TWs: Homophobic/verbal abuse from a parent (beginning of chapter), some low self-esteem, and non-graphic mentions of 9/11 (toward the end of the chapter).

Leaving university was akin to the bubble in which Trent had been living and loving in not just being popped, but obliterated.

The security of a classroom surrounded by encouraging peers and a supportive boyfriend were traded in for rejection after rejection after rejection from every publication Trent applied for an entry level position at.

"I don't get it," Trent said one Sunday night at a family dinner. "I nail every interview and I know my writing samples are solid… but I never get to the second round. I have newspaper and magazine experience. I've won bloody awards! It doesn't make sense." He ran both his hands through his hair and stared at his plate of half-eaten homemade fish and chips, hoping to find an answer somewhere in the heavily battered cod.

Trent's dad picked up his water glass and let out a solitary condescending chuckle before taking a sip. "Do you show up looking like that?"

Trent's eyebrows furrowed as he looked up at his dad and then down at the open flannel shirt, t-shirt, and jeans he was wearing. "What? No. I wear a tie and a button up. Sometimes a blazer."

"Is the shirt white, lad? Is the blazer black or gray or brown? If you show up there with your loud colors and your floppy hair, of course no one's going to want you being their reporter."

A very pregnant Allie immediately glared at her dad while her brother practically folded in on himself. "You've no right to talk to him like that!"

"I'm his father. I'll talk to him any way I damn well please," he replied as he pointed at Trent. "You're mental if you think you get a job based on merit alone. Never mind the fact that there's no gay sports writers. Why do you think that is? You're so insistent on writing about what you want to write about. But who's gonna let you in their locker room, eh?"

Trent's entire face burned as he clenched his hands in his lap.

"Gerald, stop," pled Trent's mom softly. Eliza Crimm knew her husband meant well, but could see he was upsetting their only son.

"It's okay, Mum," Trent said evenly as he got up from the table and pushed in his chair. "Thank you for dinner. I'm gonna head home."

"This is your home, boy," Gerald said.

"My home is with Thomas, and, as you can see, he's not here," Trent said as he grabbed his jacket from a chair in the living room. "I wonder why."

"Trent, wait…" Eliza said as she bolted from her seat in time enough to catch up to her son before he walked out the door. She threw her arms around him and held on tight, stroking his hair. "He didn't mean it like that. He loves you."

"I can't keep doing this," Trent said, tears in his eyes. "I know I'm trying for the impossible here, but would it kill him to believe in me for once?"

"He knows you're the best writer there ever was and anyone would be lucky to have you." Eliza held her son out at arm's length. "He just doesn't want to see you get hurt, love."

Trent choked out a heartless scoff laugh. "What he says hurts me. How he says it is even worse. And I don't want to hear about how I need to toughen up or stop being so sensitive about it." He yanked on his jacket, one arm at a time. "Him not disowning me for being gay isn't love, Mum, it's the absolute fucking minimum level of decency. Him going on about how no one's gonna want a gay man in locker rooms doesn't mean that I should be left out of anything. It means that the rest of you lot need to catch up to the times. I'm tired of being treated like an outlier in my own family." Trent kissed his mum on her cheek. "I'm not coming here next weekend. But I'll call, all right? I love you."

Eliza was in tears when her son left the home he had grown up in, gutted that she didn't understand until it was too late that her son felt the way he did.

Thomas was waiting in his underwear with a hot cup of Trent's favorite tea, a bottle of Trent's favorite beer, an unopened bottle of Trent's favorite Scotch he had been saving for whenever Trent got a job, and a pile of Trent's favorite movies on VHS for when his boyfriend got back to their flat. He knew the Sunday night dinners were always a bit hard on Trent, but Allie had phoned and gave him ample warning that Hurricane Trent was on his way back early and it sounded like things went to shit even more so than usual. (Thomas had only attended one of the dinners and he told Trent for the sake of their relationship that he would not be attending any more.)

Trent keyed his way into the flat, eyes red and puffy under his glasses. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Thomas and the table full of offerings laid out for him. He'd have to thank his sister next time he talked to her.

