The following morning I didn't get to see Alfred right away. I stayed in bed while listening to Dad getting ready in the bathroom, having his breakfast and then leaving the flat before getting up to go to school. Though I wasn't worried about getting into a fight with him, I wasn't keen on catching his bad mood this early in the morning. Instead I took my time showering and brushing teeth, and I even flossed for five minutes before forcing myself to the bus stop accompanied by Mom's worried mumblings about me being late.

I was late. I was very late. Half an hour into class I found myself stuck in the hallway as Mr Wagner had locked the door and he didn't let me inside until I thoroughly had apologised to the rest of the class for ruining their concentration. I don't think I did much damage – the girls in the back had notes from their friends spread out all over their notebooks and some of the guys were sitting daydreaming and flickering through magazines hidden behind their open school books. My petty apology only made them snicker and for once look up at the blackboard. I think I somehow gained a little respect from them for once being late.

At lunchtime I was heading towards the library to return a book as Alfred caught up with me from behind. He was panting and sweating from having run all over looking for me, and he gave me a worried glare as I finally looked him in the eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked and his hand unwillingly fluttered in the air. I think he wanted to hug my shoulder before reminding himself that we were in public. Instead he bumped his fist to my arm before letting his hand drop.

I shrugged and mumbled: "I guess."

"Why weren't you with the bus this morning?"

"I was, I was just late."

"Okay, why weren't you in your room yesterday?"

"Because I was out looking for you. Why were you in my room?"

"What do you mean?"

We stopped in front of the library and stared at each other. I'd decided to be angry at Alfred, but now, as I was looking at his confused face, I found it hard to keep up this game of play-pretend. Instead I sighed and waved with the book in my hand. "Well, you really upset Mom. She thought I was there as well, but I'd already left looking for you. I knocked on your door and everything."

"Oh man," Alfred mumbled and awkwardly scratched his neck, "that's dumb. I was at yours."

"I know, as said Mom wasn't too happy. She thinks you embarrassed her by showing up with your parents."

"Well, someone had to drive me." We walked into the library together and Alfred watched as I checked in the book. His lips were stretched into an unreadable grimace. "...are you embarrassed?" he asked after a bit of hesitation and I shook my head.

"No. I was angry," I said, but then I quickly assured him: "Not anymore though."

"Oh good!" Alfred breathed relieved.

"But I'm still in trouble," I reminded him and tightened the strap on my back.

Alfred wrinkled his brows and asked: "What kind?" and I started telling him about Dad as we slowly walked back into the hallway and upstairs towards the empty classrooms on the third floor. I told him about how angry he was (but assured him I wasn't beaten, something Alfred seemed to find hard to believe), and I told him about the talk with Mom and how she'd wanted for me to not blame her for anything. For some reason I didn't mention my chat with Scott. I wasn't even sure if I left it out on purpose, but Alfred didn't seem to notice my story lacking a scene. By the time we'd closed the door to a classroom and settled down by the windowsill, he was chewing on a piece of gum with his brows knitted tightly together in ponder.

"Oh wow," he mumbled. I'd just finished my story telling him how Dad had warned me about how there would be consequences if I were to break his rules. That last story had gotten him pretty quiet. "That's a freaky family you've got there."

"I know," I said and glanced outside. Below us was the yard. I watched as some of Alfred's friends played football by the sheds. I didn't know what more to say and I just watched the ball in silence until Alfred's fingers closed around my wrist and he tugged at my arm. As I looked at him, he sent me a faint smile.

"It's going to be okay," he said and I blinked surprised, because he said it so softly and suddenly that it almost didn't make sense in the situation.

"Uh, okay?" I stuttered awkwardly. Alfred let go of my wrist but only to grab my hand between both of his. He gave it a squeeze.

"Really," he said.

I must have stuttered again as I hesitantly breathed: "Why are you saying this?" It was the kind of thing you say to someone who's about to cry. But I wasn't about to cry. It seemed I'd squeezed every ounce of water out my eyes for the past two days and I couldn't manage anymore. I wasn't sad, but I wasn't empty or hollow or something dramatic either. I was just tired of it all and looking for a normal talk, but then Alfred started comforting me in a manner I didn't expect from him. And that's when I realised it; Alfred wasn't comforting me. He was comforting himself.

