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Commie read somewhere - or heard somewhere, maybe, from a friend in passing - that ritual was the centre of communal life. In communism, this would take precedent, a return of the sacred, of the spiritual, as the bonds between others sured through this.
Whether he felt this was true or not was somewhat irrelevant to the discussion in his mind, more of a thought to turn over as he waited in line at the pharmacy, as he drove home and thought about the rituals that coloured his life, what kept him in community with others, kept the communal alive to him.
Of course he had rituals with Ancom - less religious, of course, but still, sacred, communal, things which they celebrated together. Small things, their own language, evolved as they kept meeting each other - dinners, in the early days, before either were practiced revolutionaries, in discussion over things that happened in the meeting halls of labour organizing. Food served to each other after a night of drinking. The sneaking around they used to do in the old house, before leasing this apartment together, all of it becoming practiced and normal between the two of them.
Ancom might say there was a bit of magic to it, the communal things they shared together manifesting something that had not been there before, something completely new, on days when qi was particularly cheerful.
He didn’t tend to agree, but he had always managed to find a way to make the secular and grounded things of the world sacred, and the spiritual rather secular, the divide between the two closer than one would expect, intertwining and forming each other, exposing, instead, bonds already present, acting as extensions to them and to what already existed.
This was all only halfway coherent to himself, but he did wonder about what patterns the two of them had fallen into, what they brought into their daily lives, something that comprised the both of them as some kind of community, some community existing between them. From qim knowing the way he liked his coffee and tea (black, if it was coffee, and with two sugars and teaspoons of milk if it were tea) and making it for him every morning, to him darning qir socks every few months when they started to wear through, things they did for each other.
This was just another one they shared between the two of them.
"Commie?" He heard it at soon as he entered the threshold to his apartment, set down his boots in the doorway next to their shopping bag, and saw Ancom, hesitant, at the other end of the hallway, "You were alright getting it without me?"
"Yes," he smiled, handing qim qir ID, "yes, I got yours for the next month."
"Shit," qi smiled, automatically stumbling over qimself to get to him, "thank fuck, I was worried the entire time you were out."
"I told you it would be alright for me to do this."
"If you could find a way to explain that to my dysphoria, that'd be great," qi rolled qir eyes, walking over to him.
"It's been bad today?"
Qi shook qir head.
"No, damn, just worried I wouldn't be able to get my shot today, that's all."
He looked up at qim, sympathetically, pausing to sigh, "I'm very sorry I worried you."
"The pharmacy doesn't even close for another few hours, worst came to worst we could have just gone back, don't be sorry about it," Ancom explained as qi walked over to him, tilting his head upwards towards qir face.
"Hey," qi muttered.
"Hello."
"Thank you," as qi kissed him, holding his face to qir own, feeling Commie smiling into it.
"It's never an issue," He muttered.
Qi hummed to qimself, feeling the stubble growing on his face, falling into qir own smile, before quickly grabbing his hand, pulling him towards the armchair of their shared home with a quick, "come on, I want to do it before it gets dark out, I don't like doing it with just the lamp."
"You are worried I'm not skilled enough, eh?" He chuckled.
Qi rolled qir eyes, "I'm sorry I don't like you sticking sharps into me with just the shitty overhead on."
"My hands are steady enough for it," said with another chuckle.
"Quit stalling and get your ass over to the armchair," qi groaned.
"Of course," he said as he attempted and failed to temper his smile.
It was better, on nights like this, when he was able to walk into the living room while taking stock of everything the two of them shared together.
A shelf, lined with books the two of them shared, copies of old communist literature from the spectrum of ideologies any respectable communist could fall along, ranging from books they've had for the past century to a binder filled with old pamphlets Ancom had printed off at work for free after qi had been fired. Zines from an anarchist RRFM. Coffee mugs. Potted plants. An old tarot deck qi had found at a thrift store. A copy of some piece of queer literature Ancom would inevitably wear him down into reading, probably more enlightening than his old economics books, if he were to be honest.
The shitty overhead light, with two bulbs that had to be changed but the landlord refused to fix the fixtures of.
A red armchair, on which Ancom sat qimself down, expectantly.
