As they walked in silence, Yohan's grip on Robin's hand was firm, as if he needed Robin's touch just to stay grounded. It took all of Robin's self-restraint to not ask Yohan more questions. He wanted to know about Yohan's mum—what she wanted to talk about, and why Yohan had run.

     The woman standing in front of the tall flats hadn't seemed evil or threatening; she just looked scared. Maybe she had come to apologise, to make amends for whatever it was that she had done. But Robin knew that even if he asked the gentlest of questions, Yohan would shut down. 

     So, Robin kept quiet.

     When they had first gotten up from the bench, Yohan was still tearful, the remnants of his first panic attack visible on his face. But with each step they took away from that emotional epicentre, his features began to soften. Slowly, the tense lines eased, and the hard, defensive exterior Yohan usually carried with him started to melt away, leaving just Yohan. The Yohan Robin had come to know, with all his layers of complexity, vulnerability, and softness.

      They turned a corner, and Yohan glanced at the bouquet Robin carried.

      "I should've mentioned earlier," Yohan said in a way like he hadn't been in floods of tears only ten minutes earlier. "We don't really place flowers at graves. That's more of a Christian thing."

      "Oh," Robin said, feeling a little embarrassed. "Sorry, I didn't know."

      "That's okay," Yohan replied softly. "She loved lilies, though. I'll put them in our living room if that's alright. She would've liked that."

      Robin smiled, relieved. "Okay."

       They reached a tall brick wall that led to the entrance of a small cemetery. Robin hadn't known what to expect, but the quiet, overgrown space, surrounded by city flats and tower blocks, looked strangely out of place. 

      They passed the gravestones lined neatly either side of the path. Some looking older, some newer. Finally, Yohan stopped in front of one, his body tense as his gaze fell on the simple stone that read Eliza Schwartz, with a symbol and words Robin thought were likely Hebrew. There were a few mismatched stones laid precariously on top.

      "I know it's weird—" Yohan's voice had a nervous edge. "But I like to talk to her, like she's here."

      "Of course it is, Yohan," Robin reassured him. "Whatever you need to do, I'm here."

      Yohan turned toward the gravestone, taking a breath before speaking.

      "Hi, Gran," Yohan said softly, his voice suddenly tender. "I've missed you. And wow, it's been a bit of a wild ride since we last spoke." He paused. "But I'm not alone this year. I brought someone I'd like you to meet."

      Robin cleared his throat, getting the impression it was his turn to speak to the grave.

       "I'm Robin. Nice to meet you, well... kind of." The whole situation felt strange to him—he'd only ever been to one funeral before, for his grandfather—his mum's dad, and he was only five when that happened, so his memory was rather fuzzy. Plus, his grandfather had been cremated so he didn't have a grave to visit to speak to, and even if there were one, he doubted that he'd know what to say.

       Yohan gave Robin's hand a gentle squeeze and continued. "He's my boyfriend," Yohan said, his voice softening again. "I told you about him before. The one I—well, you know what I said." Yohan shot Robin a nervous side glance. "I mucked him about a bit, but we're together now. And I know you would've loved him."

       A heavy silence followed; the kind of silence that made time feel like it was stretching. Yohan shifted nervously, his foot tapping against the grass.

       "Sorry," Yohan said now, this time directed at Robin. "I don't usually come here with anyone else. It feels weird talking to her like this in front of someone. I mean, I don't even believe in God or an afterlife, or—"

       "Yohan." This time, Robin gave Yohan's hand a squeeze. "You don't have to explain yourself. It's okay."

       "I know but—" He had shoved his free hand into his pocket. "I know I brought you here, and like, I wanted you to be here when I talked to her, but with what happened—" The way he said it was like it was already a distant memory. "I'd quite like to just be alone with her for a bit. If that's okay?"

      "It's okay," Robin replied, smiling up at him warmly. "That makes sense. Why don't I go sit over there?" He pointed toward a weathered bench at the edge of the cemetery with the lilies. "You can talk to her. I'll be here when you're ready."

      Yohan nodded. "Okay, thanks. I—I won't be long."

      Robin leaned in to give Yohan a quick peck on the lips and one more reassuring squeeze of his hand before walking over to the bench, which was definitely a health and safety hazard. As he sat down, it creaked under him, and he was grateful for his thick pair of blue jeans protecting him from the likelihood of splinters. He watched from a distance as Yohan lowered himself to the ground, cross-legged in front of the gravestone.

      So, Robin watched as Yohan spoke to his grandmother. Even though he couldn't hear the words, the moment felt intimate, like witnessing a part of Yohan he'd never been allowed to see before.

      Robin wasn't sure how long he sat there, watching Yohan's lips move as if he were having a conversation with someone right in front of him. Occasionally, Yohan's hands would gesture, as though emphasising something, and he was certain at one point he was laughing. He even pulled out two cigarettes, lit one for himself, then lit a second and placed it smoking at the base of the stone. 

      When Yohan finally stood up, he fished something out of his pocket—squinting, Robin saw it was a small rock. Yohan kissed it softly before placing it on the headstone, joining the other stones already there.