Surely he was holding my hand and smiling at me, and he wasn't crying either or shaking. But he was looking lost, confused and not very strong. Like that night when Dad barged into our room and demanded that he left. He hadn't said anything about how he felt, but I bet he thought of himself as a coward. Alfred didn't like walking away from fights, his encounters with Scott had surely shown that, and there's no doubt it wouldn't have done any good had he stayed to confront my dad. But he could still be ashamed and he could still be worried. After all I had been living with my parents knowing their weird way of looking at the world and somehow, even though it hurt to realise, I had expected them not to understand my sexuality because they'd never really understood me as a person anyway. But Alfred's parents were loving and understanding. Having a grown man screaming in his face was a new thing for him and as I thought about all of this, I couldn't help but to wrap my arms around him and press my face to his neck.

"I know," I said. "I know it'll all be okay." He rubbed his nose to the top of my ear and his fingers dug into the back of my shirt.

"Yeah. It will, right? I mean-" His voice trailed off and I nodded so that my chin rubbed to his skin before saying:

"Of course it will."


Things were already better in a lot of ways. We spent the break by ourselves in the room just chatting and stealing a kiss now and then, and Alfred's hand had started roaming up and down my back as we suddenly heard students coming running up the stairs to get ready for class. We left in a hurry and both decided to skip the next lecture. Instead we found three other guys from PE who'd done the same and were hiding at the benches outside. We hung out with them like a pair of normal friends hanging out with normal friends, and I felt normal, just like any other teenage guy seeing the end of high school approaching and we chatted about the future as if we could do whatever we wanted to. When Alfred laughed and grinned at me, I felt that maybe we really could do whatever. I came to think of all these books I'd read about people just leaving their old lives behind to go on road trips and find a new way of existing, and I wondered if maybe that's what we could do – get a car, slam on a good CD and just disappear somewhere in England. The thought alone made my heart beat faster.

But before anything else we would first have to get out of school.

As my last class had ended, I found Alfred waiting for me by the gates. He was sitting astride on his bike waving the moment he saw me and I walked over and swung my bag in over the handlebars. He almost dropped his bike at the extra weight. "Thanks asshole," he snorted.

"Are you about to head home?" I asked and he nodded.

"Yeah. Either that or head through town. But I thought I would wait for the bus with you."

"Sure." I popped my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket as we slowly made our way down the street. Alfred was watching the sky and whistling a tune I didn't know. I was watching his face meanwhile. "What do your parents think about all this?" I asked after a bit.

Alfred blinked: "About us?"

"No, about that night with Dad. How much did you tell them?"

"Well..." Alfred seemed to give it a good thought. He was trying to look like he'd just forgotten everything they talked about, but I was sure he was trying to make it sound as innocent as possible not to make me mad. "I told them... Okay, I told them we were tipsy and that your dad caught us kissing. That's it. But of course I was worried if he'd hit you. They didn't think so, but when you didn't pick up, well, even Mom got worried then."

"I can imagine," I mumbled. We'd reached the bus stop and I sat down on the bench as I glared down the road. "And when I wasn't there-?"

"Hmm..." Alfred leaned his bike up against the side of the bench as he took a seat himself. "I mean, they could tell nothing was up. Your mom was normal and everything. She was happy to show us your room and such. We kind of guessed that you'd taken off to see a friend and well, you were," we smiled at each other at that, "but they didn't do more about it."

"They must think we're a messy couple," I said and stretched my arms up high in the air.

Alfred laughed: "They're one themselves!" I was about to ask him why, but then I remembered the long story with Matthew. I decided not to say anything. Instead I kicked the ground. "What do you think would happen if you came home late from school?" Alfred asked as I didn't speak up. His question made me grimace.

"Maybe then he would break both my arms!" It was meant as an exaggerated outburst, but Alfred looked horrified. I rolled my eyes and bumped my shoulder to his. "No, relax," I said and quieted my voice a little. "I don't know, okay? He wouldn't hit me. I hope not anyway. But I don't know what he would do. I really don't."

"Better not find out," Alfred said. "Maybe he won't stay angry for too long." His words were pathetically optimistic, but I just nodded and got up as the bus approached from around the corner.

