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A lot of things worried Emile about that day.
His swollen eye, for one. It stung to hell, and he hadn’t even gotten a chance to put an ice pack on it. He hoped neglecting it for a while wouldn’t make it worse. The cool wind was hitting it, sending both pain and relief across his face, and Emile couldn’t decide which was worse–going without the cold, or taking the extra beating by nature itself.
For another, he still had two classes to get to before he could go home and rest the ache in his muscles–and maybe find that ice pack he was craving. He dreaded other students, or worse, his professors, asking what had happened to him. Emile imagined the worry etched on their faces, their kind voices letting him know he could trust them, he could tell them-
He didn’t want to tell anyone. Emile just wanted to pretend it had never even happened.
There was the grand societal worry–about what it meant that kids were still being abused for who they were. That people could be so cruel to harm someone who hadn’t done anything to them. Emile hadn’t even known the guy, but, somehow, he had known him. He knew him as someone who was out and proud, someone who smiled when he told people he was gay. He was active in his school’s LGBTQ+ Alliance, and worked at the counselor’s office, hosting a support group for queer kids in the area.
He worried that maybe it wasn’t a question of how the guy had known him, but why this hadn’t happened sooner.
Or who was next.
Emile thought of the kids he worked with, the ones he talked to, told they’d always have a safe place to come to, but what if it wasn’t a safe place at all? What if Emile was only putting them in danger?
But maybe, worst of all–in some misguided, hopeless delusion that he’d always be smiling for them, always be the one who had it together, who was always there to help–Emile was worried about Remy’s reaction.
His partner, Remy, was the light of his life. The only one who didn’t see him as naive because he looked on the bright side. The only one who supported all the extra responsibilities he took on because, if he could help, he was going to goshdarn help. The only one Emile could lean on just as much as Remy leaned on him.
Even though it scared him. Leaning on someone else–it took time to learn. Emile had never given himself that luxury, despite, objectively, knowing how bad that was for him. He was a psychology major; he was going to be a therapist. Emile could see his own destructive behavior. It was a slow process to mend it though.
Emile didn’t want Remy to see him like this. If they saw him, with his swollen eye and cut lip and bruising arms and legs that no one could even see under his winter attire, Emile was afraid he’d break.
The world felt so big, while Emile felt so small. Without a tether, Emile felt sort of distant from it all, like maybe he could pretend it hadn’t happened. His worries were breaking down his walls–the horrors of an unjust world singing its mournful tunes. The world wasn’t a happy place–Emile knew that. But sometimes it hit you full-on in the shape of a fist and awful slurs and falling helplessly to the ground at the feet of bigots and their sneers.
Emile hadn’t cried. Not a single tear. He really really didn’t want to. The moment he cried, they had won.
He knew he would cry as soon as he saw Remy.
But Emile couldn’t bring himself to go to class, opting for, the first time that semester, to skip. He thought, ironically, how Remy would be proud. They always said Emile needed to loosen up. Needed to take more care of himself too. That’s two points in one action.
Instead, his feet took him closer to the on-campus Starbucks, packed with students studying, and a line long enough to wrap around the building. On a cold day like this, he shouldn’t have been surprised people wanted hot beverages and a warm place to sit. He hadn’t realized until now he’d been hoping it would be slow.
He hadn’t actually realized where he was going until he saw the long line.
For a moment, he froze, eyes landing behind the counter, the long room away from where he stood, at his partner, juggling cups, looking busied, but unfrazzled–completely in their element. Emile loved coming in here and sitting at a table close by, just to watch them over his laptop screen, talking to them when business was slow.
The people around him parted slightly, regulars recognizing him and others just shocked at the mess that was his face. Emile ducked, face burning. Remy was busy. He should leave, come back later-
“Emile?”
Emile’s head jerked up, eyes landing on the figure approaching him. His heart dropped into his stomach at the sight of a green apron, thinking for a moment it was them, before he looked further and he reached a darker pair of eyes than he was expecting–warm, but not golden. Brown.
“Roman?” he croaked, eyes widening when he realized how he’d sounded.
“What happened to you?” the other asked. Futilely, Emile reached up, trying to hide his face. “Sorry. We should get you to Remy.”
“What? No!” He shook his head insistently. “Remy’s busy. This can wait.”
“No offense,” Roman said, raising an eyebrow at him. “But I really don’t think this can wait.”
Emile went quiet. Roman took his arm, steering him towards the counter. Remy was so focused, they didn’t even notice them until Roman spoke up.
“Remy, I’m covering for you. Give me your orders.”
“What?” Remy looked up, confusion lining his features. It didn’t take long for his gaze to gravitate to Emile, eyes widening. “Emile?” they gasped, slamming down the paper cup they’d been holding. Thankfully, nothing had been in it yet.
“Hey, Rem,” Emile said, fighting back the tears stinging hot at the back of his eyes. Remy practically threw their orders at Roman, who Emile assumed had been on break. Remy rushed around the counter, taking Emile gently and rushing them out. Emile could feel the eyes trailing after them, whispers like screams demanding what had happened–demanding Emile’s secret weaknesses.
