Archive of Our Own ^beta

Whether on purpose or by accident, people have encouraged Dream to doubt his capabilities. Now, despite the three degrees that hang upon Dream’s wall in his clinical office, self-confidence still eludes him.

Today’s shift at the hospital lasts until 9pm, so the clinician leaves his job after nightfall. He is accustomed to long days of assessing patients and writing diagnoses, but his shoulders sink with relief while he drives. At least I know I’m a good driver. Dream has never crashed his car before, so he hopes that tonight will not prove him wrong.

During Dream’s youth, older adults often suggested that women were too hormonal to learn how to drive safely. Every time, his younger self would reveal her driver’s license. In response, the adults would conjure the convenient argument that just because women could drive, that did not mean they should drive. Dream still tries to forget those times, yet even with three degrees to accompany his driver’s license, those conversations still haunt him.

Throughout the city, moths flutter beneath dark skies and glowing street lamps. Neon signs flash bright colors, advertising bars and clubs. Late-night bands play on street corners. A street vendor sells 50-cent hot dogs to passing customers. Pedestrians stroll along concrete sidewalks. Some people lean against brick walls, smoking cigarettes and staring at nothing.

Dizzy with exhaustion, Dream drives. He fantasizes about a hot shower and about sleeping under soft blankets. His journey reaches its end when he sees his apartment complex looming in the distance. Several of the building’s windows are illuminated while others are dark. When he reaches the complex, Dream parks his car in the underground parking lot. He turns off the engine, gathers his belongings, and heaves himself off the driver’s seat. Cold, damp air fills his lungs as he crosses the underground parking lot. Yellowish lights flicker above his head. With one hand he carries a stuffed file folder, full of papers that he must review before tomorrow. If he had more energy, he might whistle to hear the high-pitched sound echo off the walls.

Dream may possess a perpetual fear of inadequacy, but at least he knows his job is vital. He is not an average clinician: he is the only licensed dermatologist at the hospital who was not born male. Dream is proud of his accomplishments, but he usually avoids discussing dermatology - the study of skin - and his life story with outsiders. Even his roommate knows almost nothing about his job or his past.

While he climbs the apartment building’s staircase, the dermatologist removes the lanyard from his neck. He slips his white hospital coat off his shoulders, he folds the fabric, and he drapes it over one shoulder. When Dream reaches the fourth level, he steps off the staircase and walks along the hallway toward his unit. Listening to his own footsteps, he glances down at the ID badge that dangles from his lanyard.

F
Dream Adell
Licensed Dermatologist, Sunny Valley Hospital

Like other badges, Dream’s ID displays his biological sex before his name. Maybe someday this will stop bothering him, but he has not drifted into the abyss of complacency yet.

Upon reaching Unit 404, Dream lifts his gaze and slows his pace. If his roommate asks about his day, the dermatologist will respond that it was fine. Like always, he will hope that his words are true.

At 9:27pm, Dream unlocks the front door, turns the knob, enters the apartment, and closes the door behind himself. The air is stuffy: much warmer than the cool breeze outside. A single overhead light illuminates the kitchen just beyond the entrance. Dirty dishes and utensils lay in the sink. The waste bin is nearly full. Across the apartment, the main living area is mostly bare except for a lamp beside a dinner table. This round, wooden table is big enough for four chairs, yet there is only one chair beside it.

Sitting in the chair is George, Dream’s roommate. His narrow shoulders are hunched over papers and books which are spread across the table’s surface. A focused frown scrunches up his face.

When Dream drops his car keys and lanyard on the countertop, the loud clatter alerts George to his roommate’s arrival. Instantly perking up, the other man stops writing to greet: “Hello, Dream!”

“Hi, George.”

“How was work?”

“It was fine.” Distracted, Dream pulls off his shoes before moving to the kitchen. Washing his hands in the sink, he asks, “How about you?”

“Work was good,” George shrugs, scratching his arm. As Dream dries his hands with a towel that hangs from the oven rack, his roommate gestures to the mess in front of himself. “I wasn’t able to finish everything at the office, so I’m trying to make some progress here.”

“Nice.” After this brisk exchange, Dream leaves George in the main living area and slips into his bedroom. He closes the door behind himself, he tosses his hospital coat into the laundry basket, and he places the file folder on his clean work desk. Dream’s tension does not ebb until he enters the restroom, locks the door, and turns on the shower. The comforting sound of running water drowns out his thoughts, calming him as he unbuttons his undershirt, pulls it off, and tosses it aside. Next Dream removes his binder, sighing with relief as the tight fabric leaves his chest. Bracing himself against the wall with one hand, he pulls off long socks and the rest of his clothing. Steam clouds the mirror, preventing the dermatologist from witnessing the dark marks under his eyes. A white-tiled floor sucks the warmth from his feet.

“Okay. It’s okay.” Coaxing himself to relax, Dream steps into the shower and closes its translucent door. Warm water washes his skin, it soaks his thick hair, and it eases the aches in his muscles.

Today was not particularly unique. Dream conducted a few appointments with patients and performed a variety of skin examinations. Only one patient caused significant trouble when the dermatologist informed him that a dark mole on his neck could be an indicator of skin cancer. Dream recommended several testing options, but the patient denied the concerning diagnosis. The patient, a cisgender man, insisted that he would seek a second opinion from “someone who’s more qualified.” Ignoring the part of Dream’s ID badge that said “Licensed Dermatologist”, the patient focused only on the part of it that said “F”.

Whatever. It’s done now, Dream interrupts himself with a sigh. I tried my best, and that’s all I can do. He rubs sweet-smelling soap across his skin and rinses it away.

At 9:43pm, Dream turns off the shower water. Refreshed, he steps onto the bath mat and dries himself with a towel. His usually fluffy hair clumps into messy locks as he emerges from the restroom and approaches his dresser. Working on autopilot, he dresses himself in clean pairs of boxer briefs, socks, gray sweatpants, and a white t-shirt: an outfit far more comfortable than his hospital uniform. Stretching his arms and legs, he rolls his shoulders before turning his attention to work… again.

Approaching his desk, Dream picks up the stuffed file folder full of papers. He holds it out at a distance so water will not drip onto any important documents. Opening its front cover and flipping through the first few pages, he reads about upcoming appointments, irrelevant notifications, hospital news… and something else.

A recent memo from the staff mailbox, timestamped this afternoon. Messages like these are not unusual, except that this one originated from his supervisor’s office.

Apprehensive, the dermatologist reads the memo. Subconsciously his free hand lifts to touch his lips while his apprehension transforms into disbelief, then shock, then joy. Forgetting the stress that weighs upon him, he reads the memo again. Suddenly today becomes a good day.

Placing the file folder and the memo on his work desk again, Dream reaches across to lift his telephone off its cradle. Holding it against his ear, he pushes buttons to dial a phone number. While the telephone connects, he checks the time on his bedside table’s alarm clock. 9:54pm. Hopefully his parents are not asleep yet. He must share this news!

The dermatologist barely suppresses a gleeful giggle when his mother answers.

“Hello? Kleigh?” The older woman is confused. Her daughter rarely calls so late at night. “Is something wrong, darling?”

“Hi, Mom!” While one hand presses the telephone against his ear, Dream’s other hand grips the top of his desk chair. “Is Dad still awake, too? I need to tell you something!”

“Yes, your father is here beside me.” A beep. “I just put the call on speakerphone so he can hear, too.”

“Hello, Kleigh.” A deep male voice pipes up. “What’s going on? You sound like you have some good news.”

“It’s great news!” Restless with enthusiasm, Dream continues, “I’m, like, bouncing everywhere. It’s crazy! I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy.” Full of energy, he urges, “Actually, I don’t want to say it yet. I want you to guess. Guess what I just found out!”

“Wait, Kleigh, is it -?” His mother gasps with elation. “Are you pregnant? You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” Without waiting for confirmation, she squeals with delight. “Oh my goodness, we’ll be grandparents! Can you believe it?” On the other end of the line, she shakes her husband’s arm. “Oh, Kleigh, darling, this is wonderful news!”

“Wait, Mom. That’s not the news.” Rushing to correct the misunderstanding, Dream stammers, “It’s something different.”

There is a brief pause. Then, with nearly as much hopeful excitement, his mother guesses again, “Are you getting married? Did George propose?” Again she does not wait for confirmation before she exclaims, “Oh, your father and I just knew that man was a catch! From what you’ve told us, he sounds very charming and polite, like a true gentleman!” Breathless with exhilaration, Dream’s mother gushes, “Well, Kleigh, your father and I are just so glad that you’re finally settling down and starting a family.”

“Um… no, Mom,” Dream corrects her again. “I’m not getting married either. George is just my roommate, anyway.” With weakening joy, he explains, “The news is that I just got a memo from my supervisor - the Director of Clinical Affairs at the hospital - because he chose me to receive the Clinician of the Year Award! The hospital is going to publish my name in the next edition of our medical journal, so everyone can read about me and my work!” With shy pride, he continues, “It’s been so long since a female person won the Clinician of the Year Award, or actually any official award, so I was really happy.” Abruptly realizing that his parents have not responded, Dream falters. With familiar self-consciousness, he finishes, “So I’m, uh… I just wanted to tell you about it. I worked hard to earn this award, so it feels good to get recognition, you know?” Desperate to receive validation, Dream falls silent and listens.

On the other end of the line, Dream’s parents exchange an uncertain look. After a painfully long silence, they respond.

“Oh.” This was not the type of good news that Dream’s mother wanted. “Well, that’s… very nice, darling. Your father and I are aware of your, um, ambitious goals, so I suppose this news shouldn’t have surprised us.” Failing to hide her disappointment, she concludes, “We’re glad that you’re happy.” Her light tone is strained: inauthentic.

Ashamed that his achievement was not enough to meet his parents’ expectations, Dream croaks, “Thank you so much, Mom and Dad.” His words are forced, too. Struggling to hide how much he hurts inside, the dermatologist finishes the conversation. “Anyway, that was all I wanted to say. I hope you both have a good night.”

“You, too, Kleigh.” His parents return the sentiment. “Sleep well.”

“Thanks. Goodnight.”

When the call ends, silence suffocates the bedroom. Dream wonders if his thoughts are frozen or if they are traveling too fast for him to process. He has aspired to earn a Clinician of the Year Award since his first week at the hospital, yet now that he has the award, he feels hollow.

Placing the telephone back onto its cradle, Dream steps away from his work desk. Flinging open his bedroom door, he allows anger to replace the numbness. He is angry at his parents, and he is angry at himself for being angry at his parents. Stuck in a daze, he ventures into the kitchen, fills a pot with water, adds salt, turns on the stove, and searches the cabinets until he finds a half-full box of pasta. Working on autopilot, he feels like he cannot get enough oxygen from the apartment’s stuffy air.

George still sits in a chair beside the dinner table. Reluctant to look at the cisgender man who his parents expect him to marry, Dream keeps his gaze focused upon the pot of water as it heats on the stove.

In the main living area, George is still working, but he is less focused than earlier. The cis man flips through pages, then he marks some sort of a checklist, then he flips to a new page, and he switches back to mark the checklist again. Between each action he sneaks a glance upward, as if debating whether to keep pretending he is busy.

Eventually George breaks the tense silence: “Dream?”

“What?” Visibly unhappy, Dream scowls at a pot of boiling pasta.

“I heard you talking to someone.” Uncomfortable with his roommate’s intense gaze upon him, George stammers, “Was there, uh… anything wrong?”

“Anything wrong with my parents?” Dream snaps curtly. “No, they were doing fine.” Promptly the dermatologist returns his attention to the pot and stirs the pasta with a wooden spoon. Taps echo from the kitchen as fingers drum upon the countertop.

“That’s good.” Hoping it is not a bad idea, George decides to press, “But was there anything else that happened? Something bad?” Warily the cis man stands from his chair and approaches the kitchen countertop. He drags a bar stool with his foot and hops up to sit on it. “I don’t know. I’m just asking because you’re acting kind of weird.”

“Sorry,” Dream huffs, not feeling sorry at all. Opening a jar of pasta sauce, he grumbles, “I just called my parents, and… ugh. Maybe I just need to eat and stop thinking about it.”

“Huh.” Unsure about how to interpret his roommate’s tone, George asks, “What did you talk about?”

Finally Dream drags his gaze away from the pot of water. He and his roommate have a general idea of each other’s jobs. George knows that Dream works in healthcare, and Dream knows that George works at an automobile company, but that is all. Despite the transgender man’s reluctance to bond with someone who cannot relate to his experiences, he also knows that their differences are not his roommate’s fault. Ultimately Dream reminds himself that George just wants to help, so he sighs, “I won the Clinician of the Year Award.”

“Woah, that’s incredible!” George congratulates him, then he tilts his head with confusion. “But… you look mad. Are you mad?”

“I’m not mad about winning the award,” Dream grunts. He stirs the simmering pasta again. “I’m mad because I should be happy. Actually, I was happy until I told my parents. I said I had good news, but my mom thought I was pregnant or getting married. When I told them about the award, they couldn’t even fake their excitement, and now I’m just -” Trailing off, he shrugs. “Whatever. Talking about it is a waste of time.”

Ignoring the dermatologist’s last sentence, George frowns. “That’s weird. You’re a doctor, right? Doctors make a lot of money. Don’t your parents like that you make a lot of money?”

“If I were a man - like a cisgender, ‘real’ man -” Dream performs mocking quotation marks. “- they would probably love that I’m a doctor.” Recalling words which have poisoned his thoughts for years, he recites, “But being a doctor doesn’t ‘align with the natural roles of an ideal woman.’ That’s what my parents’ friends told me. I’m supposed to get a husband and pump out his babies. That’s it.”

“Ah.” George shifts awkwardly upon the bar stool. Unfamiliar with the prejudice that trans men suffer, the cis man considers how to offer compassion without reminding Dream about their difference in status. “I’m sorry that happened to you. It must’ve been upsetting.”

“Thanks,” Dream shrugs brusquely. Appreciating the warm steam that billows against his face, he softens his tone to ask, “Do you want some pasta? I think I made too much.”

“No, thanks,” George declines politely. “I ate dinner earlier.”

“Okay.” Dream turns off the stove and strains the pasta in the kitchen sink.

Without more words to fill the void, only the refrigerator’s low hum echoes through the apartment. Begrudgingly Dream admits to himself that even if George has never faced similar struggles, the cis man is still trying to be empathetic. With this thought in his head, Dream blurts, “I graduated three times from three different universities and medical schools. Each time, I thought everything would be different afterward, but…” Pursing his lips, Dream pours dinner for himself. He stirs the pasta and sauce with his fork, suddenly wondering if it is unwise to eat so late at night.

Witnessing his roommate’s uncertainty, George leans forward and rests his elbows upon the kitchen countertop. He prompts, “But what?”

“But I’ll never be good enough for my parents.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Rich aromas of marinara sauce fill the kitchen as Dream leans against the refrigerator to eat his dinner. George has never learned this much about his roommate from one conversation before, so he wonders if he should continue probing for more. Should he give Dream some time alone? Tentatively he asks, “When you graduated, what degrees did you get?”

Chewing on a bite of pasta, Dream hums with surprise. Flattered that George is interested in his achievements, he swallows before answering: “I spent four years at university for a Bachelor’s Degree in biology, then I spent six years at a medical school to get a Master’s Degree in health sciences, and finally I spent another two years getting my Doctorate Degree in dermatology.”

“Oh my god, that’s so long!” Daunted and impressed, George stares with disbelief. “How much did all of that cost?”

“A lot of money,” Dream admits shyly. “Even though female people couldn’t open their own credit accounts at the time - my dad had to open one for me - I still made all of the money to pay for the degrees myself, so at least I don’t owe any money to my parents.”

“You paid a lot of money to look at skin fungus all day?” George lifts an incredulous eyebrow. “That’s what dermatologists do, right?”

Dream laughs out loud. The rare sound reverberates through the apartment. Once his giggles end, he shakes his head. “Technically we do look at skin fungus a lot, but that wasn’t my goal! My goal was to help people!”

“So how much skin fungus do you think you’ve seen in your life?”

“I have no idea.” Dream smirks, unaware that this is the first genuine smile he has worn in a long time. “Probably enough to start some sort of fungal pandemic, like in that board game The Past of Us.”

“Don’t dermatologists give people skin grafts, too?” Now that George knows Dream is willing to discuss his job, he asks more questions. “What do you do all day?”

“Grafts are rare, but I do perform plenty of skin exams,” Dream explains, still smiling idly. “Lots of people experience skin conditions or infections during their lives.” When he notices the mixture of intrigue and embarrassment in George’s expression, he asks, “Why do you want to know about that, though?”

