Work Text:
NEW UPDATE
See my previous writeups here.
Trigger warning: gender dysphoria, brief reference to child abuse
mood spoiler: wholesome/sweet
!!Reminder I am not OP!!
originally posted by u/princess_and_the_pearl on r/relationshipgoals:
Princess And The Sweatpants
(or, Prince Charming Magically Transforms a Sick Day into a Spa Retreat)
Bear with me. Brain fog is a hell of a drug.
I (26NB) was diagnosed with fibromyalgia two years ago after about six months of symptoms, which was astonishingly fast for anyone and downright miraculous considering that at the time, I still thought I was a cis man, and I presented very much that way. There are people who don't believe that's even possible. Several doctors have questioned my diagnosis, asking suspiciously isn't that only in women?
Anyway, my body doesn't care about sexist misconceptions and decided I would be one of the lucky minority of sufferers who has a Y chromosome, which means I constantly feel like I did that time in high school after I played a football game while suffering from acute appendicitis (it burst within forty seconds of me getting on the field, because duh, and I almost died— thanks, Dad, for making me play when I had a fever of 104 and I was telling you I felt like someone was spearing me through the back— but that's another story.)
Feverish, sore everywhere, sick to my stomach, like my skin is bruised. The worst part is the fatigue. I get so tired during flares that I can sleep 14 hours a day and wake up exhausted. The only other time I've felt like this was when I was sixteen and fighting off sepsis.
I bring up football mostly because I look like a football player. I was a heavyweight before I got my diagnosis (though I've dropped a lot since; my ExtremelyYesMIL keeps "just happening to be in the neighborhood"— two hours away, mind— with baked goods and stuff). I'm close enough to 6'6 to round up to it if I wanted. I have been told I have the rugged, thoughtful face of a stern, ancient Roman politician. I wear shoes so big that half the time they don't even make them in men's sizes.
And most of the time, that's fine! I'm okay with it when, as my (genuinely) Dear Husband/Prince Charming (27M) puts it, my "gend-o-meter" is pointed towards guy, which is still more often than not.
But it gets to me otherwise, which DHPC knows. He also has this very eerie ability to tell where that meter is pointed without asking me. He says it's something about my posture, but he's not sure exactly what. All I know is he's never wrong, and he always knows the best time to pop his head around the corner, smile his sweet smile, say "Hey, babe, guess what?" and then burst into a corny pop song.
[Relevant comment from DHPC himself (u/throwawayromeo):
Hey. babe.
guess what?
You dance like a queen, in spite of all the things you never wanted. 💙💙]
Last week (midsummer for posterity), I was having a hell of a time with a rash of thunderstorms. Everything hurt so badly I could barely think straight. It was like every injury I'd ever had was fresh again, and being a football player, I've gotten banged up a lot. I had five migraines over the span of eight days. I lost a scary amount of weight because I could barely keep anything down.
Eventually my BFFs (we'll call them BFFa, 26F, and, BFF1, 26M, because I don't want to rank them against each other) came out and stayed over the weekend. They made an enormous batch of corn chowder, which was so good it overrode my nausea and lack of appetite and was all I could manage for about three days straight. (It's really excellent chowder.)
I'm glad they were here, because I've never had gender dysphoria come on in the middle of a flare before, and I freaked DHPC out pretty good when I got halfway through my food and suddenly had enough energy to burst into tears. BFFa is very calming and good at talking people through things, and she helped me articulate while making sure my husband didn't panic. BFF1 isn't as comfortable with emotional displays, but he makes a hell of a rice pudding and it's really hard to stay upset when the house smells so delicious.
DHPC, anxiety managed, was able to throw himself into planning mode. He started by calling our mastiff and having her lay with me while he drew a bath (she's allowed on the bed after a specific command; she was already trained as a service dog when we inherited her, which was incredibly lucky for me because I realized I needed one about a month later).
He's helped me take care of myself before. I quit football because of an injury that destroyed my mobility, and for about three months I was completely reliant on him for almost everything. He even helped me stand up to pee. I can't ever pay him back for what he's done for me, but he says the same thing, so we must be even in his mind.
He's always been sweet about it, but he really went all out this time: he lit dozens of beeswax candles, put rose oil and floated petals in the bathwater, set up the shower stall with my chair and a rose-vanilla shower bomb, and hooked up my iPod to the bathroom speakers so he could shuffle through my playlist of all the love songs he's ever sung me.