This was their space, another space for the things they deemed communal between them. A collection of shared memories and time between the two of them adding up and culminating here, in this moment. This was more than acceptable to him.
He shuffled around the house, from the bathroom to the bedroom, collecting things: one syringe, an alcohol pad, a box of bandages, a container for needles. He washed his hands - did he set out a dry towel to dry them on?
“Commie?” He heard from the living room.
“Yes?”
“You don’t need t’take that long, baby,” qi laughed.
“The absolute last thing we need in this household is a blood infection, you know how those are.”
“C’mhere, come on, get this shit over with,” the whining from the living room continued.
He emerged from the bathroom, his hands held in front of his body.
“You would be just as thorough if you are doing mine, we have plenty of time,” He responded.
“I already told you I was waiting all day,” Ancom groaned, “I didn’t wear shorts all day for nothing.”
He nodded, wondering if his nervousness was any bit noticeable to Ancom, and knew already if he had to ask, it most likely was. Still, though, he assumed his place next to Ancom’s chair, kneeling at his usual spot as everything suddenly seemed more important and present than it usually was. And he sat there, silent, going through the proper steps of everything - the alcohol swab, the measurements of everything from the small bottle of Estradiol being taken up in a dosage of qir usual 2mL to his measuring the right place on qir thigh, his hand placed at the base of qir knee, as he sat there, needle in hand, pausing for a moment. Two moments. Three moments.
"Hey."
And he looked up at qim, hair, loosely hanging over qir face, eyes, doting.
"Hello."
"You know I trust you, yeah? You've been doing this for years."
"Doing this with myself and performing this on another person are very different."
"Maybe I should do yours, then, to get a better feel for it."
"You know I prefer to do this on my own."
"You don't trust me to do it, then?" Qi joked.
" I am more than aware you are competent,” “I just don't want you to have to if you would prefer not to."
Ancom prodded, “Oh, you're an absolute fucking simp for me.”
Upon seeing a lack of a smile at this, qi tapped him, lightly, with qir foot.
“Soyboy beta male cuck,” qi laughed.
“Please stop moving your leg,” He begged, moving his hand to still qim.
“How authoritarian of you.”
“Do authoritarians tend to say ‘please’ before things?” He said, finally letting out a smile.
“There you are,” Qi remarked, “got you to calm down properly well.”
He nodded again, and felt the weight of the needle in his hand again, its weight too light to otherwise be thought about, only perceptible when carried by his fingertips. It should be alright, he told himself, if it had a bit of air, as long as it's nowhere near a vein, and you should not have air anyways, it should be alright.
It felt more like a gun, in this moment of mild panic.
Well, isn’t that a bit cruel to be thinking of right now. His capacity to cause harm.
He breathed, in, out - the breathing is the important part, a doctor told him some thirty or forty years ago, in some molded doctor’s office with fluorescent lights where he learned his, quietly, without telling a soul about it - counted down, and he did it, properly. No fuss.
Thirty seconds of steady breathing, and it was done, slowly, everything disposed of properly.
He looked up to the same eyes watching him, the same deep colour of brown he was used to.
"That was alright?" He whispered to qim.
"Mhm," Ancom whispered back, "You did good."
“Did that hurt at all?”
“Nah, nah, you did good, Com.”
“And you feel alright?”
“Yes, yeah, I’m cool,” Ancom muttered, “I took pills made out of horse piss for this body for years, this isn’t even the worst shit that’s gone into my system. Just get me a bandaid.”
He nodded, again, before reaching for the box of plain bandages.
“Hm, no,” qi mused, “The one with the patterns.”
“Well I’ll have to go and get those.”
“Well which ones did you think I’d want,” qi cried, “I got those with my own money, you think I’d want your boring brown ones?”
“I’m very sorry for my stupidity,” he laughed.
He took his time, walking to the cupboard in the bathroom, pulling out qir package of bandaids, sorting through them to find one covered in flowers, before walking back and taking his position kneeling on the floor next to qim, unwrapping it and placing it in the place he thought he placed the needle, pressing it onto qir leg and looking up to make sure qi was alright.
“Can I tell you something?” Qi asked, interrupting the silence between them.
