Ctrl + Alt + Dalt (BxB)

Ctrl + Alt + Dalt + 3

"So what's all this, then?" I ask, feigning absolute ignorance—knowing that there is a good possibility that, perhaps, this is about something else, entirely.

"We know, son," Father says, bluntly—although, his words are still cryptically vague and they don't confirm exactly what it is we're actually talking about.

"And what is it that you know?" I ask. Obviously, I'm not stupid enough to accidentally come out, when maybe all they're talking about is me drinking the liquor from Father's cabinet—although, that itself can't be the matter that they're referring to because they've never said anything before, and I'm pretty positive that they already know that I drink occasionally—it's not as if I really bother to hide it. Mother sighs.

"Some of the parents already reached out to us," Mother says. The timer in the kitchen rings, startling all three of us as we glance almost in unison towards the oven. Mother continues, "it's still got a few minutes to go—it can wait. You know, they were actually supportive—unlike when this last happened."

"Nobody's said what it is were talking about here," I state, plainly.

"About you being gay," Father returns just as plainly—not a hint of anger or any other emotion in his voice or his expression.

"Are they spreading that slander again? We've been through this before—" I start, trying to deflect.

"It's okay, son," Father cuts in, leaning in slightly as he speaks. "We're not in a town full of racist, homophobic hicks anymore—and, I'm told, the cops here actually do pursue hate crimes matters. You'll be all right."

"What does that mean? You believe it, then? You think that I'm gay?" I ask, still trying to gauge whether they will truly be on my side, or not.

"I won't put words in your mouth, but your mother and I did choose to move here for a reason—the bay area—especially, being right next to San Francisco. It's hardly a friendly place for one's pocketbook, yet we chose it anyway. Why do you think that is?" Father asks.

"Oh, I don't know—there are  hundreds of reasons why people choose to live here—all the attractions and amenities, nice views, parks, beaches, the ocean air—" I start to list the reasons, trying to be a bit clever with him and his vague, but pointed question.

"You, son," he cuts me off. "You."

"We did it for you," Mother chimes in, supporting her husband.

"What do you mean, exactly?" I ask as if I don't already know, but I need to hear the exact words—there cannot be any uncertainty when it comes to this matter. "I thought—if anything in regards to me—it was to escape all of the bullying, all of the lies that were being spread—"

"Were they really lies?" Mother asks. I go silent, not wanting to admit the truth of who I am to them without knowing what they feel without knowing what they might do—or, that is, what they might do to me.

"Come off it, already," Father blurts, finally revealing annoyance. "It doesn't matter if you are, or not."

"Respectfully, it does—it absolutely does matter," I return. There are sighs around the room, almost in unison.

"I think, what he's trying to say is that we don't care about whether you like guys or gals or aliens or inanimate objects—you're still you—you're still our son, even if you're gay," Mother finally says. I'm touched, but there is still very much the matter of how they will treat me—how they will treat a gay son.

"If I'm gay. If," I say, purposely reinforcing the word that makes it still very much uncertain if they know that I am or not.

"Well, it's up to you, son—" Father starts.

"Up to me? Nobody chooses how they feel about someone. Nobody chooses who they're attracted to—they can choose if they want to express it, maybe, but they don't get to choose whom they have butterflies churn up they're insides for, whether they want to or not," I cut him off, almost foaming from the mouth.

"That's not what I meant—" Father starts to defend himself.

"Yeah? Well, what is it, then? What did you mean?" I challenge.

"It's your choice if you want to express yourself—like you've said. If you want to come out to us, then you can, but you don't have to, if you don't want to. We'll support you—as we've always have—that doesn't stop," Father says, and I breathe a sigh of relief, finally hearing the words that I needed to hear but didn't know that I was searching for.

"Finally," I say.

"What?" Mother asks as Father raises his brow.

"Support—that was the key word—I needed to know that you both weren't going to throw me out, or kill me, or something," I admit. Mother's eyes frown.

"I went through way too much pain giving birth to you—you're my baby. I'd sooner kill your father," she says, dryly, before she chuckles.

"He happens to be sitting right here next to you, you know," father says, dryly, returning Mother's dark humor. We all share a bit of a laugh.

"Then, I may as well say that it's true—I'm gay," I finally admit.

"Finally," Father says, clearly mocking me in jest. The two of them laugh. I throw them a raised brow as char and smoke permeate my noise.

"Is something burning?" I ask, sniffing the air.

"Oh—my cookies!" Mother yells as she pops off to the kitchen, Father following close behind her.

I shake my head, smirking, relieved that it all went better than I'd expected—first hurdle complete. I can only hope that the next hurdle will go just as well. I fear that it won't. I'm not looking forward to having to confront either Brogan, or Base.