"Yeah, let's see." But as expected Dad could stay angry for a very long time.


My parents were professionals at keeping the mood at home just a bit too shaky for me to feel safe at any given time. For the next two weeks Dad mastered this skill to perfection; he wouldn't say a single mean word to me, raise his voice or do a threatening gesture, but something about the way he cut his beef at dinner would make me shiver, and the way he told Mom about his good-hearted, manly colleagues made me feel every story from work was a hint of the world being great when I wasn't around.

I tried to be a good boy and I could tell Mom was pleased with me. I did all my homework without any complaints and I went to school every day and came home from school without any delay. Alfred didn't call and I didn't call him, and our flat would have had as much action as a graveside had it not been for the loud films Dad sometimes watched in the evening when he came home from work. He would sit with a can of beer and a smelly shirt on as he watched bad guys being gunned down, all of them being fat, greasy men themselves and looking incredibly much like him. They behaved the same way too. Still he somehow managed to find things about the heroic main character that he could relate to and tell us about. When sitting at the table with Mom flickering through some magazine, he would sometimes loudly state things such as:

"That man takes care of a family, just like myself. And look at how they don't care! It's a wonder how guys like him stay heroes. It takes self control, I'm telling you." Mom wouldn't roll her eyes at him like I did. She would look at her magazine and not say a word, or she would get him another beer and kiss his cheek as if she agreed with everything he said. Sometimes I wondered what was going through her mind when she silently cleaned up after him and popped the empty cans into a big box by the kitchen. I wondered if she regretted having met Dad or if she was just sad she had me with him. Now she was tied to this family and I think she was reaching a point where she liked neither of us. I could often hear her slipping into the bathroom at night just to let the water run. At first I thought she fell asleep out there while trying to wash hands, but soon I figured she was just trying to quiet other sounds. The only sound I could think of was crying. Still I didn't feel bad for her – she'd abandoned me and now Dad had abandoned her through beer and extra hours at work. Maybe she was feeling what it was like to see the world change around you without having any influence on it yourself.

But at school I felt in control. Alfred's friends were my friends, and we all had fun at lunch. Having been out with them for one night had broken down the last wall between us and I didn't feel the least like a stranger when I sat down to eat sandwiches and listen to their stories about hot girls they'd dated and horrible horror films they'd watched. Sometimes they would grin at me and ask if I was dating some hot guy or if I would give one of them a go, and while Alfred got busy choking on his lunch, I would wink at them and ask them to meet me in the locker room at some random time of the day. It always made them laugh. Alfred's laugh was the loudest and most fake of them all, but I don't think the others noticed, not even when he rubbed his red cheeks to get them back to normal. I wondered if he would once reveal himself with his odd behaviour and it made me ponder what the other guys would really say if they found out their gay friend's best mate, straight jock Alfred, too was a fag. The one time I'd asked Alfred when alone with him, he'd not even dared to consider the question.

"No, damn, I don't wanna go there," he'd said with an avoiding tone to his voice.

"I didn't either, but I went," was my reply and he'd bitten his lip and mumbled something about us being different. Though I could've been rightfully insulted, I hadn't been. Our situations were different and even I couldn't deny that. Still I sometimes wished I could just give him a hug because I felt like it without worrying about anyone calling us a bunch of homos.

But things just couldn't run smoothly for me. Even a simple trip to the cinema turned out to be a big deal. It had been Stuart's idea. As class ended Friday afternoon he'd caught up with us by the bus stop together with some redhead I didn't know.

"It's a cool crime story with loads of gunfights," he said as he leaned up against the bench and gestured with his right hand as he talked. Alfred's eyes had immediately widened at the mention of guns – he loved anything on TV which involved people dying. "The tickets are cheap. You've got to come."

"I'll go," Alfred said and then he looked at me and snapped his fingers as he remembered. "Oh..."

"Yeah, I'm not sure," I said and smiled a little at Stuart and his friend.

"Why not?" the redhead asked. I wanted to tell them some awful lie about guests being over for dinner and me having promised Mom to be home in time to change, but of course Alfred had to chirp:

"He's in trouble with his dad," which made me look like a douche.

"With your dad?" Stuart asked and raised his brows. In my memory I noted to kick Alfred the next time I got the chance. For now I glared at him as I took in a deep breath and slowly nodded.

