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He is five years old walking hand in hand with his mother through crowded streets in Alexandria. He’s not scared of the sounds of the loud noises or the vehicles that pass by. He likes being engulfed in sound. He finds the chaos of the city exciting, and loves accompanying his mom on trips to the market to help her carry food home. After all, it’s his duty as a man to protect her.
“Abeed,” a shop owner calls out in their direction. Mohammed wants to go and confront the man, but his mother tugs him along. Later, once they’re back home, he asks her why she allowed that man to call her such a bad word.
“You must learn how to choose your battles,” she explains. Her face is strong and stern, her cheekbones sharp, and Mohammed knows under her hijab is long hair braided into many individual strands and wrapped into a bun in the back of her head. He likes to play in her hair when she allows him, but never when his father is home. He wishes he could grow his hair long like his mother and grandmother, but they tell him that's only for girls, and he needs to be a strong man one day.
His grandmother sits in her chair by the window as usual, watching her favorite soap opera, and he goes to climb in her lap. She’s still young, although not as young as his mother, and her dark skin glows in the setting sunlight. She looks like an older, warmer version of his mother. Her hair is long twists with beads and jewelry slipped onto the strands, and he loves watching her style it every day. She doesn’t speak Arabic to him, but Nobiin, just like she does with her daughter, her mother. He’s never seen her look upset or angry, but always calm and jovial at times. She makes him practice reading the Quran with her, reciting Surahs and answering questions with treats as a reward. He loves spending time with his grandmother.
She hugs him, and asks him how the trip was to the market. Mohammed looks at his mother, her face creased with unspoken hurt, and answers that it went fine.
“Hey, are you using this machine?”
Mohammed looks up from the floor of the gym and shakes his head, getting up so that the man standing in front of him can use it. He’s tall, well built, with a round face and beard that does little to hide his youthful features.
“Sorry about that,” Mohammed nods, and the man smiles, his eyes scanning him up and down.
“Don’t worry about it,” the man smiles, his eyes lingering a little too long on Mohammed’s shorts.
It’s an invitation. He’ll wait for him in the showers, wait until the locker rooms are empty, and hook up there. It’s another one down for him, and he can rub it in Kujo’s face, that he’s beating him currently this week.
Afterwards, he will pretend he never saw this man again, and the guy will probably be grateful for it. He has a wedding band on his finger.
The bruise on his cheek stings, but not nearly as bad as the rice he’s kneeling on. Mohammed is being punished for bringing embarrassment to their family by getting into a fight with another kid on his block who had called him a slur. Mohammed explained to his father that he would not tolerate the verbal abuse, even if everyone else was too weak to stand up for themselves, and his father struck him harder than he ever had before.
“Do you think it is weakness that makes me hold my tongue?” His father’s voice booms over him. The grains of rice dig painfully into his skin.
“Then what is it!” Mohammed demands.
He’s struck again. He knows he should have tempered his tone, but he’s irritable, and he’s been assaulted twice today. Astaghfirullah .
“You insolent–what does Surah Al-Isra say?”
Mohammed clenches his jaw, staring defiantly up at his father with tears falling down his face. “And your Lord has decreed that you not worship except Him, and to parents, good treatment. Whether one or both of them reach old age with you, say not to them, "uff," and do not repel them but speak to them a noble word.”
His father is a large man, tall and broad. He’s not as dark as his mother and grandmother, and his hair is shaved short and professional. He always looks mean. His brow never unfurrows, even in sleep, and instead of sharp cheekbones, his face is oval with a large, arched nose in the middle. His stare is intense and intimidating, and even though Mohammed is terrified of his father, he doesn’t understand how he’s wrong.
“If you are so strong as to spit the Surah in my face, then you can also stay here all night,” he says finally. Mohammed’s eyes widened in fear then.
“But, baba–”
“No, you made your choice,” his father says, folding his arms. The sun is setting behind him, and he intends to make Mohammed stay on his knees all night?
“You must understand,” his father drops to a knee to cup Mohammed’s face, wiping a tear from his cheek. “How we behave in front of others affects how they treat us. They think that we are savages, so why act as savages and prove them right?”
Mohammed sniffs and nods.
“You must always carry your head high and control your emotions, or else others will take advantage of the weakness you show. It is strength to be able to resist allowing your emotions to overcome you.”
He is eighteen in college for the first time. His parents dropped him off and helped him move into his meager dorm room, but afterwards, they retreated with a reminder to call and check in regularly.
He looks around at the spacious campus in confusion, trying to get his bearings, but the map he was given at orientation does little to help him find the building he needs to get to his first class. He spots what appears to be a professor walking towards his direction, and walks up to stop him for directions.
Before he can ask, the professor says, “The athletic complex is on North Harvard St, you’ve got a long way to go from here.”
Mohammed takes a moment to remind himself to hold his anger, and answers, “I’m looking for the physics building.”
The man raises an eyebrow, but points in the general direction, and Mohammed thanks him for his time before walking away, swearing under his breath.
Mohammed presents the anklets to Rohan, who takes them with some hesitation.
"Jewelry?"