“Uh, well, I mean…” George hesitates. He appears to search Dream’s light-hearted expression for something else, then he finishes hastily, “I just think it’s interesting. I don’t know much about dermatology.”

“I understand.” Nodding, Dream reasons, “And if you have any personal concerns that you want to discuss with a dermatologist, I would be happy to offer medical advice if you ever want it.”

“For free?” George’s eyebrows lift with surprise.

“Of course!” Approaching the kitchen counter where George sits on his bar stool, Dream places his empty bowl in the sink. Washing his hands again, he continues, “I don’t know your entire medical history, of course, but we’re roommates. If you’re worried that something might be wrong, then you shouldn’t wait to get medical help.”

Dream expects that George will decline the offer. They are only companions: roommates. Why would he listen to me? I’m licensed, but he could probably get better advice from a dermatologist with more experience, more degrees, more qualifications -

Interrupting the other man’s downward spiral, George agrees casually: “Yeah, of course. If I have a skin problem at any point, I’ll definitely ask you.”

Dream blinks with astonishment. “Really? You will?”

“Well, you probably have a lot of training, right?” George reasons. “I bet you would know if something were actually wrong.”

“I mean, I guess I would have a better chance of knowing than someone without training.”

“Yeah, because you’re smart. I trust you.” After saying this, George realizes that he sounded more honest and vulnerable than he intended. Abruptly he clears his throat and changes the subject. “Oh, I didn’t realize how late it was.” Glancing deliberately at the analogue clock on the wall, he resolves, “I guess I should finish my work for tonight.”

Meanwhile Dream feels like he is floating. This sensation of weightlessness is unfamiliar. Even as George hops off the bar stool and turns away, his words echo in Dream’s head: “You’re smart. I trust you.” When was the last time that someone spoke to him with such open honesty and admiration?

When Dream’s attention returns to the present moment, he notices George leaning over the dinner table. Hastily the cis man scrapes together the books and papers that cover the circular wooden surface. His movements are oddly erratic, like a teenager rushing to clean up a mess before their parents discover it.

“Do you need any help?” Eager to be useful, Dream skirts around the countertop into the main living area. “I can carry some of your stuff.”

“Cool. Thanks.” While a flustered George stacks papers and books into his arms, Dream joins him at the dinner table. First the cis man carries away a big stack of papers and books into his bedroom. Next Dream grabs everything left over: pens, pencils, an eraser, reading glasses, and a cup of water with ice cubes in it. The cup’s surface is slippery with condensation; it leaves behind a ring of water on the table’s wooden surface.

Trying to balance everything as he follows George into the bedroom, Dream tucks the wet cup between his chest and arm while his hands hold the pens, pencils, eraser, and glasses. Cold drops of water soak his shirt fabric, rapidly cooling the skin beneath. When Dream reaches the doorway and lifts his gaze, he halts abruptly.

Across the bedroom, George stands beside his work desk. In the yellow light from a glowing lamp, he dumps the papers and books from his arms onto the cluttered wooden surface. As soon as his hands are free, George winces and reaches around his torso. Leaving the papers and books strewn across the work desk, the cis man scratches his shoulder blade roughly. Once he notices Dream hesitating in the doorway, George lowers his hand swiftly. Straightening his posture, he apologizes, “Sorry. I just had an itch. Thanks for helping me carry my stuff.”

“Of course. No problem.” Dream steps into the bedroom. Upon entering his roommate’s personal area, the dermatologist realizes two things simultaneously. First, he has never been here before. Sports trophies, chess-related memorabilia, and a hung guitar mesmerize him. Can George even play the guitar? Second, the bedroom contains an overwhelming odor: a musky combination of sweat and cologne.

Shuffling toward the work desk, Dream places the pens, pencils, eraser, and reading glasses upon the wooden surface. He arranges the office supplies into a neat line before he notices that one of the pens has an odd appearance. With the cold cup of ice water still tucked between his arm and chest, Dream grabs the pen to read it.

A custom-made logo says, “Fjord Automobile Company”.

“That’s from my job,” George explains from beside him.

“You work at Fjord?” Dream recalls, “I think my uncle has a Fjord car.”

“Nice.” Shoving both hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, George acknowledges sheepishly, “But I don’t actually build the cars. I’m an engineer, so my role is just to, uh… just… um…”

Distracted, Dream replaces the pen on George’s desk. Leaning forward, he presses fingers upon a coaster and slides it toward himself. Momentarily unaware that George has stopped talking, Dream places the cup of ice water on the coaster so it will not damage the wooden desk. When he finally notices the silence, Dream stands up fully and turns his attention back to George. “Huh? Were you saying something?”

George was not saying anything. Throughout their conversation, the cis man was trying not to look at his roommate’s chest, but the trans man’s taller height made it difficult to avoid. Dream’s shirt fabric is damp with water from the shower and the cup, so its white fabric has become sheer, almost translucent.

Without a bra or a binder, everything under the shirt is extremely visible.

Dream notices George’s awestruck expression. Instinctively he stiffens, wondering why his roommate is staring at his shirt. Is there a spider on him? Looking down and pulling the fabric to see, he discovers exactly where the other man’s eyes were focused.

“Oh.” Dream withdraws, lifting an arm to cover his chest. At the sudden movement, George jerks his head up. Startled brown eyes widen. Blushing and mortified, Dream mutters, “Sorry, I should’ve put on something underneath.”

Too late, George rushes to apologize for the thoughtless mistake. “No, Dream, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh -” Mind racing to figure out how to undo the mess he just created, the cis man stammers hastily, “Oh my god. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have looked.”

Dream does not know how to respond. Some male patients glance down intentionally at his chest during appointments as half-hearted attempts to seduce their dermatologist, but his roommate has never done that before. Using George’s panicked expression as an excuse to leave, Dream reassures hastily, “Don’t worry, it’s fine. I needed to sleep anyway.” Waving back over one shoulder, he hurries across the bedroom and pulls the door closed behind himself. “I’ll see you later, George. Goodnight!”

His roommate’s response is equally hasty: “Alright, bye, Dream!”

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine - Surely if George harbored feelings for Dream, the dermatologist would have detected them by now.

Once Dream returns to the main living area, he releases the breath he was holding. After fleeing the bedroom and closing the door behind himself, he feels sympathetic for George. If he ever caught me checking him out, I would be humiliated, too. Dream already suspected this might happen if he lived with a male roommate to satisfy his gender dysphoria. Plus, George seemed very awkward and apologetic, so it was probably just a mistake without any deeper meaning.

Everything is fine. This time Dream believes it.

Without any other obligations for tonight, the dermatologist allows exhaustion to overwhelm him. Now he must recuperate his energy for tomorrow.

Ignoring the used pot that remains on the stove, Dream turns off the kitchen’s overhead light. He brushes his teeth in his restroom, then he checks the time on his alarm clock. 10:23pm. Tomorrow’s shift begins at 6am, so the dermatologist sets his morning alarm for 4:45am. Someday he will find a chance to replenish his sleep, take a break from work, and revel in his success… but clearly that someday has not arrived yet.

Numbly Dream closes his bedroom door and staggers to his bed. His body aches with relief when he collapses onto a thick mattress, pulls a warm blanket over himself, and nestles his head into a soft pillow. Like usual, he falls asleep immediately.

Unbeknownst to Dream, George’s thoughts tread upon new, treacherous territory. Like his roommate, he turns off his bedside lamp and climbs onto his mattress. Unlike his roommate, sleep does not rescue him from the stress that tightens his lungs.

With closed eyes, George kneads his blanket and wills himself to stop worrying. He lays on one side, he turns onto his other side, he flops onto his front, and finally he flips onto his back again. An itch on his chest compels him to scratch. Frustrated, he rubs his face with his palms and inhales a shaky breath. Memories resurface into his mind.

During George’s youth, his tutors were always cisgender men like him. These tutors often encouraged George to disregard the opinions of women. Until George became an adult, moved away from his parents, and experienced the world beyond his hometown, he was unaware of his own privilege. Embarrassed about his past ignorance, he cares much more about Dream’s opinions than most men would… or at least, that is what he wants to believe.

Now George wonders what secret judgments formed in the dermatologist’s head earlier tonight. Could Dream read George’s thoughts? In hindsight, the situation was much worse than he realized.

Fantasies about Dream have haunted George’s thoughts for months. Often he has snuck furtive, admiring glances at his roommate’s figure from behind. Until tonight, Dream had never caught him. I’m such an idiot. What if Dream’s perception of George changes after this? Even if he accepted the apology for staring at his chest, he would probably guess the truth soon… if he does not suspect it already. What will happen then? What if Dream stops feeling safe around George? What if he moves out and leaves forever?

Soon midnight arrives. Shadows still smother George, whose head feels fuzzy with exhaustion. Eventually his alertness fades, his tense muscles relax, and he slips into sleep. In his dreams, reality can be anything; caution and insecurity are unnecessary.

Finally in the privacy of his own skull, George considers the tantalizing idea that his feelings for Dream are requited.

Beneath a blanket and layers of warm clothing, his feelings grow. George dreams about transforming his roommate from a quiet, reserved professional into a lovesick mess of infatuation. While asleep, he does not need to care whether his wild fantasies are realistic or not. Would Dream be shy or bold if he requested George to put hands all over him? Would Dream’s moans be soft or loud if he felt an immense pressure buried between his hips? Would Dream lay down and bear George’s weight upon his front, or would he prefer to arch his back and take it from behind? Of course, Dream would plead for more, too. Tears would drip down his cheeks as he begged desperately for George to go harder, to go faster, to give him everything.

In the morning, George experiences remorse. He hauls himself off his mattress, exits his bedroom, crosses the apartment’s main living area, opens the curtains, and checks his roommate’s side of the apartment. Dream is already gone: back at the hospital. George enjoys hanging out with his roommate, yet he sighs with relief. I can’t let him find out about all of this.

Not for the first time, he reminds himself that Dream is probably not interested in dating anyone, especially not a cisgender person who would never fully comprehend his experiences. Regardless George nurses his desire. He is openly willing to admit that he wants Dream to feel safe around him. He is also willing to admit that he wants Dream to love himself and feel confident. However he is less willing to admit his silent, shameful hope that Dream will develop a simmering lust for him in return.

Inhaling a deep breath, George scratches an itch on his thigh. Next he showers, he changes his bed sheets, and he opens the windows. He fulfills every duty on autopilot, barely paying attention to his surroundings. Throughout the day, all George thinks about is Dream… and about how much he wants him.

George’s spiral into love began a long time ago, but within hours, it has become a plummeting fall.

Some cisgender men possess much less self-esteem than others. Their position in the social hierarchy is high, yet it is also precarious. Unfortunately Dream’s current patient, a cis man who tested positive for a staph infection, is one of these challenging individuals.

“You really expect me to believe those results?” The patient questions, crossing his arms while he sits across from his dermatologist in one of the hospital’s examination rooms. “Actually, you know what? Let me see that badge you’re wearing.”

“This one?” Maintaining a calm tone even as he faces the man’s arrogance, Dream places his clipboard aside and pinches the lanyard that dangles from his neck.

“Yes, that one.” The patient raises his eyebrows mockingly as if he were addressing a child. “Which other badge could I mean? You only have one.”

Dream steps closer, lifting his ID badge self-consciously. He waits with growing discomfort while the man inspects it.

F
Dream Adell
Licensed Dermatologist, Sunny Valley Hospital

“Huh.” Predictably ignoring the words “Licensed Dermatologist”, the patient focuses on the letter “F” instead. He drops the ID badge. “I didn’t know this hospital was one of those.”

Dream knows what “one of those” means. This hospital was the region’s only medical facility that was willing to hire a transgender man for any position higher than an assistant or receptionist. This hospital was “one of those” which prioritized its reputation so much that sometimes it hired employees for their uniqueness rather than for their skill. Their clinic did not recruit Dream because he was the best applicant. They recruited him because he would be the only transgender clinician in the region: proof to the public that this hospital was “one of those”.

Dream always wanted to inspire young transgender people to become successful even when their cisgender counterparts have more degrees, more certifications, or more years of experience. He wants to feel proud of himself… yet he feels like a fraud instead.

Dream’s patient does not know or care about his clinician’s history. This dismissive man has always coped with his insecurity by bullying people who society respects less than him.

“Sir, I understand that receiving a diagnosis for any medical condition - including staph infections - can be stressful.” Retrieving his clipboard, Dream explains apologetically, “But as I mentioned earlier, the probability of a false-positive result is extremely low. It’s a 1-percent chance, so we can assume -”

“No, don’t try to manipulate me,” the patient snaps. Angrily pointing a finger in his dermatologist’s face, he accuses, “I never saw you perform this ‘test’. You probably took my sample and put it in some secret compartment somewhere, and then you just printed out some fake results!”

“Sir, I have no reason to lie to you -”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” the patient scoffs, interrupting again. “What’s your motive, huh? Is this some sort of ridiculous scheme to prove that women should be able to tell everyone what to do? Well, if that was your plan, then it didn’t work!” Standing up from his chair, the patient leaves his test results with the dermatologist and storms out of the examination room. “I should’ve known you would scam me. I don’t have time for this.” Pulling open the door, he exits into the clinic’s main hallway. Under his breath, he mutters, “Fucking stupid bitch.”

Then the door slams closed, abruptly ending Dream’s last appointment of the evening. Alone in the examination room, the dermatologist is disappointed but unsurprised. Gathering his patient’s file folders with a heavy sigh, he writes the man’s address on a sticky note and slaps the note onto the front of the folder. Carrying the stack of files to the clinic’s reception desk, he passes them to the receptionist.

“Can you send this to the postage room for packaging and delivery, please? Thanks.”

Along Dream’s journey back to his car in the hospital parking lot, his shoulders slouch with defeat. Unlocking his car and ducking into the driver’s seat, he whispers to himself, “That guy was just in denial. He was wrong. I’m qualified. I have a license to prove it. I didn’t make any mistakes.”

He tries to reassure himself. He fails. What is the point of helping people who will refuse that help because of something their helper cannot change? Bitter with resentment, Dream powers up the engine and turns on his head lights. Crossing greasy asphalt toward the main road, the dermatologist swallows thickly. I earned three degrees and a license just for my own patients to call me a liar.

When Dream’s anger ebbs, horror replaces it. What if his parents were right? If he had not become a clinician, then he could have saved years of effort, thousands of dollars, and many nights of self-loathing. Mom and Dad always told me I was resilient. They always said that I could adapt to any situation. What if Dream simply settles down, marries a wealthy cisgender man, and allows society to view him as nothing more than a baby-maker? Maybe he could learn to be satisfied. Maybe he could learn to limit his ambitions. Maybe he could learn to accept defeat.

Plenty of people roam the city streets while Dream drives through them, yet he has never felt so alone. He arrives at the apartment complex feeling helpless: hopeless. Parking his car, he turns off the engine… and sits. His hands slide off the wheel to collapse, limp in his lap. Frozen, he stares ahead at a blank cement wall until sudden emotions overwhelm him. Weakly hugging himself, he leans forward and cries. Tears stream down his face. A dull headache throbs in his skull. Sobs wrack his body.

Dream weeps for several minutes. He lies to himself: “I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.” This time he does not believe it. Sniffling feverishly, he reminds himself that tomorrow is a day off. In the morning the dermatologist will do some paperwork, then the rest of his day will be free. Hoping that he is no longer lying to himself, he rasps, “I’ll be okay. I’m resilient. I’m adaptable. I can do this.”

Finally Dream emerges from his car, wiping his cheeks and nose with his hospital coat’s white sleeves. He gathers his belongings and crosses the underground parking lot to the staircase. Removing his lanyard and hospital coat while he ascends, the dermatologist reaches the building’s fourth level. Aching with exhaustion, he walks along the hallway toward Unit 404. At 8:13pm, Dream unlocks the front door, turns the knob, and enters his apartment. Mingled scents of food and cologne waft into his nostrils. The kitchen’s light is already on, so Dream dumps his car keys and lanyard onto the countertop. Ignoring the rest of the apartment, he removes his shoes and locks the front door after himself.

Resuming his daily routine, the dermatologist moves to his bedroom, he tosses his hospital coat into the laundry basket, he strips in his restroom, and he bathes. Steam and warm water banish his sweat and tears until he turns off the shower. Next he dries himself with a towel and chooses fresh clothes: black sweatpants, boxer briefs, socks, and a gray t-shirt.

When the dermatologist returns to the apartment unit’s main living area and actually observes it, he pauses. The kitchen is clean. Wiped countertops shine beneath the overhead light. The sink is empty, and the waste bin has a new bag. There is also an aluminum tray on the stove; it is half-full of homemade lasagna. Did George make that? I thought he hated cooking.

