Page 15 of Trevor Takes Care

“You don’t tell me what to do,” his grandmother answered, seemingly mild. But the family was familiar with that tone; the matter was over and no more discussions would be had. According to his siblings, Trevor had used it once or twice too. Not that they had been great about listening to it if he had. Being the youngest and “artistic” meant Trevor’s stance on issues were taken less seriously and had been since birth.

He imagined his grandmother, having grown up in a different era, was also used to being taken less seriously. Maybe she’d learned to end certain kinds of arguments before they could get worse.

Trevor took several moments to consider that. She loved him and was supporting him. She was just asking for too much on his behalf. The next time he spoke to G.G., Trevor would have to explain that he didn’t need a desk. Trevor hadn’t been nice to him to get something.

Well, not something like that.

Well, he hadn’t done it for any reason other than to be nice. But if Trevor were ever to cross over into doing it for other reasons, those reasons were not tangible.

Biting his lip, Trevor finally turned on his heel and whistled for Ellie to get back into the bathroom for her bath.

When he and a bouncy-happy poodle came out some time later, his grandmother was waiting with another dish.

Trevor was damp from bath steam and occasional splashing, and wearing shorts he didn’t generally wear in public. But once again, going to change and clean up would have led to questions. He was willing to bet if his sister had been there and still single, his grandmother would have sent her over there afterinsistingshe put on something nice. That hadn’t occurred to her with Trevor yet because heteronormativity was fucked like that, but it would if Trevor put any effort into his appearance before going over.

He washed his hands at least, and hoped the smell of medicated dog shampoo was nicer than the smell of wet dog.

“Ask if he’d like anything in particular!” his grandmother shouted as he was on his way out.

Chapter Eight

“I told you,” Trevor said minutes later when G.G. opened his door. He held up the day’s offering. “Chicken with a sauce made of red pepper and garlic. And some green beans and caramelized onion mashed potatoes.”

His sleeveless t-shirt was sticking to his chest. He was conscious of his pasty bare legs.

G.G. was once again in sweatpants and a simple shirt. He didn’t reach out to take the dish. He stared at Trevor in all Trevor’s damp, pale glory. Although, since Trevor had taken up jogging and walking more, his legs were in some kind of shape at least.

G.G. raised his eyes. “You’re wet.” He said that, winced, then shook his head. “Sorry. I’m tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Not taking the pain pills?” Trevor wondered immediately. He didn’t think it came out scolding but G.G.’s eyebrows went up.

His reply, however, was quiet and unoffended. “I only got those for the first day and those wore off. It’s mostly that I sleep on this side,” he briefly raised his hand, “and now I can’t get comfortable.”

“Ah.” That, Trevor understood. “Is ibuprofen enough otherwise? If you’re straining the muscles around the injury while trying to use, or not use, that hand, you can use some muscle salve as long as you’re careful not to get it near the wound.”

G.G.’s eyebrows went up again.

Trevor pretended he didn’t see it but explained himself anyway. “I broke my arm as a kid and my brother wastheaccident-prone child of all time, so I know some things. For example, the difficulties of trying to do anything without getting stitches wet.”

“It… has been a problem,” G.G. admitted after a beat. “I’ve had stitches before, but I don’t remember it being this much of a struggle. Though, of course, then I was…” he paused “…younger and had some help.” He didn’t allow Trevor any time to comment. “I thought about it. But I use canvas bags for shopping now, so I don’t have any grocery bags to tie one over my hand so I can shower.”

“You haven’t been able to shower?” Trevor lowered the casserole dish to study G.G. more closely. “You poor thing. I never thought about how cheap plastic bags had their uses.” He supposed not many people saw G.G., fierce and be-flannelled, and would call him ‘a poor thing.’ But not being able to clean up properly would be frustrating. “Would plastic wrap do it? If you used enough of it and tried to keep your hand out of the shower? Wait. That would be equally impossible to do well with one hand, wouldn’t it? You couldn’t exactly cut the plastic wrap, either.”

G.G.’s eyebrows didn’t fly up again but he did regard Trevor more intently with every new sentence that came out of Trevor’s mouth.

“You don’t need someone to problem solve for you,” Trevor continued, toning down his enthusiasm. “Sorry.”

But G.G. considered his bandaged hand. “I didn’t think of plastic wrap.”

With his hand up, G.G.’s not-great attempt to change the wrappings around his wound was more obvious. The tape was twisted and all over the place. It was probably going to pull hair out when he had to change it again.

Trevor counted to five but the words had to be said. “I could wrap your hand for you.” He took a small breath, hating crushes with every fiber of his being. “Change the bandage too, if you’d rather someone else do that. No offense to how you’ve done it,” he quickly assured a G.G. who had been stunned quiet once again. “It’s easier if someone else does it, right? And I’m not squeamish.”

“Because of the accident-prone brother?” G.G. guessed after he seemed to recover. He leaned back and raised his chin to consider Trevor carefully. “Margaret said you need a new desk?”

Trevor would have waved that off if his hands had been empty. “I can manage with what I have for now.”

G.G. glanced away. “If you say so.”

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