"Yeah, I... broke the telly."

"Wow, how?" The redhead was laughing.

I shrugged and smiled: "I was watching it one night. The whole night. It was an old one so I guessed it got overheated or something. It broke down. He's angry at me, so when he can't have fun watching telly, I can't have fun hanging out with friends," I slickly lied, but Stuart just shook his head.

"Who cares! Come on. It's two hours. You can just say you had to stay doing some homework or whatever."

"He won't believe that," I said and started getting up as the bus showed up down the road.

"Oh, come on," Stuart repeated.

They were all looking at me. Alfred was giving me an apologetic glance. Stuart and his friend were waving their brows encouragingly. I was unsure and it made my heart start beating faster. I could even feel how a vessel in my neck started pulsating. My brain was telling me to go home and be bored in my room, but somehow my lips moved and shaped the words:

"Okay then."

"Yes!" Stuart grinned.

"Really?" Alfred asked and I looked at him and shrugged.

"Yeah. Okay. It'll be fine," I said though I felt as worried as he looked. But the moment Stuart patted my back and started telling me in details just how great this storyline was, I forgot all about Dad and just happily followed them to the cinema, and I thought to myself: it can't be too bad! But the movie was horrible. And Dad was even worse.


I didn't even have to walk upstairs to our flat to know something was wrong. As I came running from the bus stop with my bag bouncing up and down my back, I could tell from far away that something had been placed in front of our complex. "Damn," I mumbled even before I got to see what it was but as I reached the bin and the stuff spread around it, I gasped a wholeheartedly: "Fuck!"

There were some of my books on art scattered all over the asphalt. They appeared to have been carried down the stairs and carelessly thrown from the doorway. Some of them were wet from a shower that had passed by as we were in the cinema, others looked to be okay. As I started collecting the most damaged of them, I noticed a few broken CDs in between them and a single notebook filled with drawings sticking out from the bin. I desperately grabbed at it and ripped it free. It had been stuck between the body and the lid of the bin and as I got it loose, the lid popped off and revealed something of much more value to me.

I gawked at the bomber jacket that had been stuffed down on top of all the garbage. There was my childhood memory covered in a partly eaten banana and some liquids I didn't want to know what were, and I dropped everything else I'd been holding onto and grabbed at the sleeve of it as I pulled it out. It was ruined; nothing had been torn apart, but the smell was of the kind that'll never leave a fabric and the fur around the top was sticky and had been rubbed shapeless. Somehow all the books and CDs didn't matter even half as much as the jacket. Seeing it in this state felt like getting a punch in the gut – it was as if all air left my lungs and I had to remind myself to breathe. Despite not having worn it for years, I suddenly felt a sting of pain in my heart and I hugged the jacket to my chest as I hurried inside and upstairs. With every step I took, I could feel my cheeks getting more and more flustered and my body burning with anger. This could only be the work of one man and all I could think was: how dares he! How dared he grab my stuff and throw it out as if it meant nothing? As I flung the front door open, I shouted:

"What is your fucking problem!"

The flat was relatively quiet. As I stomped down the hallway fuming, I finally heard the low sound of a radio playing and peeked out into the kitchen. Dad was sitting out there sipping his coffee with a calm look on his face and he didn't even flinch as I swung the jacket down onto the table in front of him. I took in a deep, shaky breath.

"How dare you!" I whispered angrily and Dad looked at me unimpressed.

"Go to your room."

"This is my stuff!" I shouted and slapped the jacket to mark my point. Dad leaned back in his chair and folded his arms as I continued: "You can't just throw it out!"

"I told you that if you were late, there would be consequences," he simply stated as if he'd done nothing wrong. It only made me even more upset. He was sitting there like a king watching a hopeless subject screaming for justice, and it made me angry that he couldn't even man up to show anger by my outburst. Did my emotions mean that little to him?

"What kind of bullshit is this?" I hissed and grabbed at the jacket. I almost shoved it in his face to make him see it better, but he slapped my hand out of the way and stood up.

"Don't make a scene."

"Easy for you to say!"

"Go to your room," he repeated, "I didn't throw out all your stuff."

