Feelings Unbound

Colton’s head slumped onto my shoulder. He shut his eyes tightly as the big screen flashed white, then pushed air out of his nose like a tired dragon.

"You good, there, love?" I asked.

He covered his ears as a gunshot echoed through the speakers. "Just a headache."

“Do you want to get out of here?”

He shook one of his hands. “We already paid for the tickets. And there’s still an hour left.”

“So? If you’ve got a headache, then what’s the point in staying? You’re not having any fun.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, babe. Health comes first. You know this.”

I took his hand and led him out of the movie theater. He picked up the bag of sour gummies, which he bought for me despite not being able to eat them himself. 

“Do you want ibuprofen?” I asked once we were in the hallway. He shifted in his deteriorating shoes.

“It’s not that kind of pain.”

I huffed out a laugh. “I didn’t know Advil was selective.”

“Well, it only works on inflammation. I don’t have inflammation. I mean, I do. I always do. But that’s not why my head hurts.”

“Oh? If you don’t have inflammation, what do you have?”

“Um.” He kept his gaze on the blue galaxy floor as he puffed out his cheeks. “My binder’s a little tight.”

“Aw, love,” I said, and his face got even redder. “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I don’t like reminding you. Like, that I have to wear it in the first place.”

“For fucks’ sake, Colton. I don’t care that you’re trans. We’ve been over this a million times.”

He unzipped his blue hoodie and draped it over his arm. The black sweater underneath was a lot thicker and I questioned how he wasn’t overheating in that getup, but this ensemble wasn't unusual for Colton. He crossed his arms as we walked out of the movie theater, pulling the blue hoodie into his chest like a shield. In the six years we’d been dating, I knew this trick all too well.

“Why do you think your binder’s too tight?” I asked. “Did you put it in the wash, or…?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

“Uh, huh.”

I rolled my eyes as we headed for the car. “You’re wearing two of them again, aren’t you.”

“No, of course not! That's irresponsible.”

“You’re an irresponsible person, Col.”

“You got me there.”

He held open the passenger door for me. Once he was behind the wheel, he immediately turned on the radio. He winced as he pumped up the volume.

“You’re not getting out of this conversation, Colton,” I said. “I care about you, and you’re not being safe.”

“It’s all good, don’t worry.” He hit the gas pedal and pulled out onto the road. “We’ll be back at my place soon, anyway.”

“I thought we were going to mine?”

He shrugged. “Okay. We’ll go to yours.”

“And you’ll take off the binders?”

“Maybe.”

I pressed my fingertips into my eyes. “Colton.”

“Renee.”

“Colton.”

His lighthearted smile vanished.

“Babe,” I said through gritted teeth. “This is the third time you’ve pulled this shit. What’s the point of going on dates if you’re uncomfortable the entire time? I can’t have fun if you’re not having fun.”

He didn't say anything for the rest of the drive.

I shoved Colton into the bathroom as soon as we arrived at my tiny apartment. My roommate was gone for the weekend, so we had the place to ourselves. I kicked off my shoes onto the purple doormat, then hung my purse on the clay hooks Colton and I made on a pottery date. I often dreamt of the day Colton and I would have a place of our own where we could display these creations on walls we bought together. I wanted to paint those walls sage green, and cover them with flower decals and photographs. Maybe one day there’d be engagement photos to hang up.

I made us some hot chocolate while Colton got changed. I put a ton of honey in mine, but sweetened Colton’s drink with erythritol since he had candida in his gut and sugar could essentially make him drunk. A candida infection wasn’t an uncommon thing for someone with his autoimmune disorder to get, but the other symptoms still worried me, so I took Colton’s diet restrictions very seriously.

Colton emerged from the bathroom with both his sweaters back on. I could see a third layer of fabric peeking out around the neckline that I hadn’t noticed before.

“I guess you won’t be needing any blankets,” I said, setting our mugs of chocolaty goodness on the side table. Colton took the left side of the sofa, shoving himself into the corner. I sat down next to him, and tried to put my arm around him so we could cuddle, but he stiffened up.

“Can we not do that right now?” he asked. “Sorry.” 

