If my mind were a house, Ziri would be the space labelled living room. Just as with our flat, Ziri walked in, painted the walls orange, drew flowers around the light switches, and taped photos wherever he liked without a second thought of getting a return on the security deposit, which I found horrific at first but then I realised I felt at home for the first time in my entire life. If he wants to paint the ceiling, I'll let him sit on my shoulders.

He's asleep now. The hum of the car and the snow that stretches into infinity on either side of the road would lull me to sleep too... if every kilometre we approach Leeds didn't make my insides coil that much tighter. If Ziri were awake, he'd be rambling about summat I probably don't understand but at least it would make me less conscious of every minute the GPS counts down.

Just as I've had the thought, he stirs. Ziri stretches and rubs his eyes. 'Sorry.' The second syllable is lost in his yawn and he blinks slowly. 'Didn't mean to fall asleep on you.'

'It's fine. You're tired.'

'You're tired.'

'You don't have a driver's licence.'

I glance at him to find his eyes narrowed and I expect him to tell me to shut up or to "stop cosplaying his dad" but he smiles instead. Stretching again, he checks the time left on the GPS. I bought one after several arguments caused by Ziri's complete inability to read a map. I guess that's one of the skills you can avoid learning when you have two parents and get to stick to the safety of the backseat.

His eyebrows knit. 'Have you been drivin in silence this whole time?' It's a four-and-a-half-hour drive and he slept for two of those.

'I didn't wanna wake you up.'

'You didn't have to drive in silence.'

'I weren't. You snore.'

Ziri tries to scoff but he's too groggy to stop it from morphing into a laugh. Sleep still keeps him from grounding into the car and he drinks water slowly to swallow his yawns.

I allow him to gaze out the window for a few minutes before I speak. 'How were your office party thing yesterday?' Normally, he would already have told me everything with five different tangents in the middle of the story, but I had a morning shift yesterday — as in 6 am morning — so I were asleep when he got home at eleven. Because at twenty-three, I get tired at ten pm.

'You know, fine.' There's an edge to his tone that's so obvious I'm not sure how I ever believed a single lie he said. And Ziri lies a lot.

'What happened?'

'Nothin.' He shakes his head, fully aware I know he's lying but unwilling to tell me. Until he can't stop the groan that comes from him. 'Just... at some point, people were getting drunk and they started talkin bout all their relationship drama as heteros do in completely inappropriate settings.'

I don't point out that people who need alcohol to speak about their feelings and end up doing so without control are probably in the majority and it's nowt to do with being straight or cis, most of us just haven't gone to therapy since we were fifteen.

Ziri glares at the road, lips pursed. The ticking of seconds is practically audible before he detonates. 'You know how straight women think we're all besties cause I'm queer. Like have you considered, maybe I don't wanna hear intimate details about your sex life just cause we work in the same buildin? And, whatever, that's fine. But then they start drillin me with intrusive questions about my sex life like the frickin FBI, so I just told them we've never had sex to get them to shut up.

'And then they all look at me like I'm some alien, all "wait how long have you been together?" So I say "coming on five years", and they're like "five years? you haven't had sex in five years?" But then l'Américain, who's been eavesdroppin this whole time — obviously, cause when have Americans ever had basic decency? — goes "poor guy, he must really love you to be willing to deal with that".'

Ziri's mouth falls open at the audacity. 'Excuse me?' He stutters, unable to draw up sufficient words to describe his rage. 'You have your manga porn, it's not like I've said you're never allowed to cum. You can masturbate five times a day for all I care. Ten times! The way he just assumed we haven't had sex cause of me — like I know it's cause of me. But he obviously assumed that just because I'm more fem than you — which he also just assumed cause he ain't never met you, as if two fem queer people can't date. It was all so heteronormative and so frustratin. One day I'm gonna punch that man.'

In case he wants to start up again, I wait a beat before I speak. 'I don't have a problem with it, though. You know that right?'

'Yeah, Miles, I am aware of that. If you had a problem with it, you'd probably have broken up with me by now.'

Despite the faux bite in his delivery, my chest swells. Such reasonable and logical thinking were unheard of a few years ago. He's had several anxiety attacks about it, thinking I hate him for "shackling" me into a relationship without sex.

'It's just so...' He curls his fingers into claws in the air. 'Straight people are always talkin bout how they don't want to hear about our sex lives and yet they're always askin. Riddle me that.' He sighs, sinking into the seat. 'I'm sorry. I know I rant about this like once a month.'

'Once a week, more like.'

'It never stops infuriatin me.' Staring out the window, Ziri pulls his braids over one shoulder, though without extensions they're too short to stay and one-third falls back. 'They always assume it's some religious self-hate thing. Which it isn't! I just always thought I'd be married before I had sex.'

