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Chapter Text

The reality of how truly alone he was sometimes made him want to just stop, stop breathing, talking, staying up all night cramming because knowledge was a one way ticket to success and success meant that he would be happy. 

But what was the point when no one was there by his side to celebrate? 

His mother, who spoke through pressing warm cups of masala Chai into his hands whenever they shook from too much caffeine, would bandage his bruised hands and shield him from his fathers questions. 

His father would ask again and again, yet only raised his voice when cheering for him, attended every parent teacher meeting, framed every award, every drawing and never once stopped saying ‘i’m proud of you.’ 

His parents were the perfect love story, they were both poor and clothes were kept for years until they tore but even then they were used, sometimes just like the clothes food was stretched thin and all of them would spend the nights talking until exhaustion spoke louder than their stomach. Despite this they never stopped loving each other. 

But how much did they truly know about him? How much of their love was through ignorance alone. Would they still love him if they knew the reason for his bruises, or the wounds he himself had inflicted. 

In a vast sea of people so alike, Abhimanyu Singh stood out, this was undeniable. No one matched him, no one understood him. 

It felt dirty to whisper the words of doubt about his parents, to speak into the darkness and question ‘would my parents accept me?’

Would they still have touched him as gently, as if their wrinkled leather hands, calloused from trying to pave his future, could ever hurt him. Would they even touch him knowing the truth? 

He can’t ever imagine his fathers large hand, the same one that caressed his wife’s cheek without fail every morning and night, before bestowing a kiss before it turning to violence. Nor could he imagine his mother, much smaller than them both, yet silent and sure, filling the gaps of quiet with anything but warmth.

But is that not what every child thinks, that their parents will love them unconditionally? Perhaps they think this because this is what every child deserves, unconditional love. 

Being born into a middle-class family, in India, everything is conditional, based on societal acceptantions and how well you can conform as well as how much you can spend. In India, one's bank balance and acceptance are linked, the wealthier you are the more well liked, the more opportunities, the more freedom you are allowed. 

Abhimanyu isn’t allowed any of these. He has to personally dig deep into his heart until he finds the wretched beating thing and rip it out. He has no time to trace the face of his future lover with the same care his parents showed each other, he hasn’t got the privilege to even be able to properly pick out a lover. Gay marriage wasn’t even legal in India, and the dating pool of openly gay men in small villages like his consisted of a single person, Him. 

Even if he did find someone, would people accept them? 

Would his parents? 

That was the whole point of this spiral wasn’t it, would his parents still love him if he told them what he was, what he did and what he wants to do. Would they still love him if they knew how truly different he was from everyone else? 

There was no point in thinking of this, they were dead now. They died not knowing how disgusting their son was, how he was just as perverted and a waste of space as his aunt always claimed him to be. 

Even before their deaths he was alone but now loss had a name, two graves side by side, two smiling faces tucked into his wallet because his aunt refused to hang their pictures up. 

What was the point of all of this? Could success pill in the gaping hole in his heart, one that he himself had created inorder to rise above the others. Childishly, he had thought that the beating hearts of his parents and their shared laughter at being able to live content and happy with money he had earned them, would be able to replace his own heart. 

Abhimanyu Sighn wasn’t used to losing. He knew that whatever he put his mind to, he would flourish and dominate in. His intelligence was nurtured both with loving hands that at times were shackles and debts,  as well as the sharp words of all those born with silver spoons looking down at his torn clothes. 

Ever weary whisper of ‘i’m getting old,’ every day spent gazing at the tired faces of his parents whenever they slipped up around him and stopped smiling, all the silent sobs heard from the doorway to scared to comfort when he himself was the problem, all of them was a constant reminder to not let his eyes or heart stray. To keep pushing and reading and absorbing, to ignore all other matters because money was the goal. It was the only way his parents could be happy, and finally rest. 

But as they were laid to rest, permanently, their ashes scattered in the Ganga with his shaking hands, nobody by his side except a priest he wondered how much this was worth. His main reason for everything, his breath, his brains, his endless hard work ,both of them were gone. 

Why was he still here? 

He looked down at the will, they didn’t have enough money to leave him anything. Just enough money for some textbooks. It was more than that though, it was a symbol like a final note ‘leave a better life.’ 

Considering his sexual orientation and his status, life was going to be riddled with hardships, with loneliness and doubt and constant ridicule, but that’s just how life was for people like him. He simply had to rise above it all, make enough money that none of it would matter. 

