Now, I’m a lyricist. A rock star. A vocalist. A guitarist. Then, I was just a boy who wanted to be accepted. That’s all. I guess, that’s all I ever will be. Take away my lyrics, my star status, my voice, my guitar and all I’ll ever want is to be accepted.

Maybe because I never was. I never fitted in with the Catholic community of my home. My parents were just two people so very different from me in their views and beliefs. Sometimes, that works and opposites attract, but not that time. I wanted their unconditional love, and I couldn’t have it.

And Joseph, well, he never accepted me, did he? He wanted me to be gay, to be his when all I wanted was to be Adam. Luka wanted me to be his prostitute, Mr Phonascus wanted me to be his star pupil. No-one had ever wanted me to be Adam, just Adam.

Until Michael.

Michael. Michael changed everything, Michael took my already changing world and changed it just a little bit more. I’m getting ahead of myself though, so I’ll leave you with his name right now and continue where I left off.

The show was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever been a part of. By the end of it I was on my knees on the stage, throwing up because I’d screamed so hard, but the euphoria of it wasn’t lost. Those kids, they accepted me. They saw me, the way kids do, you know? People think teenagers are cynical, and they’re not, they just see things. Little kids, they see things but with a short-lived innocence. Teenagers see and live without that innocence and without the pre-occupations of adults, so they just see things with an honesty and acceptance that’s precious to me.

Did they care that I was bisexual? That I was a runaway, an ex-prostitute who abandoned or was abandoned by everyone he’d ever loved? No, of course they didn’t. They cared that I loved the same music as them, that I wanted to share my discovery of those songs and that band with them. I was as sincere in my delivery as I’d ever been, and they knew.

After the show, Mr Phonascus sat me down. He’d loved the show, having spent its entirety in the pit with the kids. He was beaming, and telling me how proud he was. I blushed, but took it all in.

Two weeks later, he handed me two song books. They made up the Linkin Park back-catalogue, an LA based band that were, to put it simply, huge. What was interesting about Linkin Park was that they had two vocalists - a rapper and a rock singer.

“Adam, great performers become great because they compete, you know? This business, it’s a harsh one and it’s all about competition. You’ve never had to compete, you’ve never been a co-headliner or a support band, but I want you to know that pressure,” He explained. I felt my stomach falling towards the floor.

“Ok…”

“So I’ve booked the band to perform in a kind of…battle. You’ll perform the rock vocals on Linkin Park’s songs, against a rapper who’ll do the other parts.”

I was terrified. The fear was worse than the first-show nerves. But I learned the songs, and went to extra vocal lessons with Mr Phonascus. I had a new dedication, a new determination because I wanted to win. For once, I wanted to be successful.

The show arrived, and I got all rocked-out. I had just cut my hair so that it fell above my cheekbones, it looked constantly messy and I loved it. I wore a lot of eyeliner and dark eye shadow, because it made my eyes look almost protruding. I wore tight leather pants and a loose-fitting shirt, I looked like a combination of goth and glam, everyone’s worst idea of a rock-star.

The rapper was called Slink, and he looked like a snake. His eyes were like slits in his face, his mouth a constant leer. I didn’t like him, and he didn’t like me. I was trembling when I took to the stage.

Then the music started, and all that went away. The sheer noise rose around me like walls, protecting me from Slink and criticism. I sang and screamed, fell to my knees and jumped up and down, encouraging the crowd to try and touch the low ceiling. I grinned and winked and wiggled my hips, and by the end of the second song I’d taken my shirt off.

It was so pure, and tense. The last song we performed was “Crawlin’” and Slink watched through eyes wide with hatred as the crowd sang along with every word. I crawled on my hands and knees towards their outstretched hands, trailing my fingers along the wall of palms, feeling their heat and individuality and loving every gentle touch.

The music stopped, and I lay on the stage a minute, trying to catch my breath. I was exhausted but exhilarated. I could almost feel Trent’s smile, he was over the moon. I got to my feet, the microphone in my hand and smiled my coldest smile at the defeated Slink.

“I win,” I said, and flung the microphone to him. He watched, shocked as I walked off the stage, completely unaware that a representative from Geffen, the record label, was smiling along with me.

It was a warm, sultry night outside, and I seemed to be life times away from Nebraska. I practically stumbled out of the back door, breathless. My heart was thudding relentlessly, pumping the adrenalin of the performance into my blood.

I realised that I was being watched. The triumphant haze lifted and I saw a solitary figure standing in the mouth of the alley.

“Can I help you?” I gasped, still trying to get my breath back.

“No, but maybe I can help you.”