My laughter wilts in my chest. I adhere my focus on the road as if this ain't an almost vacant stretch of motorway that we're driving straight ahead for forty minutes according to the GPS.

We sit in silence until Ziri snaps upright. Slamming a hand on the window, he stares at the view, so close I'm sure his nose presses to the glass. I just washed it this morning.

'Stop the car!'

'We're in't middle of a motorway.'

'But there's snow!' he exclaims, only just woken up enough to take it all in. 'There's so much snow!'

'It's three inches, love.'

'Stop the car, Kilometers.'

I pull over to the side of the road at the next opportunity. Ziri throws his door open before I've pulled the hand brake and all but falls out, tumbling down the slope until he drops to his knees in the snow.

I peer after him through the open door. 'What're you doing?'

He scoops some snow and throws it into the air like confetti, bouncing with excitement.

I roll my eyes like I'm on The Office and somebody's watching. Sometimes I forget exactly how southern he is. Despite the uncharacteristically cold February this year, any snow we get in Brighton turns to sleet within the day and I've never brought Ziri to Yorkshire before, in the winter or otherwise.

With the way his eyes sparkle, Ziri might as well be in some Hollywood-worthy winter wonderland and not a ditch on the side of the motorway but the 25 min in the corner of the GPS screen that counts down to our arrival at my grandparents' knots my windpipe like a balloon animal and I can't mimic his joy. I didn't even come out to my grandparents until after we moved in together, and though they finally stopped asking when I'll bring my girlfriend around, they also never invited me to bring him.

Not that I minded. I didn't want to bring him, certainly not after we visited his dad's family in Morocco and they were as welcoming as humanly possible. On the flight over, Ziri told me he got his name from his grandmother, Taziri, the feminine version of the same Amazigh name. He laughed as he recounted the fact that it were his mum who insisted on it, that his dad had thought it patriarchal since Ziri already has his surname. When I met her, I understood Mariame perfectly. Taziri hugged me as if I were her son. I'd name my child after her too.

I'm not sure Ziri even knows what he's got himself into with me. My family ain't nowt like his family.

Checking that no cars are approaching, I climb out too. Ziri sits in the snow at the bottom of the slope and collects it into a ball by scooping it into the space between his legs instead of packing or rolling it. My heart warms despite the cold wind; he don't even know how to make a snowball.

'What're you doing?' I ask again. His tricot skirt is gathered at his groin leaving his dark legs bare. He's going to claim he's not cold but when he gets ill, it'll be my fault for not warning him. Like snow equals cold ain't common knowledge.

'Buildin a snowman.'

'On the side of the road?'

'Yep.'

I stare for a moment before I round on my heels to get back to the car, bronze metal sparkling even under the dense layer of clouds. I washed it this morning so no one can comment on it being grimy, despite the fact that it's February and it'll be grimy again by the time we're back in Brighton.

Collecting Ziri's jacket from the backseat along with the bobble hat and mittens Sonia crocheted for us, I follow my old footsteps down the slope. 'You're clinically insane,' I say as I tuck the hat over his fulani braids.

Ziri grins at me with his slightly crooked teeth, one eye shut against the glare of the sun reflected in the overcast and the snow. 'Yeah, but I'm your clinically insane.'

            Ziri tugs at the thick cotton of his pleated trousers. As many times as I told him he don't need to do owt to make himself palatable, he insisted I stop at a BP so he could change out of his maxi skirt in the toilet.

Not that I have any high ground to act surprised when I took out my septum ring and only packed long sleeves except to sleep in to ensure no one sees the patchwork tattoos that cover much of my arms and torso. The only reason I left my earring in is that I got it at fifteen and they've all already seen it.

But whatever masculinity Ziri's attempting to obtain by wearing trousers is diluted by the braids that brush the base of his shoulder blades and his general demeanour. Ziri has never spent a minute in his life pretending to be straight and it's glaringly obvious. It's one of the infinite things I love about him.

He clutches the gift mứt tết in his lap and cranes his neck to see the house through his window, though if he hopes to find some markers of character to judge, the house disappoints him. It looks exactly like the others on the street, down to the lace curtains in the kitchen windows and the hanging planter by the house number currently home to a sphere of snow.

'It'll go fine, inshallah,' Ziri says, though the mứt tết might crumble in his grip if he squeezes any tighter.

I'm at least twice as nervous as he is; I barely manage to get the key out of the ignition. With a last glance in the rearview mirror to check I've not somehow gotten face tattoos and forgot about them, I get out of the car.

I take our shared bag from the boot, hang it over my shoulder, and wait for Ziri. His steps are cautious though I doubt it's got owt to do with the ice and his wearing Converse. He stops in front of me, waiting for me to guide the way.