It's two matching gold figaro chain link anklets, one with the letter A on it, and one with the letter R. It's not the kind of gift you buy a casual fuckbuddy, but at some point Rohan surpassed that point in Rohan's life without being given a definite title.
"Just try them on and let me see," Mohammed says. He watches as Rohan pulls his socks off and opens up each box, his eyes going wide at the sight of the gold jewelry. He looks up at Mohammed, stunned and speechless for the first time.
"Are you serious?"
"Why not? I've got the money to blow, we've been seeing each other for a while, and I wanna see them while I've got your legs behind your head." Mohammed laughs when Rohan blushes and smacks his shoulder.
"No way, we're not dating. This is..."
It's a mistake, Mohammed knows. This is blurring the lines he swore he would never cross, but it's a risk he's willing to take.
"We don't have to be serious or anything," he says quickly. "Maybe I just want to buy you shit and see you in things I know look good on you."
Rohan runs his finger over the letter A pendant, staring pensively at the piece. "Okay," he says finally, and Mohammed doesn't know why the acceptance doesn't make him feel relief like it should.
The smell of hookah smoke, sweet and heavy, lingers in the air and in his nose. The twink in his lap is not particularly his taste, but he’ll do for the time being. After all, a nut is a nut no matter what, as his rugby teammates would say.
But they’re not hiding a part of themselves from their parents, or their peers. They don’t understand that sometimes you can’t be picky, because you don’t have many options.
He doesn’t even know this guy’s name, but he’s kissing him into the booth cushions and grabbing his ass like his life depends on it. He’s finally free from the oppressive eye of his parents, and he’s going to live it up as much as possible.
He’s at a wedding in southern Egypt, a cousin on his mother’s side. After living abroad for so long, he’s forgotten the names of some of his cousins whom he hadn’t seen since they were children. The house gate is open and many neighbors come to share their well wishes as gifts, and Mohammed is able to slide into noise and lose himself in the bustle of the joyous atmosphere. A plate is shoved in his hands by his grandmother before she’s whisked away by an aunt, and then an uncle claps his shoulder in passing, praising him for looking more and more like his father every day.
Mohammed tries to hide the grimace by shoving food in his mouth, and nodding. He’s left alone again and able to find a semi-empty space in the courtyard where children are running around. He scarfs down his plate, and sighs. He missed home cooking when away in Morocco at boarding school. He wonders what school will be like in America when they move.
One of his older cousins spots him sitting in the corner while smoking and points him out to his brothers. Mohammed sits up, wiping crumbs and grease from his mouth as they approach.
“You’re big as hell now!” The first cousin exclaims, opening his arms for a hug. Mohammed stands, realizing he’s towering over him already, but accepts the gesture.
“You guys can’t pick on me anymore,” he jokes, and they all share a laugh before ushering him around the building and into the back door. They move down the hallway past screaming children and older girls running after them, unofficial babysitters. Mohammed finds himself being pushed into a room full of only men sitting on the floor around a table with hookahs set up and drinks on the table.
“You’re old enough to hang with the men, man!” his cousin slaps his back, pushing him towards an empty seat. “How old are you now?”
“I’m sixteen,” Mohammed says.
The men–a combination of uncles, cousins, and family friends–all clap and nod approvingly, as if that age were somehow the correct answer to a test he’d been unwittingly given.
“Sixteen is a good age,” his uncle says. His uncle looks like his sister, his mother, albeit stronger in the brow than the cheekbones. Mohammed prefers to think he looks more like him.
“What are you going to college for?” A neighbor asks, and Mohammed has to remember what he rehearsed on the trip here.
“I’m planning on studying physics. I want to be a scientist, or a professor like my father.” A good, honorable answer.
“And do you have a girlfriend?”
Time for a cop out answer. “I have no time for romance in between studies and devoting myself to Allah, peace be upon His name.”
They all laugh or groan, recognizing the game he’s playing. “That’s Kareem’s boy, alright.”
Even in how he acts, he is upholding his father’s image, as a good son does. They smile upon him with approval, and Mohammed Kareem Avdol smiles back.
He lets himself settle in comfortably with everyone, tuning out the conversations that fly over his head and struggling to keep up with the shift between languages. His cousins are sitting against the wall, watching something on a cell phone and laughing, so he goes to join them. He knows they moved to America as children, and hopes they can give him some insight.
When he sits down in front of them, they hesitate, stowing the phone away, but remain pleasant.
“What’s up?”
“What’s school like in America?”
His cousin looks at his brothers, and they snicker. “You’ll never be ready for it.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, because we know how uncle is, but you’re too good.”
Too good? “What does that mean?”
“American schools are hell ,” he laughs. “They’d eat up a goody goody two shoes like you.”
Resenting the comment, Mohammed frowns. “I’m not as much of a goody two shoes as you may think.”
“Yeah? What’s the worst thing you’ve done?”
Mohammed recalls his first kiss, and realizes he can’t even say that here. “I stole a pack of cigarettes from the store.”
Their mouths hang open in awe before devolving into laughter. “You can’t be serious! You?” His cousin digs in his pocket and pulls out a pack. Handing it to Mohammed, he says, “Okay, smoke one right now, in front of me.”