"Hi, babe," Thomas said softly, opening his arms as an invitation for Trent if he wanted it. Trent crossed the room and wrapped himself around Thomas, burying his face in his boyfriend's neck and then bursting into tears. "It's okay. You're okay now."

Trent shook his head. "It's not," he muttered through tears. "And I'm not."

"Okay," Thomas said, conceding. "It's shit and you're shit." Trent nodded, which made Thomas laugh. "Do you want to talk about it?" Trent shook his head. "Do you want a drink?" Trent nodded. "Okay… what do you want?"

"Scotch," Trent said loudly into Thomas's neck. "Lots of Scotch."

Thomas threw on a robe and poured himself a single and Trent a double while Trent went into the bathroom to wash his face. He walked out, having ditched his glasses, jeans, and flannel. Thomas did his best not to cringe at how much of a defeated mess Trent looked like as he held up a tumbler for the other man. Trent gave Thomas a small smile and took the glass gratefully.

They settled next to each other on the couch, with Trent curling into Thomas's side. The plush robe was soft against his cheek and Thomas's arm around him made him feel safe unlike the tension at his parents' dinner table just 30 minutes prior.

This was something they did often—snuggling up with each other until the one who needed to get something off his chest spoke first. After that, questions could be asked, but no one was being forced into conversation until they felt ready to talk about it.

Trent was ready sooner than Thomas expected.

"He's so quick to point out everything wrong with me," Trent said brokenly. "So quick to say how me being myself is the reason no one wants me."

"I want you," Thomas whispered through Trent's hair toward the general direction of his ear. "Just as you are."

"The shitty thing is, he's right," Trent said. "No one has been willing to take a chance on me even though I am qualified to do the work."

Thomas sighed. "So, what are you going to do?"

"Figure it out, I suppose," Trent said. "Right now I don't want to think about my dad or job applications or my failed attempts at being a responsible adult."

Thomas put his Scotch on an end table and then lifted Trent's legs over his lap with zero resistance from the man still affixed to his side. "What do you want to think about?" Trent shrugged and took a large sip of his drink, just barely wincing as the amber liquid made its way down his throat.

Being a photojournalist was something Thomas took a huge amount of pride in. After Trent had called him out about his narcissistic ways back at uni, he realized he was missing out on so much going on around him because he had been so focused on his own wants. What started off as a hobby of taking pictures of his mates soon turned into taking pictures of sports matches Trent was covering for the school newspaper, which in turn turned into Thomas being asked to take photos for other reporters.

When Thomas and Trent moved in together after graduating from university, they turned their second bedroom into a darkroom for Thomas. Though Thomas tried to convince Trent to turn it into an office/guest bedroom, Trent insisted he could work from a desk in the living room and that he didn't want anyone staying with them anyway. It was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for Thomas and Trent's way of showing his unwavering support of Thomas's craft.

While Trent was still struggling to land a job, Thomas had been hired as a staff photographer for a hospitality magazine straight out of university, covering hotels, dining, and culture in London and the surrounding area. He'd stage photos of luxurious hotel rooms and lavish meals he himself could not afford, but it was fun to pretend for each assignment.

At the end of a long week, Thomas keyed his way into his flat, ready for a relaxing evening with his boyfriend.

"Babe, I'm HEY, YOU BETTER GET THE FUCK OUT OF THIS FLAT OR I'M CALLING THE POLICE," Thomas shouted at the suited man who had quickly disappeared into his darkroom. He put down his camera bag and picked up an unopened bottle of wine off the counter.

"What the hell are you going on about, darling?" Trent asked as he walked out of the darkroom and put his hands on his hips.

Thomas's eyebrows slid up as he dropped the bottle he was holding onto the floor. Luckily it landed on carpet and didn't burst open. About two inches to the right and it would have hit the hard kitchen floor.

"Who are you, and what have you done to my boyfriend?" Thomas asked, eyeing Trent up and down.