Then Dream notices another unusual thing: a magazine on the dinner table. Neither roommate buys magazines, so the dermatologist approaches to investigate. However when he leans over the dinner table to read the cover, he discovers that it is not a magazine at all.

This is the newest edition of his hospital’s monthly medical journal. A note taped to the cover reads in scrawled black letters: “DREAM”. The dermatologist recognizes his roommate’s handwriting… then he realizes something else. This is not a random edition of his hospital’s medical journal. It is the edition that contains his name!

Perplexed, Dream dares to slide the magazine closer. A sticky note protrudes from between two pages at the top. Pinching the sticky note between his fingers, the dermatologist flips to the page that it marked.

Page 21: Awards

Teal eyes from a familiar face stare back at him: his own eyes. A printed photograph of himself occupies a tenth of the page. Beside it, an italicized paragraph announces the recipient of a Clinician of the Year award. At the paragraph’s end is a name with a professional title beside it.

“Dream Adell: Licensed Dermatologist, Sunny Valley Hospital”

Below, another paragraph details his background, his education, and his contributions to the hospital’s health clinic. The dermatologist leans forward to peer closer, but before he can read the paragraph, movement flickers in his peripheral vision.

“Hello, Dream!” Unaware of his roommate’s precarious mood, George emerges from his bedroom. “Did you see the journal? You’re in it!”

Stunned, Dream lifts his head to stare at him. “Where did you get this?”

“I ordered it through the mail,” George shrugs casually. “I thought I would need to pay for a subscription, but when I checked the phone book, the advertisement said that new customers could request their first magazine to be delivered for free.” With a proud smirk, he concludes, “So I ordered this one a few weeks ago, right after you told me about it! Overall I would say it was a good deal.”

Still bewildered, Dream questions, “Okay, but how did you even know this was the edition with my name in it?”

“Well, that was easy to find.” Deep umber eyes flash with enthusiasm as George continues, “The advertisement in the phone book said that this edition would announce the Clinician of the Year, and I already knew that was you.”

“But you - this is - what?” With too many questions to ask, Dream stammers, “Why did you buy this?”

“Because -” Now George’s smile falters. Breaking eye contact, he rubs his arm. “I mean, I thought that maybe…”

Closing the medical journal, Dream prompts, “Maybe… what?”

Avoiding his roommate’s gaze, George searches for what to say. “Well, uh, I guess I just assumed this was a unique thing, you know? I know that sometimes trans guys have, um, disadvantages that regular guys and women don’t have, if that makes sense?” Facing Dream’s intense gaze, George continues hesitantly, “I mean, I’m not a woman or trans guy, of course, so I don’t really know what your experiences have been like, but I thought that ordering a copy of the medical journal might help to remind you that you’re smart.” Worried that he may have offended his roommate, George finishes quickly, “I guess I just wanted to say that I really admire you, Dream, and I want to make sure that you admire yourself, too.” These last words hover in the air, filling the distance between the roommates.

Searching George’s expression, Dream finds only blunt honesty and nervous anticipation. Does his counterpart know about his low self-esteem or about the insults that he received today? Words from last month echo in his head again: “You’re smart. I trust you.” Somehow this simple statement was the most meaningful compliment that Dream ever heard. George never said I was smart for a woman, or for a trans guy. He just said I was smart… and he trusts me. Suddenly he feels like he is floating, weightless despite his weariness. Something blossoms in his heart.

Dream shoves himself forward, wrapping arms around his roommate’s smaller figure for a hug. George gasps with surprise, arms tensing by his sides before he relaxes with relief. Sharp, warm breaths billow down shirt collars as they unite in an embrace. As two rib cages swell against each other, Dream’s head fills with white noise. Tightening his grip, he rests his chin upon the other man’s narrow shoulder. More tears flow down his cheeks, but this time a wave of gratitude accompanies them.

“Thank you, George,” the dermatologist whispers. “I had such a shitty day today. No one ever listens to me.”

A brief pause. Then George hums, “Wait, sorry, did you say something? I wasn’t listening.”

Despite the emotional moment, Dream surprises himself by laughing at the joke. His sobs cease as he pulls away from the hug.

“Did you see the lasagna on the stove?” Changing the subject, George follows his roommate into the kitchen. “It’s been sitting out for, like, an hour, so it’s definitely cold by now, but you can reheat it in the microwave if you want it.”

“Sure, that sounds great.” Dream accepts the offer gladly. “I haven’t eaten in a while, so any food would be good enough for me.”

“Epic.” Unceremoniously George dumps the remaining lasagna out of the aluminum tray and onto a ceramic plate. Sliding the plate into the microwave, he reheats the food.

While a low, comforting hum fills the kitchen, Dream wipes his nose with a facial tissue. At 9pm, the dermatologist sits upon the couch to eat his late dinner in peaceful silence.

From behind the kitchen countertop, George watches. When Dream tilts his head back and scrapes the last of the lasagna into his mouth, the cis man approaches to take the dirty plate. After dinner, the dermatologist stands from the couch with messy hair and glassy eyes that betray his exhaustion.

“Thanks for dinner, George. The lasagna was delicious.”

“No problem, Dream. I’m glad you liked it.”

Mutually the pair separate for the evening. George turns off the kitchen’s overhead light and slinks back into his bedroom.

Meanwhile Dream brushes his teeth and resets his alarm clock to ring at 7:45am tomorrow morning rather than 4:45am. Since he ate only minutes ago, the dermatologist stacks additional pillows onto his mattress. They will prop up his torso, preventing acid reflux while he sleeps and digests.

A sliver of night sky is visible between the window’s curtains. City lights reflect upon glass windows across the street. Distant neon signs spill soft greens and blues across the floor.

Crawling into bed, Dream drags his blanket over himself and flops onto his back. With a pillow supporting his neck, he inhales deeply.

Wait. Blinking his eyes open in the darkness, Dream lifts his head and sniffs again. Another smell lingers upon his t-shirt: George’s cologne. It must have rubbed onto his shirt during their hug. Did I leave anything on him, too?

Closing his eyes again, Dream allows his head to fall back again, but sleep does not claim him immediately. First he imagines George in the other bedroom. Has the cis man noticed a unique smell on his t-shirt, too? Dream’s imagination conjures an image of George bunching his sleeve in his hand, lifting it to his nose, and sniffing experimentally. His eyes would widen with shock when he recognized the sweet scent of soap. George might inhale again to memorize the tempting aroma: to save it in his brain forever.

Something lurks in Dream’s chest, restless like a caged animal. Dream tries to silence it, to shove it further into the depths. He cannot afford to think about it. If he allowed his imagination to continue, desire would overwhelm him.

Dream does not want it. He is sure about it, absolutely certain.

If Dream ever had sex with George, the dermatologist might become pregnant. He shivers with dread. A pregnancy would end his career. Maternity leave is unavailable for female staff, and daycare is far too expensive. Whenever people ask Dream about when he plans to “finally” get married and become pregnant, they are actually asking about when he plans to sacrifice his aspirations and accept his inferior status.

There are so many reasons why Dream should consider George as a companion only. If the roommates became partners, he would risk his career, his dignity, and his independence… for what? For some kisses? For promises that I won’t ever be lonely again? It’s not worth it. Resisting the temptation of a romantic relationship, Dream turns onto his side in bed. Minutes later, he succumbs to an uneasy slumber.

Unbeknownst to Dream, his counterpart across the apartment faces a similar internal conflict.

At 9:30pm, George leans back in his swiveling office chair, shivering with both dread and exhilaration. Like Dream predicted, the cis man smelled the sweet perfume of soap upon his shoulder. He knows the dermatologist appreciated his gift - the medical journal - but what if Dream learned the extent of George’s fondness for him? He would move out. He would hate me.

After midnight, George hides himself beneath soft blankets in bed. He must scratch the annoying itch under his shirt again, but unlike Dream, he does not take long to descend into a troubled slumber.

Finally both roommates are calm. Peaceful shadows cradle the cis and trans men in their separate bedrooms, but their peace will not last for long. Currently Dream and George are friends only. Both roommates sense their growing closeness, yet neither man recognizes their unsustainability. The reckoning with their long-suppressed feelings will come sooner than they expect.

This was the last night of Dream and George’s friendship. Tomorrow it will become something more.

Beyond glass windows, overcast skies hang above the city. Gray morning light streams into the main living area as Dream enters the kitchen. George’s bedroom door is still closed, so the dermatologist steps quietly while crossing the apartment unit.

Lost in his thoughts, Dream drinks the silence around himself. He prepares the same breakfast he eats every day: cinnamon oatmeal with peanut butter and dried fruit. No one would need three degrees to create this filling combination of fiber, protein, and unsaturated fats, but Dream feels proud.

Placing his bowl of oatmeal on his work desk, Dream closes his bedroom door to begin today’s work. Wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, he reviews patient documents, he marks them with notes, and he writes potential treatment plans in a spiral notebook.

Around 11am, Dream hears the first noises from elsewhere in the apartment. Faint footsteps and shower water in the other restroom indicate that George must be awake. On most days, the dermatologist is at the hospital around now, so he is not surprised when his roommate does not attempt to interact. He probably doesn’t even think I’m here, Dream muses, enjoying the secrecy of his presence.

About twenty minutes after the shower turns off, a bedroom door opens. Footsteps reverberate through the floor with more strength as George emerges into the main living area that separates the roommates’ bedrooms. Perhaps dripping hair has soaked his shirt collar.

Unaware that he is not alone, George enters the kitchen. Based on the noises of cabinets and the refrigerator door opening and closing, it sounds like he is making a bowl of cereal. There are more footsteps as George carries his late-morning breakfast across the kitchen, through the main living area, and back into his bedroom. Finally the door closes again.

Once there are no more noises to distract Dream from his work, he dives back into his concentration. Diligently he does more paperwork, he makes more commitments, and he plans for future appointments until the workload appears overwhelming. Determined to prove that a transgender man can be unceasingly dependable, the dermatologist allows lunchtime to arrive and pass. Conveniently he forgets the difference between working hard and overworking.

By noon, the sun blazes high in the sky. Across the apartment, a bedroom door opens. Footsteps reverberate through the floor again, disrupting Dream’s concentration. A ceramic bowl and spoon clatter in the sink. There are several clicks as someone inserts a tape into the cassette player and turns the machine on. Seconds later, the first notes of a song begin to play.

Humming pleasantly, George turns the music volume loud: definitely louder than the volume he plays when he knows he is not alone. Notes from the rock band Queef and the voice of its lead singer Freddie Mars blast through the apartment.

By now, the dermatologist has sat at his work desk for hours, so he stands and stretches. He does not want to startle George by bursting out of the bedroom, so he decides to wait until his roommate is done in the kitchen. Sipping water from a cup near his desk lamp, Dream listens casually until new aromas drift into his nostrils. Sniffing, the dermatologist recognizes the smells of basil, oregano, and thyme. He’s making soup.

Thankfully George does not believe that cooking is a woman’s duty, but he does hate cooking. Every few days, the cis man solves this problem by preparing huge quantities of food that he can ration until he must cook again. Today he prepares an enormous batch of soup.

Resolving to bide his time, Dream seats himself before his work desk again. Opening the file folder on his desk, he flips idly through a pile of paperwork.

Loud music continues to blast through the apartment until George adds to the cacophony by filling a pot with water from the sink. There is a clatter when he hoists the full pot onto the stove and turns on the flame. Next he begins chopping vegetables on a cutting board.

Meanwhile Dream resides in his bedroom, wondering if he should reveal his presence by requesting for his roommate to be quieter. Then, halfway through the current song, a grating noise shatters the air.

George’s telephone is ringing. Dream flinches with surprise. In the kitchen, someone drops their knife on the cutting board. Quick footsteps hurry out of the kitchen and across the apartment. The cassette player turns off, and the music vanishes, too. For several seconds the only sound blaring through the apartment is the telephone’s incessant ringing. Then this sound vanishes, too. Briefly there is silence until George speaks for the first time.

“Hello?”

Dream looks up at his closed door. George’s voice is farther now, emanating from the open doorway to his bedroom.

“Hello, Mum. I’m doing fine, thanks for asking.”

A pause.

“No, I’m not busy right now. I’m just making stuff in the kitchen. Actually, let me put you on speakerphone so I can use both of my hands, alright?”

Dream feels slightly guilty for overhearing a conversation that was definitely not intended to include him, but he is also curious. He has never interacted with his roommate’s parents before.

When George switches the call to speakerphone, an older woman’s voice becomes audible. It echoes through the unit, loud enough that the dermatologist does not even need to try to listen.

“That’s a wise idea,” she purrs with approval. “Are you making more pasta?”

“No, I’m making soup this time.” George returns to chopping vegetables on the cutting board, but his divided attention causes him to chop slower and more quietly. “Honestly I don’t know what I’m doing, but hopefully the soup is good. It’s supposed to last for at least a week.”

While Dream eavesdrops, he experiences a strange sensation of relief that George seems to act and sound the same regardless of whether he is alone or not. He considers ignoring the call outside his bedroom until the conversation takes an unexpected turn.

“You mentioned that you had a doctor’s appointment recently. Did they find anything wrong?”

“Um…” George hesitates to answer his mother’s concerned question. “The appointment was fine.”

“Oh no, you know I don’t like that kind of answer,” the older woman scolds. “What happened?”

“Right, sorry,” George apologizes hastily. He stops chopping the vegetables, and when he speaks again, his voice wavers nervously. “I might’ve mentioned that my roommate knows a lot about health stuff, right?”

Initially Dream cannot believe what he is hearing. Somehow he never imagined that George ever thought about him while he was gone at work.

“Yes, you mentioned that,” George’s mother affirms.

“A while ago, I was talking with him. He said that I should visit a dermatologist: you know, one of those doctors for skin.”

Wait, what? Dream does not remember saying anything like that! His mind races with confusion before he realizes that George is lying.

“So that’s what I did,” George continues. “I scheduled an appointment with a dermatologist at the Jurupa River Hospital. He ran some tests, and he told me that I probably have - I mean, that I do have, um -” Faltering, George trails off into an embarrassed silence.

“Yes?”

“Mum, I have atopic dermatitis. Eczema. It’s an autoimmune disorder.” George’s voice shakes. Fearful of his mother’s judgment, he rushes to reassure her, “I know it’s really gross, but don’t worry. The dermatologist said that eczema isn’t contagious! I ordered some medication from the pharmacy for it, so I should be fine again in a few weeks.”

First Dream is ashamed. All clinicians uphold a promise of confidentiality, yet he has just learned private medical information that he definitely should not know. Then uncertainty replaces the shame. He has written many official diagnoses for patients with skin conditions, but his roommate was not among them. Dream is a trained professional, yet George sought another clinician’s diagnosis anyway.

Ignoring the conversation as it continues, Dream wonders why George did not request his help. His uncertainty transforms into insecurity. Maybe George arranged an appointment with a different dermatologist at a different hospital for a reason. Was it because he doesn’t trust me? What if the cisgender man assumed that his transgender roommate would be an unreliable source, regardless of his degrees and medical license?

This spiral into self-doubt ends abruptly when Dream remembers that the conversation outside has not ended. George and his mother are still talking, oblivious to his presence. Briefly silencing the poisonous whispers that infiltrate his mind, the dermatologist compels himself to keep listening. By now, the conversation has switched to the topic of work.

“How often do you visit the office nowadays?” The older woman asks.

“Sometimes. I’m just glad that I don’t need to go often.”

“What? Why?” His mother balks with confusion. “Weren’t you supposed to be promoted to a department manager position sometime soon? When you receive the job, I’m sure you’ll need to visit the office more often.” When her son does not respond to this comment, the woman’s tone switches from curt to empathetic. “George? Did you not get the job offer?”

Another pause. Dream wonders why his roommate does not want to answer the question.

“Well, Mum, I received the job offer, but -”

“Really?” His mother gasps with elation. “Oh, George, that’s wonderful news! I knew you would get the job!” Without waiting for confirmation, she squeals with delight. “I’ll admit it: your father and I were truly worried about you. So many men your age are already working in high positions like those - some men your age are millionaires already, too! You have no idea how close we came to believing that you might get left behind -”

“No, Mum, that’s not what happened.” Rushing to correct the misunderstanding, George stammers, “I received the job offer, but I refused it. I withdrew my application.” Self-conscious, he explains, “One other person applied, and I told the department managers to hire them instead.”

Sitting frozen in his chair, Dream blinks with disbelief. George did not mention any of this to him! He never perceived his roommate as an ambitious man, but this job offer sounds like a substantial opportunity. Would I have refused the Clinician of the Year award?