They twisted and turned through the corridors of the Social Sciences building, where the Starbucks was located, until they found an empty, unlocked room. Remy pulled him in and shut the door behind them, turning to look Emile over now that they were at a safe distance. Emile didn’t give them the chance, though, finally giving in to his tears and crashing into them.
He felt their arms wrap around him, encasing Emile closer to Remy’s comfort and heat, cradling the back of his head, pulling him in close so Emile could feel like all of the world was there, that he may have been small in comparison, but Remy was big enough to protect both of them, that Remy was the tether that stuck him in this moment.
Emile’s breath hitched and hiccuped, but he couldn’t stop. The tears kept coming–his whines–his sorrows–his fear that had carried past the moment of being knocked to the ground–his worry that the world was so unfair with no way to fix it–it all boiled over in his desperate clutching of Remy’s apron, then the back of his shirt–whatever drew him closer–secured him there with his partner and not the cold ground–not helplessly curling up–alone–his worries speeding off ahead of him about how no one had heard–no one had helped–anything could have happened.
“Em,” Remy’s voice cut through his spiralling thoughts, and Emile gasped a little, too quiet, not able to get anymore breath in. “Em, you need to breathe. Count with me, okay?”
And so they counted. The same thing Emile did with his group. The same thing he’d taught Remy to help with that friend of theirs. It took an excruciatingly long time, but they counted.
Once Emile had his breathing under control, he finally looked up at his partner. His vision was a little blurry, and he couldn’t tell if it was just the fact Remy had taken off his glasses, or if it also had to do with tears. Remy took his puzzled look to mean he wanted his glasses back, though, and carefully slipped them back over his ears.
Eyes a bit clearer, he focused on them. Guilt gnawed at his gut. “I’m sorry.”
A series of expressions crossed Remy’s face. “Don’t you dare apologize for this. This is not your fault,” they said, but their tone wasn’t harsh. In fact, it couldn’t have been more than a scared whisper.
“I shouldn’t have come while you were working,” Emile tried to clarify, but Remy shook their head.
“I would have dropped everything even if Roman didn’t offer to cover,” Remy said. “I don’t care what I’m doing. If you need me, I’m always there for you.” They looked over his face, and Emile felt a hot, dizzying shame. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Just some guy,” Emile said, trying to speak evenly, trying to have it come off as no big deal. “Homophobe.”
Remy’s eyes grew angrier. They curled their lip. “Disgusting.”
“He’s just ignorant,” Emile shrugged. He felt sorry for the guy–thinking he had to pick fights just to feel secure about himself and his misguided beliefs. Remy shook their head.
“I’ll track him down and beat him up myself,” they said, but Emile frowned at that.
“Don’t do that,” he said. Remy deflated, looking him over again.
“Well, at least let me patch you up.”
Emile smiled, but he doubted it came off with his usual cheeriness. “You and what bandages?”
“The cafe keeps first-aid on hand downstairs,” they said. “Could you wait here while I get it?”
Something rose up in Emile’s throat at the thought of being left alone right now, but he nodded anyway. “Of course.”
Remy looked him over, probably seeing right through him. They looked at him, then at the door, then back.
“Really,” Emile reassured. “I’ll be fine.”
Remy had a look in their eye as they undid their apron, shucking the leather jacket they had underneath. Emile wondered how it hadn’t gotten hot in the cafe wearing those layers, but he was thankful for it now, the heavy jacket being thrown over him. Remy bent down, kissing the tip of his nose.
“I’ll be right back, babe.” It was the first time they sounded like themself that day. Emile hated that he’d made them so sober and serious, even if for a good reason.
And they were back, as quick as they had said. Emile barely had time to sit at one of the desks, hugging the jacket close.
Remy came back with an ice pack.
“My savior,” Emile teased, but he grabbed the pack immediately, pressing it to his face. It stung, but, like the wind, it helped.
“Need your arm, hun,” Remy said, bringing a chair closer to sit next to him. Emile looked down at both arms, unsure which they meant until he noticed it: a scrape that had gone right through the material of his hoodie.
Peeling off the hoodie and rolling up his sleeve, Emile presented the arm, which Remy went straight into disinfecting. They worked in silence, and Emile ran his thumb over and over again across the material of Remy’s jacket.
“You know, it’s usually the other way around with us,” Emile said, breaking the comfortable silence they had built up. Remy’s curious eyes met his. “I’m always stitching you up.”
“Well, I guess I get to take care of you for once,” Remy smiled. “Good thing I have practice.”
“It’s not a good thing you get into so many fights,” Emile said. He tried for serious, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to sound anything but slightly amused. “Especially when I wasn’t around to help you after.”
“It’s a good thing we’ve got each other now, then, right?” Remy said, and there was something so soft to it. “We get to keep an eye on each other.”
With those words, Emile’s guilt morphed into something far warmer, better. He looked deep into Remy’s eyes, reading easily between the lines.
It would take a long time–learning to lean on someone else–but Emile was glad it was Remy.