Julian
Morning has a way of making everything look gentler than it actually is.
The curtains in Eli’s room are still half closed, but pale light is already threading through the gaps, turning the walls a soft gray-blue and catching on the edges of the dresser. We came here after… everything last night because Mila’s cot is here and we needed her close to us.
She’s still asleep, one tiny fist tucked beside her cheek, her mouth parted in that serious little way she has when she’s deep under.
Every so often she makes a small noise, not quite a sigh, not quite a dream sound, and my whole body still reacts to it even though she isn’t mine by blood, and I never expected fatherhood-adjacent instincts to sneak up on me in the dark and rearrange my internal wiring.
Eli is asleep beside me. He’s on his stomach, one arm shoved under the pillow, dark hair wrecked from sleep, my hands, and from everything we let ourselves become last night.
The sheet is pulled up low across his back, leaving the line of one shoulder bare, warm skin marked only by pressure from the pillow and the faint red scrape of my stubble near his neck where I kissed him too many times because I could.
He looks younger like this, but older too.
Younger because sleep takes the sharp edges out of him, the defensive line of his mouth, and the way he’s had to learn too quickly how to stand between the world and his daughter.
Older because I know what’s behind that sleep now.
I know what proof sits downstairs and what Mara called it.
I know the weight of what he chose last night, not because he wanted to erase the ugliness, but because he wanted one memory of his body that belonged only to him.
And to me.
The thought makes my throat close so hard I have to turn my face into the pillow for a second.
Mine.
Not in the crude sense, not in the way that takes. I’ve had enough of that word twisted in the mouths of men who think possession means permission.
I mean mine the way home is mine when I walk through the door and stop holding my breath.
Mine the way a promise is mine once someone makes it and means it.
Mine the way Eli looked at me last night, terrified and brave, and so fucking honest it split me open, and he still said yes because he trusted me to hear the word as a gift instead of a debt.
I blink, and the tears spill before I can stop them.
I don’t make a sound. I’m good at quiet—too good, probably. The tears slide hot over my temples and into my hairline while I stare at the sleeping shape of the man I have loved for years and try to understand how my life got here without breaking under the weight of it.
It feels impossible. It feels stolen, almost, except nothing about Eli’s face looks like theft. He chose me… He chose me after everything. He chose me with his hands shaking and his voice rough and his eyes open.
I think about the tattoo he finally saw and remember the first day better than I should.
Kindergarten, bright classroom, too much noise, too many children who all seemed to know rules I hadn’t been handed yet.
I had a rugby ball because my father had brought it back after one of his nostalgic moods, the kind where he missed South Africa so badly he tried to stuff the country into our house through food, music, language, and sport.
I remember sitting on the grass during recess with it in my lap, feeling stubborn and homesick in a way I didn’t have words for because I was too young to understand that missing a place can be inherited before you’ve truly known it.
Then Eli Matthews walked right up to me with mud on one knee and said, with complete confidence, “That’s a weird football.”
I told him it wasn’t a football. He told me all balls shaped like that were footballs. I told him, in the kind of affronted voice only a five-year-old can use, that it was a rugby ball and footballs were different, and he said, “No, my dad watches football, and this is a football but wrong.”
We argued for ten minutes, maybe longer.
Long enough that our teacher eventually had to come over and ask why two tiny boys were red-faced and furious over a ball that neither of us was actively playing with.
Eli, who apparently considered truth less important than winning even then, told her I was lying about sports.
I shoved him.
He shoved me back.
We both ended up crying, mostly from rage, and then somehow by the end of the day, we were sitting beside each other at snack time because Eli said I could teach him rugby if I stopped being “annoying about it,” and I told him I would if he admitted American football was a ridiculous name when feet barely touched the ball.
He refused. I shared my crackers with him anyway.
That was the beginning of everything.
Not romantic then, obviously. Not even close. Just a boy with blue eyes and too much certainty deciding he had a right to sit beside me, and me, lonely enough to let him.