“What?” George’s mother is shocked, too. “You’ve been planning to apply for this promotion for months! I remember how excited you were when you told us about this new job opportunity, and now you -?” Baffled, she sputters, “You gave it away?”

“Yeah, but I had reasons, Mum.” Helplessly George tries to alleviate his mother’s disappointment. “I thought the other person should get the job instead.”

“But you only had one competitor!” Struggling to comprehend her son’s decision, the older woman questions, “If there were only one other applicant, why did you think that person deserved that job more than you?”

Unable to bear the interrogation for any longer, George relents, “Well, I did it because they were, uh -”

“‘They’?” His mother interjects impatiently. “You know I hate it when you’re vague, George. Was it another man, or was it a woman?”

“Well, Mum, I know you don’t really approve of this sort of stuff, but they were neither.” With audible reluctance, he adds, “They were both female and non-binary.”

Suddenly Dream understands why his roommate kept this information private.

“I did want the job: that promotion. I did.” After the revelation, George’s voice is softer yet stronger. His tone is shy, but it does not quake anymore. “But I can find something else in the future. I don’t know what it’ll be, but I’ll find something.”

“I know you’ll find other opportunities,” his mother concedes. “And I’m not angry at you, George. I love you, but…” She sighs with resignation. “Well, I suppose all of that is over now.”

“Yeah, it’s done,” her son agrees tersely. Then, after a tense moment of holding his breath, he confesses, “Actually, I saw the other applicant the last time I visited the office. I had never met them before, but they were really friendly and smart.”

“I’m not doubting that she was friendly and smart,” George’s mother interjects. Refusing to believe that her son could possibly be less preferable than a non-binary person, the older woman clarifies, “However I certainly doubt that she was more qualified than you for that position.”

“Mum, I don’t know, but I think it might be more complicated than that.” George disagrees. Clumsily he elaborates, “There were some certificates and credentials that I had which the other person didn’t have, but they were still technically qualified for the position. Our company doesn’t have any transgender people in management, either, so I’m sure that the new person will be under a lot of pressure to prove themself and stuff like that. They’re a great engineer - I saw some of their work on the blueprints - but what if Fjord was the only company who was willing to let them apply for the job at all? I mean, I know it can be kind of hard for transgender people to find good jobs and stuff, so I thought - I don’t know - I felt like I should help them.”

Dream’s head spins. His throat feels dry, and when he reaches for the cup of water near his desk lamp, his fingers tingle. Years of repressed memories resurface into his mind. He remembers the disheartening discovery that the Sunny Valley Hospital hired him not because he was the most qualified applicant, but rather because hiring a transgender person would benefit the hospital’s reputation. Despite the medical license and degrees which proved that the dermatologist was qualified, he felt like he had not truly earned his job at all.

Dream’s heart pounds faster when he realizes that George does not know this story, either. Except for the hospital’s staff, no one knows this piece of his history. This also proves how much George cares about him. The cisgender man has never lived the experiences of a transgender person, yet he listened to his companion and applied that knowledge to his own life. George probably assumed that his competitor at work must have fought a much more challenging battle than he did to reach the same level of expertise as him. Dream reflects on how much integrity George must possess to sacrifice a job for a stranger, even when he did not intend to tell his transgender roommate about it.

In contrast, the cisgender man’s mother is less impressed.

“George, your father and I have tried not to pressure you, and we definitely don’t want to discourage you. That was a very kind thing that you did, and I applaud you for it.” Her compliments sting like insults. “But surely you wouldn’t want anyone to interpret your kindness as weakness, right? You don’t need another reminder that assertive men are usually the most successful. Your father and I just don’t want you to waste your potential anymore.”

“I know, Mum.” Through gritted teeth, George assures, “I’m trying to be successful. I’m doing my best.”

“Of course, dear.” Accepting her son’s defeat, the older woman concludes, “I suppose that’s all you can do.”

Tension hangs thick in the air even after the mother and son end their conversation and the call. Even once his mother’s disapproval no longer curses his ears, George does not start playing music again. Instead he returns to cooking, this time in stony silence.

From his bedroom, Dream senses his roommate’s resentment and frustration. He hears George’s internal question: Will I ever be good enough for my parents? This same question has haunted Dream for years. For so long, he considered George to be his opposite, but now he knows that they are much more similar than he predicted. Neither of them will ever meet their parents’ expectations.

Until now, Dream did not want to recognize his fondness for George, either. He always assumed that a cisgender man would never be able to relate to him, but maybe that assumption was inaccurate. He’s just like me.

In the kitchen, George chops the rest of the vegetables less carefully and more aggressively than before. While he is distracted, Dream stands from his work desk for the second time. Moving with deliberate slowness to avoid alerting the other man, he slips into the restroom. From its medical cabinet, he retrieves a tube of hydrocortisone cream. Gripping the tube in one hand, he leaves the restroom, approaches his bedroom door… and falters. How can the dermatologist simply emerge from his bedroom without spooking his roommate? I can’t just hide forever, though, Dream argues with himself. At some point, he will betray his presence anyway by washing his hands or flushing the toilet or sneezing.

Summoning his courage, Dream leans close to the wood and reaches for the door knob. Grasping cool metal, he turns it carefully before pulling the door open and peeking his head out of the bedroom.

George is facing away from him, scraping chopped vegetables off the cutting board and into the soup with a wooden spoon. Like Dream predicted, the other man is freshly showered; his t-shirt’s collar is damp. Wet locks of dark brown hair stick to his neck.

Stepping forward, Dream emerges fully from his bedroom. For a half-second, he debates whether to speak or simply allow George to see him, but he does not receive a chance to decide.

Dropping a lid upon the pot of simmering soup, George places the wooden spoon beside the stovetop and turns around. For another half-second, he is still distracted, turning his gaze toward the sink with the obvious goal of washing his hands.

Then George notices the man in his peripheral vision. Arms freezing, he snaps his head up to gape at the other man with wide eyes.

“Dream?” His voice pitches with shock.

Sheepishly Dream wrings his fingers before him. He bows his head with a guilty smile. “Hi, George.”

“What? You - were you -?” Hastily scratching an itch on his side, George gasps, “You were here? I thought you were at work!”

“I only had to do some paperwork today.” Since the dermatologist cannot even pretend that he did not overhear everything, he explains shyly, “I was just in my bedroom. I didn’t want to interrupt your call.”

“Oh my god, I didn’t realize you were - so I just -” With rising horror, George retreats from the sink. Distancing himself from his roommate until he reaches the stove, he asks, “Wait, did you hear everything?”

“I heard a lot,” Dream admits. Forcing his hands to stay by his sides, he apologizes, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have eavesdropped.” He extends his hand to offer the tube of medication from his restroom cabinet. “But since I recognized the thing you mentioned - atopic dermatitis - I wanted to give you this. It’s hydrocortisone, a mild corticosteroid. If you apply it to the rashes every night before bed, it should stop the itching.”

George plucks the tube of cream from Dream’s fingers. After examining the medication, he lifts his gaze with renewed embarrassment. “So you know about this, huh?”

“Dermatitis is fairly common,” Dream shrugs nonchalantly. Remembering the disgust in his roommate’s voice when he revealed the disease to his mother, the dermatologist adds reassuringly, “Skin conditions aren’t gross. I mean, even if they were gross, I’m a clinician. I wouldn’t have spent years training to be a clinician if gross things bothered me.”

“Right, yeah, I guess that makes sense,” George chuckles nervously. “Thanks for not judging me.” He speaks fast, but his deep umber eyes shine with gratitude.

“Of course.” Nodding with satisfaction, Dream clears his throat and steps out of the kitchen. Initially he wonders if it would be more appropriate to return to his bedroom, but when he turns around to face the doorway, his roommate protests.

“Wait, are you leaving already?”

“You wanted me to stay?” Surprised, Dream stops and looks back over his shoulder.

“Well, I mean, like, you don’t need to stay,” George clarifies hastily. Lifting the lid off the pot, he stirs his soup again. Steam billows up into the air before he replaces the lid and meets Dream’s gaze. “But also you’re never home like this. It’s weird.”

“Really?” The dermatologist frowns, trying to recall the last time when his schedule was unoccupied enough for him to work from home. Unease taunts him when he remembers his compulsion to overwork, then he notices his roommate’s dubious expression. “Huh. I guess I don’t take vacations too often.”

“I didn’t realize you even knew what the word ‘vacation’ meant,” George comments dryly.

Dream’s initial reaction is to reciprocate the teasing and possibly comment about how his roommate never seems to work hard at all, until he remembers the phone call from ten minutes ago. George probably would not appreciate a reminder of the expectations that he has failed to fulfill. Instead of speaking, Dream skirts the kitchen countertop, pulls out a bar stool, and seats himself upon it.

The pair’s conversation descends into awkward silence as George anticipates a joke which never comes, while Dream processes information he was not supposed to learn.

Only warm steam, the aroma of cooking vegetables, and the refrigerator’s low hum fill the kitchen. Occasionally while cleaning up food scraps and rinsing dirty knives, George sends furtive glances toward his companion. Even when he reminds himself that the dermatologist has extensive knowledge and years of medical experience, he cannot believe that Dream can know about his embarrassing problem and just… tolerate it.

Meanwhile curiosity gnaws at the corners of Dream’s mind. Subconsciously he rubs his jaw, wondering why his roommate did not request an exam which could have diagnosed the skin condition earlier. “George?”

“Yeah?”

Piercing teal collides with deep umber. They hold each other’s gazes. Briefly Dream wonders if this is a bad idea before he muses, “I kind of wanted to ask about something, if that’s okay?”

With only one meter of distance separating the stove area and the bar stool, they feel so far apart yet too close at the same time.

Warily George searches Dream’s gaze. Mind racing, he tries to anticipate the question before he permits, “Sure. What did you want to know?”

“When you spoke with your mom about your condition, I heard some of the conversation. Again, I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but I noticed that some of what you told her sounded - I don’t know - like a twisted version of the truth.”

“In what way?” George lifts a cautious eyebrow. His question sounds like a challenge, but Dream senses the fear behind it.

“You said that I told you to visit a dermatologist, so you scheduled an appointment at the Jurupa River Hospital,” Dream recalls. “But I never said that. I’m literally a dermatologist myself! I know what eczema looks like. You could’ve asked me to examine you instead.”

“I know,” George defends, flustered and antsy. He never expected his roommate to interrogate him like this. “But Dream, the rashes were, like, everywhere! They were all over my chest and my back and my arms and my legs. It was ridiculous!”

Hurt, Dream retaliates, “Why does that matter? I wouldn’t have judged you. Eczema isn’t contagious!”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” George dismisses vehemently. “I just didn’t want you to see me without all of my -” Suddenly realizing where his sentence is leading, the cis man cuts himself off.

“Without your clothes?” Dream guesses incredulously.

Uncomfortable, George averts his gaze. His uncharacteristic vulnerability catches his roommate off-guard. As Dream’s words hang in the air, his anger vanishes. Did he miss something? Abruptly apprehensive, the dermatologist wonders if he has unintentionally exposed another secret.

Silence falls over the apartment, raw and treacherous. Seconds feel like hours as George considers how to explain himself without exposing the truth. His gaze darts down at his hands, which are clasped together to hide their fidgeting. Finally he apologizes, “Dream, I’m - ugh. I don’t really know how to say it.” When he glances up to see that his roommate is listening, quiet and patient, George proceeds carefully: “I didn’t mean to imply that you were gonna give me the wrong diagnosis or something. I wasn’t trying to insult you by going to a different doctor. That wasn’t what happened. I was just kind of -” Then George falters, cutting himself off when he realizes where his explanation might lead.

It is too late. Dream heard it. Suspecting that an unspoken thought lurks in his friend’s skull, the dermatologist ventures, “You were kind of…?”

George stiffens like an animal stuck in a trap. He yearns to escape, but there is nowhere for him to go. Even if he fled to his bedroom, Dream would follow and ask if he was okay. Dream would probably blame himself for somehow upsetting his roommate, too. George cannot win… and somehow, the discovery of his lose-lose situation emboldens him. It is frightening, yet also liberating.

Finally aware that their friendship cannot escape unscathed from this conversation, George concedes, “I was kind of scared.”

“Why?”

“Well, I knew you noticed my itching, and the itches were getting worse, so I thought maybe something was wrong.”

“That’s understandable,” Dream murmurs. Hoping to ease George’s discomfort, he assures, “But like I said, I would’ve been willing to help you, even if it meant seeing you without clothes. You know that, right?”

“I do,” George nods shakily. Yes, he knows that Dream would absolutely be willing to help him… but that was not the source of his anxiety. If George stripped in front of Dream, he would expose more than only his skin. With Dream looking at his body, it would be too easy to spiral into lust: to imagine touching, massaging, exploring. “But I guess I was just kind of worried about you giving me an exam because I didn’t want to, you know, make you do anything. You could’ve thought I was trying to trick you into touching me.”

“Why would I think that?” Dream’s question is so sincere: so innocent. “Sometimes exams require touching. As long as a clinician wears gloves, it’s extremely low-risk.”

“I know, but I thought it might be weird just because this time it would be, uh, different?”

Uneasy, Dream asks, “Why would touching be different this time?”

“It would be different because of, um -” Beneath his roommate’s unceasing gaze, George yields to the invisible trap which has ensnared him. “Because of you, Dream. Because you would be the one touching me.”

There it is. Inevitably George has betrayed himself.

Astonished, Dream presses a palm against his chest. Air hitches in his lungs as his brain connects everything together. This is why George always greets Dream after work, despite being so antisocial that he avoids visiting his own company’s office. This is why George makes extra food for Dream in the evenings even though he hates cooking. When Dream searches George’s deep umber eyes, he finally sees what dwells behind the wariness, the insecurity, and the embarrassment. There is admiration, fondness, desire.

Dream cannot speak, so George breaks the disconcerting silence instead. “Listen, I don’t want things to change in a bad way.”

Frozen atop the bar stool, Dream wonders what change in a good way might mean. Voice quivering, he whispers, “How long have you felt like this about me?”

There is no turning back now. George confesses, “I think I’ve wanted you for a while, Dream.”

Against its own will, the friendship changes. George kneels before his executioner, he presents his neck, and he surrenders to his fate.

“George, I’m sorry.” Now Dream is the one who yearns to escape. “I had no idea.” Knees wobbling, he scrambles off the bar stool and stands. Flattered yet mortified, he stammers, “Thanks for being honest. I really appreciate the sentiment, but you know I can’t feel the same way.”

“I know,” George croaks.

“And I work long hours at my job, so I wouldn’t be able to spend time with you anyway.”

“I know.”

The executioner has struck. Pouring from a broken heart, blood spills across the floor of the apartment unit.

Slinking out of the kitchen and toward the safety of his bedroom, Dream points at the tube of hydrocortisone cream on the kitchen countertop. “You can keep that, by the way.”

“Dream, wait.” George’s throat feels dry when he witnesses revulsion in his roommate’s expression. Oh my god, he hates me. In a futile effort to repair what has broken, he tries to backtrack: “I didn’t mean to -”

“George, you know what?” Dream cuts him off. Pausing in his bedroom’s open doorway, he pleads, “Can you please just… give me some time? I need to think.”

“Oh.” Feeling helpless, George agrees, “Alright.”

Retreating into his bedroom, Dream closes the door and leaves his roommate stranded in the kitchen. His heartbeat pounds in his ears. Feeling hot, he remains beside the door after he closes it. Listening intently, he expects to hear muttered curses, objects breaking, or some other violent motions which would indicate rage… yet he hears nothing.

Ten seconds later, footsteps reverberate through the floor, then George’s bedroom door closes, too. No yelling. No guilt-tripping. Just acceptance.

Absently Dream moves to collapse onto the swiveling chair beside his work desk. The world seems to spin around him. Slouching forward, he rubs his eyes. Why was I so naive? People have told him countless times that it is impossible for “males and females” to live together without succumbing to lustful desires. Why had he believed that he and George would be an exception?

Then, after the initial shock of learning about his roommate’s feelings, Dream slowly calms himself down. It could be worse, he acknowledges begrudgingly. George could have been someone who would not accept no as an answer. The cis man could have been a stalker, a patient, or a boss at work. Instead George purposefully made himself easy to evade. He remained in the kitchen and sequestered himself in his bedroom just like Dream did. To George, Dream is a companion first and a potential partner second.

Coaxing himself to breathe and think clearly again, Dream leans back in his chair. Staring up at his ceiling, he imagines George in the opposite bedroom. His roommate is probably sitting with his head in his hands, berating himself.

