𝙎𝙥𝙖𝙜𝙝𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙞 𝙞𝙨 𝙄𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙣

Alex didn't come into school the next day or today, so I couldn't talk to him, which strangely disappointed me but also made me feel slightly nervous for him.

There is a considerable possibility that after coming out via tweet, he could have received hateful messages and threats from people at school that he's been affected so much and hasn't been able to come into school.

It feels so weird caring about Alex like this. It's hit me so suddenly. I have never given a shit about what happens in his life before.

I still don't like him, that apology didn't change that except maybe I dislike him a little less, but I want to protect him somehow, to shield him from the homophobic abuse that people might throw at him. I take my own experiences in account. This is something Alex and I both share a similarity with, and I know what when I come out, the thought of someone caring about me would offer some sort of consolation.

When I walk into the kitchen wondering what's for dinner, and to also see if there's time to have a cup of coffee beforehand, the view takes me aback.

My mother has tidied everything. Italian cookbooks that always litter the counters have been closed and placed upon the shelf they are supposed to be. The stack of newspapers and magazines have disappeared. Mum has put the school books, usually on the breakfast table, on the counter in a neat pile. She has also taken the time to polish the countertops so that they are sparkly clean.

I take a look through the glass doors which are connected to the kitchen in the dining room and see that my mother has brought out her classy cutlery and covered the dining table in a posh white table cloth with lace around the edges in an attempt to make the table look more...stylish? I don't know. Our dining room never looks stylish.

She's rushing around the kitchen, wearing a fancy, floral apron looking flustered, as if she's expecting the queen to pop in at any given moment.

She comes rushing up to me, shoving a bunch of knives and forks in my hand, "Oh, can you please set the table for me?" and then she's back at the stove, mixing some sauce with a wooden spoon with one hand while wiping the sweat off her forehead with the other.

I have to hold the knives and forks to my chest to prevent them from falling to the ground as my hands aren't big enough to carry the amount she has shoved onto me.

I count the knives and forks in my hand as best as I can without dropping them, then look back up at my mother. "I think you gave me too many knives and forks. I've got ten pairs here. We only need seven." I count them again just to be sure. "Yep, I've got ten pairs here."

"No, we need ten, remember." She says, looking at me utterly exasperated as though I've forgotten something important.

I look at her like she's mad.

I search my brain for something I may have forgotten, but nothing comes to mind. Then my mum gasps with realisation. "Dio mio, I'm so sorry, I forgot to tell you. My friend, her husband and their son are coming over for dinner today, and then we're going to go on an evening walk. They're going to arrive any minute so could you please set the table. Sbrigati! (hurry up!)"

I wordlessly set the table then make my way over to the living room and plonk myself next to my younger sister who is playing Fortnite on the PS4. I groan at the sight of it. That game is way too overrated.

As for the family coming over for dinner, that's normal and something I don't give a second thought about. My mother is well-liked, especially at work, so she has a lot of friends. As much as me and my siblings disfavours it, at least once a month, a family comes round for dinner. My mum likes to go on an evening walk with them after because it's better than sitting on the sofa as you're doing some exercise as well as catching up, she says. I'd prefer to stay in, to be honest.

"Your mother's friend is going to be here soon, so I think you need to come off that now," our dad says, walking into the room with a beer already in his hand.

Eva turns to give him a puzzled look, resulting in him throwing his hands up in the air, then realising he's grasping an open can of beer when some of the liquid splatters onto his shirt. I guess mum didn't tell anyone apart from dad.

"She forgot to tell you too? Honestly, that woman. Always forgetful. Excuse me. I need to change my shirt for the fourth time. No, that shirt's too pink, it makes you look like a prawn, and I don't like prawns." He says, mocking my mum's accent. "I'm not on the menu, am I?"

I snort in amusement. Mum always tries to impress, even when it's not necessary. If there's one thing out of place when a friend is coming over, she goes berserk. I can't drop even one crumb on the floor without her having to hoover the whole house again. We also have to dress to impress, but as it's such short notice, I don't have time to get changed.