We grew around each other after that. School years layered over the first argument until it became one of those stories adults told at barbecues, laughing about how we’d been fighting since day one.
We learned each other’s houses, families, tempers, and tells.
He knew when my father’s silence had ruined dinner without me saying so.
I knew when Eli’s father had turned disappointment into a weather system and left him walking around under it all day.
It wasn’t always beautiful. People love to make childhood friendships sound pure because memory sands down the ugly.
We were little assholes sometimes. We fought hard, didn’t talk for three days over stupid shit, competed at everything, hurt each other in the careless way boys do when no one teaches them softness is allowed between them.
But underneath all of it was a root system too deep to see. Eli was the person I looked for first in every room. The person whose opinion could ruin my day faster than anyone else’s. The person I wanted beside me when things were good and needed beside me when they weren’t.
When my mother died, I was old enough to understand loss and young enough to think understanding would make it survivable.
It didn’t.
The funeral smelled like lilies and dust and my father’s cologne, too much of all of it, clinging to the church. People kept touching my shoulder. Adults said terrible gentle things about God and peace and time. I remember feeling if I breathed wrong, the whole church would hear me fall apart.
Eli stood beside me through the service even though his own family kept trying to pull him back toward their pew.
He was thirteen then, awkward and too serious in a borrowed dress shirt, hair combed badly and eyes huge with the helpless terror of someone watching grief happen and knowing he couldn’t tackle it or argue it away.
He didn’t say much. That’s what I remember most. Eli, who could talk circles around any room when he was nervous, somehow understood that words were useless that day.
He just stood close enough that our shoulders touched.
When they lowered the coffin and my knees started to go, his hand found the back of my suit jacket and gripped so hard the fabric probably wrinkled. He held me up without making it obvious, because even then he knew I would hate being watched breaking.
Later, after everyone had eaten funeral sandwiches in our house, I found him sitting on the back steps with my father’s rugby ball in his lap.
The same one, old by then, scuffed and soft at the seams. He looked up when I came out and said, “Your dad still calls it rugby like he invented the damn thing.”
I laughed.
It was a horrible laugh. Half sob, half choke.
But it was the first sound I made that didn’t feel like drowning, and Eli looked so relieved he nearly started crying himself.
He shoved the ball at me and told me if I wanted to throw it at something, he’d stand watch.
I told him that was the dumbest offer anyone had made all day.
He said, “Yeah, but it’s the only useful one,” and he was right.
That was Eli, even before everything else.
Before love took on pining, heat and wanting, before I understood why my body reacted to him differently, before I had the language to tell the truth about myself and the courage to survive other people hearing it.
Eli was the one who stood there when the world went wrong and made one stupid, solid offer I could actually use.
Then came my father.
Not all at once. Rejection rarely lands cleanly in a single blow when families do it well. It seeped in through comments first, through silence, through the way his face would tighten whenever I looked too long at a boy on television or laughed too softly at something a male classmate said.
By the time I said the word pansexual out loud, I already knew he’d hate it. I said it anyway because I was fifteen, furious, and exhausted from pretending.
He didn’t hit me. Sometimes I think people expect that because it’s easier to understand violence when it leaves bruises.
He just went cold—my father could make a room freeze without raising his voice.
He told me I was confused, that America had put ideas in my head, that my mother would be ashamed if she were alive to see what I’d become.
That one landed so fucking deep, and he knew it would. I think he regretted it later, but not enough to take it back when it mattered.
Eli found me that night sitting under the bleachers after practice.
I didn’t tell him everything at first. I told him my father and I fought.
I told him it was nothing. I told him to fuck off because he wouldn’t stop looking at me.
He sat beside me anyway, shoulder to shoulder like we were thirteen at a funeral again.
Eventually I said it. Not dramatically or as some brave confession. I just stared at the empty field and said, “I don’t just… like girls.”