Dream can almost hear the angry, self-deprecating thoughts ruminating in George’s mind: “I’m such an idiot. Why did I say that? Why did I tell him how I feel?” Those angry thoughts seem familiar. They sound like the angry, self-deprecating thoughts that taunt the dermatologist whenever he makes mistakes.

Just like Dream, George faces enormous, impossible expectations from his parents. Just like his transgender roommate, the cisgender man experiences insecurity and self-esteem issues, too.

Dream’s own words echo within his head: “I need to think.”

Hours feel like minutes as the dermatologist sits alone in his bedroom, unable to distract himself. All he can do is stare at the wall, analyzing his conversation with George again and again. Of course they are still roommates and technically still friends, but after recalling the entire conversation, Dream realizes that he told his roommate, “I can’t feel the same way.” He never said, “I don’t feel the same way.” Why did he say that? Why did his subconscious mind choose those words? Did George notice them, too?

When Dream interrupted George’s love confession, he felt afraid of… what? Of his feelings for me? Of my feelings for him? Fearing the answer to his questions, Dream keeps thinking.

More hours pass until dinnertime arrives. Outside the early evening air is fresh and peaceful. The city streets are crowded with fluttering pigeons, people walking their dogs, and employees driving home after a long day of work.

Inside the apartment, the atmosphere is heavy and pensive. Silently but mutually, the roommates have agreed to spend the rest of the day apart. However they cannot remain isolated in their bedrooms forever.

George emerges first, easing his bedroom door open to peer into the apartment’s main living area. It is empty, and Dream’s bedroom door is still closed. The cis man has spent nearly the entire day in his bedroom, alternating between munching snacks and feeling too lethargic to move from his desk chair. Aware that he should probably eat a vegetable, he slinks out of his bedroom and toward the empty kitchen.

By now, the soup is fully cooked. A pot simmers upon the stove, releasing aromas of broth and spices. Pretending that he is home alone, George turns off the stove and uses a ladle to scoop steaming soup into a bowl. Adding a spoon, he plans to sip his homemade meal while loitering in the kitchen… until he notices that the other bedroom door is open now.

Startled, George lifts his gaze to see that Dream is watching him. The trans man stands still, cautious yet unflinching in the doorway. Hairs rise along the back of George’s neck as the roommates observe each other. What should he say? Should he say anything at all?

Then Dream’s expression changes. The shift is subtle, as if he reached some sort of private decision. Before George can even ponder the significance of this moment, his roommate mouths the word “Hi.” Offering a small wave, Dream recedes back into his bedroom and closes the door again.

At first George does not know why he feels immense relief. When he glances down at his bowl of soup, he notices ripples in the broth; his hands are trembling. He replaces the bowl onto the kitchen countertop, then he wipes sweaty palms on his t-shirt and glances at Dream’s bedroom door again. With the memory of that mouthed “Hi” and that small wave fresh in his mind, George decides to try an experiment. Instead of pouring the rest of his vegetable soup into plastic containers like usual, the cis man leaves the pot on the stove with the ladle beside it. Next he gathers a second spoon and a new bowl. He places these upon the kitchen countertop, then he returns promptly to his bedroom with his own spoon and bowl of soup.

With racing adrenaline, George waits. Like Dream, he tries and fails to distract himself. When he looks at crossword puzzles in the newspaper, the words appear to blend together on the page, impossible to read. Restlessly the cis man waits until another hour passes.

When George returns to the kitchen, the pot of soup is still there upon the stovetop… but the second bowl and spoon are missing. The ladle is in a different place, too, and when George lifts the pot’s lid, he notices that there is less vegetable soup inside. A subconscious smile touches his lips.

Without any further conversation, the roommates’ friendship changes again. Despite their lack of communication, this transformation feels less like an end and more like a beginning.

As a transgender man, Dream has female anatomy despite his masculine pronouns and male identity. Gender-affirming treatment is scarce and expensive, so he must remain physically the same as other female people. Therefore he menstruates, he produces estrogen, and he can become pregnant.

Every month, Dream tries to ignore his body as it prepares for a potential baby.

Now the clock reads 10:13pm. Back at the apartment, Dream showers while an unwelcome sensation blossoms in his lower abdomen. On annoying days when urges torment him, he might work longer hours or run more errands. Indulgence can only lead to trouble, no matter how much Dream longs for someone to hold him gently, to love him dearly, to be on top and give him absolutely everything -

Nope. I’m not doing that. Interrupting those desires before they can intensify, Dream turns off the shower. He steps out into the restroom, inhaling hot steam as water droplets trickle down the back of his neck. With a sigh, he wraps himself with a fluffy towel and brushes his teeth at the restroom sink. After applying lip balm, Dream turns off the light and emerges into his darkened bedroom. Navigating by memory, he crosses the carpeted floor and reaches for a barely-visible hairbrush on his dresser.

Once Dream brushes his soaked hair, no more distractions remain. He wishes he could convince his reproductive system that it is unnecessary: completely unwanted. Or actually, it would be wanted… by creepy guys. There are probably men out there who would sacrifice everything in their bank accounts for sex with Dream. To win the heart of a woman who has avoided romance for her entire life? To be the man who convinces that woman to sacrifice her reputation, to accept her inferior status, and to become a complacent housewife? Dream doubts that he knows any men who do not harbor this secret fantasy, except for maybe -

Someone knocks upon the bedroom door, interrupting his thoughts.

Gasping, Dream flinches. He tightens his grip on the towel around him and turns his head to look.

Two shadows of feet interrupt the yellowish light that emanates from beneath the bedroom door.

“Hello? Dream?”

With a spike of anxiety, Dream replies, “Yeah?” Why is he here? Does he know that I’m naked?

“I know you’re probably getting ready to sleep, so you don’t need to come out.” The door muffles George’s voice. “I visited the postage room earlier today and there were some envelopes for you. Honestly they look like spam mail, but do you still want them?”

“Uh, okay. Leave the envelopes on the dinner table, please. I’ll look at them later.”

“Alright, cool.” Both shadows disappear from under the door as George walks away. The yellowish glow vanishes as well when the kitchen light turns off, then the other bedroom door closes.

That was all. It was only a mundane conversation about mail. George probably heard the shower. He could have assumed that Dream was changing his clothes and “accidentally” walked in, yet he did not do either of those things. Despite the cisgender man’s attraction, he has always respected his transgender roommate’s privacy and personal space.

Dream’s stomach flutters. For the first time, he allows himself to wonder what would happen if he took a chance.

A wretched thing still lurks in Dream’s chest like a caged animal, filthy and evil. Before he can stop it, the thing breaks free and explodes into his conscious mind. It swarms his brain, weaving through his thoughts until it is undeniable: unavoidable.

How thrilling would it be for Dream to let go of his stress and worries, to forget his job and obligations, to enjoy a secret moment that the rest of the world will never know about?

Alluring and irresistible, the vile thing slithers down. It migrates through Dream’s body until desire pools in his abdomen. Maybe if he lets these feelings win - just once, only once - then they will leave him alone. War wages within his mind until his thoughts are racing, until his heart is pounding, until he cannot think about anything else. Dream knows that George wants it… and just for tonight, Dream is willing to admit that he wants it, too.

Allowing the thing to consume him, Dream does not put on clothes. Instead he approaches his bedroom door, opens it, and peeks out. The apartment’s main living area is dark. Envelopes are on the dinner table. He walks past them toward the other bedroom, where light seeps from under the door.

Heat blooms in Dream’s chest as he takes the chance. Reaching for the door knob, he grabs it, twists it, then pushes the door open.

George’s bedroom is messy. Discarded clothes are strewn across the floor. The cis man’s bedside lamp illuminates an array of paperwork and sticky notes upon his work desk. Empty snack bags and used tissues overflow from the miniature waste bin in the corner. All of the books on his shelf are disorganized.

George sits on his twin-size mattress with his back leaning against the wall. He balances a large book upon his thighs, but he is not reading. Instead he is writing with a ballpoint pen on a newspaper, which is pressed against the book cover’s flat surface.

“Hi, George,” Dream greets from the doorway as he waits for permission to enter.

“Huh?” George jolts with surprise. His head snaps up to stare at the visitor with raised eyebrows. He glances down at Dream’s outfit, which is only a towel, then he lifts his gaze again to meet Dream’s eyes. “Oh. Hello.”

“Can I come in?”

George’s expression shifts from surprised to uncertain, but he keeps his tone nonchalant: “Of course.”

Stepping into the bedroom, Dream closes the door behind himself. Bare feet tread lightly upon a carpeted floor until he reaches George’s bedside. “Are you busy?”

“Well, I’m supposed to be busy on an engineering project, reviewing a bunch of designs and concepts for the Fjord Automobile Company. You know, looking for errors and flaws and that sort of stuff.” George turns his book around so Dream can see the newspaper on top of it. It is the games page, which displays a partly complete crossword puzzle. Sarcastically he finishes, “And as you can see, I’m working very hard on that project.”

“I used to do crossword puzzles, too.” Dream smiles with a hint of nostalgia. “It was a long time ago, though. I haven’t done newspaper games like those in years.”

“Well, maybe that’s because you don’t procrastinate,” George remarks playfully. “Procrastination is the only reason that I ever play newspaper games.” Then his own smile falters. He glances down at Dream’s towel again as a hesitant, unspoken question sticks in his throat: Is there a reason you came here?

Dream answers with another question, “George, can we talk about something?”

“Uh… alright.” Apprehensively George folds the newspaper, he places the book and pen on his bedside table, then he stretches his wrists. A blanket still covers his waist and legs. Sensing the serious atmosphere, he glances around at his bedroom. “Sorry, there’s a lot of stuff everywhere. It looks kind of bad.”

“Whatever, I don’t mind,” Dream dismisses the awkward apology. Fingers and toes tingling, he begins: “Do you remember how I said I needed some time to think?”

George does not need to ask what he means. Panic flashes in his eyes, but he nods, “Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, I thought about it, and I wanted to ask if you still feel the way that you felt?”

For several seconds, they search each other’s gazes. Dream almost hopes that his roommate will say no. If George is no longer interested, then the dermatologist will return to his bedroom and never allow indulgence to tempt him again.

Slowly but with solemn certainty, George nods again. “Yes, I do. I still feel that way.”

“Oh.” Until now, Dream was sure that this revelation would horrify him… yet joy bubbles up in his heart instead. “Okay.”

Noticing the unexpected softness in his roommate’s expression, George inquires, “Is that… bad?” Both fear and hope shine in his eyes.

“No, it’s not bad,” Dream shakes his head. Buzzing with elation, he suggests, “And if you want, I think it might be nice for us to try something new.”

“Really?” Awestruck, George breathes, “You mean, like, a date or something?”

Dream blushes. “Actually, I came here to ask if you want to have sex.”

“What?” The fear vanishes from George’s eyes. Shock replaces it. His jaw drops. “Right now?”

“Yes, but if you’re not interested, that’s totally okay -”

“No, no, no, I mean, yes, I’m still interested. We can - oh, wait, hold on.” Flustered, George grabs the sleeve of his t-shirt to sniff the fabric near his armpit, then he apologizes, “I haven’t showered since this morning. I might smell kind of sweaty.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind.” Dream smiles more comfortably this time. “Do you have condoms that we can use?”

“Let me check.” Instantly George throws the blanket off his lap and swings his legs off the bed, revealing sweatpants and the Queef band logo on his t-shirt. Leaping up from his mattress, he dashes past Dream toward his restroom and turns on the light. Skittish with anticipation, George opens cabinets and rummages through drawers. Searching for condoms, he whispers to himself, “Oh my god, please, please, please -” He would be devastated if his fantasies were about to become real, only for him to discover that he does not have protection.

While reaching into the cabinet above his sink, George nudges aside the tube of hydrocortisone cream donated from his roommate: practically a miracle treatment which banished his eczema and ended his scratching. Beyond the medication is an unopened 3-pack of condoms hiding near the back of the shelf. With immense relief, George grabs the box, he closes the cabinet, and he turns off the restroom light. “I found some!”

“What’s their expiration date?”

“Uh…” Striding back toward his bed, George reads the label. “They expire in two months.” He rips open the box and removes one foil packet. Mind racing, he wonders if he is forgetting anything. “Wait, hold on.” Rushing to his dresser, he opens the drawers to search for another vital thing. “I just need some of this.”

“What?”

Too self-conscious to admit that he wants to smell nice, George sprays cologne on his neck. His movements are swift as he wipes it across his jaw and collar bones. A pungent floral scent fills the bedroom. Keenly aware of Dream waiting for him, George tosses the cologne back into his dresser and slams the drawer closed. He walks toward the bed for two seconds, then his eyes widen again.

“Oh my god, sorry.” Switching direction again, George leaps away and dashes back into his restroom. Not even bothering to close the door or turn on the overhead light, he squeezes toothpaste onto his toothbrush. “Let me just -”

“No problem.” Still standing beside the bed, Dream smiles with amusement while he listens to ten seconds of frantic brushing. Extremely unhelpfully he offers, “Take your time!” It is entertaining, yet also endearing to see how completely unprepared George was for this.

The toothbrush clatters on the countertop beside the sink as George leans down. He spits, quickly rinses his mouth with water, and dries his face with a towel nearby. When he turns around, his cheeks are flushed with embarrassment. Now reeking of cologne and mint, George hurries back to the bed… and then he stops again. Beside the bedside table his arm swipes out, he grabs a tube of lip balm, and he smears it across his lips. “Sorry for taking so long.”

“It’s okay,” Dream shrugs. Without thinking, he adds, “I know it’ll be worth the wait.” As George’s gaze darkens with lust, he corrects hastily, “I mean, like - sorry, I meant that I was just, um, ready.” Unable to backtrack, the trans man blurts, “Should I lay down?”

“Of course. There’s no need to apologize.” Flattered, George approaches his bed. “First let me just -” He leans past Dream to flip over his pillow. “Here. I haven’t used this side yet.”

“Thanks.” Since he has been out of the shower for over twenty minutes, Dream has begun to shiver. Without realizing how many fantasies he is about to fulfill, he climbs onto the mattress and tightens his grip on the towel to avoid exposing himself too early. Cautiously Dream slides under George’s blanket and lowers his head to rest damp, curly hair upon the pillow. Visiting his roommate’s private space feels risky: enticing.

Now Dream and George have switched places: the taller man lays flat on his back while the shorter man towers above him. Light from the bedside table illuminates only half of George’s face, casting a shadow over the other half.

Feeling vulnerable, Dream requests, “George, would it be okay if we didn’t talk about this afterward? You won’t, like, brag to your friends or your parents about it?” They would think I’m a slut.

“Absolutely,” George promises. “We can keep this between us. I won’t say anything about it.”

“Okay, great.” Relieved that he will not need to think about this moment again, Dream relaxes. More confident, he dares to ask, “Can I see under your shirt?”

“Me?” George cannot agree fast enough: “Sure.” First the cis man pulls off his t-shirt, then he runs fingers through his dark brown hair to tidy it.

As Dream’s eyes drift over his roommate’s bare torso, he notices a thin silver chain hanging from his neck. There is also an intricate black design near his collar bone. “What is that?”

“Huh?” Curious, George looks down. “Oh, this? It’s a tattoo.”

“You have a tattoo?” Dream is impressed.

“Yeah, it’s a little scorpion.” When George looks up again, a shy smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

“Oh. That’s neat.” Dream’s voice cracks as his eyes travel from his roommate’s tattoo to his devastatingly handsome face. Deep umber eyes observe him with equal hunger.

“I can hang up your towel if you want,” George offers tentatively.

“Actually, um…” Dream’s feet shiver. This towel is his only protection: the only thing that still conceals him. “Can I keep it with me?”

“Oh. Okay.” After a brief confusion, George appears to understand the problem. Pointing at the bedside lamp, he asks, “Should I turn this off?”

“Yes, please.” Dream is sure that George would pay anything to open his towel and see his body, too, so he is grateful for his roommate’s flexibility.

George turns off the bedside lamp. Safe, comforting darkness swallows the bedroom until the roommates can only see each other’s outlines. As the men’s eyes adapt to the low light, they relish the feeling of freedom that accompanies it.

“Thanks.” Gaining confidence, Dream reveals, “I’m ready for more.”

“More?” George feels like he might faint.

“Yeah.” Dream nods plaintively. “Can we do that?”

“Of course.” George has wanted more for so long. This has got to be the best night of my life. Exhilarated, he removes the rest of his clothing and drops it in a crumpled pile beside the bed. Air touches exposed skin as he lifts the blanket and mounts his mattress. Carefully he hoists himself over Dream, settling onto his knees beside his roommate’s calves before dragging the blanket over them. Scents of sweat, cologne, and perfume wreath around the lovers as bare skin brushes.

