"What have you done?"

Five seconds and he already wanted to throw his phone out of the window. He took a deep breath.

"What?"

"Well, this is the second time you've called in a week. Are you in trouble, or do you want money?"

"No, Mom, it's not that-"

"Well, what is it? I know you haven't knocked anyone up; have you caught something?"

"Like what? You think I go around catching syphilis because I'm gay?"

"Not because you're… gay," her voice was dripping with contempt, struggling even to say the word, "because you're… you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know."

"No, I don't. Why don't you enlighten me?" He felt his nostrils flaring. He had to stay calm.

She sighed. Apparently even this level of politeness was exhausting for her.

"Because, Sebastian, you're a slut. We both know it."

He was stunned into silence for a minute. He didn't think she even knew the word 'slut', but he wouldn't be surprised if she'd learnt it just to use it against him. He tried to calm himself down.

"Can I talk to Dad?"

"He's busy."

He took a deep breath. All he could do was ask. He had to try.

"Mom, please… can I talk to her?"

"No."

"I know she's there, Mom."

"It's none of your business where she is. I told you, she's no longer your concern."

"What do you think's going to happen? You think Grace is going to turn into a filthy whore like me? Or do you think I'm going to turn her gay? Because trust me, if she winds up liking girls it will not be my fault. I think Dad's pretty over-zealous in that department, maybe you shouldn't let him talk to her either-"

"Sebastian-"

"Oh, I get it. You think if I talk to her, if you let the depraved homo corrupt your little girl then maybe she'll realise what a bitch you are. Maybe she'll finally learn to hate you."

"I don't have to listen to this, Sebastian. I can hang up whenever I want. You say what you have to say to me, or not at all."

He panicked.

"No, Mom, I… I'm done."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm done here. I want to go back."

"To Paris? I thought you hated it."

"Turns out this is worse." He wasn't lying. It was awful here. Even when it was good, it was bad. He cared about it too much. The last thing he'd cared about this much was his sister, and he'd been torn away from her. He had that same feeling in his stomach he used to have when he picked Grace up from school and she screamed when she saw him and flew into his arms and her hair went up his nose and she would ignore all of her friends because her big brother was there.

That was the only time he'd really been happy at home: when his parents would work late and he got to look after her every day. They would cook dinner together and he'd help with her homework and he'd read Artemis Fowl to her and do awful Irish accents: 'but you have to do it, Bash! Dad doesn't do it right!' 'Sebastian' was a bit of mouthful for a two-year-old with a lisp, so she started calling him 'Bashun'. Over time it shortened to 'Bash', and that stuck.

She was the first person he came out to. They were watching Aladdin, her favourite, and she was snuggled against him on the sofa. He was fifteen, and she was seven. He paused the movie, but she didn't protest. She knew he wouldn't stop in the middle of the best song for no good reason.

"Gracie, have you ever liked a boy before?"

She didn't even move her eyes from the screen.

"No. I hate boys."

"Hey!"

"You don't count. You're different."

"Because I'm your big brother?"

"Yes. You're not one of those dumb boys that pull my hair and shout and get muddy all the time."

"Oh, really?"

He yanked on one of the scrappy plaits he's done for her. He was hopeless at it, but she refused to let her mother do them. She slapped his hand off and shifted away from him, but only a couple of inches. She lifted her legs up so her feet were resting on his lap and turned to face him.

"Fine, I hate you too. You're just a big stupid boy like them."

"Right. The thing is… I think I am different to other boys."

"Because you're bigger?"

"No, I mean boys my age. I think I'm different to them… because I like boys."

"But all boys like boys. They always play together, just like I play with girls. Except they get dirtier."

Sebastian smiled at her. This was why he knew he could tell her before anyone else. It didn't matter what he did, he'd always be her big brother.

"That's a good point. But you know how when kids get older, they start liking people in a different way? Like, boys and girls? Like Aladdin and Jasmine?"

Grace wrinkled her nose.

"Yeah. It's gross."

"You know what? I think you may be onto something there."

"Bash, you haven't got a girlfriend have you?"

She hated the idea of sharing him with another girl.

"No, Gracie. You're the only lady for me," she beamed up at him, "the thing is; I like boys like that."