The figure walked slowly towards me, hesitantly stepping out of the shadows and into the light. I recognised him instantly, even though he had changed beyond all recognition. He was taller, leaner, his hair cut short and his mouth no more than a line in his face. I’d always remembered him smiling, laughing and joking while I struggled with my faith, sexuality and endless questions.

It was my brother, Connor.

“Hello brother,” He said solemnly, his eyes like shallow pools, analysing me and taking in ever detail from the stylishly cut long hair to the make-up.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, thoroughly shaken. He was like a ghost, coming from all I’d left behind as if to remind me that I did not belong in LA, that I never should have ended up where I did.

“I’m with the school debating team. I saw one of the flyers,” He rummaged through the pockets of his neat jeans and produced the flyer. There was a picture of me on it, my eyes suggestive and Joseph’s crucifix gleaming around my neck.

“I had to know if it was really you.”

“Well now you know,” I said dismissively, returning the flyer to him.

“Why did you leave Adam?” He sounded so innocent. I looked into his eyes, wondering how much he knew. If he’d known the truth, he probably wouldn’t have came to see me. Then again, maybe he did know the truth but decided that blood transcends faith.

“Because I had to.”

“That’s not an explanation,” He replied stubbornly.

“Connor, I…how much do you know?”

“That I woke up one morning and you’d gone, mom and dad said you were never coming back. I thought I’d never see you again,” I felt my expression softening.

“I didn’t want to leave…” I began.

“That doesn’t matter now. I’ve found you, I did. I can see that you’ve strayed from God’s path but if I get you home, we can save you. Surely home is better than eternal damnation?”

“Mom and dad didn’t tell you why I left, did they?”

“No, and I didn’t ask, but that doesn’t matter now…”

“It does matter! It will always matter. Connor, our parents hated me for who I was. They thought I was a perversion, their own child!”

“They would never…” He mumbled, shaking his head.

“They would, and they did, and do you know why?” I reached into my pocket and produced two photographs. One was of Joseph, his sandy hair tucked behind his delicate ears, his intoxicating grin forever immortalised as it was in my dreams. The other was of Luka, standing by the beach, the sunlight reflecting off his hair but it was nothing compared to the glare of his beauty.

“Who are these people? I think I recognise him,” Connor said, reaching out and taking the photographs from my shaking hand. He trailed his fingertips over the photo of Joseph.

“That’s Joseph, he lived near us, remember?”

“Yeah, I do,” He nodded. “He committed suicide.”

“He did,” I felt a lump forming in my throat, but I continued speaking. “Because we were seeing each other, in secret. We kissed and held hands and had sex and we loved each other. Mom and dad found out. I left before they could kick me out.” Connor’s eyes were wide with shock, his mouth twisting in anger. “And the other boy, that’s Luka. I was in love with him. We were together as well, when I came to LA.”

“But…”

“Mom and dad stopped seeing me as their son the second they found out. I was no more than a sinner to them. That’s why I left. Here in LA, I’m not a sinner, I’m not persecuted or hated. I’m Adam Eden. I’m still your brother. I’ll always be your brother.”

“They were right to throw you out,” He spat. I was ready for that, and didn’t even flinch.

“Liars and betrayers go to Hell, Connor. By living by out-dated rules, you’re lying to yourself. And by erasing me from your memory and heart, you’re betraying your blood. I might go to Hell, but I’ll say to you what I said to Mom and Dad,” I brushed passed him and began to walk away, leaving him standing there wearing the most stupid expression.

“I’ll see you there!” I yelled, before disappearing into the shadows.

Months passed, and we performed every week. I’d started to write my own songs, and we used the money we made from playing to buy some cheap studio equipment. Trent, David and I spent two days recording six songs, which would be our demo.

But the demo was completely unnecessary. Six months after my rapper-rocker performance with Slink, I got a phone-call from Mr Phonascus. A young girl named Tina had flown from Seattle to see the band. She’d been following our progress and had even got her hands on a rough cut of the demo (a friend of a friend who knew a guy who was a friend of hers or something - you know how these things go).

That night, we thrashed out what would become our record deal. The night after, we signed the contracts and decided to have a party to celebrate on the beach. Trent’s friend Kai showed up, bringing with her the boy who would change everything.

That’s right - Michael.

I’d seen Michael Adams on MTV - he was the little brother of Fay, the celebrated (and let’s face it, adorable) front man of one of my favourite bands, Anavrin. I didn’t really watch the show, but I thought Michael was cute and had been drawn to his quiet shyness and subtle strength. I had even written a song about him, or at least the idea I had of him, called “Billie-Joe Junior” because he looked a little bit like Billie Joe Armstrong.