Trent chewed on the inside of his cheek as he looked down at what Thomas was seeing—shiny black shoes, a fitted gray suit, crisp white button up, navy blue tie, and a bright white pocket square. He tried to run a hand through his hair, but his fingers were met with product that was all but shellacked onto the newly short style that was combed up and swooped back in the front. "Do I look okay?"

"You always look okay, my love… but this is… new," Thomas ultimately landed on.

"Yes, but do I look like someone you would want to hire?" Trent asked.

"As an escort? Yes. The more I look at you, the more I want to bend you over your desk in the corner there. Fucking the vice president of a marketing firm had never been on my to-do list, but I would genuinely love to do you right now."

"Thomas, I'm serious," Trent said with a sigh. "When I show up for my interview at The Independent like this next week, with my CV and binder of writing samples, would you pay attention to me?"

Thomas's shoulders dropped in realization. "Is that what this is about?"

Trent's eyes fell to the floor. "My work experience has gotten me nowhere, so this was the only thing I could think of—being who my dad always wanted me to be."

"But what about being who you always wanted to be?" Thomas asked gently as he crossed the room and put a hand on Trent's arm.

"I want to be a sports journalist," Trent said. "And if this is how I can get a foot in the door, then so be it."

"When's the interview?" Thomas asked.

"Tuesday," Trent said. "I was doing a test run now so it wouldn't be a total shock to the system next week on top of nerves about the interview."

"Ah," Thomas replied. "Well… I know you hate it, but you do look proper fit in that outfit."

"Please don't ask me to dress like this at home," Trent whispered, his eyes welling up.

"Never." Thomas leaned in and gave Trent a soft kiss. "Plus, I prefer you undressed at home." That put a small smile on Trent's face. "Now… how about you get a shower and wash that shit out of your hair while I phone for takeaway." Trent nodded and started to walk toward their bedroom. "It won't always be like this, babe," Thomas said, calling after him.

It took three rounds of interviews, but Trent got hired at The Independent as a Fact-Checker. While the sports section would be his main focus, he was expected to help out with other sections as well, as the publisher wanted all new hires to familiarize themselves with the whole of the publication. He was assigned a mentor (the editor of the sports section—a grouchy old man named Harry) and told to be ready to step in as a staff writer if anyone was unable to cover their assigned team/sport on a given day.

He was thrilled. It didn't matter that his desk was wobbly and in a dark corner of the office. He filled its drawers with several notebooks and packs of pens, three recorders with extra batteries, and a photo of himself and Thomas that he would sneak a peek at when he needed a pick-me-up. He didn't tell anyone he was gay and wasn't planning on it until he got a better lay of the land (or at least until he sussed out whether there were any other LGBT people on staff or, if not, if the place was LGBT-friendly). He didn't really offer up any personal information about himself, as he figured he may as well go all-in on what his dad had always told him—keep his head down and not make himself a target.

Trent put in some late nights his first year at the paper. He would take on whatever was asked of him and then offered to help out with more even if it meant missing dinners with Thomas or coming in on his days off. Thomas was busy too and was asked to start traveling a bit further away from home, now covering hotels and restaurants in Scotland and Wales. Birthdays were celebrated a week late. Their anniversary was all but forgotten. Trent and Thomas made the most of their time together when they actually were together, but most of the time they were just sleeping because they were exhausted.

By 2000, Trent had been promoted to an Associate Editor. He was given some articles of his own to write every now and again, covering everything from local school sporting events to some fluff pieces to fill up back pages of various sections. He put his everything into every article, hoping to impress the editors above him.

In mid-2001, Harry retired as the editor of the sports section (well… asked to leave or was going to be let go for making some unwanted advances toward some tennis players at Wimbledon) and was replaced by Claire, Trent's favorite writer on the team. Her writing was unparalleled and Trent was excited to have her as his boss. She was at least 20 years younger than Harry and seemed more tolerant of just about everything. It was because of that, Trent approached her with an idea for an article. It was a huge gamble, but he hoped it would pay off.

