24-𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙘𝙖𝙛é

I haven't had the chance to apologise to my mother for snapping at her since the anxiety attack happened during tutoring.

She's been entirely swamped at work and has hardly been home, so I've had no time. I didn't think doing it at the restaurant would have been an appropriate time or place, and afterwards I just felt too tired and confused about myself that I went straight to bed. I haven't texted her about it as I thought it would be best to do in person, so as she's home for a little while today before going back to work, I decide to go and say that I'm sorry.

The guilt has settled in, and I can't handle the feeling. My mum didn't do anything wrong. She asked if I had an attack, which mainly I did, and she was only showing she cares. I was rude. Unnecessarily.

I seem to snap at people when I don't mean to, and I'm trying to work on it. But when I'm anxious, and people keep bombarding me with questions about how I'm feeling and if I'm OK when I'm visibly not, I just feel so irritated, and I need to be alone, so I snap at them.

I know I sound almost as dickhead-like as Alex, but it's the truth. If I'm in the middle of a panic attack, I'm about to have one or just had one, then no, I'm not going to be OK. It's just frustrating when people ask, especially as I find it hard to speak in those moments. At least I'm admitting it as one of my flaws. Alex has the incapability of admitting any of his.

When I get home, Eva is the first person I see. She's carrying Isaak on her hip, something we're not allowed to do as we're trying to teach him to be less dependent when he's walking, eating, getting changed, et cetera, unless he needs the help. Eva likes to bend the rules a lot.

"You shouldn't be carrying him," I say as I take my jacket and bag off, then slip my shoes off.

Eva pouts, cuddling our little brother closer to her, "I know, but he's tired. Aren't you, bambino?" She says in a baby-like voice. I roll my eyes at her.

"Yesh. Sleepy." Isaak pouts, rubbing his eyes as if to prove his tiredness. I can tell he's only putting on the tired act so he can be carried around. I know for sure he's had a nap today. He's definitely smart for his age.

He's tried the act on us too much, we all know that it's fake and he's just too lazy to walk about on his own. He has got Eva wrapped around his little finger, though, so she quickly gives in to his demands. Weak, I call her. He's literally three. He can't do much when he's told no except throw a tantrum and whack you in the leg because he thinks it hurts.

"You should be able to tell that he's fooling you," I tell Eva, ruffling Issak's hair as a way of saying hello. It makes him laugh. Eva shrugs. "Is mum home yet?"

"Yeah. She's upstairs in her room," Eva responds. Before I can go anywhere, she stops me by grabbing my arm after putting Isaak down. "What happened then, when you snapped at mum? Were you OK? Are you alright now, anyway?"

"I'm fine. I'll tell you later. I just need to talk to mum." I smile. Eva nods, squeezing my arm before going into the living room. Our brother decides to follow me as I walk straight up the stairs and turn a right once at the top, towards her room.

I knock on the door and enter with a sigh when I heard her shout, "sì?"

"Mamma?" I say, causing her to look up from where she was sitting at her dressing room table, taking out her earrings, while my little brother climbs onto her bed and begins playing with his toys that are already there. Once she sees me, she smiles, as if I didn't hurt her by snapping at her.

"Mamma, I'm sorry for snapping at you the other day. You were right, I had an attack, and that's why I was snappy. There's no excuse. Mi dispiace (I'm sorry)."

She doesn't respond. Instead, she stands up and walks towards me, giving me another sweet smile before wrapping me in a hug. She doesn't need to say she forgives me for me to know that she does. As she holds me tighter, I get a whiff of perfume mixed with hygiene products from her nurse scrubs, and it makes me feel more at home than being at home.

Due to being somewhat tall for a woman, she doesn't struggle to reach my forehead to kiss it, but I still have to bend my head a little, making me remember the days where she had to bow her head to kiss me. I miss it. I miss being able to crawl onto her lap and listen as she reads me a story and think that everything was OK. No anxiety, so sexuality struggle, no mean guy from school. All I knew about the world was that it was a magical and exciting place. Now I know better. Along with the magic and then excitement comes heartbreak and pain. And that's life, and everyone simply has to accept that.

