Luke put the banana down and took a sip of his coffee. “Anyway, my parents divorced, and my father hired a male tutor to make me…manly. To ‘make a man out of me’ and get rid of all the freakish nonsense Mum put in my head.” He chuckled, looking into his cup. He supposed it all had worked out in the end. His mother was happily married now, living in Los Angeles with a husband who loved her and three beautiful daughters she could spoil rotten without fearing her husband’s wrath. Luke loved his half-sisters, although he only got to see them a few times a year and had little in common with them.
“A freak,” Roman said in a strange tone. “I wouldn’t call you ‘manly.’ Do you think it makes you a freak?”
His fingers trembling a little, Luke put his cup on the tray and looked at Roman. “If I like sucking cock and taking it up the ass, it doesn’t make me unmanly.” He was proud of how firm and sure his voice sounded. He felt anything but, his chest tight with a familiar panicky feeling. He felt eight all over again, trying to defend himself from his father’s derisive, cutting words. I’m normal, I’m normal, I’m normal.
No, he wasn’t normal. He’d always known that, hadn’t he? His father had used to comment derisively about his “effeminacy” until Luke had learned to hide it better. Hell, even James, who was gay himself and his closest friend, used to tease him, albeit good-naturedly, for being too romantic and girly, so Luke tended to tone his personality down even around his friends. He dressed conservatively and had learned how to sound pragmatic and practical, had learned it so well that it became second nature to him. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t completely erase the part of him that wanted to be pretty and looked longingly at patterned, colorful shirts—shirts that would make him look camp and effeminate and would make him a target for his father’s scathing criticism.
“No, what you like in bed has nothing to do with who you are,” Roman said, watching him carefully. “But you’re implying there’s something wrong with not being ‘manly’ enough. You don’t sound like someone completely comfortable with who you are.”
Averting his gaze, Luke let out a small laugh. “I’m gay, and I’m proud of it.”
Roman put his thumb under Luke’s chin and tipped it up, bringing their faces close. “Are you?” he said quietly. “Is that why you’re still in the closet? Or why you hide your curls and dress like a boring, middle-aged businessman? When I first saw you, I saw a little boy who seemed to be forcing himself to be something he wasn’t.”
Luke could only look at him, his throat dry and thick. “I’m in the closet because I don’t have the most progressive dad in the world and because my dad happens to be a dangerous man with a quick temper. I dress that way because I want to look older and be taken seriously by assholes like you.” It wasn’t a lie, but why did it feel like he wasn’t being completely honest? Luke glared, his fingers shaking. “It’s not because I suffer from internalized homophobia or something like that. Not all gay men are stereotypically flamboyant and effeminate.”
Roman’s blue eyes didn’t move away from his face. “But some are,” he said. “And you seem to think there’s something wrong with it. You’re implying I’m homophobic. You’re likely right. But I think you actually have more issues with your sexuality than I do. You say you’re proud of being gay, but you’re afraid to look gay.”
“You don’t know me,” Luke managed through the lump in his throat, his breath coming in short gasps. His heart was pounding obnoxiously fast in his chest. Anxiety attack. He was having an anxiety attack. He had to calm down. It was easier said than done. God, he couldn’t breathe. “You know nothing.”
“Did I hit a nerve, kitten?” Roman said, stroking Luke’s quivering bottom lip. He leaned to Luke’s ear, his warm breath tickling him, and murmured, “You don’t have to be manly with me, you know. You don’t have to be anything. You can let go, sweetheart. Anything that happens here, stays here.” He kissed the spot below Luke’s ear, his rough beard scratching Luke’s skin. God.
Luke’s eyes closed of their own volition. “Why are you doing this?” he whispered, trying to breathe, trying to pull himself together and failing. He was shaking, a wave of nausea overcoming him. He wanted to sag against Roman, let his forehead fall against his shoulder, and absorb his strength. “Why?” he said, trying to hold on to his sanity. “You want something.”
“Of course I do,” Roman said, running his fingers through Luke’s hair. “But it doesn’t mean I’m lying. I’m not going to judge you. I’m the last man who can judge anyone. You can let go, love. You can.” He stroked Luke’s cheek with his knuckles.