At the start of September, a player on one of the Premier football teams was photographed by someone at The Sun, a tabloid owned by the same parent company as The Independent. The player in question, Giles Trowley of Crystal Palace, was spotted coming out of one of London's most notorious gay bars. Though Trent always expected there were gay players in the professional sports leagues (just based on logical probability), none of them were actually out. He thought there was a story there—not just a crass blurb, but a legitimate story—and he had to be the one to write it.

Trent knocked on Claire's always-open office door and was immediately welcomed in.

"What's up, Trent?" Claire asked. Her desk was a mess of pages that needed proofreading and several notebooks opened up to various lists and notes. He knew she was under a lot of pressure from the higher ups, but somehow she always looked calm and ready for anything. It was a stark contrast from Harry's perpetual sneer and Trent was grateful for the change around the office. It allowed him to loosen up a bit. Gone was the hair gel and crisp white button shirts. Solid colorful tops and patterned blazers had worked their way into rotation and stayed once no one said anything.

"Would you mind if I shut the door?" Trent asked.

"Go ahead," Clair said as she watched Trent carefully shut the door and then take a second to center himself. She could tell she wasn't meant to see that private moment, so she kept her mouth shut about it. Instead, she smiled and gestured warmly to the chair in front of her desk. "Have a seat."

"Thanks," Trent replied as he sat down and placed his notebook in his lap for something to hold onto.

"So… what's on your mind, Trent?"

"I have an idea for an article. Some sort of exposé or interview with Giles Trowley. You know, that footballer who was seen walking out of Shirley's Temple over the weekend," Trent said quickly. "We should get his story in his own words before the tabloids try to tear him into even tinier bits."

Claire didn't know what Trent was going to pitch her, but that would not have been at the top of the list. She leaned back in her chair and stuck the end of her favorite red pen in her mouth. "Hmmm…" It wasn't a bad idea, but her mind was racing with how they could frame it within the purview of The Independent's fairly standard sports section.

"I need to write it, though. I'm the only one who can."

Though Claire had encouraged Trent to take initiative where he could and pitch her whatever he wanted, he had never flat-out demanded he keep the idea for himself. She could tell he was surprised by his own insistence.

"How come?" Claire asked.

Trent looked behind him to double check that the door to the office was shut. When he saw it was, he took a deep breath and focused back on Claire. "Because I'm gay too," he said quietly, looking her square in the eyes. "He's the same age as me and we both work in industries that don't exactly celebrate us. So maybe we could change… that."

"Are you saying you want to be celebrated, Trent?"

"No," Trent said firmly. "Not at all. But it would be nice if people cared more about how Giles Trowley plays than what bar he goes to in his downtime."

"And how does he play?"

"He's steadily gotten better in each of his three seasons in the Premier League. At this rate, he'll be one of the best players on any pitch in about two, maybe three, years. But with the way people are going on about his personal life, I'm worried he's going to get bullied on the field and off and the potential for his career will suffer from it."

"That sounds like you have some experience in that regard," Claire pointed out as she took her pen out of her mouth. Trent nodded slowly, remembering his broken leg when he was 10. "Are you out to anyone else in the office?" Trent shook his head. "But you'd be willing to out yourself by writing this article?"

"Are you saying it's mine?" Trent asked.

"No, I'm asking if you're ready to be labeled 'that gay sports journo from The Independent' and for an onslaught of petty wankers taking the piss about you just wanting to sneak a peek at fit footballers."

Trent frowned. "You sound like my dad."

"Look, Trent, this could be a big deal for the paper and you, but in the short-term it's likely going to get really shitty for you first. I wish that weren't the case, but our spoke of the journalism wheel is still a lot of really old men with really old ways of seeing things. But I will support you 100% if you really want to write this piece. It'll make a lot of people mad, but that means people will be paying attention to the paper. The bosses are either going to love you for it, or they'll want your head on a platter. Do you understand?"

Trent nodded.

"Okay… you have 750 words. Call over to his team's press office and see if you can set up an interview immediately. I'll need copy on my desk by Thursday morning. Bring it straight to me. I'll get you some space in the Sunday paper, okay?"

"Okay," Trent said, his heart racing. "Thank you."