Mohammed looks back at the table, then the pack of cigarettes in his hand. “I need a lighter.”
“I can’t believe he’s actually doing this,” one of the brothers whispers to the other, giggling. “Are you sure it wasn’t because you were being bullied?” He asks.
Mohammed rolls his eyes, offended that his image was so weak as to think he was incapable of bending the rules. If they knew what he’d done, their idea of him would be far worse than what it was shaping up to be now.
His cousin finally produces a lighter from his jacket pocket, and Mohammed takes it, making quick work of lighting the cigarette and taking a drag from it. He tries to take light inhales, the most he can tolerate with acrid taste and smell, but winds up coughing when he breathes too deep. His cousin laughs, taking the cigarette from him and putting it in his own mouth instead.
“I knew it, you’re soft,” he blows smoke in Mohammed’s face. “You don’t have to try so hard, you know. You’ll be fine, depending on the school you’re at.”
Mohammed clenches his fists, then holds out his hand. “Let me try again.”
His cousin raises an eyebrow, then grins broadly. “Sure, this time, when you take a drag, hold it in your mouth first to let it cool, then suck it deep into your chest and exhale.”
Mohammed practices taking hits of his cigarette and extinguishing it into the ashtray one of the brothers grabbed from the table. He listens while they tell him stories of what it’s been like where they live, the TV shows they watch and the music they listen to. Mohammed drinks it all in; it sounds so fun and different from the quiet life he’s lived, and he wants to experience it for himself. By the time he’s finally able to smoke a cigarette without coughing, the smell doesn’t bother him as much anymore, and he’s on his third one.
He feels cool.
“This is what we were looking at when you came over,” his cousin pulls out his phone to show him a blurry video recording of what appears to be a girl between a pair of legs, her head in someone’s lap–she’s sucking a dick.
Mohammed’s eyes shoot up at his cousins, shocked by the graphic nature of the video. “Where did you get this?”
“What?” His cousin laughs. “That’s me getting topped off by this chick in my school!”
Mohammed’s stomach turns, and he looks away quickly. “Why would she agree to this?”
He shrugs. “Anything to get attention, I guess. I’m not complaining!”
Mohammed tries to force himself to look at the screen again, trying to understand what’s funny about this. The girl is degrading herself for his cousin, but he can’t accept that attention is the only reason.
“Maybe she loves you,” Mohammed says, “because doing something like that for anyone other than who you love is embarrassing.”
“Well, she’s gonna be very embarrassed when she finds out I don’t love her,” he says, and they all laugh, until their faces change to shock, and the phone is being hidden away quickly. Mohammed looks up behind him, and finds himself staring into a pair of eyes as dark as his own.
Outside the house, outside the gates, Mohammed bites his tongue as the stick whips against the back of his legs, leaving sharp welts across his skin. His father had wordlessly dragged him out the mens’ room to protests from the others, claiming, “he’s a young boy! Let him have fun, Kareem!” which only seemed to sully his mood even further.
“You are an embarrassment to me!” his father yells, bringing the stick down harder. “They’re all in there laughing, mocking me now! They say, Oh, Kareem cannot control even his own son, devout as he is! Have I not given you everything? Is this how you repay the father who has sacrificed so much to make you a great man?”
Mohammed thought he would be free of these physical punishments now that he’s older and bigger, but his father never seems to miss a chance to remind him how pathetic and weak he is. He lays face first against the dirt, hands by his sides and pants pulled down around his ankles while his father whips him with a small branch he pulled off the nearest tree in his rage. He tries to refrain from crying out, from crying at all, because that would be the final straw that would anger his father further, a final sign of weakness.
After minutes pass of his father beating him bloody, he finally throws the stick at Mohammed, hitting him in the back of his head. “Get up and put your clothes on. Dust yourself off, and come back into the party with me.”
There is no way Mohammed could sit with his legs torn to shreds, but he follows the directions given to him because he knows better than to disobey at this moment.
“Hold your head high, and act like you have some honor and dignity,” his father growls, pulling him along. They’re almost the same height now, but his father still scares him. His sudden bursts of violent anger keep him on edge, fearful that the wrong word will trigger another punishment.
Why doesn't he defend himself?
His parents send him away to boarding school when he is eleven. Although the violence in Cairo is beginning to settle, they’re uneasy about bringing him back with them just in case things become hectic once more. His father accepted a position at a university there and would rather move back home than stay in Alexandria any longer, despite Mohammed loving his life by the sea. The school is supposed to be a safe space for him to pursue his education while still keeping his faith while his parents seek stability somewhere, whether it be Cairo or elsewhere. Truthfully, he's happy to be out of the house. Their fighting was aggravating him, and without his grandmother around to be a source of comfort, he was left to weather the storm on his own. He had to sit by and watch as his mother called out his father's hypocrisy and irrational outbursts, only for his father to accuse her of plotting against him. The few times he spoke up in defense of his mother, he wound up being backhanded across the face. If his mother tried to intervene, she suffered a similar fate, but she always fought back. Mohammed secretly is proud that she finally began to defend herself as well as him, even if it means putting her well being at risk. He wishes they would just divorce already, but he knows his father doesn't believe in divorce. Mentions of a second wife began to crop up, and Mohammed prayed extra hard that he would be sent away, far away from this place full of negativity and anger.