I was sitting near the ocean, just listening to the ever-present roaring of it, and thinking. I can’t remember exactly what I’d been thinking, but it was something about how much my life had changed and how much it was going to change. I’d gone, in the space of a year, from having no interest in music to being the front man of Geffen’s hottest new band. I had fans now, not clients. I had a manager (not Mr Phonascus if that’s what you’re thinking - when we signed the deal, he decided his work was done), not parents.

My life and its changes had always seemed out-with my control. I did not believe they were within God’s control either. When I die, all my questions will finally be answered. I’ll be cast down to Hell, or accepted to Heaven, or I’ll just stop, my consciousness will end and I’ll exist only as a memory.

For now, I believe God exists, that He created me the way I am and would not punish me for it. Nor do I believe that He litters my life with obstacles - my problems have always been man-made. My reluctance to embrace my bisexuality (I’m a walking gay pride parade now) was not the product of a homophobic God, it was the product of years spent obeying the over-zealous rules of my parents.

God did not kill Joseph, nor encourage him to take his own life. Joseph slashed his wrists open because for all his talk, despite his swagger, he was afraid to truly be himself.

And God didn’t stab Luka. Some crazed, drugged-up thug slid that knife into Luka’s stomach like he was butter, and through the heart I so adored to stop him from screaming.

So what do I believe? I believe that I am not alone in this struggle. Humans may have evolved, and the Earth probably was created in an explosion in space. But cold science, the flukes that led to human life, the lucky coincidences didn’t lead to the beauty in the world. It was not science that led to a thousand inky highlights in Michael’s hair, or the warmth of Matt Harris’ renowned grin. It was not science that preserved Fay’s innocence or Mr Phonascus’ integrity.

I believe it was something powerful, something mysterious. Maybe it was God, maybe it wasn’t. But I believe it was. The cynics of this world call me deluded, naïve, and they always will. I don’t claim to know the answers to their relentless questions.

However, it is those cynics who lie awake at night wondering who, or what to believe in. It’s those cynics who continue questioning because they don’t know how to live with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, they’ll pay one day for all the wrongs they’ve committed.

That’s what I was thinking about that night after The Best Deceptions had just signed to Geffen. I sat alone in front of the vast ocean with the moonlight shining on my skin. I was thinking that the world I knew was too beautiful to be just a big cosmic mistake. Oh, and it was so beautiful by the beach. The sky was a flawless blanket of the deepest blue velvet, punctuated by a million anonymous diamond stars. The sea glittered by the light of the silvery moon, looking more valuable than any jewel man had come across. The sand was bleached white as porcelain, but was as warm and welcoming to me as a human hand.

I sighed out loud, it was as if the oxygen was being crushed from my lungs by the sheer beauty of the world around me. I wanted to share it with someone and I was finally ready to.

Joseph and Luka were like the scars on the soft flesh of my fore-arms - I will always remember them, but at the end of the day they are just wounds that healed. They were no more than times in my life that had come and gone, leaving their mark and nothing more.

I closed my eyes and said a prayer for them, my lost ones. I thanked them for all they had done, but told them that it was time to move on once and for all. When I opened my eyes, I found a boy sitting beside me.

I’d seen him before, but was still shocked by him. His skin was perfectly smooth and white, covering high cheekbones, rounded shoulders and slightly jutting hips. Those lips were full and naturally pink, like a kissable rose in contrast with his jungle of jet black hair. His eyes were bright, vast, and always changing with the days and nights of a life full of struggles as individual and as painful as my own.

He was the Renaissance angel, with his cherubic face and deep eyes, clothed to walk in the modern world cloaked by his insecurities and plagued by a past that manifested physically as scars on his arms almost identical to my own.

I knew who he was, and so do you. Well, you might. He was Michael, the reluctant reality TV star. Michael, half brother of the mischievous Fay and saintly Matt. Michael, who stopped feeling only to be flooded with emotions since letting go of the ghost who haunted him. Michael, who belonged to screaming pubescent girls and closet-case boys.

Michael. He didn’t care for my past or his own, all he wanted was a glorious present and a stable future. I offered him both on one condition - he spent them with me.

And so, that night when I said both goodbyes and hellos, I met the boy who’d share the beauty of this new and exciting world with me. We loved and lived and lusted together, we fell back on tried and tested clichés when our own words failed us.

Adam Eden, the bisexual-catholic-runaway-prostitute-rock star and Michael Adams-Harris I am most pleased to say, lived not always happily but always together ever after.

I would apologise for my own use of a cliché, but sorry is just a word, isn’t it?

The End