"Make sure none of your other work for the week falls behind."

"It won't, I promise," Trent assured her as he stood up and nearly tripped over one of the legs of his chair.

When Trent got home from the office that night, if felt like his entire body was lit up like the finale of a fireworks display. He had spoken with a communications director at Crystal Palace, explained what the article was going to be about, and secured an interview with Giles Trowley the following afternoon. He would show up to the office early and stay late to make up for time, but he hoped it wouldn't take longer than his usual lunch break.

"YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT I'M DOING TOMORROW, DARLING," Trent shouted with glee as he walked into his shared bedroom with Thomas. "Wait, what's happening?" He surveyed two huge open suitcases on their bed, stuffed full of clothes and camera gear. Thomas was kneeling on the floor, yanking shoes out of their closet. "Are you leaving?"

"Last minute trip to America. My flight leaves… in four hours," Thomas grunted as he reached further into the closet for a backpack.

Trent sat on the corner of their bed, mind racing as if he was trying to figure out a maths problem that was written in code. "Four hours? Wait… why?"

"The New York photographer broke both his arms and I've been asked to replace him for tomorrow night's shoot and some others coming up on the schedule," Thomas said as he stood and started cramming footwear into whatever open space he could find in one of the suitcases.

"How long will you be gone?" Trent asked.

Thomas shrugged. "Dunno? At least a couple weeks. Maybe a month."

"A month," Trent repeated. The longest Thomas had gone away for on one of his assignments was less than two weeks. But never overseas. "Wow. This is crazy. Congratulations, I guess? I mean, I'm sorry the other guy broke his arms—his arms, Jesus—but this is a great opportunity for you."

"Thanks, yeah," Thomas said. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. This literally just happened in the last hour and I needed to pack, yeah?"

"Yeah," Trent said. "No… I get it."

"What was that you were shouting about when you came in?" Thomas asked as he ran out of the bedroom into the bathroom to grab some deodorant and his shaving kit.

"Oh!" Trent had been so preoccupied with Thomas leaving that he forgot about his own big news. "I'm interviewing Giles Trowley. I pitched an article about him to Claire and it'll be in the paper this Sunday."

Thomas walked back into the bedroom, mouth hanging open. "Babe, that's huge."

"I came out to Claire," Trent said softly. "And I told her that's how I plan on framing the article. A gay sports journalist interviewing a gay professional footballer. We'd both be the first out people in our fields."

Thomas tossed his shaving kit into his bag, sat next to Trent, and took one of Trent's hands in both of his. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you." Trent gave him a small smile. "I'm proud of you too, you know. We're really doing it, Thomas. Just as we planned."

"We are," Thomas said.

"I just wish we were going to be in the same place when it happened. Same continent at least."

Thomas leaned over and gave Trent a kiss on his cheek. "A couple weeks, babe. A month tops."

On Sunday, September 9, Trent's article ran front page (though below the fold) of the sports section. He had rung Allie up the night before to tell her the news about Thomas leaving and the interview. He told her about coming out to his editor and how the article was his choice to come out in public in support of Giles Trowley, but also as something he wanted to do for himself. It all felt more risky than it should—who he loved should not matter at all when it came to how well he did his job—but there was still a part of him that worried about what his dad would say.

"Sod him," Allie said through a yawn. "I'm proud of you. Mum's proud of you. Dad is too. He just hides it really really well."

"A little too well," Trent muttered, picking at a loose thread at the bottom of his shirt.

"So what are you going to do without your man for the next few weeks?"

"Bother you," Trent said.

"Don't you have any mates?" Allie asked, concerned.

"Not really," Trent replied. "Work has me busy all day and some nights and weekends, and then when I do have a free moment, I'm either catching up with Thomas or sleeping."

"We need to find you a friend, little brother," Allie said. "Or a hobby."

"I miss Thomas," Trent said quietly. "We had talked about going to America together at some point."

"There's loads more things in America than just New York—you can still go with him sometime. Or, do you have any holiday paid time off to use? You could meet him over there. Oooooo, for your birthday in a few weeks! Trent! Do that! That'd be romantic as fuck."

