Truthfully, Tristan could barely handle the consistent, unending chatter of the co-op like everyone else could. It got under his skin and it all felt that much louder the moment he grabbed a cart and started towards the isle with the first item on his list. He did everything he could to make it seem as if he wasn't hyper-aware of the vibration of the cart's handles against his hands and the way he perceived himself to be walking, just too hunched over to be a pompous prick and too upright to be a chronically online Tumblr user like the rest of what he'd been told was his community. He paid close attention to the appropriate amount of eye contact to make towards strangers walking down the isle, unfortunately causing him to miss the cheese he was looking for. Instead of turning back, which he felt would compromise his locked in state of being, he elected to move onto the next item on the list and circle back later. Perhaps he'd see if they had any Ibuprofen, as the headache he had since the previous day had only gotten worse.

 

     The checkout process went well. Eye contact was made, the transaction was had along with some small talk, and he got on the train. On the way back to his apartment, he saw someone who had very similar hair to Mason waiting at 13th street station. They couldn't have been Mason though, because Mason doesn't go outside except to go to work, and he certainly wouldn't be this far out from his apartment or his job. Towards the end of the commute, Tristan could feel himself dozing off, stopped only by the throbbing headache. Fortunately, he got off at the right stop and lugged himself and his new groceries from the station all the way up to his front door, plopped them down, turned the handle, grabbed the groceries, dropped them inside, closed the door, and instantly sunk to the floor, handflapping uncontrollably.

 

     He forcefully stopped the handflapping if only for a moment so that he could move away from the door and up against the couch right next to it, that way nobody could hear his labored breathing and his joints clicking from sheer force of his hands from behind the door. His eyes were glued shut the whole time, optimizing the intense amount of sensory input just enough for him to focus on his breathing, which barely slowed down as he noticed that he needed to clean the carpet by his couch again. He tried his hardest to stop the handflapping one more time, reasoning that if he could do it before, he could certainly do it again for longer. Being found like this, curled up on his side right against the foot of his couch with his eyes closed and his fists clenched in place right against his forehead. He couldn't imagine what people would think if they saw him like this. He couldn't ask anyone for help because this was the role he decided to play as the man he always wanted to be. He needed to be independent and handle this on his own or he might as well have stayed a woman. He still wasn't used to not having a cat check up on him.

 

     By the time he opened his eyes, it was noticeably darker. The golden sun created a projection through his blinds onto the far wall and reflected off of the pictures on the counter of him and his mother. His head was pounding, but he pulled himself up, wiped his tears and began putting the groceries away anyway. Only after did he search blindly in his medicine cabinet for a bottle of Aspirin, chasing a pill down with a glass of water. He looked in the mirror and saw his face, its right side swollen and bruised.

 

 

     Administering his weekly Testosterone injection was perhaps the most peaceful activity for Tristan. It was the one thing he knew for sure he was doing properly, and the one thing he knew he could trust to be the right decision, even against the backdrop of his rights being threatened. Unfortunately, however, looking at his thighs was something that even three years on testosterone couldn't stop from causing him unending dysphoria. He unfortunately needed to wear shorts to show that his legs had grown any additional hair at all, which he felt someone like Mason had the privilege of not needing to do as a result of his lanky frame. At least Mason could afford to be a little less brutishly masculine all the time. That honestly wasn't Tristan's biggest problem with him, though.

 

     Simply put, he thought Mason was spoiled. He never had to prove himself or his masculinity to his parents because they let him do whatever he wanted. Tristan, on the other hand, had been living in this apartment his entire life. His parents separated after he came out to them, and his mom was the only one willing to stay by his side, even if the expectations were insane. Mason's parents were still happily married as far as Tristan knew. He never developed the tough outer shell required to handle real parenting. Tristan was determined to help Mason out of this nest he was stuck in. He'd have to apologize for bringing up his mom on Monday before he could think about visiting again though, if only because that seems like the right thing to do-

 

     His train of hought was interrupted by the vibration of his phone inside his pants pocket. He frantically yanked it out and answered, not quite seeing who was calling but knowing immediately who it may be. Her voice was like the most oversaturated cake icing imaginable.

 

"Hey Abby! How was your evening, Sweetheart?"

 

Tristan winced. "...What happened to you using my proper name?"

 

Her tone died down to something recognizable as human, or at least authentic. "You didn't answer my question. How was your evening? I've missed you!"

 

He felt his face heat up and his eye twitch. "It's fine, mom. What do you need?"

 

"What? I can't see how my kid is doing every once in a while?"

 

He sighed. At least she didn't gender him female twice in a row. "It's good to hear from you. How's El Paso?"

 

"Oh, you know! The same as usual. Your aunt had to renew her driver's license, but otherwise not much has changed. How is everything back home? Still talking to that one friend of yours?"

 

"Mason? Yeah, actually! I'm helping him with his addiction to weed. He's doing a lot better."

 

"That's good. He should be able to quit on his own, though. He's a grown man."

 

Tristan didn't respond. He didn't know what to say. Instead, he took a deep breath in and exhaled, perhaps too audibly.

 

"Well I mean, I guess his parents never really taught him self-control, did they?"

 

"Mom, can we talk about something else?"

 

"All I'm saying is you're gonna be helping him for a while. Remember when he used to come over? He seemed a little retarded, so be patient with him."

 

Tristan's eyes widened. "Mom, what?"

 

She scoffed over the phone. "He was slow. Is that better? Didn't even know the meaning of eye contact."

 

"You've been in Texas way too long."

 

"Well, I'm thinking of staying here. Way less crackheads and homeless people."

 

"Wait, are you at least paying for this place still?"

 

"Woah, I'm just kidding! I'm not gonna just leave you paying the full price of rent by yourself."

 

Tristan mentally slapped his forehead. Obviously she was kidding. "That's fair, my bad."

 

"Anyway, I just wanted to see how my kid was doing."

 

"It's nice to hear from you, but is it okay if you maybe use my preferred name more? I feel like you haven't been doing that lately."

 

"Sorry, it's just so hard when I've known you as Abigail for 20 years."

 

Tristan sighed. "...I understand."

 

"You almost could have fooled me though! All independent and whatnot."

 

"Thanks, mom. Good night."

 

"Good night! I love you."

 

"I love you too."

 

As soon as the phone call ended, Tristan chucked his phone across the room.