The doorbell rings and both my parents exclaim something. "The sauce is not ready!" My mum shouts from the next room and "OH SHIT A BRICK, I'M NOT READY! I DON'T HAVE SHIRT ON!" My dad yells from upstairs. I pray to the Lord above that the family outside can't hear what's happening in here.

Seeing as no one else is bothering to get up and open the door, I decide to do it myself, Eva following shortly behind me. Upon opening the front door, I freeze.

There's a woman with long blonde hair and stripy trousers carrying a bottle of red wine, a toothy smile etched on her face. Next to her is a tall, tough-looking bald guy, wearing chains around his neck and a shirt so tight you can visibly see his pecks. I'm not sure why the chains are necessary to wear when going to a friend's house for dinner, but here we are.

Behind them, however, is the reason I froze.

Alex. He looks just as shocked as I am. Then his lip curls up into a smirk— of course, it does.

"Hi!" the woman I assume to be Alex's mother exclaims, entering the house without my say-so, "You must be Tina's children! I'm Victoria." She passes me the wine before pulling me into a very tight hug.

They must be close if Victoria is calling my mother by the shortened version of her name, Valentina. I've never seen her before, though.

She smells of expensive perfume, just how I expect. Just how I expect any wealthy person to if I'm honest. She pulls back but keeps her hands on my shoulders as though she's inspecting me. I feel uncomfortable.

"Uh, hi. I'm Matthew," I say awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do in this situation. Damn anxiety, making me feel all nervous for no valid reason. "This is Eva." I continue, gesturing to my sister. She turns her gaze to Eva, inspects her as well, then pulls her into a hug, even kissing her cheek.

"Ah, yes, your mother talks about you and your siblings quite a lot. This is my husband, Ross, and my son, Alex." She replied, motioning to the rough-looking man and my tutor both still stood outside, not sure if they should step inside without invitation or not.

"We've met," Alex mutters as he steps into the doorway of my house, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants.

As he drinks in the sight of my entrance hall, I have a sudden feeling of insecurity flash through me. My house is small compared to his, and he's most likely judging me in the privacy of his mind. The whole ground floor of my house is probably the size of his entrance hall and living room.

I've not stopped feeling insecure around him, regardless of him saying sorry recently. There's a lot to be insecure of, and he is a judgmental person. I mean, look at him. He's perfect. He's incredibly handsome and physically fit; he's wealthy as heck and the most popular guy at school. All the girls like him. And here I am just average. Boring, more like.

"Oh, you have? That's wonderful!" My mother says excitedly from behind me, her eyes wide and mouth curled up into a broad smile, as though this is the most exciting piece of information she's ever heard. "David!" She yells for my dad, who is still upstairs.

My little brother is clutching her hand, giggling at her palpable excitement. Mum takes the wine bottle from me then gives Victoria a quick hug and air kiss.

"I'm guessing you go to the same school as my Matthew. Are you friends?" my mum asks Alex, not realising it is him. The rival. The boy I've spent hours ranting about while my mother sips tea and tells me to slap him if I need to.

I clear my throat, awkwardly, "He's my tutor." I answer for him. My mother's eyes widen. As far as she knows, I hate my tutor, and he hates me double. She begins to open her mouth to say something, but I beat her to it "— who I have forgiven and is now civil with."

"Forgiven? What did you do?" Victoria says, looking overly confused, her eyes switching between me and the boy stood in the doorway.

"I was a dick to him. I apologised for how I treated him and asked him to consider forgiving me. We're alright now." Alex answers as he shrugs his shoulder, walking into my entrance hall.

So far, he's kept his promise to treat me better. Even his friends have left me alone. I've kind of been waiting for that to all go downhill.

I change my gaze to Ross, who seems to be oblivious to the conversation and is currently marvelling at a painting of an almost naked lady my dad put up that I am oh so embarrassed by which he doesn't seem to understand. It grabs men's attention. And I have to say women's, as well.