      Yohan made his way back to Robin, his face calmer. He sat beside Robin—well, almost fell off the bench due to not spotting the large slat of wood missing—and their hands naturally found each other again. For a moment, they just sat there, letting the silence between them settle.

      "You okay?" Robin asked softly after a beat.

      "Yeah," Yohan replied, exhaling deeply. "I feel better. I always do when I come here." He paused, then added, "It's weird because graves are supposed to make you feel sad, right? But I just feel... connected to her, I guess."

      "How often do you come?"

      "Only twice a year. Once on her birthday—September, not long after I met you actually." He paused and laughed nervously. "Well, last time I came here, I was having a bit of a sexuality crisis. And then today, on her anniversary. I should come more really but—" He had his lighter in his hand and was flicking the lid on and off. "But I think if I did, I'd never leave."

      Robin hesitated, not wanting to push but feeling the question tug at him.

      "Can I ask... how she died?"

       Yohan sighed, his eyes drifting to the gravestone.

      "Cancer. Pancreatic. Which is funny actually, because with the number of cigarettes she smoked, it should have really been lung."

      "I'm really sorry." 

       "It's okay. It happens," Yohan said with a shrug, though the weight of it lingered in his voice.

      "You two must have been really close." 

       "Well, yeah. She raised me. And she made Grandad happy. Not that he was always a nice man—he's always been kind of a shit—but she put him in his place. Now that she's gone, he's just," Yohan trailed off, his jaw tightening slightly. "Well, let's just say there's no one around to do that anymore."

        I really shouldn't ask. I really shouldn't ask.

      "Can I... ask about your mum?" Robin said cautiously. "Like, what happened?"

       Yohan didn't look at him right away; his gaze focused somewhere distant. When he spoke, his voice was matter-of-fact, like he was summarising a Wikipedia page. But his eyes told a different story. "Long story short, she got pregnant with me when she was young. Ran away from home with the guy who I assume is my dad—not that I know who he is. He left her, I was born, and we lived in some sheltered accommodation for a bit. Then social services stepped in. They took me away because of neglect, and I moved in with my grandparents."

        Robin's stomach tightened. "I had no idea."

        "How would you have known?" Yohan said, shrugging slightly. There was a bitterness in his voice that he couldn't quite hide. "I only know bits and pieces myself. I was too young to remember most of it. My grandparents cut contact with Sarah after she lost me to social services. Or maybe it was the other way around—she cut contact with them. I'm not really sure. She did show up at Gran's funeral, though. Today was the first time I've seen her since then."

       "Fuck."

       "Yeah, fuck is right." Yohan exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging. "I'm sorry. Today hasn't exactly gone how I thought it would."

      "Please don't apologise, Yohan I—" Robin started, but stopped himself before saying, "I get it." Because he didn't. All this time, Robin had been worried about his own family, how annoying they were, the stress of coming out to his parents, and schoolwork—stuff that seemed so small in comparison. He knew Yohan had it rough; people who didn't talk much about their families usually did, but he hadn't expected it to be like this.

      "I'm sorry," was all Robin could manage.

      Yohan frowned. "Why are you sorry?"

      "Because," Robin gestured with his hands, struggling to find the right words. "I've been complaining about my shit, and you've been dealing with all of this."

       Yohan looked at him, his red eyes softening, a glimmer of something familiar returning.

      "Robin, you can't compare our lives like that. Sure, your family seems nice, but I don't know what happens behind closed doors. No one does about anyone's family."

       "I know, but," Robin trailed off, letting out a sigh of his own.

       "We all have our struggles," Yohan said, his voice steady as he squeezed his hand. "Just because mine looks different doesn't mean what you're going through isn't hard either. And yeah, maybe my story sounds like something from one of those shitty twelve-part Netflix documentaries, and I might've had my first panic attack today, and we're at my dead grandmother's grave—but that doesn't mean I'm not okay."

       He turned fully to face Robin, grabbing his other hand and holding both tightly. Robin glanced down at their intertwined fingers, feeling bad that Yohan was comforting him when it should have been the other way around.

       "I'm okay, Robin. Honestly." Robin blinked, searching Yohan's face for any cracks in the façade.

       "Are you sure?"

       "Yes, I'm sure. Especially because you're here." Yohan's expression softened before twisting with a self-deprecating grin. "Wow, you've really turned me into a soppy shit."

      Robin smiled, the warmth spreading through his chest.

      "I like you being a soppy shit."

      "Well, good, because at this rate, you're going to have a flesh puddle of a boyfriend with how soppy and romantic I get with you. It's honestly quite disgusting."

      Robin let out a soft chuckle, the tension between them easing just a little.

       "I'd still date you if you were a fleshy puddle."

      "Wow, now that's true lo—" Yohan stopped abruptly, eye's wide for a moment before he blinked, "I mean, you must really like me then."

       "Funnily enough, I do," Robin replied with a teasing smile, his voice soft but certain.

        Yohan's lips twitched, his eyes meeting Robin's in a way that felt more vulnerable than before.

       "Good. Because I really like you too."