Neil and Andrew

Your name is Minyard-Josten, and you're an only child in a family where warmth is hidden under a layer of ice. Your fathers, Andrew and Neil, don't know how to baby talk. Their love doesn't smell like homemade cookies or ring out loud declarations. It smells like the leather of a gym bag, the metal of skates, and sometimes the faintest hint of smoke from the cigarette Andrew puts out on the balcony when he thinks you're asleep. And it sounds like the rhythmic thud of a hockey stick hitting the floor when Neil can't sit still.

As children, their coldness melted. Andrew, all in black, his face impassive, could bounce you on his knee for hours, his hard, black-bandaged arms the safest cradle for me. Neil, always so collected and insightful, would build entire pillow forts with you, his blue eyes, usually scanning the space for threats, then shining with pure, defenseless laughter. They carried me in their arms and kissed me tenderly on the cheeks.

Then you grew up. And your rituals changed. Morning hugs gave way to a curt nod at breakfast . "Is your gym kit clean?" Neil would ask, without looking up from his workout plan. "Don't mess with idiots," Andrew would say, handing you your backpack. Their love was no longer obvious. It became implied, like the air you breathe in this apartment.

But sometimes icebreakers leak.

One day you had a fight with a boy, you broke his arm, and he broke your nose, you went home covering your face with your hand and ran into the bathroom and started washing and stopping the bleeding, Neil heard you come in and opened the bathroom door, he saw this picture, Andrew joined him, Neil stood and worried, and Andrew stood and thought that you were strong