ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.
The word f** has been mentioned. I apologize in advance. As a straight woman, I do not think I am allowed to say this as a person, and I have felt conflicted. But this is just a mere word compared to the other discriminations that the LGBTQ+ receive due to their sex and gender (Im talking about the physical abuse and all). This is me opening this book into something that will tackle the abuse that people go through in real life. This is a step to it. If it in any way makes anyone upset. I will be more than thankful to you for coming forward about it and will change it into something that you think would still encapsulate the message without being offensive to anyone. Anyways, I apologize for holding you for too long. Enjoy!
“One night,” Ezra declared, pointing a dramatic finger at Rome as they stood beneath the yellow wash of a streetlamp. “One night, Rome. No simulations. No pre-flight checklist. Just vibes.”
Rome gave him a dry look, one brow raised. “You do realize you're asking me to a concert where people willingly lose brain cells.” Ezra grinned, clapping him on the back hard enough to make Rome sway. “Look, man, you’ve been cooped up too long. You need to be human for once. Get a little chaos in that bloodstream. Trust the turbulence.”
Rome turned, already starting to walk away.
“Nope,” Raphael said, smoothly stepping in front of him like a closing gate. “Uh-uh. Don’t even think about it.”
Rome sighed. “I didn’t say no.”
“You didn’t say yes,” Ezra countered. “Which is basically a no in Rome-language.”
Raphael grinned, slinging an arm over Rome’s shoulder and steering him back toward the curb like a stubborn sibling. “We’ll take that as a soft yes. C’mon, man. One night won’t kill you.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” Rome muttered.
“Shh,” Ezra said, linking his other arm through Rome’s free side. “Stop resisting the vibes.”
Rome gave them both a deadpan look, utterly unimpressed. “This feels like peer pressure.”
“It is peer pressure,” Ezra beamed.
Rome exhaled through his nose. “Fine. One night.”
Ezra spun on the spot, triumphant. “Let’s gooo! Oh—can we get you to dance? Like, just one song?”
Raphael shot him a look. “You’re pushing it.”
Raphael tilted his head toward Rome. “Him tagging along is already a miracle. Don’t get cocky.”
Ezra held his hands up, grinning wide. “Alright, alright. Just vibes. No dance floor obligations.”
Rome shook his head as they walked off down the street, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Maybe he’d regret this. Maybe not. But for once, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It just felt like… something new.
The three of them strolled through the city streets like they belonged there—three very different kinds of boys with one unexpected bond. Rome walked in the middle, not because he asked to be, but because the others naturally fell in place that way.
Raphael was dressed like the older brother at a music festival: black cargo pants, a snug sleeveless shirt that showed off toned arms, and silver chains that caught the city light with every step. His curls were tied back messily, but intentionally. One hand rested comfortably on Rome’s shoulder the entire time, like he needed that quiet contact to balance his buzzed joy.
Ezra, on the other hand, looked like a walking riot. Neon green joggers, a mesh tank over a glowing graphic tee, and a bandana tied around his head like some street prophet of good times. He had rings on nearly every finger and a pair of LED glasses that flickered in sync with his steps. He veered off constantly—greeting strangers, laughing too loud, or trying to jump and touch every signpost they passed.
Rome, center of the storm, wore something simple—but sharp. Black slim jeans, combat boots, and a deep burgundy shirt rolled up at the sleeves, with a leather jacket slung casually over his shoulder. His hair sleeked back with a few strands hanging to his face. For once, he let himself be seen.
He didn’t say much. But he didn’t need to.
“I swear this place is magic,” Ezra said, catching up and swinging his arms behind his head. “Like—every time I’m out with you guys, it feels like... I don’t know, like we’re in a movie.”
Rome huffed a breath of laughter. “What kind of movie has you climbing mailboxes in a mesh?”
“A damn good one,” Raphael muttered, his voice still warm with amusement. “Probably one where we all die in the end but we look hot doing it.”
Rome shook his head, smiling despite himself.
They passed a busker singing under a flickering streetlamp. Ezra tossed him a few coins, did a dramatic twirl, and yelled, “Make us the soundtrack of our youth, old man!” before jogging to catch up.
Rome looked up at the sky—stars barely visible behind the light pollution—and thought, Maybe this is what it means to be alive. Not chasing the sky in a cockpit. Not running from a past or planning a future. Just this. Messy, chaotic, too loud, too bright. And beautiful.