"Like what?"

"You know…" he tried to think like a seven-year-old, "I like them like them."

"So you've got a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend?"

"No. But I could. Some day. I mean, sometimes boys like boys and girls like girls. Do you understand that?"

"I only like you. I like you whoever you like. But not a girlfriend."

He grinned.

"OK, Gracieface, no girlfriends. I promise."

"Good. Now press play, this is the bit where Abu steals the man's sword…"

He looked at her and pulled her close so that she was leaning on his chest again.

"Grace?"

She rolled her eyes, not as subtly as she thought. He was killing the tension, and this was her favourite part.

"What?"

He stroked her hair gently as her head rose and fell with his breathing.

"I love you."

She looked up shyly, frowning at him. He didn't usually talk so seriously. It was as if he'd told her something big and important. She was worried for a second, but she saw that he was smiling. It couldn't be that bad. She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek.

"Love you too, Bash," she said, beaming, before snuggling back down next to him.

She fell asleep before the movie was over. He carried her to bed, tucked her in and kissed her on the head. That night was the first time he went to a gay bar. It was also the night he lost his virginity. He knew he couldn't tell his parents, but as long as Grace didn't mind, he didn't feel ashamed. He started going out more regularly, learning techniques, knowing what his assets were. He endured Sunday Roasts, their only family tradition which was always hopelessly tense, sharing secret glances with Grace, gritting his teeth every time his parents made some kind of homophobic slur. He hadn't realised how often they did it, sometimes with nothing more than a glance, but it seemed to be snuck into every conversation they ever had: 'I heard he's a…' with a furtive, wide-eyed nod, a raised eyebrow, judging people he thought they'd always liked purely on who they had sex with. Why couldn't they be like Grace? Why couldn't they see it didn't make a difference? It didn't matter; now he had a way to work out his frustrations. It didn't always feel good, but it always felt like he was beating them. If he could do this, be this without them knowing, he was winning. After all, he still had his little sister.

One dinner, things changed.

"I mean, can you believe it? Everyone's just acting like it's fine!"

"And nobody's intervening? Nobody's trying to stop it?"

"I guess they're just giving kids away now. There are so many they can't afford to be fussy. All these teenagers sleeping around, not knowing what they're getting into, of course there are going to be babies nobody wants, so they give them to the gays."

Sebastian was leaning over and cutting Grace's meat up for her. She noticed him doing it more vigorously than usual. Seven-year-olds notice more than people give them credit for.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Grace? Elbows off the table."

"What's a gay?"

Oh no. Please don't say anything, Gracie. Please, just this once, don't be perfect and honest. Just be quiet.

Their mother put her hand over Grace's.

"Well, sweetheart…"

"Helen, are you sure about this?"

"No, Mark, she should know. She needs to be prepared to face this kind of thing. Grace, you know how your father and I got married and decided to have children, because that's what people do. Boys find wives, and girls find husbands. Someday you will marry a nice boy, and Sebastian will convince some stupid girl to see past his… issues." Grace scrunched her face up in confusion and annoyance. She wasn't exactly sure what she was talking about, but it sounded mean. She looked at Sebastian, whose wide eyes were pleading with her. She looked back to her mother, and slid her hand away from her and onto her lap. She wasn't going to touch her as long as she was upsetting Sebastian. "Well, some boys and girls get confused. It's like they're sick. They think they can get married to someone the same as them. Can you imagine that? Boys liking boys? Children having two daddies?"

"Why not?"

"Because it's wrong. It's not a real marriage. Those people are ill, darling."

"But Seb's not sick."

He closed his eyes. If he couldn't see his parents' expressions, maybe they wouldn't be there. His father's voice was slow. He spoke deliberately.

"Grace, what do you mean by that?"

"Sebastian doesn't want a girlfriend. He wants a boyfriend. He likes boys, but he's not sick. He's fine, and he looks after me. If I had two dads like Bash, I don't think I'd mind."

"Sebastian? Would you like to explain to your little sister that she's got it wrong? Boys like girls, don't they?"