"It doesn't matter!" I yelled. I'd dropped the jacket to the floor and it was now the only thing between us as we stood facing each other. Three weeks ago we stood at the exact same spots and back then Dad had been a roaring giant. Now he was just a stone statue waiting for me to be done with bothering him. "It's that you took any of my stuff, that you dared to-"

"I'm your dad!" he interrupted me. "I can do what fits me. This is not a debate, Arthur! This is simple parenting. Go to your room!"

"No I won't!" I screamed at him and felt my voice softening up shortly with a sob. Dad looked almost smug as that happened.

"Are you going to stand there crying now?"

"No I'm not!"

"Then what?"

"I don't know what then!" He was carefully pressing every button in me that had 'angry' written all over it. It was as if he wanted to see how far he could push me. It was like being in some form of sick therapy. I glared down at the jacket and grabbed it off the floor. "This means something to me," I said, my voice a bit shaken. I couldn't even shout. My lungs were burning and as painful as had I run a marathon in the last five minutes. Dad crossed his arms again.

"I know, because of him."

"I don't care what it's because of, it's mine. It's my stuff," I said and gritted my teeth together. I really did feel like crying. But I couldn't do it just yet. Dad was watching me closely.

"Everything in my home is mine," he said.

"Well, then maybe I don't want to live in this home!" I replied hastily.

Dad shrugged: "Fine. You can leave." And I tightened my grip around the jacket a bit more. I glared at him. I wasn't sure if he was joking, because he was acting way too calm. As he noticed my look, he added: "When you're here, you follow my rules. If you don't like them, you can live somewhere else."

"As if you wouldn't care," I said breathlessly and Dad sharply replied:

"I don't. The son I have won't break my rules." As he said it he glared at me with such harsh eyes that I knew exactly what to do. I should feel defenceless and horrified, but those last words he spoke made everything clear to me.

So I put on the jacket and wrapped the fabric around me as I said: "Fine. I'll leave," and I could tell the slight surprise in his eyes as I turned around and headed for the door. Soon he followed me.

"Where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" I spat and glared over my shoulder back at him. I was about to put on my shoes, but then I realised I'd been wearing them the whole time. Instead I opened the door and quickly marched out and jumped down the stairs.

"Good!" Dad shouted. "You can come back when you've gotten some sense in your head!" I landed on the ground floor and leaned back as I shouted.

"If I have sense, I stay away!" But he'd already closed the door. I was standing alone in the stairway wearing Alfred's jacket, and it was smelling so bad that I had to take it off the moment I was sure Dad wasn't going to come out again. Instead I dropped it to the floor and sat down on the last step as I rested my head between my hands and tried to understand what had just happened. My pulse was still beating out of control and it was making it hard for me to collect my thoughts, but one thing was clear; I couldn't go back. Maybe tomorrow or the day after, but going back up now would be like admitting defeat, and watching the jacket on the floor reminded me that he'd beaten me up so much emotionally that I would be a coward not to fight back. But I wasn't even 18 years old. What could I do? The fantasies about road trips were just that, fantasies. They weren't real. I would need money and some talent to make it in the big world, and right now I hadn't even finished high school. I could do nothing. I felt like a child.

"But you're not a child," I mumbled and forced myself to stand up. I picked up the jacket, swung it in over my shoulder and walked out. The books were still laying scattered all over and the CDs were still broken and the jacket still reeked, and I gritted my teeth together and slammed the jacket back on top of the bin before making my way back towards the bus stop. I told myself it was all just stuff and that things don't matter. I told myself that an adult has to let go of the past to see the future ahead. But as I got on the bus without Alfred's jacket, I still wept in the back while wondering where my childhood went.


Author note: Hey guys, sorry the chapter is rather short this time, but I haven't had much time on my hands lately. I wasn't even supposed to be writing on this, but somehow I ended up doing it anyway. It hasn't been proofread (I'm painfully aware it'll show), but please bear with me. I don't have much time on my hands to get anything done. I'm sorry it's like that, but what to do, eh?

Thanks for all your lovely reviews! Some of you have been messaging me and it's always nice to hear from you, but if you need to get in touch with me quickly, please use Tumblr - I'm only online in here when I upload a chapter and, as you know, it doesn't happen all that often! I check Tumblr every day, though.

Have a nice weekend and see you at some point. Stay supreme.