His prayers were answered by sending him to boarding school in Morocco.
At first, everything seemed fine. The boys talk about sports and cars and their studies, which teachers they like or what subjects they hate. Mohammed found a friend group among these strangers, many in similar situations as him. Their parents are not government officials, but well enough to do that they can afford to send their sons away.
One boy stands out, named Farouk.
He has light brown skin and wavy, short hair and freckles. His button nose scrunches when he smiles, and Mohammed can’t help staring when he laughs. His laugh is loud and high pitched, which others tease him for, but Mohammed thinks it sounds beautiful. His teeth are slightly crooked and his ears too big for his face, but he doesn’t seem to be insecure about any of these things. The jokes people throw his way never seem to affect him, and when Mohammed asks how he can stand it without getting mad, Farouk only answers, “I know it isn’t true, so why get upset?”
Mohammed and Farouk are inseparable. Whether it be studying the Quran in anticipation of Fridays at their school's mosque, or sneaking into the kitchens to steal treats when they should have been asleep, everyone knew they could be found by each other’s side. When they are finally able to choose roommates at age thirteen, Farouk chooses Mohammed, and Mohammed chooses Farouk.
“What kind of girls do you like?” Farouk asks one day while they listen to the radio. A pop singer’s voice fills the hot summer air while they lounge about after a long day of class.
Mohammed looks up from his homework to where Farouk is lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling with his arms behind his head.
“I don’t like girls,” Mohammed says. Farouk sits up, pulling his knees to his chest.
“You don’t? Do you like boys then?”
Mohammed turns his head quickly. “No, it’s not like that! I just don’t waste my time with stupid things like daydreaming about girls!”
Farouk’s airy laugh fills the air, and the hair on the back of his neck raises. His stomach twists in knots. He doesn’t know how to describe what he’s feeling, but he knows it can’t be that . His father would surely kill him, just like the other men discovered to be with men back home. Farouk is from Italy, born to an Italian mother and a Moroccan father. He’s only here to get more in touch with his father’s culture, having lived in Italy his entire life. He tells Mohammed stories about how different things are there, not so far away, and Mohammed dreams about being somewhere far, far away where things are much more different.
But Farouk doesn’t tease him for not liking girls, or boys for that matter. He comes to sit on Mohammed’s desk, placing his hand over his notebook.
“That can wait, let’s play a game!” Farouk flashes him a toothy smile, and Mohammed is helpless to resist.
Farouk leads him back to his bed, where they sit cross legged from each other, occupying most of the space on the small twin bed. “We’re gonna play truth or dare.”
Mohammed snorts. “That’s a silly party game for girls.”
“How would you know? You’ve never even been around girls, and cousins don’t count!”
Mohammed sucks his teeth. “Fine, you can start.”
Farouk smiles, and asks, “Truth or dare?”
Mohammed answers, “Truth.”
“Have you ever had a crush on someone?”
Mohammed swallows, his tongue thick in his mouth while he tries to find the right answer. “Yes.”
Farouk gasps. “No way! You’re so straight laced, I wouldn’t have guessed!”
Mohammed lightly shoves him and laughs. “I can have fun sometimes! You know that.”
“Yeah,” Farouk agrees, his smile wavering slightly. Mohammed catches it, but pretends not to notice. “Your turn.”
“Fine, truth or dare?”
“Truth!”
Mohammed tries to think of something he wants to ask him, besides the obvious question hanging over the both of them, but he fails. “Do you have a crush on anyone right now?”
Farouk nods. “Yeah, I do.”
Mohammed’s heart feels like it might burst, or drop into a pit, or float away. He doesn’t know what to make of that answer. Hope? Despair?
“Truth or dare?” Farouk asks, quieter. The sound of the ceiling fan is all Mohammed can focus on to ground himself, past the sound of pop music, distant in his ears. Farouk’s eyes are bright, but they’re nervous.
“Dare,” Mohammed says.
“I dare you…to kiss me,” Farouk whispers.
Mohammed’s breathing catches in his throat. Farouk’s nose scrunches up, but not in laughter. He almost seems on the verge of tears, and everything about honor that was beaten into him seems to fly out the window as he leans forward to place a kiss on Farouk’s cheek. He sits back, wanting to cower and hide under the sheets from how stupid and childish he feels, but the look on Farouk’s face at the realization that Mohammed had actually kissed him makes the feelings of regret begin to fade.
“Truth or dare,” Mohammed says, confidence slowly mounting.
“Dare,” Farouk answers quickly.
“I dare you to kiss me,” Mohammed says, and now it’s Farouk’s turn to lean forward, but his lips find themselves on Mohammed’s instead of his cheek.