He had to do it for his parents, to honour their last wish and for himself. He had to learn to live with himself. 

The first step to that would be acceptance, accepting that he was all alone and couldn’t rely on anyone, he only had himself. 

Which meant he had to accept himself, because what good was success if he was unhappy with himself. 

But it wasn’t that simple, this wasn’t just self hatred this was something deeper, something freakish and abnormal. 

But what determines if things were normal? If it was the majority? What other people think? Religion? 

In all those cases there was never a cohesive answer that ticked all the boxes for the various religions and personal opinions. And no one really considered him normal did they? Even without knowing that he was…, what he was, he was 6’1, good looking enough to become a bollywood actor and successful in quite literally every endeavour he’d ever done. 

None of that was normal either. 

But being, being gay was different wasn’t it? It was immoral! It was wrong! According to who? The Gita didn’t have anything against it and besides he wasn’t even religious. 

Was this really okay? 

Was he even gay? 

Maybe he was just unsure? Maybe all he needed was to do some experimentation and fortunately he was going to be living with his dad’s friend in Mumbai! The most liberal, as liberal as India can get, state. 

Chapter Text

Saying he would experiment with his sexuality was a lot easier than actually doing it because first of all what does that even mean? Sex? Did he need to go and have sex with someone???

Why was it different to just watching porn and jerking off? Also how do you even have a one night stand with a stranger? There was no way in hell Abhimanyu was going to bring a guy back to his place, so were they going to go back to the guys house? Wasn’t that dangerous letting a random man into your house just for sex and what if this was a scam and Abhimanyu ended up getting mugged or murdered?

So many questions, not just about the location but aslo just practical questions like how excalty was gay sex going to work? He was a 16 year old teen so of course he’d watched porn, that’s basically how he discovered his sexuality combined with first watching Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. All the other boys were, rightfully, fawning over Kajol while he had thought that Rahul was a bit of a bitch and that no matter what clothes Anjali wore he couldn’t imagine falling for her. Infact his eyes had been glued to Shah Rukh Khan and Salman Khan the whole time, why didn’t they just get together?? Why didn’t Abhimanyu get to get together with hot guys?

He was probably gay way before having found out what the word was at 11, after a classmate had called him gay for rejecting the advances of the hottest girl in their grade. Even at 11 years old he had had the weight of the world on his shoulders and was only able to attend the already free school with a scholarship that paid for his books. Girls were the last thing on his mind when grades meant everything. His ‘grades’ were so much on his mind that he never questioned why he attended tutoring every monday and friday despite his tutor having no idea how to teach and his only saving grace being his sweet brown eyes that crinkled at the sides when Abhimanyu answered right (always) and gentle voice that explained formulas incorrectly. Watching his tutor graduate had felt like a breakup and for weeks Abhimanyu didn’t do anything expect study, even pausing soccer and cricket in his grief over his ‘tutor’. After taking a ‘am i gay quiz’ at 13, he finally came to the realisation that it had been a crush the whole time.

Now with even more interest access, he was going back to his roots and searching up gay porn and how poeple have gay sex.

…

He quickly sent a prayer for his parents and apologised but they had said they wanted for him to be happy, so this was technically fulfilling their last wishes.

His justifications didn’t make him feel any better and the more he thought about them the worse he felt. The only time homosexuality had been mentioned his mother had retorted on how it was like a disease and warned Abhimanyu away from that sinful path. His father had replied that it didn’t matter, as long as it was kept hidden away. Both of them had looked at him with something dark in their eyes, what was a single son in the face of centuries of culture?

His parents were cultural, without money all they could afford as entertainment was talking amongst their community. They had dreams and aspirations outside of working everyday, having to cater to annoying relatives everyday but in this society even dreaming costs money.

Was Abhimanyu really going to throw away everything his parents had worked for, all their pain and suffering, all the insults from their relatives, coworkers and boss only soothed with the healing balm of their only sons brilliance and future, to fuck a guy?

The screen started blurring and the hot sensation of tears touched his eyes, burning a path down his face onto his shaking hands. He exhaled but his lungs were void of air, he pressed his unsteady hands deeper into his face curling around his eyes and ripping at his hair.

This was a bad habit of his, despite how stable he seemed and how intelligent, outside of academics he was a mess. Thinking about his future scared him, thinking about the past scared him, his present terrified him. So he never thought about anything except grades, and studying but studying made him think of how his mother had once dreamed of being an astronaut but had been forced into an arranged marriage and hadn’t graduated high school. Or how his strict bossy grandma had carried a child when she was only 14.