He looked at Raphael’s hand still on his shoulder. Then to Ezra, who’d just tried to moonwalk and nearly fell. And he said, quietly but clearly, “You guys are idiots.” Raphael chuckled. “Takes one to love one.”
Rome let the words sit for a second. Then nodded, softly.
Ezra stopped in his tracks. “Ohhhh—this man’s drunk on serotonin! You don’t think we see you smiling huh?”
“Take a picture!” Raphael grinned.
“No need,” Rome said, his smile small but real. “I’ll remember this one.”
By the time they reached the venue, the streetlights were flickering with the hum of bass already thumping from inside. The building wasn’t fancy—graffiti-streaked bricks and steel doors—but the energy leaking through the cracks made it feel alive.
The banner above the entrance glowed neon pink:
TONIGHT ONLY: DEVOUR SUNSET – LIVE SET + DJ AFTERPARTY
Ezra clapped his hands once. “We are going to lose our minds.”
“Correction,” Rome said, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, “you’re going to lose your mind. I’m going to stand somewhere safe and observe.”
“Bro,” Raphael laughed, clapping him on the back. “You don’t observe a concert. You survive it. Let’s go.”
Inside, it was chaos. Colored lights swirled across a sweaty, bouncing crowd. The speakers pounded with the beat of something bass-heavy and sharp. Ezra wasted no time grabbing two plastic cups of beer and shoving one into Raphael’s hand. He offered Rome the other.
Rome gave it a glance. “No thanks.”
“Your loss,” Ezra shouted over the music, already tilting his head back for a gulp.
Rome didn’t need beer. The music did enough. As the beat dropped and bodies jumped, he found himself pressed between his two friends, bouncing with the crowd, his head tilted up, laughing into the lights.
He didn’t even realize when the smile crept onto his face—wide and unfiltered. His hair was damp with sweat, shirt sticking to his back, and his throat burned from yelling lyrics he didn’t even know. But God, it felt good.
The bass pulsed under Rome’s feet like a second heartbeat, faster and louder than his own. His shirt clung to him with sweat, collar half-loosened, and he didn’t care. He’d never felt this kind of release before—surrounded by bodies, energy, sound. He jumped with Ezra and Raphael, mouthing lyrics to a song he didn’t know but could feel. The lights overhead flickered in waves—blue, gold, red—like a thunderstorm on loop.
Ezra had one arm in the air, pointing to the sky like it owed him something. Raphael bumped into Rome’s side, yelling something too loud to be understood but full of joy. Rome laughed. Actually laughed. No tight smile. No second-guessing.
He was caught in it—in the kind of joy that doesn’t leave room for history.
Not dramatically. Just mid-movement, mid-breath. And crashed into someone in the crowd.
It wasn’t rough, but it was close—chest to chest for a moment too long.
“Shit—sorry—” Rome muttered, instinct kicking in, reaching to steady whoever it was.
A boy—he looked a little younger than Rome, though they were likely the same age—blinked up at him with wide eyes, unafraid. His skin was soft-looking and fair, pale in the glow of the stage lights. His dark brown hair fell in gentle waves around his shoulders, damp at the ends from the heat of the crowd and wild from all the dancing. He wore a soft pink sweater, oversized just enough to drape casually off one shoulder, and light denim jeans that fit like they were made for him. Clean white sneakers peeked from under the hem, untied but untouched by the grime of the venue.
And his eyes—blue. Not just blue. Cold ocean blue. Bright and striking and glass-clear. The kind of eyes that held your gaze without trying.
It wasn’t coy. Wasn’t flirty. It was warm. Sweet. The kind of smile that tasted like honey and spring air.
Rome blinked, heartbeat louder now for a very different reason.
“Hey,” the boy said, voice low but kind. “You good?”
Rome straightened, momentarily dazed. “Y-Yeah. Sorry, I—the crowd shifted.”
“It does that,” the boy said, his smile unfading.
Rome realized his hand was still lightly on the boy’s arm. He dropped it immediately. “Didn’t mean to crash into you.”
“No harm done.” The boy tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. “It’s nice to see someone actually enjoying it.”
Rome raised a brow, his voice a little more grounded now. “Most people are.”