Farouk’s hand on his face, holding him in place keeps him upright when all he wants to do is fall into the kiss, fall deeper into the pit he knows he’ll never be able to pull himself from. This was a mistake, because kissing Farouk now, he knows he’ll never want to do anything else. The fact that Farouk could see someone like him, cowardly and ugly, as attractive gives him the first vote of confidence in his entire life. He's never regarded himself as handsome; he's unable to shed the baby fat despite growing taller faster than everyone else, and everyone here is much lighter in complexion than him. His hair is thick and coily, so he keeps it shaved close to his head, and his nose sits on his face just like his father's. More and more, he looks like the man he resents, so for someone to look at that same face and decide they want to kiss it is beyond him. He doesn't even understand what his own mother sees in his father.
But Farouk sees something in him, something worthwhile.
When they pull apart, the first thing out of Farouk’s mouth is, “I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I promise, Mo, I just–” and then he’s crying, and Mohammed wants nothing more than to take him and run away from here, from the school, and go away somewhere like Italy where they can live in peace without worrying about what someone would say, or the consequences of their actions.
“I know,” Mohammed holds him, pulling him into a hug. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“So what happened after you left the school?”
Mohammed lights his abandoned blunt on the nightstand and takes a long drag. He hands it to Rohan, lying on his stomach in bed next to him.
“I don’t know. We didn’t stay in touch. He knew it was too risky.” Mohammed exhales smoke.
“That’s sad. He was your first love, and you had to throw it away because of your backwards ass religion.”
Mohammed closes his eyes and leans back against the headboard. “Shut the fuck up.”
He can feel Rohan’s eyes boring into him, but Mohammed ignores him until he feels the blunt being pressed against his lips. He parts his lips just barely, letting him slide it in until Mohammed raises his hand to his mouth to take it.
When he pursued Rohan, he had no idea what he was getting into. Now, he regrets it.
“You should definitely fuck him,” Kujo had urged when he first began working at Stardust Lounge. “He’s good.”
Rohan is a spiteful, flighty, demanding man with a malicious streak a mile wide. Worst of all, he actually shows Mohammed a level of affection he hasn’t experienced since Farouk, and that makes him put up with more than he usually would from anyone else. When Rohan insults his religion and culture, bad mouths his parents, he gets upset, but he understands why.
Because why isn’t he strong enough to put his foot down?
Rohan runs his mouth and works his way under Mohammed’s skin, and then he works his mouth and has Mohammed murmuring praises and promises under his breath.
The sex is good, just as Kujo had promised. It’s too good. It makes him behave irrationally, and he shows emotions instead of a calm demeanor, which gives Rohan an entry into fucking with him even further. He’s figured out every single thing that makes Mohammed tick, and Mohammed doesn’t even care anymore, because what does it matter?
This is the closest thing to being in love that he’ll allow himself, because he doesn’t deserve love.
This sinful lifestyle he’s living, the lies he’s telling his parents, praying only when he’s in desperate need of help, as if Allah would even look in his direction at this point. He can make dua all he wants, but he knows his soul is as good as gone.
So while he’s in Jahannam, he’ll make the most of it.
“Can you go another round?” He asks Rohan. He sets the blunt back on his dresser, and Rohan sits up in bed.
“No, my fucking back hurts, you animal.”
Mohammed stares at him for a long moment, before Rohan sighs and climbs in his lap.
“Fine, but I’m on top. And if you try to flip me over, I’m punching you in the face.”
Mohammed chuckles. “Okay.”
“Grandma, will you always stay with us?”
“My darling, I will always be with you in your heart, no matter where I am.”
Mohammed sits in her lap as they stare out at the sea for the last time together.
“I wish I could close my eyes, and you and I could go somewhere,” he shuts his eyes and leans into her bosom. Her arms squeeze him tight as she rocks them back and forth.
“Where are you, Mohammed?”
“Hey man, I’m outside the bar,” he shouts into his phone over the noise. The man on his knees in front of him stands, brushing off his pants while Mohammed zips himself back up.
“Did you leave with someone already?” Kujo shouts into his phone.
“No, I was just getting some head real quick. I’m on my way back in right now.” He pushes past the stranger, ignoring the look of disdain pointed in his direction to rejoin the boisterous crowd of gay college students packed into the local bar. He finds Kujo, who sticks out in a crowd like a weed in a lawn, and makes his way past the throngs of people all standing around or dancing with drinks in their hands. Kujo hangs up his phone and shakes his head.
“Trying to play catch up?”
“My thesis ate up a lot of my cruising time, so yeah,” Mohammed laughs. “Want to find one we can share?”
Mohammed likes Kujo. He’s his type, physically. In personality, he’s dry and at times blunt, but he likes him all the same. He can show a sarcastic side from time to time, his sense of humor painfully abstract or just painful, but he also possesses a kinder, gentler side. Kujo doesn’t like talking about himself, and Mohammed never asks, but he notices things from living together as roommates.
Kujo likes soft things. He owns a bunch of different blankets and pillows. He likes listening to white noise, especially water sounds, and likes colorful lights. He loves water and being around it. Wearing a hat seems to be more of a safety blanket than a style choice. He likes fiddling with his wallet chain. He likes foods with mild tastes. When he gets high, he gets giggly and relaxes a lot, letting his guard down to accept being touched when he typically would rebuke any and all unwanted contact from others, except someone he’s interested in sleeping with, or Mohammed.
