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Tom knew he was having a bad day before he even opened his eyes.
The first warning was the cramping. The second was the peculiar heaviness in every limb, as though someone had quietly replaced his bones with wet sand while he slept. The third was the fact that he had absolutely no interest in moving.
He lay curled beneath the duvet, forehead pressed against Sam's shoulder, one hand tucked between them and the other clutched against his stomach.
Sam woke slowly, blinked at the ceiling, then down at Tom.
"Morning."
Tom made a tiny noise.
Sam waited.
"...Morning?"
Another tiny noise as Sam's mouth softened into a smile.
"That bad?"
Tom nodded against his shoulder and Sam didn't need any further explanation. He knew what kind of morning this was. He slid one arm carefully around Tom's back and rubbed between his shoulder blades.
"Okay. No moving required."
"I have to shower."
"You don't have to do anything."
"I feel gross."
"You can feel gross in bed."
Tom gave him a miserable little glare and Sam smiled.
"Fine. You can feel gross in the shower. But you are not doing it by yourself."
Tom sighed.
"You're ridiculous."
"Correct."
There was a pause, then Tom whispered, "It really hurts."
Sam's expression changed immediately and the teasing disappeared.
"I know."
He pressed a kiss to Tom's temple, whispering, "We'll take it slowly."
Getting Tom out of bed took nearly fifteen minutes, not because Tom couldn't technically stand. He could. He simply had approximately three functioning molecules of energy, and all three had apparently gone on strike.
Sam helped him sit on the edge of the bed first. And then he waited.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Excellent. We'll wait."
Tom leaned against him, and after another minute, Sam helped him stand. Tom immediately folded himself against Sam's chest and Sam caught him right away.
"Got you."
Tom's face disappeared against his shirt, whimpering, "I hate this."
"I know."
"I hate having a body."
"I know."
Another cramp hit, making Tom's fingers tightened around Sam's shirt, and Sam just held him more firmly.
"Easy. Breathe."
Tom breathed.
Eventually, they made it to the bathroom.
The bathroom was already warm by the time Sam helped Tom through the doorway. Tom was leaning heavily against him, one arm wrapped around Sam's shoulders, his other hand pressed firmly against his lower stomach.
"Careful," Sam murmured. "I've got you."
"I know."
Tom sounded exhausted. Sam guided him toward the shower and pulled the curtain aside. Steam had already begun fogging the mirror. On the counter beside the sink, Sam had already laid everything out for afterwards.
- Two clean towels
- Tom's clean boxers
- Soft trackies
- An oversized shirt
- And a fresh pack of pads
Tom noticed the package, and lowly recognises, "You bought more."
Sam glanced over.
"Yeah."
"I thought I was running low."
"You were."
"When did you get them?"
"This morning."
"You went to the store?"
"While you were sleeping."
Tom frowned slightly, "You didn't have to."
"I know."
Sam smiled, "But you needed them."
Tom looked at the package again, there was something deeply comforting about not having to explain why it mattered.
Sam was trans too, he understood.
He understood through his own years of dealing with a body that sometimes felt like it was speaking a language he didn't recognise. These days, Sam didn't menstruate anymore, and he'd had top surgery. His chest no longer caused him the same physical reminders that Tom was dealing with now.
It was one of the reasons Tom could talk to Sam about this stuff so easily. There was no awkwardness. No embarrassment. No explaining why a period could be physically miserable and dysphoria-inducing at the same time.
Just Sam. His partner. Another trans man who got it.
"Thank you," Tom whispered.
"You're welcome."
Sam helped him step over the edge of the tub, the warm water fell across Tom's shoulders. And for a few seconds, he simply stood there with his eyes closed.
Then his knees buckled slightly, Sam caught him immediately.
"Okay. Nope."
Tom opened his eyes, "What?"
"You're sitting down."
"Sam, I'm fine."
"You just tried to become one with the bathroom floor."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
Tom managed the faintest smile and Sam crouched down and carefully helped him lower himself. The bathtub floor was warm from the running water. Tom sat with his back against the side of the tub, knees slightly bent.
Sam sat beside him. Tom immediately leaned against his shoulder.
"Better?"
"A little."
Sam put an arm around his shoulders, "Good."
Tom closed his eyes, as the warmth helped his cramps, but it brought another problem into sharp focus. His chest hurt. It had been tender for several days, another miserable little reminder of where he was in his cycle. Tom folded his arms across himself.
Sam noticed, "You okay?", he asked.
Tom hesitated, "My chest hurts."
Sam's expression softened, "From your cycle?"
Tom nodded, "Everything feels swollen."
He looked down.
"I hate it."
Sam didn't touch him.
Instead, he asked quietly, "Want me to move my arm?"
Tom shook his head.
"No. Just... don't touch there."
"Okay."
Sam kept his hand safely on Tom's upper arm. Tom swallowed.
"I know you don't have this problem anymore."
Sam knew exactly what he meant. His own cycle had stopped years ago, and his top surgery meant that he no longer had the same chest-related discomfort Tom was experiencing. Still some discomfort, just not the same kind anymore.
"Yeah."
Tom picked at a loose thread on Sam's sleeve, "Sometimes I'm jealous."
