Alex had always known he was different from other boys. When he was little, he didn't understand why his father would get mad when he cried, or why he said pink was only for girls.
Colors are colors, he would say to his mother. They're not boy colors or girl colors. They're just colors. And pink is pretty.
She would pat his cheek, mutter something about his father, and pick out shirts for him that were navy blue. Or brown. Or black.
After a while, he learned to stop asking for pink, to stop showing his emotions around his parents, and never to say anything about why he thought he was different. He had figured it out one day on the playground when his mother was talking about how pretty the little girl on the slide was, didn't he think so? He hadn't even noticed her. He was too busy watching her older brother. But he knew from listening to the priest talking at church on Sundays, and his father at the dinner table, that boys liking boys was wrong, so he kept the realization that he liked boys a secret from everyone.
When he wanted to learn music, his father insisted on drums rather than the violin lessons he had hoped for. Fortunately, the drums not only turned out to be fun, they also gave him a way to release the tension he held inside himself all the time. And once he got to high school, being good at them allowed him to become part of Sunset Curve.
For the first time he had friends, but he lived in fear of Luke, Reggie, and Bobby figuring out what he was, that he was different from them. He was sure they would turn him out of the band once they knew. But he also couldn't keep it locked up inside any longer. They were his brothers. He had to tell them. To let them decide if they still wanted him once his secret was out.
And wonder of wonders... not only didn't they care, none of them made a big deal out of it.
Bobby nodded and went back to tuning his guitar. Reggie shrugged, said, "I don't get it, but, hey, it means more ladies for me," then played a long riff on his bass.
Luke didn't say anything, just continued the rehearsal. But the next day after school, the lead singer handed him a paper bag. "I got this for you," he said. "Go on. Open it." It was a pink t-shirt.
Alex thought he was going to cry.
Luke just shoved at his shoulder and smiled.
At first he would only wear the shirt at the garage when they were rehearsing, making sure to change back one into one of the ones his mother picked out before going home. Then one day, after a spectacular rehearsal that went a little later than his curfew, he forgot to change before running out of the door, hoping if he got there quickly enough, his lateness would be forgiven.
When he walked in, chest still heaving, he stammered out an apology.
Eyes narrowing, his father's jaw tightened. "Take that off. No son of mine wears pink like… like a fairy."
Alex looked down, realizing he was still wearing Luke's gift, and could feel his heart pounding in his chest. How could his friends be so accepting while his own family wasn't? He just couldn't do this any more.
He grabbed a handful of the soft, cotton fabric over his stomach, looking down at the warm color covering his chest. He didn't want to give this up. He couldn't give this up. "No." His voice came out like a squeak.
"What did you say to me?" His father's face was turning red. His mother stood behind his father's chair, wringing her hands in a dishtowel, her green eyes, so like his own, mirroring fear.
Anxiety coursing through his veins, Alex looked at his parents and took a breath. "I said no. This is who I am."
His father's expression turned to stone. "The day you turn eighteen, you are out of here. If this is what you are choosing to be... you are no longer our son."
Alex stood for a moment, then went upstairs to his room. Quickly, he packed up some of his clothes – his jean jacket, some pants, his baseball hat, some underwear – he left all the dark colored shirts – and a toothbrush, then walked back downstairs, the overstuffed backpack bouncing against his shins. "I don't think I need to wait until I'm eighteen."
His parents stared at him.
"If you leave this house, don't think you can come back." His father stood, loathing etched in every feature of his face. Behind him, his mother turned away.
"Then I won't," he said, opening the door and walking out into the cooling evening. He walked around aimlessly for a while, losing track of time and place. When he came to himself and looked up, he found the moon high in the night sky. Glancing around him, he found he recognized the houses around him. Without knowing where he was going, he had gone to the garage.
He banged on the door, waking up a very surprised Luke. "Can I stay here? With you?" The shaking he had managed to keep at bay was taking control of his body, the tears he had willed himself not to show to his parents leaking from the corners of his eyes.
Luke opened the door and let him in.
After that, he wore pink as often as he could, collecting a bunch of pink t-shirts and a couple of hooded sweatshirts. He wore other colors, muted tones of gray and sky blue, black jeans, but most often there was something pink. It became his signature look, just as Luke wore a lot of ripped shirts, and Reggie wore a lot of red.
Because it wasn't a boy color or a girl color. It was a color, it was pretty, and it was him.
Note: This is not the story I had set out to write. I did fluffyish one-shots for Luke and Reggie and was intending to do the same for Alex with Willie, but this is what happened instead...