He spoke so slowly, so firmly, with such silent rage. Sebastian looked at his father. He stared him dead in the eyes. He was never going to get a better opportunity than this. He looked back to Grace, who looked scared for him and she wasn't the only one.

"No. Sometimes people just like other people, whether they're boys or girls, and Grace, whoever you want to love, it's fine. You should try your best to be happy however you can."

"Sebastian. She's seven. What are you doing?"

"I'm being honest, Dad. Some boys do like boys. I like boys. I like boys and men and I like kissing them and touching them and doing a lot of other stuff with them. I'm gay."

"No you're not."

"Grace," Helen interrupted, "why don't you help me… make drinks?"

"We've got drinks. Mom, why's Bash upset? Why are you angry with him?"

"He's being silly. He's making things up to upset your father and me. He's lying, Grace."

He looked at his sister desperately. I'd never lie to you, Gracie, you know that.

"No he's not. Why can't he like boys? Why are you being so mean to him?"

"I'm not talking to you about this. You're too young to understand. Sebastian, we will discuss this later."

They ate their meal in silence. When Grace was in bed but wide awake, they had a screaming match. Helen threw things. Mark stewed quietly. Sebastian fluctuated between shouting and crying. He was angry that they could be so ridiculously out of touch, that anyone could still think the way they did when someone as young as Grace could just accept anything. He was furious that they'd tried to make her think he'd lied and that they didn't even apologise for saying what they'd said about countless other gay people right in front of him, but more than that he was just sad. He'd made himself completely vulnerable to them. At fifteen, he'd finally told them the secret that had been eating him up inside, and they were treating him like some kind of deviant. All he wanted was for his parents to give him a hug and tell him they loved him and go back to normal. They were supposed to make him feel safe, but he remembered he'd never really had that with them.

They didn't have to do anything. They could have just smiled and said nothing at all. All they had to do was be his mother and father, the way mothers and fathers were supposed to be, but instead his mother was yelling at him and his father was staring at the table, unable to make eye contact with him.

"Do you have any fucking idea what this is going to do to us? You think my friends won't find out? My colleagues? My reputation, everything I've worked for my whole life, and suddenly you decide to stomp in and wreck it?"

He didn't even bother to argue that he hadn't decided anything, and that it would affect his reputation too and that he was scared of this but he couldn't fight it. He knew she wouldn't listen. He was tired of arguing. He leaned against the wall, defeated.

"Mark! Will you say something, instead of sitting on your ass like nothing's wrong?"

Mark's fingers were interlocked on the table. He stared straight ahead, as if he was formulating a plan.

"You need to leave."

Sebastian's head flicked around to face him. His voice cracked.

"What?"

"We'll… we'll find you a school somewhere. Somewhere out of temptation's way." Sebastian knew what that meant: out of their way. Out of their sight. "I've got a friend who runs a boarding school in Paris. A year or two abroad, that's what you need. It'll help you grow up. Get these ideas out of your head."

"Dad, they're not ideas, it's not going to change anything -"

"You're in no position to argue, Sebastian. You're the one who has made things difficult, and you'll do what I say."

"Mom? Is this what you want?"

"I want you out. I don't want to look at you, if that's what you do with your time. I want you far away."

It dawned on him that he was going whether he liked it or not.

"So you're just kicking me out? You're kicking me out because I'm gay?"

"Don't use that word. You're confused. You're young. We'll give it a year. It's not like you'll be on the street; it's a fine institution. I'll make some calls tomorrow and you can leave as soon as next week."

A quiet voiced piped up from around the door into the kitchen.

"Sebastian? Are you leaving?" Grace's eyes were red and her cheeks were glossy with tears. She tugged on the sleeve of her light blue pyjamas, wiping her nose on it. He looked at her, turning his back on his parents. She instinctively ran towards him and he caught her, picking her up and balancing her on his hip and letting her nuzzle against his neck. He didn't know what to say. He wanted to promise he wasn't going anywhere, but he knew it would be a lie. He stroked her hair and tried not to make it too obvious that he was crying, but it was impossible. He fought for breath, swallowing hard and staring at his parents in disbelief. He was hit by one realisation after another: Not only were they making him move schools and leave his friends, they were tearing him away from his little sister. This wasn't about their reputations anymore; it was about protecting their baby from him. It was as if he was unfit to take care of her, even to be around her, in case he somehow rubbed off on her. Suddenly years of helping feed her and do her hair and teach her maths and do the funny voices and walk her home from school meant nothing. Being her big brother, the one thing about himself he really liked, meant nothing.