"Ti amo Tesoro (I love you, sweetheart). Look after Isaak. See you in the morning." And with that, she leaves the room to go to work.

The feeling of relief falls throughout my body and I relax. Hurting my mum in any way whatsoever is the worst thing I can do, and I try to avoid it as much as I can, but sometimes it's inevitable. That's another thing I have to accept. That no one is perfect and I should stop trying to be that person, because I never will be. That I'll hurt people and that's alright, as long as I take responsibility. I wonder how long it will be until Alex does that.

With the mention of my anxiety attack and thinking of means guys and taking responsibility, it reminds me that I still have to do the tutoring sessions with Alex. No matter if I like it or not, no matter if he likes it or not, because it's seemingly not up to us, which is stupid but I have to accept it. That's all I do. Accept, accept, accept, apart my own sexuality.

I remind myself with the fact that the tutoring is just an hour a week.

I can do this. I've survived one session, though I almost ended up having a full-blown anxiety attack and a threat leaving Alex's mouth, and then the fight after class where he called me queer. But I can still do this.

I get out my phone and text him.

I don't get a reply from him, and I'm not going to argue about the fact that he's expecting me to turn up within such short notice, so I grab Isaak and go downstairs. Eva is sat on the sofa watching some crappy sit-com so, deciding I have nothing better to do, I put my little brother down and curl up on the seating space next to her.

"You OK?" She asks as soon as I sit down.

She usually does this every day, ever since the doctor diagnosed me with anxiety, and it's the small level of care from her that I appreciate. I nod, giving her a small smile as if to prove it and let her burrow into my side. I watch T.V. with her until I have to leave.

Sitting in my car, I grip the steering wheel and suck in a breath. When I'm ready, I drive.

It doesn't take me long to arrive at the 24-hour café. It's a place I've been to so many times; I don't seem to have to think about where I'm driving and automatically arrive there. The coffee draws me to it.

It's one of mine and Cami's favourite places to go. As we are both coffee addicts and skint, this café seems to fit for us. It's cheap, has surprisingly great coffee for a place so inexpensive and is very much near both of our houses and school. As a result of this ticking all our boxes, we find ourselves sitting in its chairs whenever we can.

As I push my way inside, I take in the familiar surroundings. It's a small café, dotted with only three tables and the place where you order at the back. Hung up are big blackboards with things to choose written in chalk. The writing appears to have not been rubbed off and re-done in forever, evident by the fact half of it is smudged and tricky to read.

Grey wallpaper plaster the walls, which is peeling off at the corners due to lack of care, vandalised with doodles of dicks and other explicit drawings. The tables and chairs are metal for some reason and can be torture to sit on in the winter if you're not wearing thick enough clothing. There are only two staff working there every time I enter, and the smell of brewing coffee always fills the air, which is one of the only satisfactory things about it apart from the actual coffee. It's not great.

It's not surprising it doesn't get many customers. I'm surprised it's not closed, but with Cami and I coming in every which day, they're probably surviving off of us. I wish I was rich enough for Starbucks.

A table sits Alex to the left. The only other people inside is the one barista working at the till and a group of four girls sat around the table in the middle, occasionally looking over their shoulder to sneak a glance at Alex before turning back and giggling to each other. They make me want to pour hot coffee into my eyes.

I pause. Just for a moment, because I swear I felt something. Jealousy, I think? Which doesn't make sense. For what? Nothing. I shake the feeling off. I most likely mistook annoyance for jealousy. Their high pitch giggling isn't easy on the ears.

Unlike me, however, Alex doesn't seem to take any notice of them at all. Instead of looking back at them and flirting like they're expecting him to do, he's reading a newspaper while sipping a mug of tea, blatantly ignoring them.