"Well, as long as you're alright now that's fine then." Mum finally says after a few moments of tense silence. She looks unsure of herself, but still allows herself to put on a warm smile for the family in front of us. "So, let's all sit down then. I made some spaghetti."

It's now that My dad, Sofia and a grumpy looking Luca walks down the stairs. My brother is most likely in a mood because he's been forced to be here instead of going out like he always does. For once, I don't blame him. I turn to see Eva's reaction to the Montgomery's being here, but she's already walked off.

The tense atmosphere dissipates once we sit down and my mother explains that she didn't want to cook anything Italian, so instead she cooked spaghetti. Her very American friend corrects her, telling her that spaghetti is, in fact, Italian, resulting in my mother look very embarrassed at herself. Eva, Sofia and I all look at each other and try to stifle our laughter.

Mum flurries off, claiming that she needs to check on the dessert, and when she sits back down, she's a lot calmer, though her cheeks are still coloured. The laughter soon dies down, and we all easily fall into conversation.

Mrs Montgomery asks me all the general questions "You're how old?" "What are your hobbies?" "Oh, you like art! You must show me after dinner." "What are your favourite subjects?" "Oh, interesting. Your least favourite?" Blah, blah, blah.

I swear adults can never think of anything original to ask. But I guess it's alright for my anxiety, as I always know what to say as I'm asked the same questions repeatedly. Mr Montgomery hardly speaks the whole evening, which I find slightly concerning. The rough look is not once swiped off his face.

Alex and I don't talk much, but when we do, we make sure we're friendly, for our parents' sake as well as ours.

Dinner goes by quickly, to my relief. Social situations with people I don't know isn't my scene. I'd prefer to be eating dinner in my room, on my own. I'm thankful for Alex not casting me any glares or stink eyes like I kind of expected him to do. I know I shouldn't anticipate that because of our agreement, but it's just so hard to get used to it all.

I manage to persuade my dad to let me stay home instead of going on the stupid evening walk, though I'm only allowed to if Alex stays with me, which I suppose is OK. My mum looked as though she wanted to argue, but she didn't. I guess she still doesn't trust Alex. I don't either, but I take it anyway as I did not want to prolong this social situation. I know Alex. I'll be alright.

When the adults and my siblings leave, I lead Alex up to my room after making myself a cup of coffee. God knows I need the temporary energy for whatever the hell is going to happen in my room. I know he apologised, but I can never be too careful.

The way I say that—it makes it sound sexual. The thought makes me cringe.

It's awkward at first like it always is. Instead of talking, I sit on my bed as Alex looks around my room, ogling at the wall that I paint on when I'm bored. When he finishes with that, he moves on to my artwork rested against or stuck on other walls.

He pulls an impressed expression. I feel like I'm watching a middle-aged man at a museum rather than a class-mate in my bedroom.

"These are so good. I never knew you were so good at art." He says, lightly touching one as though he expects it to be a photograph instead of an actual painting. I instantly look for signs of him mocking me or being sarcastic, but there is none. He genuinely is impressed.

"Yeah, well, it's not like you're going to pause in the middle of insulting me to ask me about my hobbies," I say, a chuckle punctuating my comment. Alex doesn't look amused by what I said, and I instantly regret saying it. Instead, he frowns and sits down on my bed next to me.

"I am sorry for how I treated you, Matthew," He starts. I look down at my mug of coffee. "I know this is sudden and everything, but I've realised how much of a shitty person I am now. It's like I woke up and realised, you know. I feel so terrible. I promise I'm going to tell my friends to stop and if they don't, I'll sort them out. I'm going to sort myself out too."

I laugh softly, "I appreciate it." I still can't forgive him yet. He smiles, and we just look at each other for a moment until I break the silence. "Speaking of your friends, how did they react to your tweet?" I ask, suddenly remembering that he unexpectedly came out as bisexual a few days ago. He lets out a breath, and I take a sip of my drink.

