"Dad?"

"Hiya, our kid." Dad answers on the first ring. He's been waiting for me. "You haven't rang in a while."

"Neither have you." I don't mention that I've been a little busier than he is. I mean, I'm sure Manchester Airport is constantly busy, but at least he gets to go home at the end of the day. This is my life.

"That's true, that's true." He sighs, and I can hear that I'm not even on speaker phone. Usually, he's washing up or making dinner (or heating up). But he's never just say there, phone to ear, giving me all the attention. It sounds too personal. "I should've called earlier, I'm sorry mate."

"It's fine." But it's kind of not fine. I think I've just experienced the worst few weeks of my life, surrounded by people who don't really understand. I'm the outsider, in so many ways. "Nick and Rob rang the other week. Apparently you didn't want to call me, dad." I know it's the truth because my brothers have been trying to talk him into it. That you have to be persuaded to talking to your youngest son already gets me riled up. I expect him to bite back, because he does that; he likes to have the last word and that word is gospel. Always has been. But instead, there's just silence.

"You still there?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just...it was just on the news now, in Las Vegas."

I straighten my back. "Oh."

"Yeah." I hear him stand to turn the TV down. He lost the remote ages ago and his telly's so old that it still has buttons on it to change the channel and the volume. Everything about him is ancient, even his opinions. "It's shite, what they were saying, right? You don't put hidden meanings in your songs about...about that."

"Of course not! And if I did put those meanings in, I wouldn't make them hidden, dad. I'd make the whole fucking song about it." I'm angry now, not at the fact that he won't argue with me, but because he still calls being gay 'that'. It's still something that won't rest with him.

"Ok, ok." He calms me down. "But you and that other bloke. That were real, weren't it?"

"How did you see that? You don't have Twitter?"

"BBC News, mate."

"Seriously?"

"You remember you're famous, right? People care about stuff like that." Stuff like that. "I just wanted to call to see if you were OK. That ordeal before looked a little mob like and I thought...well, I'd get on a plane to Las Vegas if it got a bit hairy. I'd...I'd come see you."

I soften, sink into the only chair in my new hotel room.

"You would?"

"Course I would. And Nick and Rob; the Connors Clan. We'd all come and support you. I may be a different generation but I'll never stop loving my son. Nothing you do can make me not love you." I think my heart sinks. I'm surprised when I don't hear the words 'no homo' come from him because that's exactly what I expect. But, instead, he keeps going. "I'm not overly happy about that whole gay thing. I keep getting comments around the block and at work about you. But they've always done that, always made someone else's business theirs. This isn't even my business! It's yours. You're an adult now, I and no one else should have a say in who you...umm...you know."

"Yeah, I got it. Thanks." It's so awkward, but at the same time, hot tears begin rolling down my cheeks. They burn, but it's a good burn, a slow burn, a burn I've been waiting for all this time, thinking it might never come. "Not thanks. Thank you."

"I can be more supportive, I know I can. But can you give me more time? Can you let it just...settle, for now?"

Brought up in a rough area, surrounded by shouting and spitting and fists; when people don't understand things, they fear them, they hate them. I can imagine my father, looking down at me as a baby and being completely enamored. And then, I grow into something he doesn't understand, something that's hated and feared and new and different to what he's known. I imagine the conflict inside of him, telling him that's it's not right. I admire him for making that voice small, just like I have.

There's nothing wrong with me.

When we hang up and my lungs feel lighter than ever, there's a gentle tap on the door, and when I open it, the four of them stand there. Demitri's eyes are wide and he snaps his head back from what was clearly him eavesdropping through the door. Luke's pulling at his sleeves, covering marks on his arms as Candice stands behind him, her tan arms wrapped around his neck and smiling at me.

But Oliver doesn't even notice them, he just stares at me like I'm the only one here. The look he always gives me. The one I fell in love with.

I nod. "He's coming to terms with it. He saw everything, it was on BBC News." I still can't believe it got to the news back in the U.K, but I guess they're kind of proud of us. We may be British originally, but suddenly I feel like we're the whole worlds'.

Oliver is the first one to wrap his arms around me, pulling me close and letting me rest my head on his chest. Then everyone follows, arms after arms, until we become this humanoid with ten arms and five heads.

"I hope we get asked to perform at Pride." Says someone, but I'm not really paying attention. I can just hear Oliver's steady heartbeat pressed against my ear.