Dream’s knuckles are numb from gripping the towel around him while he looks down the length of his figure. As George lowers himself into a position that is more crouching than kneeling, the blanket allows darkness to conceal their bodies.

Slowly Dream unwraps his towel, finally unclenching the fist which held it so tightly. His hand tingles as he opens the huge flaps of fabric, revealing himself to another person for the first time. Hairs rise along his arms as he drags the towel out from under his body and discards it onto the floor. Soft bed sheets cradle his spine and lower back.

This bedroom feels like a little world by itself: a temporary paradise without judgment or time or outside expectations. Moonlight seeps through the window beside George’s bed. A curtain obscures most of the light, but there is enough to faintly illuminate Dream’s face and chest.

Encouraged and emboldened, George slips between Dream’s legs. His hips press against inner thighs, holding them apart. “So is this your first time?”

“It is.” Dream thought he would sound more proud to say it, but his voice shakes.

“Okay, then.” Nodding sympathetically, George promises, “I’ll try to make it good.” Secretly he hopes that if he makes the first time good enough, then Dream will return for more.

Concerned that the cis man’s interpretation of “good” implies rough sex, Dream implores, “Please be gentle.”

“I will.” Beneath the blankets, George’s hands touch quivering skin. He asks dubiously, “Are you cold?”

“No, I’m just nervous.” Dream cannot believe it is the truth. He is a clinician: a licensed dermatologist! He learned about human anatomy and saw pictures of it in medical school! Why does this seem so different?

“That’s alright.” Lowering himself until he is laying on top, George reaches up. As their rib cages swell against each other, he strokes his lover’s neck with tender care. Finally free to share everything he left unsaid, he whispers, “You’re so amazing, Dream. I don’t know how you aren’t proud of yourself every day. Even when I first met you, I couldn’t believe it.” For a moment he is quiet, letting these words seep into the air. Dream’s expression softens while his hands clutch George’s sides. By now their eyes have adjusted, allowing them to observe each other’s faces in the dim light. Time seems to slow as both lovers cuddle, immersing themselves in complete honesty. Wishing this moment could last forever, George continues, “And when you moved in with me, Dream, I was so nervous. I didn’t know how I had gotten so lucky because I thought you were so smart. You were so cool, too, and you had to be the most beautiful girl I had ever -” Abruptly George cuts himself off. He realizes what he just said. Oh no.

Dream heard it, too. Slightly uncomfortable, he murmurs, “Um, George? I’m not a -”

“Right, yes, I know. I was just - sorry.” Rushing to correct himself, George stammers, “I meant, um - actually I didn’t mean - um, sorry. I meant that you’re the most handsome guy I had ever met.”

“I know,” Dream understands, sparing them from the awkward moment. He forgives the accidental misgendering: “It’s okay. Mistakes happen.”

Flustered, George scrambles to fix the delicate atmosphere that he shattered. Glancing down at their cuddling bodies, he offers, “So should I, uh… start?”

Relieved, Dream nods, “Yeah, go ahead.”

“Epic.”

Shadows engulf the pair as they entwine. Sliding down for a better angle, George puts it in. Once his lover is ready, he moves at a slow, steady pace. Moonlight glints off the chain that dangles from his neck; it swings back and forth with each thrust.

Below, Dream grips bed sheets with both hands. Stars explode in his vision as fingers press into his hips. Mesmerized, he tries to live in the moment. He is only doing this once, so he must savor it while it lasts.

Ragged breaths, soft grunts, quiet moans, faint squelching noises, a rustling blanket, and the slapping of bare skin echo through the bedroom. Floral cologne permeates the thick, stuffy air.

Gradually sinking further into pleasure, Dream releases his grip on the bed sheets. Both hands lift, gliding along the ridges of George’s spine as it curls and uncurls. He relishes the rhythmic swelling and contracting of his lover’s rib cage. Then his fingertips creep up, feeling slender biceps and narrow shoulders. As heavy breaths hit his collar bones, Dream cups George’s face. He rubs thumbs along a jawline, enjoying the rough sensation of stubble.

Dream reaches the end first. George follows soon afterward.

The movement stops, allowing an intimate quiet to fall over the bedroom. Catching their breaths, both lovers remain entwined. Gently they pull apart, relishing in the affection that neither of them expected to be mutual. For two minutes, all they hear is each other’s heavy breaths. George lays on his front, with the side of his head resting upon a soft chest. Dream adores the weight on top of him and the luscious chest hair that tickles his belly. Subconsciously the roommates try to memorize every detail of this experience… but with recovery comes clarity.

Nothing lasts forever. Expecting this moment to be eternal would be unrealistic.

Regaining his awareness of the world beyond, Dream experiences a rush of self-consciousness. As his desires slink back into the cage where they belong, he discovers the consequences of his decision to come here. Observing George, who hums softly with ecstasy, Dream remembers his words from minutes ago.

“You had to be the most beautiful girl I had ever -”

Of course it was just a mistake, and George had apologized immediately… yet the poison still seeps into Dream’s consciousness. Perhaps the mistake indicates a deeper problem. When was the last time George misgendered him? Did tonight’s error mean that the trans man has rewritten his identity in the cis man’s head?

Icy cold fear crawls along Dream’s spine despite the warmth around him. Right now George’s face is on his chest; his eyes are closed as he bathes in the perfumey scent of Dream’s soap from the shower. The cis man looks satisfied, blissful, entranced. Does he really see me as a fellow man? Would George be this comfortable cuddling with someone who had a beard like him, chest hair like him, and male anatomy like him? Dream cannot answer the question… and it frightens him.

Overwhelmed, he feels a powerful urge to escape the paradise before it collapses. Once he begins to sit up, George’s eyes snap open.

“Dream?” Pulling his face away, the cis man withdraws and flips onto his side. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Dream lies. Ignoring the ache in his head, he seizes this opportunity to slip off the mattress. “I need to go.”

“Why?” Confused, George wipes his sweaty forehead. As the trans man swings his legs over the side of his bed, he asks, “Where are you going?”

“I work early tomorrow,” Dream explains briskly. “I need to set my morning alarm.”

“You can set mine if you want.” George points at the alarm clock on his bedside table. “You don’t need to leave.”

“I appreciate the offer.” Dream leans down to scoop his discarded towel off the floor, giving his roommate a spectacular view of his exposed backside. “But I don’t want the alarm to wake you up.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” George assures hastily, even as he wonders if the alarm is only an excuse. “Really, I’m serious. You can stay here. Even if your alarm is super loud and annoying, I can just fall asleep again afterward.”

Dream falters. He knows how much George hates rude awakenings, especially ones that occur before sunrise. If his roommate had not confessed his love already, this offer would suffice.

Then Dream reprimands himself. No. Sleeping together is for couples, and they are not a couple. They are just roommates: just friends.

George senses the decision. He recognizes the futility of his efforts. Naively he assumed that if the sex were good enough, then Dream would stay… but maybe this ending was inevitable.

Disheartened, George watches as Dream wraps the towel around himself and slips away. The cis man sinks down from his side halfway onto his back, suppressing a disappointed sigh as the trans man crosses his bedroom. With every step, George hopes that Dream will stop and reconsider, but his roommate’s steps are determined. Before his lover can complete the short “walk of shame”, George blurts, “Wait.”

Dream freezes in the bedroom’s doorway. Softly he responds, “Yeah?” In the near-complete darkness, the elusive man resembles a ghost when he looks back over his shoulder.

“I just wanted to say - I mean, um, this might sound kind of weird, but… thanks for visiting me tonight.”

A pause. From the doorway, Dream senses his roommate’s desperation. He witnesses the other man’s outline in the faint moonlight. Dark, messy hair. A crumpled pile of clothes on the floor. On the bedside table, an empty foil wrapper glints as a reminder of the temporary paradise that Dream created, then rejected. When he meets George’s gaze, he discovers it is full of more than wild lust. George’s eyes gleam with adoration and longing. Falling asleep beside him sounds like paradise.

Begrudgingly yet sincerely, he acknowledges, “Thanks to you, too, George. I had a good time.”

“Great. I’m glad.” George’s elbow presses against his pillow, which is still damp from wet hair. Ultimately accepting the loss, his voice is flat when he salutes, “Goodnight, Dream.”

“Bye, George.” After successfully striking again, the executioner recedes and disappears.

Subconsciously George rubs his neck as he listens to the footsteps. Papers shuffle as Dream collects his mail from the dinner table, then the other bedroom door closes. Light-headed, he hauls himself off the mattress and staggers toward his restroom. Oh my god, I can’t believe that just happened.

George squints when the restroom’s overhead light turns on and ruins his night vision. Swiftly he turns it off again before washing his hands and shaking them dry. Too tired to change his bed sheets, he climbs back onto the mattress and drags the blanket over himself. Scents of soap and cologne wreath around him as he stares up at the ceiling. How did a mundane evening of procrastination and solitaire become the best night of his life?

And now it’s over. George appreciated every second of that intimate moment with Dream, yet nostalgia consumes him regardless. The other man might be physically close, sleeping across the apartment, yet his presence was as brief as a comet blazing through the night sky.

Before George succumbs to sleep, he discovers that his bedroom - once a safe haven - now seems to be missing something. He has fallen asleep alone every other night of his life, yet his twin-sized bed has never felt this lonely.

At 4:45am, Dream’s ringing alarm wakes him. Remaining blissfully unaware of himself and his surroundings, he leaves his bed and ventures to the kitchen for breakfast. Stirring dried fruit into his peanut butter oatmeal, he wonders why he feels so tired.

Then he remembers last night. His heart lurches while adrenaline fills his body. For a long moment, Dream drowns in the memories of gasping breaths, soft voices, gentle touches, and bony hips holding his thighs apart. His head snaps up to look at the other door. It is still slightly open.

Against his better judgment, Dream leaves his bowl of oatmeal upon the kitchen countertop to approach George’s bedroom. Stepping carefully to avoid making noise, he peeks inside. Light from the kitchen filters into the room past him. Dream’s shadow stretches long across a carpeted floor.

George is asleep in bed. Only his head, shoulders, and one arm are visible. Whenever Dream has seen his roommate napping in the past, he always laid on his back. This morning, George lays on his front with the side of his face buried into the pillow.

Maybe it smells like me. Dream battles the sentimentality that makes him reluctant to look away. Hopefully after a while, both roommates can move on and return to a completely platonic friendship.

For now, Dream must go to work. Retreating from the doorway, he wraps fingers around the metal knob. Delicately he closes the door, then he releases the breath he did not realize he was holding.

Working efficiently and without much thought, the dermatologist consumes his oatmeal, he dresses in his hospital uniform, he puts on deodorant, he pulls on his binder, and he brushes his teeth. He performs the daily count of his belongings: his wallet, his reading glasses, his lab coat, his ID badge, his lanyard -

Freezing air whistles through open windows as the dermatologist drives across the city to the hospital. The 5am streets are sleepy and abandoned. Every stop light turns green when he approaches it. Most building windows are still darkened, except for the bright windows of the hospital when Dream arrives at work. Parking his car, the dermatologist jogs toward the staff entrance.

The first hour of Dream’s shift is completely normal. He arrives at the dermatology clinic, he greets the early-morning receptionist, and he stashes his belongings in his office: a tiny room shoved into the crowded cluster of maze-like hallways. Although Dream’s office is small and narrow, he keeps it organized. File folders and boxes are stacked along one wall. Across from those, a hospital map and a staff directory decorate the opposite wall. A work desk occupies the last wall. Medical journals, patient binders, and research books form a neat line across the desk’s far side.

Next Dream washes his hands in a staff restroom down the hallway. Alone among empty stalls, black-tiled floors, and cold overhead lights, he stares at himself in the mirror. He thinks about last night again.

George kept his promise to be gentle. Without any soreness, Dream can distract himself with an abundance of work much more easily. I don’t need to think about him anymore, Dream convinces himself. Last night was fun - a worthwhile experiment - but it was a one-time thing. After repeating these thoughts, the dermatologist inhales a deep breath, hoping to switch from the mind of a lovestruck girl to the mind of a licensed clinician. This is the way things are supposed to be: the way that his life needs to be.

Prepared for a long, arduous shift, Dream spends the morning in his cramped office, writing prescriptions and reviewing patient files. Next he moves to the dermatology clinic’s examination room and conducts in-person appointments.

In the late afternoon, the dermatologist meets with one of today’s final patients. This appointment will be for an allergy test. Dream’s patient is a cisgender woman, but her hair is unusually short just like his. Understandably the patient is nervous about allowing a stranger to prick her skin with potential allergens, but that nervousness does not discourage her from engaging in conversation.

“You know, I was actually supposed to have this procedure a few months ago.”

Disinfecting the patient’s arm with an alcoholic swab, Dream hums, “That’s okay. Better late than never.”

Staring ahead at a skin anatomy poster on the wall, the patient defends, “Well, I didn’t procrastinate on purpose. I kept trying to schedule appointments with you - you in particular, not just this hospital - but your schedule is so full all the time that I couldn’t get a spot until today.”

“You wanted me in particular?” Dream is intrigued.

“Yeah. When I heard there was actually a female clinician here who could give me the procedure, I didn’t want to consider anyone else.” As a needle pricks her skin for the first time, the patient winces, but the uncomfortable sensation does not prevent her from talking. “You’re kind of inspirational, you know? I never thought I would find a medical professional who’s a woman - not just an assistant or a nurse - and it’s even more impressive that you’re working here while married, too.”

Throughout the female patient’s confession, Dream simply listened as he deposited drops of allergens into her skin to observe their effects. As his brain catches up, the patient’s last comment makes him pause. Puzzled, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologizes hastily. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your personal life or whatever. I just assumed you must be married.” When the dermatologist does not reply, the female patient sighs, “I gave up on dating men months ago. I don’t think any of them would like a woman who wants to do something other than be a housewife and have babies.” Then she gazes fondly at Dream. “But you must’ve found one of the good ones, so you can keep helping other women like us.”

Still perplexed, the dermatologist decides to pretend that he knows what his patient is talking about. Wondering why this woman seems so certain that he is married, Dream stammers, “Oh, uh, thank you. I’m glad that I can help you feel more comfortable.”

When the dermatologist finishes the allergy test and informs the patient that she must stay in the waiting room outside for results to develop, the woman thanks Dream for his help. Her eyes shine with aspiration and gratitude, which only leave the dermatologist even more confused once he is alone in the examination room.

After discarding his latex gloves and washing his hands, Dream stops to think. Sometimes patients attempt to flirt with him, but no patient - especially not a female person - has ever asked about his personal life. Most people seem to assume that a trans man in a professional job must be single. Why was that lady so sure I was married?

Then, as Dream leans back against the sink and cabinets, he pauses. Scents of paper, disinfectant, dust, upholstery, and deodorant waft into his nose… along with something else. With rising apprehension, Dream reaches to grab his shirt collar. Peeling the lab coat and uniform off his chest, he sniffs the shirt fabric.

Cologne. George’s cologne.

Too late, Dream realizes that he did not shower again after having sex with George. Instantly his patient’s words make sense. That’s why she thought I was married! Suddenly self-conscious, Dream wonders if any of his other patients smelled the cologne, too. Maybe they thought it would be impolite to remark that their biologically female clinician reeked of masculinity.

Just like how Dream left the ghost of himself in George’s bed, his roommate left traces on him in return.

Unwilling for his patients to imagine him in such a compromising position, Dream is much more careful during the rest of his shift. He avoids chatting with his coworkers and he stands farther from patients except when proximity is necessary. By the end of his 15-hour shift at 9pm, the dermatologist is exhausted both physically and mentally. Hunger growls in his stomach; his previous meal was lunchtime, ten hours ago.

When Dream finally drives home, parks his car, and approaches his apartment, he fantasizes about a hot shower and a soft mattress. However, when he reaches the front door, he hesitates to unlock it. This morning he avoided interacting with George, but he doubts he will be so lucky tonight.

Silently pleading for his roommate to be hidden away in the other bedroom, Dream unlocks the front door. Please don’t be in the kitchen, please don’t be in the kitchen -

George is in the kitchen, standing beside the sink. He holds a dripping bowl in one hand and a rag in the other hand. The kitchen’s overhead light shines upon dark brown hair and the shoulders of a blue t-shirt. When the front door opens, George stops drying the bowl and turns around to face his roommate.

Wishing he were invisible, Dream enters and locks the front door behind himself. Hastily he removes his lab coat and lanyard.

“Hi,” George greets. He places the bowl on the kitchen countertop. “How was work?”