“Ah, ah! No apologies for having autonomy,” I said as I backed off. I was a bit disappointed, given that all I could think about at the movie theater was how annoyingly dividing the armrest was, but I understood his pain. Well, not exactly, but I was often very averse to physical touch while on my period… a fact Colton was very cognisant of. He always kept the kettle on during the day to refill my mug with tea, and would warm up my hot water bottle without being asked. And he never let me thank him for it.

I picked up the remote and scrolled down to select the show we’d been watching together, hoping I could distract him from his dysphoria with some fantasy warfare. I hugged a pillow instead of my boyfriend as the episode started and let my hot chocolate cool off to the side for a few minutes. Colton had already downed his entire drink by the time I picked up my mug.

I took a sip, and instantly recoiled. A numb, tingly feeling spread throughout my mouth as the taste of erythritol materialized in the back of my throat.

Why was there erythritol in my hot chocolate? Did I put it in both cups? I could have sworn I put honey in mine…

“Babe, can I see your drink for a second?” I asked. 

“I already finished it.”

“You finished it?! Colton, I think there might have been honey in it. Like, a lot of honey.”

“Yeah, there was.”

I gawked at him. “You could taste the honey but you still drank the whole thing?”

“Yeah. I wanna be drunk.”

I groaned. “You’re not supposed to have sugar, Col!”

“What happened to ‘no apologies for having autonomy?’”

“You have candida!”

“It’s fine. I’m on nystatin. It’ll set back my recovery by, like, a day. It’s whatever.”

His words were already slurring. I had to admit, Colton could sometimes be pretty funny while intoxicated, but I hated the idea that this was hurting him long term. His life was my life, too.

By the time credits were rolling, Colton had flopped onto my lap. His head sank into my thigh as he traced the crappy embroidery on my sweatpants. I ran my fingers through his hair in a similar manner, imagining I could extract his autoimmune disorder from his body. I used to wish I could take his pain and make it my own, but therapy had trained that mindset out of me; now, I wanted to remove it and leave it on the side of the road to die so no one would ever be hurt by it again. 

“You’re wonderful,” he said. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Yeah. You.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Col.”

“Sorry.”

I sighed. This was not how I thought my night would go.

“Is this what love feels like?” he whispered. He reached up in the air as if he was trying to catch a butterfly. He met my gaze with those adorable brown eyes, and I felt butterflies in my own chest. 

“I sure hope so,” I said. “We’ve been dating since high school.”

“Fluttery. All so peaceful.”

I leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You’re wonderful, too, you know? You’re my wonderful boy.”

He made a kind of whiney laugh. “I’m not a boy.”

“Colton, I swear to God.”

He put a hand on his chest. His eyes scrunched up with the fabric of his sweater as he closed his fist around it. 

“My body is broken,” he said. “I get my T from a bottle and my immune system is trying to kill me.”

He pushed himself up to a sitting position, and stretched his arms over the back of the couch. He sighed heavily into the green blanket coating it—the one I made for his birthday last year—then retreated back into a ball. I scooted closer to brush a strand of his messy hair behind his ear.

“It might be a little broken,” I said. “But I love every single part of you. Every piece. Every shard. Even the cracks.”

“Heh, you said crack.”

“You’re so immature.”

“I love you, Ren.”

I wanted to kiss him, but I wasn’t sure if he’d be okay with that right now. Instead, I turned off the TV and stood up.

“Come on. Bed time.”

The drunkenness was already starting to fade as he got to his feet, but he didn’t seem opposed. He followed me to my bedroom, and got under the covers while I got into my PJs. He could have done the same—I kept some of his clothes in my dresser—but the fatigue was winning tonight. 

I climbed into bed myself and gave him one last forehead kiss before turning off the lamp. Colton squirmed under the blankets, and the city lights streaming in through the window illuminated his face as he threw off his two sweaters and sank back into the pillows. 

“Can I hug you?” I whispered.

He was quick to nod. I wrapped my arms around him, and his head found comfort under my chin. Those butterflies returned as he put his own hands around my waist and pulled me even closer. I stroked the hairs on his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin through his tee shirt. 

“You’re wonderful,” he said.

He was asleep before I could say it back.