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The sun was bright, the wind was cold, and the air was quiet.
Around him were rows and rows of neatly placed graves, some of which held flowers, most of which lay empty.
In front of him were two graves, their names shared by the man who knelt before him.
Robert "Bobby" Robertson.
Robert "Robbie" Robertson.
Beloved Father. Beloved Son.
He breathes in the quiet sound of scrubbing, the graves of two men tended to by one who was nearly crushed by the weight of their legacy.
He doesn't think it was fair.
Life was rarely ever.
"He would've been fifty-six this year," Robert's voice was barely audible, words whispered as if something louder would disturb the peace of those resting.
He hums, acknowledging the man's words as he sits by the twin bundles of flowers Robert had left for him to guard. "Do you miss him?"
Robert pauses briefly, almost too quickly for him to have noticed, but he saw anyway. They've been together long enough for Zahir to notice the little things.
"I do."
He quietly raises a brow.
The scrubbing intensified slightly, "I know what you're about to say-"
He grins. "Wasn't gonna say anything."
"Mhm," his boyfriend sounded unimpressed, "sure."
The pair lapsed back into a comfortable silence.
The sun was bright, the wind was cold, and the air was quiet.
He inhales, his powers warming the air before he could even fill its chill.
Looking past the line of graves, past the Robertson family plot, his eyes land on the pair of headstones ever-consumed by bright flowers. He couldn't see the names engraved upon them, but he knew who they belonged to. Below those six feet of dirt lay two empty coffins, for the two heroes who died doing what they had to do.
Perhaps many years ago, while trapped between walls of stone with nothing but mildew and mold as company, he had wished the ground held three matching plots instead of just the two… but now?
His gaze dragged back to fix upon Robert, quietly noticing how the hems of Zahir's borrowed jacket brushed against the dirt every so often, he was glad- so glad- there were only two decorated graves.
"What about you?"
"Uh… what?"
The scrubbing paused, and Robert looked over his shoulder to meet his eyes with a prodding look, "What about you? Your dad, do you miss him?"
Zahir huffs, the first to break eye contact as a familiar emotion curls itself around his chest and begins to constrict, "I've told you already."
Robert tilts his head, "Then what about your mom?"
He hesitates before huffing, "You first, Bob-Bob."
Zahir didn't think Robert would actually respond, but he supposes the bitch ass normie got off on proving him wrong, or whatever.
"I never knew her," Robert admitted quietly. "My father never talked about her. There were no pictures of her around the house, and none of the other Brave Brigade members ever mentioned her. It was as if she never existed. The only person who ever breathed a word about her was Shroud- but, y'know, it's a little awkward asking the guy who murdered your dad about your dead mom."
"Oh," he blinked, slightly taken aback at the vulnerability. He supposes it likely had to do with them sitting together in a cemetery while Robert took care of his father's and his grandfather's headstones. "Uh- sorry, about your mom…"
Robert waved him off, "It's fine. Again, didn't really know her."
He sighs, shoulders slumping as he looks off into the distance. He takes a few more seconds before speaking. "Remember how I told you my dad was a piece of shit?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, compared to him, my mom was a saint. Pretty low bar, but it's whatever." Robert would be the third person to know this about him. Zahir finds that he doesn't mind. "She died when I was, what, thirteen? I bounced around in America's shitty ass foster system before my sister got everything sorted and could legally take care of me."
His boyfriend hums, and Zahir could feel the man's eyes against the side of his head. Despite the tightness in his chest, he continues.
"She was a nice woman, I guess," he shrugged, "gave me my names and everything."
"'Names'? Plural?"
He scoffed, shooting Robert a judgmental look, "What? Did you seriously think Chad was a name I would choose?"
"Well…" Robert flushed and refused to meet the metahuman's eyes.
"You're more of a bitch than I thought," he scoffed. "Zahir is my birth name, Chad is my Americanized name."
Robert tilts his head curiously, and Zahir has to fight against the sudden urge to kiss the man stupid. "Why don't you go by Zahir?"
"It's 'cause you white ass bitches somehow know how to pronounce 'Arnold Schwarzenegger', but can't say 'Zahir'," he tosses his head with a huff. "Plus, only my sister and my niece call me Zahir. Alice, too, I guess. If you couldn't tell, I have a complicated relationship with my names."
"Yeah, just a little bit," Robert gives a small smile. "…Is it okay if I call you Zahir?"
He fixes Robert with a long stare before shrugging. "Yeah, sure, why not?"
They lapsed back into silence as Robert began to arrange the flowers on the graves carefully.
"I'm sure she'd be proud to see who you are," Robert offers.
Zahir couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped her chest, ignoring how Robert paused to look towards him. "I highly doubt that, Bob-Bob."
"What do you mean?"
"You know how I'm quite literally a flaming homosexual and all that?"
Without a beat, his boyfriend replies sarcastically, "No. Actually, I thought you were straighter than a lamppost. Wait, are you saying you're one of the gays? How scandalous, Zahir-"
"Oh shut up," he rolled his eyes affectionately, ignoring how his stomach flipped at the sound of his name from Robert's mouth. "Are you gonna shut your bitchass up and let me trauma dump, or are you gonna continue being a little bitch about it?"
"Shutting up," Robert grins before miming zipping up his lips.
"She called gay people 'confused' and 'crazy'," he waved his hands as he spoke, his chest aching as he recalled the sting her words had brought him. "She died before I could come out to her, like, officially or whatever, but I had a feeling she knew. Again, she wasn't perfect, but the woman gave so much to make sure my sister and I had it better than she did. Of course, I hated her a lot when I was younger, 'cause I thought she should've done more to protect us from our shitty dad, but… I've grown. I've matured. I go to therapy now… Just wish I could've apologized. Or, I dunno, something."
A warm hand lands on his shoulder, and Zahir looks up to meet Robert's eyes.
"I'm sure she would've come around eventually."
He hums, silently grateful for the weight that presses against his side. The two sit together in silence, watching as the sun begins to dip toward the horizon, watching strangers meander through the rows of headstones.
It was only when the sky began to stain with red that they climbed to their feet, gathered their things, and headed back to Zahir's apartment.
Zahir knows his grief will remain with him, maybe for all of eternity, but with Robert and the other nitwits at his side, he knows he'll be fine.