I move a braid from the left side of his head to the right to clean up his middle parting. 'I love you,' I say because I can't make any promises about my grandparents. He takes my hand so we can walk to the door together.

Má opens it before I can ring the bell. Relief is etched into every premature wrinkle on her face and she steps out of the house to hug me so that my hand tears out of Ziri's. I allow her to tuck herself under my chin and exhale all the anxiety she has amassed over the past two days into my chest. Staying in your dead husband's parents' home would be tense enough even if said parents had considered you good enough for their now-dead son. This is worse for her than it could ever be for me.

'You're finally here, Thỏ,' Má mumbles so that nobody else hears. Her gratitude invites my guilt along and it never declines.

'I had work.' I could've arranged for more days off, though... It is Lunar New Year and we're allowed to request days off for cultural holidays. Especially considering I've worked every Christmas since I started working at the warehouse three years ago though I know Ziri would like me to celebrate with him and his mum. 'I'm sorry.'

Má pulls back and greets Ziri with a one-armed hug before she ushers me into the house in front of her like a shield or an offering to temperamental gods.

Bà Nội and Ông Nội wait in the entrance and I allow them to get through the usual greetings and comments about how I should cut my hair and how I've gained weight before I bring Ziri to my side to introduce him.

'Cung chúc tân xuân,' he says and looks at me. I smile to assure he said it well.

If Ziri puts his mind to learning it, he'll speak better Vietnamese than I do within a month. Sometimes he feels bad for speaking only colonizer languages and knowing only a handful of phrases in Tamazight or Fon. I can hardly string together grammatically correct sentences in English.

'Thank you for having me. I brought this for you. I mean, Miles brought it. I paid for it. He told me to buy it. It doesn't matter.' Berating himself, he offers the mứt tết to Bà. 'Here.'

She smiles as she accepts it but can't quite stop her eyes from wandering. Neither can Ông. Ziri politely pretends not to notice, a skill he has far too much practice in. The entrance shrinks around us until Bà catches herself and moves back into the doorway to the living room to get out of the way. 'Well, please come in.'

Iris sits on the stairs, inspecting the ends of the teal streaks in her hair, clearly unable to comprehend why she has to be part of this ceremonial welcome when she's met both of us before and couldn't care less. She has one earbud tucked dutifully into her ear to stop her from becoming entirely homicidal with boredom. For such a sweet kid, she became one mean teenager.

But when she looks up, a smile lights up her face as much as she may hate it. She bounds down to the last stair to hug me. 'Thank fuck you're here,' she whispers. 'These people are driving me fucking metal.' Since she were only ten when we left, Iris lost her Yorkshire accent years ago but she employs it for comedic effect now.

'Is this you?' Ziri has wandered past me into the hall and inspects one of the old school photos framed on the wall with twinkling eyes.

A weight falls into my chest but I can't correct him before Bà does. 'That's Dean.'

Ziri's smile wavers though he bravely clings to it. 'Oh, sorry. Sorry.' He glances at me to ask if he should offer condolences or if that's weird when he died fourteen years ago. 'You look alike. Adorable, as in.'

My ears burn from being called adorable in front of my family but Ziri hardly cares. He studies the other frames on the wall. If he finds the number of photos of Ba disproportionate in comparison to me or Iris, he don't say it. There ain't a single picture with Má in it, not even from their wedding.

Once I've got my shoes off, I pick up our bag again — since we're only here for two nights, we're sharing the one. 'Are we in't guest room?'

'No, Iris and your mum are staying in't guest room,' Bà says. 'You can stay in your old room.'

'What? Why?'

'Because they got here first so they get the larger room.' The logic sounds fine when it's said like this but I struggle to hold back a frown. 'Don't get all mardy about it. What's wrong with your old room?'

            'I'm top!' Ziri laughs at his own joke as he steps past me and over the threshold, thankfully too amused to notice that I'm not.

The bunk bed is old. Iris and I used to share it as kids when we came to visit. I thought it were reet cool when I were thirteen. Now, it's hard not to view it as an intentional deterrent. Like I'd ever have sex of any kind in my grandparents' house.

The room hasn't been used since we were kids, which is obvious from the box of toys at the foot of the bed, the cityscape rug, and the generally small furniture. There are several moving boxes piled against the wall too, memorabilia we didn't want to throw away but didn't care to take with us to Sufsdale.

Ziri peers into one and immediately aws. He picks out a pastel onesie with a crab on the chest. 'Is this yours?' he asks and I nod though Iris and I wore the same baby clothes so it were hers more recently. He looks back into the box and squeals. Bouncing with excitement, he takes out a pair of socks. 'So tiny. Adorable little baby socks. I can't believe you used to be so small. I'm gonna die, it's so cute.'