Then he got me out of my depressed college student chic (the titular sweatpants and my alma mater's t-shirt), helped me into a silk robe that didn't hurt my skin, and supported my weight as we walked.
He got me settled in the shower chair, then stripped and joined me. I didn't have to lift a finger, which was good, because I couldn't without my shoulder seizing up. (He took care of that, too. He's the only person willing to massage me hard enough that I can actually feel it. Everyone else gets too worried about hurting me. Ha.)
After I was clean, he brought out a razor. That man shaved my legs for me, and I have a lot of leg, so that's no small feat.
He's gorgeous when he's drenched. It's hard to get turned on when I'm flaring, but it's certainly not for lack of desire. (The post-flare sex is excellent, since we have so much to make up for.)
I'm honestly not sure if I was crying. I think I must have been, because he kept kissing my knees and ankles every time he finished a pass. He sang along with the playlist, too. When you smile, the whole world stops and stares for a while. I got sunshine on a cloudy day. I don't know why you're being shy. I think you're pretty without any makeup on.
...yeah, in retrospect, I was definitely crying.
I felt so much better it didn't matter. He washed my hair, then helped me into the bath and knelt beside the tub and rubbed my neck while I soaked and let the water support my joints.
Let me tell you: if you've got a partner suffering from chronic pain, this is one of the best ways you can make them feel pampered and loved. 100/10; do recommend.
And that wasn't even the end of it.
While we were in the bathroom, BFFa was going through my wardrobe. Charming helped me back into the robe, and when I got back to our room she'd changed out the sheets and set out my softest, most comfortable maxi dress.
It's very pretty. I made it out of fabric my husband's best man (28M) whipped up for me with fiber from his partner's cashmere goats. He used blue potato peels for dye, which gives it a beautiful muted color that transitions from blue to pink with clever use of anthocyanin reactions.
He also dyed some cashmere yarn to match it, which I found out when my baby SIL (minor) made me a gorgeous crocheted shawl for Christmas last year. It was laid out beside the dress, which was perfect, because one of my symptoms is that I can't regulate my body temperature very well; having it available to take off and put on as-needed was great.
It felt wonderful on my skin. They got me settled in bed again, our dog in her own bed on the floor (still tall enough for me to scratch her ears 💜). Then they facetimed DHPC's gf (29F, she's also married to my drag mother), and she walked him through putting on my makeup and styling my hair into a pixie.
I honestly never thought it possible that I could feel cute and pretty with short hair. That's part of why I was upset. When my head hurts like that, wearing a wig is asking to end up in the hospital with an intractable migraine, and my face is so angular that without long hair to soften it, the image can be really jarring.
(That was how I figured out I was nonbinary, actually. I was rehearsing a drag routine and I just felt Wrong and I couldn't figure out why, until my girlfriend (26F) suggested I try practicing in my wig and I saw myself in the mirror and suddenly it clicked.)
Somehow, he pulled it off. It might partly have been the flower hair clip that BFF1 made me with a soldering iron and some copper wire. Most of it was my face. I had no idea DHPC knew how to contour, but I looked...soft. Feminine. I felt like a queen.
Not that he's ever failed to make me feel like one before, but this time, he really outdid himself. I looked how I felt. That's not an easy feat for me in this context. He pulled it off flawlessly.
It was also just fun, and after such high pain levels I needed fun almost more than I needed validation.
(Only almost.)
I think I'm going to grow my hair out a little. When I feel masc, I like my crew cut fine— honestly, the idea of having it long and girly on a masc day is just as dysphoric as having it short and butch when I feel femme, but DHPC pointed out that I would look like a Viking warrior if it were around my shoulders, and that appeals to me as much as my SIL's idea of cute little pigtails on high-pain femme days.
(She was bummed she didn't get to play dress-up with me, but she's learning how to crochet flowers, and she promised to make me some headbands. For a kid who's not even in middle school yet, she's one of the wisest, most accepting people I know. You haven't experienced true validation until you've watched a tiny little thing whose head comes up to your hip scold a grown man into embarrassed silence for misgendering you. 🥰)
I'm pretty beat (although I feel a lot better after my staycation day), so I'm going to sign off for now.
He often says he married out of his league. I disagree. I promised him I wouldn't self-deprecate in response to his self-deprecation, so I'll just say leagues are bullshit anyway.