“It was fine,” Dream responds smoothly. Technically it is not a lie, but it sounds like one. I didn’t like how I couldn’t stop thinking about you.

“That’s good,” George nods, unaware of his roommate’s internal conflict. He points at a half-full pan of paneer tikka masala on the stovetop. “If you’re hungry, there’s food.”

“Thank you.” Too shy to accept the offer so soon, Dream excuses himself. “I’ll eat it after my shower.”

“Alright, no problem.”

After Dream’s shower, he chooses a t-shirt, sweatpants, and long socks. When he returns to the apartment’s main living area, George’s bedroom door is still fully open, but the kitchen is empty. Dream sighs with relief and pours the rest of the paneer tikka masala into a ceramic bowl. He places the bowl into the microwave, turns it on, and listens to the machine’s warm hum as it reheats the food.

From this spot in the kitchen, Dream can see into his roommate’s bedroom. Even from a distance, he sees plenty. An empty waste bin. An organized bookshelf. A clean work desk. Different bed sheets, and a different blanket on the bed. No more empty food bags or clothes scattered across the floor.

George sits with his back leaning against the wall and a large book balanced on his thighs. This time he is not using it as a flat surface for a crossword puzzle. Expertly he flips through the book’s pages, writing or marking things in it with a pen every few seconds. George’s deep umber gaze is intense with focus. He must be working on the automobile engineering project he was supposed to finish last night.

Then the microwave beeps. Dinner is ready. Eagerly Dream opens the microwave door and pulls out the hot food. Dropping a spoon into the paneer tikka masala, Dream plans to carry his bowl away… until he notices the abrupt silence around him. No more humming microwave or pages flipping.

Suddenly uneasy, Dream looks up.

George has stopped writing. His grip on the pen hovers frozen above his book.

Their gazes meet. Piercing teal collides with deep umber. For a long moment, they hold tense eye contact. Both of them think about last night.

George waits, wondering if Dream will say something.

Dream waits, hoping that George will not say anything.

No one speaks.

Six weeks pass. The roommates’ lack of communication leads to a misunderstanding. Dream wants to believe that his night with George was insignificant: a one-time fling to enjoy, then forget. To George, the experience was a tantalizing taste-test: proof that his fantasies were not so unrealistic after all.

Now George is confused. Dream ignores his affection more often than he accepts it. Are they just roommates now? Are they friends? Are they more?

Within the privacy of his skull, George has replayed their night together countless times. He has laid awake in bed, glanced at his bedroom door, and planned how he will react if Dream visits again. Every night, he ensures his door is slightly open like a subtle invitation.

George did not expect intimacy to happen so soon - if he expected it to happen at all - so he was completely unprepared. Nowadays he brushes his teeth early in the evenings, he discards his clothes into a laundry basket, and he keeps a single unopened condom stashed behind his bedside lamp. Now he is ready for next time… if there will be a next time. George’s doubt grows. He knows he should be prepared for their first intimate moment to be their last.

Tonight George is in his bedroom when Dream returns from the hospital. An hour ago, the cis man left a note on the kitchen countertop, informing his roommate that dinner is in the refrigerator.

Dream does not open the refrigerator. After removing his shoes, he walks directly from the apartment’s main living area into his bedroom, then into the restroom. The shower turns on.

Like every other night of the past six weeks, George assesses his bedroom. No clothes on the floor, no waste on his work desk, and the door is slightly open. Everything is ready for an unexpected-yet-definitely-welcome visitor.

Next George inhales a deep breath to calm himself. For too many nights he has fantasized about how Dream’s moans sound when they echo off his walls, about the electrifying sensation of Dream’s hands exploring his body, and about how the bed sheets smell after a woman has - no, wait. A man, George corrects himself sternly. Why does this mistake keep happening? No matter what Dream’s body looks like - regardless of his delightfully curvy, feminine figure - he is a man. George’s roommate is a guy just like him, no different from any other guy.

Except I’ve never liked guys.

Unaware that this is exactly what Dream feared, George confronts the reality. It shines with truth and menace.

Until George met Dream, the first transgender person he had ever known, he considered himself to be straight: completely heterosexual. Does being in love with a trans man change that? Why does all of this need to be so complicated?

Across the apartment, the shower turns off. Seconds feel like minutes as George listens. He hears faint footsteps, the soft thump of a body flopping onto a mattress, then nothing else. Dream will not visit tonight. Maybe he is just really tired, maybe he will come tomorrow, or maybe George is just lying to himself.

With a heavy sigh of disappointment, he clambers out of bed, turns off the kitchen light, and stumbles back to his room. Pulling a thick blanket over himself, he reaches to turn off his bedside lamp, too.

Six weeks have passed since his roommate’s spontaneous visit: the last time when George was sure that his feelings were requited. After so many discouraging nights, he reaches an intimidating resolution. George must talk to Dream. When or how, he is unsure. I just need to know.

Unbeknownst to George, his unspoken question will receive an answer tomorrow.

An alarm rings at 4:45am, warning Dream that he must prepare for work. When he wakes, the dermatologist reaches sideways instinctively to turn off the alarm clock. Nimble fingers find a button and press it, then the irritating noise falls silent. Nothing is different from usual until he lifts his head off the pillow.

Churning in his stomach. A pounding headache. Cold hands and feet. Dream barely manages to sit up in bed. “Ugh.”

A painful cramp ripples through his abdomen, so the clinician assumes that he must be dehydrated. Maybe he forgot to drink water before he fell asleep last night.

However when Dream moves again, swinging his feet over the side of the mattress, the physical discomfort worsens. Leaning forward, he stands upon wobbly knees. Immediately he sways and flops back down onto his mattress. Fear replaces his confusion. Something is wrong.

Again Dream attempts to stand, more slowly this time. With an unsettling weakness in his legs and body, he stumbles toward his restroom. Breathing hard, he grabs the sink with both hands. Anchoring the rest of his body, his forearms tremble. For a long moment, the dermatologist stares down into the sink, queasy and frightened.

Please, I don’t want to skip work. Female employees receive extremely reduced sick days, and Dream values his reputation of being the hospital’s most dependable clinician.

Determined to resolve the mysterious problem, the dermatologist drinks from the sink to rehydrate. Next he rinses his face; the cold water seems to alleviate his headache. Hopefully his nausea will fade soon, too. Maybe he is just menstruating.

Staggering back across his bedroom, the dermatologist struggles to combat his rising anxiety. If he does not hurry, he will be late to work. By now he is supposed to be making breakfast or eating breakfast or getting dressed or -

Dream finds the notebook where he records his menstrual cycles. If menstruation is causing these nasty symptoms, then he cannot do much, but at least the certainty will comfort him. Opening the notebook, Dream flips to a hand-written list of dates. He mouths words to himself as he searches for the date of his last menstrual cycle, which was… almost two months ago? That must be wrong. Two months is much longer than average.

Then Dream considers another reason that a female person might suffer from these symptoms. Morning sickness is common during early pregnancy.

Oh.

Symptoms of early pregnancy usually begin around six weeks.

Oh no.

Terror sends toxic fumes traveling up from Dream’s heart, past his spine, and into his skull. Tendrils of panic taunt his mind, weaving through his thoughts like invisible ivy. Did the condom rip? Was Dream in the middle of his ovulation window when he decided to -?

Oh, please no.

Uselessly Dream tries to convince himself that something else might be the cause of his sickness: food poisoning, gastroenteritis, indigestion, vertigo, or even a tumor. However, no matter how much he yearns to believe that a pregnancy is unlikely, he cannot ignore the coincidences.

Whenever doctors must reveal pregnancies to patients, many of them are shocked. Some patients protest that they only had sex once. Each time, their doctors must respond gently but gravely that “once can be enough.”

A dangerous haze clouds Dream’s thoughts. Even if his nausea magically vanished now, he could not fulfill his job’s rigorous duties. He must skip work and sacrifice one of his precious few sick days.

In the dim light, the dermatologist can barely see the time on his alarm clock: 5:03am. With a thick, choking sensation in his throat, he grabs the telephone. Frantically he dials his supervisor’s phone number. Suddenly an overloaded schedule does not seem so daunting… or at least, overworking would not cause this much anxiety. Ironically Dream is not lying when he says he feels too sick to come to work today. His supervisor accepts the sick-leave request, but he disapproves of the short notice. The dermatologist will need to postpone or reschedule all of his appointments. Patients will complain. Dream’s coworkers might mutter about how they should have known that a transgender employee would disappoint them. Some people may even spread rumors that Dream might be pregnant.

I might be pregnant.

Of course this happened because of the one time when he allowed himself to indulge. Despite being careful every other day of his life, constantly avoiding romance and intimacy, a single impulsive moment doomed him. Why did I expect anything different? How could he make such a terrible mistake? Dream could have controlled his urges and forced himself to sleep… but he did not do that. Instead he was reckless and so, so naive.

Despite his rising panic, the clinician realizes that he needs evidence to be certain. He must take a pregnancy test.

Still wearing his night clothes, Dream brushes his teeth. As another cramp pulses in his abdomen, he doubts that he could eat breakfast. Instead he takes pain medication, he gathers his belongings, and he hurries toward the front door. The trans man does not bother to put on a binder. Instead he simply slips on a jacket and pulls athletic shoes onto his feet. Has he forgotten anything? I have my wallet, I have my jacket, I have my car keys, I have - wait.

Dream freezes beside the front door. Yes, he has forgotten something. With a sinking sensation in his chest, he looks back over his shoulder.

Across the darkened apartment, the other bedroom door is closed. Right now George is asleep, completely unaware that in a few months, he might become a father. He should know.

With a deep breath, Dream crosses the main living area and opens the door to his roommate’s bedroom. Peeking inside, he sees the same sports trophies, chess-related memorabilia, and hung guitar on the wall. Upon the twin-sized mattress, there is a lump beneath the blankets.

Dream approaches his sleeping roommate. George lays upon his front with his head facing the wall, so the trans man must stand directly beside the bed to view the cis man’s face. Feathery brown hair is dark against the pillow. George breathes slowly; his expression is peaceful.

Dream is unsure about how his roommate will react. Will George be as frightened as him, or will he be excited? My parents would definitely be thrilled, he thinks bitterly. Dream’s mother would probably thank George endlessly for his gift: the gift of transforming her rebellious tomboy daughter into a humble baby factory.

Dream has never met George’s parents, but they would probably be proud, too. Surely his roommate’s mother would be pleased to see her son accomplishing the goal of every 70s man: to find a free spirit and tame it into something docile like a living trophy.

No matter what, Dream will no longer be George’s roommate. Instead he will become the mother of George’s child. Dream hopes that will not be his future… but if it is, then at least the father would be someone who he trusts.

Summoning his courage, Dream reaches down to touch his roommate’s shoulder blade. Rubbing it, he whispers, “George. Wake up.”

“Hm?” The other man’s eyes remain closed. His drowsy hum is barely audible. Slender fingers grip his pillow, then release it. When Dream keeps rubbing his shoulder, George scrunches his face and rotates his body to lay on his side instead. Groggy but conscious, he groans, “Dream?”

“You need to get up.” Impatiently the trans man grabs the cis man’s blanket and pulls it away. This method is much more effective.

“Huh?” Without the blanket, George’s eyes snap open immediately. Wearing only a tank top and sweatpants, he shivers and flips onto his back. “What time is it?”

“5:30am.” Retreating from his roommate’s bedside, Dream urges, “Get ready, then meet me near the front door, please.”

“What’s going on?” By now, George is fully awake. His mild irritation fades when he senses his roommate’s urgency. Dream would only wake him this early if the reason were serious.

Leaving George’s bedroom and closing the door behind himself, Dream waits in the apartment’s main living area. Unable to stand still, he drums fingers on the countertop and stares into the empty kitchen.

Finally George emerges with a freshly rinsed face, freshly washed hands, freshly brushed teeth, and a coat over his night clothes.

“Great. Put on your shoes, too.” Dream points brusquely at the other pair of athletic shoes on the floor.

“You sound like an army general or something,” George scoffs, but he obeys anyway.

“Sorry, I’m just feeling sick,” Dream apologizes. His tone is strained, flat with dread. “Thanks for waking up. I appreciate it.”

“Sure.” Supporting himself against the wall with one hand, George pulls on his shoes. Puzzled, he questions, “Why are we going out if you’re sick, though? Shouldn’t you be in bed or on the toilet or something?”

Dream avoids the question. Opening the front door, he leads his roommate outside into the hallway. “Come on. We’ll take my car.”

While Dream strides fast toward the staircase, George locks the front door behind them. Jogging to catch up, he pants, “So you’re not going to work?”

“No, I took a day off.” Dream’s breath billows in the hallway’s chilly air. He fumbles to zip up his jacket without looking down at it. “We’re going somewhere else.”

George cannot remember the last time when his roommate canceled a shift at the hospital, so he lowers his voice. “You’re not gonna die or something, right?”

“I won’t die,” Dream reassures tersely. Panting, he leads George down the staircase toward the apartment complex’s underground parking lot. “But I really need to buy something.” When they reach the bottom, Dream glances back, expecting his roommate to remark that this sounds like a shopping trip. However George appears curious and tentative instead. Silently Dream thanks him for sensing that this situation must be more severe than it seems.

Damp air fills their lungs as they cross the underground parking lot. Yellowish lights flicker overhead. George whistles experimentally; the high-pitched sound echoes off the walls. When they reach Dream’s car, the cis man offers politely, “Um, should I meet you at the place? My car isn’t too far from here, so -”

Interrupting his roommate, Dream unlocks the vehicle and climbs into the driver’s seat. “Just get in.”

“Got it.” Quickly ducking his head, George slides into the passenger seat of Dream’s car. Buckling his seat belt, he folds his hands together in his lap and waits while the engine powers on. “I’m ready.”

George is wrong. He gasps when Dream’s foot plunges down on the accelerator and the car lurches sharply backwards out of the parking spot. His neck aches with protest when Dream switches the gear from ‘reverse’ to ‘drive’, then speeds aggressively out of the parking lot toward the street.

Both roommates peer out the front windshield while Dream turns onto the empty road ahead. By now the sun has barely risen above the horizon. Pink and orange hues paint the sky, illuminating the car’s upholstery. Despite the rolled-down windows, the air within the vehicle feels stifling. George does not comment about his roommate’s reckless driving style, but he grips the seat while Dream speeds through yellow stop lights and swerves to avoid potholes. When they reach the local pharmacy, George’s shoulders sink with relief that they survived.

Slamming his foot down upon the brake, Dream parks his car at a crooked angle near the pharmacy’s front entrance. Leaning forward in the driver’s seat, he rubs his temples. “Oh my god, I feel like I’m gonna faint.”

“Should I go to buy the thing instead?” Nervously George unbuckles his seat belt. “You can tell me what it is and I’ll see if the store has it.”

“No, that’s fine.” Dream cannot muster enough boldness to ask his roommate for a pregnancy test. Instead he lifts his head and unbuckles his own seat belt, too. “I just need to buy one thing.”

“Dream, you’re kind of scaring me.” George forces a light tone, but worry shines in his deep umber eyes. Aren’t doctors supposed to be good at coping with stress? The trans man’s shaken demeanor unnerves him. “Unless you drive like a wild animal all the time, something’s got to be wrong.”

“George, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you yet. You just need to wait here and trust me.” Opening the car door, Dream exits the vehicle with his wallet. First he leaves his car keys behind, then he changes his mind and turns around to grab them. “Actually, don’t wait here. You need to come, too.”

“Me?” George blinks with surprise, then he agrees, “Uh… okay.”

Together they leave Dream’s car behind in the parking lot and stride toward the pharmacy. At 6am, the building has just opened.

“Good morning, folks!” The only occupant, a female cashier, greets both visitors as they enter.

“Hello!” George waves in return.

“Hi.” Dream does not even look. Once the pair disappear from the cashier’s view, he flips around and unexpectedly pulls his roommate aside. “Okay, listen.” In a harsh whisper he instructs, “I’m going to buy something - just one thing - but you can’t say anything about it until we’re somewhere private.”

“Why can’t I say anything?” Bewildered, George stares up at him.

“Just… don’t. Please. Now come on.” Between bright overhead lights and white linoleum floors, Dream searches the pharmacy’s aisles. George follows him, obediently keeping his mouth shut.

Agitated and full of adrenaline, Dream scans the variety of products in each aisle. He passes snacks, cards, medications, vitamins, makeup and - there they are.

Dream stops. His heart lurches when he peers into an aisle of adult products. Condoms, personal lubricant, and pregnancy tests. Time has run out. He cannot postpone revealing the truth for any longer.

Frozen, Dream keeps his gaze focused forward. In his peripheral vision he sees George sidle up beside him.