He starts to sing a made-up tune that just repeats the words baby socks, baby socks, baby baby baby socks on repeat as he walks them through the air. The tension in my chest finally eases enough for me to smile and I sit on the kid-size desk chair to watch him. Maybe it won't be so bad. How could they not love him?

Iris knocks on the open door before she steps into the room — summat she only started doing at thirteen. Before, she always barged right in.

'Don't look at me,' she says the moment she sees my miserable expression. 'Do you think I want to share a bed with Má? I'd be much happier in this room. That woman sucks out more of my soul every night.'

I scowl. 'Don't talk bout your own mother like that.'

Iris throws her hands up in surrender but the words go right out through her other ear. 'Hey Ziri, if you want to kill him for forcing you to suffer this hell hole, I'll help.'

He only beams at her, still holding the baby socks.

'She's just being dramatic.' I hope my voice sounds sincere and don't give away the fact that I've called every building my family has lived in a hell hole at least thrice.

'Sure, call the teenage woman dramatic. Way to be a misogynist, anh hai.' Her exaggerated venom dissipates as she turns away from me. 'Ziri, could you help me with my maths homework later? I can't ask any of them,' she drops the pitch of her voice before gesturing at me with her thumb. 'And this guy's stupid.'

'Oi! Have a little respect for your elders.'

'There's nothing to respect about you.'

Ziri glances at me as if to ask permission and my heart swells at how much he considers my comfort. 'Sure. I mean, I've not done any maths since school so I've probably forgot all of it but I can try.'

'Thanks.' A genuine smile warms her face. 'I really appreciate it. I'd rather not be yelled at for not understanding trigonometric integrals or whatever.' Iris leaves the room before the statement can land and Ziri casts me a horrified look, begging me to repeat that she's just being dramatic.

His parents have never yelled at him for not understanding maths because he's a genius and because his parents only yell when he gives them unnecessary death scares by not answering his phone — well, Mariame yells. I don't think Ridha has ever yelled at anyone all his life.

A smile tugs at my lips at the thought before all traces of joy wash clean out of me. I shouldn't have brought Ziri here. I should not have brought Ziri here.

He senses the plummet in my mood and stops his song, which has progressed to be about baby onesies and hats and shoes. I look up as he moves to stand in front of me, cupping my face with one hand. 'Hayati, I love you. I'll always love you. Your mum could kick me in the face and it wouldn't change my opinion of you even a little.'

I exhale a laugh and he smiles before kissing the top of my head.

AN: First chapter is up! Leave a vote if you feel like it.

Some translations (I will not be commenting translations for these in the future, so learn them or take a screenshot or something):

Ziri's different pet names

Hayati: my life (Darija)

Kbida: directly translates to "my liver" (Darija), in Moroccan culture, it's the liver rather than the heart that is used when talking about love so this is the equivalent of sweetheart or my love

Tassano: my liver (Tamazight); same as above

Mon lapin: my rabbit (French)

Mon amour: my love (French)

Petit chou/chouchou: little cabbage (French)

Vietnamese

Má: mum

Ba: dad

Bà: grandma; Bà Nội: paternal grandmother; Bà Ngoại: maternal grandmother

Ông: grandad; Ông Nội: paternal grandfather; Ông Ngoại: maternal grandfather

Anh hai: directly translated to "elder brother two", used by younger siblings to address the eldest son in a family

Em ba: directly translates to "younger sibling three", used by the elder sibling to address the second child of the family

In traditional Vietnamese families, people had five or six children so it became typical to address them with numbers rather than names. In South Vietnam, the count starts from two rather than one. There are several different theories for this, such as: a) back in the day when parents started sending their children to the south, they always sent the second son and the eldest stayed in the north so it just became a tradition to count from two, b) in many villages, the leader or respected elders are called hương cả (cả is one in Vietnamese) so addressing a child with cả is suggesting that they are of the same position, c) the parents are number one so the eldest child is then number two, d) evil spirits are believed to steal firstborn children, so by starting the count from two, you protect the child.

Thỏ: rabbit/bunny. This is Miles's family nickname

In Vietnam, the tradition is to address children with an "ugly" nickname like rat or snake to protect them from evil spirits. Now, that superstition may be lessening, but the tradition of nicknames still lasts but they aren't necessarily "ugly" anymore.

Yorkshire/Northern English

Nowt: nothing, from naught

Owt: anything, from aught

Summat: something

Reet (also spelt reight): very

Northern dialects often drop the words to and the. So "in the" would become in't (not to be mistaken with innit). "I'm going to the grocery store" becomes am off t'shops.

In many regional dialects, it's common to use only were and don't regardless of whether the subject is singular or plural. I will be doing this in the dialogue and narration though I am aware it's "incorrect". Please don't comment about it. If you have a problem with it, you're a tory, don't read the book.