He also comes from a very rich and influential family. When Mohammed had told his parents he’d made friends with one Jotaro Kujo, his father balked and encouraged him to maintain their relationship at all costs.
“That boy is connected in ways you cannot imagine. His family made vast discoveries in archaeology and played pivotal roles in various governments across countries. Alhamdulillah!”
When asked, Kujo had only answered, “I didn’t know anything about my family until I came to America at sixteen. I literally never met my grandfather until then. I guess they’re important, but I don't know how. I just call him whenever I get in trouble, and he gets me out.”
It‘s all so easy for Kujo, and Mohammed is a little envious. His parents didn’t snoop or interrogate him for life updates, and his family was powerful. Mohammed had seen firsthand the way cops responded when they tried to run Kujo’s license, only to be told to let him go. By proxy, it extended to Mohammed, whom Kujo’s grandfather had taken under his wing as well.
“My grandson is hard to get along with, so if you’ve managed to make the cut, you’re basically family!” The old man had laughed. It felt nice at the time, but as Mohammed spent more time around the Joestars, he understood why Kujo kept his distance.
His father would fit in well. Honor, tradition, and duty were words that were tossed around a lot when Mohammed spent time with them. By comparison, Kujo spending any time around his family meant a lot of cooking from his mother, and ass kissing from his father.
Their solution: spend as little time around either family as could be helped. Enough to keep them off their backs, but also not enough to start a fight. Trading holidays between homes helped.
In a way, Mohammed feels like they’re almost a couple. Almost.
Because no matter how good it feels to be around Kujo, to be there for him, to sometimes wake up next to him, Mohammed already swore he would never enter a relationship with a friend again. In fact, dating is off the table entirely.
He will never come out to his family, and it’s unfair to put someone in that position. This hell was his to suffer alone. The kindest thing he can do is not give anyone false hope.
He’s staring out at Kujo and Rohan from the back of a cop car, his hands cuffed behind him. He knows Kujo is explaining to the cop that everything is fine, it was just a lovers’ spat, and Rohan is hopefully agreeing and not antagonizing the situation.
He just needs them to run his license already so they can go. This was a mistake to even come out to Atlanta Pride with Rohan, as if he could be civil for the entire weekend.
Finally, the door opens, and the cop frees his hands so that Mohammed can step out of the car on his own. He shoots a glare towards Rohan, but Kujo puts himself between them, his bigger form blocking him entirely from view.
“Let’s just go back to the fucking hotel,” Kujo growls. “I don’t wanna hear shit from either one of you.”
It’s fine by Mohammed, who has nothing to say that he didn’t while he was cussing Rohan out. He doesn’t appreciate being toyed with, and Rohan was being an attention seeking drama queen as usual. They weren't dating, they never had, and they'd broken off the situationship they were entertaining for the past two years only a couple months ago. There was absolutely no reason for Rohan to have been acting the way he had been, making out with a random guy right in front of Mohammed after he'd rebuked his request to dance with him, but his pointed stares and exaggerated moans and movements grated on his nerves until he finally snapped and tried to drag him away. When the other man intervened, Mohammed had shoved him away with a strong forearm, and Rohan shouted at him to, "quit being so clingy."
That had been the final straw. Clingy? Him? He was the one who ended things! All Rohan did from that day on was constantly antagonize him, sending him hurtful messages in his DMs and throwing petty comments his way at the club. He couldn't handle not getting attention from Mohammed anymore, and to the best of his ability, Mohammed had tried his best not to feed into it. But everyone has a breaking point, and Mohammed passed his a long time ago. He doesn’t regret putting his hands on Rohan. It’s not like he’s ever been a victim in any capacity, not with the things he’s said and done. The amount of blackmail material Rohan possesses of Mohammed makes him nervous and fearful of Rohan and his fickle mood swings, but he tries not to let it show. It's just a shame he finally cracked in front of all these strangers who don't get it. The worst part, is that as much as he hates his father, his father had been right about letting people see you emotionally vulnerable.
The ride in the elevator is long and tenuous. Kujo gets off at his floor, and shoots one glance back at Mohammed, as if to say, “Please don’t do it.”
“You’re right,” Rohan says once the door closes and the elevator begins moving again. “I was trying to get your attention.”
Mohammed stares up at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t have choked you.”
“Why not? You know I like it.”
Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak.
If someone were to ask Mohammed what his high school life was like in America, he wouldn’t be able to tell them. His memories are blurry at best, and a complete black spot in his memory at worst. He doesn’t like to think about it. He doesn’t want to remember it.
What he does remember, between memories of racist bullies and teachers, is that his father proudly talked of how back home, his brothers had helped raid a party held by homosexual men. He remembers the sound of his father's laugh as he described in detail how they held down one man and beat him bloody. He remembers his mother scolding his father for taking pride in someone else's violence, and starting another fight between them.
Their fighting had gotten worse since moving to America. He hates living there.
“I don’t understand why you won’t come back home! Your work is remote, I can even get you a position at the university–”
“Baba, I have a life here now,” Mohammed explains over the phone for the third time this month. “I can’t just drop everything and move back to Cairo.”
“Why not? You have no wife, no children–when are you giving us grandkids? Do you want us to die unfulfilled?”