“Most people are performing,” the boy replied. “You were singing like you meant it.”
Rome looked at him, really looked. And for a moment, it felt like the rest of the concert blurred into a muted background—like he’d stepped into a different tempo.
Before he could say anything else, Raphael’s voice broke through the noise behind him. “Rome! Bro! You good?”
The boy stepped back with a small laugh. “Go to your friends. I’ll see you around, singer.”
And just like that, he slipped into the crowd—swallowed up by lights and bodies.
“Who was that?” Raphael asked with a grin, looping an arm around Rome’s shoulders again.
Rome only shook his head, letting a smile tug at his lips. “No idea.” And just as he was about to turn back around to the stage, he saw him. He saw Ezra.
Just off to the side of the crowd, under a flickering blue light—Ezra was kissing someone. A guy.
It wasn’t rushed or sloppy. It was soft, almost quiet, even amid the noise. The guy had a hand on Ezra’s cheek, and Ezra was smiling into the kiss like he’d been waiting to do it for years.
Rome stilled, breath catching—not in shock, but something else.
Not judgment. Not confusion.
Just a kind of... understanding.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t point. Didn’t make it a thing. He just turned back to the music, Raphael rejoining him seconds later, grinning with flushed cheeks.
The beat kicked back in, and they kept dancing, lights spinning above their heads, the world slipping into rhythm.
And for a boy who’d once walked through life trying not to feel anything—Rome felt everything.
After the concert, they spilled back out into the street, their ears still ringing from bass and adrenaline. It was almost midnight, and the city had settled into a softer version of itself—neon lights blinking slower, cars passing like whispers instead of shouts.
Ezra had his jacket slung over his shoulder, hair damp with sweat, still sipping from that obnoxiously bright slushie he bought during intermission.
“Bro, that part when the beat dropped during the encore—”
“I swear,” Raphael groaned, “if you yell 'Drop it like it's flight school' one more time…”
“You’ll what?” Ezra laughed, throwing an arm around both Raphael and Rome. “You’ll admit it slapped? You’ll cry again?”
Rome smirked. He didn’t flinch when Ezra’s arm hit his shoulder. He didn’t dodge when Raphael clapped a hand to his back. Instead, he let it happen—let it feel normal. Let it sink in.
Ezra clicked his tongue. “ I’m dragging you out again next week.” Rome gave a small, tired smile. “I’m not really… good at this.” “At what?” Raphael asked. Rome looked between them, the red stoplight painting his face soft and honest. “This. Friends. People.”
Ezra didn’t even pause. “Yeah, well… lucky for you, we’re good enough for all three of us.”
Rome stared down at the cracked sidewalk, then back up. It wasn’t dramatic. No music swelled. No stars aligned.
But something inside him shifted.
“…Thanks,” he said, quietly. “You guys are… I don’t know. Like family, I guess.”
Raphael’s grin spread slow and smug. “Oh shit, we got him to say it.”
Ezra whooped and pulled Rome into a full hug, sweat and all. “Rome ‘no new friends’ Ellison just called us brothers. I could cry.”
Rome rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. He even gave Ezra a one-armed pat on the back—awkward, sure. But real.
“Don’t make it weird,” he muttered.
Raphael snorted. “Too late, bro.”
And for the first time in years, his heart felt full. Like the echo of the music hadn’t just stayed in the venue—it had followed him home. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone anymore.
Raphael was the first to peel off, waving lazily as he crossed the street to his building, his laughter still echoing faintly behind them. That left Rome and Ezra alone, walking side by side through the softened hush of midnight. The concert’s pulse had faded into memory, and now only the rhythm of their footsteps and the warm glow of streetlamps filled the quiet.
It was peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
Rome was soaking in the stillness, letting it rest in his bones, when Ezra broke it.
Rome didn’t turn to look. He didn’t have to.
There was no malice in his voice. Just a raw, nervous tremor—like someone bracing for a punch that hadn't landed yet.
Everything seemed to stiffen. The air. The ground. Even their pace slowed, their shoes scuffing gently against the pavement.
“Yeah,” Rome said quietly. “And?”
Ezra blinked. His breath hitched, like he’d expected something else—anything else. “And? That’s it?” he asked, half incredulous, half daring. “You’re not gonna call me a fag or something?”
Rome stopped walking. Ezra did too.