He’d stare off into the distance in the middle of reading a sentence, and he’d stare and stare until his eyes blurred and he couldn’t breathe because then he’d sob and the only thing that helped was clawing at his arms until blood would surge up gentle and harsh. Once his parents had seen the marks and accused him of being selfish, and insane and then broke down sobbing words wet as they asked how they had failed so badly. Why did he do it? Weren't they good enough parents? They did everything for him.

They had whispered broken and soft but it echoed in his ears, the truth screaming in his mind.

They did everything for you.

He stared down at the scars on his arms, chest heaving, what sin had his parents committed to end up with a son like him?

He startled, cursing while wildly looking around for his screeching phone.

He cleared his throat, wiped his sweaty hands and picked up.

“Abhi.”

“Grandma.”

“ABHIMANYU MY PRECIOUS GRANDSON HOW ARE YOU!!.”

He laughed at her enthusiasm, only his grandma would be so happy to hear from him.

“I’ve been great, what about you? Auntie still giving you trouble?”

He smiled as she rambled about the villiness witch her cowardly son had married, thinking about her wrinkled face, etching of her kindness, a plain stare. white saree against her greying hair that only made her colourful personality stand out more. His heart heavy, he clenched his eyes closed, she was 75 already, and they couldn't afford any possible hospital bills.

He needed that scholarship, he needed a job, he needed money. He needed everything the world had and needed to grasp it with a blooded hand out of the blank faced shadow figures.

For everything he had been given, for the right to live he had to prove himself.

The tangled web of feelings, the sharp edges of guilt had to be pushed down further and further until they choked his heart and thoughts of embracing anyone at all. He needed no one.

“Have you found a guy yet?”

“Hah?’

“You're in Mumbai, aren’t there a lot of good looking guys there?? I can't imagine my handsome, kind, sweet grandchild not having found a boyfriend.”

He pinched his thigh, hard, his pulse ringing in his ears.

“Uh sorry?” His voice cracked like glass and the sound of him swallowing echoed in his room.

“Didn’t you say you were going to explore in Mumbai? Just be safe, some people are so close minded and ignorant, honesty what kind of values where the raised with to hate so much.”

“Yeah… listen i think- ”

“Abhi. If you give me some nonsense about not being able to find a guy I'll smack you. You’re diligent, smart and good looking, if anyone can find a sugar daddy it’s you.”

He choked, “What?? Grandma, what are you saying? Where did you even learn these words from?”

She scoffed, “I’m 4 times your age, you don’t want to know what type of stuff i got up to when i was your age. You’re an angel compared to me.”

He laughed but it slowly slipped off his face and he hesitated before speaking, ”Grandma, it’s not about that… it’s just is getting a guy worth all this?”

A pause.

The silence lasted long enough that he scratched his thigh, prepared to take back his question and go back to hiding his uncertainties. He worried his lip, what was he thinking dumping all his worries onto his sickly grandmother?

”Saint Tati, or however you say it, is a prestigious college that accepts only the best of the best or the super rich and they choose you Abhi, all you have to do is pass the exam and you’ll get in, they’ll pay for everything that’s how much they way you! There isn’t a single thing you can’t achieve if you put your mind to it. So what if you’re gay? You’re still brillant.”

“…Thank you.”

They exchanged warm goodbyes and well wishes, Abhimanyu went back to researching with a slightly lighter stomach.

The world would forever try and drown him, but weren’t there so many people before with the same story? (Like Ashok Nanda, his idol.) They were thriving and alive, so maybe he could do the same.

He wasn't a good person, but if someone as selfless and kind as his grandmother believed in him, he should do the same.

Chapter Text

He stood in front of a dirty cramped alleyway and behind piles of leaking trash, was a whole other world, with flashing lights and screams of ecstasy. Women and men in short dresses, high heels, men holding onto other men, other women holding onto women, they all smiled and laughed. The door was made of steel, intimidating and harsh yet the lights and white smoke surrounding it softened the edge, it looked like the entrance to heaven. 

He slowly stepped closer, winching as a tall man in a wig (a drag queen is what they were called perhaps?) winked at him, smiling with all teeth lips a deep red. 

“Heaven on earth” was above the door, in shiny gold letters, and he winched again. Was this blasphemy? Did he care? Should he? 

Something clawed at his chest and he had a inescapable urge to  shout at the man, ‘don’t look at me, i’m not like you, this isn’t heaven, you’re a sinner’ 

Those were normal thoughts, that’s what normal people would think. What normal people would say. 

