his face in the sheet. His tears turned into whimpers, and those into sobs that wracked his entire body. Sobbing uncontrollably now, he screamed into his pillow and banged his hurt hand against the headboard, tearing the cut open further. A thin trail of blood traveled down the length of his arm, cutting a red path through the pale white of his skin and oozing onto the sheet. He was determined to do anything - anything - to keep his mind off of all this. If he couldn't reason with it, he would block it out of his mind and refuse to think about it. He was Pierre, his father's son. And he would never do anything to disgrace him.

He would never do anything to hurt him like that again.

'I am not a fag.'

"I am not a fag!"

'Well, I hope you liked it. The next chapter will be much longer, so it might take a week or two... I dunno. I'm not really happy with this one. I think its a little too short and melodramatic, and I really haven't focused on denial so much as Pierre's past. There will be at least four chapters including this one, each one focusing on a different emotion as he goes through this. I may or may not make it longer, depending on how lazy I am. Heh.'

~Tobi