He held her tight, rubbing her back soothingly. He didn't know what else to do. He cried silently into her unruly hair, forcing out the occasional 'shh'. It was more for himself than her. He didn't want to say anything to make it worse. Nothing made him more miserable than hearing Grace crying but he didn't want her to be quiet. He didn't know how long he had left to listen to her voice.

"Mom? Who's on the phone?"

He knew that voice. It had changed; it was older, but it was definitely her.

"It's nobody, darling."

"It's him, isn't it?"

"Yes, Gracie! It's me!" he shouted, "Mom, please give her the phone! Just for five minutes – I just want to hear her voice."

"Sorry, Grace, he has to go in a minute. He's just telling me he wants to go back to Paris."

She was practically whispering.

"Again? Mom, why can't he come home? I miss him. He didn't even remember my birthday; what if he's forgotten about me?"

He closed his eyes and he leaned his forehead on his palm. He knew she wouldn't give her the card. He wasn't surprised when it came back to him, just like the others. He knew the photo of the two of them, neatly framed and messily wrapped, would go straight in the garbage. That didn't make it any less of a kick in the chest to hear her sad little voice. She may have been older, but she was still only ten. He'd always hoped she would know better - that he would never forget about her - but it had been three years. How long was she supposed to hold on for?

"Mom, why are you doing this? I can't even see her, and I know she's upset. I just want to ask how she is." His voice was weak. He'd already lost and he could feel it. He felt a weight in his stomach, pulling him into defeat. "Please, Mom. I'll go back to Paris, just like you wanted me to, and I'll be out of your way. Five minutes."

There was a pause. Was she considering it? Was there any chance he might actually get to talk to Grace? He held his breath.

"No, darling, it's fine. I don't want to keep you. Sorry, Grace, your brother has to go. Don't worry, Sebastian, we'll have you back in France in a week. I know how much you miss it. Grace will understand."

"Mom…" he started to argue, but he gave up. He'd given up on Grace a year ago. He'd only seen her at Christmas, when they were at their grandparents' house and were kept at opposite ends of the table. He'd tried to get eye contact with her, but she obviously thought he'd let her down. Every time she looked at him, she would look broken and turn to her mother, who gave her the signature comforting pat on the hand. He'd kept his promise and written to her every week, knowing his mother would send every letter straight back. He knew what she'd be saying about him. Probably the same things the Warblers would be saying about him to Ned. At home there was Grace, and here there was Ned, but in Paris there was nobody. At least then he would have nothing to lose. "Fine. Thanks. Tell Grace… tell her I'm sorry."

"Sweetheart, he says he's sorry. He just needs to go. Say goodbye." She held the phone up to Grace.

"Goodbye, Sebastian." She sounded heartbroken. She never called him Sebastian. He didn't say anything; his throat had closed up. Tears spilled over his cheeks, burning into his skin. He pressed the phone to his ear, savouring the traces of her voice that he could still hear as she whimpered to their mother. "Why doesn't he want to talk to me?"

"He has a lot of work to do, darling, and he needs to start packing and saying his goodbyes."

He had already said it; he had already given up. He hung up and let his phone drop to the floor. He looked around his room and took a deep breath. He opened his wardrobe to start emptying it, but as soon as he'd pulled the door close to him, he couldn't let go of it. He gripped harder and harder onto the edge, pressing his head against the inside, his breath coming in short bursts. He slid down gradually, screwing his face up and squeezing his eyes shut, and turning in until he was sitting on the floor of the cupboard. He yanked at a sweater and it fell from the hanger into his lap, and he buried his face in it. He felt tiny. His breath was falling out of him with each sob faster than he could suck it back in, and he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

At least while he was at Dalton, having feelings wasn't quite so weird. He made the most of it, because he knew where he was going, this kind of outburst wouldn't be allowed. And the wardrobes were too small to hide in.