"You saw that, huh?" He asks. I nod, and he shrugs, "Eh, not as bad as I thought they would react. Of course, some are supportive. Others, not so much, but they did tell me they're going to try and get used to it, you know. I haven't lost any friends yet, though." He jokes, letting out a small laugh. "I also told my mom. She was fine with it, but she warned me not to tell my dad. Not like I was going to anyway."

"No shit, is he homophobic?"

He nods "Immensely."

"Oh," I say, not quite knowing what to add. "On the bright side, don't have to worry about people giving you shit for it at school. You're probably the most feared person in the entire school. Even the seniors are scared of you."

He grimaces, "Yeah, I don't like that."

"You don't?"

He shakes his head, "I'd actually prefer to be liked instead of feared, but I've fucked up that chance now. I guess I kinda want to be like you, always have. You've got friends for all the right reasons. You're nice and— and approachable. People don't feel obliged to be friends with you. They want to be friends with you. I'm just a shitty person with a reputation that I let get in the way of how I treated people."

I look up at him, "You can change, you know. Just show them who you truly are. I know we're not friends, but just know that I do support you and others do too. I suppose you can always talk to me if you need someone. I know I wouldn't be your first choice as you're certainly nowhere near liking me, but I will be here." I place a hand on his arm in an attempt to offer some comfort, but retract it instantly, remembering myself. "Sorry, I'm an affectionate person."

He smiles down at his arm, then at me. His cheeks are rosy, which means that he's embarrassed. I guess this topic of conversation isn't the most comfortable for him. I know that it's not for me.

"Thank you. It, um, it means a lot. And I do like you, and I guess I always have. I've always wanted to be your friend. I just never showed it as I let my reputation get in the way. I just wanted to seem cool so badly, and now I realise how fucking stupid that is." He says, and I try to hide my shock. Alex wanted to be friends with me? Now that is bewildering.

"Can I ask you something?" I ask.

"Yeah, go ahead."

"Why didn't you go to school today or yesterday?" I query, as I study his expression, in case there's any sign of distress or hurt. Then I would be able to tell if something's wrong at all. I know it's not my place, but I just can't help it. I naturally worry about people.

He gives no negative reaction, and instead, he shoots me a smile. "Oh, don't worry about that." He replies, and although he smiled at me, I can ignore the sinking feeling that something is wrong. But I don't push him and ask further, with respect to his privacy.

"You called me queer the other day, and a faggot," I begin. "Was that down to internalised homophobia or the wanting to seem cool thing?"

"I didn't want people to suspect that I was queer myself," He responds shamefully, fiddling with his fingers on his lap. "So you were actually correct about what you said during that detention. I was hiding something. There was no internalised homophobia, I got through that. I just wanted to uphold my reputation. I thought about it for a bit and then went fuck it, and announced that I'm bi. It took a lot of mental strength."

"I can only imagine how hard it must be to come out," I say.

I want to say that I'm scared of doing it myself, but I don't trust him enough to tell him that, regardless of what he identifies with. Him apologising to me has not been a quick fix for anything that's happened between us. Our history remains. How he's made me feel has affected me a weighty amount. For the benefit of myself, I have to remain cautious.

"Don't worry, you being over at my house had nothing to do with it." He's quick to assure me. I remember what Cami said to me, about how she thought I was the reason Alex came out and that we're hooking up. She could not be more further from the truth.

"I didn't think I had anything to do with it."

"Good," He replies, lifting his gaze. "And I don't mean that in a bad way."

I nod, "I know."

We spend the rest of the evening just talking. Alex mainly talks, and I listen. When I speak, he listens. And it's nice. Very different, but nice.

When we occasionally laugh together, it feels strangely natural. Alex is a pleasant person when he tries to be. No doubt he would still be popular if he was a nice person. He's hot, of course, he would, but I guess he would popular be for the right reasons, like he wishes he was. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'd probably have become his friend if he let me, and if he treated me kindly from the start.

"—painter." I hear him say, not quite catching the