"Yeah… maybe."

Talking to his sister made the article release a little less scary for Trent. He went around that Sunday and bought as many issues of The Independent as he could find, stacking the dozens of papers in Thomas's darkroom. He got a few emails from university friends who had fallen by the wayside over the past couple years and his former sports journalism professor. It was hard to properly celebrate without Thomas there, but Trent was proud of himself. Thomas called to congratulate him and said he read the article online. His mum rang said she was going to frame the article and put it up in the study. She asked if he would come to family dinner that night, but he politely declined.

Monday was a weird day around the office. A few people from various departments came up to him and applauded him for his bravery. Some of the older men he had been friendly with in his own department stayed clear of him and would look away when he passed by their desks. Claire called him into her office and told him that the article was a success, sales-wise, for the paper. Clicks on the website had increased exponentially from Sunday to Monday than they had during weeks prior. She told him to expect more assignments in the coming weeks so he and the paper could build on this.

Tuesday was a weird day around the world. It was mid afternoon in London when there were several plane hijackings in America, resulting in the collapse of the World Trade Towers, an attack on the Pentagon, and a plane crash in the middle of Pennsylvania. Trent watched in horror as he tried to call Thomas's cell phone and was repeatedly unable to get through. He sent an email asking for Thomas to get back to him. He reached out to Thomas's magazine and asked if they had any word about their staff in New York.

Trent knew Thomas was staying in a neighborhood called SoHo, which, based on a map he found online, was just over 1.7 kilometers away from where the towers fell. It made no sense to Trent as the news played the footage over and over again—there were two tall buildings, standing majestically over New York City, and then they were gone.

He didn't remember the trip between his office and his flat, but Trent did make it home that night. He spent most of the evening on the phone with Allie and watching the telly. He would hang up from Allie every so often to ring up Thomas's parents, but they still hadn't heard from him either. Trent sobbed himself to sleep that night, clutching his phone.

It was maybe 2am when the phone rang and scared the crap out of Trent.

"Hello?!"

"Babe, hey, it's me," Thomas said into Trent's ear. Trent immediately burst into tears. "Hey, hey, hey, it's okay. I'm okay, babe. I'm so sorry I couldn't call earlier. But I'm okay, I swear."

"I w-was so s-scared something h-h-happened to y-you," Trent cried into the phone, wiping the tears off his face with the back of his hand. "W-where are y-you? Are you s-safe?"

"I am," Thomas assured Trent. "I was still at the hotel when it all happened. I won't scare you with the details right now, but it was bad, Trent. And I was scared. But I promise you, I'm okay."

"Okay," Trent said. "Okay."

"I did go down to what they're referring to as Ground Zero, though," Thomas said softly. "After the second building came down, I grabbed my camera and the team who was supposed to help stage the restaurant shoot that day and we all went down together to see if we could help at all. I must have taken a thousand pictures today, Trent. It looked like we were in a war zone or something. But so many people were there to help. It was beautiful. Beautiful, but so sad, babe."

"Come home," Trent said softly. "Please, come back."

"I can't, my love," Thomas said gently. "Not any time soon, anyway. All flights are cancelled out of New York right now. I don't know when they'll start back up again. Plus…"

There was so much silence, Trent thought the call dropped.

"Plus what, Thomas?" Trent said shakily into the phone.

"I want to be here," Thomas said. "I need to finish up the shoots for work, but a few news outlets were interested in my pictures from today."

Trent's brow furrowed. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, this is a big story, Trent. And I'm part of it now. I can help record this horrific moment in time. This is more important than taking pictures of posh hotels or fake fancy food. I want to help preserve this. I need to."

Trent nodded to himself, understanding what Thomas was getting at, but upset about it all the same. "I get it," he said softly. "I do. But I… I miss you, darling."

"I miss you too."

"Please be safe," Trent said. "And I'll still see you in a few weeks, yeah?"

"Yeah," Thomas said. "Nothing's changed there."

Everything changed.