“No, I mean—” Fuck.
“It’s okay.” The corner of his mouth tips up as he shuts his eyes again. “I get it. I think.”
Trying not to get myself in more trouble, I keep my mouth shut and focus on cleaning up the leftover fluid and grime from his skin. The more I touch him, the more he tenses up. “Are you alright?”
He tips his head back against the pillows. “What does it look like?”
Dropping a dirty wipe in the trash, I shrug. “It looks like a chest.”
This information appears to be unsatisfying, because he frowns at the ceiling. “Can I get more detail?”
I open my mouth to try, but I’m too hopeless with words. “You should consider just looking at it. I think you want to.”
“I’m scared,” he breathes.
“There’s nothing wrong with it, I promise.”
His hand wraps tight around mine, his skin warm and dry, mine damp from the wipes. When I give his slim fingers a hesitant squeeze in return, he looks down and gasps. “Oh, fuck. They’re really gone.”
Even knowing he’s trans, it’s hard for me to process what he’s talking about. He seems like any of the young men who intern at the architectural firm or attend one of my guest lectures at the university. If my dysphoria at imagining him in a female-presenting body is even a fraction of what he experienced every day, I can’t fathom the pain he must have felt. “Are you happy?” I’ve learned that asking questions about feelings is safer than guessing wrong and looking like an asshole.
“I’m…complicated. Relieved, maybe? But I should be happy, shouldn’t I?” His voice fills with worry. “Shit.”
This boyfeelsso much I can’t even hope to keep up. I rub my thumb along the bones of his wrist, but it doesn’t calm his breathing. “I don’t think you have to feel anything in particular.”
“It’s so different. I’m supposed to be happy, but I’m like, numb. Does that mean everyone was right?” His voice cracks. “I mutilated myself and it didn’t even fix my fucked up head.”
“Kota.” I sound much harsher than I mean to, lashing out at him instead of the bigots I actually want to hurt. His tearful, dark eyes fly up to meet mine, making my heart speed up. “If you cry and make yourself sick, you might pull your stitches,” I offer unhelpfully.
“Does it matter?” He pulls his hand away. “It’s too late—I’ll never look normal.”
When I know I’m right, I can argue for hours without so much as pausing for breath. But he looks so exhausted and beaten down that I don’t have the heart to push him. I place the clean absorbent pads over his chest and wrap the binder firmly back in place, then crawl up onto the bed. He stares at me with the same mix of defiance, fear, and longing I found on his rain-drenched face four years ago.
“Think about it,” I demand quietly. “You know you’re not mutilated. No matter how it heals, you’ll look stunning.” There I go again, saying things I shouldn’t. His remarkable looks and his bright spirit combine into something so perfect that my subconscious keeps spewing out its most inappropriate feelings. I clearly don’t have the right words, so I slip my arm under his head and settle down next to him.
“Maybe I’ll believe you tomorrow,” he murmurs, angling his body so he can lean against me with his face resting in my neck, above the collar of my shirt. I can feel his breath stirring against my chest and his eyelashes brushing my skin when he blinks. As his body relaxes, he snuggles closer and lets me wrap my arm around him.
My mind and heart don’t feel much, but my body always melts under a simple touch. Work rarely left me with time or energy for sex, but Brendan knew what I needed and gave me so much platonic touch that some people misunderstood the nature of our relationship. I’d do anything to feel him throw his arm around my shoulders one more time, but holding Kota is the first thing since his death that comes close.
Knowing this is a mistake but helpless to resist, I stroke my fingers through his unruly hair and down the back of his neck. We haven’t crossed any lines; we can both come back from this tomorrow when he’s feeling calmer. I ignore my body loudly trying to tell me that I found him again, the lonely boy who felt so important when we touched in the rain.
“You need to sleep, Kota.” I rest my forehead against the top of his head. “Everything will look better after some rest.”
“Wait.” He pulls away like he just realized how close we were, his face flushed. “Would you mind staying a while? I’m kind of scared, and the bed has plenty of room.”
It doesn’t exactly matter where in the house I choose not to sleep. I get up, turn out the light, and pull off my sweater and pants, leaving myself in a white t-shirt and black boxers. Kota politely averts his eyes until I’m under the covers on the other side of the bed. “Thank you.”
“Sleep well.” Turning down the brightness on my phone, I open my current book,The Alchemist. I can tell how uncomfortable he must feel sitting up, because he keeps fidgeting. Every time his breathing slows, he jerks awake again with small, frustrated sounds. After the third time, I reach over and rest a hand on his leg. “Try to keep still and relax.”
“I hate this,” he mumbles wretchedly. “I just want to lie down in my own bed.”
“That obviously can’t happen, so there’s no point in thinking about it.” When he doesn’t answer for a moment, I grimace and rub my eyes. “Sorry. You’re not feeling well.”
His fingers brush my wrist, and without thinking I flip my hand over so he can lace them between mine. “Would listening to some music help?”
He makes a small affirmative sound, so I open my music app and pass him my phone. Keeping a grip on my hand, he uses his free arm to navigate to an album and press play, filling the room with bright pop music that definitely doesn’t saysleepto me. I check the screen when he passes it back. “Jonas Brothers?”
“Do you even know who they are?” A trace of playfulness slips into his voice.