There's a cup of steaming coffee placed in front of a vacant seat. I'm guessing Alex bought coffee for me, which is surprisingly nice of him. I smile at the gesture. I'd never expect him to do anything remotely nice for me, that's definitely out of character for him, even when it comes to people who aren't me. Nonetheless, I wipe it off my face before Alex can see if he were to look up.

Wordlessly, I slide into the seat opposite him and wait for him to look up from his newspaper and say something first. It takes him a while, but he eventually does speak.

"Having fun?" He says, not glancing away from the paper.

"Huh?"

"Are you having fun staring at me, dimwit?" He mutters, finally looking up from the newspaper.

"I wasn't staring at you. I was just waiting for you to say something," I state. Alex takes a sip from his tea and gives me a funny smile. It's strange, I've never had him down a tea drinker. The hot drink seems too soft for him. He seems like he'd enjoy black coffee, something more bitter and...'harder', I guess.

Tea has polite connotations, in my opinion. The idea of the beverage, in my head, is always paired with the picture of pretty, pale-skinned, raven-haired girls in dresses that reach their ankles. Such girls who hold a pinky out as they held the cup of the hot drink, the steam coming from it fogging up this black-rimmed glasses places delicately on their faces. Rather not the hard shell of a human sitting in front of me, whom seems so void of feeling, and tattoos scattered over his tanned skin.

"Why do I have to say something first? You could've just said 'Hi, I'm here' or something," He says, and I shrug, not sure what to respond. Say hi first every tutoring session: noted. "Dude, are you going to drink your coffee or did I just waste my money on you?"

I raise my eyebrows. My suspicions were correct; the coffee is for me. Obviously it is, who else would he buy it for? But why? He was extremely rude to me last time we had to do this, and then incredibly spiteful at school, so why is he acting nice now?

"How did you even know I like coffee?" I can't help but ask.

"Maybe because I always hear you moaning about needing a coffee to your Latina friend like every time we're in a class together. Are you and her dating, by the way?" He questions, sipping his tea again.

"No, we're just best friends," I deny. "A girl and guy can be friends without a romantic relationship, you know."

"I know, I was just asking. There's no harm in that. You both seem very close, people can easily mistake it as a relationship," He retorts. I don't reply, caught off guard by the bitterness in his voice. I fix on shrugging. I can't necessarily debunk that. It's kind of true anyway. "Are you even in a relationship?"

I shake my head, "No."

"Oh," he hums. "Good to know."

"Why's it good to know?" I ask.

"Just something I say."

"Oh. Why'd you ask, anyway?"

"Making conversation, maybe," He says. After a couple of moments in silence and me not drinking my coffee, he speaks again. "I kinda bought you the coffee to say sorry about saying all those things about you. It wasn't right to do that, especially when you can't help having anxiety attacks or whatever. And calling you queer—I shouldn't have said it. Sorry."

It's clear apologising isn't his forte.

"Um. OK."

"Yeah, threatening you really...wasn't great. I can't actually tell you why I decided to do that."

I don't reply because I don't feel like forgiving him and I don't need to. I don't even need to give him the benefit of the doubt because I have no clue whether or not the nice things that come out of his mouth are true as it's once in a blue moon you hear them, so I just look down at my coffee warily, debating whether or not to drink it. Not drink it and waste his money as a way of retaliation for the things he said to me, or drink it because it's good coffee and I got it for free.

"Don't worry, it's not spiked or anything. I'm not like that." He laughs, "I didn't know how much milk and sugar you take, but you seem like you'd like it sweet, so I got plenty."

He's correct, I do like it sweet, so I give in and I take off the top of the milk sachet and pour it in, doing the same with the sugar. I then take a sip.

After a few seconds, feeling awkward because Alex has not taken his eyes off me, I take another sip, longer this time, and almost moan in satisfaction. The warmth that spread through my body when I drink it, carrying energy behind it, is a feeling that no other beverage can give me.

