#an exploring rich’s internalized homophobia mood

[insertsickusername13]

Rich x Michael is one of my least favorite ships in the fandom, but by god they are the perfect chance for a character study. Post-fire Rich finding his own new ways to demonstrate his sexuality—at first overcompensating. Making himself appear more feminine even when it makes him uncomfortable, showcasing his relationship with Michael almost violently to others (maybe some of the popular kids have something to do with it. Jake’s confusion and disbelief—a result of genuine shock or fear of his own suppressed feelings?—Chloe’s ‘gay best friend!!’ stereotype (as long as she supports him, he’ll play the part). Jenna spreading rumors?) and eventually learning what he actually likes and what he actually doesn’t, and he doesn’t actually like Michael, he just liked the fact he had proof. I am gay, they all know I’m gay, and they can’t doubt that because I’m kissing him and I fucking like it. And eventually he finds his balance, he finds himself, and that person isn’t with Michael. That person loves his friends and treats outsiders with kindness and skateboards and joins robotics club and has a bi pin on his backpack and yeah, he does like to appear a little more feminine at times but not because it proves he’s gay, just because he likes it.

Meanwhile Michael gets his in to the popular crowd. He doesn’t care. He really doesn’t care. But after Jeremy apologizes and the anger wears off, Michael can’t help but question what parts of this were his fault. Jeremy flinches every time he goddamn slouches, this wasn’t just messed up for Michael. Jeremy was ruined. So this is him trying. He’ll give some. He’ll display his interests with pride all the while pretending to be into some of the normal stuff. And Rich is his way to get everyone to notice him. He slinks into the group, Rich on his arm as a sort of fake ID, and finds his place in this new friend group. Except weirdly enough, all of these people are trying to become more like him? You mean more like the boy Jeremy abandoned? The boy who was quite literally invisible? Is it because of Rich? Is it because Rich admires him? Is that why Jake seems to pay him so much attention, or why Brooke is so willing to hangout with him? And now he’s learning a new lesson—not how to give in because you’re insecure, but how to give in a little because it makes the people around you happy. Pretending to like theater because Jeremy and Christine glow the second they’re on stage. Pretending to like painting his nails because he’s the only one who will let Brooke experiment with new colors and designs on him. And learning that this giving in doesn’t apply to boyfriends. He can’t pretend to like Rich because it makes Rich happy (does it?)

[mamabear-elinor]

THE FORGING OF BITTER BONDS

VI. The Heart Wants May 12, 1994

[tw -- homophobia/internalized homophobia, cw for mentions of sex]

Sorcha knew it had been a risk falling in love with Elinor, but when you grew up in a place where you were different from everyone else, you learned that everything you did was a risk. You might as well enjoy it. 

And Sorcha enjoyed the months that she got with Elinor. She thought maybe they could be something. Even if she didn’t hear anything from her after that first kiss. The summer had dragged on, Sorcha having left school without realizing she didn’t have Elinor’s number. Nothing but her email address. And the emails she sent remained unread. 

Sorcha could rationalize this: Elinor was rich. She was probably busy, in the south of France or somewhere else fancy, with no cell reception. That was all it was.

It was easy to accept Elinor back when they saw each other for the first time after summer break. After all, what was she supposed to do when Elinor ran right into her arms and told her she missed her? 

They moved slowly. Elinor was as shy as the sun on a cloudy day, but she was beautiful. Graceful. She reminded Sorcha of gazelle or the way river water flowed. They laughed together, explored together. Elinor forced Sorcha to sit in her seat at the library and actually do her assignments. Sorcha convinced Elinor to have fun. She made her smile. Each one was like winning a prize, for smiles from Elinor DunBroch were hard won. Her favourite was making her come undone, cheeks flushed, that perfectly combed hair wild, that prim, proper exterior undone like the zippers of her skirts, strewn across Sorcha’s floor. Sorcha drank her in. Held her hand on dark nights back to the dorm, kissed her in the shadows and in the snow. 

But, as the snow melted, she grew restless. She didn’t want to hide. Sorcha had never hidden anything in her entire life.

“What about Marigold?” 

“No!” Elinor barked, her voice climbing even higher than it had already been.

“She’s your best friend. I don’t think she’ll care. And if she does, she isn’t your best friend.” 

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” Sorcha pressed, feeling her hands curling into fists. To her: it was. How could it not be? She knew that Elinor loved her. Sorcha loved Elinor. They could be together. “Times are changing. We can be together. We can go to England. Hell, what about Oranges are not the Only Fruit? The Stonewall Youth Project? Bloody Edwin Morgan is gay, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Elinor replied in that way of hers, as if she had suddenly suited up for battle. Her voice was detached. Her shoulders back. She was sitting in her chair bolt upright, as if someone had shoved a piece of metal between her shoulder blades. She wasn’t looking at Sorcha. Instead, her gaze was focused out the window, on the sunny day outside.

It was a good thing, too, because she would see the flash of rage and hurt that struck across Sorcha’s face.

“What do you mean you don’t know what that means?”

“I don’t know what it means,” Elinor repeated. Her voice was stiff, but firm. Her hands are folded in her lap, one in front of the other, palms up. As if she was holding something precious there. As if she was about to take a sacrament. She was beautiful.

Sorcha could feel her heart breaking but she swallowed it down and tried it again, softer. She put her hands in Elinor’s, holding them tightly. “I’ll teach you.”

“About what, oranges?” Elinor turned and looked at her, gaze sharp.

“No—about the community. Our community.” She adjusted her grip on Elinor’s hands, but that was a mistake as she pulled them away and held them to her chest.

“What are you talking about? I’m not—I’m not gay.”

“Sunshine, that’s not what it sounded like with my head beneath your skirt,” Sorcha smirked, trying to lighten the mood.

“That was a mistake,” Elinor said at once.

Sorcha’s brow crumpled and her lip trembled. Her whole life she had been raised to be tough. To not let the things others say hurt her. Her skin was beautiful and Black and tough. It had to be. That hurt, though. It wounded her deep and she couldn’t help the way she scoffed, almost spitting in Elinor’s face as she pulled her own head back and her hands curl into fists at her sides.

The rage that was burning in her was not just for herself, but Elinor too.

“You’re pathetic,” she snarled at Elinor and wished that she was the kind of person who could be satisfied when she saw her flinch.

Elinor stood, her hand grazing the chair as she did so. “I should go.”

“Yeah, you should.” That was the last thing Sorcha says to Elinor. The next time they cross paths, they pretend as if they do not even know each other.