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Here & Queer: Part Five of the Happy Little Fantasy Series

Read it on A03 here or have a link to the master post.

This chapter is a bit more serious and not as fluffy. But it’s deeply personal to me and I think it’s important. Inspired by some drama I’m goin through IRL about coming out. More fluff to come soon. Everything that happens in this chapter has either happened to me or someone I know. Sending love.

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It’s easy for them to hold hands in the daylight. When the sun is shining and there’s tons of people around, it’s easy to have their hands clasped tightly, swinging in the breeze. It’s exhilarating, as two men, to be open about their love.

Nighttime is a different story. They walk side by side, hands in their pockets. There are too many terrifying stories of men just like them facing the worst case scenarios. So they keep half a foot of distance between them at night. Safety first. They can hold each other behind a locked door.

Hand holding shouldn’t be such a point of tension or even something to think about, but it is. They think about it when they’re walking down the street in the middle of the afternoon and a mother pulls her child away from them. They think about it when they’re riding the subway in New York, and a tough looking guy stares at them too long. They think about it when their first instinct is to always grab the other’s hand, but they know they can’t. Not in the company they’re in. And it’s constant. And they can’t escape it.

But this is their life. This is the life of most queer people, actually. This is what it means to be queer in the world. To simply exist as themselves. To be Out feels like a quest in itself, and often an exhausting one.

And they’re never really 100% out.

Elliot is about as openly gay as someone can be, but he’s still in the never ending process of coming out. He has to go to physical therapy once, for his knee. It’s not a big deal, a minor muscle tear from a hiking excursion that just needs a little bit of TLC. He and his physical therapist are getting along great, chitting and chatting like there’s no tomorrow. Until she sees the golden band on his finger and asks the dreaded question:

“So what does your wife do for a living?”

“Husband, actually,” Eliot corrects, without thinking, and pride in his voice. “He’s an author. Currently writing children’s books,”

She’s quiet for the rest of their session.

Eliot hates that. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it. He hates that simply correcting her with that one word (husband) is suddenly a political statement or a broken bond between them. And he doesn’t even know her, so it shouldn’t matter.

But it does. It always does.

Quentin is buying Eliot flowers for their anniversary one year. He’s in the flower shop, long hair messily brushing his shoulders and the lavender button up that Eliot bought him for Christmas. He’s in a good mood, fingers brushing the different flowers as he thinks on what to get his husband. (Not roses, too cliche. Maybe lilies, or sunflowers.) And then he makes eye contact with a stranger and his blood freezes. The stranger is a large, muscular man with a greying beard and a red cap on his head and sneer building on his lips. At first, Quentin writes it off as his own anxieties and nervousness, but the entire time he’s moving through the shop, he’s got a pair of eyes on him.

And he can’t prove that the man is watching him. And he is, in fact, assuming the worst. But he trusts the feeling in his gut that is twisting and clenching. Eliot likes to joke that every queer person has a gay-dar and a bigotry-dar, a heightened sense of paranoia used to just fucking stay alive . And Quentin’s bigotry-dar is ringing a million alarm bells and he feels nauseous. He picks out his flowers (carnations) and goes to the counter. The checkout girl smiles brightly at him.

“What’s the occasion?” She asks as she rings him up.

“Anniversary,” Quentin responds. “With my, uh-”

Out of the corner of his eye, Q can see the other man, watching him with crossed arms and a scowl. ( There’s no way he knows. There’s no way he would actually do anything to me, right?) A million thoughts rush through Quentin’s head and in that moment, he makes the safe call.

“Partner. It’s my anniversary with my partner,”

The checkout girl comments “She’s a lucky gal,” and Q doesn’t correct her because the man is still staring at him and his palms are sweaty and he beelines to his car once he’s paid.

There are times when they can just exist as themselves, together. There’s a gay bar a few blocks from Eliot’s work that they like to go to sometimes. It’s a little expensive and the drinks are better down the street, but Eliot can wrap his arm around Quentin without fear. And Quentin can kiss Eliot’s knuckles without looking over his shoulder. So they keep going back.

There’s one weekend that Quentin and Eliot are at a farmers’ market. It’s a gorgeous sunny day and they’re picking out some fresh produce for a barbecue they’re hosting later in the week. They’re at a vendor’s table, picking out zucchini, when they suddenly hear:

“Quentin Coldwater, is that you?”

Quentin spins on his heels and is faced with someone he went to high school with. It’s been almost ten years and he barely recognizes her (Vickie? Victoria? Viola? Virginia? Violet?) but she springs forward into a hug anyway. Q shoots Eliot a wide eyed look and awkwardly hugs her back.

“How’ve you been?” She asks once she pulls away.

“Um, great!” He stutters, caught off guard. He can feel Eliot trying not to laugh, “Uh, really good, actually. Oh, this Eliot, my husband,” Quentin does what he always does when he gets overwhelmed by fits of awkwardness, shifts the attention to Eliot. El, picking up on their little cue, steps in front of Quentin and extends his hand to the woman.

“Eliot Coldwater-Waugh, at your service,” Eliot announces, and Q instantly sighs in relief. El could take the awkwardness in the air and wipe it away with a charming smile. Except, the awkwardness was still there as Q’s former classmate shook his hand.

“Annie,” She says, slowly. (Fuck, wasn’t even close.) “Quentin, I didn’t know you were gay,”

Eliot's jaw drops and Quentin thinks he wants to melt into the pavement. He also thinks he should correct her: not gay, bisexual. He also thinks he should tell her to shut the fuck up and mind her own business. And then Eliot nods, wraps his arm around his shoulder, comments that he hopes she has a very nice day, and then escorts his husband away. Quentin leans into Eliot’s touch and is grateful that they're away from that encounter. Seeing anyone from high school was bad enough, but then when they made comments like that?

Sometimes the comments are so off the cuff and harmless that the speaker doesn’t even realize what just happened. Like the one time they have a nice dinner at a restaurant downtown to celebrate Eliot’s promotion. They’re dressed to the nines and feast on pasta and wine. They share a sweet desert and spend the whole night laughing. Then the waiter asks if they want separate checks.

“No, together,” Eliot says, still laughing at some shitty comment Quentin made.

“Aww, I wish my friends would treat me to fancy dinners!” She remarks before hustling away.

They can only sigh and smile at each other.

And because Q & El have such an amazing support system, sometimes they forget about the rest of the world. Both of their jobs support, and even encourage, their status as openly queer men. Their friends obviously surround them with an overwhelming level of love. They have each other, forever and ever amen.

Sometimes all of that is just enough to make the pain of the rest of the world go away.

Until they read another headline.

Or another law changes.

Or another stranger hurls hurtful words at them.

Or they dare to exist as themselves in public.

But they always have each other.

Forever and ever amen.

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