"Why did you want to meet here?" I ask. I have been wondering this since I received his text. Our last session was at his house so I'm not sure why this one isn't, and is rather at a beaten down coffee shop instead.

"Didn't feel like being at home, and I doubt you'd ever want to let me in yours. It's quiet in here so I thought it would be fitting. You know, no distractions."

"Fair enough," I mutter. "Should we start, then?"

I'm about to reach down to unzip my bag when a loud shriek of laughter suddenly resonates from the group of girls, causing us both to look over at them in surprise. Two of them are looking over at us, while the others whisper to each other. You don't have to hear what they're saying to know that they're talking about us. I shift in my seat from the unwanted attention.

One of the girls, who models bright red hair, finally plucks up the courage to say something to us. She stands up from her seat and walks over to us, halting in front of our table. She gives us a sickly sweet smile, "Hi. We were wondering if you two were dating cause we think you look so cute together."

I pull a face at this, expecting something entirely different, like her asking for Alex's number. Who on Earth walks up to people and says this to them? What makes her think that we're together, anyway? We're just two guys sat in a coffee shop. Alex doesn't appear inherently gay, and I'm pretty sure we don't look as though we're flirting. Except for the fact that Alex keeps staring at me.

"If we say yes, will you leave us alone and let us get on with our date?" Alex answers, looking increasingly irritated with every second this girl is in his presence. He once again takes me by surprise. Date? What the fuck? Couldn't he have just said no to her?

"Of course. But now we've established that you are gay, would one of you like to be our GBF? I would ask you both, but I think one's enough, no offence. People in movies always have one, and we just all want one so badly."

Does this girl think she's in a chick-flick movie or what? What is this? How badly I want to tell her to go away, but that's something that requires confidence, and I lack in that.

"GBF? And that is—?" He asks, his face not changing from irritation since she arrived by our table. There's something in the way he talks which screams leave me the fuck alone, but red-head here doesn't seem to notice. I shift in my seat again. Alex glances at me for a second then back at the girl.

"Gay Best Friend, obviously. You down?" She says as though she expects us to squeal and say yes so we can all go to her house for a 'girls night' and give each other manicures and talking about bloody cute Tom Holland is. 

Wow, that's not something that you say to someone that you don't know.

Isn't it also offensive?

The more I think about it, the more I believe that it is. It's clear that she only want to be friends with us for our sexuality. The fact that she wouldn't give us a second glance if she thought we were straight makes me want to bitterly chuckle. We're not deemed good enough to be considered her real friend, but rather just her gay friend. I don't want to be seen as just a gay guy. I want to be seen as Matthew Jenkins, my own person.

"That is very offensive." He says with a straight face, causing her happy expressions to fall and morph into one of disappointment. "Can you leave us alone now, please?" He presses.

"How is it offensive?" She questions, not only looking confused but even borderline annoyed.

How is it not?

"Our sexuality is not an accessory," Alex starts, and I swear his teeth are gritted. "It's demeaning to only want to be our friend because of it. If I were to call you my straight best friend, that would sound stupid, right? We're not a fucking trend."

Our?

We're?

"Bu—"

"Leave me and my," he clears his throat, awkwardly, "Leave us the fuck alone." She nods hastily, before spinning and rushing back to her table. She whispers something to her friends, making two of them turn and glare at us as if we were in the wrong. Alex gets visibly uncomfortable. He drains his tea, then stands up, tucking his newspaper under his arm. "Can we get out of here, please?"

"Um, sure," I answer, so we walk towards the door, abandoning my hardly drunk from coffee. I almost complain about not being able to finish it, but shut myself up before I can.

"See, Molly, what did I tell you? Typical faggots." One of the red-haired girl's friends says, loud enough for us to be able to hear, probably on purpose, as we walk past them. That word again. I flinch.

Alex tenses beside me, then