That’s what his mother would have said. 

But he wasn’t normal, if he was he would have never stood foot in a place like this, he wouldn’t feel comforted by the people that were like him. If he was a normal good person like his mother he wouldn't step closer into the glowing lights, smiling shyly as a attractive man asked to dance with him. 

The thought of his mother echoed in his mind, growing louder as he was gently pushed against the door of a cubicle by the handsome man, who peppered delicate kisses all over his face. Disturbingly,  that also reminded him of his mother and her soft kisses as congratulations, and he squeezed his eyes shut until they stopped watering and pushed the man off him. 

As his footsteps faded away, Abhimanya slid down the cubicle wall knees drawn to his chest, wet warm face in his hands, tugging at his hair until the stupid useless tears stopped dripping down his face. His chest spasmed and every attempt to breathe failed, he opened his mouth wider but his tongue was like lead,  swollen and heavy and he bit down until the taste of pennies entered his mouth coating it and choking him but he would finally breathe. 

He spat out the blood and drew in large breaths, chest shaking, throat rubbery and wrong. The cold hard cubicle door hurt his head, but the sting drew him back to his surroundings so he knocked his head against the door, gasping at the sting, harder and harder until his vision blurred and warm liquid wet his hair. 

Slowly standing with shaking legs, he paused as the blood stained tiled ground spun and his vision blackened. Concussion?

 Whatever that was a problem for future him.

He blinked away the black dots and stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. 

He hated looking in the mirror, hating the perfect beautiful face that greeted him, regal nose, chisel jaw, sharp black eyes. He had the face of an angel entrenching everyone who saw him yet underneath the canvas of flawless skin, pearly sharp teeth he was disgusting. 

Everything about him was wrong, his blood flowed in the wrong direction, his veins were all twisted wrapping around his heart, suffocating it causing him to be an amalgamation of cold hearted evil.

Yet for the first, blood dripping down his teeth, sweat plastering his dank hair to his face and a bruise forming on his flawless face, he smiled baring his teeth, as for the first time his reflection matched the rot in his soul and his true disgusting form was revealed past his beautiful visage.

Someone knocked on the door, snapping him out of his daze.

What was he doing? 

Why did he come here? To work himself up and try and prove that this was sick and twisted and he should continue to hide away his feelings.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Excuse me??”

The stranger turned to him, his handsome features contorted with confusion and anger.

“Ah not you, sorry i was speaking to myself.”

“Okayyy….”

The stranger looked at him closer squinted before his eyes widened at the state of his face. 

“Holy fuck do you get jumped or something?”

“You should see the other guy,” Abhimanyu smiled slightly before pointing to the stall wall with dried blood.

“Are all good looking guys this weird?”

Abhimanyu didn’t have time to retort or to explain or maybe unload his entire trauma story onto the guy before his hands were gently grasped and he was pulled outside the bathroom and to a VIP section of the club. 

He watched himself sit down onto a plush red chair and the handsome stranger try to engage in conversation. He observed his own blank face, peering into dead eyes and found his own face reflected in the darkness. He abandoned his body and floated higher and higher soaring above the sweating contorting bodies of the club goers. He perched atop of the dangling disco ball and wondered what was happening to him. 

Was he dead? 

Yet his body was still there, lips stretched into a cold smile that seemed to somehow charm the stranger. Or perhaps he didn’t notice Abhimanyu’s facade. 

No one did, his parents haven’t, neither did his grandmother, his peers also failed to see with their lingering eyes deeper than his skin. The person who got closest had been his mother, who one day with shaky hands had lifted up Abhimanya’s pant leg, revealing the multitude of fresh bleeding cuts. 

He begins to float even higher, body moving up against the ceiling and just as his head had escaped and he’s gazing at the stars in the sky blocked by all the lights of the Mumbai streets, someone grasps his hand and squeezes hard. He lungs up with a gasp is confronted with a pinched look on the stranger's face. 

His lips move yet Abhimanyu can’t make out what he’s sayings, his ears are clogged with sweat that’s slowly dripping down his face and into his lashes blinding him. He closes his eyes again, ‘whatever's happening please just stop stop stop’

“Do you like Messi?”

“Huh??”

The stranger laughed (he really needed to ask for his name), “Sorry I was just trying to think of things that would snap you out of it.”

“Oh okay, thank you, my names Abhimanyu by the way”

He waits for an introduction but the man simply keeps staring at him.

“Why did you come here?”