Page 38 of Too Many Beds

“Didthey, though?” Caleb asks doubtfully.

“’Course,” I say, defending my pigeon knowledge. Which I definitely have. “Like, back in the 40s, they were heroes and shit.”

“This feels like an animated film you watched one time,” Caleb says, brows furrowing. “You really need to stop basing your animal information on Pixar shit, mate.”

“Okay, if you’re gonna be a hater about my pigeon intel, different idea.” I hold up my hands in await, listen to thisgesture. “How about a fairy in a teeny-tiny grey suit?”

“Nope,” Caleb says pensively. “I don’t think you can say ‘fairy.’ I read a thing that says it’s still offensive to some people.”

“You need to stop deep diving Reddit posts,” I tell him. “Besides, I already asked, and Rex said I could.”

“Rex doesn’t get to decide everything just because he’s gay,” Caleb says dryly. “He’s not theirking.”

“Well, Rex means ‘king’ in Latin, so,” I counter. Brilliantly. “Plus, if there was gonna be a king of the gays, I think our Rex would be a strong contender.” I raise my hand and tick points off on my fingers. “He’s tough as nails. He’s snarky and mean. He’s got good decision-making skills when it doesn’t include talking. He’s well-liked by the gay populace?—”

“How do you know he’s well-liked?” Caleb questions, bewildered.

“Come on, you’ve seen how many messages he gets on dating apps. And how many blokes make eyes at him when we go out.” Because as much as Caleb has people staring at him, Rex is just as bad for that kind of shit, especially in any queer club or bar.

I’d never be into him like that, because he’s my little brother in every way but blood, but I have eyes, I get it. Rex is the very epitome ofpretty-boy twink, paired with the confidence of a pissed-off badger and a mouth that gets him in trouble every two seconds of his life. If Rex didn’t have superhuman strength and the combat training of a SAS solider, I’d be worried about leaving him wandering around alone.

“Okay, first of all, ‘make eyes’?” Caleb demands, sounding highly disturbed. “What the fuck? Please never say that again. Also, why are you noticing how many random men ‘make eyes’ at our pseudo little brother? That’s strange.” He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re strange right now.”

“It’s called being observant, Cal,” I say reproachfully, making a show out of looking disappointed in his inability to understandbasic deduction. “Check yourself before you wreck yourself, please.”

“That’s not even what that means!” Caleb fumes, losing his cool again quite terrifically, a thing that I will never not find immensely entertaining.

He climbs back over the bed-zoo rope just so he can be close enough to get up in my face, like almost no one else in my life has the balls to do. “And I stand by what I said,” he affirms. “It’s a dodgy word, whatever Rexdecreed.”

I raise my eyebrows at that, sceptical, and he rushes to argue because that’s his default setting.

“You know he’s a bad gay anyway.” Caleb pulls a face, his pretty little nose scrunching up, making him not one iota less attractive, the fucker. “Like, edgy. He wears straight-boy baggy jeans, and he was great at maths in school, and he almost blinded himself the one time he tried to use eyeliner. We can’t trust his stance on gay morals.”

I’m almost positive that’s insane, but okay. I’m nowhere near plugged into the … pulse of the queer community enough to know what’s considered “edgy” by the community at large. I do, however, think that I’m going to be making a T-shirt for Rex’s next birthday that has the words#1 Bad Gayprinted on it. Possibly in glitter. Yep. That’s definitely happening. Rex would wear that shit all day long.

I’m getting flashbacks to all those times in my teens when I googled “am I gay?”, only to be bombarded with quizzes and random information to the point where I struggled to discern joke from honest speculation. I mean, obviously I don’t think being shit at maths means anything about a person’s sexuality, and neither does Caleb; for the record, he’s just being an argumentative weirdo, like always. But when you’re a fourteen-year-old who’s confused as hell, you grasp at anything to explain your own feelings, or in some cases, the lack of them.

I was afraid to ask Rex, who came out super early, which was very typically brave of him but also second-hand terrifying for me. I didn’t want him to think I was being stupid for not knowing, when he seemed to know from minute one exactly who he was.

Plus, growing up in a little English town as one of the very few Black kids around meant I already felt singled out so much of the time, I wasn’t eager to add another layer of ‘different’ for people to get potentially weird about.

For a young queer kid trying to figure themselves out, the internet is good, but also bad, but also reassuring, but also scary, but also great, but also terrible. I’m honestly unsure if I would recommend it, because I think mostly all I did was give myself imposter syndrome and anxiety about the whole thing.

Even now, at twenty-one, I still don’t feel comfortable slapping on a label.

“Okay, lets outsource this.” I turn my attention back to Tim, who looks frightened and intrigued to be once again included, which is either very silly of him or very courageous. “Tim, if I were to ask you?—”

“Oh my fuck.” Caleb whacks my arm, cutting off my attempt at democracy. “Don’t bring Tim into this again.” He shoots our American friend a vaguely exasperated frown. “Tim, why haven’t you run away yet? I told you to save yourself. Where are your survival instincts?”

Tim’s eyes bounce between us like a trapped bunny rabbit. “Uh, well, I?—”

“Great!” Caleb interrupts, hitting my arm again, turning a scowl on me. “Now you’re making Tim uncomfortable. Well done.”

“I’mmaking Tim uncomfortable!” I say, outraged by the implication. How dare he. Tim is my ally, my most-trusted collaborator. “Are you joking, mate?”

Tim seems to have found the end of his rope—frayed and possibly on fire. “I really don’t know what’s happening anymore.” He sounds lost, like an ugly baby swan or a blue koala alien. Very upsetting.

“That’s okay.” Caleb sighs, giving Tim a sympathetic pat on the arm. Too hard, by the wince on Tim’s face. He really needs to learn that not everyone appreciates affection through mild physical violence like our family does. “We hardly ever know either,” he says, like he’s trying to be reassuring and missing by about thirty miles. “It’ll be over soon, probably.”

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