“Hm? Sure.”
“Just - why it matters, about the band-aids,” Qi muttered, “I know I don’t have to justify shit to you, so don’t look at me like that, don’t worry, I’m not obligated, yada yada, I know what you’re about to say, I’ve known you for a hundred years so shut up about it, yeah?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
Qi tsked at him, performatively, but moved on.
“I just think - I don’t know, maybe you don’t feel the same way,” Ancom said, smiling, “I just think it’s something worth celebrating, I think there’s something here - something about self-becoming, growing into yourself, a new body, I want it to be something I celebrate. Like, - gah, if you’d read Tiqqun - I don’t want you t'think I’m decorating myself with silly shit for the hell of it, I’m - not doing that, this isn’t about - gimme a minute to think.”
Qi paused, collected qimself a moment, before continuing.
“I’m becoming something on my own terms, and I’m taking estradiol, and I'm rejecting the binary shit that comes with that. I’m - becoming something very much in community and it's through community with others, but it’s not the community I’m supposed to be fostering around this. I’m supposed to be lonely and pathological, something to be studied, and I’m not. I’m becoming something on my own terms, and I’d like to think I deserve to feel a little beautiful in that. I want something to remind me sometimes. And I know you don't have the same relationship with that as -”
And he kissed the place where the bandage bloomed on qir skin, muttering, "I'm glad to be able to watch this, of course it's beautiful to me."
Qi ran qir fingers through his hair, felt the coarseness of his curls against qir fingers, the stubble growing there since the seventies against qir thigh, nodded, "I know it's not your area of interest, but I want to say I’m not just making my identity about commodity consumption for the fuck of it, except everyone’s identity under capitalism is commodified, so, like I’m saying I’m not unique in the fact that I'm -"
Qi paused.
"Ah, fuck it, I know I don't have to explain this t'you."
He kissed the skin on qir thigh again.
"I have loved more than a thousand versions of you over the last hundred years, and I'm sure to love whatever versions of yourself you become next."
"I miss when you were the stoic, emotionless one here," Ancom sighed, "You didn't used to try and pull lines like that."
"It's only for you," He murmured.
The whine came back into qir voice, "You're being sappy and I fucking hate it. I'm gon'kick you again."
"What did I do now?" He withdrew, shocked.
"Trying to get me comfortable and doe-eyed for you," Ancom laughed, a low whine in qir voice, pulling qir hood back up, "Git. Shoo. Go make dinner."
He sighed, mocking, rising to his feet and turning around.
"Wait," qi paused him, gesturing him in for a kiss, "Get back here. Just for a minute."
He leaned down putting a hand on qir waist, feeling their skin against his face, and rested there a moment.
"Thank you," qi murmured.
"Of course."
"You know I love you, yeah?"
"Of course."
Qi kissed him again, before sending him on his way back to their kitchen, picking up a book from the table next to them (the binder of old anarchist literature printed at work against office code), going back to thumbing through it, half-heartedly.
If ritual, repetition of tasks deemed spiritual, was the centre of communal life, the thing which broke down the discontinuity between discreet individuals, that this was where the boundary between discontinuous beings was transgressed, the two of them far more and far less than a couple, but a place where two separate networks of people and experiences humanized met and connected and shared space with each other, placing Marxist texts next to zines on their shared coffee table, then this apartment could be a place of worship.
Still under the surveillance of capitalism and the current state, still under that documentation, he reminded himself.
But if the communal could exist under the current conditions of capitalism, even if only on life support, privatised and huddled away, brought back by him on his knees in front of Ancom and a fifteen dollar bottle of estradiol ("would be less money and paperwork if you let me smuggle it in," qi would say), if a shared language was spoken when Ancom's fingers and lips passed over the scars on his chest through his shirt, a testimony to shared experience and a similarity in their transgressions, then this extant form of community would be enough to him. A reminder that they existed less as separate individuals and more as intersections, meeting places of a collection of experiences intertwining, people as a crossroad you have the privilege of bearing witness to.
He looked at Ancom, sitting on the couch, furled into qimself, looking for quotes to read to him while he stood at the stove, things for them to discuss in their moments of shared time, and he decided he was alright with that.