Mohammed groans and rubs his face. He’s sick of having this conversation every time they call, but he’d rather have it than the real talk of why he hasn’t started a family yet. “I have friends–”
“Are your friends more important than your family? After everything we’ve done for you?”
Mohammed feels sick to his stomach. “I have to live my own life. I’m thankful for everything you’ve done, but–”
“No you aren’t. You’re just a selfish and spoiled child. Ungrateful!” His father hangs up, and Mohammed sighs, relieved that it’s over, until the phone rings again. He picks up, dreading the knowledge that it’ll be his mother next.
“You know he doesn’t mean it.”
“He means everything he says. He always has,” Mohammed grits out. “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you.”
“Disappointment to who? Not to me. Do not speak for me.”
“Yes mama.”
“Your grandmother doesn’t have much time left, you know,” she says quieter. “It would be nice if you came out and saw her one more time.”
“I know, I’ll try.”
“And why would you want to stay there after what happened? We worry about you, you know. I heard about what happened in Boston–”
“Mama, that’s miles away.”
“And you’re still Muslim, are you not?” She asks, tone clipped.
Mohammed hangs his head. He hasn’t stepped foot in a mosque in years since college. “Yes.”
“Those men who attacked you don’t care how many degrees you have. Americans aren’t smart enough to tell the difference between us. I will never forgive them for what they did to my baby’s face. Mongrels!”
Mohammed swallows. He can’t tell her the truth about the attack, that it was homophobic in nature rather than about ideology.
“I’ll protect myself better.”
“You better. This is the one time to fight back. When someone is threatening your life, you must protect yourself.”
She would know better than anyone how important that is. Mohammed watched her try to protect herself as well as him growing up from his father's growing instability, even going as far as agreeing to him marrying a second wife just so that she could be left alone. He wishes she would have stayed in America, but he knows she won't be free of his father no matter what. The control he has over their lives, even Mohammed's thousands of miles away, is too great.
But he understands that protection is part of strength, and as he looks over the hand gun and rifle on his bed, he finds comfort in knowing that he can't become a victim again, and he can better protect anyone he cares about as well.
Kujo arrives back in their shared apartment, face sullen and drawn. He typically looks dour, but Mohammed can tell something must have happened at the doctor’s office.
“Is everything alright?”
“He said I have autism,” Kujo says, dropping onto the couch. He holds his head with his hands and rocks slightly, breathing coming out in short breaths. Mohammed is up from his study desk in an instant and at his side, rubbing his back.
“Hey, take it easy. I warned you this might happen, but it’s not the end of the world.”
“But what if people find out–they’ll look at me like, like I’m–”
“No one but me has been able to figure it out, alright? You’re fine, this doesn’t mean anything,” Mohammed reassures him. “You’re just gonna understand yourself better, alright?”
Kujo digs his fingers in his hair and groans, knocking his hat to the floor. “Everything makes sense now, but fuck , man. I can’t stop thinking about it. You know how people are.”
“I know,” Mohammed agrees. “I know.”
Slowly, Jotaro begins to relax, taking deep breaths and leaning into Mohammed's touch. Selfishly, Mohammed rejoices inside that he can be a source of comfort to someone, rather than the damning pedestal he's been put upon his entire life.
"Here, you can lie down," he says, adjusting himself on the couch so that Jotaro can curl up, head in his lap. Jotaro is too big to fully lay out on the couch, so his knees hang over the edge, but the tension in his shoulders starts to melt as Mohammed continues rubbing his back.
"You don't have to do anything differently," he says. "I like you just how you are. This changes nothing."
Jotaro's breathing hitches in throat, and he rolls over on his back to look up at Mohammed.
For a moment, Mohammed wonders if things are about to shift, and if he's going to experience losing a friend again, but before he can overthink it, Jotaro smiles at him. It's rare that he smiles, or that he even allows Mohammed to get this handsy with him, and that makes him feel bad for enjoying it so much, knowing he's the source of that smile and all he can think about is kissing his best friend at such a vulnerable moment.
But Jotaro's silent smile stays with him, the secret knowledge that he has been allowed into a part of Jotaro's life that not even his family knows about is enough.
“Did you go to her funeral?”
Mohammed runs his hand over his face, tentatively rubbing at his scars. Rohan’s hand in his hair is soothing, scratching at his scalp gently amid the thick coils that enshroud his face and shoulders. He sits on the floor, between Rohan’s legs. The anniversary of her death never gets easier.
“I did. I should have gone to see her in person before she died, but I only called. I didn't know the cancer had gotten that bad.”
“Well, you were still finishing up your grad program, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, and that was also after I’d just gotten attacked. I was already behind on my work because of that.”
“You shouldn’t beat yourself up for it. I’m sure she still loved you just the same.”
Weak .
“But my mother was right, I should have at least gone–”
“And you didn’t,” Rohan tilts his head back to push his hair out his face and see his eyes. “You can’t change the past. If you keep reliving it, you’re never gonna be able to move on.”
Weak.
“Maybe I don’t want to move on.”
“Then you're going to be left behind while everyone else finds happiness,” Rohan frowns. "Don't you want to be happy?"