Sam gave a small smile, "You're allowed."
"I know."
"I was jealous of other trans guys before my surgeries."
Tom looked at him.
"Really?"
"Absolutely."
Sam shrugged.
"I wanted what they had. Sometimes I hated seeing guys who could take their shirts off without thinking about it."
Tom's shoulders loosened. Sam understood. Not hypothetically. Not because he'd read something about dysphoria. He understood because he'd lived through his own version of it.
Tom leaned against him again, "It doesn't feel like mine."
Sam was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, "I know."
Tom's eyes stung, "I hate when my body does things that make me feel like this."
"I know."
Sam pressed a kiss to the top of Tom's head, "And you don't have to pretend it's fine just because I'm on the other side of it. We'll get you here too, soon enough."
Tom looked at him.
"You're not going to tell me it'll get better?"
"It might."
Sam smiled gently.
"But right now it hurts, and you hate it. Both of those things can be true."
Tom's eyes closed.
"That's why I can talk to you."
"I know."
Tom leaned more heavily against him.
"I don't have to explain."
"Nope."
"Or justify it."
"Nope."
"Or pretend I'm not dysphoric."
"Nope."
Sam nudged his shoulder gently, "You can just be a miserable little trans guy with cramps."
Tom snorted.
"That's incredibly specific."
"I have extensive qualifications."
"Your qualifications are being trans."
"Exactly."
Tom laughed. The laugh made him wince when another cramp hit and Sam immediately steadied him.
"Easy."
Tom breathed through it. When it passed, Sam asked, "Hair?"
Tom nodded.
"Please."
Sam shifted carefully so Tom could lean against him while still sitting securely on the tub floor. He reached for the showerhead.
"Close your eyes."
Tom did. Sam gently rinsed his hair, keeping the water away from his face. He worked shampoo into Tom's hair with slow, careful fingers. Tom's shoulders gradually relaxed.
"That feels good."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
Sam continued massaging his scalp. Tom's head gradually tipped against Sam's shoulder.
"You can sleep," Sam whispered.
"I'm not sleeping."
"No, of course not."
Tom smiled faintly. Sam rinsed the shampoo out and worked conditioner through his hair. When he finished, he turnt the showerhead away.
"There."
Tom opened his eyes.
"Done?"
"Done."
Eventually, the water began to cool. Sam helped Tom stand and kept an arm around his waist while they stepped out of the tub. He wrapped a towel around Tom's shoulders and another around his hair. Then he helped him dry off.
The clean boxers were waiting on the counter. Sam picked them up and held them open while Tom stepped into them. The fresh pad was ready. Tom adjusted it carefully, then pulled his trackies on.
Sam handed him the oversized shirt. Tom paused.
"Can I wear this?"
"Of course."
"It's loose."
"That's why I picked it."
Tom pulled it over his head. The fabric fell comfortably around him without pressing against his tender chest. He exhaled.
"Better."
Sam smiled, "Good."
Tom looked at himself for a second. He still didn't particularly like what his body was doing. He still felt the tenderness. He still felt the dysphoria lurking beneath his skin. But the shirt helped. And Sam was standing right there.
Tom reached for him. Sam immediately pulled him into a hug, keeping his hands high on Tom's back and shoulders. Tom rested his forehead against Sam's chest.
"Thank you for not making me feel weird about it."
Sam kissed his hair, "You don't have to be comfortable with your body every second."
Tom's fingers curled into Sam's shirt, "Good."
"You just have to let me take care of you when it's having a terrible day."
Tom gave a tiny laugh.
"My body is an asshole."
"Currently, yes."
Tom laughed again. Then he sagged against him.
"Bed?"
"Bed."
Sam helped him back to their room. The moment Tom reached the mattress, he curled beneath the blankets. Sam climbed in beside him. Tom turnt toward him.
"Can I cuddle without you touching my chest?"
"Absolutely."
Sam settled behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist instead. Tom tucked himself against Sam's stomach. Sam pulled the blankets over them. His hand rested gently over Tom's lower abdomen.
Tom sighed, "That's better."
Sam rubbed slow circles over the fabric of his trackies, "Yeah?"
"Mhm."
The warmth of Sam's body surrounded him. His chest was still tender. His cramps were still there. His dysphoria hadn't magically disappeared. But he didn't have to fight any of it alone.
Sam knew what it was like to look at your own body and feel like something about it belonged to somebody else. He knew what it was like to want your reflection to make more sense.
He also knew what it was like to eventually get some of those things changed. So when Tom needed to complain, cry, swear that he was going to use a serrated spoon to scoop out his uterus, or simply say, "I hate having a chest today," Sam never made him feel ridiculous.
He just listened. Sometimes that was the most useful kind of care. Tom's breathing gradually slowed.
"Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for getting the pads."
"Anytime."
"And the shirt."
"Anytime."
"And washing my hair."
"Anytime."
Tom was quiet.
Then, "And for understanding."
Sam kissed the back of his head, "Always."
Tom tucked himself closer. The outside world could wait. For now, Tom had clean clothes, a fresh pad, a new pack waiting in the bathroom, and the arms of someone who understood exactly why all of this could be so complicated.
And Sam stayed there until Tom fell asleep. And much longer afterwards.