He turned, brow furrowed—not in anger, but in disbelief.
“Didn’t you just hear me call you family?” Rome asked, voice low but steady. “Does that not suffice? You’re seriously standing here expecting me to call you a slur?”
Ezra opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Maybe a shrug. Maybe silence. Maybe a punch, which he knew wouldn’t come because it’s Rome he’s talking too. But not a slap of honesty so bare.
Rome ran a hand through his hair, frustrated—not at Ezra, but at the idea that he had to explain something that should’ve been obvious.
“I don’t care who you kiss. End of story.”
Voice rising—shaky, angry, frantic. “You think it’s that easy? Just be okay with it? You know how fucking scary it is to like someone and not know if they’ll hate you for it? If they’ll—hurt you for it? You don’t get it, Rome! You don’t fucking get it! It’s not just about liking someone—it’s about walking into a room and wondering if today’s the day someone looks at you differently. If they call you shit. If they hit you. If they find out.” His hands were balled into fists, shaking. “I live every day wondering if being me is enough to get me—” He cut himself off, swallowing the words like bile.
And he stood there, Rome watched Ezra catch his breath as his eyes widened asking for an explanation from him, waiting for him to say something, anything.
That’s when it clicked—what Ezra had meant, what he’d been carrying. Rome had never truly understood the why behind the hate. Why people spat venom at others just for loving someone of the same gender. Why being gay, or trans, or anything outside of some invisible line was treated like a threat. As if love between two men, two women, or someone in between was more complicated, more offensive, than love between a boy and a girl. As if it broke the rules of a game no one agreed to play. It made no sense to him—never had. And standing there, watching Ezra unravel in fear and fury, Rome realized it didn’t need to make sense. It just needed to stop.
And for the first time in a while, he felt it. He felt hate—raw and scorching—for the kind of world that could twist something as simple as love into something shameful. Anger burned in his chest for every name Ezra must’ve been called, for every time he had to hide or second-guess a smile. So cruel, Rome thought, that his friend was standing there, eyes sharp with fear, expecting nothing but disgust. Expecting rejection. As if that’s all the world ever taught him to brace for. Rome looked at him, and all he could think was—God, what the hell did they do to you to make you think I’d stop being your brother for being who you are?
Rome didn’t look away. “So what? You want me to hate you too, just so it makes sense?”
Ezra blinked, stunned. His breath caught in his throat.
“You think you’re disgusting, huh?” Rome said, suddenly, voice sharp. Ezra flinched at the edge in his tone. “Because people told you that? Called you names? Treated you like you’re some kind of disease?”
Ezra looked away, jaw tight.
“So what?” Rome pressed. “That makes it true? That makes you less? You think their words matter more than everything you are?”
Rome’s voice stayed low, steady. “I’m not gonna do that. You’re my brother, Ezra. And I don’t give a single fuck who you kiss. Get mad all you want.”
Ezra opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Rome took a breath—deep, grounding—and stepped closer.
“Let me tell you something,” he continued, quieter now but still firm. “You’re not disgusting. You’re not broken. You’re a good person. Loud as hell, annoying as fuck—but good. And if someone can’t see that because of who you love, then they’re the ones who are rotten. Not you.”
Ezra’s lips trembled. Rome kept going.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to the world. Just stay kind. Stay loud. And don’t ever shrink just to fit into someone else’s comfort.”
Rome's voice softened to a near whisper.
“You’re my brother, Ez. And no version of you could ever make me walk away.”
Then—slowly, carefully—he let out a breath. His hand bumped against Rome’s shoulder in a lazy, affectionate way. “You’re a weird guy, you know that?”
Rome shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”
Ezra let out a shaky laugh, one that collapsed halfway into a sob. He clutched his chest like the weight of all the years he spent holding it in had finally snapped his ribs apart. And then, without warning, he broke—crumbling to his knees right there on the concrete, shoulders trembling as a choked cry tore from his throat. It was the kind of sound that scraped its way out, the kind that would leave him hoarse in the morning. The kind that wasn’t meant to be heard, but needed to be.
And Rome didn’t say anything. He just knelt beside him, not touching, not crowding—just there. Steady. Unmoving. Like family does.
They kept walking, slower this time. The silence was no longer tense—it was comfortable, like a warm hoodie after the storm.
Ezra didn’t say thank you.