I don't deserve happiness. "I'm happy right here, right now."
The amazing thing about sex, is that it feels good, and it’s relatively easy to come by if your standards are low, or you’re really hot. Mohammed isn’t sure exactly what category he falls into, but when he’s buried deep in someone, he can’t think about the things he should be thinking about. He doesn’t have to talk and risk saying the wrong thing. He doesn’t have to do anything but make the other person come in order to make them like him. The drugs are nice, but the sex is better. He can go rounds and never get a hangover. The police only care if he’s somewhere public, so he tries not to be. It’s so simple. It’s the only thing in his life that’s simple, and so he clings to it.
The shame that overcomes him afterwards used to bother him, but now he accepts it as part of the experience. Others call it post-nut clarity, but this is stronger than that.
It’s post-nut guilt, and it motivates him to be better.
He powers through assignments and essays with ease after every drunken hook up, able to focus on what really matters. A combination of Adderall and rough sex is enough for him to get through finals and come out on top.
It works for him better than his father’s threats and punishments behind his grades growing up. If it works, then it can’t be bad.
He is twenty-nine years old, and just finished his doctorate program before turning thirty. He finally has something he can show his father to be proud of. He spent the better part of the last decade trying to prove his worth, and now he has it. He has the pieces of stupid paper that mean fuck all to him, because they can’t erase the pain Mohammed has endured just to get to this point. Degrees tell everyone he was able to choose something and stick with it for the long run, but they don't tell everyone that the scars on his face were part of his cap and gown.
The letters behind his name are so close to PTSD that sometimes he makes the joke himself, but only in the company of Kujo, who would get his dark sense of humor.
He’s the honorable, shining beacon of a hard work ethic and a myriad of unhealthy coping mechanisms. The same hands he used to write multiple papers about dark matter and black holes are the same which have been used to hurt others, or bring them immeasurable pleasure. Mohammed isn’t sure what he has to be proud of when he looks at his degrees, and so he doesn’t hang them anywhere in his beautiful, fancy loft apartment. Instead, they sit in a box in his guest room closet, along with pictures of his grandmother and Farouk. They’ll sit there until he isn’t so weak that the mere thought of these things will leave him in shambles.
Three degrees and he can’t even look in a photo album.
Top class education and he won’t wear shorts or let anyone top him, for fear of having to explain the scars on his legs.
What good was the work he put in if it only leaves him more trapped than before?
What was the point of trying to please his father by any means possible when he knew the goal posts would only continue to move?
When would he start living for himself?
When would he start loving himself as much as he loves others?
The deepest, darkest secret Mohammed has kept to himself throughout all the years, has been that he struggles with depression. Perhaps Kujo or Rohan have figured it out after all this time, but he won’t admit it out loud. Only Kujo saw the state he was in after returning from his grandmother’s funeral in Egypt.
He stopped eating. He stopped taking care of himself. He stopped attending classes. He stopped going out. He didn’t even care to do drugs or drink. Once a day, Kujo would come in and force him to at least sit up and drink some water and use the bathroom, as if taking care of a houseplant. He had to beg Mohammed to eat more than just a few peanut butter crackers. The more Kujo tried to help him, the more guilty Mohammed felt about being a burden on him. So weak that he couldn't even take care of himself, that he couldn't hold back these feelings that overwhelmed him and choked him like thick smoke in a burning house. He would never be as good as his father wanted him to be, and he bore the man's face. His father, who invested so much money and work into Mohammed, would be disgusted if he could see him.
It was as if he’d shut down mentally, and was only waiting for the rest of his body to catch up. Looking back, he knows he would have died eventually, had he lived alone like he originally planned before Kujo suggested being roommates.
And it was Kujo–and unknowingly, Rohan–who managed to pull him from the deepest pit of depression he’d ever experienced.
“I know you’re sad,” Kujo had stood quietly in his doorway, bouncing his leg while Mohammed laid in bed, staring out the window.
“I bought you a gift. It’s not much. I’m sorry I’m not good at these things.” He walked in and set the book on the nightstand, in view of Mohammed, who finally–after a week and a half of grieving–looked at something other than the window.
Mohammed didn’t say anything. He waited until Kujo left, closing the door again behind him, before he reached for the book, his arms weak from malnutrition and dehydration.
The Turtle That Never Hid , by Rohan Kishibe. Mohammed had heard good things about this book, but he knew nothing besides it being a hit in LGBT+ circles.
He spent the rest of the day in bed reading the book as a departure from the self destructive spiral. When he was finished, he sobbed, surprised that his body could still produce tears after going so long without water, and found himself rejoicing that he still could cry.
After years of holding it all in, he finally felt relief in crying.
No one would beat him for it, and no one would berate or tease him.
He managed to pull himself from the bed, hobbling to the door and leaning on the door jamb to call out for Kujo, who came running, shocked to see Mohammed standing on his own.
“Avdol? Is everything–what do you need?” He grabbed him by the shoulder to support him, leading him back to bed. “Are you hungry? I can grab you something–”
“Jojo,” Mohammed said quietly, and Kujo froze at hearing Mohammed finally use his family nickname. “I want to visit the beach.”