Glass Closets

Chapter 1: Tony

You don't understand why he's being like this. You come home from school covered in bruises with rude words written all over your body in sharpie, but there is no sympathy in your brother's expression when he throws a damp cloth in your general direction and asks why you let them do it.

You didn't, you tell him.

The impact of his fist against your face is unexpected both in the fact that your brother just hit you and that he really seemed to fucking mean it. You fall down screaming curses and broken, angry comments about child abuse.

Why the fuck did you hit me, you ask.

Why the fuck didn't you dodge, he replies, then stalks off to god knows where looking strangely disappointed.

You finish cleaning up alone.

You dropped the towel he gave you when you fell down.

You're forced to replace it when it becomes apparent that at least half of it is now covered with an assortment of old food and dust, along with whatever else is in the layer of grime that's hidden the original color of the kitchen floor since as long as you can remember.

Neither you nor your brother care enough to clean up when literally all of your food comes delivered with plastic plates and utensils.

You scrub the word faggot off your shoulder, pulling listlessly at the part of your shirt they tore to access the skin. Homo is removed from your forehead with much rubbing and a small amount of soap. You make a small attempt at taking off sinner, but it's snuggled comfortably right next to a very painful bruise on your stomach, so you leave it be and focus on the more offensive terms.

There are worse things to have written on your body. You find it very hard to take offense to an insult stemming from a religion you will never agree with anyway.

You end up googling what to do with the bruises, because boys will be boys and you've had your fair share, but nothing to this extent before. Ice seems to be the general consensus of each increasingly unreliable internet source, so you pull out yet another towel-probably dirty, but it's been a very long time since you were spoiled enough to care about such things-and make a cold compress.

You're alternating between icing your face and icing your hands because tomorrow is Saturday and you can't exactly enjoy your weekend if you go out with visible bruises. As much as you've been raised to not give a shit about whatever other people think, pity stares from complete strangers are a special kind of torture. Your arms, legs, torso and feet can be covered without attracting too much attention.

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Today was supposed to be your day.

It was going to be the day you finally told your best bro you were gay, then came home and did the same for your real brother.

Instead, all you did was weird out Logan, who apparently couldn't keep a secret and ended up inadvertently outing you to the whole school.

They didn't appreciate the knowledge.

You had a whole speech planned out for your brother, starting with hey Charles, there's something I need to tell you.

You didn't even get a chance to say hey. He must have known from what was written on your forehead.

You wonder if that's why he hit you.