"Hi! Sorry to bother you; I know you probably get asked this a lot, but do you ever struggle with your faith because of your sexuality? - Anon."
Malik Ishtar is a Muslim journalism student who works for a freelance newspaper, and he lives in San Fra...
Hey guys! For those of you who don't know me, I'm Elliot. Sorry, I meant to post this at the beginning of the month. I'll be doing weekly updates on Saturdays, but because this is late, I'll upload the first three chapters over the next three days. Thank you so so much to samael_dire for making this cover for me - go check out their art on Instagram!
This fic was actually meant to be posted ages ago but exams took ages. So here you go! This is mainly self indulgence but I never see any fics about LGBT+ Muslim characters. I wanted to do something about a character coming to terms with their sexuality/gender and faith since Islam is seen as a really LGBT-phobic religion. I'm not Muslim, but I had people check it over and I did research, so hopefully I got things right but if I did something wrong, PLEASE message me or comment and I will fix it. Thanks to sitabethel and fitzyfoop for looking over it for me!
Just a quick note; both Ryou and Yami Malik are trans in this; Ryou is a trans man and still goes by Ryou, but Yami Malik is a trans woman and goes by Mehi. I'll be deleting ANY homophobic/transphobic/islamophobic comments that I see. Enjoy.
CW: Homophobia, child abuse, murder, light gore
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When Malik was little, he used to see prayer as his refuge. He would be at the mosque whenever he got the chance, enamoured by the coloured tiles in intricate patterns and the texts in a delicate, scrawling language he was still learning to read. He was the only legitimate son, so he was taught early while his brother was left to work at home.
By the time he entered school at five, he was reading at the average adult's level and had combed through the Qur'an several times.
Then his father was made a local imam, and everything changed.
Prayers became a strict chore, the requirement dousing any joy Malik had initially felt when he mumbled the words under his breath. His schooling took a harsher turn as well, with teachers expecting more from him than ever.
Isis began facing tougher rules as well – she left school at fourteen and began working at home, only able to study in what little free time she had after her brothers and father went to bed.
Malik was never quite sure what Rishid did. His father had been civil to his adopted son after his wife's death, but since he had received his new position, Malik returned home several evenings to find fresh bruises blossoming over his brother's face.
"What happened?"
A smile always followed the question, no matter how severe the wounds were. "I just fell, Malik; I'm fine."
It was always the same, no matter how many bruises were there, or where they were. Then it was a cut, and he got careless when cooking, even though it was always Isis who made their meals. Malik never took too much notice. He trusted Rishid.
One day, Malik left school early, sick with a stomach bug. He didn't remember much of the day. He knew from what Isis told him that he had walked in to see his father beating Rishid with a belt.