The cis man noticed his roommate’s shift in demeanor. George is unsure if he is supposed to know what they are looking for.

Dream surprises himself when he reaches sideways to hold George’s hand. Nimble and slender fingers slide together. Flustered, George marvels at their interlocked hands.

There is no turning back now. Despite Dream’s terror, he knows what he must do.

Pulling away, the trans man enters the aisle. He leads George to the pregnancy tests and grabs two off the shelf. “We’re buying these.”

Instantly George breaks his promise. Eyes wide, he gasps, “What?”

“Shhh!” Flinching, Dream shushes him. “No talking!”

George tears his gaze from the pregnancy tests to gape at him with open disbelief. Experiencing everything that his roommate felt in a much shorter time, he is speechless.

Dream does not wait for any more questions. Blushing with humiliation, he scurries to the cash registers. Quick footsteps echo behind him as George races to keep up. Finally they share the same sense of urgency.

Approaching the female cashier, Dream avoids eye contact. Please don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me -

“Are you alright today, Miss? You look kind of sick.” The cashier’s expression transforms from concerned to sympathetic when the customer gives her the pregnancy tests. Her tone softens. “Ah. I’m so sorry about that.”

As the formal term “Miss” infiltrates his thoughts, Dream glances up at the cashier. She is young like him. Reluctantly acknowledging that she meant no harm, he croaks, “Yeah.”

After scanning the pregnancy tests, the cashier drops them into a brown paper bag while Dream pays. She murmurs, “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” I’ll need it. Touched by her kindness, Dream snatches the brown paper bag and turns around again. To George, he orders, “Restroom.”

Crossing the pharmacy again, the pair find the restroom along the back wall. Dream senses the way George’s brain overflows with questions. Opening the door to the women’s restroom, Dream beckons, “Come with me.”

Fortunately the pharmacy’s restroom is only a single large stall, spacious and accessible for wheelchairs. By the time the door closes and locks behind them, George has regained his ability to speak. “Dream, what happened?”

“I might be pregnant.”

“How?” Still stunned, George demands, “Do you think it’s because of the time when we - you know - did the thing together?”

“Yeah. I never had sex with anyone else.”

“So if you’re pregnant, then that means I’m…?” His trembling voice trails off.

“That’s right,” Dream nods solemnly. “You would be the father.”

“Oh.”

Silence. George places a hand upon his chest as he reaches the same discovery that his roommate did one hour ago. In a few months, they might become parents.

Above the restroom sink, a light flickers weakly. Whirring sounds emanate from a vent on the ceiling. Sounds of breathing as two people imagine their futures.

“But I wore a condom.” Struggling to process everything, George asks, “Do you really think it’s possible?”

“It’s possible.” Dream wishes to fall asleep and never wake up. Gesturing to the pregnancy tests in his hand, he suggests weakly, “So I guess we should find out now, huh?”

George holds the brown paper bag, Dream’s wallet, and Dream’s car keys. Meanwhile his roommate carries the two pregnancy tests to the toilet in the corner of the restroom.

When Dream pulls down his pants, George jolts. Seeing much more of his roommate’s body than he anticipated, he stammers, “Should I, uh -?”

“Look away, please.”

“Right.” Averting his gaze, George looks instead at the restroom’s grimy tiled floor and grimy tiled walls. Shoving both hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, he waits while Dream reads the instructions on the back of one box.

“Technically these are hormone-detection pregnancy tests, but even some clinicians just call them ‘pee sticks’.” The dermatologist describes how they work as if he were speaking to a patient. Pulling the tests out of their packages, he continues, “When I pull off the cap, the stick has a little pad to absorb urine. The pad has chemicals which detect hormones that are released during the early stages of pregnancy.”

“That makes sense.” Despite George’s immense apprehension, he is thankful that at least Dream seems to know what he is doing. “Why did you buy two tests, by the way?”

“Because the chance of an inaccurate result is low, but the chance of two inaccurate results is almost zero.” Carefully Dream performs the tests one at a time, then he lays the sticks on the edge of the sink. Glancing up between each test, the trans man notices how small his roommate looks on the other side of the restroom.

Still looking away, George lingers against the door as if he were stranded. Awkwardly wringing his fingers, the cis man asks, “How long will the results take?”

“Fifteen minutes.” Fifteen minutes of hell. “Can you set a timer, please?”

“Sure.” George sets a timer on his wristwatch.

Once the 15-minute countdown begins, Dream and George vacate the restroom with their belongings and the pregnancy tests. Together they exit the pharmacy and return to the parking lot outside. Beneath a glowing dawn sky, Dream’s car sleeps among other parked vehicles.

14 minutes.

“Keys.”

“Here.” George passes them to Dream, who fumbles to unlock the vehicle.

Both men enter the car, sit, and pull the doors closed behind themselves. They do not buckle their seat belts again. Instead Dream crumples the brown paper bag and tosses it into the back seat. George glances at the two tests which his roommate placed beside the stick shift.

All they can do is wait.

13 minutes.

It is too much. Everything is too much. Unable to contain the flood for any longer, Dream slumps forward and hides his face in his hands. Tears leak from his eyes, they sting his cheeks, and they drip down to his chin.

12 minutes.

As Dream weeps, his sniffles become sobs. He barely notices when George’s hand touches his shoulder and rubs it with slow, comforting circles. Through ragged gasps he whispers, “This is all my fault.”

“I don’t think it’s your fault, Dream,” George reassures quietly. After a brief hesitation, he adds, “Maybe it was my fault.”

“No. I should’ve known this would happen. I should’ve - oh my god. If I’m pregnant, I won’t get maternity leave or paid daycare. I’ll have to quit my job.” Mind racing, Dream imagines a dark future that might await him. “You and I would need to get married. It would make life easier for the - the, um -” Dream removes one shaking hand from his face and places it upon his belly. He fears that saying the word “baby” will make it real. “- but we might need to move out to somewhere that’s cheaper: maybe to a new city. We would be stuck together.”

9 minutes.

“Dream, I’ll be honest: I don’t think I’m good with kids. I don’t really like kids, either.” George runs fingers through his hair. His voice is soft with worry yet firm with certainty. “Of course, if we don’t have a kid, then we’ll go back to living our lives… but if we do have a kid, I’ll help you raise it. I won’t leave you, Dream.”

Wiping tears with his knuckles, Dream whispers, “Thank you, George. That means a lot.”

8 minutes.

George nods with acknowledgement, then he turns his head to stare forward out the windshield. Together the pair descend into silent anticipation.

7 minutes.

Dream’s sobs and sniffles end, but he remains hunched forward, hiding his face in his hands. If he lost his job and married George for the sake of their child, a marriage license would steal his independence. Legally bonded with his husband, Dream would be reduced to a pitiful housewife.

6 minutes.

Dream imagines a wedding ceremony: the moment when he would become that housewife. By then, the wedding’s audience could easily assume why the ceremony was so rushed. No one would pay attention to the vows because they would be peeking at Dream’s figure, searching for a swollen belly which would confirm their suspicions. Dream would not even be able to wear a gender-affirming suit. He would need a dress to accommodate his pregnancy.

5 minutes.

George would wince with pity when he heard the invasive questions that Dream would receive from attendees. People would ask with teasing smiles whether George planned to make Dream lose weight after he gave birth, or if George “likes them bigger”. People would ask George if he thought Dream should clean and cook every day… or they might ask if George worried that Dream would be “one of those” housewives who expects her husband to clean and cook every once in a while, too. With Dream listening in humiliated silence, an embarrassed George would deflect the condescending questions. Maybe the husband would need to reassure his wife after the wedding ceremony that yes, Dream was still a man with thoughts, feelings, and a purpose in life. Regardless, Dream would mourn the loss of his dignity.

All of the wedding photographs would show a pregnant woman in a dress: a new wife faithfully providing children for her husband. Dream would live every day unable to be who he truly is… and he would have no one to blame except for himself.

2 minutes.

If I’m pregnant, I would probably lose my job at the end of my second trimester, Dream realizes. He would spend his third trimester of pregnancy at home before giving birth. What would happen next? Perhaps once the baby grew into a child, they would wonder why their mother was resentful and miserable all the time. Eventually the child would learn that their existence caused Dream to lose his job, to lose his freedom, to lose everything. The child would be horrified to discover that they were the reason why their mother’s three degrees and medical license had become nothing more than wall decorations.

1 minute.

Ultimately Dream reaches the scariest realization of all: such a traumatic childhood surely would not produce a happy adult. Once the child grew up, the mother would gaze at them with profound recognition. Dream would discover his child’s disillusionment and low self-esteem as if he had just looked in a mirror. No matter how much the mother reassured that he loved them, the child would always doubt whether their best efforts would ever be enough to justify their existence.

They would become just like me.

The 15-minute countdown ends.

George’s wristwatch beeps loudly, indicating that the timer is done. A brooding gloom hovers within the car like a storm cloud. When George turns off the alarm, he and Dream notice that their fingers are intertwined. Neither roommate noticed that they had reached to hold hands again, but now they give each other a gentle squeeze before breaking contact.

“Dream?” George’s voice wavers as if he has awoken from a trance.

The trans man keeps his gaze focused upon the pharmacy building’s blank concrete wall. His voice is hoarse when he responds: “I know.” Despite his earlier desperation to know the truth, Dream is now terrified of it. Shaking his head, he whispers, “I can’t look. Can you tell me what the tests say?”

George’s eyebrows lift with surprise. “Um… okay. I can do that.” He shifts in the passenger seat, reaching for the two sticks.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Dream stammers, “If the tests have two lines - no matter if they’re dark or faint - that means the tests are positive. If the tests have one line, that means they’re negative.”

George spends a moment looking at both pregnancy tests. It feels like the longest moment of Dream’s life until -

“Dream, they have one line,” George whispers. “Both of the tests have only one line. I don’t see a second line on either of them.”

Dream’s eyes snap open with disbelief. “Let me see.”

“Here.” George flips both of the sticks around so his roommate can look.

Dream glares at the tests, scrutinizing them closely. George is right. There are no hints of a second line on either one. Both of the results are definitely negative.

Dream is not pregnant.

There is also an unexpected wetness between his legs. “Wait.” Without thinking, he hooks his waistband with his thumbs and lifts the fabric to look. Redness smears the bottom of his boxers: blood. “Oh my god, it’s - I’m menstruating.” He releases his waistband to snap against his abdomen. “I’m just menstruating. My cycle was long. Maybe it was because of stress or something? I don’t know.” Dream’s mind races as he recognizes what must have happened. “Whatever. I can’t believe it. I was having cramps, but because we had sex six weeks ago, I thought it made sense for me to be - but I’m - holy shit, I’m not pregnant. I was just overthinking. I was so scared of losing my job and getting married and having a baby, but I should have known. It should’ve been obvious that I wasn’t actually pregnant, but I couldn’t think about anything else.” Overwhelmed with guilt, he continues to ramble, “I panicked and I ruined my good reputation at work by taking a sick day and I woke you up and I dragged you out here and I made you panic, too -”

“Dream, stop,” George interrupts. Unsure about how to calm his roommate, he waits until Dream turns to look at him before he assures, “It’s fine. I probably would’ve panicked, too.” The cis man’s expression holds all of the cautious optimism that Dream should be feeling. “Also I don’t think one sick day will ruin your reputation. Technically you were sick. You didn’t lie.”

“So you’re… not mad?”

“Why would I be mad? I mean, this whole pregnancy-test experience wasn’t exactly fun, but like I said, if there’s no baby, then we can just go back to living our lives.” Overcome with relief, George shrugs. “I would say that’s a win overall.”

“Right. Yeah.” Dream repeats his roommate’s words to himself: There’s no baby. We can just go back to living our lives. He feels weightless, as if he were floating. He will not need to lose his job or get married or sacrifice his life’s achievements. He can still choose his future. I can still choose.

Suddenly Dream loses his composure again. Slumping forward, he bursts into tears for the second time in 15 minutes. However, this time he sobs with happiness.

From the passenger seat, George suspects that his roommate probably needs more reassurance. Supportively he murmurs, “Dream, I know you’re mad at yourself for bringing me here, but I’m glad you didn’t need to do this alone.”

For a long moment, those words hang in the air. Dream does not know how to respond. Hearing the soft honesty in his roommate’s voice, he realizes that despite his terrifying visions of the future, he never doubted that George would stay. If his wife were unable to work, then the husband would need to get a second job and work long hours. The cis man would not lose his independence, but he might lose his sanity.

If Dream had been pregnant, George would have needed to sacrifice his own way of life, too. It would have been a nightmare for both of us… but George was willing to make that commitment for Dream and their baby.

“George?”

“Hm?”

“If I had been pregnant, I wouldn’t have wanted the father to be anyone else.”

George’s soft lips part with shock. Deep umber eyes glisten with emotion. He does not really know what to say either, so he just listens as Dream continues.

“I guess I didn’t want you to have feelings for me because we would always be unbalanced. Maybe you don’t understand all of my problems as a trans guy… but at the same time, you always try to understand. I appreciate that you try to see me as an equal.” With a cynical chuckle, Dream taps fingers upon the steering wheel even as a menstrual cramp squeezes in his abdomen. “Maybe we aren’t even too different from each other, either. We both disappoint our parents, but we shouldn’t need to satisfy anyone except for ourselves.” Releasing his inhibitions, Dream finishes, “I love you, George.”

Astonished, George waits for the other man to backtrack. When Dream only holds his gaze, he finally responds, “I love you, too.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

Finally more than friends, the roommates lean across the car. They glance down at each other’s lips before their eyelids flutter closed. Noses tickle cheeks as they taste each other for the first time, kissing and sucking gently. George’s slender fingers lift to clutch Dream’s jaw. Dream’s hand touches George’s cheek with tender care. Neither man has felt this free in months.

Giddy with exhilaration, the pair disconnect their lips to end the kiss. When their eyes open, they exchange shy smiles like teenagers with crushes. As tears dry on his cheeks, Dream sniffles one last time.

“Should we go back home?” George sinks back into the passenger seat. “I’m kind of hungry.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Dream agrees. “I need to change my boxers and put on a pad. Once my uterus stops being a bitch, I think I could eat, too.”

George chuckles with amusement, then he dares to joke, “We should visit your hospital on the way home. I could ask a surgeon to neuter me so I won’t need to go through this absurdity again.”

“Only veterinarians do that.” Dream’s laughter is unexpected but definitely welcome. “I think you meant a vasectomy. You would keep your balls because the surgery only cuts the tube that connects them to your dick.”

“That… actually sounds like a good idea.” Although George does not relish the idea of someone slicing into his reproductive organs, he knows his roommate would not suggest anything that would harm him.

As Dream smiles with pride, a memory from six weeks ago resurfaces in his mind. A female patient’s words echo in his head: “You must’ve found one of the good ones.” Finally he is ready to accept that the stranger was right.

“George, would you like to be together with me?”

Overjoyed, George agrees, “Dream, I would love that.”

Peaceful silence falls between the car’s occupants. George rolls down his passenger-side window so a dawn breeze can whistle into the vehicle. Despite the roommates’ agreement to leave and drive back to their apartment, they remain still for another long moment as their heart rates return to normal.

Staring ahead together, the pair reaches a sobering realization. This mundane location will imprint itself permanently into their memories. Golden sunlight warms the greasy asphalt. Leafy trees rustle overhead. Smells of upholstery settle into the roommates’ lungs. Beyond this private space of Dream’s car, there are muffled sounds of morning traffic. Eventually the two men might forget all of these small details, yet not even decades will erase this moment from their minds. Even if Dream and George separated tomorrow, never to meet again, they would not forget the morning when they sprinted through a pharmacy, hid in a public restroom, and sat together in this parking lot. Unbeknownst to the rest of the world, they will always remember that harrowing 15 minutes when they waited to learn if their lives would be connected forever.

Finally Dream restarts the car. He buckles his seat belt, powers on the engine, then reverses the vehicle out of its parking spot. Avoiding other parked cars, he steers away from the pharmacy and toward the street which leads back to the apartment complex: back home.

Somehow the roommates’ uncertain futures do not faze them anymore. After today both of them will return to their lives. Dream can repair his self-esteem while George can seek another job opportunity. Maybe their relationship will always be more platonic than romantic, defying their parents’ expectations… or maybe someday the roommates will marry so they can spend the rest of their lives in each other’s presence. Neither man knows what paths lay ahead or where those paths will lead, but they are thankful that at least they will have a choice.

For now, however, their relationship is young and tentative. Like a newly-germinated seed hiding in the ground, the love between Dream and George will remain a secret until it becomes strong enough to grow.